Dr House & Mr Polymathic Genius Personified

Beating Myself Up A Bit

My reasons for choosing the above photograph are manyfold. Chiefly, it’s brilliant and that should be enough, but less obvious to you, dear reader, as you pass a few minutes of paid employment (go on, don’t fib), is the fact that both parties in the photo had a profound effect on me this week. I apologise for the fact that my explanation train stopped at every station but hopefully I will be forgiven by end of the page.

I don’t know what I was thinking really. It was an idiotic and an ill-thought-through act. I am in the middle of emptying my head of thoughts onto the printed page and I decided to pass the working day listening to someone far, far better at it than I will ever be. Sometime tomorrow, I will finish listening to the first two volumes of Stephen Fry’s autobiography. For just over 20 hours, the author himself will have talked into my ears and I can only hope that not too much of it has rubbed off on me. He does have the decency to apologise for his over-zealous verbosity in the introduction to the first volume, excusing it with a love of talking and using language. There are indeed a few too many times where he does depart descriptive text to thrash about in stormy waters of internal dialogue, and in several places, this goes for several pages. If only he weren’t such a joy and an education to listen to.

So what of the other chap?

Several weeks before, I decided to finally tackle Jerome K. Jerome’s classic “Three Men In A Boat”, coincidentally read by Mr Fry’s erstwhile colleage, Hugh Laurie. It’s not an easy listen, due to it’s age, but I was well into it before my forehead hit the desk. Mr Laurie’s reading is full of charm and humour. It put me mind of a restrained Bertie Wooster, if that helps. I have had the printed version for years but never got past page 4. I did, however, have to consult it to find that this particular piece that greets you half way down page 52.

The quaint back streets of Kingston, where they came down to the water’s edge, looked quite picturesque in the flashing sunlight, the glinting river with its drifting barges, the wooded towpath, the trim-kept villas on the other side, Harris, in a red and orange blazer, grunting away at the sculls, the distant glimpses of the grey old palace of the Tudors, all made a sunny picture, so bright but calm, so full of life, and yet so peaceful, that, early in the day though it was, I felt myself being dreamily lulled off into a musing fit.

Apart from an amazing (and typical of the time) use of the comma, it flows like water and left me curiously depressed for the rest of the evening. There in black and white was the difference between someone writing something and a writer. Can I do that?

So, I have metaphorically stuck a finger in each ear and can be heard going “la la la” for most of the day.

Not really.

The truth is that I write a lot but I’m not actually very good at it. I tend to write as I speak and thanks to spell check, grammar check and the good sense to read things about 9 times before I click “publish”, I mostly get away with it. Listening to or reading the works of great authors may serve to inspire me, but I fear its been too many years since a semi-satisfied English teacher threw back an exercise book, annotated to hell in red biro. My favourite was Ronnie Robertson. He used to always draw a little doodle next to his mark and once favoured me with a small gravestone bearing the words “RIP Good Taste” when I had treated him to a depressing and graphic tale of automotive disaster. Our brief for prep the previous night had actually been to tell a sad tale. Multiple death and dismemberment was obviously taking it a little too far.

I suppose you are still searching for a point.

Sorry. I listened to two gifted people and it made me worry about my own ability. It’s a bit late now.

Fireworks

Bobblehats - Hyphenated?

I am not a big one for fireworks. Owning cats does that for you. Sam, sadly gone these past few years, hated them and hid under my desk whenever someone let one off within range of his tiny ears. Actually, this year hasn’t been bad. I have many times previously blogged about “arseholes with explosives season” and I am tempted to believe that my yearly diatribe has actually had some effect. Either that or it’s all the rain we have been having.

In any case, I drove home in the foggy drizzle on Friday night and witnessed some truly beautiful sights. The fireworks, shrouded in mist, gently lit the whole sky up and for once I think I might have smiled. I tried taking a few photos but I captured nothing except my rear-view mirror and someone in a bobble-hat.

Dover

Lest We Forget

My next blog will hopefully be written in Dover, next weekend. I am going back for my yearly school reunion, to see old friends, stand on cold rugby pitches, drink a bit, spend a lot and on Sunday, do what a lot other people will do. I won’t write it up until I get back, so expect my blog around Tuesday time.

Fin.

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