Prospects, Good and Bad.

OK, I’m very tired having had only four hours sleep last night, but I suppose I’d better give an update on the dreaded Follow Up.

It was fairly low key and neither my fervent hope nor my major fear came to fruition. The consultant didn’t say ‘You’re fine; go away’ and neither did he say ‘I’m going to attach this expanding dog lead to your neck so we can reel you in every three months and bend you to our will for the rest of your life.’

What he actually said was that the tumour in my kidney had been a high grade one. They come in three grades, apparently: low, medium and high. Mine was high. Well it would be, wouldn’t it? I’m a man of discernment who expects nothing but the best of and for himself. If JJ is going to get a tumour, it had damn well better be a high grade one. Ah, but should I be proud or afeared?

Well, it appears that the elevated status of the said gremlin is significant for some reason, which is why I was told that I should have CT scans on my lungs and stomach in six months time. Maybe those of us who attract the crème de la crème of the tumour hierarchy are more favoured by the denizens of that world and therefore more likely to be subjected to their repeated attention. I don’t know; I didn’t ask because the consultant was already running an hour late and I’m a considerate sort of chap as well as a discerning one. Besides, I still had the mystery condition to discuss with him, which is what I did next.

He told me I was falling prey to a vivid imagination. He told me there was nothing about the affected part which could be described as life threatening and that, in contradiction of my own diagnosis, I was not substantially deficient in that region. He suggested I probably had an infection – most likely caused by the catheter because “everything’s interconnected down there” – but he didn’t want to give me any medication, preferring to let nature take its course for the time being. He implied that the pain would go away once nature had chosen to cooperate, and I chose to infer a reasonable degree of confidence that my one Christmas present this year won’t be the acquisition of a woman’s voice after all. 

Are you getting my drift here? I would rather not be more specific because there’s a chance that somebody might read it before the 9pm watershed and I wouldn’t like to be responsible for an outbreak of swooning among the ranks of sensitive and respectable blog readers.

And that’s about it, apart from the fact that the esteemed doctor said I would also have to submit to another cystoscopy, which I knew already. I hate cystoscopies. They’re not nice, but that’s how it is. 

Servants of the Borg.

I’m moved to start thinking about my most hated objects, just to have something to post about during these mentally turbulent but physically idle days.

The first is alarm clocks. Can’t stand the damn things. How can something so mindless be so presumptuous at the same time? The alarm clock exists from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time (Macbeth, in case you didn’t know) with only one purpose to give its mean little existence meaning: to make an unearthly noise at an unearthly hour of the morning and tell you it’s time to wake up and get up.

‘But I don’t want to get up yet.’

You must. You have no choice. It is time. I have spoken and you will obey. Resistance is useless.

I just set mine for 6.30. I think one of us will have to go.

The Dreaded Follow Up.

I have my next visit to the hospital tomorrow for my operation ‘follow up.’ I’m nervous because I don’t know what a ‘follow up’ is. I hope that he will say ‘You’re doing fine. Go away and never darken our hallowed corridors again.’ What I fear is that he might want to consign me to a regime of three-monthly visits to screen for this and test for that and consider the possibility of such and such.

That wouldn’t suit me at all. The road ahead would no longer be a blank canvas, but a tainted thing spattered with unsightly ink blots comprising screens and tests and procedures. I would feel that I was being tethered to one of those expanding dog leads which give the animal the delusion of freedom until its human decides to reel it in. I would become a fish being constantly caught and thrown back, caught and thrown back. That would not sit at all well with my need of freedom.

And then, of course, there is also the issue of the new condition which I will need to tell him about and hopefully receive a diagnosis which won't make me want to die. What will he tell me, I wonder. Dark possibilities loom menacingly in my imagination and make me a little more than uneasy. Time will tell, no doubt, and no doubt I will reveal whatever is within the bounds of propriety to reveal in due course.

Jumbled Nothings.

It’s way past two in the morning and I’m sad to report – yet again – that nothing worth mentioning happened today. Neither did I have any epiphanies, no dogs befriended me, and there wasn’t even a beautiful sunset to wax lyrical about.

(The sunset is an illusion, said the Reluctant Messiah. The beauty is real.)

In desperation, I might just mention something I seem to recall mentioning once before on this blog back in the days when the world was still turning on its axis and little Inca was usually pleased to see me. (Inca is a cocker spaniel if you recall. And I might just mention that I’ve drunk enough scotch to feel quite justified in talking nonsense.)

So anyway…

I just watched The Old Dark House again, and if there’s one thing for which that classic film should be remembered it’s the line:

‘What scared you?’

Somebody just slammed the door in my face.

‘I expect it was the wind.’

No, it wasn’t the wind. I know wind when I see it.

It knock spots off ‘We’ll always have Paris’ doesn’t it?

Being Under Siege.

