tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83319940879697391092024-03-19T09:20:55.156+00:00AFTERBURNPhilip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-83730283554346366742008-04-12T09:04:00.003+01:002008-04-12T09:24:21.030+01:00I do post such complete twaddle sometimes. It can be very embarrassing reading it on the 'morning after'. My (largely unbroken) rule is to let things stand, but I really couldn't allow that last one to pass. Not in it's entirety. I have had to edit it.<br /><br />Right, now for that sheet and quilt cover.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-72907317784578888972008-04-12T03:23:00.005+01:002008-04-12T09:26:39.607+01:00LaundryI attended a get-together tonight. One of my neighbours was celebrating finding her cat after it had been missing for a fortnight. Again, I am drunk.<br /><br />In conversation, I discovered that it is normal to change one's bedclothes every week. Oops! That is (at least) four times more frequently than I had previously understood to be acceptable.<br /><br />So, while I am airing my dirty laundry in public...<br /><br />I recently bought and watched an American TV series called "Dexter". I empathized with the eponymous anti-hero, not because he is a serial-killer (you will be relieved to read) but because he is detached from the world, a mere observer.<br /><br />Last week, I hitched a lift to France. I went for the sole purpose of bringing back the little car that I have owned since I courted Ann: the car that witnessed her agreeing to marry me; the car that took us to Cornwall and to Scotland. It missed not a beat as it blasted noisily across Northern France from the Mayenne to Boulogne. Now, it is parked in the narrow road outside my house here in Kent. I can see it from my bedroom window. It is raining hard and the ancient soft top leaks.<br /><br />[Paragraph removed]<br /><br />The day or so that I spent in France was, confusingly, entirely delightful. Spring had sprung, as they say. I mowed the grass, tended the fruit trees and immersed myself in the simple things. A little splash of bright colour on the drab walls that surround me.<br /><br />Life is a strange, strange affair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLZUx3La3QtCtqA42KddeQO4eLr2plxCTsJTB78c5dQMqaVjI0ZnukZvTyRosTUzEOKRXd4uT-9rSyqWZLAZOloSeZ0IbCAaQx0XA00suxIH2k6lqGciAtYVpYsepZrAceqlhNEu3ITA/s1600-h/P1010627.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLZUx3La3QtCtqA42KddeQO4eLr2plxCTsJTB78c5dQMqaVjI0ZnukZvTyRosTUzEOKRXd4uT-9rSyqWZLAZOloSeZ0IbCAaQx0XA00suxIH2k6lqGciAtYVpYsepZrAceqlhNEu3ITA/s320/P1010627.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188194452598634578" border="0" /></a>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-40566182771191560442008-03-30T13:51:00.003+01:002008-03-30T13:54:14.880+01:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmmFCfTdpxdzgvxuNLVRf3H-fTvq8qhmsN8aYWorNNPidOnGlpuZPLukWq2mzNsKsJq_p75unDm6LBqNANbr5ouMFZRIzuvSejXFcJQiyw__jR8sqjIZhr3UQWw0B-CRJflYs_vN__uQ/s1600-h/Ann+in+Greece.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmmFCfTdpxdzgvxuNLVRf3H-fTvq8qhmsN8aYWorNNPidOnGlpuZPLukWq2mzNsKsJq_p75unDm6LBqNANbr5ouMFZRIzuvSejXFcJQiyw__jR8sqjIZhr3UQWw0B-CRJflYs_vN__uQ/s400/Ann+in+Greece.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183516980692107602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Happy Birthday, Darling.</div>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-46291582922897079262008-03-24T15:51:00.010+00:002008-03-24T18:58:48.284+00:00EasterThe dogs and I have just shared some very, slow-cooked lamb with rosemary and sage. Not bad.<br /><br />For some years, I have ruminated over the right thing to say when passing someone on a dog-walk.<br /><br />'Hello' is not right. It was invented as a greeting by, I think, the "Bell Telephone company" at the beginning of the last century. Prior to that, it was used as an expression of surprise as in 'hello, what do we have here?', or as an inquiry, such as when one hears a strange noise in the house and calls 'hello?'. I believe that language should evolve, but I confess that I like the older usage of the word 'hello'; and I refuse to use it in its new capacity.<br /><br />'How do you do?' is too formal and anticipates longer acquaintance.<br /><br />'Hi' is too casual, too modern, too American. Whereas a nod, accompanied by the word 'alright?' makes the recipient think he or she is about to be robbed.<br /><br />'Good morning' or 'good afternoon' both necessitate a moment's thought in order to check which time of day it is - and by then your transient, intended correspondent is behind you.<br /><br />Similarly, 'nice day' and such like commentaries require an assessment of the weather.<br /><br />Do you know what someone said to me today? He was a plumpish, middle-aged fellow. He made no eye-contact and hardly acknowledged me. But, as he passed, he mumbled:<br /><br />"What ho!"<br /><br />What ho. How bloody perfect is that? It can be said cheerily, or sullenly. It requires no thought, no analysis of time or times. It is meaningless, yet it entirely satisfies the social imperatives. Polite and self-sufficent, it demands no response. It's eccentricity facilitates potential dialogue with the open-minded, but armours the user against the small. I like it.