Godfrey who will be 190,000 in the year 2014

My trusty steed Godfrey the golf has achieved 190,000 vehicular miles. He reached the landmark in a hectic and short lived trip back to N Ireland . He now requires tender and expensive motor vehicular care from my mother's mechanic du jour Keith.

Keith the mechanic has been a considerate and solicitous doctor to the patient. I am hopeful that Godfrey rallies from his lengthy list of ailments for my return on Wednesday. I listen to the pipe and flute bands explore the canon for the 12th of July and find myself contemplating heresy. I pray that Godfrey recovers, cross myself and dire un Je vous salue Marie ou deux.

Aller Godfrey aller.

 

 

Whimsy

My wife's car is nearing the end of its useful. It is 11 years old and the 100 mile daily round trip has taken its toll. I am going to see a couple of diesel Fords tomorrow to replace the noble steed . Our neighbour ( a car mechanic) is accompanying the shopper as he navigates the choppy seas of M25 car dealers.

My wife called her Ford Ka Geraldine. Owned from new it has given faithful service. The daily journey to Canterbury has added high miles and a rust habit has necessitated a change. I suspect Geraldine will be advertised as spares and repairs despite a years MOT and car tax. One wing has half left its moorings (it is poorly secured with two sided tape) and it has a snapped bonnet hinge weakened by iron oxide.

The grateful owners pay obeisance to noble service on the motorways of South East England. Je vous salue Geraldine

 

 

The Dartford Bridge

I am working in sunny Essex for most of June. Towns like Braintree and Chelmsford are pleasant and the people friendly. They do not deserve the stereotyped images of GTI drivers and platinum blondes in high heels.

I use the Dartford crossing each day. It is a tunnel one way and a bridge called the Queen Elizabeth II the other. The bridge was opened in 1991 and allowed both tunnels to be used for traffic in the Dartford to Thurrock direction.

It is a feat of engineering. It spans 450 metres and is 137 metres high. When crossing the Bridge I often keep an eye on the articulated trucks on each side. About ten years ago when working in Derry an unfortunate truck and it's driver was blown off the Foyle Bridge . The driver was killed. The investigation into the incident blamed a freak gust of wind. Both the Foyle and Queen Elizabeth Bridge now shut in high winds.

The Queen Elizabeth Bridge has infuriating tolls causing pointless tailbacks on the M25. They were introduced to pay for the bridge. The bridge has long since been paid for but the tolls remain. The operator is a quasi private license to print money.

The tolls are to be replaced with a system similar to the congestion charge in London. It will be collected remotely and you will have a time period to pay online. Many of course will forget and be heavily penalised.

The idea of a public utility will soon be a memory.

 

Thus do they all

We went to see Mozart's opera Cosi Fan Tutte at the ENO in London. They send emails every so often with two for one ticket offers.

The production was a day glo Baz Luhrmann affair. The drama was set on a Coney Island fairground with the usual carnival tropes of fire eaters and bearded ladies. The three hours went by quickly , it looked good and the opera was entertaining.

The plot of Cosi Fan Tutte is straightforward . Two men are seen discussing the faithfulness of their fiancées. An ageing roué bets them he can prove all woman are fickle in one day. In a Shakespearen device he has the men pretend to leave for war. The men disguise themselves and attempt to woo their respective partners. At the end they succeed with a double wedding. When the fabrication is revealed there is recrimination but all is forgiven. Order is restored.

The soufflé light production is at variance with the darkness of jealousy and betrayal. To the writer the plot device seems pointless. If you are unsure of your partner both you and they have made a mistake. You need not resort to complicated ruses and deception. The relationship is void.

 

 

Jazz

A partner in the firm I am temping insisted I take his portable record player and a couple of jazz records for the night. The Overlook Hotel is gently swaying to Wes Montgomery with a topping of Theolonious Monk.

I like what I have heard of Wes and his Groove Yard. I may get the CD but it will not have the crackles, the hum of interference and the charm of vinyl.

There was a comedy programme on the BBC a few years back with a chin stroking jazz critic comatose on herb and groovy vibe. I will employ his catchphrase . Nice.

 

Whisky

A customer kindly bought me Scotch Whisky in thanks for some such .

When I first experimented with alcohol in my late teens most beers and spirits were detestable. My contemporaries and I settled on vodka as our tipple of choice. It had little taste which was easily masked with coke or blackcurrant . It was strong with a good punch per pence - you could obliterate your senses for five pounds. Other favoured abominations were Mailbu or Cointreau. You could contemplate your choices as a technicolor yawn engulfed the toilet bowl.

I forswore alcohol for most of my twenties and only dabbled again as a social drinker in my thirties. To my surprise I found my palate had changed. I enjoyed my first pint of Guinness with my uncle at the Irish version of the Grand National outside Dublin . I developed a taste for strange English ales like the Fursty Ferret. The greatest surprise was a liking for whisky.

When I first tried Irish whisky filched from my parents drinks cabinet nothing could disguise the odious taste and scent. I might as well have been drinking paraffin drowned in coke. Now I find myself savouring the different textures and aromas of a Scotch or Irish whisky like some wine bore. The only addition is a tablespoon of cold water . No ice. Tragic really.

As I contemplate tout le monde from my vantage at the Overlook Hotel I take solace in a dram or two.

 

 

Fall on Slough

A friend reminded me of Betjeman's poetic denunciation of the industralistion of sunny Slough.

I know little of Betjeman's work and life.According to Wikipedia he was born in London in 1906 into some privilege. He attended Oxford as a young man and left without a degree. He ended up working on the Architectural Review magazine.Like Princes Charles he was a conservative figure defending Victorian Architecture and taking a dim view of the carbuncles sprouting in pre war Slough. By chance I came upon his commerative statute while waiting at St Pancreas station. He was a staunch advocate of retaining the station when plans were mooted to demolish it.

Betjeman died in 1984 regretting his poetic vilification of poor Slough. His daughter apologised for the poem and said her father regretted have written it. The poem was used in the TV programme the Office. Final words shall go to Mr. Gervais character David Brent."You don't solve town planning problems by dropping bombs all over the place".

That said " Come, friendly bombs, ...."