It is possible to think that all is right with the world. I know it's difficult and one pays for it the morning after, or with advancing years, for a day or two after, but the illusion is still achievable in the face of all the evidence.
I honestly don't care whether Jesus would have been a fan of Mother's Day or not. Why did I even think of doing such a thing as writing a letter to the editor of The Times. It is the sort of thing that cranks, weirdos and madpersons do. But I saw an opportunity to quote A.N. Wilson and drag in the New Revised Version of the Biography of Shakespeare and couldn't help myself.
And so I have added The Times to the list of the Gloucester Citizen, the Listener, The Sunday Express, TLS and whichever other august journals whose editors I've bothered with minor points. Last year The Tablet saw fit to not print my reaction to an item on Philip Larkin that I was surprised to have my attention drawn to. I can't say I blame them
But, damn it all, sir, the author Monica Ditmas appeared to be making an outrageous suggestion, reaction to my letter- as can happen- picked up on a tangential point rather than the point itself, and it was fascinating to see the subs at The Times adjust my words into their house style and thus not quite print what I said, but it was close enough.
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But, disregarding if we can, the looming possibility that we no longer even agree about what democracy is or even agree whether John Bercow is little more than a jumped up football referee who wants to be the story rather than the actual footballers or a brilliant constitutional showman (where incline to the latter), I want to celebrate that after some 25 years of correspondance with Japan, we have arrived at talking about Hunky Dory, only the week after I listened to it on You Tube, deliberately using that facility as part of my music collection, and found it to be every bit as wonderful as it ever was.
One can add in that one is never short of worthwhile entertainment as long as one has Radio 3, still not quite read all of Julian Barnes, that the Royal Mail will kindly redeliver three items sometime tomorrow morning and Sunday morning still has Bells on Sunday (the bells in St. Geronimo's in Throckleby-by-the-Marsh, re-hung in 1786 by John Taylor of Loughborough, tuned to E minor, playing Stepford Caters) as well as All Gas and Gaiters on R4Extra.
What more can one ask for.
One can engage, with hope bolstering expectation, with Champ, the optimistically-named horse that didn't quite land the nap at Cheltenham, on a retrieving mission at Aintree. And retrieve he did, after I'd waited, sidelined and out of the game for the right opportunity to come back in.
The tip for the National tomorrow, should you wish to follow the discriminating tipster suddenly back on his game, is Vintage Clouds. Don't say I didn't tell you.
On the other hand, if some unforeseen calamity means that we don't land the odds, please forget I told you.
David Green
- David Green (Books) is the imprint under which I published booklets of my own poems. The original allocation of ISBN numbers is used up now, though. The 'Collected Poems' are now available as a pdf. The website is now what it has become, often more about music than books and not so often about poems. It will be about whatever suggests itself.
