Gurdy Girl.

Following on from my discovery of Alina Gingertail (see a few posts ago), I’ve now found another little jewel in the YouTube musical chest. She calls herself Patty Gurdy, apparently after the fact that she plays the hurdy-gurdy (could there be any other reason to choose a name like Gurdy?) and she plays this little-known instrument exceedingly well. She also writes and arranges music exceedingly well.

The piece which follows is the one that exited my attention and brought me into the fold as a bit of a fan. There’s something dark, mystical and compelling about it. I find it bordering on hypnotic. In fact, if I were a film maker this would be the very music to suit the kind of film I’d be likely to make. It’s a bit weird, and I like weird. I also suspect that Ms Gurdy was probably a wood nymph in a previous life.

(And I think I should add that her legs had absolutely no influence whatsoever on my opinion of her music.)

The Pre-Op Dilemma.

Tomorrow I go for my pre-op in preparation for the big day next Monday. They’ll ask me lots of questions as they always do, and many of them will be the same as they’ve asked several times in several sorts of circumstance already this year. I need some good answers for the more frequent ones, but humour doesn’t come easily in an atmosphere drenched in the energy of anxiety and the subtle fug of man-made chemicals. The compulsion to scream comes easily and so does the desire to run away, but both inclinations have to be stifled and the consequent stress leaves humour languishing in a distant corner with its thumb in its mouth. The only one I’ve managed so far is:

Do you have any allergies?

‘Politicians, captains of industry, and celebrities generally.’

So far nobody has laughed, but maybe that’s because time is at a premium in NHS institutions and they need to get on with the next question. Or maybe it’s because it isn’t funny. Maybe I need to be a little more adventurous when the questions become more specific:

Are you allergic to latex?

‘Only if it’s covered in Johnson’s Baby Oil.’

It’s a bit enigmatic, isn’t it? Arcane even. I suppose it would give some indication of whether the questioner is sexually adventurous or not, but why would I want to know? Besides, it might give the impression that I’m gay. Is that a risk worth taking? If the questioner is a female nurse, which is most likely, I suppose I could always follow it up with a provocative comment. But then I’d be accused of sexual harassment and get into trouble. I doubt they would consider a plea of self-defence to be admissible in such circumstances. Maybe I should keep the enigmatic bit and drop the provocative comment. Who knows, I might learn something.

But the real problem of tomorrow is that I will have to get up early in order to do something I don’t want to do, and that’s the kind of thing which depresses me.

(Incidentally, I’ve no idea why they ask do you have any allergies? on page one, and then further ask are you allergic to latex? on page three. Maybe I should query it. Who knows, I might learn something.)

Em's Big Day.

Today is Emily Brontë’s 200^th birthday, and the BBC website has an article on the creative people who have been inspired by her novel Wuthering Heights down the years.

Coincidentally, I had the letter today calling me in for my next operation in a week’s time. As predicted, the NHS missive has done nothing to lift my mood, which is why tonight I feel particularly intolerant of the fact that people have been completely misinterpreting Wuthering Heights for a very long time. It appears that most people’s inspiration was based more on the numerous dramatic adaptations of the novel than on a careful and unbiased reading of the novel itself.

End of post because I’m in a very tetchy mood and can’t be bothered to write any more.

(Except to say that the full gist of my reasoning is here if anybody wants to read it, but be warned: it isn’t a scholarly essay, it’s obviously self-opinionated, and it drones on for about three thousand words. And I think I should mention that I’m fairly sure Emily is still around. I haven’t seen her for a while, but I think she is. After all, she’s the one who pestered me until I wrote the essay. And it would be nice to think that she might offer me a little emotional support in my current health struggles, but I doubt she would. She doesn’t strike me as a particularly sympathetic person – being strongly self-sufficient herself – and her own health struggles were rather worse than mine. If she had words to offer at all, they would probably amount to advising me to cultivate a death wish.)

A Disgusting Little Contrivance.

By the time I succumbed to my third overnight stay in hospital back in April, I’d retrieved my appetite from the deep, dark dungeon into which it had been unceremoniously cast during the first two stays. In consequence of this happy circumstance I had a big bowl of Rice Crispies for my breakfast the following morning (actually they were all the same size, but this is a blog.)

It failed to fully sate (which is a deliberate split infinitive, by the way, just to confuse the nice foreigners who are trying to speak English properly) my much improved gastronomic faculty, and so when the food woman came back to collect the dishes I asked whether I might also have some toast and marmalade.

‘There’s some here,’ she said brightly. ‘The man in the corner ordered it, but then he was sick and didn’t want anything to eat after all.’

‘Sick?’ I queried, coming over all suspicious like (which is an example of vernacular English in common usage.) ‘He wasn’t sick… erm… you know…’ pointing at the plate.

‘Oh no, bless you, no. He was sick in one of those (actually, she said ‘them’ but we’ve had quite enough of the vernacular for one night) sick bowls the nurse gave him. I suppose a bit might have splashed, but it won’t be much.’

I really, really wish that had really, really happened, but it didn’t. I just thought of it when I was having a slice of toast and marmalade at around midnight. But, you see, if life won’t give you the jokes you have to manufacture them yourself. And it pleases me to note that my sense of humour seems to be improving even if my health isn’t.

A Notable Rarity.

