News from Nowhere

boybear e-mailed this morning to say that, according to his computer, today is Puffin Day.

Around here, of course, every day is puffin day: I was already wearing my puffin socks. And every day is Something Day. Here's a Days of the Year website, and yes, it confirms that today is Puffin Day. It suggests that the designation originated in Iceland, but is hazy about when and how. So I'm inclined to prefer this site, which claims it for Norway.

It makes sense to celebrate puffins at this tme of year, as they return to land for the breeding season. I'm surprised / sceptical that their return to Lovund is quite so accurately predictable, weather being what it is, bu it must be about right. The Guardian has already published at least two pictures (one from the Farnes, one from Orkney) which I am failing to find, because I can't filter by date. Unexpectedly, though, The Times of India provides a pin-up gallery

As the man himself said.

We lunched today with F. This was the meal to which she had invited us for Twelfth Night, which did not happen at the time because of conflicting plans, and then snow. When F. proposed that we dine with her and J. on the 25th, durham_rambler suggested that, being Scottish, she should make it a Burns Night supper. F. was not enthusiastic, and J. was not free on the night, because C. was coming from Carlisle to spend the weekend with her, and the two of them had tickets for a concert at the cathedral. It was C. who introduced us to F., long, long ago, so including her in the party was the opposite of a problem, and we settled for lunch today.

Only it seems that C. has never been to a Burns Night supper, and the idea had caught her imagination. So we agreed (while F. wasn't listening, because she seemed actively opposed to the idea) that C. should extend her weekend visit, and she and J. should come to us tomorrow, and we would provide neeps and whisky and haggis and an Address thereto, though less than authentically pronounced.

Then, of course, Storm Eowyn arrived. And messages from C. with videos of her garage roof about to take off, and apologies, and she really didn't feel she could leave home at present (not to mention trying to cross the Pennines...). Which is disappointing but very sensible. And the remnants of the weekend's plans go ahead: J. enjoyed her concert, we all enjoyed our lunch - and J. will stay here overnight tomorrow, so that's an actual gain. But it all feels very fragmented.

Oh, well. Here's a word from our sponsor:

Today is Harry Houdini's 150th birthday, and I didn't find out until tea-time. That's how much I am not keeping up.

People whose kind comments have gone unanswered already know this, of course. I have been amazed at people's thoughtfulness and support - InRealLife as well as online, but given the constant background noise about the evils of social media, I love this reminder that the opposite is also true. I like, too, the mixture of who comments: people I have actually met, people with whom there's a constant give-and-take, but also the reminder of the goodwill of lurkers.

The same is true off-line. Friends and neighbours have been helpful, and sometimes quite unexpectedly. J and J came from York for a cup of tea and a chat, bringing a Victoria sponge and a posy of pale yellow daffodils. They were certainly, for a number of reasons, people I would have chosen to see, but I was surprised when they offered, out of the blue, to make it happen.

We had a date to meet S. for fish and chips before she goes to the (livestreamed) opera; we won't do that, but she will call in for a cup of tea.

This morning we went to Lidl: durham_rambler hunted for (and found) treasure in the middle aisle, and I bought some emergency supplies. There's a lop-sided chicken in the oven right now.

- and still saving lives at sea. Happy birthday to the RNLI, 200 years old today!

I always thought that Christmas ended on Twelfth Night: January 6th, also known as Epiphany, the day the three kings finally arrived at the stable. That's when decorations must be taken down, right? Then valydiarosada pointed out that if you count twelve days from Christmas Day, the twelfth day, the one with all the inconvenient gifts from your true love, is January 5th. There's no arguing with this: once you count it out, it's obvious. Christmas ends on January 5th, and the following day, Christians celebrate the coming of the Magi. Two related festivals on successive days suggest that something has gone wrong, and that Occam's Razor should be applied, but that's how it is. So today is not Twefth Night. I expect everybody except me already knew that.

