Needing Traffic Control.

I’ve mentioned before that I have two new bee hives in the little stone wall behind my house. It just so happens that the path around the side of my house, and which is my only means of getting from the back to the front, is on the flight path used by the bees to get from their hives to the flowers in the front garden.

Collisions are becoming a regular occurrence. Every day I get frequently bopped on the head, the mouth, the nose, etc. Fortunately, none of the bees has so far succumbed to the presumed urge to sting the interloper, and neither have I witnessed any injury to any of the little stripy guys. That’s a blessing because I feel no ill will towards them and I’m grateful for the fact that they’re probably responsible for my big crop of free apples every autumn.

But I clearly need traffic lights installing between my door and my shed, and a further set by the front porch. That would be difficult to do in a domestic garden and I doubt the agent would be accommodating enough to pay for them. Maybe it would help if I put a big paper bag over my head with eye holes cut into it. The cost would be miniscule and the locals would have fun shaking their incredulous heads even more frequently than they already do.

Farage Sorts Out Sweden.

There’s a recommendation come up on YouTube for a lengthy diatribe by Nigel Farage on ‘why gangs are torching Sweden.’

Let me explain something to anybody who doesn’t already know it. There is nothing in the spectrum of British politics to match Nigel Farage for combining childish stupidity with the most absurd delusion of importance. The only thing big about Nigel Farage is the extent to which he is a laughing stock, and the only important thing the lesson we can learn from allowing juvenile populism any semblance of a profile whatsoever.

And so I would recommend that anybody who downloads and watches this video be transported to Sweden, there to spare no effort in the attempt to be consumed in the flames of the torches. It might reasonably be suggested that life is too good for them.

It’s had 250,000 views.

On Hermione and Consequences.

I’m currently watching the complete series of Harry Potter movies again. I shouldn’t, you know; I really shouldn’t. But let me say no more on the matter. I refuse absolutely to talk of Hermione Grainger, for to do so would leave my reputation in tatters, crushed by the weight of cruel misconstruction. Ms Hermione Grainger is sacrosanct and will not be talked about. And so, to move on…

I saw the-person-who-doesn’t-live-here-any-more’s car again today. It might be recalled that such sightings have become a notable and mildly mysterious feature of my mundane life lately, but today it presented a different face. It was dirty.

Now, to understand the significance of this seemingly insignificant fact, you need first to understand that the-person-who-doesn’t-live-here-any-more’s car is one of the world’s shining things (much like the-person-who-doesn’t-live-here-any-more, which may or may not be coincidental.) Its predecessor wasn’t always so blessed; I’ve known times when its predecessor looked very much as though it were making a triumphant and excessively mud-spattered return from the Paris to Dakar rally – it having been decked out in the renowned British racing green livery an’ all – but the latest steed of Germanic origin is a more refined creature. It shines as if by magic, settled to its more mature role in a changing world. And so to see it dirty was a shock. Maybe it was camouflaged to protect it from the prying eyes of ne’er-do-wells like yours truly. Or maybe I’m presuming an improbable significance. I think I probably am.

I’m in a strange mood tonight. Intriguing creatures lurk deep inside somewhere: fabled and fantastical creatures, shifting and shimmying, calling in ancient voices to stir the blood of fervent and fertile imagination. I can’t ignore them, and why should I?

And they’re not quite as strange as the man who stared at me with dark eyes filled with malevolent intent while I waited in the queue for the kiosk in the Co-op today. Or maybe his stare was more maniacal than malevolent. Yes, I do believe it to be so. A swift perusal of his body language and general demeanour led me to believe that he was a little removed from the normal avenues of perception within which most of us function. He was accompanied by an old lady, and he was greedily consuming some pastry comestible which I assumed had not yet been paid for.

I’m old enough to know the type; I’ve encountered them before; I know that those so afflicted can turn on a whim and do dire things because consequences are of no consequence to them. And so I declined to return the stare, but stood my ground with an air of studied nonchalance. I got away with it. I might not always be so lucky.  (And all I wanted was a bottle of milk.)

All this from watching a Harry Potter movie… I shouldn’t do it, you know; I really shouldn’t. Is my reputation safe, I wonder?

For Kaetlyn.

Anybody wishing to hear a sad but heart-warming story could do little better than read this post from a fellow blogger.

Fellow blogger? My world is very sparsely populated these days; those who choose to enter my orbit – and do so with my welcome – are but a small handful of beautiful and compelling people. They are the tiny flecks of gold for which the prospectors search among the rocks and silt of the mountain streams. Kaetlyn is up there with the best of them.

She kept me company on an almost daily basis during my dark days in the winter, often writing long missives well into the early hours when she was busy with more meaningful work of her own. She was the hand held over the gunwale to help me swim when I was struggling with a heavy sea.

So how can I not honour her, even though she will probably have reservations about me making this post because there is nothing of the egoist about her? She has the same doubts and fears and anxieties as all truthful, searching, feeling people do. I’ve no doubt she will excuse me, though, because she will respect my right to honour those few great souls I deem worth honouring.

Thank you. Kaetlyn. May your recovery be swift and your life abound with golden sunlight.

Frustration.

I had a good post all lined up in my head tonight, about the latest picture of Trump to appear on the BBC News website. I put on my ex-photographer's hat for inspiration, and though I say it myself, it even had the odd decent (or maybe indecent) joke. Like the line about the call girl who’d been hurriedly recruited to give the President moral support, and the one about Melania and the photographer being in collusion because it makes Donald look as dumb as he really is.

But there was a problem: the post was only worth making if it was illustrated with the image itself. I went to the website and right clicked. Oh dear, it was one of those pictures you can’t download. Some you can and some you can’t; this was one of the latter. Scrap the post.

That’s a shame. The debris is still rattling around inside my head, but when something’s gotta go, it’s gotta go. And now I’m left wondering whether the call girl is still sitting in the corner of the Oval Office off camera, or whether she’s moved into the inner circle by now. Not knowing can absolutely ruin a nice fantasy.

English Bricks.

I referred to a dear friend in a post this morning as ‘a bit of a brick.’ Just so the meaning’s clear to those whose first language isn’t English, maybe I should explain that a ‘brick’ in that context is a person whose unstinting support can be relied on when you need it. This must not be confused with ‘thick as a brick’, which is something else entirely.

A Mysterious Visitor.

According to Blogger stats, I’m currently getting repeated visits from somewhere called Unknown Region. This is odd because we all assume that the gods at Google are omniscient. If they can show you a view of the street where your great, great grandmother lived in Uzbekistan, how come there’s a place they don’t know about?

Could it be one of those mysterious, suspiciously shaped places on maps which are coloured white so you don’t realise there’s something missing – rather like Douglas Adams’s alien which put a blanket over its head on the rational assumption that if it couldn’t see its enemy, its enemy couldn’t see it?

