Of A Mentor, Neighbour, Colleague & Friend.

My eldest son recently sent me the news of the death of his Y6 (fourth year junior in those days) teacher's death at the age of ninety-one. E (Mrs B to kids and parents) was someone I greatly respected. I’m not sure that many people had the opportunity to know her in quite as many roles as I had - a mentor, one of their children’s teachers, a colleague, a neighbour and a friend.

I got to know E in 1977, when I was her student on my final teaching practice at a junior school in the Home Counties. We had actually met briefly a few times some years previously when she was herself a student. She had been widowed early and took on a job as a school secretary at a school within walking distance of her home. The head teacher, one of that rare old-school breed of wise and kindly men, realised her potential and encouraged her to train for the profession as a mature student. It was purely coincidence that we both trained to be teachers at the same college, though we were not there at the same time.

Each of my three teaching placements were in the same town and I remember much more about being E’s student than I do about the other two schools. This was down to E herself. Not only was she an exemplary teacher who was respected among her colleagues, but also her pupils were very loyal from what I could see. She suffered no nonsense from pupils, but I don’t remember there ever being a storm around her. You know how some people seem to generate noise simply by occupying a space? Having worked in hundreds of schools over the years I spent in education I've seen plenty of those but E was not that kind of person and not that kind of teacher. She was very patient with me as I tried to cope with the class she was forced to entrust to my care, and I aspired to be as good a teacher as she was. Watching me at work with her precious pupils must have been a painful experience for her. Whenever I observed her at work she was always impossibly methodical. I've never mastered that grasp of any area of learning other than in music and I never managed her ability to control classes containing a significant proportion of pupils exhibiting challenging behaviour (again with music being an exception). At the end of that placement, she invited me to join the class trip to York, so I suppose I can't have been a complete disaster. The college didn’t generally allow their students to act as accompanying adults and, by definition, free labour on school trips, but I went anyway. E had planned a great week - walks round the city wall and through the historic city centre, trips to the National Railway Museum, the Jorvik Centre, the Castle Museum the Minster and a trip out to the coast to look for fossils.  Our visit coincided with the triennial performance of the Mystery Plays and I asked for time to attend one of the evening performances. I've written more about that experience here. E asked me if I would take four pupils with me. She had four in mind whom she specially thought would gain a lot from the experience. As always she wanted the best for her pupils. The plays were not on the week’s itinerary for the trip because she realised that the majority would prefer the evening activities back at the youth hostel. I wonder if the four remember that show? A student would not be allowed to take pupils unchaperoned these days with all the extra safety protocols that have to be observed.
I was in my third year of teaching and I'd stayed in touch with E. She had moved to another school across town, closer to her home and was the one who let me know that a job had come up in her school. I’m pretty sure she had a word with the head, which helped secure me the strangest interview I've ever had. I received an invitation to visit the school and after a tour and a chat, there being no other candidates in evidence, the head simply said, "Well, do you think you like us then?" Apparently that was his way of offering the job, although I had to ask to be sure! 

At that school, my respect for E as a most exceptional teacher grew over the four or five years I was there. She was certainly the first person I knew who taught yoga in PE! In many ways she was very reserved. She never offered gratuitous advice, but was always willing to give her time if asked. She specially seemed to have time for her pupils and I am sure she remembered something about every one of the children she taught. While there I moved house from across the town and was very happy to end up as E's across-the-road neighbour. She was a always a very private person, so we still saw more of each other at work. Her beautiful garden always put mine to shame though. She found children fascinating and was a great observer of child behaviour. She once told me how, from her kitchen window, she had watched one of my children spending ages examining a flower in our front garden. Apparently he turned it this way and that and it came off in his hand. E was very insistent that he hadn’t done it destructively and under no circumstances should I chastise him! He was just turning the flower to look at it more closely. She was always on the side of the child and she invariably saw a funny side to things and had an endless stock of anecdotes about teachers and past pupils, which she’d relate (often doing the voices too) though, to be fair I don’t know how much her pupils saw of her humour … It was hilarious listening to her and a former colleague at her previous school, hold conversations or tell stories pronouncing words the way children mis-spell them. That was a skill that took a lot of practice!

When I moved away from the town to take up my first advisory post we kept in touch. Whenever I passed through the town, which was not very often, I would try and make a point of visiting her. I valued being able to discuss professional issues with her and she proved wise counsel on other matters too. She also had the most remarkable memory. Even decades afterwards in her late eighties, she remembered not just the pupils she had taught, but most of the pupils in the school. I’ve no idea how she managed that, because I cannot remember seeing her about the school very much. She was usually busy in her classroom with a pupil, a group of pupils, marking work or mounting displays - we did all those ourselves in those days there being no such people as Teaching Assistants. I should have remembered more of the pupils than her because I often worked throughout the school with musical activities as well as my own class responsibility but, whenever I went to visit her at home, we’d reminisce and her memory put mine to shame. She would keep me up to date with the achievements of pupils and former colleagues she knew about and through her I was able to re-establish contact with one or two other teacher ex-colleagues. I knew her to be very compassionate and supportive from personal experience. 