<br /><br />I shall endeavour to use it in future.<br /><br />The dogs feel guilty for having eaten lamb.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-13161931783887333302008-03-22T14:43:00.007+00:002008-03-22T14:54:23.398+00:00Buffy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMJEyiQwEs2FkHdVQ4pADME7qTvTwY-qMylQ16VwcNmdfcxTsV916tH1n5ZR_a2ucvOVCp-I87ngDbiYOv18gAsF1oKkHncr7mEcpY2oTTJXnbYVCwYIq7xuPkF8POjnolimrFrjkwXI/s1600-h/P1030160.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMJEyiQwEs2FkHdVQ4pADME7qTvTwY-qMylQ16VwcNmdfcxTsV916tH1n5ZR_a2ucvOVCp-I87ngDbiYOv18gAsF1oKkHncr7mEcpY2oTTJXnbYVCwYIq7xuPkF8POjnolimrFrjkwXI/s400/P1030160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180579334730793282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KfMyAtkuQykAC1m8NtWTEC02FY7oo4NBBWM1xvzCCCeIxX9nl9d13YLaHTNtVUMyhLX4WnNzkh0tvpCSaK67XM2abzosNnAlZOFTueKWORqxoodXZxzR_8yMPd3QPeQIqM9cSa8-Mck/s1600-h/P1030161.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KfMyAtkuQykAC1m8NtWTEC02FY7oo4NBBWM1xvzCCCeIxX9nl9d13YLaHTNtVUMyhLX4WnNzkh0tvpCSaK67XM2abzosNnAlZOFTueKWORqxoodXZxzR_8yMPd3QPeQIqM9cSa8-Mck/s400/P1030161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180578368363151650" border="0" /></a>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-73942273522882557012008-02-24T00:39:00.002+00:002008-02-24T01:10:23.305+00:00A good friend took me out tonight. We went to the flicks. 'Juno', by the way, is one of the best films I have seen in a very long time. Sharp script. If it has a fault, it is a little too... Aah, but I shall let you decide.<br /><br />Afterwards, we went to the pub (actually two) and got a little drunk. Then I walked her home to her husband. She was on loan.<br /><br />In my cups, I opened up a little more than I ought to have done. I have been having a bad couple of days. Guilt... I seem to have a lot of guilt. Poor theatre companion: I spilled my guilt all over her. Clumsy, drunken, selfish idiot.<br /><br />Bollocks.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-37970815911279590912008-02-18T21:38:00.003+00:002008-02-18T22:53:45.644+00:00The Daily Grind (Part 2)There was a bit of a flap at my Chambers on Friday. Too much work: too few barristers. The clerks feverishly worked the telephones, charming and cajoling other clerks at other chambers into taking some of the overload. Yet despite their best efforts, by seven O'clock in the evening they remained unsuccessful in finding someone to defend a young joyrider at Basildon Crown Court. And so it was that, early this morning, I found myself ironing (the front of) a shirt in readiness for my second Court appearance of the month.<br /><br />It has to have been nearly a year since I last donned a wig and gown and it felt not a little odd as I strode out of the Robing Room to meet my instructing solicitor and her delinquent client.<br /><br />However, it didn't feel wrong.<br /><br />Later, I decided to drive to my Chambers rather than driving straight home and, once there, I soon found myself chatting and laughing with some of my old colleagues.<br /><br />At the time, it didn't feel wrong.<br /><br />On the way home, I had to stop the car.<br /><br />Suddenly, it all felt terribly, terribly wrong.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-48915716052433303532008-02-09T00:16:00.000+00:002008-02-09T09:26:56.401+00:00The Daily GrindAfter a hard week's work, it is lovely to relax with a glass or two of Laphroiag and a couple of attentive dogs.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-43846113714379046662008-02-07T16:53:00.001+00:002008-02-07T17:16:13.016+00:00And RealityI am sorry. The past two weeks have been almost unbearable. I have been in a 'slough of despond' and was entirely unable to see my way out of it. I just sat about the house doing nothing. I think it may have been the dream about Ann which shook me out of it. It was my first dream since her death (or, perhaps, the first dream that I was able to remember when I awoke).<br /><br />I looked at my finances yesterday and realised that something had to be done rather urgently. I am therefore going to Court to try a case tomorrow. A little case: not a jury trial. I'm not sure what it's about yet, the papers will arrive here later this evening. It will be interesting to see whether I can get myself to Court by 9.30 am (sixty miles away) after first walking the dogs and ironing a shirt. I suppose this is the sort of thing single, working mothers do every day. I wonder if I shall have to apologise for having dog food on my lapel? I shall doubtless return home complaining about glass ceilings and the dearth of appropriate, local creches.<br /><br />Tomorrow will be very strange indeed.