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That’s Nice: a very special gin

Laurel Lindström 1 Comment

I’m off the booze at the moment, but still half a bottle of gin tempts me. It lurks in the cupboard daring me to fancy alcohol again. And I will, but not yet. Instead I’ll write about That’s Nice, the special bottle of gin that keeps calling to me. It’s home made you see.

A dear friend organised a gin making workshop for us late last year. It’s a thing these days, a byproduct of the fad for boutique gins and beers. High ticket workshops are a revenue generator and there’s also the chance of additional sales to a captive audience. In our workshop at the Greensand Ridge Distillery near Tonbridge in Kent, there were four people and only one of us (me of course) shelled out for additional booze. The apple brandy tasted amazing at the time, but that was probably the juniper effect.

To make gin, you start of with 400 ml of duty paid grain alcohol, 600 ml of water and botanicals. At our workshop we selected from a rather tired looking array of possibilities stored in large mason jars on shelves. We could choose from such additions as hops, but the ones on display were from the last millenium. Fortunately my hop-growing friend had brought her own. Other possibilities were aniseed, peppers, mint, juniper berries, antediluvial chocolate chips, coriander seeds, lemon, lime and orange peels and many more for adding to the grain alcohol. Ideally all the ingredients should be fresh and of the best quality, but you probably wouldn’t notice if they were not. Gin for its fans, is very seductive especially if you have made it yourself, so who would notice if the lime peel’s a bit tired?

Bottles of Greensand Ridge Distillery gin displayed against a textured background with the distillery's logo.

You boil 400ml of ethanol in a little munchkin sized still with the botanicals added in carefully measured proportions. We chose lemon peel, lime peel, fresh hops, juniper, pink peppercorns, coriander, cubeb (a type of pepper), angelica and liquorice root. You’re essentially redistilling the grain alcohol with the selected flavourings, so how much of each you add is important for the end result. And botantical quantities are an important trade secret. Naturally I forgot to write down our proportions, but we were juniper berry heavy as I remember.

In years gone by, gin was a mixture rather than a distillation of grain alcohol and botanicals. Mixtures were probably tasty but would’ve lacked subtlety and depth. The method we used in the workshop was redistillation (hence the name distilled gin) rather than mixing. We wanted our gin to be juniper heavy because we wanted something that tasted of gin and not just our own personal magic, which might’ve been yuck. We definitely did not want something that smacked of tinned fruit cocktail on the turn. 

The booze boils in its little receptable and a condensing unit slowly shifts the steam into another container. The condensing unit is kept cool with the addition of water to its external surface. This is important because if you let the temperature or the pressure get too high, you risk botanical collapse which potentially creates harmful stuff out of the oils as they break down. This you do not want, so you have to go slow.

As the alcohol (75% proof) and the added botanicals boil, the steam rises and condenses into the main body of the still, from which you sample the booze from time to time. You can buy the little stills which are made by Al Ambiq and are available for beer as well as gin making. The still isn’t so much the challenge as getting the ethanol is as it’s controlled, but you can still buy it.

Once all the alcohol has wended its way through the condenser, the next step is to water it down with pure water so as not to mess up the flavours. You also have to keep tasting it to be sure it tastes as you want it, as if it might not. And you measure the alcohol content and add water until it’s at am acceptable level. We stopped adding water at around 45% proof. Actually that’s a distraction. You add water until the volume is no more than 400ml. This is the cut-off point. Duty apparently has to be paid on alcohol volumes of more than 400ml. Our host had already paid duty for the original ethanol, so no sense in running the risk of a double charge.

We had a lovely time tasting our gin, having previously been sipping at what was supposed to be a tonic and ice mix, with added berries and bay leaves. But it left us slightly warm and a little giggly and wondering when and where we would be having our lunch. Having slowly driven away from Greensand Ridge, we found a farm gate off of a quiet lane which we duly blocked. Sitting silent and content with our sandwiches, we understood that there is nothing quite like the scent of juniper on the breath of a Saturday morning. 

PS If you want to know how gin is made in oceanic quantities, check this out: https://www.bostonapothecary.com/distillery-practice-gin/

Hip op post chirurghiam (what a lovely word) or Life after total hip replacement

Laurel Lindström 4 Comments

It’s week five following total hip replacement surgery and no one told me how much it would still hurt. That said I’ve ditched the crutches and the painkillers and am doing my utmost to be normal instead of drifting about like an invalid. Why should that matter to you? Good point. If you’re in line for this operation, be warned. If not, be sympathetic and send me more chocolates.

The other thing I’ve learned thanks to the hip thing is the value of a functioning health service. The UK’s National Health Service (NHS) has been fantastic, from start to finish in this process. I’ve even got an appointment to check out a dodgy knee to see how its coping with the strain. Free crutches, free medication, free physio, world leading surgical competence. We don’t know how lucky we are, so thank you NHS.