One day when I was visiting her at home she dashed out of the room saying she had something for me. She returned with a pastel drawing that she had framed and kept from the time I was her student. Laurence, one of her pupils, made a pastel drawing of a scene from the story of The Firebird I’d read to the class as part of a topic on “fire”. She was amazed at the perspective and maturity of Laurence’s drawing. The picture had been hanging in her upstairs office for forty years and she had finally decided to part with it and wanted me to have it. The picture now hangs on the wall in my galley where I can be reminded of her every day - and how calm she was when my fire topic “science demonstration” threatened to set the classroom alight. I’m sure the cleaners were finding bits of black ash for days afterwards.

Laurence's pastel drawing of The Firebird 1977 

It is very sad the way things are at the moment. The plan is to scatter her ashes in her native Caithness when possible. Someone like E probably has many people who would want to remember her and celebrate her life. She would also be very likely to deny in terms that would invite no discussion that anyone could possibly be interested enough in her to want to say or write anything. Somewhere inside, though, I suspect she might be just a wee bit pleased.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis

One YouTube channel I find amusing and occasionally instructive is Zelph on the Shelf. I came across this video they recorded a little while ago that refers to the same sad story that prompted me to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” some eleven years ago. They discuss these tragic events that occurred in Manti, Utah in 1857. I first encountered the story in Jim Whitefield’s “The Mormon Delusion Volume 1” (Lulu, 2009, p.170). It cropped up again in D. Michael Quinn’s 1997 book, “The Mormon Hierarchy: Extensions of Power” (Signature Books) and again when I read the near contemporaneous account by John D. Lee in his devastating confessional work, “Mormonism Unveiled” (Vanderwalker & Co. facsimile of 1891, originally published in 1877).

A few years ago I wrote a blog essay on this story that seemed to haunt me and described how I came to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” where I also explain one or two liberties I had to take in order to tell the story coherently. I intend for the song to be included on the next album when I get round to recording it. I’ve included the full lyrics of the song below. A few years ago I was introduced by an MC who warned the audience that I write songs that make men cross their legs. I think he was referring to the ballad.

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This is a reprint of part of an essay I wrote six years ago and about a song I wrote eleven years ago. I'm bringing it to the top of a pile because yesterday I watched a video on YouTube that discussed the subject that seemed to have such an impact on me many years ago.

Many stories of the early days of Mormonism have been obscured, suppressed or altered.  I came across the story of a young man called Thomas Lewis in my researches a few years ago in John D Lee's 1877 book, "Mormonism Unveiled".  Although the version I read was not recorded until some twenty years after the events were alleged to have taken place in Manti, Utah in 1857, I found the story compelling and affecting and it wouldn't leave me alone until I had done something about it.  I wrote "The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" to give news of these events a little nudge.  Although I perform to very small audiences I hope that poor Thomas' fate does not disappear into obscurity.  We learn something fundamental about the Mormons in the actions of the polygamous Bishop Warren S. Snow and of the better known polygamist, the so-called prophet Brigham Young who, on hearing from one of his brothers, Joseph, about these events told him that he was "of a mind to sustain" the bishop.  He told Joseph to say no more about the matter and let it die away among the people.  That statement alone was my red flag.  I have taken some liberties in the ballad.  For example, I cannot find any reference to the name of the fiancée of Thomas Lewis, so to help tell the story I have called her, "Mary".  The harvest references are also my fancy.  I think that one day I should annotate the song, because it contains many references the specific meanings of which will only be fully appreciated by people very familiar with concepts and language used among Mormons.  Many present day Mormons will have no idea about some of these concepts and I suspect that most Mormons today will never have even heard the story.  A piece of social history I wanted to reference was the utter callousness shown within many polygamous relationships.  I had certainly never heard of the revered early missionary, Heber C. Kimball, (who was responsible for converting many British people and encouraging them to emigrate to Zion), referring to his wives as his "cattle" until I started to read more widely.  If any of this is true, it is certainly no longer useful.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis 

by Marshlander (2010)

1. Manti, in Utah, eighteen fifty-seven.

Frontier thinking tainted by the cult.

The one true faith where brethren hold the aces

Hope, toil and zeal etched in saintly faces.

Young Thomas courted Mary.  So in love

Was he, he swore there’d be no other.  She

To him returned the promise.  They’d be wed

When harvest’s safely home, they said.

2. Bishop Snow “lived his religion”.  Kimball’s

“Cows” – his own herd growing like them.  Humble

Never his demeanour.  Even crueller

His approach.  He was no godly fellow.

The Bishop sought an increase to his herd;

He, too, began to woo young Thomas’s love;

But faithful Mary turned the old man down

The chase became the gossip all round town.

3. Several wives were clearly not enough.  He, 

“Builder of the Kingdom”, here on earth.  While

Shoring up the promise for hereafter.

Only misery; no hint of laughter.

