O'Ryan's Belt

That's four pubs down, three to go. We lost one in the last credit crunch in the early nineties, and three in the past six months. We have also lost in the past six months: two freesheets, an estate agent, a shop selling nursery goods, a shop selling dresses sizes 16+, a shop selling sports gear, and our independent bookshop. This last was an amazing place in its heyday - they would order anything for you, often going to a great deal of trouble to track it down, with most things being available the next day. And we had poetry readings. It was tiny, and there were only about 3 stools available, so it was très intime. The owner had some kind of direct line to OUP in the good old days when they published poetry. So we had visits from Anne Stevenson, Michael Donaghy, Peter Porter, Stephen Romer, Katherine Porteous (who had only just had her first collection out) and, anomalously, Kevin Crossley-Holland.

The reading I remember best - it must have been at least 15 years ago now - was Michael Donaghy's. It was the first time I'd heard him, and he was witty and wild. Anyone who's ever heard him will know how privileged we were. He is the measure of performance.

And after many draughts of white wine from a plastic cup, he took out his tin whistle. That is what it should be like - conviviality, poetry and music.

Beheaded

I return to the village after a few days' absence to find another pub boarded up. I say "boarded up" but like the other pub in the village that went dry overnight, this one has perforated metal sheets nailed to window- and door-frame. Everything bears the signs of hasty departure: a pile of beer kegs in the yard, picnic tables stacked at the far end of the carpark. Hefty concrete blocks dumped inside the security fencing deter any ramraider or passing caravans. They boast the legend "BLOCK AID". Does anyone in this business have a gram of compassion?

It's one of the village's signature buildings: half-timbered with a jetty storey at head-bashing height. In fact, one corner has been bashed by something more substantial than a head, and has remained unrepaired since the tenant before last, along with various scabs of plaster, which have fallen off over the years. The Queen's Head sign looks rather better for her veil of green lichen.

So who is the queen? Anne Boleyn? Lady Jane Grey? Or Mary I? I waste time trying to find out. An entry in Wikipedia asserts (citation needed) that all pubs in the village are owned and run by drug dealers. I wouldn't know, I never go to village pubs.

Update
Of course, if I'd bothered to look up, I'd have seen that whoever secured the pub with its grilles and fencing had also taken a Kärcher to the sign and jetted off the accumulation of moss to reveal the necklace and the wobbly legend Lady Jane Grey.

Update 2 And on the other side of the sign is Mary I. The sign fixed to the gable end is of yet another queen. OH says it should be "Queens' Head" and there ensues an unseemly battle about grammar. I win, but the pub is still shut.

Baffleboard

A present from my sister, acquired in Bordeaux market. This is her photograph. She understands me very well.

Made in China of course. Just look at the size of that car! (Click image to enlarge.) I imagine the manufacturer had overstocks as he had so few orders from the catalogue. Alas, no instructions were included, but I'm just being greedy.