The Gothic Grange

The Gothic Grange. Gothic man does not want to be seen entering and leaving his house. Indeed, it is anybody’s guess where the front door actually is, since one is required to go round the outside of the house, searching the undergrowth for the sight of a doorknob on an ivy-covered wooden door. On this trip, the doorknob seeker is likely to be terrified by the sight of a sinister face staring through the diamond-pane of the ground-floored window. Gothic man would like us to believe that it is his Great Uncle Gus, locked up and grown mad over the years. But it is actually a mildewed, old portrait thrown in as a job lot when he bought the house.
Gothic man himself presents an alarming appearance. He wears shaggy beard, shaggy jumper, baggy trousers and shabby slippers. You will find out why as you enter the house; it is freezing. It also smells of mould. Gothic man would like you to think he inherited his pile, but he only bought it because it was going cheap when the previous owner couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments. The moth-eaten old trophy on the wall as you ascend the staircase was bought in a junkshop. The first room on the landing off the staircase has a pair of lancet windows, like those you see in an old church or castle. It is here that Gothic man keeps his computing equipment – he is actually a programmer, though he tells everyone that he is a poet.
Gothic man tried to keep a cat, but the comfort-loving beast deserted him for a centrally heated house at the other end of the road. The only evidence of livestock is a bat-shaped mobile hanging in the window. It comes into its own at night, when Gothic man turns on a red-shaded light. The bedroom boasts a turret. Here, Gothic man will tell you, a young maiden threw herself to her death, many years earlier, the night before her father was to give her in marriage to an undesirable suitor. But really, the only thing that ever fell from that window, pale and fluttering, was a pair of Gothic man’s own underpants that he was trying to dry after the clothes’ drier in the basement had broken down.

A life of harmony...

His alarm clock bleeps at five-thirty every morning. He spends ten minutes in the shower, ten minutes shaving, five minutes blow-drying, five minutes getting dressed and thirty minutes having breakfast. At six-thirty am precisely, he leaves home. At six-thirty pm precisely, he returns home, climbing the steps of the elevated portico, the entrance to the classic mansion. Nothing spoils the harmony of this façade. Classic man will not even park his car in front of the house, least it spoils the symmetry.

Inside the acanthus-scented dwelling, the visitor can minuet to piped Handel and Bach, witnessing a plethora of perfect triangles, rectangles and circles inherent in the decoration. Indeed, there is a triangle propped over every doorway. Ask classic man if he is a mathematician, he smiles mysteriously and touches the side of his nose. Columns flank the entrance to every room, the ornamentation on top of which denotes the use of said room. The discerning visitor will be able to tell what the following mean: a statue of Venus and Adonis, a plaster cast of grapes and vine leaves, a bronze boar’s head, a gilt chamber pot…

The Never-Ending Soap Opera or, Imperial Lather..

Imperial Leather, which has been around in one form or another since 1768, has never been so much a soap as an experience. As soon as I became old enough to care about such things, I demanded Imperial Leather gift sets for birthdays and for Christmas. How I relished the sensation of removing the glossy, red packaging from the beige, chamfered block, running my fingertip over that red and gold label, lying in warm, bubbling water and breathing in that heady, glorious scent taking me to places I never was. As the years went by, I dallied in other aromas, but now and again, I wandered back down memory lane, looking for that inimitable red packaging in supermarket and drugstore.
Just recently, it came to my notice that PZ Cussons has ceased to make Imperial Leather soap in 200g bars – said soap now only comes in 125g tablets. Mystery solved – since early this year, I have only been able to find the smaller size of soap. What a rude awakening – the old adage comes into play: use it or lose it. IL lovers, take action now. Use your favourite soap. Demand ever more IL products, or else…

Confessions of an E-queen: rubber cheese and other delicacies

Over the years, I have heard a multitude of protests against the phenomenon of ‘rubber cheese’, presumably the produce that comes ready-sliced and packed in plastic boxes. The company of these Stilton-addicted epicureans always makes me uncomfortable because, you see, I love rubber cheese. I love it, Lidl’s Schmelzkase being a particular favourite. I just love the sensation of the creamy, tangy, tasty stuff, melting on toast slice and tongue. And now that my low tastes have come out of the larder, be warned, there follows a confessional dossier of other excruciating addictions.
From my earliest days I have craved tomato ketchup, have thrilled to the sight of globs of the red stuff glistening atop golden chips and crispy fish. A youthful craving for Tuc biscuits, those salty, fatty slivers of sawdust and e-numbers left me with skin akin to Freddy Kruger. But this pales in comparison to my love of Pot Noodles, sauces dried in bags and, indeed, absolutely anything that required reconstituting. I was fascinated, and still am, by the notion that food could have the moisture squeezed out of it, be kept in suspended animation in foil packets and then be brought back to life when the consumer requires. Even the re-hydration process is alluring; the sudden rush of hot water, the gentle fizzing and popping as wizened husks of vegetable matter spring into being as green pea, orange carrot and red pepper – bless the scientists!
Any epicurean waxing lyrical about the ‘natural’ and the ‘organic’ can go bury himself in a pile of manure. And my (lack of) tastes do not stop at savoury, oh no. I love the sweet, too, every Frankenstein’s monster of tooth-rotting confection that the taste-chemists can come up with, please send gift-wrapped to me…

How Much Does Your Building Weigh, Mr Foster?

