Musings of a Failed Taxidermist

The fruit of the sea

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 08:32:47 GMT

For what seemed like hours a Bladder-wrack's slimy grip prevented my escaping the unwholesome attentions of a vindictive scallop. At last, slightly bruised, I slipped my algal bonds and swam and swam (I was relieved to find I had a powerful trudgen) until, exhausted and washed-up, I found myself on the shores of consciousness half-strangled by a damp blanket.
It made me think of the role shellfish play in our oneiric and cultural lives - and of the inadvisability of dining on special-offer sea food.

This photograph was taken in the Natural History Museum of Vienna.

The golden fleece that Jason and his Argonauts went to such lengths to purloin is thought to have been woven from the byssal threads of Pinna nobilis (as are those gloves in the photo). The byssal threads are the means by which some species of mollusc anchor themselves to rocks (it is the “beard” that is pulled from mussels prior to cooking). The threads produced by Pinna nobilis are of a vaguely golden hue, they can be seen hanging from its half-shell pictured above. The byssus of this species is particularly fine and can be spun into “sea-silk”.

My own specimen of (I think) a Pinna nobilis valve.

I remember decades ago first reading of the molluscan origin of the famous myth on the name plate of Pinna nobilis in the British Museum The animal wasn't there; it was on loan to an exhibition elsewhere. My interest piqued I remember looking intently at where it had been mounted, as if by scrutinising the empty bracket I could glean more knowledge of this extraordinary bivalve.

The 'beard' of Pinna nobilis

I remember a similar experience some years ago in Albi in the south of France. I had gone there to see a permanent exhibition of Toulouse-Lautrec's work (the venue was his family seat). I arrived there during the first comprehensive exhibition of Lautrec's work ever to be staged. Unfortunately the event took place in Paris and so Albi's 'permanent' exhibition had been transfered to the capital. Each of the Albi paintings had been replaced by its representative post card. Determined not to have driven all that way for nothing I doggedly studied every post card in turn – and ended up quite enjoying the visit.

I'm sure Borges and Heinrich Böll have written about the phenomenon of non-substantiation. I've got various paperbacks of theirs and have just looked for them. They're not there.

It's a taxidermic life, pt 6

Mon, 04 Jan 2010 07:40:44 GMT

Colobus-clad Kate is deep in thought.

She's been deep in thought almost constantly since her recent confession to her husband regarding her surreptitious replacement by her twin sister during Kate's annual three week vacation in Cape Cod. Harold took the news surprisingly well, or perhaps unsurprisingly well considering he had been aware of the ruse all along.

Kate has interpreted Harold's reaction as evidence of equanimity. In reality it is proof of a louche indifference shot through with a reluctance to leave his armchair. Of less equinamous bent (and of less of whatever it is Harold's suffering from) is Freda , Kate's sister, who has yet to be informed of the exposé and may take it badly – Freda is famous for something or other and if her role in the subterfuge were to become public she would be extremely embarrassed. All this weighs heavily on Kate's conscience.

Harold doesn't care; it's not his problem!

Remember; check all fixtures and fittings on a regular basis.

THE END (phew)

It's a taxidermic life, pt 5

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 08:23:42 GMT

Colobus-clad Kate is feeling wistful.

   The other evening over a surfeit of claret she confessed to changing places with her identical twin sister during her (Kate's) annual three week vacation in Cape Cod.

   To Kate's astonishment it turned out Harold was aware of the sister-swapping all along. Harold's father was an accomplished taxidermist and from an early age Harold knew how to differentiate genuine fur from its imitation. His practised eye could tell at a glance that one of the Colobus coats was artificial.

   Harold has always kept his expertise regarding pelt verification to himself. Harold keeps a lot of things to himself.

Remember; just because the club is deserted doesn't mean there is no one at home.

It's a taxidermic life, pt 4

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 08:27:16 GMT

Colobus-clad Kate (above) has a twin sister, Freda (below), who detests the idea of using dead animals as a form of clothing, especially critically endangered ones such as some species of Colobus monkey. However, confusingly for others, she does like to wear skilfully manufactured black and white synthetic pelts.

Kate has never told Harold that she has a twin sister. In fact, for each of the past seventeen years, Kate has taken a three-week vacation in Cape Cod - during which time her twin listens to Harold's lengthy nocturnal accounts of what happened each day at his deserted club.

So, if you want to avoid being in a similar situation to Harold (and you're not the sort of of person who would get some kind of weird kick out of it all) get your spouse DNA tested (Not that it would make much difference in Harold's case as identical twins share the same DNA - though he could always have their coats DNA tested, Freda's fake fur being lacking in the double helix department).

Remember; ignorance is bliss.

It's a taxidermic life, pt 3

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 08:21:31 GMT

Colobus-clad Kate's flapping exercises have been putting great strain on the armpit seams of her only coat. She is a great worrier and fears that the damage could be irreparable.

Given her sensitive disposition it is just as well that she is unaware of the condition of the nail that supports the rhinoceros trophy above Harold's favourite armchair – it's been working loose for three weeks now.

Remember, check all fixtures and fittings on a regular basis.

It's a taxidermic life, pt 2

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 08:42:45 GMT

Harold is in his deserted club reading about how taxidermy is making a comeback. It seems “a new customer base” is finding “post-modernist irony” in this once outmoded form of decoration.
It occurs to him that the Northern White Rhinoceros that he shot while it was marking its territory could actually be worth something.

