I have just watched a very powerfull episode of my favourite Soap - Emmerdale. This story-line has been building for quite a while and tonight's shocker was at least half-expected.
One of the characters a gay tetraplegic has been asking his mother and his boy-friend to help him to die.
This after long arguments outbursts of hysteria, rage, sorrow and denial, they finally were persuaded to to.
Tonight he decided, having said his goodbyes the previous day (though only the two closest to him knew), that this was the right time for him to go.
It was brilliantly acted by all three characters and the final scene was almost unbearably moving, I don't cry over screen - large or small - dramas, but this was an exception.
The arguments against his decision had all failed and the mother and the boy-friend even up to the last second were hoping against hope that he would change his mind but finally, loved him enough to be able to carry out his last wish.
The whole story has been very sensatively handled from the beginning and the final decision in the context of the plot was for me, anyway, completely acceptable.
The issue of assisted suicide is a huge one and virtually everyone has an opinion on it. I have, and the story has not changed in any way how I feel on the subject but it will be interesting to see if the media stifle it or allow it to open up wider discussion.
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Cats' Tails
There have been many loves in my life, some memorable, some less so. Some cultural, some intellectual, some human, some sensory. The most all-consuming passions in my life have been for music and the other for cats.
As a child of a family always in fairly dire financial straits, there was no way an animal of any sort could have been added to the two-parent four-children equation without some - or possibly all of us - winding up in the 'forties' equivalent of debtor,s prison.
My best friend had a cat which I cuddled whenever there was a chance and when she had three kittens I briefly, hopelessly begged to have one.
Any passing cat was an instant target for my unwanted affections and the neighbourhood mogs soon grew wary of my sudden lunges in their direction.
Later in life in my twenties my parents were living in West Wickham in Kent and every time I walked up the road to their house the resident mogs would emerge from hiding and come for a friendly 'rub'. My mother used to call me The Pied Piper since there was always a cat or two trotting behind me when I arrived.
Then for a number of years music took over to the exclusion of most other things and cats were a pale shadow in the background of a busy working and singing life, until after my marriage, living in a flat in Northwood in Middlesex when they once again came to the fore.
Working as a civil servant I was briefly at Perivale Skill Centre where I encountered a pretty little skinny tortoishell, a stray, being fed (illicitly) by one of the cooks. When a cull of all the numerous feral cats on the premises it was clear that Mitzy as she had been named by the cook, was to be one of their number.
John, who liked cats, but thought a third-floor flat unsuitable for one agreed despite his misgivings to try to adopt her.
To our amazement she settled in with only the most minor hiccups and was soon queen of all she surveyed.
Our neighbours loved her as did we and she very quickly took over a large territory where she spent every night incarcerated in the flat and all day out and about, usually at the top of the tallest tree in the grounds.
The vet who gave her the 'once-over' when we adopted her said she was thin but healthy, had no fleas and appeared to be about five years old. She had been spayed and had been well cared for at some time.
That was in 1978 and we had her for 15 and 3/4 years, She was at least 20 years old when we said our final farewells to her. A truly lovely lady great fun, full of mischief and tricks, clever and (when she felt like it) very loving. Our first cat.
There were three others to follow, but that's for another post.
As a child of a family always in fairly dire financial straits, there was no way an animal of any sort could have been added to the two-parent four-children equation without some - or possibly all of us - winding up in the 'forties' equivalent of debtor,s prison.
My best friend had a cat which I cuddled whenever there was a chance and when she had three kittens I briefly, hopelessly begged to have one.
Any passing cat was an instant target for my unwanted affections and the neighbourhood mogs soon grew wary of my sudden lunges in their direction.
Later in life in my twenties my parents were living in West Wickham in Kent and every time I walked up the road to their house the resident mogs would emerge from hiding and come for a friendly 'rub'. My mother used to call me The Pied Piper since there was always a cat or two trotting behind me when I arrived.
Then for a number of years music took over to the exclusion of most other things and cats were a pale shadow in the background of a busy working and singing life, until after my marriage, living in a flat in Northwood in Middlesex when they once again came to the fore.
Working as a civil servant I was briefly at Perivale Skill Centre where I encountered a pretty little skinny tortoishell, a stray, being fed (illicitly) by one of the cooks. When a cull of all the numerous feral cats on the premises it was clear that Mitzy as she had been named by the cook, was to be one of their number.
