CHURCH LARKING - Aylsham Parish Church

Like many Norfolk towns Aylsham benefited from the prolonged boom in wool and cloth trading in medieval East Anglia. A priest was first sent here in 1066, and work on building a church began over a hundred years later. All that remains of that first church is the large Lady Chapel window tracery, the roof and chapel having been heavily refurbished in 1489. Some decorated roof timbers with an 'M' for Mary design, date from this period. This refurbishment undoubtedly brought it up to scratch with the north and south processional aisles that were installed earlier in this period. Viewed from the outside the window nearest the Lady Chapel looks abruptly cut off on one side. As most of the window tracery was replaced in the 19th century this might indicate there was a minor miscalculation in the window layout. 

Lady Chapel window and painted roof

Lady Chapel - 15th century Piscina

The remainder of St Micheal and All angels church, the tower and south porch are largely mid 14th century, built under the financial auspices of John of Gaunt, with the chancel being entirely rebuilt a century or so later. So this church was constantly upgraded to the latest architectural fashion, and there was enough surplus money washing around to finance that. 

As you look down the nave you can't help notice that the nave structure bows outward alarmingly. This may simply be a remnant of previously insecure foundations or the consequence of its original roof outweighing the ability of it's arches to hold. The remaining church architecture is largely unchanged since the small spire was added in 1600. Mostly it has been restoration work since the mid 19th century Victorian makeover by Rev Edmund Yates, who was an enthusiastic adopter of the Oxford Movement. But, it has to be said, this has been done with a degree of sensitivity. The nave roof though completely replaced, reuses most of the ceiling bosses from the original medieval roof. All the present pews installed at this time are in keeping, as were the several examples of fine stained glass you'll find scattered around the church, which are Victorian or later. Most are of a very accomplished quality, but you will find a couple of windows that were painted in enamels that have since deteriorated very badly. 

A deteriorated bit of stained glass

The very beautiful east window, with it's four evangelists, unfortunately ended up being partly obscured by the massively imposing reredos placed in front of it. This reredos is notable for two reasons. First, It was designed by John Repton, the architect son of Sir Humphrey Repton, the famous landscape designer, who is also buried in a tomb which rests against the outside chancel wall. Second, the reredos though it looks full on Victorian Gothic Revival, does very cleverly include some of the remaining upper structure from the original medieval roof screen, which sets ones imagination off reassembling it all in one's mind.

Sir Humphrey Repton's Tomb Memorial 

Medieval rood screen panels.

Aylsham has managed to retain all sixteen of the lower panels from its medieval rood screen. These portray all the typical saints you would expect. Unusually, they also include portraits of two Aylsham medieval wool merchants who paid for the rood screen to be gilded - John Jannys and Thomas Wymer.  The saint's faces have all been damaged or erased during the Civil War, but the original quality of the rood screen painting does however still impress. If you look up to the left of the screen you will find the blocked up doorway that would have provided entry to the rood loft itself. The rood loft, before the age of pulpits, was where sermons would be given, and in the absence of a gallery, where musicians might play. Behind the pulpit you'll find a locked gate and a small spiral staircase that still ascends to that doorway.

This staircase once led to a rood loft

15th century font

Wine glass Pulpit

Other pieces of church furniture to look out for include a rather fine 15th century font, with its carvings of the instruments of Christ's passion and symbols of the Evangelists. At its base are the coat of arms of John of Gaunt and Sir Thomas Erpingham. There are some worn medieval brasses set into the floor in the north aisle and the altar enclosure. Aylsham also has an extremely rare carved wooden wine glass pulpit from 1637 with its classically inspired panelling. This pulpit's staircase was entirely replaced in the 19th century. 

Altar sedilia with squint on the right

Through the squint towards the altar

Just to the right of the altar shrine you will find a squint in the wall that allowed you to view the sacrament. These are normally outside the church looking in, and are often referred to as Leper's squints. Was this squint originally outside, but is now inside. or was it conceived as an internal squint from the start. It is most likely a historical remnant from before the present wider chancel and aisles were installed. Otherwise one might be left to conjecture that Aylsham once had an anchorite cell, or an internal space for ill people to view or take sacrament. Though there is no historical record of either happening here. 

For such a small town the church of St Micheal and All Angels, is a rather fine remnant of the medieval period, when it was truly flush with money,with a desire to use their patronage for status and prestige.

SCREEN SHOT - Our Land ( 2025 )

 

This documentary quietly reveals the level of privilege and self entitlement embodied in the English ownership of land. It presents the ideas of the group Right to Roam, that is campaigning to be able to roam freely and responsibly over the English countryside irrespective of who owns the land. This is a right already enshrined in law in Scotland.

The arguments against this from landowners varies. Some see it as almost their divinely given right to possess, bequeathed to them through sometimes centuries of ancestral ownership. Others that they are stewards of the countryside, and they are preserving and maintaining the countryside for our benefit. Irrespective of whether the rest if us can have access to it. Others recognise the need for people to have access to the countryside. To manage and accommodate that access, to limit, but channel the roaming through defined spaces and routes.

The Right to Roamers see land and having access to countryside as a fundamental right that has been robbed from the English people. Either handed to the French nobility by William the Conqueror, actively stolen from common land during the act of enclosure or bought with money made through slavery. Both campaigners and landowners both recognise the value of nature to them for their individual health and wellbeing. Some want access purely for themselves, whilst others want access to be for everyone.

Our Land - Trailer

The film endeavours to let the landowners state their case, but is primarily supportive of the campaigners argument. And in one landowner they found your archetypal posh - aristocrat who would seem a laughable caricature, until you realise he is a real person and this is what enshrined privilege really looks and sounds like. At root landowners tend towards seeing open access to their land as a fundamental assault upon their right to express their total personal ownership of that land. As one guy tellingly stated, they could have access to his land just so long as they were prepared to pay for it.

