Another Tuesday, Another Trial.

The buzzing of the alarm was certainly alarming this morning. I opened my eyes and realised that it was still dark outside. Once I was fully awake I worked out when was the last time that happened; it was approximately sixteen years ago, back in the days when I had to cover morning matinees for the theatre’s Christmas show. I hated it then and I hate it now; I’ve always hated it. The human animal is not nocturnal; it feels unwholesome and unnatural to get up before the sun’s light gives you the cue. (Strangely, I don’t find it in any way unnatural to go to bed routinely at 2.30 in the morning. I suppose it’s because it’s still dark at 2.30, even in the summer.)

But today I had to get up in the dark because I had an early appointment at the Human Body Diagnostic and Repair Workshop, alternatively known as the Royal Derby Hospital. I was early so I got called in for ‘preps’ early, before being consigned to ordeal by the dreaded Computerised Tomography machine.

‘Is your bladder full?’ asked the red-haired woman with glasses, firm mouth and an authoritative air. ‘No,’ I answered indignantly. ‘The fact sheet said simply that I was to have nothing to eat or drink for at least an hour before my appointment. It made no mention of full bladders.’ ‘You need water, then,’ she persisted. ‘Drink this gradually so that it trickles down and doesn’t fill your bladder too quickly.’ She gave me one of those big polystyrene cups, the sort McDonald’s use as a repository for a double-portion of whatever you’ve chosen to be poisoned by. Only this one was full of water. I pointed out that I was still experiencing the symptoms of a urinary tract infection occasioned by one of last Tuesdays procedures, and might have difficulty holding a bucketful of water in my bladder during examination by a piece of artificial intelligence. ‘Do your best,’ she ordered. ‘They’ll keep an eye on you.’

So then I met the humans who would be pushing the mechanical Minotaur’s buttons, and they were lovely lady humans. The first of them told me what the procedure was about and answered many questions which were hurriedly concocted in the hope of making me sound intelligent. (I wanted them to think me important, you see, and a force to be reckoned with rather than patronised, especially by a machine whose intelligence was disdainfully artificial.) And then she got me settled comfortably on the slippy-slidy bed thing and said that going into the tunnel would be like sliding into a washing machine with the spin cycle just starting. It sounded interesting, and so I submitted cheerfully

‘This is the worst bit,’ she continued, at which point the younger and prettier of the two came over and stuck a needle into my arm. It had a blue bit of plastic at one end and a pink bit at the other, and I was moved to ask whether the order of the colours was determined by gender. I desisted, being impatient to tell the younger and prettier of the two that ‘it didn’t hurt a bit.’ (Offering an enthusiastic manner and words of encouragement to attractive young women is my way of making the world a better place.) Apparently the needle was there to facilitate the squirting of a dye into my blood stream, but I didn’t enquire after its purpose; I decided I’d exuded sufficient intelligence and thirst for knowledge for one day. And then we were off.

Going into the tunnel was a bit like sliding into a washing machine at the start of a spin cycle, and then Mr AI started giving me orders:

Breathe in

Obeyed. Pause.

Hold your breath

Obeyed. Slip-slide, whirr, whirr, slip-slide back again, take your partners one-two-three (well, you know…)

Breathe

I breathed.

They did about four of those and then asked after the state of my bladder. ‘Under pressure,’ I replied. ‘We have to wait fifteen minutes now,’ she said with that look of apology which appears practiced, ‘and then take some more scans. Will you manage?’ (Well, there isn’t much you wouldn’t manage if it meant not going back into Mickey the Robot’s grotto, is there?) ‘Yes,’ I said, and felt the rose glow of manly fortitude mingle with the ink they’d squirted into my blood stream and which was making me feel strangely hot in strange places.

And so the machine and I danced some more, and then the lovely ladies said ‘all done’ and permission was given to go for a pee, which I did. And then – delight of seemingly endless delights – the red-haired woman with glasses, firm mouth and an authoritative air came back into my life, this time to remove the needle still sticking in my arm and still sporting pink and blue plastic bits.

‘Put your fingers here,’ she ordered. I obeyed. ‘Let go.’ I obeyed again. ‘Right, if it starts bleeding when you’re getting changed, apply pressure here.’ ‘I don’t think I’ll bother,’ I said, finally adding a subversive edge to my generally acquiescent manner, ‘I’m sure I’ll have plenty left.’ ‘That’s not the point,’ she remonstrated decisively. ‘If you bleed on the floor, I’m the one who’ll have to clean it up.’ So I lost after all. Never mind; I’ve long felt that my life this time around is all abut observing the experience, and that’s what I’d done. Mission successful.

So now the wait for results begins. 7-10 days, they said, but I called into the GP’s surgery on the way back and the receptionist said it sometimes takes longer than that. It seems I have a restless time of indeterminate length ahead of me, standing in the dock awaiting the verdict. So much for feeling, so much for observation, so much for trials, so much for life.

