Water on Stone

Wake gasping from nightmare of being grilled by my housemaster, 'correct' answers to which will free me early from my prison d'acadème.

Even in my semi-wakefulness, I am panicked that I woke too early and my incomplete answers will keep me classroom'd for the full duration.

Later that day I randomly pluck from the bookshelves John le Carré's 1979 Smiley's People, handed to me for review the day before I flew out for that summer's holiday:

"This latest novel is slower and more relentless than anything he has done before. The complexities are extreme ... fascinating and absorbing though it nearly all is, "Smiley's" is not quite the brilliant success it promises to be ... almost certainly, a less self-indulgent writer would have lost a hundred pages on the way. Mr le Carré loves minutiae, handles them wonderfully, but enough is enough."

Lawks, blush, cringe. One has to be very young and very much more self-indulgent than the aforesaid brilliant Mr le C to trot out that rubbish.

But that's not my drift: I came across this on page 12, capturing totally the English private school experience:

"With bitter experience he had learned the other lessons of interrogation, too. A part of him was rehearsing them at this minute, and they appeared to him now as bright as yesterday and as vital:

Never to match rudeness with rudeness, never to be provoked, never to score, never to be witty or superior or intellectual, never to be deflected by fury, or despair, or the surge of sudden hope that an occasional question might arouse.

To match dullness with dullness and routine with routine, and only deep, deep down to preserve the two secrets that made all these humiliations bearable: his hatred of them; and his hope that one day, after endless drops of water on the stone, he would wear them down, and by a reluctant miracle of their own elephantine processes, obtain from them the freedom they were denying him.

And later on page 79 - and I *never* scribble in books - the underlined passage,

"We men who cook for ourselves are half-creatures ... Anywhere else in the house - even in bed - you can cut yourself off, read your books, deceive yourself that solitude is best. But in the kitchen the signs of incompleteness are too strident."

In the margin, "Me" and, inexplicably, my signature initials.

Silly Name Change

Since my working days are spent devising schemes NOT to go down to the woods today, I thought the blog name might as well reflect my daily fears.

Awful unwieldy name, Botanopobe, but at least it should deter casual visitors.

I was thinking that any surfing idiot could be thinking of visiting the Phaeacians' Isle, key in my old blog name, and there I'd be, nestling at a healthy #1004 in the charts.

What I'm not sure about is if "-phobe" also conveys vigorous dislike as *well* as nerviness over being trapped into getting down and dirty with la vie botanica.

Not to be *too* rude - having enjoyed five whole jardin-free days - I've gone green for the title.

Sam the Sham

Total fake. Don't know how Sam thinks he'll pull the wool over Mum's eyes.

So we're drifting around the garden, checking for entwined couples and other flotsam, and Sam suddenly stops and shoves his conk down a growth and goes into this big savouring number as if he knew any more about parfums de fleures than I do.

I snapped him all the same so Mum can have a good laff when she gets back.

Maternal Returnal

Confirmation from Athens that me mum is coming back today, so frantic dusting of nooks and crannies and disappearings of absinthe and bongs.

Out, too, the strays and hangers-on ("Anyone seen that Fifi? No, the red-head's Petronella.").

Haven't been out into the wotsit since mater left, so Sam and I did a quick recce to check it was still full of all those purpley and red thingies.

Pond: Green liquidy pool at the lower level, goldfish flitting about.

Sam seems to think it potable coz he gulped away. (Memo to self: Check S's water bowl. Better still, check if he even *has* one)

Well, we know what a certain anti-jardinier's next chore will be. Aye, lick pond clean, replace poissons, tidy those bambooey shoots.

Nice view to right looking up to the Christine Wing.

More purpley plants.
VIEW: Tangly greeny bushy vista. Probably terribly impressive to the jade-fingered.

I snapped it for the red fleures on the bush but they didn't come out too bright. Another reason to drop botany: can't even show off. 

Sams

Richard sends me captivating snap of *his* faithful.

I try to save-as and all the tricks but am defeated so can't share.

We are both owned by dogs named Sam.

Shrinking world syndrome.

It's age.

I read this man's mails and blogs and disturbingly good poems and wonder how we let the good guys slip by.

Worked together, stalked the corridors of power ensemble; even sat oppposite as R conducted firmly effective confab-calls with bright vociferous colleagues on the sub.