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-62519531392310288742008-02-06T16:25:00.001+00:002008-02-06T16:29:04.981+00:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAdRlLup1crELiFTpZoZLBJDM0JfEGfpSEB3wnfDw5H9GWLt8UM2t3AatI4mLHLVsLx-9i1HrtHbrGbg8SDJtbjUvTVmZ0dmVN2RH2b5sXaiRKAmfPemw0oFIIBLxgBdQ3EV_ojHRtZA/s1600-h/Student+photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAdRlLup1crELiFTpZoZLBJDM0JfEGfpSEB3wnfDw5H9GWLt8UM2t3AatI4mLHLVsLx-9i1HrtHbrGbg8SDJtbjUvTVmZ0dmVN2RH2b5sXaiRKAmfPemw0oFIIBLxgBdQ3EV_ojHRtZA/s320/Student+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163904550482632674" border="0" /></a><br />This photograph was taken from Ann's student ID card. I think that it has a slightly surreal feel to it. It goes with my previous post, don't you think?Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-90393047975328010902008-02-06T11:43:00.002+00:002008-02-07T13:00:46.624+00:00DreamsI dreamed of Ann last night.<br /><br />We were sitting together on a sofa, talking softly.<br /><br />"I don't like not sharing a bed with you. Can we start sharing a bed again?" I said.<br /><br />Ann smiled and nodded. We kissed: a tender, lingering, lovers' kiss.<br /><br />"I don't even know how we came to be sleeping apart," I continued eventually. I was a little puzzled. I felt that I ought to know the reason but, somehow, it was eluding me.<br /><br />My hand gently caressed her cheek as my mind sought an answer. There was something; something very obvious that I was forgetting. What was it?<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">God, it was lovely being with her</span><span>," I thought. "</span><span style="font-style: italic;">I had missed her so much.<br /><br />"But, then, why had I missed her? Where had she been?</span><br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Of course: she had been ill!</span>" I remembered suddenly.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>"<span style="font-style: italic;">How could I have forgotten something like that?" </span>I was slow, groggy.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I must only recently have awoken." </span>I shook my head to clear it. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, it had been cancer... It was such a relief that she was better now.</span>"<br /><br />I hugged her tightly and she laughed, confused but pleasantly surprised by my sudden emotion.<br /><br />The cancer had been aggressive, I recalled. There was a real danger that it could return and, if it did... I held her even closer.<br /><br />But there was more; I knew there was more that I really ought to remember.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">That horrific dream! It had been so vivid, that dream... </span><span style="font-style: italic;">A dream in which Ann had died. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">That was obviously why everything seemed so strange. That was why I felt that I had somehow been without her.<br /><br />"But then, if we hadn't truly been apart, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">if we had been separated only in my dream,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> why had she agreed to start sharing a bed again?<br /><br />"Unless..."<br /><br /></span>I<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>grasped Ann's upper arm as I realised the dreadful truth. Before I was able to prevent it, a wail of utter anguish escaped me.<br /><br />"You died!"<br /><br />I fought so hard to stay. I fixed my eyes upon Ann and refused to allow her image to dissolve. I tightened my grip on her arm and, for several seconds, I managed to defy the curse of Orpheus. Yet, in the end, it was not Ann who faded, but me. I watched in despair as my hand shimmered into nothing. I felt myself crumple. Shrinking, my body collapsed in upon itself and I was sucked away. I awoke in the dark.<br /><br />Alone.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-15022200869023922022008-01-17T14:51:00.000+00:002008-01-18T15:36:31.986+00:00Northern LightsOn Sunday: I packed a bag, locked up the house, loaded the dogs into the back of the car and headed off for the North of Scotland. I was going to visit some very special friends.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Owing to Hudson not having a driving licence (and Ripley being a girl and therefore congenitally unable to drive), I thought it prudent to break the journey overnight. I had booked a B & B somewhere in the Lake District. By early evening, the car was splashing its way slowly along the narrow lanes to the West of Lake Windermere, through a soft, yet persistent rain that shone like silver lametta in the headlights. Warm within, I carefully scanned each farm sign as we passed until, eventually, we arrived at <a href="http://www.iknow-lakedistrict.co.uk/accommodation/15995-esthwaite_old_hall-hawkshead.htm">Esthwaite Old Hall</a>.<br /><br />Helga, whose cheery welcome belied her somewhat intimidating name, showed us to our room and, later, after a meal and a pint at the King's Head in the village below, the dogs and I curled up on the large, four-poster bed and watched an old black-and-white film on the television. Ripley thought the acting a little wooden. As always these days, my sleep was ably assisted by old Laphroaig whom I had brought with me in a hipflask: my dream genie.