under another sun

Wandered off with The Gnome this lunchtime and found a really nice pub called the Queen Victoria, pictured below, where we woofed down a steak and ale pie with vegetables. If you look at the picture you will see Queen Victoria on the wall. Nice atmosphere. Its menu claimed that Churchill and Dickens and Charlie Chaplin had all been there. After a few hours of work, I quit Paddington, leaving The Gnome to the fates and a ticket tied to his button saying please look after this art director . But busy glaring at people in seats all the way from Victoria to Brighton, as I had to stand all the way. Call from Anton saying he likes The Box of Delights, and that Klaudia keeps taking it, saying "mine" because it has pictures in it. Odd not having to panic tonight as I am already packed. Doesn't feel right. Trying not to think about all the bucking and plunging in the sky tomorrow. Note to self... Find the flight socks that mum gave me for Christmas, and cram into mouth to smother

Paddington again today went for in seach of magic at lunchtime armed with my camera. Walked through some back streets, through a few Mews and ended up in Hyde Park where I found a golden bouquet of artificial roses poking up from the grass. If you look for strange stuff, it's abundantly there. Began reading my old personal tutor Martin Warner's paper Philosophy & Literature: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow on the train. It was sent with a letter from him to the alumni that attended his bash last year, and another asking for money for future Phil Lit students. (One of the things about being a philosopher is that when you are broke and can't find work and nobody wants to employ you, at least you have the training to stoke your chin and say, well... that's life.) Martin's essay starts with a quotation from Lamia by John Keats on it which I enjoyed incanting to the Gnome... Philosophy will clip an Angels' wings Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the ha

And I thought it was a big nippy here in blighty. Joan sent me these contrasting pictures, saying she is hermetically sealed into this beautiful scene in Ontario. This is her farm house in snow - with more snow on the way. The cat is Lucky Jim. One of the two that Toby and Romy had, before he was sent back to the farm in disgrace for doing bodily harm to Meatball the other cat. Now a reformed character, Joan says he insists on going with them when they walk the dogs and has the advantage of being light enough to stay on top of the snow. Proving the superiority of felines yet again, in that a good cat is as good as a dog, but significantly better at being a cat.

Decided today was too big and cold to venture into. I preferred instead to Greta Garbo it indoors, with laundry, ironing, hoovering and the dedicated munching of hot cross buns. These bought from Marks and Sparks and not a seller like this one sent me by my American researcher. Started another poem first thing this morning, after dreaming the subject matter. It was partially about my great-grandmother Mignonette. Made me dig out yet again the fabulous picture of her at what seems to be some sort of fancy dress party on a veranda in India. Pored over this photo this morning. Noting how the other woman appears to be Indian. Mignonette was the nanny of an important Indian family, possibly even minor royalty. She is the lady in the curly Turkish shoes on the left. I always thought she seemed incredibly exotic in this picture. Interestingly, her cheekbones and the shape of her face is very similar to MJ's. Otherwise did little today, and this was damn fine. Spoke to Aimee in Dubai via m

Today's project was to do next to nothing. This morning replied to Weezer on the subject of the inevitability of me kissing the ears of her new beagle called Lulu. I changed the sidebar of this blog, reasoning that people surfing in have no idea what it is all about. Also am investigating ways of using my new camera to make money. My friend Phil from work turned up out of the blue, on a day trip to Brighton. Ended up going to the Battle of Trafalgar, and the Great Eastern in the afternoon, and then on to have a nice bit of seabass. Phil was down for a large day and night out. He is a very funny man, as befits someone who has done stand-up. He described, for example, his 80 year old father's wind problem as the sound of two leather sofas being forced past one another in a tight corridor. Spoke to the funny MJ later, who is better after feeling nauseous yesterday. Counting down the days before I see her now, and am very cheery about it. Ray of light in the Great Eastern today. No

Tubes, curse them. Shuffled into the Paddington cell late, and grinding my teeth about a journey that took more than three times longer than it should have. Then was banged up again with the Gnome, and given execrable work to do. One of our jobs today was a nasty full page press ad whose sole brief was to sell computers at Easter. We did a version dotting yellow chicks on the page between the computer bundles with the headline Everything going cheep this Easter . Spleens thus vented we then did the real version and trudged through what work there was. Virtually the only conversation we had was with a geezer in one of the nearby cells poking his head into our peter and asking the rebellious Gnome to turn his music down. By noon I was raving at the Gnome on the theme of asking Michelangelo to paint your toilet walls. He went to the pub and I scored a pastie and returned to the cell to mutter to MJ. Too damnably cold to lurk outside, and I was not in the mood for beers. 5:30 and blessed e

Baby Tahlia, and in Paddington Station.

