Falling Again

'I took a terrible toss in the garden,' declared my piano teacher, explaining why his arm was in a sling. He must have wondered why I found this news so amusing. He – an avuncular, tweed-waistcoated figure in the Vaughan Williams mould – was an innocent; I was a dirty-minded schoolboy, desperately trying to stem the tsunami of mirth unleashed by the word 'toss'. I know, pathetic. I blush to recall it...
  Every time I take a toss myself (fnar fnar), I think of my old piano teacher and his infelicitous phrase. My occasional falls have become something of a leitmotif of this otherwise perpendicular blog, so I feel I must record the latest. It happened yesterday, as I neared the end of an enjoyable walk on Box Hill. Having made my way down from the famous escarpment along the dip slope, I turned onto a narrow path beside and a little above the road leading to the Burford Bridge hotel (where Keats once stayed). One moment I was striding along happily, the next I was flat out and face down on the path – the victim, yet again, of a tree root, in this case an inconspicuous dogwood root perfectly formed to bring down the unwary pedestrian.
  As I pondered the best way to raise myself from this undignified position, I heard a voice inquiring if I was all right. A couple who had been driving past had seen me fall and, alarmed by the sight, leapt out of their car to come to my aid – which was very nice of them, though in the event I could answer honestly that actually, yes, I was all right. No cuts, bruises, grazes, nothing but some grubby earth stains on my chinos. I thanked the couple, rose easily to my feet, and went on my way. It was only later that I discovered I had, without realising it or even feeling it, bruised my breastbone. The pain came on slowly over the next few hours, and has proved rather tiresome ever since – I never realised how many little everyday movements and actions involve the muscles that come together at the sternum. However, it's not much of a pain, as pains go, and perfectly manageable. What puzzles me is how I could have come down on my sternum with such a thump and not realised at the time. Better than coming down on my face, though.

Remembrance

In the course of my short unhappy visit to the library the other day, I did find time to read, as I always do, a couple of pages of the book of remembrance from the 1939-45 war. This beautifully produced volume chronicles all the civilians killed in the borough during those years as a result of enemy action, i.e. bombing. It makes desperately sad reading, especially the entries that list entire families killed by a single strike. And the addresses are streets that I know, streets that look now as if nothing ever happened on them.
  It was on this day 80 years ago that the first Blitz on London began, and it went on until October. Many of the deaths recorded in the book of remembrance date from the summer and autumn of 1940, but I noticed also a spate of deaths from summer 1944, when a desperate Hitler sent flying bombs and rocket bombs our way. Having survived the blanket bombing of 1940, and having been given hope that the war was as good as over, London (and environs) faced something even more terrible than the first Blitz, in the shape of these unmanned weapons, wholly dehumanised, wholly inhuman, terrifyingly destructive. And we think we live in hard times today...
 
 

No Popping In

Yesterday, having 20 minutes to kill and being in the vicinity, I thought I'd pop in to the notorious 'award-winning central library' about which I have written before (e.g. here).
Alas, I soon discovered that 'popping in' is no longer an option. As I strode past the reception desk, deftly sidestepping the hand sanitisers, I was loudly called back with the ominous words 'Can I help you?' and interrogated as to my identity and the purpose of my visit (which, actually, was to avail myself of the facilities, and perhaps sit and read for a little while). Having told the (perfectly pleasant) woman at the desk that I wanted to go upstairs and consult a reference book, I was told there is no longer a reference library as such (which I know all too well) and allowed to proceed – but, I was told firmly, I must not stay longer than 15 minutes, and I must at all times follow the one-way system through the building.
These precautions, I must say, seemed a tad unnecessary, as the bleak wide open spaces of what was once a well-stocked library were wider open than ever, presumably to enforce 'social distancing', and it was a long while before I spotted another human being. All was eerily quiet, and by the time I had used up my 15 minutes of library time I had seen precisely four fellow humans in this large multi-level library. Forlorn figures they cut too, as no doubt did I. It will be some while before I try 'popping in' again.

A Masterpiece

I knew there must be a good reason why I recently became a Netflix subscriber (and no, it wasn't the prospect of Harry and Meghan's stimulating contributions). The immediate reason was to watch Unorthodox, which proved a bit of a disappointment, and since then I've watched a few other things. But then, the other evening, in a flash of revelation, it came back to me, the good reason – it was to watch The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, the Coen brothers' western anthology film, available only (I believe) on Netflix.
  I expected it to be good – it's the Coen brothers after all, and they rarely slip up – but I had no idea this collection of short films was going to be so good, so good it left me reeling. It's a masterpiece of storytelling and myth-making, cinematography, casting, production design, music, everything – and all infused with the Coens' characteristic blend of pungent comedy and dark drama. It is also at times intensely and unexpectedly moving. There are six films, each one taking off from an old-style illustration in a (fictional) book of western stories, and it's a tribute to the strength of these tales that I, with my sieve-like memory for narrative, vividly remember each one and could even provide a synopsis if required. I'm not going to do that here (they're handily summarised in Wikipedia, where the cast for each film is also listed). What I'll do is join in the critics' game of ranking the six films. So here's my ranking, for what it's worth – and even the least of the six is, in my estimation, way above virtually anything else I've seen in recent years:

1. The Gal Who Got Rattled.
2. The Mortal Remains.
3. Meal Ticket.
4. The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.
5. Near Algodones.
6. All Gold Canyon.

Real City

Michael Portillo's seemingly endless series of railway journeys – in which the unfailingly dapper and charming ex-politician travels the world by train – always make for pleasing, relaxing, and often informative, viewing. He began his peregrinations in Britain, and the TV channel called Yesterday is currently rerunning these British journeys every evening. Yesterday (not the channel, the day before today) he was exploring London by underground train, emerging at intervals to look about him and chat to all and sundry. His travels took him to the West End and Soho, to Covent Garden and the Strand, to Theatreland and the National Gallery, and to the thronged streets, buzzing with human energy.
And it was like looking at something from another world, from a past already becoming remote – a past when the city was heaving with humanity in all its maskless variety, crowds of people close-up and hugger-mugger, face to face, without fear of their fellow human beings or a perceived plague walking among them. This was the city as it should be – a frenetic, teeming, human city, not the anonymised, atomised, nervous ghost town that we see today. And only a few months ago we would have taken these scenes completely for granted: that was the ways cities are, were and always would be. Who knew that it could all be undone so fast and so fatally?

1702

Naturally, at this time of year, I am always on the lookout for Brown Hairstreak butterflies, and nearly always failing to see one – except that this year I did! And then today I happened on this picture of the oldest specimen of the Brown Hairstreak (and one of the oldest of any species) to have survived. It once belonged to James Petiver, the 'father of British entomology', and was caught near Croydon – just down the road from me – on the last day of August in 1702. A quite astonishing survival and an astonishing link with one of the very first butterfly men, this antique specimen now lives in the Natural History Museum.

Plug

Any excuse for a picture of Dieppe, especially if it's by Sickert – and today's excuse is a piece by me on Oscar Wilde (and others) in Dieppe that's in the September issue of the excellent online magazine British Intelligence, out today.