Thursday wasn't Twelfth Night either, but it was that date of Phantoms, a now-traditional event which has come to mark the end of our Christmas. Originally 'Phantoms at the Phil', from its location in Newcastle's magnificent private library, it consists of a trio of spine-chilling tales newly written and read by their authors to a delighted audience. This year the Phantoms had exorcised themselves from the Lit & Phil only to settle a short distance along the road in Prohibition. Downstairs this is a bar haunted by its past existence as a jazz café, but upstairs -



- well, I think durham_rambler's photo does a good job of conveying the combination of old-fashioned comfort and ghostly unreality. Gail-Nina Anderson (left, shielding her eyes against the light) said it resembled a well-heeled bordello, but while there was certainly an abundance of drapery, there was also something of the gentlemen's club, or the sort of library on whose floor the master of the house will be discovered, horribly murdered. Sean O'Brien, right, looked entirely at home there. Out of shot, keeping a safe distance from these two sinister apparitions, was guest speaker David Almond.

We habitually refer to Phantoms as 'an evening of ghost stories', but actual ghosts are in a minority: some years there are none at all. This year Gail-Nina's story was a characteristic blend of disturbing iconography and parish gossip: something nasty in the chapel of Saint Anthony Abbot; Sean's trademark horror crept up despite the daylight and open windows of an artist's workroom (am I inventing the Mediterranean sunshine?). It was David who gave us an actual ghost dispatched back whence it came, and left us - well, left me, at any rate, wondering whether this was a good thing.

There's a widespread assumption that things are more interesting if they can be attatched to an anniversary of some sort - as if things that aren't interesting one day become magically interesting the next. This is just marketing, and my automatic reaction is to resist.

What, then, should I make of the declaration that 2022 is the 1900th anniversary of the construction of Hadrian's Wall? (What, all in one year? Mo, of course not.) Even sillier, the year of celebrations starts today, which is Hadrian's birthday: how obliging of him to be born so near the beginning of the year!

Well, any excuse for a party, and some of the events sound fun: I'm sorry to miss the Emperor taking a bubble bath in the bath house at Ravenglass. (Why have I never been to Ravenglass? It's not actually on the Wall, of course, but the Roman defensive frontier extends down the west coast, and could be worth exploring...).

If poliphilo had not posted that his mother, born in 1921, was celebrating her 100th birthday, I might not have realised that wait a minute, my mother was born in 1921, or indeed that 1921 was 100 years ago. But she was, and it is, so today, although she is not around to celebrate it, is my mother's hundredth birthday.

I don't know what to say about this, but it feels necessary to say something. She loved a party. Here she is, having fun, making mischief, and all in a good cause. (She wasn't Mayoress of Islington, she was Mayor - among many other things she was, but that's the Press for you!)

Today is a day durham_rambler and I observe as a significant anniversary.

For a short sentence, that one carries a number of footnotes. For one thing, it's not a wedding anniversary, since we never did the wedding, so we aren't limited to a single day in each year, but yeah, an anniversary of significance to us (also in the sense that it's - actually, I couldn't quite believe this when I first worked it out, but it is a 50th anniversary. Good grief!) For another, when I say we observe it, we are not punctilious about having celebrations on the actual date, and in fact durham_rambler has gone into Newcastle for the evening, to attend a meeting about (I think) WordPress plug-ins - which is why I am here and posting. But we did go out to lunch, at the Garden House: pub food with pretensions, but very pleasant (top tip: it is worth paying 50p extra for the triple-cooked chips).

Yesterday we went to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, curious to see how see how something as essentially undramatic as a profile of Mr Rogers could support a feature film, anf encouraged by the Guardian's glowing review. We both emerged saying, well, that was interesting, but what I'd really like is to read the article it's based on. Thanks to Eaquire magazine, it's right here: and while I enjoyed the visual charm of the film, particularly in the use of the miniature town- (and city-) scapes, the article wins in its richness and nuance as a portrait. The film is handicapped by its rather saccharine plot (there is both hugging and learning) in which the fictionalised journalist is healed by Mr Rogers' intervention.

I would not have known that tonight is Rosh Hashanah if it weren't for sovay, who has been cooking honey cakes: my calendar and my diary both tell me that daylight saving starts today in New Zealand, but don't mention the New Year. This can't be right.

But who am I to complain? We dined this evening on pork and mushrooms with sour cream, and that isn't right (well, it isn't appropraiate) either...

Despite which, here's wishing us all a sweeter year than the last one!