Another Favourite TV show from the 1960´s was ``The Avengers``.Every week agents John Steed and Emma Peel fought evil and injustice across an idealised version of 1960`s Britain. The scripts were highly original, witty and often surreal, while the chemistry between the two main characters was electrifying. And , with her Judo skills, Lotus Elan and great fashion sense, Emma Peel was simply the coolest woman on TV. Highly recommended.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Iconic British TV
Another Favourite TV show from the 1960´s was ``The Avengers``.Every week agents John Steed and Emma Peel fought evil and injustice across an idealised version of 1960`s Britain. The scripts were highly original, witty and often surreal, while the chemistry between the two main characters was electrifying. And , with her Judo skills, Lotus Elan and great fashion sense, Emma Peel was simply the coolest woman on TV. Highly recommended.
Monday, September 16, 2019
``Spinlight`` - A Novel
This started as a bedtime story for my two daughters. They have always tried to persuade me to write it down, so, finally, here it is.
Spinlight
by john carter
Chapter One
It was 1 o'olock, lunchtime, and Simon Spinlight, whose stomach was rumbling, pushed open the gate to the blue painted terraced house on Duckfield Road London SW18. It was a warm spring day in 2020 and the sun was beating down. He surveyed the scene. Overflowing rubbish bins. Check. Not unusual at the moment, mostly due to a local dustman's strike ...flaking paint work on the walls of the old house ( they had used the wrong kind of paint on the brickwork ) The colorful stained glass windows of the front door glowed from the inner light as his eyes absent mindedly scanned upwards. That's strange, he thought, his kitchen window located on the top floor of the house was ajar and a large black and white cat was perched precariously on the window sill. This was alarming, particularly because said feline, Simon's flatmate, who he had somewhat unimaginatively named Cat, was perched worryingly right next to a very large pot of geraniums. I'm coming up ! shouted Simon as the cat looked down quizzically, pondering how to respond to the yelling human looking up at him.
The not so silent sound of Simon shouting had alerted the downstairs neighbour and a silver haired lady in a blue cardigan peered cautiously through her pale blue net curtains. She stared as the man, now with his back to the house, moved , a film in reverse, up the path of the tiny urban front garden . Simon, the backwards walker, now had his eyes on a car parked on the other side of the road. It was a mult-coloured but predominantly red Citroen ' Deux Chevaux ', Simon's favourite car, and very rare in these parts....
Crash ! The pot of geraniums hurtled downwards and hit the paved floor of the front yard, narrowing missing Simon's head. Shards of pottery flew everywhere as Simon shrieked something about not doing that again and no lunch if you do..Panicking slightly, he fumbled for his front door key... He had always intended to put a label on it for quick access at times like these, but had never got round to it. Hence the fumbling.
Then he noticed something quite unusual. On the doorstep was a large cardboard box with his name on it in large slightly child- like felt pen lettering . There was no address, and taking hold of the box he discovered it to be very heavy. Caught now between two situations of equal magnetism he inserted his key , dragged the box across the threshold and stepped onto the colourful tiled floor of the entrance hall. Shutting the door with his foot the thud was accompanied by another crash as a second slightly smaller pot succumbed to the laws of gravity and the encouragement of a furry tabby paw. He raced up the carpeted stairs, unlocked the second door, and raced again up a second flight onto the top floor landing which was the centre of his sprawling south london abode of the last 5 years..
The cat stared at Simon through the kitchen window and gave him a welcoming meow..then sent a third pot flying off the cill. Another distant crash. That was good. No crash and an ouch would have meant it had landed on someone , which it hadn't. Landing on someone would mean trouble resulting no doubt in a large bill and Simon had enough of those at the moment..
He dragged the box across the floor and heaved it onto the kitchen table. Cat , who had squeezed through the gap between ajar window and its frame , now perched on the inner cill, and meowed again. It was a hungry meow and Simon's stomach rumbled in agreement. Tossing a slice of bread into the toaster and pulling off the top of a tin of cat food , Simon turned his attention to the mysterious box.
