poulston.blogspot.com this is the http thing for Jill. I have put it in so it is a link I think & thus we can entre nous perhaps work towards getting lots of comments & stuff on our blogs. Otherwise I suspect the whole thing is a bit of a pointless exercise; better than facebook because on a blog you can go on & on & on whereas with facebook the edit-pixies in those little hand-luggage sized comments boxes just suddenly cease to move. Maybe it's their way of indicating boredom.
This is in different colours in memory of Jill's clothes. When I met her in York station last year she was wearing a blouse with power shoulders in a hue that could be seen across a crowded house.
In Paris she had a test card type cardigan, the main justification for which was as an early version of something that would later become known as High-vis. I suspect a earlier conversation ... 'Here, take this,' said Joseph carelessly, 'I'm not using it at present.'
It was all very well her telling me it was so I could see her easily. Whether or not I would wish to remain seen with her was a topic upon which we did not dwell.
What she did say was that it was wool - & that was because of me too. Apparently I'd once relayed info handed down by my father, who had invented Crimplene, regarding the composition & relative merits of man-made & natural fibres.
There can't be many 3 year olds who know that the composition of, for example, a sock can easily be told by setting fire to it; and that the reason why you smell in manmade gear is because wool, under a microscope, looks like a stack of plantpots. You could never accuse him of being ageist.
Not that I ever thought anyone else would remember this stuff.
It just goes to show.
Which it did.
As you can voyez..
Now this next bit is complete change of subject. Its subject, at least initially, is Martin Curtis, an ex-Pom now Kiwi folkie who turned up at the Dolphin folk club in Robin Hoods Bay last month.
Why am I pasting this in? Because Jill is going back to NZ as we are speak; because that made me think of this; because it's 2am. & I Can ...
I haven't seen hide nor hair of Martin for about - ooh, 20 years. The blink of an eye, really. He was playing in a bush band at a dance in a village hall (tin shed) at the other end of
I was in tow because I was hitching a ride over the Pass which he could only give me the next day.
It was a fair turnout & as Joni Mitchell would say, the local were up kicking & dancing on the floor. Everyone usually turns out to these things, but in this case nearly everyone seemed to be a teenager wearing a black, Megadeath-type T-shirt - not your usual ceilidh demographic - and the benches round the walls were festooned with what in NZ are known as Rugrats, ie nappy-wearing babies.
I went outside to ponder this & to get some fresh air - rolled meself a restorative ciggy & looked up at my surroundings.
They were nothing short of stunning.
Behind me, the place was heaving like a chrysalis.
Outside, it was very cold, starry night. There was a range of mountains across the lake & every gully & jagged peak was sharply delineated in the moonlight, all in black & white like a kid's drawing.
'That's The Remarkables,' I was informed by a kindred spirit, lured out into the cold in search of a light & some respite from the sweatily bouncing floorboards & the beat of the lagerphone. 'Some explorer named them, back in the 1800's.'
We stared at them reflectively.
'Lucky they were discovered then & not by that mob inside,' I opined. 'Just imagine - The Fucking Amazings.'
'You're not wrong,' he agreed & stubbing out our fags we went back inside to warm up.
Turned out it was less an appreciation of Natural Wonders than an urgent desire to be left alone that had impelled these teenagers to take up residence in the back of beyond. As solo mums, the girls were eligible for the DPB (Domestic Purposes Benefit) & had effectively formed a little community out where there was nothing to waste their money on & a conspicuous absence of Social Workers. Normally they provided each other with babysitters but on this particular night all the babysitters were at the dance, so all their charges were there too - if a rugrat toppled over or filled its nappy, someone was on hand to deal with it & the dance went on, far into the wee hours, when we all spilled out & dispersed to our native haunts.
The band & I were billetted at a sheep station run by a mountaineer & his wife, who ran Merinos on the hills out the back. As I recall, we passed a roadsign that indicated we were equidistant between Glenorchy & Paradise.
'Halfway to
And as for a Lagerphone -
1. Drink bottled beer (ok - lager).
2. Save tops.
3. Pair up same with the insides together & nail to board.
3a.Muck about with spacers etc to own satisfaction. Tops should remain close to each other but not so tightly that vibration is impeded.
4. Repeat 1-3a until board is full.
5. Nail board to one end of broomhandle.
6. Locate handy stick.
7. Offer services as percussionist to local bushband.
8. Practice banging broomstick on the ground with one hand & hitting it with a stick held in the other to produce a more or less steady rhythm.
NB; 7&8 may be performed in reverse order.
9. Develop Best Practice of having a pocketful of nails handy, for running repairs. Also a hammer & elastoplasts.
10. Customise broomhandle by adding serrations, gaffertape, etc.
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I feel out of focus some days.....
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