little.red.boat.

Monday, December 31, 2001

Call me a pooper (party), but I don't see that there's much, list-wise that can be done with 2001.

I've been thinking about it, and while other numbers lend themselves greatly to it -
'99 things to do in '99!',
'50 things you should do by the time you're 50!',
''7 swearwords you really shouldn't say in frront of a 7-year-old!'
- 2001 doesn't seem to be leaping out at me in that way. I mean, I'm certainly not sitting here and writing my top 2001 things in 2001, nostalgia or no bloody nostalgia.

Still, in the interests of sharing, I'm willing to give it a try.
Here we are, then.

01 thing I did in '01!

1. I saw Disney's 'Lady and the Tramp' for the first time ever. I thought it was rubbish.

Thank you.
more next year.
one more, probably. I'll see if I can find the Little mermaid somewhere, so I can hate that in time for next year's list.

The New Year's nearly here. Happy that.

Monday, December 31, 2001 |

So the story goes...

Two tourists are walking round Iona on a cold winter's day. Just next to the relig Oran, the graveyard of the kings, (and everybody else) they stand by the wall and look bemused, they've walked around, they've walked around again, and yet they cannot find what they want - the gravestones of Macbeth and Duncan.

"Excuse me," they turn to a wizened old man by the gate and say, "I don't suppose you could tell us where Macbeth and Duncan are buried could you?"

"Aye, sure," says the old man. "Macbeth's in the lump on the left there" pointing, "and Duncan's in the one on the right."

"That's great! Thanks!" they say, and snap many happy pictures of a large mound of earth in a graveyard in the western isles, knowing now it is the final resting place of macbeth.

Several years later they bring their family back to see the place, and finding the same old man manning the gate, they encourage one of their younger relatives to go and ask him the same question, knowing him to be a sage old man who will impress the young person.

The young person comes back with the answer - Duncan, left. Macbeth, right.

Confused they go and ask the man, saying that they asked two years ago and were given the opposite answer.

"Aye, well, you would." he says, slowly. "They were, then. Now, they're not."

They look confused. They are confused. They state their confusion.

"Aye, well, you have to understand" he says "there's not much to do here in the winter. So, most years, we dig them up and switch them round."

apocryphal story, maybe, but my points were these.

1. There's not much to do here in the winter.
   
   
2. Rural legend that story may be, people still tell people where macbeth and duncan are in all sincerity. It's like a trradition. No-one will admit that they don't know. I heard someone telling a tourist just the other day.
   
3. I've also heard some using the swopping around line. With a straight face. It's been done many times to my knowledge. And sometimes they believe you.
   
   
4. Not sure what to do with my new years eve. Considering getting the spades out.
   
   
   

Monday, December 31, 2001 |

I want to be a polar bear

I think I've probably said this here before, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had.
In fact, I probably shouldn't watch nature documentaries, because it makes the feeling stronger.
But every time I see one, all I can think is;

'i want to be a polar bear'

And not because I think they're cute, either...

i want to roam the ice and scare everything shitless.

i want to swim a hundred miles with out tiring or rest.

i want to pound through ice with my two front paws.

i want to hang out by airholes and scar the skin of whales six times my size.

i want to find baby seals and rip them apart with my teeth.

Not in a violent way, you understand.

Just in a "please don't fuck with me, sweetheart, I'm a fucking polar bear." way.

I sometimes feel that I lack that.

Although some, I'm sure, would disagree.

I want to be a polar bear.

Claws and teeth and pounding and all.



(And maybe also when they're being 'cute'.
Sometimes I want to be that too.)

Monday, December 31, 2001 |

Sunday, December 30, 2001

You know when I said that the pub was open once a week through the winter?
On a thursday?
Between 9 and 11?

I was lying.
Well, wrong.

I was all excited about it and after all that, I was lying. (wrong)

Saturdays two. Sorry, too. Saturdays too. Well, also, two saturdays. Two saturdays too.