The Right to Roam make a quite simple request for responsible open access to the countryside. The landowners immediately turn this into an extremely complex issue, of checks, balances and qualifications. It really doesn't need to be that big a deal. The example in Scotland is that provided you make it clear to roamers how they are expected to behave as they roam, that people do respect the land  the animals and your requests. It's not difficult or hard unless you make it so, by resistance to embracing it as the positive thing it could be.

Ultimately this becomes a matter of the law, and what the government and establishment will support. Both sides claim they have rights on their side. Rights of ownership or rights of access. However, both of these are based on idealised moral assumptions, that these rights are in some way innate and inalienable ones in relation to human liberty. When in reality these can only be granted because the law allows this to be so. The law decides whether the right of access to roam is theirs to give, or ours to have.

As a documentary this laid out the broad case and what issues from that. It's cogency flagged by the end, as it started simply repeating previously stated standpoints. It didn't appear to know how to draw the documentary to an end, by either concluding its arguments well, or providing a telling image or statement. If anything this documentary felt too gentle, middle class and respectful. 

CARROT REVIEW - 5/8

2026 PLAYLIST No 10 - Focu 'Ranni by Rosalia

Rosalia is currently touring the world with her performance of LUX. To coincide with this, three tracks previously only available on the CD/Vinyl version have been added to the digitally available download. LUX - The Complete Album, is of course purely a marketing device. But putting that to one side, the three tracks Focu 'Ranni, Jeane, and Novia Robot are welcome additions. 

Rosalia - Focu 'Ranni

I can see why they might not make the grade for the first edition of the album. There are similar themes, some are great, some not quite great enough. After all LUX is a long album already, stuffed with 15 tracks clocking in at nearly 50 minutes. Could it bare three more tracks, making it over an hour in length, without overstaying it's welcome?  However. I have become rather obsessed with the track Focu 'Ranni, it's just such a beautiful melodic ride she takes you on, into which the startling exultation of a choir of treated vocals give you this unexpectedly invigorating chorus. 

Rosalia's voice is her weapon, that she pierces your heart with. It's such a joy to hear it being employed with all the soft delicacy and subtle nuance she is capable of, on Focu 'Ranni. I've had moments of being enraptured by it, her voice erupts from such depths of feeling into expressiveness. Focus Rani appears to concern the all consuming fire of love, and this can be interpreted either as a terrestrial or a spiritual love affair, which she's debating whether to entirely surrender herself to it. Continuing the religiously inflected intensity that runs through out LUX. It's a marvel.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

FINISHED READING -The Golden Road by William Dalrymple

The image we have of India in the UK, is of a third world country, one of our ex Empire colonies which the British civilised and brought democracy too. But this view is not entirely in alignment with what is known about its history prior to the British Raj, nor how it is today. William Dalrymple in The Golden Road, sets out a compelling case for India being one of the world's main civilising cultures, from which we have inherited more than perhaps we might wish to fully acknowledge.

India brought highly developed civilising ideas to Europe from quite early on, which Europe then took and developed further. India was a dominant trading nation even during the days of the Roman Empire. Hoards of Roman gold coins keep being found in India wherever there's an archeological dig. India was always a kingpin of the spice trade, luxury fabrics, minerals and gems. The Romans could never get enough, and sunken shipwrecks have revealed just how much their appetite for bling was being fed by Indian traders. It's estimated a good forty percent of all high ticket price goods sent to the Roman Empire, were being imported from India. And when the Roman Empire fell, and that trade dried up, the Indians swiftly changed their primary focus from West to East, to the economies of China. Korea. Malaysia, Philippines, Cambodia and Japan.

Historians refer to the effect on Medieval Europe of trade opening up via the Silk Road. Even though The Silk Road is a modern concept invented by a German geographer in 1877. But for at least a millennia prior to that, India's Golden Road, as Dalrymple has named it, was a far greater influence on the development of culture and civilisations both east and west. This appears to have been a fact largely forgotten or brushed over post the age of Empires.

The rise of an adventurous entrepreneur Indian mercantile class was key, and with them they brought their religion, their culture and their mathematical prowess. As they sailed both east and west on favourable winds. And it was initially Buddhism they brought with them. Buddhist sutras contain many references to merchants and traders as converts. They were the early adopters of what was then a new and relatively fringe faith. Buddhism became the dominant faith in India entirely due to Ashoka's conversion and widespread promotion of it. In comparison to this, Constantine making Christianity the faith of the Holy Roman Empire feels a bit lukewarm, and more of a strategic than a heartfelt conversion. Ashoka just went for it big time, and the effects of his enthusiasm spread around the known world via its trading network.

There are records of figures like Amoghavara and Vajrabodhi, actively travelling around South East Asia spreading their Vajrayana message of tantric rituals and mandalas. Which in succeeding generations strongly influenced by them, built the temples of Borobudur and Angkor Wat, both of which utilise mandala ideas in the construction of their vast temple courtyard complexes. 

Buddhism and goods to trade, were only two things which they brought with them. By far the greater influence came through the practical and mathematical ideas that travelled with them. The creation of large courtyard universities centering around a library, as places of learning, similar to Nalanda, was one such idea that became embedded in European cities. The mathematical concept of zero, was a logical development from the Mahayana Buddhist notion of shunya. Indo-Arabic numerals, is another of its mathematical legacies to The Renaissance. The game of chess originated from India too. 

All of these, and more, arrived in Europe from India via Islam. The presence of Islamic Moors in Spain brought much of what the Arabs had learnt from trading and invading India, into the European sphere of its intelligentsia and cultural development. Chinese figures such as Xuangzang travelled to India, specifically to visit Nalanda, in order to copy Buddhist texts to bring back to China. His ten year round journey became so inspirational, because his return coincided with the ascent of Empress Wu, who was another active royal proselytiser for Buddhism. Even if her personal ethical practice we would think these days to be more than questionable, in how far it fell short of the ideal.

