A HIGHLIGHT OF MY WEEK - Nick Cave Interview on Newsnight

 

Anyone who knows me well, will have caught the fact that I'm a big fan of the musical oeuvre of Nick Cave. This interview with Nick Cave is with Kirsty Wark, who asks such delicate yet prompting questions. Of course she is interviewing Cave, who is the most thoughtful and eloquent man. Here he talks with such humility, of his own faith and skepticism, the difference between being spiritual and religious. The power of music, and how you can like someone's music even if you don't agree with their politics. How as we grow older we all live lives of increasing grief.

The death of his son Arthur is still there etched into his face and into his soul. It has somehow both damaged and yet burnished him into a greater sympathy and sensitivity. He talks of his son's death as having broken completely his previous incomplete way of being. His increasing openness and engagement with his fans through his The Red Hand Files, is quite unique. An act of generosity that works both ways. Fabulous stuff, worth giving it your attention and time.

TAO TIT BITS - When Nothing Is Done

"In the pursuit of learning
  everyday something is acquired.
  in the pursuit of Tao
  everyday something is dropped.
  less and less is done.
  until non action is achieved.
  when nothing is done
   nothing is left undone"

Taken from the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu
Translated by Gia-Fu Feng, Publisher Wildwood House, 1974

THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1982 - Ever So Lonely by Monsoon

Its 1982 and Monsoon, featuring Shelia Chandra on vocals, were about to single-handedly launch Anglo-Asian fusion in popular music in the UK .At the time Chandra was only 16 years old. Previously known only for her appearances on TV in Grange Hill. But here she is dressed in a traditional sari, as she begins to sing mournfully 'ever so lone...ly' and then that tabla rhythm kicks in. This unique sound uses practically every cliche of Indian music it can cram into it, and boots it up with a modern dance groove. It reached No 12 in the charts and hung around for a further nine weeks. Though its inspirational effect on the anglo-asian music scene in the UK has been much longer lasting. The trashy video posted above contains the extended mix which really is a truly wonderful thing in itself. 

Monsoon, barely lasted beyond this single, so their album by the time it was released, happened after their demise. Third Eye as an album is disappointing, never consistently mining the potential that Ever So Lonely pointed at. So you could see that the trio might not have had long legs anyway. Shelia Chandra went on to release a dozen, often quite experimental albums, exploring her mixed cultural heritage through the qualities of her own voice. Tragically Chandra can no longer sing, having been struck down with a rare condition ' burning mouth syndrome' which pretty much does what that says. Causing swelling in parts of the mouth that are so painful as to make singing virtually impossible. Since 2010 she has successfully been writing self help books.

FINISHED READING - His Bloody Project by Graeme Macrae Burnet

 

The novel consists of documents relating to the case of Roderick Macrae. Most of it an extensive memoire by Roderick recounting in detail the events leading up to the heinous acts of murder he commits. It includes witness and character statements, medical reports, the trial itself and what happened subsequently.

The Macrae family are crofters in the small hamlet of Culduie. The local constable who oversees the general running of the village on behalf of the estate is Laclan Broad. A man who has an ongoing grudge against the Macrae family arising from a ram that died due to neglect at the hands of Roderick. Roderick's mother had died in childbirth the year before. Laclan starts taking land away from them, stops them collecting seaweed for fertilizer and eventually serves them with an eviction notice. He's also been forcing himself upon Roderick's sister Jesse, who now finds she is pregnant and unable to bear the shame that will follow, takes her life. This is the point where Roderick goes to Laclan's house with the intent to murder him. He slaughters not only Laclan, but his daughter Flora and son Donald in a brutal act of vengeful carnage. This then ought to be an open and shut case. He admits he did it, what is there to dispute?  Roderick's lawyer Mr Sinclair is, however, pushing for a judgement of temporary insanity.  