Colobus-clad Kate finds the general public fickle in the extreme; one moment it admires her stylish and original wardrobe and the next it's saying things like “it takes nineteen black and white monkeys to make that coat and only one to wear it”! All this makes her extremely angry.

Remember; wearing a coat like Kate's can make you very hot under the collar.

It's a taxidermic life

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 08:12:22 GMT

It's Christmas day in Stuphet Hall and Colobus-clad Kate is wondering what's happened to Harold - the take-away dinner for two (Bombay Duck and some other things) is rapidly cooling.

She needn't worry; Harold won't be long. He's in his deserted club enjoying a humorous article in the newspaper and he's an exceptionally slow reader!

Remember; there's always an explanation.

No Hand Signals

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:14:46 GMT

This small taxidermy shop can be found in Rue d'Aboukir, near Place des Victoires, in the 2^nd arrondissement of Paris.

The quality of the specimens is very high, and there are some unusual ones; I saw there a Galapagos penguin (Spheniscus mendiculus), the only penguin species to venture into the Northern hemisphere.

Another individual of note in the shop was the woman who has been on duty during my two most recent visits. Nowadays people working in Parisian shops are invariably smiling and helpful, not so this lady, she is of the old school – of a certain age (i.e. my age, but I am timeless), she generates froideur like an air-conditioning unit.

Experience has taught me to wear my best kit on such visits, that way there's a remote chance that I look like the kind of man who could spend enough to be able to walk out of there with a cheetah under his oxter – and therefore gets to be shown everything on the premises without buying anything. But the woman in question saw through my ruse despite my fancy brogues and preposterous handkerchief, her gimlet eye bored through my trouser pocket and saw in my wallet only used metro tickets and some brown feathers I had yet to identify (Troglodytes troglodytes?).

In short, I was ignored, though at least I was ignored in a place I wanted to be.

It was while I was examining a Spoonbill (Platelea leucorodia) that my French equivalent entered – similar age, similar dress, similar kind of know-all. He started saying the things I say in these places, “Quelle belle bête!” and so forth - what else can you say in a French taxidermy shop? But what struck me most were his arm movements - he exuded physical flair. If you discount the occasional eyebrow twitch the English haven't got a body language so this behaviour was denied me, although it crossed my mind that my static demeanour was just as well in the circumstances - given my tallness and the cramped conditions, a sudden arm movement could have caused inestimable damage. The thought of decapitating a wallaby and trying to reattach its head before an apoplectic Madame ensured that nothing of me stirred save my eyeballs.

So, rigid and silent, I gradually merged with the exhibits and resentfully noted how the haughty assistante was reacting ever more favourably to my homologue's dramatic gestures, they even elicited a husky chuckle. What was he saying with those hands? I memorised some of the more elaborate manoeuvres and resolved to practise them in the park like those elderly Chinese people do, only faster. I decided to learn Continental.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre...

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 12:16:15 GMT

I was informally patrolling the streets of Montbard the other night when I noticed that my favourite roundabout was aglitter in its new winter raiments. My photograph can not do justice to the ensemble, which is wired so that by briefly extinguishing one adjacent light bulb after another the display appears to be in constant motion.

As I lapped the pulsating structure centrifugal forces slowly drained the left side of my brain causing my muse to beckon;

   She twinkles in beauty, like the night,
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
   And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her guise:
   Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies...

It was with heavy heart and light head that I took my tangential leave, but I know that I will be back (it's on the way to the shops).

Aiming to know

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 07:54:25 GMT

'The Crystal Ball' by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)

Ever since my last post I've been lying around thinking about forms of prognostication, or, more specifically, artificial prognostication (as opposed to natural prognostication by dreams and prophetic oracles) of which there are many forms. The following are just a few of them. I suppose astrology is the form most widely followed, I'm familiar only with the mainstream variety (“What star sign are you?”, “Aries”, “Ah-Hah!” etc..), so I think I'll leave it at that. I remember as a child seeing women staring down into the dregs of their tea cups in order to glimpse the future and then poking the floating motes with teaspoons to make that future a little bit rosier. Apparently this practise is known as 'tassology' (the glimpsing not the poking). I've never heard anyone refer to themselves as a 'tassologist'; a 'reader of tea leaves' sounds much more poetic. The Etruscans would foretell events by peering into the entrails of animals; a type of divination known as haruspication. It must have been fascinating to watch a master haruspex casting steaming innards onto a marble slab and then staring in exaggerated horror or relief at what he saw. I suspect a practised haruspex would employ a whole panoply of facial expressions for each prediction as a way of pre-empting possible criticism - bewilderment being the one expression he would be careful to avoid. Augury sounds a most pleasant method of soothsaying, lying in a field watching birds flying by and extrapolating from their behaviour the way of things to come. I would imagine that augury has some scientific basis; the seasonal timing of migrating birds, for example, could be of relevance to the planting of crops. Then there's coscinomancy or 'divination by a sieve', not sure how that one works. There's also scapulimancy or 'interpreting the cracks in a baked shoulder blade' - once known as “reading the speal-bone”. Bellomancy is another form of divination, firing an arrow and interpreting its landing.