A Lament.

Tomorrow I have to be up 3½ hours before I usually get up. Tomorrow is Tuesday and Tuesday’s are gaining an unenviable reputation. (My bed might decline to accept my presence within its hallowed environs at such an unearthly hour, but I must try. Night.)

Revolting Natives.

Today was a red letter day on the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides because the cinema opened on a Sunday for the first time ever. Lewis is traditionally a Presbyterian community, you see, and anything which smacks of recreation on the sabbath is frowned upon in certain quarters. Not surprisingly, there was a protest…

… there were no reports of rioting, looting, or the firing of tear gas rounds or water cannon. And as far as I'm aware, nobody got arrested. Lewis is a civilised place.

What surprised me was the reason given for the protest. If it had been claimed that the opening of the cinema was in breach of Biblical instruction (as the picture would indicate), or that it contravened a time honoured cultural tradition, it would have made sense. But the leading protester (one of two) said that it was because Sundays gave people time for the spiritual side of their lives. Surely this invites an obvious riposte: those who want to use Sunday to have time for the spiritual side of their lives are under no obligation to go to the cinema.

I gather the showing of Star Wars: The Last Jedi was a sellout.

Breaking the Tape.

I thought I’d make a post just to mention that I’m still suffering the unpleasant after effects of being meddled with by members of the medical profession last Tuesday, and I’m still suffering mental anguish in anticipation of what else they might put me through next Tuesday and what they might find. But then it occurred to me – as it has occurred to lots of people down the years, no doubt – that the vast majority of those we think of as famous, exalted and venerable are now dead. It means that when you die you join some pretty exalted company, and I suppose that's heartening in a manner of speaking.

The real reason for making the post, however, is that this is my 7,000^th in a little over seven years. Mahler and Schubert might have rung down the curtain with symphonies unfinished, but never let it be said that JJs sign off on 6,999 blog posts. I feared that if I left it until tomorrow it might have been too late (although it’s highly unlikely.)

And there might be lots more to come. We’ll see. Please wish me luck only if you truly do.

The Vexed Question of Blue and Pink.

I grew up at a time when the twin concepts of masculinity and femininity went unquestioned, and was taught that strong masculinity was the greatest good to which a boy could aspire when he grew to adulthood.  So I have to ask questions to which I probably can’t know the answers:

Does masculinity, and its distaff counterpart, exist, or is the concept derived artificially through countless generations of gender stereotyping grounded in cultural practice? If it doesn’t, how did the male gain dominion over the female in the first place (a fact which I generally abhor, being an adherent of the different-but-equal school)? If it does, doesn’t it rather trouble the waters of political correctness?

No doubt there exist a million learned tomes on this subject, but they’re all just expressions of somebody’s opinion. How can I know?

And I don’t expect anybody to offer answers because the whole subject becomes uncomfortably complex and takes you down into the unfathomable depths of unverifiable myth.

On Living On.

I was thinking tonight about Claude Debussy’s La Fille Aux Cheveux de Lin (The Girl With the Flaxen Hair) – a piece which resonates with me more than most – and wondered whether Claude and I would have got on. I settled, of course, on the obvious: I’ll never know because he died a long time before I was born (100 years ago, coincidentally.) And then I heard some self-professed wise person say quietly in my head: ‘The great Claude Debussy is not dead. He lives on in his music.’

Lives on in his music… It’s a tired old cliché, is it not? And it irritates me. You might as well say that the dead rabbit lying in the field lives on in its droppings. Debussy created his music; the rabbit created its droppings. What’s the difference?

Yes, I know there’s a difference of sorts, but I thought about it a lot and continue to maintain that it isn’t substantial enough to warrant the phrase ‘lives on.’ It seems to me that a person can only live on if his or her consciousness persists after physical death and remains sentient in whatever form of reality the undiscovered country allows.

Anyway, you can listen to the aforementioned piece if you like. If you’re unmoved by it, you probably wouldn’t have got on with Claude (or so I suspect.)

Language Opening Doors.

My ex, Mel, is quite conservative when it comes to English usage. In fact, she’s more of a grammar Nazi than I am. And as such she takes some not inconsiderable objection to the influx of American words and idioms into our beautiful language. And yet a few nights ago I was talking to her on the phone and she said ‘duh!’ I suppose I should have interrogated her:

‘You do know where the word ‘duh!’ comes from? You do realise it’s an American word? I would have thought your strictly anti-colonial sensibility in the matter of the mother tongue would have precluded any possibility of you ever stooping to use the word ‘duh!’

But the conversation moved on and I never got back to it. Maybe I’ll make it a topic of conversation the next time we speak. Mel became a little more picky after she got a Masters degree in English Literature, whereas I came up from the ranks and am probably more flexible. I quite like certain Americanisms, including ‘duh’ which I’ve used on this blog a few times. I don’t know of any single word in UK English which matches it for the particular nuance it carries. I also like ‘go figure’ for its pithy brevity, and there are more. So I use and appreciate them when appropriate.