Graeme Macrae Burnet very cleverly constructs this novel around a brilliantly concocted range of documents and statements. One's that he has supposedly edited, often using characters from the period who actually existed. He creates footnotes to give it a further air of researched authenticity. The fact that Roderick bears the same surname of Macrae, subtly suggests a historical family link.The book carefully wrong foots your expectations of where it will eventually take you. It also presents you with an accurate and chilling representation of the poverty and struggles of a crofters life in Scotland in the 1860's. He employs the trial statements of Dr Munro and  J Bruce Thompson ( real figures in early criminal anthropology) to explore differing views of the criminal mind and what signifies insanity. Many years before the psychological theories of Freud. All the way through you expect Roderick in his memoire to be an unreliable narrator, but he's not, is he?

A very enjoyable but brutal tale that never drags its feet. I'd certainly like to read more by Macrae Burnet.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

ARTICLE - Closeted In A Euphemism

Jnanasalin and I, whilst recently visiting Felbrigg Hall, renewed our membership of The National Trust. After letting it lapse during the pandemic, when no one was going nowhere. This time we chose to cancel our Disney + subscription to contribute towards paying the monthly direct debit. It simply felt culturally better value to support to the Trust in it's conservation and informative educational work. We've also appreciated the efforts it has made to reflect a broader range of perspectives, from which to view the history of its properties. For which it has been getting a lot of stick from the startled horses of the right wing media.

A few years ago, some of the Trust's volunteers who worked at Felbrigg Hall, were in high dudgeon. Their wrath was being aimed at the National Trust itself, for openly revealing that the last owner of the Hall, Robert Wyndham Ketton-Cremer, who gave the house to the Trust, was a homosexual. All sorts of accusations were thrown at the Trust; of disrespecting his right not to be publicly outed after death; of virtue signaling; of re-writing history; of being high handed and insensitive to their volunteers feelings about it; that this wasn't part of the Trusts remit to do this. Some of this may indeed be true, but ,oh, that list went on and on. 

Maybe forcing their volunteers to wear gay flag striped lanyards was always going to push buttons, big time. There were such aspects in the way this historical emphasis was rolled out by the National Trust, that was indeed very clunky and came across as unsympathetic to some of the volunteers evident unease. This incident proved to be one of the early shots in what has since become lazily referred to as the 'culture war'. A disagreement often generational in nature

Whenever a person, a whole subsection of society or simply a fact, is left out of history, there is usually an uncomfortable truth wilfully being buried.  It's presence, if mentioned at all, being suggested through euphemism, or a knowingly shorthand expression empty of substantive detail. In the case of slavery, a previous owner might be referred to as - making his fortune in the colonies, in the sugar trade, or working for The Royal Africa Company, and nothing more would be asked for or revealed. You have to be further informed in order to be able to read between those lines. 

Those beautifully appointed rooms, that we are all now privileged to walk through, effectively white wash any hidden dirty laundry from your mind. They've performed this role from the time they were made, and continue to do so today. We don't want to know really, what inhumane atrocity paid for it, because it makes it harder to walk around with one's admiration unblemished. In the often rampantly camp fantasy of stately home's regal interiors, one hears the curtain swags screaming 'gay' from every gilded baroque tieback and pelmet flourish, but please do not even whisper the word out loud.

When it comes to a gay noble gentleman or woman, even at the time they were casually referred to by an extensive range of euphemisms. They were 'musical' ,'light on their feet', 'a confirmed bachelor/spinster', 'a flamboyant aesthete', 'an outrageous bonvivant and party goer', 'colourful', 'lively vivacious company', 'a sensitive type'. The sort of thing that Peter Cook perfectly lampooned with the phrase describing Norman Scott in the Thorpe trial as ' a self confessed player of the pink oboe'. The English love innuendo, a nudge and a wink, rather than a clear up front no nonsense statement. That would be all a bit too European. 

