shewhomust: (Default)
The good news: we are at the Plough Inn in Hathersage, have met and drunk tea with the family party that brought us here, and will later reconvene for dinner. It has been a frustrating couple of days, and I am very glad to be here, and ready to enjoy myself. Naturally, the first way I enjoy myself is to complain.

I have wasted a lot of time trying to be sensible and efficient. It is possible that the things I wasted time trying to do will work out, and I will end up being glad I did them, but we are not yet at that point, and I have steam to let off.

Kvetching )

On the other hand, when we were almost here, I demanded at stop at an interesting-looking circular building which turned out to be The Round Building, David Mellor's cutlery works: there's a David Mellor-related design museum, with a lot of cutlery (some of which I could certainly covet) and outside, an arrangement of street furniture (a bench, a bus shelter, a postbox, some bollards) and why not? The shop had some lovely, expensive, ceramics, but what I bought was a lemon zester (silly birthday present and a problem if not solved at least reduced). So that was good.

Time for a chapter or so of my book before dinner.
shewhomust: (Default)
I collected my new glasses from the optician yesterday morning.

There's a conversation which I have now had with a succession of opticians, each time I need new glasses: the optician says "I think it's time you had varifocals," and I day "These are varifocals!" This time, he followed up by asking why, in that case, I had three pairs of glasses (varificals, reading glasses, and a pair for working at the computer)? The new ones, the claimed, would do away with all that...

It's too soon to be sure, but I was sceptical and I remain so. I'm still wearing my old glasses now, to view the computer screen. I think the new varifocals probably give me a better chance of reading something in the course of doing something else - checking a recipe while cooking, for example - which is a good thing in itself, even if I still prefer my reading glasses for, well, reading. I'm not disappointed, because I didn't expect anything else. And I'm still happy with the frames I chose, which is a relief!
shewhomust: (mamoulian)
At the dentist's this morning (just a checkup, thanks, and all is well) I noticed for the first time a picture behind the reception desk. It's a slightly generic painting of a stone bridge over a river, with the title in bold capitals: Victoria Bridge. It looks like a pub sign, and come to think of it - yes, says the dentist, we just brought it inside when we converted the pub (which I remember well from when we used to live up that way).

Things change, but the past is not effaced.
shewhomust: (Default)
On 14th August 1967, the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act came into force, closing down the UK's pirate radio stations. I remember listening to the last broadcast of John Peel's Perfumed Garden. The show had always run on the basis that no-one bought advertising during its late night slot, and no-one listened, including management, so Peel could ignore the station's top 40, and play what he liked. As the station's last day began, he just extended the show until morning - 5.30 am, according to Wikipedia (and here's a track listing).. I won't say I heard it all, but I slept and woke and slept again and as it came to an end I was still there. I remember Peel saying that 'they are closing the gates of the Perfumed Garden, but we are on the inside' - and I got up and went for a walk, because that was what I wanted to do. And realised when I got home that I had gone out without a key, and had to sit in the porch until someone else woke up to let me in.

Later that afternoon I turned the radio on again to hear Radio London sign off (with the station signature tune, which was known as Big Lil.

It was 50 years ago, I was in my teens, and Wikipedia says that the Perfumed Garden had only been running since May '67.
shewhomust: (mamoulian)
For the benefit of all those who told me, in this journal and elsewhere, that I was worrying unnecessarily about renewing my passport, and that all would be well: you were quite right. My new passport arrived this morning (which is to say, not in the post, and not by any identifiable courrier - is it possible that local passports are simply delivered by hand?), which also goes to show that I was right not to pay extra for the special accelerated service. I had forgotten that it would be one of the new illustrated ones - oh, look, there's the Angel of the North!
shewhomust: (mamoulian)
The BBC has announced the death, aged 104, of E. R. Braithwaite, best known as author of To Sir, with Love, an autobiographical novel about his time as a teacher in the East End of London; the book, in turn, is best known as the basis for a film starring Sidney Poitier and Lulu (and how often do you get to join those names?). It's a long time since I read the book, but the assessment in this article in London Fictions matches my recollection: an interesting account of a particular place and time, not the greatest literature but well enough told, though the hero / narrator is perhaps a bit too good to be true (or sympathetic).