And if you think you might be in line for a new hip, don’t leave it too long before you do something about it. Get yourself on the list as soon as possible, because leaving it leads to pain, misery and depression. I knew I should get something done about my hip when we were tackling the steps and alleyways of Hydra some three years ago. Lying flat and stretching out the stiffness caused a noisy crackling in the hip and it felt easier, so I thought it was fine. Big mistake. All that happened was that I didn’t notice the pain as much. By the time it was clear that the joint was knackered, I had to wait several agonising months for an appointment for surgery. Those months were grim and characterised by bad-temperedness, impatience and a subtle brain signal blocking activies that involved any stress to the hip, which was everything. Think a reluctance to walk anywhere, avoiding hills and trying to not drive. Pathetic.

Until about six weeks before the surgeon let loose with saw, hammer and drill I was still riding. But finally the leg swing had swung its last so I had to stop. I did keep up with the weight and strength training as much as possible, right to the day before and this was definitely a good move. The recovery exercises and the process of working the new hip and leg bone has been much easier because of core and leg strength.

It’s going to take a while before my confidence comes back. This is another legacy of having left it too long. All those unnecessary months of pain have left me anxious and nervous, with a brain that says, ooh no, don’t do that, ask Paul to help. This is so annoying because it implies some sort of weird change in my character. And it makes me lazy about appreciating the incredible support Paul has given me, from looking after the animals to being patient with my irritability and bossiness. The sense that my character is somehow changing is reinforced by an almost total lack of appetite. Even chocolate is being chomped in way less quantities than before and I haven’t had an alcoholic beverage since New Year’s Eve. Perhaps that isn’t so bad. 

Maybe the other benefits will soon make themselves felt: no stabbing needles jabbing into the hip bone, no solid aching pain reaching all the way to the ankle joint, no need to lift by hand the dodgy leg to get into bed or car, or onto the sofa. And being able to dance wild and crazy again without the risk of falling over! Soon.

This is a bit of a rant, but I guess one that was much needed. Thanks for reading.

A Christmas message

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

I It’s Christmastime and here we are

Each alone and yet in shared space

We’re secret and shared, random, but gathered in

We watch as one sips wine or waves across the room

We see another pick stray hairs from a dear one’s shoulder

We wonder at their constance, what they love and hold dear

We think of late night trains and sunken lanes in darkness still

And we know we don’t stand alone.

II It’s Christmastime and here we are 

Sharing spaces, affirmations, discourse and shapes

We are the passion, the remembered yet unspoken lusts

We watch for unknown moments, desires and secrets, none quite the same

We see memories lost in eyes at once remembered, that may never have been

We wonder at friends, at skies rent with lightning, at moments of awe

We think of instruments whispering somewhere far away

Pound’s petals on a wet, black bough

III It’s Christmastime and here we are 

Beyond our walls, new connections, the spit and echoes of ancient stories

We are each others’ lost memories quick silver dulled

We watch and set the lenses straight for what we’ve found

We see beyond the blah blah getting in the way 

We wonder at common memories, yet yearn for what’s missing

We think can we embrace unseen shadows, and then we do

A whistle’s echo hovers, and flutters leaves on the branches

IV It’s Christmastime and here we are 

We tell our stories of connections, of being kind, of patience with fools

We’re the keepers of tales, of the how, the who, of what we love 

We hear of families, horses and hounds, kittens, goldfish, the books, the music, all the others 

We listen to sounding angers, loss, the chaos of joy, calamity’s descent

We catch each others’ sounds and see and we are present

We hear harmonies, coherence conjoined

And how we come together is mysterious and wonderful

And as you are mine I am yours, we are ours

We are companions all, in these our endless moments.

© Laurel Lindstrom 2025

Eddie, see you soon

Laurel Lindström 3 Comments

That sounds like we’re about to meet up. We’re not as far as I know, and yet I’m sure I’ll see Eddie in moments yet to come.

Somehow it’s easier to write a eulogy for someone you didn’t know very well (Geoff Gudgion), than it is for someone you did. Even if you didn’t really know him all that well or see him regularly. Following a fierce battle with Alzheimer’s and cancer, our dear friend Eddie Orf has gone. Eddie leaves brothers, sons, grandchildren, his wife, Debbie, plus countless others who knew and loved him. Debbie nursed him with profound dedication and love, right up until the moment when neither love nor dedication could make any difference. And then beyond.

We met Eddie at the Stationers’ Hall in London in March 2014. It was an ISO committee event to celebrate some committee member’s retirement. Eddie was wearing a dark green wooly jumper and had a look in his eye that was at once appraising of the august surroundings and making a shrewd observation of the people. These were all people he didn’t know: Debbie’s work colleagues, me, Paul and various anonymous hangers on. He was in a seriously posh location surrounded by conversations at once impenetrable and irrelevant to him. And yet he had an air of authority, of cool, like he was the one in control and that he was only there to make sure the event went as planned. He brought that air of quiet dignity to everything he did, calm, even tempered, kind and empathetic. And always so very generous with his gentle spirit.

