tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-247400482011-04-21T17:46:07.525ZpalimpSestVarious examples of my writing. Some extracts or short pieces of creative fiction. <br/> Opinions on writing, art, movies, music, whatever takes my fancy.Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.comBlogger471100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-91770034853263995042007-11-22T13:52:00.003Z2008-02-26T18:56:34.328ZAnother fine Mess.Another fine Mess.After being handed a reprieve last Saturday by Israel’s last minute win over Russia, all England had to do last night was keep cool and not give the game away. A draw was good enough. It would see them through to next summer’s European Championships to be held in Austria and Switzerland. At Wembley, before an estimated crowd of 90,000 surely that was not too much to ask. In factPeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-64467325385531472532007-11-19T22:11:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:42:06.603ZBerlusconi dons the helmet and lifts the sword.That old friend of Tony Blair is at it again. The man who offered the ex PM of the UK the use of his holiday home and a shoulder to cry on now wants to merge all the centre-right groupings of Italy into one party under, presumably, his leadership.Mr Berlusconi – one of Italy’s richest men, thinks it is time to for the Italian centre-right “to unite Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-62292268057709518782007-11-19T12:00:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:41:41.036ZAt their Best: Paul Motian Trio with Marc Johnson.Paul Motian has been a constant and essential feature of the American jazz scene for many years. From his early days as drummer with the Bill Evans Trio through to the mid period of his career, as one third of the Paul Motian Trio he has constantly shown touch and perception in his choice of material and playing partners.The album, Bill Evans: Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-77801555654529871802007-11-17T15:50:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:40:40.753ZNils Petter Molvaer: ER.It has been called Scandi jazz, nu-jazz or simply not-jazz. How you wish to define it is your choice. Whatever description you settle on, one thing certain is, it is a music worth exploring. A music that challenges the boundaries between genres and has shown itself open to a younger generation’s experiments in Electronica and Dance.Perhaps one of its most important figuresPeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-2626261080577594052007-11-16T18:44:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:40:13.937ZTerrorism and Poetry.It is amazing what you find just trawling other people's blogs. Recently I came across this posting concerning, mayor of London, Ken Livingstone’s desire to make sure the British media are not portraying Muslims in a way that is unfair or insensitive. It seems Mr Livingstone’s Greater London Authority has commissioned a report entitled ‘The Search for Common Ground: Muslims, Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-60318445226721568862007-11-02T13:22:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:38:58.641ZSamizdat in the Information Age.It already seems an aeon ago. The days of the Soviet Union. When we in the ‘free’ west regularly read of the plight of writers and artists under what we were assured was an oppressive regime. Writing in secret, smuggling manuscripts, illicitly copying and passing on of work, all of which if you were caught in possession of, could result in some harsh penalties. Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-80117815018543139532007-11-02T13:05:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:38:32.442ZIt Takes Two: Kenny Wheeler's Understatement.The album, It Takes Two, by Kenny Wheeler has been on general issue now for over a year. It was released in June 2006 by CamJazz, the Italian label launched in 2000.Kenny Wheeler is such an understated and subtle artist that his music is not something the discerning listener jumps carelessly into. His playing has a way of sneaking up on you. Of windingPeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-57079456203006632092007-10-31T15:41:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:38:06.644ZHerbie Hancock keeps on Exploring.Lovers of jazz will need no introduction to Herbie Hancock. Maverick pianist from the days of the Miles Davis quintet, preferred keyboardist of the Davis fusion years and central energy of the seminal funk-jazz crossover album Head Hunters. Herbie Hancock has never been afraid to experiment with forms and genres, to explore the possibilities inherent in differentPeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-32578746434666579992007-10-30T12:39:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:37:38.574ZWags get Fifteen More Minutes of Fame.According to the UK’s LSC, (The Learning and Skills Council), Wags, that is the ‘wives and girlfriends’ of famous sports stars, particularly soccer stars, are good roles models for teenage girls. The LSC claim that the Wag image of a vacuous cloth