But as he did so there was a faint and rather timid knock on the door of the kitchen . A grey haired head peered round the door. Mrs Timmins. She had a habit of letting herself in unexpectedly...
“Simon..” she said “ what are you doing home at this time ?”
Simon was always polite to Mrs T, who was a good friend in times of need. A widower once married to the local vicar, she was a good sort, old fashioned and personable . He looked up from studying the box on the old pine table..
“Oh ..I’ve just been sacked..mrs T”
“I’m sorry to hear that Simon..what will you do ?”
Simon worked , or rather had been working, in an architects office in the centre of town. Sir Phillip Gibard was the boss. A nice guy, except that morning, when he had summoned Simon to his office and told him they had no more for him to do. Simon had been the office tea maker, eraser of unwanted lines, and general low paid dogsbody..Except now they no longer needed a dog.
“ I’ll just have to get my cv out there..” But his cv might look a little under-impressive, he thought. The title ‘general dogsbody’ didn’t look too good on paper. The cat meowed in agreement, reading his thoughts.. it was now lying, legs stretched out, on top of the newly arrived box on the table. She purred and promptly fell asleep.
“Tea , Mrs T ?” enquired Simon moving over to the kitchen sink and grabbing two, as yet unwashed, mugs .
“It’s a mugs game, architecture” he said , rinsing two of them , each of which sported the emblems of, respectively, his favourite football team and tv show..
Mrs T sat down at Simon’s table. They had a curious friendship. Often while climbing the stairs Simon would be invited in for a pre lunch glass of sherry or two and they would chat. She was a good listener, and at the moment Simon needed her ear..
“Oh well, it was a boring job anyway”
“ Hmm Simon, but you need the money ..what will you do now ? “
Simon pondered this question. Mrs T had a habit of getting to the point. And tea in hand, she had done it again. Some money would be a good idea.
“ No idea “ replied Simon, as Cat scratched lazily at the top of the box whose now loosened cardboard flap posed a particularly fascinating object of study.
“ I suppose I’ll have to find someone else who needs a dogsbody..”
Chapter Two
Mr Fawcett, or Fred to his still surviving mates, meandered slowly along the high street. This was his normal mode of movement, trundling here, moseying there, making the most of his days in retirement , basically wandering around the town. He looked in shop windows, counted the cracks in the pavement and occasionally nodded to a passerby who nodded back, despite only having the vaguest recollection who Fred actually was. Forgotten is what he was, or so he thought. The newsagents. Hasn’t changed in 40 years...just the headlines were different. Wars here, political scandals there. Oh , well they haven’t changed either. One local headline did catch his eye though..” part of our heritage to be demolished to make way for new shopping centre..”. Hmm must investigate, he thought as his feet followed their random route down the sunny side of the street. It was almost empty, and there was not a soul about as Fred found himself walking up to the door of the old library. ........
.........................
On a shelf behind the long window next to the neglected entrance lay a few moth-eaten old titles surrounded by dust and a few literary minded spiders. He peered into the glass. Dickens Great Epectations. Tarzan. A copy of an indistinguishable Enid Blyton novel. Squinting at the still visible cover illustration, he muttered to himself. Not Noddy then. Shame, he thought. He liked Noddy...
With images of a guy with big ears sitting in the passenger seat of a little red car in his head, Fred turned his attention to a notice pinned to the door. Of the library, not the car. That had the license plate, NOD 1.
“Save our library" it read. “Stop the demolition..we dont need a new shopping centre !”
Indeed thought Fred. The town had always had small shops, a grocer’s here, a butchers there. Even a candlestick maker somewhere , he was sure. He had an intense dislike of shopping centres with their indentikit interiors, glassy sliding doors and general atmosphere of concentrated commercialism. And shops which were always waiting for a delivery of the thing he was looking for.
......................
