Sorrowless

Birth of Buddha at Lumbini - beneath
the sorrowless tree

Four miles south west of Kandy in the heart of Sri Lanka, you will find the island country's impressive botanical gardens - at a place called Peradeniya. These mature gardens pre-date European colonisation but were amended and developed by sympathetic British enthusiasts in the nineteenth century. Early last month I wandered there, marvelling at the coco-de-mer trees and the giant bamboo groves, the avenues of palms, the orchid house and the radiating display of lawn grasses. It was delightful.

At one point I was surrounded by adolescent Sri Lankan schoolgirls all smiling in their starched white uniforms and at another point a young family latched on to me as we ambled around - so diminutive that they made me feel like Gulliver.

In a particular zone of these spacious gardens there are various trees planted in the past by visiting VIP's. As I wandered back towards the entrance gates I noticed an ashoka or "sorrowless" tree. This is a tree that figures importantly in religious legends of the Indian sub-continent. It had a plaque in front of it:-

 It was a "take two" moment. The tree was planted on 24th October 1981 by our esteemed Queen Elizabeth and her Greek husband! In my life, this is a very significant date because on that very day at St Martin's Parish Church in the village of Owston Ferry in Lincolnshire I was marrying Shirley:-

There we are on that memorable autumn day, almost thirty two yeas ago, outside the ancient church with my three bearded brothers - Simon, Paul (now deceased) and Robin. It was a perfect and extraordinarily happy day - a simple, unpretentious and traditional wedding witnessed by our friends and families in the remote agricultural parish where Shirley was born and raised.

And the fact that Elizabeth and Philip were simultaneously planting a "sorrowless" tree seems somehow eerily appropriate. It was after all sorrow-less, not sorrow-ful if you see what I mean. Though we cannot match our queen and the duke or indeed the Bragues of Canton, Georgia who just last weekend celebrated fifty years of marriage, thirty two years is surely still quite remarkable in this day and age. And after writing this post, I think it's now time for another cup of tea with a slice of toast smothered with some of Shirley's homemade marmalade. Excuse me...

Happy

I've always written poems. Sometimes I think I have kicked the habit but then another poem creeps up on me and I can't resist. Well-chosen words without superfluousness have the power to say so much. But I realise that some people don't "get" poetry - perhaps in the same way that I don't "get" ballet, opera, horse racing or the idea of attending a classical concert. Yes, I understand but I am not sorry about "Lamb" (See my last post).

I guess I was investigating religious belief as much as I was lamenting the passing of that ruined lamb - the vision of which assailed me as I walked in the high country above Winnat's Pass last Thursday morning. Lambs die every springtime - often at birth - but this one had clearly survived that trauma and had been flourishing until something happened to end its life. A dog attack? A fox? Some congenital condition? Who knows? But I snapped a picture of it and that horrible moment of discovery kept surfacing in my thoughts.

Now, on the other side of the Pennine chain and far from here, in a mythical dragon-infested land called Wales, there resides one of my favourite bloggers - he of the tea dynasty - Earl John Gray who has of course eschewed the family estate with all its riches to settle in a homely village with his poultry, his dogs and his professorial partner. Upon reading "Lamb", Earl Gray protested that I should write a happy poem "next time". Being fearful of the nobility, I felt obliged to comply with his instruction, so here it is...

Have I seen The Earl? -  you say
Oh you mean the flouncing nurse John Gray?
He lives by the corner up on Church Lane
It's rumoured that the bloke's insane.

All manner of birds are kept in his field
Even though his neighbours appealed
He talks to the buggers as well you know
When it's pissing it down or in driving snow.

His Berlingo is a familiar sight
Scotch egg wrappers and covered in shite
His pack of dogs from the Baskervilles
Are often seen chasing him over the hills.

Be careful when you knock on his door.
What do you want to see him for?
Runner ducks, fresh free range eggs?
Or those homemade pies he gets from Greggs?

Oh you're doing a fashion shoot?
Christ, that should be a hoot!
Anorak, wellies and a woolly hat
What will your editor make of that?

