You know, I am becoming increasingly sceptical about this changing the clocks business.  Those of us who will insist on living in the northernmost habitable parts of Europe, to wit, West London, have it bad enough.  In the winter it is barely light by mid-morning to find one’s glass of sherry on the side table, and it starts getting dark at the closing sups of a proper lunch.  In the summer, the sitch is quite the reverse.  The birds are screeching in the trees about all the joys of the season at around four in the AM and the gloaming is still in full progress at the closing echoes of Newsnight.  I can see how bureaucrats of all stripes were keen to come up with some kind of practical solution in order to keep the war effort on an even keel, encourage cows to provide more milk and provide an extra hour of sunlight to encourage the growth of vital fruit and vegetables.

As you might be aware, I am a regular visitor to Scotland, in fact I was there on Easter Sunday with my Uncle Archie, a number of his disreputable friends and a case of finest scotch to welcome the extra hour.  It is something of a tradition north of the border, especially amongst those looking for an excuse to get some extra drinking time.  Of course, the lighting conditions up there are considerably worse at the two Solstices, but at an equinox, Scotland is almost habitable.

The whisky and the climate are the less vital reasons for undergoing another epic drive up the Scotland.  The primary reason is to be out of the house when the clocks change.  I have an inordinate number of clocks in my flat, the result of a bequeathment from my late lamented Uncle Chronitis who left them to me some years ago, along with a couple of astrolabes and with an old-fashioned Police Telephone box.  By the way, I asked the Golf Club to find somewhere for the latter item and they told me that they had left it in the gully next to the Fourth Green but it must have been nicked by some local scallywags as it’s not there now.  Perhaps it will turn up.

In any case, twice a year the flat becomes virtually uninhabitable as My Man pads around from room to room in his stockinged feet, spirit-level, winding keys and business cards in hand.  When changing the clocks he likes to make sure each mechanism is properly balanced, hence the business cards which he slips under an offending corner of the chronograph he is adjusting.  He never outright blames Mrs Flittersnoop for unbalancing the clocks, but there is a certain drained look in his eye which tells one that this clock would be perfectly precise if it were not for the actions of one colleague as she was dusting.  In any case, silence must prevail as his acute ear tunes into the beat of the pendulum and he carefully levels each one.

Spring forward is not so bad.  A clockwork mechanism does not mind too much being advanced by an hour, but as Uncle Chronitis was at pains to teach me, it can never be wound back.  Every October this leads to a Sunday morning of cacophonies of bells as one by one each clock is advanced a full twelve hours, with a couple of twenty-four-hour specials thrown in for good measure.  I know what Auden meant when he wrote stop all the clocks.

Some years ago, I decided that the toll this process took on the nerves was just too great and that from now on I should exile myself from the abode while it took place.  These days I make myself scarce for the entire weekend, not returning until Monday morning to be on the safe side.  This does mean having to manage the journey myself, as the two-seater is hardly a practical proposition for any long journey without My Man and the Thames Van in support, carrying spares, luggage, oil, elastic bands and so on.  I therefore booked myself a ticket on the sleeper and a room at the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh.

Of course the train is a joy in comparison with driving, and I am astounded that not everybody does it.  I took WH Auden’s Selected Poems, WH Auden’s Collected Poems, WH Auden’s Collected Longer Poems and WH Auden’s Collected Even Longer Poems but am glad to report that the last two of those volumes were superfluous as we drew into Waverley as I was only half way through the second of those books.  I see Faber’s are working on WH Auden’s Collected These Probably Need a Bit Of Editing, and I look forward to reading that on a future trip, perhaps if I get a go on the Trans-Siberian Railway once that awful Putin person has accidentally fallen out of a window or met some similar fate.

Some poetry which welcomed much appreciation and perhaps a little light editing was evident in this week’s Workshop.  Sue Flemings opened with a poem inspired by the sight of a coffin in a motorcycle sidecar as part of a biker’s funeral procession.  Her piece, presented in two parts, pondered on her own mortality and the unassuming nature of the funeral she would prefer. It was a candid exploration of one’s final sign-off and the simplicity that can accompany it.

Anna Matyjiw shared a piece steeped in stillness, capturing a moment of isolation suspended in time. Her words invited us to consider whether she was expressing a reluctance to fully embrace life or, on the contrary, celebrating its ongoing journey through the act of remembrance and anticipation.

Roger Beckett presented a thought-provoking poem that contrasted the innocence of a young girl pouring her heart into playing her violin until her fingers bled, with the grim reality of politicians with blood on their hands. The poem deftly navigated the duality of human actions, juxtaposing purity with culpability.

