DRIVING LESSON

I had my first driving lesson today with a very nice bloke called Kev (who talks too much). I drove around an industrial estate for an hour and a half. Fortunately, I seemed able to tap into something from my lessons of sixteen years ago. Finding the biting point on the clutch, for example, didn't seem as much of a palava as I remember it being back then. Thank goodness. It would be magnificent if I could pass before my summer holiday, but since this is in seven weeks' time, it seems unlikely. Come what may, with or without a car, I'm determined to spend some of August under canvas, camping out. Yay.

AT THE RIVER

Had a thirty minute walk along the river in the rain at the weekend. It was a nice and increasingly rare night out, and a fantastic walk to get there. It was evening on an extremely wet Sunday, so I didn't pass a soul on the way there. It was raining quite hard all the way, too, and the trees were low slung, so I kept dislodging water from them with my umbrella. Because there were so many trees growing densely along the riverbank, I was struck by how massive the leaves are on Horse Chestnut trees. They are really in their prime now. I think all of nature is, at this time of year. The leaves were lime-green coloured, and enormous:





Another nice thing to witness were the moorhens, swans, canada geese and other miscellaneous ducks. I know there's no need to illustrate my metaphors, but the internet makes it all possible, so:





At one point, there were two sets of mating pairs, with about ten cygnets apiece, just waddling about on the grassy bank, killing time. I'm sure this was because the river was so swollen and fast-flowing they didn't want their babies washed away. Not such nice weather for ducks, then.

SCOTT WALKER



Scott Walker is clearly a man with a lot going on. You only need listen to his music to spot his depth and emotion. There was a documentary about him last night -interesting, but not very revealing. I felt none the wiser about the man, but quite a lot wiser to his music. I didn't realise the extent of his avant garde streak. He's one of those musicians/artists who will forever be shrouded in mystery until he dies, at which point biographers will shed a lot more light. It's not nice to wish people dead (and I don't wish Scott Walker dead) but it's the only way the public will ever find out what makes him tick.

THE 'GALLOP APACE' SOLILOQUY

Somewhat inevitably, am covering Romeo and Juliet for GCSE (I love Shakespeare, but I'd *much* prefer that we studied Hamlet). This soliloquy is one of the best: it's so lovely; so utterly, unashamedly romantic in every department - in its allusions, imagery, repetition and emphasis. It's full of suggestion and laden with imperatives. She just can't wait to have him!

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms untalked of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
Hood my unmanned blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle till strange love grow bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night;
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possessed it. So tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.

MY CAR



I have a car to call my own: it’s a 1997, 5-door hatchback Daihatsu Move. Only 46,000 miles on the clock and a 846cc engine, which is apparently equivalent to a motorbike. It’s great though, and cost only £23 to fill the tank. It’s quite dinky as it’s incredibly narrow (no hassle parking snug against the kerb) and it has very small wheels. My mate down the road was trading up to a new Beatle, so she very kindly donated this to me. Now I have to pass my test!

Thing is, though, I’m a cyclist before I’m a motorist. I’m extremely grateful to C for the car, but nothing beats the thrill of urban cycling – sawing the handlebars right down and taking huge risks in London traffic. I used to love it so much. It doesn’t have the same appeal in this town. But, beating the lights; hopping onto pavements (case-need); going into a high gear and charging along long, flat arterial stretches; breaking into a sweat through effort and exertion; tacitly ‘racing’ other cyclists; noticing the changing seasons in the air; setting off with a bunch of other commuters when the lights change; judging the exact spot on a road where you want to come to rest (often HMV on Oxford Street); cutting loose through Regent’s Park; cycling the final strait without holding the handlebars; passing glum people at bus stops; smiling at cute couriers,; getting to your destination more quickly than you ever did before; getting there more quickly than people using the tube; getting to the top of a steep hill when you didn’t on previous occasions; managing to balance at lights without putting a foot down; cycling home through the dark listening to the birds; feeling the pure fusion and simplicity and responsiveness of your muscles powering non-motorised parts; blah, blah. Also, some of the best and most interesting people ride bikes. Who would you rather have at your dinner party? Jon Snow or John Prescott? Boris Johnson or Jeremy Clarkson? Cars suck, but bikes rock!

STEVE REICH




Picked up a heavily discounted Nonesuch sampler, at the weekend for three quid. Nothing much on it, apart from Section 6 of ‘Music for 18 Musicians’ by composer (and arranger, I presume) Steve Reich. Oh! but it’s good! I’ve had it on repeat – the relentlessness of playing it on repeat suits the music. I don’t even like classical music as a rule, but this is different. It’s similar to Brian Eno or David Axelrod but it’s all played by musicians, so it’s not electric (or electronic, even). An ebayer comments:
To label the work 'repetitive' would be an understatement, but also an unfair one. It is in its repetition of themes and original musical ideas that this admittedly minimal work finds it's strengths.

The fact that the very modern sounding piece is played entirely acoustically, along with the almost unrecognisable (yet sublime) presence of four female voices both contribute greatly to a piece of music which should not be ignored. This (‘Music for 18 Musicians’) is one of the most accessible of his works and is hauntingly repetitive and very beautiful – if you are new to the 'minimalist' music of the ‘70s, this work will astound you with its originality.

SAMUEL PEPYS' DIARY

I haven't got time to read it properly (there's so much of it) so instead I read entries quite randomly. He's relatively interesting - maybe a seventeenth century Septuagenarian: flawed, repetitive, occasionally funny. Here's what he says about keeping his accounts in order, on 31st March 1666.

All the morning at the office busy. At noon to dinner, and thence to the office and did my business there as soon as I could, and then home and to my accounts, where very late at them, but, Lord! what a deale of do I have to understand any part of them, and in short do what I could, I could not come to any understanding of them, but after I had thoroughly wearied myself, I was forced to go to bed and leave them much against my will and vowe too, but I hope God will forgive me, for I have sat up these four nights till past twelve at night to master them, but cannot. This ends my month, with my head and mind mightly full and disquiett because of my accounts, which I have let go too long, and confounded my publique with my private that I cannot come into any liquidating of them.

APOLOGIES

Apologies to any visitors of this blog (are there any?) who couldn’t find it. I had a passing emergency and had to hide it for a few days. Panic over.

HEN NIGHT

I went to a Hen night recently. It was sweet of the bride to invite me as we’re casual friends and not terrifically close, and so I figured it would have been rude to decline.

We went along to a show called SingAlongAnAbba. It was somewhere between theatre, karaoke and pantomime. You had to hold out props in time to the music (3D glasses for SuperTruperLightsAreGonnaBlindMe; an S & O card for SOS; etc). I tried to get into the spirit of it, but spent the evening feeling like a bit like Woody Allen and Sylvia Plath’s weird lovechild.

To be truthful, I felt quite dissimilar to the other ebullient, well-adjusted Hens, and then even further away from getting married, or liking Abba, so the whole thing was a bit like a grisly sitcom. Things improved later, when we got to the pub. Thankfully, there were a couple of others who seemed a bit out of kilter, which helped.

WHERE'S JUDE?




Calling TheJulianKennedy. Come in, TheJulianKennedy.