Life as a Comic Book.

So here I am again. It’s night, it’s dark, the egg timer will shortly be using up another day’s worth of sand, and the blog still has no entry for Saturday 30^th June 2018.

I did write a post earlier. It was one of the longest I’ve written for quite some time. It was serious, rational, well reasoned and even provocative. It could be said that it was a good post, but I decided to save it and come back to it later because I thought it needed editing. When I did come back to it… pouf . It didn’t interest me any more. The story was on a different page than the one I’m on now and it suddenly seemed too trivial to engage so much as a flea with insomnia.

Imagine you’re reading a story in a comic book. It’s about some intrepid hero with a firm jaw and eyes of steel who is piloting a battle cruiser in the war against the Venusians. And then you turn the page and read another story about an explorer deep in the jungles of Sumatra, warding off the heat, the flies and the anacondas who want to swallow him whole, while he is going through hell searching for the fabled lost city of Buggabugga. Dan Dare has now become yesterday’s news because the current page is the only current reality.

That’s how it is when you’re a recluse lacking any geographically close connections with whom you can sit over a cup of coffee or a glass of whisky or a plate of spaghetti Bolognese, talking endlessly of things shallow and profound with equal fervour while you gradually explore every aspect of their being. Life becomes a comic book, with every turn of the page bringing a different shade of perception to the question of what matters and what doesn’t.

Today is Mel’s birthday, by the way. If anyone wishes to send felicitations I will gladly pass them on. She’s still of an age where felicitations are appropriate. I’ve reached the point where commiserations are more in order.

Purple Haze.

How should one address the purple haze which drifts in silence through the mind, clouding fact and fancy, form and foreseeable future?

I suppose I should really write a long and detailed post around the subject of the man who owns the health food shop and waxes eloquent about the great panacea that is cannabis oil. I should make reference to the conflict between ready anecdotal evidence and cumbersome clinical trial, particularly noting that anecdotal evidence sees only the presumed successes while ignoring the apparent failures. I might mention that men who own health food shops need to sell their wares in order keep their businesses, and then admit that pharmaceutical companies do the same thing but on a bigger scale. Maybe I should consider the theory that nature provides a cure for every ill it sees fit to confer on us. And no doubt I would have to admit that the man who owns the health food shop might be right even though the evidence he presents isn’t actually proof. And then I might explain why I still laid out £39 for a tiny bottle of his stock-in-trade in spite of my scepticism.

Frankly, I can’t be bothered. The purple haze is clouding my view and my judgement. And besides, there is another issue about which I’m finding it difficult to decide whether I’m right or not. I expect it will all become clear eventually assuming the dark rider and his ebony steed keep their distance long enough. And if they don’t, it won’t matter.

Good Weather Biting.

The road which goes into Ashbourne from the south runs down quite a steep hill from the plateau known as Darley Moor, and offers a brief but quite spectacular view of the southern Pennine foothills. It’s usually green; sometimes in the winter it’s white; today it was as brown as I think I’ve ever seen it.

We’ve had an unusually dry, sunny spring and early summer in the UK, and we’re currently getting unusually high temperatures by normal June standards. The water company was handing out free bottled water in Ashbourne today because usage is exceeding supply capability in some areas. I’ve read about people going out to rescue fish from drying streams. And Northern Ireland has instituted a hosepipe ban. A hosepipe ban this early in the summer? And in Ireland of all places, which owes its ‘Emerald Isle’ soubriquet to all the rain it normally gets?

This post isn’t going anywhere; I just thought I’d mention it. I like the first paragraph and I wanted to write something so I just did. A number of things are troubling me at the moment.

The Good, the Bad, and the Danger to Milk.

I sometimes wonder, a little ruefully, how I managed to go from this:

 

…to this:

 

…to this:

  

... without an intervening period of civilisation.

I don’t have a current picture and I wouldn’t post it even if I did. The few people out there who read this blog might have milk within a 100ft radius and I doubt it would stand the strain.

*  *  *

In other news, do you realise that I’ve now had two opportunities to meet the Lady B’s baby and declined both? That’s sad, isn’t it? And all because of a damned epiphany which revealed that I’m not as good at pretending to be human as I thought I was. Actually, there is a second reason but I won't say what it is because I wouldn’t want any troll to be landed with the delusion that they were right about something. They weren’t.

*  *  *

And I had a routine dental appointment today with the incomparable Medeea, a woman possessed of the very rare distinction of being somebody I actually like (quite a lot.) When I mentioned the possibility that this might be my last summer she seemed mildly concerned. That was today’s nice bit. She also told me that I’m not too far off entering the realm of the wrinklies if my road still has a little way to run. She said it’s my fault for smoking. Hey ho. So then I spent a small fortune on a tiny bottle of cannabis oil…

Derby, Deviants, and Nodding Dogs.

Today I took my first trip to Derby since the operation. (I also had my first ice cream for about seven years. Ice creams are too expensive in Ashbourne.) The walking was a little more taxing than I’d expected (½ mile from the station and back, plus several circuits of the small city centre and extended coverage of both the mall and the two old markets in search of a sun hat for Mel. Taxing. I managed it, but we didn’t find a suitable sun hat.)

The trip back on the train was the only interesting bit. First there was the middle aged woman two seats in front of me who suddenly took out a bag of sweets and offered it to an apparent stranger – a man – on the other side of the aisle. They hadn’t exchanged a word before that and he looked quite perplexed, poor chap. But he dutifully took a toffee, unwrapped it and did his level best to smile amicably while the woman engaged him in apparently earnest conversation. She also stared at him intensely the whole time and nodded eagerly at everything he said. She looked like one of those toy dogs people put in the back windows of their cars to compliment the fluffy dice at the front. That would have frightened the bloody life out of me, but he looked oddly gratified by the attention.