Nick Barth mused on the seemingly trivial yet telling subject of kitchen drawer clutter. His poem was a cheeky observation on how the accumulation of everyday items can chart the passage of time and reflect the evolution of our lives.

Upon the return to the bosom of my home, I found peace and tranquillity reigned and a welcome additional stretch of natural light to enjoy my Earl Grey and HCB by.  It is that extra hour which is the pebble in the loafer here.  Should we give up daylight savings, the fear is that we denizens of these damp, often gloomy islands will have twelve months of Greenwich Mean Time imposed upon us.  Perhaps the real inspiration for the whole clock-shifting thing was Persephone and her ill-advised elopement with grim old Hades.  Collectively, we elected to wolf down the pomegranate seeds and agreed to daylight savings because like her, we know that Mean Time should be balanced with Summer Time.  But, if we are going to be persuaded to do away with clock shifting, we want that extra hour, perpetually. 

As ever, we need to be careful what we wish for.  All the zero-emissions, elastic-band-powered two-seaters in the world are going to struggle to stem the inevitability of the last one hundred and fifty years of wanton combustion.  Summer will arrive earlier, winter will turn up later.  Poor Hades and Persephone will not know when to pull the covers over the swimming pool and bolt the shutters in one house while making sure the heating is serviced in the other.  Meanwhile, we cannot trust our politicians to get it right.  We will be stuck in Greenwich Mean Time, permanently, and nobody wants that.

Even so, despite mutterings from some corners it looks like daylight savings may be with us for a little longer.  Mind you, it does do wonders for the tomatoes.

If you have been, thank you for reading.   

Workshop, 26th March 2024

I read in last week’s PP Blogs that Ms Challis seems justifiably put out that I have not been able to take my usual comfortable seat at the head of the table in the Library at Questor’s.  The problem is that the piles of empty Easter Egg boxes lie about me dark and deep and even, and I have promises to keep, and I have promises to keep.  Lynchpin and doyen of the Ealing Literary scene I may be, but like the self-satisfied looking lady in the painting by John Pettie which hangs in Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, I have several strings to my bow. 

My somewhat itinerant upbringing in the care of my never less than fastidiously secretive parents saw me parcelled up like a bundle of washing and shipped from location to location as assignments demanded.  While I was eventually sent to a hideous and never-to-be-mentioned school somewhere in the barren wastes of the North of Scotland, I was never able to quite shake my spook heritage.  It hangs upon my shoulders like a deep-fried albatross.

Unlikely as it may seem, we agents of the secret services find it necessary, indeed even enjoy getting together on occasion.  Our political masters may shake their heads in disbelief, but they have their underserved shindigs in places such as Davos, and we have, well, we have other places.

It would have been impossible to maintain a covert conflict as lengthy and intense as, for example, The Cold War, if opposing intelligence professionals were unable to get together to share information.  The people who attend are never less than professional and are not there to gabble state secrets.  However, fashion tips, such as the gabardine overcoat that just every spy is sporting this year, or the brogues that can be worn all day without discomfort, that kind of intel is essential.  It goes without saying that these events attract the usual arms suppliers, with Walther, Glok, Ruger, Smith and Wesson and even Super Soaker joining the discreet arms fair which takes place in one of the chosen hotel’s larger rooms. 

It is only becoming of each secret agent to cultivate their own peculiar aspects and tastes.  Choice of clothing, weapons, wine, food, cigarettes and automobiles are all part of the secret agent’s milieu.  ‘Standard issue’ is not in our vocab, and while budgets are finite, it is well known that Aston Martin would have disappeared sometime in the 1970’s without the support of wealthy, retired agents looking for a machine to blast away the cobwebs on a Sunday morning.

Equally, secrecy is one thing, but we all have careers to take care of.  If our own government’s short-sighted politicians are making cuts to intelligence expenditure, the numbers in one’s little black book can be used to find an alternative source of income, just by sidling up to a high-rolling spy-master at the tea and biscuits during the show.

So, it would be impossible to develop or sustain the long-term, grumbling conflicts which the people of this planet so clearly enjoy without the intelligence professionals and the best practice recommendations on everything from insulated socks to wi-fi cracking software without these regular meet-ups, and this is one of the other strings to my bow.  From time to time I am called upon to make a trip to an International destination, a discreet hotel or minor exhibition centre to join my comrades in espionage.