But bellomancy seems different from the rest. Archery is normally all about hitting the target and doesn't encourage vague interpretation, it's the obsessive pursuit of the absolute - don't those Japanese Zen archers somehow become their arrow? Presumably, in order to allow for the vagaries of prediction you'd have to employ a non-archer to fire the arrow. Or use a bent arrow. Or both. But in that case what would be the point of using archery as a form of divination in the first place? May as well throw the bow over your shoulder and see where it lands. I'm going to have to research bellomancy further, but not now, now I'm thinking about urban arrows, about darts...

Fig. 1

I'm not sure what the fancy name for a darts player is. Martiobarbulist? Martiobarbuli were the darts used by soldiers in antiquity, so one could provide 'martiobarbulist' with a distinguished etymology (and one no more contrived than that of 'tassologist'). And I like the way that 'bar' is at the heart of the word. If there is an established sesquipedalian term I imagine it occurs only in pub quizzes, and then only after a few ribald alternatives. Phil Taylor is the reigning world champion darts player. As far as I can tell he wins every tournament he enters and has won more than twice as many as his nearest rival. Phil appears never to miss what he aims for; his future is assured

Phil celebrating yet another victory against a (slightly more gracious) opponent

Phil Taylor comes from my home town, Stoke, in the Midlands of England. In fact, many top darts players come from Stoke, more than from anywhere else. I would love there to be an esoteric explanation for this but maybe it's simply that Stoke has a disproportionately high number of people who are overweight and working class, characteristics invariably exhibited by top darts players. Perhaps the added weight from drinking beer (favourite tipple of the working man) provides stability for the fulcrum of the throwing arm (see Fig. 1).

There's got to be more to it than that, but what? I remember that when I lived in Stoke (what a great name for an industrial city!) there was no stigma attached to being fat, quite the contrary. Men were very proud of their beer bellies and were usually only thin if the consumption of cigarettes was proving more effective than that of beer.

But whatever the reason for their preponderance, so many world class darts players once came from Stoke that it was easier to hold the World Darts Championships there rather than try and ferry all these voluminous darting prodigies elsewhere. From 1979 to 1985 the world championships were held at “Jollee's Cabaret Club”, an immense drinking emporium in an insalubrious quarter of town known locally as“Neck-end” (the “neck-end” being a cheap cut of meat).

I was employed in Jollee's as a wine-waiter, though the only drinks ordered were beer for the men and 'gin and tonic' for the women (with the occasional variation for the more imaginative gender - 'gin and something-else' or 'something-else and tonic'). The beer was 'Marston's Pedigree', the kind of powerful brew that in another culture would be taken in small doses as an apéritif but which in Jollee's was served in straight, pint glasses at such a rate that a hose pipe would have been more efficient. It's easy for a snob like me to criticise this behaviour (and also disingenuous, considering my own comportment at the time), but it has to be said that everyone seemed incredibly happy, and the more my fellow sommeliers and I ferried in the jolly juice the happier everyone got. This carefree approach did have its drawbacks - at two in the morning things could get a little boisterous at the taxi rank - but nothing too serious. The same Marston's Pedigree that could persuade one to take an indignant swing at a queue-jumper would also ensure that the grinning target would duck into the mini-cab unharmed - one's sluggish fist, so laden with hope, was always destined to land nowhere.

Tunnel vision

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 21:46:28 GMT

The other day, as I lay sprawled on my settee thinking about... well, thinking about nothing really, I noticed that two vertebrae had fallen from my ostrich skeleton's pygostyle and had rolled onto the dusty parquet...

I was immediately reminded of Greek women playing with their astragaloi.

This statue of Greek women throwing astragaloi (330 – 300 BC) is in the British Museum

Astragaloi

Astragaloi (knuckle bones), when thrown as dice, have been used for gambling and diversion since ancient times. Casting them to see how they would fall was also a way of divining the future.

That was the future, this is the past;

Bruce Springsteen has sung of how he once worked in a car-wash “where all it ever did was rain”. Many years ago I too worked in a car wash, if I was to write a song about the experience I would not only talk of the “driving rain” I would mention also the “hot, desert wind” that dried the cars. Part of the reason Springsteen is an internationally acclaimed song writer whereas I am not is that he knows how to control a metaphor.

The car-wash where I worked was a plastic tunnel with Bruce's rain at one end and my wind at the other. Experiencing alternating weather conditions in the middle were Lenny and myself. Lenny was around ten years my senior. He was prone to violent outbursts, but was otherwise pleasant enough. We were equipped with soapy sponges with which we cleaned the passing vehicles. Both of us, being tall, were able to reach, with a bit of leaping, the centre of even a medium-sized van's roof. I think our height got us our jobs – that and the fact that no one else wanted them.

To one side of the tunnel's exit was a little hut inhabited by the owner of the car-wash. Though he didn't have a fast car he dressed like someone who did, and he certainly had lots of magazines about them. He would emerge from his shed in his stacked heels and tight trousers, and with the curly permed hair fashionable at the time, to take the money from the clients, and once a week to pay Lenny and me. On one occasion he implied that he couldn't pay us fully but when Lenny (who wasn't normally quick to infer an implication) took a menacing step forward our employer quickly reassessed the situation. Otherwise we didn't see the owner often, his status required him to remain in his hut (as with a Samurai warrior a certain aloofness was for him important and loss of face unthinkable). When business was slow he would concentrate on his magazine perusal, which suited Lenny and myself as it allowed us each to pursue our own interests - I would daydream, Lenny would drop stones onto the brand new vehicles in the car lot that we overlooked. Once, on a particularly quiet day and bored with cathartic lapidation, Lenny had the idea of tipping all the liquid soap down a drain in order to ask the owner for more, the point of the exercise being to creep silently round to the hut door and suddenly bang on it to deafening effect.