The blog is troubling me lately, and the reason it’s troubling me is that I have so little to say to it. There are several reasons for that, but the main one is that I’ve been under siege for the past ten weeks. I mustn’t do anything even lightly strenuous, they tell me. I mustn’t even drive a car.

Well, as you might expect, I do engage with a few activities which might be described as lightly strenuous – including driving a car short distances – but then I suffer for it later. It isn’t the suffering that bothers me, though; I can live with a bit of pain and discomfort. It’s the fear that I might be doing some damage or at least causing the healing process to become protracted. ‘Six to twelve months,’ they told me. That’s a bloody long time. Meanwhile, the house is becoming a hovel, the garden a jungle, and the sight of them is driving me scatty.

So how do I distract myself? TV? Nope; hardly anything there worth watching. Reading? Nope; my attention span lasts about ten to fifteen minutes and then the book becomes an object of faded regard and goes back on the shelf. YouTube? That’s a help, but only after midnight. I have restricted bandwidth, you see, for cheapness, so I can only allow myself the luxury of streaming between midnight and 8am. Walking? Yes, but I don’t have my normal energy levels back yet so I’m restricted to around 1-1½ miles. It doesn’t take very long to walk that far.

And so I live mostly in my head, imagining things I would like to happen but almost certainly won’t. There are a few special people, for example, who I would like to come and visit me, but they either don’t have transport, are too busy, or are disinclined so to do. And the fact of my having discouraged social visitors as an unwarranted intrusion for several years probably doesn’t help much. But the truth is that I’m becoming increasingly fed up and frustrated and my need of a relief column to come and lift the siege is verging on desperation.

And yet there is cause for hope. I talked briefly to a woman in the lane today and I’ll tell you what she said to me (even though it’s unlikely to be believed) because it’s something I’ve never been told before. She told me that I’m not a good looking sort of chap (which I certainly have been told before) but that my face has a ‘craggy’ look which some women find attractive. Really? A craggy look? Hmm… In that case all I have to do is enlist a regiment of young women who like the craggy look and my problems will be over at a stroke. (I am joking, of course, for how would I accommodate a regiment of craggy look enthusiasts in my present condition?)

But what else can I do but dream and joke when I’m barred from doing anything which is even lightly strenuous? And what do I say to the blog when I’m living in my head imagining things that haven’t happened and almost certainly never will?

Rick's Problem.

Ilsa’s line ‘We’ll always have Paris’ is seen as one of the most romantic lines of cinematic history (somebody even said it to me once!) I don’t think it’s romantic at all; I think it’s just plain silly.

What use is Paris? It’s only a memory, a shadow of something that no longer exists, a two dimensional thing without substance or prospects. Casablanca exists; Paris doesn’t. Saying ‘We’ll always have Paris’ is like giving a starving man the plate off which he ate his last meal three weeks ago and expecting him to stop feeling hungry. It’s hardly the solution to Rick’s problem, is it? It’s absurd.

On Life and Small Things.

Being a confirmed devotee of the God of Small Things can have its down side as well as its up. On the one hand you can be thrilled by the sight of a moth feeding on a flower; on the other you can feel dreadfully hurt by the smallest perceived slight, like being summarily dismissed by the one person you really want to talk to. Brushed away like a speck of dirt on a new coat was how it seemed. It’s odd that I have often sailed through some big issues relatively unconcerned, but being brushed off by somebody with whom I have never had a true conversation, and who I only bump into about three times a year, bit deep. Oh, well; life moves on.

But today I received the long-awaited news: the Lady B has successfully produced the new life which she has been carrying and mother and baby are said to be doing well, if in need of some sleep. And it was a girl, as I always thought it would be.

‘You’re the only one who thought so,’ said the dear lady's dear mama. ‘Everybody else was sure it would be a boy.’

Being right about something doesn’t inflate my ego as it used to. I suppose that’s about life moving on, too.

Musings from the Autumn.

Every time I think of something to write to the blog I get a voice inside my head telling me: ‘It’s too trivial. Forget it. Go back to being bored and unfulfilled because those two conditions are less demeaning than demonstrating the smallness of your mind by writing trivial nonsense.’ And so I revert to being bored and unfulfilled and the blog remains sparsely populated. Is this the end of my blogging days, I ask myself? I don’t know yet.

Or is it the end of me? I was ruminating recently on the nature of my various fixations in life. I’ve had several because I seem to be the sort who is given to monomania and rock hopping. But let’s have my personal definition to begin with.

To me, a fixation is something which drives you far beyond the point which a mere hobby or interest can manage. It’s something you love more than chocolate, something which fills your waking thoughts and sleeping dreams almost to the exclusion of everything else, something you can’t wait to engage with, something which can muddle your capacity for reason and even propel you to the edge of temporary insanity now and then. And so this is my list of fixations for the sake of adding another digit to the May total:

Romance, sex (usually working in tandem because they both have their root in the need to explore), the drive to understand the nature of reality, fishing, photography, writing, and hot bacon and tomato sandwiches (I think I can allow that one because there was a time when the prospect of a hot bacon and tomato sandwich would have tugged me away from some of the others.)

