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Aug. 15th, 2009

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Nikisha, Samina's daughter, came round asking if she could warm up her little brother's milk in our microwave. I asked what the trouble was and she said the kitchen ceiling had collapsed and taken out the microwave and the washing machine.  It's only a couple of days since I was talking to her mother under that very ceiling and she was pointing out the damp stains caused, she believed, by the dripping of the old lead piping she'd just had removed. "These old houses need so much work," she said.

Her builder is a cheery bird and he and I have had some cheery conversations. He wasn't so cheery yesterday when I crossed paths with him leaving her house. "Builders!" says Ailz, mouthing it like an expletive. And while I'm sure there are some master craftsmen out there,  experience suggests that rather too many of them, while not exactly cowboys, are jacks-of-all-trades who muddle along on the principle that it can't be that difficult, surely- and in the hope that they won't be found out.

When I moved into this house in 1986 I got a grant from the Council to hack away the dry rot, replace the windows and rehang the roof. It was a good start. Since then I've patched things up as and when the need arose. Patching is all we can afford.  Yesterday the bulb in the bathroom went and I don't know what to do. It's contained in a fixture I'm afraid to unscrew  because I'm not sure the ceiling- which is held in place by faith, hope and charity-  will take the strain.  Life is a constant struggle against entropy- and entropy is always going to win. What I'm gambling on is that this house- basically good, solid, Edwardian brickwork- will stay upright just a little longer than Ailz and I do. Fingers crossed.

Woodstock

Aug. 15th, 2009 11:08 am
poliphilo: (Default)
Forty years since Woodstock? So it is. Here, have a poem:


WOODSTOCK

 

And all the generations go

Down-a-down-derry.

 

This is mine

Spread out like sheep on the pale green hills,

Ingesting smoke-

You dig it, man?-

Changing the world with daddy’s money.

 

Arlo is sweet,

Hendrix amazing,

Baez sings out pure as a bell

In a chapel of air, the high notes smoking.

 

Down-a-down-derry.

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