We Brits rather pride ourselves in doing things well and there is a general consensus that the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympic Games in London was brilliant. A recent documentary on the BBC showed the year’s work that went into that spectacle; absolutely amazing. So we anticipated a similar spectacle for the 2016 Rio de Janeiro Olympics, particularly as the Brazilians know how to party. Straitened circumstances meant less money was available but all agreed it was, in the event, a great opening.

The closing ceremonies are often a little less dramatic, the contests over, the medals won, time to go home. But in Rio, somewhere in that kaleidoscope of colour, fireworks and electronics was a dance group that took my breath away. Probably if my memory serves me well, some 8 men and 8 women, dancing a modern composition  that I found completely mesmerising. Such fluidity, such confidence, such elasticity, such timing. You can tell I thought them pretty damn good! Further inquiry revealed them to be a troupe from Grupo Corpo, a dance company from the State of Minas Gerais, whose style is to mix their own Afro-Brazilian genre with other familiar contemporary styles. The group performed part of their show Parabelo and new dancers appeared dressed as clay dolls, a common sight in the festivals of Brazil’s north east.

Grupo Corpo Parabelo

It helps to have a Brazilian wife! No sooner had I said I thought they were wonderful, she tells me who they are. I am not a dance aficionado but have watched classical ballet and don’t quite get the whole thing. The story of Billy Elliot, about a northern boy who wants to dance, was captivating from the story point of view but the dance? Nah! Have even fallen asleep watching Sylvie Guillem at Saddlers Wells. Actually if the truth were told, every time I go into somewhere dark and cosy and warm, be it a theatre, cinema or lecture theatre, I can nod off quite easily; even the latest James Bond movie we saw last year couldn’t compete with the need to close my eyes. But I digress.

Then out of the blue I am told we have been given some tickets, through a cousin’s father who worked at the Theatro Municipal here in Rio de Janeiro, for Grupo Corpo. Wow! What a great chance. The theatre itself dates back to 1905, when work started to provide the city, then the capital of Brazil, with a major venue for opera and music. Completed in 1909, it’s a wonderful example of eclectic architecture, where the imagination was allowed to run riot.

Theatro Municipal Rio de Janeiro

 Mosaic tiles, stained glass, gold leaf, and large sculptures adorn every nook and cranny of this building. It’s been given various make-overs during its lifetime and today just under 2500 people can watch ballet or listen to classical music. The restaurant Assírius in the basement is peculiar in its impressive Assyrian decor. The connection between ballet and the Assyrians somehow escapes me. Any learned readers out there?

We watched two pieces from Grupo Corpo’s repertoire, their recent Danca Sinfonica (2015) and Lecuona (2004). Both quite different and visually stunning in so many ways. There is something about watching people with skill and energy tell a story, interpret music, that gets under the skin, almost as if you want to get up and ….. dance?

I saw from the little programme that the group has toured extensively, particularly in the UK, including Brighton. Maybe we’ll see them when they come around again. Said cousin, Bel Gasparian, found the link for the Parabelo performance and has posted it on Facebook – and shared it with me. So if you didn’t see it at the time, go to my Facebook and have a look courtesy of ‘You Tube’.

And these definitively are mere scribbles …… but hopefully you’ll engage in the technology and see what I mean.

 

Richard 22nd September 2016

PS “If you can talk, you can sing; if you can walk, you can dance; anyone can juggle and ride a unicycle, including you; but you have to want to.”

 

 

 

 

On Wednesday evening Neia skilfully negotiated her taxi through the evening traffic, in from the Rio de Janeiro international airport, around Lagoa and on to Sāo Conrado. We arrived in the warmth of a tropical evening, 11 hours out of England, 4 hours behind British Summer Time.

We metaphorically fell out of the taxi as Celina’s mother came down the steps to unlock the gate and let us in; the number of suitcases suggested we were staying for a month ( I wish!). Gradually we carried them inside the house ….. and took a breath. Something, someone, I sensed, was very definitely missing. After quickly unpacking the essentials, for bed beckoned, it wasn’t until I was actually in bed I realised what it was that I craved – the reassuring presence of Celina’s father, now departed from this world some nine months. Not that we normally saw him when we had arrived in the evening in the past, as it was way past his bedtime; a man of habit if ever there was one  but you sensed his presence.

 

Carlos with his first Grandchild Tiago

It was only in the morning we met him, at breakfast around the small table in the kitchen with Ze the green parakeet squawking his raucous calls from the cage outside. The first time, back in April 2012, it was a rather amusing meeting, him in his rather large GAP hoodie feeling the cool of a Brazilian autumn, me in a T shirt sweating in the warmth of a tropical morning – takes a while to get acclimatised huh! He loved his Oxford Coopers vintage marmalade and would be grateful for exports from England.

That visit we drove to their house in Buzios, three hours out of Rio, a small seaside town made famous by Bridgette Bardot and others of that ilk. Carlos and I walked along the sand and he told me of his life’s work, his fascination with what goes on inside our brains. He was a Professor of Neurology and well respected in his field. At times he lost me with his descriptions of experiments using animals, particularly Possums, for dissection, such was his grasp of the technical English of his trade. Around the lunch table he delighted in bringing out a Conde, a fruit that I hadn’t seen and one that I was invited to try.

And now he’s not here! We had sat down just after his 80^th birthday, and talked through the new iPad that Celina had given him. “No! he’ll never use that …..” his son had suggested but step by step he mastered it just like he had any new technology that had come along. Interesting how slowly some grapple with the ‘swipe’ and ‘touch’ interfaces and then get it; in no time it’s old hat. Within six months he’d upgraded his phone to be constantly connected to the internet. But he had that old world charm, and if we were out at dinner, would abhor other diners using their phones rather than talking with those around them. The strength and continuity of the internet is not the greatest here, just as in some parts of the UK (!) and we often sat in his office, almost on top of the router, to download emails. Additionally being Brazil, we had to cope with the power cuts which are a regular feature of living here.

