Mr Gnome's Blog

Scallop

2011-11-13T07:21:00.002Z

Aldeburgh on a Friday in November. Mist. A chill breeze. Waves crashing on to shingle.

Trudge north away from the town, past the fresh fish cabin ('anything fresher is still swimming') and on to the endless pebble beach...

And that's the site of Maggie Hambling's 'Scallop', the town's memorial to its most celebrated resident Benjamin Britten.

Strange, haunting and very definitely 'on the edge'...

The Village Trumpeter

2011-11-02T03:13:00.003Z

Tragically, the local trumpeter is, as they say in Botswana, late.
.
Consequently, when the need for announcement arises, it's now a matter of 'toot it yourself'.

Blowing his own trumpet with the best of them, therefore, is Rory Keegan - editor, writer and all-purpose project manager.

Thanks to advice from a savvy 'career coach', he's determined to raise awareness of his imminent availability on the job market.

Intrigued? Pop across to the Rory is Available blog, the source of Rory-related stories and soundbites.

Written on the Heart

2011-10-30T10:05:00.004Z

As 2011 fades away, the RSC delivers its contribution to the celebrations of the 400th anniversary of the publication of the Authorised (King James) Version of the Bible.

Frankly, the first twenty minutes (or so) of Written on the Heart are a bit of a challenge: we seem to have landed in the midst of umpteen Rowan Williams lookalikes, all getting hot under the ruff on seemingly piffling points of translation: 'church' or 'congregation'; 'confess' or 'acknowledge'; 'heal' or 'save'? Oh please.

Clever move. With 'Why does any of this matter?' hovering, Edgar begins to forge a chain of profoundly human stories spanning more than 80 years of turbulent history - and completely justifies his perfect choice of title.

(And there are shelf-loads of history to get across: one shudders at the clunky nightmare that might have come from a less gifted dramatist. Top marks for artful exposition.)

Contrasting translators bookend the story: Jacobean prelate Lancelot Andrewes, whose devotion to the King's project may raise him to an Archbishopric - and, back in the 1530s, William Tyndale, exiled, imprisoned and facing death for daring to translate the scriptures so that both ploughboy and priest might have equal access to the word of God.

So far so worthy documentary? Far from it.

Edgar's swift and subtle storytelling draws us in to the passions implicit in the story: immense self-sacrifice, courage and vision - and also compromise, self-interest and betrayal.

And along the way he delivers a fizzingly engaging two-hander central scene, incorporating profound theology, political controversy - and (emphatically) many laughs as well as moments of tear-prickling emotion.

Director Gregory Doran has, as he so often does, gathered a Rolls Royce cast: special mention to the magisterial Oliver Ford Davies as Andrewes and Stephen Boxer whose William Tyndale had me heading home to read up this great man's story.

Written on the Heart runs at the Swan Theatre, S-u-A, until March. Don't miss it.

Available...

2011-10-29T13:55:00.001+01:00

Next year is looking good: a golden jubilee, a Titanic anniversary, a Dickens of a bicentenary - and a wee sporting event in London.

And, toot the trumpet, Rory Keegan (Mr Gnome's under writer) is available for employment from 1 January.

Hating to be a bore, Keegan nonetheless boldly invites random readers of Mr Gnome's blog to peek at his new Rory is available blog.

And (why not?) pass it on to a potential employer - or contact Rory for a chat.

Gasping

2011-10-20T20:55:00.003+01:00

Tsk! Tickets for this remarkable entertainment should be overprinted with a health warning: 'Severe danger of hyperventilation'.

Resistance is futile as James Corden and fellow cast members serve up their sensational seaside soufflé (we're in Brighton 1963).

Very, very funny - and, for me, far more engaging than the mechanical mayhem of 'traditional' farce. The stunning sight gags and multiple mis-identifications are shot through with real human emotion.

Corden is a revelation - outrageous, audacious and, despite his ample build, possessed of a physical finesse that many a ballet dancer might envy.

Winter blues looming? Ditch the Prozac - see this show.

Chippy

2011-10-17T23:27:00.006+01:00

Mr Gnome and I have emerged from tonight's performance of the RSC's new production of Peter Weiss's Marat/Sade.

Does this classic example of the 1960s 'theatre of cruelty' still have the power to shock?

You bet.

But it wasn't the profusion of prosthetic willies or the character with compulsive masturbation issues (I know, SO last century) that left one speechless.

It was the Act 1 stunt when cast member Lisa Hammond tried to solicit a sub from an unsuspecting audience member: 'Oh dear, I'm so tired after the performance that I haven't the energy to cook for myself - could you stand me the price of some chips?'

The kindly chump offered her a tenner. Which, naturally, she spurned, berating him for patronising her (she uses a wheelchair). A fellow cast member chipped in, calling the nice man the (in most circs) still unspeakable word. How rude!

So come on, RSC, in what rarefied world is £10 not enough for a single fish supper? Oh please.

Lisa should have asked central character the Marquis de Sade - he'd organise a whip-round before you could say 'Batter my cod piece'.

That said, cast and crew dish up a rollicking revolutionary romp, peppered with a dash of political provocation. And it's all over by 10pm. Hurrah!

Inspired by Monsieur Marat, I whizzed home for an early bath.

And, by the way, Rory is available.

Red

2011-08-03T08:00:00.000+01:00

Saturday afternoon in the heart of the city. Turn aside from a thronged shopping street - and suddenly all is silence and stillness.

I'm grateful to my friend Jeremy Duncan for opening my eyes to experiences such as this.

Available!

2011-06-30T09:12:00.000+01:00

Top-notch coffee, agreeable ambience - and pertinent reading matter. What better way of beginning to ponder one's 'next step'?

Along with a zillion others, I find myself facing the reality of redundancy - and the challenge of the question 'What next?'

Mentored by the ever-optimistic Mr Gnome, I'm determined to view current circumstances as opportunity rather than a source of melancholy.

My 'employment wish-list' lengthens daily. At the moment, every incoming notion gets written down - regardless of its link with realism. Time enough for winnowing by the brisk breeze of truths connected to age, qualifications and abilities.

The future looks exciting. Onwards!

Stormin' and Norman

2011-06-20T16:58:00.000+01:00

What could be more architecturally arresting than the soaring solidity of Durham Cathedral at the heart of this extraordinary northern city?

But while Mr Gnome treads the tourist trail, I am immured in the cloistered confines of a college for a week-long course on 'new media': Facebook, Twitter, blogging, podcasting...

All rather challenging.

Thanks to the brilliance and kindness of fellow-course members, I am slowly feeling less of a vegetable than I did at the outset.

More about the course here.

Onwards!

Maine events

2011-05-09T19:42:00.000+01:00

Inveterate traveller Mr Gnome is in the north-eastern corner of the United States visiting the (comfortably small) community of Camden, Maine.

He's rapidly falling under the spell of this ultra-charming small town, vividly coming to life with the arrival of a very late (to Mr G) spring.

Camden, a former mill town, is now a summer resort: yachty and boaty. But with plenty of pottering pleasures for landlubbers.

Mr G is particularly impressed by the splendour of the Camden Public Library (top right), a vibrant witness to our American cousins' passion for 'open access' to high-quality educational opportunities for all. The top-floor reading room is as sumptuously appointed as a London club. And why not?

Unhappy couple

2011-04-30T10:41:00.002+01:00

'Well, it rattles along, doesn't it?' remarks an elderly audience member at intermission.

And it does: Michael Boyd's extraordinary, compelling and iconoclastic new production of Macbeth (Shakespeare's shortest play) opens the renewed Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon.

But if this is an express train, Bill the Bard has us bound headlong for Hell, as Boyd and his cast take us on a harrowing journey into the darkest regions of the human heart.

Boyd's boldest stroke is to re-imagine the 'supernatural solicitings' that so famously awaken Macbeth's dormant yearnings for ever greater status and power. To do so he (shockingly?) cuts some of the most famous scenes in the play, presenting the three 'witches' as (I'm guessing) they have never been seen before. Purists may have palpitations.

Not that the original production in the early 1600s was without its dangers: a play about the murder of a Scottish king, performed before King James I, newly arrived from Scotland to succeed the childless Elizabeth I.

And whether you're a monarch or the man or woman on the bus, 'succession' is crucial to the well-being of everyone in the kingdom - our hopes often resting on the vulnerable shoulders of a child. And Shakespeare's on-stage children rarely see a happy ending: most die. As did his only son, Hamnet, aged 11 in 1596.

This play has more children and babies (seen and unseen) than in any of the other tragedies, their experience casting a grisly light on the consequences of the Macbeths' terrible betrayals. And it's Boyd's development of this theme that makes this show so disturbing, amply fulfilling the spirit of the text - if not the letter.

Fine work from Jonathan Slinger and Aislin Mcguckin as the Macbeths, disintegrating before our eyes. Massive hurrahs for lighting designer Jean Kalman and composer Tom Armstrong. Designer Tom Piper sets the action in a vast space reminiscent of a crumbling, desecrated cathedral. (The new auditorium triumphantly fulfils the promise of being able to combine epic with intimate.)

The vast back wall holds a silent clue to Boyd's vision for the play: between the shattered stained glass and statuary the eye picks out a shallow space that once held the sacred building's focal point: but the cross has been removed.

Here's Charles Spencer's review for the Daily Telegraph.

Will goes to Spain...

2011-04-18T21:26:00.004+01:00

A strange and rather wonderful experience awaits Bard buffs at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon: a Shakespeare play where you've no idea how it's going to end.

OK , for Shakespeare read 'Shakespeare'. This is an intriguing 're-imagining' of the celebrated 'lost play' Cardenio, its existence a matter of historical fact, but which never made it in to 1623 First Folio edition of the 'complete works', seemingly lost for ever.

Fast forward to 1727 and the premiere of The Double Falsehood, a crowd-pleaser from long-forgotten playwright Lewis Theobald, who (savvy marketer) claimed his work was based on original manuscripts of Cardenio (in his possession), a collaboration between Jacobean giants John Fletcher and William Shakespeare.

Oh and - add another name - the plot is drawn from Cervantes' Don Quixote, which Shakespeare could have read in Thomas Shelton's 1612 translation.

Scholars seem to agree that Theobald's text has stylistic echoes of both Shakespeare and Fletcher.

Still with me? I know, you'd be forgiven for guessing that the show on offer in Stratford must be a dryer-than-dust experiment in academic re-construction.

Wrong.

Wisely acknowledging the impossibility of recreating the 'play behind the play', director Greg Doran has approached Theobald's text with a light touch and with an imagination drenched in years of Bard-related empathy as both an actor and a director.

The result is a play that stands robustly on its own feet, providing a richly entertaining evening.

Doran and his production team clearly relish the opportunities of the Spanish setting, wreathing the action in luscious chiaroscuro and wafting it along on clouds of incense, intercut with languorous guitar music.

Good news, too, for Bardphobics: the plot is an easy-to-follow tale of love and friendship betrayed. The villain of the piece being the outrageously dreadful Don Fernando, all posturing, posing and perfect pectorals. The eponymous hero is one of his three victims.

What with nuns, a fiesta, a spunky cross-dressing heroine, the old abduction-via-coffin ruse, full-on flamenco (plus a wee bit of auto-flagellation), this is a show with something for everyone, performed with panache by a Rolls Royce cast.

For me, the ending raised some worrying questions - as to the forgiveness granted to the truly appalling Fernando.

That said, a must-see and a terrific opening to the RSC's 50th anniversary season.

