Just read an article in the NYRB about the (partly Chechen) background of the Boston bombers. All a bit depressing in that I was left with the impression that while some signs were there, no amount of spooking was likely to enable one to haul them in before the event without hauling in an awful lot of innocent people with them and one would need an awful lot of concentration camps to handle them all. Exactly what someone else, possibly Simon Jenkins, was saying in the Guardian a few days ago.
And while these bombers had been given a handy cause in the war on the axis of evil, we will probably never know whether they would have latched onto something else - the maltreatment of donkeys or newts or something - had they not been given this handy cause. Maybe we just have to learn to live with occasional atrocities and try not to overreact to them. Or to feed them with too much publicity. And to remember that while atrocious, they are usually on a much smaller scale than some other kinds of disasters; they need not threaten the fabric of life as we know it (in the west).
Monday, 3 June 2013
Foodie affairs in and around Cambridge
Headed north out of Audley End (see first post of 1st June) and made it as far as the Crown House Hotel (http://www.crownhousehotel.com) at Great Chesterford before we paused for refreshment, in this case an improvised cream tea involving tea, scone, biscuits, the odd strawberry and quite a lot of cream. Not a bad effort considering that afternoon tea was not really one of their things and we were not really residents.
Onto the Gonville Place Hotel (http://www.gonvillehotel.co.uk/) at Cambridge, where we declined the dinner menu which came in a bit dear with main courses around £20 a go and other things proportionate, opting instead for the bar menu at around £10 a go, served in the same main restaurant as they were not busy. I had a beefburger which was subtantial but which was made from what Sainsbury's call heritage matured beef which I do not much like, being rather too gamey for me, but they get some credit for the good quality bun it came in. Chips odd but eatable. BH had a salmon salad which turned out to be a much better bet, with rather better salmon that one usually gets from said Sainsbury's. Wine by the glass satisfactory, if a touch dear.
Economy breakfast the following morning in a Burleigh Street café. Tea, juice, croissants & mini baguettes in a package deal price. Very good value but with rather odd ambience: very quiet and with a chap serving, probably the proprietor, rather dour for a café owner. Such people should be jolly not dour - a nicety which I appreciate, it not being one that I could keep up for any length of time. Much better suited to the back of house than to the front of house.
Entertained after breakfast by the mating of a couple of swans on the river, something I have not seen before. Looked a bit high risk for the female, with her neck and head stretched out in front, under water, and rather hard work for the male.
Continued the economy drive with a steak and kidney pudding meal deal for two from the Regent Street Wetherspoons, a place from the inside of which we continue to fail to make out the lines of the cinema it used to be. But meal deal entirely satisfactory, just the same as what we could have had back home at Epsom. Or even Kingston.
Tea in another café in Regent Street, with tea made with leaves rather than with a bag, the first time for some time. Plus a flapjack which I thought tasted OK but not quite like a flapjack. BH disagreed, claiming that I was getting confused with mealy munchies. A point with which I cannot presently deal as Professor Google does not appear to have heard of them, despite their having been made in this family, on and off, for forty years.
Then, in the evening, headed off to the Six Bells off Mill Road where we had had splendid sausage rolls in the past (sausage in a soft bread roll, not sausage meat in a puff pastry case), to find that these were a Mill Road Christmas Fayre special and we had to settle for ham sandwiches. But these were entirely satisfactory. I remember the beer as being good, but had to settle for low choice but decent wine.
Back to our hotel room to enjoy the large, high definition version of food advertisements from M&S. I did not care for them at all, with the food looking far too real, far too large and all in all far too much like something from a seething, tropical compost heap. Not at all appetising - so the advertising chaps have clearly got a little work to do to get the best out of this new technology.
The following morning decided that hotel breakfast was the thing after all. On a previous visit I had had a kipper, an entirely proper kipper complete with a head but grilled, which I find a bit strong these days. So I was impressed that they managed to cook one in water for me which was much better. Only marred by their melting butter all over the thing. And BH's poached eggs were marred by their having been cooked in vinegar flavoured water, a wheeze which means that you get a very neat ball of a poached egg, but a ball which smells and tastes of vinegar.