Robert Wyndham Ketton-Cremer

In truth, non of us know, given today's comparatively open attitude to being gay in the UK, whether Ketton-Cremer would have continued being so private and guarded about his sexuality? If given the choice of not living under the threatening context of illegality, the possibility of prison, of your sexual orientation being publicly revealed, your reputation ruined, of being threatened with chemical castration. Who knows how he might have chosen to live, should that surrounding climate of fear be removed. 

As most volunteers who work for the National Trust are recently retired, they are often of a generation for whom being gay would simply not to be openly talked about. Some of them at Felbrigg had known or worked for Ketton-Cremer. His homosexuality was of course known of, but he certainly never felt compelled to flaunt it.  Perhaps it was more pleasant for all concerned if such things remained under the carpet. It maybe, that even he saw being a homosexual as fundamentally not a nice thing to call anyone. He would not be the first homosexual to either wish he were otherwise, or experience personal shame. The Trust's volunteers probably were prepared to live and let live, but just drew a line at making such an obviously public fuss about it. These types of views are all vestigial remnants of an older biblical one, that homosexuality is inherrently befouling of humanity, and hence distasteful and unmentionable. They gently turn a half conscious personal dislike into some one else's self censorship.

And that I guess is it. Unless you are the person or persons being left out, being asked to self censor, or reduced to a euphemism, it probably seems not a problem, its just fine left as it is - what is all this hoohaa about representation, visibility and diversity? As a gay man, I like knowing Ketton-Cremer was queer, because I feel that ought not to be concealed, but given its place in his and the hall's history. No one ever chooses to become an example. That is usually bestowed upon a person or group by the perspective of history. 

Ketton-Cremer appears to have been a modest bookish man, living a quiet life, not rocking any visible boat. Though he probably didn't see it as such, he was not just hiding behind the elegant frontage of Felbrigg Hall, his home, but also inside the closet of euphemism. None the less, over fifty years after his death, being outed seems hardly an affront. He was a real person with his own individual interests, loves and enthusiasms. Any struggles he had in living a secretive emotional life, I can empathise with. I've been there too, its a very common experience. How he survived and thrived, in this mode of lifestyle, I could call quietly heroic.

He represents a particular type of gay man's experience. Not an exuberant or flamboyant icon, not flying the flag in your face, but shyly withdrawn, as self contained as Tupperware. Which points us toward others who also just wanted to live and love a quietly tempered life, but may not have avoided being more cruelly outed and named, in a more hostile era. Because their lack of wealth or status could not sufficiently shield them from violence or the law. This also, we need to know.

Following any history trail, we have to look more closely to spot what signs and traces there may be left, of the left out. History is not being rewritten, but broadened in its investigative scope. This is an act of salvage, recovering facts, memories, experiences and dreams. And we all will be the better for these not being read through a partially obscuring veil of language. Let us talk about the individual situation, the person, with empathy and understanding, be specific and alive to their personal history, its value, its own distinct qualities and wealth of experience. To speak clearly of what their lives were like in vivid detail. Paint a fuller picture. See people for what they were, not what we'd prefer them to be.

A HIGHLIGHT OF MY WEEK - Rose Gunpowder GreenTea

Hubby recently came back from a visit to Nottingham with a couple of packs of beverages. A rather (sharp intake of breath) potent coffee and a pack of loose Rose Gunpowder Green Tea. The later has quickly become my very favourite early morning cuppa. One that I take the time to savour slowly, to slurp and enjoy. 

Sometimes flower infused teas come near to being an insulting tragedy,  far too watery in both flavour and aroma. Or they taste synthetic, with an intensity of pong, indicating some sort of chemically induced essence has been added. As though a rose green tea was meant to be a close relation of pot pourri. I usually like a classic form of tea, and I'm not fond of the willfully exotic Elephant's Toe Nail Tea or food flavoured Bakewell Tart Tea.

This, however, is just a beautiful gently rose infused green tea. I find this is a superb way to gradually awaken to greet the morning dew and myself. Its a subtle highlight of each day, in each week, in this or any other year.