In September last year he showed me his rowing machine, something he used regularly to augment his time in the local gym; he seemed fit and took care of himself. Despite his career in science, which nowadays has a relevant and understandable explanation of how the world was formed, Carlos was a deeply religious man. For those of us who are not, it was a slightly unnerving sensation to be in his presence when he described his fervent beliefs in the power of the Christian message and of the omnipresence of God. The bookshelves in his study are lined with books such as ‘Monastery without Wall’, the spiritual letters of the Benedictine monk John Mann and a few on Padre Pio, an Italian priest who became St Pio of Pietreleina after his death in 1968. Carlos admitted reading few novels in his whole life, preferring the worlds of scientific facts and religion. He and Celina’s mother would meditate in the evening every day and he was convinced of the power of prayer.

When we first met he was already in his late 70s. He had lived in Paris, Boston and Washington, working on research projects, but was now content to stay at home, read, meditate and stay fit; a wonderfully warm and special man. And he’s not here. And I was not his son, had not known him for 65 years of my life, a time when he became a famous neuroscientist, but in those short weeks and months we stayed here in Iposeria, in this lovely house under the shadow of Pedro de Gavea, I felt very close. And get this! He even allowed me to load the dishwasher! You know how it is, everything has a place, and everything in its place. So why couldn’t others learn from him the ‘right’ way to do it. Me? I just observed, understood the importance (to him) and suddenly he says I could load his dishwasher, the only person given permission! Mind you, he was not a domesticated man at all, so it was funny to see how he had made this kitchen labour- saving device his own.

And he’s not here! But his presence is very powerful. Everyone struggles I guess with getting rid of the clothes of the recent departed and, after an initial clear out, the house still contains his possessions, still oozes his personality and character. And life moves on, thoughts turn to the future, and the ‘What?’ and the ‘Where?’ and the ‘Why/why not?’

In October last year, the last time we saw each other when we were both compos mentis (well, in my case that’s a debatable state!), we loaded up the taxi in the rain, another stay here at an end. Carlos was again wearing his GAP hoodie and we hugged and did all those things that you do when you say “Goodbye”, only this time neither of us thought it would be the last time.

And he’s not here! Actually, I think that’s bollocks. He’s here just as he believed his God was here, all around us, still guiding us, still loving us.

From a warm evening in Rio de Janeiro

 

Richard 16th September 2016

*Some of the music we played is shown at intervals in the text

In The Times on 22^nd August 2016:

“Mrs Maria Cecilia Rocha Miranda is delighted to announce that the marriage of her younger daughter Celina Guinle and Richard Corbett Yates took place on Saturday 20^th August 2016 in Brighton, England. After a reception at Amber House in Hove, family and friends gathered at Blanch House in Kemptown for an evening dinner party. The honeymoon will take place in January 2017.”

“And now, pray silence for the groom.” Well, we didn’t have a ‘master of ceremonies’ so it was up to me when to tap a glass to ring for quiet! What a lovely group stood in front of me, all expecting I guess that I was going to say something funny, poignant, romantic, risqué or was I just going to be my boring self?

‘You’re the Best’ by Tina Turner

Those who know me well will appreciate that this wasn’t the first time I had had to make the bridegroom speech, and my long-suffering brother needed thanking first. I hope he was reassured that this would be the last, the very last time he would have to listen. Relatives from Brazil and from New Zealand, some old acquaintances and some new friends; a gorgeous warm loving bunch waited expectantly.

‘Je T’aime, Till My Dying Day’ by Enigma

I recounted how I had started going to Bikram Yoga in 2009, plucked up courage to talk to Celina sometime in late 2010 as we lined up for the next session, and was delighted that she agreed to have supper with me a year later. “One day at a time.” we promised ourselves as we came together, out of our individual tactile and sexual deserts ……. and then it was a month and now, on the 16^th of this month, five years. Wow! The naysayers had said it wouldn’t last and I know how complex an emotion love is. One always thinks ‘This is it!’ and then time moves and we move and suddenly the love that was contagious and all-embracing is destructive.

‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ by George Michael

Indeed, during our ceremony earlier in the Regency Room, at Brighton’s Town Hall, our readings had reflected the opposites of love’s effect. The romantic poem from Christopher Marlowe ‘The Passionate Shepherd to his love’ starts: “Come with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove.” This was the first, and the male guests collectively contributed to its optimistic view. Sadly Sir Walter Raleigh’s reply on behalf of the Nymph recounts all the things that go wrong – “The flowers do fade, and wanton fields to wayward winter reckoning yields” – until the promise in the final verse “….had joys no date nor age no need, then these delights my mind will move to live with thee and be my love.” So a realistic pragmatic view read by the ladies in the gathering.

Sometimes in life you read something that hits the spot, just at the right time. We’ve all read the rather syrupy rather saccharine sayings that are meant to lift our hearts and an example of this genre, a daily quote from Brahma Kumaris, is available to read in our local Hot Yoga studio. On the day of our wedding (yes I went! Well; I had time to!!) it said: “Relationships are like a tapestry. The fabric is strongest when the threads are spun from openness, love and trust.” And that’s how Celina and I have spun our tapestry, with honesty, openness and trust – and enormous love!

 ‘The Power of Love’ by Jennifer Rush

The recent Olympics had its part in our decision to get married! Celina’s parents wanted to escape Rio de Janeiro, so booked three weeks with us here in Hove. I had this thought; we would surprise them during their visit by an innocent visit to the Town Hall. But then Carlos became very ill in mid-December and I told him of our intentions by hand-delivered letter. So the cat jumped out of the proverbial. Anyway, he had always called me his son-in-law – so no pressure then – but I guess he saw the happiness in his daughter and was acknowledging what was apparent. He also promised to assist me with the development of my spiritual side, something he saw as abysmal! Celina’s mother came over as planned and the participant numbers grew.

