The Ball and Nun.

Sigh---- Last post was supposed to be last one of 2008, but I had to tell you about my Boxing Day trip to the seaside.

There is a splendid bay with sand dunes called Porthtowen (towen means sand dune), which is excellent for surfing, or so I am told. Today was sunny but freezing so only 3 hardy nutters were actually in the water in their rubbery black wet-suits. Waves were high and the foam flew from breaking crests before they crashed on to beach and rocks.

There were loads of dogs there though, all taken along by their owners to have a good shit on the beach, and to run up and down barking or having a jolly snarling fight with each other (after sniffing arses of course). One interesting lone male, perhaps preparing for a trip to the Himalayas, was dressed in heavy climbing boots, thick trousers, anorak, woolen headpiece with long earflaps and white goggles, had a novel way of exercising his devoted hound. He had fixed a length of cord to a heavy rubber ball so that he could whorl it around his head and then let it fly out over the dunes for his dig to fetch.

Between him and the dunes were gathered groups of dogs and people, so the bolus whistled eerily over their heads as it left Mr Goggles. I sat and watched, toasting my front in the feeble rays of a Boxing day sun, as the dog tore after the ball and dashed excitedly back for the next go. This went on for half an hour or so until, getting careless no doubt, Goggles misjudged the release of the ball and its flight was interrupted by the head of a nun. (There were two nuns enjoying the sunshine, without dogs.) Traveling at some considerable velocity, it struck her with force, and the sound of the impact could be heard from where I sat. She went down instantly.

I decided that my ambulance training had lapsed, and that in any case her God would no doubt take care of her better than I. An ambulance was called, which arriving within 45 minutes (by which time she had begun to moan so one assumed she would live), carried her off to casualty.

The sun was low by then and it was getting colder, so I left the beach in search of tea and toasted teacake.

This really is the last post of 2008. I am sure nothing else of interest will happen before then.

Christmas rap crap

Self Portrait nearly finished I recon.

Here am my rap

"to a DEAD RAPPER"

Gonna rap me no mo crap
You splat rapper.
You is snuff, you is duff,
You is gone like puff.
All your bling
Aint worth a fing,
It all taken
By the po-lice-men.
All yo dope gone up in smoke.
Yo mudder sold yo stuff.
Yo bitch got nudder bloke.
And your beemer lay
Wid its axil broke.

No idea what any of that has to do with anything, but Happy Christmas anyway.

Love and peace - the Leg

Sunday Departure

Country Cousin goes up to Lunnen.

We are poor deprived creatures down here in Cornwall, a county lacking in ready wit and sharp reparteeee, devoid of that urbane cynicism that you city dwellers enjoy. Now and again we exiles make a pilgrimage to the ‘Big Smoke’ (now a smokeless zone in more ways than one – alas!). A few of us culture vultures booked train tickets and hotel rooms for two nights, so that we might worship at the feet of Messers Bacon and Rothko.

On Sunday, we had to catch the 11:30 from Truro to Paddington and arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. As usual, the car park was flooded for the most part, requiring us to wade through deep puddles to read the parking notice, which informed us the we had to use a mobile phone, quoting a special code, to book the parking days we needed. That was not as easy as it sounds. After a couple of aborted attempts I managed to negotiate my way through the options, put in my credit card details and the special code, the registration number of the car, its colour and its make, by which time the train was due.

Having got used to the erratic time keeping of the railways since privatisation, I was surprised and delighted to see the train arrive at Truro spot-on-time, even if it did mean a bit of a rush to get on board. “Quick, quick, any carriage will do!” We made it just in time as it was about to pull out of the station. We then had a bit of a problem finding carriage “A” and our seats. They didn’t seem to exist! The ticket inspector was helpful and told us we were on the wrong train…….. Apparently we could get off at St Austell and then get on our train which was running late. We did that and settled down into our comfortable seats in the ‘quiet’ carriage.

It was a sparkling, sunny December day. I have made the trip many times before but each time it’s a new and beautiful adventure. The train runs through soft bucolic countryside before it slides along the coast, with views of rivers and estuaries, bridges, harbours and the open sea. Later it glides fast over wetlands oozed with quaking bogs, scarred with full ditches, and dissected by canals, before it gets to Redding and onwards through the industrial mess that takes you to Paddington. Modern trains have some advantages, like mains sockets for laptops, and large windows but a few unfortunate innovations as well. Long open carriages are noisy, you can’t open the windows, and it is tempting for children to run up and down, and up and down, and up and down. Jealous perhaps of the status of the airline operators, ‘First Great Western’ seem keen for us to enjoy a ‘transit experience’, to which end they make announcements over the PA, that we should take time to read the “Safety Procedure Booklet, to be found on the back of the seat” in front of us. I found the safety booklet but could nowhere find the life jacket under my seat. The PA system is a mixed blessing. I seem to remember that, in the old days, we manage to get off at the right stop, without having to be told. Nor did we need to be reminded to take all our personal belongings with us, and to be careful when we ‘alighted’ to the platform. Are we all becoming helpless? Personally, I don’t want to hear about the “breakfast bap” or any other “hot and cold snacks” from the Catering Hostess, especially as the nasty buffet thing is at the other end of the train. ‘Have microphone, must speak’, seems to be the railway motto, and I thought this was supposed to be the ‘quiet’ carriage. “The “A” carriage is situated at the rear of the train.” Which means it is a very long walk to the ticket barrier at Paddington. I can feel a stiff letter coming on. Never mind, the taxi driver was friendly, helpful, cockney, and polite.