He pursued his prize with gifts and jewels

She was flattered but refused each one.

He told her she would be first resurrected

On the morning of the most elect.

4. Faithful to her sweetheart she refused

Once again his wheedling and his cant.

The old priest swore an oath in tones so chill

That she would be his bride.  It was God’s will.

And when this clumsy pressure failed to change

The young girl’s mind, the Bishop grew more mad.

He told her, if she obstinate remained, 

That God’s will would be done and she be blamed.

5. He told her that young Thomas could be sent 

To serve the Lord in missions far away.

He told her, never would she see him more

If she continued to refuse God’s law.

When she again demurred he took him then

Straightway to see young Thomas in his rage.

He threatened excommunication.  Still

The lad refused to bend before his will.

6. By now the Bishop, thunderous with lust,

Called faithful men to counsel late one night.

When Thomas entered in that meeting hall

He surely never saw what would befall.

When he came in the lamps went out and all

the heavy men piled in; then held him down.

The Bishop, with his knife and n’er a nay,

Fast severed off Tom’s manhood where he lay.

7. He snarled and spat, “I gave you every chance

To let me have young Mary for my own.

As punishment for thwarting of God’s plan

She won’t want you now you’re not a man!”

The butchers left the scene with Thomas still

Left lying on the table in his shame.

But Snow stopped in one final act of gall

To nail the severed trophy to the wall.

8. “Let all men learn obedience to God.

The Lord will not be mocked by any man.

Celestial marriage and eternal life,

My just reward, with Mary as my wife!”

Let the matter drop and say no more about it

He was called of God as a Judge In Israel

Let the matter drop and the people soon will doubt it

Ever came to pass, ever came to pass, ever came to pass ...

"The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" Copyright Marshlander.

As with many of my songs I set myself a musical challenge as well as a lyric-writing one. Some years ago I heard a discussion on the radio between two composers describing the difficulty of setting Shakespeare's words to music. It was mainly to do with the rhythm and meter. It was a fascinating discussion and I thought that one day I must have a try to see just how difficult it is to set text written in pentameters. By no means are my lyrics Shakespearian in quality, but they are certainly written in pentameters i.e. five feet in each line. I thought at first that I could get away with writing in 5/4 or 5/8, but I couldn't make that work. In the end I settled on squeezing the text into a waltz. When I sing the song I daresay it sounds to some as though it tumbles out as a stream of consciousness. That's how it often feels to me. As if that weren't enough I decided to risk minimal use of chords and see if I could still hold the listener's attention. I think the accompaniment on the repeating D major and C major chords encourages a meditative dorian feel. It appears the listener is either absorbed into the story or simply falls asleep ...

Letters To A Kingfisher - 9

Dear Mr Kingfisher,

Thanks for coming to see me this morning. I know you were too busy to stay long, but there was just time for a greeting before you had to go.

In two days' time it will be precisely one year since I have seen my lover and partner, P. Being apart and in different countries for all this time has been horrible. Not as horrible as catching covid I suppose, but we have to play the hand we are dealt. I am so looking forward to being allowed, and feeling safe enough, to go back to France. This period of enforced isolation has been not so different from my normal life in many ways, but in others it has proven very difficult. I am frustrated that I have not felt able to make good use of the time to work on musical projects; I certainly have enough half-started songs to finish. I've put that down to mild depression, something I do know about, but again that isn't the whole picture. I think the lack of purpose is what hurts most. If I have a performance coming up I practise and rehearse. I am not so consistent without the focus. I have also really missed going to see and hear live performances and I think that has also affected my productivity. I try really hard to avoid plagiarism, but a live show is often a stimulus for new musical ideas to begin rattling around in my head. I think it is the joy of witnessing music making in real life. A new idea may manifest as something "in the style of" and, only rarely, do I have to discard that idea completely because it turns out to be a copy of something I heard at the gig. I only have to discard it if it is irredeemable rubbish. The ideas have not been forthcoming, so I've not been writing much.

As always, there are conflicting items of news. I have a sense of optimism that the lockdown may begin to ease next month. As things stand it may be a further three months after that, before I can pick up where I left off a year ago. Of course, nothing can be set in stone, but there appears to be more optimism that we are on the mend. If, however, relaxing the lockdown rules also leads to increased cases of covid I really don't know how I'll deal with another lockdown. It may not go well. Of course, it helps that this week the sun is shining and I can power my devices, including this laptop, through my solar system. It is by no means warm, but I can wear shorts fairly comfortably outdoors. On the pessimistic side, I wonder if the weather is simply much nicer than it ought to be. It is March and I am wearing shorts. What will the temperature be like in high summer? We have had a lot of rain over the past few weeks and even more wind, but has the rain fed the aquifers sufficiently? So yes, it is wonderful to be contemplating the possibility of freedom of movement ...