And there’s a general point to be made here. English has been taking words from other languages for centuries, must notably French as a result of the Norman invasion in 1066 being followed by rule by a French-speaking aristocracy. Even in more recent times, expressions like fait accompli and carte blanche have become standard in the English lexicon. (Ironically, I gather certain linguistically conservative French people are none too pleased that the process has been reciprocal, with certain English-isms creeping into French!)

In the end I think it comes down to the notion of purity. There are those who feel that the introduction of American words and expressions adulterates the virginal nature of Standard English. Does it? I don’t think so. The introduction of new words into a language does not disqualify the old ones; it merely enriches the overall picture. (And while I’m on that thread, I think the same might be said of immigrants.)

And did I ever recount that incident when I was with my naval chums trying to get into a backstreet bar in the old quarter of Quebec? We’d heard that entrance would only be allowed if you could speak some French, and my buddies (cowards that they all were) chose me to be the spokesperson. When the young woman opened the wooden window behind the iron grill, I said:

La plume de ma tante est dans le jardin de mon oncle.

It was all I could think of in that nervous moment, but it worked. The young woman smiled in that particularly Gallic way which is their hallmark and opened the door. Entente was thus established and my attitude to linguistic diversity was set free forever.

 

Edited to add. 27/8/22 

 

Where did I get 'dans le jardin' from? Only recently I learned that the correct form is 'sur le bureau' (which makes rather more sense, fatuous as the whole exercise is anyway.) I suspect my French teacher in high school must have mis-taught us. Mr Hartley, you're fired.

On Living and Limbo.

I really could do with re-kindling my belief in tomorrow. Without a belief in tomorrow I am as the tethered goat awaiting the entrance of the tiger, mostly because my perception of life is based more on my prospects than it is on my present. (That’s why my favourite day of the Christmas season when I was a kid was Christmas Eve. Christmas Day was almost boring by comparison.) Give me good prospects and I’m cheerful; give me bad ones and I’m glum.

My current present adds another layer to the equation. Experts are hinting cautiously that my immediate prospects might be highly unpleasant or that I might have no prospects at all, and the effect of the latter is to put my perception of life effectively on hold. It’s in limbo. What, for example, would be the point of buying that stylish coat which a charity shop is selling for a mere £10 if I have no future in which to enjoy it? (I think I should be learning a lesson in ego management here.) And what would be the point of buying seed potatoes if I might not be here to harvest and eat them? See what I mean? Limbo. Stasis. Call it what you like. And what does this say about the writing of blog posts when I have only the past and present to rely on, and I’m not overly interested in either at the moment?

But persist I should. Being in limbo is not exactly giving up, but it’s very nearly the next best thing and probably best avoided where possible. (But do you know, one of the clichés which most rile me is when people with problems say ‘You’ve got to stay positive.’ Why have you got to stay positive? Why not just be yourself and act accordingly? I’m digressing here to fill up another line or two.)

OK, so let’s stick with the present and mention today’s major disaster. Costa Coffee had no coffee. Well, they did, but the machine which turns brown dust into a beverage of consummate delight had broken down. ‘I can serve you tea or cold drinks,’ said the woman apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

Does the universe not know that sipping Americano with cream while watching the world stroll by on a Wednesday afternoon is one of the few delights it provides to give me something approximating to a sense of contentment? I could have declined, of course. I could have gone to the other coffee shop on the opposite side of the road, but I didn’t. I remained faithful, and my fidelity was rewarded when the world strolling past the window included none other than she-who-should-not-be-mentioned-by-name (but who was with her dear mama, which might provide sufficient of a clue.) I sit by that window every Wednesday, but this was the first time I’d ever seen her stroll past. I heard the universe whisper in my ear:

There you go, JJ. I know my workings are a little onerous to you at the moment, but as a reward for your persistence and fidelity I hereby proffer an adrenalin rush to cheer you up a bit. There is more to enjoy in life than espresso coffee and cream, you know.

And my posts are getting closer to that little landmark I mentioned. I might yet make the tape.

Relating Tuesday.

Matters are unresolved. The wait goes on and the imp of high anxiety stands unvanquished to menace the mind with dark imaginings. I don’t do waiting very well. I envy those who do.

But at least a Romanian woman told me how Popei is pronounced (my dentist is a Romanian called Medeea Popei and I always wondered.) And then something I said to an Indian woman caused her to colour up – whether in shock, anger or embarrassment was difficult to judge, but her face briefly turned scarlet. I’ve never seen olive skin blush before; I didn’t know it could. (I might just mention that what I said was perfectly innocent and we got on very well once I’d explained.)

Facing Tuesday.

