Today I found myself getting up around 5 am to work on the next edition of the Hethersett Herald. So what's happening in the village? Well big news of the day could have been the sighting of decorators at Hethersett King's Head.
I have also been finding out which shops and organisations will be opening or operative on July 4th. I have found as many as possible and details will be in the Herald.
As my Steward Lockdown Strolls are due to come to a halt at the end of the month, I've been getting in some miles - today it was just over five miles to the Orangery Tea Rooms at Ketteringham. It was nice and cool eating one of their picnics under a tree, but horribly hot walking there and even hotter walking back.
I suffer from a condition called hyperhidrosis. I did mention it to a doctor once when I went to have the old blood pressure checked.
"Is there anything else," he asked.
"Well I do suffer from hyperhidrosis," I replied.
"That's excessive sweating," he said.
"Yes I know that. I suppose there's not much you can do about it?" I enquired.
"Not really," he said and that was pretty much the end of the conversation.
But I can tell you it's no laughing matter and quite an embarrassing condition when you can end up dripping from just walking down the road if the temperatures are high and once you get hot it's very difficult to cool down again. Clothes get soaking wet and you end up looking and feeling an absolute mess. So I got extremely hot getting to Ketteringham, eventually cooled off under the trees and then got even hotter walking home. A kind of double whammy.
I always judge the severity of hyperhidrosis by the number of showers I have to have in a day. I think five when I was in Egypt is the record. I know anyone reading this who suffers from the same condition will know how I feel.
I hope you enjoy my pictures of Ketteringham Hall and other places between Hethersett and Ketteringham.
* * *
Over the past few days I've talked about writing poetry. I have written hundreds over the years but none from the past 10 years. Basically the muse seems to be dead if I ever had one.
The problem is 99.9% of my poetry is absolute rubbish - and I mean rubbish. In fact there is only one poem that I am vaguely happy with and that's entitled London and is included at the bottom of this message.
I do remember vividly the reaction to one of my worst poems - The Little Yellow God (also shared here). It was written when I was at the Norwich School. One of our English teachers - the wonderful but sadly no longer with us Peter Mackintosh - saw my poem and decided he wanted to include it in a printed anthology. I'm sure it was based on something we were studying in the sixth form at the time. That's probably why a good 50% of my poetry is a rip off of W.B. Yeats.
I actually tried arguing with him and telling him that I found it hugely embarrassing and unbelievably bad. But he disagreed and in it went. A few years later I heard "Wild Eyed Boy From Freecloud" by David Bowie and I noticed some similarities - both use big words.
So here are the three poems and remember my Yellow God poem pre-dated Bowie's effort.
Wild Eyed Boy From Freecloud
Solemn faced
The village settles down
Undetected by the stars
And the hangman plays the mandolin before he goes to sleep
And the last thing on his mind
Is the Wild Eyed Boy imprisoned
'Neath the covered wooden shaft
Folds the rope
Into its bag
Blows his pipe of smolders
Blankets smoke into the room
And the day will end for some
As the night begins for one
Staring through the message in his eyes
Lies a solitary son
From the mountain called Freecloud
Where the eagle dare not fly
And the patience in his sigh
Gives no indication
For the townsmen to decide
So the village Dreadful yawns
Pronouncing gross diversion
As the label for the dog
Oh "It's the madness in his eyes"
As he breaks the night to cry:
"It's really Me
Really You
And really Me
It's so hard for us to really be
Really You
And really Me
You'll lose me though I'm always
Really free"
And the mountain moved its eyes
To the world of realize
Where the snow had saved a place
For the Wild Eyed Boy
From Freecloud
And the village dreadful cried
As the rope began to rise
For the smile stayed on the face
Of the Wild Eyed Boy
From Freecloud
And the women once proud
Clutched the heart of the crowd
As the boulders smashed down from the mountain's hand
And the magic in the stare
Of the Wild Eyed Boy said
"Stop, Freecloud
They won't think to cut me down"
But the cottages fell
Like a playing card hell
And the tears on the face
Of the Wise Boy
Came tumbling down
To the rumbling ground
And the missionary mystic of peace/love
Stumbled to cry among the clouds
Kicking back the pebbles
From the freecloud mountain track
The Yellow God
His coming was threatened, But none took heed.
The world would soon know
The Yellow God came down one day
Alighted on the silvery earth,
Pronouncing people out of date.
Banishing all and sundry.
When up in spite he dashed through
Towards the clouds of celestial strife.
He touched up the heathen spirit
With a gay tra-lee.
A sportive touch did dwindle away
As lovers sang on a Birchfield Bank.
Alighning homeward, fleeting free.
With whistling touch of platted hair,
He reached the doors of kingdom's home
Determined on retrospective remunerations.
He lighted on a toadstool green
Intent on impish deeds
Of daring defiance against the human race.
The jockey was the first to fall, his horse it did not warrant
The canoe man lost his paddle quick, a victim of the torrent.
The babes were wild, the children chilled
While Demion switched to trade.
Wild Demion, lusting for life
To misery aft enthralling
But once came down with a showering thirst
The bolt of Cremaithius' trade
And smote our God upon the breast
And caused his heart to fail.
No more to endanger the lives of us
He returned from whence he came.
I warned you it was bad. Below is London - the one poem I am vaguely happy with.
London 1960
Arriving at 10.30 am
Spewed forth from smoke into smoke
The seemingly endless walk down Villier's Street
Gateway to a thousand hopes,
Death row of a thousand dreams.
The dirty station buffet
The lazy black cleaner
The images of the rich
Mingling with the realities of the poor.
London in the sixties
London of my youth.
London of a starry eyed eight year old.
Guest house rooms with wash basins
Do I really have to eat the mushrooms?
Can we go to Trafalgar Square today
Or shall we leave it until tomorrow?
Battersea Pleasure Beach
A short boat trip across the Thames.
A coke and a packet of crisps
At the end of a long happy day.
Images of lovers embracing on a bridge.
My first images of death.
Death to an eight year old
Is sinister but so real.
Dark, balmy end of August nights
Which lead to tomorrow.
Can we go to Trafalgar Square today
Or shall we leave it until next year?
London 1990
Thirty years on
And I bring my own sons to the capital.
Villier's Street is being developed
And I've still got indigestion from the congestion.
The station buffet is spotless
But characterless in its cleanliness.
There are no cleaners,
They come out at night.
Yesterday there was a bomb alert
Today just suspicion and mistrust.
The images of the rich
Are destroyed by the realities of the poor.
London in the nineties
London of my children's youth
London of starry eyed eight year olds.
They eat the mushrooms without questioning.
They still ask for Trafalgar Square,
But I now prefer the National Gallery.
Battersea Pleasure Beach is destroyed
A dream driven into the sea,
No big dipper, no water splash.
The lovers no longer embrace.
Now in their fifties
They sit and bicker
Saddened and made cynical by life.
Light balmy end of June nights
Cutting through the filth and squalor.
Can we go to Trafalgar Square today
It might not be there next year?
London 2030
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