So here I am at 2230 on a warm Sunday night in late July. The darkness has now fallen, the communion with bats, moths and growing things is done (I got caught in a squall and wasn’t dressed for it), I had my shower earlier, and there is still an hour and a half to go until my bandwidth becomes unrestricted and I can access YouTube for my nightly fix of old movies, comedy clips, and the never ending fascination of world music. This is the time of day when I become restless for something to amuse me, so tonight I read one of my old stories over on the other blog.

I used to think I was a good writer, but now I’ve changed my mind. My fiction was generally competent but hardly impressive. Much of it got published, but I shall never be listed among the shining lights of English paranormal fiction. I’m no MR James or Algernon Blackwood.

Tonight I decided to read Simon Says and I was suddenly struck by a particular paragraph. I liked it and thought ‘this is worth posting to my blog, even if only to save me thinking of something new to say.’ So here it is. Like it or not as you choose.

I stood on the prow and pondered the enigma. I was alone again and conscious of the intense stillness all about me. There was no wind, and nothing stirred in the overgrown breaker’s yard or on the road that I could see beyond the fence. No wading bird called plaintively from the reeds on the far bank and the water in the channel languished dark and silent as though it had lost the will to lap the piles of the old jetty. The red mist was as thick as ever, obscuring the view beyond a hundred yards or so and turning the other sad vessels into ghostly grey shapes that hovered uncertainly between heaven and earth.

January 8th Revisited.

I used to make fun blog posts, but not any more. How can I make fun posts when I’m feeling repeatedly nauseous, the joy of heartburn is never very far from another flare-up, little pains niggle and nag, the cloud hanging over my future can’t decide whether it’s going to dispense its cargo or drift on, I have a tendency to fall asleep when I should be wide awake, and somebody with a tray full of sharp instruments is about to invade my body again?

I dislike being invaded. If there’s one part of our bodies that is undeniably private, it’s the inside. Even I’ve never seen it for heaven’s sake, so how should I feel about some stranger laying it bare while they pick and poke and prod and slice, then sew it up and say ‘that’s nice’? It isn’t nice; it’s obscene.

The road on which I set my unwary foot when I visited the GP on January 8^th is proving a little rocky. Did I ever mention that a number of notable episodes in my life began on January 8^th, and that they always led to notable periods of difficulty and distress? I have now.

On Being a Silverfish.

For some years now I’ve had a regular email correspondent in America, and yet only tonight did I get around to Googling her name. I don’t even know why I did it. It was probably because I’d just read one of her stories and wasn’t quite ready to leave the groove when I’d finished – a bit like licking the inside of the carton when you’ve finished your tub of ice cream, I suppose. All rather indecorous.

Anyway, the returns from Messrs G were impressive. They – and a few other factors – made me realise how much better a writer she is than me, how much more erudite she is, how much more multi-talented, and probably how much more intelligent. And then there’s the world she moves in: a world both vastly more rarefied and expanded than mine. Seeing this made me feel like an insect nestled under the skirting board at the edge of a room populated by big and impressive animals all vying for her attention. I currently owe her an email, but I have no idea how to begin it or what to say once I have. This isn't how a healthy deviant is supposed to see things, so it seems I’m not being a very good deviant at the moment.

Maybe it's because last night I got an inkling that clinical depression might be setting in. Not the feeling-fed-up type that everybody gets occasionally, but the real McCoy. I might be wrong; I often am. If I were to tell anybody about it they would probably suggest I see a doctor, and what an irony would be contained within that little piece of predictable advice. It’s the doctors working diligently to restore my health who are in large part responsible for my mental unease (however much I remind myself that gratitude is the order of the day.) If only they didn’t have to be so bloody invasive about it. Invasion of any sort is one of my most notable neuroses.

But at least I can say with some degree of certainty that I feel like an idle Sherlock Holmes right now, picking fretfully at his fractured wits while awaiting a knock at the door of 221B which will herald the promise of a new adventure. In my case it’s more a matter of waiting for a small but growing light to appear in the gloom, carrying at its core the warmth and water necessary to reinvigorate the frozen tundra of an uncommonly staid existence. I do have to wait, you see; I always have. I know from past experience that there would be no more point in me going out to try and find an energising light than there would in Sherlock going out to search for a murder to investigate. Where does one look? And so I think I need a syringe and something strong to put in it.

(I still haven’t received the letter notifying the date of my next operation, by the way. The tense peering into the post box every morning goes on.)

And I don’t expect anybody out there to be the slightest bit concerned about my health, the state of my mind, or anything else about me. Why should they? That would be illogical. But do please make allowance for the fact that this is a late night post. Late nights are the best of times and the worst of times.

Sundry Nonsensical Jottings.

I do my best to understand myself (you might have noticed) but one thing I still don’t get is why I make jokes when I’m depressed.

(Somebody told me today that I’m depressed, but that was because she didn’t understand what I was saying. People often don’t. And actually I wasn’t. I was just fed up, which isn’t the same thing.)

Anyway, tonight I was thinking about the Dark Rider again – a frequent preoccupation these days – and was going to make a joke about the Lone Stranger and Toto. I decided that:

a. It was too deep and enigmatic.

b. You’d have to be ancient to get it.

c. It was crap anyway.

So I didn’t bother.

And then I started to write a spoof version of my favoured old ditty I Want to Go to Sleep Now, but I had a bit of a toothache and fell three lines short. I might pick it up again one day, but for now it’s confined ignominiously to a musty old drawer. Much like me.