That the British East India Company came to India in the first place, was because India in the 17th century was responsible for 46% of all world trade, and they wanted a bigger slice of it. Which ended with the East India Company becoming the first corporation to hold its own standing army, in order that it could take over India and asset strip it. When that all went seriously pear shaped with the Indian Mutiny, the British dissolved the East India Company. Repackaging the Empire as a benevolent force for good, including making Queen Victoria it's Empress. And we know the rest. By the time it became independent India hung on to 4% of world trade. Since then it has consistently regained the trading ground lost during it's colonial years. And some would say India could well become the world's third largest economy before too long.

William Dalrymple, writes with incredible verve and love of the telling details. Which makes this a hugely enjoyable book to absorb the contents of. As he richly recounts the story of the Indosphere, and the quiet revolution that it brought to the world. This is a fabulous and revealing book, that begins to set the historical record straight.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

RISING UP MY DUCK PILE - May 2026

The book duck light has now been named 'Pickle' so my Book Pile, that became my Duck Pile, could be called my Pickle Pile. There are some new entries, and that old pile stalwart Poetic Diction finally got read, you'll be pleased to hear, so it is here no more. Ready to be released back into the world of second hand chances.

BERNARD McGINN - THE MYSTICAL THOUGHT OF MASTER ECKHART

In the realm of medieval Christian mysticism Master Eckhart is thought to be somewhat seminal. McGinn's book comes highly rated as an introduction to his controversial, but none the less influential writing. I am quite looking forward to getting round to reading this. But I suspect I will really have to be in the right headspace for it.

Christmas Present 

YUVAL NOAH HARARI - SAPIANS

Another book which I'm looking forward to getting around to reading. I've been impressed with the clear headed nature of his mind when interviewed. So I'm hoping he writes in a similar vein.

Waterstones

DIARMAID McCULLOCH - LOWER THAN THE ANGELS

McCulloch is always a really peachy historical read. This one is all about sexuality in Christian theology and how it's terribly oppressive response is not always supported by what you actually read in the biblical source material. I expect this will be regularly punctuated with his usual dry witty commentary.

Christmas Present 

RICHARD V REEVES - OF BOYS AND MEN

I've seen him being interviewed and he delivers a quietly eloquent and right on the ball explanation of what the masculinity crisis actually is. Without a hint of the casual misogyny or outright toxicity that can often accompany the discussion of subject matters such as this one, particularly on the internet.

Christmas Present

BELL HOOKS - THE WILL TO CHANGE
I've read a few books on the masculinity crisis written from a male perspective. I came across this book by the famous feminist Bell Hooks, and I'm interested to discover how she views it. It didn't look like this was a dismissive hatchet job.
The Book Hive - Norwich

REBECCA SOLNIT - HOPE IN THE DARK

This short book reviews the history of activism and social change over five decades. Subtitled Untold Histories Wild Possibilities, though written originally ten years ago, it offers us reasons for continuing to have hope even in the direst circumstances of 2026
The Book Hive - Aylsham

DAVID GRAEBER - THE ULTIMATE HIDDEN TRUTH OF THE WORLD
Came across David Graber through an interview with his frequent collaborator David Wengrow. Graber who died in 2020 was a social anthropologist and anarchistic thinker out of all the usual boxes. And I was intrigued enough to want to read something by him. This is a collection of essays on a variety of subject matters.
The Book Hive - Aylsham

LAMORNA ASH - DON'T FORGET WE'RE HERE FOREVER
I saw her being interviewed on The Sacred podcast, and thought she seemed really open and frank in her investigative writing. Here she is examining what a new generation of young people might be seeking from religion. That in the end became her own journey of discovery.
The Book Hove - Aylsham

WILLIAM DALRYMPLE - THE GOLDEN ROAD 

This is an early history of India, when it was the premier major trading country for centuries, from the time of the Roman Empire til it's peak in the 7th century CE. The sphere of influence of India, it's culture, intellectual and religious has been far reaching on the countries to the East and West of it. Dalrymple presents his case with a zest and enthusiasm that bounces off the page. The British Empire created a view of India as a backward civilization, that required our intervention, gifting them democracy etc. This could not be further from the truth. The British moved in to asset strip the resources and manufacturing, of India. At the time the British East India Company arrived India represented 45% of all world trade, which by the time the British left was reduced to 4%.

Currently Reading

Christmas Present 

CAROLINE LUCAS - ANOTHER ENGLAND
I'm currently really wanting to understand better the whole area of national pride and patriotism, and whether it is possible for these to be held in a healthy way, without it descending into xenophobia and much worse racial and cultural superiority and exceptionalism. Caroline Lucas offers up a few enlightening possibilities in this timely book. 

Currently Reading
The Book Hive - Norwich

KAZUO ISHIGURO - THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

I've not read any Ishiguro before. This is of course his most famous, and reputedly his best novel. I just saw it going for a pound in a Nottingham charity shop, so couldn't resist buying it.

Charity Shop

RANDOM SNIPPETS - NO 7 - Self Deluding Fibs

Everyday I wake up to a new aspect of bodily discomfort. This keeps me on my toes. I do what I can to ease my body from becoming too stiff or set. It is a battle I constantly lose the benefit of every night. I am just becoming better at applying a more effective balm to smooth the soreness. 

Through this is a way of side stepping the truth of bodily decay and decline, that we all do. We make it all appear safely manageable and contained. Then I can pretend it's not really happening. It's not that serious a concern. I'm not in the process of bodily decay, or even approaching dying. Because, I have so many things to do and to make. So long as I can remain productive, how could death even be close? 