The obscure hotel, close to Kensington, was old and cheap, the rooms small but adequate. The best thing about it was the unpredictable lift, and what fun it was, us all ending up in the basement, in the underground labyrinth of empty rooms, linen stores and boilers. The reception clerk enjoyed our discomfort and confusion when we finally found our way back to the ground floor and we all had a good old laugh. And, it had an Italian restaurant only a short walk away. After a refreshing nap, A couple of us asked the dark man at reception if there was a decent restaurant nearby and he put us on to ‘Bennito’s’. ,

AND, what an amazing restaurant it was; so nice to have such a friendly welcome! Bennito himself was a rotund Italian midget, there to greet us with a huge smile and pinch the ladies’ cheeks, “Hello, hello, come and have this table. What a lovely girl! Let me take your coat young man!” Clientele included a couple in the corner, one as vast as his partner was tiny, and a gay couple next to us eager to chat about Francis Bacon and Cornwall. "I met Francis Bacon once! I said 'hello', 'half of larger', and 'goodbye'!!" The older guy had tasteful eye makeup and his young male friend was wearing a fab skirt. Italian families came in for soup and pudding. The Parma ham was just fabulous, nothing like the wet and sticky stuff on offer in Sainsbury’s, while the calf’s liver and bacon was perfectly grilled to my order of “medium please”, with sweet bacon, and little charred bits clinging to the edges of thin slices of liver. The mashed potato was dreamy and the spinach succulent with butter. After that long day a bottle of luscious Chianti Classico didn’t last long, then a glass of grappa finished me off.

What can I say about the Francis Bacon Retrospective exhibition at Tate Briton, except that I was blown away? I can’t walk much nowadays and I was grateful for the wheelchair and the eager pushers, while from some kind of wangle, we were able to use the member’s entrance and well as the member’s room for coffee, lunch, and afternoon tea. That made the whole experience comfortable and even more enjoyable. There were nine rooms laid out in a moreorless chronological order and I needed two refreshment breaks to support my concentration. We were there all day and the next morning as well. Most of us agreed that the Latvian high priest of subtle colour, Mark Rothko, would have to wait for anther trip. There was no way that we could digest both of those great but incompatible artists in such a short visit.

Determined to catch the right train, we were an hour early at Paddington. The trip back was in fact the reverse of the trip down, but in the gathering darkness, it seemed quite a different experience to me. I was tired of course, and my head full of Bacon.

FRESH MEAT in winter.

FRESH MEAT – Dec 2nd 2008.

Don’t we live boy? That’s a rhetorical question bytheway. Down here in the lost end of Cornwall, a secret retreat offers venison steaks, char-grilled to your taste, sitting in a shallow pool of redcurrant gravy. Lurking next to a back road to Redruth sits the quaint, decrepit coaching inn, ‘The Coach and Horses’ of Comfort, a rushing leat muffling the sound of infrequent traffic. Customers are few this time of year, but two absconding couples had assigned themselves to tables close to the glowing logs. Assignations flourish by a fire.

Slapping ‘The Hill Station’ down on an old table near the bar, I chose a wine for a freezing night, chubby waitressbarmaid obliged and offered me her menu. Hummmm yeah…. ummmm “Think I’ll have the venison – medium – chips – and the veg.” “Hill Station” absorbed me until another couple came in – young and not quite so young – one titanium blond and one balding. He in a pullover and she - - - naked above the waist? Can’t be – must be a backless thing. Her back was towards me you must understand, so all I could see was the open expanse and bare arms. It made a unique impression in that plain, rustic interior. It’s not often you see so much skin in a Cornish pub in December. An odd couple you might think? Any ideas out there? Oh yes, I bet there are! All mine have folding cash involved.

The steak was as it should be, the wine quite good enough for me and probably better than I deserved. Chewing with respect for the poor dead beast, while I read a couple of chapters of ‘Hill Station’, I also kept half an eye on the odd couple’s body language of arm holding, hand stroking and finger biting. I left before they did, if they did, so I never managed to form a definite opinion.

There was another puzzle for me as I made to put my jacket on (I had removed it so I would ‘feel the benefit’) – “Excuse me sir” asked the waitress with a plump blush, “But do you write reports on restaurants?” Did she mistake my book for a notepad? Did she mistake reading for writing? Unlikely I would have thought. I replied with a smile, that if I was a writer of restaurant reports I would hardly tell her would I? “I don’t know sir, but you could tell me…..” I thought about it, but just repeated my thanks. Well, what would you have done?