Could've perhaps taken time to share a curry or snatched tea and delved behind the work personna but no ... had to wait til I'm safely distant across continents.

Crazy.

Happenstance

One of those dream put-downs one dreams of.

Home after picnic, need cigs, buy, spot pals in restaurant, join.

They're finishing, carrying the party on in their hotel room.

Gale who i fancy needs cigs and sort of would like a bottle of wine. But they haven't the dosh.

I say me neither but hey let's just get one on the slate, on me.

Some dullard swathed in bling and wearing shades at midnight tells me, "It ain't gonna happen."

I give him my "look". Vino, cigs? Bagatelle.

"It ain't gonna happen, dude."

I can't stand English cruds borrowing American, like I ^5'd my US buds but refuse to engage in it here.

I catch the waiter's eye. In Greek, bottle of red, Marlboro cigs; dammit, make that 2." (And a brace of geese de mong)

Oh, and I can't pay.

Waiter shakes head but says he'll fetch da boss.

Mister Bling: "What I say, won't happen."

Tryphon emerges from his receipt of custom,

"Kristos! I had no idea ....".

Shake of hands. Rasp of cheek.

"I just stopped by ... some friends ... if you could see your way to ..."

Jerk of head to minion, inimitable Greek short-hand gesture to signify "Carte blanche" and T is gone.

In fact, that Greek gesture speaks more along the lines of "I shouldn't even have to've been *asked* to OK such a trivial matter as signing over my business, my Mercedes, my wife, *your* virgin sister, to this valued friend ... be man!".

Bouteille and cigs are produced, which I make a big point of handing to my lady.

Bling berk doesn't bat an eyelid.

"So why don't you do it for *me*?"

From his perch, Tryphon leans out,

"Because he no in fucking drag! (sic) Now go!"

Lady under her breath as we hug g'night, "Replay to repay."

I *try* to walk out like a winner, but is an oldie's stumble.

Devil's in the Alley

All this bucolic scene lacks is a .wav file of Roberto pumping Mississippi from the car stereo.

Mule is *not* in his stall because I saw him trog by not a half hour back, black-clad hag on his back. Gave me suspicious look and I waved and tugged forelock and addressed in suitably respectful tones, "Good day, grandma. Have you eaten yet?"

Probably the depth of rude nosiness to inquire after her tiffin but one greets people like that in Cantonese so I thought I'd try it.

Lucky she didn't come back with a gummy,

"Funny you mention that, because no, and I see you have there a goodly loaf and tin of sardines and - goodness - is that a flagon of ruby red wine there? Don't mind if I do.

Not to mention a cackled,

"And that wouldn't be the latest gossip on those young royals? Oh, do let's see .... "

Is it just me, but are we getting just a tad tired of miss Keira Knightley, bless her pouting beauté and cut-glass accent? There were these mags in the glove compartment so I got them out for luncheon reading.

I gather she's terribly nice and Johnny (Depp to you) speaks well of her but ....

I'm probably just jealous that I've not been signed up for the John Prescott course of how to get over an excess of KK.

"Been in Keira Knightley a da-a-y too long". Has a certain ring to it.

Has earth anything to show more fair than a sunny day, glistening sea, sun burning down, and Mr Dylan growling in the background?

God his voice is cool these days. Can one have an op to get that growl? Or do I just keep taking the Karelia til I get to croon thru a hole in my neck?

Sparrow Hawk - don't you hate it when you read something that really *does* interest you and then you need to retrieve it in conversation and it's gone?

In the past 2 days I read something about sparrow hawks, along the lines of:

Our earth-bound types can take in 80 "events" or sights per second while sparrow hawks take in 200, whatever that means.

What it *does* mean is that what seems to us as miraculous speed and snatching of their prey is to them like a slow-mo plucking from the air of a hapless meal in leisurely flight. Well, not leisurely: the bird must be beating its wings like mad, but the hawk strikes in its good time. Apond would know *all* about it and probably has shots of the moment of striking.

Their bones are hollow, enabling their amazing manuevers.

They can spot a 2mm creature on the ground from some ridiculous height.

I mention this because I fell into conversation with a passing hawker and his bird (on the wing) and lure and all those jessops and bells they bling up with.

Damn'd good english, presumably from his time teaching some sultan how to do his desert thing.