Most of them have now either gone or shrunk to a mere minor titillation for one reason or another (especially bacon and tomato sandwiches since I became vegetarian.) Until a couple of weeks ago I would have said that writing was my one remaining fixation, but now I’m beginning to wonder whether that’s going the way of the others and being replaced by the contemplation of mortality.

And while I’m on the subject of mortality it occurs to me to say that if I’m to be remembered for anything – and I’m not terribly bothered whether I am or not – I should like it to be for my favourite philosophy which can be expressed two ways:

Perception is the whole of the life experience.

Everything of value ultimately distils to the abstract.

And another thing: I was listening to some people on a TV programme recently talking about their charity which sends volunteers to the homes of lonely people to talk to them. ‘Count me out,’ I said (even though I appreciated their effort and concern.) The last thing I want is to have strangers coming into my house – however well intentioned they might be – and trying to engage me in trivial conversation. That’s because I don’t get lonely. There are times when I feel depressingly alone, but that’s not the same thing at all. Besides, my head develops the odd feeling that it's about to explode if I'm trapped into attempting forced, trivial conversation just for the sake of it.

And finally: There’s a woman I occasionally encounter in the coffee shop and she seems to like me for some reason. (Oddly enough, I seem to quite like her, too.) She was there today and we spent most of our time talking about operations, their complications and side effects, and the self-injection of Clexane. And her very small daughter, Cicely, smiled at appropriate moments. It was the most fun I’ve had for ages.

I think that’s more than enough for one day.

A Note.

I’ve been silent this past week or so because the new health issue with which I’m now afflicted remains unexplained, and because everything I feel moved to say seems unworthy of the effort it would take to say it.

But how can I remain silent when this year’s show of May blossom is the best I’ve ever seen, and when I have three bats coming to pay their respects on every late spring twilit eve when I invite them to share my world?

The new spring growth is running rampant this year; my erstwhile but still much vaunted friend the Lady B is about to bring forth new life; the lambs are growing sturdy and the baby blue tits in the box behind my kitchen will be fledging any day. All is strong and new and beautiful and surging forth as it should. And yet I hear a whisper on the wind of change that this blog might be going out with the old order. I hope it is but the empty murmuring of a formless phantasm, and that maybe the old dog has life in him yet.

Meanwhile, here’s a simple little hymn to humanity. Whatever else we do, please let us be steadfast in consigning the hate, the prejudice, the abuse, the violence and the cruelty to the sewer where it belongs.

Thinking Ahead.

If there’s one thing that can be said about my life to date, it is that I always managed to say to people what I needed to say to them. With one exception. (I surely don’t need to identify the one to whom I refer, do I?)

I’m not sure that I like exceptions of that sort. It’s often said that a spirit with unfinished business is a restless spirit, and the last thing I want to be when I reach that stage is restless. I might become desperate and moan a lot in inappropriate places. People might feel it necessary to employ an exorcist of exceptional skill to rid their environment of my creepy and unwelcome presence, and then I would feel rejected and moan even more.

No, I want to sit peacefully on some grassy lea as the westering sun is setting, content with the company of a Shetland pony and a robin while the new lambs come to headbutt my shoulder just for the fun of it. I want to ride the back of a friendly dolphin to a sun-kissed isle where a thousand and one maidens await my need to explore. I want to climb a high mountain without growing tired and look out on a world which is more than two dimensional.

(Meanwhile, here in the lower Shire the hawthorn blossom is bursting forth and the landscape is liberally dotted with giant vanilla ice cream cones. I expressed my sincere thanks to them only this afternoon.)

Sometimes – mostly in the evenings – I feel that I am not healing me of my grievous wounds quite as well as might reasonably be expected. And so sometimes – mostly in the evenings – I wonder whether Avalon is not so far removed after all. But optimism tends to hold sway in the mornings.

Note:

Re-posted on 27th May.

This was written ten days ago but I decided I didn't want it on the blog. I've changed my mind now, since why should the effort of writing it go to waste? Much of the May blossom has faded in the interim, but the place still looks a picture.

A Taste for the Edge.

I still wonder about that innate sense of fascination which we feel for the shoreline and the sea. The littoral environment; the interface between worlds; the fleeting connection with some unknown traveller bound for a distant land. Maybe it has something to do with the irresistible pull of boundaries.

When I was eighteen I was watching the TV one evening and there was a shot of the moon over the sea with its ever-shifting, fragmented image being reflected by the waves. Within two hours I was in my car heading for the island of Anglesey some eighty or so miles away, desperate to see the moon over the water. There was no moon that night and in the morning I drove home again, not via the coast road that time but through the mountains instead.