I've lived in Trelawnyd all my life
Never had a girlfriend, never a wife
- "The only gay in the village!" - they'd yell
Now the Earl and his fancy man live here as well

Go up there and then turn right
Just follow the smell of the chicken shite
He'll pour you a cup of Earl Gray tea
Then try to do what he did to me!

Poem

Patriotism

HERO! Brian Fairfield (aged 80) recently won the right to keep flying his
national flag from a flagpole in his Hull garden after complaints from neighbours.

One evening in Bangkok, I met a bearded thirty-something Englishman. He was the husband of one of our primary school teachers. At first we hit it off but then he began to deride his home country, imagining that I would be like-minded and similarly prepared to "knock" the land of my birth.

"Hang on a minute," I said. "What are you talking about? I haven't run away from England. I love England. I love its people, its landscapes, its sense of humour, its inventiveness and creativity and I am proud of the role that England has played in the world - and continues to play.In short I am immensely proud to be English, proud of my country"

His jaw dropped. He was puzzled. It was as if he previously believed that all intelligent ex-pat "escapees" from our homeland are automatically cynical about and critical of Great Britain because of a basket of things like the immigration problem, crime, taxation, trade unionism, European red tape, the class system, "The Daily Mail", Tesco-isation, potholes in roads, litter, dog poo in parks, Michael Gove etc..

But as I said to him - all countries have their problems, their issues. You need to step back and see the positives instead of giving the negatives too much air time.

The other day I counted up how many countries I have visited in my life - it came to fifty. From Liechtenstein to Laos and from South Africa to Southern Ireland. I have been fortunate to see many wonderful things and have met many wonderful people but in the final analysis I can honestly say that the best country I have ever been in is England. It's where my ancestors were born, lived, worked and died. It's where football began - and golf and tennis and rugby. It's where steel was invented and modern industry was born. It's the land of Robin Hood, William Shakespeare, John Lennon, Florence Nightingale, Arthur Scargill, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Charles Dickens, Jessica Ennis, David Hockney, Geoff Boycott and Ken Wagstaff - the list is endless. And our countryside is so beautiful, criss-crossed as it is by an ancient network of pathways. And then there's our pubs - our wonderful pubs. No other country in the world has pubs like ours. And there's our language - our amazing English language that has become the most important, most useful, most incisive and most adaptable language in the world. How could I not be proud of England and grateful that I was born here?

So to all clever-dick ex-pats and knockers of England, I say "Shut up!" Don't smell the coffee but do strip away the cynicism and see the best features of our homeland. And while you are at it, please look in the mirror and see yourself standing there - for you are part of England, England bore you and when you knock our great country you are in effect knocking yourself. So stop it and shut up!

Accommodation

That damned bolt on the gate

A blog can act like an old-fashioned diary, so excuse me while I record some details of my accommodation in  Bangkok. It's partly for future reference - so that in years to come I can look back and remember how it was. 

But how long do these blogs last for anyway? Once "out there" on the internet, do they last forever like very old books in a library's vault? Or do we reach a point where Google or Blogger or Rupert Murdoch say "Sorry mate! It's over! We are deleting all blogs to make room for more advertising and the worldwide expansion of Facebook!" Perhaps we'll never get that far anyway as spammers and internet vandals maliciously compromise the entire caboodle.

Anyway, my little apartment at Serene Bangkok, Ratchayothin... It was attached to the owners' house. I could sometimes hear them dimly through the connecting door in my bedroom but I was never disturbed. It was a big, spacious bedroom with a kingsize bed and well-built sliding wardrobes. The floor was made of shiny hardwood blocks.

There was an offshot living room where I had an L-shaped sofa, a coffee table, a television, a sink, fridge, microwave and a little table with two chairs. Both the bedroom and lounge had air-conditioning units which were absolutely vital to counteract the city's sweltering heat. Sometimes I'd sleep with the aircon switched off and I'd wake in a puddle of sweat, my pillows soaked.

The little swimming pool at Serene and my favourite reading place

The tiled shower room had a big walk-in shower and through its sliding door there was a miniature courtyard where I could dry any washing I had done in the big blue Tesco Lotus bucket I kept in the shower cubicle.

