Bryan Islip's Blog, page 30
October 15, 2012
Wrtiting, painting, walking, wonderful
Today the world of Wester-Ross was a marvel of sunshine, calm waters, a pin-sharp ampitheatre of hills.
This morning I finished chapter eighteen of my novel in progress.
Herself feeling up for it, we decided to do the walk that we used to do every lunchtime before the Big C hit us. It was beautiful. The slower you walk the more you see and the greater your enjoyment. We sat on the crumbling remains of a WW2 gun emnplacement consuming our picnic and doing the Independent crossword. I do the downs and she does the acrosses as we pass it from one to the other. Completed the thing but for two clues (annnoyingly).
It was low tide. An otter ducked and dived close in, loop-tailed. We disturbed a group of five herons which is unusual for they are solitary sentinels as a rule. Perhaps some of them were youngsters learning the hunting game that, for them, consists of standing stock still and upright at the water's edge, waiting for an unwary little fish or a crab to stray into range of that spear-like beak. The ultimate in energy saving.
The sparrowhawk has really taken to our bird feeders, or rather to the birds that feed from them. Superb fliers, perfect killers but for Dee a source of constant concern. Today he was particularly active, causing a pigeon to crash in panicy flight into our kitchen window and, we think, making off with one of those after which he is named.
This afternoon I moved on with my latest oil on canvas, 'Starlings'. (You have maybe seen the flocks on Autumn Watch as they form their in flight close linked pattern after abstract pattern before settling down to roost for the night.) Much as I love 'painting' with pastels there is something about oils. I think it's the feel, the texture of that jellied mass on the palette and transferring from brush to canvas, perhaps it's the smell of linseed and turpentine. Wonderful.
This morning I finished chapter eighteen of my novel in progress.
Herself feeling up for it, we decided to do the walk that we used to do every lunchtime before the Big C hit us. It was beautiful. The slower you walk the more you see and the greater your enjoyment. We sat on the crumbling remains of a WW2 gun emnplacement consuming our picnic and doing the Independent crossword. I do the downs and she does the acrosses as we pass it from one to the other. Completed the thing but for two clues (annnoyingly).
It was low tide. An otter ducked and dived close in, loop-tailed. We disturbed a group of five herons which is unusual for they are solitary sentinels as a rule. Perhaps some of them were youngsters learning the hunting game that, for them, consists of standing stock still and upright at the water's edge, waiting for an unwary little fish or a crab to stray into range of that spear-like beak. The ultimate in energy saving.
The sparrowhawk has really taken to our bird feeders, or rather to the birds that feed from them. Superb fliers, perfect killers but for Dee a source of constant concern. Today he was particularly active, causing a pigeon to crash in panicy flight into our kitchen window and, we think, making off with one of those after which he is named.
This afternoon I moved on with my latest oil on canvas, 'Starlings'. (You have maybe seen the flocks on Autumn Watch as they form their in flight close linked pattern after abstract pattern before settling down to roost for the night.) Much as I love 'painting' with pastels there is something about oils. I think it's the feel, the texture of that jellied mass on the palette and transferring from brush to canvas, perhaps it's the smell of linseed and turpentine. Wonderful.
October 12, 2012
A Christmas in hospital
However dark the night there almost always is a brighter side. For me Ward 2C in Raigmore Hospital is it right now. There's an air of something good, if totally indefinable, in this place where ladies take their C's for definition and for care, more often than not for cure. I have not sensed any of the expected grim despair in there. On the contrary I would say lightheartedness but surely that cannot be. Can it?
My own one and only experience of hospitals ocurred in 1993, just before and over Christmas. I went into The Royal County, Winchester, as an emergency (gallstones as it turned out.) When I came out I wrote this ...