Freedom of movement, there's a phrase. My next visit to France, whenever it happens, will be under very different rules and international relationships. I have no idea how the routines I developed for travelling to and fro will be affected by the fact that my movements are now subject to rules that haven't existed for the past forty years. Travelling to the USA has always felt more like travelling to a foreign place than travelling to France, but I fear that France may begin to feel more like a foreign country now. Whenever I mention a concern on a social networking site my trolls appear. One writes detailed responses that never seem quite to address what worries me and he usually admonishes me along the lines that I should have more "faith in my country", "depends whether you are a glass half-full or half-empty ..." kind of way. Yadda-yadda, yawn. Covid has complicated the whole picture with regard to leaving the European Union in an ill-tempered and discourteous way, but the figures seem to suggest that the effect of covid on people's livelihoods has been exacerbated by the negative aspects of Brexit.

The past weekend has brought to the headlines another important aspect of freedom of movement. I don't want to get into discussion on some of this, because I don't have a valid contribution to make. As a white male in my senior years my place is primarily to listen. I have heard female members of my family talk about some of their fears and experiences of being out and about on the street. I realise that some places feel very off-limits to them and the tales I have heard make me ashamed to be a man. The fact that I am constantly checking myself to ensure I don't add to the litany of acts exhibiting "toxic masculinity" is nothing compared to having to look over one's shoulder all the time and have to decide whether or not it is safe to walk this road or that, to challenge the cat-calls, the overt or soto voce insults, acts of intimidation, sexual or physical abuse apparently random and so casually committed, or ignore them. Until everyone feels safe going about their own business we do not have a free society. Being imprisoned behind the walls we have erected for our own safety is not acceptable.

This weekend we witnessed the police giving us a taste of a dystopia into which we are crashing at speed. It would appear that women holding a peaceful, socially distanced vigil were kettled and attacked by the police. The Home Secretary is pushing through legislation to curb our rights to express dissent. If the events of this past weekend are anything to go by little distinction in future may be made between holding or taking part in a vigil, a protest, a rally, a demonstration or a full scale riot. Under the proposed legislation it would appear that all these will be classified as acts of public disorder. These proposals to curb the freedom to express dissent are the most serious breaches on our liberty to assemble freely since the second world war.

So, Mr Kingfisher, what's going on in your world? I assume you are sprucing up your nest in preparation for this year's brood?

Here are some daffodils I photographed on the river bank recently. I hope you enjoy them.

Best wishes,

marsh

Letters To A Kingfisher - 8

Good afternoon dear kingfisher. 

Once again apologies for not writing for a while. The February weather has thrown all sorts at us. I'm sitting outside in the sun today in only a few layers. Last week this would have not been possible. There were days of snow and river was icing over with ice even on the inside of the boat some mornings, although the stove had stayed alight overnight. The week before was another reasonably balmy one for February. We never seem to know from week to week what to expect although, to be fair, I probably would if I bothered to consult a weather forecast more often. Sadly the stove fan (sometimes referred to as an eco-fan) has not worked this season. I thought I would have to buy another one, but in typical fashion I haven't got round to it though it seems mine could be repaired. Today, before writing this letter I followed the instructions on a YouTube video after purchasing something called "thermal paste". So far it hasn't worked ... oh well.

While I think about it, I'm going to add a link to a long-time friend's blog. He writes beautifully about his daily walks near his home in this third period of lockdown and he has a way with a camera too. His blog contains many stunning kingfisher photographs, which I am unlikely to be able to produce for these occasional letters. Maybe if I bought a camera ...

https://nickpenny.com/kingfisher-diary/kingfishers

To other matters, I have not picked up an instrument for several months and I have found writing and composing very difficult. Recording anything has been impossible. It feels so selfish and indulgent to admit that I have been feeling low when people have been dying from the effects of this wretched virus. The depressive funk is why I suspect I have found it difficult to make some music. However, for the past week I have been able to make a point of playing something pretty much every day. After not playing for about four months my fingers have been stiff and tender, but I am gradually toughening up. Surprisingly I can remember the lyrics and chords of most of my songs as well as the drum rhythms and harmonica parts, so I suppose things could be worse. 

At a single day's notice I was invited to travel twenty-five miles to and twenty-five miles from a hospital for the first of my covid vaccinations. I wasn't expecting to be summoned for another couple of months, but it appears the hospital got through its own list so quickly and efficiently that it was able to start relieving other nearby centres of their lists of patients. The jab took place in something now called "The Inspire Centre", although I don't know what sort of inspiration is likely to be forthcoming. This is a building in the grounds of the hospital and I have been there two or three times before, albeit many years ago. In those days it was a social club for the hospital staff and my band played a number of ceilidhs there. The room looked much the same, but was obviously set out very differently. The whole experience was surprisingly painless. Given a choice I suppose I would have opted for the AstraZeneca product, but no choice was offered. I have been jabbed with the Pfizer vaccine. If the covid sceptics were worried about Microsoft nanobots entering their systems I was rather hoping that a German jab would improve my ability to speak German. Sadly it hasn't, but the hospital staff, and presumably volunteers, were very efficient, jolly and kind. There were a lot a smiles. though I imagine that many of the paid staff must be almost exhausted through having to deal with so many very sick people, deaths and bereavements over the past year. I was given a paper listing possible side-effects of the vaccine. More than a week later none of these have been manifest. There wasn't even any discomfort at the injection site on my arm, so I've no real excuse to stop playing.