I had a particular reason to be interested, though. My mother always claimed that Braithwaite's job in the East End was as her maternity leave replacement, which made me in a way responsible for the book. We took this, as we took all my mother's stories, with a pinch of salt: she was a great myth-maker, and lived the post-truth life half a century before the term was invented. Nonetheless, it's not impossible. That London Fictions piece identifies the school as St George in the East, where I believe she taught (and which sounds like quite somewhere in itself), and a biography on the British Library site places it in 1951, which is right. So who knows?
shewhomust: (dandelion)
  • I saw the moon last night as I was putting the milk bottles out on the doorstep: a big bright full moon, certainly, but no more super than many others. To be fair, that's all that was promised: the far point of the swing of the pendulum. [ profile] durham_rambler, getting up in the night, opened the curtains and saw the moon low over the trees on the hillside. This was more impressive, he tells me, and that too is as promised: the moon always looks bigger when there's a point of reference. (I didn't get up to look).

  • To the Eye Infirmary this morning for the Come back in six months to make sure it's not getting worse. It's not getting worse, so they've discharged me. It's not getting better, either, though my right eye is better than expected. I'll settle for that. And a pleasant drive there and back, in autumn sunshine and plenty of golden foliage.

  • Pretty pictures in The Guardian of the extraordinary versions of traditional rugs by Azerbaijani artiat Faig Ahmed: I had to read the article twice to convince myself that these are real physical rugs, not digital manipulations. (More on the artist's website).

  • These book sculptures are all over the web, though the artists's own website seems to have gone missing. At times they veer further into cuteness and whimsy than works for me, but at their best they are delightful: and I like that each sculpure represents the book from which it is made.

  • Shopping triumph! I have bought a pair of slippers. Limited triumph, because given absolute choice, I would not necessarily have chosen lilac, with a snowflake design incorporating a sparkly center in each snowflake. I chose them because they fit me, and that in itself is triumph enough. I celebrated by throwing away their heelless and very grubby predecessors.
shewhomust: (mamoulian)
I hadn't heard the expression 'Brexit plus, plus, plus' until this morning. Seems it's something Donald Trump said a couple of days ago, but I missed it then. This morning, when it came true, it was all over the radio news, as well it might be. All the journalists who have been maintaining an illusion of balance were rushing about like headless chickens, revealing that they never really thought this would happen. Which is exactly what the UK went through in June, of course.

I won't say I knew better. But I am sufficiently pessimistic by nature never to be completely surprised when the worst happens.

Also, I have a cold. In some ways it's not a bad cold, I don't have the streaming nose or the stuffed up head. The main symptom is a really irritating dry cough: and 'brexit plus plus plus' is a pretty good transcription of the noise I make in one of those fits of coughing.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
Like most people of my age, I have a number of low-level aches and pains which come and go, and which mostly I either ignore or suppress with painkillers. Sometimes if I'm tired, or if I've been sitting for too long, my back aches. So? Everyone over 40 gets backache. This is just context, not a plea for sympathy.

A recentish addition to my catalogue has been a pain in the sole of my left foot. It felt as if I'd trodden on a small stone, except that I hadn't, and it could be persistent. It's never been painful enough to be a problem, and it's always gone away as mysteriously as it appeared. Until Monday, when suddenly it was very painful indeed, can't put foot to floor painful, hobbling around the house painful, using a walking stick painful. "If it's no better tomorrow," said [ profile] durham_rambler, "we'll make an appointment to see the doctor." And I agreed, because I was confident it would be better tomorrow. Only it wasn't, it was worse, and we rang the doctor and - to our surprise - got an appointment for that afternoon. It was one of the shortest sessions I've ever had with a doctor: he prodded my foot, observed that it hurt, prodded to either side of the same point and established that this hurt too, but not as much, and told me I had plantar fasciitis, and that it would get better, but not until it was good and ready.

In fact, as with all the best magic systems, naming the monster - better still naming it in Latin, because surely all that Latin name means is 'inflammation of something in the sole of the foot', which I knew - went a long way to defeating it. He also gave me the useful information that the pain is always worse after inactivity and first thing in the morning, so that's not the time to judge.

On Wednesday I was still hobbling, and wasn't ready to walk to the Elm Tree and back, but was fine for quizzing, with a lift there and back - just as well, because the quiz included a round about puffins, and I'd have been cross to miss it.