TAO TIT BITS - What is more Important

"It is more important
To see the simplicity,
To realise one's true nature,
To cast off selfishness
And temper desire"

Taken from the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu
Translated by Gia-Fu Feng, Publisher Wildwood House, 1974

SHERINGHAM DIARY 71 - Shrug My Shoulders & Chuckle.

Ta Da!

November 16th
So far this week the shop takings have shown a small improvement, with the emphasis on small. Yesterday's trade all happened in the space of an hour or two midday, with a whole lot of nothing either side. I got a definite impression that this was Thursford influenced, because the coaches stop over here for lunch break before heading on to Thursford for the matinee performance at 2pm.

November 17th
Its in the nature of our business, that it's obvious from the outside what sort of shop we are. With nice fabrics and hand crafted goods, soaps, candles and jewellery, etc, if that's not your bag you walk on by.  Also, if you were the sort of male who finds seeing a man knitting or using a sewing machine too challenging, you'd avoid us like the plague. Seeking refuge in the stereotypically male concern of bottled beers in the off license next door. We don't normally get abusive customers. Mid 20th century fabrics, you'd never think of them as an effective deterrent, but they are.

However, the off licence and cafe do get abuse on a regular basis from some of their customers  Yesterday the young chap who runs the cafe had to endure angry words and finger pointing by a customer whose card was declined three times. Nothing was wrong with the card machine, as it worked for customer's both before and after this guy. But regardless of this the guy blamed the cafe owner for 'not wanting his business'.

It was one of the Zeitgeists of the pandemic that people bought dogs for company. Not everyone knows how to control their dog, or take responsibility for its behaviour. Dogs peeing up walls and outside shop displays in the shop courtyard have become quite frequent occurrences. Last week, a customer in the cafe had two largish dogs who went absolutely berserk as someone else passed by with a smaller dog. The table they were sat at was upturned,and a calamitous amount of noise accompanied all the crockery, food and liquids on it crashing to the floor and shattering. The dog owners, rather than apologising or offering to pay for the damage their dogs had caused, they simply walked off.

November 18th

'Economic forecasting is there to make astrology look good' 

So J K Galbraith once said. And so yesterday the Chancellor Jeremy Hunt, plans tax rises and an austerity agenda in order to plug a so called 'fiscal black hole' in the countries finances. Any economic policy is framed around parameters imposed upon the government by itself. They are the means within which it wishes to live, a choice it has chosen to make. This time in the hope that it pleases the markets.  For a government ideologically committed to creating a smaller state and welfare sector, this also performs an auxiliary function of reducing the public sectors ability to provide a range of services by stealth, under the guise of a supposed economic necessity.

November 19th
What we don't need at the moment is atrociously wet cold weather. However, that is what we are getting, torrential rain for hours, day and night. So yesterday's shop take was, shall we say, very thin.

November 20th
Next year, should we're decide to carry on, we intend to start doing more makers markets. The difficulty with that as an endeavour is that its virtually impossible, without going to one, to ascertain from their publicity quite what sort of level of craft making any fair is pitched towards. To some extent we can ask some of our suppliers for advice. What is really needed is a coding system. Similar to a health and safety scoring for cafes. One being pathetic and five too top notch for us. So here is a provisional outline :-

1 Star - Flea Markets
I mean for f...s sake what are they? All sorts of tat masquerading as vintage, mixed up with someone's boot sale leftover's, handmade cards assembled out of cut out bits of old cards, that utilise the word decoupage more as a euphemism, and then there's someone's Aunt Sally who makes doilies coarsely crocheted in lurid acrylic yarn.

2 Star - Church, Charity or Community Hall Craft Markets
Usually minus tat, vintage and boot sale. Its amateur hour for the 'home spun' craft maker. The sort of stuff congregation members make for the Christmas fundraising bazzar. Synthetic yarns rule, so the overall level of static is high. Aestheticly hovering between sugary pastels and the eye wateringly bright. An eclectic range of stock, whatever the craft maker fancied making that day. Mostly following a cliche with little creative imagination applied. Rainbows until you're ears bleed. You get the picture.