Whoever it is uses Chrome with Linux. Please advance and be recognised.

A Car with Spirit.

The person-who-doesn’t-live-here-any-more seems to have stopped haunting me for the time being, but her car hasn’t. I keep seeing it in various places when I hardly ever used to see it at all. Today it passed me on the lane when I was perusing the sheep and quietly minding my own business, and two days ago I saw it parked close to mine in Sainsbury’s car park. Last week I saw it on three days in succession.

So is it haunting me, stalking me, or neither of the above? I strongly suspect the latter; I strongly suspect it’s mere coincidence, even though there are those who insist that ‘there’s no such thing as coincidence.’ Nevertheless, it has occurred to me to wonder whether there are any exorcists who specialise in cars. It’s just that sometimes I go to bed fearing that I will be awoken in the dark early hours by the sound of an engine gruffly calling me, and I’ll look through the front bedroom window to see a dark blue VW Golf sitting at the bottom of my garden. When I go out to investigate, it will have mysteriously disappeared.

Now I’m being silly, aren’t I? Besides, it all adds a bit of colour to an otherwise unremarkable life so forget the exorcist. But isn’t it a sure indicator of just how unremarkable a life can be when it’s capable of being coloured by a dark blue VW Golf? It is. Duly abashed.

*  *  *

I just used up the last of my marmalade so there won’t be any more marmalade sandwiches for me until I can get a new jar. The connection between this unremarkable fact and the mysterious affair outlined above should be guessable to any long term reader of my jottings who is also familiar with Michael Bond’s most famous character. (It’s in the hat, just in case you need a hint.)

On Sharing Space.

I’ve been sharing a dark cloud with somebody over the past few days. She shared mine back in the spring so she’s a bit of a brick, and she’s just suffered a horrible loss. That’s why there hasn’t been much blog activity recently.

Well, that and having my living space invaded for ten hours yesterday by some unholy racket coming up from the pub at the bottom of the lane. It’s nearly half a mile away and I had all the doors and windows shut tight, but I could still hear it right up to bloody midnight.  They were having something approximating to a beer and music festival, I’m told. Having my personal space invaded by somebody else’s choice of so-called music has a curious effect on me. My spirits plummet, my nervous system gets well overheated, and my normally impeccable ability to function practically and imaginatively just about goes off the rails. I wish I didn’t care, but I do.

But at least the bees didn’t sting me. They don’t, you know. This year has seen the genesis of two new bee hives in the stonework supporting the embankment at the back of my house. Every time I go around there a few of them come to investigate the potential menace, but I speak nicely to them and assure them that I mean them no ill will, and so far they’ve allowed me my space and resisted the probable urge to attack. And that pleases me greatly because when honey bees sting they die horribly shortly afterwards, and I wouldn’t like that at all.

They do sometimes follow me, though, when I go back around the corner of the house. I hear a slight change in the sound of their wing beats which carries the unmistakable imprecation ‘And don’t come back!’

For Those at the Edge.

There was a black family in Tesco when I was shopping on Monday. Black families are rare in Uttoxeter, and even rarer in Ashbourne. The parents were probably in their early thirties, the boy was around twelve or thirteen, and there were two younger girls. The girls were the ones I noticed first because they had their hair impeccably braided, and every fifth or sixth braid had been coloured a light copper. They looked stylish and very lovely. Somebody must have taken a lot of trouble to make them look that good.

They were blocking my route down the aisle and so I said ‘excuse me, please.’ The mother moved the kids out of the way and I walked past with a ‘thank you.’ And then she looked at me with a strange look which suggested surprise, and replied ‘you’re welcome.’ It occurred to me to wonder whether the strange look was the product of her not being used to white folks being polite to them. That would be very sad, wouldn’t it? But I don’t know. Maybe not. I hope not.

And tonight I was recalling my own childhood, and how I used to take the week’s dinner money on a Monday morning to buy five meal tickets. The children of poor families didn’t have to pay because they were entitled to free dinners courtesy of the welfare state. Their tickets were white; ours were blue. The difference in colour meant that everybody standing in line could see which kids could afford to pay for their meals, and which kids were too poor. Even at that age I detected a hint of stigma in the air. I assume they changed the system eventually, at least I hope they did.

Today's Last Note.

I was thinking tonight that wisdom and nuttiness are complimentary characteristics. I suppose it’s because very wise people are so wise that they find wisdom irritating and feel the need to compensate. Or maybe it has something to do with arrested development. ‘Time for bed,’ said Zebedee.

On Lineage.

It’s interesting how we combine characteristics of both parents in our personalities, isn’t it? I was watching Natalia Tsarikova earlier and remembered something my mother once said to me (she was a fairly accomplished soprano, by the way.) She said that she couldn’t understand where I got my love of music from, since my dad had no interest in music at all.

‘I didn’t get it from my dad,’ I replied, ‘I got it from you, you daft bat. It’s the loner gene and curmudgeon tendency I got from him.’

My dad decamped to the loving arms of a much younger woman when I was 5½. That’s another contribution he made to my gene pool. My compulsion to feed the birds, however, came entirely from my mother. (It’s also interesting to note that such Irish heritage as I have came down the male line, hence my fascination with the ladies' legs in Riverdance.)

A Little Cat Post.

Since I have nothing to write a post about tonight (I started one but didn’t know where I was going with it so it’s been shelved for the time being) I thought I’d post pictures of Lilly and Jax, Mel’s new kittens. They’re siblings.

She tells me they spend all their time chasing around the house, trying to eat one another, cuddling up close, and sleeping. It’s the sleeping that worries her. She’s frightened they might be dead and has to wake them up to reassure herself. I suggested she look for signs of breathing instead, like the chest rising and falling for example, but she said that wouldn’t do. She also said that she finds it hard to believe that things are just born with ears that work. And incidentally, she didn’t accuse me of being irrational as I stated on a recent post. What she actually accused me of was being ultra-rational. That’s worse, apparently. An apology is clearly in order.

And so I hope there are enough cat lovers out there to allow that I might be forgiven for posting pictures of baby cats instead of saying silly and inconsequential things like I usually do. Come back later (or tomorrow, or next week. How the hell would I know?)

Lilly ('Boys are useless.')

 Jax ('Sisters!')

The character references are mine, taken under advisement. I need a drink.

On Time and My Inadequate Head.

I’ve heard it said by proper scientists that way back before any of us remember, time started. You know, I find it a bit difficult to get my head around the idea that time once wasn’t there and then suddenly it was. So there was a time before time? Well, serious people say it so I suppose we must take it seriously.

But that means that time is finite, which further means that one day we’ll come to the point beloved of ballad writers: The End of Time. (And we still worry about the gas bills?)