But the incident that I think of most during that damp/dry time was when our boss performed a sort of miracle. I wish I could remember his name, but when I try all I come up with are those of footballers – Garry, Larry, Barry – due to the haircut. But what I really want to call him is Egbert. It's because the non-existent and onomatopoeic verb 'to egbert' would best describe what he did that day - he egberted his astragalos. At least it looked like an astragalos, but it didn't appear from his knuckles, it appeared from his mouth (hence the egberting – had it appeared from his knuckles I would have preferred to call him Albert – “he twisted his fingers and thereby alberted his astragalos”). Perhaps I should explain...

It happened one Friday afternoon when Egbert had come out to pay us, his smoker's cough suddenly developed into a paroxysm of some sort. Lenny and I didn't do anything, we just stared down at him assuming it was some kind of ruse to not pay us. After twenty minutes or so of croaking and writhing under our indifferent gaze, Egbert suddenly clutched his throat, and, well, egberted a white bony thing. It popped out of his mouth and landed with an awkward bounce between us. Lenny said later that he felt that it was part of Egbert's neck, an imaginative but unconvincing assumption - after all, had it been a cervical vertebra we would have surely noticed a reduction in Egbert's already modest height.

Thinking back, I feel Lenny and I were perfect miracle-witness fodder; Lenny with his poor grasp of anatomy and myself with my even weaker grip on reality, the two of us united in our easy credulity. If only Egbert had been charismatic, we could have been a cult... the “Charismatic Carwashers”... the “Carismatic Washers”... No, wait, the “Spongers”! That's it! The Spongers with their Rain Dances and soapy sponges and hedonistic ceremonies and... and...

Anyway, no cult, just three men, two tall and one short (and arguably getting shorter), standing outside a car-wash. I found it interesting that Egbert never referred to the incident, then or later - further evidence, I suppose, of his strict adherence to the Samurai code. As soon as he regained his composure he paid us and walked, a trifle unsteadily, back to his hut.

For Lenny, Egbert's auto-Heimlich routine generated an innocuous piece of neck, but for me it was clearly a cleromantic knuckle bone. I remember prodding at it with the toe of my Wellington boot; I noticed that whatever way I flirted the oracular astragalos it always landed the same way up. I was reflecting on this and its fateful implications (for whom?) when Lenny gave it a tap as well. We enjoyed kicking Egbert's ossicle back and forth for a while, in a sort of animated low-life rendition of the British Museum's Greek statue, until we became aware of an ashen face glaring at us through the condensation of the hut window – it was time to slouch back into the tunnel, where all it ever did was be windy with frequent showers.

An unwelcome addition to my buccal flora

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 07:09:06 GMT

Street in Tangier, by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937)
- my green is in there somewhere...

Another scene from Tangier, this time by photographer Roland Beaufre;

Nice green, nice bookcase – in fact the entire caboodle's nice. I could imagine myself there, reading, writing – yes, finally writing, plucking mots justes from a recalcitrant ether – that's if I wasn't too disturbed by the sound of falling flowers. When in creative mood it doesn't take much to disturb me; I'd have to tell the lady there to keep the noise down.

But would she be there if I was there? Impossible to say, given the ludicrous premise, but I hope so; I like the idea of those heavy blooms hitting hard tiles with silent thud and lazy bounce, a poetic trigger if ever there was one. Silent thud? The danger of course is that too many thuds, silent or otherwise, would break my concentration, especially as I'm very tall and would already be uncomfortable on that very short sofa.

That's where I'd be, lying, or attempting to lie, on that sofa, or wide chair or whatever it is. Though perhaps the conduits of creativity would flow more freely if I stretched out on the cool tiles, my head, at a suitably receptive tilt, resting on a tasselled cushion. Mind you, taking up such a position would not be without its dangers; I'd have to ask the maid (assuming she is the maid, or even assuming she isn't) to be careful where she tosses those blooms - wouldn't want one dropping into my gaping mouth as I'm essaying the sonority of some hard won line. Especially as she looks to be in the mood to take aim...

The pointless pursuit of the particular

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 06:51:08 GMT

Or the pursuit of the particularly pointless

Or the particularly pointless pursuit of-

I watched a film of Charles Dickens' “Great Expectations” the other day, it was the 1998 version directed by Alfonso Cuaron. As a child I remember watching David Lean's 1946 version and being scared out of my wits when Magwitch grabs Pip in the graveyard, but it's the more modern version that I really like; it's a weepy, but more importantly, it's green.

Many of the costumes are green, much of the décor is green. In Lean's version Miss Havisham's decades old wedding feast is covered in cobwebs (I posted a still of it three entries ago), in Cuaron's the banquet is bedecked in verdant ivy.

Cuaron has been quoted as saying, “I have to say green is the only colour I understand. I can really frame it; I know how to work with it. I see other colours, and they feel alien. I cannot give you a rational explanation why”.

I understand how he feels, though, not being a being a film director, I can't impose my taste on many others, just the handful who push open my creaking front door. Also, I'm more extreme than Cuaron, he's a fan of all greens; I'm a fan of one.