3 Star - 'Creative' Craft Markets
One step up. The craft makers behave more professionally. Items are coherently ranged and generally are more focused version of the things you see in a 2 Star craft market. You do start to see wood turners, amateur potters, felt sculpture, soap makers, stained glass and the ubiquitous fabric bunting! The overall skill level edges beyond competent. Aesthetically the majority are more shambolic folksy than artisan. You might get a glimpse of your first sculpture of gambolling hares, which will be.. .exciting

4 Star - Artisan Makers Markets
Covers a wide range of artizan making, from bread and confectionery to ceramicists who make whole dinner sets, not just mugs. Beautifully crafted candles, print and card makers, bookbinders, wicker furniture, individually styled pottery and glass making etc. Aesthetically it has a pronounced style to it, artfully rusticated, refined or form lead. Most of the craft makers will have had some form of art or craft training, and it shows. This is more where we'd most likely place ourselves.

5 Star - Stately Home Country Fair
At some point Artisan hits the Country Fair.  You pay hundreds of pounds for your stall and have to have enough back up stock to survive three whole days trading in a field. Items are more prone to be ridiculously over priced. What was a small craft based business, out of necessity, turns into production line manufacture. Its also the juncture where craft starts to morph into arty designer craft, where everything is edged in gold leaf , made from antlers or deconstructed cutlery.

November 22nd
A good friend of ours Vidyasiddhi died over the weekend. He'd had a terminal cancer diagnosis not more than a month ago. During the last week he was taken into a hospice and died on Sunday evening. Both of us worked with Vidyasiddhi during our time at Windhorse:evolution. An extraordinarily capable man who could put his mind, ingenuity and energy  into many things, but could usually dress it up with a lot of garralous fun. 

I worked with him in the kitchen at Windhorse. He was having quite a difficult time, a lot of questioning of himself, institutions and Buddhism was in process. Arriving at work you might be met by very probing interrogations of the fundamentals of Buddhism, or a light hearted mischievous imp, theatrically sending himself or a situation up. Flipping from really furious, to mock furious, to flippant in a trice. 

This was very much Vidyassidhi, this mix of the light hearted and serious enquiry, each facet of him embraced to the full whenever it arose. Always a stimulating and delightful person to spend time with. Jnanasalin besides working in the Retail Team with him, was also ordained with Vidyasiddhi, so the bond between them was strong. We are both going to miss him and are feeling his loss strongly at present.

November 24th
This month has really been the absolute pits in the shop. The bloody rain has not helped the general feeling of a depressed nation. We've taken over the last three days what we would normaly take in one day, at this time of year. Comparable to February when we were closed for two weeks.  Gone beyond being disheartened. Gone beyond despair, I just have to shrug my shoulders and chuckle over the sheer ludicrous situation we and our country are now in.

FEATURE - George Rowlett at 80

I came across this video on You Tube, having not been aware of George Rowlett's paintings before. Where have I been? Slabs of colour, applied with a broad pallet knife or smeared with finger tip. Crude though this means of application may look, their is a deep expressiveness carved in its impasto layers. Watching him be out of breath, lugging his paints and easel up and down staircases and across sand dunes I found it so moving. I kept thinking, why isn't the film maker not helping this old man? This eighty year old man who cycles precariously along the road to new painting locations or back home. There ought to be a preservation order issued on him.

Rowletts work is where landscape painting and abstract expressionism collide and fight it out on a canvas board. 

MY OWN WALKING - November Journal 2022

'Without desire and still, the world will settle itself' - Lao Tsu

The existential force of our breathing comes and goes without any conscious effort on our part. Only when we are ill, when our breathing is obstructed, or when we are drowning or meditating, are we suddenly forced to give it more conscious attention. The gift that is our lives is fundamentally dependent upon the consistency of lungs forcing air in and out of our body. Yet we do nothing consciously to make this happen. Its what our body does unhindered by us. Until one day our breathing will shudder to a halt, despite our no doubt deepest desire and longing for it to continue.