So what will happen when time comes to an end? Will we all be frozen in the act of doing whatever we’re doing in that Moment of Great Significance? Will the rivers stop flowing? Will the wind stop blowing? Will the grass stop growing? Will the dog stop peeing mid-pee, will Trump’s hair fall still at last, will the England-Australia test match cease at precisely 3.27pm on the third day? Will the whole of life on earth become one massive tableau for the perusal of godlike beings paying good money to take the guided tour?

How long will it take them, I wonder, because there are 70bn people on earth all doing different things. It won’t take any time at all, of course, because there won’t be any time.

So how the hell am I supposed to take life seriously when I’m in this mood? All I’ve drunk is a small bottle of Italian beer and two double scotches.

Uttoxeter Today.

There was something odd in the air in Uttoxeter today. I was walking towards one of the charity shops (the one where the person-with-presence works, and she was there today which was nice) when a man approached me and said he didn’t want to sell me anything. I said ‘no thanks’ (because I never trust strangers who say they don’t want to sell me anything) but he continued in his attempt to attract my attention and clearly wanted to talk to me about something, only I didn’t catch what it was. I said ‘no thanks’ again and he said ‘have a nice day.’ Do people really say ‘have a nice day’? Seems they do, at least the ones who say they don’t want to sell you anything.

A little while later I was sitting eating my lunchtime sandwich when no less than three dishevelled elderly people walking past turned to hold me with strange, leering smiles. One of them even spoke to me, but I didn’t catch a word of what he was saying so I just said ‘yes’ in reply and he went away. Lots of Gromit-style eye rolls and shaking of head ensued as I was beginning to suspect that there was something odd in the air in Uttoxeter today.

Later again and I was sitting quietly in the same spot eating my piece of bread pudding (which I’d fetched from Greggs in the interim, just to add colour to the story) when my ears were assailed by the sound of an elderly man with a microphone trying to persuade the milling throng to seek salvation through Jesus. And behind him was an even older man who put his backpack on the ground and then couldn’t pick it up again because he was too stiff.

‘This is becoming surreal,’ I thought, and went off to the Bear coffee shop for my usual cup of Americano with cream.

While I was in there I read a newspaper which recounted lots of strange stories, like the one about some ex-aide of Trump who said that if Melania ever leaves him – which I fully expect she will do one day – he will find a way to have her deported because he’s that sort of person. ‘Why would he need to?’ I thought. ‘If Melania ever breaks the chains that bind, surely she’ll be on the next plane back to Slovenia before Donald’s hair has time to form itself into three exclamation marks.’ Let’s face it, it must be tough enough for good Americans to live in the US under Trump. Heaven knows what it must be like for a good European.

But then I started getting dizzy spells, so I went and picked up a few things from Tesco and came home.

And now I’m enjoying an oddly pleasant Italian beer called Birra Moretti. You wouldn’t think Italians would brew beer, would you? Maybe it helps them get through the tedium of treading grapes all day.

Offending the Nelson Breed.

I just read a heart-warming story about a British woman who went overboard from a cruise ship sixty miles off the coast of Croatia and was subsequently rescued, alive and well, ten hours later. In relating her adventure to journalists she said she ‘fell off the back.’

Fell off the back? Ships do not have backs, madam. You fell off the stern.

These things matter to us Brits, you know. They do. Whatever happened to the days when the British were born with sea water for blood? It’s hardly surprising she went overboard if she doesn’t know a back from a stern.

Helluva Day.

I did clean the car as I said I probably would. I missed a bit on the roof and excused myself on the grounds that I’m still post-operative, but the car was unimpressed. I apologised to him and promised to do better next time.

And then I went for a walk but didn’t climb the stile I mentioned previously because I was washed out from cleaning the car. Instead, I sat on the stile, talked at length to the copper beech tree, and dreamed about the old days. As I was losing myself in historical reverie, a strange and violent story began to take shape in my head. I felt myself entering one of my alternate realities again, which is where all my stories came from. I snapped myself out of it but the shining light and the little dog had disappeared so I wended my weary way home. I thought of writing the story down but decided against it because I don’t generally write violent stories (The Charlie Club was an exception), and it’s fortunate that I did because I’ve forgotten the plot anyway.

I had a phone conversation with Mel this evening. She’s just moved house and we fell out over whether the residue of tobacco smell left in the carpets, walls and curtains by the previous occupant’s heavy smoking habit could be described as ‘smoke fumes.’ We also disagreed on whether her two new kittens needed to be isolated from said ‘fumes’ because it might make them ill. She said I was being irrational, but I wasn’t.

The excitement of it all left me feeling tired thereafter.

Music now. This 5 minute clip from YouTube is pretty damn good if you like that sort of thing. (I’m into hand pans at the moment, which are thankfully nothing to do with hospitals.)

Condemned in the State of Disney.

You might remember the post I made a couple of days ago about putting a derogatory comment on a YouTube clip featuring extracts from Disney films. As expected, I got a number of responses which basically questioned my sanity.

But they were fairly mild in nature, with none of the usual expletive-ridden gobbledegook normally associated with YouTube trolls, and so I kept my replies low key and a little quirky. I found the whole exercise a bit of fun and made a point of not trying to offend the responders. The only vaguely serious comment I made was I think you’re missing the undertone of humour. It’s a British thing, and the nearest I came to an insult was referring to Disney as the great saccharin merchant. Personally, I think that was fair comment and pretty obvious.

Oh dear. Big mistake. Nothing short of a cataclysm ensued. I clicked on the thumbnail last night to answer the latest responder and got the dreaded message:

Video Unavailable.

The uploader has not made this video available in your country.

I doubt this is mere coincidence. This is censorship of Sino proportions, so what does it suggest about people who upload Disney clips on YouTube?

But apologies to the other 70 million Brits who can no longer take delight in hearing Pocahontas singing some drivel of a song in a Native American language. My fault. Sackcloth and ashes on order.

Learning Fear Early.

I have a question about childbirth:

A foetus grows for nine months through a process of increasing awareness, and does so completely in the dark. And then it’s suddenly catapulted into the bright light of the delivery room. Doesn’t that scare the poor kid witless, and doesn’t the shock have a lifelong effect on its emotional development?

Has anybody ever studied this?

Eschewing the Injunction.

The big news today is that I mowed my lawn. The reason it’s big news is that during the post-operative phase I was under strict medical injunction to do nothing more strenuous than tying my shoe laces, and so I’ve had to pay somebody else to do it. That hurt.

Today I decided that it was time to man-up and divest myself of medical injunctions, and so I mowed the lawn. It was hard going because my lawn has quite a slope and I’m still some way short of having my normal quota of strength and energy, but at least I don’t feel ill tonight. That has to be a good sign, right? Right.

And maybe it caused a bit of a stir in the village. ‘Mr Beazley’s mowed his lawn,’ one observant resident might have remarked. ‘Really? I didn’t know he was still alive.’ Mmm… I’m sure there isn’t a single local who gives a tuppeny toss whether I’m still alive or not, probably because I don’t give a tuppeny toss whether any of them are. The only person whose presence here was ever of any concern to me doesn’t live here any more, and I sometimes wonder why I bother. But I do. And it probably didn’t.

