Warming the bones

Yikes. Has it really been so long since I wrote anything? I wonder what I've been up to since late July? Looking back at the largely unintelligible notes on the calendar, Shropshire again, I see, looking at houses, and various notes to self (becoming bolder and more insistent) to PAY NATIONAL INSURANCE (oh the joys of self-employment). An embarrassingly disastrous cat sitting in which one of the cats died (old age, nowt to do with me, guv) and another ran off never to be seen again. Numerous jumble sales. Visiting my brother in Spain and being trounced at Scrabble. And, oh yes, starting my HND in fine art, something I've been looking forward to for a long time. However, it's not been plain sailing, with staff absences and lacklustre performances creating quite the opposite of what I was looking for, namely focus and inspiration. We Shall See.

Otherwise, like everyone else, I am bemoaning the onset of the damp and dark, but a recent experience camping (yes, camping, in November) has thrown some light up and reminded me what this season is really about. We returned to Blackberry Wood for a few days over Samhain and had a glorious time (if somewhat cold and wet). Samhain is sometimes referred to as the Festival of the Dead, but in latter years, since an interest in such things has emerged, I know it to be about beginnings as well as endings: it is, in fact, the start of the Celtic year and is traditionally a time to take stock (literally, in terms of livestock) for the survival of the winter months. Bonfires play a large part, with the word "bonfire" coming from "bone fire", as animal bones were burnt for this festival as part of a purification process. Largely remembered for the evening before Samhain as "Halloween" (All Hallows' Even), it is also a time when ancestors and other departed souls are remembered. This year, we lit candles for all of the friends and family members who have passed on, and as we sat around our fire, we imagined them sitting there, warming their bones. Although this is a dark time, it is also a reminder that light times are ahead.

out of the habit

Since Oxford, we've also been back to Shropshire. It rained a lot, but the spirits weren't dampened one jot. A walk along Offa's Dyke proved exhausting, predicted by a conversation with a couple we met who were walking the Dyke over a week or so, who told us the stretch we were on was nicknamed "The Switchback". Indeed. Still, we were thrilled to see red kites soaring above us as we laboured away. We camped at a site with panoramic views of the Long Mynd, Stiperstones and Wenlock Edge. It's a fantastic county and, of course, our thoughts turned to a possible move. Actually, it's been part of my secret plan for ages (at least 25 years), which (shush) seems to be bearing just the tiniest hint of fruit. So, off there again next week ... It's obviously not a great time to be moving, and there is the minute detail of gainful employment to consider.

Meanwhile, back in the village, we are just getting over a 10 day festival, which saw us throwing teddy bears off the church tower (as you do, have to make your own fun, etc.), endless quizzes, much wine drinking, and a picnic and concert. The latter was a mixed affair - sumptuous picnic provided by chums, sitting about wondering what the poor people were doing, etc. The concert was well meaning and enjoyable for the audience participation which ensued. I hasten to say, this was encouraged by the performers. We were lucky to be sitting in front of a small number of enthusiastic joiners-in. We were unlucky in that we were sitting behind a row of stony-faced non-joiners-in. I mean, what else do you do (doobee-doobee-doo) when faced with songs from the shows? Sit there thinking about the credit crunch? I'm sure I was much too loud, with my singing along and appreciative comments to the fun folk behind us, but what the heck.

sub fusc

The spirits are revived after a short camping holiday in Oxfordshire, the main objective to attend a friend's wedding party. Putting a little distance between me and the PC is always appreciated. We couldn't resist a Park 'n' Ride trip to Oxford for me to revisit old haunts. I lived there in the late 1970s and again in 1984/5, each time trying to hold down really boring jobs. The first time, I was a college hanger-on. Managing to ignore the ever-growing social problems in the city, I went to balls, film festivals and tea parties, and spent lots of money at the wine merchant. But could the job have been duller? I don't think so - writing abstracts of articles on forestry, day in, day out. So walking through the University Parks on Saturday, I averted my gaze from the Forestry Institute. The second time, I worked in marketing for a small software company. Well, I say "marketing" because that was in my job title, but I soon found out that in this company marketing=jollies and was off-limits to a scrag-end like me. Instead, I did customer support (ye gods). The whole situation was made even more ghastly by horizontal goings-on between the managing director and another member of staff, and also by the fact I was living in a small commercial hotel close to the station. I lasted three months and then ran off to Brighton.

blur and oasis

The rest of May slipped by, in shudders of anxiety about one job, and uncertainty about another. The latter has been resolved, but the former still hangs over me, so I haven't been feeling very ticketyboo for a while and lying low at home. A couple of weeks' break from the art course also didn't help, as I felt somewhat lacking in the motivation to do anything without being prodded. Still, I have been busy: weeding, mainly. And some nice social, although at one do, I was declared "gobby" by a rather unpleasant woman. Perhaps she didn't think I would know what it meant? Anyway, I shall abandon all thoughts of social chitchat and mingling if I get that sort of thing thrown at me. Still, at the same do, Richard and I were declared to be "groovy", which is a lot lot nicer.