 ‘Tell Him’ by Celine Dion & Barbara Streisand

Three weeks of warm weather descended into an Autumnal-like low pressure system the day before the wedding. The day itself was characterised by sunshine and torrential rain showers and blowing a hooley. Two days later summer returned with 28C. You can’t say God doesn’t have a sense of humour?

‘A Million Years Ago’ by Adele

I looked around our guests, some eating the rather doorstep-sized egg & cress sandwiches (I had imagined something more delicate, with the crusts removed but ……!!) all relaxed. Jonathan found my Royal Artillery Officer’s sword and that was used to cut our Clementine cake, which my daughter had very kindly made. Before we toasted the bride, love and life, I did remind everyone that my great grandfather Richard Sydney Corbett had been born in Recife, Brazil in 1850 and that there are still Corbetts, living relatives as it were, in Brazil. So this South American connection was well and truly re-established with our marriage.

‘Santa Monica Dream’ by Angus & Julia Stone

We were spoilt by the generosity of our guests, despite imploring them that we really didn’t want more toasters and that, if they felt they couldn’t come to a wedding without buying a present, they should buy something for themselves! So it was such fun to open our gifts the following day.

By the following Wednesday the apartment was empty, apart from ourselves, so now we can really start to enjoy our married life. Did something happen? Just a very public display of the love and affection we hold for each other …… oh! and a little band of gold on that third finger of the left hand.

These are slightly more than ‘mere scribbles’ but I hope you’ll get a sense of what happened on that lovely day.

Richard 2nd September 2016

For all sorts of reasons my latest scribble is taking longer than normal. For those of you who like the regularity of my musings I post this little tale, written many years ago; you may have read it before. Enjoy?

It was a gloriously hot and sunny day in early July. The roses were at their best, the garden alive with colour. She sat quietly on the grass, soaking up the sun, enjoying watching the birds whirling through the sky. “Lunch!” I called through the open kitchen window; her ears pricked up at the sound of my voice and, lazily raising her body upright, she strolled across the lawn and into the coolness of the flat. I took my own lunch outside to the bench, to read the newspaper and enjoy the sun. Sometime later I walked back into the flat, put my dirty plates in the dishwasher and walked into the bedroom.

The sun streamed in through the open window, casting shadows across the blue and white counterpane that covered the large double bed; a gentle breeze ruffled the white curtains. She lay across the bed, eyes closed, legs curled up close to her body; to all outside observation, she was asleep. Every now and again the rib cage expanded, as air entered the lungs, and contracted as it was expelled. The movement seemed so perfectly natural, reflecting the rhythms of life itself. Slight twitches of her body suggested her imagination was working overtime in some dream, a movement of the shoulder here, a curl of the toes there.

She made no outward sign that she had sensed my entrance, but I knew her too well. Nothing would have been missed; it might have been the creak of the floorboard, the squeak of the door hinge or even the sound of my own breathing that alerted her, but her senses would have switched from passive to active mode. I walked slowly, quietly, towards the bed and stood over her, looking down at her ‘sleeping’ form. An eye half-opened, not in fright but inquisitively, as if to ask: “Yes?”

She felt me lowering my body onto the bed, quite close to her, but not so close as to touch her. This was familiar to her, this preamble of pleasure to come. The weight of my body moved the bed, altered the duvet cover, causing her to roll ever so slightly towards me; she looked at me directly, now with both eyes fully open, expectantly. I raised my hand, reached out towards her; she uttered a sound, the sound of anticipation. How long this moment lasted is hard to tell, this anticipation.

My hand touched her back, at first so gently as to hardly touch, but enough to convey the vaguest hint. A light brush along the line of the back, starting at the nape of the neck, one finger tracing the curvature of the vertebrae, down to the coccyx and beyond. She raised her head, arching to establish a firmer contact; my finger withdrew, teasing her to move. Her head began to turn, her eyes wanting to tell me how she felt. At the renewed contact of my finger, she returned to looking, through half-open eyes, out of the window. My hand touched. Light pressure down the spine, wider than before, more confident of its effect, down to the hips. I brought the other hand up to join the first, and began a hand-over-hand stroking, sometimes so feather light you could feel her body rise urgently to maintain the contact and the sensation, at times so firm and dominant that all she could do was make sounds of pure pleasure.

The sun caught the glistening body, highlighting the delicate shape and form that made up this sensuous creature. I massaged her neck, letting my fingers drift around the side of her face to caress her ears. I massaged her shoulders and was rewarded for my efforts by moans of delight. At some point, I was not quite sure when, she began to salivate with pleasure; Oh! such pleasure. She forced her belly into the duvet, allowing my hands to roam freely over the length and breadth of her body, but wary of any movement towards the extremely sensitive area of her tummy; maybe she is ticklish, I thought.

One could sense that she was happy for this massaging to continue ad infinitum, as with each caress she squirmed more, moving her body to meet the hands, and with each passage of the hands over her body emitting sounds of ecstasy, which seemed to rise and fall in pitch according to the pressure of the hands. But one might say nothing lasts for ever!! Eventually, beginning to tire of the exercise, she moved away, sat upright, teased some dirt from between her back paws with her tongue and jumped through the open window. Muffin was a fine looking cat.

 

So there you have it, a little tale for a mid-August weekend.

Richard 13^th August 2016

I saw a copy of the Newquay News online, dated 17^th July 2016, and read this rather seasonal piece:

 

“Strangers sighted in Cornwall” writes Timo Poldark, “Various people reported seeing strangers in north Cornwall this week: –

Petrol Pump Attendant Service Station A30. “Well, I remember the car, an old Saab, loaded to the gunnels with all sorts of clobber. Think I saw a Gaggia coffee machine on the back seat. Ironic really, on such a sunny warm day having a convertible …. without the roof down …..  but I suppose the boot was as full as the back seat! There’s nowt so queer as folk – particularly foreigners and to us in Cornwall that’s the rest of the inhabitants of the United Kingdom!!”