And this is how our society thinks and behaves in relation to mortality, when all else fails distract yourself.  By not wanting any discomfort or mild inconvenience, that we don't already have a salve for, that we can purchase over the counter in a pharmacy, to make it disappear or diminish. There is, however, no medicine for our death, this is the blunt fact of our existential situation.

To an extent I am deluded. I am living and perpetrating a fib. Most delusions we tell ourselves, are fibs that we attempt to convince ourselves are true through repetition. That we can meditate ourselves into being Enlightened, or that reality is perfectible, that some things are permanent and will be eternally with us, that we can have whatever we desire, that oodles of money will bring us happiness. That I will not die for a while yet, is just one of those fibs we perpetrate and perpetuate. We like to cultivate a perception that we have all the time in the world, in which to thwart mortality for that little bit longer. These are the deceitful strategies by which we live. 

The extent to which I believe these deceptions varies. I know in theory that I cling to fundamentally incorrect expectations about the extent of my life span. Do I act in a way that demonstrates I've seen through these? Well, no, I do not. Though after the heart attack it has been much harder to maintain the blitheness of my ignorance. It's the sort of fib we unconsciously sustain, even though all the data is now well and truly in. You are gonna die brother.  

This is similar to the die hard MAGA supporter, who still believes Trump is sent from God, though it should be patently clear by now he never was any such thing. We cling to our fibs because admitting they are incorrect, will make our fragile ego look truly foolish indeed. Likewise, we may go to our deaths still trying to convince ourselves that this is just a little chest pain, that will soon go away. We shall all feel foolish when the moment of death arrives.

Taken from my Study Journal for April 18th & 19th, that has been edited and further adapted.

SCREEN SHOT - Rose Of Nevada

 

A fishing boat reappears in a once prosperous Cornish fishing village that is now in terminal decline. The Rose of Nevada was thought lost at sea twenty years ago. The original boat owner, after he gets over the shock of its return, decides to start using it again for fishing. 'Shall we try again' he says ominously. Recruiting an old sea dog he vaguely recognise as Captain, who then finds the enigmatic Liam, and employs Nick, a straightforward family man who just needs to earn some money to repair a collapsed roof in his home. Once out on the ocean they quickly learn the ropes of sea fishing, casting nets, gutting and preserving fish in ice, until the galley is full and they can return to port. But the port they return to is not the fishing village of the present day, but the busy active one of twenty years previous. Liam seems to quickly adjusts to the period and lifestyle, whilst Nick feels trapped, becoming increasingly desperate to return to the family he's left behind. There is a sense that something here, much larger than them, is wanting restitution.

Mark Jenkin's third film is a real feast for the eyes and ears. Brilliantly executed, it is the most confident and expressionistic movie he's made so far. At times it has the style, quality and visual poetics of Tarkovsky, with the highly amplified reverberating sound quality of early David Lynch, where even small natural sounds can become hugely foreboding. It also has some really stunning rough hewn cinematography and sharply edited sequences.  Beautifully constructed shots capturing the tough unyielding lifestyle of a sea fisherman, the orange crust of rusting machinery, the rumbling spindled colours of ropes, the creaking clanging noises of chains, wheels and cranks, the sounds of boots or fish landing heavily on deck. One of the qualities of Jenkin's film making technique, is that he is able to overlay the sound design on top of his hand cranked film. This he can then highlight and focus the ears on specific sounds, with greater clarity of purpose. Sound in this film, more than in any of his previous films, has almost a visually evocative quality. On this movie it's epic, managing to be both small and panoramic in scale. It does most of the heavy lifting for the storytelling. 

At the core of this film, are interrupted, if not shattered relationships, between parents and a son, between fishermen and their families, of lives and communities literally torn apart by tragedy. The sense of yearning and existential distress of Nick, is conveyed by some superlative acting from George McKay. His visible facial and bodily responses tell you all you need to know about his emotional state of mind. The dialogue in this movie is generally a secondary player, that gives away little about the story arc. The tale is told largely through sound and visual imagery. However, the final piece of dialogue at the end of the movie, from the mouth of Nick's wife that 'there is no time', does speak volumes. This is a film so rich in tiny but important details, that I dare say it will bare repeat viewing. An utterly captivating film, that left me feeling quite moved and exhilarated simultaneously. It is one of those films that continues to haunt your imagination afterwards.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

UNFINISHED READING - The City & It's Uncertain Walls by Haruki Murakami

I first read Murakami's Wind Up Bird Chronicle many years ago. And nothing I've read by him since has attained quite the same level of sheer inventiveness and batty bizarreness of that novel. IQ84, for all its voluminous length, proved a lot more satisfying read than I expected.  His collections of short stories First Person Singular and Men Without Women had moments that were very good. One of his best books remains Underworld, an exploration of Japanese culture in relation to the religious cult behind the Sarin attack, which is a superb piece of disturbing analysis. But that was resolutely a non fiction event. One suspects that the quality of Murakami's literary fiction has been erratic for a while. He maintains to this day a huge output. The experience of reading The City & It's Uncertain Walls makes me think that maybe he should do less, go out running more, anything other than write another novel with not a lot too it. This novel is just so lifeless and lazy.

The novel begins with a simple love affair between a teenage boy and girl. They dedicate their lives to each other. But she starts to spend time in another town and they seem to be drifting apart. In order to be close to her he moves there, but finds it's a place where there are no shadows, you have to forsake them if you want to stay their for long. The boy finds his girlfriend who doesn't really remember him. He takes work in the library as a Dream Reader in order to be near her. 

By this time I am ninety pages into a 400+ page novel and not a lot of real consequence has happened. The idea of a place where shadows are forsaken feels very 'Murakami Lite' to me.The sort of thing one of his many Japanese copy cat imitators would write. I've been waiting to be picked up and captivated by the arc of a story developing, and it's just not happening. In the past I would have stuck this out just in case it does finally all come together. But you know, I cannot be arsed to do that. l'm of the view these days, that life is  too short to persist with a novel you are developing no affection for. If it really doesn't hold any interest for you, feel free to move on. So I have.