Then there was the person sitting across the aisle from me. It had a short, boy’s hairstyle and was wearing a boy’s cap and a boy’s wrist watch, but when it turned in my direction I had no doubt that the eyes were those of a teenage girl. It also had girl’s hands and was wearing a girl’s necklace. And it was very thin, apart from the legs below the knee which were visible because its jeans were cut off at that point and the legs looked a size too big for the rest of its body. I desperately wanted to say ‘Excuse me, but would you mind revealing your gender because I’m most intrigued.’ But you can’t, can you? It might have caused embarrassment or even distress, and I would never want to do that. And I do realise that I’m probably straying way beyond the bounds of political correctness in saying this, but that’s how it was.

The young woman sitting next to her was quite different; she was definitely a young woman. The odd thing about her was that when we rose to alight at Uttoxeter she kept shooting familiar, smiling looks at me, as though she knew me and was waiting for me to say hello. I hadn’t a clue who she was, so I could only do the proper thing and frown more forcefully in return.

It was the smile that bemused me, you see. Another woman smiled at me in Derby today, and yet another in Ashbourne yesterday, and I really can’t fathom why they do it. I know I’ve mentioned this phenomenon before, but let me tell you something: The frown lines above the bridge of my nose are so deep they can be seen from outer space. And when I die I fully expect that my head will be shipped to some anthropology department somewhere in New England so they can be studied in an attempt to answer the riddle: who made these lines, what tools did they use, how long did it take, and do they have religious significance or are they evidence of alien contact some time before the Romans invented history? In short, I wear a permanent frown which should dispel any pea-brained notion that I am anything other than miserable, angry, distant and generally anathema to the majority of the human species.

And so I’m tempted to wonder whether there exists a breed of deviant women who find themselves irresistibly drawn to men with faces only good for curdling milk. I can imagine such a breed flourishing in Australia because Australian blokes are a pretty unprepossessing bunch, but here in Britain? Surely not. We’re civilised. (Just a bit of friendly reverse sledging there, mates, nothing more.)

Ah, and I forgot another odd little encounter which preceded the aforementioned ones on the train. I was walking through the shopping mall and in front of me were two women, one of whom was pushing a baby’s buggy. The two of them stopped, and as I caught up with them I could see that strapped in the buggy was a cuddly toy monkey. The older of the women unstrapped it and handed it to the younger one who cradled it to her neck and then they walked happily on. Now, I realise there might be a sad story behind this so maybe it isn’t a matter to be taken lightly. Nevertheless, I was tempted to wonder why people explore the four corners of the globe in search of fascination when all they have to do is walk through a shopping mall on a Thursday afternoon.

Bereft of Inspiration.

I seem to be quite unable to write shallow and meaningless posts these days. That’s a shame because shallow and meaningless posts were always what I was best at. It’s just that the universe keeps on sending me subtle – and sometimes not so subtle – little messages that whatever future I have remaining to me contains little to look forward to, and I do so like having things to look forward to.

I found an old picture of me tonight, one arm around a pretty girl, the free hand holding a drink, and surrounded by the pals I used to party with. It was taken when I was playing the role of party animal a year or two before I got into a spot of bother at age nineteen and began walking the long and winding road to lonerism. I like the word ‘lonerism.’ I just invented it. I like ‘iddite’ too. That’s another word I invented. Donald Trump is an iddite. This is, at least, one of the benefits of being a loner. You find yourself inventing words because you’re tired of the ones in the dictionary which somebody else invented. It’s also a self-evident fact that being a party animal brings its own pressures, especially if you’re a deep and meaningful thinker with a penchant for shallow and meaningless expression.

Did I ever mention that MENSA once measured my IQ at 157? I think I probably did. It’s a big number, isn’t it, but I’m not at all proud of the fact. It’s of very little practical value if you prefer to engage in matters shallow and meaningless just because it’s easier and usually funnier. I once asked one of my partners whether the delectable comestible which she laid before my slavering presence was boef en croute. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘it’s beef Wellington.’ ‘Ah,’ I suggested jauntily, oblivious to my gigantic IQ, ‘let’s call it boef en boot.’ See what I mean? It does sadden me, however, that I managed to get through all those years without ever doing much that was useful in the way that people like doctors, bricklayers and postal workers do. I might just as well have abandoned my standards and become an advertising executive, lifestyle guru or football pundit.

And here I am talking about me again. If you think that’s irritating, how do you think it makes me feel? Actually, I’m just trying to cheer myself up. What else can I do if my brain (which is the size of a planet, by the way) is too addled to appreciate the shallow and meaningless stuff?

Addressing the Silence

The silence is getting to me. My silence, that is. The post about my experience of briefly being a sex pest quite a long time ago didn’t have enough points of interest and so it got trashed. The post about moonbeams also got trashed because it didn’t have sufficient substance. And nothing of note happened today unless you count being smiled at by strangers twice in the space of five minutes, or discovering that the pharmacist in Tesco looks like the leading character in a very pleasant dream.

I suppose I could mention that I had one of my deep epiphanies today – not about the meaning of life this time, but about the meaning of me. It undermined much of who I thought I was and it wasn’t exactly edifying. I decline to make the detail public but I would quite like to tell somebody about it, only the recipient of the knowledge will have to be carefully chosen. Maybe it can be the next person I meet who wants to talk to me. Such people are pretty rare after all. And maybe the undermining of one’s sense of self is the beginning of wisdom, but I have to ask again: what is the point of wisdom when you’re moving beyond being able to make it count?

Tonight one of my regular pains got worse and lasted some way beyond my comfort zone. Tonight I was rudely interrupted in my routine communion with the spirit of the Shire and I really don’t like that very much. And tonight was a Wailin’ Jennys night. Maybe I’ll have something to say that’s worth saying tomorrow.