Chapter Three
Simon took a gulp of tea and pulled the kitchen window to. As he did so he looked down at where the multi coloured car had been. Had been, because it was no longer there. That’s funny he thought, he hadn’t heard it start and drive off. Electric deux chevaux ? Was there even such a thing? He turned back to Mrs T.
Saturday, September 14, 2019
Post the Fourth
In which musical cables are untangled and plugged in...
It´s Saturday morning and the girls are away at Choir practise with Auntie Choir leader. The cats are missing in action again , but will no doubt return to the sound of a rattling food dish. My last post involved the plugging in of various cables labelled ´relationships´ into various boxes in my cerebral store-room. But there is still a mess of tangled leads on my floor requiring unpicking, unravelling and straightening out. There is music playing in the background as I write, something old, something new , something borrowed, and something blue. A lot of blue , if truth be told. Music has always formed the backdrop to my life´s story , sometimes the same music seen at different times from different perspectives. If I ask myself the question ´´which pieces have been constant companions?`` I get some interesting answers.
The earliest memory I have of an ``ear worm´´ is curiously something by Doris Day. My mother was also called Doris, but disliked the name, insisting on ´Dee´ instead. Anyway, back to the singing Doris. My brother Michael had an old record player when I was a child, and certain LPs were often to be found spinning on his turntable. Hank Marvin´s Shadows were one such, as were extracts from various musicals. One much re-played musical album was ``Calamity Jane``, and this particular song sticks in my head, to this day. Or Day...
As well as the record player, we also had a big old valve operated radio set on which , at night time, you could pick up all sorts of exotic radio stations from far away places. The bakelite front panel was covered with exciting sounding names such as Luxembourg, Budapest, Moscow and Lisbon, in addition to the regular ´home and light` services. These were the days before the BBC simply numbered their stations 1, 2 and 3: something I have always thought rather un-imaginative.
Certain songs remain in my mind because I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard them. In my head, these particular cables are marked important´in red lettering. I am not always entirely sure why this should be , but it is. And the memory usually conjures up the image of this old radio of ours, which sat in the corner of the living room , with its French doors leading out into the garden at the back of the house. The next song is one such memory and also involved the garden, as I can recall that the doors were open to a warm August day when I first heard this drifting out of the speakers. the summery chords and slightly odd middle bit fascinated the young me.
Fast forwarding a little, under my pillow at night was hidden a tiny transistor radio, a Christmas present when I was 12 or 13 years old. The radio , though possessed of a rather tinny sound, was my link with the wonderful world of Radio Luxembourg...And a song which really stays with me to this day from that period is this one. My first encounter with the Starman himself.
As usual whilst rummaging in my brain cupboard , untangling cables often involves jumping time tracks and suddenly finding things which relate to my past and my present simultaneously. The next piece is one such example. I´ve always been a fan of Thomas Dolby, since the days of ``The Golden Age of Wireless``.Most know him as a kind of ``mad scientist`` type and one-hit wonder, from the 1980´s . But what interest me about him is his great song writing ability. He also occasionally comes up with a lyric which has considerable depth... he seems to be in a constant battle between how he is ´´seen´´ ( pseudo-intellectual musical boffin) and how he actually ´´is´´ ( very talented, sensitive and poetic ). The song ´Oceania´ is quite recent and is a lovely tune about finally discovering where home really is… I think it is beautiful, in its Dolby-esque way. The lady, singing in the last part of the song is Eddie Reader.
And you are free...You´re soaring on a thermal wind....You´re learning how to shed your skin ...You made it home to Oceania....
The concept of home is a big question for me, especially in these days of Post Brexit Englishness
( and other ´leave´ related events on my timeline...) . Trust and Home , if truth be told.
Just the other day, I was talking to an english student of mine who had an amazing story to tell. She had met and fallen in love with a guy some 20 years ago, but nothing had happened. In the meantime she had been married, then divorced, and had moved home 21 times ! Two months ago, a knock came on her door and a man stood there saying he was interested in the car she had for sale parked outside her house. He lived quite a long way away, in Waldviertel.
