London wanderings, and our own personal greyhound

Starting with our own personal greyhound. Rather than awake the horrible memories of all of October, I'll just write a quick précis of how our placid and faithful greyhound's life suddenly nearly ended. On a usual walk nearby, a large Staffordshire/boxer? type mutt slipped from one of the nearby houses, streaked over, and proceeded to maul our dog, not letting go despite me and two other people (including the owner) punching and kicking it. (Someone told me later 'you have to go for the eyes' . . .) Eventually, our dog broke loose and streaked home where, luckily, Mark was in. The rest of the sorry tale was of much blood everywhere, a very weird drive to the vets where I was totally in shock, and following, three weeks of vet care - mostly in the vet hospital quite a drive away.

When Bali returned it was our turn to dress the wounds, which became a many times daily scary chore, and awful for dog and us. The bill is huge and we now wait for the owner's insurance cogs and wheels to grind impossibly slowly towards a payment. It gives one a small insight into what it must be like in countries where the health insurance system is mostly broken . . . 

                               Dog before attack, and she's beginning to look like herself again

So poor Mark was left with the last bit of dog-care while I slipped off to the UK on a pre-planned trip to see family, friends and, my home city of London. Amongst the many joys of the trip: spending tome with lovely folks, eating 'foreign food' - fish and chips; walking in the Peak District, observing the calm sea at Bournemouth one stunningly still and sunny day, exploring charity shops, and probably the most poignant moment of all - commissioning and receiving a poem about our dog from a 'poet for hire' on the Southbank. I'd noted the guy in woolly hat sitting at a small folding table on which was perched an old typewriter. The handwritten notice hanging from the table read 'poet for hire - pay what you like.'

I had approached jingling the change in my pocket and wondered if three quid was too ridiculous - seems like most of the UK runs on card only and I'd only got change to hand out coins to the increasingly large amount of street dwellers. The guy had gestured to the sign - 'As it says, pay whatever you like . . . what would you like a poem about?' I thought about the golden leaves of the surrounding silver birch trees, the way the grey-brown Thames just rolls on despite world chaos, or the fact that 80% of London appeared to be composed of heading-towards-landfill shops. 'Hm . . . dogs.'

'Any particular dog?'

'Our dog.' I described briefly the recent happenings and how our world had shrunk to mainly peering at a two inch square of possibly necrotic tissue and trying to deal with it as the vets had instructed. 

'I like greyhounds' he had said, and after a brief moment of fingers poised above the old keys, he typed at speed, stopping to reflect a couple of times, and then pulling the paper, with that satisfying scrriit sound that only comes with using vintage typewriters, from the machine and handing it to me. 

When I looked up from the paper the Thames view was hazy from my tears. What incredible skill to be able to sum up the soul of a dog, and so much, our dog. We chatted about London, and how we had preferred it in its grimy days, as he put it. Later I went back after finding some more cash as three quid did seem paltry for such a life-affirming piece of art.

The poet(s) WORD TRADE are available for hire. I have included a link here.

https://wordtrade.co.uk/pay-what-you-like

The poem

                                        A few snapshots from my London wanderings this time.

15 century greyhound at the National Gallery

                My one purchase: tea and mug from favourite shop - Martyns of Muswell Hill.

One of five people I saw reading a book during all my eight or so train journeys - and he had a dog

View from Monument tower - first visit and well worth the climb.

Euston road fire station, a wonderment of 30s (?) architecture

Writers' process

We all have different approaches. I know one writer who plasters their sitting room wall with an A4 timeline featuring every chapter from one to however many have been planned, and then proceeds to write out everything that is going to occur in each chapter. I'm sort of in awe of this system, but also, not. It's a bit like playing chess. I'm hopeless at the game, being able to plan a couple of moves in advance before wondering how bats decided to hang upside down to sleep, why the mould in Roquefort cheese tastes delicious and not vile as you'd imagine it would, or how electricity really does arrive in a light switch, etc. Give me a game of Pictionary or anything that involves spontaneous action including drawing and laughing a lot, I'm yer dame.

I'm 10,000 words into the new book and although I thought this time I'd really plan stuff out . . . nope, not happening. The main character has stayed fairly consistant to what I had imagined at the outset but the secondary personage has completely morphed into a different sort of psychology, and actually, I like the way it's going. I once read an interview with Stephen King about his writing process, and it was gratifying to realise that he works in a similar way - the minor role housekeeper in one of his novels becoming a lead player which he seemed incapable of changing, for example. 

It can be a bit frustrating when trying to imagine the whole universe of a book but then perhaps it's interesting to get distracted by details along the way, and draw subconsciously on the internal library of visual and audible memories one stores away. Inevitably in the second draft, small and major things change and by then the useful framework is set, allowing a feeling of a certain sort of safe place to play around in, knowing the bulk of the serious work is done, the scenes set and the characters corralled . . . mostly. 