On Giving and Stuff.

I was reflecting earlier on several people I’ve encountered down the years who took what they needed from me and then moved on without giving anything back. I asked myself whether it irritated me and whether I felt short-changed, but I didn’t. I decided that to anyone aspiring to grow in this little life, the best sort of giving is that which has no expectation of reward.

Oh dear. That all sounds a bit sanctimonious, doesn’t it? A bit supercilious even. It’s the kind of plasticised philosophy byte which people like to quote because it’s neatly put and sounds profound. Actually, in this case I think it’s probably true.

At the shallow end of the principle is the self-evident fact that giving makes people feel good about themselves. That’s the immediate reward, but it can only work if there’s nothing given back. If there is, then it’s a simple exchange and there’s no reason to feel proud of it. But what about the bigger, more arcane picture?

I strongly suspect that all giving is returned in equal measure by that great clearing house in the sky which we call karma. It allows for acceptance of the fact that there’s no need for any direct relationship between the giving and the rewarding. Balance is achieved in seemingly random ways and over the longer term, possibly over lifetimes if you also subscribe to that possibility.

As usual I don’t know whether I’m right or not because such notions belong to the inventory of unprovable things about which there is no point in being dogmatic. But it suits my approach to life and so I stick to it without feeling sanctimonious. I am, after all, just trying to make sense of being here and it helps to have a few handles to hold onto.

And I wish somebody would give me a reason to stop being earnest.

Today's Epilogue.

I read today about Sarah Sanders being asked to leave a restaurant because of her connection to the Trump administration. The good side of me thought it ungracious, mean-minded and possibly counter-productive, while the bad side inwardly applauded. I expect Donald will call it fake news.

*  *  *

I also read about the debate over the ‘Chinese Influence’ problem in Australia, and how it’s encouraging anti-Chinese racist attitudes towards Australian-Chinese people. If this ever impacts on the superior one known as the Priestess I will be most displeased.

*  *  *

The alpaca on the far side of the field off Mill Lane watched me for some time today but declined to come over and say hello. I assume he or she thought me unworthy of the effort. It didn’t surprise or disturb me since Mill Lane is that sort of lane.

*  *  *

There’s another lane in the Shire curiously named Squashly Bank which rises steeply out of the village to a plateau called Roston Common. At one point there’s a charming little tree-shrouded glen which struck me as an ideal place for a hobbit to hide from the Nazgul. Must make a note for future reference.

*  *  *

And it occurred to me today that there is something chillingly compelling about watching death approach you on the road and greeting him with ‘OK, so show me what comes next.’ I might resurrect this subject later in the year if the next set of scans prove unfavourable to my interests. In the meantime I’m growing tired of the pains, the discomfort and the generally feeling ill. And it troubles me that my enforced idleness is now morphing into outright laziness. Something has to give some time, and I’m wondering just who Old Father Time is choosing as a travelling companion. 

Night.

Downside.

This cancer/kidney business has taken a depressing toll on my upper body, so much so that the view in the mirror sends my self-esteem to the basement and leaves me preoccupied with the inclination to hide. And if I do go out I can’t even wear my favourite jacket because it always was a touch on the big side for me. Now it would look like a bell tent thrown casually over a scarecrow.

It occurs to me that I need to start building myself up again, but what would be the point? Given the nature of the remaining tests and scans it might be as late as December before I know whether I have a future to accommodate, so why expend the time, effort and money on what might prove to be a lost cause?

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I watched another episode of House tonight. It was about sick babies, one of whom died. My daughter’s first baby was stillborn and I well remember my reaction to it. House is proving a difficult watch.

*  *  *

And I decline to say much about Trump’s latest cheap publicity stunt to justify his policy on migrants except to state the obvious: cheap shots are what little people take when they’ve nothing better to offer.

On Reality and Mrs T's Coat.

I’m one of those who propound the view that each of us lives in our own version of reality, but that most people’s versions are so similar that they fail to notice the small differences. And then there are a few of us – like me – whose versions of reality differ sufficiently from the norm that we do notice. So is there any point in my saying that? Is it important?

Well, it depends on how you look at it and the context in which the philosophy is being considered. Personally, I think it’s very important, but no matter. What matters to me at the moment is that I’m bored by my enforced idleness and need to find something to say before I wither on the vine and go pouf, so…

…this morning I woke up with the uncomfortable notion that a big component of my own reality had suddenly dissipated into the mist of illusion. I don’t want to say what it was because it’s private; I just think it’s interesting that a part of our reality can be whisked unceremoniously away with little or no warning and no recourse to personal choice. It leaves a hole waiting to be filled, but you can’t yet see anything to fill it with. And maybe nothing fills it; maybe you’re just left with less substance in your personal inventory; maybe it’s like having a kidney removed which requires the surrounding tissue and organs to move over and take up the space. Here endeth the first bit of gobbledegook.

*  *  *

But one of my problems these days is that I’m feeling less of a sense of attachment to the material world around me. I walk around the town feeling that the people, the buildings, the roads and the vehicles using them amount to an environment that isn’t where I come from. It feels as though I’ve been sent here to observe, make notes and report back. And I think it fortunate that I so like strong coffee and warm cheese scones spread with real butter. Such a predilection can be very grounding when you’re getting frustrated because the spaceship hasn’t turned up yet and none of the clouds have rope ladders hanging from them.

(My state of mind is perfectly fine, by the way, but I can’t vouch for anybody else’s.)

What’s really interesting, however, is that I do feel a sense of attachment and belonging to certain places around the Shire. It isn’t the physical landscape itself which draws me, though, but rather the sense of something more subtle and mysterious evoked by the combination of physical forms. It seems there are places where I can hear the singing of the wood nymphs in the magic glade, even though I can't yet find the path to get to it.