After a while she realised it was the He, from 20 years before.
They are now together, and she told me she will soon make her 22nd move. She explained to me that she had felt inexplicably homesick for ages before this fateful meeting. Homesick for a place which she could not give a name. So, I gave her a link to this song. It´s by the Kings of Convenience, a pair who are a kind of Scandinavian take on Simon and Garfunkle… Its called ``Homesick``. It´s a lovely song.
And it´s for all of us.
``A song for Someone
who needs Somewhere
to long for...``
Between 1992 and 1999 I happened to meet two very public female figures, one in a formal setting , the other by accident. The first was HRH The Queen , who I was introduced to at the opening of a National Trust house I had been working on as an architect. The anticipation was highly stressful, but when she finally appeared she was so charming and relaxed that all fears vanished. The second meeting was equally extraordinary. One evening I was enjoying a drink in a favourite East London music venue called the Spitz when , walking down a staircase and turning round , I found myself literally face-to-face with the wonderful Icelandic singer, Bjork. I had been a fan for years, and this was such a surprise. I introduced myself and said that I loved her work and she shook my hand and we chatted for a bit. She has such an ´emotional aura´ around her it is quite incredible. Such a little person , with so much power. And I´ll let you guess which of these two ladies made the biggest and most lasting impression on me...
This is Bjork, with my favourite song of hers. It´s about the light and dark in everyone, and it´s a truly great piece of work.
``I go through all this, before you wake up, so I can feel happier, safe up there with you...``
I will never forget that moment, on that staircase, with Mrs Icelandic Thunder herself, Bjork Gudmundsdottir, as long as I live.
Here´s another more recent tune, by the group Imagine Dragons. I don't go for the music too much in this case. But the lyric though. The words are truly inspiring. It´s all about dreaming big and moving forward. The things and ´normal people´ that have held us back being drowned out in the end by the crash of thunder, preceded by the lightening of real potential, ultimately fully realised. We should all be striving to be out of sync with normality as prescribed by others , by authority. To be strange. To be ourselves as we truly, and wonderfully, are.
It´s Saturday morning and the girls are away at Choir practise with Auntie Choir leader. The cats are missing in action again , but will no doubt return to the sound of a rattling food dish. My last post involved the plugging in of various cables labelled ´relationships´ into various boxes in my cerebral store-room. But there is still a mess of tangled leads on my floor requiring unpicking, unravelling and straightening out. There is music playing in the background as I write, something old, something new , something borrowed, and something blue. A lot of blue , if truth be told. Music has always formed the backdrop to my life´s story , sometimes the same music seen at different times from different perspectives. If I ask myself the question ´´which pieces have been constant companions?`` I get some interesting answers.
The earliest memory I have of an ``ear worm´´ is curiously something by Doris Day. My mother was also called Doris, but disliked the name, insisting on ´Dee´ instead. Anyway, back to the singing Doris. My brother Michael had an old record player when I was a child, and certain LPs were often to be found spinning on his turntable. Hank Marvin´s Shadows were one such, as were extracts from various musicals. One much re-played musical album was ``Calamity Jane``, and this particular song sticks in my head, to this day. Or Day...
As well as the record player, we also had a big old valve operated radio set on which , at night time, you could pick up all sorts of exotic radio stations from far away places. The bakelite front panel was covered with exciting sounding names such as Luxembourg, Budapest, Moscow and Lisbon, in addition to the regular ´home and light` services. These were the days before the BBC simply numbered their stations 1, 2 and 3: something I have always thought rather un-imaginative.
Certain songs remain in my mind because I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard them. In my head, these particular cables are marked important´in red lettering. I am not always entirely sure why this should be , but it is. And the memory usually conjures up the image of this old radio of ours, which sat in the corner of the living room , with its French doors leading out into the garden at the back of the house. The next song is one such memory and also involved the garden, as I can recall that the doors were open to a warm August day when I first heard this drifting out of the speakers. the summery chords and slightly odd middle bit fascinated the young me.