Given the improvement in the weather again this week, I am feeling more inclined to spend time outdoors. Who knows, maybe I'll even attempt a walk for some exercise ... mañana.

I did take a walk from the farm to the road a few days ago and clearly spring is in prospect. Snowdrops have been out for weeks and the daffodils are pushing through. Within weeks, the river banks through the village will be a carpet of daffodil yellow.

The struggle with the new laws on the waterway continues. I am pleased that my local MP has taken the trouble to pass my letters on to the navigation authority who have steadfastly refused to answer some of my more difficult questions, but at least he is communicating with me and is receiving a response from the authority. An update as to where we are might be due at some point.

A friend sent me a link to the Culture Matters website suggesting I might want to submit a song to something called the Bread and Roses Songwriting and Spoken Word Award 2021. I do have a couple of songs that would fit the remit, but competitions and awards ... seriously? They have never been my thing. I suppose if I do decide to submit anything, the songs might be heard by a few more people. I did have a nice surprise this week when another longstanding friend, Jane Clayton, selected me as one of her "featured artists" on her West Norfolk Radio broadcast. That meant that three songs from "Head Above Water" were played back-to-back four times this week. It's a simple thing, but it pleases me.

So back to reality. Another friend is having a 60th birthday celebration this evening. A party would be wonderful, but it is another Zoom meeting. The sun is beginning to sink towards the horizon and the wind is getting up. I think it may be time for a late lunch and I need to press my party frock for tonight.

Thank you once again, dear kingfisher, for continuing to brighten my days in every way possible.

Love and best wishes as always,

marsh

Of Safe Vigils and Seeing Off Incinerators

Yesterday morning seemed almost normal. I had to get up in time to be in town for 08.45 - I was going to take part in a demo. It has been a long time since I have been able to express my feelings in person about some injustice or other, but this was a real demo, albeit a rolling demo with bubbles and "social" distances and face masks. Yesterday was the first morning. There'll be another demo with six people tomorrow, three more next week. On some days there will be two or more groups around the town. Of course the masks made it seem like a very serious demo. I've been on some demonstrations where masks have been considered anti-social. It's funny how times change and that I find myself attending a demonstration/vigil where the wearing of masks is now seen as more responsible than criminal.

Of course, as with any demo, one wishes one wasn't forced to do it. Sometimes though, there just doesn't seem to be any choice. If I don't get involved why should I expect anyone else to?

I've been here before. Cory Wheelabrator, an American company wanted to build a mass-burn incinerator in King's Lynn some ten years ago. They managed to get Norfolk County Council to agree to guarantee £20 million in compensation if the plans fell through. That was £20,000,000 of the taxpayer's money extracted from the public for the provision of public services. The council vastly underestimated the strength of local opposition. To cut a long story short a concerted campaign lasting some years, multiple vigils and rallies and a public enquiry eventually saw Cory Wheelabrator leave without building their precious.   

Yesterday we were alerting people to MVV, a company from Germany this time, that wants to build a waste incinerator in Wisbech. Not just any waste incinerator, but a massive construction with a chimney that would tower some ninety-five metres above the capital of the Fens. This is a much larger proposal than the one for King's Lynn. To put this in perspective, if the chimney stood next to Ely Cathedral the cathedral would be dwarfed. For all sorts of reasons this is not an appropriate development for Wisbech. The toxic output would poison the town and surrounding countryside, much of which supplies fresh fruit and vegetables for the nation's larder from the most fertile soil in the country. The Wash, with what's left of a fishing industry, would also be in the path of prevailing winds and no longer be capable of supplying shellfish and delicious samphyr. The proposed incinerator site is close to a high school and primary school and there is not sufficient road infrastructure to cope. Summer already sees the busy A47 jammed into or out of Norfolk with holiday traffic and the mega-incinerator would see an additional 750 lorry movements every twenty-four hour day bringing in toxic waste to burn from all over East Anglia and the East Midlands. Were such a beast to be built it would demand to be fed 24/7.

Marshlander with banner, mask and new hat at the aptly named, Freedom Bridge.

What a socially distanced demo looks like

Further details can be found on the WisWIn (Wisbech Without Incineration) website

Yesterday's demo took place in freezing fog and it was COLD! There is clearly a lot of support in the town already for this campaign judging by the number of drivers who tooted their horns and waved as they were driving by. Of course there are still many people who don't know what the campaign is about, some who've never heard of it and some who don't understand why we should oppose the project. MVV have been clever. More recent government rules mean that projects above a certain size cannot be accepted or rejected by local councils or planning procedures. This proposal is on such a vast scale that it has to be decided on at central government level despite the fact that every local and county council and our MPs are in opposition to the plans. 

