Category Archives: Heart and Home

Sounds of power

I was once having lunch with a man that I had had a minor affair with. He was in London for a few days between postings in Iraq and Nigeria, and asked, as he always did about my personal life, and as always, I replied that I was single. He looked unperturbed and explained that women had much less need of a relationship because they had the emotional support of a network of female friends. Yes, I said wistfully, but men are good at carrying heavy things…

This rainy bank holiday has been a saga of carrying heavy things and spending ages up to my elbows in stereo wiring, and I am proud to report that my new CD/radio, speakers and record player are now blasting out sound and I DID IT MYSELF, waded straight into that masculine world of heavy things and wire. My old stereo was a Eurovision casualty, more proof that bad music kills. I had a dreadful stereo one year at university and unsurprisingly went into depression. Today I feel a sense of feminism I haven’t had since I was sixteen. It really is important to be able to do this stuff yourself.

And resulting from this afternoon’s wiring magic – has anyone listened to Primal Scream’s Screamadelica recently? I celebrated having a record player with my old double LP – the one with little messages from Bobby Gillespie scratched into the run off – and had forgotten how unbelievably good it sounds. I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I request ‘Don’t Fight It, Feel It’ to be played at my funeral, along with ‘Jump’ by Madonna and the penultimate song from the Air album that Annika and I were listening to in South Africa, she knows what I mean. Then the third movement from the Beethoven late quartet in A minor either as people are coming in or leaving. That’s all!

Why is this here?

When I was a little girl my grandfather and I used to spend some time contemplating the questions that haunt young children and old people – such as what would happen to all the new dead people when the sky reached capacity, and whether that cast the idea of heaven into doubt, and whether porridge was nice or nasty. We couldn’t really afford to spend too much time on all that stuff , because there were always rocks to climb, willow twigs to turn into whistles and potatoes to get from market for my granny. So after some contemplation my grandfather would take refuge in the incontradictable ‘Näin on marjat’ – that’s the way the berries are. And on we would go, hunting trolls, dreaming about having a boat, and wondering whether an open topped sausage sandwich was available from granny. These days I find things are more complicated, or there is more apparent need to have an opinion. So this blogspot is for the things that I have contemplated and can’t answer. If anyone can tell me how the berries really are, I would be very grateful.