The_Spectator_April_15_2017

Raymond Briggs

D

on’t get old! Everything takes so
long – it’s an hour to get down to
breakfast. And I’m not only slow, but
confused as well. Sometimes I can’t find
a garment I took off the night before,
or can locate only one sock (I usually
have two). I’ve always been a bare-feet-
and-sandals man; I have on my wall a
quote by Einstein, ‘I never wear socks,
they are useless garments.’ I do so agree
with him, but Old Age strikes again. I
now have to wear a toe spacer and this
falls out if I have no socks on, so I’m
locked into a cycle of sock dependency.

T

here’s a great fashion for
‘de-cluttering’ these days, but what
exactly is clutter? Stuff left lying about
when it should be in the bin? I’m not
guilty of that. My clutter is made up of
the very things that I am always using
— pens, pencils, rulers and so on; I have
far too many. Another Einstein quote I
have cluttering my workroom wall is: ‘If
a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered
mind, of what, then, is an empty desk?’

W

hat a wonderful day yesterday
was! Glorious sunshine all day. Me,
moaning on about socks, and all this glory
outside. Every morning I walk along to
see dear old Pepper, the one-eyed collie
at the organic farm nearby. I always take
him a treat — just one Markie. No more,
as he is getting too fat. Our front garden
is covered in primroses, packed in edge-
to-edge like commuters; they even bloom
all over the paths, thrusting up between
the bricks. There is also a scattering of
pale violets and a few really purple ones.
Later on, I thought: ‘This is such a lovely
day that it’s a pity to waste it; I must sit
in the sun.’ So I went over to a chair, still
lying on its back from the recent gales,
and stood it up next to the little stool
where you can put your wine glass. Wine!
Yes, to celebrate the return of the sun.
Bit early for it, not even lunchtime...
still, there’s that half bottle near the
back door I was chucking out, cheapo
muck. I won’t drink much of it, purely
symbolic. So I got the discarded bottle
of plonk and settled into the seat in the
sunshine. Quite enjoyed it. ‘The venue
is as important as the vintage.’ Who said
that? Me, I think. It’s heartening when

your best intentions are swept away, but

when they’re swept away by something

pleasant and sunny, it’s even better.

A

big day today — there’s a

photographer coming. Not a poxy

press photographer, thank god. I had one

of those here recently for nearly two hours

snapping away; then, when the article was

published, the paper did not use any of

them. It was supposed to accompany

a piece they’d asked me to write called

‘My Working Day’. Mind you, it was

only the Grauniad. No, this man today

is the portrait photographer Michael

Birt, who has captured big cheeses all

over the world. The frontispiece of his

book is a letter from Marlene Dietrich

turning him down, saying: ‘Millions of

photos have been taken of me, many

by all the great photographers of

this century, and I hope never to see

another camera aimed at me.’ I quite

agree, though I suspect that she may

have had even more taken than me.

A

dramatic mystery this morning.

Right outside on our front wall,

two pretty little pink bags tied with pink

ribbon. How sweet, I thought, a little

girls’ treasure hunt trove? I picked up

one semi-transparent bag — dog poo.

Can you believe it? Bring back hanging.

T

he doc, having mistakenly

diagnosed my lithe, athletic

build for skinnyness, had sent me to a

nutritionist. This lady gave me a form to

fill in, asking me to list everything I ate

and drank for two weeks. On and on it

went, yards of it. Yesterday, when I took

the form back in to her, she checked

carefully through it and said: ‘Your diet

is fine, but you’re not drinking nearly

enough.’ ‘Great!’ I said. ‘Red or white?’

She looked back at me, unsmiling: ‘I’m

talking about water.’ ‘Oh, that,’ I said.

I

thought I was hallucinating this

morning. I was having breakfast while

gazing down the road to Plumpton

Racecourse when a bunch of cyclists

came sweeping by, 20 or more, all with

numbers on. Minutes later, another

bunch, a lady marshall standing there,

pointing the way. Another lot... then

another. In the end, I went out and asked

the marshall: ‘What is going on?’ ‘They

are doing 80 miles,’ she said. ‘However

many are there?’ I asked. ‘Over 800,’

she said. Blimey, 800 cyclists spoiling

my breakfast! It went on the whole

morning. Spoiled my elevenses, too.

Raymond Briggs is the author of The

Snowman and Father Christmas.

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