Fast forwarding a little, under my pillow at night was hidden a tiny transistor radio, a Christmas present when I was 12 or 13 years old. The radio , though possessed of a rather tinny sound, was my link with the wonderful world of Radio Luxembourg...And a song which really stays with me to this day from that period is this one. My first encounter with the Starman himself.
As usual whilst rummaging in my brain cupboard , untangling cables often involves jumping time tracks and suddenly finding things which relate to my past and my present simultaneously. The next piece is one such example. I´ve always been a fan of Thomas Dolby, since the days of ``The Golden Age of Wireless``.Most know him as a kind of ``mad scientist`` type and one-hit wonder, from the 1980´s . But what interest me about him is his great song writing ability. He also occasionally comes up with a lyric which has considerable depth... he seems to be in a constant battle between how he is ´´seen´´ ( pseudo-intellectual musical boffin) and how he actually ´´is´´ ( very talented, sensitive and poetic ). The song ´Oceania´ is quite recent and is a lovely tune about finally discovering where home really is… I think it is beautiful, in its Dolby-esque way. The lady, singing in the last part of the song is Eddie Reader.
And you are free...You´re soaring on a thermal wind....You´re learning how to shed your skin ...You made it home to Oceania....
The concept of home is a big question for me, especially in these days of Post Brexit Englishness
( and other ´leave´ related events on my timeline...) . Trust and Home , if truth be told.
Just the other day, I was talking to an english student of mine who had an amazing story to tell. She had met and fallen in love with a guy some 20 years ago, but nothing had happened. In the meantime she had been married, then divorced, and had moved home 21 times ! Two months ago, a knock came on her door and a man stood there saying he was interested in the car she had for sale parked outside her house. He lived quite a long way away, in Waldviertel.
After a while she realised it was the He, from 20 years before.
They are now together, and she told me she will soon make her 22nd move. She explained to me that she had felt inexplicably homesick for ages before this fateful meeting. Homesick for a place which she could not give a name. So, I gave her a link to this song. It´s by the Kings of Convenience, a pair who are a kind of Scandinavian take on Simon and Garfunkle… Its called ``Homesick``. It´s a lovely song.
And it´s for all of us.
``A song for Someone
who needs Somewhere
to long for...``
Between 1992 and 1999 I happened to meet two very public female figures, one in a formal setting , the other by accident. The first was HRH The Queen , who I was introduced to at the opening of a National Trust house I had been working on as an architect. The anticipation was highly stressful, but when she finally appeared she was so charming and relaxed that all fears vanished. The second meeting was equally extraordinary. One evening I was enjoying a drink in a favourite East London music venue called the Spitz when , walking down a staircase and turning round , I found myself literally face-to-face with the wonderful Icelandic singer, Bjork. I had been a fan for years, and this was such a surprise. I introduced myself and said that I loved her work and she shook my hand and we chatted for a bit. She has such an ´emotional aura´ around her it is quite incredible. Such a little person , with so much power. And I´ll let you guess which of these two ladies made the biggest and most lasting impression on me...
This is Bjork, with my favourite song of hers. It´s about the light and dark in everyone, and it´s a truly great piece of work.
``I go through all this, before you wake up, so I can feel happier, safe up there with you...``
I will never forget that moment, on that staircase, with Mrs Icelandic Thunder herself, Bjork Gudmundsdottir, as long as I live.
Here´s another more recent tune, by the group Imagine Dragons. I don't go for the music too much in this case. But the lyric though. The words are truly inspiring. It´s all about dreaming big and moving forward. The things and ´normal people´ that have held us back being drowned out in the end by the crash of thunder, preceded by the lightening of real potential, ultimately fully realised. We should all be striving to be out of sync with normality as prescribed by others , by authority. To be strange. To be ourselves as we truly, and wonderfully, are.