Thoughts from Twyford Ward at Christmas
When you are
told, undress, it's just as if,
Unprotesting you
are taking off your self;
Abed you soon
become that bed, your clothes,
Your self
together folded on the shelf;
You think at
first that hospitals are blind
To 'ought but
sickness, know you just from charts
That hang upon
the footrail of your bed,
You're just the
sum of your defective parts,
And yet
compassion is a river deep
That under-runs
the vastness of this place,
I instance she who
had no need to care
Whose caring
vastly aided my repair.
Christmas
watching David Copperfield
In this my only hospital
(so far!)
With time and space
enough to yield to
Dickens' tale and
the progress of my star
Above the sixty
three high Christmas tides,
Whose flows and
ebbs way-mark my life:
Is it my sense
of cosy helplessness
Or Davey’s in
the end successful strife
That spurs my deepest
thoughts and questions?
Or festive signs
that sparkle everywhere
Here in this warm
retreat from cold reality
Where sometime
pain's the only penalty?
Or the unsmiling
ancient over there
For whom the
bright-lit glory of this world
Has long since
darkened, shrunk inside to share
The bony cage,
the pain-wracked bounds of self
Alone, most trace
of grace now gone and now
Who pleads to be
let home for Christmas Day
And gives his faltering
word, his heart-felt vow
He would return
that eve, come yet what may…
Might I have
seen my Christmas future there
In breathless
rattling chest, bent form, not least
Of the
indignities great age can bring
To those who to
a kind of living cling?
Or the tableau
played between the old
Sicilian and the
smart young nurse who needs
Through kindly
firmness to impose her will
And not accept her
rebel patient's leads,
He with his 'bloody ’ells', his loud guffaws
And she with
sternly issued reprimands
In words he does
not wish to comprehend
'Til she can do
no more than raise her hands,
Give in and
shake her shining soft black hair
And grin - now
see how keenly those old eyes
Look for that
spark that lives within a smile
And which can
still the stuff of life ignite
In an exhausted
frame, a care-worn brow
Enclosing sleeping
memories, woken now…
…That laughing girl with
basket on brown arm…
Bright curls her head-scarf
failed to tie within
Hot growing earth smell of that
hillside's warm
Embrace, soft touch of her
sweat-beaded skin,
The bold sun-colours of that
olive grove
When he, somebody, was a man
of pride,
His lifted heart so strong,
so bound in love
That what he wished to take
was not denied
And he had made a present
of himself,
Of moon and stars to such a
one as this…
But most is
peaceful here on earth tonight
As I and my
thrombotic new-found pal
Range in our
conversation left and right
Like why are
there no sick wild animals
Just healthy
ones and those that soon by dint
Of age or
violence careful nature culls:
And have we
maybe just lost sight of why
Man must at all
costs nature over-rule
No longer seeking
reason nor for rhyme?
This day it seems
that living counts the least
And pride and
purpose are what count the most
To this we raise
our glasses, drink our toast.
Oh silent night
of good king Wenceslas
Now hark the
herald angels sing out loud
As here in
Twyford Ward the choir en masse
Delivers Christmas
carols, cheerful crowd,
To patients come
in fear, in helpless search
Of help,
distressed, and of an end to pain -
And hope, as they
who issue from the church,
To go in
thoughtfulness as born again;
And maybe nurse
and doctor, orderly
Attending to the
sick this Christmas day
Are closest to
that Christ-child's glad re-birth;
To glory in the
highest, peace on earth.
Bryan Islip
Christmas 97
My own one and only experience of hospitals ocurred in 1993, just before and over Christmas. I went into The Royal County, Winchester, as an emergency (gallstones as it turned out.) When I came out I wrote this ...
Thoughts from Twyford Ward at Christmas
When you are
told, undress, it's just as if,
Unprotesting you
are taking off your self;
Abed you soon
become that bed, your clothes,
Your self
together folded on the shelf;
You think at
first that hospitals are blind
To 'ought but
sickness, know you just from charts
That hang upon
the footrail of your bed,
You're just the
sum of your defective parts,
And yet
compassion is a river deep
That under-runs
the vastness of this place,
I instance she who
had no need to care
Whose caring
vastly aided my repair.