Olé!
And here's what the DT's Charles Spencer had to say.

Spooky

2011-04-01T20:17:00.001+01:00

Ever ready to acknowledge a kindred spirit, Mr Gnome relished a brief but uplifting encounter with Chris Samuel at the recent Community Choirs Festival.

Check Chris's website for a glimpse of his mission to awaken people to the life-enhancing joys and benefits of singing in groups - just for the fun of it.

A brisk glance through his CV reveals the aspect of Chris that most intrigues Mr Gnome.

Chris is a Spooky Man.

That's to say he is a booster, enthusiast, evangelist and, indeed, part-time member of The Spooky Men's Chorale, the incomparable Australian a capella musical phenomenon.

Sparing with his use of the word 'unique', Mr Gnome has no hesitation in applying it to this quirky, gifted, subversive and massively entertaining ensemble.

Be warned, the Spooky Men will be performing around the UK in summer 2011. More details on their website.

Meanwhile, immerse yourself in spookiness via the men's Youtube compilation.

On song

2011-03-26T22:56:00.002Z

Eager as always to endorse all that that's low-cost, life-enhancing and spirit-lifting, Mr Gnome has relished a full-on day of sensational singing at the annual midlands Community Choirs Festival held in Stratford-upon-Avon today.

Choir festival? Doesn't that mean cut-throat competition, purse-lipped adjudicators, plucky losers and ecstatic victors?

Er, no. Community choirs are based on the conviction that if you can walk you can dance, and if you can talk you can sing. Simple as that. Consequently, the experience of being a member of such a group is non-competitive, totally inclusive, unthreatening, weirdly joyful and surprisingly addictive.

Today's bash brought together some 500 singers from near (Warwick) and far ('Hello Abergavenny!')

Coached by a glamorous quartet of vocal virtuosos (lower half of picture), we bopped through a Carol King classic, made contact with our inner primitives via some gutsy Australian stomping - and soared skywards with a South African freedom song.

The day closed with each of the 22 choirs performing a pre-prepared song to the assembled company.

Impartial to a fault, Mr Gnome relished every note - but confesses to a particular enthusiasm for Songlines (pictured), the Warwick/Leamingtion-based ensemble led with incomparable panache by Bruce Knight (extreme right).

The wild-west get-ups were chosen to enhance their party piece: Johnny Mercer's 1930s classic 'Old Cowhand from the Rio Grande.'

Mr G's suggestion for an encore? How about 'Gnome on the Range'?

Seeded player

2011-03-25T07:39:00.001Z

Millions of sunflower seeds. But they're not sunflower seeds. Each is made of porcelain, and is hand-painted. No two, claims the artist, are identical.

At first glance, a vision of overwhelming uniformity. Closer acquaintance reveals diversity. Hmm. No wonder Mr Gnome was eager to experience the latest 'installation' sited in the vast Turbine Hall of London's Tate Modern art gallery.

Creator Ai Weiwei's original intention was that visitors should walk about on the 'seeds'. However, the clouds of porcelain dust released by such activity was deemed a health hazard and, days after opening, the installation was roped off from the public.

No such worries, of course, for Mr Gnome who, as always, relished the opportunity to 'get stuck in'.

By the way, there was absolutely nothing surreptitious about this gnome/art interface. Details on request.

Loads more info at the Tate Modern website.

Not Bard at all

2011-02-12T08:39:00.001Z

Mr Gnome's kind friends and associates have been urging him to catch the new animated film Gnomeo and Juliet. Bard plus gnomes - surely a shoo-in for Mr G's approval?

Last night he succumbed to pressure and attended a screening.

His verdict?

Mt Gnome confidently asserts that this is the finest example of its, er, genre that he has ever seen.

The genre in question being: 'Shakespeare "adaptation" featuring a cast of computer-animated garden ornaments'.

A veteran of 'special category' Shakespeare-related movies, Mr Gnome is pondering quite where to place this chirpy effort in his pantheon of semi-Shakespearean silliness.

Probably a long way below the glorious pinnacle of the never-to-be-bettered loopy sublimity of this 1964 version of Antony and Cleopatra.

From the albums

2011-02-04T09:57:00.000Z

Recent delving into an ancient cache of Kodak slides (if you're under 40, ask an old) has produced reminders of one's distant self.

From left to right, the images originate from 1965, 1967 and 1970.

Help! Looking about twelve, I'm in fact fifteen. If only the 'preppy geek' look had been on trend that summer. It wasn't. Hence the sock-and-sandal look, teamed with tweed jacket (pen in top pocket, naturellement, simply produces an impression of, er, a preppy geek. The air of juvenile melancholy may be connected to my knowledge of the dismal set of 'O' Level results heading my way in about two weeks' time.
Sergeant Pepper The tweedy caterpillar has pupated into the fashionista butterfly posing centre right. Note Cuban-heeled boots and pale yellow (Dylon) jeans, inexpertly 'narrowed' on the family Singer. The brown M&S sweater doesn't contribute much to the ensemble, ditto choice of school scarf on bright spring day. On left is MB, schoolfriend, fashion guru and role model. I'm gazing with undisguised envy at the 'modded-up' scooter and the uber-cool retro-chic military jacket. Standing centre is my older brother, the only one not trying too hard with his 'look' - and, consequently, 45 years on, the one who doesn't look ridiculous.
Let it Be At the end of my second year at the University of Essex, I'm attempting (without noticeable success) to base my look on that of John Lennon. A close-up would reveal the circular specs. Major loss of fashion points for the M&S purple pullover, being worn that year by 75% of the male population. The mane of hair was, I recall, 'high-maintenance' in the extreme: a distraction from which one has been free for many years. The air of angst-ridden melancholy may be connected to my knowledge of the dismal set of Part 1 results heading my way in about two weeks' time.

Northern sojourn

2011-01-29T20:59:00.000Z

Shocked by his mid-winter lassitude, Mr Gnome posts snaps to indicate that recent weeks have not been exclusively devoted to muffins and hibernation.

A splendid train journey took him (via the curving splendour of York Station) to the chilly grandeur of Edinburgh, where he relished breakfast with The Scotsman at Valvona and Crolla, and a breezy re-acquaintance with the Rev Robert Walker at the National Galleries of Scotland.

Christmas approaches

2010-12-17T19:14:00.002Z

Is that the time? How many sleeps until Christmas? Really?

Well, as promised to the recipients of my Christmas cards, here's an online miscellany of a few 'best bits' of 2010.

Wee project For reasons that remain unclear I decided to celebrate my sixtieth birthday by cycling solo from Land's End to John o'Groats (and then on to Kirkwall, Orkney) to raise funds for Falcon Camps, holidays for children and teenagers from tough backgrounds.

Should you feel so inclined, you can follow the course of my 'training' (pedalling around the cafes of Warwickshire, Gloucestershire and Derbyshire) and the ride itself via the Summer Cycling Saga blog, which includes various breathless podcasts recorded more or less in the saddle.

Angus The ride was packed with rare and random moments, mostly involving me being helped, boosted and (occasionally) rescued by kind and generous people. Chief among these very good Samaritans was the admirable Angus, the Cromarty crab man.

Bard news Mr Gnome relished a brief moment of celebrity when he boosted the Royal Shakespeare Theatre's Transformation Project. And I found myself chatting on local radio about Gregory Miller, the inspiring teacher who turned me on to Shakespeare.

Bard intent

2010-12-05T16:19:00.001Z

Continuing his (frankly unmethodical) attempt to identify 'his' sponsored brick-in-the-wall of the renewed Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Mr Gnome was more than a little thrilled to encounter Malika Booker, the RSC's poet in residence.

Billeted in the Victorian reading room adjacent to the Swan auditorium, Ms Booker invites visitors to recall vivid memories from their experiences of the Stratford theatres: sights, textures, scents, emotions, highs, lows, drama and tedium.

All of which will be grist to her poetic mill over the months ahead.

Of course, this was as Pavlovian Kennomeat to Mr G's human companion who lost no time in reliving his first RST show way back in August 1967: All's Well That Ends Well, with a cast that included the extremely young Helen Mirren.

Wise Ms Booker limited him to the space of a medium-sized PostIt.

Mr Gnome wishes Malika great success.

(Ms Booker was not expecting Mr G's appearance. Consequently he considers her perfect choice of hat colour as particularly auspicious.)

Staged

2010-11-25T08:12:00.001Z

Mr Gnome - to absolutely nobody's surprise - cheers lustily for the transformed Royal Shakespeare Theatre, which opened yesterday.

Wonderful as the public areas are, the success of the transformed set-up will depend upon the new auditorium.

It couldn't be more different from what was there before.

For me, the combination joins epic and intimate.

We'll know for sure when we see King Lear and those three difficult girls having a very bad time here in February.

The vibe is good.

Meanwhile, thanks to the entire Stratford team for their welcome yesterday. Special mention to Lucy, Fiona, the video crew - and to Michael Boyd and Gregory Doran who graciously allowed a punter to interrupt their dinner to give them the benefit of his (very positive) opinions.

Tip-top Rooftop

2010-11-20T08:33:00.003Z

Brick-donor, Bard boy and all-round long-term RSC booster, Mr Gnome was unable to suppress a variety of emotions yesterday on entering the transformed Royal Shakespeare Theatre as its four-year closure-for-metamorphisis comes to an end.

Accompanied by two human acolytes, Mr G was privileged to enjoy a 'preview' evening at the spanking new Rooftop Restaurant, 'helping' staff to rehearse seating and service before the opening night and the arrival of the full-on pre-show dinner rush.

His verdict? Delicious food, friendly and efficient service - and surroundings with an appropriately theatrical mixture of modern glitz set against a background of distressed brickwork and cleverly recycled elements of the 'old' theatre. For example, many will instantly recognise the old auditorium's glorious art deco marquetry doors put to stylish use in the restaurant's bars.

Hurrah!

No chance to snoop farther - the new auditorium remains out of bounds until the official opening later this month.

The vibe is good. Mr Gnome and his associates are a-tremble with anticipation of all that lies ahead. He predicts that the renewed theatre will prove to be the theatrical/architectural triumph of the year, possibly the decade.

Mr Gnome will return.

Gnome goal

2010-11-19T13:24:00.002Z

A paragon of discretion, Mr Gnome keeps his football-related preferences under wraps - he hates to disappoint.

That said, he's delighted to boost local team Coventry City, despite the fact that sky blue isn't in his (highly restricted) colour palette of choice - he goes for earthy tones.

No surprise, therefore, that he's more than chuffed to toot his metaphorical trumpet in favour of Coventry City's splendid garden gnomes, available in both home (above) and away kits.

And, should anyone be remotely interested, Mr Gnome may be about to participate in a football-gnome related discussion on his favourite radio station BBC Coventry and Warwickshire. (Saturday 27 November - shortly after 9.00am)

One feels the news room is anticipating a 'slow' day...

Homecoming? Gnomecoming..

2010-11-14T10:23:00.001Z

After three-and-a-half years of intense labour, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre's transformation project is almost complete.

The hoardings that have surrounded the site are gone, enabling Mr G to pose shamelessly against a background of shimmering glass and many new bricks, one of which he is proud to have sponsored.

Later this week he's privileged to have been invited to 'test' (with others) the new Rooftop Restaurant, as staff check that systems are in order before the official opening later this month.

Ian McMillan on Desert Island Discs

2010-11-07T12:06:00.024Z

Robust cheers for the wise, witty and wonderful bard of Barnsley, Ian McMillan, subject of today's BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs.