John, who liked cats, but thought a third-floor flat unsuitable for one agreed despite his misgivings to try to adopt her.
To our amazement she settled in with only the most minor hiccups and was soon queen of all she surveyed.
Our neighbours loved her as did we and she very quickly took over a large territory where she spent every night incarcerated in the flat and all day out and about, usually at the top of the tallest tree in the grounds.
The vet who gave her the 'once-over' when we adopted her said she was thin but healthy, had no fleas and appeared to be about five years old. She had been spayed and had been well cared for at some time.
That was in 1978 and we had her for 15 and 3/4 years, She was at least 20 years old when we said our final farewells to her. A truly lovely lady great fun, full of mischief and tricks, clever and (when she felt like it) very loving. Our first cat.
There were three others to follow, but that's for another post.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Here be Dragons
Now this is not my (that is, a Welsh) dragon, it's just any old dragon. Since I know their powers my fingers are crossed!
I love dragons - and I'm not just saying that because I'm scared - and no, there are no fairies at the bottom of my garden, the neighbours' cats ate them.
There is something magnificent about these lovely winged beasties who rampage through the books of our childhood and occasionally adulthood.
The only thing I ever learned about St George as a child was that he slew the dragon. Don't know which dragon but I am hearby apologising on behalf of any English ancestors I might have inadvertantly had for this unkind and nefarious deed.
St David, however, patron saint of the Welsh has no such nasty history. I have never heard that he went around patting dragons on the head, but neither did he 'slew' them!
Since despite the many and various weather forecasts have all so far failed to produce the promised rain I shall have to water my garden again this evening and I will look long and hard for evidence of passing dragons!
Oh heck, they're coming to lock me up again, see youuuuuuuu..........
Friday, 3 June 2011
Let's see if I've got it.......
The wonderfull David Cloake, otherwise known as Superman has spent some time drilling the concept of adding images to one's blog with me, otherwise known as Padwan or Dumbo.
Now I know at least the most basic techniques, next when I can use a camera and download my own photos I will really have cracked it.
Blogs are definitely more appealing with pictures it's just a question of time before I can add all the other million or so techniques to my meagre talents.
Just a word of warning. Don't hold your breath!
I Am Not A Man - Guest Post
This is blog post written by the mad curate, who is helping Ray with this blog. She can now put perty pictures into her posts and will nevermore sin by entitling her posts in a capitalised way.
I can testify, with the powers vested in me; my eyes and ears, that I am sat with a woman, not a blokey. She might have a name borrowed by male darts players, but this Ray is a lady Ray.
So let this be an end to the confusion.
Yours blogfully
The Vernacular Curate
(who is a bloke, yes siree)
Thursday, 2 June 2011
MUSIC MUSIC AND MORE MUSIC
Listening to a Bach Cantata on Margaret's blog (Filey Gardener) on this lovely Ascension Day, it struck me for the first time, how very little I've said on the subject of music, when it was once the central theme of my life.
As a twenty something Welsh girl brought up in Birmingham then moving to Kent I never put down roots in any fixed location but my whole life was rooted in music.
I started paying for singing lessons when I could afford it (at the age of 23 or 24). Luckily the late Alan Bush
was the president of the Workers Music summer school I used to attend annually and he recommended my teacher who happened to be a very well established tutor and more good luck, local to me in Bromley.
This led to singing with first Kentish Opera, then Morley College Opera and finally, The New Opera Chorus at Sadlers Wells.
Very occasionally we would be paid for what we did, more often we got expenses only, so I worked as a Civil Servant for 23 years.
Having, by then acquired a good nose for what was afoot in the opera world I was able to audition for all manner of little extra enterprises and over the years sang at almost all the well-known London venues and also did quite a lot of recording for various organisations including the BBC.
Best of all was the chance to work with some of the world's greatest conductors and the very best principal singers of the day.
At home, a small bedsit with kitchen, in Bromley, I had what was in those days a top of the range radiogram.
For those who have never heard of this pre-techno piece of equipment, it was a substantial piece of furniture which contained a radio, record deck and large speakers.
