Meanwhile....

over on the Dabbler I salute the genius of Fred Astaire.

Preaching on the Platform

Yesterday's sunshine had me heading for the Surrey Hills (where butterflies were sadly few - I might have missed the Green Hairstreak and Dingy Skipper this year, thanks to the vile April-May weather). On the station platform as I waited for my train, I noticed an unhappy-looking middle-aged man wearing a windcheater and clutching a Bible, from which he was reading to the two men within earshot, with exhortations of his own thrown in at intervals. The gist seemed to be that we are all bound for Hell unless we resist the snares and wiles of Satan. Those of us not actively on the Lord's side are doing the Devil's work and it's a poor lookout all round. His audience was not receptive to this harsh eschatology, alternating between studiously ignoring him and asking him to pipe down. Undeterred, he pressed on with what was clearly to him an urgent mission...
As I got on the train, I assumed that that would be the last I saw of him - but no. At the end of my walk, there he was again on the station platform, as I waited for the train to take me home. He did not look as if he'd been enjoying a ramble in the Surrey Hills, but rather was still about the Lord's work, addressing a young woman with a trail bike, who was proving unreceptive. I walked to the far end of the platform and admired the view.
Whenever I come across one of these freelance street preachers, I think of the poet Christopher Smart (remembered today chiefly for his cat Jeoffry), whose religious mania led him to exhort passers-by to fall to their knees and pray. Smart was overwhelmed by his sense of the love of God - surely the best form of religious 'mania' to have - and was for a while confined in an asylum. Samuel Johnson was touchingly sympathetic: “I do not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him; and I’d as lief pray with Kit Smart as anyone else.” Indeed.

Sun!

The area of part-cleared woodland turned over so vigorously by the first of the Holland Park pigs is a glorious sight at this time of year, a tribute to their wonder-working snouts. Queen Anne lace, campion, alkanet, Jack-by-the-hedge and St John's wort are all abundantly in flower, with (still) drifts of bluebells, not to mention green nettles and goosegrass... This lunchtime, for a wonder, the sun was briefly out, and the pig-made flower meadow was quite startlingly beautiful, the greens very bright and green indeed after a month of rain, setting off the colours of the flowers to perfection - and the sun, brief though it was, brought out the butterflies. Whites small and Large (the latter, surprisingly, my first of the year) were flapping around, Holly Blues darting busily about, a Speckled Wood basking in a sunny patch, and bright Orange Tips exploring the possibilities of the meadow. After such a dismal April, it was a joy to see them again. Let's hope there's more sun on the way.

Wicked Men

I wasn't paying much attention - it was Thought for the Day after all - but on the radio this morning that glum Scotsman called 'John Bell of the Iona Community' airily lumped together terrorist leaders, paedophile gangs and those of us who have our doubts about Catastrophic Anthropogenic Climate Change (CACC). This seemed a little harsh, but then, as I say, it was Thought for the Day, so I don't suppose anyone noticed. He was lumping these strange bedfellows together as examples of distinctively male-dominated fields of heinous activity - paedophilia, terrorism, climate change scepticism... I can't imagine why: in my experience, both sides of the CACC debate are overwhelmingly male, as strident debates tend to be, women having more sense and better things to do. As far as I've noticed among the people I know, there's no particular tendency in either direction among men or women.
Anyway, on the way to the station this morning, a small nondescript bird that I'm sure must have been a Cetti's Warbler was warbling away merrily from an elder bush. Probably a sign of climate change.

A Little Immortality

Yesterday I caught an episode of Neil MacGregor's excellent Radio 4 series Shakespeare's Restless World. It focused on the plague outbreak of May 1603 - the worst to hit London since the Black Death. If Shakespeare had died in that epidemic, we would surely be living in a different world - one without Lear, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra, Othello, Measure for Measure, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale and The Tempest (to name only the highlights). But Shakespeare also survived a major outbreak of plague in 1592. Had he died then, we would know him only as the author of Henry VI, perhaps the Comedy of Errors, Richard III, Venus and Adonis - little more than a footnote in the history of English literature... And then I heard the news of Maurice Sendak's death, which (rightly) got extensive coverage on radio and TV. Unsurprisingly, the emphasis was very much on Where the Wild Things Are. What if - heaven forbid - Sendak had died before he wrote Wild Things (not to mention In the Night Kitchen, Higglety Pigglety Pop! and Outside Over There)? Well, he wouldn't be such a giant figure, but he would surely have been remembered for those little masterpieces The Nutshell Library (Alligators All Around, One Was Johnny, Pierre and - my favourite - the lovely Chicken Soup with Rice). And, by that early stage of his career, Sendak had already written The Sign on Rosie's Door, and illustrated, beautifully, the Little Bear books of Else Holmelund Minarik. Enough there, surely, to achieve a little immortality.

La Tristesse de Clegg

Why does Nick 'Capability' Clegg always look so sad? Even at yesterday's touching ceremony in which he renewed his vows with Squire Cameron, he looked as if he was about to burst into tears, Is he nursing a secret sorrow, or just trying to give the impression of un homme serieux and man of destiny, rather than Cameron's 'favourite political joke'? This ridiculously entertaining website (which had me chuckling at length) has come up with an ever increasing range of inspired explanations for Clegg's enduring tristesse. Enjoy... The other mystery about Clegg is that he can't wear a suit - he always looks like a schoolboy in his first suit, bought off the peg from the 50 shilling tailor. Suits never hang right on Cleggy - perhaps it's all those concealed pockets stuffed with his latest plans for Squire Cameron's park?

'Dear Friend...'

I got back to work this morning to find a message from Allah in my inbox - which doesn't happen every day.
Allah addresses me as 'Dear Friend' and goes on: 'Your email was suggested as someone  who may have heard of God (Allah) [yes, the name does ring a bell] and it was suggested I reach out to you, personally. I am God Allah and looking to people for purposes previously explained by the church or mosque, i.e. The Resurrection. If you'd like to help get something started, email Me [I like that upper-case M] back. Emergency Message, Allah'.
Allah supplies two email addresses: God@llah.us and god@trinityholy.info - and a PO Box number in San Mateo, California.
Call me Mr Infidel, but I don't feel inclined to respond...
Meanwhile, over on the Dabbler, I ponder Kingsleys.