McMillan is, in my opinion, the real deal. A fine writer of prose and poetry, who cheerfully debunks rarefied notions of the literary arts being the province of the fortunate few. And he manages to be effortlessly funny along the way.

Ian's final disc was John Cage's '4 minutes 33 seconds' - the celebrated silent 'composition'. Which, naturally, I'd always dismissed as the pinnacle of pretentiousness. Ian has persuaded me otherwise. Helped by the sound of his stomach gently rumbling during the short extract...

It gets better

2010-10-28T21:47:00.003+01:00

Blessed with a robust constitution and enough genial optimism to make Pollyanna seem the grouchiest of cynics, Mr Gnome nevertheless knows a thing or two about dealing with the personal consequences of being just that little bit different from the majority.

For some it's about the beard. Others, unaccountably, feel threatened by the hat: so red, so pointy, so there. And for a tiny, but vocal, minority it's simply that he's 'not one of us'.

And though you'd hardly credit it from his jaunty demeanour, he's no stranger to the cold drench of name-calling and the harsh slap of rejection. Not nice.

Of course Mr G is also extremely (don't even think of mentioning numbers) well struck in years, and such foolishness is as water off a duck's dorsals. He shrugs and moves on, his self-esteem intact.

But he's keenly aware that things can be very different for a young gnome, taking his first faltering steps in a world so overpoweringly dominated by Human Beings.

Consequently, he's endlessly sympathetic to younger members of his 'community', who view him (to his modest abashment) as something of a role model.

No surprise then, that Mr Gnome is dismayed by all forms of taunting, bullying and persecution - whether subtly disguised, or shamelessly overt. Not fair, Not good. Not acceptable.

With all of this in mind, he is heartened by President Barack Obama's outspoken support for the 'It Gets Better' project, a response to the recent series of suicides of young people bullied and taunted by their peers for a perceived 'difference'.

The President may be having his difficulties, but when it comes to plain-speaking, heartfelt eloquence, he has (in my view) few equals.

Basket case

2010-10-27T17:04:00.009+01:00

For some years one has been a two-bike family, with two intimate rider/machine relationships co-existing happily.

My doughty 23-year-old Dawes Galaxy had a fair amount of exposure throughout this year's Summer Cycling Saga.

Time, I guess, for a nod towards my fab stay-at-home steed: a stalwart Pashley, British to its core, on which I ride to work, potter around town, run errands, and never, ever break sweat.

The sensible chain guard ensures office clothes remain grime-free - and the sit-up-and-beg riding position provides excellent vision and visibility.

Gears? Sturmey Archer three-speed. What else?

The capacious basket (supplemented by trap-grip rear bracket) provides ample stowage for the post-shopping journey home.

And while on the subject of the basket...

In town with the Pash some years ago, I ran in to an acquaintance. As our brief conversation ended she commented on the bike - with gratifying admiration. And then she moved on to, er, admiring me.

'You must be very confident in your masculinity - riding a bicycle with that big basket on the front.'

I was at a loss for an appropriate response - until about twenty minutes later, by which time I was at home, when I remembered the name under which said baskets are marketed. The moniker harks back to the days when our towns where a-whizz with cycling delivery boys.

So my reply should have been: 'Oh really? Well, that must be why it's called a butcher basket...'

100

2010-10-26T21:28:00.001+01:00

An autumnal sadness envelopes Mr Gnome (and me) as Radio 4's A History of the World in 100 Objects comes to an end.

I love the slightly wonky optimism of the project: to tell the story-so-far of humanity through a selection of 100 items in the collection of the British Museum. Each object to be the focus of its own programme. A radio programme.

What next? Mime hour on Radio 3?

As it turns out the series of 15-minute programmes has been revelatory, intriguing, entertaining, often deeply moving - and totally addictive.

My impression is that the series is very much the brain-child of its presenter and script-writer: Neil MacGregor, the Director of the BM.

Wisely, I think, there was no advance list of the objects chosen: just the basic fact that they were to be presented in roughly chronological order from flint cutting implement (2) to solar-powered battery (100).

And unfolding all the way was the intriguing paradox of our relationship with the things we create: mastery and dependence.

Egyptian mummy case, Roman silver cup, fabric fragment from ancient Peru, defaced penny, jade bead: each item was fascinating in itself.

But the revelatory aspect (and for me the series' triumph) was MacGregor's gradual, step-by-step, drawing out of the interconnections between the objects: through trade, through conquest, through the impulse to worship - and the simple wish to make life better.

All of which makes one powerfully aware of how much human beings have in common with one another: across the gulfs of time, and the divisions of culture, ideology and belief systems. And for anyone contemplating the 'image of God' aspect of humanity - well, in terms of food for thought, MacGrgeor serves up a feast.

Any university could do worse than require all students to listen to the series before beginning formal studies.

And, as with all good radio, I've felt that the programmes were planned with me in mind - and that each evening I've had the opportunity to drop in at the BM for fifteen minutes with a brainy, funny, unpatronising friend.

The whole series is available for download in podcast format. If you've not tried it, why not give it a go?

High

2010-10-23T12:16:00.002+01:00

With its parks, monuments and gloriously sinuous river, London is a city of sensational views and vistas.

Incomparable among them (in my opinion) is the vast southern panorama to be seen from Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath.

I've been going here for years, but the sudden opening out of the landscape, from this not exactly vertiginous hilltop, never fails to surprise and delight. Take an overseas visitor with you, and I guarantee that they will subsequently refer to the experience as one of the highlights of their time in the capital.

This picture (snapped today) shows the latest addition to the skyline - directly to the right of the central figure.

It's The Shard, a skyscraper under construction near London Bridge. When completed in 2012 it will be the tallest building in the European Union.

Not surprisingly Parliament Hill has featured in innumerable movies.

If you've seen Notes on a Scandal, the seat to the right of the picture may prompt an involuntary frisson.

Falling upwards

2010-10-17T16:17:00.000+01:00

It is a truth (almost) universally acknowledged that the city of Birmingham's network of canals is larger than that of Venice.

Whatever.

What is beyond dispute is the spell cast over this no-nonsense city by today's crystalline autumnal sunshine.

I've been a regular city stroller (Brummagem boulevardier?) since my move to the Midlands some two decades ago - and have witnessed its central area moving through change after change, all of them, from my point of view, for the better.

Hurrah!

For the L of it

2010-10-15T16:19:00.003+01:00

Succumbing to a frenzy of self-reference, Mr Gnome celebrated a friend's fiftieth birthday with a selection from his ludicrously varied back catalogue.

Double click on the image to enlarge - should you wish to, of course.

Write turn

2010-10-10T12:51:00.001+01:00

Down to literary Bloomsbury for a day learning about writing at The School of Life, London's quirky 'social enterprise offering good ideas for everyday living'.

Tutors Rob and Molly cajoled, guided and inspired us through a long, active day of buffing up our everyday writing - hence the title 'Words for Life'.

So forget the novel, the slim volume of poems and the angst-driven autobiography.

Instead we learned how to zhoosh up such ordinary-but-often-essential writing tasks as the CV self-description, the holiday postcard, the letter of sympathy, the dating profile, the Ebay advertisement...

With lightning speed, Rob and Molly got us scribbling, reading our efforts aloud - and marvelling at the variety of our responses to the challenges set.

For example: write a 'welcome to your new home' in the style of a fairy tale', 'write a holiday postcard in the form of a list', 'sum up you experience of the day as if writing a recipe'...

Again and again, the tack was: approach the familiar from an unfamiliar angle. It worked - as, among the twenty participants, confidence grew and creativity crackled.

Rob and Milly emphasised that there were no 'wrong answers' - and their only rule was a gently enforced 'apology embargo': we were forbidden the luxury of making excuses for any of our efforts before reading them aloud. Inner critics were banished, as Molly counselled: 'Don't get it right, get it written.'

In between sessions, we were fed and watered in style, with the tip-top lunch proving an opportunity for some impromptu, unpretentious menu writing.

(And, so useful, I learned a new salad item: 'quinoa', pronounced 'keen-wah', a tip speedily taken after bumpkin moi uttered 'kwin-o-ah'.)

I particularly appreciated the tranquil pause when Molly read aloud Michael Rosen's mini-masterpiece Sad Book.

The hours whizzed by and I left dizzy, exhausted and, not a word I use every day, empowered.

Hurrah!

Want to know what Rob and Milly do Monday to Friday? Check their business We All Need Words.

Ring a ding ding

2010-10-05T08:08:00.003+01:00

What was he thinking? Welsh opera superstar Bryn Terfel looks loopily divine in his gloriously OTT get-up as king of the gods Wotan in the Metropolitan Opera's new production of Wagner's Das Rheingold.

And that, Mr Gnome and I confess, is precisely what we love about opera: its unique ability to create a co-existence of the insane and the inspirational, the nutty and the numinous, barking madness and heart-piercing magnificence.

I guess I caught the opera thing at a very early age - and from a bizarre source: a childhood viewing of the Marx Brothers' classic A Night at the Opera, though it was to be years before I felt the visceral impact of a live performance.

Stage 2 infection (the Wagner thing) came in my mid-thirties. Welsh National Opera was performing its Ring Cycle in Bristol. I coughed up for all four shows, and turned up with minimal expectations.

What happened over the course of one short and three very long evenings?

Very, very hard to explain.

Something to do with the coming together of a powerful storyline (earthily human and wildly archetypal) with the music...

The music. Wagner's music. Describing the 'Wagner difference' would take a cleverer pen than mine: soaring, surging, most of the time far quieter than many imagine, earthy, airy, fiery - an irresistible river of sound.

Let's just say that it gets into the bloodstream. And you're never quite the same again.

Like a vampire? Er, I hope not. Hyper-irritating Tristan and Islode, for example, and dreary old Parsifal leave me cold.

It's a Ring thing. Tragic, strange, funny, complicated, intensely human...

I'll be at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, this weekend, to start the journey all over again. Hello Wotan, hello gods, dwarfs, dragons and wild, whooping valkyries....

(All via the magic of HD digital broadcast to UK cinema screens.)

Coming home...

2010-09-28T07:58:00.001+01:00

Mr Gnome shamelessly flaunts his invitation to one of many top-notch events celebrating the opening of the transformed Royal Shakespeare Theatre.

Closed for over three years, the riverside complex has been massively re-shaped and upgraded. Sources suggest that the gigantic project is coming in on time and on budget. No mean feat.

Better still, the buzz hints that the new spaces (public and performance) will outstrip all expectations.

Leaving

2010-09-12T19:59:00.000+01:00

I missed the otter frolicking beside the ferry, but the rainbow proved to be slightly more obliging.

The Craignure-Oban ferry ride offers an extraordinary amount of breathtaking moments in its 45-minute timespan.

Duart Castle, the Lismore Light and the distant views over to Islay and Jura (I think): always varying in their aspect according to the ever-changing light and weather conditions.

On Friday's return journey a perfect rainbow added a hint of both elegy and promise...

Iona again

2010-09-09T14:35:00.001+01:00

Trains, ferries and the trans-Mull bus have brought me once again to remote Iona, on the western edge of the Hebrides.

A week's residence with the community remains a splendid taster of a gentle, simple way of living in this traditionally 'thin place' where earth and heaven seem not-too-far apart.

Actually 'thin' doesn't apply to the gloriously substantial amounts of food served up three time a day, with intermittent servings of scones and oatcakes.

