With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth."
(From "Warning", Jenny Joseph)
Many thanks to my dear friend Tom for sending the following funny, which I've had to adapt ever so slightly... Rudyard Kipling wrote beautifully about "The Female of the Species being deadlier than the male", but I want to grow into a lively and loved old lady: Jenny Joseph's poem could have been written specifically about the fabulous older girls in this corner of the world.
All women should live so long as to be this kind of lady! Toward the end of Sunday mass, the priest asked: "How many of you have forgiven your enemies?" Eighty percent of the congregation raised their hands. The priest repeated his question. Everyone responded this time, except one small, elderly lady. "Mrs Neely? Are you not willing to forgive your enemies?" "I don't have any," she replied, smiling sweetly. "Mrs Neely, that is very unusual! How old are you?" "Ninety eight," she replied. The congregation stood up and applauded her. "Ah, Mrs Neely, would you please come down front and tell us all how a person can live to be ninety eight years and not have an enemy in the world?" The little sweetheart of a lady tottered down the aisle, faced the congregation, and said:
"I outlived the b******s."
In the oldest burial ground attached to Brighton's oldest surviving church, the original parish church of St Nicholas, there is a listed tombstone dedicated to one Phoebe Hessel. Phoebe had become something of a Brighton celebrity by the time she died in 1821, at the age of 108. She was actually born in Stepney, in East London, where her life is commemorated with plaques and in at least two street names. Sources have claimed that her father was a soldier who took the infant Phoebe with him on missions. Certainly Phoebe developed a fascination with the army at an early age: her sex prevented her from becoming a soldier herself. As she became a young woman, she disguised herself as a man, to enlist and serve alongside her soldier lover, Samuel Golding. As part of the British Army 5th Foot Regiment, she served in the West Indies and Gibraltar. Her sex remained undetected for an unbelievable seventeen years, until both she and her man were wounded at the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745. Phoebe was by now 32 years of age. Rumbled, the couple were discharged and able to marry. Samuel and Phoebe settled in Plymouth and had nine children; eight died in infancy. The surviving son would later die at sea. After two decades of marriage, Samuel died. Phoebe refused to submit to the life of an ageing widow. She moved to Brighton and married local fisherman Thomas Hessel. She was 80 when Thomas also passed away. Phoebe was granted three guineas from the parish funds and bought herself a donkey and cart, as you do when you become an octogenarian. To support herself, she took to selling fish and seafood around Brighton. Eventually, she would become well known and loved as a vendor of gingerbread, apples and citrus fruits on a street corner close to the Pavilion. She was forced into the workhouse but again refused to submit to age or circumstance; she discharged herself when she was 93. The Prince Regent himself was so impressed by her character and longevity that he sustained her remaining years by granting her a pension of half a guinea a week. She would attend his coronation parade in Brighton six months before she finally died of natural causes. Her Grade II listed tombstone has been maintained by the Northumberland Fusiliers, the modern successors to the army regiment that would not officially have enlisted her. In true Brightonian style, a city bus has been named after Phoebe Hessel; possibly, this quirky city's oldest known cross-dresser.
Not quite Phoebe's donkey cart.
Phoebe Hessel, possibly wearing purple.
"A beautiful woman may be an accident of nature, but a beautiful old woman is a work of art."
(Louis Nizer)
"Every age can be enchanting provided you can live within it."
(Brigitte Bardot)
"Oh Mary Don't You Weep No More" Bruce Springsteen
I managed to get out and about a bit in the snow today; in my wellies, with a pocket full of cough sweets and two spare handkerchiefs. I didn't achieve milk or courgettes, certainly didn't cover anything like the stretch of the photos in this post; nor did I take my camera: the photos of Brighton and Hove below are copyright to our local rag, The Argus. Although I sometimes take issue with the paper due to leading and divisive reporting, the Argus online has been extremely informative and supportive in recent days, providing local transport, travel and schools updates. It's also harnessed the talents of amateur and professional photographers from across the city to capture our snowfall with candour.
I have no illusions about Brighton or Sussex in general, and I'm quick to point out the city's tendency to tarnish and rust and go on the turn, but I've also become fiercely fond of it. I often think the Pavilion looks like a huge and fantastic dismantled wedding cake; with a another swirl of snow on snow, various landmarks and iconic Brighton sights look like they're made out of meringue. Like icing, or powder and paint, snow can hide a multitude of scars and defects: I didn't see any rough-sleepers today and I pray this means they're all relatively comfortable and warm in the city's shelters.