It’s been over 11 years since that first meeting when we four hung out at our respective flats, somewhere in Canary Wharf. Back then posh unsold flats were the cheapest place to stay in that part of town. The developers couldn’t sell the places and wisely rented them out. You could get a luxuriously appointed two bedroomed flat for a week for the same price as one night in a local hotel. The rest of the US delegation stayed in some dogbox in Beckenham or in overpriced Marriots on the other side of town. For Eddie the oddness of the accommodation was just something to take in stride. He did the same a couple of years ago when he and Debbie once again stayed in London. By then the Alzheimer’s was kicking in so Eddie carried a card from the hotel whenever he went out to conquer the city. He could be anywhere, but he understood that all he had to do was hand a taxi driver the card and ask them to take him home. He and Debbie stayed with us for a few days before they went up to town and it was clear that the memory thing was heading downhill. We just had no idea how quickly it was going. Or perhaps we did but preferred to pretend it wasn’t so bad.

A couple of years after that first meeting we spent a week in Italy with Debbie and Ed, somewhere in the vacinity of Bologna. Eddie wanted to see where his Italian forebears had come from. No one was very sure if they had come from somewhere in the vacinity of Bologna or not, but they were Italian so they might have done. It rained pretty much every day and we cooked together, drank together and took long and winding excursions to places like Modena and maybe Vignola. We went to a Lambrusco winery and brought home a case of the stuff convinced that it was wonderful. It was wonderful in the winery, but it was less wonderful out of the winery. Why do things go that way? The next day, a Thursday, Paul and Eddie ventured out into the rain in search of comestibles. Wisely Debbie and I stayed indoors. Over the course of the afternoon we polished off most of the Lambrusco, along with a more than ample tray of olives and bread and Parmesan. She and I had long talked of doing this, but had expected to be quaffing and nibbling on a terrace overlooking exotic foliage and sundrenched views. We drank our fizzy red wine and ate our tidbits in front of a roaring fire instead, listening to the rain and rising winds. We had prepared the fire, food and wine to share with our men who had gone out for what we all expected was a brief excursion, but they did not return until it was almost dark. Eddie and Paul on the loose and roaming the wide and hilly bounds of Emilia Romagna. In the rain. Not a word of Italian between them. And really not much of idea where they were. And the temptation of village bars and bakeries. What could possibly go wrong?

As it turned out the thing that went wrong was the fact that it was a Thursday. All the local shops had agreed amongst themselves to shut on Thursday afternoons, because it was high season and there were so very many tourists. They were tired you see, so needed that extra bit of time off. I cannot remember – thank you Lambrusco – how cross our returning men were that we had eaten most of the food and drunk most of the wine. This was probably especially tricky because all the shops for miles around had been shut. But Lambrusco or no, I am sure Eddie just smiled and suggested we talk about where to go on Friday. He wanted to go and look at the Mediterranean which he had never seen. This we did a few days later, once we had recovered from the trials of Thursday. Instead we went in search of a restaurant for a special Friday night dinner. We ventured out into the wet and booked a place that we’d passed many times and that looked promising. The views across the towered valley were spectacular and the car park was always full.

But the man at the desk, rather oddly we thought, was reluctant to give us a reservation without a lot of chat none of which any of us could follow. Not even Eddie who was Italian. Fair enough he didn’t speak Italian, but the rest of us were hoping there might have been some sort of inherited, genetic, memory. But no. Eventually the man at the desk stopped explaining whatever it was that was so important and sighed a big sigh. He took the reservation only after his colleague had explained to us the incomprehensible caveat of Tutti Fritti. Si we said, clueless. We thought the explanation might be something to do with Fridays (and yes fritti Fridays was a thing). We trundled home happy that we had a slap up meal to look forward to that evening.

And we did have a slap up meal, a slap up meal that consisted of about eight courses, all of which were fried dishes. All of them. Deep Fried dishes, even the dessert. Fritti. This was actually the Italy Eddie had wanted to see, particularly the copious quantities of wine they included with all the Fritti. We too appreciated the wine, as it had just the right amount of bite to cut through the relentless Fritti grease. It’s quite a thing to have a slap up meal with eight courses that all taste basically the same. It’s traditional apparently. Once we recovered from the short and twisty drive home we were feeling content but still slightly sick; I think we all slept well that night. But that might have been the night Debbie and Eddie hit the Grappa, and maybe didn’t expect to sleep well until it was all gone.

Then came the next excursion, when after two hours slog in the rain negotiating many complicated and dangerous bends we could finally show Eddie the Mediterranean. We passed Lucca and for some reason made for Viareggio, south of La Spezia, probably because the road to it followed the coast. You see there wasn’t much of a plan. Paul made straight for the water under a persistent rain with Eddie not moving to follow. He quite sensibly pointed out that the weather wasn’t really right for sea swimming. So we watched Paul brave the waves and scurry shivering back to us and then we headed back towards wherever it was we were staying, stopping for food and wine on the way. 

This is just one little snapshot of time spent with Eddie, time spent with a man whose kindness and gentleness cannot be compared. There are many more and the reminders are frequent, those moments that don’t end and that happen when you least expect it. Eddie was Paul’s best friend and the four of us became solid, unbreachable, forever friends. And now Eddie’s gone and the gap is colossal and as unsurmountable as the walls of our friendship. Time and disease have stolen one of the world’s bestest people. Eddie leaves a massive gap in the lives of his friends and family. But he also leaves a light of goodness and joy that won’t ever go out and for this we thank him. I am honoured to have known the man and cherish the hours we spent in his company. And I’ll cherish forever the last thing he said to me a couple of months before he died: “I don’t know who you are darlin’, but I do know that I love you”. Love you back Ed.

