Father's day

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

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

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?

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.
  

1609 + 400 = 2009 + 14/154

The dodgy mathematical statement above is inspired by the fact that BBC Radio 3 is today celebrating Sonnet Day, in recognition of the 400th anniversary of the publication of William Shakespeare's immortal collection of 154 fourteen-line poems.

During the course of today the station's output has been interspersed by readings of a varied selection (fourteen, natch) of the Bard's extraordinary reflections on love, loss, life, death - the whole big thing, in fact.

The reader is that tip-top, and very brainy, thesp Sir Ian McKellen.

Mr Gnome approves - and not only because he happens to be roughly the same height as a sonnet in a standard print setup.

So much so that he has issued a challenge to the Human Being (aka moi) to do a little more than to download these texts and recordings on to his computer.

Given that a poem is the only work of art that one can store on one's personal in-brain hard drive - the memory - I've decided to memorise all of the sonnets chosen for today's readings. And I've set myself the target of doing so by the end of 2009.

Fear not, one has no intention of inflicting impromptu readings on one's nearest and dearest - or on total strangers, for that matter.

To be truthful, I have a teensy bit of start on myself - somehow or other I already have Sonnets 18, 29, 60 and 116 under my belt. So, ten sonnets and 140 lines to go....

Worth the wait

Ten years ago I was knocked sideways by Kate Summerscale's extraordinary book The Queen of Whale Cay.

It's the biography of Marion 'Joe' Carstairs (born 1900), champion speedboat racer and spirited 'ruler' of a group of islands in the West Indies. Jo's boundless self-confidence was underpinned by an equally unlimited private income (Standard Oil).

Central to the story is Carstairs' wildly peculiar 'relationship' with an inanimate object - her beloved doll/mascot/alter ego 'Lord Todd Wadley' (on her shoulder above) - creepy at first glance, poignant as the story unfolds.

Intriguing, funny and deliciously outré, the book is a page-turning proof text for 'truth being infinitely stranger than fiction' .

Not surprisingly, Summerscale has taken her time finding another subject for her pen. I'm pleased to report that, ten years on, she has delivered a humdinger.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher is a factual account of the shocking event that took place at Road Hill House, Trowbridge, in the summer of 1860: the murder of a child.

But this is much more than a whodunnit.

Through the prism of a family trauma, Summerscale manages to show us a vivid image of a whole turbulent society, where the seemingly powerful bonds of class and family are, in reality, deeply vulnerable.

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!'