Christmas
watching David Copperfield
In this my only hospital
(so far!)
With time and space
enough to yield to
Dickens' tale and
the progress of my star
Above the sixty
three high Christmas tides,
Whose flows and
ebbs way-mark my life:
Is it my sense
of cosy helplessness
Or Davey’s in
the end successful strife
That spurs my deepest
thoughts and questions?
Or festive signs
that sparkle everywhere
Here in this warm
retreat from cold reality
Where sometime
pain's the only penalty?
Or the unsmiling
ancient over there
For whom the
bright-lit glory of this world
Has long since
darkened, shrunk inside to share
The bony cage,
the pain-wracked bounds of self
Alone, most trace
of grace now gone and now
Who pleads to be
let home for Christmas Day
And gives his faltering
word, his heart-felt vow
He would return
that eve, come yet what may…
Might I have
seen my Christmas future there
In breathless
rattling chest, bent form, not least
Of the
indignities great age can bring
To those who to
a kind of living cling?
Or the tableau
played between the old
Sicilian and the
smart young nurse who needs
Through kindly
firmness to impose her will
And not accept her
rebel patient's leads,
He with his 'bloody ’ells', his loud guffaws
And she with
sternly issued reprimands
In words he does
not wish to comprehend
'Til she can do
no more than raise her hands,
Give in and
shake her shining soft black hair
And grin - now
see how keenly those old eyes
Look for that
spark that lives within a smile
And which can
still the stuff of life ignite
In an exhausted
frame, a care-worn brow
Enclosing sleeping
memories, woken now…
…That laughing girl with
basket on brown arm…
Bright curls her head-scarf
failed to tie within
Hot growing earth smell of that
hillside's warm
Embrace, soft touch of her
sweat-beaded skin,
The bold sun-colours of that
olive grove
When he, somebody, was a man
of pride,
His lifted heart so strong,
so bound in love
That what he wished to take
was not denied
And he had made a present
of himself,
Of moon and stars to such a
one as this…
But most is
peaceful here on earth tonight
As I and my
thrombotic new-found pal
Range in our
conversation left and right
Like why are
there no sick wild animals
Just healthy
ones and those that soon by dint
Of age or
violence careful nature culls:
And have we
maybe just lost sight of why
Man must at all
costs nature over-rule
No longer seeking
reason nor for rhyme?
This day it seems
that living counts the least
And pride and
purpose are what count the most
To this we raise
our glasses, drink our toast.
Oh silent night
of good king Wenceslas
Now hark the
herald angels sing out loud
As here in
Twyford Ward the choir en masse
Delivers Christmas
carols, cheerful crowd,
To patients come
in fear, in helpless search
Of help,
distressed, and of an end to pain -
And hope, as they
who issue from the church,
To go in
thoughtfulness as born again;
And maybe nurse
and doctor, orderly
Attending to the
sick this Christmas day
Are closest to
that Christ-child's glad re-birth;
To glory in the
highest, peace on earth.
Bryan Islip
Christmas 97
October 10, 2012
Of she and of hair
Dee loves her hair almost as strongly as she hates the thought of losing it to chemotherapy and almost as much as she dislikes cameras being pointed in her direction. But just before setting off for Raigmore Hospital and more biopsy(?) type tests to establish the location of her primary cancer she asked me to photograph her ... in case ... So I did ...
October 4, 2012
Defeated, not ever
It's like turning a street corner on your way to the shops and finding yourselves confronted by a ten foot high grizzly bear. I'm talking cancer, of course. But we will prevail and all the kind and caring folk who sent their get well cards, flowers, gifts and their e-mailed / telephoned love will help us make it through the night.
