* * *
I have a problem, though: I need something to do in the
evening. I’ve exhausted the library’s stock of watchable DVDs, I don’t build
model aircraft any more, the TV programmes aren’t worth the cost of heating the
living room, and I can’t leave defamatory remarks (of the considered variety,
you understand) on YouTube until after midnight because I have restricted
bandwidth on my computer. So…
I’ve been considering whether there has been anything of
note worth reporting during my leave of absence, anything I would have reported
had I been in the mood to note it. Well, not really, but since I’m determined
not to let this blog die just yet, I thought I’d mention the following:
* * *
The tabloids are at it again:
Halloween Hell!
Britain Out of Pumpkins!
You’d think the U Boat fleet had been re-commissioned,
wouldn’t you, and sent to patrol the Western Approaches with orders to starve
poor old Blighty into submission beneath the Nazi jackboot? Such is the gravitas
attaching to the shortage of pumpkins in the scepter’d isle. But maybe this is
just as bad as enforced food rationing. Times and priorities change. Or maybe
the dearth of pumpkins has been deliberately engineered to keep us on our toes
in preparation for WWIII. And yet it was odd to discover that one of the local
supermarkets had five damn great bins full of pumpkins. Maybe we’re not
considered important enough to be prepared out here in rural middle England.
But seriously, we never used to bother with Hallowe’en in Britain. The
plethora of cheap plastic-and-gauzy rubbish festooning parts of the shop where
useful things ought to be is a relatively recent phenomenon. It seems that
corporate Britain
looked west and realised that here was an opportunity to find yet another way
to persuade people out of their money. And they did so in the sneakiest but
best way possible: by getting the kids to pressurise the parents. Now there’s
magic for you.
I was an exception, of course. When I was a kid I was the
one who took Hallowe’en seriously. I used to go to the local library on the
Saturday afternoon nearest the day and read books on the supernatural. I would
always stay until after dark, then walk back to the bus stop through damp,
dimly lit streets, pretending that life was more interesting than it actually
was. And they call me unimaginative… (Oh, sorry; haven’t got to that bit yet.
Read on.)
* * *
I took a phone call one night recently, from a number that
had come up as a missed call several times over the preceding days. A man said:
‘Could I speak with Susan Adamson, please?’
‘Not on this number you can’t. Mrs Adamson hasn’t lived here
for nearly ten years.’
‘Oh, OK. I’ll call back later.’
Where would we aliens be without humans to amuse us?
* * *
I got called a troll and a turnip on YouTube last week, by
the spokesperson of an internationally known choral group. It was on account of
the fact that I said they ‘simper better than they sing’ and suggested that if
they didn’t change their presentation they would start attracting John Denver
fans. The spokesperson went on to say that my remarks were ‘unimaginative.’
Well now, whether or not I am a troll and a turnip is a
matter of variable judgement, and I concede the right of others to hold their
opinions. But I would contest ‘unimaginative.’ My guess is that there would be
a consensus among the literary cognoscenti acknowledging the expression ‘they
simper better than they sing’ as being superior to most of what passes for
considered comment on YouTube. And I am, after all, only trying to make my
world a little more interesting than it actually is.
* * *
On the subject of music, this is a YouTube video I found a
few days ago. The song has been a favourite for twenty years, but the video
gave it a whole new lease of life and is the current most favoured.
* * *
I met Rosie yesterday. She kissed me on the nose. ‘She likes you,’ said the human sitting on her back.
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