This and that

I’ve missed her. I never thought I would, but I have: that pale Swedish body, those long legs, reaching up into the aurora borealis.

The Irish have a saying ‘You’ll never miss your mother ‘til she’s laid beneath the sod.’

Very wise: the Irish.

Looking back, I realise how many relationships I have sabotaged, how many friends I have ditched because they failed to come up to my expectations, never considering for a moment whether I came up to theirs.

Sometimes I just cannot believe I have done some of the things I have done. But I expect that is the same for everybody, and trick is not to be too hard on one’s self. Or as somebody said: learning to forgive yourself without letting yourself off.
I think Anastasia loved me – in her own, Scandinavian way.

I blinked, and wiped a tear from my eye. Then I saw that it wasn’t her. It wasn’t my Anastasia – here on the croquet lawn with Norah.

Norah introduced us. ‘George, this is Grace – Ralph’s partner.’
‘Haven’t we met before?’ I asked, taking the slim hand with long lacquered nails, which floated up towards me.
She laughed. ‘A lot of people say that to me. You’ve probably seen me on the telly. That’s the thing about television: it is so intimate. There you are, in people’s living rooms, night after night – it’s no wonder they think they know you.’
‘Television?’ I said, stupidly.
‘Yes, I’m a regular on “News Night”, “Any Questions”, and of course I make frequent appearances when they need an ‘expert’ to pronounce on the government’s latest economic balls-up’.

Turns out, ‘Amazing Grace’ is a real “blue stocking”: Rodean, Oxford, the L.S.E.; author of several best selling books on politics, economics, globalisation – you name it.

There’s an old song, which goes “If women like that like men like those/Why don’t women like me”.

And that just about sums it up. No it doesn’t – this does: What’s a woman like that doing with a prat Ralph?I mean, it can’t be for the money: this woman can practically name her own fee for television appearances, besides holding a chair in politics at some prestigious university. I just don’t get it

There I go again – not getting it! I told you that was my problem.

She didn’t say why she was here. (Nobody tells me anything). So I went inside, had a shower and came down to watch the News on television.

Our prime minister, Mr Brown is in Iraq (Lots of sand and flies.) He has gone there to help them sort out their elections. Well, I hope they are grateful – that’s all I can say. He’s there, in that blistering heat, with his dark suit, and collar and tie: the epitome of all that is British.

When you come to think about it, we have exported our system of democracy all over the world – and often got a dagger up the Khyber for our pains. But we never give in. Frequently vilified, often misunderstood, we continue to pass on our traditions of justice, fair play and sportsmanship, granting self-government to our colonies when we feel they are ready.

And, by and large, this has been a great success. Admittedly, America has experienced difficulties in absorbing some of the niceties of the British way of life. I mean look at their disgraceful behaviour at the infamous ‘Boston Tea Party’: just because they preferred coffee they dumped a whole boatload of the finest British tea into the ocean. But we have forgiven them; that’s another thing about the English: so ready to turn the other cheek.

There’s one thing I’ll say for the Americans though: they make wonderful musicals. I mean it. I know some people deride the ‘musical, but I see it as a legitimate art form, dealing, as it often does, with some of the most important issues of what might be called ‘the human condition’ (personal, political, moral, psychological – they are all there). And it does this by engaging the heart as well as the head. Musicals entertain, and, as all good teachers know, if you really want to instruct then you must entertain.

Just two examples: Kiss Me Kate and West Side Story. How many thousands of people have seen these two shows (live or in the cinema) who would not dream of attending a production of The Taming of the Shrew or Romeo and Juliet?
I can imagine a young couple leaving the Globe theatre on a Saturday night in 1594.

She: What an experience. I was so moved. I don’t mind telling you I was in tears by the last act.
He: I know you were. You’ve drenched my doublet.
She: And you – you don’t half show me up. … chomping on those chicken drumsticks throughout the whole of the last Act. Didn’t you enjoy the play at all?
He: Well it was alright, I suppose. But a couple of tunes, a few songs… would have lightened the mood a bit. Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a pint of mead.


I’m going to chat up this Grace bird. I'm sure she would be glad of some intellectual stimulation, as a welcome respite from the sort she gets from old Ralphy.