At the moment I’m listening to the complete Boheme album by Deep Forest on YouTube, which is rather splendid. And I’ve suddenly started sneezing a lot.

And none of this matters at all. The real reason for making the post is that tomorrow I’m expecting to get the letter calling me in for the next operation and that will send my mood plummeting. After that I don’t know when I’ll post again and I do so like to make the 30 mark by the end of the month. Why on earth I should be concerned by something as pointless as a number is something else I don’t understand.

There are no slugs in my kitchen tonight, which is unusual.

Chloe’s friend, Anna, has a remarkably enlivening presence (just in case Chloe stumbles across my blog while trying to find something interesting to do in Vietnam.)

If anybody wants to meet me in Ashbourne tomorrow, feel free. Hang around Costa Coffee; I’ll be there some time. And please ask them to save me a cheese scone. They didn’t have any the last time I went in.

I think I might be finally turning into a bowl of trifle. Night.

Getting It Right For Once.

I was standing outside the main entrance to the hospital yesterday when a middle aged woman walked by and stared at me. Now, you know what middle aged women do when they stare at me, don’t you? They smile, and I never understand why because I have the sort of face which doesn’t deserve to be smiled at.

But she didn’t smile; she said ‘Cheer up’ and walked on. And my faith in the perceptive faculty of the human middle aged female was elevated very slightly.

Old Words.

I just came across an old comment I made on YouTube about four years ago. It related to an old Fleetwood Mac song called Little Lies, and said:

This reminds me of why it’s sometimes better not to remember what a song reminds you of.

I remember writing it. I remember it slipping effortlessly out of my head like slurry out of a well oiled muck spreader. It was pure stream of consciousness stuff and I didn’t know what it actually meant at the time. I still don’t. I can’t decide whether it’s a pile of complete gobbledegook or really rather clever. I’m settling with ‘it sounds good.’

It’s had two likes so far.

The Verdict on Black Monday.

Monday has now come, done its deed, and gone (nearly) and I suppose I ought to give the verdict on the day’s bitter business. Is it something like this…

Or this…

 

Not quite either, actually, for there was some good news and some bad.

The surgeon explained to me that damage to the bladder is not uncommon in kidney operations because the lining of the urinary tract extends from the top of the kidney to the tip of… the other bit at the other end. It appears that I have suffered no such misfortune. My bladder, it appears, is quite undamaged.

But then came the ‘ah, but…’ moment. There’s always an 'ah, but…’ moment. There has been at almost every stage of this damnable business and today was no exception. It seems there’s a clip inside my bladder – presumably a relic of the operation – and it shouldn’t be there. I’m told that it’s probably the cause of my persistent UTI which four courses of antibiotics have failed to fully clear up, and if it’s left in situ it will probably develop a stone (whatever one of those is, but it sounds painful) in time. So it has to be removed, which means I have to have another operation accompanied by certain of the nasties which are generally consequent upon procedures in that part of the anatomy. Oh, joy. And it’s considered fairly urgent which means that the operation will probably be some time next week. Oh joy of joys.

But still, the experience did offer the odd compensation or two. Since the anaesthetic was a local one I was wide awake, so I got to see the inside of an operating theatre for the first time. It wasn’t very prepossessing. It looked like a school classroom with a few bits of high tech gadgetry dotted about and some fancy ceiling lights. But it was still fun to see it from the patient’s position. In fact, I jabbered so much that the surgeon had to tell me to shut up so he could concentrate.

Other Notable Compensations:

One of the theatre nurses was Chinese! And I noticed that the type of pyjamas worn by theatre nurses show off the waggling of the bottom far better than the dresses which the ward nurses are rigged out in. And my minder nurse was a lovely young Polish woman called Marlena who had the most splendid tattoo on her upper arm. The subtle tonal variations were quite breathtaking. And she didn’t seem to have much else to do so she kept me company nearly the whole time, talking about Brexit, tattoos, and the effect female nurses can have on inadequate men who are scared stiff of hospitals. And the cheese and onion sandwich I bought for my lunch wasn’t quite as expensive as I thought it would be.

But no doubt tomorrow the prospect of another operation will begin to bite and gain strength as the intervening days go by. And I shall begin to wonder again: how will all his end? Will it be this…

 

Or this…

Or even this…

 

I have no way of knowing yet, so if I go quiet again over the next week please indulge me.

Being Wary of Honourable Chinese Joke.

One of the charity shops in Ashbourne had two rather large and splendid Chinese banners for sale this week. They were red with black characters running from top to bottom (but probably read the wrong way up knowing those lovely Chinese people who are nothing if not enigmatic when the mood takes them.) I have just the place for one of them on the wall going up my stairs, but there’s a problem: I don’t know what the characters mean and I don’t know anybody who can tell me. For all I know they might say may the lice in your armpit multiply and the Devil urinate on your pet rabbit. Given the way life is for me at the moment, I think I’d better not take the risk.

Winding Down.

I’d just like to point out that I’m not ashamed of my many failings and inadequacies. We all have them, after all. They’re an ever-present part of the human condition (even for aliens occupying failing and inadequate human bodies.) What concerns me is that this blog has become a near-constant catalogue of such traits lately and it’s becoming tedious. Heaven knows how tedious it must be for the few people who read it. And that’s why I’m considering yet again that maybe it’s time to pack it up and throw it into the trunk of life stored up in the attic of the mind.