Tomorrow I might clean the car, which hasn’t been done by me or anybody else since the pre-operative days back in March. (I’ve been lucky with the weather.) Or maybe I’ll go the whole way in the matter of injunction divestment and climb one of the many stiles the Shire offers to give access to public footpaths.

It might be the one in Church Lane opposite the venerable old copper beech tree, the one that holds fond memories of leaning on the gate talking to the person who doesn’t live here any more, the one that leads to a track through a wheat field and takes you to a scraggy little wood with a hidden pool in the middle of it.

That’s the place where I would like to die if only I might be afforded the knowledge of when I’m about to take the leap, but I doubt life will be quite that accommodating. I expect I’ll die alone in a hospital bed somewhere, feeling guilty at putting the nice nursing staff to such trouble. Life’s always been a bit like that for me, so why change the habit just before going to heaven (the one with frolicking wood nymphs and cheese scones and things.)

A Little Wish List.

May I please indulge my current preoccupation with death again because I have another thing to say on the matter? Thank you. It’s this:

Who the hell in their right mind would want to go to Valhalla? What pleasure could there possibly be in sitting in a chokingly smoky hall surrounded by a few thousand smelly Viking warriors vomiting gallons of testosterone over the floor along with the seventeenth pint of ale they’ve just consumed, while singing (allegedly) a torrent of bawdy and badly written ballads about cheap sexual conquests?

Please may I go to a leafy glade where wood nymphs frolic in the waterfall, the scotch is free and stays where I put it, the coffee is hot and never gets stale, and there’s a never ending supply of hot cheese scones with butter? Oh, and can I have a dog as well?

I think that will do. Much appreciated.

A Zoe Thing.

I made a derogatory comment about Disney a few nights ago on YouTube, and it didn’t surprise me that I got hailed on with bananas for my pains. It seems that Disney is such an American icon that it’s effectively sacrosanct. (I would choose a variety of other terms, but no matter.)

Anyway, one of the Angry Ones was a woman called Zoe who wrote ‘wtf dude!’ It’s probably more than mere coincidence that I used to have a regular and much-favoured correspondent called Zoe (aka The Bright Star in the West – that’s a reference to Venus. Get it?) and she used to like yelling at me, too. Must come with the territory.

A House Fly Thing.

I have a house fly in my house. It’s taken up temporary residence on my computer monitor, which isn’t so bad because that means it isn’t trying to climb into my ear or walk across the back of my hand when I’m doing my best to type a bloody blog post.

On seeing it I was reminded of a ditty I wrote about an earlier version of the wingèd thing – probably an ancestor – back in the early days of this blog (in July 2010 to be precise.) Now, I know that it’s little short of a cardinal sin to reprise earlier posts, but different people were reading then (many of them commented at the time; one American high school student even called it a poem, which concerned me a little because if it’s a poem I must be a poet and I don’t think I want to be.) But I do like the ditty, so here it is:

I have a little house fly

Who follows me around

He really doesn’t pester me

And never makes a sound

Except for buzzing wings, that is,

We take that one as read

Apart from that I only hear

His thoughts inside my head

‘I’m such a lucky house fly’

He says, ‘this pad’s a find.

I’m sitting here on Jeffrey’s wall

And Jeffrey doesn’t mind’

‘Of course I don’t,’ I tell him back,

‘We’re just two kindred souls

We’ve got our different roads to walk

And slightly different goals

But otherwise we’re just the same

Mere fragments manifest

As flesh and blood and earthly needs

That put us to the test

So ‘welcome’ little house fly,

Do come in from the cold

And stay as long as you desire

Or ’til we both grow old

It’s surprising how many posts I made about house flies back in the early days. I was rather more prolific then, and most of the posts were a lot better than the ones I write now.

Poor Prospects.

I find watching a woman like Natalia Tsarikova on YouTube a bittersweet experience. Women like Natalia Tsarikova naturally encourage the development of fantasy in the healthy male, and the beauty of healthy fantasy is that it permits the 0.01% possibility that it might actually happen. But the healthy male inevitably reaches a point in life when even the 0.01% disappears, and that’s where the bittersweet comes in.

Brought to you courtesy of another gloomy August twilight. The weather forecast I just looked at said we’re going to have gloomy twilights for ever.

A Bit of Gallic.

I was feeling very tired this evening after some unaccustomed exertions in the garden and I needed something to wake me up. I didn’t think I’d survive going to bed at 7 o’clock, you see, not in my condition, so  I had to find something to keep me awake until it was time to go to sleep. It was a struggle until I remembered that I still had the DVD of Amelie which Mel lent me some time ago, so I decided to watch it for the third time.

(Oh come on, Jeffrey – or should I say Geoffroi – you can do better than that. What’s it really called, just to let the nice French people know that you’ve forgiven them for inventing Joan of Arc and stripey shirts, and the Entente Cordiale is bursting with renewed vigour? It’s really called Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain, right? So say it and do the shrug. Good. That’s better. Carry on.)

Well, the third time was the best, and when it was all over I decided that my renewed belief in the value of life must make Amelie (and the rest) the best film ever made. And then I returned to my own world and found it just as empty as when I left it.

Ah, but… you’ll never believe what happened exactly five minutes after I’d taken the DVD out of the computer. Nothing did. C’est la vie. Fin.

Seeing Summer Slide (and Bits.)

The year is winding down here in the Shire. The recent rain came too late to reinvigorate much of the growth that wilted irrevocably during the warm, dry, sunny days of May, June and July. And worst of all, the twilights are growing gloomy now.

Twilight is very precious to me, but the quality of twilight is a major marker of the waxing and waning of the year. August in the UK is the month when fecund summer is losing its grip and sliding inexorably towards frigid winter. I love twilight, but only when the transition is long, the breeze balmy, and the air filled with the flitting of hungry bats and diaphanous moths. When twilights grow gloomy, I grow gloomy.

I hate winter with a passion. Winter is constant torture to me. And spring is nearly always disappointing because the growth of light and heat is too slow and too erratic to suit my impatient spirit. When autumn comes I run on an undercurrent of anxiety, however beautiful the sight of decay might be to most people’s eyes, because I know what’s coming next.

Summer is my time; summer is my season. The smell of new-mown hay, the crack of willow on leather, the cool breezes when the sun is high and the warm ones when it rests, the azure lakes when the sky is blue and the fishes’ joy when summer showers refresh their realm, the birdsong at dawn and the scent of flowers at noon, al fresco meals and bare ladies’ legs reminding me that life, too, was once full summer.

*  *  *

I have one of those magical slugs in my kitchen tonight – the now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t type. Where has it gone? Ah, there it is. I must be careful not to tread on it for both our sakes. It’s the rain which brings them out, but where they get in remains a mystery.