Last saturday and this saturday. And it was lovely. I think the Pub on Iona being open two saturdays in a row is the best thing in the world. Ever. And it's not just because I was there drinking in it.

Although it's mainly because I was there drinking in it that I think that.

For example, you weren't there drinking in it, and you probably don't think that the fact that it's open twice a week every now and again is the best thing in the world. ever. You proabaly think something more mundane is. Like sliced bread. Or keyhole surgery. Or marriage. Or chewing gum. You may think that, but you're wrong.

The pub being open two nights a week every now and again on iona is in fact the best thing in the world. Ever.

I know. I was there.


I now know where I'm staying for some of next month. Which is nice.

And I'm expanding my social circle. Which is incredible, after a year of knowing too few (very lovely) people too well.

And something else good that i've forgotten but will post in the morning when i remember,

And the pub was open. which was great.

I'm going to bed now.

I'll not get up for a while in the morning.

Bed.
Which is the best place in the world. Ever.

Sunday, December 30, 2001 |

Saturday, December 29, 2001

Last night, or more likely this morning, I had a dream that I was sitting around a table with the same bunch of people that I've been here the last week with, and then later, in the same dream, we were sitting around the fire.

And we were talking about the same thing, over and over and over again.
And it was about me, all about me and something I should know.

And the conversation revolved around it, turned on it, spiralled into the subject and out again. Over and over and over.
People shouted about it, argued it, whispered it into my ear and drew me aside to reassure me on it.
The same thing. The same thing that I should know. Over and Over and over, until I cried out - and woke up crying out - ;

"I Know!"

At which point of course, I didn't.

Damn it. It was something good too. Not that I believe in that kind of thing.
But just in case.
Can anyone remember for me?
I don't think it works like that.
Shame.

Saturday, December 29, 2001 |

Friday, December 28, 2001

Power-cuts and blizzards and gales.
Oh My!

Friday, December 28, 2001 |

Oh no, do pardon me, that wasn’t a hangover at all.

That was the most vicious, biting, rough 24-hour stomach bug in the world.
Ever.

One moment I thought I was suffering the long-term effects of old-lady drinking, two hours later I’m yak-ing like the world would end if I didn’t.

It was a long, horrible night.
Not only for me, throwing up every twenty minutes or so, and other vile things I can’t and won’t describe; but for the four people living very close by me, who had to put up with not only loud sick noises, but running on heavy floorboards, locking and unlocking the bathroom door, my lady-macbeth-esque face washing every time – as if that would actually help – and the bedroom door with the loudest squeak in the world. Ever.

The sound-track to the night ran something like;

Squeak (quiet jolt as anna wakes up)
Thump.

Nyieeeeeeee. Nyieeeeeeeeeah. Slam.
Paddapaddapaddapaddapadda

Nyi - whap (bathroom door hits wall) - nyiie – slam – CaChunk.

“Coff. Plew. Myrrh. Fotou. Mheeerr.”

(anna feels sorry for herself) “eow. whimper. meep.”

Whoooosh. Splash. Splash. “meep.”

Ca-chunk - Nyiie – Nyi.

pad. pad. pad. pad. pad.

Nyieeeeeeeeeee. Nyieeeeeeeeah. Slam.

Thunk. anna hits the bed again. Until twenty miutes later, when it’s

Squeak!
Thump.
Nyiiiiii…

Etc. all night. Throwing up for 8 hours solid. Joy.

And now everything’s fine. I’m fine.
The lights are flickering on and off, but that’s not my fault, there are gales.

Friday, December 28, 2001 |

And I got a new walkman in the post today.
With batteries.
And a glitter ball. And a torch.
My own private winter disco. You rock my world, Galligan. Quite literally.
Ta.

Friday, December 28, 2001 |

Thursday, December 27, 2001

boxing day
So, altogether now, what’s the true meaning of Christmas?
Old lady Drinks. And plenty of them.