So there I was making informed conversation and I couldnt remember a damn'd thing I'd read.

My father could read en passant an article in a magazine and recall it days later. I once brought out some book trade mags and he'd picked one up and then a few nights later a topic came up on which I spouted with my usual flimsy grasp of the fact, to which dad said "but surely, etc etc", quoting numbers. Amazed, I asked how on earth he knew that, to which he replied that, "well, it was in one of the The Booksellers you brought out. Don't you read these things?" Red face.

I knew that his reports and memos were held up as models of conciseness but his old secretary told me once that his dictation technique was astonishing. He'd glance over a document, make one or two notes in the margin and then dictate - sans retraction - his measured message. No uming or ahhing, no going back - and these documents stood the scrutiny of time, including every single necessary fact and not one superfluity.

JOB - Dept of How Sad Is That? I brought out a notebook to doddle in and record my thoughts and just noticed it is my "Job" hunting notebook from when I was groveling for work back in Seattle. Every name and contact number and employment-clinching detail ... all to naught.

But as I read some of the entries I live again that hope that springs as you write it down:

"Right. See you Wednesday at 9. Yes, I'll email you my resumé and bring examples. Looking forward to that. Yes, it does sound hopeful, I'm so glad we had this chat. See you then."

All duds and disappointments, enshrined there.

Even more poignant, the personal stuff, such as one of the girls calling to fix a date and I've jotted down, "G - 10:30 ferry. Book Madoka. Get Craig book to surprise her?" or "A - sleepover with R but will see me pm. Check movies/DVDs. Clean apartment, hide cigs/hypodermics/French maid costume, etc".

"Bank: ask about debt re-arrangement. Talk to Citibank ref cc payment.

Rent: try for end of the week."

All terribly sad in their utter banality.

And now, cruising the countryside, good music, sun and sea, food, no rent.

Oy, Alfie! What's it all abaht, then?

Coast Roads

Bored waiting for the phone and news of mater in her plush Athenian clinic. If she really does intend to fly back tonight, we had better get our skates on because all flights will be full with weekend returners.

But I tell you, that gal is popular: the phone has been ringing non-stop since she left for the tests, well-wishers wishing news.

Escape route: I notice that the fridge is stocked with exactly what I need for a good picnic so I gather victuals, vino and CDs and set out to trace some of those coastal roads that intrigued me as we came into land.

Also, I need to stay clear of Gouvia because I have a horrible feeling that the streets will be lined with idiot tourists in sombreros drinking Cuervo and celebrating Cinco de Mayo. I desperately do not want to have to kill someone to keep these Ionian shores pure and free for sunset towels and miniature shaped bottles of the sacred ouzo.

I also need to get away from CNN's insidious hold on me. I had all the news and TV back on Bainbridge. The rest of my life will be spent in meditation and purging the images of Dr Phil, Oprah, The Donald and, of course, those duchesses of diletante, messrs Couric and Lauer.

News

So Blair's taking a beating in the local elections - good. There's something inherently flakey about that man, besides which his wife has an extroadinary mouth that invites fantasies not suitable for a family blog.

The Brits I've talked to here seem to be voting BNP and they're not by any means racists or hard core thugs. There's clearly a backlash in the country against the appalling multi-cultured inclusive drippy liberalism that's sapped the national character.

The Independent is good on the BNP bit.

Appalled to see that fat turd Prescott and his scurvy team are to be "trained" in correct screwing techniques when getting one's leg over the diary secretary.

This sort of nonsense should stay over in America where it was invented and where such ridiculous gullibility has a natural home.

Wasn't it Michael Douglas who ditched his wife of 20+ years to go off with the delectable Zeta-Jones and pleaded sex addiction. OK - so some guys can - and do - pull every chick they look at and have a great time. I know a lot of folks closer to home who'd like that talent but we don't go round needing training or giving it fancy names.

Much more important - maybe even topping Iran - is David Blaine's latest crazy stunt to play goldfish and then hold his breath and then ... but oh my lord, his hands ... they're like plankton. It'll be months before any woman lets him fondle her. Bad move there, Davy.

As I drive, I alternate between Dylan CDs and the local Greek radio. In fact, I almost went over a cliff thanks to 'Nashville Skyline'.