This was permanently (whoops the colour has vanished), on what was then called The Third Programme & during a period of some 9 or ten years I listened to all the broadcast Bach Cantatas, many with John Carol Case as the soloist (I sang with him in 1966 at the Tower of London), which added an extra frisson to my enjoyment.
I also collected a vast number of opera recordings, leider recitals, Jazz recordings and other bits and pieces like ballet music etc.
These records added to John's collection and then our combined stash amounted to many hundreds, so when we got married and moved into a flat in Putney we had to 'weed' them and gave away a couple of hundred of the one's we least loved.
John worked for Decca and we added considerably to our vast library of music for a few years until we really had to come to a stop. We sold hundreds at boot sales for a year or two and gradually reduced the vinyl army to manageable proportions.
When I gave up singing, about 12 months into my marriage I had no intention of ever singing again but, John who was convinced he could sing (he had a good bass/baritone but couldn't sing in tune) auditioned for The London Philharmonic Chorus. After being told in no uncertain terms by a well-known harpsichordist who was repetiteur for the auditions, that he had 'no ear', he told them that his wife was with him and she 'could' sing!
Horror of horrors, I had no music with me, had not sung for ages and had also had no idea what he was going to do. This in no way detrerred the Musical Director who said "come and sing some scales and we'll find you some music"
To cut a very long story short, I did so and was invited to join them as a soprano. Having always sung as a mezzo this was disconcerting but I agreed to give it a whirl.
The next seven years were full of choral music - not something I had done much of before, but a really good experience and even more top conductors and soloists.
This was brought to an abrupt end when I got a severe attack of bronchitis which lasted many weeks and at the end of it my voice had gone.
Twenty-four years later, a month or two after John's death I started trying to sing again, had some lessons and found to my delight that there was still some voice left - admittedly now a contralto - but enough to join St. M's choir and give music a place in my life again.
I don't know what to call this compulsion to sing, it's not a hobby, certainly not a mere interest, more a way of life.
As a twenty something Welsh girl brought up in Birmingham then moving to Kent I never put down roots in any fixed location but my whole life was rooted in music.
I started paying for singing lessons when I could afford it (at the age of 23 or 24). Luckily the late Alan Bush
was the president of the Workers Music summer school I used to attend annually and he recommended my teacher who happened to be a very well established tutor and more good luck, local to me in Bromley.
This led to singing with first Kentish Opera, then Morley College Opera and finally, The New Opera Chorus at Sadlers Wells.
Very occasionally we would be paid for what we did, more often we got expenses only, so I worked as a Civil Servant for 23 years.
Having, by then acquired a good nose for what was afoot in the opera world I was able to audition for all manner of little extra enterprises and over the years sang at almost all the well-known London venues and also did quite a lot of recording for various organisations including the BBC.
Best of all was the chance to work with some of the world's greatest conductors and the very best principal singers of the day.
At home, a small bedsit with kitchen, in Bromley, I had what was in those days a top of the range radiogram.
For those who have never heard of this pre-techno piece of equipment, it was a substantial piece of furniture which contained a radio, record deck and large speakers.
This was permanently (whoops the colour has vanished), on what was then called The Third Programme & during a period of some 9 or ten years I listened to all the broadcast Bach Cantatas, many with John Carol Case as the soloist (I sang with him in 1966 at the Tower of London), which added an extra frisson to my enjoyment.
I also collected a vast number of opera recordings, leider recitals, Jazz recordings and other bits and pieces like ballet music etc.
These records added to John's collection and then our combined stash amounted to many hundreds, so when we got married and moved into a flat in Putney we had to 'weed' them and gave away a couple of hundred of the one's we least loved.
John worked for Decca and we added considerably to our vast library of music for a few years until we really had to come to a stop. We sold hundreds at boot sales for a year or two and gradually reduced the vinyl army to manageable proportions.
When I gave up singing, about 12 months into my marriage I had no intention of ever singing again but, John who was convinced he could sing (he had a good bass/baritone but couldn't sing in tune) auditioned for The London Philharmonic Chorus. After being told in no uncertain terms by a well-known harpsichordist who was repetiteur for the auditions, that he had 'no ear', he told them that his wife was with him and she 'could' sing!
