Next stop Gnometanamo?

Rapturous at the prospect of jetting off for a cut-price weekend away, Mr Gnome poses pertly on the parapet of a provincial airport's multi-storey car park.

Moments later, at ground level, the Human Being is stopped by a trio of plain-clothes airport staff.

'Excuse me, sir, but we couldn't help noticing that you were taking photographs up on the sixth floor of the car park. It looked as if you were taking pictures of a little thing. A bird?'

'Er, are you security?'

'Yes, sir, we are.'

'Oh. Well, actually (fumbling in bag) I was taking some pictures of, um, my gnome.'

By now the trio are in the full-on presence of Mr G.

The HB continues feebly: 'He has a website.... He isn't political.'

A pause. The prospect of internment looms briefly.

But, once again, the 'G-force' has its semi-numinous effect.

The trio smile and move on.

Mr G and the HB continue to check-in, both strangely encouraged by the vigilance and politeness of these watchful guardians.

(Grateful fraternal acknowledgment re headline.)

Nano domini

Poor Mr Gnome, lofty of thought, virtuous of conduct, pure of heart - and yet, when it comes to certain products, a total retail-recidivist.

Egged on by the Human Being, he poses beside this luscious i-Pod Nano, which is not in the least bit borrowed.

Pause and listen.

Yes, those unattractively sibilant cries of 'My preciousss, my preciouss....' are indeed emanating from the shameless lips of the product-sated Human Being.

But what's not to love about this small-but-exquisite masterpiece of modern engineering?

Elegant, easy to use, intuitive, simple, beautiful.

Yikes, we're getting carried away.

It's a jolly good toy and we like it very much. We promise to play with it nicely and not to break it.

Hurrah!

What was one doing when...?

I've been invited to recall what I was doing when I heard of the following events.

Princess Diana's death - 31 August 1997
I was camping in a field near Stratford-upon-Avon. Prior to packing up the tent, I switched on my car radio.

Instantly aware that something wasn't right - why was James Naughtie presenting the news on a Sunday?

Tone of voice suggested a death. For a few seconds, I don't know why, I thought that Mother Theresa had gone aloft. And then Naughtie confirmed Diana's death.

Margaret Thatcher's resignation - 22 November 1990
A headteachers' meeting re the National Curriculum, near Andover, I think. Cold afternoon.

A tubby headteacher announced the news at end of the meeting. Majority of those attending applauded, which I could understand - but felt was rather mean-spirited.

Attack on the twin towers - 11 September 2001
I was at work. A colleague heard news from a friend via a phone call.

The BBC website was not working and I went to my car to hear the report confirmed. At this point neither tower had collapsed.

I called my brother in Boston, Mass, to check that he and his wife were all right.

I felt overwhelmed.

In the evening I went and sat quietly in Coventry Cathedral.

It's of no consequence, but kind New York friends once took me to brunch in the Windows on the World restaurant at the top of one of the towers. Windows on milk that day - we were in the clouds.

England's World Cup Semi Final v Germany in - 4 July 1990
Er, so sorry. God didn't give me the appropriate gene for this one.

Why couldn't the question have been about the 1966 World Cup Final?

President Kennedy's Assassination - 22 November 1963
I guess, for my generation, the head-and-shoulders-above-the-rest event.

I was thirteen and in the study hall at boarding school near Bath doing 'evening prep' - so the time was between six and eight o'clock on that Friday evening.

My friend Andrew McNinch was called out to take a phone call. Passing my desk on his return he whispered: 'Kennedy's been shot.'

I think that our housemaster confirmed the news at the end of prep.

The next day my brothers and I went home, for a planned two-day visit.

News bulletin followed news bulletin. The images: the motorcade sweeping through Dallas in clear sunshine; the jolt following the shot; Mrs Kennedy turning and reaching out towards the Secret Service agent and pulling him into the car.

And later, the swearing-in of Lyndon Baines Johnson aboard Air Force One. Mrs Kennedy beside him, still wearing the same blood-spattered outfit.

On the Saturday evening we watched the first episode of a brand-new TV series called 'Dr Who'.

Sunday evening brought the news of the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby.

