Pause Between Binges

With warm memories of Dame Emma Kirby singing in our heads, my husband and I took the train south to Edinburgh. We arrived shortly after five and cooled our heels in the Old Town, waiting for it to be eight. B.A. rummaged in the Manuscript Room of the National Library; I surfed the web. And then I changed for supper in the National Library's loo, we bought a bottle, and we went to the party in the dark and mediaeval Canongate.

The party was on the fifth floor of a 19th century building with a bar tucked under it. We carefully ascended the worn stone steps to a large apartment. The large dining/sitting room was lined with painting, books, and great Victorian windows. There was a modern black iron stove in front of the disused hearth. Our host put pine needles and wood into it.

It was a Men's Schola party and a Friday, so the food was vegetarian and the drink plentiful. After supper the flatmate excused herself to go to bed and the Men's Schola settled themselves in for night of drinking and playing vinyl records. I found a friendly mossy green chair by the fire and the flatmate's In Style magazine and fell asleep, drifting once into consciousness when my husband sang along to The H.M.S. Pinafore.

I slept for an hour and a half, and then woke up to the Great Mass in C-Minor.

Kyrie. Eleison. Eleison. Eleison. Eleison.

Kyrie. Kyrie. Eleison.

The men were spellbound, which--I noted--did not stop them from talking.

"This recording of this piece," said the host, drinking his homemade beer, "is the pinnacle of Western Art."

The Mass in C-Minor continued. Two of the Men's Schola, discovering it was 3 in the morning, reluctantly put on their coats and went down to their bicycles.

"This piece," said the host again, "is the Pinnacle of Western Art."

There was some argument between the remaining men. Bach, one argued, was superior to Mozart.

"Bach," said the host, "is a monkey."

"Mozart," said my husband, "is Bach's bitch."

For such is learned conversation in the Canongate after three in the morning.

Handel followed Mozart, and after Handel, Brucker. B.A. audibly sang along. The host fell momentarily asleep. The McAmbrose family gathered their belongings.

The Canongate, black and mediaeval, was deserted. It was a quarter to five.

We caught a cab, arrived back at the Historical House, checked our email, went to bed.

"Oh no!" I said. "I forgot! We have the [artists' potluck party] tomorrow afternoon!"

So now I am off to make 24 lamb pies, Mozart still thundering in my head.

Eleison. Eleison.

Books and Blighters

Here I am in a student computer cave at the University of Aberdeen. Emma Kirby sang beautifully last night, and it was such a thrill to see her in person. Invocante and I urged a blushing Benedict Ambrose to speak with her, but he kept saying things like, "She can't speak to everyone" and "It must be so boring hearing people tell you over and over again how wonderful you are."

Maybe it is a diffedent British thing. I, personally, would never get bored of people telling me how wonderful I was. I will never get bored of sexy young things of 37 telling me how wonderful I am when I am sixty-ish, if such things go on. Later, B.A. realized that perhaps he could have asked her to sign his programme.

Anyway, I am on my way to elevenses (such as consumed by Paddington Bear with his friend Mr Gruber) with B.A.'s uni friends, so I will leave you with two links from my paid gig.

The first one is about the great crop of Governor General Award nominees for 2009. The award has been given to Mistress of Nothing, which I really liked, but now that I think about it is the nominee that comes the closest to having Identity Politics. After a lifetime in Canada, I am very cynical about the Arts and Identity Politics.

The second one is my bi-weekly column, and this time it is about the Fort Hood Shooter. In case anyone has kittens about my stirring opening tale, I would like to make it clear that I am NOT suggesting that pro-life activists are like jihadists. I've never met a violent pro-lifer in my life, although I know that one or two anti-abortionists are currently twiddling their thumbs in American prisons.

I am very interested in teenage fanatics because I remember being a very uncompromising teenager myself. Teenagers (I recall) hate hypocrisy and love consistency. Because they are more willing than adults to risk all for a gorgeous martyrdom--and have less developed critical faculties--they are easily influenced or even exploited by smooth-talking seniors. So when I say I have a "sneaking half-sympathy for confused teenagers with dreams of jihad", I'm referring to their teenagehood and their longing to do what they think God's will, not to their actual dreams of jihad.

Nidal Hasan is not a teenager, of course, and if I believed in the death penalty, which I don't, especially not for people who think the death penalty might be their ticket to houri heaven, I would think the inevitable charge of High Treason and death by firing squad the appropriate response to his crimes.