Friday, September 6, 2019
Post the Third
In which we consider cardboard boxes, many Johns, a biscuit tin, first love, and some more history ...
It´s morning, and I have a song in my head, as ever at this time of the day. It´s ``Yellow is the Colour`` by Donovan, for some reason, which I don´t really understand. Some loose cabling again , I think, the sound from the past making a connection with the present. Or even the presence.
When I was young, I really appreciated the humble cardboard box. Not so much interest in the thing inside, but the box was really useful ! It could be transformed into all sorts of things. Space ships, houses, cars, games. All sorts. They didn´t look that great , but in my mind´s eye they were perfect. My youngest daughter has the same habit of making stuff from the ´usually discarded´. My flat - known to us three as ``Little London`` - is often strewn with carboard debris, the product of one of her ´´making´´ sessions. As a result I now have a splendid cardboard radio , a sweet dispenser ( which actually works !) , several games based on books she has read, and a lot of left over bits and pieces. And a cable stirs. ``Bits and Pieces`` was a song from the 1960`s by the Dave Clarke Five , if I remember correctly . It was the soundtrack of my young self and it still reverberates around inside my head as I survey the mess on my floor. And cables stir, and plug themselves in...
After the convent, my new life at secondary school could be a little confusing not least because all my friends seemed to be called ´John´. It was such a problem that we needed nicknames : so there was me (Carty), Jumbo, Biscuit ( what a name to be saddled with !) and the unforgettable ``Haddle``. Well, it made sense at the time. This was , to use a modern term, my ``crew`` on the good ship adolescence. And our preoccupations echoed the development of those years. First it was football. Wonderful Saturdays playing three-a-side football in Jumbo´s gigantic garden. He was a twin and they were both the sons of a vicar and his wife who lived in a beautiful vicarage in a nearby Yorkshire village. The day would finish up in their kitchen eating bacon and chips around a battered table with his mother chatting away to us. It was all seemed very bohemian, and my first taste of a lifestyle which was quite different to my own parents. John number four´s older brother was something of an artist, and a lasting impression was made on young me.
There was one friend who wasn't a John however. And this was Steve ( a knight ) who became my best friend in later years. He was a musician and a natural gifted artist who could produce amazing characatures at the drop of a hat. Later on , in the 6th form , we were to form a band called ´Buffoon´ who were probably the worst best band to come out of our little town. We had big ideas, but not a great deal of talent or equipment. I had a fuzz box for my guitar built by my friend Mr. Biscuit. It will come as no surprise that the electronics were housed inside an old biscuit tin.
Around this time, I went through quite a transformation . Long of hair and short on common sense, I replaced the bookish exam passing me with an updated version who was something of a ``1950´s mindset`` parent´s nightmare. My mother had said to me , mid o-level exam studies, ``Why don't you have a girlfriend ?`` … Taking her at her word , I set about acquiring one. Well, that's not quite true. The Geanie whom I met, acquired me. We were very close, and it lasted three years. In the summer holidays she would travel to the USA to visit a relative and we would spend expensive ages on the phone to each other. Finally, I went off to university and then spent a lot of time hitch-hiking up and down various motorways to visit her. But, as is often the case at this time of life, our relationship got stretched to breaking point and eventually snapped completely. We didn´t talk again for 25 years.
But back to the story. At the age of 18, I went off to university to study Architecture. I was by nature a musician and an artist I guess, but times being what they were and influencers doing their best to influence, architecture seemed a more practical route to actually being able to make some money from my talents. I also toyed with the idea of reading English Literature, but in the end opted for the ``mother of the arts``.
My Genie having vanished from the page, in my final year during this period there was a second fateful meeting. At a student party one night a girl smiled at me ( or at least that's how it seemed ) and I asked her to dance. She looked to me a bit like Kate Bush. She accepted my invitation and … to cut a very long story short... we spent the following 20 years together, moving down south to London and making our life there. She was a clothes designer and we were the classic child-free yuppie couple. She is now an artist. After we went our separate ways in 1999, she married and now has grown-up step children. She hails from Yorkshire, but loves London and still lives there .