horse and party loving mini-celebrity is inaccurate. Apparently many of these ladies actually hold a number of Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-54340876841380245192007-10-29T12:35:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:37:03.738ZThe UK's Tabloid Press Play a Sly GameWhere to start in the case that has gripped the British public for near to the last six months? How do we wade through the mire of speculation, spin and sometimes pure nonsense being bandied about? Should we go out on a limb and mention insinuations of high level if not political interference in a criminal investigation? Could the parents be guilty of Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-88949442090125606962007-10-26T20:48:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:36:35.713ZNew Age or More Old Age; underpinning Market ValuesI do not like to be negative. To put people down who are trying to make sense of life. And in our present society anyone who advocates a balanced and integrated lifestyle has to be lauded. But that said I cannot help but hear that old cynical whisper when confronted with the New Age – Complementary movement. Now many New Agers would, no doubt, Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-63823937177303321712007-10-23T14:43:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:36:07.358ZA Disappointing but Satisfactory End to the Formula One Season.So it was not to be for Lewis Hamilton. His first Formula One season and a possible championship win disappeared on Sunday with a brief 40 seconds of gear box trouble and perhaps a hint of over zealousness on the first corner. Coming after England’s rugby defeat on the Saturday evening there was a strange sense of familiarity. Just Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-77260068648003221682007-10-21T12:51:00.002Z2008-02-28T10:07:49.023ZLazy Journalism or Poltical Opportunism? Last Monday’s London Evening Standard (Oct 15) carried a small article on the death of Carmelita Tulloch in Kennington, South London in September 2006 written by Anna Davis. For those of you not acquainted with the case, Mrs Tulloch a 51 year old mother of two was brutally attacked and stabbed to death as she walked to work on September 04 2006. On Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-80127701071640366432007-10-20T15:11:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:34:56.594ZIs this Al Gore's New Campaign Strategy?Am I the only person to find Al Gore’s winning of a Nobel Prize a little irksome? Sure he has brought the problem of global warming to a wider audience. Sure he has helped raise consciousness of environmental problems and pushed ‘green’ issues onto the agenda of mainstream America. But I cannot help but find it all a little too cosy. A snub to Bush? A Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-32538101015167500502007-10-12T12:31:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:34:24.541Zlooking for AnswersChris Blackhurst, writing in the London Evening Standard, Oct 09, comments on ‘a grotesque farce that will tell us nothing’. Referring to a recent conversation he had with a law lord regarding the Diana and Dodi inquests currently taking place at the Royal Courts of Justice, Mr Blackhurst, the Standard's City Editor, reports that the said law lord complained of the way in Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-14337026168015497442007-07-22T21:10:00.002Z2008-02-28T10:04:12.124Zcompacted.It was the time we lived in a small 3rd floor apartment about a kilometre from the rail station. We were close to the centre of the city though out along the waterfront near where the harbours were. Sometimes in the night I would wake and hear a train hissing and rattling over the bridge that crossed the canal and in a curious way it reminded me of running water, sounded more like Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-5982294386502031072007-05-31T20:33:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:33:24.380Zthe teacher. (extract The Blue Lotus)I spoke often with the teacher. When evening came and the light would fall we sat by the hearth in the cabin. If before I asked thoughtlessly, now I asked with care. The teacher, himself had said the question is more important than the answer. "Student pay attention to the question," he said. "It is the thought put into the question that solicits the better Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-5047794940891466092007-05-29T21:03:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:32:53.446Zrue de Malte. (extract)They left her friend at the junction of the Place St Michel and the Rue Danton. Turning from the river they sauntered through the numerous small alleys of the Marais. She felt they were being caught up in the press of bodies. They were like two people set adrift, two people who had lost everything, had only what they stood in. Two people temporarily released from the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-67330471647391578432007-05-23T13:47:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:32:22.293Za night. (extract)I bend over my bicycle, struggle