Two visits to the café in the Fitzwilliam Museum, first for tea and Bakewell Tart, second for tea and ham sandwich. Tart fine, ham would have been had they gone a bit easier on something called tarragon mayonnaise.
Onto Harriet's (http://harrietscafetearooms.co.uk/) for tea, where they excelled themselves by having genuine silver plate cake stands, surprisingly heavy considering their modest size. But being in cream avoidance mode, I settled for a couple of toasted tea cakes with my tea, decent but a little light on active ingredients (see the BBC cookery site for a full recipe), that is to say the spice. Ambience and service good.
Closed the proceedings for the day with another bar snack from our hotel, both opting for the tried and tested salmon salad. Entertained while we ate by an older medical type who had once rowed (didn't hear for whom) and who was entertaining two even older ladies on the other side of the rather naff plastic ivy, ivy which perhaps marked the demarcation line between us bar snackers and the full blown diners.
Closed the proceedings altogether with a second kipper the following morning, £4 supplement and all (this supplement being considerably more than what it would cost to buy one's own kipper, never mind what one was paying already). Cooked in water as per instructions but I forgot to ask them to lay off the butter. That will have to wait until next time.
Onto the Gonville Place Hotel (http://www.gonvillehotel.co.uk/) at Cambridge, where we declined the dinner menu which came in a bit dear with main courses around £20 a go and other things proportionate, opting instead for the bar menu at around £10 a go, served in the same main restaurant as they were not busy. I had a beefburger which was subtantial but which was made from what Sainsbury's call heritage matured beef which I do not much like, being rather too gamey for me, but they get some credit for the good quality bun it came in. Chips odd but eatable. BH had a salmon salad which turned out to be a much better bet, with rather better salmon that one usually gets from said Sainsbury's. Wine by the glass satisfactory, if a touch dear.
Economy breakfast the following morning in a Burleigh Street café. Tea, juice, croissants & mini baguettes in a package deal price. Very good value but with rather odd ambience: very quiet and with a chap serving, probably the proprietor, rather dour for a café owner. Such people should be jolly not dour - a nicety which I appreciate, it not being one that I could keep up for any length of time. Much better suited to the back of house than to the front of house.
Entertained after breakfast by the mating of a couple of swans on the river, something I have not seen before. Looked a bit high risk for the female, with her neck and head stretched out in front, under water, and rather hard work for the male.
Continued the economy drive with a steak and kidney pudding meal deal for two from the Regent Street Wetherspoons, a place from the inside of which we continue to fail to make out the lines of the cinema it used to be. But meal deal entirely satisfactory, just the same as what we could have had back home at Epsom. Or even Kingston.
Tea in another café in Regent Street, with tea made with leaves rather than with a bag, the first time for some time. Plus a flapjack which I thought tasted OK but not quite like a flapjack. BH disagreed, claiming that I was getting confused with mealy munchies. A point with which I cannot presently deal as Professor Google does not appear to have heard of them, despite their having been made in this family, on and off, for forty years.
Then, in the evening, headed off to the Six Bells off Mill Road where we had had splendid sausage rolls in the past (sausage in a soft bread roll, not sausage meat in a puff pastry case), to find that these were a Mill Road Christmas Fayre special and we had to settle for ham sandwiches. But these were entirely satisfactory. I remember the beer as being good, but had to settle for low choice but decent wine.
Back to our hotel room to enjoy the large, high definition version of food advertisements from M&S. I did not care for them at all, with the food looking far too real, far too large and all in all far too much like something from a seething, tropical compost heap. Not at all appetising - so the advertising chaps have clearly got a little work to do to get the best out of this new technology.
