It gets better

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.

Merry Christmas, Blue Budgie

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.

Cool?

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.

The trouble with homonyms

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.

Fancy this

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.

The wrong trousers....

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.

A modest proposal

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.

Principle Gnome

Following intense media speculation (it always is 'intense', isn't it?), Mr Gnome has issued a statement.

'I wish to make the following points very clear:

• I am, of course, a first gnome. I am not now, nor ever have been, a second gnome.

• The charming waterway beside which I am posing above is the Grand Union Canal. It is not a moat.
• My associations with ducks are sociable, respectful and mutually beneficial, but stop far short of involvement in duck-related housing issues.
• And while most ducks flap, they never flip. Neither do I.
  

Gnat, camel. Camel, gnat.

From time to time Mr Gnome rolls his eyes in wonderment at the giddy antics of Human Beings.

Take this weekend's events in Moscow.

On Saturday, the city's police broke up a small-scale demonstration by a group of thirty, soberly dressed gay-rights activists. Moscow mayor Yuri Luzkhov has reportedly described gay parades as 'satanic'.

Meanwhile, in an other part of the city, preparations were in full swing for the evening's live broadcast of the Eurovision Song Contest, that annual fandango, not especially noted for its restraint, moral seriousness and sequin-free costume design.

So the teeny-weeny demo gets walloped. And the zillion-rouble extravaganza of wigs, glitter and deleriously dodgy backing dancers (check the uber-kitsch Roman legionaries) gets the city's blessing and imprimatur.

As Puck murmured to, er, the King of the Fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream: 'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'

Or as Someone else remarked: ' You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel!'

Chuff or chop?

A recent visit to the National Gallery prompted a recollection of the basics of art appreciation.

Years ago I was in the NG shop, browisng the postcards - as one does. (You see all the pictures in the collection without the bother of traipsing around the vast building.)

To my right is a mother with her young son - about five years old.

He's staring intently at a couple of cards and is clearly in an agony of indecision.

Meanwhile his mother is losing patience: 'Come on, make up your mind. You can have one card. Now decide - the steam train, or the beheading....'

I haven't noticed the tall man browsing quietly to my left. He, like me, appreciates the little boy's dilemma.

He's less restrained than me. I hear him murmur (deep New England tones): 'Tough choice, kid...."

The works of art under consideration are shown above.

I'll second that Motion

I'm a bit of a fan of Poet Laureate Andrew Motion - a fine writer, and a thoughtful, good man.

Stimulating comments from him in today's paper, where he claims that, regardless of one's beliefs, a basic knowledge of the great themes of the Bible is an essential tool for understanding history, philosophy, literature - the whole cultural shebang.

Red!

'Understatement? Overrated!' Thus opines Mr Gnome when in a provocative mood.

Mr G's current enthusiasm is 'statement footwear', with special reference to the life-enhancing potential of the colour red.

So definite, so uncompromising, so 'out there'.

No one will be shocked, therefore, to learn that he's wildly enthusiastic about the fabulous foot furniture illustrated above.

Can you put name to shoe?

Of course you can.

But what about this pair?

Go!

On the rare occasions when his spirits dip, Mr Gnome has recourse to a variety of instant, self-boosting treats.

And towards the top of the list is this sublime dance video from the splendid American pop group OK Go.

Shot, it seems, in one take, the routine has a sweetness and insouciance that puts one curiously in mind of Fred Astaire at his most carefree.

Hurrah!

Just say gNO!

Mr Gnome, equable of temperament and cheery of outlook, views all human beings as potential chums.

He says: 'How dull the world would be if it were inhabited solely by me and my fellow-gnomes. Peaceful and industrious, no doubt. But lacking the oversized oomph, clatter and bang of the HBs!'

Needless to say, therefore, that Mr G has been totally consistent in pursuing an 'inclusive' agenda when it comes to human - gnome contacts.

'Want to push a wheelbarrow?' he queries. 'Join in, please do!'

'Yearning to dip a fishing rod into your garden pond? Be our guest!'

In short his message to the HBs is a breezy 'Make yourself at gnome!'

Imagine then the distress and confusion that has come upon him in recent days as a result of the following curious circumstance.

For some time Mr G has done a little light voluntary charitable work.

All, he thought, was going swimmingly - until he was gently, but firmly, asked to leave and not return.

Had a customer complained? No.

Had Mr G behaved in a manner to bring the organisation into disrepute? No.

Mr G's only offence was that of being himself.

The charity felt that his presence did not 'fit in' with its overall 'look' and 'image'.

With an overwhelming sense of tristesse, Mr G packed his wee bag and departed. Did he receive a gift, a card, a farewell pat on the pack. He did not.

Needless to say, his robustly optimistic nature has pulled him through this setback - and he continues blithely on his way.

But with a mite more mettle in his soul. And a banner unfurled.

What a shame...

'Of course, these days we give equal value to everybody, regardless of their gender,' said the speaker. And I thought: 'Hmm?'

Nothing, in my opinion, is better attuned to working out the truth of our popular credos than that handy piece of sociological equipment - the embarrassometer.

Imagine you're sitting at the dinner table with friends, mixed company and the cheerful conversation veers towards childhood memories.

(Tucked discretely behind your lapel is the highly sensitive antenna of your embarrassometer, connected wirelessly to a display on your wrist.)

