BROKEN PLATES

I heard a sad tale the other day from a friend whose collection of fine pottery had vanished in a thousand shards when the dresser shelves of her new kitchen collapsed. Apparently each shelf fell in turn on the one below, triggering what I now know to be called a 'progressive collapse.' A clean break you might mend with glue but something shattered is beyond repair and yet larger shards still have the ability to trigger memories and associations. But who keeps broken and irreparable pottery? Well, I suppose some people do, but my friend didn't and its despatch to the dustbin became an occasion of great woe.

She told me that her perception of the world had retreated into slow-motion as the progressive collapse was taking place and I can well imagine the feeling for something similar happened to me once, too. My pottery was Bridgewater, rather than the antique Swansea pottery of her case and only one shelf figured in my story: a sorry account of an attempt to repair hairline cracks in the kitchen plaster during the course of which I had leaned - lightly of course - on this display shelf with its cargo of collectables; one end then became detached and the entire contents slid off the shelf one after the other smashing to smithereens on the tiled kitchen floor. Like lemmings leaping off a cliff I thought later.

You might ask why I did not spring from my ladder on which I was perched and rescue some of the finer pieces. But I was afflicted by the same slow-motion paralysis and could only watch dumbstruck.

What is this slow-motion effect that you get when watching a disaster unfold. What triggers it? Is it a surge of adrenalin? Or what other mechanism? I've never seen this discussed. But it is quite common. I must have experienced the effect several times in my life but I remember it most notably during the one occasion when I rolled a car, a manoeuvre that involved climbing a bank and then executing a sort of barrel roll before finding myself back on the road again and the right way up having executed a perfect 360 degree flip.

This must have taken no more than a second, two at the most. Yet I can remember the radio playing until the car was upside down and then cutting out. The battery, I thought, correctly as it turned out. Two seconds seemed to stretch into two minutes and then I was back again where I had started. And so was time.

I should add that the accident was entirely the fault of a lack of maintenance by South Glamorgan County Council, as it then was, who presented me with a cheque on the basis that we both maintained the fiction that it came from the goodness of their hearts, rather than a collapse in the roadway the size of a horse trough.

Wikepedia says "that during accidents, our brain receives massive amounts of data to process and it alters the way we perceive time. It is a mechanism developed by our brain during evolution to increase chances of survival so that a person undergoing an accident can get enough time to make a decision and react appropriately," which may be the case, though to me it seems unlikely. My own experience of this slow-motion effect is accompanied by a feeling of powerlessness. In so far as one reacts at all one reacts instinctively. And when I do suffer an overload of information - an opaque report for instance - rather than getting me more time, my brain sends me to sleep.

Anyway, slow motion effects aside, the original sad tale caused me to dig up the history of the Swansea pottery whose days of glory matched pretty well those of Napoleon. Its trade mark back stamp is a half horseshoe with the name 'Dillwyn' indented inside it after its owner - Lewis Weston Dillwyn - a remarkable man who combined his pottery with being a naturalist credited with the identification of various new species of algae and a Fellow of the Royal Society to boot with being an MP and Mayor of Swansea. Despite the name, his father had been a Pennsylvanian Quaker from Philadelphia who had returned to England during the American War of Independence.
Such is the knowledge that comes from broken plates.

Temporary Shelter - the End

You will know that all theatres have ghosts. It is something to do with bringing characters to life. An energy goes out into the ether; it clings to the walls and the set, so that even long after the final curtain comes down the characters tend to sit around on stage chatting between themselves. In this case Trist (the ex-actor) Larry (the ex-salesman), Marje (his wife) Jean-Louis (the French poet) and Annette (his Polish muse). When I went down to the theatre last Sunday morning they were all talking avidly - their last breakfast together. This is what I heard.

Trist By the time Larry and Marje emerged blearily from their tents. I'd already been up for a couple of hours, helping with the clearing up from the 'Grand Bal des Roses.' Claus, the baker and badminton freak, was up, too, to bake the bread. Larry, however, seemed different. He went off to buy his baguette without being prompted and nor did he seem to care anymore what JL and Annette were getting up to in their tent.

Marje Nescafé, dear?

Larry Good show, Marje! Last night. Got it right for once.

Marje Good audiences - we were full weren't we? Everynight I'd say.

Larry Almost every night, dear. Unheard of I’d say. My suit, you see, girl. They liked my suit.

Marje I wonder why they did come? I mean, it's not as though we got it all right did we?

Larry They still laughed though Marje. And Trist told me that people came up to him afterwards to say how good they thought it had been.

Marje Do you think it was the play then, dear?

JL and Annette emerge from their tent

Anne Bonjour, Marje! Most excellent breakfasting to you! This after the show day, I mean.

Marje Come and join us, Annette dear! We've got to celebrate.

Jean Did Marje sleep OK, Larry?

Larry As cool as the pale wet leaves of lily of the valley she lay beside me in the dawn.....

Jean Well remembered, Larry. I see you are a changed man. A poet.

Anne (with Polish feeling)It is his inside heart.

Marje Let me pour us some Nescafé.

Jean No, have some of ours. You should learn to drink French coffee, Larry!

Marje So, were they pleased? Do you think?

Larry Who, Marje?

Marje Well the Director, you know, the crew?