*  *  *

Nearly time for scotch and music. Or maybe I’ll listen to somebody from the New World enumerating the various delights and frustrations of visiting, or living in, England.

‘They have no power points in their bathrooms,’ complained one.

‘One of the things which most shocks Americans is how beautiful the English countryside is,’ enthused another.

Is it? I’ve never noticed.

Clued Up.

I saw my old chat buddy, James, from the library the other day. I haven’t seen him for several years and he told me he’d moved to a new house in Clay Cross. The house is a little removed from the main sprawl and he said he was in the garden one night at about midnight, enjoying a late cigarette, when he heard a noise in the undergrowth.

‘What do you think it was?’ he asked.

‘Bloody Greta Garbo?’ I offered, quick as a flash.

He got the joke, but it was only a badger.

A Simple Antidote.

From where I sit in front of my computer I have a clear view of my kitchen window, and sometimes at night if the blind is up I wonder how I would feel if I saw something floating in the darkness just beyond the glass. A disembodied head perhaps, with a face that is vaguely human but not quite fully so in a way you can’t quite explain. And maybe the face would be white and shrouded in long, unkempt black hair which obscures one of the eyes while the other stares directly at you with malevolent intent.

If you allow your imagination to dwell on such an image for long enough it can eventually become a little spooky. But all you have to do is imagine a pink clothes peg clipped to the wraith's nose and suddenly it isn’t spooky any more.

No Sparks, No Stars, No Samovars.

I was sitting eating my sandwich in Uttoxeter High Street today watching the shabby throng of mundane humanity ply their little paths, and being acutely aware of how alien they all seemed. There wasn’t a single one of them who piqued my interest sufficient to want to introduce myself. No presence, you see. I need to perceive presence in a person if I’m to have my interest piqued. About the only person I see frequently in Uttoxeter who has a noteworthy presence is a woman who works in one of the charity shops, and she wasn’t there today.

And then it occurred to me that the three days I spent in hospital last week were very different. I was chatting merrily to all and sundry there. I wondered whether the people who frequent the Royal Derby Hospital are so different than those who walk up and down Uttoxeter High Street, or whether I was simply in a different mood. I expect it was the latter.

This week has been unremarkable so far, which is why there’s been nothing much to write about on the blog. I’ve been devoid of both humour and imagination, there’s been little to rant about in the news, circumstances have offered nothing to set my typing fingers itching, and Natalia Tsarikova hasn’t invited me to St Petersburg for tea.

But I just remembered something. I did see Lucy walk past the coffee shop in Ashbourne yesterday. Lucy has presence, but she walked past without glancing in my direction so my hopeful wave went unreciprocated. It’s been that sort of week so far.

I wonder whether the llama is missing me. I wonder whether anybody is missing me. I wonder whether I want to be missed. This is getting complicated.

The Moons on My Torso.

When I came out of hospital last Wednesday I still had three rubbery tabs stuck to my torso, two on my chest and one on the left hand side of my rib cage. They each had a blunt metal pin in the centre so I assume they were something to do with the ECG monitor, and when I pulled them off they each left two small crescent shaped marks on the skin.

They’re still there; no amount of washing them in the shower has any effect and I don’t know what to do about them. You see all these purportedly specialist cleaning products in the hardware stores – one for the sink unit, one for the worktops, another for the bathtub, yet another for the tiled floor etc, etc – but I haven’t seen anything for the removal of ECG tab sticky marks. You’d think they’d invent one, wouldn’t you?

So where do I go from here? Should I hope that one day I meet a young sapiosexual who will be in a good enough mood one night to want to examine my bare torso for signs of life, and who will exclaim:

‘Oh, Mr Beazley. You have six crescent moons on your torso, four on your chest and two on the left hand side of your rib cage. How very delightful. Do tell me how you came to be so blessed.’

Erm, I got them after walking in a fairy glen one day.

‘A fairy glen, was it? Oh, you lucky man. So why are they black instead of silver with little sparkly bits?’

Maybe they used black marker pens.

‘Oh dear, oh dear. Fairies never use black marker pens, my dear Mr B. Only goblins use those, and that isn’t so good. I really think I should do something about this. Now let me see…’

This conversation could go anywhere, couldn’t it? I think I’ll shut up now.

The Thank You Note.

The nurses on Ward 202 in the Royal Derby this week were quite lovely. And there was another full time woman who oversaw the non-clinical services like cleaning, food provision and so on. She had an air of studied nuttiness about her – always bustling about singing and making allegedly humorous observations, presumably in the not unreasonable belief that hospital patients need cheering up. (And she was generally right as long as we weren’t trying to sleep.) All in all I was quite pleased with them and so I wrote a thank you note when I got home. It said:

Dear Nursing Staff

You might recall that I was incarcerated in ward 202 and subject to your tender mercies between 6^th and 8^th August. May I say that you were all the perfect bunch of clucking hens and that your care, concern and dedication was greatly appreciated. In particular, it was most reassuring to note how much unruffled attention you were able to give to patients whilst under the weight of pressures forced on you by an underfunded system. Well, underfunded or not, the NHS remains, in my view, the jewel in the crown of British culture and you are perfect exemplars of the fact. Many thanks to you.

Would you mind also proffering my greetings to Bertha Rochester who oversees the non-clinical functions? She, too, helped make the days lighter. But please be vigilant and ensure that she doesn’t creep into the ward during the wee small hours and set fire to the odd patient here and there. Bertha Rochesters are known for that unfortunate predilection and the ward wouldn’t smell too good if she were allowed free rein.

Very best wishes to you all. Your profession is a most noble one.

Sincerely

I wonder whether they liked it. I wonder whether they know who Bertha Rochester is. I wonder whether they’ll put it on their pin board between Schedule of Catheter Bag Emptying and List of Patients Whose Bowel Functions Need Querying. I wonder whether I dare show my face there again (or any other part of me for that matter.) I hope I’ll never need to.

The Terror in the Trees.

I saw another interesting creature story in the news recently. It seems a man in Germany called the police and said he was being menaced by a baby squirrel which wouldn’t leave him alone. The boys in blue (or whatever colour they wear in Germany) came to the rescue and took the little terror in hand, and then passed it to an animal welfare group who took it away for some tlc. The drama ended well and there were no wrecks and nobody drownded.

One of the rescuers explained that if a baby squirrel loses its mother it will sometimes approach a human seeking help and food, and went on to say ‘it can be a bit scary.’ Can it? Here’s a picture of just such a creature. I do hope the posting of it won’t cause any sensitive person out there to suffer nightmares.

 

The Last Lone Journey.

I have to say that I have much sympathy with Richard Russell who stole a plane from Seattle airport, performed a few manoeuvres, and then died in the inevitable crash.