Going to Aberdeen

Going to Aberdeen to hear Emma Kirkby sing tonight. Long-time readers may remember that in his university days Benedict Ambrose used to pin up her picture. When first I read that, I looked up her photo and discovered that in her younger, frizzier days, she had a strong resemblance to me. She could be my aunt or something.

I wrote something to that effect in B.A.'s combox, and he suggested that the resemblance was not lost on him, and I thought, "OOO! I wonder if he fancies me."

And now we are married and shortly on our way to hear Emma Kirkby sing.

By the way, I know a man who loves Rita Hayworth movies. And I told my friend, who is tall, has bright red hair and had a crush on this man, that he was most probably attracted to her too. And, lo, they have been dating for over a year now. I really do think that men have "types", and now I should change out of my green flannel pyjamas.

Bats of a Feather Fly Together

Twilight represents the commercialisation of my youth, and I resent it. When I was a girl, children were afraid of vampires; they didn't have cutsie-pie romances with them. Vampires were strictly adult. Pulse beating madly, on Fridays the 20-something I would cover my face with white powder and black liner, pull on the black dress my mother said was really a slip, and sashay into the night, bound for my favourite Goth club. I smirked as people on the subway stared.

Ah, the Goth nights of my youth! I brought pen and paper, for writing brooding poems of gloom. The club was divided into two chambers: a small and quiet lounge and a huge room with an earsplitting dance floor. The two chambers were connected by a black-lit hallway. This hallway reputedly had doors to little rooms where unspeakable things reputedly happened. Years later, I don't recall ever seeing those doors. Hmm.

Real-life vampires, in case you are wondering, are not very nice or balanced people. Some guy bit my friend Silke outside our favourite Goth club--actually BIT her, on the neck--and we her friends were all horrified. Of course, outside our favourite Goth club was probably the most likely place in the world for a girl to get bitten by a real-life vampire, so I always kept an eye out for freaks after that. Of course, we were all dressed as freaks, so maybe I am romanticising my prudence. I used to hoard my spending money so I could buy one intoxicating glass of red wine at the Goth club bar on Friday nights. Ah me. Youth.

By now you are probably wondering how I ended up with such a nice and normal guy as Benedict Ambrose. What you don't know is that right about when I was dressing like Beetlejuice, B.A. was dressing like an Edwardian dandy and had a disturbing resemblance to, er, Lytton Strachey. It is fitting that (straight) Eminent Victorian guy ended up with Victorian Vampire girl, that's what I say.

In fact, I am reminded of the words of an elementary school teacher on the subject. He was taught in an experimental, once-a-week Gifted Program, in which we Gifted were all semi-encouraged to do whatever we liked, alongside lessons in convergent and divergent thinking, research techniques, independent studies and everything else our educational masters were going to spring on our dimmer fellows in the years to come.

One of my Gifted classmates was named Kathleen, and Kathleen dressed as much like a punk as teachers allowed. For all I know, she splashed out for Gifted Program days, as our teacher was tolerant of everything creative. However, he didn't like Kathleen's look, and he said so. The problem, as he saw it, was that Kathleen's appearance was likely to attract the kind of guys who dressed like Kathleen.

"That's great," said Kathleen, age 14. "I love punk guys!"

As far as I recall, our stunned teacher said no more. But I think that he had an interesting insight into the subject, and I wonder if Kathleen found the punk guy of her dreams. I hope so. My own husband does a great Sid Vicious imitation when his hair is wet and spiky by screwing up his face and wailing:

I wanna bay
Assam taaayyy!!!!

So one perhaps must dress for success in romance. And in case you are dreaming of vampires, here is the National Post's advice on how to get the Vampire Look of the Season. But if you want to attract the Tweedy Trad Catholic Man of Your Grown-Up Dreams, I suggest cute mid-knee-length frocks, sweet little cardigans, cunning boots, elegant winter coats and a dashing little hat. Plus, of course, a white mantilla for Sundays, if applic.

Update: Prue sent this Australian review of the Twilight phenom. Whereas I agree with everything else in the article, I can't support the idea of aborting a baby, even if half-vampire.

Death of a Stalker

Sometimes people die and you don't feel sorry. Of course, their relatives and close friends feel sorry, and some people feel sorrow at any reminder that they, too, shall die. So it doesn't do to say out loud, "Such-and-such is dead, and I'm not sorry." We have the fine motto of "De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est", which means "Of the dead, say nothing but good."

