Symbolic Forest

Yesterday’s post, as you might have guessed, contained my New Year’s Resolutions.

pause for regular readers to think: hmmm, I didn’t read that. Where is it?

The Plain People Of The Internet: Come on there, get on with it!

That was a joke, of sorts. There wasn’t a post yesterday, because there weren’t any New Year’s Resolutions. There is lots about my life that I’d like to fix, but … well, why should I set any arbitrary dates? Either I manage to do things, or I don’t. There’s little point waiting for a new page in the calendar before trying to do something, is there.

This year, I’m going to do more. I’m going to be more creative, more productive, and more optimistic. But I’m not doing that because it’s a new year. I’ve already started the process. In the past three months, I’ve done more than I did in the rest of last year; and that’s going to continue.

Keyword noise: new year, resolutions.

Last year, I spread my favourite memories over a series of posts, and wrote each one up properly. This year, I’m still feeling rather woozy and fuzzy-headed; but, nonetheless, these are the things I remember most clearly about the year.

The sight of Devon in January. Driving down the M5 in the dark, and wondering what it would look like in the daylight; then the next morning seeing everything clearly.

Getting on a plane for the first time, and feeling it throw me back in my seat on take-off. I didn’t realise, beforehand, just how forceful it feels. I tried to identify towns, roads, railways from the window, but didn’t do very well. From what I did recognise, we took a very sinuous course around southern England before heading out over the Channel.

Driving around town in the middle of summer, trying to find my way to work, via a route that wasn’t closed by flooding. The estates and marshland east of town were being pumped out by the army; not many routes were passable. Thinking: it’s a bit silly making the sea defences bigger and louder, only to get swamped by the rain.

And, finally: at the end of summer, on a Sunday afternoon, sitting on a stile listening to church bells, and all the other noises one hears at such times.

Keyword noise: Devon, flight, flooding, memories, travel.

Today, I’ve drunk several cups of tea. I’ve sat reading for a while; I’ve sat online for a while, and later I’m going to be zooming about the English motorway system.^* In other words, just like any other non-working day. The only alcohol in my system is: two spoonfuls of Benylin.

Somehow, though, I have this sudden urge to gorge myself on poultry and roast vegetables, before lying back in an armchair, burping, eating Ferrero Rocher^** and watching Doctor Who on the telly. It must be genetic, or something.^*** At least Doctor Who can wait until evening. If you’re reading this, today: go and look at one final Christmas card, then switch off the computer, and either go down the pub, or lie on the sofa and belch like a normal person.

* insert Sarah Nixey impression here.

** yes, I did get given a box. And socks. And underwear. And the new Terry Pratchett, as per usual.

*** It’s been scientifically-proved – by Caitlin’s Militant Invective Laboratories, of course – that British people have a genetic susceptibility towards a love of apparently-immortal and godlike aliens who can build time-travelling phone boxes.

Keyword noise: Christmas, Doctor Who, Militant Invective Laboratories.

I’ve just realised something. So far, I’ve eaten one day of my advent calendar. I still have 23 days left to go. It might not be as good as K’s home-made peanut butter cups,^* but HURRAH!

* although it is a morally-uplifting fair trade advent calendar, obtained by The Mother from church.

Keyword noise: Advent, Advent calendar, chocolate, Christmas.

There’s five days to go, and I already feel like I want to cancel Christmas. I haven’t written a single card. I haven’t bought many presents, and I have no idea what The Parents actually want. To be fair, neither do they. I try to go look for something on my lunch break, and everyone else has had the same idea. The roads into town are gridlocked; as soon as I’ve found a parking space, it’s time to head out back to the office again.

But then, I look out at the night sky, and I remember what the Yuletide season is really about. I feel the crisp air, watch the frost, and think about the turning seasons. On Saturday,^* the daytime stops shrinking and slowly starts to get longer again; and there is winter itself to enjoy. As this year starts to turn over into the next, I know I’m older, wiser, learning more about who I am and what I enjoy in life; and becoming happier with it, too. And I’m looking forward to life with excitement, and wondering just what we’re going to do next.

* Pedants might point out that the solstice is on the 21st, and Saturday is the 22nd. However, the solstice isn’t always on the same date. This December it’s on the 22nd, unless you’re in the Far East.

Keyword noise: Christmas, seasons, shopping, solstice, winter, Yuletide.

A spare weekend: we went wandering, in the car, and on foot. We drifted through the moorland village of Levisham, as untouched a village as you’ll find in Yorkshire, with one road wandering through it across a broad green. Ambling downhill, we reached the railway station. We watched a train pull in, and shunt about, great clouds of steam rising in the December cold.

Prowling around the station, we discovered its Artist In Residence, Christopher Ware, in his studio. We chatted a little while, and studied his prints of bucolic trains. He can’t have many visitors on a day like that; hopefully we were a welcome distraction for a few minutes.

Keyword noise: artists, Christopher Ware, heritage, Levisham, North Yorkshire, North Yorkshire Moors Railway, NYMR, railway, studio, Yorkshire.

Pasta, prosciutto, and tomato sauce.