I don’t do that sort of thing any more. How age does wither our will and suffocate our taste for the lure of impulse. But I still occasionally recall one of my favourite lines from Dylan’s Gates of Eden:

Upon the beach where hound dogs bay

At ships with tattooed sails

Two Intriguing Notes.

I find it intriguing that the supposedly twin concepts of love and romance occupy entirely different parts of my brain and have never met during my current incarnation. If they had, I suspect the result might have been comparable with a collision of matter and anti-matter. I might be wrong, of course. I might instead have had somebody come visit me on a daily basis while I was in hospital and now be on hand to do all the housework while I’m indisposed.

And I was reading tonight about the mythical ancient rulers of Ireland known as the Tuatha de Danann. If you read the same account here, you might be as intrigued as I was to think that the famed Sidhe – known in common parlance as ‘the little people’ – might be descended from Vikings. The terms ‘Viking’ and ‘fairy’ don’t sit easily together, do they?

Harry and Meghan's Happy Ending.

I’m sick to the back teeth of seeing squidgy references to Harry and Meghan and their upcoming nuptials. (It has to be Harry and Meghan, of course, never Meghan and Harry. Harry’s superior position in the relationship is implicit because he’s male, white, and a member of the British royal bloodline. Meghan is merely the girl from LA who just won the world’s biggest lottery. No contest.)

I could write quite a lot about the different angles here, but I can’t be bothered. What I will say is that I would love to see a headline tomorrow which reads:

HARRY AND MEGHAN TO PART!

‘It was all a joke,’ says the prince.

And then there would be the interviews with Britain’s erstwhile favourite Beautiful Beloveds (who have vowed to remain good friends, as you would expect.)

‘Do you really think I would marry some backstreet floosie from LA?’ remarked the Prince with his typically boyish grin. ‘I mean, California, for heaven’s sake! She doesn’t even come from somewhere of substance in the north east. Do me a favour.’

And Mistress Meghan would counter:

‘You guys surely never thought for one minute that I would ever stoop to sharing my living space with this privileged plonker just because he’s got a palace or two,’ she said, aiming a dismissive thumb in Harry’s direction. ‘Gimme a break, will you?’

And then the no-longer-courting couple would exchange kisses to the cheek, stand for the adulation of the assembled audience, and make bows of well rehearsed equality of depth. And on just this unlikely eventuality I rest my sincerest hopes.

Essential Information.

The men’s toilet in Ashbourne Sainsbury’s is a very small one. It consists of two urinals, one cubicle, a wash basin and an electric hand dryer. And there is a single door giving access and egress to and from the facility.  A big new notice has now appeared on the inside of that door. It reads:

WAY OUT

And so I went to the kiosk and made the earnest enquiry: ‘Is there a history of people getting lost in your toilet?’

On Darling Buds and a Gem.

The green growing things are running rampant in my garden this year, not least the bluebells in the semi wild part which have sprouted in at least a dozen places where they’ve never been seen before. But the nicest surprise came today.

I have a self-seeded hawthorn on the retaining embankment which runs along the top of my ground. I’ve been keeping it trimmed to the size of a shrub for the past twelve years in the hope that one day it would flower. Today I saw flower buds on it for the first time, which means that I will shortly have the delight of May blossom presenting its snowy countenance a mere ten feet from my kitchen door. Isn’t that splendid? It’s splendid.

*  *  *

And on a totally unrelated, but still positive, note, I had another example today of the NHS bending over backwards to accommodate my needs and make my life easier. The NHS really is an absolute gem, you know. When I consider the last four torturous months during which I’ve had tests, scans, procedures, a six hour operation, the dedicated care, support and attention of a whole host of doctors, nurses, administrators and ancillary staff - and all to save my insignificant little life - frankly I’m awash with amazement and gratitude. And it was all free, even the transport to and from home (once I was an inpatient) by the East Midlands Ambulance Service. I said as much to the pharmacist at my GP practice today. Isn’t that splendid? It’s splendid.

Secrets Waiting to be Heard.

The wild garlic plants clothing the steep embankments of The Hollow are in full bloom now, their white flower heads held high and just the faintest hint of their pungent aroma beginning to permeate the subdued light of the sunken lane. Above them the fresh fronds of resurgent bracken are curling outwards and upwards to augment the dense carpet of wild ivy hugging the invisible earth. And surging skyward out of this natural wonderland are the old trees at the top of the rise, multi-centenarians in many cases, proudly displaying their gnarled trunks and heavy roots encrusted with ancient mosses.

This is my world and these are my people, but their outward display is hiding something other than the tales they could tell of centuries past and people long gone. They sometimes whisper hints of their arcane knowledge to me in a language unknown to my human mind and unheard by my physical senses. One day, maybe, I’ll learn to hear and understand it.

On Being Missed.