<br /><br />In the morning, after breakfasting and settling-up with Helga, Hudson Ripley and I climbed the fell above Esthwaite Water and lost ourselves. After several hours tramping about in the rain, we eventually found the track which led us back down to where I had left the car. Much later than planned, we continued our journey North.<br /><br />We sliced through Glasgow on the motorway and took the beautiful A82 which runs beside Loch Lomond, climbing slowly towards the Highlands. The last time I had been on that road had been twelve years before. With Ann.<br /><br />It was the Spring of 1996 and I had managed to secrete a week between the end of my first six months' pupillage (apprenticeship) in Southampton and my "second six" at 5, Paper Buildings in the Temple. Ann had persuaded a university friend to lend us his parents' holiday cottage and I had persuaded my tired old car to carry us there.<br /><br />The cottage was of the 'Canadian chalet' style; all wooden verandah and plate glass. It had been built just a few feet from the banks of Loch Fyne. Our evenings were spent on rugs in front of the log-burning stove and we passed our days walking and cycling.<br /><br />One day, we had driven to some remote place and then walked for hours on the moors, exploring, following old drover's trails and sheep paths. I remember that we picnicked amongst the heather, looking down on a roofless long-house. It's clean, stone walls seemed newly-quarried, crisp grey against the rich green of the mossy grass which surrounded it, apparently immune to the hundred or so years which had passed since the last crofter had closed the door and walked away.<br /><br />Later that afternoon, whilst circling back towards the car, we came upon a fast-flowing stream that cut straight across our path. The stream appeared too wide and too fast to ford and there was certainly no time left in which to retrace our steps before darkness fell. I began to worry. It was very warm for the time of year, but the nights were cold enough to preclude any possibility of spending a night on the moors.<br /><br />"We'll have to try to cross," I told Ann. She looked doubtful.<br /><br />"Are you sure we need to cross it?"<br /><br />I spoke in a poor parody of a Native American tracker's accent.<br /><br />"Car there." I pointed North. "We here; river in between." I gestured appropriately.<br /><br />Ann rolled her eyes. I pretended not to notice and indicated various parts of the stream. "We could get to that rock there; then, if we could find a tree branch or something, we could bridge that bit..." I tailed off as I saw Ann shaking her head. I pursed my lips.<br /><br />"Look, I'll try it. It can't be that difficult!" I scrambled down the bank and stepped gingerly out onto a wet rock. I turned back to Ann. She was staring into the distance. "See!" I exclaimed as I wobbled precariously on my perch. Ann ignored me.<br /><br />"Back in a minute," she said. Then she disappeared.<br /><br />"Hey!" I shouted. But there was no response. Slightly annoyed, I positioned myself for the next stage of the crossing and then leaped from one rock to the next, nearly slipping as I landed. I continued doggedly in this manner for half an hour or so, hopping, zig-zagging, advancing and retreating, never reaching further than the middle of the stream. I was about to give up when I noticed that Ann had reappeared. She was sitting on the bank , watching me.<br /><br />"Oh, you're back are you?"<br /><br />Ann nodded and bit into an apple.<br /><br />"Well, I think I may finally have cracked it..." I started. "Hey, where did you get that apple?"<br /><br />Ann grinned.<br /><br />"From the car", she replied.<br /><br />"What? How...? Where...? I stammered, confused. Ann pointed West, away from the stream.<br /><br />"Car there; we here; river irrelevant" she replied.<br /><br />If Ann had been with me on that hillside in the Lake District, I wouldn't have been nearly so lost.<br /><br />At a little before eight O'clock on Monday evening, having crossed most of the snowy, Scottish Highlands, I pulled into the driveway of my friends' stone house by the sea. Although Laphroaig made an appearance that night, for the first time in a long time, I felt that his friendship might not be quite so necessary.<br /><br /></div>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-42311398576196409502008-01-01T11:29:00.000+00:002008-01-01T11:31:32.680+00:00An ApologySorry everyone. Someone should invent a piece of software which prevents drunks from posting to their Blogs. <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> don't even know what I was writing about.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-54244681337135752582008-01-01T00:04:00.000+00:002008-01-01T00:23:52.857+00:002008'Knock, Knock on Wood.'<br /><br />Another Laphroig, I think. Back in a moment.<br /><br />Now, everything that has happened... Everything (from the disappearance of little Madeleine to the assasination of Benazir Bhutto) happened last year. Will 2008 be any better?<br /><br />We are a selfish lot, we humans.<br /><br />I should love to have been given a time machine for Christmas. The things I could do! The lives I could save.