Monthly Archives: February 2007

Sound check

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Jen just came out with a good one: the next time she’s handed a microphone at a conference, or somewhere like that, she’s going to put on a pretentious actor’s voice and say, “Thesping, thesping, 1-2-3.”

Imogen all the people

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I had a really weird dream last night: Carolyn and I were walking through a campsite in what I assume was Anglesey, when we spotted her oldest daughter trying to drive a white camper van. We called to her to stop, saying the owner would be really cross, but she said she knew it was my camper van really (which it wasn’t) and carried on practicing her driving (including, I have to say, some pretty impressive reversing manoeuvres). Then Ann and Bill‘s gay dog ran up and started biting at the hems of my trouser legs. The next thing I knew, Carolyn and I were in an office somewhere, and she was explaining how it was really important for her to arrange a meeting between her boss and the actress Imogen Stubbs. I said that, by an amazing co-incidence, I happened to know Imogen Stubbs quite well, because she was a friend of Irish Mick, and lived at 66, Bromborough Village Road (Note: Imogen Stubbs is not a friend of Irish Mick, nor, as far as I know, does she live at 66, Bromborough Village Road—but she did in this dream.) Then Carolyn had somehow disappeared, and Irish Mick brought Imogen Stubbs into the room. Only it wasn’t really Imogen Stubbs; it was this very fat woman, who vaguely resembled a very fat Imogen Stubbs. I decided to go along with her pretence: “So, Imogen, would you be happy to meet Carolyn and her boss?” I asked. “Erm,” said the pretend, fat Imogen Stubbs, clearly embarrassed, “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind… Not after last time.”

And then I woke up.

All of which goes to prove that you really shouldn’t mix grape and grain.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re wondering: where was Stense in all this? Exactly!! Boy, has she got some explaining to do!

Previous dreams:

Brief Encounter

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Did you ever witness something and know for certain that there was far more to it than what you had just seen? I think it’s down to what arty-farty, dramatic types refer to as the back story: stuff which happens before the event, which you aren’t necessarily a party to, but which is deeply significant to what you are seeing.

The rush-hour traffic was pretty typical on the M62 last Friday: generally slower than on other days of the week, but still moving, albeit occasionally degrading into stop-start mode as lane-jumping jokers tried to save five seconds by undertaking the car in front. I’d just passed the exit before mine, when I noticed two cars pulled up on the hard shoulder ahead of me. I assumed they must have had some sort of minor knock because of the inconsistent traffic speed. The aftermaths of such knocks are a pretty common sight on Friday evenings.

As I drew nearer the cars, I saw the two drivers inspecting the damage. The driver of the front car was a man in his mid- to late-thirties; the driver of the second car was a woman of similar age. From their general body language, I guessed they had both decided that whatever damage there was was inconsequential, and that they would both rather just let it drop, rather that involve their insurance companies.

The two drivers nodded at each other, and the man made to return to his car. But the woman suddenly ran after him. He turned, and she kissed him: not just a friendly peck on the cheek, but a proper kiss on the mouth.

As I overtook them, they both returned to their cars, and presumably rejoined the motorway traffic.

What the flipping heck was going on there, do you reckon?

Plathitudes

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Sylvia Plath's Grave

Sylvia Plath's grave.

Many great poets have been inspired by religious locations and stone memorials: Shelley penned a sonnet about the crumbling remains of a statue to the tyrant Ozymandias; Larkin wrote about an Arundel tomb found in Chichester Cathedral; Wordsworth spent many weeks at Tintern Abbey, trying to come up with a rhyme for Tintern—and, indeed, abbey.

Yesterday, I found myself standing beside the grave of the American poet Sylvia Plath. She’s buried in a churchyard just across the valley from my house. Sylvia married local Yorkshireman and future Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes, who presumably chose her final resting place after her suicide in 1963.

I’m not a poetic man, but, as I was looking down at Sylvia’s grave, the Muse Thalia grabbed me by the nuts and moved me to verse:

An American poet named Plath
Was composing a poem in the bath.
Her husband, Ted Hughes,
Was far from amused:
“Tha’th wet all tut coal, tha daft lath*!”

How long before Calderdale has its second Poet Laureate?

* Note: It’s a little-known fact that Ted Hughes had a distict lisp. I heard it from our milkman.

See also: Julian Date’s tribute to Ted Hughes