Today my daughter Elsie is planning to cook my wife's birthday meal, and what she lacks in experience, she certainly makes up for in enthusiasm. Getting the necessary ingredients for the meal has so far taken two shopping trips and just now a third up to the village to get some strong white flour.
On the menu are Potato and Leek Soup with homemade rolls, Pasta with Tomato and Basil, and for pudding Fresh Fruit Salad with Cream or something called Sticky Mud Pie.
Elsie is preparing it all with her best friend Ruth and Ruth came shopping with us yesterday on our second trip. The financial damage so far — and quite how I have yet to discover — is about £40. At first Elsie and Ruth planned to offer two soups and two main courses — Tomato Soup and Roast Chicken were also to be on the menu — but I persuaded her that less is often more and she might be taking on too much.
Here is a short video of the two shopping.
Saturday 21 February 2009
Friday 13 February 2009
Young, old, under the knife or just a sucker for pills - we all die some time.
By the way, when I went to Google images to dig out a piccy of Tchaikovsky, I came across quite a few of the man, and one (or it might have been on another website) of the man as a lad in his late teens or early 20s. It is always fascinating to compare piccies of people at different ages, seeing a picture of someone you know as an old biddy and realising "Christ, she was a cracker when she was younger".
When I think of myself - and I'me sure this is true of you, too, I see, in my mind's eye, a chap who is at least 15 years younger than I am now. And when I catch sight of myself in a shop window, accidentally that is, not consciously preparing myself for the mirror experience in order to comb my hair or something, I am always disappointed that I look like such and old fuck.
C'est la vie, or more truthfully, c'est la mort. (Is death feminine in French?)
When I think of myself - and I'me sure this is true of you, too, I see, in my mind's eye, a chap who is at least 15 years younger than I am now. And when I catch sight of myself in a shop window, accidentally that is, not consciously preparing myself for the mirror experience in order to comb my hair or something, I am always disappointed that I look like such and old fuck.
C'est la vie, or more truthfully, c'est la mort. (Is death feminine in French?)
Peter Tchaikovsky, Don Ameche, a first piano concerto and why snobs of all stripes are a waste of space
Why do so many classical music lovers look down on Tchaikovsky? Not everyone, by any means, but an unfortunate and unfortunately large number of musical snobs regard his music as easy, candyfloss, that kind of thing. They regard an admission of liking his music as a kind of innocence, a lack of sophistication, the mark of a man who is not wholly serious about music.
Well, in describing them as 'snobs' I shall indicated what I think of such self-regarding prats. Should the worth of a composer really be judged on how 'tuneful' he is or not? Does apparent cacophony (and here I am thinking of what I'm told orchestral players often refer to as 'squeaky gate music', the allusion being obvious) mark out the 'worthwhile composer' whereas those who come up with music which one can whistle or sing along to are to be written off as second-rate? I should bloody well hope not, but
to hear some people speaking of poor Tchaikovsky you would think so. A typical criticism is that his music is 'vulgar and lacking in elevated thought'. Dear soul, lacking in elevated thought - what a crime.
Well, I'm not one of them. Between the ages of nine and 13, I lived in Berlin and in all that time I attended German schools, first Die Steubenschule in Berlin-Charlottenburg down the road from where we live (it was a short tram journey away down the Heerstraße), then, from Easter 1960, I went to Das Canisius Kolleg, a Jesuit secondary school in Berlin-Tiergarten near the Siegessäule and the Brandenburg Gate. The German schoolday runs six days a week from 8/8.30/9am in the morning until 1pm, so I would get home for just before two, have lunch, then sit down to do my homework. And part of that routine was switching on my transistor radio and tuning into AFN and listening to the Don Ameche Pop Concert (as I think it was called), which began with the opening of Tchaikovsky's 1st Piano Concerto in B Flat minor and a very lovely piece of music it is, too.
The trouble, of course, or, at least, the trouble for the musical snobs, is that Tchaikovsky's music is memorable, hummable, tuneful and generally, to use a rather cliched term, accessible. And we really can't have that, can we? Good Lord, no. If we sophisticates are to stand out from the hoi polloi, we must not only be, but must be seen to be more rarefied than your ordinary Joe. I mean, really.