"MAN (WOMAN) CAN BE DESTROYED BUT NOT DEFEATED"
E. Hemingway
See my blog of a few days ago 'Just what I do'.
October 3, 2012
THE BOOK: Things do change
‘You are a rare asset to our area, Jamie, even if
you do have such ideas.’ The old fellow took one
hand off his oar, put a strong arm around the boy’s now strong young shoulders.
‘I do worry for you, Jamie Mortlock. And others, they are listening to you and
so we worry for them as well.’
Hundred metres left to go. Jamie said, ‘Mister
MacLean, you’ve seen the starlings, haven’t you? On Springwatch or something?
We don’t have TV here but I’ve seen them. Thousands and thousands all flying
packed close together, wheeling about in the sky making kinds of abstract
patterns? They turn like they were all part of one single flying creature but
they are not, they are all individuals so there must always be the one who has
to make decisions, decide to turn first. All the others follow of their own
free will, almost instantaneous. If they didn’t do it together they would
collide with each other. But you can see there’s always one that breaks away
and he or she takes others with him - or her - to make their own patterns.’
‘Starlings?’ The old man shook his head, puzzled.
‘The laddie talks in riddles, Ben.’
Ben grinned. ‘Sometimes I think the riddles make
more sense than anything. As he says, somebody has to make the first turn.
Things do change, Donny. Here or anywhere.’
Yes, the boy Jamie is right. Things must change. Root and crop. Everyone knows that. The questions are: how? how painful? must there be pain? from here to where, exactly? You can follow the erratic course towards some answers on my novel in progress published chapter by chapter on line to subscribers (free) last day of each month.
September 29, 2012
Hitting the iceberg not alone
It is April 1912. You've just learned that, a few days ago, the famous RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage to New York has sunk with the loss of 1,502 lives (the exact count will not be known for some weeks.)
The 'unsinkable' has sunk after scraping the side of an iceberg. Only 722 of those on board have survived.
So, after the initial shock what is your reaction? Compassion - sorrow for the dead and their friends and families? Joy, that some have been saved? Anger against the makers and/or the crew of the ship? Disinterest? Dull fatalism? Fear for oneself ('there go I but for the grace of God')? Satisfaction, even that happiness of the schadenfreude kind? Some of all of the above?
Now imagine that you happen to be (a) a close relative of a deceased (b) ditto of a survivor (c) ditto of the ship's captain (d) ditto of a Belfast welder (e) ditto of the ship's designer (f) a newspaper baron, (g) a practicing Christian. What kind of reaction now, to the news?
*********
September 29th, 2012: a few days ago we hit an iceberg. (Dee not me) Cancer is indeed an iceberg. But we are still afloat and will do all we can to stay that way. And I missed out the key reaction from my above list: Kindness. The kindness of others that enwraps you within a kind of protective cloak; that so importantly tells you simply this - you are not alone.
The 'unsinkable' has sunk after scraping the side of an iceberg. Only 722 of those on board have survived.
So, after the initial shock what is your reaction? Compassion - sorrow for the dead and their friends and families? Joy, that some have been saved? Anger against the makers and/or the crew of the ship? Disinterest? Dull fatalism? Fear for oneself ('there go I but for the grace of God')? Satisfaction, even that happiness of the schadenfreude kind? Some of all of the above?
Now imagine that you happen to be (a) a close relative of a deceased (b) ditto of a survivor (c) ditto of the ship's captain (d) ditto of a Belfast welder (e) ditto of the ship's designer (f) a newspaper baron, (g) a practicing Christian. What kind of reaction now, to the news?
*********
September 29th, 2012: a few days ago we hit an iceberg. (Dee not me) Cancer is indeed an iceberg. But we are still afloat and will do all we can to stay that way. And I missed out the key reaction from my above list: Kindness. The kindness of others that enwraps you within a kind of protective cloak; that so importantly tells you simply this - you are not alone.