You will drink.
You must. The little baby jesus demands that you pound the sherry. Do it.
Finish off that second vat of mulled wine.
Or he will cry.

Those around us who broke up the day-long drinking session with tactics such as eating food or worshipping god, are fine. They have no hangover.
The rest of us are hung-over, bordering on death.
We have been smited. Or is it smitten? Or smote?
Whatever it is, my head hurts.

I feel sick.

Thursday, December 27, 2001 |

Tuesday, December 25, 2001

So this will be christmas then...

The stress is over, all decorations are in place, tweaked and twisted and tuned, and at midnight, some hours ago now, hundreds of shiny stars and brown paper angels fell from the roof of a twelfth century abbey, and managed not to have anyones eye out or burst aflame.

So I'm good. It's all good. Now chistmas can begin.

happy christmas

be very happy.

Tuesday, December 25, 2001 |

Actually, my life has been nicer than simply an overload of spangliness and angels of varying media and quality. There are now two more people in the world that I like. And I like them a lot.

Wandered onto the island two days ago two random americans. A she and a he. They hung out, chilled out, stayed out and grossed me out and any other americanisms for most of two days and left again this afternoon, leaving little 'random american' shaped holes, and sign that says love.

In felt.

Tuesday, December 25, 2001 |

i'm sorry, I've left people tormented...

Aparently where this search-engine-fool was going wrong was that it was a woman playing snooker with a pint of guiness on her head.

So what do you call a woman playing snooker with a pint of guiness balanced on her head?
Beer-trix potter.

It isn't funny, but thank you, johnny, for supplying me with the answer anyway.
It was driving me slightly mad.
Now I remember why I went out with you.
kidding.

In other news, 'Christmas? My Arse.'
That's all I have to say.
My Christmas so far in three words;
Overload.
Spangly.
Angels.

Tuesday, December 25, 2001 |

Friday, December 21, 2001

In other news, friend in italy sent me adored bizzare sweet, and gorgeous dull man returned to island.

So daniella sent me a pack of Pocket Coffee (tm) today. The rectangular choclolate with coffee inside. Not coffee syrup. Not coffee cream. Coffee. Strong, cold, espresso Coffee.

You bite in, and it explodes, all over the inside of your mouth. Concentrated, cold coffee. I ate two of them in a row and my hands were shaking.

The best thing about them is not eating them, although they are damned good, but giving them to other people to try, an watching their faces contort as the cold, bitter coffee explodes in their mouths.

Does that sound sadistic? Apologies.

What do you call a man playing snooker with a pint of guinness balanced on his head?

No, really?
because no fucker here knows…

Friday, December 21, 2001 |

Thursday, December 20, 2001

Most interesting search engine referral today;

what do you call someone playing snooker with a pint of guinness balanced on their head?

I don't know, what do you call someone playing snooker with a pint of guinness balanced on their head? Apart from mentally unbalanced. Or stupid.

If anyone knows, can you tell me? It's driving me nuts.

That's a good joke.
A man walks into a doctor's office with a steering whell sticking out of his trouser fly.
"what in God's name is that?" says the doctor...
"I don't know." says the man "but it's driving me nuts."

another one.

A man walks into a doctor's office wearing a pair of cellophane pants.
"Well," says the doctor, "I can clearly see you're nuts."

Actually, that one works better spoken. Damn. Sorry.

Anyway, What do you call a man playing snooker with a pint of guinness balanced on his head?


(apart from 'wet and smelly'.)

Thursday, December 20, 2001 |

My first day back in my studio, with the radio on loud, and boxes bursting with art materials to unpack.

I thought about tidying, and tidied, a little, and thought about angels, and 3D angels, and made some of those and other things.

And I turned on the wax.

Anyone who knows me, knows my dread fear of candles after a year or so of doing nothing but.

In a year, I believe, I have facilitated the creation of 957 candles, approx.