Prayers in our church, of course for the first Roman Catholic president.

Of no consequence, but C S Lewis and Aldous Huxley died on the same day as JFK.

Versed past the post

Cheltenham race course was the venue for Mr Gnome's epiphanic encounter with tip-toptasic troubadour Ian McMillan.

The almost shockingly gifted McMillan, accompained by his equally talented orchestra, was performing a selection of songs and verses at the Greenbelt Arts Festival.

Funny. Moving. Witty. Clever. Droll. Tuneful. Punchy. Wistful. Robust. Funny.

Ian McMillan celebrates the hidden stories of those whose stories are rarely told - and makes you laugh, think and, in my case, dash away the occasional manly tear.

Mr McMillan offered an improvised poem (to jauntily soulful accompaniment from the orchestra) based on three topics called out by members of the audience: 'myself', 'British summer weather' and, inevitably, 'gnome'.

The moving epic that emerged, Homerically, from Mr McMillan's lyre depicted Mr Gnome fleeing inclement weather across a wide vista encompassing the delights of both Ibiza and Cleethorpes.

A gnomapotheosis.

The applause was rapturous.

Hurrah for the magnificent Mr McMillan.

And, all you poets out there, Mr Gnome modestly acknowledges his ability to inspire, which is, I guess, a talent - to a Muse.

By the way, this event was sponsored by the Church Times.

K? See!

Mr Gnome realizes, to his chagrin, that he rarely 'bigs it up' for individual human beings.

Not any more.

He is determined to probe a wide variety of human types and raise a rousing 'Hurrah!' for any tip-top folk that come into his zone of awareness.

And who better to start with than the remarkable KC pictured (in slightly more youthful days) above? (Specs appeal, or what?)

Chef de cuisine, raconteur, computer wizard and all-round good egg, the reticent and industrious KC falls effortlessly into the category of 'once met, never forgotten'.

Hardworking, charming and good-humoured, KC has, naturally, much in common with Mr Gnome - with the exception of stature.

KC is tall. Very tall. If you encounter him, remark on his tallness - he'll like you all the more.

No surprise to discover that KC is a 'radio man' with a strong leaning towards the 'high end' of BBC Radio 5 Live. Mr Gnome is forever grateful for the nudge that led to his discovery of broadcaster par excellence, the great Rhod Sharpe, the insomniac's friend.

One could go on....

Hard to believe it, but KC is about to celebrate his fortieth birthday.

Hurrah!

Apple of his i

The Gnome can't help it: he's overcome with pleasure at his proximity to the new i-Phone.

Ownership? Far from it. A kind friend graciously permitted the impromptu pose.

Mr Gnome isn't a massive materialist. Flashy cars, for instance, do nothing to warm his heart.

But, no surprise, he weakens when he encounters small-scale elegance and fitness-for-use.

The i-Phone has these in abundance.

It's only a matter of time before Mr Gnome is blogging from one of these beautiful implements.

Er, and of money....

Century

Here we all are enjoying ourselves on the beach: my parents, their three sons, our two older cousins - and Stumpy the Welsh corgi.

Location? Definitely Devon, possibly Dawlish Warren.

The year? It has to be around 1956 or '57.

I'm guessing the younger members of the party have been in the sea, 'bathing' as my mother would have called it. But absolutely not before a minimum of one hour has elapsed from the end of our picnic lunch.

Two of us are keeping off the afternoon chill with our new zip-up jackets: they were called 'windcheaters'.

Dad, who clearly has not been in the water, is dressed up in tweed jacket, shirt, tie and pullover.

Our teenage cousins are in the height of Fifties chic - the choker of pop-together beads was the absolute dernier cri....

Meanwhile, check out the totally typical beachwear of the background figures.

Our mother, I feel, is looking a wee bit strained. Hardly surprising.

She would have organised the outing, prepared the picnic and driven all eight of us to the seaside, jammed into the bench-seat Ford Zephyr - and all at the age of approximately fifty, when many women are relaxing into the grandma role.

My father, already far from well, did not outlive the 1950s.

My mother, born in 1908, died ten years ago.

Tuesday 19 August would have been her one hundredth birthday.