In furtherance of my new-found resolution to be more accepting of my fellow creatures, I decided to walk over and talk to a man who was mowing his lawn at the bottom of the lane today. He told me that people had mentioned me. They’d said that I hadn’t been seen around for a while and wondered whether I’d moved. In return, I treated him to the story of my operation and a good time was had by all.

But what I don’t understand is this: I’ve had very little to do with the residents of the Shire over the twelve years I’ve lived here. They’re mostly not my type, just as most city and suburban dwellers are not my type. Very few people are my type, which is why I’ve evolved into being mostly reclusive. And I’ve been mostly a loner all my life. So why would they notice my absence, and why should it be of the slightest consequence to them?

Animals, on the other hand, are different, and I needed no new-found resolution to walk over and talk to the big, black, heavy-set gelding who sometimes occupies a field near here. He rewarded me with the grandest show of affection I’ve ever had from a horse. And even his shy little Shetland pony friend inched forward to have his muzzle stroked.

I wonder whether they’d noticed my absence, too. Or could it be that they recognised an injured creature and were offering sympathetic support? I settled on the likelihood of both.

The Post-Op Game.

My post-operative life is like playing a game of Snakes and Ladders at the moment. Every so often I land on a square which permits me to climb a little way up a ladder, and then suddenly I arrive at the head of a snake and slip back down again. So it was yesterday; various forms and levels of pain and discomfort made an unwelcome re-appearance and my mood tumbled with them.

Maybe it was because I permitted myself the luxury of doing a minor job which required slightly more effort than picking up a feather with care and concentration. Maybe it was because I went for a slightly longer walk. Maybe it was because I’d disobeyed the consultant’s orders the day before and taken the car out for a drive. Maybe it was the thump I got from the backpack which I reported in an earlier post.

Alternatively, I might just be making excuses to avoid an unpalatable fact: the process of healing after the removal of a kidney is apparently a long and frustrating one and I just have to cultivate an unfamiliar level of patience for as long as it takes. In fairness, I was told to expect a series of ups and downs. At the same time I suppose I’d better start obeying orders, which isn’t something I’m naturally inclined to do. Playing a game of Snakes and Ladders by the rules occupies the interest well enough for a little while, but eventually it grows tedious.

Comparisons Near and Far.

I was talking to the manageress in the coffee shop today and she was recounting her travels in South America, mostly through Brazil and Argentina. I asked her whether the two countries were very different and she said they were.

‘Travelling in Brazil was much scarier,’ she said. ‘In Argentina I travelled everywhere alone and only got mugged once.’

*  *  *

On a more prosaic note, I was reminded again today of the difference between my two local market towns, Ashbourne and Uttoxeter. In Uttoxeter you see more shuffling people; you see more disabled people; you see more wheelchairs. Uttoxeter is a poorer town than Ashbourne and the link between wealth and health has often been noted. I generally feel more comfortable in Ashbourne, but I’m probably closer to home in Uttoxeter. And I’m beginning to feel aggrieved that my kidney wasn’t given a proper funeral.

Questioning Self-Improvement.

While I was visiting my old friend Uttoxeter today after a seven week absence, my mind went wandering off down the dark and often distressing road I’ve been walking over the past four months. Chief among my musings was the fact that the whole unpleasant experience has probably saved me from a premature death (approximately two years hence was the consultant’s estimate if I hadn’t submitted to the operation), and that while precocity has always been a mainstay of my little tenure on this planet, it isn’t always a desirable quality. And that reminded me of my resolution that I should repay my good fortune by trying to be a better person.

So, I was standing outside the Tesco store when a woman, probably in her mid forties, walked over with a trolley and stared at me. How should I describe her? Well, let’s say that she was somewhat unprepossessing in the matter of looks and general appearance, and had the air of a person whose IQ, if compared with the scale of the average human lifespan, would probably equate to something approaching adolescence. And then she spoke:

‘Have you seen a woman walk past ’ere with long blond ’air down to her bum?’

I thought it an odd question from somebody with whom even the briefest acquaintance seemed highly undesirable, and then she continued:

‘Only I thought she might have already taken a trolley.’

My mental response was typical of me. Roughly, it ran:

Madame, your presence in my space is less than welcome. Please go away.

I didn’t say that, of course; I merely answered ‘no,’ whereupon she walked away of her own volition. And then the Lady of the Muses tapped me on the shoulder.

‘You just failed your first test.’

What test?

‘The test of your resolution to be a better person. Is it the act a better person to judge a fellow human pejoratively just because she’s dumb and ugly, and to reject her presence out of hand simply for so being?’

Did I say she was dumb and ugly?

‘Certainly you did; you just wrapped it up in ridiculously fancy language.’

That’s because I’m a writer.

‘No it isn’t, it’s because you’re a failure at being a better person. Think again and find something positive to say about her.’