My comrades in poetry were well in attendance on one of the few Tuesdays which I have been able to spend in Ealing recently.

Christine Shirley brought us White Blossoms, a poem that celebrated the ephemeral beauty of blossoming trees. While the piece flirted with the structure of a sonnet, it remained uniquely its own. There was a consensus that with a nudge here and a tweak there, it might indeed fully blossom into a sonnet’s embrace.

Roger Beckett transported us to a Renaissance painter’s studio with a team talk that was as much about artistry as it was about camaraderie. The poem cleverly wove footballing lingo into the studio details, leaving us amused and intrigued. We found ourselves longing for more painterly references to complement the veiled nods to the beautiful game.

Martin Choules presented a rather intriguing discussion on the architectural preferences of the devil himself. With a witty exploration of styles from Brutalism to Gothic, the poem invited us to consider what structures might catch the eye of Satan. It was a conversation starter, to say the least.

Nick Barth candidly confessed to indulging in magazine reading, setting the stage for potential shock value. However, the twist in his poem this week steered us away from scandal and toward a rather unexpected revelation, leaving us all somewhat relieved and slightly entertained.

By now I suspect I may have piqued your interest as to where I have been and what exactly I have been up to.  Clearly there is very little concerning this year’s Spring meet-up which I can tell you.  We have secured rooms in quite a grand hotel in one of Europe’s more bijou capital cities.  As is traditional at this time of year I have been asked to organise the Easter Egg hunt.  Some of the world’s greatest exponents of the arts of disguise and sleight of hand will push their skills to limit to locate chocolate eggs located throughout a large public building.  This is a very popular event and is always very rewarding to watch, especially for yours truly.  As usual, this year’s Easter Egg hunt has a twist.  There are no Easter Eggs.  In the world of espionage locating the prize is not the point.  It is the search we find rewarding.

If you have been, thank you for searching.

Workshop, 13th February 2024

Although they do not like to admit it, poets are as likely to suffer from car trouble as any other denizen of the decadent free west.  I am aware that cars and motoring are not common themes for verse.  Poets are much more likely to see themselves stumping over a landscape replete with metaphor, dressed in walking boots and outdoor wear, leaning on trees, hills, daffodils and other wildlife as devices.  They rarely touch on the inevitable closing stages of the adventure, returning to the National Trust car park, sitting on the rear bumper in order to wrestle recalcitrant muddy boots from awkward socks, dealing with the dog who just had to go for a swim in the duck pond a mile back, wondering whether it is too soon or too late to go to the pub, turning the key in the ignition, only to find that the bloody thing will not start.

Given the dire quality of the products of the British Motor Manufacturing Industry following WWII, when Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, et al were presumably out and about getting inspired by country churches, corvids and endless rain, it is a wonder that the subject of the car did not come up more often.  TS Eliot allows the motor car to sidle into The Waste Land in a couple of places. Mr Osmiroid, my Garagiste is insistent that Thomas Stearns must have had a British motor bike which caught fire, and no amount of polite debate will dissuade him of this misapprehension.  Then again, as long as one’s Garagiste knows his valves from his soupapes and his steering from his directionelle then he is a man to be trusted. 

Perhaps it is the veteran, hard-bitten poet’s supposed relationship with alcohol which condemns them as untrustworthy around cars~.  Raymond Carver did not actually write about driving while drinking, but he came very close.  While I am fond of his poem Alcohol, if only because of the role a Citroen takes in his fictional memory of a between-the-wars Paris, contrasted with the dusty Ford on his driveway in California post-war, I do not get the impression Carver knows much about the four-wheeled conveyances he writes about.

My final suspicion is that the problem with the motor-car in poetry, and perhaps in literature as a whole, is that it is impossible to include an identifiable automobile without sounding like a snob.  Readers in the 1970’s may have thought John Betjeman’s Subaltern should be congratulated for persuading his Hillman to make the trip to Ms JH Dunn’s lovely home unaided, let alone on to the Golf Club dance afterwards.  The Hillman Imp had such poor handling that it stood a good chance of careening into a hedge should insufficient care be taken on the roads not adopted, while one would not want to hang around in the car park under the intimate roof of the thing admiring each other for long.  One can safely assume that at the at the end of the dance the place would be filled with irate motorists waving jump-leads and offering each other a jump start.  Quite inevitably a quantity of the Rovers and Austins spread out around the canoodling couple would expect to need some assistance to get them home, should there be so much as a nip in the air that evening.  Of course, Betjeman is using these fine upstanding British brands as proxies for the aspirational, middle-class Golf Club personalities milling about in his story.  To be true to the time he is capturing we should locate the Hillman in the years between the wars, when the average motor car was so simple that a child of five could maintain one.