I’m scared, anxious and depressed. There now, I just admitted to being scared for all the world to read. Such an admission doesn’t come easily to somebody raised in the stiff upper lip tradition by people who still remembered the old days of Empire, but there you have it. And a psychologist might even tell me that while fear and anxiety are natural bedfellows in the same part of the brain, depression belongs in a different compartment. If such an august person did tell me that, I could attest to the fact that at least two parts of my brain are working well in tandem at the moment.

The fact is that I don’t want to face Tuesday on my own, but I’ll have to do it just as I’ve always faced everything of import on my own. I never minded before; in fact, I preferred it that way. This time is different; this time I feel the need of support such as I’ve never felt before.

And there’s one person I would like to have with me on Tuesday, but she isn’t available and never will be. I read some of our old correspondence tonight because I thought it might make me feel better. It didn’t. Being reminded of those green and pleasant days in a green and pleasant land only served to push my dolour further into the cold mud and slush that is currently covering our dear old Shire. What made matters worse was also being reminded of the gulf that was impossible to bridge and prevented any meaningful connection. ‘There is only one big difference between us,’ she wrote in one email… but I’m not going to tell you the rest.

I also watched a movie tonight which spoke to the bases of my fear and anxiety in such an apposite way that I was tempted to think it prophetic. I rejected the notion and ascribed the apparent coincidence to the neurotic tendency which has added itself to my personality traits over the past five years. I suspect it's here for the duration.

And I mentioned in my last post that I was seven short of a landmark. This is one of them, so there are six left. I assume Tuesday will determine whether there will be more posts and what direction they will take. Stay tuned if you like.

Blogger's Bane.

If I sit in my house I get cold. If I go outside I get colder. At the moment I’m leading a kind of double life because there’s a raw wind blowing and some of it is gaining access to my house. I usually manage to be warm in bed, but last night I woke up at 4am feeling cold. I needed to go to the bathroom and the bathroom is unheated, so guess what. I was still cold when I went back to sleep.

The two most exciting things which happened in Ashbourne today were: 1) Sainsbury’s had egg and cress sandwiches for the first time in several weeks. 2) I tried a different cake in the coffee shop and was unimpressed. There were no ladies in evidence to encourage a trickle of adrenalin, just lots of strange women who might have been transparent for all I cared or noticed. The only dog to which I made friendly overtures looked at me with suspicion and a hint of malice. Ashbourne was cold (and grey, damp and windy.)

The doctor I saw yesterday was pleased that arrangements for what should be a relatively minor operation were in train. He then delighted in giving me the results from my latest batch of tests. So good were they that I might have been forgiven for thinking myself a veritable Dorian Gray who was currently around age 25 and falling. But then he said: ‘But…’ There is something he is concerned about and is to order further, deeper examinations. That sort of thing causes me stress, which is ironic because stress is very likely the root of whatever potential malaise is concerning him. (Life can be playfully ironic at times.)

So tell me, what is a blog writer supposed to do in such circumstances? How does he find the necessary enthusiasm and acumen to pursue his desire to be amusing, sagacious, informative, silly, or whatever else he’s trying to accomplish in a cold world which isn’t offering very much inspiration? I need seven more posts to reach a milestone. Will I fall short?

Only the Lonely.

Strange as it may sound, the British Prime Minister recently created the new cabinet post of ‘Minister for Loneliness.’ It sounds a bit of a narrow brief, doesn’t it? You’d be forgiven for wondering whether you’d slipped through a time warp and landed on April 1^st, wouldn’t you?

Ah, but here’s one fascinating statistic which I gather was in part responsible for this strangely humanitarian act: Some expert or other has posited the view that loneliness is as detrimental to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. I wonder who came up with that one; and I further wonder whether, since smoking in confined public places is now illegal in Britain, being lonely in confined private spaces might also soon be the subject of punitive legislation. And since I’m guilty on both counts, I don’t suppose there’s much hope for me.

OK, I do accept that loneliness is a problem in the modern world where family and community connections are not what they used to be, but creating a ministerial post to address such a narrow issue seems over the top to the point of being freaky. Isn’t loneliness the remit of community workers and charities? Besides, whoever heard of a Tory Prime Minister being in the least concerned about an issue mostly to be found among the hoi-polloi? (I gather loneliness is most frequently encountered by the more elderly members of the... erm... lower orders.)

I think this must be the biggest mystery in the political world at the moment, bigger even than Trump’s height and weight or the perennial question of how a man of his calibre managed to get America’s top job.

A Rare Need.

I’ve been a loner all my life, or at least all the life I remember. I always thought it an honourable state and took quiet satisfaction from the fact. And yet, oddly, I also considered it my duty to help others when they needed it. (I’ve occasionally wondered whether that was due to some deeply hidden angelic delusion, a notion which I’m sure would elicit great amusement among most of those who knew me down the years.) And yet there it is: maybe a paradox or maybe not.

