365 Ways With Words

Squally Assurances

                                        Raindrops compete for proximity

                                        Within the dewy confines of the shirt

                                        Altogether drip-trip double, the neck runs

                                        Pounded from above the lime tree-lined pathway

                                        The park’s sodden grassland gives way to quickmarsh

                                        Each milk coffee puddle churns to a bubble-popped sea

 

                                        In deeply thunderous rolls, away on the field-tops

                                        Jumping tears sound upon the river’s smoothness raised

                                        Down from heaven the tiller’s shift drops your storm

                                        This way now; be wet, and in the wetter shivers realise

                                        That Olympus hears all, but answers few, less so with favour

 

                                        They all pass, they move on, and they dry

                                        Grasses in green, thick oak velvet,

                                        As needful for it from drop-tipped fronds

                                        To the clutched grip-sure roots,

                                        These squally assurances allow the nameless and the named

                                        The power of a tomorrow, in rains today

Summer Rains

Tin hats on, the rains begin

The beguiling soft drips spatter arms

Awashed windscreens to come,

Theirs is the premon; fortune calling card

Sound out, in street sizzle, alarm for the washing

Such will cajole more tipgrowth in the lawn

 

From Devon mist to tropic deluge

All welcome the clean but the cricketers

It is a thing to be sat through

Or stood beneath a weeping tree

Hearty drops, their bombs ascend the legs,

Full conquest marched—defeated there is no hiding

 

Complete, another Beaufort-pushed ceasefire is done

A one-sided battle forever won

And then the sweet smell of victory—ah, petrichor

Bouquet puddles occupy the vanquisher’s delights

The bouncy castle’s treachery slip

Candidates all for sun-dumped steam

 

Until again the brolly dries

These weapons must be kept at the ready

Bachian stacatto notes pursue the summer’s course

Filling windows with soft fogs, the great indoors

Steel skies drift off, time softly taken

From sea, to sea, vita homines in gratia

Laughter – Part 3

The slow elevator clattered and crashed as it took the young couple upstairs. It stopped on each floor, and on each floor they got out, saw that it was not their floor and fell back between the closing doors to ascend again.

They threw off their clothes and fell into bed, then arose again to visit the bathroom – in Floria’s case, twice. The bulb was dead, which was probably just as well. She had never before been this drunk and thought she might hurl, and probably would have had she been burned by light of any kind, but after a dark drink of water and a few long breaths the feeling subsided. The whole thing had, however, made her a little fitful in her sleep.

They had not been the last ones to return to the chalet, but the stillness of the place resounded in their ears, further accentuated by the complete absence of noise from the dark, snow-dampened landscape. Their heads, side-by-side upon the bed, faced in towards each other – a couple in all but status. His breath came over her in rhythmic waves, and as she sunk into oblivion her semi-conscious mind filled with rapid images of Michael Collins drinking Irish whiskey with her; such an adult thing to do, like smoking and swearing, only moreso. This, plus the inner girlish excitement of being away from home at last, broke a barrier in her that she had not felt tested since Paulo the Italian exchange student two years before had charmingly suggested they go out. His accent, straight hair, athletic build and buff skin had made him instantly devourable to the rest of the girls, who all made efforts to befriend him, but it was Floria he had selected, and to her eternal regret she had said no. And with the flywheel wildly spinning on this mulch of inner machinery, her face found Miguel’s and she began to kiss him.

He was up first. Straight in the shower, he had not so much been confused about having woken up naked and in a state of arousal as to having obviously had a wet dream. His come lay across his thigh. At least, that’s how it felt. Washing it off in the lightless gloom of the bathroom, he blushed with more than a hint of embarrassment. With his pounding head, however, he could remember nothing. He and Floria had always been intimate, but there had never been anything in their make up to suggest they were anything but the closest of sibling friends. This event, however, sewed a sticky seed of doubt that once cast would not be picked up and pocketed again. But he had been naked – he always slept with a t-shirt and boxers; even drunk, he would not have taken everything off. The worry sat ill with him, particularly because they were no longer used to each other’s nakedness any more. That sort of thing had stopped early into puberty.

By the time he had towelled down and stepped back into the large chalet bedroom, a cold snowy light had begun to glimmer through the window blinds. He glanced over at her form lying in an s-shape under the duvet. It couldn’t be that they had…

He tugged on some fresh clothes and settled in the armchair, his hand over his mouth. Had they done something terrible, that Grandpa’s baby Jesus would surely disapprove? He wanted to wake her to ask her, but also felt deeply ashamed to mention it. She zedded on, her deep breathing indicated by the slow rise and rapid fall of the white duvet.