‘Mr Osmiroid, the rear of my Snipe will insist on stepping out under braking!’

‘Quick!  Fetch a child of five to re-grease her trunnions!

In the cause of avoiding snobbery, there were no signs of motor-cars at this week’s Workshop.  Amir Darwish took us through the difficult journey of a refugee finding their way into Europe. Each step of the way is fraught with challenges and his poem didn’t shy away from that tough reality.

Sue Flemons shared two short pieces, each one a vivid snapshot of the striking scents of hyacinth and Amaryllis. Her descriptions made these flowers positively audible in the slightly stuffy atmos of the Library.  Roger Beckett’s poem Nonsense and Numbers humorously contrasted the time it took for Bob Dylan to write Dignity against Leonard Cohen’s lengthy 17 years to perfect Hallelujah.  Rarely a poet to be taken too seriously, this was a light-hearted look at the time artists invest in their work.

Martin Choules gave us To Have and to Hold Off, a poem that takes a sideways glance at Valentine’s Day and the concept of marriage, suggesting that some may be better off delaying it indefinitely.

Michael Harris brought a serious tone with his poem For Every Woman, addressing a disturbing experience that, as it turns out, is all too common for many women.  Finally Nick Barth explored the concept of entropy in relation to his Valentine, presenting a mystery wrapped in the laws of physics.

You might be wondering, but my thoughts are tending toward the automotive because spring is in the air.  The two-seater is due to be woken from her winter slumbers to once more take to the highways and byways of this fair land.  I relish this time of year, the freedom of the open road, the sure knowledge that I can roll out of my driveway in Ealing just after breakfast and the two seater will putter me safely to destinations as far away as  Hanwell or Chiswick before nightfall.  The sad thing is that Mr Oliver Osmiroid, talented magician of the socket spanner that he was has recently retired. Old Mr Osmiroid did have ambitions of handing his lock-up over to his son Oscar who disappointingly, snubbed this wonderful opportunity to work on my car and is instead wasting his talents maintaining rescue helicopters for our rescue services.  However, I fear his role is purely bureaucratic.  Where Osmiroid senior was a fountain of knowledge, Osmiroid junior is nothing but a pen-pusher.

Thankfully Osmiroid’s workshop is still alive and well having been acquired by the strikingly thin Benedict Biro.  Biro is perennially dressed in blue, always ready to work once he’s taken his cap off and draws a fine line between precision and familiarity. 

If you have been, thank you for writing.

Workshop, 6th February 2024

The prob with being the lynchpin of the local artistic community, the doyen of the scene and the apex talent hunter of all that is excellent in written, spoken and mimed word is that one often has to keep one’s light firmly concealed beneath a bushel, even if one can convince the Questor’s Fire Officer, Mr Barney McGrew that such a dangerous thing is essential to the performance.  One may spend weeks persuading this poet or that playwright to make their way to Ealing for some personal appearance or another, only to have one’s part in the whole proceeding as overlooked as a short man on a try out for a basketball team.

It is therefore with some sense of personal satisfaction to be able to confirm that after years of roadshow roaming and Bruce-bothering the blessed BBC have at last seen sense and confirmed that The Antiques Roadshow will be coming to Pitzhanger Manor.  Mark your calendars, Filofaxes, dairies, smartphones and bedposts up for Sunday the 19^th of May when we are assured the team will be right here in the heart of Ealing.  Now, I believe we all know the drill, but take note just in case.  Do unearth your family treasures, recall some amusing or poignant anecdote, gaze intelligently at the expert and wear some ridiculously bright clothing so that you can point yourself out in the crowds when the prog is actually broadcast.  Don’t say that you are not the slightest bit interested in what the antiquity is, who made it, where it came from or what the small, hinged attachment on the back is for, can we please just cut to the chase and get to the valuation as you are desperate to be shot of the hideous thing.

Of course, the main reason we are so delighted that the ARS (as almost nobody calls it) is coming to the Manor is that it will give Ms Challis and I the excuse to clear out the Pitshanger Poets Lost Property cupboard and find out a little more about one or two of the objects in there.  You will not believe how careless poets can be with their own property.  Of course, when it is clear who owns a misplaced thing we make every effort to get it back to them.  Betjeman was forever leaving his Ian Allan British Locomotive book behind in the library and it would have been cruel to hang onto it any longer than is necessary.  We learned that the PP Chair of the time was so miffed with having to trot along to the Post Office every few weeks that he was sorely tempted to rub out a few of the lines, so that Sir John would have to go back out and re-complete his set of Merchant Navy or Schools class locos.  One cannot help but think that those in authority were a mite vindictive in the 1950’s.

