That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displace the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewelry-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochers that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafes
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed abroad: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots. and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
-An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl -and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Traveling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

                                     --- Philip Larkin

"....we may say that educational nonsense consists in proposing or promoting something else than the prime object of the school, which is the removal of ignorance."

"These are the signs of a turning point in civilization. The high Renaissance ideas on which we have lived for 500 years have lost their power and we drift. We shall do so until the collective mind is emptied of dogmas and slogans and turns once again to the actualities of teaching and the plain limits of schooling. Then, some of the principles found in the perennial philosophy of the old reformers will regain their place of honor, after being restated by some crusading genius and being hailed as great new discoveries."

Jacques Barzun, "Where the Educational Nonsense Comes From"

It's beautiful weather here. Brilliant sunshine with a gentle breeze.

Only a couple of weeks ago it was hailing.

That's it, really.

Talking of educational nonsense, this, from The Times is depressing:

Teaching children a passion for Shakespeare and the beauty of his language used to be one of the main aims of English lessons. Now the plays are being chopped up and shown to schools in truncated form.

Rather than visiting Stratford-upon-Avon or going to the theatre for a full production of The Tempest or Othello, pupils see performances only of the scenes on which they face tests.

Critics say the practice illustrates the growing trend of teaching to the test, with children’s education restricted just to material that is likely to be assessed. Schools are told in advance which lines of a Shakespeare play will crop up in tests at Key Stage 3, when pupils are 14.

In response, at least four theatre companies are offering stripped-down productions that focus on the key scenes. Even the questions explored in these workshops mirror those likely to be asked in Key Stage 3 tests.

Teachers complain they are under increasing pressure to ensure that pupils perform highly in the tests, the results of which contribute to school rankings. Mary Bousted, general secretary of the Association of Teachers and Lecturers, said: “This is teaching to the test. Shakespeare shouldn’t be in a national exam for 14-year-olds — they should be acting it out and enjoying it, not sitting tests. It’s a nonsense and completely unnecessary. The thinking is that if you are not tested on it you haven’t done it.

“The play’s the thing, not extracts from the play. If you’re watching only one scene you don’t have it in context and don’t get the experience of Shakespeare. But this happens — schools analyse three scenes in forensic detail, which is utterly boring.”

Jacques Barzun would be turning in his ... er... study.

Where is our weather heading? Well, it looks to be set fair:

Five Day Forecast

I don't speak Italian, but I imagine it's a bit like this:

Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for "mash,"
He gotta da bigga, da blacka moustache,
Good clo’es an’ good styla an’ playnta good cash.

W’enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street,
Da peopla dey talka, "how nobby! how neat!
How softa da handa, how smalla da feet."

He leefta hees hat an’ he shaka hees curls,
An’ smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls;
Oh, manny da heart of da seelly young girls
He gotta.
Yes, playnta he gotta—
But notta
Carlotta!

Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye,
An’ lika da steam engine puffa an’ sigh,
For catcha Carlotta w’en she ees go by.

Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air,
An’ look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare;
As eef she no see dere ees som’body dere.

Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash,
He gotta da clo’es an’ da bigga moustache,
He gotta da seelly young girls for da "mash,"
But notta—
You bat my life, notta—
Carlotta.
I gotta!

T.A. Daly