I know that most people will say he was a foolhardy idiot or that he was mentally ill and needed treatment. And I daresay many people will see it as a sad story, rather than a disturbing one. So what is ‘mental illness’ anyway? Does anybody really know?  When is foolhardiness acceptable and when isn’t it? Lines of demarcation are always fluid and usually dictated by the culture to suit its own ends.

The way I see it is that he went out on a far off limb one day and did something way outside the box. He never hurt anybody and never intended to. And his radio messages indicate that he knew exactly what he was doing, what the response of the authorities and his family would be, and that he was content for his life to end that day. He chose to live those last hours doing something exciting, fun, and very different. It beats joining the crowds at Disneyland, that’s for sure.

I have much sympathy with his family and loved ones, too, and I can understand the view that what he did was selfish. But in the final analysis we all have to live this little life according to who we are, and that’s what he did. Peace to you, Mr Russell. I hope you’ve got whatever it was out of your system now.

Shame About Russia.

I’ve now found two Russian women singers on YouTube who are an absolute feast to both ear and eye. Natalia Tsarikova is the latest:

If I could be eighteen again I’d be saving my pennies and making the trip east in full expectation of finding a pirate’s sea chest o’er brimming with glittering grails. I missed my chance when I really was eighteen because the Cold War was at its height and western propaganda had convinced us all that Russian women were grotesque, not to mention simianesque, creatures with a covering of body hair to put a yeti to shame and oversized hands which dragged through the Russian mud when they walked. Russia and everything in it was always painted in greyscale back then, and its women were granted no exemption.

And it was all lies, lies, lies. Damn those capitalist politicians. My stats counters indicate that a few people from Russia read this blog. If that is the case, may I offer my personal apology for the dastardly way in which you were represented. Can we be friends now?

The Good Nurse's Manual.

While I was in hospital recently I talked to a couple of the nurses at length about the subject of their profession. Many angles were considered and discussed, but in the end I felt I had to come up with my own view of what the ‘proper’ role of a nurse should be. I’ve been considering it ever since and now I think I’ve found it, because for all the increasingly complex technology, the ever-burgeoning weight of rules, records and protocols, the tidal wave of medications flooding the houses of healing, and the inevitable constrictions consequent upon governmental underfunding – all of which are pushing the personal touch into the background – it’s actually quite simple.

When a person is in hospital suffering pain, anxiety, discomfort, fear and general debility, what they most need from a nurse is what they got, or at least had a right to expect, from their mothers when they were children.

I could write a lot of words around this, but I don’t think I need to. The childhood perception of the mother and the adult perception of the nurse are fundamentally the same, and so the first requirement of a good nurse is simply to care and never be out of earshot. Or so it seems to me.

Those who have been following the convoluted progress of my health issue since its inception in January might remember the young student nurse called Sabs who I wrote about back in April. I told of how impressed I was when she was going off shift at 7pm and addressed the gaggle of depleted old men with the words night, boys.

Boys, you see? She got it.

Big Badass Boris.

Britain’s resident Trump impersonator, Boris Johnson, landed himself in a spot of bother recently by calling for a ban on the burka because, he says, they make the wearer look like a bank robber. Not surprisingly, many people are calling for his head over what is rightly seen as blatant Islamophobia, probably xenophobia, and arguably covert racism. And not wanting the Conservative Party to be seen as non-politically correct, even some of his senior colleagues want formal action to be taken against him.

I think that would be a mistake. Boris Johnson is generally viewed as a childish and silly little man who only got his high powered position in the cabinet because he judicially sided with the right side when it was appropriate to do so. His crass remark is entirely typical of a man of his calibre and really should come as no surprise. Accordingly, I believe he should simply be held up to ridicule where he belongs, not elevated to the status of martyr in the eyes of the Little Englander bigots and right wing thugs. Why should we feed the small-minded interests of the Brainless Ones when all we have to do is laugh at him?

The Impending Nine Month Sentence.

I give substantial credence to the concept of reincarnation. There’s something obviously comforting to think that when this body gives up its ghost, the ghost – aka my consciousness – will take its seat in the mystical barge accompanied by the three queens of legend, be taken across the quiet waters to Avalon for rest and recuperation, and then return whence it came to begin another adventure in another body.

This is high Romance indeed and I have a strong feeling that it’s probably true. Furthermore, such a conviction takes the sting out of death and makes the Dark Rider merely a glorified taxi driver come to take you to the station en route to going home for the holidays. But I realised only yesterday that there’s a downside.

It means that at some time in the future I’ll have to spend nine months sitting around in the darkness with absolutely nothing to do and nothing to look at except the inside of some woman’s womb. That bit sounds a bit tedious to me.

Getting There.

I noticed when I was in hospital that everywhere I walked people were overtaking me. Today I overtook somebody in Ashbourne. The fact that she was around 97 and walking with a stick failed to dissuade me from the notion that progress was in evidence.

Today's Dichotomy.

Guess whose car I saw in Sainsbury’s car park today. The same dark blue car bearing the same distinctive registration number parked in the same bay as it was on the same day last week. No less a personage than She who must be endured.

My mind split immediately. Since I was just leaving, I couldn’t decide whether the rationalist in me should have been grateful for having been spared another dispiriting ‘hello’, or whether the masochist in me should have felt the sting of denial.

Strange things, minds. And even stranger is the fact that one person among the seven billion playing their petty roles on planet Earth could be capable of confusing another person's sense of self.

(I might just add that the rationalist eventually carried the day, but the masochist took some time to come out of his sulk.)

Time for beer and YouTube. It's the first beer I've had since my bladder was relieved of its foreign body. I hope I won't have cause to regret it.

A Rare Form of PTSD.

Do you know what’s really odd? I’ve been in a most uncharacteristically good mood today, but by about six o’clock this evening the pressure of being cheerful was weighing so heavily that I had to cultivate a measure of mild melancholia in order to have a rest.

I think it might have something to do with the fact that I spoke to more people during my three days in hospital than I normally would in about twenty years. I find the memory of it quite unnerving.

Spotting Reality in Another World.

Britney wasn’t the brightest button in the box. She’d hardly ever set foot across the school gateway and had never even heard of biology, much less known what it meant; and her command of English vocabulary was about on a par with a goat herder from Xinjiang Province. What’s more, her mother was usually either very high or very low on something and hardly ever spoke to her apart from muttering the odd expletive now and then. So when Britney started vomiting quite a lot and experiencing vague discomfort in her lower abdomen, she took herself off to a doctor for advice.

‘It’s quite simple,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re pregnant.’

‘I’m what?’

‘Pregnant.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re going to have a baby.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Can’t really tell without a more detailed examination, but at a rough guess I’d say in about five to six months time.’

‘Oh. Will Santa Claus bring it?’

‘Erm, no.’

‘Who will then?’

‘Nobody. You’ve already got it. It’s growing inside your tummy. Well, just about there to be more precise.’

‘I’ve got a baby growing inside me?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s gross.’