Brighton may well wipe her nose on her sleeve, but she still proudly wears her heart on it. Self-consciously gaudy and mismatched in the summer, Brighton at the moment looks shyly pretty but a bit confused in white, like a born-again virgin bride of a certain age. Shame about my courgettes and milk though.
They were left alone in the big house, just the two of them. It was a cold, dark, stormy night. The storm had come quickly and each time the thunder boomed, he watched her jump. She looked across the room and admired his strong appearance; wished that he would take her in his arms, comfort her and protect her from the storm. Suddenly, with a pop, the power went out... she screamed! He raced to the sofa where she was cowering. He didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms. He knew this was a forbidden union and expected her to pull away. He was surprised when she didn't resist, but clung to him instead. The storm raged on... They knew it was wrong; their families and friends would never understand. So consumed were they by their fear and unspoken passion that they heard no opening of doors, no creaking of boards... just the faint click of a camera....
As the snow swirls around this little corner of East Sussex again, many thanks to my lovely friend Frances, currently melting on holiday in Australia, for sending the above. Still no milk for the porridge, but this has raised a smile and warmed the cockles of my heart before the trudge to Sainsburys! As a vegetarian, I have no idea why my heart might require cockles or indeed where they're located. Now, Tom Jones, as featured here with the under-rated Cerys Matthews, is surely a man with a heart full of both cockles and muscles... I believe the cough medicine is making me ramble a bit.
"Baby It's Cold Outside" Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews
"The Eskimos had fifty two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many in the English language for love."
(Margaret Atwood)
Photos: Gigi, album
On my fourth day of this miserable and charmingly named Winter Vomiting Bug, I woke to find my little street and back garden glowing with a covering of plump and pristine icing. Insidiously beautiful. I trudged to the local Sainsburys only to find that the fresh milk, among other family staples, had already sold out; hopefully not due to needless bulk-buying by Range Rover drivers. Bad enough news if you're a pedestrian, real tea and proper porridge lover like me; more seriously, a pretty and glistening coating of the white stuff isn't so delightful for the elderly, the ill and the isolated. I know from the experience of a couple of white winters in Brighton that our sensual landscape in the curve of The Downs can very quickly become a treacherous slalom for buses and delivery vans and lorries. Like many others, I've found myself saying that I wouldn't mind snow around Christmas, but wouldn't particularly welcome the inconvenience of it once the festive season is past. Sadly, I think this also applies to goodwill and open displays of kindness. We drop Christmas cards through letter-boxes in late December, but may not think to call through those same doors a few weeks later when the paths have frozen over and the credit-card bill arrives in the coldest light of January.
I thought I would put some bits out for my feathered friends, but the garden was eerily empty of the usual birdsong; the snow has it's own resonance of white noise. The overgrown kid in me couldn't resist fashioning a snow person: but the even more overgrown spluttering and coughing specimen that I am at the moment could only manage a small but jauntily formed character on my storage bench by the kitchen door. Made up and be-hatted (the snow person, not me), I couldn't decide it's gender initially; not that rare in Brighton. On reflection in the twilight, he looks a little like local comic legend Max Miller. Which is nice. The "Cheeky Chappie" was laid to rest and is commemorated at the Downs Crematorium, just down the highroad from my street. He was very much the dapper southern English comedian, preferring to be booked into theatres in London or the south, so he could return home to Brighton after a show. I can empathise with that, although I'm not sure how long Mini-Max will last on my bench before, like Mae West's Snow White, he shifts a bit. To anyone necessarily on the move in the white stuff, go safely; for anyone stuck indoors because of it, keep warm. And please do remember your neighbours: at any given time, they are simply those within your reach, wherever and whoever.
"Now there's a funny thing!" Mini-Max
"Black are my steps on silver sod,
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake."
(Robert Louis Stevenson)
"There is really no such thing as bad weather, just different kinds of good weather."
(John Ruskin)
"Unless we make Christmas an occasion to share our blessings, all the snow in Alaska won't make it 'white'."
(Bing Crosby)
"The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter day:
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May."
(Robert Burns)
"We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt."
(Walter Scott)
"I used to be Snow White, but I drifted..."
