Hamster Comtinued

Oh bloody hell !! I put the hamster out with the bins, I mean, you can’t keep a festering hamster in your house forever and I couldn’t be bothered to bury it. Then this afternoon the doorbell goes and standing on the step is Abigail’s old art teacher, she has moved to live just around the corner. With her was her pallid little daughter.

‘I understand you have found our hamster.’ she said

‘Is he dead?’ said the daughter.

‘Yes he is.’ said Maisie enthusiastically. ‘Buddy killed him.’ She was standing in the hall just behind me.

‘May we come in?’ said the art teacher.

‘Umm... yes, of course you may.’ I stood aside and they came in. 

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I was wracking my brains by now, how could I explain binning their hamster? I decided between the front door and the  kitchen to lie. Maisie was the only stumbling block. ‘

Maisie why don’t you go upstairs and practice your piano?’ I said hopefully. She pretended not to hear and followed us into the kitchen. ‘I’d like a cup of tea too.’ she said.

‘We’d like to take Alfred home with us. We’d like to bury him in the garden.’ said the art teacher assertively.

‘Yes.’ said the art teacher’s daughter, ‘We’d like to give him a proper funeral.’

Maisie’s eyes were like saucers. ‘I’ve buried him already.’ I said, staring hard at Maisie. ‘I buried him in the garden, under the mallow in the corner.’

‘Yes’ said Maisie ‘We lined his coffin with pink petals and snowdrops and we sang hymns. The coffin was a beautifully carved wooden box with ‘hamster’ written on the top in golden lettering.’ 

The art teacher looked sceptical. ‘Could we dig him up?’ she said ‘We could take the box home and put him in our garden. I think it would help Aurelia with her grief.’ 

‘That would be a good idea.’ said Maisie ‘Shall I get a trowel?’

I took the art teacher’s arm and led her into the garden. There was no sign of pink petals or snowdrops. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I buried him over there, in the corner, three or four days ago. It’s been raining since and the box was only cardboard, I don’t think it’s a good idea to dig him up.’ The daughter came and stood mournfully beside us and stared at the undisturbed earth. ‘Did you bury him exactly there?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ said Maise ‘Exactly there. In a golden box, wrapped in a silken shroud.’

Eventually, I got rid of them. ‘For God’s sake Maisie!’ I said, when they had gone. ‘What on earth was that all about?’

She looked at me with limpid blue eyes, that filled slowly with tears. ‘I was only trying to help.’ she said ‘Next time I won’t even bother. And anyway you shouldn’t tell lies.’ 

Later the art teacher rang me. ‘I am going to buy Aurelia a kitten to help her with her grief. I was wondering if you could put a bell on your cat’s collar to warn us if he approaches. We don’t want any more deaths do we?’ she said. I told her I would put a bell on Buddy’s collar and that he was extremely unlikely to kill a kitten.

‘Well you can’t be too careful.’ said the art teacher ‘I wouldn’t like Aurelia to go through that again.’

I put the phone down. Bloody stupid woman.

Saturday 9th February

John’s mother

Rachel Unthank

John Smith

John’s mother came to stay for the weekend and we took her to see Rachel Unthank at The Borderline in Oxford Street. Rachel Unthank is a Geordie folk singer. She sings folk with her sister. Her sister sings with her hands on her hips and Rachel sings with her eyes closed. They said coming to London was like ‘Something off the telly, it was that glamorous.’ I liked them very much. John’s mother is 74 and she stood up for two and a half hours. I was quite impressed.

I liked the support act too. He’s called John Smith. He plays his guitar across his knees banging on the body of it, like Newton Faulkner. I like it when people do that. Afterwards when he came off stage, I told him he was very good and I bought his CD. I have agreed to review him in the paper. I hate writing reviews. This what I wrote. I bet it gets all the sense edited out of it.

It’s Saturday night down in the pubby, clubby atmosphere of the Borderline off Oxford Street and there is a guitar genius with the world weary vocal of Tom Waitts singing us a story or two.

Devonian folk John Smith has arrived. He sounds as though he arrived sixty years ago but looks startlingly young, perched on a chair, quietly confident,  charming and instantly engaging.

John once said “If you are into it they (the audience)  will hopefully dig in as well.’  So we did. ‘Winter’ saw him beating out a rhythm on the body of his guitar like a laid back Newton Faulkner, Axe Mountain told of murder most horrid, Queens Of The Stone age standard No One Knows was given a new twist, beneath his deft fingers and ‘So So’ told of a broken love affair.

Self released album John Smith, Live At The Roundhouse has got it covered and is available at his groovy website, johnsmithjohnsmith.com.  Established as a talented folk singer John deserves a wider audience. Go and check him out.

I also wrote:

Released on the 18th February 2008 Asa, pronounced Asha,’s eponymous debut album showcases a new and perfectly unique talent.  

Out of Africa, Asa fuses pop, r&b, funk, soul and reggae without deserting her roots. 

Her smokey vocal with it’s gentle Nigerian lilt takes us on an epic journey through the jazzy, African hooks of ‘Jailer’ to the orchestral backed ‘Awe’ sung in her native Yaruba. Single ‘Fire On the Mountain’ recalls Bob Marley’s campaigning days and ‘So Beautiful’ is a feel good love song.  

Asa says ‘I want to show the world that something beautiful and positive can come out of the black continent.’ With this album I think she has done just that. 4