Richard took the old girl out on Saturday: we went for one of our occasional long walks in London, this time along the Thames Path, over Tower Bridge and then down to the Brick Lane area to catch up on some student art summer shows. Saw some fantastic design pieces and chatted away merrily to some of the students. The whole day was a great tonic, but sadly not good light conditions for photographs. Thank goodness for Photoshop.

blackberry way

Just got back from a week's camping at the gorgeous Blackberry Wood site in East Sussex, celebrating a non-significant birthday. A week of very simple living: cooking on a camp fire, reading, walking, lying in a hammock, ah - bliss. Bit of a shock to get home to work, essay writing, art making, veg planting, book reviewing, housework ... Still, birthday presents included a copy of the new Neil Cowley and, wonder of nostalgic wonders, Wishbone Ash's "Argus" from 1972. I haven't had a copy of it in many years, so delighted at last to be able to play along to Andy Powell on the Gibson Flying V and Ted Turner on Stratocaster. There was an odd coincidence just before my birthday when we were listening to an Inspector Rebus novel. At one point, Rebus is musing which his favourite track on "Argus" is - at which point, me and the narrator say simultaneously "Throw Down The Sword!". Once again, the neighbours have become very familiar with this track over the last few days - it makes a change from the folk down the road who seem obsessed by "Daydream Believer".

brain drain

I've spent a good part of the last 24 hours trying to unblock a drain outside, in the cold and wet (and at times, dark). The heavy rain doesn't help as I'm bailing out the drain trying to de-silt the pipe. Ever inventive, the latest tool pressed into service is a Uri Geller-type bent spoon. It works for a while, but then the drain can't cope with sheer volume of water coming down the drainpipe. I mean, I'd even rather be working, let alone all the other things I've got lined up to do.

Tomorrow should see me sitting a test for a new (i.e. additional) home-based job. You have to sign a non disclosure agreement about what the work is all about. If I breach that I have to shoot myself. I used to do really classified work, the ever-pompous "work of national importance", which apart from having to sit in a Faraday cage to actually do the work, seemed much more relaxed than this commercial stuff. Still, there was the Official Secrets Act to consider. The most irksome part of it was having to dress up for the meetings, which involved me buying a suit. I once had to roam around the bowels of GCHQ - ooops, just off to load the Browning.

stumble in the jumble

Another Saturday, another village jumble sale. We are now the proud possessors of a portable black and white TV. I switch it on, hoping for re-runs of The White Heather Club. Oh, and some strange Swedish kitchen scales with a slider thingy, an embroidery of the cave paintings at Lascaux and a lampshade. This jumble sale was a civilised affair, unlike the ones in the next village where folk cut a swathe to the bric-a-brac, armed with enormous bags, push chairs and shopping trolleys, scattering OAPs and toddlers alike. At all jumble sales, however, there's an unwritten rule as to how to go through the piles of clothing, creating a peristaltic movement of items down the line for the next person to see. It's quite amazing what people buy, a embroidery of the cave paintings at Lascaux, for example. Meanwhile, I'm off to practice the Sir Roger de Coverley, just in case the BBC comes to its senses.

another day another Dali

Well, that was yesterday. Today's challenge (apart from having to review a 600 page novel written mainly in an irritating present tense) is a 500 word piece on surrealism in fashion for my college art course. At this stage, having exhausted my knowledge of same, i.e. Schiaparelli's shoe hat, I am being to wonder if I can pad it out with an erudite discussion about odd socks. Are they truly surreal or just a product of bad laundry management and poor logistics? Any contribution towards the remaining 400 words would be appreciated.