A thoughtful man with gray hair and glasses, resting his chin on his hand, appears deep in contemplation in an outdoor setting with brick architecture in the background.

The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde at the Noël Coward Theatre in London – a review

Laurel Lindström 2 Comments

Oscar would’ve loved it! And we did too. Having seen or read this play so very many times, I expected to enjoy it, but not to be in absolute hysterics throughout. Max Webster’s direction and the incredible cast delivered a performance that for me is unmatched. Wilde’s tale of entangled double lives, money, desire and connivance was delivered in extravagant and raunchy style. All levels of this story, at once superficial and profound, were explored and the result was a mad and earthy delight.

I loved the boldness of the direction and acting, which have usurped my previous favourite version. This was the 1993 staging at the Aldwych, when Maggie Smith delivered the handbag line with such mild, quizzical disbelief, almost a sympathetic whisper. And her pronunciation of “profile” as “profeel” and her slight hesitation over the line ‘he is an … Oxonian’. Such undertones!

There were very few unexplored undertones in the energetic burlesque at the Noël Coward. The play was explicit in every dimension from Stephen Fry’s Lady Bracknell’s shrieking of the handbag line, through to Kitty Hawthorne’s Gwendoline’s lust filled gestures and delivery.

What made this such an outstanding rendition of an already funny play? Wilde called this, his last of four so-called drawing room plays, ‘A Trivial Comedy for Serious People’. And on the page you can find all sorts of seriousness: being sexually frustrated, broke, poor, unloved. There’s old age and loneliness, guilt, deception, and hypocrisy. On stage such frailties make us laugh, but rarely do we see or laught at explicit sexual frustration and ambivalence. Until now. 

It is the outstanding Kitty Hawthorne playing Gwendolen Fairfax who sets this tone from the start. She almost, but not quite, steals the show. At once bossy and demanding and charming – how she manages this I have no idea – you at once dread what she’ll say and do next and eagerly anticipate it’s impact on her fellow players. Sometimes she’s growling and lascivious and sometimes prim and bossy. Priceless. Coming hot on Kitty Hawthorne’s heels is Hayley Carmichael’s Merriman/Lane performance. This too almost, but not quite, upstaged the rest of the cast. Her Lane was at once aloof, nonchalant and disrespectful, and her confused and slightly demented Merriman has surely never exhibited such enormous personality. Hysterical and transfixing.

Back to Kitty Hawthorne, played loud and determined, her Gwendolen is the perfect harbinger of her older self (yes, like her mother Lady Bracknell). She’s determined to have a man called Earnest, and Jack is the perfect choice: she’s fallen in love on hearsay, with an idea, with a suitable candidate she has decided will meet her needs. That he’s a liar and broke is irrelevant. She wants Algernon Moncrieff even more once she lays eyes on him. Her frantic use of a fan to cool her face and thighs as she nearly snarled the lines that the name Earnest ‘produces vibrations’ and ‘I am fully determined to accept you’ brought the joyous tears streaming.

Wilde and sex have always been equated on his personal level, but not so much in his plays. But in this performance sex is as important as earnestness; maybe it is earnestness. It’s wonderful to see Wilde’s work taken out of the society comedy box and put on as portrayal of how people might actually feel about one another. The only gripe I have with the presentation of sexuality is the few lesbian interactions in the stage direction. There is no need to show us Cecily and Gwendoline licking at one another – it’s already there in the lines: ‘I already like you more than I can say’ et al. The incidences of gratuitous lesbian posturing were a completely unnecessary distraction that went absolutely nowhere. They can be done without.

I have always wondered why it is that the two young women in this play are often played as much the same character, when on the page they are immensely different. Jessica Whitehurst’s Cecily Cardew is spoilt, loud and clear and not just a bit of ballast for the plot. She’s naughty and wayward and Whitehurst brings a wonderful unpredictability to the role. Jessica Whitehurst gives us a Cecily Cardew of a much more distinct character. She’s also sexually ambitious, holding onto Algernon tight and leering at him when other characters are speaking. So funny.

Olly Alexander is, for me at least, an unexpected delight as Algernon Moncrieff. He balances campy skittishness with almost drooling desire to perfection. Nathan Stewart-Jarrett’s Jack Worthing brings a bizarre underlying neurosis to the part, alternatively wanting to be in control and stressing at the tension of it all. Stephen Fry is nothing short of monumental as Lady Bracknell. Tightly upholstered she is hugely present, without conquering all before her. Everyone gets to shine and each player really does own it: Shobna Gulati’s Miss Prism and Hugh Dennis as Reverend Canon Chasuble create a subplay all their own. Another rendition the sex theme, this time for older people, is visible in their understated mutual attraction. Their interactions are devoid of anything like carnality or lust. But they are touchingly infused with longing and tenderness and the hint that such feelings are probably a first for both of them. 