I think I might stop bathing, too. There doesn’t seem much point any more. I’m sure we only do it because we’re a bit self-conscious about smelling like a fly-blown Danish Blue cheese that’s been left uncovered in a sauna for six weeks. But I never get close enough to anybody for the fact to be noticed, so why bother?

I suppose there’s always the lice problem, but should lice be such a problem? If I can take great pleasure from watching a moth feed on the new sweet pea flowers on a summer evening, maybe I can derive equal enjoyment watching a louse exploring my armpit at three o’clock in the morning. I have certain reservations about that one, but it might be worth a try.

The Daily Metamorphosis.

I’ve occasionally mentioned on this blog that there are several different personality types occupying this worn out body of mine. I’m often reminded of the fact, and tonight it led me to realise how fortunate it was that in all my dalliances with young women I never had a one night stand. The poor unsuspecting girl would have gone to bed with a giggling garden gnome and woken up next to an irascible grizzly bear.

I realised something else, too. I realised why it is that I cannot bring myself to go to bed until the early hours of the morning no matter how hard I try. It’s because I like the person I am late at night and desperately want to put off the moment when I’ll have to wake up to the creature I've become in the morning.

And that’s why I get so miffed when the hospital calls me for appointments at about the time I would normally be waking up. It means I lose a good 2½ hours sleep the night before. But of course, there would be no point explaining all this to the Bureaucrats Who Make Appointments because it wouldn’t fit inside their box.

Odd Explanations.

Having gone nearly three days without making a post I suppose it’s about time I said something. But what? Life is a bit dismal at the moment in spite of the beautiful summer and tonight’s delightfully balmy evening.

 This week's me

The current silence is largely due to a recent chance encounter which had me musing deeply again on the matters of life, love, loss, ageing, mortality, frustration, and the fact that there’s always been one thing in life at which I have unremittingly failed and still would even if I had the wherewithal to engage with it.

And then there’s the knotty question of Loneliness as it Relates to the Loner. One or two people have asked me of late: ‘Are you lonely?’ That isn’t the easiest question to answer because I don’t have the same social needs as most people. Most people naturally relate to and communicate with those whom fate has chosen to throw into their path – their family, their neighbours, their work colleagues, the people they meet in the pub, the people they play golf with… I’m not made like that. I can’t relate to or communicate with people just because they’re there. I need someone of comparable or compatible wavelength, or someone possessed of a presence so beguiling it can’t be ignored because it energises my consciousness. Such people are extremely rare. There is one such person domiciled within a twenty five-mile radius of where I live, but that rare exception is wholly indifferent to me and effectively oblivious to my presence on the planet. That’s a shame, but as Mick famously sang and Dr House frequently reminds us: You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

And so the answer to the question ‘are you lonely’ is: ‘No, not as most people understand the term. I’m only lonely for the one special person, but I’ve a feeling that I’ve used up my quota of special people for this life and the reservoir is all dried up.’ I suppose that’s loneliness of a sort.

Ah, and then there’s Monday. That’s another reason for the recent silence. Monday is a black hole; Monday is the current unknown quantity which might summon me to heaven or to hell (or leave me some place in between which is currently unspecified.) I’m trying not to think beyond Monday. I wouldn’t see the point.

(And it bothers me that I’m frequently mean and moody but never magnificent. And one of these days I might have the courage to explain why I’m beginning to suspect that my bedroom contains a portal to another dimension populated by vicious black dogs and pulsating clouds of black butterflies. I don’t suppose I will.)

I think it’s time for a marmalade sandwich.

Bits of Oddness.

Sixteen weeks since the operation and I’m still terribly picky about what sort of food I want. Tonight’s supper was a can of John Smith’s Extra Smooth beer and a piece of toast and marmalade. They’re both good in their own way but don’t exactly match.

I’m trying to replace the missing muscle mass on my arms, chest and shoulders, you see, and I’m not having much success. I’ll try opening the scotch bottle next and see whether that works.

*  *  *

And on the subject of oddness, you might want to take a look at this Russian woman performing a traditional Irish folk song:

 

Pretty weird, eh, but she’s actually bloody brilliant. And what a presence. I wonder whether they’ve got any more like her in Russia – might be worth nipping over there to have a look while Putin’s in Helsinki teaching Trump the secrets of diplomacy. Shouldn't take long. I mean, Russia’s not very big, is it?

*  *  *

And now we’re into questionable geography, here’s a little ditty which I first posted several years ago when different people were reading. It can’t be called cheating because this is a portmanteau post.

There was a woman from Baghdad

Whose compass skills were pretty bad

She sailed one day for Mandalay

But ended up in Trinidad

A Question of Motive.

A little adjunct to the last post about losing and giving:

Today I decided to buy a new duvet cover to smarten my bedroom up a bit. I found exactly what I wanted and at a very reasonable price, but then I changed my mind because I decided I didn’t need one. After that I went and gave money to a charity and a small gift to a young man I’d never seen before and will probably never see again.

And so I was reminded of that curious trait inherent in certain people who find the act of giving money away to a worthy cause more rewarding than using it to buy things for themselves. Is that a good thing I wonder, or just an alternative form of self-interest?

*  *  *

Oh cripes, I seem to be doing the...

... thing again. Oh to get rid of the lion and bring on my loony friend...

Later, maybe.