On another surrealistic note, Freecycle listings are a great source for the social commentator. Looking through yesterday's offerings on the Hastings list, I see that someone wants Gary Rhodes and has recently taken possession of a black dustbin and some cycling overshoes. Have the police been informed? The strangest offering I've seen so far was a burnt saucepan (I thought about it but decided against it).

prose and cons

So, just as I'm thinking, sod all of this malarkey, don't define yourself in terms of a job (or lack of it), along comes an interesting vacancy (thanks, Ruth). It's for maternity cover (haha, given earlier posts), for a year, full-time and in London, but it's very interesting and well-paid. But, the application form! I'm exhausted. I've battled through screens and screens of it, trying to shoe-horn in various bits of gainful employment over the years, and just when you think the end is in sight you get to the difficult bits, and boy does this employer squeeze you:

"Please tell us about a time when you developed a good working relationship with a client."

"Can you provide an example of a difficult relationship that you have had at work, explain why it was difficult and what you did to overcome this."

"Please provide an example of where you have found a creative solution to a problem."

as well as the usual supporting statements, and sundries such as what colour nail varnish do you prefer, waist measurement, size of overdraft, recreational drug use, favourite flavour of jam, etc.

And, usually, after all this effort, you get diddleysquat back from them.

At this point, I head for the duvet, thinking mmmmmm, can we live on courgettes?

hierarchy of needs

Waking to an unreasonable level of grumpiness today, I was led to ponder Maslow's theory of human motivation (as one does). Discredited as it is, it's one of the few things that sticks with me from the various management courses I have done over the years. Surveying the base of the pyramid, I am thankful that my physiological needs appear to be satisfied, although more sleep is always welcome. The next layer is also OK if I squint a bit in the direction of financial security and pray to the God of the NHS. Onwards and upwards, there are a few holes in the social layer and then it starts to crumble, which is a great shame as creativity is at the apex. Mmm, not sure how starving-artists-in-garrets fit into Abraham's chart.

I read, courtesy of Wiki, that Maslow

"studied exemplary people such as Einstein ... rather than mentally ill or neurotic people, writing that 'the study of crippled, stunted, immature, and unhealthy specimens can yield only a cripple psychology and a cripple philosophy'".

Worrying, that he was a psychologist and not wanting to study "unhealthy specimens".

On that note, I wonder what Maslow's take would be as to why grumpiness set in yesterday when I got an e-mail from someone to whom I have sold a very modest item on eBay - just over a fiver including postage - so I make a profit of about £2.50. She's thinking of bidding on something else I have up - if she gets that, would I dock the first item's postage? Now, everyone makes a little bit on postage so this would reduce my profit to £1.50. There always seems to be something financial lurking to destabilize me - a phone bill, the car tax, NI contributions - but isn't my reaction to the loss of £1 a little worrying? Pass the St John's Wort.

move over, Darling

I am suffused with anger about the 20p tax thingy. When they talk about the group that this affects, think Richard and me. I never thought a Labour government would target those on a low-income, so I'm shocked and extremely annoyed at the recent announcement. Could they have been more blunt?: bugger off if you are non-productive. If you don't earn enough to support the consumer nightmare we seem to live in and have the audacity NOT to have children, that's it. Why not issue the pills now? After all, that would save us from being a drain on society any further.

whiplash

Ah, village life! Think Mapp and Lucia, with Mr Pooter popping in from time to time from the Big Smoke (or should that now be The Big Shelter Just Outside The Emergency Exit?).

Forget Ambridge, where Rooth & Daaaaveed still haven't recovered from the notion of Set-Aside and Hellin's blue cheese is still stinking in some far-off outbuilding, but welcome to this corner of Sussex, where the long-running feuds, gossip and intrigue could populate several series of a riveting Sunday night drama on ITV (mmmmmm ....).

We have blossoming octogenarian romance, property development scandals, power struggles and gavel misappropriation (the W.I. will never be the same again). Even Interpol turned up once (they were very polite and refused a cup of tea). We also had a cheese importing business; I believe it was parmesan.

The parish council is busy and active. I must remember to contribute some of my more off-the-wall ideas for traffic calming, including fly-tippers being encouraged to leave their sofas, outmoded TVs and cookers to stop 4x4 drivers from pretending they are auditioning for "French Connection" or "Speed". On a similar note, we have a wide and varied selection of litter to keep any keen recyclers busy for about 5 years.

The church does its bit to keep us all entertained, notably through plans to bolt a kitchen and lavatory on to the 14th century building. We are implored to Move With The Times. I'm not sure if the churchwardens intend to cook up a storm in there, but clearly having to dash from the church to the public loo means missing some of the salient points of the sermons. Visitor information, presumably including directions to The Facilities, is provided in French, Dutch, German and Spanish, oh, and in Sussex Dialect.