I'm one of those dangerous fools who fiddle with music and lighters and radio dials while negotiating narrow roads with people like me coming in the opposite direction. I'd got bored with NS and ejected it and chucked it on the passenger seat (which should by rights be occupied by some shapely hitchiker but I suspect they're all down Gouvia strutting their stuff in the Pancho Villa wet T-shirt contest.) Anyway, I slung the CD on the passenger seat and was fumbling Dire Straits out of the jewel case and trying to find the slot, when I went round a corner and the Dylan caught the sun and totally blinded me with its reflection. Left spots in my eyes even as bikes and trucks whizzed past. Hell.

Speaking of the saintèd Dylan, what's with this Theme Time Radio DJ stuff I'm reading? I'd LOVE to hear Dylan rumbling and rasping on about music.

I must consult walking Zimmerman expert Wells-sahib on the matter.

OK - laptop batteries waning and there's good vino to sink and feta cheese and salad to toss and chunky bread to munch and viandes and dips.

Maybe when I get back, mum'll've called and we'll have a time and ticket as to when Olympic Airways delivering that precious lady back home.

Smart-ass Vocab

The cool vocab one first gens up on is never what you actually need.

The right headlight on the hotrod has gone and altho the mechanic at the garage showed me how to rub the connection to get it going again, it works in daylight and then funks out at night.

You would NOT believe the delight with which the locals honk and gesture and shout and pout.

I started out with my own stumbling apols and rueful gestures - you know, the standard one with which one succinctly signals

"I know. The right headlight is out. The bloke showed me how to rub the fuse but it keeps going out so I'm *terribly* sorry to panic you with my imitation of a uni-bulbed motorcyle. I *am* having it seen to ..."

Alanna has equipped me with the right jargon.

Loosely translated from the fluent demotic :

I know, I know !!Duu de! Like you're the first to tell me? (gestures)

I'm taking it to the dealer tomorrow but what can you do? These Nissans, yeh?

God bless me with a lottery win so i can pimp up to something decent like you're driving. Whoa! Them be wheels; know what I mean?"

Friendly wave back. "Hey, no problem. Yeh, I almost bought one those but then the pa-in-law sold a stremata of marsh land to some stoopid English creep and I got me this beast. Hey, take care."

"LOL. Those asshole Brits'll buy anything. Cruise on, mate."

Even got pulled over by the fuzz.

Different vocab:

"Yes honourable inspector law-enforcer - I am aware that I'm driving dangerous like this and you are right to stop me.

Let me pop the hood and ask your advice ... see, i rub here and-"

"Licence."

"Well, I'm on an american one for now"

"Ameriki? Which part?"

"Seattle"

I want to visit America

It's great.

Who told you to rub the fuses that way? Here, this is what you need do as a temporary measure

There's a mechanic at the Kondokoli Shell, a fine mechanic

Spiros? He's a fool. In fact he's such a fool he married my sister. OK, sir - drive on, but get it fixed.

Thanks v much, Inspector. Good night

It don't get no greener:I can't *stand* the way folks behind moi honk a nano-second after the lights go green.

Aussie pal in Hong Kong used to get out and give a friendly wave and look at his rear end and then shrug and ask, "Thanks, mate, but what was the problem?"

Of course, Tony could get away with it: built like a brick shithouse, nose flattened from taking a few mae-geris on the way to collecting a shotokan bronze at the Asian Olympics.

But I've got it ready in my verbal knapsack:

Efaristo poli! What's my problem? What? You were honking because the light went green? How long did you give me?

Yeh right mate, about as long as it takes you to get it off with your fancy lady. beg pardon, missus - this your husband, is it? Impatient little cove, inne? Same to you, fellah - but this geezer honked when the lights had barely changed. Yeh, don't you just hate that? Wossat? Athenian plates? Hadnt noticed that. Yeh, total wankers. They should stick to their holidays on the Italian costa and leave decent Corfiots like you to drive in peace.

Blimey, we've already wasted 10 mins as it is. Well, ta ra, I'll leave you two to sort it out."

Plurality: Down to the kiosk t'other night to buy 2 packs of Karelia cigs.

Realised I wasnt sure of how to ask for two packets.

Remembered a tip from the great and late John Blackwell, editorial director of Secker & Warburg and our best man when I ringed the finger of the ex Mrs Busker, mother of my divine daughters and the only woman I'll ever love.

