Our first visitor of the year, Wolf Kern from Munich who we first met while holidaying there in 1971, has arrived complete with his copy of “No Official Umbrella”. Evidently he has discovered two mistakes; they being that what I have called Jungstil should actually be Jugendstil and my Praktika camera is not Russian made but came from East Germany. Well, there you are then, only a German would have ticked me off on these two points. When I was working in Hamburg, whenever I heard someone mention Jugendstil, it sounded like Jungstil so therein lay the mistake. How can you trust the pronunciation of someone who pronounces his home town as Hamboish? At least Wolf has been interested enough to purchase the book. (he is mentioned in it). According to the latest summary from Lightningsource, that is up to February, friends and acquaintances, except for America, aren’t exactly rushing to find out what I have written, even if they happen to feature in the book. There are those I thought would have rushed to get it but obviously not. Amazon USA is featuring it in tandem with “Dead On Time” Amazon in England is pretty dull in comparison.
Wolf has also brought with him mementoes of the past; photographs of Yorkshire, in particular my sixtieth birthday party at Hollings Farm. I had thought it was the farewell party when we bought the house and moved here to Crete but, Like Jugendstil and praktika, he put me right. There is also a photograph of me in my old blue cotton dressing gown I knew nothing about and in which, fortunately, I look quite dashing in a morning after sort of way! That must have been taken in London. Also there are some letters he has kept regarding the dead in the water company Akenglen that was supposed to do wondrous things but unfortunately the other director, who originally came up with the idea and who roped me in and who shall remain nameless, turned out to be an alcofrolic, an habitual liar and virtually a bankrupt without letting on and totally out of it, so the whole concept of providing everything and anything for show bizz, from A to Z as the brochure boasted, went down the proverbial tubes, was stillborn rather.
Another Irish number from Marie, “The Snapper” by Roddy Doyle and once again I am at odds with the critics. “A superb creation, exploding with cheerful chauvinism and black Celtic humour. You finish the book hungry for more.” And “While recognising that we have all sat po-faced through novels which other people have assured us were hilarious … all I can say is that The Snapper creased me up.” And “Not since I first delved into Flann O’Brien have I so consistently laughed out loud while reading a book.” Well, I have chuckled a couple of times but I have to admit I’ve got to page 160 and am growing just a little bit bored by it. Maybe I’m just not on the right wavelength. Maybe the restrictions of the Irish working class vocabulary just don’t have the power to crease me up
We’ve had Gadaffi’s rain again. The wind has blown over the sands of the Sahara so everything; houses, cars, gardens, is covered in yellow mud. Hey-ho, it will take another shower, clean this time and heavy, to wash it all off.