In the midst of meditation we are practicing the skill to observe dispassionately, to be aware of breathing whilst resisting the temptation to interfere with it. Because attention can slip into controlling the cycle of our breathing.  As if breathing were a technique to be mastered. Awareness also tends to take ownership of the things it sees, feels, touches, hears or thinks about. Turning an object into a subject. Unable to resist direct control of the senses and imagines being the master wielding them.

Times like the present day, are bedeviled with great economic uncertainty, political and climate instability. It is understandable that we should want it all to settle down, to be more predictable, stable and not on our minds all of the time. Imagine if our anxious, worrying, fretting minds became the thing that powered our economy. Well, we'd all be extremely rich. Our breathing and the state of our country are similar in that they are interdependent and interwoven into the events of a much wider world. The idea that we could fully take back control of our destiny is somewhat laughable. The world breathes and operates beyond any control or artificial border.

When circumstances make all this very plain to us, such as with the eruption of war in the Ukraine, there can be an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. Our inability to control or contain people or events, is laid bare for us to feel. To this we may respond with despair or become angry. If only there was a button to press that reset all circumstances to their default original state. That original default state is described in the quote at the top if this article as 'without desire and still'. And in a crisis we human beings are usually very far from being 'without desire'. 

We are far from 'still' too. As we rush around taking action to sort out the problems of our own making. Because we cannot stop ourselves from wanting to interfere. To set about making the world a better place for all humanity to live in. Noble sentiments, quite frequently crushed by the reality of a world that is indifferent to them. Things should not be like this, we state defiantly. Looking for someone to blame for it, a person, an institution, a flaw in human society or our civilisation. Something that could stand corrected.

Indeed, a lot of what we see as wrong with the world is the consequence of human actions or failure to act. Our fidgety fiddling desires are somewhat responsible here. Sometimes the solutions we present to solve the problems we've created, are not that much better. And so they form a perpetual cycle of problems followed by solutions that create yet more problems. If we cannot permanently settle even our own problems, how could we settle the world? Imagine a crisis, then ask yourself.

Could I bear to leave myself out of the equation?

Could I bear to do nothing?

Could I bear to leave the world to settle itself?

PS. How compassionate activity or Bodhisattva Ideal could survive this, I'll have to further reflect on/

TAO TIT BITS - Without

'Without desire and still,
the world will settle itself'

Taken from the Tao Te Ching Chapter 37
Translated by Philip J. Ivanhoe

SCREEN SHOT - Nope

Is this a film by Jordan Peele? - Yup
Is it a good one? - Nope
Is it like Get Out or Us? - Nope
Does it skilfuly combine tense horror tropes and comment on racism - Nope
Is it well acted? - Nope
( quite a bit of it is overacted, or so gabbled as to be unintelligible to the unaided ear )
Does it have a witty and thoughtful script - Nope
Is it engaging in any way? - Nope
Would it benefit from a second viewing? - Nope
Is it way too long? - Yup
Is it flabby and takes far too long to say not very much? - Yup
Would you recommend this to anyone? - Nope
Not even a Jordan Peele fan? - Nope
Someone with time on their hands to kill? - Nope
The mildly curious? - Nope
Someone bored? - Nope
The dead? - Nope

CARROT REVIEW 2/8

FINISHED READING - The Rings of Saturn by W.G Sebald

W. G. Sebald was for many decades a literature professor. A lecturer at the UEA in Norwich from 1970. Publishing his first written work After Nature in 1988, and first novel Vertigo in 1999. A series of increasingly lauded novels followed. Throughout the turn of the millennium, his reputation rose. By the publication of Austerlitz in 2001, he was being acclaimed as one of the greatest living novelists, and a potential Nobel prize winner. Unfortunately that was also the year he died of a heart attack whilst driving in December 2001, he was 57. Though there have been a number of posthumous publications since then. That reputational rise appears to now have parked itself.