Local map showing Crantock and West Pentire to the west of Newquay

Naomi Property Manager Cormorant Cottage, West Pentire. “We’re into the busy holiday period and we get all sorts of families coming down to enjoy the north Cornwall beaches. This lot respected the check-in time so I had opportunity to get it 100% ……. and they left it pretty clean. You should see the state of the cottage after some people leave. Maybe they live in a pigsty at home ….. Oh! Don’t get me started.”

Waitress Bowgie Inn, West Pentire. “Almost two o’clock, Saturday, when the couple came in, ordered some soup and Ratatouille with rustic bread …..  started off at a table outside in the garden overlooking Crantock Bay, but changed their mind as it was a little cool …”

Owner Crantock Village store and post office. “We get them all down here during July and August and this chap came in offered a coupon for his Times newspaper and then his girlfriend came running up with a bag of salad and there was some discussion about whether his daughter wanted blue top or green top for the morning milk. I think they bought both. Not a particularly safe walk back to West Pentire as the road’s narrow and the hedges uncut, so visibility for everyone is poor Saw them most mornings that week.”

Brian – Dog Walker. “It’s a friendly village, Crantock, and that Saturday this couple came up out of the village with their newspaper and milk, with a red Labrador, on their way to West Pentire. We chatted, their first visit down here; I told them I came on holiday 40 years ago and stayed, never regretted it for a moment. The woman said she came from Brazil and was wrapped up against the cold ….but it was about 18C!!”

Crantock Beach

Tom Ocean Flow Yoga Newquay. “We had had a couple of telephone conversations and I’d booked them in a month ago, as my studio is very small. Two hot yoga classes, the Tuesday and Thursday if my memory serves me well. I love going to a different studio and having a change of scene and their email ‘thanks’ said they had had a couple of good sessions, so maybe I’ll see them back next year.”

Waiter Headland Hotel. “At this time of year the hotel gets pretty booked but we do get the occasional group come in for supper ……. providing they’ve made a reservation ….. but actually we always sit the hotel guests along the windows in the Terrace Restaurant so this foursome had to make do with an inner table. Must have been from London, as one of them complained about the cold main. It said “Sea Bass on a bed of olive and potato salad with spinach.” He thought the spinach should have been hot. London types huh!”

Renter of cottage next to Cormorant. “Being next to a family with two young exuberant boys was always going to be a bit noisy, especially as they loved the hot tub. Their mother was good in the evening, though, and the routine of ‘supper, bath and bed’ meant that peace descended by about 6.45pm!”

Hot Tub (An inanimate object) “I like being used and fortunately the son-in-law of the chap booking the cottage knew about items like me and paid extra for my services. Most days I warmed ‘em up, adults and the two boys, got my pressure hoses working well and changed the colour of my lightning regular. Oh! And I listened to the amusing conversations they had.”

Laura, gallery owner and artist, West Pentire. “I have a sign out on the track and people drift in and out throughout the day. Tall chap came in one day, showed interest in the pottery which a friend does, but showed no interest in my paintings. Didn’t buy anything but said he might come back; he didn’t!”

Margo, Red Labrador. “I’d met them at home some time ago so was pleased to see them after I was let out of my car cage in the new place. The garden needed at least 30 minutes of sniffing just to establish who had been here before, leaving their mark, so to speak. I took a real shine to her but he’s a bit bossy, always wanting to remind me who is top dog. And when my owners went out for supper leaving them here to baby sit, I was disappointed not to be able to sit beside the dinner table and look hungry and doleful ….. and believe me I can do that really really well. Didn’t wash at all and got sent to my box! But we had some nice walks and runs on the sand, particularly on Polly Joke beach, so I guess I should have be grateful”

Weathered rocks on Polly Joke beach

Sainsburys check out girl. “You get all sorts in here at this time of year, being the only good supermarket in Newquay. They were obviously staying at a cottage somewhere and bought a load of stuff, then thought they could get it into 4 bags and an insulated one for the Cornish ice cream, fish fingers and the frozen peas – I think they ended up with 9!”

‘Head-to-toe.’ “She wanted her nails done and they had been to the supermarket so he came in too. Nice couple, chatty and all, talked about the recent referendum and we told them you couldn’t get a house down here for all the foreigners so Cornwall voted to leave the EU.” (Ed: Despite having over £1billion in grants over the last 10 years as it’s a ‘deprived’ area)

Car Park Attendant Perranporth “ Overheard them saying what a strange place my town was, full of chavs and grockles, how they had seen the most amazing sights on the beach and how gorgeous the ice cream at ‘Smithy’s’, just around the corner, was.”

Exeter garage owner. “Seemed a bit lost …. not sure whether they wanted to buy something to eat for breakfast …… overheard the woman say ….. ‘good to have got through the roadworks on the A30 near Bodmin by leaving at 0630’.They did make a Costa coffee, grabbed a packet of biscuits and half a tank of petrol and left.”

So there you have it, observations of a couple down here in Cornwall, as seen by the locals. Next week I’ll be down at the Eden Project.   Timo”

 

Summer in the UK is always effected by the weather, a national obsession. We were really lucky and only had one brief shower in the whole week. Cool(ish) and the sea temperature did not encourage swimming …… but it was a good time away with my daughter and family.

 

Richard 26^th July 2016                                         richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

My eyes are closed in meditation. “Empty your mind, let the thoughts that come just pass through, creating no judgment or comment.” More easier said than done huh? “As you breathe in, imagine the word ‘let’; as you breathe out, ‘go’”. Or we’re told to focus on ‘So ….. Hum’. (A Vedic mantra meaning “I am that” which can be inverted ‘hum …. so’ to mean “that I am.” in Sanskrit). Ten minutes and I open my eyes, look up …….. and take in the scene.