<br /><br />Not Ann's, of course. You can't pop up out of the blue and shoot cancer dead before it triggers it's deadly body belt.<br /><br />'Baggy Trousers'. Madness.<br /><br />Oh God! Not fucking McCartney again!Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-13715927152199027912007-12-31T23:45:00.000+00:002008-01-01T00:02:51.541+00:00New YearWhen you are drunk, it is enormously difficult to log into your Blog. Either the e-mail address is unknown, or the password is wrong. I wonder why one's password changes when one is drunk. How does it know?<br /><br />New Year's Eve. Wow! I'm spending it alone for the first time in my life. Thank God for Jules Holland.<br /><br />I've just watched 'True lies'. A 'truly' awful film; but terrific fun. I always had this feeling that Ann was waiting to discover that I was really a secret agent. She would have loved that.<br /><br />I am alternating glasses of Laphroig with glasses of Jameson's. My Father used to say that after three or four, a person was unable to tell the difference between scotch, Irish, single malt or cold tea. He was wrong.<br /><br />I am scared to post to my Blog these days. I am unable to recall my life with Ann. I am told this is normal and temporary; but it is very, very frightening. For the moment, I think I shall just use my Blog as a diary. I shan't force my memories.<br /><br />Bloody hell! Paul McCartney is on Jools Holland's show.<br /><br />And now it's the countdown. New Year.<br /><br />Happy New Year everyone.<br /><br />Auld Lang Syne... Take a cup of cheer everyone...<br /><br />Happy New Year Darling.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-58029676100150819082007-12-25T17:49:00.001+00:002007-12-25T18:04:03.164+00:00ChristmasI have never seen such fat, lazy, good-fer-nothin' dogs. They have just eaten the better part of a whole turkey, roast potatoes and parsnips. I'm ashamed of them. They're too full even to play with the toys Tracy sent them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_JU3e48z3QW7Dii5jMy52xPKRdg6uQWawrawYYS5c-m9uoojGwnjgMJWe12BXzqK6QybEO29uSfCxXaID3_Z8dGxcb97tywzeCAyXoZCtpQLGU5DTbJ7Xp4NLF6qJoHvVL-7yekAli0/s1600-h/P1030109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_JU3e48z3QW7Dii5jMy52xPKRdg6uQWawrawYYS5c-m9uoojGwnjgMJWe12BXzqK6QybEO29uSfCxXaID3_Z8dGxcb97tywzeCAyXoZCtpQLGU5DTbJ7Xp4NLF6qJoHvVL-7yekAli0/s400/P1030109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147969678361334994" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2_CGHBy0id_OFLecd38Wc3-ywzI2YQhLTBefHAIlFTDiX_2a0is2hSRqnj-MylcB8rT2Fww3VHK0NgqDGsO72dVsTVK2u0nNzWsq_Wynxgjq5Al9iJ7HILv6H9s1NBDViVhtf-HXy6w/s1600-h/P1030108.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 401px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2_CGHBy0id_OFLecd38Wc3-ywzI2YQhLTBefHAIlFTDiX_2a0is2hSRqnj-MylcB8rT2Fww3VHK0NgqDGsO72dVsTVK2u0nNzWsq_Wynxgjq5Al9iJ7HILv6H9s1NBDViVhtf-HXy6w/s400/P1030108.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147969974714078434" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-17922132373796927172007-12-25T00:39:00.001+00:002007-12-25T00:42:51.383+00:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObKq1_D8nbIzXcwL4zoA5RkuLdoTjid7Uvy2cqhyyyDcXW1uI16F6UAelLale1YJRbgizE5UrjBljqDFRTb3dXPXqzRJtvqEnEFxGvOpQkKOKp22bSBQBwUF-wUvAJ6Tchmg3LXO5JFI/s1600-h/P1000549.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObKq1_D8nbIzXcwL4zoA5RkuLdoTjid7Uvy2cqhyyyDcXW1uI16F6UAelLale1YJRbgizE5UrjBljqDFRTb3dXPXqzRJtvqEnEFxGvOpQkKOKp22bSBQBwUF-wUvAJ6Tchmg3LXO5JFI/s400/P1000549.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147704296627082434" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">MERRY CHRISTMAS DARLING<br /><br />Merry Christmas everyone.<br /><br /></div>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-19752050896699438742007-11-19T20:13:00.000+00:002007-11-20T09:37:50.867+00:00My Mother telephoned today. I didn't take the call.<br /><br />Yesterday afternoon, I sat down on the stairs for what I thought was only a moment. When I tried to get up, my legs wouldn't work. I had been sitting there for three hours.<br /><br />Immediately after Ann's funeral, I went to France: a few weeks with just the dogs. Tomorrow, the three of us are going again. It sounds churlish, but I can't bear any more kindnesses. I can't understand why my friends aren't totally fed up with me.<br /><br />Fuck all this.<br /><br />I have an image of Ann from when she was learning to sail.<br /><br />We were in a Wayfarer (a dinghy), when there was a sudden, vicious squall. Boats all around us were knocked down. We were slammed right over but, somehow, we didn't capsize. The wind ripped our hoods from our heads and boxed our ears, while the rain stabbed at our faces with a thousand, numbing botox needles. I shouted to Ann.<br /><br />"We need to get to the shore!" She nodded her agreement. I watched as she fumbled with the tiller and mainsheet, her lips framing silent instructions to herself as her slitted eyes gauged angles.<br /><br />"I think I'd better take the helm" I yelled, struggling to be heard above the cacophony of wind and cracking sail. Ann shook her head; once, emphatically.