Not made them myself, just talked other people through making them. And they’re very, very easy. So you might imagine how this would get dull. So I branched out. Into batik. I love batik. Which is again, hot wax, but much more interesting. However, I found that describing it 15,000 times kind of took the edge off the whole ‘interesting’ thing, and batik became as dull as candles. By the time I’d finished the season in November.

But today, oh, today, I was just cleaning away, when I sniffed, and realised that I loved the smell that was in the air. Hot wax. I didn’t realise, but I’d missed it much. I hurried over to the batik pot, took the lid off, my head over, and breathed deep the evaporating wax.

Probably not the best idea, health wise, I realise, not now I write it down, but it felt good at the time.

It gave me a nice warm feeling inside. That’ll be the congealing wax, probably.

Thursday, December 20, 2001 |

Wednesday, December 19, 2001

my conversation, strapped into my seat, first thing yesterday morning.

The lady next to me flexed her fingers and breathed deeply. She sighed. She sighed again.

'You'll have to excuse me,' she said, 'but I'm a very nervous flyer'

'Oh, that's fine - will you be okay?' I said, even managing to sound worried.

'Yes, I think so, I'm just always thinking an engine is going to fall off or something.'

'Oh!' I said, reassuring chuckle in voice '.I'm sure that wouldn't happen.'

'Why not?' She swung round and stared at me, 'It did that time I went to Greece!'

What to do here? Ask? And risk having scary scardy-lady revisiting trauma in the next seat? I don't think so. Ignore it.
Best way.

'Oh, well, then, that's, that's' think of something Anna, something. 'great! It means you're pre-disastered! Once something big like that happens to you in a little way, it can never happen again in a big way! You're pre-disastered. It could surely never happen again.'

That pre-disaster theory. Works a treat. Every time.

'I'm sure it could. Bad things are Always happening to me. Always.'

Even I was starting to get nervous now.

'Really? Well, not me. I'll have you know, I'm an exceptionally lucky person. And you're sitting next to me. So you'll be fine. We'll both be fine.'

'Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, my name is Brian, and on behalf of my crew, I'd like to welcome to flight 77, we're just securing the 'plane for take-off. When we do take off, we'll be heading up to Glasgow, in a pretty straight line. We'll actually be flying a great deal lower today than usual'

A squeak from the seat next to me.

'.on instruction from air-traffic control. Whether that's because it's exceptionally busy in the air, or short-staffing in the air-traffic-zone, we're not sure. It's not unusual'

That doesn't help, Brian. But Thanks.

It took another ten minutes of reassuring chatter to get to the point of calm we'd been at before the pointless pilot, Brainless Brian butted in the first time, and then, wouldn't you know it, after the doors are closed and the chocks away, just as we're heading toward the runway.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.'

Bugger off, Brian.

'You may have noticed that we're taxi-ing very quietly.'

No, we hadn't. But it's fine. Let's say no more about it.

'This is only because the approach to runway is breaking up rather, and we're going slowly, so as to avoid getting any bits of tarmac in the engine. You'll be glad to know, we'll be on our way proper in a few minutes or so.

What was this guy thinking? Is this normal? Does this happen on all planes?

The woman next to me was gripping the armrests so hard her elbows turned white. She looked fit to explode. I'm extremely surprised she didn't get out and walk. I think some part of her did. She was pale and vacant for the rest of the trip.

Which was fine, by the way.

If the gravel-filled engine did fall off, I didn't notice.
And after all, it didn't have far to fall.

Wednesday, December 19, 2001 |

My walkman is getting worse, should that be possible.

Somewhere in the archives there's an incredibly long rambling post on 'my walkman, complete rubbish, but yet I love it still...'

Yesterday afternoon on the train though, was testing my patience. Play it one way, it chews the tape, play it auto-reverse, you can only hear it in one ear...

For the first hour alone the only entertainment to be had out of it at all was pressing fast-forward and watching it vibrate across the table...

And that would be not much entertainment at all.

Not after the first fifteen times.