Horror of horrors, I had no music with me, had not sung for ages and had also had no idea what he was going to do. This in no way detrerred the Musical Director who said "come and sing some scales and we'll find you some music"
To cut a very long story short, I did so and was invited to join them as a soprano. Having always sung as a mezzo this was disconcerting but I agreed to give it a whirl.
The next seven years were full of choral music - not something I had done much of before, but a really good experience and even more top conductors and soloists.
This was brought to an abrupt end when I got a severe attack of bronchitis which lasted many weeks and at the end of it my voice had gone.
Twenty-four years later, a month or two after John's death I started trying to sing again, had some lessons and found to my delight that there was still some voice left - admittedly now a contralto - but enough to join St. M's choir and give music a place in my life again.
I don't know what to call this compulsion to sing, it's not a hobby, certainly not a mere interest, more a way of life.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet
Having spent another morning wrestling with the brass in St. M's I was too tired on my return home to tackle the very necessary dead-heading of my roses.
Four days ago they looked truly fabulous and smelled even more so, today, after heavy rain and very strong winds a couple of days ago they are somewhat battered.
This however, does not in any way detract from the gorgeous, heady overwhelming perfume of most of them.
In the small, overgrown, weed-choked front garden "Rhapsody in Blue" is rioting in all it's slate-blue faded violet glory. The perfume from the front door-step (the wind is in the right direction today) is superb,
"Deep Secret" and "Josephine Bruce" are at their dark red best, " Zepheryn Drouhin" around the front door Leaves bitten by mildew sends its soft sweet meessage to anyone brave enough to enter the dragon's den.
There are many, many more, in the front and twice as many in the back garden, clashing colours but universally admired favourites such as "Weilschenblau" Blairie No 2, (weird name that), and "Alan Titchmarsh" all sending wafts of sweetness into the still chilly air.
But (yes I know sentances shouldn't begin with but, but, most of mine do) the most exquisite scent of all comes from a lovely dark - almost black - red rose called "Tradescant".
This rose above all others, epitomises for me what the love of roses is all about, it is deeply whorled and intricately quatrefoiled with dozens of small petals and mine is currently growing through a half-dead buddliea. On the rare occasions when everything works as it should, the dark red against the soft green foliage and long pale mauve 'tails' of the buddliea looks utterly enchanting, and the perfume is enough to send the unwary deeply unconcious.
One day soon I hope to acquire the necessary skill to use my digital camera (don't know how) and take and post some pictures of my lovely lovely roses (don't know how to do that either).
If only I had even half the success with the computer and allied technical gadgets that I have as a gardener I might really feel as though I belonged in this century, instead of being merely a byestander.
Four days ago they looked truly fabulous and smelled even more so, today, after heavy rain and very strong winds a couple of days ago they are somewhat battered.
This however, does not in any way detract from the gorgeous, heady overwhelming perfume of most of them.
In the small, overgrown, weed-choked front garden "Rhapsody in Blue" is rioting in all it's slate-blue faded violet glory. The perfume from the front door-step (the wind is in the right direction today) is superb,
"Deep Secret" and "Josephine Bruce" are at their dark red best, " Zepheryn Drouhin" around the front door Leaves bitten by mildew sends its soft sweet meessage to anyone brave enough to enter the dragon's den.
There are many, many more, in the front and twice as many in the back garden, clashing colours but universally admired favourites such as "Weilschenblau" Blairie No 2, (weird name that), and "Alan Titchmarsh" all sending wafts of sweetness into the still chilly air.
But (yes I know sentances shouldn't begin with but, but, most of mine do) the most exquisite scent of all comes from a lovely dark - almost black - red rose called "Tradescant".
This rose above all others, epitomises for me what the love of roses is all about, it is deeply whorled and intricately quatrefoiled with dozens of small petals and mine is currently growing through a half-dead buddliea. On the rare occasions when everything works as it should, the dark red against the soft green foliage and long pale mauve 'tails' of the buddliea looks utterly enchanting, and the perfume is enough to send the unwary deeply unconcious.
One day soon I hope to acquire the necessary skill to use my digital camera (don't know how) and take and post some pictures of my lovely lovely roses (don't know how to do that either).
If only I had even half the success with the computer and allied technical gadgets that I have as a gardener I might really feel as though I belonged in this century, instead of being merely a byestander.
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