<br /><br />"I can do it!" She responded, her voice failing to disguise her indignation at what she perceived to be my patronising suggestion. A second later, she had the little boat under control and was bringing her up into the wind, the bow swinging round to point at the distant clubhouse.<br /><br />The Wayfarer heeled hard over and accelerated like a released gun dog.<br /><br />I swore under my breath and quickly slid my feet under the toe straps, leaning out backwards over the side in an effort to balance the little craft. Ann hauled in on the mainsheet and we flashed past a straining motor cruiser, her lower decks bulging with sodden day-trippers. Ahead of us, choppy wave crests exploded in spume as the stem of the boat punched through them.<br /><br />I swore again and leaned out further, my arms outstretched and the back of my head in the water. Recklessly yet deftly, Ann helmed the narrowest course between exhilarating speed and disasterous capsize.<br /><br />We had covered perhaps half the distance back to the shore when, suddenly, I heard her scream.<br /><br />Immediately, I raised my head and glanced to my right. Ann sat high above me, her body angled towards the bow and the wind. Her back was arched and her chest was thrust forward like an art deco figurine. Her hair and waterproof jacket streamed out behind her. Her cheeks glowed a vivid pink beneath the wind-whipped tear tracks which fled from the corners of her shining eyes. As I watched, she threw back her head and cried out again.<br /><br />But this time, I knew it for what it was: a scream of sheer, elemental, joy.<br /><br />There was a real, physical pain in the love that I felt for Ann in that moment.<br /><br />And now... and now, that same pain is with me every moment of every day.<br /><br />I have no pictures of Ann in a storm. Here she is on a boat though.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4xQCnDsunvdQ7QEbrhhyQWqK_W1IlXMrxS_4zYvBPJwgfsWcqeU_jPwAogfXu3GB-Gm2EpdacsSDk6cicizqMzc4IoVLPraXZTqDa3FIkmInmDmGCkPER9BbVFy4nGg9J2wLH270BW0/s1600-h/Ann+on+Boat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4xQCnDsunvdQ7QEbrhhyQWqK_W1IlXMrxS_4zYvBPJwgfsWcqeU_jPwAogfXu3GB-Gm2EpdacsSDk6cicizqMzc4IoVLPraXZTqDa3FIkmInmDmGCkPER9BbVFy4nGg9J2wLH270BW0/s320/Ann+on+Boat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134716694469631106" border="0" /></a><br />This will be my last Blog until I return from France. I don't have access to the internet there.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-81443898281135550582007-11-17T20:36:00.000+00:002007-11-18T09:57:48.044+00:00Today was a special day.<br /><br />Today, in a remote place...<br /><div style="text-align: center;">Ann's place...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumasmBZuhHu2V2DYOzvZuSbJJKfRn63x7DqJQjxT7ov0Ff0UAABbXwdX0lGfkS46pL4S3BWzXC3iQBBifoNI-hS9CDh-m190F5o3kyZBUNUxeqY2inV-3YNzC-T3bRFTXEZaLXwddA0Y/s1600-h/DSC_8909.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumasmBZuhHu2V2DYOzvZuSbJJKfRn63x7DqJQjxT7ov0Ff0UAABbXwdX0lGfkS46pL4S3BWzXC3iQBBifoNI-hS9CDh-m190F5o3kyZBUNUxeqY2inV-3YNzC-T3bRFTXEZaLXwddA0Y/s320/DSC_8909.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133912397418945426" border="0" /></a><br />... a few of Ann's friends gathered.<br /><br />They came in ones;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq8xc65NU8Sca2CIKQSiTFUIayCHD0urSAHYe3YYOSWm3_vguCB_QyQ0BGJ_HShfeEmmeeuhxeLc1Q2rKukhhsmO1L0X7kVazw0c3hLwhxDo5Z3ySvlqRhVOnkcCVPD4EaNwwm9dCqjw/s1600-h/DSC_9047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq8xc65NU8Sca2CIKQSiTFUIayCHD0urSAHYe3YYOSWm3_vguCB_QyQ0BGJ_HShfeEmmeeuhxeLc1Q2rKukhhsmO1L0X7kVazw0c3hLwhxDo5Z3ySvlqRhVOnkcCVPD4EaNwwm9dCqjw/s320/DSC_9047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133913844822924194" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgElt3FG62BKZY3SKn04uLr-Q1-c7V-gGmT_vMi_5Cuf7t6vWlprJ5dzKKNMslvWv0CdAGzkrsuGtb4m5r8mTLvc2b7CaMrx2mQqPgmigzkL_hM4H6RKcDggk6LRFypKzk10M1iJ2No28c/s1600-h/DSC_8951.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgElt3FG62BKZY3SKn04uLr-Q1-c7V-gGmT_vMi_5Cuf7t6vWlprJ5dzKKNMslvWv0CdAGzkrsuGtb4m5r8mTLvc2b7CaMrx2mQqPgmigzkL_hM4H6RKcDggk6LRFypKzk10M1iJ2No28c/s320/DSC_8951.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133914476183116722" border="0" /></a><br />and twos; and threes; and fours.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGh7n2GW75zteM9X3HI_WHGApD0SssSvUvfmbXnDjtqPGuVJnLFv5YJeI0OfyMJwaAiItQlHjPQqoVTZKFkWF8v3YtjcpPZyB15sMKHh3DKVflPNWc9u2mralOUrugxWQWAHrPAal_jw/s1600-h/DSC_8971.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGh7n2GW75zteM9X3HI_WHGApD0SssSvUvfmbXnDjtqPGuVJnLFv5YJeI0OfyMJwaAiItQlHjPQqoVTZKFkWF8v3YtjcpPZyB15sMKHh3DKVflPNWc9u2mralOUrugxWQWAHrPAal_jw/s320/DSC_8971.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133915489795398594" border="0" /></a><br />Hudson came;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6t85byf8677_HWZByumJXQ4v8PCHpt3LjGxvRM-RyV7iagKxSfnLL9RMfHTecTutjNfuAO8z3Esgg-Wxne4nBedYvHnFObQK1gQhVZI58jfxy09wx38MhPJhF9uY5pz-AQWkCfeqtJU/s1600-h/DSC_9077.