Today I actually did plant some seeds, sweet peas, basil, nicotiana suaveolens and cerinthe major. Very pleasing to have made a start.
We then went out for a bit of culcha - to Margate - heard Jamie M playing some agreeable jazzy/poppy stuff - I didn't realise he sang as well... quite a funny version of "She's not there".
We left the bar and went to the Turner - it was foggy and bitterly cold, as though the air was full of ice (technically it is/was). There was a rather mixed up exhibition: Rosa Barba's installations of projectors etc. was evocative, and there was an especially good film of aerial views of landscape, the Thames estuary, mud, the seaforts etc. There was also Carl Andre on show in a single room. At least I now understand what he was about - there is something quite attractive about Minimalism like that. His poetry was - er, well, I can't remember exactly what "concrete poetry" is, but CA's work seemed reminiscent of what I remember of it. There was a poem called "Dithyramb" which the note beside it said was based on words found in "old stories " - it appeared that nearly all of the words were Biblical in fact and why this couldn't have been stated is a little odd. Perhaps the curator had never read the Gospels. There was also a novel called Shooting Script which I thought was quite interesting, in a BS Johnson sort of way.
I have spent a lot of time getting to grips with my smartphone, but am pleased to report I have now phoned, texted, read emails, FB and Twitter, and Googled, as well as taking some photos. It won't replace the laptop - and I'm certainly not going to stuff it full of music.
M cycled home, and I drove Ned back from his lunchtime bar work, we had tea and I made a spectacular supper. Finn announced he did not want any. Oscar was here, so Finn wants to be with him... not us.
We made a fairly momentous decision that we would risk booking a gite in the Ile de France for the last week in August - so that we can have day trips to Paris and see Fontainbleau and Versailles again (I'd like to see the Petit Trianon and the Potager du Roi). If M does get the Hammill brickwork job, then it should be manageable... I have enough birthday money to rent a gite for a week, and the cross-channel ferry or whatever, a few meals out and some shopping shouldn't be too much (famous last words). It is a bit sad that we are finding it so difficult, but this may be Ned's last trip with us (although nowadays people seem to go on hols with their parents into adulthood). Finn predictably said "Why can't we go to a beach?"
"We have a beach here!" we howled...and M and I spend quite a bit of time on it in summer.
My father rang - he sounded dreadful - very tired, had been crying I think? Apparently had watched an episode of Call the Midwife and found it very moving. The East End setting reminded him of his cousins, Muriel and Doris (?) Lester - who did good works in the East End and were chummy with Ghandi... but he really did seem not himself. I was a bit loth to get off the phone, but I had just begun watching Michael Handke's White Ribbon and needed to concentrate on the subtitles. Now I feel rather mean, but I'm not sure if a long conversation was quite what he wanted. He had had a lovely day with Ben and Sarah (and Coellie I think) at Kew, so perhaps it was just that Sunday evening thing. I always mean to phone him more, why don't I?
We then went out for a bit of culcha - to Margate - heard Jamie M playing some agreeable jazzy/poppy stuff - I didn't realise he sang as well... quite a funny version of "She's not there".
We left the bar and went to the Turner - it was foggy and bitterly cold, as though the air was full of ice (technically it is/was). There was a rather mixed up exhibition: Rosa Barba's installations of projectors etc. was evocative, and there was an especially good film of aerial views of landscape, the Thames estuary, mud, the seaforts etc. There was also Carl Andre on show in a single room. At least I now understand what he was about - there is something quite attractive about Minimalism like that. His poetry was - er, well, I can't remember exactly what "concrete poetry" is, but CA's work seemed reminiscent of what I remember of it. There was a poem called "Dithyramb" which the note beside it said was based on words found in "old stories " - it appeared that nearly all of the words were Biblical in fact and why this couldn't have been stated is a little odd. Perhaps the curator had never read the Gospels. There was also a novel called Shooting Script which I thought was quite interesting, in a BS Johnson sort of way.
I have spent a lot of time getting to grips with my smartphone, but am pleased to report I have now phoned, texted, read emails, FB and Twitter, and Googled, as well as taking some photos. It won't replace the laptop - and I'm certainly not going to stuff it full of music.
M cycled home, and I drove Ned back from his lunchtime bar work, we had tea and I made a spectacular supper. Finn announced he did not want any. Oscar was here, so Finn wants to be with him... not us.
We made a fairly momentous decision that we would risk booking a gite in the Ile de France for the last week in August - so that we can have day trips to Paris and see Fontainbleau and Versailles again (I'd like to see the Petit Trianon and the Potager du Roi). If M does get the Hammill brickwork job, then it should be manageable... I have enough birthday money to rent a gite for a week, and the cross-channel ferry or whatever, a few meals out and some shopping shouldn't be too much (famous last words). It is a bit sad that we are finding it so difficult, but this may be Ned's last trip with us (although nowadays people seem to go on hols with their parents into adulthood). Finn predictably said "Why can't we go to a beach?"
"We have a beach here!" we howled...and M and I spend quite a bit of time on it in summer.
My father rang - he sounded dreadful - very tired, had been crying I think? Apparently had watched an episode of Call the Midwife and found it very moving. The East End setting reminded him of his cousins, Muriel and Doris (?) Lester - who did good works in the East End and were chummy with Ghandi... but he really did seem not himself. I was a bit loth to get off the phone, but I had just begun watching Michael Handke's White Ribbon and needed to concentrate on the subtitles. Now I feel rather mean, but I'm not sure if a long conversation was quite what he wanted. He had had a lovely day with Ben and Sarah (and Coellie I think) at Kew, so perhaps it was just that Sunday evening thing. I always mean to phone him more, why don't I?
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