Which is why I did not, after all, leave a nasty comment on the deceased Stalker's webpage amongst the notes of condolence.

The Stalker, a nominal Anglican, is likely to have a grand and glorious funeral in a beautiful Anglican church. Although there were few in his social set before his illness, there are over 100 fans on his facebook page and there may very well be a crowd at his funeral. There will be speeches and chuckles. The convivial atmosphere will not be disturbed by me, or my dearest friend, or any suggestion that the Stalker was ever in serious spiritual danger, save, perhaps, for a rueful remark that the Stalker could be "difficult", followed by knowing, forgiving, laughter.

The Stalker was the only person I ever knew well enough to fear that he was in imminent danger of hell. And because I thought so, I told him so, through the medium of my blog, which he often read, because I simply couldn't stand to talk to him. He sulked about this on his own blog, not denouncing my belief in hell, mind you, but expressing a frustration that I did not think he was capable of change. (I did, though, which is why I bothered.) He was over 60 at the time.

The Stalker was born to devoutly religious, Protestant parents. He went to an evangelical college and showed a talent for art. He came to Canada, married, had children, pursued his artistic interests. He was a huge fan of the neo-platonist writer Charles Williams, and he tried to slough off the evangelicalism of his youth by joining a very "High" Anglican Church. He also indulged, rather heavily, in alcohol and marijuana. The marriage foundered.

The Stalker believed in romance, however. He craved it like alcohol and marijuana. He fell hard for his women, and when each affair ended, he had a hard time letting go. He stalked at least one, lying under her porch, listening for men. He grew old.

He grew old, but he could occasionally attract women with his erudition, his artwork, his dreams and, I believe, his melancholy. Success had eluded him, but he had undeniable talent. He owned an attic apartment in an old house in a bohemian district, and it was a fascinating rabbit warren of books, paintings, dust and dirty plates.

One night he went out to a bar/concert hall, and he met my dearest friend.

My dearest friend has a soft spot for old men, talented artists and failures. The Stalker was old, talented and, in his own estimation, a failure. My friend called me to tell me about this fascinating man she had met and wondered if she should date someone 30 years her senior.

"You'll be bored," I said brutally. "You'll miss young bodies."

At the time my friend was a true believer in the sort of love once called free. Free Love, however, turns out to be very expensive. "The woman always pays," says Live Alone and Like It, and ain't that the truth.

I liked the Stalker the first time I met him. He was "a Christian", and I thought he might interest my friend in Christianity. He had a lot of books. He was mostly bald and cadavernously thin, and he had yellow and grey teeth. But my friend adored him, and he was a talented artist.

The second time I came to visit, the Stalker discussed his failures. He sighed. He looked melancholy. My friend looked on in sympathy. My hackles rose. I loathe self-pity in men. And this guy was swimming in it. Swimming. But I did not say this to my friend. She was smitten, and at the time I believed discretion was the soul of friendship.

She moved in with the Stalker. They discussed the future. They bought a house together, a fixer-upper. He continued to drug and drink. When she had parties, he would withdraw, feeling uncomfortable among her young friends. When he had parties, she seethed at the amount of alcohol and drugs consumed.

He was a bad, selfish and brutal lover.

My freespirited friend lost all interest in sex. She moved into a room of her own and tried to renegotiate the relationship. She tried to convince the Stalker to drink less and to give up drugs. She eventually refused to allow his druggy friends into their house. Eventually, their romance was dead, but the Stalker would not bury it. Instead he assailed the slowly rising walls of my friend's privacy with passive-aggressive plaints and emails. Hundreds of emails. Eventually I was to read some of them, and I wondered if the Stalker were insane.

The Stalker stalked my friend. This was quite easy, as they lived on the same property. And it was quite obvious, as he blogged about it. He watched for her car. He watched the door. I came across him one night as he paced around to the front of the house, ever watchful. He obsessed over who my celibate friend might be sleeping with, and blogged his speculations.

I came home from studies abroad and found my friend half-crazy with frustration that the Stalker could not understand that their romantic relationship was over and had been over for years. To my surprise, when I offered to talk to him, she immediately agreed.

So I went to talk to him, "as a Christian", since I knew that at heart the man was still, despite his drinking, drugging and flirtation with Anglicanism, a Protestant evangelical. And as we talked, he suddenly turned melancholy and said that he might as well kill himself. As an example of emotional manipulation, it was breathtaking.

That was the end of my polite association with the Stalker. Not having known how bad things were between them, I had not known there were sides to be taken. I took my friend's side. Seraphic et Amica contra mundum.