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6t85byf8677_HWZByumJXQ4v8PCHpt3LjGxvRM-RyV7iagKxSfnLL9RMfHTecTutjNfuAO8z3Esgg-Wxne4nBedYvHnFObQK1gQhVZI58jfxy09wx38MhPJhF9uY5pz-AQWkCfeqtJU/s320/DSC_9077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133916511997615058" border="0" /></a><br />and so did Ripley.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T6GWvRnPFqsVAo5rwWVKxFSXk-SlRxAZV5UE3JC3zT14G38eHTdoFA50cpfYwVPz63z2GImIBUfFXm5GeDf7uDtM-fOpoPhzE-T7SfN_Cl9nB3VAcXIAf7UZaXWl9P3EwSf5BM-eX7A/s1600-h/DSC_9073.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T6GWvRnPFqsVAo5rwWVKxFSXk-SlRxAZV5UE3JC3zT14G38eHTdoFA50cpfYwVPz63z2GImIBUfFXm5GeDf7uDtM-fOpoPhzE-T7SfN_Cl9nB3VAcXIAf7UZaXWl9P3EwSf5BM-eX7A/s320/DSC_9073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134117241589161074" border="0" /></a><br />They came to celebrate Ann...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvm8GUQP_pABhxDIlPM0bRF9f7DDpDLQpEhJ64E1ouGN87gqzLDNrvJiHYnlVGFILR7lT7_BeIZWXXuxKeaurB0noWNYKBh8K0cqLPSEWxYxWXmL3HuRYTi3YyVsEE60eam3GWzPO7Bzs/s1600-h/Ann+so+lovely.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvm8GUQP_pABhxDIlPM0bRF9f7DDpDLQpEhJ64E1ouGN87gqzLDNrvJiHYnlVGFILR7lT7_BeIZWXXuxKeaurB0noWNYKBh8K0cqLPSEWxYxWXmL3HuRYTi3YyVsEE60eam3GWzPO7Bzs/s320/Ann+so+lovely.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133926162789129282" border="0" /></a><br />... and to gather around a bench;<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53fHs2iIfoYctZk58E6Ub6ufTb089ZZqo1gb20Zk2pLEIHHKto_6O6pdO2q13gF5I-ngmCR3gMh_JbiPjYmywEj_4cbydezZ6WugZEYSxPP2rVmy2WVOKknsPoWdO78FNjZd5G-LL8rQ/s1600-h/DSC_9016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53fHs2iIfoYctZk58E6Ub6ufTb089ZZqo1gb20Zk2pLEIHHKto_6O6pdO2q13gF5I-ngmCR3gMh_JbiPjYmywEj_4cbydezZ6WugZEYSxPP2rVmy2WVOKknsPoWdO78FNjZd5G-LL8rQ/s320/DSC_9016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133922189944380450" border="0" /></a><br />the bench...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW10gzNE1GPC6SAGFDXDAPrMC_idcLlkkjojg9T0zEp2KP7iHJuwq-3qK8SYrm_8uwtgaaF7oxvTKSLLoYfAkPZdZ26R94CU5bhjQwTqQ4QR3_7IuNMR-mEgFa4pnDT0o9h7_rxQ60DLQ/s1600-h/Phone+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW10gzNE1GPC6SAGFDXDAPrMC_idcLlkkjojg9T0zEp2KP7iHJuwq-3qK8SYrm_8uwtgaaF7oxvTKSLLoYfAkPZdZ26R94CU5bhjQwTqQ4QR3_7IuNMR-mEgFa4pnDT0o9h7_rxQ60DLQ/s320/Phone+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133925711817563186" border="0" /></a><br />they had built...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWoRfaucHuWW2ASXcS7Vz1ym3xsexAAHM1zCwQb3opScLZIEygAbpYXsJ8S9Lc9-kQTvmhxKTIgO4VltyHoJHk-bqqpo3TaKAxBWsC7XojjkEmWiStrjQ77QsZKp_BYfktWuGSG5noMY/s1600-h/DSC_8935.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWoRfaucHuWW2ASXcS7Vz1ym3xsexAAHM1zCwQb3opScLZIEygAbpYXsJ8S9Lc9-kQTvmhxKTIgO4VltyHoJHk-bqqpo3TaKAxBWsC7XojjkEmWiStrjQ77QsZKp_BYfktWuGSG5noMY/s320/DSC_8935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133921730382879762" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">... <span style="font-weight: bold;">For Ann</span>.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1aFwzvpc5R5v4OOxkdqMI8XF_tq902QtFgzPGY8oHQlho3QctAzrMmyMX6-7jxVD1vfZpA-zksro_nk7EoBZqO9KRhudMJDqUkDW3D6kofNvyZuuwC0WDx8BppekN26TFhuwoBsu5VI/s1600-h/DSC_9046.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1aFwzvpc5R5v4OOxkdqMI8XF_tq902QtFgzPGY8oHQlho3QctAzrMmyMX6-7jxVD1vfZpA-zksro_nk7EoBZqO9KRhudMJDqUkDW3D6kofNvyZuuwC0WDx8BppekN26TFhuwoBsu5VI/s320/DSC_9046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133935272414764114" border="0" /></a>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-74255490883480211612007-11-16T18:58:00.000+00:002007-11-16T22:43:46.832+00:00I noticed a family hatchback today as I was driving back from walking the dogs at Bewl Water. I was just about to crash into it when, mercifully, I saw the sticker in the back window: 'Baby on Board'. What a prudent thing to do! I dread to think what might have happened had I not seen the sticker in time.<br /><br />Ann was a member of an internet DVD rental club. You maintain a list of about 30 films at their web-site and, one by one, they send you a film from that list.<br /><br />Every now and then, a film from Ann's list arrives in the post. Today, for instance, 'Deja Vu' dropped through the letter box.<br /><br />I love it when it happens. It is as though Ann is saying: "Try this, Darling."<br /><br />I shall be a little lost when they stop coming.<br /><br /><br />Here's a picture I just took of the dogs -<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOACJVXvL6Z80YpjRp-Da4NOqv2IRv_MI_GiNy-VYYEALnxQDnFyqa9fZeLDXLUVu23RRU866CXDhsYFv3I1RN2a6I9LKe5sCsqh2ZgGNFWPKfgjeLj2nEZvNsXNME2Tg9ADkKGkHJQw/s1600-h/Dogs+with+fire.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOACJVXvL6Z80YpjRp-Da4NOqv2IRv_MI_GiNy-VYYEALnxQDnFyqa9fZeLDXLUVu23RRU866CXDhsYFv3I1RN2a6I9LKe5sCsqh2ZgGNFWPKfgjeLj2nEZvNsXNME2Tg9ADkKGkHJQw/s320/Dogs+with+fire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133544726743571330" border="0" /></a>Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-65622887738184541592007-11-14T01:01:00.001+00:002007-11-14T10:07:07.085+00:00Compare and Contrast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1uu1JwHjGsHVJFso5l-PFJpDTL7J8awO6FVvuADyV6dGDDZcBXsn9xZo8yj-eg16zhZ6y8m_EDdNpCEy1npW4RKtYYkoNOALyaEjB6opkEY94A7syLG9JfVjrtO1Ii3rgM5pA9L6q6Q/s1600-h/Paxos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1uu1JwHjGsHVJFso5l-PFJpDTL7J8awO6FVvuADyV6dGDDZcBXsn9xZo8yj-eg16zhZ6y8m_EDdNpCEy1npW4RKtYYkoNOALyaEjB6opkEY94A7syLG9JfVjrtO1Ii3rgM5pA9L6q6Q/s320/Paxos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132635299439251682" border="0" /></a><br />It was a warm afternoon in late July when we saw Chris in the village. He was on foot; we were in a car. We hadn't seen him for a couple of months. He leaned in through my window.