My life as an architect in London often involved me pushing myself to the limit of what I could endure. The creative side is of course a joy , but the other side, the money, the business , the conflicts resulted in me feeling like I was being squashed into a shape which simply was not me. So, at the end of our biggest and most fraught project to date , with my private life in a mess, I first left my clothes designer and our flat in central London, set up on my own, met an Austrian lady , fell in love, decided I wanted to have a family, travelled to and fell in love with Austria, quit my London job and moved here. A lot of experiences in a very short space of time, although the thought of children had been mulling around in my head for a decades (my clothes designer partner had been completely opposed to this idea).
And the result of all this ? A new career path, new people, a new attitude to risk, two lovely daughters, the opportunity to be a full time nappy-changing dad, and a lot of wonderful memories. People often write about changing tracks in life, but few seem to actually do it. I did . I re-booted every aspect of my life, and in doing so , found myself. In May 2001, I put everything I had in my car and drove across countries to Austria , where I have been ever since.
Looking at it with a calm head , my life could be seen as a number of jigsaw puzzles with different images on the box´s covers. The first a painting of a young couple, endearingly clueless, the second an image of urban partnership, comfort, stability and material success, the third, a ship sets off on a voyage of discovery with family and personal growth on the chart. But along came the inevitable storm and a parting of the ways, my austrian wife having boarded her new vessel accompanied by an equally new captain.
And the forth puzzle… who knows ? I have a new piece of original music - let´s call it a soundtrack - in my head as I write. And the guitar sits on its stand, in the corner of the room.. Driving to work yesterday I was thinking of this piece of music when I stopped the car and took this photo...
Its now September , and I´m growing older. And as I stand at the prow of my ship, I am keen to get moving , to progress and enter new uncharted territory.
The church bells ring out the hour and, sitting at my keyboard, my mind sets sail.
It´s morning, and I have a song in my head, as ever at this time of the day. It´s ``Yellow is the Colour`` by Donovan, for some reason, which I don´t really understand. Some loose cabling again , I think, the sound from the past making a connection with the present. Or even the presence.
When I was young, I really appreciated the humble cardboard box. Not so much interest in the thing inside, but the box was really useful ! It could be transformed into all sorts of things. Space ships, houses, cars, games. All sorts. They didn´t look that great , but in my mind´s eye they were perfect. My youngest daughter has the same habit of making stuff from the ´usually discarded´. My flat - known to us three as ``Little London`` - is often strewn with carboard debris, the product of one of her ´´making´´ sessions. As a result I now have a splendid cardboard radio , a sweet dispenser ( which actually works !) , several games based on books she has read, and a lot of left over bits and pieces. And a cable stirs. ``Bits and Pieces`` was a song from the 1960`s by the Dave Clarke Five , if I remember correctly . It was the soundtrack of my young self and it still reverberates around inside my head as I survey the mess on my floor. And cables stir, and plug themselves in...
After the convent, my new life at secondary school could be a little confusing not least because all my friends seemed to be called ´John´. It was such a problem that we needed nicknames : so there was me (Carty), Jumbo, Biscuit ( what a name to be saddled with !) and the unforgettable ``Haddle``. Well, it made sense at the time. This was , to use a modern term, my ``crew`` on the good ship adolescence. And our preoccupations echoed the development of those years. First it was football. Wonderful Saturdays playing three-a-side football in Jumbo´s gigantic garden. He was a twin and they were both the sons of a vicar and his wife who lived in a beautiful vicarage in a nearby Yorkshire village. The day would finish up in their kitchen eating bacon and chips around a battered table with his mother chatting away to us. It was all seemed very bohemian, and my first taste of a lifestyle which was quite different to my own parents. John number four´s older brother was something of an artist, and a lasting impression was made on young me.