What I now find interesting is that even the most perennial and committed of loners can reach a point where they need just the right person to step forward and say ‘I’m here for you. Count on me.’ It’s a new experience, and observing it is just as interesting as observing all the other weird little traits and sensibilities.

So why am I recording this on my blog when there’s nobody out there reading it who can fit the bill, or even gives a damn for that matter? Because that’s one of the functions a blog like this serves. Why else?

Rare Praise.

I was reading today about an interview a British politician gave on a political TV programme during which she talked about whether Trump should be allowed into the UK and whether Theresa May had been wrong to offer him a full state visit. It didn’t surprise me that her views largely accorded with mine, but what did surprise me was the language she used. She called Trump:

An asteroid of awfulness that has fallen on this world.

It has to be said that a purist might take issue with her knowledge of celestial bodies since, as I understand it, an asteroid is a chunk of rock flying footloose and fancy-free through the cosmos. If it skims the earth’s atmosphere and disintegrates it becomes a meteor. If it manages to get through and falls to earth it is then known as a meteorite.

Well now, for a start I might be wrong; I'm no expert on the lexicography of celestial bodies. But even if I’m not wrong, it would perhaps be an unnecessary example of nit picking to insist on correction. An asteroid that has spent a few million years being an asteroid is still one in all but name when it makes a big hole in the ground somewhere near Maryland and threatens the existence of civilisation as we know it. So let’s forget the mere matter of precise vocabulary and concentrate on what’s important to me.

Here is a politician not only agreeing with me, but doing so in a form which is concise and uses both metaphor and a hint of alliteration for effect. That’s unusual, that’s what makes it a red letter day, and that’s why I mention it on my blog. When was the last time I said anything complimentary about a politician?

Belated Felicitations.

I missed the anniversary of my blog yesterday. For some reason I had 15^th January in mind, but I was mistaken. I made my first post at 10.48pm on Thursday 14^th January 2010, eight years and a handful of hours ago.

I have every reason to be grateful to the dear old blog. It’s been my focus, my friend, my sounding board, my comfort blanket, my counsellor and my teacher, and it’s introduced me to a number of very remarkable people from various parts of the world, some of whom remain close. Whether it’s ever been of any real interest or consequence to anybody else is not for me to say or even speculate on. I’d just like to say thank you to whatever muse brought it into my life, and hope that it continues for little while yet.

On Horseless Carriages and Hovels.

It’s interesting to recall that when I was a kid there were still plenty of older cars around which didn’t have heaters. It was common practice among the owners of such antediluvian vehicles to keep a car rug – a posh woollen blanket woven in tartan or some other fancy pattern – on the back seat for passengers who were either female, juvenile, aged, or male-but-of-lesser-fortitude, to drape over their legs on cold winter days.

It’s even more interesting to note that I could do with one in my office at the moment because my legs and feet are bloody freezing. (Admitting to being a male of lesser fortitude, not to mention living in a house with inadequate heating, is permissible on a blog because I never meet the people who read it.)

Sliding Down the Taste Scale.

84 Charing Cross Road is one of my favourite films. It tells the story of the friendship that developed between Helen Hanff, a New York bibliophile, and Frank Doel, the chief buyer for Marks & Co which was an antiquarian book dealer based at the eponymous address in London.

Well now, do you know what I discovered tonight? Marks & Co closed down in 1970 and 84 Charing Cross Road is now occupied by a branch of McDonald’s. Is that an example of sub-sublime irony, or merely Dame Fortune displaying a notable lack of good taste?

A Matter of Logic.

There’s an ad on YouTube for a 'Free Personality Test.' The text begins:

Over 7billion characters. Which one are you?

OK, let’s examine this. If the text had said: ‘There are 7 archetypes in the human race; which one do you represent?’ it would make sense. But 7bn is the approximate population of planet Earth, so the only answer to the question is: ‘Me.’

A Neo-Pagan Note.

As a result of following up on something referenced in a DVD I’d been watching tonight, I discovered something I didn’t know about: the Triple Goddess archetype in history and myth. It led to a period of deep reflection, but little is yet fit to go into this blog since my mind is still too full of ill-formed notions. What I find interesting, however, is this:

1. I’ve mentioned here before that I’ve been fascinated by the three-woman motif all my life. I even made a family’s banshee a group of three women in one of my published stories. And in my one and only allegorical effort, three women escorted the protagonist to his death prior to rebirth. (My three women were sister, lover, priestess, which bears some correlation with the classical and psychological interpretation of maiden, mother, crone.) I wonder where it came from.

2. It was the view of Robert Graves, who made a study of the subject, that the triple goddess has always been, and continues to be, the muse of writers and poets. Might this be why I always felt that I was channeling the stories I wrote rather than composing them, and could it explain why the better of my ditties fell into my mind almost fully formed and required little thought or editing? I don’t know; I make no claims or assumptions. And there might be more on this subject at some future time, or then again there might not.