September 25, 2012
Just what I do
There are times in your life when you can see you really do have all the bases covered. You think, after all the trauma, the blood sweat and not a few tears of getting to this tranquil, happy place you are entitled to sit back and enjoy. But of course in your heart of hearts you know that's not the real world, that soon enough reality will turn around to bite you. And yet it hurts, oh how the unexpected hurts.
Some folk at that point will head straight for the pub and the bottle. Some take to their heels and run as fast and as far away as they can. Some close up tight, nursing it inside themselves, as secret as a baby in a mother's womb. Me, I write a poem. Stupid or what? I don't know, it's just what I do. For me the truth is not a private thing and no hurt can survive the light..
She is not here, but
Yes! I see her in unlikely places
in the kitchen, ironing, watching races
walking behind me through the tangle
to our boulder seat, our secret river,
swimming in her undies off the rocks;
cold, cold sea, hot sun, laughing
loving her dogs and loving me
(‘though these not so unlikely)
I catch the scent of her on a pillow
and on opening her wardrobe door
and in the wild flowers she picked
and the yellow chanterelle that
she found ‘neath spaghnum vivid green
and in the soft bloom of her hair
after a shower, good rub, blow dry
and why am I ashamed to cry?
In dreams, in dreams I hear her voice
soft female when she feels that way
phoning at the ending of a day
or addressing, caressing her children,
her children’s children or any
other young of any other kind.
And I want to hear her footsteps
coming home with the shopping
I touch the fabric of her clothes
and she is here again and heaven knows
I miss her so, I miss the feel of her
the feeling saying I am not alone
that flesh is flesh and is not stone:
I know that what will be will be
but love is love and she is Dee
and
still I swear that still she touches me.
And always will.
Bryan
at Kirkhill House, Aultbea
September 25th 2012
For Delia Mary in Ward 2C, Raigmore
Some folk at that point will head straight for the pub and the bottle. Some take to their heels and run as fast and as far away as they can. Some close up tight, nursing it inside themselves, as secret as a baby in a mother's womb. Me, I write a poem. Stupid or what? I don't know, it's just what I do. For me the truth is not a private thing and no hurt can survive the light..
She is not here, but
Yes! I see her in unlikely places
in the kitchen, ironing, watching races
walking behind me through the tangle
to our boulder seat, our secret river,
swimming in her undies off the rocks;
cold, cold sea, hot sun, laughing
loving her dogs and loving me
(‘though these not so unlikely)
I catch the scent of her on a pillow
and on opening her wardrobe door
and in the wild flowers she picked
and the yellow chanterelle that
she found ‘neath spaghnum vivid green
and in the soft bloom of her hair
after a shower, good rub, blow dry
and why am I ashamed to cry?
In dreams, in dreams I hear her voice
soft female when she feels that way
phoning at the ending of a day
or addressing, caressing her children,
her children’s children or any
other young of any other kind.
And I want to hear her footsteps
coming home with the shopping
I touch the fabric of her clothes
and she is here again and heaven knows
I miss her so, I miss the feel of her
the feeling saying I am not alone
that flesh is flesh and is not stone:
I know that what will be will be
but love is love and she is Dee
and
still I swear that still she touches me.
And always will.
Bryan
at Kirkhill House, Aultbea
September 25th 2012
For Delia Mary in Ward 2C, Raigmore
September 20, 2012
One new and one renewed
I've just this week published two new booklets. Actually this first one, An Incomer's Views On Wester-Ross in 24 paintings, poems and narratives is a re-print of the one I originally published in 2008. Thus far it's sold more than 4000 copies. This new version is Print on Demand, beautifully produced full colour in the USA. If you can enlarge to read the back cover (the left hand rectangle) verse it might amuse you ...ISBN 978-0-9555193-0-7
The second cover illustration is of my brand new booklet, A Life in the Highlands - in 24 more paintings, poems and narratives. Yes, this is more of the same. ISBN 978-0-9555193-5-2
£6.99 each booklet, post paid.