Chap goes into a shop to buy a brace of mongoose/gooses/geese. Realises he's not 100% sure what the plural is so he asks, "Good day, my stout fellow. Give me a mongoose. (Pause) Dammit, make it two."

I get to the kiosk. Usual greetings. Pack of Karelia, please. Oh what the hell, give me another (which I can say).

Callous Callas

They surface in the end. Those deep dark memories of shame.

The house probably has hi-fi worth more than the car and cottage thrown in.

I'm listening from one end of the house to Maria Callas soaring from Wharfedale speakers the size of radiators pumped from Magnavox/Ferrograph/Vortexion equipment.

The Diva of divas sounds as if she's singing right here, personal recital just down the corridor.

No idea what she's singing from: my bro sent mum a rip of a "Gallimaufrey of Callas" (spelling?).

I am reminded of my hated school days. Hated.

Hated being across the other side of the world from home

Hated the beatings

Hasted and feared the 6-days-a-week compulsory thumping on the games field, wimp.

Hated being skinny

Hated how Mr Peters always took after-games showers and stroked our backs.

Hated the sadist prefects who had it in their power to cane sans needing permission. (Thank god i wasn't a *pretty* junior like Ellison or Taylor.

Hated the teachers' sarcasm and the way the headmaster was so unctuous to our mothers and so mean when Exeat Sunday was over.

I was Exhibit A crud weed spaz crybaby.

MARIA: My housemaster at my second school was a Callas fan and we'd hear him playing her as we did prep.

Perfectly nice codger but spineless and never questioned the prefects' punishment rosta.

Tipping point came (thank you Mr Gladwell) when a little combo I put together - me on rhythm nylon string guitar, Dyer-Smith on acoustic bass, Dupe on steel string lead and Bastard (yes, his name) on very cool bongos. Now *there* was a pretty boy.

We entered Yellow Bird in the open ensemble class, versus all the string quartets and piano duets etc - and we won.

The big cheese adjudicator judge up from London reckoned we were the best.

He even mentioned my "firm command of the situation" which was reference to my re-starting us.

We sat and I whispered encouragement and I waited for Dupe to count us in so we could all start with that big chord and bongo roll - and the blood fool just started on his own.

"No no no," I said. "Come on Dupe. As we've rehearsed a thousand times, you count us in." I peered into the lights in the direction of the judge and said, "Do excuse us." Titter of laughter from the assembled school.

We were superb. Really. Not a note out of place and not speeding up out of nerves.

When we did that final C to B flat and back to C and ran the glissando  down to the bass BASS note, I knew we had performed it perfectly. Possibly more perfectly than it had ever been played before.

"That's it," I muttered sotto voce  to the lads.

"That. Is. It."

And we walked off the stage to our seats, tumultuous cheers.

When the result were announced, Big Cheese adjudicator said,

"And the winner of the ensemble ... as the leader so rightly put it, 'That's it.'

Eagle House for their rendering of the very charming and deceptively simple 'Yellow Bird'. And my admiration to them for having the presence of mind to start again. We all make mistakes and it takes courage to wipe the slate.

Eagle House. Messrs Dupe, Bastard  - and I hope I pronounced that right - Dyer-Smith, and last but not least, their quietly assured captain and, I suspect, brains behind the operation, Master Holmes."

Eruption.

Dyer-Smith: captain of rugger, captain hockey; school colours in boxing, judo and every other brutal sport on the curriculum. Five foot five of squat muscle, who only took up the guitar to pull the chicks. Someone who normally gave weeds like me narry a second glance. He leaned over and pumped my hand.

"Holmesy! - Brilliant! You did it. You f****** did it. F****** hell, man! You did it!

(Crooned) 'House colours for Ho-o-lmesee, house colours for Holmeseee.' "

Alas for the school admin, triumphs in school comps carry honours such as 'colours' and a flash tie to wear that sets you apart from the ... well, jerks like me.

Didn't matter to Dyer-Smith who had so many ties he could wear a different one for each day of the miserable week we were locked there, but for the rest of us it was one in the eye for The Man.

That night in the dorm, our house master came up and, eyes blazing with insincerity, congratulated us.

Next morning in Mr Holloway's Geography class - a nasty red-faced man - he actually started the class with a pointed reference to how ridiculous and misguided had been the verdict and that it was a disgrace that we had been awarded first prize.