This year's group is slightly less international than in previous years, but eclectic all the same. I've met some remarkable people.

There's been a speaker - the American Franciscan Richard Rohr.

But, for me, the memorable moments come in unplanned encounters over food, or while stomping through wind and rain on the round-the-island 'pilgrimage' - this year enlivened by a close encounter with the Iona bull. A very big boy.

Small change

2010-09-02T19:33:00.000+01:00

How exciting to glance at one's loose change today and discover that this long-ago coin had found its way to my pocket - more than fifty years after it ceased to be legal tender.

I can remember the farthing clearly from my childhood, mainly for its small size and the charming image of the wren, Britain's second-smallest native bird (I believe).

Not for its purchasing power. By 1956, there wasn't much you could buy for a farthing. But save up 960 of them and you would have £1.00, with which you could buy plenty.

Gnome-upping

2010-09-01T13:46:00.000+01:00

Glad tidings in an appropriately minimal format from Saturday's Daily Telegraph.

The dark and, let's face it, rather triste forces of gnomophobia appear to be in retreat.

Joy unconfined.

Browns study

2010-08-30T20:47:00.000+01:00

Ever eager to toot his metaphorical trumpet for all that's small-scale, excellent and unpretentious, Mr Gnome has recently revisited top-notch Coventry eatery Brown's Cafe Bar.

Not to be confused with the excellent chain of Browns restaurants, this down-town venue is a one-off, housed in a curvaceous Sixties architectural gem, with a gently bo-ho, arty ambience to match.

The evening menu is based around plated meals priced at between £6 and £8. Massive choice of vegetables and potatoes. Portion control? Forget it. The hungry are fed.

On a dolphin's back

2010-08-21T22:29:00.002+01:00

To London for a day out including a small Bard-related treat.

I've been reading A Midsummer Night's Dream and wallowing quietly in its sumptuous, seductive, shimmering dream world - simultaneously earthy and sublime.

In a vain attempt to keep the brain cells alert, I'm committing a few of the purpler passages to memory.

As the train chugged down to Marylebone, I was bashing one of of Oberon's Act 1 speeches into my head:

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest

Since once I sat upon a promontory,

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath

That the rude sea grew civil at her song

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid's music.

Scrumptious or what?

Anyway, I reach Town. Tube to Charing Cross and up the stairs to the exit in Trafalgar Square, still mumbling my lines. And what meets my gaze as I emerge into the sunshine?

A mermaid on a dolphin's back.

Spooky?

Ish. Do admit.

Mad for it

2010-08-16T21:39:00.001+01:00

Hurrah for modern technology enabling one to enjoy television programmes when (and where) one chooses.

Current addiction is the remarkable US series Mad Men, a saga of satisfyingly Dickensian scope and complexity set in the high-energy world of a Madison Avenue advertising agency in the early 1960s.

It's one of those shows that would remain compulsively viewable if the sound failed, so sumptuous is the conjuring up of the styles of the day: the hair, suits, furniture, specs, hats and, wafting through every scene, the billowing clouds of cigarette smoke.

These are the styles and 'looks' that I pored over as a child in back numbers of Readers' Digest and National Geographic, featuring in mouth-watering colour the station wagons, refrigerators and washing machines that symbolised the prosperity of Eisenhower's America. Everything bigger, bolder and more exciting than the pint-sized versions available to cash-strapped British consumers.

At the centre of the story is alpha-male ad executive Don Draper, all slicked-back hair, chiselled features and sharp, cynical intelligence. Perfect job, beautiful blonde wife, two children, gleaming home in the suburbs - oh yes, and a mistress plus (early in series 1) a mistress-in-waiting.

No wonder he sometimes skips the early-morning push-up routine.

Don, finger magically on the pulse of the times, is selling dreams of prosperity and well-being, motivated by some as yet only hinted-at compulsion to escape his past. And yet despite his trophy wife, home and possessions, he's restless and insecure. Hence the Dickens reference.

Mad Men is funny, sharp, perceptive and absorbing. It's going to keep me intrigued all winter....

And rather uncomfortable as well.

I think I'll fix myself an old-fashioned and light up a Lucky.

Bard-odyssey

2010-07-30T18:11:00.000+01:00

Last night to the Birthplace Trust in S-u-A to hear RSC director Gregory Doran interviewed on the topic of (surprise!) 'Shakespeare and I'.

Both thumbs up for this warm, unpretentious man's engaging account of how he became a self-confessed 'Shakespeare nut'.

Ably prompted by interviewer Paul Edmondson, Greg (well, one feels one got to know the guy) spoke of the influence of an inspirational teacher at his Catholic secondary school. One identified.

I also checked the 'idntify box' regarding a childhood passion for putting on puppet shows.

In my school there was, sadly, no tradition of performing the plays. Greg, on the other hand, overcame bitter disappointment (Mr Monahan failed to cast him as Ophelia) to triumph as a schoolboy Richard II and Lady Macbeth (presumably pre-beard).

But it wasn't the am-dram fripperies of lights, makeup and costume that got him hooked.

It was the words, the 'jewels in the mouth' feeling of speaking Shakespeare's language, borne along by the music, not always understanding the full sense of a speech. Intoxicating, liberating, empowering, bafflingly complex, totally straightforward...

As a friend of mine might say: 'I so got that.'

And, for me, it's that love of the text that helps explain the success of Greg Doran's productions. Concepts, ideas, design - all are secondary to the words. As he remarked, Shakespeare's original audience went to hear a play, rather than to see it...

And among the pieces that he read was Cavafy's glorious poem Ithaca.

Could go on...

Oh,by the way, GD was wearing the shirt pictured above.

Bricked up

2010-05-28T22:10:00.002+01:00

Back in 2009 Mr Gnome did his small-scale bit for the Royal Shakespeare Theatre's hugely exciting Transformation Project. He sponsored a brick.

A year on BBC Radio Coventry and Warwickshire sent ace reporter Nicki Murphy to probe the motivation behind the brick.

Along the way, we revealed our 40+ years of Bard behaviour at Stratford, celebrated an inspiring teacher and came close to revealing the age of the peerless Dame Helen Mirren.

And Mr Bowie made a supporting appearance...

This material is © BBC Radio Coventry and Warwickshire and is an excerpt from a programme to be aired shortly.

Hot potato

2010-05-27T23:08:00.000+01:00

The aforementioned menu item - irresistible to humans and gnomes.

Radio daze...

2010-05-27T19:26:00.001+01:00

Mr Gnome breezed through today's RSC-related media opportunity with BBC Radio Coventry and Warwickshire, capriciously (and predictably) leaving all the talking to his human associate.

Alerted by the Royal Shakespeare Company's press office, reporter Nicki Murphy probed the motivation behind Mr Gnome's status as (probably) the smallest and least human dedicatee of a sponsored brick, a popular element of the massive Transformation Project that is, er, transforming the Company's Stratford home to a renewed theatre space that will cause an international sensation when it opens in 2011.

Or so Mr Gnome predicts.

Broadcast goes out next week.

Nice of them to ask us. Perhaps Sir Ian and Dame Judi were busy?

Good times, Bard times...

2010-05-25T18:46:00.002+01:00

Absent from the blogosphere for far too long, Mr Gnome returns to boost up his 'home team' - the splendidly tip-top Royal Shakespeare Company.

Pens mightier than Mr G's have reviewed the current crop of productions. Once again, the Daily Telegraph's Charles Spencer displays an almost spooky ability to channel Mr Gnome's reactions to each new offering on the stage of the Courtyard Theatre. With exceptions.

So with the stage taken care of, Mr Gnome turns his attention to that essential adjunct to any theatre - the cafe.

The Courtyard Theatre cafe, housed in the barn-like structure to the left of the main foyer, gains several robust hurrahs on Mr Gnome's scale of customer satisfaction.

This efficiently run eatery would deserve to be a top-notch Stratford attraction - even if it was not grafted on to an internationally celebrated theatre company.

Friendly, unpretentious and offering great value for money, the Courtyard cafe's relaxed ambience (free newspapers) is enhanced by the cheerful, attentive and thoughtful staff.

Mr Gnome owns up to having a bit of a 'thing' for the coronation chicken baked potato with salad.

Not really a 'celeb spotter' himself, Mr Gnome readily acknowledges that this is a top venue for a bit of classical star gazing. Varied luminaries have wafted into his field of vision in recent months: Frances Barber, Bette Bourne and Sir Donald Sinden (puffing on cig at an outside table).

Added value?

For a resume of RSC-related blog posts, please click here.

Micro-brew. Micro-fan

2010-01-31T21:09:00.004Z

Mr Gnome could not be more excited to be the recipient of this splendid gift - which here engulfs his hat in an amber nimbus.

Emanating from the Tunnel Brewey, Warwickshire's newest micro-brewery, Sanctuary celebrates the 800th anniversary of Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon, which is hosting a year-long programme of special events.

Chill

2010-01-09T21:18:00.002Z

With a pedestrian commute and no pressing reason to use the car, I've relished the current spell of ice and a snow - a proper winter at last.

Late afternoon, for me, is the best part of these jewel-bright days.

Colour drains away, the western sky fades from blue to ochre - and the walkers in the park transform to figures in a Breughel picture.

The Sacred Made Real

2009-12-28T20:17:00.002Z

To the National Gallery to view this extraordinary exhibition of Spanish religious sculpture and painting from the seventeenth century: The Sacred Made Real.

As the title suggests, the works on show are religious images - and the majority have not come from art galleries, but from the churches where they remain objects of devotion.

For me the most striking are the sculptures which, according to the rigid craft demarcations of the era, were carved by one artist and later painted by another.

The aim was to create an almost theatrical illusion of reality, which would have been enhanced by the dramatic lighting of the space for which the works were created.

And, of course, the overall intention was to evoke contemplation, awe and sympathy in the viewer, thus inviting him or her to deeper devotion.

The subject matter is uniformly dark: friars contemplate the cross, a hooded Francis of Assisi gazes at a skull, and the head of John the Baptist lies on its plate, every sinew and artery of the severed neck rendered with surgical accuracy.

And then there are the images of Christ's passion: Jesus stands flayed and bleeding; he hangs dying upon the cross; or, as shown above, he lies stark and dead.

The message, expressed with brutal clarity, is of the human, physical reality of Christ's suffering and death: Ecce Homo - behold the man.

The effect, for me, in the darkened rooms of the Sainsbury Wing, was powerful, horrifying and, well, all a bit too much.

I guess it must be to with the presentation of these fearful images in isolation from the story that led up to them - and of the subsequent' third-day' event which transfigures them.

Without the context, the show seemed oppressive, gruesome and deeply morbid - an upmarket chamber of horrors.

Wise man

2009-12-24T20:32:00.002Z

A Christmas cheer for Archbishop of York John Sentamu and his forthright condemnation of proposed anti-homosexual legislation in his native country of Uganda.

No stranger to persecution, John Sentamu was imprisoned under the regime of Idi Amin.

Under the proposed legislation homosexual people could face life imprisonment. And anyone who failed to report homosexual activity could face up to three years in jail.

The word 'draconian' seems inadequate.

Merry Christmas, Blue Budgie

2009-12-24T07:36:00.005Z

Mr Gnome ends the year by celebrating those seemingly random positive moments that, of themselves, may seem minimal and trivial - but which, taken together, make life more colourful, more interesting and, in short, richer.

Take Blue Budgie, for example.