It was another hour before she stirred, turning first one way, then another, putting out one arm and then rubbing her face into life. Coming round, she remembered where she was, and looked for Mig’s head beside her, then lifted her gaze to scan the room. By this point, Miguel was really unsure of himself. In those sixty minutes or so he had convinced himself that something had occurred between them, and that he was probably guilty of letting his unfettered libido loose aided and abetted by an excess of Irish alcohol. But she smiled a weak smile at him, then let her head crash back onto the pillow.

“What’s the time?”

“8:45”

“I’ve got such a head.”

He hummed a response between pursed lips.

She was not naked, but had a long t-shirt on – his, in fact. Quite how this had happened she could not fathom. Once this piece of information entered her head, she looked again at him. He was not sitting happy; a frown darkened his thoughts.

“What is it, Mig?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“I don’t know, Flo.”

She stopped. He hadn’t called her Flo since they were kids. Sensing the tension, and that he was not going to be communicative, she stepped out of bed to shower. As she did, he glanced at his side of the bed. Indeed, there was a hint of smeary red where he had lay – midway down the mattress. He smoothed over the duvet, making it straight. Now he was convinced, and it terrified him.

Wordless she dressed, wordless they took the elevator, and wordless they entered the breakfast room. It was packed. The snow still fell heavily, but with a rising wind it began to rest against the large window and the new fall appeared to be settling into drifts. Collecting chocolate, fruit, bread, cheese and meats, they sat at the end of a long table beside the view listening to the screaming of a little baby unsatisfied with his lot, and the heated discussion of a German family on the next table. The tabletop before them was sticky with residue from the previous occupants mess. They stared at the whiteout, thinking they had little chance of skiing today, and would have to stay put, with only each other’s company – normally a pleasant prospect, but taking on a different hue because of their over-heavy thoughts. As they stared out, the cable car began to move. They could see it rise up the vertiginous white cable, stop, move on, stop, and move on until it disappeared into the dirty sky beneath the mountainous massive it was attached to. This also aroused the interest of the Germans, one of whom went outside to ask at the station whether the situation would improve.

As they continued to wonder what was going on, a tall figure ambled on the snowy path towards the hostel. He was dragging a suitcase.

As he reached the hostel steps, he was overtaken by the rapidly returning German who swung open the glass doors into the restaurant and loudly announced that the weather was set to improve early afternoon and that the cable car service would begin at midday. In his wake stood Michael Collins, dusting off the snow from his puffed jacket. He scanned the room and quickly found the couple.

“Hi, there! How are you doing? I see you’ve recovered from last night. Mind if I sit down.”

So saying, he tapped Floria’s near-finished neighbour on the shoulder and asked politely if he could squeeze in.

Floria seemed pleased to see him. Miguel felt a squirm inside.

“Did you sleep well? We had a pretty good evening, I thought.”

They all nodded. Floria took a sip of chocolate.

“So, it looks like you might get some skiing in today, after all. It’ll still be bad up there, but fresh snow is good snow, eh?”

Miguel started, “Mr Collins, I’m not sure if we said thank you for the drinks, and the food and everything last night. If you let us have your details, your address or number, then we’ll gladly pay our share…”

Michael looked a little puzzled. “No-no, it was all on me, really.”

“But you’re too kind.” Floria said. She rested a hand on his cold arm.

Miguel continued, “Yes, too kind…”

“Not at all. My pleasure. You two were such excellent company. I would have been very bored there by myself. So, let’s not hear any more of it.”

The children habitually nodded at each other, and then glanced away in opposite directions, Miguel out of the window, Floria at Michael.

“So,” she began, “what brings you here?”

“I was just passing through, like I said.”

“No, I meant this morning.”

“Actually, I’d been meaning to ask you that;” Miguel interrupted, “I mean, you can’t exactly pass through from here anywhere. We’re at the end of the road.”

“It’s… it’s just an expression.” Michael’s eyes flashed a hint of hostility towards Miguel. “I’m travelling.”

This at once sounded ridiculous to Miguel – even more ridiculous than for him to say he was just passing through.

Floria helped him again, “I meant today.” She smiled.

He smiled back at her, and hesitated as the momentary connection took place. “I came to see you.” He smiled again, at both of them. “Of course, you may not remember what we talked about last night.”

They shook their heads, as if answering a question in class.

“That’s all right. We had a good night, that’s all you need to remember. For now. But you said you’d be able to help me out.” He cheerily caught both their eyes.

They were still nonplussed.