A large museli breakfast with the FB Max and Tahlia. Tahlia looking a lot less like Winston Churchill now, and being all smiley. Meanwhile her parents conducting a recreational and stylized Kabuki argument about things they fundamentally agree on. And talking of arguments, Matty called to say that he had been sidetracked last night by one with T. Apparently T was not being logical . Much rolling of eyes from the FB and me at this, piercingly brilliant as the boy Matty undoubtedly is. Powdery non-settling snow off and on all day. The FB and me sauntered through the park to Ealing Broadway where I caught the fast train to Paddington, and he the tube to Hammersmith. In the Paddington agency the Gnome and me have our own office, where the phone does not work, and as nobody knows who we are, nobody talks to us. At lunch we sloped off to Paddington station to scavenge for food, and returned to sit in our office with its view of thin wet snow falling on the rail tracks. Later I called MJ who

Straight to Paddington today, and then after a fairly cheery day headed back to Hammersmith for a meeting about sick cats and dogs, before shooting off to Ealing to see the French Bloke. He was in surprisingly good spirits, and we had an excellent night. Max was getting ready to go out when I came by, and me and Michel shared a bottle of wine and talked about many and wide ranging subjects, and scarfed some Chinese grub. I asked him what he thought about magic, and he said that he thought it was about people not understanding each other's contexts. Colonial explorers for example would seem to be possessed of magical qualities, because they were alien to the cultural context of the people they encountered. He told me about Cargo Cults , which I'd not heard of before. Somebody reached for my off button at about 11:30 shortly after Max had returned and I retired gratefully to bed. Much better than going all the way back to Brighton.

Thinking about magic again today, and my owl photograph. Copying Reuben, I started a photoblog yesterday, which allows me to upload one picture a day. I decided to call it everyday magic , on the premise that we are surrounded by magic and I would use photographs to evidence that. Told the Gnome about it and he rather annoyingly said that magic was too broad a brief. And what was magic anyway? This of course made me try to define it -- not satisfactorily so far. But when something strikes me as magical it is often about strange juxtapositions. Like the painted owl on the bricks, or the twenty santas I saw walking out from Brighton station last December. But I want it to be more than that. I want deep magic too; a childishness. In philosophical terms it is about feeling astonished about being in the world. Thinking of magic I stepped from the train in front of Reuben. Magic is unexpected and surreal, like the pigeon that flew out at me tonight from the tube train at head height. A contr

Intimations of mortality. Walking with the FB by the river at lunch discussing his heart problem, with various rooks, seagulls etc. picking at stones at the edge of the water and yarping peevishly at each other. It may be that he has a Tony Blair style zap to get the thing back into a proper rhythm again, or munching medications for the rest of his life. He has tests later on this week. Being a hypochondriac I have contemplated my own non-being on a regular basis, whereas the FB is bullet proof. (Apart that is from the broken ribs Max gave him when he was tickling her.) She is naturally very worried, what with little Tahlia being but a couple of months old. She now has a thermonuclear option in their discussions about how much red wine he drinks. He is able to laugh at it, which is very impressive. He is a good bloke and it is at times like this that you find out who your mates are. And I am one of them . MJ has the deposition tomorrow, which was postponed from last week, and a job int

Skip this entry if you hate poems. Here is a recent batch of new stuff as yet unfiltered by time and the whips and scorns of editors. Any feedback gratefully received -- these mainly written on the train in the last few months. Apart from the last one, which was written about going back to my old university with my old friend Sophie last november. All the rest are sparked directly or indirectly by my MJ. Winter Train The London train Slinks through snow. Tired commuters Settle down; drift Into themselves. Face at a window I hatch these crazy theories: That the track is a snake totem A Peruvian spaceship runway. And all the grey stars Of these English towns Were built to summon you. I print your name To be read from space Letter by letter On each passing Paperwhite field For you are the woman Who would fall to earth Supergirl, correspondent, My Aphrodite. With all your graces I believe You’ll bring me something Like spring But everlasting. Annunciation in Manhattan Fifty stars bleed. I