And so I thought, and came up with:

If she was capable of reasoning that both she and her companion might have collected a trolley unbeknownst to one another, and might therefore be possessed of a redundant article which will have to be returned, maybe she has a reasonable level of mental acuity after all and is blessed with a higher IQ than the 15 or so which I surmised.

The Lady of the Muses seemed unimpressed with my effort, but at least she discharged me and allowed me to proceed to my car. I was carrying my backpack in my hand when I opened the door, and as I did so the bag swung around and hit me precisely in that part of my abdomen which is still exhibiting post-operative discomfort. So then it struck me that if I’m to be treated to an act of instant karma anyway, maybe there’s no point in trying to be a better person.

I suppose it’s more likely that it was just the Lady’s gentle form of admonishment, so maybe I’d better try harder instead.

Red Letter Day.

Today I took my trusty old car out on the road for the first time in seven weeks. (I was supposed to leave it thirteen weeks but was feeling a bit itchy. So, I suspect, was the trusty old car.)

I had to adjust my driving style a little, of course, and we only ventured the mere seven miles to Uttoxeter, but I managed it well enough apart from one lapse in concentration when I gave my abdomen a nasty wrench. Otherwise the car behaved impeccably, I managed to stay relaxed, there were no wrecks and nobody drownded, and it felt like another step along the road to recovery. Whether I will suffer for it later remains to be seen.

Return of the King?

On my short regulation walk yesterday I decided to make the uphill climb through a big field which runs from Mill Lane up to the creepy copse on Church Lane. I wondered how I would manage it in my current weakened condition; I thought it might be an indicator of some improvement or otherwise. And do you know what? I found it easier going than I had for several months before all this health business began.

It suggested to me that the cancer in my kidney had been growing for some time and affecting me physically without my realising it. I’m sure I mentioned on this blog that for maybe a year or more my walks were being undertaken purely for the sake of exercise rather than pleasure.

Today I walked along the gloriously sunny Church Lane – probably the prettiest lane in the Shire – and felt the joy of it all again. It reminded me of that last long, warm, dry summer we had in 2006, the year I first moved here and discovered the beauty of the Shire. I thrilled again to the sight of the grey-green aspen leaves sitting alongside the lime green of the horse chestnuts, and the first blooming of the May blossom was a particular thrill. Soon the hedgerows in these parts will be covered with the kind of snow which doesn’t melt in the warm sunshine. I’ve often wondered where that feeling went, but it was good to have it back again.

And I was reminded, too, of that long talk I had with the Lady B a little further along Church Lane on a sunny June day in 2008. I was struck by what a blessing that woman has been, leading me down a road that was familiar but showed me angles and emotional scenery hitherto unknown. I thought of the confusion and the unfamiliar adjustments I’ve had to make in order to deal with an impossible situation. I thought of how she smiled while I struggled, and of how she developed into the paragon of loveliness she now is. And I was glad that the effort she educed from me has led me to a point where I can now simply admire her from a distance and be content.

Two Notes on Judgement.

I’m having trouble with somebody at the moment, someone I’ve come to refer to as ‘the goblin.’ Well, such a pejorative soubriquet is hardly edifying, is it? And so I realise that I must try harder to understand people and be less judgemental (or even not judgemental at all.) The Buddhists teach that one should develop the habit of ‘non-judgemental observation’ and that sounds like good advice to me. But does it mean that I should be non-judgemental both ways? Should I avoid praising as well as decrying? It would seem illogical to do one without the other.

And on the subject of praise, I find myself startled every year when the apple blossom breaks. I always want to make an impassioned post about its beauty, but how often should you allow yourself to say the same thing? Have a picture from Pinterest instead. This is what mine looks like at the moment:

On Mill Lane and New Beginnings.

I met a man with three splendidly happy dogs while out walking in the sunshine today. The dogs and the supremely clement weather were mostly what we talked about, and then I mentioned the prospective return of the swallows. He said that he’d seen some further south in Austria last week, but he’d seen no sign of them here yet. Neither had I until I turned into Mill Lane and saw a single bird hunting around the farmhouse near the pub. It is famously said that ‘one swallow does not a summer make,’ but it’s certainly the harbinger of the season if not the proof of it.

But Mill Lane had still more on offer to pique my improving senses. As I approached the gate to the Lady B’s erstwhile abode, I saw her standing on the lawn around the back in the sunshine. She was wearing a long cotton frock appropriate to the precocious summer weather, and in front of it was the discreetest protuberance betraying an obvious but retrained hint of imminent motherhood. I've never seen her wearing a long cotton frock before, and I can say without fear of contradiction that I have never seen her looking lovelier. And I do say it unreservedly.

I considered walking down the drive to enquire as to the date on which deliverance is anticipated, but she had two young men with her and I thought it inappropriate. They were playing croquet. Besides, holding the twin emotions of sadness and joy - each maintaining station with its own impeccable credentials - in balance is difficult enough at the best of times. Walking on unnoticed offered the best solution.