On Legs and the Gain in Giving.

My walk back to the car from the town centre today brought me into close proximity with a crowd of upper high school students whose route coincided with mine. Approximately half the group were boys wearing trousers and the other half were girls wearing shorts or short skirts. It was a warm and sunny day, and so for a terrible few minutes I walked alongside a forest of bare ladies’ legs, all of them fresh, finely wrought and mind-numbingly unblemished. And when our routes diverged I had to walk through that forest to access the side street I wanted. It wasn’t easy.

I say ‘terrible’ for one simple and perfectly innocent reason: when you reach the age at which one of your major, lifelong aspirations is no longer available to you, the sense of frustration is keenly felt and the realisation of something lost most poignant.

This is nothing to feel guilty about, and indeed I don’t. This is no leeringly lascivious product of the Id, no Ageing Lothario delusion. Men sometimes ask the hoary old question: ‘Are you a breast man or a leg man?’ How does somebody like me answer that question? I’m an eyes man, a voice man, a smile man, a hair man, a mind man, a personality man. Most of all, I suppose, I’m a presence man. But yes, I admit it, I’m also a leg man, and in a crowd of young women it’s the legs which are most apparent. And so I feel a sense of sorrow which I expect will last as long as I do, and maybe even get worse as time goes by.

This is one of the very few things about which I feel a little bitter. I don’t generally suffer from habitual bitterness, but this is different. Why would any creator deity place a finely-honed instinct into the mind and then allow the tyrant time to prevent us from exercising it? Why do I have to stop seeking the opposite polarity at its most perfect so that the battery of personal life can be the best it can be? It’s cruel, no more and no less, and I do so abhor cruelty.

*  *  *

And yet, by way of contrast, I did make physical contact with two delightful ladies today, but they were not upper high school students. They were miniature Shetland ponies being shown off to the passing shoppers by the charity which uses them – among others, apparently – to give animal assisted therapy to disabled children. Cute-and-friendly animals are, after all, a good ploy to draw people in; and once in, people feel guilty about walking away again without giving a donation. But no matter the near-Machiavellian nature of the ploy. I talked with one of the humans at some length and learned a thing or two. That, the petting of the Shetland ponies, and a measure of sympathy with the cause led my donation to be bigger than most.

*  *  *

A little later I gave a young man a new pack of Rizlas because he said he’d left his own at home and was dying for a fag. He was a little rough-hewn and a little rough-shod and I surmised he hadn’t the 25p to buy a pack from the nearby store. And he had a good presence. Presence is so important to me when it comes to assessing people. And because he was a young bloke and not a young woman, his legs mattered not a jot.

*  *  *

And so it was a day of both perceived loss and the giving to worthy causes, which at least offers a balance of sorts. And giving does attract a certain measure of personal gain, don’t you think? I do.

False Mirrors.

I’ve been made aware lately of one of life's odd little phenomena. Whether it applies to everybody, or whether it’s a personal thing exclusive to my withered mind, I don’t know, but it’s this:

When somebody gets under your skin to the extent that they’re re-arranging your heart rhythms, you start seeing their image reflected in perfect strangers. You see people you’ve never seen before and become convinced that they look just like so-and-so, even though there is probably no real resemblance at all. And that’s when you’re forced to realise that the person you thought you’d excised and shut away in a locked drawer is actually still alive and kicking enthusiastically in your head.

This little light bulb moment came as a result of watching the movie Rabbit Proof Fence last night. Anybody familiar with that rather touching film will know what I mean when I say that it wasn’t Molly I was rooting for, but another person with the same build and the same eyes and the same expressions and the same walk and the same determination to beat the problem no matter what. Or so it seemed to me at the time.

Blockage.

The dyed-in-the-wool Romantic spends his or her time wandering – sometimes compulsively and sometimes voluntarily – between everyday reality and other forms of reality which the non-Romantic predictably, but in my opinion erroneously, defines as fantasy. The lines can sometimes become blurred, but contrary to commonly received wisdom this is not an unhealthy position as long as the Romantic retains the wit to distinguish between the two. It’s just the way that some people are made. Should I quote again my favourite maxim?

Perception is the whole of the life experience.

(There now, I feel better already.)

The problem, however, comes when everyday reality produces obstacles which prevent the Romantic living in the alternative realities of his or her choosing. That's when severe depression can set in to stop them functioning effectively in either.

The Gourmet Note.

Do you know what I had for dinner tonight? I had a large portion of chips (aka French fries to Russians who learned English the American way), two onion bhajis, a portion of coleslaw (from Sainsbury’s; their coleslaw is bloody awful these days and I definitely need a new coleslaw supplier), and a green salad. Oh, and a slice of bread and butter with which to make the obligatory and highly delightful chip butty. (Salt to taste.) The plate was so full that there was no room for the ketchup.

It weighed heavy all night, so heavy in fact that I couldn’t face a marmalade sandwich later. That’s a shame. I think the second onion bhaji was the culprit.

It’s odd that another one of my personalities is just as happy starving in a garret with only a bottle of scotch and a Sámi folk singer for company. That’s what I’m doing at the moment.

And just in case you think I’ve overlooked the ladies for a change, another question: Have you noticed how damnably good Chinese women are at telling you things with their eyes? What a shame no Chinese women read this blog because their government says it’s subversive and will undermine the integrity of the state.

The Woman's Place.

