Ted Max

As it's Friday I feel like a bit of completely unjustifiable generalisation. I have found the Dutch I have worked with to be overwhelmingly straight of beam and steady of purpose. Like motivated Swiss. Perhaps I have always just met the wrong kind of theDutch. But I put them up there with any of yer northern Europeans for their grim work ethic and need to conform. At least the Finns, their equal in daytime taciturnity (root Tace: Ltn), all turn into superheroes after midnight and/or three litres of Estonian vodka.

Over a low wireless and sweet sherry, two widowed sisters share stories of their husbands. Upstairs their children dream of adventurers, foreign spies, and returning heroes. Outside suburban railway stations working girls scan the emptying trains for prospects: lionesses searching for lame prey among the herd. In a parish church the verger's wife arranges the flowers for Sunday's service, accompanied only by the echo of her footsteps. Perhaps the Vicar will thank her for her efforts in this week's notices.

The foreman's wife buys a new pair of shoes and wears them home to her empty house. A young man taking his parents out for a meal at a West End hotel is relieved to find the menu is in English. In St James a club doorman trousers an indiscreet tip, and promises himself he will stay up late into the morning to take his daughters to the park. A conductor wakes a nurse so she doesn't miss her stop. He will do the same again tomorrow.

It very much depends on the departed and her family. But ideas could include... Commission a piece of music/ art. Plant something in a favourite spot/ garden. Make a donation in her name to a cause she would have supported.

I guess they all look the same to you. http://www.chrismclaren.com/blog/wp-content/images/2008/02/nemi/nemi.jpg EDIT: 'kinell it looked OK on preview.

Poor Mrs Nesbitt.

Les Paul dead. 94.

That made me laugh myself slippery, Hona.

Cheers, Jah. I'm enjoying the opportunity to fanny around, as ever.

The couple pressed together outside the picture house are Bogart and Bergmen, Lancaster and Kerr, until interrupted by wolf whistles from their friends at the bus stop across the street. The Italian waiter spreads another cloth over table seven, ready for a late booking from the theatrical agency on the corner. He swears at the signed picture of Olivier on the wall, and thinks of summer evenings in Liguria before the War. A black suit carries its owner noiselessly into the water under Hammersmith Bridge.

Singing from the snug as Maisie is persuaded (it doesn't take much) to get the ukulele down from over the bar. Taking a pub-load of dreams with them, the centre half and the goalkeeper leave early to walk to their digs - must stay fresh for the visit of United tomorrow. Two shop girls linger in a city centre pub, drinking the rent, as they wait for the boys from the warehouse to show up. Empty trains roll back to the depot, depositing forgotten drivers into dark engine sheds. The bookie sleeps soundly above the shop.

Women receive the week's housekeeping with floury hands, brains converting the few notes into food and warmth. Children eager for pocket money - comics and sweets in their eyes - stay silent. Poor George is stood an evening of drinks in the local. In a Croydon bedsit, a young girl far from home tidies up in advance of the weekly visit from her married lover.

Payday. The helping of "Pudding + custard/ ice cream/ cream" in the cafe. The scratchcard slipped inside the latest issue of Railway Modeller magazine in the Newsagent's. The 23p change slid into the charity collection box on the pub counter. Monthly offerings made to honour the memory of an abandoned life.

You lost me at Ab. If you're being unkind can you punch me in the face, or something? It's the only language I understand.

The hanger or the car park, I'm guessing, with the Gap-dressed legion. Don't any of my tastes gain me entry to the high culture of the al fresco chill act?

And yet I was recently derided for my O Level latin? O tempura, O wasabi.

I like truffle oil but not truffles, wearing my "trunk" style underpants inside out, the crack of freshly laundered linen on plump limbs, ripe pears, unripe bananas, the poetry but not the prose of Thomas Hardy, unsigned novelty acts from Bromsgrove with lead singers called Jez, and indoor fireworks. My question is, where is the festival for people like me?

That doesn't really work for me, Wolfie, for a couple of reasons - but you're your own Wolf.

How strange that just now a book should fall down from the bookshelf, opening at a fine plate illustrating The Monkey's Paw. It shows the exact moment the father, holding the monkey's paw, wishes for ?200; a wish that leads to the death of his son. I'd be happy to donate a decent reproduction to be mounted in the Drawing Room.

I've got an Edward Hopper print here, called "Drawing Room at Night". Visible through a fourth floor window of a brownstone block in the city is a woman in a loose red dress. She is alone, with three empty chairs around the table at which she sits, a single bulb hanging overhead. The only other light comes from a computer screen glowing in the dark before her. At the top of a list of threads we see one showing: "Views 4. Posts 1." Her hand is pictured a few inches above the keyboard. Has she just posted, or is she about to post? Or neither? Is she alone? Or are we?

Did you ever love a women? Sneaking around crying won't help you. Never make a move too soon, big boss man, or you'll find the thrill is gone. On my word of honor.

Fantastic. I'd say Jimmy is a strange name for a girl, though.

That is not counting the ones that tell you what you cant do, Who has told you what you can't do? Please understand, my very point is that people are interested, and have been for a long time, as evidenced by all the other threads that we have had on these topics. There's nothing wrong with a new thread on the topic, either. What got to me was the "here's some information your younger readers seem not to be aware of" attitude.

I've been reading some of Shorty's stuff from the V1 V2 thread and have found it intersting. As much as I'm sure there are plenty of sources of local history I don't see how someone who has watched the neighborhood change over 60 years and would like to share his memories is hurting anybody. Who has the right to decide what is a valid topic? If nobody reads it it goes away. I don't disagree with any of that. I'm not looking to proscribe a thread or decide on validity, or be petty. Merely to put CS' comments into the context of the Forum as a whole. It was the comment in the About this Forum thread, plus CS's own snippy comments about people going off topic that got to me. Add to that Macroban's usual "carefully considered "witty" responses" and I was moved to comment further, to provide some balance.

Steeee-rrrrike one for Brendan. Come and play with the thickos, Brendan. We've been smearing mud on each other's faces all morning while the smart kids have been away at the inter-school debating comp. Mr Maclaren's going to let us have a go with the boxing gloves after lunch.