Wednesday, December 19, 2001 |

Monday, December 17, 2001

Did I mention that while I was in Italy I went to a spirit channeller?
Not sure if that's the correct term. Some one who channels spririts, not like a barman.
Someone who speaks to ghosts.

She was a medium, I suppose.
Well, small to medium, anyway. About 5 foot 4, eight and a half stone, I'd reckon.

But that's not the point right now.

I went to a lady who speaks to spirits. And they speak back to her. They say "drink me!". Or I'd guess that's what they say to her.
That's what they say to me, anyway.
especially Gin.

I'm going to call them ghosts from now on.

She speaks to ghosts. And they speak back to her. And suprisingly enough, they don't just say "Hello! I'm a product of an unstablisingly over-emotional mind or/and a ridiculously over-active imagination! How are you?"
which is what I would expect them to be saying. But in Italian. They tell her things about the future. And about anyone else's future that happens to be lying around at the time. Like mine, for example.

And they told me about the present. Or rather, they told her, and she told my friend, and my friend translated it and told me. They told me I was somewhat cynical about the whole business.
Which could have been because they have an incredible knack for reading souls, or could be because I was sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at the crazy lady and wishing I was somewhere else - a bath full of bees, for example - with a look on my face that said 'I'm nodding and smiling, but inside I think you're insane! Hello? Crazy Lady?'

They told me that my future involves being around a lot of children in a french-speaking country. Probably teaching. I'm assuming they were skipping over the large chunk of my future that was taken up by learning French.
And the bit that included me suddenly wanting to be a teacher.

But then again, being a cynical wee cow about the whole thing, I'm now thinking that teaching is the one thing I will never do. It's not a bad idea, but if I did it, would I only be doing it because she said I was going to? Or did she say I was going to because that is what I'm going to do, whether I like it or not? But I hate that. I hate that because I don't know if I'm only thinking of that as something I could do because the crazy lady said it was so.

I'm a bit lost now.

Or whether I'm thinking about it and would have been anyway whether she said it or not. And, besides which, all of this is entirely theoretical, because I don't speak French. And wasn't even thinking about learning French.
Although now I am. Or am I?

Now I'm confused again.

So This stuff, interpreted then spoken, then interpreted again, and translated, then spoken again, went on and on and on.
Apparently I've a few problems with a blocked fourth chakra, but I would imagine a couple of paracetamol, or perhaps laxatives, should at least start to help with that...

And my best friend used to be my mother, in a previous life, and my mother used to be my sister and we all lived together in South Africa during some war in which, Oh, I can't remember, but it was all very complex and symbollic, and all of that.

I know I sound a little cynical with this stuff. Because I am. But there is stuff I believe in. Just not this.

And the man in my future, don't get me started.

Tall, dark and fertile.

That's all I'm saying.


Just in case, like.

Monday, December 17, 2001 |

So, here's the plan.
First thing tomorrow morning, we drive to the airport, mid-morning,
a plane to glasgow, then lunchtime;
a train up to Oban,
four-o-clock ferry to Mull,
bus over mull, and should be in fionnphort by 6.15ish for the
ferry over to Iona. I'm so excited.

All day I've been walking around Harpenden, and back again to the house where my packing lies mid-pack,
because I can't stay still and I can't concentrate, and I can't sit down and everything on television is terrible and I just want to go.

I've just been counting, and this month I've slept in nine beds. All of them alone, I'd like to point out.
But nine, all the same.

Monday, December 17, 2001 |

Last night I dreamt of burglars, television sets, being unable to write with biro, and boxes and boxes of beef ravioli sachets.

What that all means, I don't care to imagine.

euw.

Monday, December 17, 2001 |

things that I have learnt this weekend

1. I like smoked salmon.
2. I don't like French rock music.
3. When you turn your back, luggage breeds.
4. If you don't bother to e-mail anyone, no-one e-mails you.
5. Of all the stupid souvenirs to bring back from a holiday in Italy, undoubtably the most stupid is a packet of Breadsticks. Or rather, a packet of crumbs.
6. Clowns aren't funny.