Twenty four people, four men and …… well you do the maths …. have come to southern Portugal for a week’s yoga retreat. Each for their own reason, each with their own but common goal, to do two sessions of yoga a day for six days. For those of you who have never got ‘into’ yoga, it’s never too late, you’re never too old.

 

 

The orange trees

Quinta Mimosa lies west of Faro in the Algarve, in the hills above the little town of Almancil. The 10 acre estate contains three separate houses and pools, connected by orchards containing orange, olive and almond trees; you could simply stroll into the rough grass and pluck an orange off a tree. You could swim in your own pool or take a taxi to the nearby beach. The spacious nature of the place ensures that it feels delightfully empty and we gather at yoga sessions rather like yachts on an offshore race, converging from various directions to round a mark on the course.

The studio is in the old stable block and its heritage is apparent. Large French doors on the south side, a reed-covered ceiling and tiled floor; hooks on the wall that used to take riding tackle now hang with props for Iyengar yoga practice. The occasional ant runs across the old tiled floor …. and you hope it doesn’t come in your direction as you lie is Savasna, ready for the next posture.

 

 

We are all so diverse in what we do, if you tried to describe us for a novel you wouldn’t get the group’s coincidental nature. The research biologist at UCL, an investment banker with Lloyds, two pairs of sisters, one from Walthamstow the other from London, a civil servant from the cabinet office, the blonde running a brand- awareness Internet business, a film editor for TV footage, the doctor running a health care trust, a nanny from Thailand, an Australian Chinese, a photographer, an accountant, an operations manager of a health care company, a French woman married to a Brit, a psychotherapist ….  some with children, some single with ages ranging from 29 to 58 (apart from the author!); all drawn to Portugal in June for a week’s stretching and breathing, to improve one’s practice and so one’s health and posture.

‘Ooommmmmmmm’ – the sound resonates through my chest, as we finish our hour and a half session and just let the breath out.

Food is as one might expect, vegetarian. Actually it’s simpler that way, rather than catering for the likes and dislikes, the allergies and fads, just platters of vegetables fruits, salads and cheeses. The local supermarket is visited by those who need wine or beer to complement the gorgeous food provided by Wendy and her helpers. The routine is yoga, brunch, ‘free time’, yoga, and then a well-deserved supper. We sit at a long table by a swimming pool, the warm sun setting over the hills to the north west. Conversation flows among us, one minute strangers, the next bonded by the power of a yoga practice.

Despite three different routers, the internet provision is poor. You might think this should not matter on a yoga retreat ….. but the majority of us are wired in to emails, digital newspapers, Whatsapp, and Facebook and, between the yoga sessions, you find little groups clustered around a hot spot like wives of miners on the news of a pit collapse or some such.

Ommmm

The common threads are yoga and Paul, our teacher. Students are from three London studios where Paul teaches and over the week we exchange our own experiences of this hot yoga and why we got into it! Interesting! Some are back for their second or third year such is the uniqueness of this week.

Paul recognises that there needs to be a little levity during our practice and introduces us to ‘earthquake’ when we suddenly have to drum our feet on the floor as quickly as possible. He also takes us on a ‘walking meditation’ reminiscent of Buddhist monks; we walk slowly, silently through the orchard and around a huge ancient gnarled olive tree, round and around. I sense that northern Europeans find ‘meditation’ a little too alternative, but after a daily 10 minutes before each yoga session one begins to understand not only its benefits but also the difficulty of clearing one’s mind of the chatter – monkey mind as some people think of it.

And so the week draws to a close and thoughts turn to the normality of our lives, so distinct from these glorious self-indulgent days. Back to work, back to families, back to children, back ……. home.

After each yoga session Paul had spoken the word ‘namaste’ … and we would respond ‘namaste’. Namaste is a gesture acknowledging the soul in one of us by the soul in the other. With his desire to keep the sessions lighthearted, at the end of one he simply said: “Namaste …… motherf**kers”.  I think we’ll all be back next year!

 

Richard 15^th July 2016                                                   richardyates24@gmail.com

 

 

Thoughts came tumbling into the empty space between my ears as we walked from the car park up to the Yoga studio with Debbie, a friend who ‘has chickens’. She was explaining that chickens liked to be kept clean and if they were cleaned out every day they appeared much happier. Not sure whether I have the expertise to determine if a chicken is happy; surely a chicken looks like a chicken whether it’s happy or not – or maybe it’s not the perceived happiness of the chicken that’s the issue here …. but how the owner thinks about them? I suggested a shower would keep them clean but not sure that chickens like showers. My thoughts immediately went to a damp dark cottage crowded in by large trees in an area of Scotland that doesn’t really look like Scotland. Er? Sorry?  Well, when someone says ‘Scotland’, I think of long sea lochs, of heather-covered mountains and craggy cliffs ….. and midges …… and rain and sun …. and just a wonderfully empty place with views in every direction. The Isle of Whithorn lies in the south west of the country and is characterised by rather poor farming ….. and has no mountains! The only view from this little run-down cottage was of trees.

My stepmother liked to keep chickens, all part of the grow-your-own culture that you embrace when you move off piste. My father had developed a love for growing vegetables and soft fruit ……. and would tell of the various crops and stuff he produced, over and over again. When my daughter was quite small we  went and spent a few days up north ….. a rare occasion but I felt the need to show my father how his first grandchild was growing up. She was particularly partial to a romper suit in pink and she was at that crawling stage that we all go through. The kitchen floor was next to a sort of pantry where the swill bucket was for the chickens…..

“Why did the chicken cross the road?” “To get to the other side, for some foul reason!”