The Rings of Saturn was published in 1998. The premise of the book is of a narrator, which we read to be Sebald, ostensibly taking a ramble, a walking journey around the county of Suffolk. But also a much bigger ramble. Because the book is so much more than a linear walk, its partly a historical account of places and people, but also brings in biography,  personal memoire and meditations on the human condition and fallibility. His writing style has this heightened associative drift to it, often prompted by the things he encounters. He takes up erudite diversions, veering off on fascinating tangents, where, just occasionally, he arrives right back where he started looking out over a familiar bit of East Anglia landscape.

Sebald is a readable and quietly fascinating writer. If you come expecting a perfectly formed narrative line to ride your reading upon, then he will disappoint you. He travels through the mind, its landscapes, interesting nooks and crannies.  Sebald's writing persona is as a weaver of memories, creating a tapestry of references that cross all the boundaries of time, place and cultures. You could say he is the quintessentially most post modern of writers. At times his tales remind me of the performance work of Laurie Anderson, whose pieces are similarly fascinated with storylines, the anecdotal, accidental collisions and the unexpected contrast of juxtapositions. 

The Rings of Saturn, along the way, takes in the ground breaking work of Thomas Browne, the social and economic background to why Somerleyton Hall was built, and its subsequent rather ungenteel decline. Finishing off with a brilliant flourish on the history of the silk weaving trade in Europe, and how Norwich, with the arrival of the Huguenot in the 17th -18th century became the centre of it in England. 

I first read this book in the early noughties. I'd tried Austerlitz first, which as a densely woven more darkly personal work, I found trickier to relate to.  Because he takes this ruminating wander around East Anglia, an area I love, I find myself more easily drawn into the Sebald multiverse, able to relax and enjoy the ride he takes you on. I would say The Rings of Saturn is the best entry point, from which to introduce yourself to this great novelist. If this doesn"t grab you, then nothing else of Sebald's work is likely to either. Rereading it in 2022 it has been a bit of a surprise, just how much I loved and enjoyed it all over again.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Not Doing Too Well ( Epi 12)

A lot had happened in the space of that week. From the perspective of six months later, Duncan and Gavin felt as though this had taken place in a strange alternative universe, unexpectedly gone supernova. During this period of hyper intense activity, the blancmange like face and physique of the Controller of Rectitude - McAlister, had become quite unpleasant and far too familiar. He pushed so hard, and unrelentingly  Driving everyone right to the edge, then over of what they felt they were capable of. Working them overtime, day and night to make Retinal Hemorrhage invisible to future investigation. Unlike paper trails, digital footprints are never completely erased. So expert techheads arrived, who expended a seemingly disproportionate amounts of time and ingenuity simply making them, at least, significantly fainter traces. Covered over by so many contrived trips, glitches and fences, to be very difficult to get at, let alone to unpick or decipher. 

All this effort was successful. For when the police finally arrived at the Seven Dials premises, there was only the barren shell left. Plus some casually, but carefully placed bits of misdirecting information scrunched up on the floor. McAlister hoped any detectives, police or forensic, would eventually draw a line under their pursuit at some point. When further digging would become just not worth doing. Fortunately, they also had insurance in the form of a female police officer,a former devotee, on the inside. Giving them the heads up on how things were. No major alarm bells had yet been rung. The trail the police were pursuing appeared to be running cold. Because it was the false one, laid to effectively divert their focus away whilst 'believers' went to ground, and institutions of the Material Arts Community made themselves 'no longer there.'

