A Little Absurdity

Mel was trying to describe a feature on the arm of a woman she’d been sitting next to in a lecture. She got as far as the adjective ‘blubbery,’ but couldn’t think of a suitable noun for it to modify.

‘Excrescence?’ I suggested.

‘Yes, that’ll do.’

And then I realised what a splendid phrase ‘blubbery excrescence’ is – so horridly evocative that it stands happily alone without need of a context. It reminds me of that scene in Waiting for Godot in which Pozzo looks at the sky and pointlessly exclaims ‘Effulgent!’

And so I’m tempted to stand in the checkout queue at Sainsbury’s and exclaim ‘blubbery excrescence!’ just to see whether it attracts any applause.

Being a Grammar Nazi.

There’s an advert keeps appearing on YouTube for Walk in Showers. That should actually read ‘Walk-in Showers.’ ‘Walk in Showers’ means something quite different.

OK, so I’m being picky. But if advertisers insist on ingratiating their unwholesome and unwelcome presence into our lives, they might at least do so correctly.

I think I must be in one of those moods at the moment. I’d gladly tell a joke, but the only one I know is the ‘white horse called Kevin’ joke (it’s the only one I find funny enough to remember) and I’ve already done that one.

Getting BC a Bit Wrong.

I watched another chunk of The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939) tonight. It came to the point where Drs Mortimer and Watson are accompanying Sir Henry to his new home at Baskerville Hall on Dartmoor. On the way they pass a rather cardboard-looking replica of Stonehenge, and Mortimer explains:

‘They’re old stone houses, built by Neolithic Man 50-100,000 years ago.’

And when Sir Henry and Stapleton’s sister visit the place, she waves her hand perfunctorily in the direction of some vague structure and says:

‘That thing over there was their temple.’

Audiences must have been pretty damn naïve back then. Don’t watch it until you’re ready to retire, Maddie. Just don’t.

And by the way, I’ve walked very many miles over Dartmoor, and it doesn’t look remotely like the set they created for the film. Just so you know.

Perfect and Imperfect Timing.

September and October were unusually warm in Britain this year. Halloween even broke the all time record when a temperature of 23.6°C was recorded somewhere in the South East (that’s 74.5F for the DYs.)

‘I bet it will cool down for Bonfire Night,’ said Mel. ‘It’s always cold on Bonfire Night.’

Sure enough, it has cooled down a lot, and the BBC weather forecast for the week gives the first frost of the autumn on Wednesday night – Bonfire Night – after which it should turn milder again. I wonder how it knows.

*  *  *

Today’s little mystery was the finding of a Shield Bug crawling down a wall in my office this afternoon. The last time I saw a Shield Bug was during the hot, dry summer of 2006, when there were several of them apparently enjoying the parched conditions in the garden. What this one was doing in my office on a cool day in November I have no idea.

He was a handsome little chap, black and sage green on the back with pale green underparts, and was quite happy wandering around my hand for a while. I named him Harry, because that’s what he looked like, and then returned him to the wild to search for whatever Shield Bugs eat.

And I seem to be dredging the bottom of that old barrel again.

What, No Ones?

Here’s a little mystery for you. I just watched the first part of the iconic 1939 version of Hound of the Baskervilles starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. The opening establishing shot shows a street sign which says ‘Baker Street W,’ when it’s usually presented as W1. The camera then pans across and down to Sherlock’s door, beside which is ‘22B.’ It should be 221B.

Are we to believe that the props department of Universal Studios was deficient in representations of the number 1 in 1939? Or could it be that it was a cunning plan to keep the Germans from knowing where Sherlock lived, just in case they dropped a bomb on him or something? It all seems a bit silly to me, but maybe there’s a Perfectly Rational Explanation.

And while I’m writing, I have to say this. The series of Sherlock Holmes films made by Universal between 1939 and 1946 are widely revered. Some claim they are the best Sherlock films ever made. I disagree. They’re loaded with atmosphere and period charm. They’re comfortable, like an old sofa. But some of the scripts and acting performances are about as bad as you’re ever likely to see. I still like them, of course. Who wouldn’t?

On Pipes and Personality.

I was thinking about pipes again tonight, and realised that the way a person handles the article says a lot about their nature. For example, the best of men are those who hold the pipe sloping downwards from the side of the mouth, the bowl resting on the lower segment of the second finger with the adjacent forefinger wrapped across the top of the stem. This is the way Aragorn smokes his in Lord of the Rings. Those who grip the bowl in the palm of their hand are exhibiting a control tendency.

But the sort of man you must never have anything to do with is the sort who drives a car while holding the pipe gripped by the front teeth and pointing forward, either horizontally or with an upward slant. Such a man is part of a rare, insufferable breed and best avoided. If you should see one and he is also wearing a trilby, call the police immediately and make up whatever story you can get away with to have him locked up.

Ysobel: Dead and Varied.

I knew an actress back in the day called Ysobel something-or-other. I asked her once:

‘Are you named after Isabel Fitton?’