Monday, December 17, 2001 |

Sunday, December 16, 2001

Back to the island in two days time, and I'm ready. I'm ready for horizons and the sound of the ocean, pelting rain and wind that takes you off your feet. I've been having a lovely time, but I'm ready for my bed. And after a month and a half, I'm going to have it again.

Sunday, December 16, 2001 |

Friday, December 14, 2001

So yesterday was mostly taken up with the Tate Modern, which was gorgeous as always, and at least less infuriating than the last time I was there.

The last time I was there, The Tate seemed to be trying out a new scheme of assigning tour guides to punters, in order to enhance their Modern Art viewing pleasure. This non-advertised, un-bidden and seemingly compulsory scheme, meant that I was followed round and given a running commentary by the 'Stupid' family of Luton, who seemed intent on pressing the opinion that 'a five-year-old could do that!' No matter what the room, the artist, the media, or the scale of the piece. Every now and again, the statement would be backed up by the justification 'ooh, that's just rubbish!' or ' I wouldn't pay five pence for that!'

No matter how fast I moved from room to room, Mr and Mrs Stupid followed close behind, when I skipped two floors and went round the rooms backward, they soon caught on, and Mr Stupid's voice would ring out...
'Is that a toilet! Good! I need a piss! Ha ha! Ooh, look at that! It's rubbish! My five-year-old could do that!'

I went to the cafe, in the hope that I'd lose them and they might just go away, and sure enough, one sip into my coffee I heard...
'Look love! It's modern art! I call it 'Expensive sandwich surrounded by sugar'! I could sell that for a million pounds! Ha ha!'

I realised at this or some other point, that since I was completely unable to lose them, it must follow therefore, that I was With them. They had come to the Tate, obviously not to enjoy the art, but to spend some quality time with me. I found this very touching, although it didn't stop me from wanting to maim them.

What confused me the most, and I'm pretty confused generally, so this was a feat, was Mr stupid's belief that five-year-olds, or maybe just five-year-olds that he spawned, have the ability to do simply Anything. Anything at all. It's very touching, and I hope that his children benefit from the great faith he had in them at this age. But sometimes it was a little hard to believe.

Saying 'My five-year-old could do that!' in front of a Jackson Pollock is one thing. I agree that there may be some reasoning in that, and we won't even go into the whole 'capability for abstract thought' thing, but yes, A five year old could splash paint onto a canvas. So could a meercat, that's not the point.

Saying ' That's rubbish! My five-year-old could do that! in front of a 18-foot Iron Sculpture is another thing entirely.
No, sir, no they could not. Not even with the right welding apparatus. If you would like to let your child try, I'm betting he probably won't make it to six.

And if you're allowing your child to play with 18-foot pieces of iron, screen-printing equipment, wood carving tools, sewing machines, florescent light bulbs, chemicals, glues and class A drugs, then that, I believe, is your choice.

If you are allowing these tools to be part of your child's creative development, and that child is creating great works of modern art with them, then hoorah to that. Your Five year old could Actually do that? Great!
In that case, I would suggest that you simply enjoy your tiny bundle of genius quietly, and don't boast about it in a loud voice all the way around the Tate modern.

Thankyou.

Friday, December 14, 2001 |

Wednesday, December 12, 2001

the thing at the natural history museum that wasn't very much fun

I spent a happy day wandering around museums and pressing buttons and learning little bits about a whole bunch of things, until I got bored and wandered off in search of more buttons to press.

Among the least pleasurable of the button pushing fun was the one called "predator alert! -Warnings in the wild!", or something, which would have been more helpfully titled "How about a high-pitched monkey screaming at you,hey?", because it fair scared the knickers off me, and anyone else within twenty yards of the monkey-screaming-box.