I think of my newly published works as birds taking wing for the first time. Glorious freedom. As Michael Caine once said, 'Not many people know about this' - thus far at least - but they will fly forever courtesy of the Net and, who knows to what heights they may aspire ...?
September 16, 2012
A shocking rejoinder!
From the incumbent, I have now received that which I am forced to consider a most ungracious response to my last letter. You may have seen the copy, for I sent one to you. Perhaps you even read it. It signified and explained my decision to withdraw my name from the Bank of England's selection procedure in respect of the soon to be vacant post of Governor.
Dear Mister Pisshead
Just who the fxxx do you think you are, you Scottish xanker? Pxxx off and die! I think you will henceforward fiind it difficult, well nigh impossible, to obtain employment in any public office right down to tenth in command of Ross-shire's Parks and Gardens Public Toilet Division. So there! I have also mentioned your name in ways most unflattering to all Chairs of the private Banks from here to fxxxxxx Eternity, by way of a brief note sent by Securicor along with their latest tranches of Quantitivic Easing.(sic)
Signed King
And that don't mean maybe, baby!
It is obvious that I must inadvertently have upset The Lord, and also Lord King if this letter is ought to go by. I am deeply upset. However I thought it good to let you witness it so that you will beware of upsetting those Big Swinging Dicks doing - doing what? Threading their needles in the City? Climbing their Walls in N.Y.? Damn great shufflers of smoke and players with mirrors (and selves, I fear).
Dear Mister Pisshead
Just who the fxxx do you think you are, you Scottish xanker? Pxxx off and die! I think you will henceforward fiind it difficult, well nigh impossible, to obtain employment in any public office right down to tenth in command of Ross-shire's Parks and Gardens Public Toilet Division. So there! I have also mentioned your name in ways most unflattering to all Chairs of the private Banks from here to fxxxxxx Eternity, by way of a brief note sent by Securicor along with their latest tranches of Quantitivic Easing.(sic)
Signed King
And that don't mean maybe, baby!
It is obvious that I must inadvertently have upset The Lord, and also Lord King if this letter is ought to go by. I am deeply upset. However I thought it good to let you witness it so that you will beware of upsetting those Big Swinging Dicks doing - doing what? Threading their needles in the City? Climbing their Walls in N.Y.? Damn great shufflers of smoke and players with mirrors (and selves, I fear).
September 14, 2012
I withdraw my job application
Yesterday I published a letter from The Bank of England inviting my re-application for the post of Governor. You may recall that my first application was returned to sender without serious consideration. Quite typical, I thought at the time. Although the incumbent's invitation somewhat ameliorated my sense of injustice I have to say that some of the advice I was given in that letter has forced my re-consideration of the matter. Therefore I have sent off the following to Threadneedle Street. I publish it here in the sure and certain knowledge that, whether I like it or not, this exchange of correspondence is bound to be Wikileaked. After all, so long as a Prince's private parts are exposed to public view, closely followed (in time only, of course) by a Pricesses boobs, what hope or future for privacy?
Dear Governor
I thank you for your letter, but I shall not be reapplying to succeed you after all. I have reached this decision with great reluctance for the following reasons:-
Your aside concerning reserves of gold bullion lead me to make
certain enquiries. I gather there is no gold in the vaults of The Bank,
you and Chancellor Brown having sold it all and at prices roughly one
third of those prevailing today. I refrain from asking the whereabouts
of the money gained.
It has become obvious to me
that the holder of the post occupied currently by yourself is by no
means his own master, whichever is his Club. I have in mind the
printing of money. What lunatic collection of banks has forced Mr
Bernanke in the United States to announce the creation of four thousand million U.S.
dollars each and every month for the foreseeable future? I have little doubt that The Bank of England will shortly be 'encouraged' by The City to follow suit. I have no wish to light a bonfire of the vanities with myself sitting atop it. However I do understand that the 200 printing industry jobs it will support are in part a justification.