And on Thursday we spent a day on Hadrian's Wall, with J and J, who were holidaying (that should probably be 'short-breaking', but I don't like it as a verb) in Hexham precisely so that J could fulfil an ambition to see the Wall. Warned that I was not as mobile as I might be, he had spent the previous day using the shuttle bus (route number AD 122) to explore Housesteads (and that very spectacular stretch of wall over Cuddy's Crags) and Vindolanda. So we took them to the Mithraic temple at Brocolitia, lunch at the Twice Brewed (which is now a bright smart pub with blonde wood furniture and tartan carpets: I remember it as very dark, and full of peaty smoke), to the quarry at Cawfields and up to Milecastle 42. I was quite surprised to manage this last, and declared that I wasn't doing any more scrambling - besides, the afternoon was passing, and if we were going to visit a fort, we should do so now.

Pictures of Chesters fort and museum )

We drove home in the dark, which felt strange - and then puzzling: why did it feel so strange? It couldn't be as long as that, surely, since we were out in the evening? Then realising that we weren't late, it was the darkness that was early. Summer must be over.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
I had a phone call yesterday from my scool friend S.: that's nothing out of the ordinary, she does call from time to time. And she was in a state of excitement, but that's not unusual either.

What she was burning to tell me concerned the retirement of Miss Chapman, who had been head of the school when we arrived there aged 11. She was an imposing personality*, and although this is over 50 years ago, I remember the sense that we were diminished by her departure, and that her replacement was a lesser woman. But S. has a specific memory, and that was what she wanted to talk about: that on Miss Chapman's retirement, every girl in the school, all 600 of us, had been given a banana and a piece of what she called 'Scotch rock' (I think of it as Edinburgh rock, but I wasn't going to argue). And that although she had spoken to a number of her contemporaries about this idiodyncratic gift, none of remembered it, until she began to wonder if she had dreamed it (although she was sure she hadn't).

It doesn't at all surprise me that I don't remember it: there's so much I don't remember (it's why I value this diary so much); I don't actually remember S. mentioning it before. But evidently I wasn't the only one who had no memory of the parting gift, and it had been beginning to bother her.

The good news was that A. had come to the rescue: she didn't remember it herself, but she had written to B., and B. remembered it clearly, and added the detail that there had been a special assembly, so that we could be allowed to eat the spoils straight away (as I suppose we would have done, allowed or not). So S. is vindicated, and triumphant.

*That must be her on the right of this photo from the school's website, and since it shows her presiding over the School Birthday celebrations in 1964, I'm probably somewhere in the ranks. But I digress...
shewhomust: (dandelion)
From time to time I have backache; of course I do, I'm a grown-up, who doesn't? By now I know how to handle it: take painkillers, keep moving, wait for it to go away. I have no idea why it struck this last few days...

Three nights ago, I had twinges: lying in bed, a position that ought to be comfortable was - not. But I could find a comfortable position and go back to sleep. Two nights ago, no position wwas really comfortable and some were seriously painful - within definitions of serious pain that are, I know, pretty trivial really. I slept badly, was still stiff when I woke up, spent yesterday treating myself gently: this wasn't all bad. I started the day with a hot bath (because at last we have fixed the bath tap, and it delivers hot water at a reasonable speed). I opted out of the street party (part backache, part general misanthropy), and pottered around at home, making some progress with small tasks. Had an early night, slept carefully. Considered whether we should defer swimming until tomorrow, and decided not to (because then we'd hace to swim on Thursday after a late night Wednesday) - but I'm not sure this was the right decision: I was still short on sleep, and although the back was much better, the cold water didn't help (I know this because the hot shower after was so wonderful). Now, within three days of the first manifestations, I'm almost back to normal and wondering, what was that about?

At the cinema this evening, I was maybe feeling more need to stretch than usual, but nothing worse. The film was Love and Friendship: should that be 'Freindship'? The Guardian gave it a rave review, including an attempt to justify giving the title of one book to an adaptation of another. I liked the use of captions to introduce the characters, and I was entirely entertained and amused. It's probably unreasonable to feel that this leaves something lacking.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
This post has been a Work in Progress for the last week, and meanwhile stuff keeps happening. Nonetheless, here it is at last. We were in London for a week, for reasons I explained on our way south. It was a busy week, and now it is over and we are returned to our regular programming, whatever that may be. Here's the compressed version of the last week: Further compressed by the cut! )

And then we came home. But that's another story.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
Just leaving a wet and rainy Northallerton, and I have a large tumbler of sauvignon blanc ("they don't teach them about portion control," says [ profile] durham_rambler, and how right he is).

