davidastbury

[davidastbury]

Sur la plage. #2. May 2023

The ‘new man’ in me took a break this morning - an uncharacteristic abandonment of the acquired progressive views of a reconstructed male, with the assorted sensitivities to all things woke and politically correct. My momentary lapse was triggered by an outstanding visual experience.

She looked like Bardot à la St.Tropez (circa 1957). Magazine photographs of that image secured me and most of the boys in form 4A to an undeviating path along the straight and narrow. An image of perpetual sunshine and happiness - of a frenzy of Spanish guitars - of butter-yellow hair and sun-warmed skin - of the effortless gliding walk - of a stunning, toothy smile bestowing a glowing goodwill to each and everyone.

So there she was - larger than life - dressed in a candy-striped shirt and shorts - and I raised a rather unsteady glass, in tribute and gratitude, from me and the surviving boys from form 4A.

[davidastbury]

On the Lawn

I came across a dead rat on the grass; there he was, lying on his back, legs apart - displaying very nice tummy fur - teeth sticking out. Don’t know why he died - perhaps he had been ill and gave up. Anyway, he was certainly dead - an absolute gonner.

Poor old Ratty.

[davidastbury]

Great thoughts … hotel in Tunisia 2021

I was eating breakfast with Pat, lost in the companionable silence of the thoroughly married, when I fell into a brown study. It was one of those occasions when you feel you are ‘onto something’ - as if a sort of enlightenment was occurring, bringing clarity and satisfactions, sweeping away the fog and dullness of normal thought patterns.

Briefly … it occurred to me that during calm pauses between the devastating rumbles of historical forces, civilisations sometimes surge forward with an astonishing force. There develops a glorious period of peace and security; where art, culture and philosophy flourish. It happened for the ancient Egyptians, the Persians and the Greeks, the English under Elizabeth the First and again today in what we call modern Europe. Against a backdrop of chaos and convulsions and darkness we have created a soft bubble of comfort - we can bask in our glorious literature (King James Bible and Milton) stupendous scientific achievements, contributory welfare benefits, painless dentistry, the National Gallery, breast implants, online dating, counselling and beefburgers. And all this has been achieved without giving much thought to what is going on outside our bubble - outside the mansions we have built upon sand.

I was pondering these great thoughts when I felt a sharp dig to my ribs. Pat was ordering a packed picnic and wanted to know if cheese was okay.

[davidastbury]

Hammamet mornings

We encouraged the hotel cats to spend nights in our room, because it’s important that they are accustomed to human contact. In the mornings I’d draw back the curtains and the sunshine flooded in, and held the door open - we were ground floor with small terrace - they padded past without a backward glance.

The room felt strange after they’d gone; an odd feeling of hollowness and sadness. I’d clear up their dishes and water bowl, brush hairs from the cushions, all the time with a vague sinking feeling - it was like when you’ve said too much - or you’ve had to break a promise to a child - or you want the chance to plead for a second chance with someone - or you want to say sorry but you can’t - or you say you’re sorry but make a mess of it.

Think of those black and white French movies! The cahiers du cinéma! When the young woman leaves her lover - the cluttered apartment - the crumpled bed - the untouched black coffee - the sour light through the dusty curtains - the way she tugs on her shapeless raincoat - her tousled hair - the anger and tenderness in her eyes - the street noise - the slam of the door.

And I stood watching the cats.

[davidastbury]

Art School

The building was once an art school - not an art department appendage to a polytechnic - but a fully functioning art school - now a block of flats. The same elaborate entrance; the same sash windows; the same shape of the gardens but no longer gardens, now a car park for residents and visitors. He could see in his mind the lobby and how the corridors ran in various directions, like the spokes of a wheel.

He should have been happy there but he wasn’t. He didn’t like arriving in the mornings and sometimes he walked out at lunchtime with no intention of going back. He resented comments and suggestions from the instructors and during the three-times-weekly lecture on art history he would argue with the presenter. On one dreadful occasion - during a slide-show; the lecturer had digressed into his theories of Constable’s ‘snow’ - the objections he’d raised were so dramatic and personal that the lights had to be switched on.

But he was happy in the studio. He bashed away at his paintings knowing that the longer he worked on them the worse they became. But it didn’t matter all that much. Ricky would drift over and ask for a cigarette - he was the only real artist in the building, romantic and slightly mad - it was easy to imagine him as a Renaissance figure, apprenticed to a master, doing fakes, seducing the patron’s daughter, stabbed to death. And Jack used to amuse him - his only comment (on anything) was ‘it is satisfactory’. And there was the time when Jenny pushed back the easels and demonstrated hopscotch to a Chinese student. She wasn’t all that graceful - landing rather flat-footed on the chalk marks - but it was quite a sight - Jenny, straight-backed and hair bobbing, frowning, panting and beautiful.

And someone brought a radio or music player. T. Rex ‘Ride a White Swan’ … brings it all back … and drives it all away.

[davidastbury]

Bayswater !