(Mae West)
"Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable."
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)
"Do not complain about the snow on your neighbour's roof when your own doorstep is unclean."
Whenever I take down Christmas decorations, it usually makes me feel a little deflated, as though I'm packing away cheeriness. My decorations are largely lights and garlands, and beads, berries and birds on my pot plants. I don't care for tinsel, and my own Christmas tree is a living, growing, potted one that I've nurtured and nagged for more than ten years. Everywhere that I've moved, Noel the Tree has moved too. He started his life with me in South London; a tiny, ornamental but non-specified fir from Sainsbury's. He was stuck in a red plastic flowerpot, with fake snow on his branches. Just the right size for Mum's mantelpiece, he was supposed to be thrown away by Twelfth Night, but I have a problem throwing away anything that's still even vaguely green and vibrant. When I realised he was actually rooted and growing, I decided to encourage him to be a tree.
Re-potted several times since then and now more than six feet tall, he guards my back door. He has his own set of solar star-lights which he wears all year round, but he also has his own silver star and poinsettia garlands for Christmas. He did look rather camp at Christmas; he seems to be flourishing in Brighton's misty dampness. He's withstood being diagnosed as disposably ornamental, some mis-management from my Mum, and being hacked about by my brother-in-law who thought he was an unpruned and misguided shrub in Mum's front garden. During moves from London and then across Brighton, he's been locked in storage, knocked down basement steps and ridiculed and disrespected by various removal men. I'm an admirer of trees generally for their strength and dependable longevity; I'm extremely fond of Noel the Tree.
It didn't really take long to dismantle festivities in my little house this year. Traditionally, I try to give the last piece of the last mince pie to the birds in the back garden - feathered ones, not some bedraggled hen-party who've stumbled off the main road straight into my rose bushes, confused by Noel's twinkling. The other day, I watched for at least ten minutes while a very small robin tried valiantly to fly off with the largest piece of pastry. Luckily, Ginger the tom from next door was purring obliviously at the bottom of my stairs.
I've never really seen a robin in a tizzy before. Every time he started to fly away with the pastry, he would drop some and start flapping and spluttering. What appeared to be a fat thrush popped down to muscle in; the robin saw him off in no uncertain terms. Eventually, he got a larger piece up to the safety of my garden table, where he pecked and gulped it down, all the while keeping a bright eye on the rest of his hoard. He then hopped down and secured another large-ish morsel, then another. Eventually, he finished all of it on his own and did a little twitchy victory-dance around the garden table; I felt like applauding him.
Photo: Gigi, album
I've already told friends that I haven't really made resolutions this year. However, after writing about Brighton's phoenix-like spirit and reflecting on my own hardy Christmas tree, grown-up from a supermarket novelty, I've encountered probably the toughest little robin this side of Hastings. On New Year's Day, I watched the skaters on the ice-rink in front of the Pavilion. As soon as the ice was cleared between sessions, a motley crew swished and staggered out. There was a lot of wobbling and clomping, quite a bit of teetering and rail-clinging; surprisingly little falling. From six to sixty year olds, there was a palpable sense of "trying". There are some rather pompous looking plastic "practice penguins" with grip handles for the very young or very wary, but they were largely left redundant. There was a lot of smiling: it made me feel that it really is exhilarating to have a go and then just great when success surprises you.
One little girl of about seven stumbled out on her own and skidded straight into the barrier while her dad struggled to attach his skates. She looked terrified, with her feet splaying in opposite directions, but she'd circumnavigated the rink by the time her father had reached the ice, clinging to the rail the whole time. As she crashed against the barrier near me, I gave her an encouraging grin. She managed a wry little smile back as she lurched past the practice penguins disdainfully.