The following morning decided that hotel breakfast was the thing after all. On a previous visit I had had a kipper, an entirely proper kipper complete with a head but grilled, which I find a bit strong these days. So I was impressed that they managed to cook one in water for me which was much better. Only marred by their melting butter all over the thing. And BH's poached eggs were marred by their having been cooked in vinegar flavoured water, a wheeze which means that you get a very neat ball of a poached egg, but a ball which smells and tastes of vinegar.
Two visits to the café in the Fitzwilliam Museum, first for tea and Bakewell Tart, second for tea and ham sandwich. Tart fine, ham would have been had they gone a bit easier on something called tarragon mayonnaise.
Onto Harriet's (http://harrietscafetearooms.co.uk/) for tea, where they excelled themselves by having genuine silver plate cake stands, surprisingly heavy considering their modest size. But being in cream avoidance mode, I settled for a couple of toasted tea cakes with my tea, decent but a little light on active ingredients (see the BBC cookery site for a full recipe), that is to say the spice. Ambience and service good.
Closed the proceedings for the day with another bar snack from our hotel, both opting for the tried and tested salmon salad. Entertained while we ate by an older medical type who had once rowed (didn't hear for whom) and who was entertaining two even older ladies on the other side of the rather naff plastic ivy, ivy which perhaps marked the demarcation line between us bar snackers and the full blown diners.
Closed the proceedings altogether with a second kipper the following morning, £4 supplement and all (this supplement being considerably more than what it would cost to buy one's own kipper, never mind what one was paying already). Cooked in water as per instructions but I forgot to ask them to lay off the butter. That will have to wait until next time.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Derby Lite the second
It was Derby Lite this time last year (see June 3rd 2012 in the other place), and so it was this year, the era of beer fests having, I think, definitively come to a close.
The route elected for the occasion was the Amato and on up Chalk Lane, reversing the usual order of recent years which involved coming down Chalk Lane rather than up. But we did not avoid the town altogether, getting to the Amato by way of the town and the town cricket club, rather cutting across the top of the common. Without having seen any posh cars on the way, passed the Marquis at getting on for midday and it seemed very quiet, just a few strays sitting outside. On the other hand there were two Ferraris, nose to tail, in the queue outside what used to be the Albion, making a fair noise despite being stationary and we wondered whether putting loudspeakers in the exhausts was an extra that self respecting Ferrari dealers had to offer.
Amato started off quite blokeish and sadly none of the excellent meat rolls they had done in previous years (offering a one size fits all and unwanted fry up instead), but after a while the mix was varied by the addition of girls of various sizes and ages, mostly in full dress. On up Chalk Lane, past one very flashy black girl in full dress coming down who said that as a Downs resident she preferred to be out for the day. Up to the entrance to the Queen's Stand to observe both boys and girls mincing their way in from their hired rollers. Lots of very high heels and some striking ladies' hats, but their headgear was mainly the cut down fascinators; cut down to the point where they all look much the same to me. Give me a proper hat any day!
Having decided to stay on the town side of the course and not to get caught up in the tunnel or the (shrinking) DSS enclosure, strolled on down to just short of Tattenham Corner to take up a rail position for the first race. Took in a snack from the food caravan on the way, a proper fair ground caravan which supplied me with a very decent fried egg roll. Bap very good, might even have been bought fresh from a commercial baker rather than from Iceland.
Carried on up to the Tattenham which was open this year (it has been shut for some recent Derbies, at least on the outside) which was up and running, complete with a security detail, but which had a slightly half hearted, haphazard feel to it, maybe because we used to visit the place after the racing, when it was full of people, mostly good humoured and well beered up, just the odd skirmish. Took a further snack in the form of a beefburger (No. 22), cooked I think in the pub kitchen rather than in the tent. Beefburger substantial and good, roll not a patch on that offered by the caravan. Wine in plastic cups but respectable otherwise. Entertainment provided by a couple of girls sporting a full-on Silver Cross pram, something one does not see in our part of Epsom very often. Failed to notice the second race below us and failed to notice the raising of the Royal Standard over the Queen's Stand until it was right up and the band had started to play. Good part of the course visible if one stood up; fine view of the pack thundering over the crest of hill which made me think how scary cavalry might be if one was caught in the open.