After a while, Fiona says: 'I was a terrible tomboy when I was a girl. Climbing trees, digging tunnels, playing football and rugger with my brothers. I lived in jeans and T-shirts. I gave my mum a terrible time when she tried to get me into a dress.'

Quick. Check the display. Registering any embarrassment? Nope. Not a flicker. In fact the general feeling around the table, among both males and females, is that feisty Fiona is a bit of a good egg. Spirited and independent. Hurrah for her.

The Fred chips in: 'Snap! I was very similar, Fiona. While you wanted to do "boys' things", I was all out to be as much like a girl as possible. I was so easy when it came to birthday and Christmas presents - I'd simply ask for another Barbie. By the time I was ten I had seventeen Barbies and umpteen outfits for them. I'd spend hours dressing them and playing with them.'

Check the embarrassometer. What's the reading? Well, what do you think? Yes, totally off the scale.

Several guests are squirming silently and your host has just realised he needs to get back in the kitchen to check the next course....

Am I right? I think so.

I've heard dozens of women hark back to childhood in the manner of Fiona. I've yet to hear, in a similar situation, any man make an admission along the lines of Fred's.

I'm fascinated by the fact that while Fiona has a handy, affirmative label for her childhood self (tomboy), Fred has nothing.

Well, he does have some choices, but none that he'd want to adopt - 'cissy' and 'nancy boy' being the two that come most readily to mind. Shame words.

So, is that wee embarrassometer telling a deeply uncomfortable truth?

Here we are in the 21st century. But when push come to shove, we still value maleness more highly than we do its counterpart.

Or is the tomboy scrambling up the wrong tree?

Austin. Austen. Bostin'!

'What can be more joyous than a juicy juxtaposition?' queries Mr G.

So many themes link the pocket-sized elegance of a classic Austin A30 with the small-in-number, but glorious, oeuvre of Jane Austen.

At the most obvious level one could mention bonnets: the A30's, neat and stylish; Mr G's, red and robust - and where would any muslin-draped Austenesque telly adaptation be without a bounteous abundance of bonnets?

Perhaps, too, there's a theme of empowerment - with the A30 opening up new horizons to the Britons of the otherwise staid 1950s.

And Jane Austen, with her sharpness of eye and depth of insight, offering counsel and consolation to a zillion readers as they negotiate the chances and choices of the hand that life has dealt them.

Steady on, murmurs Mr G. We're merely discussing a jolly good car and some splendid old books. E-nuff! Enjoy.

Whatever. I can certainly picture Jane Austen tootling , had it been possible, through the Hampshire lanes in an A30, occasionally cutting up rough with a too-slow farmer's cart.

What, one wonders, would Shakespeare have driven? Or Dickens? Or dreary old Goethe?

Cool?

For one so definite in views, Mr Gnome is strangely tentative when it comes to discussions re that strange concept - 'cool'....

Too canny to attempt a definition (always a hostage ot fortune), he simply says: 'Well, I suppose I recognize it when I come across it.'

And he most definitely senses it here in this 1955 Richard Avedon shot of Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra on the set of Guys and Dolls.

The clothes, the pose, the monochrome - I guess they all add up and combine with the men's exuberance, insouciance - and cheek.

And then there's what the viewer brings to the image. In my case, the 'frozen in time' capture of two extraordinary performers at the peak of their ability, looks and success. Plus the poignancy of knowing what was to follow in the ensuing years....

A great picture. Cool squared.

Hear and now

Tootling home yesterday from a wedding in wet south Wales and letting the train take the strain.

Two gentlemen my age board at Cardiff and sit at the table section that I've previously had to myself.

They chat animatedly to one another using signing.

Next stop Newport, where train is flooded with English football fans who are male, loud and very well tanked up..

They fill the three seats across the aisle from us, until then occupied by a lone young woman.

They greet her and seem to think that the manner in which they address her is charming in a breezily laddish way. It's not. She politely extricates herself and moves elsewhere.

A fan asks one of my seat companions to move over so that he can sit across the aisle from his chums. Fan eventually realises that the gentleman is deaf and is reluctant to move because he will no longer be seated directly opposite the friend with whom he's signing.

Anyway, the gentleman shrugs, smiles and makes the requested move.

Journey continues. Fans discuss the match, with occasional forays into their work and their love lives. All at high volume and larded with the inevitable f-word.

We dip into the Severn Tunnel, the din unabated.

My companion opposite must have picked up my vibe. He is busy with his phone, keying in a message. Then he grins at me, and holds up the phone, displaying the message shown above.

We bond.

Glade tidings

Ah, the fleeting nature of pleasure, ponders Mr Gnome as he recalls his recent all-too-brief visit to Devonshire.

Back in the brou-ha-ha of the workaday world, he struggles to recall his wanderings along the coastal path.

This snap shows him pausing on the long descent, through woodland and meadows, to the secluded beach at Weston Mouth.

It was a perfect June evening: pristine sky, sea-dazzle and this year's rain-soaked greenness of grass and foliage. Birdsong. Breeze off the sea.

In short, a dose of pre-lapsarian bliss.

Now, at moments of stress or discouragement, Mr Gnome and the HB find themselves replaying their mind's eye video of this and other walks.

Instant solace.

Wise words

Mr Gnome is privileged to have regular contact with the charming and intelligent clergyman featured in this news clip.

Apologies to overseas visitors unaware of recent rumpus following comments by Mr G's lookalike guru, the Archbishop of Canterbury.