I watched my stepmother go and feed the chickens from a galvanised iron bucket that contained the scraps from her cooking; it smelt of rotting food! She would scoop out a handful and throw it into one part of the hen coop, another into a different part until she was satisfied that they had enough. She probably checked for eggs and brought them into the kitchen ……… and then started preparing our supper. I know that a little dirt is good for keeping our immune system up to the mark but I watched with horror – she made no attempt to wash her hands, just carried on getting supper ready. Offering to help was always a no-no as she didn’t rate anyone else’s ability to cook in her kitchen. Memories fade but some remain as stark as the day they became etched on the memory card – the pink romper suit was never ever the same colour after a wipe on the kitchen floor and those fingers and nails – yuk! Chickens!

Perversely I have always loved chicken and its variants – do you remember how chicken was boiled until it fell apart, the broth becoming soup? Roast Chicken was a treat at a weekend ….. then cold chicken on Monday  ….. then chicken fricassee on Tuesday ……then soup I guess!

“What came first, the chicken or the egg?” It seems that the formation of egg shell relies on a protein found only in chicken ovaries. Therefore an egg can only exist if it’s been inside a chicken!!

Eating eggs is an acquired taste – as the yolk has a certain smell that some find unattractive but at 80 calories an egg and with 13g of protein, they are good for you. You can now buy only egg whites in our local supermarket, perfect for those who want an omelette without the yolks. We had a scare in the UK in 1988 when Edwina Currie, the Minister for Health, said: “Most of the egg production in this country sadly is now infested with salmonella.” – Sales of eggs went down 60% overnight and no one ate eggs for a while!!

As a single officer in the Army, I was accommodated in the Officers’ Mess, the centre of our social life (Mess? Well some chap’s rooms certainly were but the word originates from old French where mese meant a portion of food). We had three meals a day ….. and tea and toast at teatime …. all very civilised. There was always a choice of food but one lunchtime in the ‘70s I didn’t really fancy anything on offer. I asked the waiter who was cooking that day; “Corporal Matthews Sir” Well, I liked Corporal Matthews and asked that Corporal Mathews cook me an omelette. Well the said Matthews obviously took umbrage at my turning down the other dishes he had prepared …… and cooked me an omelette containing a dozen, yes 12, eggs. It arrived on a huge platter brought in by a waiter with a great smirk on his face. The challenge was obvious!

Not sure when it started but many years ago I started having three soft boiled eggs at breakfast – every day! I hasten to add that both my good and bad cholesterol are within the limits but admit that one egg provides enough cholesterol for 62% of my daily needs!! Bit of overkill maybe, but I certainly ‘go to work on an egg’!

So there you have it, some idle scribbles about chickens and eggs, neither of which you should count ……. or you’d probably get something on your face!! And of course I hope you find these scribbles better than the ‘Curate’s Egg’ and fortunately my grandmother’s not with us anymore so I can’t teach her to …..etcetera etcetera!

 Richard 3^rd July 2016 – richardyates24@gmail.com

I took the bus as it was raining but normally I would have walked the mile or so into Brighton. Celina had given me a cluster of thick glass bulbs, pulled together with wire; it was obvious that the bulbs were designed to have a little light inside. “Go to the electrical shop just near the Theatre Royal in Brighton; they’ll help you.”

I looked them up on line. Edwards & Hope seem to have been there for ever, one of those delightful anomalies against the march of the chain stores. Having checked their opening hours I walked up to the bus stop and got on the top deck – we are always children when it comes to a double decker bus, are we not? –up in the front? I remember as a teenager taking the bus into Haywards Heath and sitting in the back of the single decker so that, when it went over a particular little humped back bridge near the Balcombe viaduct, your bum left the seat!! Such fun!

Edwards &Hope is a sort of organised Aladdin’s cave, shelves of boxes containing bulbs of different shapes, different sizes, different wattage, bayonet or screw – you name it they had it. Coils of electrical wiring in different thicknesses and colours, and of course they also had those new filament bulbs that sort of ‘glow for effect’ but offer no light for, er, reading!!

Opposite the shop was one of those city areas where the dispossessed, feckless and those fond of an alcoholic beverage at 9 o clock in the morning congregate. To a casual passer-by they are harmless, a sad reflection on the social fabric with which we live. But if they congregate opposite your shop all day long in all weathers they could be construed as a real pain, despite feeling sympathy for their lot!

This is what it’s all about!

I entered. “I need some advice please?” I asked of the chap behind the counter, unwinding the bubblewrap from around the glass bulbs. “Ah! I’ve seen one of these before …. let me go and ask Brenda.” So off he trotted and moments later Brenda appeared. I explained that Alex at Igigi had recommended them. A sort-of grimace accompanied a ‘yes I’ve fixed one of these before’. So then we discussed which shape of bulb, how the hell was it meant to get into the middle of the nest of glass bulbs and did I want colour etc. I asked whether she ran the business and her father has started it 50 years ago and yes, with ‘Auntie’ they ran it. I asked whether she was auntie’s niece or the other chap was the nephew but she got side-tracked as she dropped a lightbulb just when I was asking for a bigger wattage and Noah the Collie came sniffing around and Noah apparently often came sniffing around when there was glass on the floor and Andrew could you get the hoover, Noah keep away and this sort of went on for a while, as I asked how business was. Eventually after about half an hour we agreed the shape, colour and wattage of the bulb and Is that all? Well while I’m here I’ll have one of those fancy bulbs with the orange filament and one of this shape but not a bloody eco one as it’s from the hall loo – you switch the light on, it starts warming up, and by the time it’s bright enough you’ve done what you needed to do and you ……. switch it off! Engaging with people is such fun.

During this exchange various people came in, were served, and left, whether contented or not. One little chap came in with one of those office desk lamps, you know the one with a green oval shade often seen in 1950’s movies. It got rewired and the little chap left, very satisfied.

