Principles and Failures.

Last night I did something in serious violation of one of my most strongly held principles. I did it because I was scared of the consequences of not doing it, which is pretty shameful and probably as good a reason as any for hiding away in a dark place for a span of time yet to be discovered. Principles are central to my priorities, you see. It’s an INFJ thing.

A supremely attractive young woman of maybe west Asian heritage (Iranian or Afghan was my guess) walked past me today pushing a baby in a buggy. She turned and smiled at me, but it didn’t help. And I watched an episode of Peep Show on DVD tonight which carried vague echoes of my experience with Sheona McCormack all those years ago. That didn’t help either because I yelled at Sheona when I shouldn’t have done and the cause was lost forever. It’s one of my most memorable failures.

But it’s all happened before, and it’s life and life only, and I expect I’ll be back eventually.

The Mad Woman of Utcheter.

(‘Utcheter’ is what the lazy locals call Uttoxeter.)

Some months ago I was walking through Uttoxeter bus station when I saw an elderly woman sitting in one of the shelters, surrounded by shopping bags and other receptacles full to the brim with household requisites, blankets and so on. I asked her whether she was homeless because I thought the bags might contain all her worldly possessions and intended to give her some money with which to buy a hot drink and a meal. She reacted sharply and denied the fact, and so I apologised and walked on.

I saw her several times in the same shelter, but then she and her ‘possessions’ disappeared for a few weeks. And then the pattern changed. At the bottom end of the bus station is a taxi rank consisting of a long glass shelter with a bench running the whole length and big enough to accommodate around eight people. A few weeks ago I took the same route through the bus station and noticed that the bench in the taxi rank was completely covered with the same collection of receptacles which I’d seen surrounding the old lady. Only the old lady wasn’t with them, and what’s odd is that this huge collection of household requisites has been in the shelter, unattended, ever since. And I should add that all this stuff looks brand new.

So, skip back a few weeks…

I was in the retail park down the hill from the town and passing the B&Q store (it’s one of a national chain of hardware/DIY/garden stores.) And there was the old lady walking out of the place with a shopping trolley full of yet more of the same bags and receptacles – all apparently new and freshly bought.

Skip back a little further…

I made a blog post about an old woman with matted grey hair who was wandering around a charity shop, eying me suspiciously and talking to somebody who wasn’t there. I realised when I saw the woman at B&Q that it was the same woman.

So now I have a mystery on my hands: Who is this woman? Why does she make an apparent career of endlessly buying household requisites? Where does she find the money, because it must be costing her a small fortune? Why does she leave it all lying around in a public place for anyone to steal? And maybe most important of all, from which attic has she escaped and should women called Jane keep a fire extinguisher handy. (I’m assuming everybody is familiar with Jane Eyre.)

End (so far.)

Sorry for the ramble, but the creature which invades the roof space above my kitchen is being particularly troublesome tonight and it’s driving me to distraction.

On Choosing When to Leave the Hell Hole.

Earlier today I read the BBC article on the upcoming Assisted Dying Bill shortly to come before the British parliament. This is the Bill which proposes that terminally ill people who are suffering badly and wish to end their lives should be allowed to have medical assistance to achieve that wish. Naturally, it has safeguards built in to preclude any possibility of people being pressured to accede against their will.

Many MPs have been expressing their views this week and making known their voting intention. Some of the objections are religious in nature, some stem from imagined demons which I think are unlikely to exist, and the Rt Hon Gordon Brown said that he will vote against the Bill because he believes that life is a ‘gift’ (without, as far as know, saying from whom) and that it is ‘beautiful.’

I could wax eloquent on this subject. In fact, I have been waxing eloquent in my mind ever since I read the article. But I dislike long blog posts these days so I’ll just offer two remarks:

To Gordon Brown I would say ‘not if you have Motor Neurone Disease, it isn’t.’ And I would suggest to other detractors that they should consider the possibility that one day they might be struck down by a condition which leaves them tormented by agonising pain, locked into a body which has become a torture chamber, and crying desperately for the mercy of release. Do they think they might then wish that they’d voted differently? 

James and the Mystery Visitor.

I said in a recent post that the last story in James Joyce’s anthology Dubliners is the longest and most tedious of them all. Seems I owe Mr J an apology because last night I read the final few pages and they contain the loveliest exposition of deep melancholy and the perception of mortality that I think I’ve ever read. So kudos to Mr J after all, although whether or not I will ever find the fortitude to read Ulysses remains to be seen.

*  *  *

And while I’m in the mood for saying things that nobody will be interested to read, I thought I’d mention that Blogger stats reports many instances of someone using Chrome browser with Windows visiting the blog on a regular basis, but the location is never shown. I wish they’d send me an email or leave a comment so I know who’s watching me.

(I should also add that I'm trying to reach 200 posts by the end of the year, because to do less would be shameful.)

Manipulation.