Smiles that Bind.

I sometimes find it remarkable that for all the physical differences between people of different races, we all use the same muscular mechanism to smile.

  

Needless to say, I shouldn’t find it remarkable. Smiling is another one of those outward expressions which have their genesis on the inside and sit astride the common thread of humanity. They demonstrate, if such were needed, that for all the interest we might take in physical variety, in the final analysis it’s only skin deep.

And while I’m at it, let’s give a shout for the animals as well.  

 

Trump Turns Back.

I just read that Donald Trump has called off his planned visit to London next month. He says it’s because he doesn’t like where the new American embassy has been built, but the majority view over here appears to be that he was scared of the inevitable protests. The latter seems more likely since he has demonstrated time and again that he suffers a severe problem of emotional insecurity. Whatever the reason, it’s good news for us Brits.

Emotional insecurity isn’t such a bad thing in itself, of course. I can be emotionally insecure at times; most of us can. In Trump’s case it wouldn’t be a problem if he was also a nice guy, but he isn’t. And in any event, emotional insecurity isn’t the stuff of which good presidents are made.

And now, in the interests of irony and in direct relation to the cancelled visit, I wonder whether people would mind if I used some strong language in posing a question:

Why do we have to have shithole Presidents coming here?

Excising a Piece of a Life.

I discovered tonight that my old high school was demolished a few years ago and rebuilt as a modern academy. I was a little shocked, a little saddened, and the sadness soon turned to indignation.

Willfield High School holds a seat at the top table of my memory bank. My recollections of things which happened there are plentiful; I can envisage all parts of it clearly; I can still smell the aroma of cooked food wafting invitingly down the main corridor at lunchtime; I can see the copy of Hess’s painting The Battle of Tarutino hanging self-importantly over one of the stairwells; I can feel some remnants of the sense of inspiration, excitement and fulfilment which was occasionally evoked there. And I remember the occasional incidence of corporal punishment very vividly indeed. That school was a significant part of my life, and so with its demolition it seems that part of my life has ended and faded into history.

Is that a reasonable way to feel, I ask myself. The several and greatly diverse factors which coalesce to make up a life must include the concrete things like the paths on which we walked, the playing fields on which we competed, and the floors on which we stood for morning assembly. So when those concrete markers, which seemed so permanent and inviolate at the time, are crushed and come to dust, does it mean that part of our life has now ended? I don’t know, but that’s how it feels.

And as my mind ran over the memories, the senses and the mental pictures, they began to turn darker and assume the mantle of something faded and festering. This isn’t quite bereavement, but it seems to belong in the same field of perception.

Ashbourne Ladies.

My visit to the medical practice nurse this morning was unexpectedly pleasant. Charlotte – for such was her name – was delightfully personable and fully concurred with my view that life is not about following doctors’ orders, but about respecting the professional’s opinion and then making your own balanced decisions based on your own nature and needs. It was also noteworthy that I’ve never had a needle stuck into my arm more painlessly than she did it.

The favour I received from the woman in the coffee shop was quite different. She asked me whether I could manage a medium Americano instead of the small one I’d paid for. ‘I suppose so,’ I replied, ever the one to remain quietly uncommitted when faced with a difficult decision. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Only I just prepared one by mistake and it would be a shame to waste it. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing today.’ It appears that one person’s confusion can be another’s good fortune, and so I was duly grateful and managed perfectly well.

Ah, but then came the big one. I encountered the Lady B accompanied by her dear mama in Ashbourne’s more select supermarket. I say ‘encountered’ but they were entirely unaware of my presence. That’s how it should be, of course, and it gave me the opportunity to stand outside the window and study what little I could see of the lady’s countenance – which I could only view in profile – searching for telling signs of change. I stood there studying for quite some time, separated by nothing more than a pane of glass and yet remaining, as ever, one too many mornings and a thousand miles behind. Eventually I grew concerned that she might notice and become discomfited, and so I hurried away as any gentleman resigned to the requirements of propriety and good sense would.

A Credible Trump?

I read recently that Ivanka Trump has aspirations to be America’s first woman President. I find this intriguing since she appears to have rather more about her than you might expect of Donald’s Daughter. And what intrigues me most is whether she would choose to stand as a Democrat.

But of course, to do that she would probably have to come up through Democrat ranks, and she wouldn’t dare do that for the next three years for fear of being subjected to a fate worse than a fate worse than death (no repetition intended.)

When a Man and a Woman...

I’m now pretty much convinced that, contrary to cherished belief, love and sex are not in any way connected. I think it more than likely that the concept was established disingenuously by the Puritans to justify the sin which was unavoidable, promoted hopefully by the Victorians to ameliorate their sense of guilt, and taken enthusiastically to the bosom of subsequent generations of parents in an attempt to minimise the excruciating sense of embarrassment when explaining certain fundamental matters to their offspring.

