REPORT 41 MAY 2006
I've already opened up a great pasty debate . . .
I’m writing this on May Day which I associate with ancient pagan
customs to do with the coming
of summer and with socialist solidarity. Years ago one May morning I
fell off a punt into the
Isis at Oxford; now I am sitting at my computer wondering if the
Brigadier and his wife who
recently moved from Cornwall to an idyllic sounding village in the
heart of England will really
have been woken by the sound of Morris dancers or whether the
anonymous blogger on the Bin Two
web-site will really be dispensing Cornish pasties from a tent
opposite the Metropole Hotel in
Padstow as he claimed in the course of a lengthy discussion on Swedes
and turnips. He is part of
‘Obby ‘Orse day. Outside my cluttered office I can see that the
harbour has become almost equally cluttered with hordes of boats - a sure sign that summer is
imminent even if not quite here - and the sun is shining.
For years I used a music site which allowed me to click on
to a channel claiming to
deliver "Baroque Music". This was a pretty loose term but it gave me
Handel, Vivaldi, Bach and
others with no other noise and no visuals apart from a succinct
description of the work and
artists in question. Highly satisfactory. Then suddenly this was
changed to a new number - 396 -
since when it has been nothing but trouble. The Baroque bit has
vanished and all I can get is
either Classical or Classical Calm (whatever that means). Actually I
hardly ever seem to get
that. More often however I just get a series of metallic clicks and
the screen jams up. To get
it going again I have to perform that absurd Luddite ritual of
unplugging and plugging in again.
I am now reduced to the TV equivalent of Classic FM which isn’t nearly
as satisfactory because
it’s punctuated by scores of tiresome advertisements and accompanied
by distracting visuals. I
suppose I should go for silence but I’m not used to it and I prefer
music. When I rang Sky I was
talked through an elaborate electronic ritual by a nice woman in
Stirling - makes a change from
Gibraltar or Bangalore - and the problem was resolved for a day or so
only to return. I suppose I shall have to write to Sky by snail-mail.
Tim Heald
The internet and allied techno-stuff continues to be a mixed blessing
though on balance good. I
continue to hear from old friends and new acquaintances as a result of
the web-site and it’s a
brilliant way of staying in personal and professional touch. On the
other hand it isn’t all
wonderful. For example I subscribe to Sky albeit reluctantly because I
like watching sport and
also because it’s a way of getting non-stop music which I’m afraid I
like as an audio-wallpaper
for work.
The other e-problem was much more worrying. A few weeks ago I enrolled
on two sites to do with
food and drink. They were suggested by the excellent Wykhamist oarsman
David McWilliam aka
"Slacker" who runs a wine business called Bin Two in Padstow. One is
his own commercially-based
"Binonline" site and the other is a rather intimidating one called "Opinionatedabout"
written as
far as I can see by seriously knowledgeable people many of whom are in
the food or drink trade.
I’ve already opened up a great pasty debate and obtained some
excellent advice on where to eat
in Northern Spain when we set off later this month for the
International Crime Writers
Conference in Zaragoza. Anyway I’m enjoying both sites but the other
day I got a message which I
suspect may be in some way related and which was decidedly chilling.
It was from an editor at a national magazine from whom I once had a
perfectly polite
idea-rejection a year or so ago. I had never met this person and our
exchange had been perfectly
professional and polite. Then suddenly they sent me a copy of a
two-line e-mail message
purporting to come from me. This was an extremely abusive complaint
and nothing whatever to do
with me except that it was written above my e-mail and web-site
addresses. The only editorial
comment was an admirably reticent "Uh?". I immediately sent a
grovelling disclaimer saying that
I, truthfully, knew nothing whatever about it and I hope I’ll hear no
more about it.
All the same it’s chilling isn’t it? Carrying on any sort of
e-conversation - even an innocent
monologue like this one makes one vulnerable. I have various firewalls
and spam detectors
designed to block unwanted and unwelcome messages but they don’t
always work and from time to
time, such as this, I am uncomfortably aware that there are enemies
out there. I’ll try to get
to the bottom of this but, obviously, I can’t help wondering how many
other unpleasant
fictitious messages have been sent out purporting to be from me. A
bore. I rather hope that it
constitutes a criminal offence and that it will prove possible to
identify the perpetrator but
in any case I thought it information worth sharing.
In real life we’re just back from a short excursion to the far west
which served as a happy
reminder of how and why Cornwall is such a sensational place in which
to live. On a lovely sunny
Friday we drove an hour and a quarter or so to the park’n’drive
station on the little shunty
railway line between St. Erth and St. Ives and pottered up to
Porthminster beach where we had a
stunning lunch involving oysters, squid, chorizo, dry white wine and
wonderful mainly Australian
staff. The view of sand, surf and the Godrevy light-house was magical.
Then we sauntered through
town to the Turner exhibition at the Tate before returning to the car
and driving a few miles to
Penzance and checking in to the rackety but endearing Penzance Arts
Club, twinned appropriately
with Chelsea.