When out of doors I enjoy the myriad chlorophyllic greens, but at home I prefer a particular washed-out, cold, green that tends toward blue.

Occasionally an approximation of this green can be found in nature -

Green Wood cup (Chlorociboria aeruginascens), this is the fungus that stains the grain of its host plant and creates the “green oak” used in marquetry.

A pot by potter Gérald Potts

When I bought this pot it was green, when I wrote about it it was blue, now it's green again.

It was its green phase that caught my eye. I'm always looking for my particular green. The pot was close but still wasn't the one. I was delighted when the pot turned blue – even a pot has a greater capacity for change than I have. My search for this green has been going on for so long that I'm now not sure of the exact shade I'm looking for; it's more a notion than a colour.

This enamelled bread bin belonged to my parents, it's a 1950's green; it's nearly the one, perhaps its faded green was the one and what I think of as an aesthetic quest is simply an unresolved nostalgic yearning - a psychological need to return to the safety of the bread bin.

I couldn't find the correct shade of green in wall paint so I used floor paint for some walls (which was closer, but still not it – the aeruginous spew from the gargoyle's mouth is nearer to what I'm looking for).

My obsession taints everything I see. When I look at Rembrandt's “The Prophetess St Hannah” my eye is not drawn, as I suppose it should be, to the hand that radiates such a gentle and profound intelligence, the calm centre of an uncaring world. For me the focal point is elsewhere. The hair that lurks beneath the bonnet; does that have a hint of the green I'm searching for, or is it the product of a poor quality print? Is it simply that her grey hair is made green by the propinquity of the bronze trim of the bonnet and the warm glow of her face? Perhaps that's a clue, what I'm looking for is something that isn't, something that exists only as a reaction to more vibrant surroundings. Something even calmer than an old woman's hand.

Woodworm in my capercaillie

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:11:24 GMT

Yesterday morning I was alarmed to find sawdust dribbling from my capercaillie...

... so I dabbed it with insecticide...

... and now it's much better.

Lumberjackery

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 15:17:33 GMT

I was up in the woods this week, retrieving the logs I cut a few months ago. Luckily I had expert assistance;

The strapping fellow on the right is Tim, on the left is Monsieur Berthier, who is stronger than Tim and myself put together. M. Berthier is a retired farmer, when he saw my sledgehammer he immediately lent me his own bigger one. He said it was better for banging in the metal wedges (coins) used to split the logs. His hammer is incredibly heavy – a throwback to a more manly era. Despite my protestations he would accept only a pittance for all the help he gave me, just a few euros to cover fuel costs. This happens a lot in this village, people help each other, though God knows what I could do for M. Berthier that he couldn't do himself (something useful, that is).

Tim is one of my friends who helped cut the trees down. He is a keen ornithologist and suggested leaving the spindly dead tree, the one in front of the tractor, so that the smaller species of woodpeckers would have something to probe. Inevitably, when M. Berthier was manoeuvring his tractor and trailer, this rotten pole would get in the way. It irked the mild-mannered M. Berthier that we had left it standing there, evidence of poor husbandry, so when Tim was out of earshot I assured the older man that I'd go back later and hack it down – I feel Solomon would have reacted similarly.

We brought down four such trailer-loads

My log fires will be roaring and continual, I intend wearing little save my Ikea fake-silk dressing gown the entire winter long.

Tigers in the Duck cave

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 05:27:54 GMT

This is a tiger's head I found in Dublin. Bit cobwebby;

He occasionally gets an airing alongside his pal the wild boar (under the ever watchful eye of the pelican);

And this is a tiger's skull bought from a market stall in Dijon. Bit dusty;

Where does the dust come from? My skin, presumably, as it sheds and regenerates. I'm everywhere I look; a sort of pulverised omnipresence. I find it very tedious getting rid of the me that isn't me, so I don't.
A pop singer (Neil Diamond? Elvis?) once sang, “A man needs a maid”; how right he was!

I made the above trophy for a cricket tournament held here in Burgundy between French, Irish and English teams. The red roses, representing England, surround an Irish (Celtic) tiger clutching a bunch of French grapes in a passionate embrace. I felt the ensemble worked rather well, though a friend (who has a poor grasp of symbolism) described it as being “kitsch” and as being in “poor taste”. Such is an artist's lot. Also, the Irish economy collapsed, somewhat reducing the impact of the already strained visual metaphor.

STOP PRESS!

It appears that there's every chance of my acquiring a maid!

I had originally thought that such a métier had become outmoded what with the invention of the vacuum cleaner, but it appears that there are many, like me, who couldn't be bothered to do their own housework. A few weeks ago I let it be known in the village that I was looking for a bonne de chambre. I had almost given up hope when today I heard that a very attractive (not that that's relevant) woman is interested in the position. It appears she has been dismissed from the local château where tensions between herself and the châtelaine had resulted in less than ideal dining conditions;

I am convinced that her erstwhile employers were at fault and that I would be able to forestall such a deterioration in staff relations by drawing on my intuitive understanding of the modern woman's psyche. I feel sure that once we've attended to various trifles, such as my inability to provide a living wage and the selection of a uni- uni- uniform, my long neglected paraphernalia will benefit immeasurably from the deft flick of a feather duster.