I offer the suggestion that love is something rarefied and indefinable which has its root in the higher mind, while sex is – at least to most people – a simple biological imperative driven by the Id.

(Ah, but I could go on to suggest that sex can rightly be aligned with principles which fall into the fields of mysticism and spirituality. Imagine how difficult that would be to explain. Should I try? No. There are plenty of books on the subject and my attention span is far too short.)

One Torturous Day.

I was fifteen minutes early for my doctor appointment this morning; the doctor was running fifteen minutes late. And so I sat for half an hour in a chair close to the automatic doors being repeatedly assailed by blasts of cold air every time another patient made its entrance or exit.

And on the wall facing me was a video screen vomiting instructions as required by the modern mania for risk avoidance: Don’t do this because it’s bad for you. You must do that or face some deleterious consequence. Avail yourself of screening for this, that, the other, and all the other others we haven’t thought of yet. Stay warm in the winter (Really?) Make sure your house is heated to a minimum of 18° Celsius. (Do they realise how much it costs to heat a house to minimum of 18° now that the energy providers are hiking their tariffs by 4x the rate of inflation just because they can?)

The best of them showed a bunch of pharmaceutical capsules dancing around, heads bobbing merrily, while somebody with a poor singing voice sang just about the worst song you could imagine anybody ever getting paid to write. They informed us that they were antibiotics, and wished us to know that antibiotics don’t cure everything. I did know that actually, and anybody who doesn’t must have trouble knowing how to put their socks on in the morning.

Meanwhile, I was beginning to feel ill from the icy onslaughts making their way through the automatic doors… And that wasn’t all.

They had Ashbourne Radio playing continuously from hidden speakers somewhere at ceiling level. I assume they have to be hidden so that people like me won’t have a credible excuse for taking a 12 bore shotgun into a doctors’ surgery. If ever I make positive identification of said speakers, I just might.

Ashbourne Radio is one of those small local radio stations which somehow manage to survive on an endless diet of inane muzak and twittering superficialities. It’s utter torture and I told the doctor so when I finally escaped into his office. He smiled and asked ‘What’s playing?’ ‘Bloody Ashbourne Radio,’ I said gloomily. He smiled again.

He then gave me a partial diagnosis of my condition, but left enough loose ends dangling in the murk of the immediate future to ensure that I shall remain stressed for at least the next eight days and probably beyond. In any event, it seems I’m to have an operation. Do you realise what a torturous thing the prospect of an operation is to a recluse with an invasion phobia and a horror of all things corporeal? It really is, you know. It is.

And so a good day was had by all. When I got back here (I never refer to this place as home) I was faced with another exasperating issue, but that one is too complex to write about.

Being Pre-Trump and Ominous.

I was just reading an old post of mine from three years ago. Part of it concerned a news item about a Twitter post deriding Islam made by some celebrity. One section of my post read:

If you feel, maybe not unreasonably, that you need to criticise a belief system as big as Islam, is Twitter the right place to do it? I think not. The subject is far too emotive and needs a much broader platform to allow for a balanced and reasonably argued view. Unfortunately, tweeting is what celebrities do these days; I suspect that most of them are afraid of getting lost on broader platforms.

Does that remind you of a dark cloud still lurking below the horizon?

Saying Nothing.

So here I am with nothing to say again. Too many distractions. I suppose I could make the Trump and the Book post, and how the content of his twittered reaction proved yet again what an emotionally insecure and immature child he is. For somebody who claims to be in possession of a high IQ, the fact that he fails to see what a fool he constantly makes of himself is quite remarkable. But everybody with a grain of common sense knows that already, so why bother?

A Bad Joke for Troubled Times.

I’ve mentioned before that I have an aversion to most expressions of corporeality. My latest epiphany on the issue was brought to me by an elderly cat, and a blog post of uncommon insight loomed. But then I gave up the idea because I couldn’t be bothered. It seems the body was willing but the spirit was weak.

Maybe I’ll make it if and when I may be assured that my own body is not to undergo invasion or join the ranks of the choir invisible. Such layers of irony are the last refuge to which an inveterate observer clings.

Adjusting the Dictum.

It’s after midnight and I haven’t made a post yet today. That bothers me, but the fact is that I spent most of the day tending the birds, perambulating the Shire, braving the blast with spade in hand, and doing household chores. And then the evening was spent Skyping and emailing. (What an easy life I have compared with some people.)

I did wonder why I spend so much time and effort on emails. Is it because I’m concerned about saying the right thing, or is it more to do with ego? Is it both, and is that acceptable? My standards and motivations are so important to me, you see. Why is that? Should they be so important? I don’t know, which is why life and mortality can be a bugger at times.