Ingredients:

• Lemon pasta. I’m not entirely sure what sort of pasta it was, and I’ve mislaid the packet; but it was a bit like thick linguine. And lemon-flavoured.
• 125g Proscu Prosch Parma ham, sliced.
• 1 red onion
• 1 clove garlic
• 1 tin chopped tomatoes
• 1/3 tsp paprika
• Grated parmesan

Put the pasta on to boil. Chop the onion and crush the garlic, and fry them in a large frying pan until soft. Roughly chop the prosciutto into pieces maybe up to an inch square, and add it to the pan. Drain the tomatoes, keeping the juice. When the ham is well-cooked, add the tomatoes, the paprika, and a little of the tomato juice, and turn the heat down slightly. If the mixture becomes too dry, add more of the tomato juice. When the pasta is cooked, drain it, and stir it into the sauce, cooking it on a medium heat until everything is thoroughly mixed in. Divide into bowls, sprinkle with parmesan, and serve. Serves two.

Keyword noise: food, linguine, parma ham, pasta, prosciutto, recipe, tomato sauce.

Overheard in the street:^* a parent (or guardian) and child:

Child: I’ve got a headache.

Parent: You don’t have a headache. You’re seven. You can only get headaches when you’re older.

Local news time: a teenager was murdered last week, just by the doorstep of Great Great Aunt Mabel’s house. Great Great Aunt Mabel didn’t have anything to do with it, though, as she died in 1983. Nevertheless, I’ve never been allowed to forget, by The Mother, every time we pass, who lived there. “That was your Nanna’s Auntie Mabel’s house, next to the bookmakers’”. My own memory of the house is at once faint and vivid: sneaking into the scullery to play with the coal in the coal-scuttle. Auntie Mabel was the last householder in the family still to use coal for heating, back in the heyday of post-punk and Scargill. She moved into a sheltered home a couple of years before she died; in my memory, the glass in the front doors of the home was always being smashed by vandals. She died cleaning; found on her hands and knees by her bed, still holding her dustpan and brush.

* Post House Wynd, Darlington, in case you were wondering

Keyword noise: Darlington, Grimsby, Lincolnshire, North East Lincolnshire, murder, overheard.

Have spent today on a wild goose chase around the county. In one sense: a bad thing, because nothing productive at all got done. In another: a good thing, noone could bother me,^* so I had some time to think to myself, and plot things. I started writing a film treatment in my head; the challenge will be to get it on paper in some way that resembles my mind’s-eye view. Which is hard. It reminds me of a passage on writing by Tibor Fischer:

The ideas, the visions that turned his ignition were exciting but it was like taking a pebble out of a river where it gleamed and watching it became matt and boring. Pataki tried to splash with ink the invisible men that only he could see, so that others could detect their outlines, but he always missed and was merely left with a mess

(from Under The Frog, p32 in the Penguin edition)

Someone recently searched for: “how to build a souterrain”. Which is an interesting idea. As far as I know, noone’s tried to build a souterrain for a millennium or two, but that’s no reason why you shouldn’t give it a go, if you have enough land. You can go for cut-and-cover fairly easily: dig a banana-shaped trench, maybe about twenty or thirty feet long, down to about eight feet or so in depth,^** and pop a roof of some kind, probably turf or thatch, over the top. In soil it’s probably a lot safer than a shallow tunnel, unless you really know what you’re up to. In rock, it’s a lot of work.

Another thing that’s been searched for recently: “feeling absolutely drained of all energy”. I couldn’t agree more. And so to bed.

* “Sorry, the battery on my hands-free headset has run out”

** I hope you realise I’m pulling these measurements off the top of my head, rather than looking up archaeological reports and so on.

Keyword noise: archaeology, fogou, passage, souterrain, Tibor Fischer, Under The Frog, underground, tunnel, writing.

The scene: the office conversation, a quick conversation with a new member of staff whilst the kettle boiled. He was telling me all about his past, his former history of self-employment.

“… but you can’t do anything in this country nowadays, it’s terrible for small businesses, this government, it really is, they want to get control of every little thing…”

I thought: I know exactly what’s coming here.

“…it makes it impossible to run your own life…”

… any second now …

“it’s this Nanny State…”

BINGO! As soon as someone, especially a certain type of person, starts along that line of argument, they’re going to mention the Nanny State, which rules every aspect of our lives and tells us exactly what we can and can’t do. These are the people who believe that Christmas is being banned, or that the government has banned blackboards for being racist, and that it’s Political Correctness Gone Mad. And I don’t understand them. Do they never look at the world around them? Do they believe anything they hear or read?

He rambled on about how much better everything was in America – how life is far better, the taxes are lower, everyone is better off and lives a wonderful life without government interference.

“Yes, until they fall ill and can’t afford to pay for treatment,” I said.

“No, no, medicine is free in the USA too,” he replied.

“Really?” I said, because that really doesn’t square with everything else I’ve been told about the USA over the years.

“Yes, it’s all free, just as it is here,” he said. I was tempted to ask if the land is also flowing with milk and honey, with dollar bills and chocolate coins growing on the trees, but I’m not sure if he’d have realised where the joke was.

Keyword noise: America, colleagues, government, healthcare, libertarian, Political Correctness Gone Mad, right-wing, USA.