Into the Woods

Adrian (referring to sex): I can't! It's disgusting!
Andrew: How can it be disgusting? I don't even have my clothes off.

Mary Steenbergen as Adrian and Woody Allen as Andrew in A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy (1982). This is one of those films I'd heard about for years, and seen bits from on television from time to time, and it was a delight to see it finally in its entirety. It's not the greatest Woody Allen film, but in its homage to Bergman and its upper New York State, hazy summer's day setting, it's a sweet and funny escape. The acting company is impressive: Tony Roberts (of course), Julie (my favourite stewardess) Hagerty, Mia Farrow and Jose Ferrer round it out and, all looking splendid in Santo Loquasto's Edwardian costumes. The photography is beautiful and made me long to be in the woods again. Between Mia Farrow's golden halo of hair and the dappled forest glades, there are unexpected moments of almost Pre-Raphaelite beauty.




This was followed up by a true classic.

Grumpy: Angel, ha! She's a female! And all females is poison! They're full of wicked wiles!
Bashful: What are wicked wiles?
Grumpy: I don't know, but I'm agin' 'em.

Pinto Colvig as the voice of Grumpy and Scotty Mattraw as Bashful in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937). It's sad that the actors behind the voices in animated movies in those days were kept under wraps. Now it's a major appeal behind the big films. The songs in Snow White are as sweet as the day I first heard them. The moment I always look for is when Snow White kisses the dove and it flies to Prince Charming to bestow the kiss. That coy, blushing bird is one of the sweetest, silliest things on film. Disney has released Snow White with newly painted borders on the sides of the picture to fill in the screen for wide-screen viewing. It's very well done and we enjoyed it on my dad's new BluRay disk.




So did Tibby, whose ears went flat during that forest scene, which gets to me too. It remains terrifying no matter how old you get!

Poem of the Day

I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life (Ten)

Love, love, love, says Percy.
And run as fast as you can
along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep.
Give up your body heat, your beating heart.
Then, trust.

by Mary Oliver from Red Bird

BPG Thought Bubble

Our troubles of too much borrowing, too much food and too much Christmas spending all seems rather foolish in light of Haiti and the destruction pretty much of an entire nation.

Mmmm... Shiny!

Strange how after giving up my usual batch of health supplements, I feel better than ever. I find I need a break from time to time, and my energy is fantastic right now that I'm off them (including Vitamin B).

Evidence: freshly polished brass. I'm on a new year's roll baby!

I'd Rather be Laying Down

As I've been planning a short getaway next week, I've had little trouble deciding between a short plane trip and a longer train journey. It's going to be the train, as - for an idler like me - to sit for four or five hours, gazing out of a window, watching clouds and day dreaming, is pure heaven, and something I rarely indulge in. Plus, you're more likely to meet the most interesting people, including quite possibly secret agents, when you're on a train.

But if I had felt indecisive, I think the recently updated carry-on policy for Canadian flight passengers would have made the decision pretty easy. I'm more frightened of the over-paid security policy analysts that came up with this. And it just serves to remind me of how very unglamorous plane travel has become, whereas the train still has, in some instances, a real allure.

This is part of what we are allowed to carry with us:



Does the presence of wool prove the innocent intentions of the bearer of knitting needles? Are terrorists smart enough to remind their compatriots: "Hey Bob! Don't forget the wool... and while you're waiting in the check-in line, knit a few rows, that'll fool them good and proper! Hey, and use that soft, pastel baby wool!"? And anyway, as any Bond fan knows, any operative worth the trouble can kill with their hair, or their thighs.

Speaking of not flying, did you see this news item?

(Associated Press) WASHINGTON - A mystery object from space is about to whizz close by Earth on Wednesday. It will not hit the planet, but scientists are stumped by what exactly it is.

Astronomers say it may be space junk or it could be a tiny asteroid, too small to cause damage even if it hit. It is 33 to 50 feet (10 to 15 metres) wide at most.

NASA says that on Wednesday at 7:47 a.m. EST, (1247 GMT) it will streak by, missing Earth by about 80,000 miles (128,750 kilometres).


I think it's aliens whizzing by in their souped-up weekend machines, going "Nyeahhhhhh losers!" to us here on earth.

Crazy world. I think Tibby has the right answer.