But, ha, I digress. The Hot Topic of the moment is the village quiz. Having been sequestered in the village club for many years, recent huffing and puffing has led to a consideration of other venues. The rapier-like wit and modest drinking habits of (most of) the regular quiz teams is no match for the sharpened points of steel with feathers attached flung in the general direction of a round sisal board by groups of seasoned imbibers. In other words, the darts team have edged us out a bit. Well, to be fair, we have been offered another room for the quiz, but it's rather like the Brotherhood of Man playing the Hollywood Bowl. So tonight, dear readers, we are off to a local hostelry to try their quiz night. We are promised free entry, a cash prize and, the deal-clincher, sausage and chips. Now, our team doesn't have the greatest history when it comes to pub quizzes, i.e. we win a fair bit and so become instantly unpopular, so this could be a one-off. We shall see.

Planet Rock Cakes

When I lived with my parents I used to hate Sundays with a complete and utter passion. Bored. Bored. Bored. Nothing to do for most of the time. Never saw friends. Endless cricket on the telly, seemingly all year round (although it wasn't then). Bath at 6 with Pick of the Pops on the aforementioned Perdio was a brief glimmer of hope, but then grim Sunday evening TV viewing brought me back down again. "The Good Old Days" was on the TV on Sundays in the 1960s. How ironic.

Now, though, I love Sundays. Never two the same, with loads of interesting things to do. Today: late-ish breakfast, rant at The Archers, making a vat of soup together, playing air drums to "Smoke on the Water", dancing in the kitchen, bit of gardening, baking rock cakes, doing a bit of art, drinking tea in the sunshine, looking forward to a nice supper with a glass of wine or two ... In fact, it's a:

hip shakin, radio shoutin, soup tasting, rotivatin, beetroot plantin, charcoal drawin, cake baking, cat strokin, wine drinkin, roast eatin, Sunday!

(save you a rock cake, Judith)

from Perdio to Perfidy

Our house is stuffed with radios. There's at least one in every room, apart from the downstairs loo, but there's one just around the corner if you are desperate.


The first radio I remember was a big hulking thing that my brother had in his room, which I used to listen to occasionally, but the first one of any great import was a Perdio transistor with a bright gilt grill. I used to claim it as often as I could and twiddle the dial that had magical names like Motala, Kalundborg, the wonderful Lux and Allouis. Of course, pop-pickers, I did listen to the top 20 countdown on Sundays and by then had a growing collection of LPs, but I loved the radio for the plays, for classical music and for listening to foreign language stations which drifted in and out with the tide. I used to stare at that dial for hours; I really should have got out more.


I found a Perdio radio (I now know to be a 1962 PR36 Fanfare) a few years ago in a collectors' emporium in Brighton and had to get it. It's not quite the same, though. The dial and the grill are there as is the badge, although reduced to "Perdi" now, but some of the casing is pink and not oatmeal and the L/M switch isn't right, but the on/off switch sounds the same. I wasn't joking about the time I spent with that radio.

Which brings me to the cursed tale of digital radio.


On a very rare shopping trip recently, we bought a new digital radio suprisingly cheaply. I'd wanted one for ages, so it was jolly exciting. When we got the thing home it was permanently stuck on the BBC Asian channel, which isn't so bad as the music is good, but more variety was required. Anyway, I have no patience for instruction manuals, but Richard has, so we eventually got off that and on to Birdsong. Now, we live in the country, so aren't short of a twitter or two, but it was very soothing. Then we find out that the channel is temporary. We then switched allegiance to TheJazz, an excellent station, and soon the notebook next to the kitchen radio is full of tracks and artists. However, that closed down in March. The reassurances that we can listen to it online fall on drum solo-deaf ears; listen up, Classic FM, not all of us have online access where we want to listen to music (can't quite see us sitting around the PC in the spare room and, anyway, that's where I work everyday). I like drama on radio, so access to OneWord was something I had in mind, but that has stopped broadcasting. Thank goodness for Planet Rock, we say, to find that its future, too, is in doubt.


No wonder the bloody radio was cheap - there's nothing to listen to apart from the main BBC channels and, er, sport. Hurumph.

cape of good hope

Scouring the house for things to sell, as usual. I recently acquired a rather nice cape, thinking I would wear it myself, but have decided to let the eBay population have a sniff. I was rather impressed by its Harvey Nichols label, a first for this household which isn't generally known for its sartorial elegance, although Richard scrubs up nicely, thank you very much (down, Judith).