To get to my front door I had to pass by the B&B reception - sometimes stopping by to chat with Nong or Koy - and then walk along the path that leads through the tropical garden to the respectable massage parlour run by Lisa - the owners' daughter. I'd turn left and wiggle the squeaky bolt on top of the metal gate and after entering the owners' compound, wiggle the squeaky bolt back into place. Two or three times I applied "Vaseline" to this bolt to stop the squeakiness but it always came back.

The owners had two horrible old dogs - both slow, fat and smelly with testicles swinging like rubbery pendulums. They were allowed to defecate in the garden compound and so I had to watch my step even though their piles of steamy grey excretion were usually quickly cleaned up by Wan, the owners' housemaid.

Inside the living room

The bedroom

The shower room

But it was nice to be living at ground level with tropical vegetation outside my windows and nobody living above me or below. Nearly all the other teachers lived in tower blocks, requiring lifts to get to their front doors. I wouldn't have liked that at all. No, it was nice to be serene at Serene, a fifteen minute walk from the school and at fifty nine years old I still count my lucky stars that I had this opportunity not once but twice. And if you are reading this Mr Jon - a special thanks to you for making my Bangkok Days possible.

Path to the apartment's front door

Hair

Ever heard that song "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes"? Well, it's not so much smoke that gets in your eyes as hair - especially re. the female of our species. Now, David Attenborough might lie on his belly for ages observing gorillas in the Congo or whisper excitedly about a bird of paradise mating dance in the jungles of Borneo, but my recent scientific observations have focussed exclusively on women's hair - especially straight hair.

The trouble is that when women grow their hair long it has a tendency to fall or blow into their eyes. For example, just this morning on the BBC News, an arts correspondent speaking from the Cannes film festival found her hair blowing across her face as she spoke and she was persistently brushing it away. Similarly, in the BBC Look North studio, the weather girl - Lisa Gallagher - has to hold her head in a particularly stiff manner in order to prevent her hair from gravitating towards her eyes as she points out cyclones and wind patterns. It's a nightmare for women. Forget menstruation, menopause, childbirth and the challenges of motherhood - the biggest and most obvious problem that women have to deal with in everyday life is clearly how to keep floppy hair out of their eyes!

Women's inventiveness in this area of life seems to know no bounds and they have devised numerous ways of keeping awkward long  hair in check and away from the eyes. In my chart below I have itemised just nine of these cunning methods though I am aware my list is not exhaustive:-

No. 1 Elsie is using a simple hairslide to keep her hair off her face.

No 2 Janice has gone for a brutal fringe cut to deal with the issue.

No. 3 Ena has tucked her uncontrollable hair behind her ears.

N 4 Lettice has simply pulled her long hair back and formed it into a kind of ballet dancer's bun.

No 5 Jenny has brushed her hair away from her face and then sprayed an entire can of  "Stiff" on  it to keep it in place.

No 6 Agatha has stuffed her floppy long strands into a stylish headscarf from "Poundstretcher".

No 7 Libby is using a simple Alice band to keep her hair back.

No 8 Sinnead has got so pissed off with her hair she's just shaved it all off.

No 9 Fatima's solution is to wear a burkha. This is recommended for all women bloggers, hiding their beauty for the pleasure and enjoyment of their menfolk, husbands or partners. Also very handy for ugly lady bloggers or those with severe acne.

Snaps

Ever been bored to tears by somebody else's holiday snaps?
Well don't worry - I've only got three to show you today....

Here's Shirley just last month as we relax by another "dream beach".

This was at Jungle Beach near Unawatuna in southern Sri Lanka. The wooden 

loungers were free to anyone who used the beach cafe which offered

freshly caught grilled prawns and silvery fish that still twitched. The water was as clear

as crystal and Shirley said, "I think I've died and gone to heaven".

Meanwhile two metres from that green table in the underworld beneath
the adjacent tree's roots, a prehistoric battle occurred between Mr Hungry
Lizard and Mr Enormous Centipede. In the end the odds were stacked in
Mr Lizard's  favour and we watched as he gulped down (whole) his unfortunate prey.
Not what I'd have wanted for lunch. No siree! I was happy to stick with
my grilled sea prawns, salad and french fries  - washed down with "Lion Soda"

Another view of fabulous Jungle Beach with the
southern city of Galle on the horizon.