I take back what I said in an earlier post. I am obsessed with women; they are both my crutch and my cross depending on how old they are, what they look like, what kind of shape they exhibit, what kind of eyes they have, whether they can do the enigmatic look, whether they appear to offer a modicum of intelligence, how their sense of humour works, how they choose to relate to me, erm… well, you know, that kind of thing.

Take the nice looking one I encountered in Tesco today. She came to clear my self-service till because I had alcohol among my purchases and the till refuses to proceed until your age has been attested by someone deemed to be compos mentis. She paused briefly and said she wasn’t sure whether I was over 25 or not. It was a bit predictable I suppose, but still sweet. I would have been inclined to offer some manner of physical contact by way of honest gratitude, but realised that such an action would be both reprehensible and most unwelcome. Besides, I didn’t much fancy having my freshly laundered linen shirt liberally spattered with projectile vomit. But I did manage a non-committal smile.

See what I mean about crutches and crosses? Sometimes they’re both.

Current State in Pictures.

I’m going through a lot of personality shifts at the moment as the post-operative phase enters its sixteenth week and the vicissitudes of the post-operative condition present their various faces. Some days I feel like this:

  

And some days it’s this:

  

Sometimes this is nearer the mark:

On days when earnestness raises its tedious head I'm one of these:

And at around 2am it’s not unknown for me to transmute into my literary alter-ego:

  

My current mood is being dictated by the return of that nagging sense that all is not right with me, that some further lamentable failing of my biological faculties lies waiting to be discovered, and that I will soon be sleeping well after life’s fitful fever. At such times I’m given to musing on where I should like my remains to rest. If I’m to be buried I would like it to be here:

  

This is the north-west corner of the churchyard in the village where I was happiest.

If I’m to be reduced to dust by the purifying flames of some municipal crematorium, I would like the ashes to be deposited here:

  

This is a tree in a local wood where I once walked with the Lady B and her little dog. The memory is a fond one and the spot, therefore, appropriate. The problem is I don’t remember which tree it was, but I don’t suppose it matters. Any tree will do as long as it’s close to the path and looks hungry.

And then comes the matter of my haunting style. Sometimes I’ll appear like this:

 

And sometimes this:

  

And this is probably the scariest of all, especially when accompanied by gurgling noises:

  

And when my spirit is lacking imagination I’ll revert to how I appeared in life:

  

Of course, it’s just as possible that I’ll carry on regardless and still be writing this blog in ten years time. I’m not sure which is the less attractive prospect.

Why Not Go Gentle?

I saw a dead butterfly on the baking tarmac of Church Lane today. It was a Small White with its characteristic grey wing edges and a single black spot on each. It was quite beautiful, quite undamaged, and quite dead. I found it surprising because I don’t recall ever seeing a butterfly performing the function of a road kill before. That dubious honour usually goes to rats, squirrels, badgers, pheasants and wood pigeons. And I think I’ve said often enough that I find the death of anything disturbing.

I’m not the biggest fan of the Dark Rider, except when he comes on a mission of mercy which he sometimes does. I know that his eventual arrival is normal and necessary and inevitable, but I have difficulty dealing with a life force being separated from its host. Nevertheless, I hope that when he rides up and faces me I will have the guts to engage in no pointless struggle, but will climb willingly up behind him to be taken wherever the road leads.

And maybe I will discover at that point that he is no Dark Rider after all, but a shining golden one come to lead me to a saner, more peaceful world flowing with milk and 20-year-old malts; where balmy evenings are still and misty, the predatory instinct is left far behind, and around every bend is an attractive and assertive young woman just itching to make my acquaintance. I’m not of the Germanic persuasion, you see; ‘bugger Valhalla’ is my watchword. Why spend your rest time feasting and vomiting in a smoky hall when you could be frolicking nicely in a woodland glade?

Proud to be Human for Once.

I just read that four of the twelve boys in the Thailand cave have now been rescued and the operation is ongoing.

Why is anybody bothering to report this? What are the lives of a mere twelve boys worth? Twelve is a very small number – a tiny drop of water in the vast ocean of human population. So why bother?

Because every individual matters. Because the fear and anxiety of every one of their loved ones matters. And it matters big time. That’s why no effort, expense or risk has been spared in trying to bring these kids out of a very complex and dangerous situation.

This is the point at which the human animal finally proves its worth and flies in the face of the ego-ridden psychopaths running the world. I wonder how much emotional effort Trump expended on this situation – or Putin, or Erdogan, or Duterte, or Assad, or Netanyahu (should I stop there?)

For my part, I admit to sobbing stupidly when I read the news report. Not very man-like, is it? But at least it’s human when human is something worth being.

A Brief Word of Explanation.

Allow me to correct a possible misapprehension: I’m not as obsessed with women as some of my posts might suggest. What I’m obsessed with is the relationship between life, death, exploration and polarity. It’s a grail quest thing and women just happen to be the surest guides. It all began when I was 12 and it’s all perfectly wholesome (well, mostly.)

I’m not quite sure why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s because I had 8½ hours sleep last night and I’m not tired yet. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t fancy a beer tonight so I had an all-scotch session instead. Does it matter and who cares anyway?

Remaining Virtuous.

A woman of some ten years acquaintance told me yesterday that I have beautiful eyes. Well now, such an outlandish and patently untrue statement can mean only one thing: she’s missing the male component in her life and wants to get her feet under my table.