CARROT REVIEW - 2/8

INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - A Voice You Could Die For

Some days no one in their right mind would wish to be in charge of the framing department. They'd offer to work the till, counter, wrapping, stocking up or unpacking deliveries out the back. Tasks that could easily keep them occupied, be productive, generally busier. Mind deadening boredom would not descend. You could credit yourself with not living an empty meaningless life. The regular staff, full or part time, even the customers on occasions, could all be fun to engage with.  Unless you were single handedly working the mezzanine framing counter, on the coldest wettest morning in January.

The young man was perched disconsolately on a stool, with hundreds of frame and mount samples ranked behind him like legions of aircraft . He knew full well he could be sat there for hours, trying to maintain this fictitious look of engagement on his face. Fiddling with the arrangement and alignment of the ready made picture frames and pre-cut mounts, for the third time in the last hour. Dusting dustless shelves. Gazing enviously down the stairs, that so few people ever stepped up, to the active chattering hustle going on around the main counter by the exit.

Paradoxically, this was the type of day when you could easily become the magnet for time wasting enquiries. The sort that were always two questions away, from a framing sales assistants perspective, of feeling you were dangerously over committing yourself. Someone would present you with this abstract concept of their picture. The one that has been hanging around for ages, but just needs a frame to set it off better. They have it at home. Their fingers helpfully form imaginary frame corners in the air, just to give you the idea of its size. Describing its subject matter in extraordinarily loose, cartoon like terms. Would you be able to give them some idea what frame would suit and the likely cost thereof? And you might be tempted to miraculously pull a rabbit out of thin air. Though fate might bounce this price badly back on you, should they return later with said picture, wanting that previously quoted price, exactly. They'd be righteously annoyed, for you had made to their recollection, not a general quote, but a specific promise, and they wanted you to keep to it, not betray and potentially rip them off. In short, these sort of customers were inevitably going to be a nightmare. 

His only customer this morning, had entered bedraggled from the rain, soaking a large area of the carpet through dumping their umbrella, numerous shopping bags and a wet Burberry coat upon it. Used up an entire half hour or more of his attention and expertise, and then left with barely a thank you for his time. Another enquiry he'd never see the fruits of. This had been followed by the areas resident piss artist and loud mouthed alcoholic Mr Gordon Smiley teetering in, like the portent of doom he was. Seizing the opportunity of the framing department not appearing busy, came in brandy breath all a flambe. Shouting profanities about the pictures we sold and how your framing charges were effin robbing people blind. He was a difficult one to contain once he'd sufficiently warmed to his theme, which never took long.  Becoming increasingly declamatory in voice and hand gestures. 

Usually, as happened today, the manageress saved him. Gordon appeared to like her, respected her on some level. One got the sense that she felt some mutual ' there but for the grace of god go I' recognition going on. Charitably amusing him, he instantly became more amenable, and quieter. As she walked slowly, gently ushering him in the overall direction of the door. With a stagger and a flap of his grubby coat, he exited stage right, and was gone. The manageress turned towards the framing department, winked conspiratorially and returned to her office. There was another one he owed her.

So this morning had been rough, a humiliating, if not mildly belittling experience. After failing to deal well with a full frontal assault from Mr Gordon Smiley, breathing down fire water upon him. He was now anxiously preoccupied with a desire to take a tea break very soon. If only he could attract someone's attention. So much so, that he failed to notice the man, stood with his back towards him. Singularly maintaining his focus on flicking through the racks of sale frames. Who suddenly piped up, and without turning around, said - 

' Gosh, that one must be hard to handle. Does he come in here regularly.' 

As he spoke, it was as though a bomb had exploded and it's pulse ripped across the room. A wave of emotion broke over, around, through and into him. Had he suddenly stepped into a parallel dimension? How, what, who was this guy? Did he know him? An instinctual feeling of intimacy arising, told him he did. An air of recognition hovered around the voice. It seemed to contain a very ancient longing, for some unrequited love object in the past perhaps, of a much mourned over ex. His memories however, could not settle on any one individual in particular. There was a charm in that voice, like a magic potion, an entrancing spell, the desiring spirit of a sacred love chant from a God. The most beautifully cultivated resonance he had ever heard, that speared, and directly hit love central.

Accompanied by a swoon, those carefully punctuated consonants, with just the light lingering suggestion of a smoothly well disciplined Scottish burr, spread like honey throughout his whole being. A munificent wave oozing a feeling of being deeply smitten, with a man he'd apparently never seen or heard of before. Who had yet to fully turn around, so the young man had not yet seen what sort of face such a voice might emerge from. Every syllable whispering sweet nothings in his ear - whoever this is, he is the man for you. You will be willing to die for this one. Do not miss out. Above all, do not fuck this up.

And the heart burst open, the hands fell lifelessly down, the brain was completely floored. In the bubbling rising moment of ecstasy he forgot that he might need to reply. The response when it did emerge, came out a spluttered squeak. Inside his head all words, phrases, sentences, possessed only the smallest level of intelligibility, drowned under a warbling static, his brain an out of tune radio station. Coughing heavily, he attempted to clear his head and start again. 

' Ah, well.. yeah ..he does....Couple of.. times a week. Harmless really.....But its bad for trade. As you can see, he clears the shop in minutes.'  

These staggered words tailed off in volume and confidence. Though factually all true, they were feeble. Internally he thought : -

'Come on man, perk up, charm him. Engage your wit and banter. Don't let this all die on the deathly desert shore of a stunned embarrassed silence'

So he smartly improvised -

'Can I help you at all? '

Finally the man fully turned around, and it was a fair face, with a youthfulness still surviving even the claws of its eye wrinkles. Thirty something, charming, yeah, he could be putty in those hands.