My schoolfriend Bernie used to send out letters and cards of encouragement including the motto:"Dream, Believe, Try, Achieve". Having lived her own advice, she's achieved many things since leaving the convent, including writing several books about whatever has fired her enthusiasm, and founding the influential "Women's Environmental Network". The Green MP for Brighton, Caroline Lucas, is one of their "matrons": the WEN doesn't have "patrons". I've actively appreciated the first half of Bernie's motto: I do believe in the power of dreams and goals, and I do have faith which enables me to be strong for people and things I care about. I even have a niggling awareness of my capabilities. But I then stop short of actually trying sometimes. As the frost set in towards the end of 2012, I wrote it off as one of several years with more moans than merriment, more losses than treasures. Last night, after spotting that one ceramic berry I hadn't taken off the ficus plant, I realised it's simply been a trying year; and therefore literally one full of opportunities for trying. Groucho Marx famously said that he wanted to live for ever and would die trying to; Judy Garland once declared that she definitely did believe in the power of a rainbow and had spent her whole life "trying to get over it". Somewhere between these two sentiments, there is a little patch of wintry ground where hopes, like little robins, shy away from calling themselves resolutions, just in case some quirky blonde is watching from the window. My godfather, "uncle Bob", was a bit of a trier although he was often written off by folk as a dreamer. He was a former docker and merchant seaman from a working class family in a run-down part of Southwark, south London. He hadn't had the best education in the world, certainly with no time or funds for formal musical or literary instruction. Yet at his packed funeral in Rotherhithe some years ago, doubting friends were amazed to hear that he really had become a river pilot on his beloved Thames and indeed a Master Mariner; he actually had joined the Black Watch guards and learnt to play bagpipes; he did eventually have one or two of his many country compositions recorded in Nashville. A fellow lover of Robbie Burns, uncle Bob would recite huge chunks of his poetry; "Auld Lang Sine" was his favourite. He also particularly liked T.H. Palmer's "Try, Try", but I only realised why it was special to him after he died:
"'Tis a lesson you should heed,
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again.
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear;
Try, try again."
When he suffered a heart attack at the age of seventy, it seemed inconceivable that he might not pull through: he was a battler, after all. My mother and I were stunned when his body seemed to give out on his spirit and he died of organ failure. My godfather's seemingly mundane and humble life had actually been an unpublicised Curriculum Vitae of persistence and quiet triumph.
I've always appreciated that a score in rugby is fittingly called a try, rather than a goal. Anyone who's ever played will testify to the deliberate and concentrated effort behind every try. Sorry to sound disparaging to any footie fan, but I've never heard of an accidental score in rugby ; it's not really possible to score an "own-try". So, my one resolution is actually just to try, about whatever and whenever I feel passionate to do so, but hopefully not just for the new year. Because hope is for life, not just for Christmas.
*For my friend Mel Bauwens, another tough little robin who achieved so much last year; and for Bobby Allen, RIP*
"You can't always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes
You might just find
You get what you need."
(The Rolling Stones)
"Courage doesn't always roar.Sometimes it's the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying 'I will try again tomorrow'."
(Mary Anne Radmacher)
"Try" Pink
"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."
(Maya Angelou)
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
"Laugh as much as possible, always laugh. It's the sweetest thing one can do for oneself & one's fellow human beings."
(Maya Angelou)
"There's hope for the future because God has a sense of humour and we are funny to God."
(Bill Cosby)
"Music is the great mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life."
(Ludwig van Beethoven)
One of the truly great things about growing up in and around south London was (and hopefully still is) the richness and exuberance of Pentecostal and Baptist churches in the region, reflecting just how colourful and joyful faith can be for people of all ages and cultures. Happy to be a Catholic, I've also been happy to feel good in others' places of worship; I've always loved Gospel music. A few years ago, a friend in Lewisham introduced me to the sound of urban Gospel duo "Mary Mary", actually two Afro-American sisters from California called Erica and Tina Atkins. They took their stage name from the Virgin Mary and from St Mary Magdalen, some pretty hefty inspiration! They make vibrant, contemporary music which is lyrically uplifting and also gets you off your knees and onto your feet.
