Down But Not Out In Norn Iron

The man at the Braeside Nursery taught me a new word this week. (I love Mr Braeside: ‘£4.50, £2.99, £8.00’ – adding it up on a bit of paper – ‘That’s £15.49. £16.00 to you.’ Then he gives you a fiver change from £20) Anyway, the word he taught me was ‘kipe’. Now it’s entirely possible he makes a new one up every time he sees me coming, but here’s what he said: ‘You want to plant that against a wall or the wind will kipe it over.’

I’ve been adding new Norn Iron terms to my vocabulary ever since I got here, and I’m very pleased with ‘kipe’. Or possibly ‘kype’. At my advanced age I already trip, stumble, totter, fall flat on my face, now I can ring the changes with a bit of kiping.

The wind of change has kiped us all over this week, as a hideous groan from Professor Gloom in the room next door has just reminded me: he must be listening to the news. The news in Northern Ireland has often been more bad than good, but here’s the thing about the people in this particular corner of the planet: however many largely self-inflicted injuries they suffer, how ever often they knock each other over, they always scramble back up again, make a few concessions, and stagger on. So, despite the fact that we’ve been kiped over by Brexit, my money is on us getting back up and fighting on.

Humour helps. In times of trial some people turn to inspirational writing; I read Wodehouse (the English may be rubbish at referenda and football but they’re brilliant at humour) Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, and Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons – the book I most frequently take on planes so that in the event of a disaster, I’ll go down laughing. I could name a hundred other novels, a lot of them Irish, but these are my stand-bys.

So cheer up, my friends. It may have happened, but it’s never the end. To quote the late, great Canadian novelist, Robertson Davies (from ‘A Cunning Man’ but read ‘What’s Bred in the Bone’ if you haven’t tried him before) -

 ‘This is the great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous.’

I don’t know exactly why I find that comforting, but I do.

Tale of Woe

I haven’t needed literary inspiration this week: I’ve been sitting at my desk, working so hard that what I’ve needed most is a bit of respite. So I decided to take the evening off and go to the movies. And what I chose to see was Tale of Tales – a ‘gorgeous, grotesque triptych’ of fairy tales. ‘Fabulous, visually glorious, beautiful, inventive’ – at Cannes the critics loved it. And I like fairy tales myself, especially dark ones. (Angela Carter swoops by on a broomstick.) I like beauty, invention, imagination, and I like Salma Hayek.

Unfortunately, Tale of Tales is also very, very, very slow.  Salma Hayek (who has two basic expressions in this film: disappointed, and marginally less disappointed) plays a Queen who wants a child. Her husband, wearing a Pythonesque diving suit, and on the advice of a person who has clearly just escaped from some high-security institution, hunts down a sea monster in order to cut out its heart which is then cooked by a virgin, after which both virgin and Queen are simultaneously impregnated and almost instantly give birth to Albino twins. The Queen’s accent is uncompromisingly Spanish, the King’s is indeterminate (he dies, by the way – possibly a merciful release from a bad movie) but the albino twins are unquestionably American, and their fondness for each other causes the Queen even more disappointment. It might all get a lot better as it goes on, but after 20 minutes I’d lost the will to live, so I left.

If you tell me that I missed the point, that it really was a glorious, unique cinematic triumph, then I’m glad you enjoyed it. But I’m glad I went home and read Kate Atkinson’s book of short stories (Not the End of the World) instead. Her tales are better.