Author Archives: Tim Lenton

On those surprisingly frequent occasions when someone asks me what I’m doing in my retirement, I cannot help but hesitate – because what I’m mainly doing is writing poetry.

If I admit it, a glazed expression comes upon them, because poetry has unfortunate connotations to the average consumer. That’s because it’s such a catch-all word, covering anything that more or less rhymes and has shortish lines.

The subject matter in much poetry is often one-dimensional, and rarely goes beyond the descriptive. It may use flowery language, but it is rarely creative. It is often self-indulgent and only accidentally surprising.

One of my favourite poets, P J Kavanagh, who died recently, put it well: “Phoney-rustic bards / Spare us your thoughts about birds.”

But there’s a catch, because I’ve noticed that quite mediocre poetry may be well received, especially if it rhymes and contains key words, like sunset or God. And if it evokes some kind of favourable reaction in the reader or listener, doesn’t that make it good?

I’m not sure it does. A lot of unexceptional writing gets favourable reaction from some people – and makes others tear their hair out.

Maybe there should be two different words: verse and poetry. Verse is easy, harmless and can make you smile. It may be good on its own terms. Real poetry, however, is – well, I would call it magic with words.

If a poem pulls a rabbit out of a hat, saws a lady in half (and puts her together again), makes the heaviest things float in mid-air, waves a wand, surprises the audience and moves quickly enough to deceive the eye, then it has achieved something. If it simply reminds us that beautiful things are beautiful and birds are nice to look at, there is no magic.

Real poetry is an art worth cultivating. It can turn your world upside down. It contains truth and something beyond. Always something beyond. It’s what I’m always aiming at, though whether I ever achieve it is for others to say. As Leonard Cohen put it, “poetry is a verdict, not an occupation”.

When I say I’m writing poetry, “magic with words” is what I would hope might come into people’s minds. Sadly, I suspect it doesn’t.

Never trust a man who reads his poetry aloud. There is no telling what else he may be capable of.

I did not say that. Someone else did, but I have not been able to recall who it was, and my research has failed to uncover it. But it seems to me a fair point.

So there is no telling what I may be capable of, because I do read my poetry aloud – mainly in Suffolk.

I know that my home city, Norwich, is a UNESCO city of literature and has a proud heritage. But it is Suffolk poetry groups that have mainly invited me to read, and last week I found myself in Walpole Old Chapel, near Halesworth, doing just that.

In Suffolk I have read in various places: a café and a library in Halesworth, a theatre in Lowestoft and the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket. I have also read in Bantry, Ireland, and several venues – mainly large houses and the odd church – in Norfolk. But Suffolk seems to be the centre at the moment, and Walpole Old Chapel is the kind of bizarre event that you could not make up.

Each year large numbers of mainly Suffolk poets are invited to Walpole on a summer Sunday afternoon to read their “three finest poems” – a euphemistic phrase employed by the admirable organiser (and fine poet) Mike Bannister.

This year we could tell by the number of cars parked down a grassy lane opposite that many poets had flocked to the scene. This was good and bad. The bad was that with a large number of poets all reading three poems, it did not take a genius to work out that it would be a long session.

And I was on last.

The building is a poem in itself: an early nonconformist chapel preserved with all its idiosyncratic gated stalls and most of the original dust; two pulpits (of which the higher was considered too dangerous); and a gallery with creaking stairs.

The event started at just after 5pm and lasted (with a break for refreshments) until well after 8.30, with dusk turning rapidly into night. Someone found an electric light, and the last three of us managed to complete the performance. But not before a bird flew into the building and could not find its way out: so there was a counter-attraction as it flew swiftly and anxiously from one end of the ceiling to the other.

Still, despite the chill in the air and the wearying limbs, it was a privilege to be there. The bird was eventually freed to fly, and so were we. I shall undoubtedly be back in Suffolk soon. Trust me.

Since turning 70, I have been giving some thought to my lifestyle, and particularly to things that I feel are unnecessary in my sphere of existence. I am starting to make a list of things which I could definitely do without and, at the risk of upsetting people with different views, I have decided to share it with you.

I will undoubtedly add to it in the course of the next few days or weeks; so if you keep popping back you can get more and more annoyed at me. Hence the last item. Anyway, here we go. Things I would rather do without:

Entropy
Speed limits, speed cameras and speed bumps
Dogs
Caravans
Tents
Impotence
Soaps on TV or radio
Reality shows
Strictly Come Dancing
Silly sponsored events
Fun for all the family
Coathangers
Opera
Allergies
Cyclists wearing Lycra of any kind
Airports
Queues
Activists
Computer problems
Humourless advertising
Punctuation and spelling errors on signs
Unnecessary road closures
Ticket barriers
Righteous indignation
Hold-ups on the M25
Lemon curd
Liver and kidneys (to eat, that is)

There are undoubtedly more. Now here’s a list of things you could all do without, and probably will in the not too distant future:

Tim Lenton

Now that I am 70 I shall not wear purple, partly because I am not a bishop. Not yet, anyway.