There was one friend who wasn't a John however. And this was Steve ( a knight ) who became my best friend in later years. He was a musician and a natural gifted artist who could produce amazing characatures at the drop of a hat. Later on , in the 6th form , we were to form a band called ´Buffoon´ who were probably the worst best band to come out of our little town. We had big ideas, but not a great deal of talent or equipment. I had a fuzz box for my guitar built by my friend Mr. Biscuit. It will come as no surprise that the electronics were housed inside an old biscuit tin.
Around this time, I went through quite a transformation . Long of hair and short on common sense, I replaced the bookish exam passing me with an updated version who was something of a ``1950´s mindset`` parent´s nightmare. My mother had said to me , mid o-level exam studies, ``Why don't you have a girlfriend ?`` … Taking her at her word , I set about acquiring one. Well, that's not quite true. The Geanie whom I met, acquired me. We were very close, and it lasted three years. In the summer holidays she would travel to the USA to visit a relative and we would spend expensive ages on the phone to each other. Finally, I went off to university and then spent a lot of time hitch-hiking up and down various motorways to visit her. But, as is often the case at this time of life, our relationship got stretched to breaking point and eventually snapped completely. We didn´t talk again for 25 years.
But back to the story. At the age of 18, I went off to university to study Architecture. I was by nature a musician and an artist I guess, but times being what they were and influencers doing their best to influence, architecture seemed a more practical route to actually being able to make some money from my talents. I also toyed with the idea of reading English Literature, but in the end opted for the ``mother of the arts``.
My Genie having vanished from the page, in my final year during this period there was a second fateful meeting. At a student party one night a girl smiled at me ( or at least that's how it seemed ) and I asked her to dance. She looked to me a bit like Kate Bush. She accepted my invitation and … to cut a very long story short... we spent the following 20 years together, moving down south to London and making our life there. She was a clothes designer and we were the classic child-free yuppie couple. She is now an artist. After we went our separate ways in 1999, she married and now has grown-up step children. She hails from Yorkshire, but loves London and still lives there .
My life as an architect in London often involved me pushing myself to the limit of what I could endure. The creative side is of course a joy , but the other side, the money, the business , the conflicts resulted in me feeling like I was being squashed into a shape which simply was not me. So, at the end of our biggest and most fraught project to date , with my private life in a mess, I first left my clothes designer and our flat in central London, set up on my own, met an Austrian lady , fell in love, decided I wanted to have a family, travelled to and fell in love with Austria, quit my London job and moved here. A lot of experiences in a very short space of time, although the thought of children had been mulling around in my head for a decades (my clothes designer partner had been completely opposed to this idea).
And the result of all this ? A new career path, new people, a new attitude to risk, two lovely daughters, the opportunity to be a full time nappy-changing dad, and a lot of wonderful memories. People often write about changing tracks in life, but few seem to actually do it. I did . I re-booted every aspect of my life, and in doing so , found myself. In May 2001, I put everything I had in my car and drove across countries to Austria , where I have been ever since.
Looking at it with a calm head , my life could be seen as a number of jigsaw puzzles with different images on the box´s covers. The first a painting of a young couple, endearingly clueless, the second an image of urban partnership, comfort, stability and material success, the third, a ship sets off on a voyage of discovery with family and personal growth on the chart. But along came the inevitable storm and a parting of the ways, my austrian wife having boarded her new vessel accompanied by an equally new captain.
And the forth puzzle… who knows ? I have a new piece of original music - let´s call it a soundtrack - in my head as I write. And the guitar sits on its stand, in the corner of the room.. Driving to work yesterday I was thinking of this piece of music when I stopped the car and took this photo...
Its now September , and I´m growing older. And as I stand at the prow of my ship, I am keen to get moving , to progress and enter new uncharted territory.
The church bells ring out the hour and, sitting at my keyboard, my mind sets sail.
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