Steady rain in Brighton today and I went out for a walk in it for an hour or so, by way of working up an appetite for my traditional Guernsey Bean Jar. It's a great winter warmer, but takes more than six hours to cook. So its aromatic fingers were drifting about my place all day, making me feel hungry and nostalgic for Guernsey. My bean jar (a deep sort of casserole dish from which the meal gets its name) was brought from Moulin Huet pottery in Guernsey, i.e. just down the road from the family home. It is a rustic sort of meal. My grandfather said that the bean jars used to be taken to the baker on Saturday night, cooked overnight in the cooling baker's ovens and retrieved, wrapped up in brown paper, by older children on Sunday morning to be eaten for breakfast. To cook a Peter Kenny bean jar you need dried haricot and butter beans soaked overnight and boiled for an hour, beef or lamb (traditionally on the bone), lots of fresh parsley and a wee bit of fresh sage, a clove or two

There is magic in the world. We are surrounded by it. Stepped outside at 7am to walk down to the sea, and to get some fresh air after being cooped up all week. Down an unprepossessing sidestreet near the seafront, I glanced down a passageway and found an an owl, painted by an anonymous street artist. Owls are so full of symbolism that it seemed quite a magical find for me. Very nicely done too. Photo below. It makes me think of another magical place in Hammersmith. There's a small gloomy passage through a small shabby 60-70s office building on the river. To get to it, you pass big steel garbage bins and a couple of people smoking. On one side of the passage is dirty glass where you can see (through the grime) a well-kept fishpond, with bright goldfish. The contrast is so strong it is like glimpsing another world. Home after walking for a couple of hours. I had a day of recovery, talking to MJ, watching football on TV and working on poems, defrosting fridge, etc. Oh, and sleeping. A

All’s well that ends well. Finally finished my pitch. There is an adrenaline fuelled elation that steals over you once it’s done, and it has gone well. You forget the the dark nights of the soul it takes to get there. This one went really well for me -- and, more importantly, I have reminded people that I am big and clever, so feel more secure in my job. Am completely exhausted though, and worried about one of my colleagues, a recovering alcoholic who started drinking again through the stress of it all. Pitch up in Lancashire, so loads of travelling on Friday, and was unbelievably pleased to be back at home. Was astonished about how much the agency had to pay to get a train to Preston, booked a couple of days earlier. £220 each from Euston. It cost the agency £880 for four of us to do a five hour return trip to make this pitch -- and we were in standard class. Crazy. That is just under two thirds of the cost of the flight I have just booked to travel all the way to New York. MJ also ve

Valentine's day and my beloved 3.5 thousand miles away. What is to be done? My cunning plan was to fly into towering rages at work, and run about like a blue arsed fly with ADD, until I felt like scooping my own eyes out with plastic coffee spoons. This culminated in a massive tourette's outburst and tantrum. I looked at my watch and it was only 11 o'clock. Things went downhill from there. Cleverly I broke away for a swim at lunchtime to try and rid myself of stress and anger. But I'd left both my two sets of goggles in my desk, which gave me bloodshot, child-scaring eyes for the rest of the day. After working late, I left and encountered one of the bald blokes sitting alone staring hard at a pint with teary eyes. Turned out he had broken up from his girlfriend two days ago. So I had a mournful bottle of corona with him. There's not much to be said really. Home and much nicer things started happening. Spoke to MJ who was in the new flat, and she and the bairns were

Fighting off a cold today. First to the bank then more writing about chronic pain, and working on a pitch which will necessitate a trip up north this Friday. Braindead this afternoon, fortunately the idea I had at 5 in the morning last week seems to be the foundation of what we are going in with, so I still have a patina of big and cleverness. Quick stride along the river for lunch. Quick chat to MJ who was taking the children in late due to the heavy snowfall in the North Eastern US. Few strange little snaps with my camera, and then back to work. Evening spent reading more of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norell, and listening to Brian Eno's album Neroli, which is 53 minutes of ambient "thinking music". I love the idea of creating an gently stimulating but unobtrusive soundscape, "the edge of music" as the boy Brian describes it in the sleevenotes.