My daily walk to work takes me past numerous houses, but only one of them catches the eye - and that's the one with the brightly lit window in which Blue Budgie's cage may be glimpsed en passant.

Sometimes BB, as I now think of him/her, rests peacefully inside his roomy cage. But more often than not, is to be seen at liberty, sitting atop his/her home - or perching on a finger offered by a human co-resident.

BB, perky of demeanour, is clearly a valued member of the household, with his/her cage in a prime position where BB can both see and be seen.

A recent flurry of stylish Christmas decoration has taken place chez BB, and one morning this week I found myself dismayed to notice that the cage and its colourful owner were no longer visible.

Relief all round to discover yesterday that BB has returned to his/her usual position, presiding cheerfully over a household which seems primed to relish every aspect of the festive season.

Blue Budgie: small, cheerful, colourful, positive - and in his/her small way making a big difference.

No surprise then that Mr Gnome raises a robust 'Hurrah!' for this brightly be-feathered bird.

NB The picture above of a blue budgie was gathered from the Internet. Mr Gnome naturally respects the privacy of the real Blue Budgie and his/her family.

Bill's Christmas cat

2009-12-22T22:03:00.000Z

Christmas feels like Christmas now that my friend Bill Sanderson's Christmas card has arrived.

It's exactly one year since I wrote about Bill and his remarkable artwork.

This year's is a gem, I feel.

Christmas

2009-12-20T14:32:00.003Z

Mr Gnome apologises to readers (if any remain) for the Trappist-like silence that has enveloped the blog in recent weeks.

As always, Mr G's human operative willingly takes the blame. But in the spirit of 'never complain, never explain', we crave your indulgence and shall try to do better in the New Year.

The current cold weather has transformed the neighbourhood into a hard-edged winter world. The canal is frozen, giving ducks an opportunity to show off their triple Salcos. Fieldfares bob about in the hedgerows.

There's a new linked blog, by the way. All about my plans for June 2010.

Messiah

2009-11-29T21:47:00.003Z

To London to hear and see English National Opera's new staging of Handel's Messiah.

One of the most popular works in the classical reportoire, Messiah is customarily produced on the concert platform with formal ranks of orchestra, chorus and soloists.

It's an excellent way to relish the composer's gloriously tuneful score and to be drawn in to librettist Charles Jenner's artful selection of texts from the King James version of the Bible, all of which invite us to ponder the identity and significance of Jesus Christ.

But this is definitely not a static concert performance. A huge cast of chorus, dancers, soloists and children conjure up a series of 'scenes' in which the familar choruses and arias are presented in a stylised, yet instantly recognizable, contemporary urban setting.

The spare design hints at offices, a school, the street, the park - an ordinary world, into which someone extraordinary is breaking in.

There's no attempt to offer a literal presentation of the birth, death and resurrection of Jesus.

But the show is all the more powerful for the obliqueness of the images created on the vast stage of the London Coliseum: small boy, fizzing with energy, runs through the crowd; a young woman finds a stranger has left lilies on her bed; a classically clunky infants' nativity play, suddenly glows with numinous meaning; a young woman lies dying on a hospital bed....

All of the familar choruses and arias are presented in the correct order, magnificently sung by a cracking chorus and top-notch soloists - you can hear every word.

Warner's great achievement, in my view, is to present this great work with such freshness and imagination that it's as if we're seeing and hearing it for the first time.

I have no idea as to Deborah Warner's own belief in the words being sung. But what's beyond doubt is that she believes that they matter - and that the Messiah narrative is beautiful and meaningful and transformative. It makes a difference.

A great way to begin another Advent season.

Year end

2009-11-29T07:39:00.003Z

Advent Sunday - a good time to emerge from one's customary self-delusion that the year is far from over.

The Christmas picture-card is ready - thanks to the annual struggle with the wonderful Comic Life software. This is graphic design for the technically challenged, delightfully easy to use and providing sound effects (squeak, creak, grind, whoosh) as one shuffles the image around the screen, adding captions and speech bubbles at will.

Fresh air and fun

2009-11-15T14:50:00.005Z

Mr Gnome remains semi-prostrated by the sensory overload of his recent first - and much too brief - visit to the northern Nirvana that is Blackpool.

Thanks to kind and generous hosts, we relished the full-on Blackpool experience beginning early on Friday evening with an al fresco fish-and-chip supper from the Number One Chip Shop, in Bispham at the top end of the sea front.

A short walk through driving rain took us to the start of the famous illuminations and the splendid street-side 'tableaux', free-standing installations on variety of themes. My favourite was the delightfully dodgy ancient Egyptian display, featuring animated mummies. You can't say pharaoh than that...

Soaked to the skin, we returned to the car and viewed the remainder of the illuminations from its steamy interior. We agreed that the monsoon conditions only served to enhance the dazzlement of the display.

The following day brought clear skies and sunshine for our walk along the promenade, starting from the world's biggest glitterball and continuing to the Tower.

Then we hopped aboard a tram and rattled northwards to the ancient fishing port of Fleetwood, whizzing past the gleaming exterior of the ultra-modern Fishmerman's Friend factory.

A short walk down Pharos Street took us to Fleetwood's best-kept secret: the Dolphin Cafe, a chip shop with a tip-top restaurant in the backroom. Fish and chips, mushy peas, bread and butter, pot of tea. Authenticity doesn't come more authentic.

Hurrah for the cheerful delights of Blackpool, says Mr Gnome.

He'll be back.

Remember

2009-11-10T22:21:00.004Z

In Holland recently, I spent a quiet hour in the Oosterbeek Cemetery near Arnem, tended with remarkable care by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

Officers and private soldiers lie side by side, their gravestones simple and uniform: name, age, regiment, a religious symbol - or, on many, the spare inscription 'Known to God'.

Nearby is the remarkable Airborne Museum, commemorating the events following the launch of Opertaion Market Garden in the autumn of 1944.

I was particularly struck by the inscription on the stone outside the museum - and as another Armistice Day comes around, I shall let it speak for itself.

Life cycles

2009-10-23T01:51:00.004+01:00

As winter approaches with its customary inexorable inexorability, Mr Gnome is already casting his thoughts forward to the summer of next year.

In particular, he is embarking on a period of rigorous preparation for a journey to be undertaken by his human associate in June 2010.

No prizes for guessing that the proposed month-long quest will be by bicycle.

The route? Well, at this stage we're simply indicating that it will start with St Just and end, all being well, with St Magnus.

In due course the project will have its own website / blog.

And yes, you've guessed, we shall be inviting sponsorship for a very worthwhile cause: Falcon Camps, a programme of residential adventure holidays for children and young people from disadvantaged backgrounds.

More news soon.

Quintessentially Dutch

2009-10-15T10:55:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome has returned from a brief visit to the Netherlands buzzing with enthusiasm for our charming neighbours across the North Sea.

He relished, in no particular order:

the people: dignified, kindly, helpful and healthy-looking - must be all that...
cycling: travel by bike is totally built in to the the Dutch transport system, the whole culture, in fact. Of course, geography helps. But we could learn so much from our neighbours
applegebak: not exactly apple pie. Deeper, fuller, richer. Omnipresent. Lekker!
the Mauritshuis Museum in Den Haag. A treasure box on three floors of a grand, but not overwhelming, seventeenth-century mansion, housing some of the greatest works of the Dutch 'golden age': Rembrandt's 'Anatomy Lesson' and Vermeer's 'The Girl with a Pearl Earring'
trains: Mr Gnome couldn't get enough of the zippy doubledecker commuter trains
Delft and Leiden: what could be more beguiling than wandering the streets of these university cities on a crisp, autumnal day?
Hortus Botanicus: the University of Leiden's ancient botanical gardens were a serendipitous discovery. Glorious. And free - such a bonus for a Euro-strapped gnome.

Cool?

2009-09-29T22:37:00.005+01:00

How to define a term as slippery as 'cool'? I've a feeling that any attempt in that direction would be, well, more than a little un-cool.

I'll content myself with a modest certainty that I recognize it when I see it.

Take last Sunday afternoon.

A gentleman, en route to a 'do', has had the misfortune of his car breaking down.

The members' rescue service comes to his aid.

To have the AA arrive promptly may be regarded as good fortune.

But to have its red, yellow and black livery blend exactly with your clan's tartan?

That's cool.

Happy day

2009-09-27T18:06:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome was possibly the smallest of the many guests who gathered in Leamington Spa to celebrate with Ben and Richard (top) their recent lifetime commitment and civil partnership.

Ben and Richard, kind and generous to a fault, benignly overlooked Mr Gnome's flouting of their gentle encouragement that all guests should fall in with the day's 'black and white' theme.

This minute faux pas was overshadowed by the style and panache with which the human guests of all ages proved the power and impact of a 'restricted palette'.

No surprise then that the day also provided a checkerboard of contrasting moods and emotions as we were invited to join Ben and Richard in looking back at the journey that has brought them thus far.

Our hosts were at pains to acknowledge with grace and humour, the many roles that family and friends had played in their story.

And, with modest sincerity, they left us in no doubt of the centrality of their 'faith journeys' to their decision to make this public commitment.

Here's the text of the address given during the service.

Mr Gnome had a ball and has decided that 'by sporran' is to be his new transport of choice.

The trouble with homonyms

2009-09-26T12:19:00.006+01:00

So all-consuming was the routine of boarding school that I rarely gave a thought to what life was like for my schoolfellows when we returned to our various home for the holidays.

A boy named Piers was the exception, simply because his descriptions of his life at home included an element that was, to me, utterly entrancing.

He told me that he spent all of his spare time 'at the wreck'.

The wreck? How totally fantastic. I pictured him and his chums playing pirates more or less for real: shinning up the fraying rigging, crawling over the quarterdeck and descending into the murky depths of the hold in search of doubloons, pieces of eight and all forms of piratical paraphernalia.

How I envied Piers.

Years later, while visiting friends, I asked where their children were.

'Oh they're playing down at the wreck - let's walk down there an collect them.'

My heart skipped a beat and I accompanied them with a certain amount of eager anticipation, combined with a hint of concern at the parents' matter-of-fact attitude to the extraordinary privilege bestowed on their children.

We reached our destination soon enough.

No galleon, no rotting timbers, no flutterimg skull-and-cross-bones. Instead, a grassy field, some goal posts, a metal climbing frame, some swings.

In fact, a perfectly serviceable municipal recreation ground. The Rec.

The scales fell: possibly the most poignant disillusionment of my life thus far.

The picture is the work of the talented artist L M Lowry.

Crochety

2009-09-18T19:26:00.004+01:00

Occasional fashion maven Mr Gnome offers his advice to stars of stage and screen, particularly when a looming date with a red carpet propels them into a state of semi-paralysed 'frock shock'.

Such was the sad condition of the dazzling Cate Blanchett when she called up Mr G a few days ago from her home in the Antipodes.

It was a matter of moments for Mr Gnome to point CB in the direction of fashion's 'next big thing' - the retro-licious 'crocheted by my mum' look.

Think 1970s, think ponchos, think shirts with rounded collars, think big patterns - and then go bigger.

To be frank, a close look at Ms Blanchett's fabulous frock prompted moments of semi-spooky deja vu. My late mother, an enemy to idle hands, created umpteen cosy blankets from woollen squares, dispatching then on completion to one or other of the world's trouble spots.

Could one have found its way down under?

Setting a Bard example

2009-09-17T19:22:00.004+01:00

No stranger to the commendation 'You're a brick', Mr Gnome has impulsively turned metaphor to reality by sponsoring a 'brick in the wall' of the transformed Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon.