'Well, maybe you can, I have this picture at home. But, you know as I've been standing here looking through these frames, I think its probably best if I bring it in. You think you can remember a picture well enough, but you really can't, can you? And I'd rather not try describing it to you.  I don't live locally, but I could quite easy pop back later.'

'Oh, OK, yeah, you do that. We offer a quick and professional service. This time of year, it's quieter, so we can turn it around within a week... if needs be'

'That sounds great, I'll maybe see you later then.'

As the man left he briefly flipped this warm beatific, appreciative smile, over his shoulder, as though he were well used to the spellbinding effect his voice could exert. The young man, however, was mortified with himself - if needs be ! - if needs be !! He'd switched on his standard business mode of interaction, and couldn't stop his mouth from this inane babbling. When he ought to have been more himself, relaxed and personable, apply the blokey banter, perfume a select few words with a frisson of come hithery. That usually flushed them out. Either sparkling or scaring the horses. But none of any of that, what a ruddy fool he was,.

Attention came back with a thud to the now empty framing department. A place he now felt extremely reluctant to vacate. To take even the tiniest of tea breaks, lest he missed spending further time with the most captivating male voice he'd ever encountered. Utterly bereft, he preoccupied himself with essentially unanswerable questions, like - do straight men ever flirt with gay men? - he was coming on to me wasn't he? -  or was he just being pleasantly sociable? - he could no longer discern the difference. 

Other thematic variations on these, were much harped upon and circled around for the next hour. Attempting to pin down precisely why he'd found that voice so stirring to his love muscles. Surely it did remind him of someone? He wasn't daydreaming any of this up was he? This had actually happened? Was he conjuring a love object out of a pretty voice? He did have form in that area. But no, this was totally unlike any of that. More akin to being actively benevolently bewitched.

In waiting for the man's return, the imminent became interminable. His manageress couldn't grasp why he didn't want to take a lunch break, after what must have been a rather dull morning in the framing department. Normally staff couldn't wait to get away, you could see it in their deadened eyes. The besotted young man, however, was distracted from rational thought, and from something any framing sales assistant worth their salt should always hold in mind. Casual retail enquiries are the equivalent of a flirtatious tease.

He'd also failed to note, till much later in the day, one crucial word in the man's final sentence - 'maybe'.  No firm commitment there to returning. And so it was, that the man with the entrancing vocal chords, never did return, on that day, nor any other day. The end of the affair had arrived, before it had even begun. The experience of encountering this man, though consciously filed under - this was all a mirage - nevertheless found itself a sacred place where qualities of love were lodged and revered.

FINISHED READING - Poetic Diction by Owen Barfield

'Great poetry is the progressive incarnation of life in consciousness.'

It appears to be part of Owen Barfield's destiny to be overshadowed by his two fellow Inklings Tolkien and CS Lewis. They were highly influenced by his spiritually inflected, philosophical ruminations on the origins of language, and went on to apply those ideas into literary form. Poetic Diction, then, came to my book pile with a lot of expectations hanging upon it. And it has lain there for quite some time, not through lack of interest, but bravery. 

Barfield's central premise, posits a different direction of travel for the development of human language. The traditional view is that gutteral sounds become rough hewn simple attributed words, born out of the first stumbling steps of our self consciousness. These over time accrue deeper and more embellished metaphorical meanings, and rise to a high point with the development of poetry, through Greek Classics, to the Renaissance and the Romantics. What Barfield proposes is another trajectory. What first  emerges are certainly words, but what type of words were they? Themed compound words, with spiritual poetic metaphorical souls.. They arose, to use Barfield's term, as a given, fully formed and imbued with their own poetic diction and richness of meaning. Over time these all encompassing poetical meanings become broken down into their individual constituents. Separated, the words become denuded of their complex breadth. What he proposes is that the tone language took in those first words was existential, poetically lucid and mythic to its very bones. Whatever would follow this over the centuries, becomes entirely allusively metaphorical in character.

' Spiritus in Latin meant originally blowing, or wind. But when the principle of life within man or animal had to be named, this outward sign, namely the breath of the mouth, was naturally chosen to express it. Hence in Sanskrit asu, breath and life, in Latin spiritus, breath and life. Again, when it was perceived that there was something else to be named, not the mere animal life, the same word was chosen, in the modern Latin dialects, to express the spiritual as opposed to the mere material or animal element in man. All this is metaphor.'

Original poeticism was an innate unconscious form, which through use of metaphor poets try to consciously revive or invoke a reflected connection with. Words gradually shifted to become fixed consistent and prosaic in usage. Until we get to the point where Barfield considered contemporary poetry as either mundane in the how and what of it's expression, or overly concerned with, what he refers to as the architecture, its construction rather than the centrality of meaning. 

To demonstrate this process in the chapter on The Making of Meaning 1, he takes the Latin verb Ruo, which can be translated as to rush, to fall or to collapse. This is a word that describes any process of disastrous movement, a declining flow, a deluge, a torrent. This can be psychological, allegorical, economic, with many other applications. The necessity was for three separate words for rush. fall and collapse to arise. Ruo becomes ruina, and what was once about the impermanent nature and character of the falling itself becomes about the thing that has fallen, the desolate state of ruin. Ruin becomes the fixed conclusion rather the fluid process of being ruined.

For me, these sort of examples were where Barfield's idea start to come alive and feel credible. I am less interested in the philosophical slant to his work. Mainly because though I strain my mind attempting to understand it, I do have to recognise the limitations of what I'm able to comprehend. If anyone were to ask me why Barfield became overlooked, I'd say the manner of his expression is probably key. It reads, to these contemporary ears at least, as encumbered. Overly cluttered with explicatory asides, which like the chattering of birds in the trees outside, distract or disrupt the flow of comprehension. 