Duncan and Gavin's understanding of what had provoked the need for this sort of action, slowly pieced together fragments of information. Retinal Hemorrhage had launched a bold new wallpaper and fabric range in the early autumn. One of their 'employees', so they were told, had sabotaged the print run of a fabric design called Malevolent Punch.  They'd introduced a strange fungal based poisonous compound into the surface finish. A substance activated by human sweat and prolonged handling. A few months later lengths of this fabric were sold to a Haberdashers in the Home Counties. These were made into curtains for one of their customers. That customer and their own delivery driver were now both dead. There was one unexpectedly tricky phone call, that they'd bluffed their way out of, by affecting to be clueless and camp. How McAlister had known about all of this over a complete week before it became common knowledge, was what baffled them. Gavin suspected they were not being told the whole truth.

By the time the national newspapers got hold of the story, Gavin and Duncan had already gone to ground. Retreating to the familiar 1980's municipal housing of the Mulberry Estate. The choice of Duncan's flat was 'hiding in plain sight', so they joked. Since the rapid diaspora of Gavin's community it was the obvious place to go, at least in the short term. Duncan had had to relax his attachment to minimalist interiors.  Asceticism through poverty, Gavin called it. Because Gavin, by contrast, was a man big on having lots of stuff, not just books,music and paintings, but furniture. Big bulky bits of furniture too. The bookshelves alone filled all the available wall space of the small lounge, which now felt intimately cosy rather than its previous anorexic starkness. Duncan teasing him about' never being knowingly renunciate'

The increased amount of furniture was only the first confronting issue. The other was living cheek by jowl 24/7. Much as they enjoyed each others company, they'd grown accustomed to plenty of time apart. The flat afforded neither of them sufficient personal space. So there were days when a testiness previously unknown in their relationship surfaced. It maybe that this was somewhat deflective in origin. Neither of them having fully grasped why the movement they'd belonged to needed to guard its anonymity so fiercely. Enough to erase itself completely from view in the UK. What was it they had to hide? Gavin, as the more experienced practitioner, had an inkling the explanation would be somewhere in the past, way before his involvement. But knew nothing more than some scurrilous hearsay, which he'd so far been unable to verify.

Duncan had easily found another job, one he instantly took a dislike to, in a local hardware store. Gavin called upon old work colleagues for a favour, who recommended him for a well paid managerial position in a design company in Barnet. This was a long daily journey by tube. Travelling diagonally across London was always the pits. Every day heading towards or away from the interminably long rattle track, that is the Northern Line. On the plus side it did give him chill out time. Away from Duncan's freaking out every time he heard a distant police siren. Neither of them were able to be completely at ease. Abandoned to sink or swim by the movement, the final contact they'd had was shaking McAllister's sweaty palm at the end of the last days work in Seven Dials.

Living a self isolating life together, did gradually bring them closer. Once they'd talked through the areas of irritation, and formed intentions on how thing could be improved. Each became more reliant upon the other. Expert at reading the signs for when one of them was 'not doing too well'. Because 'not doing too well' outside of maintaining the necessary practicalities of life, was now a constant personal battle. Forming a sort of background noise to their current lifestyle. At one remove from both the movement and the society they lived in. In constant fear of the authorities tracing them. Apart from going to work they rarely went out together in the evening. 

So several months on after the event, they had begun talking, in a tentative exploratory way, about what they were going to do next. Yes, they would stick together. What was it they both wanted to do with that togetherness? If they had a choice, what would they prefer to do? It clearly would not do either of them any good, longer term, staying in Duncan's pokey council flat. Besides he was not supposed to have lodgers, boyfriend or not. So at some point they'd have to get out of it, and preferably leave London altogether. To do this they'd need to assiduously save money.

One autumn evening, Gavin sat quietly reading in his beloved high back armchair. Duncan, cooking an overly elaborate Ottolengi recipe for dinner,was surrounded by ingredients, steam, sauce pans and perilously balanced plates. Then there was a polite and gentle sounding knock on the front door. Duncan's ears pricked up instantly in recognition. He knew exactly who he'd find on the other side of that door should he chose to open it.

End of Part One of Donkey's Almanac.