After a while, thought about crossing the tracks but missed the slot, so strolled back instead towards the Derby Arms. On the way, we learned that all the police people, despite being in full uniform, had to wear shocking pink elastic wristbands to establish their credentials with the other security details. Various touts offering massively discounted tickets to stands. Picked up by a proper bus on which our bus passes were good and so were carried back to Epsom. Did the public spirited thing by retrieving two bottles rolling around the top deck which were making a right racket, a racket which might have been giving the driver a headache. I remembered that as a school boy on the school bus, the driver used to stop the bus from time time to come and shout about the feet drumming over his head.
Back home to be minded by the Surrey Police helicopter hovering low and noisy, but eventually it got bored and sailed away to Horton Hill, where I would have thought that there was a lot more fit meat.
Back home also to learn that 'hushpuppy' which I had thought was the name of a suede uppered, crepe soled shoe, very cool at the time of the Beatles, was rather, or at least also, the name of a sort of dumpling made with corn meal, fried in pork fat which has been flavoured by first using it to fry fish. A delicacy in Louisiana. Perhaps the inference is that the HQ of the shoe people was Baton Rouge, with easy access to docks for export to the UK.
The route elected for the occasion was the Amato and on up Chalk Lane, reversing the usual order of recent years which involved coming down Chalk Lane rather than up. But we did not avoid the town altogether, getting to the Amato by way of the town and the town cricket club, rather cutting across the top of the common. Without having seen any posh cars on the way, passed the Marquis at getting on for midday and it seemed very quiet, just a few strays sitting outside. On the other hand there were two Ferraris, nose to tail, in the queue outside what used to be the Albion, making a fair noise despite being stationary and we wondered whether putting loudspeakers in the exhausts was an extra that self respecting Ferrari dealers had to offer.
Amato started off quite blokeish and sadly none of the excellent meat rolls they had done in previous years (offering a one size fits all and unwanted fry up instead), but after a while the mix was varied by the addition of girls of various sizes and ages, mostly in full dress. On up Chalk Lane, past one very flashy black girl in full dress coming down who said that as a Downs resident she preferred to be out for the day. Up to the entrance to the Queen's Stand to observe both boys and girls mincing their way in from their hired rollers. Lots of very high heels and some striking ladies' hats, but their headgear was mainly the cut down fascinators; cut down to the point where they all look much the same to me. Give me a proper hat any day!
Having decided to stay on the town side of the course and not to get caught up in the tunnel or the (shrinking) DSS enclosure, strolled on down to just short of Tattenham Corner to take up a rail position for the first race. Took in a snack from the food caravan on the way, a proper fair ground caravan which supplied me with a very decent fried egg roll. Bap very good, might even have been bought fresh from a commercial baker rather than from Iceland.
Carried on up to the Tattenham which was open this year (it has been shut for some recent Derbies, at least on the outside) which was up and running, complete with a security detail, but which had a slightly half hearted, haphazard feel to it, maybe because we used to visit the place after the racing, when it was full of people, mostly good humoured and well beered up, just the odd skirmish. Took a further snack in the form of a beefburger (No. 22), cooked I think in the pub kitchen rather than in the tent. Beefburger substantial and good, roll not a patch on that offered by the caravan. Wine in plastic cups but respectable otherwise. Entertainment provided by a couple of girls sporting a full-on Silver Cross pram, something one does not see in our part of Epsom very often. Failed to notice the second race below us and failed to notice the raising of the Royal Standard over the Queen's Stand until it was right up and the band had started to play. Good part of the course visible if one stood up; fine view of the pack thundering over the crest of hill which made me think how scary cavalry might be if one was caught in the open.