‘I am, yes,’ she replied with a look of unrestrained admiration (or so it appeared to my ego at the time – I had a life back then.) ‘How did you know that?’

‘The spelling.’

‘Ah, of course. Yes, my dad was a big fan of Elgar.’

Isabel Fitton, you see, was a viola pupil of Elgar’s, and one of the inspirations for the pieces that make up his Enigma Variations. Only for some reason, he changed the spelling in the title of the piece to ‘Ysobel.’ (Don’t ask me why. Maybe he was in the mood for varying everything.) Anyway…

Shortly afterwards, Ysobel got a starring role in an episode of a popular TV cop drama. She played a pale and diffident young woman with acne who gets murdered by her abusive boyfriend. It was odd seeing somebody I knew getting murdered, and I never did find out whether the acne was real or placed there by a make up artist.

And I’m not entirely sure why I’m making this post – doesn’t have much substance, does it? Put it down to a whim, and maybe the fact that I’m growing tired of being chained to the basement floor.

Fickle Signs.

I had a dream in which I was in a dark underground cave system, aware of the imminent probability of either a rock fall or flash flood. The prospect of being trapped with no hope of escape, of being left to die in a cold, dark place from either suffocation or drowning, was not pleasant. Every time I woke up and dozed again, I was back in the same subterranean world. Eventually I overslept badly and awoke to a morning almost over.

It was another sublime accident of timing, for when I got up I was treated to a sting in the tail of an old story that’s been echoing rather a lot lately. Had I gone out into the light of day a mere half minute earlier or later, it wouldn’t have happened.

So where does this lead me in my search for meaning? Nowhere. By late afternoon a soft golden light bathed the landscape, while a soft marbled sky overlooked it all with reassuring benevolence. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.

The Road and November.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

~ Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

I took my first step on the road of life in November - born into a chill and vaporous world, or so it always seemed to me as a child. I was aware of November because it was the month in which my birthday fell, and kids like birthdays. I would come home from school and then be sent out on my bike to get something from the shops before dinner. My recollection is that it was always dark and always damp and always chilly and always at least a little misty.

I don’t think I should like the road to end in November, though. If I had a choice, it would be September, so that I could either leave with the swallows or go to sleep with the trees. Maybe it could be on the very day that the hum of nature’s energy falls silent.

Somebody asked me recently what music I would choose for my funeral. I’ve considered that question often during my life as I discovered new things which fitted the occasion. My latest choice is this:

The lyrics are enigmatic, being about some maiden who sleeps on the moor for seven nights with only cold spring water for sustenance. No explanation for her action is offered, but the feel of the music meets with my approval.

Pan's Other Pipes.

Notwithstanding the oceans of vitriolic ire which the following statement might evince, I have to be true to myself and make it anyway:

I should like the pipe to make a comeback.

(This is partly the fault of Maddie who keeps digging up old ones in the name of her profession, and partly the fault of LOTR in which several characters are seen smoking them. And it isn’t only Mary and Pipsqueak who indulge in this reprehensible pursuit. Gandalf and Aragorn, both characters of much greater gravitas, are also seen puffing away at various points. It is true that Gandalf, in his white incarnation, nearly chokes on one in the run up to the battle of Minas Tirith, but I’m sure that was put in purely for the sake of political correctness since it serves no purpose whatsoever in the unfolding of the plot. Personally, I chose to regard Gandalf’s pulmonary discomfort as being indicative of the nasty black stuff which we are led to believe is emanating from Mordor. That way, Ian McKellen’s ineffectual effort at acting a coughing fit makes at least a little sense.)

So, to continue:

 

I have a pipe, you know. I do. It’s a black rustic briar model called the Donegal Rocky, made by Peterson of Dublin. I bought it – and smoked it – at a time when pipes were rather more in evidence than they are now, and when I was young enough to want to be middle aged (it was a respect thing.) I soon learned two things about the pipe:

Firstly, it’s an object of great character. It has only two components, the bowl and the stem, and yet it’s capable of infinite variation in shape and design. It has the twin qualities of being both aesthetically pleasing and functionally impeccable. It’s the sort of thing you want to collect, keeping various examples in a pipe rack to suit your changes of mood and taste. I never got around to building a collection, but it brings me to the second point.

When you hold a pipe, it makes you feel like a different person. If you cup your hand over the top of the bowl so that the stem is sticking out between your thumb and forefinger and then tap your nose or pursed lips with it, it helps you think more clearly. I’m not kidding, you know. It does. And it adds a whole new dimension to your physical mannerisms. You can point with it, tap people on the shoulder with it, conduct music with it… Everything you’d normally do with a finger is done so much better with a pipe. It makes you feel like you count.

And then there’s the little matter of something I grew up with: the smell of pipe tobacco is surely one of the finest the gods ever devised. A home is never more so than when the residue of pipe tobacco smoke mingles with the smells of baking, fresh flowers and beeswax furniture polish. And so, if it has the stamp of heaven and home upon it, I see no better reason than that to bring it back.