Anything we have left undone is going to have to stay undone - no, wait, I wish it were that simple. If there is anything the builders need us to have done which we have not done, they will either have to do without or do themselves. I wish I found this reassuring. Boss builder saw us off with a cheery "Don't worry about anything!" surely among the most alarming words in the English language, second only to "We are pleased to announce an upgrade!"

But we are on our way, and not sorry to be leaving building and decorating behind us for a bit. We have a week in London, with a curious double focus: it just so happens that GirlBear's birthday coincides with the anniversary of the Battle of Jutland. It always does, of course, but this year we will be celebrating a significant birthday and commemorating the centenary of the battle. Actually, the main activity around the Battle of Jutland will be taking place in Orkney, and I can't claim that I wasn't tempted, but it wasn't really possible, because, on the one hand, birthday! and on the other hand this is what we will be doing tomorrow.

There is a project to install a paving stone at or near the home of everybody who won a VC in World War One, and one of these is Jack Cornwell, who was [ profile] durham_rambler's grandfather's cousin. Wikipedia version here and Charles Causley's version of the story on Google Books. It's clear that the ceremony is going to be in patriotic mode, and any reflection of the 'Who puts a 16 year old boy in the line of fire?' will be kept strictly to ourselves.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
Since we were going to Newcastle on Wednesday for an early-evening poetry event, we took the opportunity to visit the 'The Arts & Crafts House: Then and Now' exhibition at the Laing. I'd heard good things about it, but was underwhelmed: blame some of this on my eyesight, which is currently making it difficult to see detailed books in glass cases, or architectural prints on walls. Also my resistance to shows which bring together classic instances of something and modern examples in the same tradition: I am always liable to respond that the original is better, by a mile. Some examples of modern craft tools and artisan ceramics were attractive enough, but I completely failed to see the point of Rosa Nguyen's contribution. What I learned from this exhibition: there are a number of Arts & Crafts houses in the care of the National Trust which I have not seen, and I should plan a holiday in England to remedy this.

The poetry reading - the launch of Lisa Matthews's The Eternally Packed Suitcase was just across the road at the City Library, and our plan was to fill the time between the Laing closing and the event starting with a cup of tea and the crossword at the library café. This wasn't quite as neat as I'd thought, because the event wasn't, as I had (mis)remembered it, 6 o' clock for 6.30, but 6.30 for 7.00; still, I was less inconvenienced by misjudged timing than the organisers, who had apparently planned a reading to run from 7 until 9 o' clock, not realising that the library closed at 8, and we'd have to be out by then.

So the reading was short, but good. Lisa's poems are deceptive, they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, no fancy vocabulary, simple narratives (she did this, I saw that) that drop you into something unexpected. She doesn't use elaborate forms, but then you open the book at a prose poem, a little block of text looking across the gutter at a page of short-lines, singly or in pairs or longer stanzas. I can't quote examples, I want to quote whole poems. Here's one I prepared earlier (which is included in the new collection).

We'd assumed that the reading would drift on into the evening, and we'd linger and talk to people, then wander off and find something to eat - and that would be Wednesday evening gone, we'd just have to miss the pub quiz at which we have become regulars. But given the 8 o' clock curfew, we decided that rather than join the general move to the Tyneside Cinema Café, we had time to go home and go to the quiz after all. So we did.

It's not so much that we have a busy social life (though things are beginning to wake up after the midwinter break, there's that, I suppose) ao much as that the things that do happen, happen at the same time. As if to prove a point, while I took a break from writing this to make a pot of tea, [ profile] durham_rambler took a phone call - as a result of which he has driven off to Tyneside to collect a friend from hospital (they were willing to send her home, but didn't have an ambulance free). He is confident that there will be time to do this and still be in time for our dinner date in Sunderland (with my cousins who are making their annual visit to the Stadium of Light). I'm less confident, but it can't be helped, we'll get there when we get there.


Jan. 11th, 2016 06:03 pm
shewhomust: (dandelion)
We spent the afternoon at Sunderland Eye Infirmary, mostly waiting ("Haven't we waited long enough? / Haven't we waited beautifully?" asked Julia Darling).

