Let
us call her Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons). When I was a
young man, newly arrived in the metropolis and teaching English and Drama at a
north London comprehensive school, I met Madeleine (not her real name, for
obvious reasons) at a party and was rather taken with her. She was very pretty,
vivacious and carefree, a socialite of the Chelsea set in the decade before
Sloan Ranger became a term of contempt. Although she was a few years older than
I, she still lived at home with mummy and daddy in one of those leafy squares
off the Brompton Road. Daddy was “big in meat in the city” and mummy was the
embodiment of Mrs Dalloway. Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons)
was a fashion model who’d also appeared with very few clothes on in a couple of
John Boorman movies, including ‘Zardoz’, I believe, with Sean Connery and
Charlotte Rampling. We became friends and lovers. She called me her “young man”
and I arrived at the conclusion that Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious
reasons) not only used Chanel No 5 – ‘That scent’, yes, we’re getting there – she
probably bathed in the bloody stuff! I didn’t mind. To begin with, I quite
liked the fragrance because I quite liked her. However, during the course of
our several-month liaison, it gradually became apparent to me that, while I
might be her “young man”, I wasn’t her only man. There was the aspiring
racing-driver who used to get her drunk on Moet and occasionally beat her up.
There was the old Etonian who was very adept at replicating Queen Anne
furniture which he off-loaded to less than scrupulous cronies in the antiques
game. I think he kept her in class A recreationals as well as Chanel. But the
alarm bells well and truly rang the night when Madeleine (not her real name,
for obvious reasons) arrived at my house at 3 in the morning barefoot and
delivered by fire-engine. I just refused to let her in – I had to be up for
school at 7 – let the firemen put the
fire out. I never saw her again but I have acquired a life-long aversion to
Chanel No 5. The olfactory key is a potent instrument in any memory-picker's
tool kit and it only takes the merest whiff of No 5 to unlock a sequence of
evocative and not always pleasant madeleine moments for me.
Staying with London as a locale, I wonder how many of you have read and enjoyed Ben Aaronovitch’s brilliant ‘Rivers Of London’ series of novels? Ben, was born and bred a Londoner, has written TV scripts for Doctor Who (‘Remembrance of the Daleks’) and the space soap ‘Jupiter Moon’ and also worked at Waterstones in Covent Garden for a while when times were lean; but his novels, five to date, have all been best-sellers so he only goes to bookshops for signings these days. The premise of the novels is that magic exists, can be used for nefarious ends and the Met has a special division, based at The Folly, responsible for investigating and dealing with any criminal activity that has a whiff of the supernatural about it. Chief Inspector Nightingale (wizard) and his sidekick DC Peter Grant (apprentice wizard) are the heat on the streets of London with sharp noses for vestigia, sensory traces of wrong-doing involving magic. The novels are all cleverly devised, entertainingly told and ripping good yarns that reward your suspension of disbelief. If you haven’t stumbled upon them yet, they are a treat in store. To find out more, check out The Folly - “official home of English wizardry since 1775” - at www.the-folly.com
Staying with London as a locale, I wonder how many of you have read and enjoyed Ben Aaronovitch’s brilliant ‘Rivers Of London’ series of novels? Ben, was born and bred a Londoner, has written TV scripts for Doctor Who (‘Remembrance of the Daleks’) and the space soap ‘Jupiter Moon’ and also worked at Waterstones in Covent Garden for a while when times were lean; but his novels, five to date, have all been best-sellers so he only goes to bookshops for signings these days. The premise of the novels is that magic exists, can be used for nefarious ends and the Met has a special division, based at The Folly, responsible for investigating and dealing with any criminal activity that has a whiff of the supernatural about it. Chief Inspector Nightingale (wizard) and his sidekick DC Peter Grant (apprentice wizard) are the heat on the streets of London with sharp noses for vestigia, sensory traces of wrong-doing involving magic. The novels are all cleverly devised, entertainingly told and ripping good yarns that reward your suspension of disbelief. If you haven’t stumbled upon them yet, they are a treat in store. To find out more, check out The Folly - “official home of English wizardry since 1775” - at www.the-folly.com
And
so, to the poem. This is something I wrote for and performed at the Haunted
House event in Blackpool a few evenings ago. It’s best read out loud with all
the lights turned down, except for the glow from your laptop/PC/tablet screen. Look
out for ‘that’ scent, reeking sulphurous…..
Whispering Winds
The
city sleeps
while
in its streets
move
tortured spirits of a cruel past,
seeking
rest.
Trees
whine in parks,
wires
whistle, papers rustle -
sounds
easily explained by day
grow
bold at night.
Shackled
dogs howl,
hackled
cats growl,
fear
drops a frosty few degrees
because
unquiet
is on the prowl.
You
didn’t spot those shadows,
dark
wraiths milling round
mottling
the ground,
insubstantial
all night long,
lurching,
shifting, searching.
Such
emptiness in solid air,
such
almost tangible despair
might
shape to rend this curtain of complacency.
Soot
billows out of grates,
ridge
tiles begin to fly,
shop-signs
tumble,
trees
are ripped from hallowed soil
by
manic gusts.
The
hour is both profoundly dark and late
when
disaffection, reeking sulphurous,
tears
at our smug substantiality.
Pray
that this night won’t go on forever…
Then,
as a pearl-edged dawn approaches,
for
those who have the ears to hear,
(dogs
in shackles, cats with hackles),
a
million jangled,
paranoiac
screams
mingle
west,
lost
on whispering winds.
Thanks
for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)