I've found some CDs we can live without (not sure why we have some of them in the first place - hope they are ours and we haven't borrowed them from someone, eeek) and one or two books. Most of my books for sale are on Amazon, but occasionally I spot something I think will do well on eBay and give it a go.

Some of my friends gasp when I tell them I'm selling my own books. I'm not sure how and where I became desensitized to this, living as I have so closely with books all my life. I used to make houses out of annuals when I was little, and carried on making my world out of books, rather less literally, for 15 years, not counting the various times I was studying. After school I used to go to the bookshop of Beatties department store in Wolverhampton and buy books, mainly Penguin Modern Classics. My confession, offered up to cleanse the soul on this lovely spring day, is that I read hardly any of them, but used to buy them for the covers alone. Modern Classics had wonderful covers, mainly of modern art; I was studying sciences, but my real interest was in art and design.

How appropriate, then, that I should be selling my world of books and anything else I can lay my hands on, to help maintain our life here and to fund the art course that I shall finally be starting in September.

One of those Beatties' books was David Karp's "One", with a wonderful Edward Hopper cover showing a man and a woman in deckchairs staring out, desolately, at nothing in particular. I bought it in 1972 and I had it until last year when I sold it. Mmmmm, I think I might just nip on to Amazon and see if I can replace it.

one mad tart in the kitchen

As Monday is now the day I assume the mantle of Dolly Duster, I was particularly interested in last night's BBC offering based on the history of advertisements for cleaning products. Now, I like a vintage advert - very useful for spotting items of decor - but am pretty scathing about the advertising industry per se. Full of Ridley Scott wannabees or frustrated wordsmiths taking themselves way too seriously and paid far too much. I hadn't heard the expression "two tarts in the kitchen" (and its even more insulting variant 2CK, which I won't spell out) before last night, but it confirms everything I think about this contemptible "profession".

Researching it today, I find that David Ogilvy is quoted as the first advertiser to stop the condescending "two tarts in the kitchen" commercials and instead use an experienced older woman, nicknamed the "battle-axe". Progress there, then.

princess margaret serves me ice cream

After a late curry on Friday night, I had a very odd dream about attending a medieval royal wedding at which Princess Margaret served me coffee ice cream. Very peculiar. I'm not known to think much (or a lot) of the royals, although I have been known to lust after an ice cream from time to time. Last night's epic (after a sherbet or two) was equally bizarre, but thankfully forgotten. I dream a lot: recurrent themes are singing (usually in a made-up language) and driving a car from the back seat (no prizes for that one). My favourite is the flying dream, in which I soar over buildings, checking out people's back gardens and the like. An excellent way to travel - cheap, low on carbon emissions and plenty of leg room.

loud, louder

Went up to London last night to hear the Neil Cowley Trio at Cargo. What a treat. These boys are just utterly fantastic and such a range - from delicate tunes picked out by Neil on the piano to the three of them raising the roof. Those more equipped to discuss jazz have talked about the band's “augmented chordal feel, sense of momentum and mininimalism set free". Wish I'd have thought of that. Still, in my book it's just bloody marvellous. Drummer Evan Jenkins played an absolute storm, as did bassist Richard Sadler, but it's the seemingly inexhaustible Cowley at the piano who set the place alight. They are on Jools Holland on 4 April. Queue up for a copy of the latest album.

doin' it

It's now the time of year to just get on and do it - meaning the vegetable garden. It's always a bit daunting. Sowing the seeds is great; I love filling up the greenhouses with trays upon trays (HOW many tomatoes??) . Inevitably, though, the time for digging the beds looms. The permaculture folk say don't bother to weed, but after a year of neglect I reckon something has to be done. Last year's waterlogging courtesy, as it turned out, of next door's leaking water pipe and the ensuing pipe laying and trampling has meant our heavy clay soil has taken a beating. We did grow some beans, but not much else. Even the tomatoes didn't play ball. This year, armed with The Self Sufficientish Bible and DK's Organic Gardening book, I am determined to do better. It's only fair I do most of the work as I'm here most of the time and work is intermittent. I work in the garden with the radio on, unless it's "Quote, Unquote" or "Just A Minute" both of which I hate with a passion. This year I will be spurred on by re-reading "Hovel in the Hills", an account of a couple setting up in Wales, and John Seymour's "The Fat of the Land". Seymour's "five acres and a cow" self-sufficiency manuals are famous; this book, however, is about Seymour and his wife Sally and their smallholding in Suffolk. It was published in 1961, not long after they settle at "The Broom" for a rent of £25 a year, plus rates. I got this copy from the library, where it has been languishing on the county store shelves, taking a rest from the pounding it has had over the years. I like to think of it being read by generations of gardeners and allotment holders, taking a break in the shed with a mug of tea. Some people like their books to be pristine, not me.