Because the appointment had been initiated by my optician and confirmed online, I wasn't sure whether I was waiting to be assessed for laser treatment to clear the cloudy membrane which is blurring the vision in my left eye, or for the treatment itself. On the one hand, what was there to assess? On the other, surely they wouldn't go ahead without having seen for themselves? And no, of course, they wouldn't. The doctor asked me all the usual questions, and shone bright lights in my eyes (this is the bit I really hate) and then told me precisely what the optician had told me two months ago.

So now I am on the waiting list.

We drove home from Sunderland in the twilight. Quarter past four and not dark yet doesn't seem much to be grateful for, but the mornings are still dark, and getting colder, so it's good to be reminded that the days are getting longer. The sky was streaked with pink clouds, until we descended into a bowl of mist and darkness at Houghton-le-Spring.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
Yesterday was odd, not because anything was odd in itself, but because it threw together so many ill-assorted things.

The day began with guests for breakfast: the final stage of a visit from the Bears for the Lumiere weekend (more about Lumiere another time, I hope). Instead of seeing them onto their train and waving goodbye from the platform, though, we accompanied them on the train as far as York, to go to the funeral of [ profile] durham_rambler's uncle. So that was odd.

The train journey wasn't odd, exactly, but being en route to a funeral put me in a frame of mind to be sensitive to every newspaper open at the same story, and the young woman across the aisle wearing her 'I heart Paris' T-shirt, and the train announcer inviting us to join in a minute of silent reflection at eleven o' clock (and then making another announcement to let us know that the minute was over, because you can overdo the silent reflection, I suppose). We came in to York past flooded fields and rivers overflowing their banks: après moi le déluge...

[ profile] durham_rambler had plotted an easy walking route to the church where the funeral was being held. We set off on a footpath beside the railway, and came dry-shod to the footbridge over the river, though the riverside path lead away under the water to either side. But on the far side of the bridge our way was barred by a floodgate: some fit young people were scrambling over it, but we turned back, and went the long way round, which wasn't very much longer. We had some fine views of the river lapping at the city walls, though.

The funeral was as funerals are. We had brief conversations with people we are close to, and met cousins we haven't seen in decades, and people who are only relations i the loosest terms, and all stages in between. Then we came home, and made a pot of tea.

Then we went out again, and heard amazing banjo music. Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn:

This was the first thing they played, and I'd have been happy to listen to banjo tunes all evening. I enjoyed Abigail Washburn's banjo playing, and her singing - but I'd have enjoyed more banjo and less gospel even more...
shewhomust: (guitars)
Last night we took ourselves and our coughs to the Sage to hear Aly Bain, Ale Möller and Bruce Molsky: a Shetland fiddler, a Swedish multi-instrumentalist and an American old-timey musician ("from a little village south of New York - it's called the Bronx"). Three fantastic musicians, and a rich mix of traditions. Sometimes it sounds like this:

The video (of a show at Lerwick's Mareel) seems to be using a fixed camera; last night Aly Bain was wearing bright white trainers which shone in the spotlight, as if they were dancing of their own volition while he listened to the other two playing. But you can tell from the video that they are really enjoying playing together, and responding to each other's input. Which is why, for example, Bruce Molsky, very apologetically ("it's just a pop song - something I'd been singing in soundchecks - but Ale said I should sing it..."), sang Abraham, Martin and John, and why they paired it with a tune from Fetlar, because it seemed to be a good fit.

So, anyway, the music was great, and I wasn't. I felt less guilty when I realised, from the amount of coughing all round the audience, that I wasn't the only person there who had decided that they weren't going to miss this show, cough or no cough. But it wasn't pleasant, and I did seem to be coughing constantly (more than I am tonight, for example, though tonight is still not good). As we left the hall, [ profile] durham_rambler suggested that the drying effect of the air conditioning had been adding to the problem, and that's quite plausible, both on the face of it and because of how it accounts for symptoms of which I'll spare you the description. And although I felt a bit better as soon as we were out of the building, I had a pretty rough night.

Which is why [ profile] durham_rambler phoned S. and invited her to accomkpany him to tonight's Ewan MacColl tribute concert in my place. I had been looking forward to it, and I'm naturally disappointed, but right now I'm just glad I can cough if I need to, and take some cough linctus, and go to bed when I'm ready -

- which would be now, actually.
shewhomust: (guitars)
[ profile] durham_rambler and I both have colds: manifesting as a painfully sore throat, sudden fits of coughing, and the feeling that my head has been stuffed very dull of cotton wool. Also, in my case, interrupted sleep (for coughing) and a tendency to nod off at other times.

