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But on Saturday we (SWMBO, The Boy, and I) had taken him to Oxfordshire to see Juan, Janet, and the kids; and Kenton and Susan, who had driven from farthest Gloucestershire.

The old School Bridge team are now all fifty. And we look it too. We compared aches and knee problems overmuch, I fear, for Madame, who, being youngest of the adults there present, still clings on to some vain belief that she is as fit as she's ever been. Long may she continue in that: I'm sure thinking such keeps a person young. Nevertheless, we four four-No-Trumpers (various forms of a convention known as Blackwood - first-round control asking and slam seeking) were all aware that age had crept upon us stealthily, rather than in the Assyrian fashion, as the poet Byron would have it.

A mathmo Academic, a company director, a madman, and an ex-guitarist: and of us all, Felix is the least successful - something one would not have put money on when we were all still at school.

It is so difficult to describe how Felix was to someone who has, like Juan's kids for example, only seen him in his present incarnation.

At seventeen his guitar playing looked fit to be the glory of the world. Agile of mind as well as clever, his imagination was unconfined by genre or medium. He was a very good mathematician, an athletic team member, a brilliant bridge partner, and so charismatic as to make folk like me both envious and slightly awestruck.

Maybe there is some other quantum-contingent reality where he held it all together: I wish though, that it had been this one.

Rereading.

Feb. 9th, 2012 08:26 pm
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I've been laughing like a drain over William Donaldson's "From Winchester to This"



I was first introduced to Willie Donaldson's work by K R C Buss, known to his chums as Robin, or just Buss. My kid bro was in the same class as Buss's son Louis, and I became friends with Louis and through him with Robin, Robin eventually becoming my poetic mentor, and, inasmuch as our age differences allowed, a friend.

Robin had been in the FO before quitting to retrain as a teacher of other teachers, but there were always a few dodgy coves hanging round his gaff, some with 'Intelligence' obviously stamped upon their person. I lost touch when he remarried after a pretty amicable divorce from his then wife, Pat. He died soon after my father died, suddenly, from a stroke. He was a lot younger than dad. Buss's obituaries ran in two of the broadsheets. I put the best one (from the Independent, IIRC) up very early in this blog, some five or six years ago.

Anyway, Buss, Louis, and I, shared a love of "Private Eye".

I had arrived at this love independently, and though Buss and I didn't always agree on Auberon Waugh's Diary, which I thought simply magnificent, he appreciated my poses artistique, even when they were a trifle gauche. After all, he had been post-gradding at the Sorbonne in '68 when it all kicked off, so he understood both gauche pretension and poetic voice. And despite not being one himself, knew a rotter when he saw one: and immediately pointed me at Kyril Bonfiglioli and Willie Donaldson, and the writings thereof.

My debt to him is immense. As is my debt to Louis, whom I haven't seen for years either.

Now I teach. And in my own way, in this medium, I hope I can pass things along.

Go well and do good things. I mean, I know Flashy used to get beastly drunk and bully his servants, weasel his way out of trouble, be cruel to dumb animals, beat his women, and betray his chums and all that, but now he's an upstanding sort of respectable chap, the least he could do is to be nice about the memory of friends. May they go especially well, and do great and noble things.

johnny9fingers: (Default)
Steph died last night. About 11.30pm.

I hadn't seen Steph for more than a week. She had looked far from chipper then, but apparently Ericka said that had been her best, and that her deterioration was rapid.

When I had taken Steph to the Marsden for those months she needed treatment this day seemed avoidable, or at least postponable.

So this came a bit quick, and unnerved me, and I found myself in tears listening to Adele on the nanny's radio. Gods, what mawkishness on my part.

Steph had been my Old Man's nearest good friend in his declining years. That they were neighbours was just a bonus.

Steph was a few months younger than me. Practical, clever, boyish, Feminist-but-not-separatist, craftsperson-like (because she was a craftsperson of great skill and understanding), down-to-earth, and wise. She was a Saxon-Dane-Angle artisan from the Fens. She'd always been what used to be called a tomboy, and according to her testimony she tried kissing a guy once and, honestly, no, 'twasn't for her.

Her widow, Ericka, is a Black Doctor's daughter from Guyana, who went to boarding school in Germany; speaks a hand-full of languages; was a catwalk model for a time; had imaginative affairs with artists, musicians, and intellectuals; and is still (in her mid-fifties) impossibly 'glam' (when she wants to be, of course).

They complimented each other perfectly, and were a delightful couple.

We're all going to miss Steph an awful lot, methinks. My heart goes out to Ericka.

As for the rest of you: go well, do good things. Thank your god; gods; or the gods of chance that your end will probably be more pleasant than Steph's was unless you are very unlucky indeed. Thank the gods for Morphine is what I say.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
My mother's neighbours are a female couple who have lived adjacent for some 23 years. They have been good chums to all of our family before Dad's illness, but subsequent to its onset were just stalwart. Now one of the lasses (who is my age) was diagnosed with a malignant tumour on her neck in April. She had the whatever-ectomy last week. I took her and her partner back from the hospital when she was discharged, and in ten minutes I have to leave to take her to get her staples (not stitches) removed.

Illness touches all of our lives peripherally until it's our turn.

Go well and do good things, and just perhaps someone might do good things back when you need it most. Probably not, of course, but one can hope.

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