When I lived in Battersea, London, I frequented an independent bookshop on Northcote road run by a warm soft chap called Michael. Soft in manner not in spirit or manliness for he flew biplanes in his spare time. Once he asked me whether I had ever run a shop and I admitted no and he said pity as he had to go to Scandinavia for a wedding and he had no one to run his shop for him, Oh! I’ll do it I said, thinking it can’t be that difficult. Well we spent a day looking at the ordering system, the online bookstore, when the daily order had to be submitted and how to use the credit card machine…. and how to do the cash check at the end of the day. And a week later off he went, leaving me the keys and wishing me good luck. The day I ran the shop passed in quite a blur ….. of people coming in and buying a book, of those who simply wanted to browse, of those who wanted to read and not buy and of those who wanted advice. I do remember one man coming in looking for inspiration for a book for his son who was about to turn 12. I had no recent experience of the reading habits of a twelve year old, …….. but sold him a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. You can’t beat the old ones!

But it was all about being welcoming and helpful to the potential customer – and so it was in Edward & Hope. I left thinking what a lovely shop, and so pleased that it still existed as an independent family business, just like other shops in the Laines area of Brighton.

I imagined the next day, having to go back to exchange the screw fitting for a bayonet one, they would recognise me and say Oh! You’re back. Well, I got served by Auntie, and auntie had seen so many people in the intervening period that when I explained I had been in the day before she said that no she didn’t recognise me and what did I want ………

Just some scribbles …..

Richard 12^th June 2016                                        richardyates24@gmail.com

PS I should acknowledge the writing style of James Frey here, for this PC reflects a little his continuous prose, with little punctuation. When I first read ‘A Million Little Pieces’ I didn’t like it and looked for the colons and semi-colons, not to mention the paragraphs! And now think it works well …. occasionally!!

 

 

Apart from a couple of hours in 2006 I hadn’t seen him since July 1967 when together we had marched up the steps of the Old Building at Sandhurst, he commissioned into the Royal Glosters and me into the Royal Regiment of Artillery. Having re-established contact a year or so ago, he and his wife came to stay the other week.

There is a temptation to go down the familiar route, whenever you meet a friend from long ago: “Do you remember so and so?” “No? Well let me tell you, I met him again in …….” We didn’t, thankfully, but at some point in our evening together he recollected the shared experience of being one of the officer cadets on the parade ground at the military academy. The sense of pride, of belonging, of collective consciousness ……. as one thousand young men, at the start of their adult lives, came to ‘Attention!’ as one. I mentioned this experience in PC 25 ‘A Voice’, back in November 2014; clearly I was not the only one to remember it.

March Past at RMAS 1967

He had occasionally commented on a PC. “I suppose since Sandhurst we knew you were full of sh*t ….. but I love reading your PCs. It amazes me how you can make something seemingly so mundane into a really interesting read.” Or “You know you are a very weird person, but I did enjoy your latest muse ….. you lovely nutter!”  Others of you might share his sentiments?!

“Do you know, Celina, we had this obstacle course to do, a major team competition, and one of the major obstacles was a 10 feet (3.5m) brick wall. Getting 6 people over it, with all their kit and rifles etc, required a huge amount of team work, understanding and technique.” And the physically stronger ones helped the weaker members of the team, I thought, because in other situations and faced with different obstacles it could easily be the other way around. In real life there will always be those who think about finding a ladder, hiring a crane, building a scaffold …….. but back then time was of the essence. I’ve thought subsequently, is this ‘wall’ a metaphor for life, that to get on, to achieve, to succeed, it’s best to do it with others (actually a ten foot wall is impossible to get over without help)?

We didn’t talk much about other aspects of our two years together, didn’t mention the granite-faced Sergeant Cameron of the Scots Guards who threatened to rip your arm off for some inadequacy on the drill square, of the first field exercise in December called appropriately Gravedigger, or indeed of the miles we walked over the Brecon Beacons in South Wales – in all weathers, but being together it was if we had met last week, with no 49 years in between!

You see it in programmes about recruits for the police, for students at University, for those who want to join one of the military services; a shared experience, often one involving adversity, mental or physical challenge, will unite those students, developing a corporate purpose, a sense of collective responsibility. The schools and universities in the UK often have a Combined Cadet Force, a quasi-military organisation that helps individuals develop into mature adults and my chum had had a huge hand in bringing the national structure into the C21st. Wonderfully he confirmed that the change these units make in individuals and the values they instil underline their importance, just as the experiences we had so many years ago did. Good to hear! Of course there are those who lead naturally and those who follow, either out of curiosity or duty. Putting individuals through tough training will always bring out the best in people and that knowledge and experience will travel with them their whole life.

During the course of our twenty four hours together the subject of sailing came up and I recounted a tale of my own experience, one that is as fresh today as it was 37 years ago. The two of us hadn’t shared this particular experience, but those who did will remember it for the rest of their lives, I think? A tour of the D-Day WW2 battlefields in Normandy was bookended by sailing out and back to the UK on a 43ft yacht. Our return was slightly delayed by a gale in The Channel, and it wasn’t until 0215 that we left Trouville, just South of Le Havre. Mooring in France often involves an anchor and, as we left the harbour, the crew struggled to fit it into its stowage up in the bow. With reefed sails we cleared the immediate breakwater and set a course for the Isle of Wight; it was still blowing hard from the north east and a lot of spray came over the bow. Down to leeward was Arromanches, a shallow and rock-strewn coast.

 

Trouville sur Mer is on the coast almost due south of Le Havre

I was just about to give the helm to another crew member when one of the women called from below, to say that there was a lot of water over the cabin floor!! Rushing below, I saw that the whole of the floor was awash. We started pumping! Everyone looked at me, as skipper, to think/say/act! My brain went into overdrive: Think! Think! Think! I checked our position on the chart, told the man on the helm to heave to, and thought about life jackets and how the life raft was stowed. Why were we taking on water? Where was it coming in? Two of us went up to the bow, to check the anchor stowage. It was in a bad place and a bad design; if you got it slightly wrong …. water came in. And so it was! Refitted snuggly we were watertight. Relief all around!! Hours later the wind died away completely and we motored into The Solent and moored up.