Right, boots on.

Not Working

So why, I ask myself, do we live this frugal life, eco-considerations aside? Well, I would love interesting, creative work and am looking all the time, asking friends and contacts, keeping an eye out locally, thinking of possible business ventures. It's not happening at the moment, but to stave off depression as best I can, I have to believe that something will come my way. I have come to realise that, apart from the first few honeymoon months, I have not enjoyed most of the jobs I have had so far. This is sobering. Some jobs were just plain dull, but were in interesting places or with nice people, which was distracting. Some started off well, but re-organisations, bloody minded people and other obstacles eventually got in the way. Some had good aspects to them which I enjoyed, but overall ... The best job, on paper at least, was as a university lecturer. I enjoyed the contact with students, the facilities, the status, the salary, the opportunities to be creative. Heavens, I even enjoyed (most of) the meetings, although "curriculum development" was a bit of a screen for tea and buns or a drink. However, the subject became dull and I wasn't inspired to engage in research, which is pretty crucial. I couldn't think of a way to bring it round to something I was interested in, and a new unsympatico head of department killed it for me. It would have been a great niche otherwise. I chose to leave to change direction, had a fabulous time studying and was successful for a while, but then the work dried up. The disappointment consumed me for years and, even now, I can't afford to think of it for too long. Since then, I've had some mainly short-term research contracts which were OK, a spell at another university as a researcher which I did enjoy, done some indexing, some writing, bits and bobs, but the gaps in between have stretched out into Tumbleweed City. My interests are all creative - photography, art, craft, writing (music is on an appreciation level only) - but as I'm not established professionally in any of these it's unlikely I will find paid work there.

Santa or Mr Savile - what I would like is a series of reasonably well-paid (I'm not greedy) short-term research/proof-reading/indexing jobs, if you could fix that, please.

Self-sufficientishness

Our low-impact lifestyle has emerged from a wish to live a more greener life and a need to be frugal, but from time-to-time I become impatient that we aren't doing enough. When we moved here ten years ago, we inherited a sizeable vegetable plot, some fruit bushes, a greenhouse and a large workshop, plus more space than either of us has ever had. There's not enough land to approach full self-sufficiency on the food front, but we do what we can. We enjoy the challenge of making a lot of what we need and have become pretty creative with what we have. With the current reduced income, this has become even more important. We've joined Freecycle. We would be Freegans if there were any supermarket skips to raid, instead we bargain hunt at the small independent supermarket in the next village-but-one. We have also been known to go scrumping. A friend in the village recycles her newspapers to us to read (thanks, Judith) and then we can make brickettes out of them. It goes without saying that when we have to buy, it is second-hand. We've also both become more artistically creative, which helps with gifts and cards for friends and family. Increased fuel bills are hitting all of us, and whilst we try to use gas and electricity sparingly and we've opted for a capped scheme, the bills seem to be huge. It's back to my parents' day now - when lights were always switched off, water was heated only when necessary, one room was kept warm. Unfortunately, solar heating is so expensive to install, so that's not an option. In the summer, we do have a homemade solar shower in the garden and can heat small volumes of water for washing-up, but that's about it. Also, we'd like a woodburner, but although secondhand burners can be found, the cost of installation is massive. It can be expensive to be green!

A recent book which I reviewed for http://www.thebookbag.co.uk/ has lots of tips if you want to lead a more eco-life. The Self-Sufficientish Bible and the website which some of the tips come from is highly recommended - have a look at http://www.selfsufficientish.com/ for all sorts of things to try out.

Into Focus

We've just acquired a copy of Focus' 1974 album, "Hamburger Concerto". As a gal, I used to listen to Focus but always borrowed the albums. We got "Focus III" and "Moving Waves" quite recently, following a few weeks of us both attempting Thijs van Leer's yodelling. As much as I've enjoyed these two albums, HC is a revelation. I read the reviews and thought, must have this, I've never heard it and everyone says it's their best. When it arrived yesterday, I couldn't believe it - it was so familiar, like it had been one of my obsessions. Well, clearly it had been. How could I forget? It is just fantastic, although with a strong Boston Moment (see below). There's a nice little chunk (homage?) of Abbey Road in there. Who cares?