A small section from my latest  novel, and the third in the Londonia series.

                                                                        Kalistre O

The lock is glitchy again. I faff with the key remembering how easy it was before when with a finger touch the door would glide open. This hastily added slab of wood sits uncomfortably within the frame which in turn looks bizarre rammed into the pale grey plastic walls of my allotted room. That was during the last rounds of lec-fails. 

A whistling wood-o had done the rounds of all the sliding doors on this level and had hacked them out, mad max style and replaced them with oddly elegant, dark wood doors. I’d asked him where they had come from. He’d winked: ‘Some old manor house cross the line – they’d all been liminated.’ ‘From what?’ I’d asked. ‘UI generated pox, folks say. Or coudabeen bandits.’

I cross the corridor, weaving between blank-faced pairs of serfs heading towards the assembly hall, and knock on Sassy’s door. She must have sensed me as it opens immediately and her large serene eyes are staring at me in as a doe might have in a wood, when there were such things. I don’t say anything for a few ticks. The deer image is so strong I can smell it.

‘Yos ‘magining again,’ she goads, ‘y, blondy dictichary.’

‘Dictionary.’ I say. ‘Can’t stop it. It’s just the way my mind is. . .don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Think about stuff outside of here? Trees, clouds, birds . . .what wind would feel like.’

                                                      https://kateahardy.com/

Memorable evenings and old jumpers

After dressing this morning in the usual autumn/winter wear - slightly paint-decorated cords, several jumpers in various states of mankiness - no socks yet - I'm holding out for a while; I hate socks - I had a fleeting memory of a few weekends back where me and Mark did the music for a 30s ball at our friends' Manor House/small chateau. I was always a 'tomboy' in my childhood but the occasional wistful idea of dressing up in gauzy outfits like my friends loved to do did sometimes cross my mind, and still does now from time to time.

So . . . 30s ball. Oh dear, much hunting about on Vinted would have to be done, even proper 'hairdo'. What a shame. 😁.

So, hunt I did, and eventually found the sequinned wonder below. Cheap as there was a couple of small rips. I had shoes from some random purchase years ago at a boot sale; hair rdv was booked, and the look put together - with the help of our adept-at-sewing cousin, Gill - thank you. I found Mark an arabesque fabric tux, waistcoat, etc from the great V, and we were ready.

It was a typically-of-them fabulous evening, and a celebration of their new extraordinary dwelling, and their supreme talent of putting it altogether themselves with Workaway and friends/family help. We got the usual 'Soiree scratch band' together on the night, as we've done in the past at our friend's previous events and it worked super well.

So, it spurred on the making of a card for our duo, 'Mornington Crescent'. Now we've just got to find some gigs. Ha - the bit we're crap at . . .

Londonia 3

Having listened to far too many podcasts on the future of us generally/AI/dwindling planetary resources/increasingly absurd geopolitics/wars, etc, I felt inspired to put index fingers to keyboard - actually middle fingers now I look down at my non-secretarial digits - and start the novel that had been lurking about in my mind for some months. Early days but I have the characters, the links to both previous Londonia tomes, and the settings coming to life as I write. Set in 2092 and featuring a young woman as the main protagonist I will now live with her and her associates for the coming months, and drop a few insights here to where I'm at.

                                                     Describing a scene to uninterested dog

New house, new woodpile

Ah, autumn - time of mist, last fruit-stealing opportunities, precious moments of sitting in the sun, investigation of jumper drawer - on the whole depressing - leading to small flurry of buying replacement jumpers from Vinted; hot water bottles, and wood collecting/sawing/sorting. 

                                                The autumnal Loire from our road

The first thing we did on moving to the new house was install a wood burner - not a pellet stove; hunting down preformed pellets in the wilderness when society is sliding downhill . . . not great. I know I overreact; one cannot when one spends a lot of time describing the lives of characters at the end of this century. Also, when the seller of said stove came to fit it the fact that he said, you've made the right decision! I sell both types of stove but I wouldn't touch the pellet variety - a future too unknown.

There's just something very reassuring and incredibly pleasurable about sitting in front of a real fire, knowing you have collected the wood to ignite it, and not gone in the car to get a sack of perfectly measured mini-sticks from the nearest DIY shop.

Our old and massive garden was a wood collecting nerd's paradise, containing as it did about twenty ancient ash trees, fruit trees, birch, oak, etc. Collecting wood was a mere pace from the front door. Here, I'm exploring. There are a few failing trees in our small back garden which we will cut back and harvest the wood, but that's a limited supply. A few weeks back I noticed a large sweet chestnut behind the wall of the nearest vineyard yesterday of whose outer limbs had been suffering the heat/dryness of this summer and clocked it as a potential source. This morning I investigated and was rewarded with a large bag of super dry wood, and some surprisingly fat chestnuts. The other thing about autumn - nuts. This area is great for walnuts and chestnuts. 