Up earlyish with head free of crushing pain. Quietly read the excellent Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell before Mase came down and started making welcome coffees. The book is amazingly imaginitive, and it brings alive early 19th century London as well as dealing with magic. Lots of chat with Mum and Mase. Mase talking about the book his father wrote called the Doxology. It was written before 1920 and ends with a scene of people flying in a plane which seemed incredibly modern then. Used my camera to take photos of masks Mum had made, and her cat pebble stone and other bits and pieces. My mum really is a creative person. Long journey home, and long talks with my darling MJ when I got back. There is two foot of snow in New York. She sent me a great story about starlings in North America. This from the New York Times... "In March 1890, a New York drug manufacturer named Eugene Schieffelin acted on his love for the playwright by vowing to release into Central Park all the songbirds ment

At seven a.m. woke with an uncharacteristically grim determination to open and file all the correspondence, bills and so on I'd been ignoring. On this evidence the most easily ignored (but persistent) correspondence comes from the water company. Probably trying to drip-feed information. Feel very happy to have done this though. Then excellent news from MJ: she has found a place for her and the bairns to move into next week very near the kid's school and close to where they lived before. Will be cosy for my next visit. Travelled up to Edgware to see Mum and Mason, and have dinner. Unfortunately in the afternoon I developed a vile headache which meant I had to slope off to bed early after food, and a quick chat to Mum, Mase and Diane. Spoke to my MJ. Then pain, then sleep.

Quite a focused burst of work on my poem about starlings on the train this morning. Then had an excellent morning working with Andy on the pitch. He is a very brilliant guy and we cracked out about seven TV concepts in two hours, laughing uproariously at the ideas we were having. Met a cropped haired Anton in the Battle of Trafalgar and we had a brilliant night, popping into some of Brighton's finest boozers. Later, over a brace of large pizzas in Zizzi's he unveiled his plan of us going for a one hundred mile walk. I seem to remember agreeing.

A good night's sleep, and another very enjoyable swim today, so generally feeling manly and vigorous. In the evening crammed into the clautrophic tube with Phil to The Crown and Two in Soho for our regular curry night with Paula, Marcella, Ash, Arno and James. Top to see everyone. Marcella two weeks into giving up smoking, which is great, Young James sporting strange hair, and of course lots of goss with Paula who has been having trouble with her stepdaughter running away from home. MJ off to explore more about a job today in Queens. Snoozed on the train home. Bed. Below 1) Phil, 2) LtoR Paula, Arno & James, 3) LtoR Ash & Marcella.

Me and the Gnome at our desks today.

Awake at 5pm and had a brainwave for a pitch I am working on. Got up then, as I had to be in work early anyway, so caught the 6:45 train full of even greyer-faced commuters than usual. Extremely tired today, and found it hard to concentrate as the day wore on. Had good chats with the Gnome as we were taxied off to the other agency this afternoon, and sat in a glafter getting a few ideas down in a glass room had time to talk. Anton sent me a photo of his MA certificate with a message saying "Special needs", to reflect my own lack of an MA. The Gnome hastily mocked up a certificate saying Anton M y A rse which I photographed and sent back to him. Anton wants to have an adventure and is going to tell me about it on Friday. I hope it is not the woman's clothing thing again. Had to explain to the woman from Warwick University who kept phoning me that I wasn't going to send them money right now. Nor the man from Greenpeace who came in to talk about green things. MJ busy loo

A nice day. Wallowing up and down in the pool this lunchtime I was passed by Barney and Geoff surging along in preparation for entering an Iron Man competition later in the year. Met Mark in the Battle of Trafalgar back in Brighton. Over a couple of pints of Harveys I was particularly interested to hear him talk about his friend who is an inventor, and another who is related to John Masefield, who wrote one of my all time favourite children's books A box of delights . Later strapped on the nosebags at a newly-opened Italian restaurant called Carluccios. After fond farewells, back home to speak to a cheery MJ who had been for what sounds like a very promising job interview in Manhattan. Working on my starlings poem a bit.