Martyn kicked into touch

Oh no. Found a new fave from someone I've never heard of before, a jazz pianist called Lynne Arriale. A corking version of "Feelin' Good" from her "Inspiration" album, which is full of covers. I love new takes on old tunes. I mean, it's a fab song anyway (by Newley and Bricusse), and Nina Simone and Muse's versions are really good, but this has just a fab rhythm to it. Great bass playing by Jay Anderson, too. This will set me off (and back) to jazz, I can see. Talking of which, there's a new CD due out from the sublime Neil Cowley Trio. We saw them last September in London and I was just so excited by their music (we're almost talking spontaneous incontinence). The last album, "Displaced", is fantastic and stayed on the machine for weeks. There's some Jarrett-sounding stuff in there and also a hint of a favourite band of mine, Jaga Jazzist. Their 2005 album "What We Must" is just essential layered energetic gorgeousness.

Lava from heaven

Would you believe it? I was helping out at a jumble sale today when a lava lamp turned up. It is now glowing eerily in the back of the van.

Under the arm and in the garden

The aforementioned gate-folds were a useful badge back then. Walking around Wolverhampton with Soft Machine 3 under your arm said it all. You might not make instant buddies, but a nod of recognition and understanding (especially from someone wearing the Boys Grammar uniform) went a long way. And, of course, the first thing you did when going to anyone's place was to check out the vinyl. So, when you are middle-aged and in the country, how the hell do you connect with people? We've met (and know) some lovely people in the village and count them as good friends. They've made a huge difference to our lives here, but we would also like to meet other seed-sprouting, solar-showered, frugal-living people. On a good day, we are convinced that there is an enclave out there in East Sussex (we know, but Forest Row is too far away). We also suspect Hastings Old Town harbours a few like-minded people. So what's the equivalent of pampas grass for us? We live on less than a B road, so passing trade, as it were, is unlikely, but there is a compulsion to shout out in some coded way - cooo-eee, hippies this way! On a somewhat less superficial level, I think we both feel we missed out in some way back then. We were too young to really appreciate the sixties, the early to mid seventies was good, but then punk happened and I so didn't get it. We are also both from conventional homes and followed conventional paths -school, university, work - until now, when, gawd help us, we've finally rebelled a bit. The camper was all part of this and now, even though she lies a-rustin in the front garden, she is being turned into a bit of a statement. Heaven knows what the neighbours think, but now we've a proper bed in there, cushions and a bead curtain, all we need (courtesy of Freecycle, hopefully), is a lava lamp. I wonder where the turntable can go?

Ziggy Starrust

Richard's always wanted a camper van, so despite a fairly disastrous and very wet holiday in Wales in a rented VW, we went looking for a characterful secondhand model. When money was a bit more plentiful a few years back, we bought Aurora, a 1986 Bedford Autohomes Midi. We fell in love with all her "-ette" features, the kitch-ette at the back, the din-ette/bed-ette in the middle and the driving-ette bit in the front. Alas, Aurora's mechanics weren't quite so delightful as we found on our maiden voyage, a delayed honeymoon to Scotland. On the outskirts of Sevenoaks, about 30 miles from home, we broke down. Patched up, we got to Scotland and had a fantastic time, helped by the AA and various local mechanics who had virtually bunked-up with us by the end of the holiday. We were stuck in Crail, Fifeshire, for a few days on a fantastic campsite inches from the sea. The soundtrack for our stay there was Bert Jansch and John Renbourn's "Bert and John" and Christine Primrose's "Gun Sireadh, Gun Larraidh", a superb collection of Gaelic love songs. The title is translated as "Without Seeking, Without Asking" which is how we felt about the next mechanic who turned on the campsite at Gairloch, went off to actually make the bit-thingy required, came back to fix it the next day and said we could pop the money in when we were passing. I can't listen to those CDs without recalling the holiday, the fantastic scenery, the lovely people (especially the mechanics) and our long-held wish to live in Scotland, never quite abandoned.