OK, so maybe my state of mind isn’t perfectly fine. Or maybe it is but it’s tuning into some little-known radio station at the far end of the spectrum. I really don’t care. Do you?

*  *  *

And on that note I have to make mention of the furore surrounding Melania Trump’s jacket. I find myself warming to that woman – maybe ill-advisedly – and feel the need to make a suggestion:

It seems that good Americans from New Mexico to New England are gnashing their teeth at the fact that she should visit the refugee camps wearing a jacket with I really don’t care do you written on the back. ‘How could she be so insensitive?’ runs the general tone of the wail.

Well, maybe she wasn’t being insensitive. She doesn’t strike me as being an insensitive person, so might there be an alternative explanation? OK, here goes:

It’s considered a well established truism in Europe that Americans don’t generally do irony, whereas we in Europe generally do. Mrs Trump is only American by adoption; she was born and brought up in Europe. So when you look at the occasional indicators that Mrs Trump is not Mr Trump’s biggest fan, maybe she was making a subtle point which went over the heads of her American detractors. Obviously I don’t know, but I like to think it eminently possible.

Big News, Little News.

The England football team won the first game of their World Cup campaign two night’s ago by beating Tunisia 2-0, and the man who scored England’s two goals happened to be called Harry. Now, you might remember that another man called Harry was one of the star attractions of a high profile wedding recently, along with a woman called Meghan. It seems the England football match gained higher TV viewer ratings than the royal wedding, and so The Sun newspaper covered its front page today with the words:

Harry

Topples

Meghan

There were a couple of pictures included, but there was virtually nothing else on the front page.

It’s sad, isn’t it? The Sun, it seems, considers the viewing figures for a football match to be the most important event of note in the British calendar today and no doubt the coincidence of names is full justification for the belief. It makes you want to go far and away to rid yourself of the persistent sense of nausea engendered by the tabloid press. And the fact that The Sun remains one of the best selling dailies over here really doesn’t say much for the average Briton.

*  *  *

But over on the other side of the pond we have the spectre of innocent children being taken from their already beleaguered parents and placed in the sort of holding pens which civilised countries don’t even put animals into any more. Mr Trump says it’s necessary, and I suppose there’s a certain logic to commend it. I imagine the purpose is to persuade other beleaguered parents not to attempt the crossing, and I suppose it probably will in some cases.

But it means that innocent children are being used as a leverage tool, which isn't so very different from holding children up as human shields in a fire fight, a practice which the US rightly condemns every time it's observed. This is the action not of a statesman but a cruel and unprincipled tyrant, and yet I gather the latest polls indicate an approval rating of 45% for Mr Trump. And that, I would venture to suggest, doesn’t say very much for the average American.

*  *  *

My own event of note today was that I didn’t only see the Lady B, I actually spoke to her. She told me that she is doing well after giving birth to her baby, and she further told me her daughter’s name in response to my enquiry. She was also at pains to point out that she was in too much of a hurry to chat since she needed to get back to Baby M as soon as possible. Well, that’s about as good a reason as any young mother could have to keep a conversation short and I was more than happy to accede. I’d been given as much intelligence as I felt I had reasonable grounds to expect, and the interests of children must, as always, be paramount.

On Words and Music.

I gather many people choose music to set a mood. I don’t; I have to choose music which matches my existing mood because everything else is intolerable. Tonight I was in a Rickie Lee Jones mood so I listened to some Rickie Lee Jones. And then I suddenly wanted to write something which included the words:

…a sour heat hung in the air and set my sinuses stinging.

It reminded me of a woman called Dominique from India who used to comment on my blog. I’ve never stopped missing Dominique because her restrained use of English was exemplary and commendably singular. She said very little, but her choice of words and the syntax in which they were couched opened a whole catalogue of impressions.

There’s really little point to this post; it’s just that I’m bored but not yet tired enough to go to bed. I’m still listening to Rickie Lee Jones and life looks purple at the moment. One more large scotch and then maybe I’ll close the day down. The law of gravity by which egg timers function can be troublesome at times, but maybe it doesn't matter as long as the capacity to feel remains undiminished.

Notes #Whatever.

I’ve started watching the complete episodes of House because I missed it when it was shown on the TV. It’s scaring me witless and I don’t know whether I’m going to last the course. I like Dr House a lot because in some ways he reminds me of one of my own personality types, or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he reminds me of one of the roles I play when I’m disgruntled and cynical and don’t give a monkey’s toss what anybody thinks of me. It’s the environment that gives me the chills. Doctors are doing things to patients which doctors did to me recently, and some of which they’re going to do again. And it reminds me that hospital beds are the most uncomfortable beds to be found anywhere and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because they don’t want you to be occupying them any longer than is absolutely necessary. I don’t need any persuasion.

*  *  *

I was reading today about the shooting incident at the Walmart store in Washington State. I read how the gunman was ultimately shot dead by a casual shopper who just happened to have a loaded side arm in his trouser pocket. I mused on the fact that the shooting could not realistically be described as self-defence and that the only person who died was the gunman. Being European by birth, upbringing and inclination, I found the whole thing extremely bemusing, and eventually could only arrive at one bottom line: It seems to me that America is slipping off the rails and somebody needs to get a grip before it’s too late. I understand that Americans will probably disagree with me and claim with a modicum of justification that America is none of my business.

*  *  *

I saw a woman walking along a street in Uttoxeter today. She was wearing a plain denim skirt with a plain denim jacket. Her legs were bare and her shoes flat. Her hair was a little unkempt and she wasn’t pretty, and yet for some reason beyond the grasp of my analytical faculty I found her compellingly attractive in a perfectly respectable, non-lascivious sort of way. She stared at me for a long time as she was walking and I wondered whether she, too, found me unaccountably compelling in a perfectly respectable, non-lascivious sort of way. Eventually I settled on the greater likelihood that she was wondering what the hell I was looking at. One has little choice but to be realistic at my time of life.