Of course one cannot be complacent. So many things have happened in recent years that many failed to foresee. As part of the King's Lynn campaign a decade ago, several musician and poet friends got together to contribute to a CD of songs which was sold to raise money towards the legal costs of the campaign. We raised a modest amount and even sold out the stock of CDs. I nearly missed the deadline for adding a contribution, but after a lot of thought I decided to use the form of a traditional song, "Who's The Fool Now?" I changed the content and lyrics as well as the melody. Under normal circumstances such changes would be sufficient to disguise any song completely and create something original. However the origin of my song, "Who's The Fool?" is very easily recognised by both the form of the song and the archaic language of the refrain. I looked for alternatives to the old words, but sometimes tried and tested is still best; besides Fie! is exactly the right comeback. The song takes the shape of an argument between two people. One, falling progressively deeper into his cups makes wilder and wilder boasts while the other responds with sarcasm refuting the veracity of every barmy claim.

In those days I had only attempted to record one other song. I hadn't yet established how or even whether I was going to be able to perform my songs. I knew I wanted to be a d-i-y operation and used my home recording studio to make music I could not possibly recreate live on my own. The monoband idea gradually developed over the next few years. We did go out into the street and serenade the public with our work. I sang "Who's The Fool?" a cappella. It was generally met with a mixture of indifference and irritation by Saturday shoppers in King's Lynn. I, on the other hand, was smugly content with the way the song turned out.

🎵 Listen to Who's The Fool? by Marshlander (2010) from the "Smoke On The Wash" CD 🎵

Cory said to his man, “Fie, man, fie!”

Cory said to his man, “Who’s the fool now?”

Cory said to his man, “Top up your pension while you can!

Twenty million in my hand!  Who’s the fool now?

Who’s the fool?  Who’s the fool now?”

I heard his man tell the truth.

Fie, man, fie!

I heard his man tell the truth.

Who’s the fool now?

I heard his man tell the truth and I grew a sparrow’s tooth!

You’ve drunk a skinful, man!  Who’s the fool now?

Who’s the fool?  Who’s the fool now?

West Norfolk folk believe the lies.  Fie …

And a baby never cries. You’ve drunk a skinful, man …

Sixty-five per-cent agree …

Sixty-five per-cent agree ComRes, so trustworthy …

I saw the mouse lead the pack …

I saw the mouse lead the pack squeaking orders from the back …

I breathed the air so sweet and clear …

I breathed the air so sweet and clear and saw a squirrel brewing beer …

Emissions too small to count …

Emissions too small to count do no harm in such amounts …

I saw the town all employed …

I saw the town all employed and asthmatics overjoyed …

I saw his man win the day …

I saw his man win the day and a tiger feast on hay …

Cory said to his man, “Fie, man, fie!”

Cory said to his man, “Who’s the fool now?”

Cory said to his man, “Top up your pension while you can!

Twenty million in my hand!  Who’s the fool now?

Who’s the fool?  Who’s the fool now?”

Music and lyrics by Marshlander

copyright dP2010 

There is one more song from "Smoke On The Wash" that I have found in the public domain. The John Preston Tribute Band (or rather half of them) recorded "No Incinerator" one evening in Filth And Fury recording studio. It's a jolly little number that allowed the inclusion of the whole street crew in the outdoor performances. I really like the opening line, how typically John Preston ... "I don't want to be a dioxymoron ..."

🎵 Listen to "No Incinerator" by The John Preston Tribute Band (2010) from the "Smoke On The Wash" CD 🎵

Of course, whatever happens next there is another conversation that needs to be had. We have some consensus on what we don't want. We don't want a mega incinerator polluting the area. At some point we are going to have to come to terms with deciding what we do want. We cannot continue to consume at the present rate and expect the inevitable problems to go away. We need a considered lead by us, the people, by elected members and by officers employed to devise and enact truly democratic and sustainable solutions. We need to be responsible for reducing the waste that is suffocating and poisoning the planet.

Letters To A Kingfisher - 7

 Dear King,

You've eluded me for such a long time, but here you are. 

You were sitting on my stern fender for ten full minutes before I took a chance to reach for my iPhone to take your photograph. I think the rain must have distracted you from seeing me as I slowly, so, so slowly, moved my hand ...

Thanks for letting me snap the photo though. You flew off shortly after, but came back a few minutes later. I've got to know the routine now - fender, tiller, roof and off.

I'm sorry it's not a brilliant picture. It does not do you justice. Maybe I should have cleaned the summer house windows. I've been thinking about saving up to buy a camera for a while. Then I wouldn't have to rely on my obsolete phone or huge tablet for taking photographs. I have two or three friends who take the most extraordinary wildlife photographs and I'll never match their standards, but I'd like to think I could do better. Maybe one day I shall.