“It’s this old bag – the suitcase. I just have to get it to Madrid before the end of the year (it’s for my wife – her birthday, you see), but I’m not going back for a while – passing through, as I said. So, I asked if you would be good enough as to take it back with you for a friend to pick up, and you graciously agreed.”

“We did?” asked Miguel.

“You did. And so, here I am. And here's the case. So, what do you say?” He beamed another smile, as trustworthy as the last.

River Ice – the video

Something different for today.

 

                                Through town and out beyond

                                Run rivers in clear, slow death

                                Day’s meagre heat leaves all earth and sky:

                                Life saps, saps still, to a blue glaze

 

                                Softly starts the solid stock

                                Locks a hardened skin

                                Such flimsy bergs

                                Slide to can-crush crunch

                                Barely a whisper – a frozen breath

                                And back-up, up, up

 

                                Further and higher it is clear

                                For the present

                                But inch by hoarded inch

                                Blocks collide for the new cold road

                                A cliché of life’s accumulators;

                                Decline, stiff still meanderings, folly and sense.

 

                                On either rime-reeded side

                                White-formed siege platforms hold fast

                                Until loud above the water’s ice-dropping course

                                It snaps

                                Echoing from the bank’s shelf

                                And drops itself onto the mud edge

                                Leaving cubes dangling

 

                                Old Man, Old Father, Old

                                Softly laid, rageless, bare head

                                Form of winter’s form –

                                Watcher and waiter allowing

                                How much it must it knows not

                                And cares less

                                Clasped in its channel

                                For dead days and nights

                                Until the sun’s imperious nod

Dirty Snow

On dim. On blue. On cold.

Settled stipple the quiet night through

Crowded car top patches frozen up

Crinchy-crunch down

–Delight–

Perceivers by smoke headlit waits at lights

As fell foots fall on white, white, white...

 

Work pulls, drear demand,

On school runs mums safety

Passing chaos energy. And back.

Inhales of sharp smart sparkler

Dog poo park steam

On silver-edge maple leaves curl

–Pattern–

Shoe heel cuff crush

 

Melty dark on tread tyres passing

Blattercast left, blithercast right,

Until greying frowns line each road, lane, avenue,

The sunless cliffs in tectonic ribs unseen

Drain. Drain down. Drain off.

Darker than weightiest clouds,

–Gone–

Sumer Is Icumen In

So soft has this European winter been, so wet and warm, that one could be forgiven for believing that the cold, dark and brutal winters of yesteryear are gone forever. In the December weeks leading to Christmastide there was a introductory nip of minus degree weather and it was commonly accepted that the icy claws of the north were extended ready to rake in field and town. But this cold snap, which lasted short of 14 days, was hurriedly buffeted away by the current warm spell that appears to be here to stay. Even today above the Czesky Republiky is a beautiful blue sky and the bright sun has early begun its chase of the night's wispy fog across the open, empty fields.

Hedgehogs have emerged to feast on cold wriggly worms in the mud and the hopeful twig-end buds on the sycamores are preparing to burst. Just what on earth's going on round here?

North Americans are currently in no doubt about winter as they perceive with horror just how bad a -60˚F (-51˚C) polar vortex can be. The poor Brits have also welcomed in the New Year with poor weather – flooding, winter storm surges and torrential rain may just be an annual occurance.

With all of this in mind, possibly the oldest earworm tune in history merrily played itself over the first cup of tea of the day, Sumer is Icumen In. This mid-13th century polyphony, written on beautiful parchment, is on display at the British Museum. It holds an innocent medieval charm that tenderly describes the signs of late summer in typical jocular English humour – in particular, the line 'the bullock prances, the buck farts'. Attempts to bawdlerise this line in particular have always made it funnier than it really is.

 

You've also probably heard it under different guise when the mice on Bagpuss's Marvellous Mechanical Mouse Organ sing the tune with alternative words as they clean and repair the object of the episode. I include it below simply to enforce this earworm and offer no apology: it is a nice thing to have running around your head all day. And maybe –just maybe– it will help maintain the nice weather here and hasten the return to warmer weather wherever you are (Australia excluded).

 

Clouds and Ice Pellets

Tiny ice pellets, smaller than grains of salt, are everywhere. Imperceptible in the air, barely noticeable to the skin, they fall upon the freezing mud as a disastrous spill from a overstuffed heavenly beanbag. The slightest stinging breeze huffles them together in a deep boot mark, at the edge of a black-iced puddle, on the back of a dog's black coat.

Of insufficient size to do much other than sit around on paths and benches, or decorate dog poo like an icing sugar topping, the haily phenomena is an innocent forewarning. The roar of winter has yet to be heard; these are the first flecks of spittle from its muzzle.