After a while, thought about crossing the tracks but missed the slot, so strolled back instead towards the Derby Arms. On the way, we learned that all the police people, despite being in full uniform, had to wear shocking pink elastic wristbands to establish their credentials with the other security details. Various touts offering massively discounted tickets to stands. Picked up by a proper bus on which our bus passes were good and so were carried back to Epsom. Did the public spirited thing by retrieving two bottles rolling around the top deck which were making a right racket, a racket which might have been giving the driver a headache. I remembered that as a school boy on the school bus, the driver used to stop the bus from time time to come and shout about the feet drumming over his head.
Back home to be minded by the Surrey Police helicopter hovering low and noisy, but eventually it got bored and sailed away to Horton Hill, where I would have thought that there was a lot more fit meat.
Back home also to learn that 'hushpuppy' which I had thought was the name of a suede uppered, crepe soled shoe, very cool at the time of the Beatles, was rather, or at least also, the name of a sort of dumpling made with corn meal, fried in pork fat which has been flavoured by first using it to fry fish. A delicacy in Louisiana. Perhaps the inference is that the HQ of the shoe people was Baton Rouge, with easy access to docks for export to the UK.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
The great and the good
Audley End
Despite having travelled through Audley End railway station (and there was a covenant on the land saying that the trains had to stop there) thousands of times and having lived within day tripping range of Audley End house for a score of years, we never made it to the house until the 22nd of May just past.
First impression was of the fine specimen trees dotted around the house, a week or two behind our Surrey trees, it being a bit colder this far north, second impression was of a marvelous hedge screening what is now the servants court yard, to the left as you face the house. Mainly yew but with a touch of box and sculpted in a marvelous free style sort of way. I don't think it is a particularly old hedge, but it was certainly very impressive.
Next stop the pond where there were some ducklings who already knew that tourists might be a food supply. Not clear whether this was an inherited or learned trait although they seemed a bit young for learning. There were also a lot of small tadpoles lurking on the bottom of the shallows. Do the ducks eat them? They will certainly eat small frogs from the ground if they get a chance.
On into the house where we found that as this day did not count as a busy day, it was not thought worth while to put a trusty on guard in every room, so free flow (a trusty term I had not come across before) was not allowed and one had to take the tour, a tour which included a fairly hefty talk, delivered more or less by rote by the trusty in front, with the trusty behind sweeping up strays and generally discouraging loitering. Not a bad effort by the trusty in front, but if we go again, as we intend, we shall make sure we go on a day when free flow is allowed. Or perhaps you can stump up the necessary to become a Patron of Audley End and be granted more or less free access when you remember to carry your seal.
We learned that the house had at one time been several times larger than it is now, but this was not economic and the place had to be carved down to a more manageable size. But a carving which has resulted in the preservation of a lot of old and fancy ceiling plaster and a lot of old and fancy fireplaces. There were a lot of pictures, some of them quite good but the collection of stuffed birds make a bigger impression. Particularly a large albatross.
Did not spend much time in the formal gardens which were a bit between spring and summer clothes. Outside - other than the shop and the café - rather neglected. So all in all plenty to do on another occasion; an interesting change from our more usual Polesden Lacey, much newer, much less grand and quite possibly a lot more comfortable for the people who once had to live there. And not National Trust!
Lunch was a sort of chicken stew, the extensive saucing being rather yellow in colour and quite thick in texture. Don't think that the yellow was red lentils, but the stew was quite acceptable nonetheless. We also grazed some small cakes which had been supplied for the break of some party and left over, at least until we were spotted from the kitchen and the cakes removed. Not clear what sort of a party it was; neither training nor pensioners although of middle or more years.
First impression was of the fine specimen trees dotted around the house, a week or two behind our Surrey trees, it being a bit colder this far north, second impression was of a marvelous hedge screening what is now the servants court yard, to the left as you face the house. Mainly yew but with a touch of box and sculpted in a marvelous free style sort of way. I don't think it is a particularly old hedge, but it was certainly very impressive.