Most of my character-building experiences seem to have been during my military service but that character has, in the main, allowed me to cope with the obstacles of life when they’ve appear. Funnily enough I overheard the team leader of the guys who delivered the large fridge freezer a fortnight ago tell a junior member: “Obstacles? Just work your way around them” and I was reminded of Ernie Zelinksi. In his book “The Joy of Not Working” he says of obstacles and creative people:

“They realise many new obstacles will appear regularly, but they also realise there is a way to overcome virtually all obstacles. When one appears, creative people will figure out a way to eliminate it. If they can’t get over it, they will go under it. If they can’t go under it, they will go around it. If they can’t go around it, they will go through it. With all these options, there is no need to worry about obstacles.”

I think he’s right! Oh! And it’s great to relive our shared experiences with chums.

Richard 29^th May 2016                                        richardyates24@gmail.com

When we moved into our large apartment in the completely renovated Amber House here in Hove, there was little storage, so we had to be quite ruthless in what we kept. Somehow I was not quite ruthless enough and I am still sorting through stuff, knowing that I really should have another clear out soon. In the kitchen part of our living room, there was space to put bar-type stools underneath the ‘island’, next to the wine cooler. We didn’t really want the latter, and didn’t think we would use the former, sitting up to eat when there was a perfectly good table close by! And where was the ‘man drawer’? Within a few weeks the space had a new cupboard with three drawers; two for trays, table mats etc and the top one for my drawer.

I don’t think I ever called said drawer a particular name but here in the UK it’s become an essential part of how we males live, a place to put things. What things you might ask, especially if you haven’t yet developed such a cache of treasures? Well, I opened the drawer and saw:

An out-of-date Southern railway train timetable (2013) So why is it still there?

A meat hook

An old measuring tape made out of paper – now that’s quite special

An old wooden expandable ruler ie measuring device but in Imperial units

A new steel measuring tape – up to 3.5 metres

A nifty small ratchet screwdriver with changeable heads

A cord to put around the sidepieces of reading glasses to hang around your head – but no glasses. So if you can find the glasses, useful!

Actually some glasses for watching 3D films – only used once, but you never know when you might need them again

Talking of glasses, a pair of reading glasses left by a lunch guest

A small tub of Orchid Fertiliser

 

My Man Drawer

One of those Swiss Army Knife types – this one with its own smart leather holder, and yes, it has one of those gadgets for removing the stone from a horse’s hoof.

A real authentic Swiss Army Knife – red! (Probably made in China)

My Brighton & Hove City Council Bus Pass (Ah! You cry. Now I know what a man drawer is!)

An open pack of red and blue drinking straws – half used, and the remainder keep leaving the plastic bag.

Spare Christmas Tree fairy light bulbs – although I really am not sure whether they are for the current three sets or for some other set, long discarded.

A small, beautifully manufactured LED torch – with batteries that work

A rather old, well-used little purse

A box of matches

Theatre tickets for a show at the Theatre Royal Brighton in June

A half used pack of Thank You cards

A booklet of daily vouchers for The Times and Sunday Times

A half full tube of sparklers

A User Guide for our BT Answering Machine, which doesn’t tell us how to change the day – the machine message gives a day three days ago!

Some yellow paperclips

A bag full of different rubber bands – the purple ones come from packets of Asparagus bought in Waitrose, the brown taken off the bundle of post

Talking of Waitrose, some green tokens given with change which you’re meant to put into some plastic box for a good cause. Mine seem to end up in my pocket, and are then transferred to the ….. man drawer. I must put them in their proper place.

I can’t throw away string – so the ball of string in the man drawer manages to unwind all on its own and wrap itself around …..

Keys. Spare apartment keys, car keys, a key for the green Council wheelie bin given by Joe, a key for the padlock for the ladder tucked away in the Bike Shed – probably rusted through as the salt air here is extremely corrosive

Biros and highlighters – green and red should you be wondering

Four bits of wire that came wrapped around some new gadgets’ power cable ….. and might come in very useful sometime

A little plastic oval with ‘Perfect Egg Timer’ written on it. You’re meant to put it into the boiling water and it’ll turn a certain colour when the eggs are ready. Often of course an egg will crack, a little white will escape and you can’t see to the bottom of the saucepan.

Looking at the photograph you might be reminded of Kim’s Game? Nothing to do with Kim Kardashian, the game was invented by Rudyard Kipling for his creation Kim, to develop his capacity to observe and remember details, during his training as a spy! He wrote the novel Kim in 1901 and the game is still played by Scouts and Guides all over the world to this day.

The blue cord, bottom central, is a lanyard for a sailing knife, complete with a shackle key. Even did the whipping myself!

Then there’s one of those security code generators for online banking

Rolls of Trebor Extra Strong peppermints

‘The Conservatory’ (did you spot the card?) is a lovely Aladdin’s Cave type emporium selling plaster urns, garden statues, furniture, lights of every shape and size, a plastic blow-up Elvis and shark heads, pink pigs galore. Mick who runs it is a treasure himself!

So this is really a whole bunch of scribbles but it might make you smile and for those male readers, tempt you to go and have a look at your ‘Man Drawer’?

Richard 18^th May 2016                                        richardyates24@gmail.com

PS My daughter has her own version of a man drawer; it’s a wooden cupboard designed for papers, maps, architectural drawings or some such. From memory she has 6-8 drawers – and everyone is absolutely full with ……

PPS Did you spot the gorilla in the drawer? The cutlery divider put to a different use.