Larry Sold a lot of tickets, Marje. Made a lot of money no doubt. So I’d say they were very pleased.

Jean You can’t judge a show by the money it makes, Larry. It’s an artistic endeavour.

Larry Good selling job though. Couldn’t have done better myself.

Marje Who’d have thought so many people wanting to see us? And in an eighties play.

Anne If they are ever doing it again I would be watching it myself, I am telling you.

Larry No accounting for taste, Marje. Mind you it was an eighties sort of audience. Took them back no doubt to their own camping days.

Marje We went wrong occasionally, though didn’t we? Got several pages in the wrong order. Do you think they noticed?

Larry Audiences never notice, Marje.

Marje Lucky for the Director then.

Anne Especially with the very experienced actors.

Trist The Director told me afterwards that Annette had never acted in a production before, though you would never have known it. And as for experience, the lighting engineer was a beginner as were the sound engineer and the stage manager. Moreover, one of the actors only became available three days before the play opened and the director had to play one of the parts; while the position of the tent meant that an actor had to open and close the curtain. They also had only in seven weeks to put the show on.

Marje Oh the poor director!

Larry Salesman's pressures, Marje. Now you know why I smoke.

Anne Sounds worse than Warsaw on a Friday. Why then are they doing it?


Jean Louis They are doing it for love. To renew themselves. To reach new understandings. To begin again.

Larry And do you know Marje, I’m beginning to understand what he means. When we return now to Bressingham St Mary........

Marje Your coffee will be cold, dear.


An stage adaptation of Temporary Shelter, an award winning radio play from 1984, by Rose Tremain, was performed by Cowbridge Amateur Dramatic Society last week. Photo shows Lloyd Lee as Larry

PASSING THE BOOKSHOP

Along the road there's a little red post box that hangs on a telegraph pole. I wander down to it in the afternoons when I have a parcel of labels to post, or other mail for that matter. The parcel has to be small or it won't fit through the narrow slot with its overhang cleverly designed to keep the rain away. So then I have to prolong my posting excursion by walking down to the Post Office in town. I don't mind this at all. The sun shines, the folk are friendly. I can look about and observe. And the folk observe me, I suppose.

I see people I know or even that I don't know. They come up and smile, or wave to me from cars and I wave back to them, return the salute without having very much idea who they are. Still, I am content. It isn't troubling.

I conclude from this that I am becoming 'known,' but haven't altogether made up my mind whether I like this for in truth I am a very private person, content to let the world drift by beyond me. In another life, I might even make a good spirit, for I am happy now, at this stage of my life, just to watch and observe.

One of the advantages of growing old is that one is no longer compelled to rise to every occasion, answer every slight, join every competition, seek the glittering prizes. Sunshine and the dappled light through the trees, a flowing brook, a few friends, a chilled glass of white wine, an entertaining story, plenty of sleep - these are the real prizes with the extra benefit that there isn't any need to reach for them.

Didn't someone say that the past is a foreign country? I believe it was LP Hartley in 'The Go-Between' that lovely, savage book that I must have had in my sub-conscious mind writing the previous paragraph. Or maybe not for I missed the cricket altogether. Thwack. The dull-sharp crack of leather on willow that is inimitable and which seems to say 'don't hurry.' Don't sweat! Or anyway not the small stuff.

Certainly Leslie Poles Hartley knew what he was about when penning his famous quote. The past really is a foreign country. We know it exists, we even have the faded souvenir of our journey - a 'journey without maps,' perhaps. But have we the remotest understanding of what happened, or why, or why we behaved as we did? Do we? I know I don't.

For instance in the past there were plenty of times when I wanted to be 'known,' principally when I used to fight elections, but of course I wasn't, even though my photograph was pushed through everyone's front door. The punters still didn't recognise me or greet me or even want to hear how my party would liberate them from all their travails. It was a source of constant annoyance.

But today I have no understanding as to why I ever became involved in politics at all, gave up a good civil service job even, to chase a will 'o' the wisp. "And I say again to you today, that the future lies, not in the past, but in the present. In the strength of our families, our friends, our colleagues, which we must draw upon if we are to be bold and deliver a better life for all in the next millennium." Such vacuity! I didn't really believe it all even then.

The things one does in one's youth! A far away foreign country indeed of which we know little no matter how much of it we may remember. The idea of fighting an election today is such anathema that I'm not sure I wouldn't really rather buy a single ticket to Zurich. If ever there were an activity 'full of sound and fury signifying nothing,' it is fighting elections. We should perhaps be more grateful to those who do it for a living.

But now, as I have said, when I walk to the Post Office people I don't know wave and greet me. I suppose the reason is the theatre; or it may be the talks I have given; or it may even be the politics of long ago. Of course, others are far better known - and better liked. But I just find it remarkable that the public, even in this small, forgotten town, should notice me at all.

In truth the reason that people are coming up to me just now is because of the theatre and the play I am directing and when the curtain goes up tomorrow night it will be like the opening of a ballot box. How many votes? How many punters? Since last night another dozen tickets have gone. It's looking good. Had there been this level of response thirty of forty years ago I might even have been elected!

So I muse as I saunter along, my parcels in a big leather bag. I am passing the bookshop where sometimes I buy books and I wave at the proprietor inside. He waves back. He has our poster in his window. The sun is shining. I am content.