It was probably greedy to go out for what should have been a memorable
dinner that night and it
probably serves us right that the meal was dreadful. There was a disco
in progress when we got
back so we had just the one at the noisy bar before a good night’s
sleep. Next day we went to a
fascinating exhibition of coastal paintings by a pre-Raphaelite called
Brett. Fascinating,
particularly compared with the Turners of the day before and one in
particular taking similar
liberties with the entrance to Fowey harbour which we, living
virtually on the spot, reckon we
know more intimately than either painter. Beautifully presented, as
exhibitions always are at
Penlee, with a lightly worn erudition which somehow seems to escape
the Tate, for all its
pretensions and reputation. Then a glass of Australian Bunderberg
ginger beer in an unexpectedly
trendy lounge-bar before a light lunch - crab Florentine at the thirty
year old Harris’
restaurant - followed by an amble through the town’s lovely gardens
and elegant Georgian and
early Victorian terraces to the Mennaye Field where I watched the
Cornish Pirates compehensive
victory over London Welsh. Bit sad in a way as I can remember the
great Welsh side of the
Dawes-JPR-Gerald Davies era. "Mervyn Davies very big man", sang Max
Boyce - it was him wasn’t
it? - "No have like him in Japan." Watch out for the Pirates’ Rhodri
Macatee who my neighbour
described as a rugby footballing George Best. Not far wrong. He’s
already played Sevens for
Wales and is definitely one to watch.
Then back to the club to pick up Penny who turned out to have spent
the afternoon at the police
station as her wallet had been nicked. So a rather downcast return
journey only alleviated by
the discovery of a marvellous new farm shop just short of Helston run
by the son and
daughter-in-law of Simon Courtauld, the author with whom I once
light-heartedly locked horns in
the Spectator. We bought lamb, goose eggs and home-grown wool
and departed feeling happier.
Musing on this as I wrote it occurred to me that there was more than
enough in these two days
for at least a column in the Spectator or a discursive travel
piece about West Penwith. Instead
however I am writing about it for my own web-site - unpaid. This makes
me thoughtful and not
entirely happy. Am I being defeatist? Has print journalism changed? Is
it just me? A hideous
phrase from a feature in the Telegraph a few years ago, keeps
haunting me. It was to the effect
that the function of newspapers was no longer to convey information
but to carry on a
conversation with its readers. I disputed this in print - they
actually printed my letter - but
although I wish I was wrong I do rather wonder. I don’t buy a
newspaper to have a conversation
with it. Indeed I would run a mile rather than have to converse with
most of the columnists
whose opinions are bruited about in them. But I’m obviously in a
minority.
I wouldn’t like anyone to think that the last few weeks have been all
play and no work but
somehow the work seems to have been slightly duller and more
repetitious than usual - a lot of
editing and proof correction. Village Cricket is now out in
paperback; Denis Compton, complete
with interesting new stuff from his family, is more or less on target
and will be published in a
week or two; I finished a short story which I liked as did its
commissioning editor, thank
heaven; I struggled a little over editorial work on behalf of the
Folio Society and a new four
volume crime novella set; and I planned future excitements including a
QE2 speaking-trip round
the Mediterranean in late August and early September. Oh and there
were some broadcasts to
coincide with the Queen’s birthday.
One of these was an appearance in the Channel Four documentary. I
thought the programme
contained some terrific cameos from people who really knew what they
were talking about -
notably the Mountbatten sisters, Douglas Hurd and the redoubtable
Molly Butler - and far too
much from talking heads who appeared to know nothing at all, least of
all at first hand. I
suspect this was in the interests of "balance" and "youth". There’s a
place for both I agree but
not, perhaps, when celebrating the birthday of an eighty-year old
Queen.
The broadcast went out the night before an odd but thoroughly
enjoyable event in Sherborne. It
was a committee dinner of the Old Boys’ Society in the old school
house dining room, now known
as the Old School Room. There were about thirty of us and the occasion
was ostensibly to say
thank you to several of us who had spent time doing stuff with the organisation. I spent four
years or so as President, sandwiched improbably between an Admiral
(submarines) and a headmaster
(Cheltenham, Radley), both of whom were present. Penny and I both
enjoyed it very much and we
ended up in the elegant Long Street drawing room of Pete Currie who
taught me Corneille and
Racine all those years ago. I would never have expected, as a
schoolboy, to have found myself
there under such circumstances but I’m very glad to have been there
even though many of my
contemporaries would think it a fearful cop-out. I do so hate
predictability.
I’ll be late with the next of these blogs as I shall be representing
the country at the
conference of the International Associacion of Escritores Policiers or
whatever we are in
Zaragoza. Between now and then the Bishop of Truro and I will be
talking about cricket at the
du Maurier Festival (May 16) and I’m doing a cricketing gig in Warwick
(May 12). Not to mention a
visit to the Royal Archives and Princess Margaret’s jewels at Wilton
and her tomb at Windsor.
My daughter Lucy should be here from New Zealand so with luck I shall
see three of my four
children though not, alas, Emma, who celebrates a distressingly
advanced birthday on May 6th at
home in Miami.
So as usual busy busy but lots of fun as well I hope. Best wishes to
everyone else for something
similar and I just hope that no-one else makes off with my identity
again - electronically or
otherwise. It’s no fun having your name taken. I only hope it’s in
vain.
Report Number
41 MAY 2006
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