Finding the Antidote.

You might be pleased to hear that the pills worked and I’m no longer cheerful, so that’s a relief. I’m not quite back to my more accustomed level of top grade glumness yet, but I’m making a valiant effort to get there.

Maybe I should watch some World Cup football on the TV. I might be especially well advised to pay heed to the so-called pundits to whom the schedulers allot a ridiculous amount of air time before and after the match, and even for the whole of the half time interval if it’s on the BBC (no adverts, you see.)

This is the problem with life. It rarely gives us anything truly thrilling to stir the blood like dishevelled Japanese ghosts crawling out of the TV set. Instead we get sports so-called pundits spewing out trivial but self-important rubbish which lands on the carpet and leaves an irritating stain.

Becoming Glumless.

Something’s bothering me. I’ve been feeling cheerful for a little over 24 hours and I’m getting worried.

I’m not supposed to be cheerful. I don’t try to be cheerful. I’ve spent years cultivating a glum persona fit to outdo Marvin and Eeyore combined, and look what happens: I get a sudden attack of debilitating cheerfulness.

So what’s gone wrong? Could it be a hormonal imbalance? Is it some kind of infection? Could I be coming down with manic depression and starting on the up stroke? Have I been possessed by the ghost of some mediaeval king’s fool who wants to come back just to find out what corn flakes taste like? Do I need to start carrying a bell?

And where do I go for help? A doctor? A psychiatrist? An exorcist? A shaman from the upper reaches of the Orinoco?

And is this condition treatable or one of the remaining Great Mysteries of Modern Medicine? Do anti-cheerfulness pills exist, or is the only known cure some foul-tasting plant only found in the remotest corner of Sumatra and guarded day and night by man-eating tigers?

Will I survive it? Is it a life sentence? Will I ever frown again? Might I be confined to a cheerful person’s colony? Will they write a book about my condition in sufficient time for me to enjoy some royalties? Does anybody have any vinegar?

But I do still feel a bit ill and I do still have some pains, so maybe there’s hope for me yet.

In Praise of Vindictive Women.

I suspect that part of my current blogging problem has something to do with the fact that I rarely get a full night’s sleep these days, although I did get a good seven hours last night. Actually, that’s not quite true. I was called out of bed once by my urinary tract infection, but that’s an improvement on the more usual twice. (The antibiotics didn’t work, by the way.)

I blame all this on the woman doctor who performed my last cystoscopy back in February. I think she must have been a feminist or something because I’ve never been entirely free of a UTI since. She was the one who asked me whether I’d ever considered giving up smoking, and when I replied in the negative she included the fact in her report to my GP. I thought that a little vindictive, and it’s also irrational because UTIs are one of the few conditions (unlike sore toes, earache and dandruff) which are not claimed to be caused by smoking.

I do apologise if my posts have been rambling and meaningless lately. Do feel free to blame whatever and whoever you like as long as it’s not me.

And have a listen to this if you’ve got nothing better to do. It’s quite rollicking and sung in German. The only word I understand is ‘wind.’ They talk about it a lot in hospitals.

A Note on Romania.

I’m conscious of the fact that I rarely mention Romania these days. That’s a shame because I get regular visits from one or two people in Romania. Romania has the Carpathian Mountains to its credit, and the Carpathian Mountains look quite delightful in a wild and misty sort of way. My dentist is Romanian and is the best dentist I’ve ever had, and she’s nothing at all like Bram Stoker’s depiction of Romanians. I did have an unpleasant experience with a Romanian woman once, but I’m over it now.

So welcome Romanians. Do come again.

I’m in a strangely mixed up mood tonight, combining enigmatic statements with arcane humour to insignificant effect. I would very much like to feel better so that I can return to my more accessible self. Hope springs eternal.

A Taste for Accents.

I’m really into accents, you know. They colour the personality far more than most people seem to imagine.

I love the way Australians say ‘no.’

I love the way Slavic women say ‘what do you do?’

I love the way German men say ‘my father was wonderful; he was a wonderful father.’

I love the way French women say ‘why don’t you call her your future ex-girlfriend?’

I love the way refined English women say ‘big boys don’t cry.’

I love the way the Irish say ‘and the top of everything else to you.’

And I love the way young women with New England accents inflect the name Jeffrey.

I’ve heard them all, and I could go on, but why bother?

Football Fever.

Oh to be in Russia now the World Cup’s here!

I’m kidding. Give me Kiev in its place. Take me to a quiet coffee shop with samovars, there to delight in the company of those fine ladies for which Ukraine is well renowned and who couldn’t give a toss about football, preferring instead to discuss the meaning of life and the value of amicable international relations in delightfully Slavic accents.

I read a headline today which said that Russian women have been officially advised not to have sex with foreigners during the World Cup. You might ask why the government should feel moved to offer such advice; you might consider the different ways of reading it; you might wonder why Russian men have been left out of the picture. I couldn’t be bothered to investigate further. The world just gets stranger and stranger and I think it's about time the spaceship turned up.

I do hope I start feeling better soon.

On Coffee and Sparks.

I saw the person I most want to talk to today. We were walking in opposite directions and she said ‘Hi, Jeff.’ I replied with ‘Hiya’ (because I’m terrible for forgetting people’s names just when I need them.) She continued: ‘You OK?’ to which I replied ‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’ ‘Yes, thanks.’ And neither of us broke our respective strides one jot, but passed like fully cloaked Klingon spaceships plying their respective but unconnected courses through the arid darkness of the cosmos.