Beautiful Bayswater. Lovely leafy street running off Lancaster Gate. Plane trees winking high above, setting a mottled loveliness over everything. Victorian lampposts, ornate and freshly painted, dignified houses glowing yellow like ice cream; opaque windows peeping out behind a filigree of balcony screens. There is a hint of unreality - like a film set - as if artificially created for ‘My Fair Lady’ - as if only black dancing shoes could tread these pristine paving slabs.

And a night upstairs on a bus - long ago - seeing the illuminated villas glowing through those same trees. And men in raincoats, girls getting out of taxis, cyclists with clips on their trousers, light flooding from the station doorway, newspaper vendors, a young woman in a sleeveless Piet Mondrian style dress, a man carrying a cello case - all smudged together like a Renoir - my first glimpse of beautiful Bayswater.

[davidastbury]

Gold is beautiful. Everyone who works with gold gets to love it. People often ask me about gold so I keep some facts handy.

Gold is a pleasure to work with because it is soft and you can shape it into anything. Pure gold is so soft that you can mark its surface with your finger nail. If you handle a gold bar you will be amazed how heavy it is - and how slippery it is. Just as you are admiring the yellow glow, a bar can slide through your fingers and I’ve known it to break bones in feet.

It’s virtually indestructible - impervious to acids, corrosion and all the calamities affecting other materials. Gold is melted down over and over; the sum total amount is continually raised, but nearly every ounce ever mined is still around - or if buried or sunk at sea, lost for hundreds of years, it needs only the wipe of a finger to reveal the eternal shine. Gold is recycled throughout history - your wedding ring may once have been part of a pharaoh’s death mask.

Gold is forever.

If you put together all the gold in the world - everything from the dawn of time - you would have about eighty thousand metric tons. Piled in gold bricks, this would make a cube with sides about fifty feet square, and that cube would fit easily inside the lines of a tennis court.

An ounce of gold, which in its pure form would be smaller than your thumb nail, could be hammered into a thin sheet which would cover 100 square feet. It is so pliable that a single ounce can be drawn into a fine wire 50 miles long. That same amount could plate a thousand-mile strand of copper wire. A little amount of gold goes a long way.

I’m could talk forever about gold. I understand why it has fascinated us for centuries - why we have dreamed of it, fought for it - died for it.

[davidastbury]

London Tales .... #22

David Archer is now a virtually forgotten figure but his London bookshop was once the meeting place for a generation of modernist poets. The very young Dylan Thomas used to turn up there regularly. Archer took a liking to his poetry and the two of them would drink in the French pub in Old Compton Street - Archer, realising that Dylan was poor, paid for everything. And it was Archer who took a chance and was the first to publish Dylan - just 18 poems, but they were good!

Much later Dylan spoke of Archer’s kindness - kindness shown not just to himself but to everyone he met. Archer never made any money in the bookshop, mostly because he gave books away to customers. Dylan said that at the end of each meeting - in the shop or in a pub or wherever - Archer would wink at him and press a matchbox into his hand. This ritual gift of a matchbox went on for several months. Dylan wasn’t a smoker and he would throw away the matchbox when alone.

Until one day he opened one - inside was a neatly folded £5 note.

[davidastbury]

Something I want to get off my chest

In 1963 Sylvia joined the Royal Navy. It came as a surprise to everyone, not least my dear friend Stephen, who, reeling from the shock, became somewhat mawkish. His misery was fuelled by the pop songs of that period - they were the aural wallpaper of our lives - ballads of lost loves, reckless driving, drownings at sea, voices in the wind across the moors - thankfully all of which were destined for the dustbin of history at the emergence of the cheeky optimism of the Beatles.

But the Beatles came a little too late for Stephen; Sylvia was aboard a ship and he was left wobbly-legged and land-locked. He drew me aside and implored me to find out about her (I had a connection; long story later) and I promised him I would. And now I am confessing that I did no such thing - in the hope that he may actually read this (doubtful, but possible … )

‘Dear Stephen … I did know something which I never told you. A few days before her departure I was in town. It was early evening. I was walking through Kaye Gardens and I bumped into Sylvia and a young man. They were linking arms, all cosy and smiling … I know it’s a bit late, but I just wanted to say … I must tell you … don’t pin your hopes onto Sylvia.’

[davidastbury]

Baudelaire’s Cat

Voluptuous and cruel - languid and malicious - sprawling, stretching - nudging a wine-glass until it spills - yawning and sniffing the sweat in his fur. He hasn’t been out for days; just padding about the filthy room and half sleeping all the time.

The poet comes and goes. The poet! To the cat he is nothing but a fraud - he hardly ever writes and goes out every night - comes back and holds his head and whimpers. The cat claws his crumpled manuscripts and mocks his tears, his despair, his terrifying disease – he is the stoup and the monstrance - the implacable and insatiable green-eyed cat that walks through his brain.

[davidastbury]

At moments of tension and high drama - moments of fear and trembling - may I offer this effective, inexpensive and non-habit forming antidote. What you do is take a cotton handkerchief and roll it into a ball: you then hold it tightly in the palm of your dominant hand. As you breathe deeply and gently squeeze the handkerchief you will experience a noticeable reduction in your apprehension.