I have just watched the DVD How Much Does Your Building Weigh, Mr Foster? (Norberto Lopez Amado & Carlos Carcas, 2010), and all I can say is that it is a beautiful little movie about an outstanding architect in his twilight years, but who is far from declining in output, quantity or quality. That Norman Foster, who has already had one brush with mortality, won’t be with us forever, is a sad enough thought. More sad again, is the thought that I may never live in a place like Masdar City, the zero-carbon, zero-waste mini-city in the desert near Abu Dhabi.
As I watched the CG imagery of this place-to-be, a feeling of déjà vu crept over me. Many years ago, in my hapless beginnings as a creative writer, I wrote a sc-fi story – what aspiring writer hasn’t? – about a group of people in a zero-carbon, zero-waste city, where the streets were made for people, where cars were left outside the city walls and pedestrians, when they wanted to move from one side of the town to the other, travelled on an automated system below the level of the raised streets – aaah! By the same token, my futuristic city also embraced the shady streets and oases of green as Foster’s Masdar. My town was no utopia, however, nor a ‘totalitarian’ society, neither. There was still rich and poor, still deep class division, but rich and poor alike lived in an unpolluted atmosphere. Yes.
Too bad that I will never live the Metropolis dream, and it probably wouldn’t be a good idea, but there are some things worth salvaging. We have long trounced the notion of architect as social engineer, but I believe the idea of living in an unpolluted atmosphere, is one worth striving for. Nor is it an ‘impossible dream’. It is not that long ago since non-smoking employees were routinely exposed to the fallout of their smoke-happy colleagues. They don't get away with it, now. The zero-carbon city will happen, but for my generation and upwards, I fear it will be all too little, too late. What do other readers think?

Why I'm flying the flag for Kate M....

Will somebody please tell me: just what is wrong with the clothing of Ms Kate Middleton? I ask that question not as someone who finds anything wrong with the sartorial sense of the soon-to-be princess, but as someone who entertains the opposite view. In fact, I quite like her procession of pared-down coats and suits. They are exactly right on someone of her looks, age and, dare I say it, class.
The blue frock I could have left behind; too ‘eighties’ for me, but that’s just my taste. However, I would have, and still could kill for the black velvet coat. Again, just my taste in clothes, but to read the rants of the style columnists, you would think Ms Middleton had all the allure of a geriatric bag lady. In any case, who started this ‘princess-of-the-realm-as-style-icon’ thing? Is a drop-dead sense of style a requirement of her forthcoming job? In short, where is the precedent?
No doubt, as yet another fashion columnist suggested this week, they are all comparing Kate with her late predecessor. Well, yes, but Late Predecessor was hardly Lady Gaga. All I remember from the Age of Diana was a plethora of porkpie hats, awful frilly frocks and blouses, and a succession of decorative hosiery. Of course, Ms Middleton is beginning her royal career as someone much advanced in years – and learning – over Late Predecessor. And that is the point exactly. Some day, a fully-qualified Messiah will appear out of the clouds to single-handedly save the British fashion industry – has it not already been done? In the meantime, columnists, leave Kate to her elegant collection of genteel clothing. One day, we may all be wearing the same, branded as Kate M.

Remember those...?

The sight of an Activia-licking Martine McCutcheon swinging aloft in a post-mod take on suspended furniture brought the 1970s rushing back to me. Back then, I remember being thoroughly puzzled by the sight of a swinging basket chair in a newly-furnished suburban bedroom. Was it for him or for her to sit in, I wondered, since sharing the thing was nigh on impossible. And what the effect on the seated party was supposed to be, heaven only knew, since comfort was out of the question. Said party would only be able to teeter for a minute or so, before going in search of a real chair. I suspect the newly-weds used it to gracefully drape their discarded clothing upon each night, for a few years, before seeing the light and consigning the useless, dust-gathering shebang to an autumn bonfire. Well, we all have to grow up.
Another tooth-clencher is the memory of those ‘crinoline’ lampshades from the same era. I don’t know which was the most unsettling; the frightful, grinning plastic cadaver of a doll seated over the illumined area, or the garish bands of ruched fabric organised so as to travesty what was a most unattractive fashion to begin with. Or was it the sheer discomfort of being in company with a person who would even dream of putting such horrible schmuck in a place of prominence in the sanctity of their home – come back, flying china ducks! All is forgiven. Every age has its madness, I know. Two decades ago, many a motorist had a daily encounter with a seat cover made of wooden beads, and a pair of furry dice. More recently, matrons were going gaga over those arachnidan Philippe Starck lemon juicers. Maybe in ten years’ time, we’ll all look back in horror at the distorting of the human foot by a tide of flip-flops. In the meantime, my pen is gathering steam over carpeted kitchens, furry loo-seat covers and dancing plastic flowers – but that is for another day.