That’s how life is for me these days. What I really wanted her to say was ‘Hi, Jeff. Can I buy you a coffee and tell you what moves me, what drives me, and where my mind wanders in unguarded moments?’ They never do, you know. The only people who say things like that to me these days are people I’m desperately trying to avoid. And one of my distant memories is that I once took the reckless step of inviting somebody for coffee. It was about eight years ago. She declined the invitation and I’ve never made the same mistake since.

But life is so bloody tedious these days, especially since these post-operative symptoms made a re-appearance to remind me that I’m not supposed to be doing anything strenuous (whatever that means.) I feel like a tinder box waiting for a spark hot enough to set me smouldering again. My encounters with donkeys, hedgehogs and bats help a bit, but it never lasts long because they’re quite impervious to invitations for coffee.

Paper Presidents.

I see Trump and Kim (but especially Trump) are now taking the plaudits for diffusing the situation vis-à-vis North Korea.

What situation? Did anybody ever really take seriously the notion that little North Korea would start a nuclear war? I saw the whole affair as nothing more than an amusing sideshow in which two very juvenile men tried to out-insult one another with a lot of childish bickering.

But now it’s dominating the news and Trump is taking the applause like some supposedly latter day JFK. It will be interesting to see how he responds if ever he’s faced with a real crisis (like Russian missiles being shipped to Cuba, for example.)

This whole business smacks to me of typical political chicanery, carefully engineered so Trump can say: ‘Look at me. I just saved the world. Aint I great?’

(And I suppose I might be wrong, but about the only thing Trump ever inspires is cynicism.)

*  *  *

Coincidentally, it occurred to me only tonight what a huge debt of gratitude the human race owes to the humble ball. What on earth would we play with if we had no balls?

On Meeting Mrs Tiggywinkle.

Well, well; it’s been quite the day for animal encounters. After this afternoon’s meeting with the donkey, tonight I discovered a new visitor to my garden: a hedgehog. And do you know what? I’m almost as fond of hedgehogs as I am of donkeys.

Readers of longstanding might remember that I had a hedgehog visitor a few summers ago. She took up temporary residence in my shed and toddled out one day accompanied by two agonisingly cute baby hedgehogs.

At this point I suppose I should man up and deny the tendency of my mind to soften rapidly until it assumes the consistency of whipped cream at the sight of, and close proximity to, one or more baby hedgehogs. But why should I? Life’s too short to hide the nicer side of one’s persona, and I’ve done enough bad things in my life to warrant a little balance now and then. And so I hold up my hand and plead guilty: I find mama hedgehogs and baby hedgehogs really cute.

Donkey Delight.

Today was the red letter day of the year so far. I met a donkey.

I love donkeys; everybody loves donkeys, or should do. Anybody who doesn’t love donkeys is probably a soul-dead and cerebrally-challenged goblin fit for no other purpose than being President of America.

I’ve mentioned here before that there are two of them in a field off Mill Lane, but they’ve always been too far away for me to attract their attention. Today one of them was closer, and when he saw me leaning on the gate he came trotting over to say hello.

And so he got lots of pats and lots of strokes and lots of thanks and two handfuls of fresh hay from the verge bordering the lane. Because, you see, it’s a self-evident fact that few experiences in life can match – much less better – meeting a donkey. Donkeys just rock in the nicest possible way.

On Metal and Misapprehension.

I’m growing tired of this unpleasant metallic taste which I have in my mouth all the time. It won’t go and it’s spoiling the taste of everything I eat or drink, so I took to wondering whether there’s something in my stomach which I don’t know about.

Might it be that the surgeon had to go in there for some reason and left his steel wrist watch behind? Could it be a bag of those little metal clips they use to hold the wounds together (and which I thought of asking the district nurses to leave in situ so I could be cool without incurring the expense of a body piercer?) Or could it be a pair of tweezers dropped by one of the theatre nurses who had been plucking her eyebrows during an idle moment?

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. I expect the mystery will be solved when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil and what’s left of me undergoes a post mortem.

‘What the devil is this?’ will exclaim the pathologist. ‘What sort of diet did this man have? Was he a circus performer or just a complete head case? Or could this incongruous object have been forced down there by a mad woman with long black hair and meeting eyebrows who he tripped over in a field one day? Could this be a murder case? He was only 97 after all.’

And then the surgeon and the theatre nurse will get off scot-free while some poor local woman with long black hair and meeting eyebrows is arrested on suspicion of second degree homicide. Life’s never fair, is it?

On Mood and Moving On.

I’m very conscious of the fact that my choice of post topics and the tone in which they’re couched depends so much on my mood. One of my weaknesses has always been that my state of mind exercises a great deal of influence over my choice of activities.

I had several lined up earlier. One was about the nature of personal presence and the fact that I have always been highly sensitized to it in my dealings with people. That one was serious. Another was about the fact that today I kept seeing young women driving white Minis and wondered whether the universe was sending me a message. That one wasn’t. Another was about Trump’s latest show of juvenile petulance and the harm such outbursts are doing to America’s international reputation. That one was dismissive. There were more, but none of them got made because the mood wasn’t right.

That’s because I’ve felt ill for much of today. A number of the symptoms I had during the week or so after the operation have returned – the periods of mild nausea, the lack of appetite, the feeling of tightness in the abdomen, the uncommon lack of strength and energy, the general malaise, the unpleasant metallic taste in the mouth which pollutes the flavour of everything I eat… Healthwise I seem to be experiencing a recession.

I wonder whether it’s because I instinctively tried to catch something I dropped a couple of days ago and felt a sudden, sharp tightening in the affected area. I wonder whether I’m not healing as well or quickly as I should be. I wonder whether there’s something else wrong which is so far un-diagnosed. Or maybe it’s all just a normal step along the road. How can I know when there’s nobody here to ask? Whatever the answer, it didn’t do much for my mood. And no doubt time, as usual, will reveal all.

