Author Archives: Tim Lenton

The science fiction writer Robert Heinlein once observed: “A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.”

This is undoubtedly true. I was present at a poetry reading only yesterday, and a swift glance round Walpole Old Chapel, in Suffolk, where the reading took place, revealed that here were people who had nasty habits. I don’t know what they were, but then they didn’t know what mine were.

The real question is whether reading poetry aloud is really a nasty habit. Clearly it can be, especially if the poetry is not very good. Pretty much all of the poetry read at Walpole was worth listening to.

And every single one of the poets there could have written better words to Haydn’s The Creation than those supplied for the performance at Norwich Cathedral a couple of weeks earlier. They were excruciating.

Someone said they were Victorian, and so should be accepted. I seem to remember there were Victorian poets who wrote good and beautiful English. (And anyway Haydn is pre-Victorian.)

Let me give you a couple of examples from The Creation:

RAPHAEL: “See flashing thro’ the deep in thronged swarms the fish a thousand ways around…. In long dimensions creeps with sinuous trace the worm.”

GABRIEL: “With verdure clad the fields appear delightful to the ravish’d sense; by flowers sweet and gay enhanced is the charming sight.”

Now that’s what I call a nasty habit, and whoever the writer or translator is (he may have gone into Haydn), we should not be singing his words out loud. How did he get away with it? Is it because lovers of classical music are notoriously careless – or should I say couldn’t-care-less – about words?

Or could they not afford someone who could write English?

In all fairness I have to say that the performance at the Cathedral was brilliant, by instrumentalists and choir. So why do they put up with rubbish instead of words? I may be particularly sensitive in that area, but it spoiled my evening.

Yours, etc. Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells.

I used to wonder how chefs – or indeed anybody – came up with bright new recipes, using unanticipated flavours, and I have often suspected that most of it was accidental.

Now, with a bit more experience, I know that almost all of it is a result of adding creme fraiche or honey, or both. Practically anything tastes better if you add creme fraiche and honey.

However, the accident theory got a bit of a boost when I invented a new sauce yesterday. New to me, that is. It happened like this.

My wife and I were consuming an average dish of chicken from the supermarket, and it included a sauce described, with a certain amount of hyperbole, as creamy, bacon and mushroom. I was getting toward the end, and I was beginning to wonder if it had been worth the bother of cooking it. It was pretty dull.

I reached across for my glass of red wine (shiraz), which was nearly empty. As I lifted it toward my mouth, it struck something and fell from my hand. In a deft move – the kind for which I have become something of a legend – I caught it in the other hand. I expected the remaining wine to have fallen on to my plate or on to the table, or into my lap. But no – it had completely vanished.

I hope I’m getting the drama of the moment across to you. It was magic. The vanishing wine. Could I get it to reappear in the shape of a rabbit? Probably not.

I then noticed that there was an almost empty tub of Anchor butter on the table, and in it were the entire contents of my wine glass. Not just some of it, but all. Do not try this at home.

So I had a small amount of butter, accompanied by a small amount of wine. What should I do with it? Obviously, I should mix it together and pour in on to the remains of my chicken dish. Why wouldn’t I?

Reader, it was delicious. Transformational. I had created poulet au vin beurre, or something more accurately French.

Don’t tell me – you’ve been eating it for years. Everyone does it. I don’t care. For me it was just amazing. And I never saw it coming.

Another scroll has surfaced that puts the early church in a different light and paints a strangely familiar picture. What if the first Christians really did operate in the same sort of way as the Church of England? Here are some extracts:

“The disciples were first called Christians at Antioch. And Paul saw in a dream a large building made of stone, containing a nave, a chancel and a choir, and other features too numerous to mention. And above it all rose a sharpish arch pointing directly to heaven. And inside it was very cold.

And he told Peter of his dream. Peter asked him what the strange words meant.

Paul said he had no idea, but without love they probably had nothing. He added that an apse, a font and some pews would also be necessary. But Peter kept his own counsel until the next PCC meeting, when he asked about the reserves.