A recipe we invented yesterday - roasted (or boiled) and peeled sweet chestnuts, mushrooms, onions, garlic, all sautéed with a tad of white wine, and served with a morsel of organic steak ( excellent bio producer in the market) and potato slices garnished with butter, cut up carrot tops/celery leaves.

 

One day out of 365

Autumn has arrived but we are still in a time of clear skies and sunny sheltered spots to bask in. 

Imagining the clear blue of our nearest stretch of sea I suggested a day out away from DIY and in-tray stuff. Mark - and the dog - agreed so we set off yesterday morning for the drive to Bretignolles sur Mer, via a convoluted but interesting journey, trying to avoid the usual fairly dull route. Road trip, in fact, and as readers of this blog will know, one of my favourite activities - on a smallish scale, not route 66. 

First stop for the dog to do her 'besoins' (needs). A small village of stone houses and beautifully constructed walls of rock chunks as oppose to the big blocks of tuffeau stone - the local building material. This small unsung place had a surprise in the form of an elegant chateau complete with an approach of umbrella pines and cypress trees. 

Next stop - probably the most depressing small town I have ever visited. I can't recall its name, and maybe that's a good thing. I think it was the complete lack of trees, and the tannoyed music being played which made it feel like being in The Prisoner - without the architectural charm. However there was a loo and a bakery, with cheery people - in the bakery, not the loo.

Foot down and we reached the sea in time for lunch. We just sat staring at the blue expanse for a while before the idea that anything that was open would soon close encouraged us to investigate the options. None, except a crepe place but that was fine as it was on the beach. It's amazing how all seaside places shut down so promptly in October. All the fish restaurants closed, all the souvenir places boarded up, but since there was only us and a few other people exercising dogs, no great surprise. 

We paced the shores marvelling at our deep footprints in the unusual sand - rather like stepping through the crust on a creme brûlée into soft custardy substance beneath. The dog - not usually a beach fan, ran about in the wind, and we took far too many bits of film of her. That particular bit of coast has kms of terrible 1960s/70s/80s blocks, thrown up within their respective decades, all seemingly uninhabited apart from a scattering of apartments with tables and plants on their balconies. Further along, the coastline is wilder with indigenous forest, long stretches of ochre beaches and just the occasional coffee-selling shack.

 traces of Mark, me, and Bali

A bit of a detour to find a salt-seller - this area is renowned for its salt - but the old blue van was shut up for the winter season, so we bought a couple of bags from a garden centre instead and set off home with a small bakery stop halfway. Tip for anyone in France reading this; go into 'Ange' bakers at about 19:50 in the eve and they sell off loads of stuff at half price. We took a large veggie pizza for eight euros, resisted all the cakes they were trying - very pleasantly - to foist on us, and arrived back, tired but happy after a day that felt as if it had contained many more hours than the nine hours we had experienced. Often the case with one day breaks.

Freedom

I was listening to my favourite Youtube person this morning - excellent channel, beautifully named, The Functional Melancholic. His slow, thoughtful content covering philosophy, political madness, cosmic dread and staring into the void at 3am, all delivered under a great collection of hats and with subtle absurdist humour never fails to inspire, and always leaves me feeling that I have been reminded of what is important in life.

This morning's offering was on freedom, and was as ever thought-provoking and strangely uplifting - for me anyway. 

So my takeaway was a reminder on what real freedom is, and how often it is something quiet and unremarkable, such as choosing to not pick up the phone and scroll during a spare moment but to lose oneself in the narrative of a novel, or to gain real, lasting information from reading something informative - and fascinating about the natural world/philosophy/history/whatever . . . from a book. I remember stuff I take the time to ingest via a page, rather than a quick Google glance. 

Of course Google et al has many uses and is invaluable for: 'shit, a flat tyre - quick, Google Renault Kangoo info on spare tyres/jacks etc' - as we don't even know where the spare is on our car. Or, map apps are great for when you are utterly lost in the middle of Paris and late for a meeting, but consulting an actual paper map, realising where you are on the world's crust and then working out the desired route is another crucial aspect of freedom, and brain nurturing. 

Like my grandmother was fond of saying, a little bit of what you fancy does you good - if you can restrict the internet content to 'a little bit'. Have the freedom and practised mind to be able to use it when you want or need but also to have the skill - and it possibly is now a skill - to be able to say, ok, enough of that, and pick up the book/paintbrush/instrument/knitting needles/welding iron/bike helmet/join a friend for a walk, or a game of chess; cook something experimental that doesn't require ChatGPT to give you all the steps.

Oh, yes. A1. I'm aware that Google is hyper old fashioned now, but that's probably where I'll stop. 

Having access to info on absolutely everything from: when was custard first invented to why is our dog afraid of balloons? to why would anyone think that living on Mars was remotely possible or desirable? is really quite enough, thanks. 

My current utterly absorbing read. Fall into another world, nothing but the slight sound of paper pages turning, and your imagination decorating the author's scenes.