There’s an advert on my inbox home page for the new iPhone 16 Pro Max. Naturally intrigued, as one who declines to follow the stroke and poke brigade would be, I gave a little thought to the name: Pro Max. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?  Well… no. Actually it sounds a bit silly.

It’s obviously a portmanteau concoction composed of Professional and Maximum, ‘professional’ suggesting elevation to a higher level, and ‘maximum’ implying that it does all a piece of modern technology is capable of doing. It’s all meaningless fakery designed to manipulate the minds of the gullible into believing that having one represents a step up the ladder in the matter of tram line status. (And I suppose it probably does, tragically.)

There’s nothing new about this, of course. I remember when manufacturers of winter clothing accessories such as gloves and T shirts began to use the term ‘thermal.’ It’s intended to give the impression that the fabric is inherently superior to normal fabric, being produced by clever modern technology appropriate to the space age. All it actually means is ‘thicker.’

(Even I was initially taken in by that one, but it was a long time ago and I was much younger then. My error was pointed out by an older shop assistant who said ‘Don’t be taken in by that nonsense. It just means ‘thicker.’ Thank you. And yet they’re still doing it.)

A Short Note on Equivalence and Anti-Semitism.

No doubt we’ve all heard or read about the International Criminal Court issuing an arrest warrant for Benjamin Netanyahu, among others, on charges of war crimes and crimes against humanity. Joe Biden of the USA – which is not a signatory to the ICC and is keen to keep Israel onside purely for strategic purposes – called the warrant ‘outrageous.’ He said there was ‘no equivalence’ between the actions of Hamas and those of the IDF. Well, nobody takes much notice of anything Biden says any more, but let’s suggest an analogy:

Somewhere in America live two families, one white and one black. They’re near neighbours, but the white family believe themselves to be superior to the black family and constantly treat them badly in all manner of ways. One day the black father snaps. He breaks into the white family’s home and shoots the mother dead. That’s murder, no doubt about it. When the white father discovers what has happened he goes to the black family’s house armed with an assault rifle. He sprays bullets everywhere, killing everybody in the house including the children. That’s multiple murder. And that’s the equivalence.

Meanwhile, Netanyahu predictably called the issue of the warrant ‘anti-Semitic.’ And here we have the same old smoke screen belching out ad nauseum to shield the Israeli hard liners from blame, no matter how hideous their actions might be. The warrant has nothing to do with anti-Semitism, which is an expression tragically misunderstood by those of little brain and frequently misappropriated by those who should know better. I needn’t go on because I’ve done so often enough on this blog. (But I do suspect that there are probably a lot of good Israelis in Israel who would love to see the back of Netanyahu and his cohorts.)

Notes for a Mostly Downbeat Week.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, that if you become obsessed with death it’s considered negative and unwholesome, whereas musing on the issue of mortality is considered philosophical. I understand the generalised difference between the two of course, but I find myself frequently musing on the particulars.          

*  *  *

I worked out today that I’ve spent 40% of my life living alone. I don’t remember why I worked it out, but I did and it’s true. I gave some thought to the fact and was going to write a long piece on issues such as privacy, freedom, and the disinclination to compromise, but I can’t be bothered. I will just say that I was probably happiest back in the mid-nineties when I lived alone but had the theatre people to engage with when I wanted some engagement. I suppose that’s the sigma way. Any form of engagement is rather thin on the ground these days, and occasionally I miss it.

*  *  *

On Monday I mentioned what I referred to as a ‘coating’ of snow. That was before the real thing started – heavy snow (both bird feeding tables were under 8” of the stuff in the morning) and temperatures hanging around freezing during the day and plummeting further overnight. That would be considered cold by UK standards in January, and it’s only November. By common consent it was quite a shock because we weren’t ready for it, having just had several weeks of mild, pleasant, and dry autumnal weather. I wonder what the real winter will bring, and to what extent mortality will be the byword.

*  *  *

The last short story in Joyce’s Dubliners is by far the longest and arguably the most tedious. It’s all about aunts and nephews, husbands and wives, roast goose and puddings on the dinner table, and piano recitals by diffident young ladies (oh, and the cold darkness of the city streets lying under a layer of snow, damn its withering whiteness.) And it’s very, very drawn out. I’m coming close to the end now, and it all seems to be leading up to the classic old Irish balled The Lass of Aughrim and its relevance to current company. There are several versions of the song on YouTube, of which my favourite is the album track by Susan McKeown. That’s because I like her voice and presentation. It’s a bit sad, as you might expect of a classic old Irish ballad, but I suppose a little bit of pathos can be enjoyable if you’re in the mood.

A Bottle at Bedtime.

When I was a young boy, languishing among the labouring class in a northern English industrial city, the prospect of ever having an electric blanket to warm my bed on cold winter nights was too distant to be countenanced. A person had to own their home and be firmly convinced of their status as petit bourgeoisie to have one of those, or so it seemed to me. But I did have the benefit of the next best thing – a hot water bottle.

