Afghanistan yesterday

July 30, 2007 The feet of an Afghan civilian killed in a suicide attack. There have been more than 70 suicide attacks in Afghanistan this year. Foreign air strikes also cause civilian casualties. (Photo: Massoud Hossaini / AFP)

Door In The Wall

We attended a choral performance by a group of which Lynn Hancock, Barbel Winter’s partner, is a founding member. The group is called ‘Door In The Wall’, which may be named after a story by H G Wells (which I doubt) or another by someone called Marguerite di Angeli (which is more possible but still less than likely). The evening went under the title of “marvellous night for a MOONDANCE: a celebration of winter nights”.

The programme delivered us a mixed bag. ‘Shall We Dream’ by Micahel Atherton opened the show and was for me the highlight. Two hundred of us sat in Paddington Uniting Church, lights dimmed, within a circle created by the 14 singers. They harmonised beautifully around us. Some of the poetry readings were less than wholly successful (I kind of think, guys … just sing). I couldn’t engage with Benjamin Britten’s ‘A Charm Of Lullabies’ sung by Nadio Piave, a featured soprano. It was me rather than the singer. Hers could have been the definitive rendition for all I care. I doubt that I’ll ever get Britten. ‘Blue Moon’ by Rogers and Hart; ‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac and ‘Moondance’ by Van Morrison were all pleasantly enough sung (too sweetly maybe) but struck me as kind of predictable from a bunch of forty-something, predominantly white, middle-class gay and lesbian singers. They performed a version of Pink Floyd’s ‘Damage’ which was enjoyable. I was surprised by the number of the people in the room who seemed to indicate they had no idea at all that it was a Floyd number. I must be getting old.

What the heck, it was an enjoyable evening. For fifteen bucks each and the price of an at least edible pub meal in the bar across the road from the Church we had a pleasant few hours.

The White Bird Passes

I finished reading Jesse Kesson’s The White Bird Passes. It was first published in 1958, one year after I was born. By that time the Scotland of which Jesse Kesson wrote was already passing into history but not entirely. Some of the references to tenement living and growing up in urban Scotland were familiar enough to me but they were fading fast. Today the Scotland of The White Bird Passes has entirely vanished. That’s not a bad thing.

It’s a short tale, retold through the eyes of a girl, Jeanie McVean, growing up in a town that might be Elgin then an orphanage (sketchily drawn) in Aberdeenshire. It’s well written, just staying this side of sentimental. As befits the semi-autobiographical voice of the author it ends with the passing of innocence, a sense of melancholy (it’s mid-century Scotland that’s writing the tale so how could it be other than melancholic?) but also a clear sense that life goes on, maybe even gets better (as it did). It’s worth a read but I wonder how many contemporary readers, even among today’s Scots, would stick with it beyond the first few pages. The past is, indeed, another country.