That concerto is a great way to get a child interested in classical music, to lead him or her in gently, so to speak. If you want to turn them off for life, just play them anything by Schönberg. That will do the trick. Of course, the other great introduction is Prokifiev's Peter and The Wolf. And by the by, I caught his Third Symphony on the radio driving down from London the other night and rather liked it.
A word to snobs of every stripe: get to fuck.
Well, in describing them as 'snobs' I shall indicated what I think of such self-regarding prats. Should the worth of a composer really be judged on how 'tuneful' he is or not? Does apparent cacophony (and here I am thinking of what I'm told orchestral players often refer to as 'squeaky gate music', the allusion being obvious) mark out the 'worthwhile composer' whereas those who come up with music which one can whistle or sing along to are to be written off as second-rate? I should bloody well hope not, but
to hear some people speaking of poor Tchaikovsky you would think so. A typical criticism is that his music is 'vulgar and lacking in elevated thought'. Dear soul, lacking in elevated thought - what a crime.Well, I'm not one of them. Between the ages of nine and 13, I lived in Berlin and in all that time I attended German schools, first Die Steubenschule in Berlin-Charlottenburg down the road from where we live (it was a short tram journey away down the Heerstraße), then, from Easter 1960, I went to Das Canisius Kolleg, a Jesuit secondary school in Berlin-Tiergarten near the Siegessäule and the Brandenburg Gate. The German schoolday runs six days a week from 8/8.30/9am in the morning until 1pm, so I would get home for just before two, have lunch, then sit down to do my homework. And part of that routine was switching on my transistor radio and tuning into AFN and listening to the Don Ameche Pop Concert (as I think it was called), which began with the opening of Tchaikovsky's 1st Piano Concerto in B Flat minor and a very lovely piece of music it is, too.
The trouble, of course, or, at least, the trouble for the musical snobs, is that Tchaikovsky's music is memorable, hummable, tuneful and generally, to use a rather cliched term, accessible. And we really can't have that, can we? Good Lord, no. If we sophisticates are to stand out from the hoi polloi, we must not only be, but must be seen to be more rarefied than your ordinary Joe. I mean, really.
That concerto is a great way to get a child interested in classical music, to lead him or her in gently, so to speak. If you want to turn them off for life, just play them anything by Schönberg. That will do the trick. Of course, the other great introduction is Prokifiev's Peter and The Wolf. And by the by, I caught his Third Symphony on the radio driving down from London the other night and rather liked it.
A word to snobs of every stripe: get to fuck.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
And earlier that night . . .
This footage was taken at the Mall Galleries on The Mall in London. (For those who know London, the Admiralty Arch is one end, Buckingham Palace the other. Not that that is in any way relevant.) I had arranged to meet an old schoolfriend there, and he suggested the Mall Galleries because his son's girlfriend, a fashion photography student was, with her classmates, holding an exhibition there. Next door was similar exhibition of students on a course of fashion journalism (which to this cynic is just another, albeit more imaginative way of parting suckers from their money, in this case an even more reprehensible act in that these suckers are even younger.)
15/2/09 UPDATE: Above is a new and improved version of the video, with all the bells and whistles which make an exercise in pointlessness so worthwhile. It is grandly - rather too grandly - entitled Significance, solely because there is none. NB I don't appear in it at all, mainly because I am the chap doing the filming. I suppose I could have made sure I appeared by filming a mirror, but there were no mirrors and, anyway, just what would be the point?
15/2/09 UPDATE: Above is a new and improved version of the video, with all the bells and whistles which make an exercise in pointlessness so worthwhile. It is grandly - rather too grandly - entitled Significance, solely because there is none. NB I don't appear in it at all, mainly because I am the chap doing the filming. I suppose I could have made sure I appeared by filming a mirror, but there were no mirrors and, anyway, just what would be the point?
A vision in blue for those unaccustomed to the ethereal beauty of London's Underground railway system (i.e. video footage taken at Victoria).
As title. What else is there to say? Except that all is nought, one is one, and one and one are two. After that, as far as the maths is concerned, you are on your own. What do you think I am, a charity?
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