Don't Want To Know

Been a bit low for a while, trying to find work for the last three months and getting absolutely no-where, nothing much out there (unless you are a teacher (no) or a social worker (no no). It's all incredibly depressing. I had no fixed ideas about what I'd be doing at this stage in my life, but I guess I figured I'd be working in some professional capacity up until retirement. Two careers down the line, I'm hearing the sound of doors shutting behind me and seemingly none opening in front of me. I'm also of an age which probably rules out re-training (again). We've made some lifestyle choices along the way which haven't helped in terms of work (largely living in the country away from centres of work), but everything else has been very positive. However, some (only some) of the things we want to do require more money - curses! Richard works three days a week and I work at home, doing piece-rate research work, plus selling a few things online. We make do and mend on about £12,000 a year, which is pretty tight. The beloved camper van (of which more later) has been off the road for 18 months, as we can't afford to repair it (or justify having two vehicles, even in the country). She sits, ageing gently, in the drive but is being given a new lease of life as our room in the garden ...

So in these somewhat challenging times, it's time to dig deep. The great reviver is, of course, music and the aptly named "Don't Want To Know" from the fabulous John Martyn's "Solid Air" album is the latest obsessional constant play. With fantastic keyboards from John Bundrick, guitar by the man himself and the incomparable Richard Thompson, sublime vocals, ah! 3.01 for pure gorgeousness. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stRmPH0PbPs for a much later and very different version and for a magnificent performance of the title track from the album, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohmSPv-rtSQ&feature=related, with Danny Thompson playing a blinder on double bass. Ooooh, I feel tons better already. And I've just found him singing the very lovely "May You Never" with Kathy Mattea. Oh, how I love YouTube.

An earlier album of Martyn's, "Bless The Weather", has been an all-time favourite since first hearing it in the mid 1970s. It's followed me around from university days in Moseley, through to Preston and now rural Sussex. The Island anthology "Sweet Little Mysteries" is highly recommended for catching up with his albums from 1971 through to 1987.

That Boston moment

It doesn't seem that long ago since I used to wait anxiously for the next issue of Sounds and/or Melody Maker to come out. I would devour the lot, from headline stories through to the adverts for velvet loons. I dreamed of being the shape for such garments, inventing for myself a whole new biography which revolved around me effortlessly wearing cheesecloth tops and being regarded with awe by sixth-formers. Alas, twas never to be. Anyway, I have to admit to being a bit spottery when it came to music. I would pour over gate-fold sleeves, noting producers, third triangle players, studios, and so on. This was a bit unusual for a girl, I was told (but took no notice). It was partly strategy - when you aren't the floaty cheesecloth top wearer or instantly fanciable (Janis Ian, you know of what I speak) - you have to think of something to engage the chaps with (I'll have you know I was a founder member of the Wednesfield Grammar School Progressive Music Society), but mainly because I was just really interested. However, over the years, the intensity of interest wained, reaching a nadir in the 1990's when I cancelled my subscription to Q because I wasn't listening to enough new music and hadn't a clue about much of what was being written about. Sigh.

Luckily for me (and I do count myself as very lucky indeed), in my late 20's I found myself another Garrod and Lofthouse fan, with some common interests music-wise, but also into some music I'd never listened to, such as Style Council, Graham Parker and Joy Division, plus some weird learnings towards strange Dutch bands like Alquin.

Since then, much has been added to the collection, from all sorts of different genres, although we can be somewhat cynical about some of the newer offerings around. In our middle-age, our slightly jaded palettes have discovered a joyous game, which Richard has called "That Boston Moment". This revolves around us listening to tracks and picking out "influences", or what we prefer to call "riff-offs". The song that has been plundered is then sung raucously over the top of the newer song. The title of the game comes from Semisonic's "Closing Time", part of which has a distinct similarity to Boston's "More Than A Feeling". This is jolly good fun on a long car journey, I can tell you, although usually we are exhausted if Oasis pops up.

Louis is responsible

Chatting to my chum Louis (see http://cheeseford.blogspot.com/) last night, he suggested I start a blog. I did have a go once before, but found I was knee-deep in twaddle before I got to the second page. Also, there are so many excellent blogs out there, Louis' being a very prime example. He writes so well about virtually everything, it is a joy to read but somewhat intimidating. Or, rather, would be if he wasn't such a great bloke. We work together, many miles apart, doing an odd little online-based research job, plus whatever else comes our way. Thankfully, there is always time to chat, have a laugh and share obscure music tracks (him to me). I don't share his great passion for The Sensational Alex Harvey band, but I did see them at the Charlton Athletic ground many years ago and they were excellent.

I do love writing and so, here I am, giving it a stab. On the same day, another chum and colleague, Jill (see http://www.thebookbag.co.uk/) wondered whether I might like to review books for her website. Mmmmm, conspiracy of sorts.