Oh, but I don't! I mastered all those other important things
that you have to learn early on in life, like how to ride a bike,
swim, play the recorder and pat my head at the same time as rub my
stomach and I must say, none of them have come in very useful since.
So maybe whistling wouldn't either but, still, I just wish I could, in
case one day I have the urge to join in with Otis, Bobby McFerrin, that B&Q advert with the Peter, Bjorn and John song, or serenade the local robin. I can do the oral gymnastics required to make a bottle-neck sing and get a thick blade
of grass to shriek like a banshee between my thumbs, but I couldn't
do a Roger Whittaker impression to save my life, even if I did grow a
beard (which is probably more likely, given my age).
How do you do it? “You just put your lips together and blow”
says Lauren Bacall in 'To Have and Have Not', making it sound simple, but I pout and puff and all that happens is... well, something like
this...
I caught a discussion on BBC Breakfast yesterday about the
price of show tickets. Never mind the second mortgage needed to see the Monty Python
reunion, it was guest John Robb, the writer, journalist and musician, who held my attention. Here's a man in his early fifties, with a
distinctly severe haircut, in a jacket just as sharp, open neck black shirt and
big-buckled creepers... and he looks great. You can see he's
getting older (as we all are) - he's more lined with a heavier brow and a little rough around the edges. That's fine, it suits him.
I don't subscribe to the idea of being an old punk; those days are over and, the way I see it, they were meant to be short-lived. Can't see the point in trying to look exactly the same as I did decades ago - apart from anything else it seems to lack imagination. However, I love to see someone getting older without completely losing their edge, and I reckon John's doing that.
It's about how you age, isn't it? It inevitably brings more creases, but that doesn't
mean you stop ironing them out of your clothes. You don't have to start wearing shapeless trousers and beige
anoraks, unless you really want to, of course. Not every man could (or would like to) carry
off the John Robb look, I'm sure, but I'm so glad someone can!
And, personally, I love to see a few age lines on a man's face.
'We don't stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing.'
Out the front door, turn right, past the rest of the red brick
terraced cottages, the two big detached houses, and then the crinkle
crankle wall. I love its curves, designed to economise on
bricks and help fruit trees flourish by providing a sun trap in
each of its concave spaces. There are around 50 of them in this
county alone, twice as many as in the whole of the rest of England, apparently.
Aerial view of a crinkle crankle wall
On to the corner, turn right again, I'm near the top of the hill and the wide path slopes down
in front of me. What a view.
A beautiful big crow swoops across from my left, its flight seems
more languid so close. I stand still while it flies directly over my
head, I can feel the ripple in the air from its wingbeat and I get a thrill from its proximity. It lands on the roof of the nearby house and I watch as it drops something large and brown from
its beak and tries to figure out a way to eat it. It looks like the
remnant of a roof tile but I guess it's a very stale piece of
bread. Or toast. I could watch this lovely creature all day.
Not the actual crow.
(pic: Anemone Projectors)
A middle-aged couple, dressed from head to toe in a mossy green
the same hue as the shadowy patches in the verge, stride towards me
briskly, heads down. I start to open my mouth to greet them as we
pass each other, but their faces remain determinedly fixed to the
ground and I don't continue with my acknowledgement after all.
Tourists, probably. Only tourists here make such a huge effort to
pretend you don't exist. Everybody else looks up, smiles and says
“Hello!”
Down to the bottom, through the gate, over the bridge and into the
main street. The pub looks welcoming and I could just fancy that
goats cheese dish advertised in curly writing on the board by the
steps. I notice Helen inside, she looks out just as I glance in and we
exchange silent salutations through the glass.
Onwards and I pass the fancy shoes and handbags shop which I've
never been in. A bright pink, almost fluorescent, tiny satchel in
the window catches my eye. I like it but I think it's
probably for a child. And there's no price on it, nor on any of the
items – not on the leopard spot court shoes or the shiny gold
sandals. You know what they say about shops which don't display
prices: if you can't see how much it is, you can't afford it. I keep on walking.
A shocking pink version of this.
There are prices on the items in the window of the adjacent gallery, but I still couldn't afford them. I like this gallery,
though; it's full of wacky sculptures, weird things like baby dolls
inside bottles and hares with incongruously long ears. It also
houses some original signed prints from Bowie album covers and right
now his Hunky Dory face, framed by the golden hair and clasping
hands, looks on distantly from behind the wide window.
A man in a hi-vis jacket is walking towards me, checking his
phone, puts it back in his pocket, looks up and catches my eye as we
pass each other. His are sparkly blue, lively eyes, set in a
pleasant face; I return his warm smile and they linger on me for a
second. A subtle, vital, extra, second, just enough to notice,
betrays an appreciative flirtatiousness which makes me feel a sudden frisson of
excitement. It's just so nice to receive a little attention, to feel
I haven't quite yet joined the brigade of the invisible, although I
know those days won't be far off. I take this moment, meaningless
though it is, and enjoy the brief boost it provides.