Ms Challis and I have already started compiling a list of the puzzling relics we found in the PP cupboard.  They are of interest, may even be valuable but we may struggle to find a story for them to relate to Fiona The Bruce.

Standing out amongst many sundry items, we have a portrait of a finely-dressed Italian lady, possibly from the Renaissance.  Ms Challis opined that she was a Duchess, I told her that a Duchess is the last thing this lady could have been.  Then we have a mysterious placid bust, evidently from some grand house, though it appears to have some form of residue upon its head.  Parsonage, who knows a thing or two about birds speculates that it is corvid guano. 

Also of interest is a wooden box containing an old Lee Enfield rifle wrapped in oil cloth.  We took great care to consult an weapons expert about this particular item, who told us that it was more or less complete, having a sling swivel, safety-catch, bolt, spring, breech and cocking-piece but appears to be missing its piling swivel and point of balance.  The box is full of what looks like blossom.

Speaking of blossom, I do not know whether the ARS team are interested in foodstuffs, but we do have a large jar of what looks to be ancient, home-made honey.  The label is written in a spidery hand but the word ‘Grantchester’ can be clearly discerned.  Perhaps we should hang on to this just in case someone requires some for their tea. 

However, the largest item is an object which looks as if it ought to be in Lord Soane’s two-house junk pile in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.  It certainly appears to be classical; it is garlanded about and has a multitude of figures which surely kept some poet rapt for long enough to write an ode or two.  Why they would leave it at Sir John’s country house is anyone’s guess.  There is a label on the base with ‘prop JK’.  Is it beautiful?  The truth is I do not know.

Whatever the truth is, we had plenty to get to grips with in this week’s workshop. Anna Matiwj got us started, taking us on a journey through her manor, starting in Hammersmith and ending up in stranger destinations. Her poem was a delightful jaunt that had us all mentally checking that our Oyster cards were handy.

Michael Harris offered a troubling glimpse into the female experience, seen through his own lens. His piece captured a tense encounter with a potentially threatening man walking past his flat, who, in a twist, was merely caught up in a mobile phone rant. It was a telling reflection on perspective and assumptions.

John Hurley regaled us with a tale of the gypsy violinist, a character as enigmatic as he was talented, who emerged from the countryside only to vanish into the night. The poem felt like a fond recollection of a moment both ephemeral and eternal.

Nick Barth delivered a spirited rant about a dreadfully dull chap he encountered at the pub. His piece, ripe for a revisit and a rewrite, was a humorous take on the agonies of banal conversation.

Roger Beckett delighted us with a whimsical poem suitable for children and the young at heart, taking us on a ramble through the woods. His piece was a charming sojourn among nature’s various creatures.

Sue Flemons shared her local escapade to Paradise Fields in search of wild beavers, who have returned to West London and set up water engineering shop. Her poem was a testament to the wonders that lie just outside our doorsteps.

Martin Choules presented Vine-Clad a contemplative study of ivy embracing a cottage. He painted a quiet battle between nature and structure, leaving us to muse on the eventual victor.

We were also graced with the presence of Natalie and Jess, visitors who joined this evening’s session. New to the group they immersed themselves in the evening’s vibrant discussions, content to listen and absorb without the pressure to read.

All in all, it was an evening that celebrated the diversity of poesy, at least the diversity which can be fitted into an Amateur Theatre’s Library, from the mundanities of pub banter to the mysteries of nature and human interaction. We look forward to our next session, where we’ll continue to share and savour the rich tapestry of poetry.  I’m betting that Fiona The Bruce wishes punters would bring a tapestry this rich to her bring and brag session on the lawns of Walpole Park on May the 19^th, am I right?

If you have been, thank you for reading.

James Priestman Guest Poet at The Old Ship in RIchmond on Thursday 12th July

Alec Bell (alecbell.alec@googlemail.com) runs Sweet Thursday, a monthly open mic. event at The Old Ship, King Street, Richmond. TW9 1ND. It starts at 8
p.m. On Thursday 12th July I am the guest poet. Following the 60 minutes of open mic I will be delivering 30 minutes of my own poetry. All my
poems will be linked by the cosmological concepts of Space and Time.