Naturally, this comes at a time when, after not having been to a concert for ages, we are embarking on a sequence of nights out. The first of these was yesterday, and it was the farewell performance of the New Rope String Band, which simplified things, because there was no way either of us was going to miss that! So we braved the fog, and the home game, and Hallowe'en, and went to the Tyne Theatre for the show.

Which was excellent - no surprise there! Lots of familiar routines, and some surprises too, some new since I last saw them and at least one thing which must have been devised for the night, since it involved a guest star (violinist Bradley Creswick, dubbed with a positively Morecambe and Wise type volley of deformations of his name) rising spookily from a coffin-like double bass case. The worst of the coughing was controlled with throat sweets and sips from the water flask, and if it annoyed our neighbours they didn't let on. The audience was as happily riotous as you'd expect. Despite this, I drifted away for parts of the second half, but mostly during video material which I'd seen before. I'm still glas I was there, even if at times it was only in body.

So that's that. The whole existence of the New Rope String Band has been a ten-year bonus, after Joe's death and the end of the Old Rope String Band, and it's been fun, and I wonder what the guys will do next?
shewhomust: (dandelion)
On Friday we drove to Derbyshire for the funeral of our old friend Richard.

The forecast was for snow, and we were heading for the uplands, so we were a little apprehensive, but the journey went very smoothly. It was a good funeral, as funerals go. The church in Tideswell - "the Cathedral of the Peak" - was Richard's church: he rang its bells and played its organ, and if he sometimes disagreed with its teachings he was nonetheless a member of its congregation, and the people there knew him. This always helps.

Remembering Richard )

We had arrived in damp grey weather, and cutting cold, but during the service the sun came and went beyond the windows. The final piece of music was completely unknown to me, by Louis Vierne, possibly this one, but I'm going to have to update my Flash player before it'll let me watch, and it reminded me so strongly of Richard that I was smiling as I emerged from the church into brilliant sunshine and a fine blanket of snow covering the churchyard.

One final ceremony, the committal in Eyam Churchyard, where Richard's grave is next to that of his parents. We stood between the church and the hills that rise immediately beyond, as the handbell ringers played one last piece, chiming so sweetly that it took a moment to realise they were not playing a tune but ringing changes, and as the cold seeped in and the flurries of snow began to fall, I thought that this was one last authentic Richard moment.

ETA: David's obituary of Richard in the online Guardian.
shewhomust: (dandelion)
We are on the train, northbound, homeward bound, and the sun is low and red ahead of us. It is not a happy train: first it had to make a detour to avoid a trespasser on the line who refused to move, then it had to make an unscheduled stop to take on the passengers from a failed train. It was already quite full, and now it is very full, and we are sharing a table with some youn Americans who are getting more fun than I would have thought possible out of a pack of cards. But the train is moving, and there is the sunset ahead of us, and a full moon behind us.

We came south at short notice for the funeral of a cousin: we had known since earlier this year that she had cancer, and that things were bad, so this was not unexpected. She's been there all my life, and though geography never made us close, she brightened every event when we met: she had great warmth and charm - and it was a good funeral, because I came away from it feeling that personality through the reminiscences of her family and friends. A funeral's a bad thing, because it means that someone has died; but when someone has died, actually a funeral is what you want: a chance to say goodbye in the company of other people who are missing them.

As a bonus, we stayed with the Bears, who also came to the funeral. But first, last night, they took us to a Clean Cut Kids gig. The Kids are Keith Taylor and Richard Cryan, and they sing Dylan. I can't link to the YouTube video, because the train's wifi blocks the site, but scroll down their Twitter feed and there's a link there. If you recognise the name, you'll know that they range across the full Dylan repertoire: the earliest song they did (by a comfortable margin) was Blowing in the Wind (and the latest was probably Early Roman Kings, though I'm not reliable on the last decade or so). The best, I think, was also their least faithful: Highway 61. Disclaimer: Richard and Keith are friends of the Bears, and by now I have probably known them long enough to claim them as friends myself too. So I may be biased. But if you like Dylan (and I do) the Kids are alright.

Update: we are now in Newark Northgate, and the guard has announced that we are currently delayed by a balloon on the overhead wires.

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