However, I feel that as a first step I am now permitted to move diagonally and am hoping that this will make a significant difference to my life.

There are certain restrictions in moving diagonally, of course, in that you have to stay on the same colour squares. This does not worry me. I know my squares, and they know me.  But I shall be able to sweep backwards and forwards from one corner of the board to another, and I am excited about that, while slightly concerned about speed cameras.

While staying on squares of one colour, I shall of course pass very close to squares (not to mention horses) of a different colour, and I am hoping this will be an exhilarating experience. Blue days, black knights, for instance.

I would however like to take the opportunity to confess that I have been using drugs, and this has made quite a difference to my performance in the last few years. At one point (in hospital) I was using morphine, but I came off this after I had a nightmare in which I found myself in King’s Lynn. Now I stick to occasional paracetamol, with a dash of perindopril and amlodipine when I need them. Which, my doctor tells me, is every morning.

Obviously I cannot tell you everything, but I do take something else as well. If I reach 80, I may have to confess what it is. Some people feel that I should have random drug tests, but I am resisting this, as I believe it may affect my poetry, and this would not necessarily be a good thing.

My diagonal travels will take me from left to right and vice versa, and I am hoping this will not confuse people too much, as I have already spent time on both sides of the board, often simultaneously, though this is difficult. Some people find it impossible. Some people find me impossible, but that is a different matter.

Anyway, I shall continue to play the game and try hard to concentrate. Please tap me on the shoulder if I drift off.

Some say the Church of England lacks mystery, and that compared with religions like Buddhism, it seems much too straightforward.

The first thing to say in response to such allegations, of course, is that the Church of England is not a religion. It is an organisation designed to promote faith. You may say it is designed rather badly for this purpose, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

Recently, however, I became involved in the welcoming of a new vicar to our parish, and I became even more aware than usual that the Church of England is much more mysterious than the casual observer might think.

Evidence: we were welcoming a vicar, but we didn’t say that. No, he was being instituted and inducted. These are hard words to remember. When explaining what was happening in the days beforehand I kept catching myself saying that he was being installed or even, occasionally, committed or enthroned.

Technically – and there is a lot of technical stuff in the Church of England – he was instituted by the Bishop, who is Right Reverend, and inducted by the Archdeacon, who is merely Venerable. I say “merely”, but I may be doing her a disservice. I don’t know.

She has the power to place the incumbent in his stall. I am not making this up: this happened towards the end of the service. It was called a stall, but it looked more like a chair to me.

Who is the incumbent? I hear you ask. It is the vicar again, and he is actually the incumbent of the benefice. At the same time he is the parish priest, though not a rector. If it were a self-supporting church, he would be a rector, but as it is supported by the diocese, he is a vicar. I hope you’re following this.

I suppose I should mention the episcopal seal and the Oath of Canonical Obedience. The former is an endangered species often seen off the North Norfolk coast, and the latter is what you say when faced with superior firepower.

That may not be quite right, but you get the idea. In the Church of England it doesn’t matter if you don’t know exactly what’s happening as long as you’re prepared to go along with it. This tends to attract the right kind of people.

Efficiency and productivity in my business have never been very strong – mainly because I don’t have a business. This has not deterred one company, through the magic of the Internet, from suggesting a better way of managing my vehicles.

It kind of assumes that these vehicles are driven by my employees. Sadly I do not employ anyone either, but this does not seem to have been a factor in their calculations.

Apparently I need vehicle trackers – small devices that enable me to know where my vehicles are at all times. I already have an app that tells me where my wife is, but of course, as I live in Norfolk, this hardly ever works.

But let us leave aside the problem of whether vehicle trackers would function properly in Norfolk and ask how vehicle trackers might affect the morale of my employees.

Apparently, they will enable me to “specifically target those who waste fuel and speed”. Great. Now my employees will not only have to worry about so-called “safety” cameras, they will also have me snooping on them from a distance – and not even painted yellow.

They will also have to concern themselves with how much fuel they’re using – which means that as well as trying to drive safely, they have to carry out complex calculations involving schedules, speed and optimal fuel usage.

The vehicle tracking company also tells me that I will be able to keep pin down “unauthorised use of breaks and overtime”. So my drivers must also factor in how long they can afford to spend in the loo or purchasing a Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I can’t help feeling that, despite the stated advantages of vehicle tracking (less paperwork, fewer breakdowns are two suggestions), my employees would get so depressed at my interference that they would be functioning well below their best and quickly be looking for another, less cutting-edge company to work for.

Employees are not parts of a machine. They work best when the employer trusts what they are doing and allows them to get on with it. Still, I have no doubt that company vehicle tracking will catch on. It’s the kind of thing that’s irresistible to bad managers, and there are plenty of them around.