She won’t, of course. I do actually like her a lot, and she’s a rare example of someone from whom I can accept a hug without retching, but my table now is like one of those contraptions in which babies sit to be fed their slop. Room for one only. That’s how I like it.

Failures Aplenty.

During my last year in high school (at age 16, don’t forget, if you’ve ever bothered to read my profile) I was made a prefect and Head Boy. I assume they must have thought me a pillar of the establishment mindset and a worthy person to be the face of the school at public events. What they didn’t know about were the illegal things I got up to once I was on the other side of the school gates.

A year later I was granted a cadetship at the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth.  I was the only one on my application panel who got through, so I assume the Admiralty must have decided I was a born leader. What they didn’t know was that I had no more desire to lead than I did to be led. All I ever wanted to do was play my own games my own way. (The reason I applied to be a naval officer is long and complicated. Don’t ask.)

When I was 20 I got a job as a travelling salesman/merchandiser with Mars Ltd, winning the day over 104 other applicants. I assume they must have thought that I was perfect salesman material because they delighted in telling me that I had the highest IQ in the whole company, apparently failing to realise that the two skills are entirely unconnected and people with very high IQs hardly ever aspire to be salesman/merchandisers. I only applied for the job to get the company car which was big and white and quite swanky by the standards to which I was accustomed. A year later I left without another job to go to because I’d learned very quickly that trying to tell people what they should and shouldn’t be selling in their shops is not only unconscionably presumptuous but actually quite depressing. (And then I spent a wonderful summer decorating the house, fishing, getting to know my little daughter better, and watching every ball of the test matches on the TV. I think we were playing India that year and I’m fairly sure we won.)

One thing I never tried to be was a teacher. Maybe I should have done; maybe I would have realised even earlier than I did that 99% of what people claim to know is actually just what somebody else has told them. And no doubt I would have failed at that as I failed at everything else.

Nowadays I do little other than listen to stuff like this on YouTube:

  

It’s the same Sámi woman I posted a couple of nights ago. Her voice comes close to blowing my head off and frustrates the hell out of me because I can’t sit with her 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 gradually exploring every aspect of her being. (No déjà vu here; just repeating something I wrote a few nights ago because I like the sound of it.) But I expect I’d fail at that as well. It’s what I do.

Cara.

It’s been ages since I posted anything from one of my favourite singers, Cara Dillon, but tonight I discovered a video on YouTube of her singing Craigie Hill live with the Ulster Orchestra. It was a line from this song which partly inspired the writing of my novella, The Gift Horse (‘…and the bonny birds were singing way down by Dougan’s shore.’)

And I might just mention that Cara was a girlfriend of mine back in the mid-nineties. She never did find out.

Failing My Doctorate.

I need to stop liking and disliking things. When you’re an alien being from some nameless planet in another dimension, liking and disliking things isn’t what you’re supposed to do. What you’re supposed to do is observe and apply reason and make notes on your way to earning a PhD from the University of Somewhere Nameless in Another Dimension.

The problem with all this comes down to the matter of emotion. I freely admit that I have an emotional age of around 5½ (coincidentally – or probably not – 5½ is just about exactly the age I was when the balloon went up in my house.) My body developed just fine, my mind even better, but my emotional component got stuck before I was old enough to buy my own ice creams.

So when I observe the workings of homo sapiens I sometimes get quite joyful, and I sometimes get very sad, and I sometimes become so angry that I want to grab a bullwhip and drive the whole bloody lot of them into one corner of Africa with dunce's caps on their head and restrict their diet to stale bread and polluted water until they come to their senses. And that’s not good.

It’s why, for example, I need to learn that Mr Trump is not a brainless, juvenile, self-centred dork who needs a long spell in detention, but merely an object of study. I’ll try; I will. And maybe I need to start spending more time talking to people and less talking to trees, my car, my concrete garden bear, and the planet Venus.

Then again, it could be that I need to give up on the present course of study and start over. Maybe next year.

Brain Function.

I was walking next to the posts which line the car parking bays on Uttoxeter’s retail park today and I noticed something interesting. If you see a single post you don’t have to count it. The brain recognises a single object visually. If there are two posts you don’t have to count them either because the brain also recognises a pair visually. And so it continues up to five; beyond five you have to count them. At least I do.

And so I mused and theorised on this interesting phenomenon, and long before I reached Tesco I’d decided that it’s probably because we have five digits on each hand. And when I came back from Tesco I went and talked to a tree instead.

On Failure and Lucy Revealed.

Today was one of those strange days which leave me questioning whether I’m going about the business of life in quite the right way. I opened a door, you see, to leave a shop, and coming the other way was a man who wanted to enter the shop. He was youngish and looked like a bit of a tough guy, which wasn’t the reason why I stood back to let him through. I did that because I was the one holding the door and it’s a time honoured tradition in England that the one holding the door gives way. It’s the more functional option.

But no, the other man stood back and waved me out with ‘After you. Come on, friend.’ Friend? Why would a youngish man who looked like a bit of a tough guy call me ‘friend?’ It doesn’t compute, and it’s forming a pattern. First I have strange women smiling at me, and now I have a youngish man who looks like a bit of a tough guy calling me ‘friend.’ What on earth am I doing wrong?

And what about Lucy? Remember Lucy – the ¼ Greek ex-dental nurse from Ashbourne who disappeared for years and then turned up serving in a coffee shop in Uttoxeter? Well, she disappeared again and I was told she’d gone into the business of teaching yoga.