<br /><br />"Hi! How the bloody hell are you?" he asked brightly.<br /><br />I looked at Ann. A few days earlier, we had been told that she had less than three months to live.<br /><br />"Oh, you know..." I started, shrugging, feigning insouciance.<br /><br />"Actually, I'm not very well," Ann said, cutting across me. "My cancer's come back."<br /><br />Chris's smile disappeared and his brow furrowed in concern.<br /><br />"Oh, shit. That's..." He paused for a moment. "So," he continued uncertainly, "more chemo?"<br /><br />Ann smiled at him and shook her head.<br /><br />"No Chris, there's nothing to be done. It's in my liver." Her eyes met his. "I've had it."<br /><br />"But, surely..." His voice faded away as he saw Ann continuing to shake her head.<br /><br />"Oh, they can maybe delay things for a month or two," she said gently. "But I really can't go through all that again."<br /><br />I couldn't look at Chris' face. Chris: such a big, ugly, beautiful man; a man of deeds; a man so unaccustomed to impotence.<br /><br />"But..."<br /><br />Hiding the pain it must have caused her, Ann leaned across me and put her hand upon his where it rested on the top of my door.<br /><br />"There's really nothing to be done, Chris. Honestly."<br /><br />A little later, as we were driving out of the village, Ann turned to me.<br /><br />"I think I was a little too abrupt," she said, biting her lip anxiously. "Poor Chris."Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-31121601849076405612007-11-13T18:39:00.000+00:002007-11-14T01:07:58.973+00:00I am so sorry. I'm afraid that I have been a terrible coward. This Blog is about Ann, not about me.<br /><br />On y va!Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-75546839089370892942007-11-11T21:52:00.000+00:002007-11-11T22:01:00.822+00:00DefeatedNew to this business, I foolishly let one or two people know that I was Blogging.<br /><br />Now, somehow, word has got back to someone with whom I would certainly not have chosen to share my innermost thoughts.<br /><br />I shall miss this.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com888tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-45215615458904130312007-11-11T15:04:00.001+00:002007-11-11T17:26:37.799+00:00Actually, I can't leave it like that. I need to write about the row with my Mother. My own judgment in these things is a little suspect at the moment, so I'd appreciate another view.<br /><br />I have spoken to my Mother on the telephone perhaps twice since last I saw her (at Ann's funeral). She called about a month ago to say that she was organising a party; and she called again today to ask whether I would be there. I told her that I would not.<br /><br />But I had better go back a little. There is some necessary ground to cover.<br /><br />Although it wasn't always so; my family is a mess. For reasons I don't fully understand, like some shredded, civil war casualty, it now only hobbles painfully, supporting it's fractured limbs on crutches of superficiality.<br /><br />There are a number of different rifts. The most relevant for my purposes today is that which exists between me and my thirty-year-old niece. We haven't spoken since we argued at Christmas four years ago. The cause of the particular argument is unimportant. There had been a little tension between us for some months (concerning her attempt to undervalue a house she was retaining following a failed relationship). In any event, I said something which upset her; and she threw a glass of wine over me. I apologised later that evening, but...<br /><br />When Ann fell ill, my niece remained entirely aloof.<br /><br />And when Ann died, she refused to send either flowers or a card.<br /><br />My Mother has invited my niece to her party and seems surprised that I am therefore refusing to attend. I, in turn, expressed my surprise that my Mother would sanction my niece's behaviour by inviting her at all.<br /><br />How silly this all seems, now that I have written it. How very trivial.<br /><br />But it has upset me.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8331994087969739109.post-35160951778994882392007-11-11T14:51:00.000+00:002007-11-12T00:00:39.577+00:00I have just had a row with my mother on the telephone.<br /><br />The situation in Pakistan worsens (on top of everything else).<br /><br />Sir Ian Blair (London's unpleasantly arrogant top cop) hasn't yet resigned.<br /><br />And Norman Mailer died yesterday.<br /><br />How bloody depressing everything is.Philip Sinclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03630919634523120222noreply@blogger.com6