Both the play’s opening prologue scene and the closing one were musical performances involving lots of noise, dancing and the whole cast. Drastically different, they provided an introduction the players and then gave the audience an utterly wild and unconventional encore. Everyone was dressed as a giant lily or suchlike, the diameters of which varied with the scope of the actors’ parts. The spectacular costumes for the finale echoed the joyful vibrancy, timeliness and currency of both the performance and Wilde’s play. His words resonate still as do his perceptive insights for his own and our own times. His understanding of our frailties, our vanities, wants and desires is as astute today as when the original production was staged in February 1895. Director Max Webster told The Stage magazine last October that he wants to make work that “speaks to as many people as possible”. At the intimate Noël Coward Theatre, the perfect venue for this most perfect of plays, he has succeeded admirably. 

Additions for the Newfie medical dictionary

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

Homebrew Talk, a website for home brewers based in Newfoundland has put together a very funny list of alternative medical terms. You can find the list here: Newfie medical dictionary

I’ve got a few additions for it. I hope they make you smile.

aspirin……………………………………………………………. ambitious

bandage …………………………………………………………  to do with musicians

catarrh……………………………………………………………. country in the middle east

coccyx…………………………………………………………….. the cock before cock seven

disease…………………………………………………………… this ain’t hard

electrocardiogram………………………………………… exciting message on a jumper

enzyme…………………………………………………………… the one before ozyme

femur……………………………………………………………… pay more

forceps…………………………………………………………… two sets of biceps

general practitioner……………………………………… march in uniform with medals

herpes…………………………………………………………….. not his peas

incontinent……………………………………………………. worldwide traveller

infectious………………………………………………………. factually correct

inpatient………………………………………………………… not inclined to wait

intrapartum…………………………………………………… between festivities

jockstrap……………………………………………………….. device for catching sporty men

ketones………………………………………………………….. best notes in a song

laxatives…………………………………………………………. lazy relations

lesion……………………………………………………………… 3000 – 6000 Roman soldiers

lobotomy……………………………………………………….. low slung bum

lupus………………………………………………………………. cat’s litter tray

measles………………………………………………………….. not all about you

menopause……………………………………………………. taking a relationship break

node……………………………………………………………….. kind of poem

oestrogen………………………………………………………. he’s wanking

pessaries………………………………………………………… people who eat fish

placenta…………………………………………………………. Italian for calm down

platelets…………………………………………………………. saucers

physical………………………………………………………….. carbonated

pneumonia…………………………………………………….. the latest monia trend

polio……………………………………………………………….. poor lion

prostate…………………………………………………………. in favour of the system

pulmonary…………………………………………………….. posh train carriage

retrovirus………………………………………………………. vintage ’flu

scalpel……………………………………………………………. going bald (thank you Debbie)

semen…………………………………………………………….. sailors

surgery…………………………………………………………… Russion youth hostel

sutures…………………………………………………………… looks nice on yous

syndrome………………………………………………………. place of vice

syringe……………………………………………………………. Lady Ringe’s partner

testicle……………………………………………………………. a littlr exam

ultrasound…………………………………………………….. really healthy

vas deferens………………………………………………….. what’s changed?

vein…………………………………………………………………. not humble

vulva………………………………………………………………. Swedish car

Apologies for absence

Laurel Lindström 1 Comment

We’ve lost a wonderful colleague and friend, the author Geoff Gudgion. He was lost to a devastating disease that took a mere few weeks to claim him. So how do we say we miss you? How do we say we’re so sorry to his family, when we don’t know them? How do we accept that we didn’t really know you Geoff? We are missing you, but only that part of you that you shared with us. 

I can share what we do know and maybe that small sliver reflects Geoff more broadly. Geoff was always impeccably dressed carrying himself and his lovely clothes with a subtle blend of playfulness and dignity. At Authors’ Club events he sometimes looked like he was on his way to a wedding or to meet royalty, such was his bearing and carriage. A published author Geoff wrote ghost stories, historical fantasy, novellas and short stories. His writing world was peppered with the supernatural and fantastic characters like Adelais, his cross-dressing warrior nun. Not the sort of thing I read much, but very popular. Geoff had a solid and reliable market of happy readers and enviable sales.

We met at our publisher’s offices where we had been invited to learn more about something social media related. A sort of workshop it was. Sitting in my first fiction publisher’s office to talk about my first novel, I was so very over excited, so early and so feeling like I was on my way as a fiction writer (I wasn’t). The books lining the publisher’s office walls, the little kitchen area, the serious faces of the people going to and fro, talking is low tones about books and writing. The smell of books and print and the door leading to what were surely hallowed spaces beyond the lobby area. We would soon be part of that sacred space having sacred conversations about writing and the sacred publishing process. It was all so grown up. 

As the minutes oozed slowly by I was watching my hands, even shakier than usual. And in swans Geoff Gudgion. This man so tall, so straight and confident, so in control. I thought he must be something military and later found out that he had been in the Royal Navy for many years. That day when we met, he was wearing a short cut leather jacket and chinos, with seriously smart shoes and bright blue socks. The bright blue was picked up in a navy blue shirt open at the neck and patterned with little dots or were they diamonds? Attractive, smart and elegant, with just a hint of teasing flirtatiousness.