Sluggish start to the day. Had no energy, and bought a Guardian newspaper and stared at the crossword barely able to solve it. It makes me think of the classic SF book Flowers For Algernon , where a very unintelligent person is somehow made to become extremely intelligent, and then after awhile the effects of his treatment wear off and he becomes horribly aware of the atrophy of his brainpower before descending back into his old life as a labourer. Work not too bad. Quite busy. Went out at lunch with Trace and drank chamomile teas and talked lots. Returned sharpish for a pitch briefing where I sat next to the MD. As we were talking I took the opportunity to draw a small glum gnome dressed in rugby kit, to represent the defeat of the Welsh team by the English at the weekend, so that only the Gnome who was sitting on my other side could see it. Later I noticed the Gnome covetly sketching a jackboot in an inflammatory reference to the occupation of the Channel Islands in WW2. And talking

Alarms in the night Woken at 3:15 am by smashing glass and fighty shouting yobs in the twitten. Also they hammered on two people's doors, one of them mine. They ran away, however, when I started moving about in the house. I called the Police who had already been alerted. Took me at least an hour and a half to get back to sleep again. Spoke to my nice neighbours about it this morning, and they seemed to be of the opinion that it was not a big deal. And these things happen very rarely considering how central we are.Will definitely move little further from the station if I buy another house in Brighton.. Uneventful day. Tidied and prepared for Anton and Anna and Klaudia to come down for dinner. I cooked a roast with various trademark vegetables, such as mushrooms cooked with fresh sage and bacon and carrots cooked in orange juice, and we ate cheese and drank wine after, followed by apple pie (the king of pies) and custard. Gave Klaudia her belated 2nd birthday presents of a Thomas th

A day spent on my own, mostly very enjoyably. Wandered about town shopping and taking photographs, after working on a poem about starlings first thing. Spoke to Anton, MJ and the French Bloke. In the evening I went to see Jarhead, directed by Sam Mendes, which I thought was excellent. A film about the first Gulf war. The protagonists, despite being brutalised and only suffering through friendly fire, don't get to fire their guns in anger. Lots of lovely visual touches in it. Here are pictures of the pier, and the Bansky street art near my house. It depicts two policemen kissing, and the football player with a numer 7 leaving the pitch. This is George Best, who died recently and many thought to be the most naturally gifted soccer player produced in these islands. He was originally from Northern Ireland, and checked out recently after a long battle with alcoholism. The others are pier pictures taken today.

Rushing about today: bank first thing, suit returning, scoring a Thomas the Tank Engine railway set. What's more the dogs expected me to do quite a bit of writing too. Was smug about having had such a moderate night last night. Some shoddy looking hungover types about. Calls with Anton about cameras. He is cheered by his success in hooking me on the camera, and is wondering if he can make me start thinking about turntables as I can't like music if I don't have the right turntable etc. etc. Spoke to MJ while walking along by the Thames again this lunchtime. She has a job interview today, and I am proud of her. Returned to work bloody freezing again. Quite a bit of work to do this afternoon. But finished at five and went for a swim, due to a Waterloo of fatness yesterday with the trousers falling down. Ate a box of sushi for lunch by way of hanging head in shame. Started a new poem on the train back to Brighton. Marvellous to be at home tonight. It is the place to be sometime

MJ involved in more legal stuff today, whereas for me, it was the day of our agency’s big client party. Got off to a flying start by missing my train, then having boarded another train realising I’d left my mobile phone at home. Got off the train at East Croydon and watched it head off towards Bedford with my dress suit, shirt etc. still aboard. Realised almost immediately and actually slapped my forehead in disbelief. Made me remember why people living near Niagara Falls have flat foreheads… They wake up every morning with a start, saying "What’s That!?!" "Oh yeah…" Slap. "The Niagara Falls!" Phoned up bizarre Thameslink lost property, who told me right away that my stuff had been handed in, but being a transport company it would take a day to be returned the several miles from Bedford. Gallingly had to hare off to rent a suit at lunchtime for the evening, with trousers that kept falling down. Reuben and Kate won the contest to get their CSR photos uplo

Back to work. Took my camera with me and impressed The Gnome with it. Otherwise hard at it for most of the day writing about chronic pain. Sloped out at lunch for 15 minutes in the cold grey day and for want of something to photograph, took a snap of a cormorant cringing on a pile sticking out of the Thames. As I did so a couple stopped me and asked searching questions about it. Clearly I have the air of an authority on cormorants. After asking me if it was a cormorant the man, staring hard at it, said, “you don’t see cormorants do you?” which I quite enjoyed. My hands were numb when I got back to the office. In the evening the first Copy Shop Reunion (CSR) of the year. It makes me feel very happy that we were a team of three hacks ten years ago, and we still meet up regularly and with great affection. Kate was saying that it is coming up to ten years since she first met us, when we interviewed her, and Reuben famously wrote “steely” on his pad. Reuben doing very well at work by the so