To be frank, Mr G's action is motivated by equal measures of charity and exasperation.

For months he's been overhearing my frequently repeated statement: 'I must get around to making a donation to the RST's Transformation project.'

Justifiably piqued by human procrastination, Mr G has taken matters into his own small but capable hands - and, voila, a brick has been laid, and a rather charming certificate issued.

And, shamed by a gnome, I have finally done the right thing and sponsored a brick on my own behalf, requesting that it be dedicated to Dom Gregory Miller, about whom more later...

Awning gap?

2009-09-16T19:09:00.007+01:00

Would-be restaurant reviewer Mr Gnome commented enthusiastically last year on Leamington Spa's tip-top La Coppola eatery.

As well as commending its value-for-money menu and cheerful service, Mr G noted that La Coppola's unusual frontage made a charming and colourful addition to the town-centre streetscape.

Fast-forward to now and the distressing news that owners Charlotte and Parham Ahmadi are obliged to remove the awnings, shutters and window boxes that lend their premises its zestful individuality.

It seems that Warwick District Council's building inspector Keith Turner feels that the ground-floor awning has 'unbalanced the architectural harmony' of the terrace.

And according to the report in the Leamington Spa Courier, he also opines that 'the upstairs awnings "completely alter" the appearance of the building and their bright colour is "out of place and unduly conspicuous".'

Oh please, sighs Mr Gnome.

La Coppola is conspicuous? How dreadful.

It's colourful? Quelle horreur.

It has unbalanced the street's architectural harmony?

Of course it has, opines Mr G. In the way that a ray of sunshine unbalances a blah day.

Mr G urges Mr Turner to relax, pour himself a crisp glass of Frascati and allow a hint of whatever is the Italian equivalent of bonhomie to steal into his soul.

It's not too late to change your mind, Mr T.

Resist blandness, proclaims Mr Gnome.

Sojourner Truth

2009-09-13T20:51:00.004+01:00

I'm ashamed to admit that until today I knew nothing of the remarkable Isabella Baumfree (1797-1883).

Born into slavery in Swartekill, New York, Isabella grew up to be a fearless campaigner for abolition, temperance and the rights of women, choosing to rename herself Sojourner Truth.

Her lifespan stretched from the earliest years of the United States to the reconstruction following the devastation of the Civil War. My two great-aunts were young children at the time of her death.

Her activism was based firmly on her Christian faith.

I guess that Truth, as an old woman, may have felt a certain satisfaction at the progress that had been made in her lifetime. Never again in the United States would her experience as a nine-year-old be repeated: she was sold as a 'job lot' along with 100 sheep - for $100.

She's possibly best remembered for her speech 'And ain't I a woman?'

A great woman whose name should be better known.

Fancy this

2009-09-12T11:16:00.004+01:00

Finding himself in his local M&S today, Mr Gnome swiftly abandoned himself to the timeless allure of the fondant fancy.

How to classify this very particular confection? For Mr Gnome, the FF is a wee bit too special for an ordinary tea or coffee break, freighted as it is with memories of formal 'high tea', where its pastel cheeriness would enliven the table with an air of frou-frou frivolity.

While a substantial, home-made (of course) cake would be the unquestioned diva of the tea-table, the fondant fancy was its sparky soubrette - its irrepressible charm enhanced by a hint of larky vulgarity.

If there's anything to cake-related re-incarnation, one can predict how the glorious Barbara Windsor will be coming back.

Gene therapy

2009-08-30T22:19:00.006+01:00

It's not every day that Mr Gnome has an opportunity to meet an American bishop.

By the same token, it's not every day that American bishops get to meet Mr G.

This particular prelate is the Right Rev Gene Robinson, Bishop of New Hampshire.

As this episcopally epiphanic snapshot indicates, both parties appear to be equally chuffed by the encounter, which took place today at the splendid Greenbelt Arts Festival, sited on Cheltenham race course.

Bishop Gene had been drawing large and attentive crowds to his festival talks and lectures. Later he took time to chat with festival-goers while signing copies of his recent book The Eye of the Storm.

Charming and softly spoken, Bishop Gene was unfased by his meeting with Mr G, welcoming the impromptu photo-op without a trace of gnomophobia.

With typical diffidence, the bishop inquired: 'Am I big in Gnomeland?'

Responding through his spokesperson, Mr G stated robustly: 'Bishop Gene, you're absolutely huge.'

Cheers?

2009-08-23T08:20:00.007+01:00

To the Courtyard Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, for the very first performance of a new play by the sibling writing team of Vyacheslav and Mikhail Durnenkov.

In just under two hours, the pay follows hapless soldier Ilya's return to his hometown after service in the Chechnya war.

Ilya's head injury has left him slow of speech and movement - and with a highly dangerous intolerance for alcohol. And the authors make it plain that in this dreary Russian 'Anytown', having an intolerance to vodka is as problematic as being allergic to water.

So bleak and monochrome is the lifestyle depicted that hitting the bottle seems an entirely appropriate survival strategy.

Ilya's homecoming kicks off with the discovery that his wife has taken up with a new man, and that his little boy has no idea who he is. Then things start to go downhill.

An election is in the offing and each candidate is desperate to have an endorsement from the returning 'hero'. Cue high-definiton depictions of the boorish mayor, the loopily sadistic police chief (he has a Nazi weaponry 'thing') and the seemingly honourable editor of the the local paper.

I followed Ilya's entanglements with this unholy Trinity with a growing sense of despair and sadness, which continued to the play's predictably anguished conclusion.

By now you'll have worked out that The Drunks is not a chuckle-fest. And it was probably wise of the RSC to write to ticket-buyers to warn them of the play's scabrous language.

And yet the 'stage world' created by director Anthony Neilson, designer Tom Piper and the brilliant cast remains uncomfortably and insistently in my head.

I'd like the play to be a grotesque exaggeration of 'life now' in parts of eastern Europe. Maybe it is. Maybe not.

I guess I need to find out.

Anniversary

2009-08-19T21:31:00.001+01:00

My parents were married on Monday 19 August 1946, my mother's thirty-eighth birthday.

And here they are stepping out into the sunshine from the Church of the Most Precious Blood, Sidmouth, Devon.

The bride looks smart in her suit (she would have said 'costume', with the stress on the second syllable) and rather daring hat.

Rationing, my mother's status as a widow and her no-nonsense views on unnecessary expense provide clues, if any are needed, to the absence of a conventional wedding dress.

(The photographer subsequently adapted the print, thoughtfully blanking out the smiling lady who unintentionally causes my mother to look as if she has two heads.)

Marrying at an age when many couples are moving towards grandparenthood, the newlyweds are smilingly unaware of the speed with which they are about to be engulfed by family life.

By the time their fourth wedding anniversary arrived, they were parents to three boys.

My father (born 1900) lived another thirteen years. This November brings the fiftieth anniversary of his death.

Today brings the sixty-third anniversary of their marriage - and my late mother's 101st birthday.

Don't tell Gabriel

2009-08-18T09:00:00.000+01:00

Eager to keep up with trends in popular music, Mr G read this magazine mini-review with considerable interest.

The subject is a recent concert performance by the New York band Antony and the Johnsons, whose lead singer is the extraordinary performer Antony Hegarty.

It was the reviewer's description of Hegarty's remarkable vocal abilities that brought Mr G up short.

'Smooth tones'? Hurrah!

'Perfect annunciation'?

Hallelujah!

Towelling inferno

2009-08-17T21:18:00.001+01:00

Mr Gnome, inconspicuous when it pleases him to be so, takes a breezily insouciant attitude to a topic that causes considerable consternation to many of his human chums - the tricky business of changing on the beach.

Make that his friends from the UK.

His continental copins and copines seem non-plussed by the British 'thing' with making the transition, sur le plage, from streetwear to beachwear - that whole shuffling, hopping, wriggling towel-clenching ballet, which, in the end, often farcically reveals more than it so desperately wishes to conceal.

But, should any of his readers be losing sleep at the prospect of beach-related changing 'issues' on their upcoming hols, Mr G is delighted to offer a solution that is as stylish as it is simple - and, given the colour combos displayed above, sizzlingly sassy.

Posing cheerily on Cornwall's uber-cool Praa beach, fashionista KW effortlessly proves the truth that more is more as he models this red-hot personal mini tent-ette.

Engulfed in this towelling triumph, one is able to don one's boardies with style, confidence and, let's admit it, more than a little chutzpah.

Envious? Deal with it.

This is a one-off 'vintage' item, created in the 1960s by K's grandfather, who, had he given his design skills free rein, would by now be a name to rival, if not eclipse, those of Armani and Klein.

(Note the stylish elan with which K's orange-framed shades echo the zingy tones of the fabric. Retro-tastic, huh?)

Want the pattern? Mr G will be happy to link inquirers with the couturier in question.

Picture credit: Fi B

Need a boost? Turn to . . .

2009-08-16T20:00:00.004+01:00

Isn't it fab when someone enthuses so communicatively and un-boringly about a challenging pet topic (mountaineering, python-taming, extreme ironing) that you feel you could jolly well give said activity a go yourself?

Such was the can-do spirit instilled in me recently after listening to my friend JD talking with great warmth about the pleasure and solace he'd gained from reading a celebrated series of seven lengthy novels.

Far from being a slog, this literary marathon soon became a pleasure trip, engrossing, enthralling and utterly absorbing. I gained the impression that my friend would greet the discovery a further seven volumes with robust hurrahs.

JD read the books in translation from the original French.

And it's at this point that I'll make my admissions.

I know two other people, good friends, who've read these books - and both are fluent enough in French to have read them in the original.

I've also confided to both of them that, long ago, I'd actually set out from base camp and started novel number one...

Both made the same response, asking: 'In the original..?'

To which I replied in the negative - and with strong sense that, even had I got through all seven, my achievement would, in their view, be ever-so-slighty not up to snuff.

To be fair, my reaction probably said more about a sense of inferiority on my part, rather than any snootiness on theirs - but, whatever, I was discouraged.

So, I'm determined to allez-y and set out again. JD's winsome bigging-up of these books has made me hungry.

The books in question? The picture offers a teensy clue...

Morris major

2009-08-15T13:57:00.001+01:00

How unutterably unsurprising that Mr Gnome is a lifelong devotee of the sinuously sumptuous fabric designs of Victorian arts-and-crafts maestro William Morris.

Dating from 1886, the Chrysanthemum design has remained in production ever since.

The curtains in which Mr G is swathing himself were purchased in 1977 (darker fabric) and 1987 - and have been in more or less constant use.

The designs enjoyed a massive revival in 1970s. Sadly they were frequently 'scaled up' in line with the tastes of the time, often to proportions grotesquely beyond the modest intentions of the originals. The impression created was overpowering, to say the least, and, unsurprisingly, the Morris revival went the way of penny collars and day-glo tank tops.

But, to my eye, these designs remain as fresh, rich and, well, gorgeous as ever.

Mr Gnome's comment? 'Blogging about curtains? Oh please. And you fantasize about film rights..?'

Shaw thing

2009-08-14T08:30:00.001+01:00

George Shaw was born in 1966 in the Tile Hill district of Coventry, which continues to be the subject of a remarkable series of paintings.

Shaw paints on board, using old-fashioned Humbrol enamel paints, creating a surface of rich luminosity that, in my view, is impossible to reproduce faithfully on paper or on screen.

