Jekyll & Hyde

OK, so if you get tired of the Royal Wedding by the end of today, are living in or near Norwich, and want something a bit different to do... go visit my favourite theatre group at the Sewell Barn in Constitution Hill. This one's not for the children, though!

Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde opened last night to a hugely enthusiastic audience, and I've been hearing great things about it (I'm looking forward to seeing it next week). Here's a note from the director, Rob Morris, on Facebook this morning:

"I understand that our box office at Jarrold’s is closed today (Friday 29th April) for the Bank Holiday. If you know of anyone who is planning to see the Sewell Barn’s production of ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’ tonight, and who hasn’t booked, we would be grateful if you would let them know that there are still seats available and tickets will be sold at the door. Do join us for an evening of chilling entertainment…"

How long is a man's life, finally?

I first found this wonderful poem through a friend, and as a result bought the book by the extraordinary Brian Patten. I am often nervous about sharing published poetry through the internet, but as the poet regularly publishes his own poems on his Poem of the Month blog I figured it was probably OK. [It can be found in his book Armada.]

Either way, it has been of help and solace at many times of bereavement among family, friends and colleagues. It's brought back to mind today by this post by the extraordinary Tania Kindersley in celebration of her father. RIP Gay Kindersley, 1930-2011.

Cuanto vive el hombre por fin? Vive mil dias o uno solo?

Una semana o varios siglos? Por cuanto tiempo muere el hombre?

Que quiere decir 'para siempre'?

Preocupado per este asunto me dedique a aclarar las cosas.

- Pablo Neruda

How long is a man's life, finally?

Is it a thousand days, or only one?

One week, or a few centuries?

How long does a man's death last?

And what do we mean when we say, "gone forever'?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.

We can go to the philosophers,

but they will grow tired of our questions.

We can go to the priests and the rabbis

but they might be too busy with administrations.

So, how long does a man live, finally?

And how much does he live while he lives?

We fret, and ask so many questions -

then when it comes to us

the answer is so simple.

A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,

for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,

for as long as we ourselves live,

holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man's scent, his touch;

his children will carry the weight of his love.

One friend will carry his arguments.

another will hum his favourite tunes,

another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,

then the weeks, then the months,

then there will be a day when no question is asked,

and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach.

and the puffed faces will calm.

And on that day he will not have ceased,

but will have ceased to be separated by death.

How long does a man live, finally?

A man lives so many different lengths of time.

[The photograph, by the way, is this time one of mine, taken one clear and breathless night in the Norfolk countryside last month.]

tall trees

A comment on my favourite blog today awoke a dim and distant memory. Tania said: "This feels like a metaphor. I could not think for what. For a moment, I was frustrated. Then I thought: sometimes weeding is just weeding. And that is quite all right."

I dug around in the files: here is my rather more longwinded way of saying the same thing, written in March 2003 after a walk across Beddington Park, which backed onto our home when we lived in South London.

late evening, early spring

through the local greenspace

stunned by the image

low-lying, golden sunset light

through tall tall trees

make glorious shadows

on the grass

write it down fast

make a poem

a quotable thought

capture the deeper meaning

of its loveliness

wait, though

it’s just the sun through trees

sun + trees

right place + right time

= beauty

no big deal

just here

right place, right time

as am I –

here to see

sunlight through tall trees

(I have no idea where I got the lovely photograph; it isn't one of mine. I assume I pinched it from somewhere on the internet back in 2003, and apologise for the lack of credit where credit was due.)

A great story about telephones

This one just turned up in our email from a village council colleague of my husband's, and I thought it was worth sharing...

Old telephone numbers rarely rose to more than three digits in those days when the telephone was relatively uncommon.

I spent my boyhood in the late forties and early fifties in Skegness. My Mother had re-married and my step Father was a lifelong member of the church choir and knew by heart every hymn in Hymns Ancient and Modern. He used to remember telephone numbers by the first line of the hymn which had the same number as the telephone number.

We would be travelling through the town when he would say "Oh there's old 'Hills of the North rejoice'" for one of his friends who had a telephone number 269 ect. ect.. I am afraid, despite his tuition, I never developed anything like his memory for the numbers in the Ancient and Modern Hymnal but I do recall that there were some that always seemed especially apt:

• The AA were - Hymn 300 - "Be thou my guardian and my guide".
• The optician was - Hymn 161 - "Bright the vision that delighted"

But two I will never forget:

• The local off licence (where step Father was a valued client) - Hymn 156 - "Come thou Holy Spirit come"
• and the town Vicar - Hymn 307 - "Stand up, stand up for Jesus"!!

The nuthatches are back

Spent twenty minutes watching these little guys out of the kitchen window, and eventually had to tear myself away to get some work done. Click on the album to see the full set on Picasa.

Nuthatches

A glorious day at Salthouse

Seagulls, lapwings, friends and seafood - and Norfolk big blue sky. Click on the album below to view on Picasa.

Autumn day at Salthouse

We have our pub back!

We have something of an ulterior motive in following closely the progress of the re-opening of our village pub: it's 58 steps from our front door! Here is an album of a few photos taken over recent times. Click on the image below to view the full album.

The Parson Woodforde Pub