Three days before midwinter, the darkness seeks to overwhelm. Smoked clouds burrow the skylight – the sweating sun of July is a mere fantasy; a bizarre memory. Tumbling on, the frozen beads will leave no forensic footprint when -2 becomes +2. They will vanish being, by æstival days, a puzzling figure of old December's bleak remembrance.

                "Thus with the year seasons return, but not to me returns day...

                Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose...

                But cloud instead, and ever-during dark

                Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men cut off"

Milton – Paradise Lost                                            

First Snow

Not so much a Steven Seagal title, as an exciting childhood event that would uncontrollably draw faces to the classroom window. It was then a matter of counting down the minutes and seconds before break before hurtling outside to play with the stuff. It was never a poetic moment – just great fun!

We've had a load in the night and right now it's still gently falling. The flat feels brighter because of the reflected light. Pundits have remarked that this will be a severe winter. Quite how they divine this is a mystery to me, but it's probably safer than saying that we'll have a three-month long heatwave.

The doggies are fascinated with the stuff – it somehow makes all the smells crisper and more attractive. They're excited, but haven't done 'mad dog', unlike our other hounds who used to rush about the garden with wide-eyed abandon biting it up. Maybe it's beneath Hong Kong dogs to do 'mad dog' with the elements...

I once shared a flat in Hull with two Botswanans (it's along story) and they couldn't believe how snow was truly white. They had read the Biblical descriptions of it, but it was only on coming outside they understood the relevance of the words of Isaiah, "though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow". We then spent the next twenty minutes at war pelting each other with great fluffy snowballs until their fingers became painfully frozen and retreat seemed the better part of valour. It was one of the most enjoyable snowball fights ever.

Some of the worst snowball fights, however, were against neighbouring schools where dog shit and stones were added to give greater impact. Being tall I always took a hit.

It's only a matter of time before snowmen appear. I loved making snowmen, especially the orthodox kind where one giant snowball can be pushed atop another and sticks used for arms. I remember only once using coal, a carrot and a scarf – wouldn't they get nicked?

Many adults are particularly surly with snow; even my mum considered it frightful, horrid stuff. Of course, no-one wants to slip over and get hurt, but isn't it better to maintain the childhood delight of snow – to value every season and enjoy it for what it is? I suppose if I worked in geriatric orthopedics or was a hill farmer with flocks suffocating under the stuff then I might have other opinions.

The flakes are much bigger and the fall is thicker now. Here I am tucked up in my nice warm flat whilst others are less fortunate. Well, perhaps it's no coincidence that the season of goodwill also falls at this time.

Czech Republic vs United Kingdom – Which is Best?

If you have visited another country you will have seen the ways those people go about their lives and noted the differences – food, TV, road signs and social habits. Other things are a little more mysterious and take time to unravel – banking systems, etiquette surrounding introductions, subjects not up for discussion. In making comparisons it becomes quickly obvious that some peoples go about their daily business better than others.


Drawing comparisons is an inevitable, and enjoyable, part of journeying. It's a very ancient human thing; Ug and Mug must have compared the relative roominess of their respective caves. To create lists of the relative comparative and useful indicators is usually the provisos of economic analysts or the leaders of domineering right wing political parties –is there a difference? This post fits ill with either and is merely, then, a bit of fun. For brevity’s sake here is an examination of two fairly normal indicators for the United Kingdom and Czech Republic, the weather and food.

The Weather

The United Kingdom is wet. The UK's weather is such an important factor it is always the first item of conversation. Last week, I entered a public house in Chelmsford to partake of a lunchtime pint (more on that later) and sat reading the paper. The regulars turned up with:

“Hello Bob/Fred/Bill. Miserable bloody weather.”

“Oh, I don’t know – sun’s trying to come out.”

“Doesn’t bloody know what it wants to do.”

Etc, etc.

Once the weather was adequately analysed, each patron was able to introduce any other business at hand –ordering their pint, discussing the shortcomings of the new young barman, denigrating the Prime Minister, wondering whether Old Bob/Shorty/Jack/Legs was dead because nobody had seen him for a while. Pub and bar conversations all over the world are probably much the same, but because it is ever-changeable the weather is always the first item in the UK. Its level of analysis may also indicate the general mood and well-being of said analysers and so act as first (disguised) piece of meaningful communication.


British weather is rightly seen as generally notorious, particularly anywhere in the west. It makes for one of the wettest places of Europe, although London now has less rain than Rome, Sydney and New York and parts of East Anglia have become almost arid in nature. Climate change has adversely affected UK weather in both directions.