And what does it matter if I make no posts? My blog is but a sounding board; it's a mirror I hold up in order to understand myself better. I have this odd notion, you see, that understanding oneself and one’s place in the scheme of things might be useful when the great divide is crossed. And who can say how urgent the prosecution of such an endeavour should be?

A Woman of Substance.

Gena Turgel died a couple of days ago. If you don’t know who she was, as I didn’t, there’s a brief version of her story here.

There’s nothing of note which I could add, except to say this: Our world is ruled – and always has been – by some pretty poor specimens of humanity. But then I read this and am reminded of the indomitable spirit which lies at the heart of our species. What a shame that such a spirit can’t sweep away most of those in charge and start afresh. Maybe one day it will.

The Troll and the Lady B.

I had a comment on one of my posts recently from a troll. It made derogatory reference to my frequent mention of the Lady B, and closed with the words ‘…think you may need some help.’

So did it trouble me? Of course it didn't; I’m not that insecure. And besides, the writer was speaking from a narrow mind mired in ignorance as trolls usually do. The fact is, nobody knows what my feelings for the Lady B are. Even the Lady B doesn’t know and never will unless she asks me, and there’s no reason why she should do that because there’s no reciprocation involved. Nevertheless, I think it might be useful for the sake of avoiding misapprehension that I explain a few things about my perception of said Lady.

I’ve known her for ten or eleven years. In the early days we had a relationship of sorts but it remained studiously undefined. We only ever met and talked by accident; there was never any kind of tryst. She never came into my home, nor I hers. So how did my perception of her develop to where it is now?

Well, I could write copiously about that if I thought it necessary. I could quote facts, statements and impressions to aid elucidation, but I won’t because they’re private. I will, however, say one thing: Whenever I saw her coming towards me with her splendid little dog, the sun came out. It was a warm and life-enhancing sun; there was never anything sordid about it. So let me state the situation simply as I see it and ask that it leave no remnant of doubt or dark, ignorant imaginings.

My feelings for the Lady B are entirely wholesome and healthy, both from my point of view and hers. There is nothing about them that need trouble her. I constitute no threat to her of any kind, nor she to me. I don’t engage in unsolicited, unilateral, unwelcome communication with her. The only email I’ve sent in the last year was to wish her a happy birthday. But make no mistake: she has now taken her place on an exalted, lifelong personal list which comprises only six humans, two dogs and a cat called Dylan. And everything I've ever said about her has been respectful and complimentary.

I like my feelings for the Lady B. What’s more, I assert my right to have them without misgivings or any sense of guilt because there’s nothing about them which is in any way improper. They’re very rare and constitute an improvement in my capacity to feel, and shouldn’t life be ever about improvement? The fact that she has now withdrawn completely from my orbit, and is presumably indifferent to me, is of no consequence. If there's one thing we're all entitled to in this little life, it is our feelings. That holds true for her as it does for me, and so I accept and respect her indifference completely.

And so I will continue to mention her and even sing her praises whenever it takes my fancy. The only thing which would stop me doing so would be if the Lady herself asked me to desist. Up until now she hasn’t, although as far as I’m aware she no longer visits this blog and probably doesn’t even know that she’s one of its star attractions.

And so I can assure the commenter and anyone else of similar persuasion that I need no help, and neither is she in need of unwarranted defence or third party representation. Nothing about my perception of the Lady B is anybody's business but mine. I hope I’ve made myself clear.

Only 3 Bs Left.

My spirit reservoir is at a very low level at the moment. Apart from having little strength or energy, I’m also disturbingly deficient in the matter of the will to do anything. The only subjects in which I can still manage a healthy modicum of interest are the birds, the bats, the Lady B and her baby (OK, that’s four Bs,) and I think I’ve run those to a standstill for a while.

Maybe the latest antibiotics are to blame. I wouldn’t know. I’m tired (almost constantly.) Hope to be up and running again before too long.

On Not Helping the Disabled.

There’s a woman who often comes into the coffee shop when I make my regular Wednesday visit. She’s obviously quite badly disabled because she has a stoop and walks with the aid of a wheeled walking frame. And so, since I always sit close to the entrance, I naturally open the door for her when she wants to come in and go back out.

But I’ve been thinking about disability a lot lately and it occurs to me that disabled people must experience some degree of frustration and annoyance that they can’t do everything the rest of us can do. I also wonder whether some of them might be embarrassed by their physical shortcomings, and whether such embarrassment might be exacerbated by having to rely on people doing things for them.

And that’s why I’ve become more circumspect in applying the natural tendency to want to help. If there’s something a disabled person can do, I’m sure they’d rather do it themselves than have some well meaning but insensitive onlooker barging in when the help isn’t needed. And it doesn’t take long to weigh up the situation and offer the question: ‘Do you need any help?’

Observing the Mother Thing.

It’s all the fault of the Lady B and her two-week-old baby. I’ve now become interested in the way mothers relate to their young offspring and have developed the habit of observing them attentively. There were several in Ashbourne today, including one sitting at the next table in the coffee shop.

She was quite lovely with her little one, not in a gooey sort of way but in a bright, bouncy, giggly sort of way. It was good to watch and I realised that the way a mother relates to her offspring probably gives a good insight into the nature of the mother.

I wanted to go and tell this particular parent just how motherly she was, but decided against it. There was something about the way she invested her whole attention in the child which suggested that she wouldn’t be the sort to welcome an unsolicited comment from a third party, and so I kept my mouth shut and my observation to myself.

I expect I’ll grow tired of the habit eventually but at the moment it makes a refreshing change from observing the way people treat their dogs. And I would very much like to meet the Lady B’s two-week-old baby some time soon, but I expect said baby will be walking and practiced in the use of expletives before I do.