The Stalker continued to obsess about sex, to write emails, to stalk, to blog about my friend. He read my blog, searching for information. He left comments. (Some of you may remember.) I erased them. I told him to stop. I called the police. The police called him. He left one or two more messages. He continued to drink and drug. My friend worked desperately not to lose the house. She rented rooms. She held down jobs. She felt guilty about the Stalker. I am sure his daily email rants encouraged her guilt, her self-reproach, her attempts at a kind of friendship.

And then--cancer.

Cancer. It was, he blogged, a wonderful thing, for it made my friend be kind to him. She took care of him until relations took over. She visited him in the hospital. And, in return, he continued to blog about her, his sexual frustrations, his sexual obsessions. Was she having sex? He revealed increasingly intimate details about her. He sent her abusive messages. He was obscene. Even as an old man, even as death approached, even wasted with illness, he could think of nothing but the erotic love he longed for.

I begged my friend to stop visiting him. It only made his behaviour worse. His new caregivers were horrified by his excesses. My friend felt happier, relieved that at last there were people (other than me) who understood what the Stalker was really like. And I, suffering when my friend suffered, for after my husband she is my dearest friend, realized that the Stalker would not stop obsessing sexually about, blogging about, writing about, her until he was dead.

And now he is dead, and my dearest friend is free. Miraculously, she is still sane. May the Stalker rest in peace. May his life be a lesson to us all.

Please stand now for the hymn.

Die, Heroes, Die!

Just watched a TV movie about Enid Byton, starring Helena Bonham Carter.

Oh my.

One day, there will be no heroes born before 1940 left to us as heroes--except, perhaps, if we are very lucky, Stalin.

A Currant Affair

For the first time in my little life, I am not going to be home with Mum and Dad and my siblings for Christmas. That is the way the transatlantic cookie crumbles this year, alas. Benedict Ambrose and I have to save our airfare for March, when my book launches in Canada, so here we shall be at the Historical House over Christmas.

The Historical House is rather Christmassy place, having around it woods full of the holly and the ivy. And it is Georgian and Scottish, which is how Old Canadians and Americans rather envision Christmas, and why so many Christmas things get wrapped in tartan ribbon. But it seems very weird to have a Christmas without Mum in it. I mean, at our house, Mum OWNS Christmas.

But if one cannot have Mum at Christmas, one can have Mum's recipes. Answering my email of woe, Aged P has so far transcribed and sent her fruit cake recipe and her gingerbread recipe. These are always the first things to be made in Mum's Christmas kitchen, and as the fruit cake has to be wrapped in brandy-soaked cheesecloth for a month, it is not too early to be thinking fruit cake.

"My mother says you can get everything you want in co-op," said an extremely useful and knowledgeable local friend, but I decided to go first to our local Tesco. To my relief, Tesco did indeed have candied peel, candied cherries, blanched almonds, pitted dates, seedless raisins, muscat raisins and a nice small bottle of brandy. But it did not have red currants. Mum's cake has red currants. My cake must have red currants. And nowhere was cheesecloth to be found. I saw some cheesecloth in Morningside on Saturday, but it cost over 3 pounds ($5). I think not.

So after some fruit-and-cheesecloth-less searching in the town shops, my creaking rucksack and I headed for the next village by bus. (Towns and villages here are rather close together.) I went to my friend's mother's co-op and was delighted to find a bag of currants (not sure what colour, actually) and also all the other dried ingredients, priced higher than they cost at Tesco, yay!

Finally, although neither co-op nor the hardware store had any cheesecloth, the hardware stores had, beside the "chunky dish rags", a very cheesecloth-looking "stocking roll" for only 99p.

When I got off the bus to walk through the woods of the Historical House, my eye was suddenly arrested by the sight of red berries growing by the burn. And, lo, I realized that they were red currants. It occured to me that had I begun thinking about Christmas baking any earlier, I could have dried my own currants for free. However, it might take many fresh currants indeed to come up with 1/2 lb of dried.

Do not underestimate the amount of dried fruit needed for my mother's fantastic Christmas fruitcake. The recipe advises the cook to get a very large mixing bowl. Leaving nothing to chance, I have soaped and scoured a big red plastic basin. Eventually I will soap and scour my own arm, to use in lieu of a wooden spoon.

Christmas is coming, and I mean business.

Update: Cakes (!) done and wrapped in brandy-soaked stocking-roll! Yay!