My best suit of clothes is currently the worse for wear, having recently been slept in overnight after I was unlucky enough to miss the last bus home. (My five hours in the public bar of The Crown Hotel had nothing to do with it. On the contrary, my substantial intake of cheapest blend scotch whisky did much to help keep out the cold on the Inverness riverside.)
I would not dream of attending interview, as you suggested, minus my suede brothel-creepers as footwear.
I look out of my window here in the Highlands of Scotland and see the glittering waters of the loch, the ampitheatre of hazy blue hills, the dancing of trees in the breeze, the flight of an eagle and ewes with their fat lambs peacefully nibbling away at my garden's flowery borders. By way of contrast I think of the view from The Bank's offices in the heart of The City - please excuse the misnomer, for The City does not seem from here to have any heart. I see in my mind drunken young dealers of all three sexes staggering, raucous, from the City's champagne bars. I see the abortionate architecture of recent years rising above ditto of previous, I see people with banners professing their hatred of me and all I stand for waiting outside in the hope of doing me all kinds of ill. By way of wildlife (apart from said dealers) there is a single grimy cock sparrer sitting on my window ledge having lost the power of flight through excessive ingestion of motor fumes.
I am, sir, your obedient servant
p.s. Good luck with the nation's money to you on your retirementand and to your successor. My mother-in-law had a maxim: 'Spit in one hand and wish in the other and see which gets full first.' I commend this to you and him or her (or it,) as the case may be.
Dear Governor
I thank you for your letter, but I shall not be reapplying to succeed you after all. I have reached this decision with great reluctance for the following reasons:-
Your aside concerning reserves of gold bullion lead me to make
certain enquiries. I gather there is no gold in the vaults of The Bank,
you and Chancellor Brown having sold it all and at prices roughly one
third of those prevailing today. I refrain from asking the whereabouts
of the money gained.
It has become obvious to me
that the holder of the post occupied currently by yourself is by no
means his own master, whichever is his Club. I have in mind the
printing of money. What lunatic collection of banks has forced Mr
Bernanke in the United States to announce the creation of four thousand million U.S.
dollars each and every month for the foreseeable future? I have little doubt that The Bank of England will shortly be 'encouraged' by The City to follow suit. I have no wish to light a bonfire of the vanities with myself sitting atop it. However I do understand that the 200 printing industry jobs it will support are in part a justification.
My best suit of clothes is currently the worse for wear, having recently been slept in overnight after I was unlucky enough to miss the last bus home. (My five hours in the public bar of The Crown Hotel had nothing to do with it. On the contrary, my substantial intake of cheapest blend scotch whisky did much to help keep out the cold on the Inverness riverside.)
I would not dream of attending interview, as you suggested, minus my suede brothel-creepers as footwear.
I look out of my window here in the Highlands of Scotland and see the glittering waters of the loch, the ampitheatre of hazy blue hills, the dancing of trees in the breeze, the flight of an eagle and ewes with their fat lambs peacefully nibbling away at my garden's flowery borders. By way of contrast I think of the view from The Bank's offices in the heart of The City - please excuse the misnomer, for The City does not seem from here to have any heart. I see in my mind drunken young dealers of all three sexes staggering, raucous, from the City's champagne bars. I see the abortionate architecture of recent years rising above ditto of previous, I see people with banners professing their hatred of me and all I stand for waiting outside in the hope of doing me all kinds of ill. By way of wildlife (apart from said dealers) there is a single grimy cock sparrer sitting on my window ledge having lost the power of flight through excessive ingestion of motor fumes.
I am, sir, your obedient servant
p.s. Good luck with the nation's money to you on your retirementand and to your successor. My mother-in-law had a maxim: 'Spit in one hand and wish in the other and see which gets full first.' I commend this to you and him or her (or it,) as the case may be.