I have noted previously, that when an author quotes another writer in a book, and that quotatiion encapsulates the ideas of the book you are reading much better, this is telling about the writers ability to communicate their own ideas. I worked hard, but frequently failed to keep up with what he was attempting to express. His use of phrases and poetry in the original Greek, Latin, French or German and not providing you with a translation, struck me as having an arrogant assumption at its core. He either didn't think this ought to be necessary, or that his readership really needed to be those better educated coves.

Qualms and quibbles aside, there are occasional delightful snippets of information. That the frequency with which a poet uses a word, may not always be down to a limitation of vocabulary. That the word itself has some personal quirk or resonance, that suggests it held a deeper meaning for them than just it's lexicography or etymology might reveal. Coleridge had a particular liking and use of the word quiet, Addison had a love for the word secret, Milton's appeared to be fond of the word trim, whilst Shakespeare used the word function in a wide variety of contexts and inferences. The latter may in part be that function was in his time still a new word, being first used fifty years before Shakespeare began to write. It's meaning still open to be explored and expanded in its range of uses. And that itself, is a part of the thrill of new words, new expressions freshening the meaning of older ones. In our rationalised standardised world, the role of poetry and the poet is to return what has become inflexible in meaning back to the fluidity of a stream, to present us with a freshly minted word or unexpected juxtaposition.

'Strangeness shall have an interior significance;it must be felt as rising from a different plane or mode of consciousness, and not merely as eccentricity of expression. It must be strangeness of meaning.'

There are further ruminations here about the uses and abuses of archaism and conservatism, the vulgar and colloquial in language. Also on what makes great poetry and great poets. All of which are the sort of questions an academic might ask, but which a poet would give little consideration to, because nothing inhibits the spirit of poetic adventure more than too close an awareness of the technical guardrails or the goal of your work in progress.

' The natural progress of language, if left, as it were, to itself, 

is a progress from poetic towards prosaic.'

 
CARROT REVIEW - 4/8

ARTICLE - Flag Shagging For England

 

In recent years in the UK, there have been demonstrations by far right activists, swaddling themselves in St George flags, carrying them like medieval knights on horseback, hundreds of flags suddenly bedecking road lamp posts across the countries boulevards and roundabouts. The flag of St George have always been prominent at times of national and international football and rugby competitions. This recent development seems to further extend its use, in a defiant reclaiming of the flag of England as the representative emblem of not just national, but racial pride. This comes wrapped in unsettling ideas of brutish white supremacy and the inevitable intolerant stirring of the pot of racist anti- immigrant sentiment. Often further dressed up in pseudo Christian virtues, as though the St George flag is the first bastion of a new moral crusade.

As ever, the English have lampooned the thing they hate and that concerns them the most. Coming up with a barbed term to describe the sort of person who attended these rallies. It is still being grammatically determined -  To Flag Shagg = the act - Flag-Shagger = the person who commits the act - Flagshagging - the collective act. So 'flag-shagging' has been conceived from the very start as a derogatory one. There is a good deal of liberal middle class social prejudice behind all of this. A view of the far right being largely the purview of poorly educated working class football hooligans, bouncers, boxers and brickies, who live off benefits and have far too much time on their hands. It's the old working class as dangerous destructive demons, forever putting their over burdened backs to the service of fascism.

Most of the demonstrators, and the areas where flags were being shagged, it has to be said, have appeared to be working class ones. There has been a consistent vein in English politics, Moseley in the 1930's, then the National Front in the 1970's & 80"s and a further resurgence after Brexit, of far right politics speaking to the experience of the white working class when they are no longer just about managing, but feeling abandoned, completely left behind economically and ignored by political leaders. The ruling elites leave a wide open space vacant for the far right to move into, channeling disruptive anger and frustration into protest. Flag shagging, like fascism, is not at all new.  You could almost predict that something like this will happen, given the near collapse of neo-liberal democracy.

As adventurers ( invariably male) set out on journeys of conquest and consequence, when they reached their goal, climbed that mountain, conquered that castle, landed upon the moon, founded a new settlement, these acts of heroism were often topped with a flag being planted. And that flag has meant a great deal, we claim this, we've been here, this is ours now, now it belongs to us we shall be proud to live here. And as the flag is raised some may salute it, respect it, love it, have pride in it, as though this were etched upon the very shadow of their soul. The British Empire was the nexus for flag shaggers, past and present. There has been a long and venerable history, of flag shagging for England.

That our modern day flag shaggers say that the flag of St George, and flags in general, need salvaging from the twin curses of modern day cynicism and historical revisionism over English atrocities committed during Empire. This holds a very tiny grain of truth. Though in the end flags are just flags, they fly high, they fly low, they flag things up. We all need to feel confidence in our country. For some flags come dressed in that confidence, which others feel to be faux and misguided. 

If flags are to be the object of pride, then the country does have to prove worthy of it. Flagshagging cannot save us from our disappointments, frustrations and the loss of confidence in the history and institutions of our country. Those institutions need to be run by better people, we need to be better as a people. It is perhaps no coincidence that in this moment when our national morale is low, our national morals are low too. When the more scurrilous and opportunistic of politicians offer us solutions to this decline of our country, those solutions are inherently immoral ones. Our moral compass is regularly being fucked over for political advantage.

