E-type

A grey old day and I'm still not feeling right. It was looking like an indoor shot or maybe something tonight at the opera - Glyndebourne has brought The Marriage of Figaro to Woking. But I popped out for an hour to look at the new Jaguar XF Sportwagon at the local dealer. Look, I'm a bloke and though I'm not a petrol head I do still like to look at cars occasionally. I was once loaned an E-Type Jaguar for a weekend - a sort of Cinderella glass slipper deal - and this old one in the showroom brought back happy memories of driving over to the West Country, posing all the way - I had a ball (FT write up here). On the way home from Guildford the dense cloud started rolling back to reveal the glimmer of a sunset, but it was rush hour and I just couldn't get anywhere for a shot. Very frustrating.

No time to blip before the opera which was a brilliant performance. Cherubino's song, Voi che sapete, is one of my favourites.

I've been doing one or two more poems and wrote this about my late Uncle Cyril and his magic trick that held me enthralled as a kid:

Cyril the magician

Uncle Cyril's handkerchief
Was poking from his pocket,
He pulled it with a flourish,
White and square, then waved it
In the air and gave a showman's
Grin, I'll let you see my little
Magic trick, he said, and in his hand
He held a box of matches,
Red heads crammed in a cardboard bed,
I took my pick and held the slender stick,
Then dropped it in the folds of cotton
Hold it here, he said, putting
The covered matchstick in my grip,
Snap it now, I did as I was told,
Clean break, I felt it go, no doubt,
He shook the handkerchief about
And spilled a perfect match in to my palm
I wanted to know how and asked,
He shook his head and winked
That's magic lad, he said and took a bow.