He sat down next to me super cool, urbane. Geoff just as excited as me but without the fidgeting. Geoff was not a debut author, which for me gave him considerable writerly authority. We chatted about how we each came to be with the publisher, what we expected in the workshop, what our books were about. And walking back to the tube he said he’d love to be part of the Authors’ Club. That was the beginning of what might otherwise have been nothing more than a brief moment of shared experience. I am very glad that it wasn’t.

Over the few years since that initial meeting we, along with other Authors’ Club members, met often. Soon Geoff joined the Authors’ Club Executive Committee and took on the Treasurer’s duties. He was supportive of writers as much as readers. Besides doing the financial work superbly, Geoff was an especially committed reader for the Best First Novel Award and he attended pretty much all the Authors’ Club monthly lunches. At our James Bond dinner in 2023 to celebrate Casino Royale’s seventieth birthday, Geoff channelled Bond to perfection. He was immaculate in black tie, complete with white dress scarf. 007 personified Geoff swanned about, martini in hand, working the room and in command.

But these little moments shared at Authors’ Club events were all we really have of the man. The rest of his life belonged to his family and many friends and colleagues. We knew he was his wife’s carer and support. We knew he had a son in Australia who came to visit. We knew he organised a local meet and greet event with thriller writer Frederick Forsyth. We knew he was a keen horseman and we knew of his 17 year old warmblood Elsa’s gifted performance in the dressage arena. (I think it’s Elsa.) He loved telling tales of her misdemeanors and brilliance. Elsa’s apparently got a habit of jumping out of dressage arenas to bog off somewhere more interesting. Telling me about such moments I had the impressionn that Geoff was less cross than thrilled. An unexpected jaunt through the woods is far more interesting than halting at X or cantering a 15 metre circle. Geoff struggled with this because he had one leg longer than the other. A special shoe compensated for this on the ground. But wasn’t much good when he was riding, so he had to sit very straight to stop the circle becoming a spiral. What a strange thing to know about a man.

Geoff was also a keen shot and chef. Annoying pigeons on his front lawn were regularly dispatched, especially when Geoff was expecting people for lunch. To my look of horror at this information, Geoff told me his guests very much enjoyed home made pigeon pie (with home made pigeons) in burgundy gravy, served with mashed potatoes and peas. 

Fragments, little pieces of a life. We have these and the sense that we might have meant something to the man. We might have added a dimension to his world that he valued and enjoyed. He gave us so much of his grace and charm, his wit and insightfulness and his patience. A military man to the end even in such terrible and sudden ill-health. He was charming, stoic, diplomatic and above all kind. I am glad to have shared a small sliver of his world. 

When last we met at the Authors’ Club summer drinks, we chose wine number 007 from the National Liberal Club wine list. It’s Pommery Brut Royale BV Champagne described as “harmonious and never grows tiresome”. Much like Geoff really, a champagne of a man. We and many others will miss you very much.

A man gently holds the reins of a black horse while standing in a stable. The man smiles warmly, wearing a light blue shirt, with a relaxed and friendly demeanor.

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck – a book review

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

Published in 1945, Cannery Row breaks with Steinbeck’s earlier models in that it is a series of sometimes disconnected stories, rather than a cohesive narrative with an obvious story arc. At first glance it appears to be a very dense novel of allegory and tenderness, looking like another story of a dissolute group of men. They’re slightly devious, definitely unreliable  and all of them victims of something: a physically abusive wife, frustrated ambitions, laziness and alcohol. Cannery Row looks like it’s a tale of male friendship and yet it is not. The women have their own cohorts: the women working for Dora the local madam and the middle class busy bodies who try to exert power over the bars and brothel. As with Tortilla Flat the author is showing us an Arthurian allegory, based on life in a particular locale. He presents the bit of Monterey, California where the daily sardine catches are processed and canned in dedicated canning factories. This part of Monterey is long since gone: Cannery Row drifted into redundancy due to overfishing and now it’s a tourist destination.

The Cannery Row of 1943 as John Steinbeck tells it, is home to a group of apparently decadent characters: “the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junkheaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses”. In his novel’s first paragraph John Steinbeck tells us what to expect of his novel. In telling us this, Steinbeck’s opening paragraphs are reminiscent of Shakespeare’s prologues to Romeo and Juliet and Henry V. We’re told the set up.

Steinbeck’s story progresses slowly and he explores his themes through different narratives. Money is a big deal. And death and rebirth. Then there is love and kindness and of course human frailty. In a letter to his friend Carlton A. Sheffield in September 1944 just after Steinbeck had finished Cannery Row, he says he wrote the book with four levels. Tantalisingly he doesn’t say what those levels are, but I think he means as a simple set of stories, as an allegory, as a picture of Cannery Row and as an antedote to war. Despite its creation date (he began the book in 1943), there are no references to World War II at all in Cannery Row. The only military reference is the dawn walk of a pair of soldiers with their girlfriends, welcoming the rising sun: “… and the men lay down and put their heads in the girls’ laps and looked up into their faces. And they smiled at each other, a tired and peaceful and wonderful secret.” Beauty not destruction, even though the men are soldiers.