‘Most people would say it’s rather beautiful.’

‘Well I wouldn’t. So how am I going to get this baby? Will I sick it up one day?’

‘No. When it’s ready to be born it will come out there.’

‘I’ve got a kid growing inside my belly and it’s going to come out there?’

‘Yes.’

‘ARGHHHHHHHHH…’

Oaths and Other Worlds.

I got arrested today and accused of committing some heinous offence of which I was entirely innocent.

‘I swear I never did it,’ I protested. ‘I wasn’t even there.’

‘Would you swear on your mother’s life?’ queried the man in blue.

‘No.’

‘Aha! Sounds like an admission of guilt to me.’

‘Not at all.’

‘So why won’t you swear on your mother’s life?’

‘No point. She’s already dead.’

‘Oh, I see. So swear on the Holy Bible, then.’

‘Certainly not. I have no interest in, or even respect for, the Holy Bible.’

‘OK. How about swearing before Almighty God?’

‘Ha! If I have any reverence at all for the concept of “God” it would take at least half an hour to explain and probably wouldn’t attract the epithet “Almighty” anyway, so that won’t do either.’

‘Not much hope for you, is there my lad? Is there anything you can swear on?’

‘Mmm… let me see… I just bought a litre bottle of scotch. I’d hate to lose that.’

‘OK, try that one.’

‘Right: “I swear on my litre bottle of scotch that I didn’t do it and wasn’t even there.”’

‘Fair enough; I suppose that’ll have to do. Off you go.’

All that happened in one of my alternative versions of reality. I left shortly afterwards.

When I arrived back in the world of mundane reality, I found it full of attractive young women and beautiful dogs. Some of them were even friendly, and I didn't swear at any of them.

Creature Quickies.

Just another quick post before I re-acquaint myself with the bed I haven’t slept in since Saturday night.

One of the newspapers I read in an almost fruitless attempt to stave off the tedium of hospitalization told of a man in Devon who erected a big statue of a gorilla on some land overlooking the sea. He placed it facing inland, and some people living in nearby houses complained that the beast’s eyes were burning into them and invading their privacy, so the owner turned it to face the sea. And then some other people in some other nearby houses complained that they were now faced with an unmitigated view of the gorilla’s bottom and it wasn’t very nice. All the poor owner could offer in his defence was ‘there’s no pleasing some people.’

And then I read that a wildlife group in Scotland has erected a ‘road’ of rope across a highway so that the local red squirrels can move from one side to the other without getting run over. The clever squirrels got the message very quickly.

What I don’t understand is why dull creatures like Trump make the front page while the interesting ones languish on page seven.

Dipping Back Into the Blog.

Those who read my last post might be interested to know that the landing was softer than expected and I didn’t die. I did have to spend an extra night in hospital, however, due to apparently poor lines of communication between the senior clinical staff and the admin people. It’s the second time that’s happened and I’m wondering whether I should try to do something about it. Don’t know; we’ll see. I was intending to ramble on with full details, but I can’t be bothered now and I don’t see why anybody would want to read it anyway. So for now, a couple of brief notes.

By and large the nursing staff were splendid, and one in particular just has to have a mention by name: Eddie (short for Eduarda) was a mature student nurse quite a lot older than most student nurses. Evidently of mixed African and European descent, she’d been born in Angola, brought up in Portugal, and moved to Britain fifteen years ago. I had several very rewarding conversations with Eddie (which is almost unheard of for me) because she not only encapsulated the qualities you would expect of a nurse – compassionate, outgoing and the sort to inspire confidence – she was also highly intelligent. She reminded me that there are a few special people out there who radiate a subtle light which most people don’t even notice (but I do.) In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I made a worthy, if sadly temporary, friend in Eddie, and you’ve no idea how rare it is for me to say that about a person.

I realised that being in hospital is almost tolerable as long as you’re feeling ill because you’re quite happy to rest up and take frequent naps, but when you don’t feel ill it’s tedious as hell. I mean, once you’ve got the procedures out of the way (in my case a relatively minor operation followed by another cystogram) how many things can you find to do when you’re closeted deep in the bowels of a big building with only a few ill people in adjacent beds who think the height of the theatre experience is Agatha Christies The Mousetrap? I walked along corridors a lot, made it to the outside a few times, read a short novel and two newspapers from cover to cover, bought two cups of Americano from Starbucks, smoked a few illicit cigarettes in the sunshine, and did an awful lot of people watching.

One of my walks was made late at night when all admin and clinical activity had finished. (It was late enough for the ward doors to be locked, but I spoke to somebody in the know and escaped.) The long, pristine corridors along which I walked, and which were normally filled with the bustle of people moving from one place to another during the day, were deathly quiet and totally empty. It was genuinely surreal. It felt like being in the middle of some undefined sci-fi movie, especially when it occurred to me that I was probably being watched every step of the way on CCTV. I think that’s probably about as much excitement as you might reasonably expect when you’re stuck in hospital and not feeling ill.

And now I think it’s time to pack up for tonight, partly because my mind doesn’t yet feel fully recovered from the general anaesthetic, and partly because I’m desperate to re-acquaint myself with the delights of YouTube after a 72-hour absence. There will probably be more in due course. Nice to be back. Hello again.

Another Day, Another Danger.

I have to go for my second operation tomorrow morning, and you know what that means. No alcohol for me tonight, no going to bed tonight (I have to be ready to leave at 5.30 so there’s no point), no eating after 2.30am, no drinking after 6.30am. It’s all one hell of a nuisance but apparently it has to be done.

And then I remember what they always say about operations: that there’s no such thing as a safe one. Every operation carries risks, including the risk of death. (Oddly, the ‘risk of death’ one usually amuses rather than alarms, but still I find myself wondering the day before whether this will be the last time I do this, or see that, or contemplate the other.)

It reminds me of a recurring dream I had as a young child. I was on the battlements of a castle or the top of some other old building. It was dark and I knew I was required to jump off even though I couldn’t see how far away the ground was. I was reluctant to do it, but eventually I leapt into the unknown hoping it would be OK. And then I discovered that I could arrest my fall and hang in the air for as long as I wanted to, but it produced an increasingly uncomfortable sensation in my stomach. I knew that I couldn’t go back; the only way to get rid of the sensation was to allow myself to fall and hope it didn’t kill me, so that’s what I did. When I hit the ground I found that I was quite undamaged and lying on a grassy bank in the sunshine with a calm, comforting lake close by.

That was one of my most profound introductions to life and it’s informed my response to difficult situations ever since. And so I’m hoping that tomorrow’s landing will be soft. If it isn’t, thanks for reading.

Melania for Pres.

I rarely read anything about Donald Trump any more. Every time I do, the desire to strangle the guy becomes a little more elevated and that can’t be good for my nervous system.