Being the Seer.

I was just reading some of my old posts again (only because somebody else – from Russia– had been reading them and I’m always intrigued by the fact that anybody ever bothered to read anything I wrote.) They were from August 2013 this time, and once again I was saddened to realise how much my standards have fallen since those heady days when the world was young, the Lady B still talked to me and read my blog occasionally, and I was in possession of both a greenhouse and two healthy kidneys. There was some good stuff there then, and this is what I wrote in one of them:

Another report said that scientists have now grown a biological replica of the human brain in the laboratory. It’s said to be about the size of a pea and unable to think. Rumours that Donald Trump’s lawyers are about to sue for breach of copyright are probably just mischievous.

Bear in mind that it was written nearly five years ago. Was I ahead of the game or what?

Weird Words.

I swear these modern pretentious job titles are descending ever deeper into the realm of unfathomable gobbledegook. There’s a new ad appeared on my Flag Counter page from Amazon which says:

We are looking for permanent fulfilment associates to help us deliver smiles in Coventry.

So could somebody please tell me what the hell a ‘fulfilment associate’ is, and why the cold and soulless power base at the root of the corporate environment feels the need to manufacture such nonsense.

The Secret of Twilight.

I’ve been much given to wondering lately just what the secret of late spring and summer twilight is. Why does it suffuse the mind with a tantalizing hint of magic, especially out here in the emptier places where nature still holds some sway in a largely manufactured landscape?

I feel it when I hear the late songs of birds, and then watch them flying with haste and purpose across the garden on their way home to roost. And I feel it again when the silent bats and moths appear to feed through the growing darkness.

Maybe that gives the clue to the secret. Maybe it’s something to do with moving through an invisible interface between the noise and brightness of the daylight hours and the cool, nocturnal quietness. Maybe it’s all to do with cycles again, and nature’s simple imperatives, and the need to understand – and it’s something I sometimes find difficult – that life is worth living just for the sake of living it.

So maybe it isn’t magic at all. Maybe it only feels like magic because it offers a tantalizing glimpse of what life is about. And anything that’s tantalizing inevitably leaves a residue of mystery hanging in the subtle fabric of the twilight air.

Appearances.

I saw somebody in Ashbourne today who I haven’t seen since before I had the operation. He told me I didn’t look all that well, but I looked better than the last time he’d seen me.

Well now, it seems I looked ill even before I began the struggle through the operation and post-operative trials. Nobody else ever told me that, not even him. And the hairdresser who came yesterday was the latest to offer the shattering observation that I’ve lost weight. And several other people told me to take care of myself, so I suppose I’d better. What I don’t understand is why anybody should care.

On a completely unrelated note, I’m becoming a bit edgy over the Lady B’s confinement. She’s due to give birth some time this month and the prospect is inclining me to a vague desire to pace up and down the room, chain smoking and being startled by the sound of every door opening.

It goes without saying that I won’t because that would be silly and whoever heard of me being silly? I suppose I could write to her and wish her the best of luck, and I would if only I could be sure that she wouldn’t find my interest in her condition objectionable. But I can’t be sure, so I won’t.

What surprises me is that this is the first time in my life that I’ve felt disposed to welcome a visit from somebody to show me her new baby. She won’t, of course, partly because it isn’t her way and partly because nearly everything that happens to me lately seems designed to teach me hard lessons. Hardly anything I ever want to happen actually does.

Listening to Bob.

When I was in my early to mid teens, Bob Dylan’s folk songs with their cutting social commentary were a big influence on the way I saw the world. A lot of his lyrics were clever and poetic; some were enigmatic, and even arcane, and there are plenty I still don’t understand to this day.

I could quote many of those clever and poetic lines (one of which I have done many times when referring to myself as being ‘one too many mornings and a thousand miles behind’) to illustrate their power to influence a young mind. They would mostly come from the longer classic like Mr Tambourine Man, Gates of Eden, and It’s All Right Ma (I’m Only Bleeding.)

But tonight I was reminded of a shorter song called The Ballad of Hollis Brown which was written early on in his career and featured on the album The Times They Are A-Changing. It tells the story of a poor farmer driven to desperation by poverty and helplessness who finally murders his wife and five children before turning the gun on himself. I Googled it just to find out whether it was based on a true story. It wasn’t; it was fictional and written to illustrate a general condition as the best fiction usually is.

The story is poignant enough in itself, but one commentary I read highlighted the final ironic lines as evidence of its enduring worth. I remember them impressing me all those years ago when I was but a thoughtful adolescent:

There’s seven people dead on a South Dakota farm

There’s seven people dead on a South Dakota farm

Somewheres in the distance there’s seven new people born

It’s almost a throwaway concluding note, and yet it says so much about a world which doesn’t really care very much, and about a culture representing itself with images of rich folks dripping fine houses, prestige cars and solid gold trinkets who don’t really care very much. And most of all, perhaps, it says something about the nature of life that the desperation and violent deaths of seven insignificant people doesn’t really matter very much.