So what is this short novel about? First of all money. When Mack and the boys embark on an expedition to collect a few hundred frogs that Doc, owner of the marine biology lab, will sell on, they have no money for fuel. Nor do they have a vehicle. They persuade local grocer Lee Chong to let them take his derelict car which he got in return for clearing a groceries debt. The truck doesn’t go and of course it has no fuel. Doc arranges for fuel and the boys fix the truck up well enough to get to the place where there are lots of frogs. Except the truck’s frailties are such that it can only get up hills, if it is in reverse. After several mishaps, including one of the boys ending up in jail, they have their frogs. They return triumphant to Cannery Row and throw a party for Doc in his lab. Doc arrives home long after his party is over, his lab trashed and the frogs escaped to local culverts, ponds and streams. But in between the boys arriving home triumphant with their frogs and the ill-fated party, the frogs have become a trading currency in the neighbourhood. No winners where financial greed is concerned. The boys throw another party for Doc and this one he does make and enjoy, despite the second party ending up much like the first.

And then there’s death. No Steinbeck story would be complete without a violent death. In Cannery Row it comes early with the suicide of a local man indebted to Lee Chong. By handing over an abandoned building he owns in Cannery Row before blowing his brains out, the man settles his debt to the grocer. The boys suggest that the building is in need of protection from vandals and fire, so they should stay there for a nominal rent. This is never paid, but the boys move in and turn the old fishmeal store into a home they call the Palace Flophouse. Death and rebirth.

A little glimpse into the life of a gopher flips this around. A whole chapter is dedicated to a gopher, sleek and handsome and in the prime of life. He diligently builds a home for his mate who never materialises, even though his burrow “was a place where he could settle down and raise any number of families and the burrow could increase in all directions”. Eventually he gives up, abandons his lofty palace and moves to a nearby garden known for putting out lethal gopher traps. Death finds us all. Doc exploring Pacific tide pools discovers the body of a lovely young woman “wedged between two rocks”. He chooses to not claim the bounty: “will you report it? I’m not feeling well,” he tells another man on the beach.

Love and kindness are common themes in the work of John Steinbeck and in Cannery Row it’s part of almost every subplot. Lee Chong is generous and patient with people he knows are out to rip him off or steal from him. When he’s persuaded to lend the Mack and the boys his truck: “Lee was worried but couldn’t see any way out. The dangers were there and Lee knew all of them. ‘Okay, ’ said Lee”. Doc’s endless patience with the boys even though he knows there’s an agenda somewhere. Between shifts, the women of the Bear Flag brothel take soup out to local people ill with the ’flu. Despite the exhuberant trashing of his lab, Doc helps cure Mack’s puppy of distemper. Having noticed that he only has a grubby blanket for his bed, the whores sew a quilt for Doc’s birthday. The cruelties in the book, such as the likely fate of Frankie, a mentally frail young boy, are necessary counterpoints to these and many other expressions of love.

Human frailty and agency in all their manifestations permeate Steinbeck’s work and especially Cannery Row. Every decision we make or avoid has consequences, from drinking too much to not drinking enough. In Cannery Row, everyone’s choices are resolved one way or another, from Lee Chong’s greed and willingness to accept frogs as money, through to Frankie’s theft of a $50 clock and subsequent arrest. 

In less than 40,000 words of dazzling prose there is all this and much more. Cannery Row is short but it’s extremely dense, and that’s the novel’s power. Brevity masks the hugeness of story telling that makes Cannery Row an intensely powerful novel, both in its own time and for our own.

Too lazy to work out how to email you

Laurel Lindström 1 Comment

It’s beyond my patience threshold to work out how to email subscribers to a WordPress site. But WordPress subscribers get an automatic email when you post a blog which is great. So instead of only subscribers getting this news, everyone will. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

The news is that I have managed to sell, yes sell for actual money (not much), a piece of narrative fiction/travel writing! It’s here: https://theglobalvoyagers.com/destination-insights/hydra-greek-islands/laurellindstrom/hydra-small-island-big-impressions/ I hope you enjoy the article and support the site.

Enjoy!

-Laurel.

Why you should go see ABBA Voyage

Laurel Lindström Leave a comment

Actually there is no reason to see it at all if you don’t want to. But as a passionate fan I simply had to and I shall go again. It’s strange because I completely ignored ABBA in the 1970s and 1980s and then embraced them wholeheartedly when our daughter was about 4. She was superkeen on one of the ABBA songs covered by a now forgotten band, A-Teens. Another bunch of Swedes? Can’t remember which song, but we gave her ABBA Gold for Christmas and there was no turning back.

So I came to this show, way out in the middle of London nowhere with high expectations of having a fantastic time. And I did, but there was plenty of unexpected too, like the lack of places to eat and drink, bar one, outside the venue. Superkeen you rush off the DLR at Pudding Mill Lane station wanting wine and a wee in almost equal measure, and there is the stunning ABBA Arena massive, black with ABBA in huge bright multicolour letters. But opposite the arena is only a miserable looking bar, dark and uninviting, squatting sullen and sour behind a low picket fence that would do a vampire residence proud. Who know what happens in the shadows behind it, so of course you don’t go in. 