I got up, gathered my books and started to walk out.

"And where do you think you're going, boy?!! Sit DOWN this instant."

"I'm going to the head's study to await my beating for leaving this way. Then I'm writing a letter to our distinguished judge, thanking him for giving up his time to travel down here to judge and apologising for the dismissive attitude of the school."

"Sit down this instant."

"Good morning, sir. You know where to find me."

I was beaten and made to deliver a written apology to the asinine Holloway. My housemaster was totally feeble and took the side of his colleague, even tho' we'd brought honour and valuable points to the inter-house scores.

Something clearly snapped because I set about concocting a delicious repast of revenge for which, no thanks to being cooped up there for the next few years, I had all the time in the world to execute.

Sometimes he locked his study, sometimes he didn't. There was constant traffic of boys leaving work for him to correct or permissions for him to sign to go out, come back, sneeze, breathe, jerk off, screw the village girls who worked in the kitchen; myriad stuff.

We'd sometimes have study sessions there, so I knew where stuff was: his vinyl discs, fine books, alabaster figurines, photos.

I'd taken to missing chapel - inconceivable hence rarely monitored, rather like lesbianism never joining male homosexuality in being outlawed in England because Queen Victoria refused to believe that women did too.

I'd lurk somewhere and then emerge to a wonderful emptiness and just the sound of the assembled school singing or praying in the handsome chapel.

With my Hong Kong-made burglar's torch emitting a pencil thin beam, I'd sneak down to Il Maestro's study and pull out a Callas and key it; or I'd break one over my knee and replace it; or take a book and rip some pages out; trample on a photo; empty the Quink bottle into his Underwood typewriter.

In one inspired moment, I entered with a spool of thread, attached it to a porcelain figure and typewriter and other objets lourds which I balanced at the very edge of the shelves and then trailed the nylon out thru the ¼" gap in the half-locked window and along the grass and into my own study, which I shared with Braithwaite, an other-worldly swot who lived in his own world of calculus, Homer and brewing up stinky concoctions on the bunsen burner.

Teacher: "Er, do we have the privilege of your attention, Braithwaite?"

"With you in a jiffy, sir. Just need to distil this mezereon so it keeps its viscosity."

"Well, you'll be the first to do so-"

(Head down, sans looking up) "Just needs keeping at 80°, sir."

"Hrrmph. Very well. The rest of you turn to page 83 in your Turner and Lyle.

B: misprint in para 2, sir.

"What?"

(Still not looking up.) Para 2, sir. The formula's wrong. It should be 4 not 8."

"Aaahh .. quite so. Page 83, everyone, and correct - neatly now - the 8 to a 4. Thank you, Braithwaite."

Good man to share a study with.

"You're a bloody fool, Holmes." (nose in math book)

"Shut your cake trap, Braithers."

"Still a bloody fool."

"OK, what've you got for the Latin prep?"

"What've you got?" Scribbling formula.

"I can't get what Alcinous is saying; doesn't make sense:

"Gaze on ... because ... something about a rope ... tie up your troubles in your old kit bag? ... Tie your money together? Because, let me tell you, this whole thing will end in tears ... can't be that."

B: Sigh

"Yet, lo - at such a moment your heart prompts you to seek the tale of my dismal fortunes, whose telling will wring from me yet deeper tears."

Thanks.

Still a bloody fool.

I'd hear the housemaster come down with his loud click-clack shoes and just when I calculated he was in ear-shot of his study, I pull on the thread and hear the eminently satisfying tinkle of breaking china and general destruction.

The thread would then be pulled clear and in thru my window and tucked away.

House master would enter to apparently locked window and scene of devastation.

We had enquiries and grillings and threats and pleadings and even the fuzz at one point.

The trick is to remember what you don't know and stick to that ignorance.

The cop asked us "So what do you think about the records?" (about which we'd never been told). Good old Dyer-Smith thought he was talking about *atheletic* records, of which he'd broken a few, so he'd preen modestly and say it was just luck and a good wind behind him. I interpreted it as archives and said I didn't realise Mr Alban kept the school records in his study but that they were jolly useful if anyone came to update the history of our hallowed seat of learning.

And now I'm listening to Maria singing her heart out and just loving it and thinking what a terrible thing to do to the old fart: gingerly removing the sacred disc only to see it cracked in twain or horrendously mutilated.