I discovered Shaw by accident when I dropped in at Birmingham's Ikon Gallery some years ago and discovered a major exhibition of his work. Big impact.

The images seem bathed in light and, always devoid of human figures, seem to invite us to view these very 'ordinary' council-estate scenes with fresh eyes.

Rather like the painter Jeremy Duncan, Shaw seems eager to turn aside from subjects that are traditionally associated with landscape painting: the seashore, the mountains, the garden, the country estate.

And in so doing, he challenges us to look again, to question our definitions of 'beautiful' and, perhaps, to extend our understanding of the sacred...

Capital

2009-08-11T21:38:00.003+01:00

January 1961 and our mother has taken us to London for our first taste of the metropolis. (The celebrated 'empty' plinth is clearly visible top left.)

It's taken for granted that one dresses up for London. Full school uniform for us and best coat, gloves and hat for our mother.

I'd looked forward to the visit keenly, picturing a city a-gleam with noble architecture. In reality, London had yet to emerge from post-War austerity - and the midwinter mists served to deepen the mood of melancholy neglect.

But we had a fab time, with treat after treat: lunch at a Lyon's Corner House, pigeon feeding, a climb up the tower of Westminster Cathedral, a visit to Madame Tussaud's and the London Planetarium.

Last Post

2009-07-30T08:36:00.004+01:00

To mark the death of WW1 veterans Henry Allingham and Harry Patch, this morning Radio 4's Today programme broadcast a poem commissioned from new Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy.

Last Post

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.

You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly write it backwards,
then it would.

(This text will be removed as soon as it is no longer freely available via the BBC website.)

Flu in

2009-07-26T18:56:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome, with as good a grace as he can muster, supervises the medication routine in a household currently isolated by the widespread flu virus.

A call this morning to the government's advisory service was answered instantly and helpfully. A simple questionnaire led to a positive assessment and I was issued with a collection number for the Tamiflu antiviral medication.

A kind friend collected the tablets on my behalf and dropped them on my doorstep.

All very efficient. Now it's simply a matter of staying at home until I'm no longer a risk to others. Nice to get it over with.

Over and out.

Every prospect

2009-07-25T19:01:00.000+01:00

High on the Cotswold escarpment, Mr Gnome spies stormy weather coming up across the distant Malvern Hills.

The location is Dover's Hill, above the market town of Chipping Campden.

Once a year the peace of this pastoral idyll is rumbustiously shattered by the ancient antics of Robert Dover's Olimpick Games.

Among the many events featured is the not particularly health-and-safety-friendly activity of shin-kicking.

An event, now he comes to think about it, at which he might excel...

Well above Parr

2009-07-24T18:16:00.004+01:00

Serendipity, the life-enhancing arrival of happy happenstance, keeps on happily happening for Mr Gnome and his human associate.

Along comes an outrageously generous birthday gift (from super-chum RF): a superbly produced large-format book featuring the extraordinary work of the British photographer Martin Parr.

How kind.

A few days later, one finds oneself (as one very occasionally does) in a big city with a few hours to spare before departure for home.

The city was Paris, so I decided to check out the gallery nearest to my friends' apartment; the magnificent Jeu de Paume, on the corner of the Place de la Concorde.

And, as vast amounts of posterage proclaimed, the current show was Planet Parr. One was speechless.

I have to say it is well worth the nine euros entry fee. This is a big, serious show - and there was more on dispaly than I could properly examine in the time available.

Parr's photographs are, well, 'very Martin Parr'. I guess the broad category is documentary. The majority are of people in everyday situations: at home, on a weekend excursion, at the club - or on holiday.

Parr tends to pump up the saturated colour in his images, giving clothes, furntiure, wallpaper and faces a look-at-me prominence. Combined with the seemingly random, unposed compositions, these da-glo pictures can seem borderline freakish.

But, the more you look, the more you realise that you're not being invited to look at 'them'. Parr's eye is essentially compassionate. The invitation is to look at ourselves.

In fact, photographs form only a small part of the show. Vast amounts of space are taken up with images from photographers who infleunced Parr.
And then there is his extraordinary collection of objects: postcards, tea-trays, posters, memorabilia.

Is Paris burning?

2009-07-21T23:55:00.004+01:00

How ripping to be barreling to Paris in the hyper-efficient comfort of the Eurostar train.

Two hours and twenty minutes from the faux-gothic splendor of St Pancras to the marginally less splendid Gare du Nord.

Well, it should have taken that length of time. Ten minutes before we were due to buffer-nudge our destination, the train stopped.

There was a trackside fire in the Saint Denys district and we were obliged to await the ministrations of the Parisian pompiers to extinguish the blaze.

The delay lasted a good ninety minutes, causing Mr Gnome and I to miss the 'Suprise!' element of the 'surprise' fiftieth birthday to which we were heading.

Bonjour tristesse?

Well, not really. Both gnome and human stiffened their upper lips and sat it out, pluckily. Having a substantial AS Byatt to hand was a indeed a boon.

The Eurostar staff could not have been more calmly professional and communicative, offering updates every ten minutes - and opening external doors to cool us down. The air-conditioning stopped along with the train.

Gnome and Human arrived at the party dramatically (two hours and fifteen minutes) en retard.

Fortunatlely, the birthday boy knew nothing of our delay as he wasn't aware we had been invited in the first place. So our entrance was not without its element of eclat. Satisfying.

And the cloud had an argent lining: our next Eurostar trip will carry a 50% compensatory reduction.

Hurrah!

Open house

2009-07-19T21:53:00.006+01:00

A Bard time was had by all today at the splendid RSC Open Day jamboree at Stratford-upon-Avon.

Visitors not in the know may have needed shock treatment, given the on-street prevalence of so many men, women and children suffering from hideous facial scarring - and all of them smiling contentedly. Casualties (bottom right) were all, of course, courtesy of the RSC makeup department.

In past years, the town has been awash with thespian Sirs and Dames participating in the Open Day's dizzying array of activities - everything from scholarly text sessions to revelatory exposures of the intimate ministrations of the Company's small army of backstage dressers.

But this time, canny RSC executive director Vikki Heywood (top left) managed to pull off a truly star-trumping coup de theatre.

She welcomed visitors, for the very first time, to a privileged glimpse of what's going on within the Royal Shakespeare Theatre itself, currently undergoing a massive three-year transformation project.

So today I was able to stand on what will be the Company's main stage (top right) and view the auditorium that has replaced the vast 1930s theatre where I've seen dozens of performances since my first RSC show in, ahem, 1967.

And it looks to me as if Ms Heywood and her team are well on their way to making good their promise of creating a major 'theatre space' that will be simultaneously epic and intimate. The acting area is vast, but it is encompassed on three sides by a three-level 'audience space' in which everyone is remarkably close to the action.

I'm excited.

It'll be a while before the players are able to tread the renewed boards: the contractors are due to hand over the building to the Company in July 2010.

Middle row shows friendly architect Alasdair McKenzie (right) and Tim Court (project manager) on site to answer questions.

Bottom left: Open Day ended with the company director Greg Doran ruffing up the partcipants in the annual Great Shakespeare Quiz.

Hold it!

2009-07-12T21:44:00.003+01:00

I'm sure that zillions of amateur snappers will recognise the regret of allowing shyness, diffidence or good old British reserve to make a barrier between camera and a potential subject.

Heading across the Jubilee Footbridge on Saturday morning, I couldn't help noticing these two gentlemen who were walking towards me.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about them, except for one fact: they both seemed to be very, very happy. Nothing more, nothing less.

And I passed them, and walked on.

Then I paused, reflected - and ran back to them to ask if I might take a picture.

As the picture indicates, they needed no persuasion.

So this is to celebrate Steve (left) and Iglesias - and their happy traversing of the Thames on Saturday 11 July 2009.

May all their journeying be as happy.

Diva fever

2009-07-08T18:44:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome alerts his friends to the fact that this is definitely not everyone's tasse de the.

The glorious lushness of the songs of Richard Strauss is not universally appreciated. But for many listeners, these works become a bit of an addiction.

This very short song 'Zueignung' is a perfect example. In three verses, the lyric conveys an almost ecstatic sense of gratitude for the life-transforming power of love, each verse ending with 'Habe dank' ('Be thanked.')

Here the great soprano Jessye Norman gives it her not inconsiderable all in a performance that combines total vocal assurance with, well, a thrilling experience of joyful release and benediction.

If you get it, you get it. If you don't, you'll see and hear a big woman make a lot of noise while waving her arms around.

And for anyone who has heard Norman perform on the concert platform, it will be a reminder of the power of this remarkable artist, who, with imperious ease, re-defined the concept of Diva in her glory days of the Eighties and Nineties.

The trees are singing

2009-07-07T08:49:00.005+01:00

To Hereford and the Cathedral Close, to view Jemma Pearson's rather wonderful sculpture of Edward Elgar who lived in the town shortly before WW1.

Cycling attire has come a long way since the de rigeur Edwardian costume of tweedy jacket, plus-fours and boots. One feels that, compared to contemporary Lycra, EE's stylish 'look' has much to recommend it.

In the manner of the new Betjemann sculpture at St Pancras Station, this is very much a 'site specific' work - with the cathedral dramatically involved as Elgar, manuscript notebook in hand, gazes up at its tower.

Pearson has lovingly recreated Elgar's splendid Sunbeam cycle, which he nicknamed 'Mr Phoebus'. Such is the attention to detail that one can identify the saddle as manufactured by Brooks, the ne plus ultra of cycle saddlery.

I'm more than a little excited to discover that, in terms of personal comfort a-wheel, the great composer and I have so much in common.

The plinth carries the inscription: 'This is what I hear all day - the trees are singing my music - or am I singing theirs?'

Later I was delighted to discover that the cycle shop, pictured below continues to flourish close by. This unashamedly old-fashioned establishment may well have been trading in Elgar's day.

It was certainly going strong in 1987 when I purchased from it my Dawes Galaxy (complete with Brooks saddle).

Said bike has just been through its umpteenth service and is girding its bottom bracket for a major ride in 2010. Watch this space.

K, Mr K and Ak

2009-07-02T20:22:00.007+01:00

Almost thirty years separate these pictures of my friend KB.

The first was snapped in the spring of 1980, when K and his father invited me to join them on the family's boat to celebrate K's ninth birthday.

The location is the Gastineau Channel, near the city of Juneau in south-east Alaska.

I was nearing the end of my year as a US/UK exchange teacher, working with a third grade class at a local elementary school, where K was one of my students.

K was one of those children who come along every so often in a teacher's career: bright, inquisitive, eager, puzzling, funny, thoughtful - and voracious.

With K, it wasn't a case of him keeping up with what I was attempting to teach. The big worry was that I wouldn't keep up with him, so rapidly did he Hoover up the work.

Fortunately, it was here that my exchange teacher's 'unique selling point' came into play.

I'd brought with me a stack of materials about varied aspects of British life and culture: Guy Fawkes, red letter boxes, postage stamps and, my trump card, the Royals.

This was in those deferential pre-Diana days, when the Top Family was riding high after the success of the Silver Jubilee of 1977 - and was more or less divorce-free.

Consequently the simple family-tree diagram I'd prepared made it easy to see who was related to whom over several generations of assorted Windsors.

K was particularly intrigued and, under his own steam, began researching his family and forebears.

The busy school year rattled on to its conclusion. I left Juneau, travelled the Alaska Highway and celebrated my thirtieth birthday at the Grand Canyon - and returned reluctantly to the slightly less than Alaska-rugged milieu of my home and school in southern England.