Happily, I don’t have to worry. I have no employees. I have a wife, but I don’t know where she is.

Today we complete our publication of the revealing Houseago Diaries, only recently unearthed and restored from oblivion. Throwing what one academic has described as “light” on the critical years when Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago fought almost singlehandedly against a consortium of great crested newts and other sinister threats to the Norfolk way of life, they end tantalisingly with the word “Hindolveston”. Scholars are even now researching the meaning of this word, and the reason the diaries cease so abruptly. Some have suggested that it refers to a long-forgotten Norfolk village, but this seems far-fetched. Others hint that Houseago may have stumbled on a secret so iconoclastic in its implications that he had to be eliminated. Rest assured that any further discoveries will be published on this site. 

June 15, 1998

Concerned to read that pressure groups are proliferating in central Norfolk: WeB2 (We’re Boring Too) and BOOOM (Bored Out Of Our Minds) have just been formed to promote high boredom factor of Norfolk towns, which most people find relaxing. Commendable in its way, but would prefer it if people joined fight against newts. Need to get priorities right.

June 24, 1998

Scheinlich came round last night, and we developed some new computer software.

June 26, 1998

Decided to call new software Houseago 99. Kicked Scheinlich off project because he is too interested in Hingham. Also wanted software to be called Scheinlich/Houseago 99, which is obviously ridiculous. Who would buy something called Scheinlich/Houseago 99? Obviously many blips in software, but will sell it first, then repair it, if can find bits.

June 27, 1998

Told EDP new software “would make Windows 98 look like chestnut bunting”. Cunning reference to bird which landed up in Salthouse while travelling from South-East Asia to Siberia, which seems easy mistake to make. Probably planned journey on Internet. But of course Houseago software knows where it’s going. Big advantage is it cannot be used by great crested newts under any circumstances. Idiot on paper asked if software had web browser. Told him was not interested in spiders, but software probably had bugs.

July 6, 1998

Heard that group of journalists was planning walk over Halvergate marshes; so dropped them note warning of great crested newt activity in the area. Going on general principles really. If there are marshes, there must be newts. Will work that into book, when I start it again. Felt sure I saw Dorothea going into Travelodge near Norwich, but no sign of Hardy. Perhaps he was inside. Beginning to get very annoying.

July 25, 1998

No inquiries yet for Houseago 99, suprisingly. Probably good thing, because only have two copies.

July 26, 1998

Disaster. Newts have persuaded environment minister Angela Eagle that their homes are under threat. Never heard such nonsense. Have done personal census of newt homes (ie ponds), and there are just as many as ever. Told EDP: “There is something fishy about this. I know for a fact there are the same number of ponds now as there were in 1990. And these newts are expanding all over the place.” Not impressed by information that research was carried out by something called Pond Life. Obviously biased, like most research. Said frogbit also threatened, whatever that is. Pointed out: “Frogbit is either a cross between a frog and a rabbit, which means it will take over the country in a fortnight, or possibly something eaten in France, in which case it doesn’t matter.” Researchers always trying to cloud issue. You have to watch them.

August 8, 1998

Melton Constable was getting a bit samey, so have moved to friend’s house at Norton Subcourse, which is even quieter. Don’t care what Dorothea is doing with Len “Kissme” Hardy, alleged wholefood chef of Hindolveston. She doesn’t know when she is well off.

August 9, 1998

Made strong protest at foolish move by Eastern Electricity to turn sub-stations into wildlife havens. Well know that newts want power, and this is just asking for trouble. Company seems to be welcoming them with open arms – outrageous. Told reporter it would not be long before smooth newts began cold-calling and offering cheaper electricity. Added: “They want absolute power.”

Dorothea, who was on rare visit, having tracked me down at Norton Subcourse, said this wasn’t funny. Would have thought anything was funny after Hindolveston. Wherever that is.

August 23, 1998

At last Dorothea has seen which side her bread is buttered. Following a suggestion of hers, have made scientific breakthrough. We have formed company to market wonder drug which will make Viagra look like – well, like chestnut bunting. We have called drug Goodo, after Dorothea (Goodchild). Have announced that we will be making it available for fee which will have to take into account difficulty of obtaining vital elements, which include samphire, various E-numbers and substance derived from great crested newts. Possibly blood. Has so many advantages. Dorothea over moon, or even higher. Hardy out of picture.

September 6, 1998

Excellent fortnight came to an end with inquiry from EDP about what they claim is my “long engagement” to Dorothea. Apparently a reader had asked whether parental disapproval had held us back. Absurd. Told reporter to make something up in reply. Added that engagement was not long at all, and I would not marry until great crested newt menace eradicated from Norfolk.

September 7, 1998

See from paper that Dorothea described my remark as “typical”. Wonder if she is serious about newts. No need for her to speak to newspaper at all. Should be tight-lipped. But they didn’t mention Hindolveston.