Tuesday 19.5.09

Sorry to write about the weather, it's such an English cliche to do so. I don't even count myself as English, I'm Cornish, or British, or European, and we don't talk about the weather. It has been a day of sunshine and showers. I knew it would be as my friend S let me know that that was the weather in Liskeard, and Cornwall always gets the weather first. It was sunny in Coventry at the time, and Darcy was telling me it was time to get out for a walk. I was too busy lolling about to listen though. Eventually, he decided to have a good sleep and advised me to do the same as the rain was coming in. I paid no attention and decided it was time to go out for a longish walk, rain or no rain.

When I was a girl I used to listen to Mum's James Taylor records and dream of just walking a long way away, indefinitely. I knew it wasn't realistic, but I liked the idea of just walking until I was tired and sleeping in some homemade shelter appealed. The song that made me think of that, Country Road (on the Sweet Baby James album, try Spotify) has come back into my life, inspiring similar fantasies. I was optimistic the rain was passing off and keen to get out.

We got to the park via the sunny trip to the supermarket. I decided to break my usual pattern and walk clockwise around the Memorial Park. I parked in an unusual spot. Darcy was initially confused by this, but rushed off to find some other dogs to chase and some strangers to jump up at. I was still at the car as the poo bags that I usually keep in the glove box were absent. I resorted to searching around on the floor of the car for plastic food packaging with which to pick up the inevitable deposits. I found a sweet bag and the wrapper from an English Pasty just as freckles of rain touched the windscreen. I was proud of myself for not cleaning out the car, see, tidiness is over-rated .

I had my pacamac with me and all was well as I called Darcy back from his anti-clockwise paddle in the muddied stream. All of the excitement was too much for him, and he rushed off into the middle of the sodden field to poo. I had hoped to stay on the paths, but made my way over to pick it up. I then found that the sweet packet (the larger of the bags I had found) was too small to get the poo into, so I had to use it as a sort of tongs and carry the poo exposed to the bin. Not content with this, ten minutes further round, he managed another big one. Getting that to the bin began to feel a bit like an egg and spoon race, only the egg was three big bits of poo and the spoon was a flimsy pasty packet. I was triumphant when I got to the bin without getting poo on my hands, clothes, or a passing child.

The rain started to pelt down. I didn't mind too much. It reminded me of the walking trips I used to make to the Lake District with some people with a learning disability. Cumbria gets more rain than any other part of the UK and in my experience a lot of that is of the sunshine and showers variety. There were times when I wished that I could make it a rule that I would only go with people who could put on their own coat and do it up unaided. I spent a lot of time up there as wet as the sheep but I was a good worker and always put on the other persons coat before my own. I love the Lakes and thought about how I would like to get fit again and do some hill walking. It is a very special area to spend some time in. The people who needed help with their coats gave me a great gift.

After the rain came the thunder. Darcy started to walk to heel and his ears drooped lower and lower to the ground. He loves to swim and paddle up to his neck in the filthiest pond water, but he's not keen on the rain. He was too polite to say 'I told you so', but he took a determined route back to the car. I don't mind thunder too much, but we were out in the open. I was a bit concerned about walking past people who had their umbrellas up. What if lightning was attracted to the spine of the umbrella at just the time I was brushing past them? I made a detour to bypass a man with a large umbrella on a narrow path. Darcy called me a stupid human. I don't think he was quite fair about that.

We got home soaked, Darcy with the wet dog smell that can't be eradicated by any method known to him or me. Me a bit snuffly and stiff. Half an hour later, the sun shone brilliantly and Darcy lay in it's warmth to dry off.

While I was at the supermarket, I read a bit of an article about a man who has written lots of quirky begging letters to companies he likes. Many of them have sent him free stuff. I was wondering if it might be worth my writing to the makers of French Fancies. I have been promoting their product to readers of this blog for literally days. Also, I do genuinely 100% love French Fancies, especially the pinks, as I think I may have said. I've been running the diary style blog since 8th February, this will be entry 78. I started assuming that no one would read it, but I wanted the discipline of writing something every day, and to get a bit braver about getting my writing out there. I have no way of knowing how many people read it. The wonderful surprise is that some readers have been kind enough to get in touch to let me know that they have enjoyed it. It has been a real buzz to hear from you. Thank you. There is a facility to leave a comment on any of the entries, and you don't have to be signed up to Blogger.com to do that. I've taken off the comment moderation to make it easier, and because I feel a bit more confident now. I value feedback hugely. Seriously tho', thank you.

Sunday 19.4.09

I'm not sure how long the Tin Angel in Coventry has been open, a few years for sure. Its a bit of a hippie place, coffeeshop, come bar come cafe come rehearsal space come record shop come live music venue, and its just down the road from us. Until recently, I haven't been in the habit of going in there though, which is strange because it is the sort of place I like. Anyways, this lack of attendance is being well put to rights, mostly because Nick has got into going there, so we're beginning to become regulars. I'll speak this softly, but I think Nina may be a little miffed because she introduced us to the place and we may have uncooled it for her what with going in on our own.

The Tin runs several live music evenings, mostly of the open mic variety, so off we went as a foursome with Nick's colleague and her husband. I had spent a lot of the day in a proper low, and wasn't sure if I could make it. I was weepy in the afternoon, which I haven't been for a while. I perked myself up with lots of different music, thanks to Spotify, which I'm using more and more. By teatime, I was able to get myself into my new jeans and pink top. Nick paid me a compliment and I was all set. I don't think I was too quiet, and I didn't over compensate and make a tit of myself either. A glimmer of progress perhaps. The pressure is on to be well at this time of year, because if not, then the pills will be popping when the leaves get around to dropping come autumn.

The open mic was full of characters, a really enjoyable watch from the corner. The compere had the air of a man who loves his kit, was getting the sound system just so, and standing in various places around the room to test the acoustics as though he was setting up for a gig at Wembley. The Tin is about twice the size of the average front room. I admired the cool dedication, and the way in which he was supportive to the acts, some of whom were suffering badly from nerves. The atmosphere was friendly though, if a little competitive at times. A lot of the regulars knew each other, and the lively groups spilled out onto the road outside. The music was, as you would expect, a mixed bag. some of it a bit too much on the side of jazzy easy listening for my liking. Nick and I joked that they needed the jazz host from the Fast Show to complete the picture 'Nice'.

There was a young teenage boy who did some spoken word poetry that was as good as some of the stuff I saw at Camp Bestival last year. The crowd gradually hushed to hear him and it was quite beautiful in one way, although also sad, because of the topics he chose (cystic fibrosis, war, racist policing). A variety of guitar acts came on to do a turn, and there was a range of musical ability and performance skills. It has often been mooted that everyone does Bob Dylan better that Bod Dylan these days, and I've been known to agree. That theory went up in smoke when one man attempted to sing Blowing in the Wind. I could stand that, but he then went on to trash James Taylor's Fire and Rain, which is an old favorite of mine. One act, the last one we stayed for, really was good, and I would have been happy to hear more. The price for all this entertainment £2 plus the drinks. We had change from £20.