Peter Pugh

Thinking about Jim, and also about other friends who have died, I am reminded of my dear friend Peter Pugh.

Peter and I met in 1978/9 at what was the Commonwealth Forestry Bureau in Oxford, where we both worked as abstractors for the Commonwealth Agricultural Bureaux. Peter was a zoologist, specialising in birds, in particular pink pigeons. He had worked in a private zoo in New York and travelled widely, so I'm not sure how he ended up in forestry. We shared a love of films - and cider - and used to frequent the Penultimate Picture Palace and other cinemas in Oxford. He lived with another colleague, Anne, and her fiance, in Horton-cum-Studley, not far from Oxford. When I left Oxford, we kept in touch - this photograph (a pretty poor one) was taken in Preston, and we also met up in London and in Jersey, where Peter was working for the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust. A few years ago, I contacted the JWPT to try to track down Peter but was gently told that he had drowned in a swimming accident in Belize. I believe there is an aviary at the Trust named after him. Such a tragic accident, made even more so by the fact that his brother, too, had drowned, some years before. I know nothing more of his life since we met in London - the internet only revealed a paper written by him, now out of print: Peter B. Pugh - Advances in hand-rearing techniques for thick-billed parrot at the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust, in International Zoo News for 1983. We helped to feed those lovely parrots - they were called A and B and had learnt to turn up the thermostats in their cages.

Jim Hennessy part 4

Judy Evans and Bob Barker, old friends and colleagues of Jim, have been looking out photographs, including this splendid one, taken at Jim's 50th birthday party in Brighton in 1990.

I denied all knowledge of this event, so it came as a surprise when Judy unearthed a photograph of me, her and Jim at the same party ...

Jim Hennessy part 3

A poor Polaroid taken on the night of the screening of the last episode of Twin Peaks in 1991. The location was my flat in Eastern Terrace, Brighton.

A group of us gathered every week with damn fine coffee and doughnuts (and maybe a glass of wine) to watch the series and for the last episode we all dressed up as characters. Represented here are Agent Dale Cooper (Mark), the Japanese lady (Fiona), Dr Jacoby (Jackie), Sheriff Truman(Craig) and Deputy Brennan (Richard). Can't remember who Kim and Jim were supposed to be! Could have sworn Jim was the psychiatrist! I took the photo and was the mystic Log Lady.

Behind us on the wall was the chart which we filled in after every episode showing links between the characters, photographs courtesy of the Radio Times

Jim Hennessy part 2

Going through the stash of photos looking for pictures of Jim, I came across this one of some of my teaching colleagues from the Department of Library & Information Studies at the University of Brighton, taken at the Sanctuary Cafe, Brighton, in July 1993 (I think). If the date is correct, it was my unofficial leaving do.

From the left: Jeff Taylor (now Professor of Media Studies at the University of Lapland), Margaret Wallis (now Director, University Centre Hastings), Jim Hennessy, Dr. David Horner (now Principal Lecturer, University of Brighton) and me.

Jim Hennessy

Got some sad news last night about an old friend and colleague Jim Hennessy, seen here in typical red wine and smoking pose. He died in April this year.

I worked with Jim at the University of Brighton and we became great friends. He was charming, urbane, witty and full of fascinating stories. I remember him with great fondness and am sad that I never met up with him after he moved from Brighton to Totnes. I heard tales of him running a bookstall and learning languages. I can just see him, cooking, drink in hand, listening in to Spanish radio, probably ranting a bit.

Here's to you, Jim.

viva espana

Judith, this is just for you. Here we are in Spain again, trying to keep cool and wondering how the vegetable garden is getting on back home. We'll be back in a few days!

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.