At this point I find myself unsure as to whether the concept of the hot water bottle is known beyond the bounds of Britannia. In case it isn’t, I suppose I should offer a simple description:

A pouch-like rubber receptacle about 12 inches tall and 9 inches wide with a screw-in rubber stopper at the top surrounded by a small lip. It was half filled with very hot – but not boiling – water and tightly sealed with the stopper to preclude leakage. And such an article was my only solace when going to bed in an unheated bedroom and an unheated bed. And I had a system (Jeffrey had a system for everything and still does.)

First I would place the bottle straddling the pillow and the area of mattress immediately in front of it while I was changing into my pyjamas. That was for the benefit of my head and neck. When I got into the bed I would force the bottle to the far end to take care of my bare feet (going to bed with socks on was simply not done for some reason that was ever a mystery to me.) And when my feet and the bottom of the bed were deemed warm enough I would grip the rubber artefact between my feet, draw it up to my outstretched hands, and then cradle it to my chest ready for a now slightly more comfortable repose. And then go to sleep.

I suppose you could say that my hot water bottle was my first partner (although I probably wouldn’t), but we never discussed the affairs of the day, what we should have for breakfast in the morning, or how on earth we managed to arrive in this God-forsaken world in the first place. That came later.

*  *  *

And I’ll tell you something else about my childhood bedtime habits. I often used to attempt to climb down the bed head first with the intention of coming out at the bottom end, but I could never do it. After only a couple of feet I was gripped by strong claustrophobic anxiety and came back. I suspect that might have had something to do with a past life memory because my rational mind saw no danger or difficulty in the exercise at all. We never know, do we?

*  *  *

My ex, Mel, is a big fan of hot water bottles. She tells me that she still takes one to bed even though she has an electric blanket and a cat. I have an electric blanket too. I just switched it on.

The Other Winter Sting.

We’re having our first taste of winter in the UK at the moment: low temperatures and a coating of snow. I’m being reminded that this is the time of year when I worry constantly about the animals, consigned as they are to an entirely outdoor existence.

I know that winter brings death to a lot of wild animals, but what concerns me more is whether they suffer an emotional reaction. We know that animals have emotions, but do they function the same way ours do? Do cows, for example, suffer debilitating depressions while standing out in cold, wet fields through long winter nights? And what of those birds which spend the nights roosting in now-naked tree branches open to the elements?

I don’t know the answer to that. Does anybody? Maybe it’s better that I don’t.

I changed my bed linen over today. Off came the summer cotton to be replaced by heavy flannel and a (purportedly) 17-tog duvet. The trouble with feeling comfortable in bed, though, is that it makes me think of all the creatures out there, and then I feel the sting of guilt. Maybe I should try to develop the habit of feeling privileged instead, but to somebody like me it amounts to the same thing.

Conscientious Doctors, Dumbass Politicians, and the Numbers Game.

The problem with the doctor’s surgery to which I’ve referred in recent posts was settled amicably this evening. I’d already had the blood test and so I was given a phone consultation appointment for 5.15. The call duly arrived at 6.40…

So why, you might ask, did the call materialise nearly an hour and a half after the due time? Well, it’s like this:

Doctors – at least the conscientious ones – define success by reference to clinical outcomes. Politicians, on the other hand, define it strictly in terms of numbers. Numbers are easy to handle, you see, and since neither politicians nor the general public are required to have at least a reasonable IQ in order to exist in their respective forms, numbers are the natural means by which both parties may be satisfied. But it causes a problem:

Some years ago, when even the more mentally challenged were coming to realise that our grand socialist flagship, the NHS, was beginning to creak at the seams through underfunding, the politicians introduced a new policy of restricting the length of GP appointments to ten minutes. That was so they could put out press releases to demonstrate that GP surgeries were now treating more patients, and could cry from the rooftops ‘Aren’t we just wonderful? Vote for us again next time.’ (Because numbers don’t lie, you know. They don’t. At least, no more than politicians do.)

But the doctors saw it differently. Many of them – especially the more conscientious ones – knew that to treat patients effectively it was necessary to spend as much time as was needed to give the patients’ conditions proper attention. Ten minutes was often not long enough, and so their appointments grew later and later as the day wore on. My doctor happens to be one of the more conscientious types, and that’s why he was an hour and a half late calling me. I respect him for it; he’s a good man. And I even managed to convince myself that it really didn’t matter that my evening meal was stewing quietly away on the hob. I’d arranged it that way because I’m an INFJ and therefore a master of anticipation (a quality which causes me a hell of a lot of stress sometimes.)

But back to the issues. The appointment was required because I was due my annual medications review, and the results were as follows:

Blood cholesterol good, kidney function good, liver function good, blood pressure just about perfect. And so I asked him: ‘If my liver function is good, may I now increase my consumption of whisky?’ to which he replied ‘The phone signal was breaking up just then. Bye.’