This is because your brain reads the soft pressure to be that of having your hand held by someone, or that you are holding the hand of a child; or it may be the paw of a much loved dog or cat - it doesn’t matter what, your brain will read it as a comforting contact.

[davidastbury]

A Fine Romance ... 1959

Jacqueline Bell, Jacqueline Bell, whatever became of Miss Jacqueline Bell?

That first look at Jacqueline Bell did it for my friend Stephen. He lost interest in everything else - nothing mattered, not me, not trainspotting, not even Blackburn Rovers. His entire world was Jacqueline Bell.

She floated on a wave of athletic celebrity - she was an inter-schools champion and captain of nearly all the teams. She held the record for 100, 220 and 440 yards - no one could catch her - and her cup winning high jump (an elegant pre-Fosbury) merited a plaque in the school entrance.

I don’t think Stephen, small, thin, glasses, stood much chance; but if she was an amazon he was a stoic and kept the pain to himself. I remember being at his house and he showed me a scrapbook he kept of her press-cuttings and newspaper photos. Jacqueline Bell with her rounders team; Jacqueline Bell on the ‘Number1’ platform holding a beribboned medal. He had been to the newspaper office and had bought a series of glossy photographs - a triumphant Jacqueline at a swimming gala - in front of the mayor, arms raised, dripping wet in shiny swimsuit and rubber cap.

[davidastbury]

The Artist ... (loss of concentration in Italian restaurant)

I’ve lost him - I don’t exist anymore. He has found his perfect model - quite nearby - only two tables away! She’s chattering through a mouthful of pizza to her cronies.

Without looking at his hands he’s drawing a sweeping line with his thumbnail on the tablecloth; taking in the full ripple of her shape all the way to her toes. Then a scattering of secondary movements, all joined to the dominant pulse of the major line. And then a new version - head and torso - leaning back against the curve of her seat - the Grecian bend - all attention on what is suggested! And then the head only - pointed chin cupped in her palm - lazy, laughing eyes - nose too long (adorable imperfection!) - eyebrows raised in amused outrage. And then just the face and then just the eyes - one eye - one beautiful green eye.

But the waiter was been standing impatiently in front of us. And all thoughts of female perfection are mangled and mashed with the crunching noise of the huge, phallic pepper mill.

[davidastbury]

Family Secrets. (Volume 6)

I was recently informed that an uncle of mine (my favourite uncle!) had been a very active, tireless and life-long ‘womaniser’; not at all what you would expect to hear about such a quiet, unassuming family man. I was pretty darned shocked - In no uncertain terms - in fact you could have knocked me down with a feather.

[davidastbury]

Town Hall Square. Oh boy have the town developers knocked it about! Mostly the 1960s planning vandals (who had brother-in-law builders) did most of the damage. Places of antiquity demolished to make way for multi-storey car parks, shopping malls etc - everything unregulated at that time.

But every so often someone on the Facebook town page posts sepia photographs of an earlier period. Some landmarks still remain, the general shape of everything is still the same - you are still ‘there’.

The photographs are often about the embarkation of soldiers in WW1; showing thousands of them being ‘seen off’ by their families; you can see the same road they marched down. More than that you can see the curve, although the buildings are different, and that’s where the families watched - biting chunks with their eyes - biting huge chunks of memory to be held tightly.

[davidastbury]

Stolen Kisses … 1958

End of term and some sort of garden party – quite a strong memory. My friend Russell was having his picture taken with our form-teacher; the two of them standing with the arch and the driveway in the background. He’s got his arm around Russell’s shoulders, something he often did, but no one bothered. Of course today he’d be sacked and locked up for five years, and then banned for life from the company of young people. Anyway, he was a nice man and perhaps viewed Russell as the son he never had - and all that crap.

There was a crush of people, chattering, holding glasses, standing on the freshly cut grass – sunshine, the trees rustling in the breeze, a buzz of happiness at the approaching freedom – the weeks of holiday! I could see Russell’s gorgeous mother talking to another parent. She was wearing a thin dress and flat shoes and the man with her couldn’t take his eyes away.

But I was looking for Russell’s sister – I knew she was there somewhere, it was just a matter of finding her. The elation of the afternoon had caught me – I was part of it - I was ready to be reckless and convinced that I would succeed. Older friends had given me advice – I was only twelve – and all I had to do was approach her and somehow survive the scorching heat of her loveliness – get close to her and say: - ‘I love you’.

But first I had to find her.

[davidastbury]

Looking back to 1964

It must have been difficult for her - arriving every day to work in the bookshop. We didn’t talk about depression in those days; you had to be careful, even an oblique mention would ensure funny looks (at best) or at worst the possibility of men in white coats.

And I’d see her and feel the full, gnawing fug of misery swirling around her. I also noticed the care she took with her appearance; as if to compensate - and thinking that she must have got up early to get everything perfect. And her dramatic eye makeup that emphasised a haunting, inconsolable unhappiness.

I saw all this and didn’t say anything or do anything - in fact I didn’t feel anything - but today it breaks my heart.