However the least fun thing among the less-fun-button-things, and don't get me wrong, a lot of them were very fun indeed,was the 'how much heavier is this large mammal' machine. A machine that weighed you, then made you pick a large mammal, and then said
'You have selected a 'Polar bear'!
You weigh '(cough) kilos'!
A 'polar bear' weighs 'a bunch more kilos'!
The 'polar bear' weighs '5 times more than you!'.

And then sits back contentedly, pleased with its days work.

I watched other people try it out for a while, to check it didn't suddenly say
'you have selected a yak!
You weigh the same as a yak!
You're enormous!
And you've got bad hair!'

Which it didn't. So I tried it, and ladies and gentlemen, I weigh one quarter of a musk ox.

Is this supposed to be fun?

There were also two carers pushing round very old people in wheelcharis saying continually "No, Fred, It's DEAD. It's not moving because it's dead. It's very dead. It's stuffed, Fred, they don't move if they're stuffed. No, Fred, That one's dead too."

I stuck with them the whole way round. And everything was dead. Apart from Fred. I think. He did stop asking after a while...

Wednesday, December 12, 2001 |

Monday, December 10, 2001

On a bookstand ona station concourse, there was a book on how to learn english. It was pretty much the only book I thought I had a vague chance of understanding.

Well, little bits of it anyway.

The idea seemed to be that the easiest way to grasp English grammar was the serious study of the Titles of Beatles songs, which was interesting to begin with.

But in the glossary of useful phrases was by far my favorite bit.

first the phrase "excuse me, where is the nearest underground station?"


fair enough, but followed with, "Why is it so far away?"

I can't see that that question is going to meet with any reasonable answer. Blank looks, yes. Mumbled swearing, yes. A punch in the face, unlikely, but not unfeasable. But logical and reasoned answer? I don't think so.

Monday, December 10, 2001 |

Well, I think I've seen enough churches to last me a few years. Quite enough churches, yes, thank you very much.

Pretty churches, yes, but enough. Thank you.

And mosaics. Pretty mosaics, very old mosaics, but enough. Thank you.

I've been in Italy. In Ravenna, and Venice, and Bologna. They were all very beautiful. And simply packed with churches. Old, pretty churches with lots and lots of lots of pictures made up out of little squares. Lots and lots and lots of churches. Lots. Churches.

The most beautiful thing I saw was not a mosaic or fresco or any of that very beautiful old stuff.

There is a church, in the middle of Ravenna, San Francesco I think. San something. That's not the point. The point is the crypt. There weren't many mosaics at all in this church, it had been bombed during the second world war, or something, so the roof and the upper part of the walls were relatively new. And under the high altar there was the crypt. There were still mosaics on the floor of the crypt. Under the plain roof, and under the ornate high altar, and under two metres of water, there were still mosaics on the floor of the crypt.

Water is under Ravenna, and as time goes on water seeps into everything, and all the old buildings sink, because they're heavy, so the crypt was two metres under water.

So you went down a little staircase, put 100 lira into a little slot, and the light came on for 30 seconds. So that you could see the mosaics. Big whoop. Squares.

But it wasn't just squares. At some point, someone had thought they'd brighten the place up, and as the light came on, and my eyes adjusted, the most stunning thing about the place appeared. The crypt was full of goldfish. Swimming, very happily, as goldfish will.

Under the plain roof, under the ornate altar, under the water, above the mosaics, beautiful goldfish. It were gorgeous.

Monday, December 10, 2001 |

Sunday, December 02, 2001

Message from Anna's Sister, Meg:

Anna has gone to Ravenna in Italy, for a week - she's back on Saturday (or at least, I think she is. Certainly that's when I'm expecting her to roll up at my flat, anyway) and suggests that in her posting absence you check out the archives (on the right), which you may find mildly diverting.

Incidentally, these are her words, not mine. My words would be "...which you may find so funny you'll spit tea all over your monitor while giggling" but then, I'm biased.

Sunday, December 02, 2001 |