Everybody got to be somewhere

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 05:33:17 GMT

I'm not sure why I was in Saulieu, wandering about in the early evening's half-light. A couple of restaurants were open but no one was eating – the French don't eat at any old time.

I wasn't hungry, wasn't anything really. I was between things, existing in a clear silent present defined by what isn't, like a pause between heartbeats.

In other words, I had absolutely nothing to do, so, having found myself in a deserted park, I slumped down on a bench. I was quite enjoying my tedium vitae when for some reason I found my gaze travelling leftwards - perhaps it was to track a passing moth, or simply that the breeze was using my head as a weather vane. Either way, I noticed this fellow;

I'd no idea who he was, but he mirrored my contented ennui exactly. His smile was better than mine though, his was Buddhic, mine more inane, a middle-aged-man-in-the-park smile used to convey the impression that one is not a threat to the more vulnerable members of society, but which somehow manages to intensify the impression that one is.

My floppy friend looked even happier from the other side;

At first I felt a little sorry for him; a simple soul unaware of his dire predicament. Then the reason for his strangely confident, if slightly deranged, demeanour occurred to me. Someone, somewhere, was dismantling their house in a crazed quest for this mauled morsel of cloth because the person that mauled it every night refused to sleep without it. After an hour or so the dismantler would freeze with the sudden, numbing, realisation that the object of their maniacal search had been left in this park.

My companion on the bench was waiting for a lift home.

It's only a matter of time.

And the failed taxidermist lay down with the lion and the lord saw that it was not good

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 06:24:17 GMT

Last weekend the annual “Journée du patrimoine” took place, which means that, for a small fee, or even for nothing, everyone normally outside a château has the opportunity of being inside one. I'm not sure why this is; presumably the owners of these buildings are obliged to let people in occasionally if they want to continue receiving massive restoration grants. Such cash injections would be much sought-after by the proprietors and even worth the disruption of their domestic routine the day the prying hordes invade.

There is a château near me that I was keen to explore for a specific reason. Here is a view of the demesne;

See the crease in the lawn halfway down? That's the ha-ha (the ha-ha is hidden as ha-has are).

The object of my interest was a lion that someone had told me was secreted somewhere within the château. I had tried to visualise the specimen; was it rampant like the one (which I've seen) in the grand entrance hall of a Viennese museum -

or broken and forgotten like this dehiscent wreck (which I'd like to see), in the Agricultural Museum of Cairo -

I've never been very interested in the inside of châteaux as they're usually filled with a hotchpotch of furniture that has replaced the real stuff sold off long ago. The outsides, however, never fail to fascinate. Look at this brilliantly constructed roof - there are no lead gulleys;

I was disappointed to learn that tours of the château were conducted in groups, one wasn't supposed to wander about aimlessly, or even with an aim as in my case. Eventually though, I got chatting with a friendly member of staff, I explained the reason for my presence and she kindly told me where the lion was and said that I could take a look as long as I was quick about it. Delighted, I stole in...
After negotiating a couple of corridors I found the beast creeping up the stairs!

It was a splendid mount, clearly recently acquired – on older mounts the stitching becomes apparent as the hide shrinks – the securing threads were so difficult to discern I had to lie on the cold stone floor in order to examine the ventral suture. I was therefore supine when the châtelain appeared.

He had emerged onto the stairs from a discreetly positioned doorway that had the kind of low lintel that usually indicates a servants' entrance (a maid's room? His hair was dishevelled, his kerchief loosened... ), but as I got to my feet all lurid notions of droit du seigneur were dispelled when I heard a water cistern refilling and detected the acrid tang of air-freshener.

He clearly wondered what I was doing lying on his landing with my head under his lion, but seemed to have difficulty phrasing such a question and after a couple of attempts asked instead if I was American (and thus, presumably, unaware of European landing etiquette), I imagine he made this assumption by reason of my height, or length in this instance - and he had yet to see my teeth.

After he had waited for me to get to my feet, which took some time due to my build and positioning, I explained that I was English, which confirmed for him my perfidious intent. After a perfunctory handshake (his hand was damp) I asked him of the provenance of the lion. With more deliberation than I felt was necessary he told me that he had shot it, I replied that I'd thought as much – a remark he took as implied moral criticism rather than as the intended compliment toward the tight stitching.

Mercifully, the clunk of the ballcock indicated that the cistern had finally filled and, by the leaden silence that it precipitated, that our time together had come to an end.

As I descended the stairs I thanked my host and bade him a breezy goodbye, my accelerating footsteps echoing in the stairwell and almost drowning out his “au revoir” - assuming that was what he said.

A fox in the guest room...

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 05:43:47 GMT

A few days ago I prepared the guest room for a special visitor. Naturally, I also prepared a few visual surprises to keep them on their toes;

I positioned this fine mount on top of the wardrobe, but, disappointingly, my guest spotted the beast immediately and was not even remotely fazed.

I went into the deserted room this morning, to salvage any shampoo that may have been left, and that damned animal scared me out of my wits.

(Hoist by my own renard... )

Losing one's marbles

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 06:33:39 GMT

The French painter Charles le Brun (1619-1690) is now probably most widely known for his drawings of humans who resemble other animal species. The people depicted always fascinate despite looking extremely unlikely;

I was reading recently in National Geographic of the part genetics plays in the development of facial characteristics. Particularly the beak.

