21/5/06
No wonder Crabbe and Britten wrote of the citizens of Aldeburgh shunning Peter Grimes and turning him into an outcast; they are a sour people. Cold, snooty folk who evidently feel they are something special or select. Rude too. Even the alcoholic newsagent whom I buy my newspaper from this morning can't bring himself to smile or say 'thanks.' Say anything at all - he gruffly takes my money and his lips do not move from their sour line. Then there's the seventeen/eighteen year old waitress in the Cabin café who shows me utter disdain when I ask for a cup of coffee - 'is that all?' comes the shrinking reply in the plumy accent and she thrusts the tea down on the table and gives me a look, supposedly withering. Like I care what she thinks of me. You would think that living in such a beautiful part of the world such as this might bring joy into their souls; seemingly not. What is odd for me is that both Keswick and Aldeburgh are almost exact copies of each other (they are both of similar size, they both possess an old Moot Hall, a similar variety of shops, are located in differing but equally stunning landscapes) and yet they are mirrored in such a different vein. I want to call them Cane and Abel. Heaven and hell. Keswick's people are warm and welcoming; Aldeburgh's are stultifying and suspicious and so very English. Pity them; they have after all had to run away to a corner of the land and there they will remain. Prisoners in their own mirror.
No wonder Crabbe and Britten wrote of the citizens of Aldeburgh shunning Peter Grimes and turning him into an outcast; they are a sour people. Cold, snooty folk who evidently feel they are something special or select. Rude too. Even the alcoholic newsagent whom I buy my newspaper from this morning can't bring himself to smile or say 'thanks.' Say anything at all - he gruffly takes my money and his lips do not move from their sour line. Then there's the seventeen/eighteen year old waitress in the Cabin café who shows me utter disdain when I ask for a cup of coffee - 'is that all?' comes the shrinking reply in the plumy accent and she thrusts the tea down on the table and gives me a look, supposedly withering. Like I care what she thinks of me. You would think that living in such a beautiful part of the world such as this might bring joy into their souls; seemingly not. What is odd for me is that both Keswick and Aldeburgh are almost exact copies of each other (they are both of similar size, they both possess an old Moot Hall, a similar variety of shops, are located in differing but equally stunning landscapes) and yet they are mirrored in such a different vein. I want to call them Cane and Abel. Heaven and hell. Keswick's people are warm and welcoming; Aldeburgh's are stultifying and suspicious and so very English. Pity them; they have after all had to run away to a corner of the land and there they will remain. Prisoners in their own mirror.
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