ECHO 3/3/06

Cormorants on the Thames, early morning, low tide – close to Chelsea Bridge – one of them arcs high leaving a point close to Battersea Park and heads upriver before circling twice and switching over towards the southern bank where it comes to rest on the water. Then another comes low to the surface, through one of the bridge spans – fast, a dart-like silhouette sure in its course – there is something primeval about these birds, from another time – they have a mocking look, tricksters – Close by, almost unmoving, living a different rhythm to the Cormorants, a Grey Heron stands in the shallows and exposed mud probing slowly through the surface with its fissile beak, long legs resting on the remnants of wooden jetties – surrounding it in frenetic pace are Black Headed Gulls, Herring Gulls and Fulmars mawking and bartering for space on the shore – the Heron, by dint of size, seems aloof and superior to these little squabbling relatives; gently it moves among them, stopping to check for minnows, focusing there, bringing to bear its immense quality of patience then stretching out that almost ermine neck to take its catch.

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Watching Fellini’s La Strada again – Giuletta Massina as Gelsomina is iconic, her performance is even more affecting second time round, with the knowledge of all that is to befall her throughout – if you break it down it is such a strange performance: half silent comedy, half Greek tragedy – never less than enchanting – and Anthony Quinn’s final scene is so harrowingly honest it is the lasting memory I will have of the film – pain, guilt, solitude –

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My Father’s 72nd birthday today – speaking to him on the phone so far away in his hospital bed, his voice like a pale version of its usual self – hoarse, gasping for breath and as weak as a little child’s – though brief, it is a harrowing conversation; I listen for signs of hope, for some glimmer of strength in him, but there is none and as we talk I pace the wooden floorboards in the hallway trying to send as much of my remaining youth to him, to transmit it down the phone, manifesting itself as phrases of encouragement which cannot cure him even if they do provide him with love.