Marketing Nonsense.

I have an email from a company from which I bought a spare part once. According to the preview in the inbox it begins: Win a Dyson that will blow your mind!

If I were the sort of person to have a mind capable of being blown by a vacuum cleaner, I think I might consider blowing the rest of the brain out with something a little more destructive.

On Fraud and Attraction.

I was just watching another music video which featured film clips of high society bright young things dancing waltzes in opulent ballrooms to the music of Shostakovich, and I realised just how fraudulent the whole business of sexual attraction is.

When I was eighteen I was the one who got the girl because I was the only young man in the building who didn’t make up to her. I ignored her instead for the whole week that she was working there. It was my tactic. It worked. See what I mean? Fraudulent.

And now that I’ve finally grown up and come to understand the value of authenticity and respect, I’m one too many mornings and a thousand miles behind.

Bucket List Blues.

I’m posting this music video for four reasons:

1. The part of my brain which thinks of things to say has gone into a coma.

2. It’s my kind of strange

3. It’s got Kate Beckinsale in it.

4. It’s got Kate Beckinsale in it

Oh for those glorious, far off days when my bucket list was one long stream of Kate Beckinsales. Nowadays it amounts to little more than:

1. Stop having bits of me hurt.

2. Be able to walk more than a mile comfortably.

3. Have no need of caution when contemplating using what little is left of my muscles for the purpose for which they were intended.

4. Stop talking about my bloody condition because I’m tired of it all.

Defined by Choice of Words.

We’ve had a wet night and morning in the Shire, but now the clouds are clearing and the sun is making an occasional appearance. The air flow, however, is still coming from a chilly north westerly direction. So how would most people describe that? They’d say:

It’s warm in the sun, but the wind is still cold.

This is the subjective view, the self-centric perception. Dear old JJ has to be different, of course. I would naturally say:

The sun has plenty of power now, but the ambient temperature is still low.

This is the objective view, the overview if you like. This is how I have to be, probably because I’m a natural outsider looking in. But it gets me strange looks occasionally. I suppose it sounds pretentious even though it isn’t; it’s just the way I see things. And it’s the more logical description. Yet still I feel the need to translate and say:

It’s warm in the sun, but the wind is still cold.

Coming Back.

No musings or whingings or visits from llamas today, but only a brief hymn of thanks for the return of the bats. There were two of them tonight hunting over the lane in tandem, and I thought I saw a third but couldn’t be certain. How I have longed to see them again after the seemingly endless winter of waiting and walking through more than one trough of darkness; how earnestly I wished them well during the icy blast of Siberian weather; and what cause for celebration that they should come flitting and swooping and pirouetting on none other than Beltane itself.

And the trees of the Shire are now almost in full leaf. And the new growth in field and hedgerow, roadside verge and garden is bursting with all the fulsome richness of the light time. Next to arrive will be the swallows and martins come up from Africa, and maybe then it will be my time to come back. False dawns are still feared, but the energy is stirring.

Lacking Sympathy.

My friend the llama came sauntering up the garden path today while I was admiring the blossom on the plumb tree.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Where have I been?’ I queried.

‘Yes. Where have you been? I made the effort to visit you some weeks ago and my reward - if you'll excuse the irony in the expression - was to find you conspicuous by your absence. So where have you been?’

‘Oh, right. That must have been when I was in hospital.’

‘In hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘In hospital... mmm... Why do humans always have to be so vague in their manner of communication? Saying “I was in hospital” is like saying “I was in a shop.” To what end were you in hospital? Were you painting the walls? Checking the beds for metal fatigue? Peddling your autobiography? Or could it have been something else entirely?’

‘I was having an operation.’

‘I see. You were having an operation. Would you care to expand? What, precisely, was the purpose of this operation?’

‘I was having a kidney removed.’

‘Oh, really? Why? Had you grown to dislike it?’

‘Of course I hadn't. It was diseased.’

‘Ah, now I’m getting the picture. You were having a diseased kidney removed. The muddy water of worthless generality is clearing at last. Are you fully recovered now?’

‘Hardly. It’s going to be a long process.’

‘How long?’

‘They said six to twelve months.’

‘Oh my word, that is a long process. That being the case I see little point in continuing this conversation. I don’t have the time. Goodbye.’

‘Aren’t you going to wish me well?’

‘Would it make a difference?’

‘Well, no, I don’t suppose so.’

‘In which case I see no point whatsoever in so doing. What became of your errant kidney, by the way?’

‘I’ve no idea. They don’t tell you that.’

‘See what I mean? Vague as ever. Goodbye.’

And then he walked sedately down the lane in the direction of the pub, grabbing a bunch of cow parsley leaves on the way and munching them with a strange humming sound. I didn’t detect any actual tune.