Sitting on the terrace, early evening, bird song (blackbirds? pigeons certainly) at different distances from the trees around the gardens, the scrape of a broom on paving stones from the neighbours two down, the conversation between the retired schoolteacher and his partner on the balcony of the flat up to my left. Children's television from the living room. Occasional planes thousands of feet up and a dim sense of traffic passing to and from the city. A cork pops. Laughter.
There is no reason to record these sounds other than by way of marking an atmosphere - for want of a better word - which occurs around this time of the year until maybe early September. To draw some philosophic 'message' from it would be to run the risk of losing what is so essential (and elusive) about it. A given - unlooked for. Too often I try to force it, hurry it, impose a structure or narrative, "distraught by expectancy". When -
who rang the door bell?
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Today, boys and girls, we’re going to look at ‘Song of the Chinchilla’ by Lisa Jarnot*. I liked the poem immediately – and I’ve given it to ...
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