Long Ago and Far Away

My first experience of live theatre came at the age of five. Pretty lucky five-year-old: my parents and I attended Prokoviev's ballet of Cinderella, performed by the Royal Ballet at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, in London. It was choreographed by Sir Frederick Ashton, who also played one of the ugly sisters, with Robert Helpmann as the other. Antoinette Sibley was Cinderella, and her long time dance partner, Anthony Dowell, was her Prince Charming, one of the most renowned partnerships in the Royal Ballet's history. On arriving at the opera house, my father saw Dame Margot Fonteyn, who wasn't dancing, entering the stage door, which was very exciting!

So it was with great delight that I found that production on DVD. I bought it for my parents a couple of years ago and we watched it again recently. There is something particularly English about the choreography, which isn't the most thrilling, but it has an absolute charm. When a transformed Cinderella appears at the end of the first act, her carriage pulled by mice, it was heart stopping then, and it still is. Is it any wonder so many little girls go mad for ballet?

Apparently at intermission my parents rose to go and get a drink and beckoned me to follow them, at which point I burst into tears and refused to get out of my seat. I thought they were trying to trick me to leave, and I didn't want the magic to end. Not even the promise of an ice-cream budged me. I've been a fan ever since, and the tears still occasionally happen.

Last of the Christmas Ornaments

As I packed away the Christmas decorations this weekend I realized there was one little grouping of ornaments, particularly treasured, that I didn't feature on my blog.

When I was in Philadelphia a few years ago, we visited Christ Church, a most beautiful building which is mostly white inside, with plain glass in the sizeable windows. This is purposeful, so that the beauty of nature could be seen from inside. There is one large tree outside the main window, and - as a tree hugger - I can't think of a more beautiful and inspiring sight for the worshippers to behold. On the sunny day we were visiting it was quite breathtaking. In the delightful gift shop, I found a trio of small, beautifully made church choir mice, made in England, and a small china dove on a string. They came home with me, and each Christmas the mice sit under my small wired Christmas tree beside the dining-room table. The dove is suspended from the top.

Happy Birthday Mr. Simmons!

Rowwwwwrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

Girding my Loins...

... to bundle up and get outside. It's one of those brilliantly sunny but killingly cold Canadian winter days.

I started taking down the tree this morning while I watched Fritz Lang's Man Hunt (1941) on TCM. Walter Pidgeon (with his lovely American accent and his deep, well-modulated voice) is a big game-hunter and Englishman, in a battle of wits with evil George Sanders who (with his lovely English accent and deep, well-modulated voice) is a vile Nazi. Joan Bennett is very lovely to look at but has the worst English accent. Actually, on second thought, she doesn't. When Walter Pidgeon arrives back in England he is immediately witness to a procession of pearly kings and queens (because they're everywhere apparently, even at night, and - dangit - we need to know Walter is really in England), and one of them stops to speak to him and does the worst cockney accent ever. Worse than all the community theatre productions of My Fair Lady put together.

The cinematography is beautiful (by Arthur Miller, not the playwright), with one of the most stunning opening shots ever; the camera pans through a forest scene, and I found myself, fork halfway to mouth with portion of breakfast, frozen, watching it. Not an attractive view of me, but a truly powerful one on screen.

Well, this blog post will be the last of my attempts to procrastinate. I shall now bundle up like Nanook, and venture forth. If I'm not back for tea, send the huskies.

Okay, okay...

It's time to get a grip. Or rather it's time to loosen a grip on the Colston Bassett stilton, the baklavas the Armenians left on Christmas day, the Mary Macleod shortbread, the offerings from Soma, and then the Christmas feast the Armenians gave us last night. I think I'll be digesting till June... or tomorrow morning anyway. Then it's really time to tackle the one project I didn't complete last year (weight related, sigh). And to blog more regularly. I miss it. I miss you!

Happy Birthday Rupert!

66 years ago, during WWII, my grandmother made a teddy bear each for my father and my uncle. My father's Rupert is still with him today.




Ruper has lost his button eyes a couple of times, all of his fur, and some of his stitched nose. As you can see by some shaky stitching, his head almost completely came off once.

We undressed him Christmas Day for his new outfit, purchased in Chinatown by my mother. Mark fortified him with some Prosecco.

And here he is, in his chair, on my parents' mantel, before the portrait of Count Basie. Rupert in all his silken splendour. He certainly deserves it and I think he carries it off quite well.

Oh... and it's my dad's birthday too!

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's been so good to take some time off. I'm relaxing into a most delicious rejuvenation, with the occasional nap in between slowly performed tasks, long walks, and time for reflection.

My eyes have had a rest too, because, instead of reading, I'm listening to one of my favourite presents this year, the unabridged recording of Brideshead Revisited, narrated by Jeremy Irons. If you saw the magnificent series from the 1980s (I haven't been able to bring myself to see the movie version from a couple of years back), you'll remember Irons' voice over. It's that same languid tone he uses here, except he's performing all the characters and he does a really fine job. There are 10 CDs and the box cover features imagery from the recent movie - a bit of cross-over promotion.