The weather in the Czech Republic, however, is pretty good. Its continental climate means generally low humidity, benign summers and relatively cool winters. There’s not much more to say about it, other than how enjoyable it is to go for weeks without rain and still have the trees all green and splendid and the rivers flowing. It did get a little nippy last winter when everything got caked in delightful snowyness. This meant that people had to travel to work – IN THE SNOW! As amazing as that sounds to British people, for whom a light dusting of snow spells imminent cessation of all aspects of civilisation and the arrival of mutant zombie white walkers from beyond the wall, work continues in pretty much the same way for Czechs whether there’s cold white stuff on the ground or not. In this way, the Czech Republic wins hands down as a better place to live. But then, if weather was the sole criteria, and the British were asked, almost anywhere in the world would be a better place to live.

Food

The food of the United Kingdom has oft been the subject of worldwide humour, as indicated by this old faxlore:

Heaven is where the police are British, the lovers French, the mechanics German, the chefs Italian, and the Swiss organise it all.
Hell is where the police are German, the lovers Swiss, the mechanics French, the chefs British, and the Italians organise it all.

Any traveller will be quick to understand that food everywhere can be appalling and delightful. British cuisine earned its lamentable reputation between the wars as a result of rationing and difficulties in supply. If the sole culinary experiences of forriners had been made during visits to post-war austerity Britain, then it’s hardly surprising these would have been negative. In the last 30 years or so the general standard of British food has improved leaps and bounds. The public demand for better food quality all round has not been limited to taste but has also extended to service and cleanliness. As a consequence, the United Kingdom is host to some of the most exclusive, imaginative and competent eateries, such as the Fat Duck in Maidenhead, or Gordon Ramsay in London. Admittedly these are rather showy, celebrity chef-owned examples, but they help demonstrate an increased awareness in the level and quality of cuisine.


Another indicator of an increase in the general overall interest of British people in such matters the sheer number of television programmes focused on food – Nigella Bites, Jamie at Home, Can’t Cook Won’t Cook – which also translates to better awareness and eventually better food on plates. Of course, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and the ability of restaurateurs to attract and maintain regular custom can only be put down to quality, quality, quality. Of course, that’s not to say all eateries are good, but it's safe to say things foody are in a healthier condition now that they have ever been.


Czech food, it must be said, is not something to be generally desired, unless one likes plates full of roasted meats and heavy dumplings. The food tasted is tasty and sourced locally, but it would be sretching the truth to call it excellent: portions are usually large and the service is functional and friendly and, as a rule outside Prague, is very cheap. If that's all you want, then come and get fed, but you certainly won't be able to enjoy the equivalent excellence as that found at Jules Verne up the Eiffel Tower – previously described here.

What redeems the Czech Republic to its everlasting glory are two things: beer and bread. The Czechs are to brewing what Amsterdammers are to the diamond industry – they take a fairly standard natural product and with a little attention to detail create a superior product. It would be a weak palate indeed that could not tell the difference between beautiful Czech beer and the tapped piss that is poured elsewhere for three times the amount (or more). That's not to say artisanal breweries cannot be found in the UK, the US and elsewhere, but here it is part and parcel of the culture. Beer flows in the veins and provides the bedrock upon which most social communication is fastened: work ends and the pivo is poured. I recommend anyone to visit and partake of a beer holiday just to see how wonderful it all is.

Similarly, Czech bread is of a very high quality. It settles well in the stomach and doesn't cause the ridiculous bloating that occurs with shop-brought bread elsewhere. I can only put it down to unadulterated ingredients, particularly the absence of potassium bromate, mono-and diglycerides, sodium stearoyl lactate, calcium propionate, dextrose, and a whole host of other nasties that gets wrapped in cellophane and called bread. Local pekařství (bakeries) are modest and popular. We had our breadmaker shipped over – it sits idly most of the time.

So there you have it, the Czech Republic wins on weather, but fails on food (if bread and beer are excluded). Thus far we have survived here for eight months on only bread and beer. And whilst the Velká Britanies may be enjoying better grub nowadays, they're certainly paying too much for it. I hate to admit it, but in conclusion the Czech Republic wins overall on both weather and food categories.

As to that pint and paper in Chelmsford I mentioned earlier, it was vinegary and spoiled – dirty taps no doubt, and nearly put me off my perusal of the Guardian (don't get papers like that in the Czesky Republiky). I asked for another and that was also vinegary. For a moment, I doubted the integrity of my taste buds until I sampled a third, Doom Bar, and that was just about good enough. I'll put it down to bad luck. The pint of Budding at the Prince Albert in Stroud was, as usual, excellent and without that I would have been wholly given over to the Czech stuff.

Ah well, another day another pint.