Pure vicious uncalled-for act of hooliganism of a lonely boy lashing out at a world he neither understood nor wanted a part of.

Inner Gardener

Beauteous merciful rain bucketing down, releasing me from yardwork duties in mum's absence and enabling Sam and I to stroll the lanes and inhale the freshness.

I have a new best e-friend who emails me suitably teasing/chastising messages of hope and backbone-stiffening content.

She sounds lovely and understanding so I grabbed the camera and went out in search of something dewy and colorful with which to tease her under the pretense of tapping my "inner jardinier". Yukk.

Sam is as black-thumbed as moi because when I instructed him to lead to me where Mistress keeps her most decorative plants, he gave me his moony-eyed look and rolled tummy up in the sodden gravel. Soul mates.

Anyway, guided by the stuff Julie shoves up, I found some likely looking growth and set the camera to close up and tried to capture the dew on the leaf and all that fancy stuff you see in Country Life and planty mags.

Gorgeous sight, I must confess, all the greenery and wet surfaces andf everything smelling fresh and new.

Scurrying creatures everywhere that I didn't actually spot but I heard their rustle and Sam was shamed into doing his hound dawg thang and stalking them. Trouble was, the rustle would come from one direction and he'd go snorting off in another, all pointy and lean-bodied hunter mode but not actually where it was at.

Next post - trompe  - or rather *test* - l'oeuil rainbows.

(I do hope I've spelled it right; B-Beat corrected me once but I've forgotten it.)

Long time no update on that fine blog but I do think of her and her pert encouragement.

---

SCYTHE

Down to the local supermarket and saw these totally cool ouzo bottles in the shape of the island, which in legend has always been likened to a scythe.

Wells-sahib thinks they are emptied and that the staff had a good time setting up the display but they do contain the hooch, no question.

Untrusted Bloggers

My most constant hate-mailer sends me the latest Inquirer findings.

His vitriol is always top grade but I don't actually know why he punishes himself by monitoring me so closely if I send him so apoplectic.

Anyway, it seems the unwashed masses don't always have the salt cellar to hand when they cruise the "interweb", as it's described. New one on me.

Personally, I think they could delete the hyphen and just have it that "No-one trusts a blogger survey", but that's me.

Books Galore

I've not organised this at all well.

I meant to photo some of the amazingly old books here ranged around the various shelves and loos but got the order wrong and, frankly, the quality of some of pics is poor.

Some of the titles that caught my eye:

Sackville West's "In your Garden" titles, 1950, 1952, and 1953

HG Wells' History of the World, published in 1930 by Watts & Co of Fleet Street in their superbly named "Thinker's Libary", no price.

Witty George Mikes' (pronounced Mikesh)'How to Tango', 1962 at 4/6

GM's 'How to be an Alien', 1946 at 7/6. Hmm, the year of my birth. I wonder if some joker gave it to my mum by way of a hint at how awful babies are. In fact, it's signed in mum's maiden name so what's going on *there*, I wonder.

There is, in fact, in the archives an Australian news cutting announcement of my birth that gets my parents' wedding day wrong by a year, having me emerge a close-shave 5 days after the nuptials. Phew.

A PG Wodehouse Penguin, out in 1958 at 3/6

Cartoonist Ronald Searle, 1960 no price

Osbert Lancaster, 1964 at five bob

Uncorrected and unbound proof of Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift (1974) that I had flown over from the US publishers so I could read and talk it up before the Secker edition came out. I toted it around with me when Saul and I went walkabout round the top press and media. SB received the Nobel Prize for literature shortly after Humboldt came out and my finished bound copy has a v sweet note along the lines of "To my friend Chris with friendshop and gratitude for getting me the Nobel."

Of *course* they all say that we always fall for it, but how nice.

A "Flowers of the Countryside" (dread subject!) at 7/6 and no publication date which shows just what a gents' game it was back then, whenever 'then' was.

Lovely book about Hong Kong, 1960, full of racially profiling illustrations including one of a happy carver sitting in front of a *mountain* of ivory - talk about incorrect and anti-conservation.

The house is *full* of such volumes that I remember from my Hong Kong childhood and which simply stayed in my parent's bookshelves til Dad retired and were then packed up and shipped in their entirety to Greece.

guest room books