When morals are confused, damaged, or at a low ebb, pride tends to be too. There is a general race to the lowest commonality. Clinging to a flag does little to change the sense of a loss of moral clarity. Morals, pride and respect, as a triumvirate, interact, they all have to be earned, not assumed. The object of them has to be worthy of having them placed upon their shoulders. You cannot place pride on a wobbly pedestal nor fly a flag up a broken pole. That little today feels worthy of respect or pride, is undoubtedly one root of our problem. Raising the flag of St George can seem like an act of hapless optimism, however morally dubious the reason for it maybe when examined in detail. It's like hiding a deep purple bruise under a small transparent sticking plaster. I understand the feeling, even if I do not agree with the analysis of what's gone wrong in our country. Irrespective of our racial origin, ethnicity and immigration status, in the UK we all live in semi isolated ghettos of our own making, self alienating and selfishly individualistic, focused upon our own particular sense of identity.  Other people, other citizens of England, who hold other beliefs, express other viewpoints, differing from our own, they have all become 'foreigners' to us. And this is our self evident tragedy.

So, it is not just the flag shaggers who feel the sense of a loss of unity and pride. We all feel it. We all hold our pet theories about how and why this has come about, in our country and in our culture. We all spout our favourite scapegoats and hobby horses. Whilst there is common cause in its general theme - that there is an urgent need to renew the country as a whole,morally, economically, culturally and spiritually. Some look to a much mythologised past era for their inspiration, a time when things were rosier, apparently simpler and the country seemed to them to feel more united and cohesive. Others just wish we'd move on from such mythical nonexistent pasts and get on with forging a new reinvigorated sense of purpose and vision. This is part of what has gone wrong, that we disagree about these things in so polarised a manner, so we never get to work out how things might be collectively changed for the better benefit of everyone. 

Now, I'll admit I am not a natural 'flag shagger', if anything I am by instinct, wary and suspicious of such things, and have not felt hugely patriotic for literally countless decades, and yes, I could easily be catagorised as 'woke'. But both of these derogatory terms 'flag shagging' and 'woke' do not help any one. They don't actually explain or mean anything useful to know. They simply designate a response that closes a discussion down, it says - I'm not going to listen to you. Whilst we are all individually still seeking something or someone who will be a moral exemplar, give us firm leadership, in the midst of this sea of turmoil and animosity. Though that podium, as yet, remains empty.

Our knee jerk reactions reveal our need for moral clarity. When we encounter a moral failing or dodgy belief or action in anyone, we have become instantly heartless and puritanical, they are dead meat, persona non grata, banished from the kingdom, exiled to the online naughty chair. We are constantly trying to draw firm moral lines, but these are so prejudicial, so harmfully or hatefully judgemental, they seriously lack wisdom, the ability to tolerate or have compassionate understanding.  Though there are people, whether 'flag shaggers' or 'woke', who do hold hateful unconscionable views. England will be trashed if we cannot locate a way to transcend, or at least learn to live productively with differing viewpoints, and find common cause beyond the contentious nature of polarised positions.

We undoubtedly have a surfeit of nihilistic prophets of doom. And maybe the Flag Shaggers will always be with us, because they do come as an advance warning.

Where are the enlightened visionaries today, to bring us the hope we most need?

POEM - Borrowed Words

I'm seeing myself through 

childhood's eyes my toys

cast across the bedroom floor

with the accompanying magical

folklore from my errant dreaming

my rolling chassis is still

as unsure as a newborn babes

for what appears purposeful 

and godlike has assumed this gate 

from the rubble I stumbled upon

The words that I say are 

half beliefs half cut with

bluster a type of blagging

obtained cheaply imbibed

from the erudition of libraries

This mind stuffed with pocketed

borrowings that I will leave behind 

as a trail of cellophane wrappers 

from around my humbugs

the legacy of having once eaten 

Far more than was needed to survive by

Written by Stephen Lumb
March-April 2026

SCREEN SHOT - Exit 8

We are on a crowded train in the underground. A man by the carriage doors is listening to Ravel's Bolero on his ear buds. As he looks down the carriage to where a baby is crying. It's Mother is struggling to comfort it. A standing passenger, starts shouting and berating her for not doing more to quieten the child. He becomes increasingly agitated and rudely insults the seated woman. Just as the train pulls into a station, the man by the carriage door receives a phone call. It's a former girlfriend, she is in hospital, she has just given birth to a baby boy, who is his son. She wants to know whether he wants to be actively involved in bringing him up or not. As he exits the carriage the man is in a panic, he's coughing a lot, he reaches for his inhaler as he climbs the steps, heading for Exit 8. But as he progresses along the empty underground corridor it becomes clear he is going round and round the same circuit of tunnels, ending back at the same point. He is getting no nearer to Exit 8. Just one driven man with a briefcase keeps repeatedly passing him. What is happening here? becomes the question that preoccupies both the man and the viewer of the film.

This Japanese movie from 2025, directed by Genki Kawamura, is a psychological nightmarish drama. Taking the frequent premise of our nightmares of being caught in a situational loop, it takes its time to build it's world and the twisted incomprehensible logic of it. If indeed it has any. It's the sort of movie that leaves you pondering on what is occurring here, was this actually happening, or is it just his dreamworld, or a psychological conundrum he needs to work out before he can move on? Are all the people he encounters in the corridors simply aspects of his own psyche? Based on a computer game from 2023, Exit 8, the movie, exhibits all the recognisable tropes of being derived from that genre, but is not a slave to them, and actually makes something that is intriguing intellectually, which also engages you emotionally.  It is simultaneously a comment on the modern urban Japanese work ethic, where you can feel like you are trapped in this endless tragic life cycle day after day. And subtly drops a few comments and asides as the movie progresses. The driven man with the briefcase being once referred to as 'a monster'. The Escher poster on the corridor wall acts as a background motif for the whole movie, with it's number eight shaped loop.

The movie at just over ninety minutes long,  makes the most of this relatively contained time span. Just when you think you are becoming used to whatever is going on here, it suddenly upends the nature of it. If you are the sort of person who wanted to work out what was going on in the Matrix movies, this movie might give you something juicy to chew over. But putting aside all of that, this is a very effectively made and satisfying piece of film making, that I thoroughly enjoyed.

CARROT REVIEW - 5/8