Love and respect to you,

Marsh

Of Pasts and Passing On

The news reported the death of John Sessions recently. It was a bit of a shock because he was only two years older than I am. I know this because he was two years ahead of me in school. We attended the same secondary school in the Home Counties and I became aware of him fairly soon after arriving there. That in itself was unusual because, although it was far more likely that the only reason boys two years ahead made contact with the "new halos" - our navy school caps had a bright yellow ring around the head - would be to beat them up, John was not like that. Such a "welcome" had been my experience in the past. I rather hoped that a mass influx of boys into the new institution would provide some herd immunity.

John Marshall, as I came to recognise him, was not interested in establishing his place in the pecking order by physical interaction. He had no need. He had something of a penchant for climbing on to a table and putting on a show, usually imitating perfectly any teacher in the school. I thought he was brilliant and I was often one of a crowd of younger boys egging him on in these performances. He did not need a lot of persuasion. Occasionally, though, he scared the life out of me. 

I wasn't specially happy at school and some places were very dark indeed. The p.e. department was staffed by psychopaths, one of whom had no place being allowed anywhere near children. I avoided him at all costs, but one day he dragged me out of a rugby scrum by my hair screaming abuse at me and shaking me so hard I couldn't stand up. I must have done something to displease this lunatic, but I never did find out what. His verbal correction was a torrent of noise that carried no meaning. I lost clumps of hair for days after that incident and experienced the trauma of it for weeks.

The sunlit back corridor that led to the gymnasium had another dark space, the infamous Room 11. The classroom had windows facing north and, with its half-drawn blinds, was a very gloomy room indeed. Had it been situated in the basement it would have been the school's equivalent of Room 101 from George Orwell's 1984. Room 11 was the demesne of Bullet. No teacher in the school would ever earn legendary status if he had not been awarded a nickname known and used throughout the school that was passed on to successive cohorts of innocent pupils. Some teachers had nicknames used by one class or year group, but they were clearly of a lower order in the school pantheon.  Consequently, alongside Bullet, I was taught by Prang, Soupie, Solo, Peanuts, Bo, Dum (not Dum as in Dumb - this was Latin pronunciation for the Latin teacher), Jerry and others whose names I shall probably edit in if they come back to me from more than fifty years ago. Second division (usually less a reflection of their professional skills than a notoriety associated with particular quirks of character) teachers were known by contractions or extensions of their surnames or by their given names if we thought we knew them. Among these I can remember Alf, Chris, George, Josh, Wee Ado, Don, Jack, Jack, Gus. Ma and Pa were the affectionate names we used for a married couple who taught different subjects. Ma taught R.E and English and I liked her a lot. I'm not sure she liked me when, in my innocence, I regurgitated racist and exclusionist Mormon theology. One day an off-the-cuff remark from her sowed a seed that challenged me to examine the nature of conscience. That seed bore fruit many years later. I believe Pa went on to become the head of the school for a few years. However, whoever the teacher, John could mimic them all. I'm sure many were flattered by his attentions although it would not have been appropriate to show it.

There was no sign over the door to Room 11, but had there been it would probably have read, "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter". In contrast to the gloom of the room itself the corridor had windows at head height looking out south over a courtyard and in my memory the sun shone as perpetually into the corridor as Room 11 saw its natural light sucked out. The corridor mocked the impending forty minutes. Bullet demanded we sat in alphabetical order of our surnames in class. So conditioned were we it took me nearly a year to become the first boy in our year group to challenge the custom of referring to or addressing other boys only by their surnames. It took some boys much longer. In order to facilitate the most orderly entrance into his dungeon Bullet demanded we line up in the corridor in alphabetical order too. Once in the room the command would be issued, "Bags and baggage on the floor". It's funny how memories reappear if one gives the reminiscences a bit of a stir. I can hear Bullet intoning the command now. No one else spoke in that very measured way. There was a rumour he had a metal plate in his head from the war and his whole demeanour was of menace in its purist form. I could not imagine him having any friends on the staff or even that he knew any of the names of his colleagues. He was alone, fierce and sometimes single-handedly filled after-school detentions with boys who had contravened his rules for order in the classroom by dropping a pen, not having the right books, entering the room out of alphabetical order, coming in late or, worst of all, failing to cover their exercise books with brown paper or hand homework in on time. No excuse was acceptable. Absence on a day homework was set required the absentee to borrow someone's book and copy up the notes and complete the homework just the same. Notes were dictated verbatim or copied from the board. I had always found maps and atlases fascinating. Whenever I went anywhere I bought a map. I had boxes of maps at home.  Considering Bullet's subject was geography and teaching me should have been like barging through an open door Bullet did a fine job of nearly ruining that for me. Map outlines came from a rolling ink stamp that he printed into our geography books, one at a time, during the lesson, starting with the 'A's on the front bench all the way through to the 'W's and 'Y's at the back. In other classes such unproductive use of the time would have found boys whispering or chatting. No one whispered or chatted in Bullet's lesson. A smack on the side of the head from behind was just as likely as he loomed over each boy with ink pad and roller if he encountered anything of which he disapproved. It was the only lesson where no one spoke unless asked a question directly. In all my years in education on both sides of the desk I never encountered anyone else like Bullet. I learned how to plot contour lines to show the profile of an elevation (ask me about George's Island or Woofmonk Island sometime). I learned that the English pronunciation for Lyons, and Marseilles had to be Li-ons and Mar-sails unless we were prepared to pronounce Paris "Paree" and no one dared do that outside of Bo or Gus's French lessons.