It seems seems there is a “Big beak gene”, or more specifically a gene that creates (or “expresses”) a protein - Bone Morphogenetic Protein, or BMP 4 – which can dictate bill size and whose influence is best demonstrated in the Galapagos finches. Charles Darwin visited the remote Galapagos Islands in 1835 and his study of its finches played a crucial role in formulating his famous theory.

Darwin noted in detail the differences between the birds he saw and later deduced that they had all descended from a pair of common ancestors whose descendants became diversified over time as various ecological niches had been exploited.

It has been discovered that BMP4 is responsible for the larger, deeper beaks of some of these birds, the most extreme example being the Large Ground Finch.
Another protein, calmodulin, ensures, amongst other things, that some of the finches have more slender beaks, such as that of the Small Ground Finch.

Incidentally, some of these finches are well-known for the behavioural strategies they have developed to be able to survive on these islands' sometimes limited resources; the Woodpecker Finch routinely uses cactus spines to prise insect larvae from bark and a sub-species of the Sharp-beaked Ground Finch, the so-called “Vampire Finch”, that lives on a particularly arid island, punctures the skin of nesting sea birds to drink their blood.

BMP4 has also been identified in fish species, particularly East African cichlids, and scientists have tested its effects on Zebrafish (Danio rerio), resulting in the alteration of their facial appearance. The Zebrafish is the lab rat of pisciculture as it breeds readily in aquaria. It is egg-laying and in the wild its eggs become lost in the gravel of Himalayan streams but in fish tanks this omnivore has the opportunity and inclination to eat its own eggs. In laboratories special grids are put on the floor of tanks to protect the eggs but in a domestic tank a layer of children's marbles can be used to the same effect.

I know this because an older cousin, Bert, once asked to borrow my marbles for his brief foray into the Zebrafish breeding business (“Buy a pair for next to nothing, six weeks later sell 10,000 pairs back to the pet shop!”, or something like that). Luckily, being nine, my only investment in the venture was of the small spherical variety.

I never did see my marbles again - and there must have been forty of them. I cherished those marbles, but with the maturity that time bestows we outgrow such childish self-absorption and learn to cultivate a sense of perspective. In fact it was more like fifty, in three different sizes.

Now that I think about it, BMP4 and calmodulin appear to be pursuing their age-old rivalry on the physiognomical battlefields of my own family members. For example, my cousin Bert's nose is fleshy and bulbous, whereas my own is longer, narrower, more... more noble.

But in the long-term, despite its lack of breeding, Bert's heavier nose is winning; it has planted a far greater stake in the future - Bert has vigorous offspring who have inherited their father's robust features, while I head into a genetic cul-de-sac taking my finely honed appendage with me.

Fortunately, nasally speaking, all is not lost. Given our overlapping genetic history, somewhere deep within the unsuspecting genomes of cousin Bert's progeny lurks the patient seed of my own olfactory organ – beak-nose will be back.

“Hasta la vista, babies!”

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's a bird.

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 06:00:07 GMT

My duck phone rarely rings these days. It could be because I repeatedly have the telephone line disconnected and at each reconnection receive a new number...

...or it could be the duck phone doesn't ring because Duckman isn't required to save the local metropolis from a posturing megalomaniac.

The good people of Paris know that if an evil genius in fancy dress were to threaten them with some hideous fate, such as forcing them to eat English food or to not wear black, one telephone call and Duckman would come flapping to their rescue (assuming the paranoid weirdo hadn't changed his number again).

Awake so that others may sleep.

Pica means greed

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 06:24:41 GMT

There is a magpie (Pica pica) circling over my head, or at least spinning on its axis. Here it is;

It was given to me by my friend G and is suspended by a fishing line over my desk chair. I presume it gets its energy to spin from hot air thermals rising from my head, its rate of spin varying in response to fluctuations in cerebral temperature, thus making it an instrument of mensuration, an aerial mood-meter.
At the moment it's spinning very slowly, reflecting my present state of calm, but I've noticed how it speeds up if the phone rings. How did it ever become socially acceptable to have in one's home a machine that sets off an alarm at the whim of someone else? France Telecom has a thousand and one permutations of service but when I asked them for the one I wanted – to be able to ring out but not to be rung at – they responded with incomprehension (and it wasn't just my accent).

At different times, as an act of defiance against things in general, I've had the tetephone line cut. I remember discovering that there was a special number to ring if one wanted to be cut off - I dialled it immediately. I would recommend this course of action to anyone, the sense of liberation is immense and, as a bonus, if you relent and sign up again they give you a different number.

The mood-meter is not my only magpie (one for sorrow, two for joy);

This display had been stored for decades in the cellar of my friend John the Poet, he kindly gave it to me. I intend to replace its glass in the decades to come.
Note the paleness of the magpie's beak. There is a slim chance that this is a Yellow-billed Magpie (Pica nuttalli) from California, after all, there are other birds native to North America in the group (Blue Jay, Eastern Bluebird).

The illustrations below are taken from the January 1933 edition of the National Geographic Magazine and were painted by Canadian artist Allan Brooks (1869-1946).

Of course, my specimen could be either a European Magpie (Pica pica) or an American Black-billed Magpie (Pica hudsonia) whose beak has faded, but if not it must be of the much rarer Yellow-billed variety and as such may be very valuable indeed – magpie spin accelerating... becoming wobbly...