Several years ago, when I was still a born and bred Londoner, The Independent published a short article about Brighton, coining it the latest destination for Londoners in "the demographics of disillusionment". Brighton has often been dismissed as "London-on-sea": to be fair, many of the folk I've encountered here in the past couple of years have escaped from The Smoke, only to find this gritty little corner of East Sussex has some of the most polluted air in the UK. The article rattled on about Brighton's tarnished and tired reputation and the underbelly of wide-boy entrepreneurs and gold chain wearing gangsters. Yes, Brighton can be seedy, but I've found it's an almost cosy kind of seediness, a bit like our beautiful heron gulls strewing pizza and party poppers along the pavements. The article berated Brighton's people as the real problem, citing middle-aged punks, hippies and ravers and in particular the "lentil-munchers" who believe they're special. I appreciate that many people beyond East Sussex certainly feel that a lot of Brighton folk are somehow trying to evade or cheat their way out of maturity. I prefer to view our little quirks and eccentricities as a kind of die-hard innocence. Even our lopsided and crammed little terraced streets (now marketed as charming workmen's cottages but originally Victorian slums) are painted in clashing pastel shades, in defiance of whatever is thrown at the area, meteorologically, socially or economically. I often say that Brighton is a rusty little place to live: there's something precious glinting beneath every layer of barnacles and grime. I've seen real poverty among people since I moved here, sometimes spiritual as well as physical; yet I've also witnessed both the gentleness and the tenacity of the human spirit. It is gritty here, but let's call it true grit. The ancient settlement Brighthelmstone dates from before the Doomsday Book. The Brighton of the Regency Set and recent day-tripping has literally raised itself up from the ashes. Brighthelmstone was sacked and burnt to the ground by French raiders in 1514, leaving only part of St Nicholas' Church (the area's Mother Church) and the skeletal street pattern of The Lanes. By the 1740s, Brighton had reinvented itself as a spa and resort. I've no doubt Brighton will emerge from the current recession and any era of disillusionment with that spirit and sense of irony intact. The Independent concluded that Brighton was "the capital for people who can't handle London", with nearby Lewes the choice for those who can't handle Brighton. It conceded that Brighton could be extremely useful: "as a dump for London's moaners". Again, I agree that many of us who are self-exiled Londoners have a bag of chips on our shoulders about constant comparisons between the two cities. "It's actually very different from London " we say earnestly, " for one thing, we have the sea..." And the one thing about Brighton that will never be urbanised or easily dismissed is that it is unequivocally, unapologetically and un-subtly Seaside, with everything that implies. It has the green gentility of the Downs to ease back against, the Little London shot of hustle and bustle to keep it on it's patched up toes, but it is essentially a fishing village that made good and remains on the lookout and on the make to do so again. Even our beautifully gaudy and slightly incongruous royal palace, The Pavilion was once just a re-hashed farmhouse with a sea view.
2013 New Year's Day swim at Brighton Pier and Saltdean, East Sussex
Traditionally, every Christmas Day since 1860 and more recently each New Year's Day, hardy Brightonians take to the sea for an obviously very chilly and apparently rejuvenating dip. This year, they were disappointed after the council closed the beach because of bad weather. With the usual high tide and burgeoning winds being taunted by the forecast of an unusually heavy sea swell it was considered too dangerous, even for experienced swimmers. The early morning temperature also fell below five degrees. Yet yesterday morning, the New Year dippers were back in force, at the pier beach and further along the stony Brighton coast. It was a quiet day in the city, although the pier was still lit up and winking from Christmas; like a favourite auntie after a few festive sherries, all dressed up in the hope the family are taking her out. With many restaurants closing at 6 pm, there seemed to be quite a few people wandering around hopefully, looking for somewhere to be and something to do. I ambled home last night from a lovely day out and about, with the reassuring feeling that it could only be a matter of time before they find them.
The Christmas Day swim at Brighton Pier, 2009.
"Beyond the Sea" was a favourite song for both my parents; almost instinctively it's become one of mine.
"Beyond the Sea" Bobby Darin
"It's a good world if you don't weaken." (From "Brighton Rock", Graham Greene)
Father Jack Hackett has escaped from Father Ted and is stumbling blind drunk through the woods, when he comes upon a preacher baptising people in the river. Father Jack proceeds into the water, bumping into the preacher. The preacher turns and is almost overcome by the smell of alcohol. He asks Father Jack:"Are you ready to find Jesus?" "Oi am." The preacher grabs him and dunks him in the water. He pulls him back and asks:"Brother, have you found Jesus?" Father Jack growls "Oi haven't found Jesus!" The preacher, shocked at the answer, dunks him again for a little longer. Again he pulls him out of the water and asks:"Have you found Jesus, brother?" "Oi haven't found Jesus!" The preacher is at his wits end and dunks Father Jack again, but this time holds him down for about 30 seconds. When he begins kicking his arms and legs about, the preacher pulls him up. He again asks:"For the love of God man, have you found Jesus?" Father Jack staggers upright, wipes his eyes, splutters, and eyeballs the preacher: "No! Are ye sure this is where he fell in???"