Next stop the pond where there were some ducklings who already knew that tourists might be a food supply. Not clear whether this was an inherited or learned trait although they seemed a bit young for learning. There were also a lot of small tadpoles lurking on the bottom of the shallows. Do the ducks eat them? They will certainly eat small frogs from the ground if they get a chance.
On into the house where we found that as this day did not count as a busy day, it was not thought worth while to put a trusty on guard in every room, so free flow (a trusty term I had not come across before) was not allowed and one had to take the tour, a tour which included a fairly hefty talk, delivered more or less by rote by the trusty in front, with the trusty behind sweeping up strays and generally discouraging loitering. Not a bad effort by the trusty in front, but if we go again, as we intend, we shall make sure we go on a day when free flow is allowed. Or perhaps you can stump up the necessary to become a Patron of Audley End and be granted more or less free access when you remember to carry your seal.
We learned that the house had at one time been several times larger than it is now, but this was not economic and the place had to be carved down to a more manageable size. But a carving which has resulted in the preservation of a lot of old and fancy ceiling plaster and a lot of old and fancy fireplaces. There were a lot of pictures, some of them quite good but the collection of stuffed birds make a bigger impression. Particularly a large albatross.
Did not spend much time in the formal gardens which were a bit between spring and summer clothes. Outside - other than the shop and the café - rather neglected. So all in all plenty to do on another occasion; an interesting change from our more usual Polesden Lacey, much newer, much less grand and quite possibly a lot more comfortable for the people who once had to live there. And not National Trust!
Lunch was a sort of chicken stew, the extensive saucing being rather yellow in colour and quite thick in texture. Don't think that the yellow was red lentils, but the stew was quite acceptable nonetheless. We also grazed some small cakes which had been supplied for the break of some party and left over, at least until we were spotted from the kitchen and the cakes removed. Not clear what sort of a party it was; neither training nor pensioners although of middle or more years.
Friday, 31 May 2013
Execution dock
Haircut, as is proper in the better circles, preceded execution.
I note in passing that the trunk, which had been reported as two inches, and does indeed look to be about two in its portrait, now seems to be between three and four, an unlikely amount of growth in the period in the circumstances. But the camera never lies, so I suppose it must have done it.
Thursday, 30 May 2013
Hagenned
To the Wigmore on Tuesday to hear the Hagen Quartet again, the first time, it turns out, for getting on for three years (see November 1st 2010 in the other place. My comments on that occasion stand the test of time well). The draw on this occasion was Beethoven's early quartet 18.4, which I have been fond of for some years, say between 5 and 10 years. Inspection of both this and the other place reveals that we have heard it on a number of occasions but which does not reveal the start of the interest. Which included, for example, a trip to a church in Cambridge to hear some students do it, an occasion when I had a chat to a Canadian bar owner who smoked and who was quite full of how the smoking ban would hit small bars like hers disproportionately. I forget the line of her reasoning.
My liking for 18.4 continues, despite sniffy remarks past and present. On this occasion, for example, there were two ladies in the queue down the stairs in the interval explaining how eminently forgettable the two quartets before the interval were - that is to say 18.2 and 18.4.
After the interval we had Op. 131, which did everything it says on the tin, although I failed to keep a proper count of the seven movements. Hopefully the unenthusiastic ladies got enthusiastic. An excellent concert although it left us a little drained; the quartet must have a lot more puff than us as they were doing another, similar concert the evening following.
Back home via Vauxhall, where, for once in a while, there were two scruffy if not scrofulous young males fighting, or at least appearing to be fighting, on the steps leading up to the entrance to the overground station. Sundry friends, male and female, stood around making unintelligible comments, unintelligible at least when one was in walk past fast mode. What struck me most about them all was their smell, which was very rank. I guess that is what being homeless does for you.
It may have been the music which prompted the rather unusual anxiety dream I had last night. Unusual in the first place because I had it twice, once when waking at around 0100 and again when waking again at 0700. Unusual in the second place because of the content, nothing like any dream I remember having before.