At one with the world

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 06:28:17 GMT

My cyber-friend Whimsy occasionally posts poems, always well chosen, this was the latest offering;

A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts

The difficulty to think at the end of the day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur -

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten on the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,

You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone -
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.

Wallace Stevens

When reading Wallace's evocation of a rabbit melting into infinity I feel my eyebrows lifting ever higher as the imagery expands. “Wind in the Willows” according to Rumi.

Wallace's poetry often reflects his interest in eastern mysticism, but as I read this remarkable poem my mind's eye was repeatedly distracted by an insidious western image – a terrified rabbit, high in the air, sitting motionless on a juchoir à lapin.

“higher and higher... your head like a carving in space...”

A juchoir à lapin or 'rabbit perch' was once widely used in France and Belgium as a method of fattening up rabbits for the pot. A board was suspended from the ceiling and the rabbit placed upon it. The idea being that the animal, terrestrial by nature and terrified of the oscillations provoked by its least movement, remains immobile, and expends no energy, save for its constant munching of the greens placed under its nose.

(It's just occurred to me that if the wires were at an angle as I have drawn them the board would be more stable and less fear-inducing than if they were vertical. Oh well, you've got the idea).

A variant was a simple shelf;

The French phrase poser un lapin à quelqu'un (to hang someone a rabbit) means 'to stand someone up by not turning up for a date'.

It's said that this derives from a phrase describing an act of a more shady and dishonest nature; that of availing of the services of a lady of the night and then not paying for said services. This explanation has always seemed unlikely to me given that it's difficult to imagine a time when such services were not paid for in advance (except, possibly, the very first time – a haggle in some primordial swamp).

I think the etymology of this phrase is more likely to be associated with the practice of suspending an eating-rabbit. After all, when one is 'stood up' one is kept hanging around, nervous, impotent, doomed...

I remember once having arranged to meet a young lady outside the entrance to Trinity College Dublin whose wrought iron railings form a grand backdrop to many a romantic rendezvous. I never attended this prestigious institution but I hoped it's proximity would imply that I was something other than just a gurrier standing in the drizzle. The allotted time came... and went (as it often did in the days before mobile phones). And then more minutes ticked by until the hour mark loomed and with it the dawning of truth... and like Wallace's rabbit I gradually became indistinguishable from my surroundings, and dissolved, empty and everywhere, into the rain.

Well, for a few minutes anyway, then I went to Neary's.

More roundabout talk

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 07:15:17 GMT

In the previous post I touched on the aesthetic aspects of a particular roundabout, an exercise that caused me to look up the history of this form of road junction and discover that it only became widespread, in Britain at least, in the 1960s'. This explains why roundabouts are not featured in my father's collection of “Safety First” cigarette cards;

The forward to this card album was written by Leslie Hore-Belisha (Minister of Transport 1934-1937), here is an extract;

“Parliaments may make Statutes and Ministers may make Regulations, but individuals make roads safer by carefulness and courtesy. The Highway Code is the traveller's code of honour. It reminds him that all persons have an equal right to use the highway and that good manners and consideration for others are as important on the road as in the drawing room. Sound knowledge of proper behaviour on the road, as set out in the Highway Code, is just as important to the pedestrian as to the motorist.”

Once indicating gadgets had been invented directional hand signals became redundant. I miss them, but, like many English drivers, I still use an elaborate array of courtesy hand signals to thank, admonish and encourage fellow road users. In the main, these actions baffle French drivers, who see them as superfluous and suspect their practitioner of being mildly epileptic.

In true Lamarckian fashion I inherited my style of driving from my father. I inherited also my father's prudishness (highly selective in my case), which may be why I don't practise the more graphic hand and arm gestures, and should this type of semaphore be directed at me, as is often the case (it's difficult to police the comportment of others and to remain in full control of one's own vehicle), I counter with a steely stare and quickly leave the scene.

.Of course, hand signals can be as necessary on the pavement as on the road;

This card illustrates the dangers inherent in tipping one's hat to a lady. Admittedly, this behaviour can be risky but it's hard to imagine a more noble way to go - and if one was to shuffle off the mortal coil in this fashion I'm sure the object of one's politesse would be flattered by such a selfless act of chivalry (once she'd received the relevant psychological counselling).

My favourite roundabout

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 07:47:18 GMT

The summer months are a trying time for my favourite roundabout; it is bedecked in a jarring assortment of flowering plants in an attempt to make artificial flowers look real, or possibly real flowers look artificial. Either way it looks uncomfortable, like a girl made to wear an old-fashioned dress for the benefit of others;

Winter is better, defiantly naked as the trees, it exudes a raw honesty (though some see it as a pointless heap of junk);

It's only on hibernal nights that it really comes alive - waiting patiently for the streets to be deserted before exhibiting its brazen glory;

I will live in Ringsend
With a red-headed whore,
And the fan-light gone in
Where it lights the hall-door;
And listen each night
For her querulous shout,
As at last she streels in
And the pubs empty out.
To soothe that wild breast
With my old-fashioned songs,
Till she feels it redressed
From inordinate wrongs,
Imagined, outrageous,
Preposterous wrongs,
Till peace at last comes,
Shall be all I will do,
Where the little lamp blooms
Like a rose in the stew;
And up the back-garden
The sound comes to me
Of the lapsing, unsoilable,
Whispering sea.

Ringsend, by Oliver St John Gogarty (1878-1937)