One day, having Geog as the first lesson after morning break I headed to my place in the line outside Room 11. I was eating a Walnut Whip I'd bought in the break time tuck shop when I heard the nasal drawl of Bullet issuing a command. I hadn't seen him arrive and, as George Orwell colourfully described in a phrase that I came to understand could be a real thing, my bowels turned to water. In my panic I nearly choked attempting to swallow the marshmallow confection whole. I didn't fancy being put in the detention book for eating in the corridor. Then I realised it wasn't Bullet at all, but John bloody Marshall. My relief was a tangible thing that day.

The subject I probably enjoyed more than any other at school was English. I wanted to enjoy art too, which in the main I did, but I just wasn't very good at it. I achieved the difficult task of actually failing my art O'level, but English I managed to enjoy and had a bit of a crush on a couple of my English teachers. Since I first learned how, I have always loved to read and also to write. The only thing I had difficulty with in English was thinking. I really wanted to do well, but I found it difficult to remember things and I found the analysis difficult too. I think the teachers who made a good impression on me and for whom I actually wanted to do my best were some of my teachers of English. Chris was one of those and Don was another. Hearing Chaucer read aloud for the first time ever by Don was a revelation. I fell in love with the sound of the language. 

I addition to teaching Eng. and Eng. Lit. Don also produced the annual school play. One year he decided to mount a production of The Tempest. Several of my friends were keen actors, some of them auditioning successfully for parts in National Youth Theatre productions with a couple going on to act professionally. I'd done a bit, but I wasn't really comfortable on stage. I had grown up listening to my mother telling me stories of how she had been on stage in Liverpool and London as a child, before her illnesses and the war intervened though I've never really got to the bottom of how those gigs came about - although I think school productions played a part. I suppose I should have asked more questions, but she was always very keen to support if I ever showed an interest in any vaguely theatrical activity. I joined my friends in auditioning for The Tempest and was given the part of Sebastian, not a particularly nice character, but I don't think I really understood that at the time. During my adolescence I was prone to chest infections, bronchitis and asthma and, after spending several months learning and rehearsing the part I came down with bronchitis about ten days before the curtain was due to go up on the first of a three night run. School productions being often run on hope, understudies were in short supply. However, I was not overly concerned. By that time I knew the way these bouts of illness played out and I was sure I would be well enough and back at school for the show, probably even for the dress and technical rehearsals. However, Don was not so sure. He showed his concern by actually coming to our house to see me and talk to my mother a few days before the play opened. A teacher coming to the house in those days was very unusual. He wasn't prepared to take a chance on me so he said he would see if he could find an understudy. He found a volunteer who stayed up all Wednesday night before the show opened the following day and who learned the part in one sitting. His Sebastian went well enough so Don told him he could play the final night on Saturday too. All my months of work amounted to a single, probably lacklustre, rendition on the Friday. It felt so unfair and when I tried to argue my case Don said that it was perfectly fair because this understudy had taken the trouble to learn the part at very short notice. I wondered how learning a part overnight and avoiding going through the gruelling months of rehearsal made it fair. Don said I could watch the show without having to buy a ticket - big deal. To be fair John Marshall (yeah, him again - the  future John Sessions) was pretty good. There's a part in the play where Sebastian is called upon to laugh and John's laugh was definitely better than mine. He brought me new insight. I'd never have thought of rolling on my back to deliver that laugh. John was inspired and I hated him for it for a very long time. I never attempted to audition for a school play after that.

John disappeared from school shortly after. That may have been the time he moved to go to school in another town. I saw him - or thought it was him - once more under very unexpected circumstances in 1977. That was the year of my final teaching practice. The junior school in which I had been working was finishing the year by taking the class I'd been teaching to York for a week on the annual school trip for the children about to move on to secondary school. I had to get special permission from college to be one of the adults on the trip. The class teacher knew my interest in Early Music and dance and asked me if I would like to take four children to a performance of the York Mystery Plays which coincided with the visit that year. We talked about which children would be likely to get the most from the experience. I certainly was enjoying the experience and the responsibility, but was less entranced when I thought I recognised Lucifer ... or was it Satan. The voice was familiar and the laugh was unmistakable. I didn't get the chance to renew our acquaintance because I had to get the children back to the hostel and that was the last time I saw John in real life. It was also the first time I was aware he used a different name. It certainly wasn’t Marshall. but I don’t think it had yet become Sessions. It was only several years later that he emerged as the rightfully lauded writer and performer he became. I read recently some mention of his years of illness and problems with stage anxiety. I never saw that John Marshall. My condolences to his family and friends, of which I assume there are many.