Sitting in my study wingchair, with my eyes closed, the occasional sip of hot tea, and some pieces of Soma's irresistible chocolate shortbread, I'm in heaven. And feeling very grateful.

"Winter Poems"

... is the name of this wood engraving by Gerard Brender à Brandis, which hangs above my desk.



And as I sit at my desk, a little like the one in the picture, I, too, look out at snowy boughs. The first real snow of the season has fallen on downtown Toronto. I don't think it will settle long, as impressive as it looks right now.

It's certainly a night to be warm and cosy. And as I drink my tea I'm perusing a book of poems by Wallace Stevens. Here's an appropriate one for tonight.

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the jupiters shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Christmas in a few Pictures

The last of the shopping was done during lunch at the Distillery.




Where I picked up a gift for my mother, a tea towel by Emma Bridgewater. It was well received! Rowrrrrrrrr...




I finished rolling and wrapping beeswax candles (after a last-minute dash to the shops to find some more wick, dagnabit!)




I like traditions that can evolve and change. One that has been solid for a few years now is watching the masterful Alistair Sim in A Christmas Carol. (1951) on Christmas Eve.

"Can you forgive a pig-headed old fool with no eyes to see with and no ears to hear with all these years?"




It was different this year as I enjoyed it with a 19-pound turkey tabby on my chest.




Another tradition: buttered panettone for breakfast as we open presents. But we shifted from drinking prosecco... there had been a bit too much celebrating the afternoon and night before.

Presents opened, I roasted some chestnuts for the soup.

And - new this Christmas - made some rosemary bread, which scented the place well.

Christmas dinner was topped with my mother's incredible trifle, a much-loved, three-year-old tradition around here.

And today, a blustery walk to Cherry Beach to take in some much-needed oxygen, burn off some calories, and clear my head after some wonderful and busy days.

It's Just Past Midnight Here...

Merry Christmas everyone!

I hope you are warm, safe and loved tonight.

Merry Christmas Eve!

Three Moods of Inspector Tibblesworth

There's something interesting happening! Is it worth me moving?

Smoooooove T.

Love me.



I visited Tibby and his (and my) folks on Saturday to give him his Christmas manicure (I wasn't up to tackling the pedicure) and he was in fine form. I'm biased, but - seriously - what a good-looking cat!

Tree Ornament of the Day #18

A velvety, gold-topped jester's boot is today's tree ornament, purchased from one of the very fine Stratford Shakespeare Festival's shops during intermission several years ago. There are so many good memories of attending theatre in Stratford, and next season's line up is looking good. I have to get myself organized with tickets sooner this year.

In the meantime, how did it get to be the day before Christmas Eve? It's ridiculous how quickly it comes around, and it certainly gets here faster each year. I'm almost of the mind to want to celebrate it every other year. But maybe it's me who needs to slow down and look from side to side instead of steadily onward. Life is short... but wide. I drink to that tonight with a nip of Cardhu and a dark Lindor ball, or three.

Tree Ornament of the Day #17

Isn't she cute? About two inches tall, this little ballerina mouse was another purchase many moons ago at a peformance of the National Ballet of Canada. Here she seems to be dancing among the trees. I'd like to be among the trees right now... tramping through softly fallen snow on my way to my little cabane au Canada.

There are chesnuts tonight (prepping them for Christmas Day soup), but they are roasting in an oven... and the fireplace is on a dvd. But the music is good and I'm feeling grateful.

Happy Solstice and Tree Ornaments of the Day #14, 15 and 16

The parallel traditions around the time of the winter solstice fascinate me. The reversal of the shortening days for our ancestors called for celebrations and other gatherings to honour the ideas of birth and rebirth. These often involved dancing, singing, feasting and bonfires. These gatherings helped dispell the fears and sadness that marked the short days and long, cold nights. By slaughtering livestock, our ancestors wouldn't have to feed them through the winter, so there was plenty of meat to be eaten. And as the sun began to appear for longer each day, it was natural that a light-celebration was part of the solstice festivities. Is it any wonder then that so many religions and traditions have light as the centre of the rituals of this time of year, and that we gather together so enthusiastically?

Tonight I toasted the solstice with single malt scotch and some gingerbread, depicted here in solstice-worthy, quasi-pagan images of anatomically correct gingerbread people. Oh, there's a snowflake and a boot too.