“It is vital to keep back money for repairs,” said Judas (not Iscariot). “We need a contingency fund. There are also health and safety issues. What if the sharp bit falls off?”

Then Barnabas asked if they would need a faculty.

At this point Paul said that in view of the difficulties, he thought maybe his dream had been a vision of the distant future – something they could aspire to, maybe in another country. Perhaps it was more urgent at this moment in time to got to Macedonia, where he had been invited to speak.

But Peter said that Macedonia had human rights problems, and perhaps a visit from Paul would send out the wrong message. This was agreed.

Then Barnabas suggested instituting a parish share based on diocesan requirements, but this was felt to be premature. Paul said he had to leave the next day, but would send them a letter. “

Doubts have been cast on the authenticity of this scroll, especially as it has been dated by geologists as being three million years old.

It’s the festival season. Not only have Norwich City reached the heights in the Championship, but tonight a man is walking on a high wire across the market place in Norwich, and yesterday I spoke to quite a large number of Swaffham mothers about the Paston family. All kinds of strange things happen in the festival season.

As a sort of prelude to it all, a few days ago I found myself in Orford, which is in Suffolk, beyond the magical Snape. Orford happens to be one of my favourite places, and I would visit it more often if it were not so far away. As Corey Ford said, “I would go away if it wasn’t so far.” Not many people know that.

My excuse on this occasion was a concert by the Prometheus Orchestra, which I had not heard of but was excellent. It featured a gorgeous Fantasia by Vaughan Williams; a flute concerto played brilliantly by a remarkable woman in a shiny gold dress; and a beautiful symphony by Mendelssohn. By chance we got on the front row, among some very upper class accents and only a few feet from a stunning sculpture of Noah.

I felt very much at home, which is surprising, because my home is nothing like that. 

Afterwards the sun came out unexpectedly, and we found ourselves parked on the quay, gazing out toward Orford Ness, past a boat called Regardless, which apparently does river trips when the tide is in. I felt it should carry on.

Anyway, back to the Swaffham mothers. It was the Mothers’ Union, actually, and I felt that I might have some difficulty interesting them in the Pastons, given that the village of Paston is about 50 miles away, and the family had little impact on the town.

But something interesting happened. The faceless audience that I had imagined (or failed to imagine) transformed itself into a series of distinctive and intelligent individuals who were not only interested but had things to say. 

I guess this happens all the time. In our blindness we put people into bland blocks and attribute predictable attitudes and opinions to them, when in fact everyone is different and for the most part fascinating. Even without the tightrope.

Those of you familiar with the Church of England will not be surprised to hear that it has a Legacy Policy. This fits in nicely with its Safeguarding Policy, its Growth in Service Grants, its Mission Strategy Fund and its eagerness to access Lottery funding.

If only Jesus had such ideas he could have laid proper foundations to the Church as a whole.

“And I say unto you, seek out those with lots of money and get them to leave you most of it in their will. Make it living-watertight, and you will not need to bother my Father with prayers about running costs.

“Suffer little children to come unto me, but make sure you have a Safeguarding Officer, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

It has now become clear to me why I have never been more than a practising Christian with little hope of passing the final exams. I was always against taking a collection at church, because it made it look as if we were begging rather than giving. It’s no use offering eternal life with one hand if you’re asking for money with the other. Or is it?

“And lo, I am always with you, but you may prefer Growth in Service Grants, because then you won’t need to worry about disturbing me.

“And I will make a way in the desert and streams of Lottery Funding if you can cope with the paperwork and put all the key posts out to tender.

“And there will arise a Mission Strategy Fund which will enable you to go into all the world and preach the Gospel, unless someone claims you are being intolerant, in which case you will be up before the magistrates. You may then be crucified. In the Press and on TV.”

And the people had no idea what Jesus was talking about, and they went away sadly, because the other things he had said earlier seemed so right.