I did have one interesting thought tonight, though. You know that hoary old New Age dictum: Always follow your heart, for you heart is never wrong? I don’t like it; it’s too easily misappropriated to mean ‘do whatever is easier, pleasanter, more profitable, or more comfortable.’ It would make more sense to me if it read: Train your will to accord with your soul’s known purpose, and then do what you want to do.

How the hell you achieve success in such a purpose I can’t begin to guess. I don’t even know whether we have a soul or not. I don’t know anything except trivial facts like my name and the price of baked beans. So I’m not preaching or trying to coin a radical new sound bite to augment the flotsam already washing around the ocean of New Age literature. It’s just that the latter seems to be less forgiving of human frailty than the former, and you know how disturbed I sometimes am by expressions of human frailty.

A Laboured Decision.

I bought a second hand DVD for 99p in a charity shop today. When I took it to the counter the girl asked: ‘Are you paying by cash?’

The first and most obvious reply would have been ‘I’m hardly going to pay 99p by credit card, am I?’ But it seemed unimaginative, and that would never do.

So then I considered: ‘Is that all right? I’m afraid I’m clean out of buttons.’ Ah, no. She might have been embarrassed, or she might have inferred a hint of mockery and taken offence. Besides, she had a foreign accent and people from other cultures often misapprehend my sense of humour. I took the simple, direct route and said ‘Yes.’

Sometimes I wish life wouldn't insist on forcing decisions on me. It can be quite unsettling.

On Llamas and Inductive Reasoning.

I was clearing one of the road drains today when my old friend the llama came trotting up looking mightily amused.

‘You look amused,’ I said.

‘You state the obvious,’ he replied.

I chose not to be offended since a llama's intention is not always quite what it seems, but asked instead what he found so funny.

‘I just proved how illogical humans are,’ he answered smugly.

‘Oh yes, and how did you do that?’

‘I snatched a woman’s hat off her head and flung it along the road.’

‘Why was that funny?’

‘That wasn’t funny. What was funny was her reaction.’

‘Which was?’

‘She looked confused for a moment, and then said to the male companion with whom she was walking: “Oh. The wind must have blown my hat off.” “I didn’t feel any wind,” replied the male of the species. “Well, what else could it have been?” she insisted, still affecting that odd countenance which humans adopt when they lack the appropriate degree of certainty. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I suppose there must have been a sudden gust.” See what I mean? Illogical.’

‘It wasn’t illogical at all,’ I argued, feeling a trifle defensive towards my own species for a change. ‘Hats don’t just fly off your head under their own power, do they? They naturally assumed it was the wind because that was the only rational explanation.’

‘Ah, but it wasn’t though, was it?’

‘Wasn’t what?’

‘The only rational explanation. I remember reading a book once about a detective called Shylock something-or-other…’

‘You mean Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Do I? Well, whatever. The bit I particularly remember was where he said: “When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.” Or words to that effect. Now, had the woman said “My hat just flew off my head and there’s no wind, therefore I conclude that an invisible llama is playing tricks on me,” I should have had much more faith in her powers of reason and those of your species generally. What are you doing, by the way?’

‘Clearing the dead leaves and silt off this grid.’

‘Why?’

‘So the water will go down it instead of running along the road like a river in the wrong place.’

‘Hmm. Good idea. Do the other humans in this locality value your efforts?’

'Probably not.'

'My point precisely.'

And then he trotted off up the road whistling. Did you know that llamas can whistle? No, neither did I.

A Life of Little Purpose.

There are those who believe that there is a plan to everybody’s life – that we have a destiny to which we are inexorably drawn. Maybe that’s true, in which case it appears that mine can be summed up in three words: observe, experience, recount. I sometimes feel guilty that I rarely did much that was useful.

Wind and Water.

The clouds tonight are rushing headlong across the near-full moon, racing from the north east like so many hags on witchy business, their vestments leaping in the icy blast like cold flames while they roar their displeasure at those of us who cling to the steady land for safety.

It’s different being at sea in a small frigate during a heavy storm. The wind does not roar so much, for there is less to offer resistance. Instead it whispers in your ears, wild and sibilant, to augment the hammering of the mountainous swell on the puny vessel and the venomous hiss of bow waves surmounting the deck and splattering man and superstructure alike.

There is no land to cling to for safety on the dark briny, but only reliance on the fates and the sureness of sea legs to keep you from being hurled to a certain end. This I experienced on only four days in my life, but it was enough to be remembered.

Another Pretend Positive.

Being a classic HSP type I’ve been prey to a lot of stress all my life. Today it finally dawned on me that it has one thing to commend it: if you feel stressed, at least you know you’re alive and functioning after a fashion. Those who don’t feel stressed in stressful situations are mostly either dead, drugged, insane, psychopathic, or they’ve given up (or maybe they’re fully enlightened Buddhists, but there aren’t many of those.)

It doesn’t help much if you’ve got it bad, but I thought I’d say it anyway. And I’m probably generalising…