And I have to say that the image below doesn't really illustrate the post. I searched everything that Google had to offer and couldn't find anything that did. I just happened to like this one a lot because it reminded me of somebody.

Agitated.

There are certain people to whom I feel close, but who I know to be indifferent to me so I don’t pester them. I do wish certain other people would extend the same courtesy to me when the roles are reversed.

Today has been the kind of day when one irritation followed another and consigned my mood to a dark and agitated place. They were the kinds of irritation which get under your skin to twist and turn and niggle and nag until you want to run screaming back to planet Zod where you belong. May the gods preserve me from neighbours, administrators, and people who cross my lines because they’re too dumb, too insensitive, or too something-or-other to notice them.

On a pleasanter note, a little white moth kept flying around my head in the garden yesterday evening. It didn’t come particularly close; it just kept flying from one position to another and then stopping to hover as though it was regarding me from all angles. Maybe it was deciding whether I was edible or not, or maybe it was trying to connect with me on a level altogether removed from planet Earth, or maybe it wasn’t a moth at all but a member of the heavenly host disguised as a moth and come to teach me about peace, joy and goodwill to all men.

Being Upside Down.

It occurred to me last night that our friends in the southern hemisphere are just entering their winter, so I took fifteen minutes out of my wee small hours drinking time to send a note of commiseration to the priestess down in Oz:

Is it cold down there in Sydney

Does the wind augment your tears

Are you huddled up in woollies

With a hat to warm your ears

Does the cold rain fall a-stinging

Are the long nights extra dark

Are the beaches falling empty

And the trees all standing stark

Does it matter that you’re special

To a lad in northern climes

Who would send you warming sunshine

Wrapped in rank and wrinkled rhymes

Did you know that, according to official statistics, Sydney has never had a frost and the last recorded snowfall was in 1836? (You should do because I said the same thing in a post not long ago.) They don't know what they're missing, do they? Maybe they would benefit from changing places with somebody up on the lake in Cleveland, Ohio during February.

Imagining Deliverance.

I was sitting, quietly eating my sandwich, in Uttoxeter high street today when a tall, swarthy, powerfully built young man stopped and looked at me. It struck me that there was something odd about his appearance and demeanour, although I couldn’t work out exactly what it was. And then he said something to me, or it would be more accurate to say that he grunted something in my direction because I haven’t a clue what it was. I chose to ignore him and he walked away.

Later that afternoon I was sitting elsewhere in the town having a mid-term cigarette and watching the people walk by. I was struck by how odd so many of them looked and decided that Uttoxeter is probably not the safest place to go for a white water canoeing holiday.

And then I wondered what they thought of me.

The Young Women Thing.

I was reminded this morning of the young student nurse I encountered during my last short stay in hospital and who was the subject of a glowing eulogy on this blog. The thought expanded into a realisation that’s been taking hold in me for some years now – that of all the age and gender groupings we might apply to people in western culture, it’s the young women who give most cause for confidence in the future.

This is a generalisation I know, but I don’t get the same impression of other groups. The elderly are effectively passengers, the middle aged are still so often rooted in past prejudices, and young men generally lack the searching and open minded qualities needed for change as the tradition of male domination becomes ever more eroded. There are exceptions, of course; there will always be exceptions.

But I have a young woman correspondent who is about to embark on a challenging new phase in her life and I wrote this to her last night:

…and I’ll bet you’re not nervous. It has been my experience – albeit regrettably limited – that women of your generation rarely are.

Maybe that says a lot, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m talking rubbish. I often do.

Showing the Secret.

I’ve long realised that I have a near-obsession with young women singing to a powerful and rhythmical backing. I think they are at their most seductive when they do that because they seem to capture the essence of one of life’s great secrets and hold it up for us all to see. This song reminded me.

 

I’m feeling a whole lot better today, and I think I'm probably getting back to being quite mad.

Perception or Fancy?

This evening is just the sort to persuade my spirit to go off in search of Avalon again. We in the Shire are sinking into a warm, misty twilight, with a light drizzle gracing the balmy air and the perception of magic whispering quietly to a world standing still.

My mind is finely tuned to such an evening. The sight of the trees and fields and hedgerows and copses and the high ground stretching beyond the river valley, all washed into ever more seductively mysterious half tones, speaks of the mystical side of Arthurian mythology. And the question which has to be asked is whether I really do catch a glimpse of another world in the mist, or whether I’m deluding myself with childish fantasy.

The Leaving.

The blue tits nesting in the box behind my kitchen have reached the fledging stage. Every so often today I would see a tiny juvenile head appear in the opening and look out, searching for signs of mama and papa bearing food. And when mama and papa did appear they would set about tempting the kiddies with some tasty morsel hanging from their beaks. They would perch on the nearby hedge or even fly up to the box itself, but then they would fly away again. The message was obvious enough:

Time to widen your world, little ones. Time to come out into the big one. Follow us and we’ll show you how to survive.

At the time of writing none of the babies has yet succumbed to the pressure, and when they do I half hope I won’t witness the event. I did witness it one year and it was an anxious time. I watched as each juvenile took the big leap and flew to join the parents in the hedge. I held my breath as each new life flew its first four feet of avian freedom, fearful that one of them might not make it and fall to the ground. For what would I do then? I’ve heard it said that parent birds will continue to feed those that fall, but what about the cats?

But it will be dark in little more than an hour so maybe it’s better that the young ones have another night in what has been the only home they’ve known so far. And maybe they’ll leave early in the morning before my own stirring. I think I’d prefer it that way.

And I’m thinking of the Lady B and her own new life. I’m wondering how well she will fare at teaching her own offspring to survive, because new parents have to learn the ropes too. And we take a lot longer to perform our human duty because our lives are so much more complicated than those of birds. If ever I can be of service, my lady…