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.

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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?

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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.