Instead you head quick fast to clear the highly efficient airporty security controls into the arena’s lobby. This huge expanse of reception space also is airport like, but lacks the usual food and drink outlets. It’s an expanse of vaulted wood with coloured lights on the beams matching the external arena sign. It’s reminiscent of super cool mountain lodge, except it’s clever interior design is shaped to accommodate many, many people, and it was heaving on a Wednesday night. The four colours of the themed lights glow everywhere in the arena, on the outside sign, across the ceilings of the lobby, on the arena’s ceiling and even in the avatars’ costumes. Colour coordination all over the place, but the outside lobby still feels airporty.

Instead of the branded food outlets you get in an airport, at the ABBA Arena you get a repeated array of food and drink stations. They’re all branded yellow and black and serve limited selections, all part of the venue’s lowest common denomoninator principles: macaroni cheese, chilli, burgers and so on with cheesy chips an additional veg choice. The alcohol is wine and beer and canned cocktails. Yum.

It’s all very futuristic and brings to mind what bomb shelters would probably look like, if we end up at war and need fully resourced safe spaces. Also branded yellow and black is the tackiest merch place conceivable. The tat shop had on sale the most hideous Christmas jumpers ever, proudly declaring ABBA allegience. As if. There is also a hotel-like VIP lounge, entry £99 each, but once inside everything is free. Of course it is. 

You’re recommended to get to the venue some 90 minutes before the show so that you can enjoy the delights of the not very nice wine and sort of ok food that you have to eat standing up. The loos are spotless and abundant so the queues are barely there, much appreciated after two plus hours on trains. The lobby atmosphere on the night we went was unexpectedly tame and almost subdued. Too many people dressed in their ABBA finest were reconsidering their decisions over warm white wine and macaroni cheese served in a little paper bowl. The fizz and shimmer of anticipation got lost in the shuffle.

But once inside and on your seat the spirit leaps and flames with renewed excitement. The arena’s big but not so big as to leave people on another planet instead of at a performance. The stage is massive and while you wait you’re treated to Scandinavian forest scenes that appear to have magical spirits floating through the trees.

Technology is the real star of this show. It is nothing short of spectacular. The lighting system is literally dazzling, an amazing level of creativity tightly integrated with the constantly changing soundscape. The varied costumes, the slick integration of the live band, analogue recordings and digital enhancements stunned the senses and yet felt cosy. The ABBA avatars are fluid and graceful although Agnetha’s face was definitely a bit immobile, in the way that women who’ve been under the knife too often tend to be. Perhaps that’s on purpose but I prefer to think it a coding shortfall.

The selection of songs was both what you’d want from the many old hits and want you’d want as a surprise: two tracks from the Visitors album. In homage to the old hits many people were dressed per the songs as seen on television and in the films and stage show. But there were plenty of ancient people having a blast, even if they weren’t dressed up. There were also plenty of people who were definitely not ancient also having a blast. Seriously impressive that these newbies even knew all the words to most of the songs. And although the place was packed the temperature was perfect with an atmoshere at once intense yet polite. It reflected the people there who were mostly older and singing along to happy and sad echoes of their own lives. A sprinkling of greying male partners were looking mildly embarrassed and probably wishing they’d stayed in the pub at London Bridge station. But I’d prefer to think they enjoyed being part of so many peoples’ joyfully happy space. That feeling was marvellous, a perfect escape from outside woes and internal turmoils that didn’t get erased, but got put into a different, more positive context. Most of us seemed to know most of the words even to songs that weren’t big hits, old and new.

The performances of ABBA’s latest singles Do I have it in Me and Don’t Shut Me Down were perfect links, past and present. They didn’t so much close the ABBA circle as to invite new hopes for more, somehow we still want more. Mind you we probably don’t want more of the weird Manga like cartoons that popped up a couple of times during the show, presumably during digital switchovers of some sort. Or perhaps to give the avators a binary breather. A Manga cartoon was weirdly the backdrop for Voulez Vous and might have been a questing story involving ancient runes and towers. There may have been pigeons. I struggled valiantly to make the connection but still haven’t managed it. At various points each member of ABBA gives a little welcome via their avatar and a thank you of their own. Björn’s avatar touchingly thanks the audience, “the fifth member of ABBA”, for being there. And then it’s suddenly over and we’re all shuffling back to the DLR with our senses overloaded and a sensation of mild confusion at what we’d just experienced. Recovery was slow and sweet and as we head for another Eurovision where it all began for ABBA, remembering that and ABBA Voyage brings fond reminiscences of 1974 when we were all oh so young and pretty. 

The ABBA Voyage concept or model is where so much performative art is heading. And it’s a wonderful thing as long as live, real body experiences kept happening as well. Without the source there would be no quest or voyage. So maybe in fifty years time we’ll be watching Kaj perform their wonderful sauna song Bara Bada Bastu, favourites to win this year’s Eurovision. Enjoy!