to focus on the lock, struggles to get the key to turn.The water below the bridge, is slow, dark. It washes indolently against the stone canal side. The warm air moves against my skin, over my neck. Pulling my light raincoat over my shoulders, I get up onto the seat. I grip the handlebars and begin to cycle, begin to cross the deserted main Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-82641873910896196712007-05-21T12:58:00.003Z2008-02-26T17:45:30.223Zfire above wood, wind.I press on. The thickness of the forest encloses me. I feel insulated. Now and then I stop to pluck a blackberry from a bramble. Burrs cling to my clothes. Branches spring across my body and face.Here one is never far from the sea. Even in this forest, behind these mountains, on the shores of this lake, it can be sensed.Weather changing over oceans. Storms that batter the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-12211859790594973222007-05-18T12:19:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:44:55.040Zzaandvoort.It is a blustery afternoon near the end of October. The beach is almost deserted.Above the sea, wisps of clouds are scattered in the sky. They catch its colour, like intensities of space, concentrations of light. Over the sea the sun hangs, bright and golden. Its glare darkens the water, highlighting the foam of the waves. The breeze blows, pulling at my hair, my face, grabbing the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-90513331466312641142007-05-17T20:23:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:44:22.686Zfire over lake. We took to the mountains. A group of us. We became partisans. These were the same mountains I had come over many lives ago. They were to be a barrier, a line of defence. Now they would be a hiding place. They would be hostile terrain; a place difficult for the enemy.She stayed in the city. She wished to be with her family. They needed her. Difficult times lay ahead.I missed her Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-6412575527381937942007-05-16T15:06:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:43:58.776Zthe office worker.It was the time she went away. Regularly I would come home late at night. Often I would have drunk too much and walked along empty streets, lost myself among empty office blocks, asking where she was, trying to focus on things around me and not really worried I could not. I knew the route well. From Bloomsbury, past the Royal Exchange to Liverpool Street.When I looked up those Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-35749486507027603962007-05-15T14:12:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:43:33.566Zwater over wood. It was long ago. In another life. I came upon it as if by accident. I was thirsty. The dust from the road stung my eyes. There was a dry parched feeling in my throat. I had been travelling for weeks. My boots were broken, my feet burned, my head swam. My lips were swollen, cracked and my voice weak.I had come from the plains and across the mountains. I noticed the change only Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-26265859632524326272007-05-14T14:10:00.001Z2008-02-26T18:03:20.036Zhradcanska.I remember walking down the Chotkova that morning. How it wound, descended, the leaves in splendid piles over the footpath, the sun gently lighting the colours of the buildings, the soft reds and creams.The previous evening, we arrived late. We did not eat much on the train. When I showed the address to the taxi driver outside the station, his face looked puzzled for a moment, its Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-30564769903202300952007-05-12T14:18:00.001Z2008-02-26T18:02:42.105Zearth above mountain.To learn to become smaller in order to become bigger. To learn to walk slower in order to run faster. To learn to decrease in order to increase. To learn to fill one's mouth with stones in order to be heard clearer. To lie down in order to stand up.Many nights I watch the moon. I watch it change its character. Its grows, it declines. Its silvery rays fall on the pathway Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-41706321376485503942007-05-11T11:16:00.001Z2008-02-26T18:01:57.283Zle bois.I tell her when I was a child there was a woman in the apartment next to where I lived. She played the piano. Often, she would practice and particularly on a winter's afternoon, I loved to hear the silver notes hang in the muffled air between the walls. They seemed to tinkle, to turn around on themselves, to call out quietly of some sort of sadness, some sort of longing.Every summer we Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-24116294323679427662007-05-10T20:02:00.001Z2008-02-26T18:01:20.411Zelephant and castle. (extract)When I open the door the room smells stale. There is a metallic, green light falling into the hallway in shafts, rainy and wintry. The walls are cold.I move in quietly, trying not to make a sound. Something inside me says he might be here, he may have doubled back. He could be behind a door or waiting the other side of a wall a blunt instrument ready. Or that small Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-4666087329044523312007-05-09T11:48:00.001Z2008-02-26T18:00:31.294Zhand.Here in this curious juncture of water, where the railings curve and their blackness shines, I stand. The rounded and worn stones sweep away and the leaves, fresh, their green still tender, reflect in the ripples of the canal. They sway over its surface and mingle with its tranquil movement. Why here, should I think of death? Not the death of personal loss, loved ones no longer present, but Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-81352940856869130392007-05-08T12:22:00.002Z2008-02-27T11:18:07.706Zthe wayshower and the teacher.Often I ran there. Feeling the freedom. Moving through the forest known simply as the Forest of Friendship. For what else would one call a forest that was so rich and sweet-smelling. A forest of such ancient and beautiful trees that even in our winter it held mystery. It held the murmur of the earth, the closeness of the air, caught the light of the sun.I would come Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-850723194225453792007-05-07T14:43:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:59:03.720Zgospel oak.I sat overlooking the city.My eyes moved over the weave of buildings and rows of houses.I saw the heath slope down to playing fields, to ponds and then rise again. Features darkened, details blurring until the maze of office blocks and towers, the tooth-like shapes of high-rises, the lost spires became one; became a line and shimmered in the winter light.The sky was pale, thin, and Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-77650268981505274842007-05-06T12:41:00.002Z2008-02-27T11:13:05.751Zthe adversary.Far in the south, along the eastern shores of the Ireb, is a little known land. It lies in a narrow strip running east. Inotih it is named.It is not mountainous as Coricia is, yet neither is it flat as the lands of the Hansa delta to the north are. It is a land of forest and wild woods. Of trees silver barked and dark leaved. Of valleys and plains and quick running rivers.In the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-64961307893307863192007-05-05T13:04:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:57:41.856Zthe distance between.As we approach it, coming back into the city, it appears like a giant mouth. A huge mechanical sluice gate. Spanning the top of the Rijnkanal.The bicycle path is straight, stretches both behind and in front of us, always seeming to define an infinity of distance.Last time we cycled along here, it was a summer's day. Then the sun felt too heavy on my shoulders and she talked Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-16499594251488739982007-05-04T11:27:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:56:54.063Ztwo rivers.I had been travelling long when I came to the town. It lay in the valley. Its buildings were soft in the evening light.I could feel the coolness gathering in the air about me. The murmur that comes with night's approach.Birds were singing in the trees. Small brown flecked birds. They flew into the turquoise above my head. Their wings were darkened under an ochre sun.I came from the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-46163408669546169522007-05-03T13:28:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:56:10.696Znaked.The boat sways gently on the water. Its side scrapes the quay. In the movement of the water, I hear an echo of the journey I have just made. Three days travelling through rain and sun, three days of a train journey. My jacket hangs limply from my shoulders, creased where it should not be. I have not shaved. The stubble on my chin feels something like a trophy, a confirmation of the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-45686771144946574792007-05-02T11:36:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:55:20.933Zthe lover within.I met a poet of the people of Merna. Though it was in the high region of Maris-ma I traveled. Where the Ireb bends and the mountains fall to the sea. Stretching from the central plains. Their cool air sweeping down to the soft light of the lowlands.He was, as I, a traveler.I had been journeying long that day and come to a valley. The road out of Maris-ma north into Coricia is a Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-8314169343272255022007-05-01T13:42:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:54:43.397Zstranger.It was late on a week night. About eleven-thirty. I was coming back down the Strand when I got his fare.I was stopped on the corner of Wellington street and Aldwych. There is a small shop there that sells sandwiches and drinks till late. Sometimes if having a slow night or in need of a break I stop. Most nights I work until one-thirty or two. It is after midnight I make the best fares. Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-75063310225956384252007-04-30T12:32:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:54:03.850Zdawn.I would walk through the city. Early. Shortly after dawn. When the streets were still fresh and quiet. If the sun shone, its first light catching the glass of the buildings I would go east. Towards the shore of the lake. For though the city was great, it seemed too it was small and ended always at the lake. Where the wharves were. Where the water was clear and the sailed masts of the ships Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-90076679808072178482007-04-29T14:31:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:53:08.857Zchange.Something has changed. I am sure of that. Though I cannot put my finger on it. What has changed and how?I see it in small things. Where I would not have expected to see it. Things I once took for granted. Done without thinking. How they are not the same.I lie in bed. Through the bedroom window, the moon is full. It comes between the blinds and covers the wall in lines. On my watch, the Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-38111395630061721812007-04-28T12:53:00.002Z2008-02-26T17:52:30.052Zplatform 15.The rain falls harder. It cushions the lights from the street, from the waterfront. High in the roof of the station, a solitary bird flies. Its wings beat in the dusty air. Its movement is lost to all but those who happen to look up into the ceiling, to peer through the space above them.And I stand here. My expression remote, my eyes lost in thought. Through my mind, races a multitudePeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-375379351913084372007-04-27T13:29:00.003Z2008-02-26T17:51:51.736Zspring.This morning the sun shines down over the city. Each spring arrives with intensity.When I was younger they would come and I would take them for granted. Not noticing the beauty of first leaves, the intoxication of wild cheery or how the breeze that moved over the park where I sometimes walked, moved differently, its movement marked with rustling or bird call.Spring brings not a Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-21173280307650817852007-04-25T22:14:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:50:53.385Zon the foothills.Many years ago, when I was but young, and a shepherd-boy on the hills above the Merna coast, I had a strange encounter.I must say first I was a fatherless child. My father having drowned in an accident when I was but some months old. So from a young age I took many different sorts of work. My mother struggled to maintain us. That is my two sisters and my brother. Being the oldestPeter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-1155337917321768222006-08-11T23:05:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:49:35.744Z extract from The Secret of the Blue Lotus (a novel in progress)The sun arcs above us and sinks quickly to the west. Now there is only sea. Where Amrihiza was there is but a haze and the last crimson remains of day. In the ship the men are quiet, each preparing for himself a bed of a woven blanket and a light straw mattress.I too have such a blanket and mattress. It lies rolled in the stern of Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-1154692289893845832006-08-04T11:42:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:49:00.416ZOur Love of Non-NewsOn Sunday last, (July 30 2006) a Sky News reporter was interviewing one of the organisers of the Voices for Lebanon and Palestine rally in Trafalgar Sq. In the course of the interview we heard again and again that Israeli air strikes were killing women and children, particularly children. This, interspersed with a montage of scenes of destruction and suffering in southern Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-1154279658516326052006-07-30T17:13:00.002Z2008-02-26T20:29:53.280Zgod, the devil and George Bushgod, the devil and George BushUnlike George Bush. I do not believe in God. Not the personal sort anyway. The sort you talk to.If there is a God, she must be so far beyond our understanding, our conception, well I have things enough to occupy my mind. But sometimes when on the Underground or a bus, or when I should be working, I find my mind wandering to those scenarios some of us grew up with. (Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-1147731791871610672006-05-15T22:16:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:47:51.589Zرز أفغني Pilau RecipeMy idea for this dish came when reading Jason Elliott’s excellent book, ‘An Unexpected Light’, an account of his time and travel in Afghanistan. At various times during the book, after a difficult day in Kabul or a particularly hard spell of travelling, he talks about eating a ‘typical’ pilau, served by local people; steaming mounds of rice with almond, and pistachio piled over pieces of lamb. Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24740048.post-1146695289631317982006-05-03T22:19:00.001Z2008-02-26T17:46:56.534Zavenida.Yesterday when he was walking along here they were taking a body off a boat and into the building. He knew to look at it that it was dead, that it was probably a drowning. There was something about its silence, a feeling that this was something he had witnessed before, something he already knew. He saw the limp, wet shape, the grey clothing and thought of where it came from, who it was. Peter Millingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12868418024451535002noreply@blogger.com0