In subseqent years I kept up Christmas-card contacts with K's family until, inevitably, changes of address (and my carelessness) ended such exchanges.

Until about ten years ago, when thanks to the www revolution, we re-established contact.

K, a man of deep and questing faith, now lives in Utah where he serves voluntarily on the staff of the local Roman Catholic Cathedral. And he pursues an international career as a genealogical researcher and lecturer.

The up-to-date picture comes from K's recent visit to the glaciers of Argentina.

I'm proud to count K among my friends.

The wrong trousers....

2009-06-30T22:36:00.006+01:00

Persistent pedagogue Mr Gnome is forever emphasizing the importance of giving credit where it's due. Hence today's story.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that conventional male trousering is unsuitable for cycling, particularly when astride a drop-handlebar machine as pictured above (my 22-year-old Dawes Galaxy).

It's a pocket-design thing. Stuff falls out. Sensible people wear specialist clothing - or empty their pockets prior ro departure.

No prizes for guessing that, when pedalling the short distance to work today, I chose to ignore this wise counsel, absent-mindedly bunging my wallet in my trouser pocket as I left the house.

I didn't notice that the wallet was missing until lunchtime, whereupon I abandoned myself to a protracted bout of searching, wailing and self-recrimination.

Next I picked up the phone and cancelled my cards.

And then my phone rang.

A charming woman informed me that her son had found my wallet and had identified me as its owner thanks to presence within of my change-of-address card. It was awaiting collection at her house.

So in the wonderful economy of human interchange, my act of foolishness was countered by a deed of straightforward honesty and kindness.

Hence the fact that I'm celebrating the integrity of one local teenager, and of the family and school that have helped to shape those values in him.

I wouldn't dream of embarrassing him by mentioning his name. But here's a link to his school.

Thank you very much.

Obama's People

2009-06-28T17:27:00.004+01:00

Obeying his whim of iron, Mr Gnome made a summer Sunday beeline for Birmingham and allowed Serendipity to do the rest....

His splendid discovery was the highly impressive photographic exhibiiton Obama's People, hosted by that glorious people's palace the Birmingham Art Gallery and Museum.

Following last November's election, the New York Times commissioned photographer Nadav Kander to create a series of portraits of the men and women of the new administration - from the Vice-President to the presidential body-guard.

And here they are, portrayed in big, rather stark images of a remarkably diverse group of people.

Some gaze impassively into the camera, others glance away, a few seem eager to please and one or two have a look of 'Why me?' astonishment.

Curator Rhonda Wilson (of arts company Rhubarb Rhubarb) was on hand to give an engaging talk in which she sketched the series of events which led to this high-profile art show coming not to Washington DC, New York or Paris - but to Birmingham.

(Although she didn't toot her own trumpet, it became pretty apparent that much of the credit for this curatorial coup should go to the energetic Ms Wilson herself.)

The exhibition captures something of the spirit of optimism that powered Obama's journey to the White House.

Let's pray that Obama and his people keep faith with us - and we with them.

Although photography is not allowed in the show, Rhonda kindly agreed to pose beside her favourite portrait - that of 24-year-old Keeper of-the Presidential Contacts Book Eugene Kang.

A modest proposal

2009-06-24T20:10:00.003+01:00

Cheerful of disposition, robust of character and tolerant to a fault, Mr Gnome eschews the moan, the whinge and the complaint. By which point the reader is doubtless well prepared for the arrival of....

But, Mr G feels a mildly overwhelming urge to offer a few apercus on the topic of the mobile telephone, as evidenced by that omnipresent modern phenomenon - the ringtone.

In his experience, many of these aural annunciations can be described by the words in the upper segment posted above.

Loud, insistent and intrusive, they karate-chop their way into daily life with their bold-as-brass tones as if to say: 'Hurry up! Answer me! Now! At once! Jump to it!'

Oh please, sighs Mr Gnome. Too, too wearying for words.

Needless to say, he is inordinately pleased with telephone tones that may be described by the words on the peaceful white background.

A glissando of harp strings, a ping as of a celeste, a bluesy solo clarinet - these and many other choices are perfectly audible, alerting the phone owner to an incoming call or text. But they do so with modesty and discretion.

Not racketing in with a gallumphing self-advertisment that would make Atilla the Hun look like Julie Andrews.

Chill, says Mr Gnome.

La Coppola

2009-06-23T22:54:00.003+01:00

Mr Gnome, generous to a peccadillo, is keen to 'big up' a splendid addition to the Leamington Spa food firmament.

To be honest, his experience of La Coppola on Regent Street is limited to one winter-evening visit some months ago.

That said, he enjoyed a jolly evening of excellent food and characterful, Italian service.

In addtion, the restaurant's frontage makes a charming, colourful and stylish contribution to the town's streetscape.

Jolly folly

2009-06-23T18:44:00.004+01:00

Born plain Mary Mackay in Glasgow, the writer Marie Corelli was, in terms of sales and celebrity, the Jilly Cooper of the Edwardian book trade.

In her later years she settled at Mason Croft in Church Street, Stratford-upon-Avon, where she relished the role of the grandest of local grandes dames.

As befitted a life of such dizzying upward mobility, Corelli had constructed in her graden this charming folly, where, ensconced above the elm trees, she could muse and pen her next bestseller.

Possibly less idyllic when viewed from point of view of the servant who had to climb the stairs in all weathers to clean the grate and re-fill the coal scuttle.

Ever hospitable, Madame Corelli hosted parties on the Avon aboard her gondola, imported from Venice.

Bringing a Venetian gondola to Warwickshire betokens a certain level of style.

Madame Corelli went a step further - and imported the gondolier as well.

And that, for me , equals chutzpah.

Browns study

2009-06-22T22:53:00.005+01:00

So regular and enjoyable are Mr Gnome's visits to this buzzingly popular Oxford eatery, that he's astonished to discover he's been blogging for almost two years - and has yet to bestow his accolade upon it.

To be honest, Browns is managing pretty well without any bigging up from Mr G.

In terms of medium-priced eating out, Browns ticks every possible box: a straightforward menu of well-cooked, substantial dishes; attentive, friendly, speedy service; pleasing decor; nice loos - and excellent opportunities for people-watching among the diverse, all-age clientele.

Tonight an elderly gent at next table sported a cherishable Victorian smoking cap.

Mr G reckons that over the last decade he has eaten at Browns roughly five times per year - and the standards of vale and service have been consistent throughout.

With the young, cheerful staff gearing up for this week's graduation onrush, Professor Gnome is delighted to confer a Starred First.

Hurrah!

His beautiful laundrette

2009-06-21T16:37:00.006+01:00

Community-spirited, minimalist and squeaky clean, Mr Gnome is unashamedly a massive fan of that splendid institution the launderette.

Havens of warmth and well-thumbed magazines, laundromats continue to provide valued service to the community - where else to take one's double duvets for their monthly/quarterly/annual wash?

Mr G is particularely fond of the Sparklean Laundrette in Stratford-upon-Avon's charming Old Town, conveniently sited on the corner of Bull Street and Sanctus Street.

The establishment offers 'added value' inasmuch as it is patronised by members of the nearby Royal Shakespeare Company - thespians have the same laundry needs as lesser mortals.

Where else is it entirely possible to encounter Lady Macbeth applying a squirt of Vanish to a well-worn T-shirt ('Out damned spot!')?

Mr Gnome once found himself co-laundering with a leading actress from the popular telly series The House of Elliot.

Something about which to get in a lather?

High praise

2009-06-20T20:43:00.005+01:00

More than ten years ago, kind friends invited me to a performance of a Handel opera. As it turned out the evening brought surprise that led to rare and lasting pleasure.

During the first act a tall young man strode on to the stage, portraying one of those hard-done-by exiled monarchs, usurped by an evil brother/uncle/cousin, who are two-a-penny in the deliciously dippy world of eighteenth-century opera.

And then he sang.

For me, the clarity, purity and manly strength of that voice brought one of those rare experiences of being unable to tell the music from the music-maker - so perfectly did the one complement
the other, in this outpouring of yearning and loss.

The dodgy storyline, the bizarre posh-Goth makeup, the faux classical setting - none of these mattered in comparison to the music.

Time stood still.

The singer is Andreas Scholl.

And, of course, this may not be your 'thing'....

iGnome

2009-06-16T22:12:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome raises resounding hurrahs for the superbly useful phenomenon that is the iPhone.

Ownership of this gnome-sized and coolly elegant design miracle is akin to having a tireless Jeeves at one's constant beck and call.

Apart from housing calendar, diary, internet browser, address book, birthday reminders and to-do lists, the iPhone uses a 'global positioning system' so that it knows its exact location at any time.

So what? So plenty.

At a touch of the screen, the phone instnatly offers lists of the nearest restaurants, cinemas, taxi firms - and so on.

Ditto with train times, plane departures - and much more. All bypassing expensive inquiry phone calls.

One could jabber on....

Bike boar

2009-06-06T14:31:00.002+01:00

An unexpected gift arrives from my friend Michael Burton - this minuscule bicycle and its determined, tusky rider.

Michael's ability to create vividly characterful creatures from silver has brought delight to many throughout his long career.

More about MB here.

Going swimmingly

2009-06-02T17:30:00.004+01:00

Mr Gnome is unable to restrain his human associate from recording his achievement of a 'special category' swim.

In this case the categories are a combination of 'most northerly' and 'most unexpected'.

But such was the dazzling sunlight and the turquoise / azure glamour of the waters of Port Ban beach, that he was unable to resist the call of the water.

Cold? Definitely. But once you've launched out, and are horizontal in the top layer of water, it's surprisingly less chilly than on first entry.

The horseshoe-shaped cove was still, and glassy-clear. Away in the distance beyond the rocks guarding the entrance to the tiny bay, the Irish Sea thundered.

Glorious.

Father's day

2009-05-30T09:54:00.003+01:00

Patrick, my father, aged 50, cradles me, the third of his three sons, on a bright morning early in 1951.

The horizon, just over my head, is the English Channel, viewed from our home in Sidmouth, Devon.

Patrick spent most of the 1950s in declining health and he died on 5 November 1959, forty-two days before his 59th birthday.

To me he was always kind, loving, indulgent and funny.

And like all true storytellers, there was also something mysterious and unknowable about him.

And today, my life has lasted exactly as long as his.

North and west

2009-05-28T22:26:00.003+01:00

A pause in the postings as Mr Gnome and the Human Being journey once again to the remote, beautiful island of Iona.

We shall be staying with the Iona Community.

Wet, wet, wet

2009-05-25T21:49:00.005+01:00

Mr Gnome relishes few things more than a refreshing, protracted dip in water, salty or fresh - he cares not.

I, too, love swimming - though am by no means a strong or particularly proficient breaster of the billows.

A few years back I took part in swimming holiday in the Greek Cyclades organised by Swimtrek.

Well supervised, and in graded ability groups, we swam several crossings between islands, all of which are enchantingly beautiful.

It was definitely the most challenging physical activity in which I have ever taken part - exciting and very rewarding.

No pressure to do more than one felt comfortable with - and I pooped out of the massive six-km crossing that was the biggest swim of the week.

Shortly afterwards I took part in a home-based Swimtrek adventure - a summer day out swimming a stretch of the Thames from Gloucestershire into Oxfordshire. Writer Kate Rew wrote it up for The Observer.

The piece also appears on page 94 of her glamorous book Wild Swim.

Now, where did I leave my goggles?