I say "Afternoon!" to the short fat lady with the little white dog
and then, further on, the tall man and his wife looking in the window of the estate
agents. "250,000!" she exclaims in disbelief.
On into the Post Office with its papery smell and racks of Haribo sweets, greet the staff and bid farewell to my parcel of artwork, then
retrace my steps back home.
My mind is free as I smile at the party of pensioners coming
out of the Old School, and pass the time of day with the man I seem
to see every time I walk this route, the one who always wears a grey
raincoat and looks like Mr Price from 'Please Sir!'
That's him, on the right.
It's an
uneventful walk but somehow it feels like more: a thumbnail of my
life, a snapshot of my small world. As I stroll past the oak tree and a
huge group of rooks take off from its big dark boughs, I almost feel
like writing about it.
There isn't that much in life that really irks me - a few odd
little things such as washing up saucepans, women with high squeaky
voices (step forward Sharon Osbourne / Yoko Ono) and trying to get
the last bit of margarine out of the tub. Just lately I've added
something else to the list: this disturbing trend for the
anthropomorphism of inanimate objects in labelling.
I feel patronised. I'm not a child, you don't need to use baby
talk when you speak to me, and likewise I don't need my Savoy Cabbage
to personally instruct me how to try it or explain how to keep it (or ought that to be
him/her?) in the fridge.
I'm sure the postman feels the same about this package...
It's the use of "I"and "me" that's really bugging me. It was fine in the fantasy context of 'Alice In Wonderland', and 'Eat Me' dates have been
using it as a quirky little brand name for decades. However I fear
this tendency to use the first person when it's not a person at all
is getting more widespread; it's just another part of the whole
dumbing down process, isn't it?
I mean, tell us what to do with things and where they fit by all
means, but please don't pretend you're a speaking cabbage or a
literate box. Next you'll be stamping little smiley faces on grapes
and god knows what directions you'll put on the loo paper rolls.
Some bright spark will then start attaching helpful voice
recordings to products like our morning cereal. “I'm lovely with milk poured over
me, just don't let me get soggy!” we'll be told by Sharon Osbourne, disguised as a cornflake, in her most irritating falsetto. If that ever happens I may just have to
reach for the Domestos to wantonly ignore Yoko's “Don't drink me!”
plea.
“I had one of those dreams last night,” I said to Mr SDS this
morning. Yes, one of those dreams - you know the kind I mean.
“It was with, oh, Bruce whatsisname,” I explained. We then went
through a number of Bruces with whom I'm very glad I didn't do
unspeakable things in my slumber:
“Bruce Dickinson?”
Ugh no, not him with that histrionic voice! That would have made me run to the hills.
“Bruce Forsyth?”
Cue countless catchphrases leading to innuendo overload:
Nice to see you, to see you...
Give us a twirl!
You get nothing for a pair!
Higher... Lower...
"Bruce Lee? Bruce Springsteen? Bruce Willis?"
But no, it was none of the above, thankfully. It was, you know, the one who
made 'Withnail & I'... Bruce Robinson. I've no idea
why he turned up in my dream but I don't mind admitting that I'm glad
he did - far better than Ricky Gervais, whom I've had twice, for some bizarre reason. But Bruce Robinson - such a talented, witty, edgy and really rather gorgeous man, I'm
sure you'd agree. Apart from being a fan of his first film - who
isn't?! - I also enjoyed his cameo role in 'Still Crazy' about the fictional band Strange Fruit, and his
biography 'Smoking in Bed' (thanks, A!). I warmed to him even more when I read
that he checks his kindling for spiders before lighting a fire so as
not to inadvertently incinerate the little creatures, and that he's
written some books for children which are illustrated by his artist
wife. And last night he... well, I won't say... but it was all very strange and fruity and crazy indeed, as well as being in a public place in broad daylight
(blush). It was as if I'd "gone on holiday by mistake".
Work's a bit on the heavy ticket at the mo; nine and ten-hour days, seven days a week (with occasional blog activity sponsored by Nescafe Fine Blend). All the book illustrators I know frequently have similar experiences: long hours, tight deadlines and low pay, so we must be doing it for love. Besides, in how many other jobs do you get to think about what a young badger might look like blowing up a balloon?!
Hello My name is Vladimir Kupriyanchuk I developed an interest in you. If you have the opportunity then please send me information materials and souvenirs (stickers, pen, t-shirt, notepad, poster or other.) I would be very grateful.
This charming fellow contacted me the other day and I was terribly tempted to send him a little goody bag in the post. He sent me his address and everything! I could give him one of my pencils with a personally chewed end, several notebooks with my very own handwriting in and there's an unwashed T-shirt in the laundry basket that he might like.
It was so much nicer to read his message than some of the others, though, particularly as I'm not actually 'seeking sluts to fuck' at the moment. (But apparently there are plenty in my local town and all you have to do is 'click here to enter'. Good to know.)