Today I bumped into her for the first time in about a year and she told me about her yoga activities. In return, I told her about my health woes and said that if I get through the whole business with a favourable prognosis, I’d quite like to take up yoga. (Which is true; I’ve seen some on YouTube and it appeals.) But then – me being me – I said that there would be no point in starting it yet because I might be dead this time next year and I didn’t see the point. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I could always teach you the corpse pose.’

Isn’t that splendid? Somebody made a joke of my possibly near-imminent demise instead of giving me the more usual ‘You shouldn’t talk like that’ etc, etc. And so I expressed my delight, and you know what she said? She said ‘I know you quite well and I know you have a dark sense of humour.’

Knows me quite well? How can she know me quite well when we’ve only exchanged the odd few words here and there down the years? Ah, now, that led me to the strong suspicion that Lucy is a lot more intuitive, or aware, or socially adroit, or whatever construction you care to put on it, than you might imagine of a quietly spoken person who – in my experience at least – is not given to thrusting herself into other people’s realities. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I’ve come to warm quite a lot towards a dental nurse cum yoga instructor called Lucy.

But I do hope she doesn’t do something outrageous like inviting me over for lunch or anything. What the hell would that do for my reputation, and what on earth would I wear? (Something that disguises my identity, I suppose.) Fortunately, the likelihood of such an invitation is about on a par with Trump evolving into a creature of intelligence, refinement and common decency, so I think I'm probably safe.

She Said...

I’ve been trying to remember all the nice things women said to me down the years, but I only managed one:

You’re quite a mover yourself, aren’t you Jeff?

She was an Essex girl called… erm… something or other. I had both kidneys in those days so my sense of balance was exemplary.

And I seem to have been afflicted with an irritating attack of cheerfulness again. Better take a pill or it might last into tomorrow.

(I used to make a lot of these little nothing posts back in the early days when a few people bothered to talk to me. Hardly anybody ever does these days, which I take as testament to my improved demeanour.)

Quotation from House:

‘You alienate people.’

‘I’ve been alienating people since I was three years old.’

I started at about age 6.

Nice Ladies Singing.

Since I have nothing in particular to say at the moment, and since I do so like to communicate with the children of man through my blog, I thought I’d post a couple of lovely little YouTube tracks which are of the sort which generally suit my wee small hours mood.

The first is a folk song from Lapland sung by a woman called Sammi (I think I’ve got that right.) What I don’t understand is why she’s got black hair when she comes from northern Scandinavia, but I don’t suppose it matters.

  

The second is also a folk song, from Wales this time. I wrote a comment which said:

This is a most remarkable voice. At once both childlike and mature, fresh and primeval, soothing and compelling. I'm not convinced she's human, you know. I suspect she's an interloper from the realm of wood nymphs and elves. Bet she disappears sometimes and comes back covered in twigs and things. Must find some more of her music and see whether the squirrels gather at the window to listen.

It didn’t get any likes. And I assume Ms Goodman is Welsh, which probably explains everything.

Oz Holding the Line.

I understand that Australia has, rather belatedly perhaps, joined the long list of countries which have banned the free supply of single use plastic bags in retail outlets. The legislation is designed to address what I’m sure are perfectly sound ecological reasons, but a lot of the folks Down Under are apparently unhappy about it. There have been many incidents of shoppers being rather less than polite to the poor shop assistants, and the term ‘bag rage’ has joined the growing epidemic of rages to which modern, advanced culture is being exposed.

And then there’s this advertising hoarding for the University of Adelaide which brought forth a torrent of mockery on social media sites:

                                                                                © SHITADELAIDE

It seems that in Australia the men do the explaining while the women listen. There’s even a noun been coined for it: ‘mansplaining.’ Isn’t that neat?

You have to love those Aussies, don’t you? It’s nice to see there’s a country somewhere in the beleaguered west (or south in this case) where traditional practices and values are being staunchly defended.

Lisa and the A Word.

In furtherance of my avowed intent to make my blog posts profound, articulate and non-earnest, I thought now would be an appropriate time to make an observation I’ve been dying to make ever since I started watching House. (Because I have nothing else to say at present.)

Lisa Edelstein has amazing eyes

I hardly ever use the word ‘amazing’, but since I’m talking about an American I thought I’d swallow my pride. (And Lisa Edelstein’s eyes are probably a rare example of something which justifies the superlative anyway.)

I tried to find a still to illustrate the point but was unsuccessful. It seems you have to see them project an emotion in real time in order to get it, and isn't that just how it should be?

Collateral Damage.

I don’t think I ever mentioned that my taste in food and drink changed quite dramatically after the kidney operation. Many things I used to like a lot have now become unpalatable to some extent or other. These include lettuce, tomatoes, wholemeal bread, baked beans, crisps and beer. Even chocolate has its on days and off days. And I’ve become very picky. When I’m looking for something to eat I consider everything I’ve got in the house and only one thing will do. The rest leave me cold even though I feel hungry.

And then there are the cravings. Today it was cheese and pickled onions. Another day it was coconut. I don’t generally like coconut. And one night at 2am when I was becoming tired and nicely pickled in the spirit of Scotland (which I do still like) I felt the urgent need of a bowl of porridge.

All of which makes me wonder whether having a kidney removed can make you pregnant.