The odd snippet does occasionally slip through the net, however, like Donald’s insistence that all Americans should be required to show an identity card when attempting the purchase of a can of baked beans or an ice cream. At such times I wonder whether Americans have any idea how Trump’s America appears to the rest of the world. Freaky is hardly the word. I’m also beginning to have the vaguest suspicion that he really does have a secret agenda to divide America until he has a strong enough base to admit his aspiration to become one of the world’s notable dictators. The great thing about being a dictator, of course, is that you don’t need brains, just attitude.

But it’s nice to see that Melania is still on the side of right (as opposed to The Right) and isn’t afraid to say so. Good on you, Mel, but what the hell are you doing there?

And so the future of the Nation Once Known as America is starting to pique my interest. How long will it be, I wonder, before:

1. Melania files for divorce. (About six months before the next election would probably be about right, Mel.)

2. Donald declares the Death of Democracy and the Second American Civil War begins (Maybe with an intelligent woman from Slovenia leading the bluecoats?)

Nuttering.

The functioning part of my brain keeps falling over sideways and I have to concentrate hard to set it up straight again. It’s quite tiring. And it isn’t just the operation business that’s responsible for this unfamiliar state of affairs, nor even a powerful but unrequited state of affection. It’s all manner of things.

*  *  *

I still can’t work out why the sound of a woman’s voice speaking in a stage whisper is so sexy, especially when she inflects strongly.

*  *  *

I went to validate my parking ticket when I’d finished at the hospital this morning, and waited at a respectful distance while a woman stood by the pay station and kept looking at me. Eventually she said ‘I lost my ticket and nobody’s replying. Please carry on while I wait.’ And so I did. And then I had to sit behind her at the exit barrier while she waited for the remotely-located Parking Person to lift it. She was around 35, with blonde hair, very attractive, quite tall, and spoke with a south eastern accent. And she was driving a nearly new BMW. Today was quite a day, one way and another.

*  *  *

This evening’s treat was to have toast and jam instead of toast and marmalade. If I’m to be not too long for this world it seemed a good idea to learn to live a little, so I splashed out and bought a jar of jam when I went to Sainsbury’s. But I forgot to get the green beans. This could have serious ramifications next week if the surgeon says I mustn’t drive.

*  *  *

Sorry this is so short but I have to go now. My brain is falling over again.

She: The Volcano and the Reservoir.

This has nothing to do with H Rider Haggard; this is not about She who must be obeyed, but she who must be endured.

I saw her today. She said ‘hello’ politely, and I replied with something equally inconsequential while keeping a firm grip on the volcano which grumbled immediately and then erupted as usual. To continue the Ayesha theme, the volcano might be said to be That which must be kept hidden.

And then the same thing happened as always happens: some reservoir of something vital deep inside of me dropped to an uncomfortably low level. I felt empty of some essential but unidentifiable resource, and the feeling continued for some time. It brought me low as it always does, even though I wouldn’t label the lowness ‘depression.’ Depression is different.

The last seven months have been rocky for me; seven months of a serious and undulating health issue which is still ongoing. I still have cause to consider that I might not be here this time next year, and I’ve said on this blog before that for the first time in my life I have felt the need of both practical and emotional support. I imagine it’s something I needed to feel in order to understand those who feel it habitually. It’s never been one of my habits and so I never understood it before.

The interesting fact is, however, that every time something happened to produce anxiety, disappointment, depression, and even fear, she was always the first person I thought of. She was the one I looked to to provide the kind of support so aggravatingly lacking, even though she wasn’t there and never will be.

I should say that this is none of her doing and is not, nor ever can be, of any consequence to her. This is my cross to carry, but I have to say that it gets a bit heavy at times. Furthermore, it isn’t how it must appear to a disinterested observer. I never had any romantic aspirations in her direction because, in the final analysis, I am ever the rationalist. I always knew what the many barriers were – not least the overwhelming age gap between us – and so I always managed to keep my inclinations from slipping over onto that most perilous of roads. This is something more subtle and more profound. It feels like an unbroken connection going back through the mists of time, an invisible connection which tugs mercilessly to be made manifest again. I suppose I’m being fanciful in saying as much, but that’s how it feels.

A couple of hours after I’d seen her today I began an imaginary conversation with her. I’d just rolled a cigarette and was smoking it when she walked past me only a few feet away. She appeared not to have noticed my presence, although it’s equally possible that she had noticed but chose the pretence as a better alternative to saying ‘hello’ again. That would be understandable. And then I watched her walk to her car and drive away, at which point the reservoir level began to rise again. That’s how it always happens.

I need to get her out from under my skin. I’ve tried many times to do that; I’ve even thought that I’d succeeded on occasion, but it seems not. She continues to haunt and haunt and haunt, even though she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

So what do I do about all this? Learn from it, I suppose, as I always do.

Poor Jokes and Mad Cows.

In one of last night’s posts I vowed that when I went for my pre-op (like, today) I would employ the preferred answer to the question: ‘are you allergic to latex?’ And so I did:

Are you allergic to latex?

‘Only when used in conjunction with Johnson’s Baby Oil.’

A long, cold stare ensued.

I’m sorry?

‘It was a joke.’

She laughed, but only politely. I know the difference between a real laugh and a pretend laugh. I didn’t get where I am today without recognising the artificial when I see it. And I wouldn’t have made a provocative comment even if I’d wanted to because she hadn’t the presence to encourage the development of a good one. No young Polish nurses with sultry Slavic accents for me today, I’m afraid.

But later on she asked a question I haven’t been asked before:

Have you ever been told you have mad cow disease?

That’s a very odd question in my book. For a start, only cows get mad cow disease (which is correctly known as BSE, incidentally – Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.) Humans get the related CJD or vCJD. And then there’s the fact that she didn’t ask: ‘Have you ever been diagnosed with..?’ She asked: ‘Have you ever been told..?’

You see, I doubt I would have been there if I’d ever been diagnosed with CJD, which I gather is very serious and just about guaranteed to kill you in less than two years. Besides, I doubt very much that a doctor would have announced such a diagnosis with ‘You’ve got mad cow disease, mate.’ I don’t think ‘mad cow disease’ is a phrase any physician would use in connection with a fellow human being. So who did she think might have told me?

In the end I decided that the only possible response to ‘Have you ever been told you have mad cow disease?’ could be ‘only by me.’ So that’s what I said and she smiled slightly less politely than before.

Now, had she asked ‘have you ever been told you have mad alien disease’ I would have thought it a perfectly reasonable question and there would have been nothing to write a post about.

(It does occur to me, of course, that she might have been countering my poor jokes with one of her own and maybe I was supposed to smile politely. Don’t think so, somehow; she didn’t seem the type. No presence, you know. Pity, though; her joke would have been better than mine.)

And I have to go back tomorrow to collect my phone which I left behind. That’s a forty mile round trip and I’m a bit bloody peeved about it, so maybe the strange question was relevant after all.