The dream took place in St. Paul's Cathedral on the occasion of some important but unspecified occasion. All the great and the good were to be there, no doubt royalty as well although they did not get a mention in either dream. I was in some management area in the chancel, responsible for introducing and then playing (on a gramophone, if you please. Nothing like as slick as the Wesley system they have in crematoria) a movement from Schubert's Octet, this last being no more than a name with nothing of the flavour of the piece getting into the dream. This was to happen shortly after the beginning of the unspecified occasion and I was getting very anxious because I had not made time to test out the gramophone or rehearse my introductory spiel. Nor had I been able to consult with anybody about what exactly the spiel was supposed to be about. There was a double column list of names which maybe belonged in it but I was not sure. Was I suppose to be saying something about Schubert or about the Octet? Was I supposed to be saying something about the somebody for whom the unspecified occasion was being mounted? Perhaps I did not need to say hardly anything at all, which would be much better.
Eventually I was able to patch the gramophone into the cathedral sound system but then the problem was that I could not hear what the punters in the nave were going to hear while I was fiddling with knobs in the management area in the chancel. It did not sound too clever from there but what could one do about it?
And I was not confident, partly because the management area in the chancel was rather dimly lit, that I would manage to lower the needle onto the right groove when the time came. Was there no end to my problems? Fortunately, at that point I woke up, could leave St. Paul's behind and move into the early morning tea ceremony.
My liking for 18.4 continues, despite sniffy remarks past and present. On this occasion, for example, there were two ladies in the queue down the stairs in the interval explaining how eminently forgettable the two quartets before the interval were - that is to say 18.2 and 18.4.
After the interval we had Op. 131, which did everything it says on the tin, although I failed to keep a proper count of the seven movements. Hopefully the unenthusiastic ladies got enthusiastic. An excellent concert although it left us a little drained; the quartet must have a lot more puff than us as they were doing another, similar concert the evening following.
Back home via Vauxhall, where, for once in a while, there were two scruffy if not scrofulous young males fighting, or at least appearing to be fighting, on the steps leading up to the entrance to the overground station. Sundry friends, male and female, stood around making unintelligible comments, unintelligible at least when one was in walk past fast mode. What struck me most about them all was their smell, which was very rank. I guess that is what being homeless does for you.
It may have been the music which prompted the rather unusual anxiety dream I had last night. Unusual in the first place because I had it twice, once when waking at around 0100 and again when waking again at 0700. Unusual in the second place because of the content, nothing like any dream I remember having before.
The dream took place in St. Paul's Cathedral on the occasion of some important but unspecified occasion. All the great and the good were to be there, no doubt royalty as well although they did not get a mention in either dream. I was in some management area in the chancel, responsible for introducing and then playing (on a gramophone, if you please. Nothing like as slick as the Wesley system they have in crematoria) a movement from Schubert's Octet, this last being no more than a name with nothing of the flavour of the piece getting into the dream. This was to happen shortly after the beginning of the unspecified occasion and I was getting very anxious because I had not made time to test out the gramophone or rehearse my introductory spiel. Nor had I been able to consult with anybody about what exactly the spiel was supposed to be about. There was a double column list of names which maybe belonged in it but I was not sure. Was I suppose to be saying something about Schubert or about the Octet? Was I supposed to be saying something about the somebody for whom the unspecified occasion was being mounted? Perhaps I did not need to say hardly anything at all, which would be much better.
Eventually I was able to patch the gramophone into the cathedral sound system but then the problem was that I could not hear what the punters in the nave were going to hear while I was fiddling with knobs in the management area in the chancel. It did not sound too clever from there but what could one do about it?
And I was not confident, partly because the management area in the chancel was rather dimly lit, that I would manage to lower the needle onto the right groove when the time came. Was there no end to my problems? Fortunately, at that point I woke up, could leave St. Paul's behind and move into the early morning tea ceremony.
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