Ambiguity

The Arundel Tomb, Chichester Cathedral
www.newi.ac.uk

The happening that prompted the previous post started me thinking about the Philip Larkin poem, An Arundel Tomb. I lived near Chichester for several years and both the tomb and the cathedral were familiar sights.

Larkin had the reputation of being both misogynistic and morose yet he wrote here one of the best known twentieth century poems on love. Does he believe what he states in the last line? Or is he hinting that we are all willing participants in a collective delusion? Probably both. He remains ambiguous, giving nothing away, which is part of the appeal in view of my own feelings - a queasy mix of anxiety and yearning - on the subject.

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

It's a beautiful poem. The whole thing, plus some helpful notes, can be found here.

Hidden

I tend to overestimate my capacities. I'd planned on painting three rooms but it will be an achievement just to finish off the lounge. Being home ill and contemplating someone else's choice of wallpaper a few weeks ago served as the catalyst for this spurt of d.i.y.

One of the unexpected bonuses of living here is the little tool hire centre at the end of the road. I hired a steam-based wallpaper stripper for the day, got it home then had to carry it back again through the pouring rain because, oh the shame, I couldn't open the pressure release cap. Adrian, who was behind the counter, patiently and kindly showed me how. Turn, then press down, then turn again.

It's a sweaty business, holding the steaming plate to the wall, peeling off strips of hot, damp paper then scraping the residue with a putty knife, moving from ceiling to floor, one small section at a time. For a couple of hours I work and listen to Radio 4 over the hiss of steam. Bombs. Floods. Alan Johnston. The Archers. I'd completed one wall and had moved onto the second when I saw them. Words beneath the wallpaper.

Ally loves Caddy
1985

The same phrase repeated three times, written large on the plaster, a black felt tip pen in an exuberant hand. Near the ceiling, half way down the wall and just above the skirting board.

In 1985 the house was three years old. Caddy and Ally were the new owners perhaps? Unusual names: Ally might be short for Alastair, but what about Caddy? Did Caddy love Ally just as much, are they still together, did they have children, are they happy?

Did the writer ever think that a stranger would read these words?

Could I possibly believe that, in some form or other, love has been written into the fabric of this house?

I'll be sanding the walls next week, taking care to leave the words intact, then painting them with Dulux Hint of Apricot.

Heightened Security

No, this cat isn’t mine, the picture wasn’t posed and it was taken here in the UK - in spite of that sign.