S*T*U*F*F* Reloaded

A fine old day. Only because there were a couple of big storms, which I love. When the thunder really gets overhead, I get an unsuppressable urge to go out in the rain. I loved Sydney for the big summer storms every afternoon… these little ones in London pale in comparison.

Well, its been more web stuff. Did a holding page for Iain Archer using some nifty Flash filter techniques to create ripples on a water surface. I really like the artwork for the new album “Magnetic North” - lots of sea, water. Iain is an ever-maturing artist - I loved his last album “Flood The Tanks”, but by all reports, the new one is just stunning. He and I come from the same town, and there’s something in his words and lyrics that resonates deeply with me. Just a phrase he sent through to describe his sound… “The engines of small boats” - I just get it.

Sometimes I hate the internet. My domain “angelsindrag.com” expired, and some fucker somewhere has a computer automatically buying up expired domains… including angelsindrag.com. Obviousl its now just a list of links like so many other “kiting” domains… it makes me sick. Whatever you do don’t go to that site.

I’ve been really enjoying playing guitar for the past few days, writing some new stuff. I have to do a “demo tape” for Jules Maxwell, who is going to produce the new piece of work. I hope to have it finished by the end of the year. I’m going to record a piece with Leo that we used to play - “These foolish things” by Nina Simone. Just two guitars and my ropey old vocals. Its a sweet old song and just made sense for us to finish our manic set of loops and nonsense.

Right - single malt at my side, its time for a late night bath and a gaze out the window to see if any stars made the grade past the London smog. I’ve decided to post some stuff from my grandfather’s autobiography from time to time. John Pendry - He’s had an amazing life - here’s a story from when he was a boy growing up in Africa.

THE CASE OF THE SURGICAL SAW.

I loved the sensation of the sand under my bare feet and when out of parental gaze I would kick off my shoes and run about barefoot. Totally daft behaviour, there were all sorts of grubs and creatures just waiting for lunch, and, of course, I paid the penalty, I contracted a sore on the instep of my left foot which would not heal. Years later Willie told me it was Beri Beri, but I think she must have been mistaken.
We had no private medicine, there were doctors provided by our avuncular Colonial Service and they operated from the hospital. If you were sick you went there unless you were too sick, and then they came to you. I had earlier contracted a severe and persistent case of malaria, so I was well versed in the habits of our local medical profession.
The sore made itself a nuisance at about the time Brian was born, so Willie had her hands full and as I knew most of the medicals socially as well as professionally, she sent me up to the hospital on my own for treatment. As I remember it, there was little to choose between the architectural design of the hospital and our bungalow, just a few extra stabs with the bungalow rubber stamp and hey presto, a drawing for a hospital.
Someone or other must have told me to wait because I was seated on the veranda at the back of the hospital kicking my heels and looking round me. People passed and spoke and so time moved on until a doctor stopped, looked at me and said something like ‘I won’t be long’, and disappeared, only to reappear with a bone-saw in his hand. It was similar to the things butchers use, a coarse version of a hacksaw. ‘Won’t be long, Jack,’ he said brandishing the saw and smiling from ear to ear like a pantomime demon, ‘When I’ve finished with this chap youíre next,’ and he gave another flourish with the saw and disappeared.
I let out a screech and my feet barely touched the ground as I ran crying all the way home. Some joke! The fact that I remember it is not surprising, it is still vivid. What I really wonder is whether it really had any long term affect on me. I probably had nightmares for a day or two, but at that age, about seven, I believe there was too much going on for it to be taken seriously and I’m sure my parents were not too bothered. Jung, Adler, Freud and litigation were not on everyone’s lips and in those days, it was probably all treated as a silly prank. Pity! Today I’m sure I’d have been scarred for life and only compensation in six figures could possibly assuage the hurt.