Ian Whybrow

…coming soon…

November 24th 2013. How time flies when one has fun, says Estragon.

November 24, 2013 - Filed under: Blog - Leave a comment

Two weeks since I bothered to blog and hardly a Tweet out of me. Cyclones and other tragedies have rocked us all; banking scandals; another crook who knows how to smile and smile and be a villain; another momentary triumph for the England cricket team – another collapse. I have had nothing worth saying about those things and have felt the hot flush of shame that comes with a heightened awareness that blogs are just self-aggrandizing blah.

I blame this idleness and debilitating self-consciousness not only on a bubbling cough and a lingering cold, but on that feverish state one gets into when one starts to walk about in the parallel bubble that is a gestating book, a fever devoutly to be wished by a writer.  I’ve spent hours on the phone talking tweaks and illustrations; and that’s fun. I have been to the odd lovely supper with friends, a companionable drinks party; I’ve felt very welcome doing a turn in a school; I’ve squirted Nivea moisturizer on to my toothbrush and amused self and my wife no end.

Among other pleasant moments, I recall:

our choir’s first rehearsal – the world premier, no less – of my one and only carol. That was something special, at once terrifying and thrilling.

Amelie, my granddaughter’s ,ecstatic  immersion in her school play, as a wiggling, Blue-handed Jumbly.

A tribute to Seamus Heaney in a full house at the Royal Festival Hall: how deeply moving and inspirational it was to hear his work read as at a wake by mourning, admiring friends, most of them fine poets themselves.  And more spine tingling even that the haunting, echoing, overlapping skeins of the music of fiddles and pipes and tin whistles – the reading by a shock-haired, impassioned Edna O’Brien of the poem about the discovery in a bog of the mummified body of a young girl executed for adultery, the rope still round her neck to call our attention to all the poor things murdered before and since by fearful, posturing hypocritical tribal bigots in the name of God.

And an unexpected lunch yesterday at The Great House in Lavenham.   Book now! There simply cannot be a more delicious, cosseting, civilized, Epicurean means of passing a few dreamy hours – than to savour new flavours at an elegant table among attentive French waiters in a Suffolk village of exceptional  beauty.

 

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