Heidi's Brief Return.

I met Heidi again today while I was trimming the tall, fat hedge at the bottom of my garden. Readers of longstanding might vaguely remember my first encounter with Heidi in the wood opposite the top of the lane three years ago. I remarked upon the suspicious coincidence of meeting a girl on a woodland path who was wearing a red raincoat with a hood. I made some fatuous reference to a wolf as I recall.

Only she wasn’t actually a girl. We had a long conversation today and she told me her age. She’s 34, which means she must have been 31 when I met her in the wood. She didn’t look that old and still doesn’t. Isn’t it strange how the thirty-somethings just keep on getting younger?

She also told me that she got married recently and will be moving to London soon. That’s a shame because she struck me as an unusually personable person, and I should imagine there are more wolves in London than there are in the Black Forest. I wished her good fortune. Maybe I should have suggested she leave the red raincoat with the hood behind in the Shire where the wolves are mostly friendly.

Today's Woman Fix.

There have been no blog posts today because I’ve been too busy communing with priestesses and following superior witches into apocalyptic battle. It’s fortunate that I’m no longer young enough to touch priestesses and witches physically, and maybe even more fortunate that senior goddesses are not given to jealousy.

And I’m being enigmatic because I’m too confused to be sensible. Superior women often have that effect on me. Inferior ones usually drive me into a bolt hole.

And then there’s this song which is preoccupying me at the moment. Were I to be of an age and in a position to sit with a superior woman of the kind herewith envisaged while the candles flicker, the clock ticks through the wee small hours, and we talk quietly of life, relationships, the human condition, the universe and everything, this is the song I would like to have playing in the background. I sometimes wonder how I made it this far.

Wednesday's Losses.

The conviction is growing in me that those rare few who command my approbation and whose presence I welcome into my orbit are avoiding me like something the ship rats might convey to an unsuspecting public, while those I find highly objectionable are doing their level best to invade my private space and imbue it with an unwholesome smell. It’s my latest psychological foible.

Ashbourne today was depressingly devoid of dark blue VW Golfs, delightful dogs who wanted to make my acquaintance, and cheese scones.

But at least I received a small missive from the priestess on my return. I couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d been cast into the depths of a farmyard midden and come up smelling of stale turnips and pig manure. I said as much in my reply. Life is good when it gives you words to say.

Today’s great sadness is the fact that I wrote my first ever piece of fan fiction in my head this afternoon. It wasn’t bad, but I’ve forgotten nearly all of it now. It consisted of a conversation taking place between Ronald and Hermione Weasly while perusing the sunset from the remote South Seas island on which they’ve been marooned. The only line I remember is:

‘We haven’t even had sex for five years. Does that bother you?’

‘No.’

The rest was better, but alas…

Babel Ads and Bad Women.

I keep seeing adverts written in strange, unintelligible tongues. A current example is:

THIS IS ESPORTS

THIS IS #TEAMRAZER

What the hell does that mean? And do they really expect me to press buttons which say Learn more, I want one, and Buy now? The words might be intelligible for a change, but expressed in combination they’re banned in my version of reality.

*  *  *

And it occurred to me tonight that I have an unfortunate history of being the recipient of unwanted and unwholesome physical attention from women I found desperately undesirable. It’s why I’m such a fervent supporter of women who speak out against physical abuse. I know what violation feels like. Being ever the gentleman, of course, I never punched any of the culprits on the nose or vomited over their feet.

On Being a Mudblood.

When I watched the first Harry Potter movie last week I was struck by a sense of familiarity when the new intake of young students arrived at Hogwarts. That was because it reminded me of being one of a new intake of cadets at the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, one damp, chilly night in early January. I was seventeen and the youngest cadet there. We even arrived by train which ran alongside the sea on the South Devon coast between Exeter and Kingswear, just across the river from the college.

And those familiar with Harry Potter will know what I mean when I say that there was more than one Malfoy at Dartmouth, and they were always sure to remind me that I was a mudblood and therefore inherently inferior. I spoke with a regional accent, you see. I’d spent the first fourteen years of my life living in social housing in a northern industrial city. I’d gone to an ordinary high school and didn’t wear my old school tie to informal occasions as the public schoolboys did to proclaim their status. I was working class, and the Malfoys made sure I knew it.

On one occasion I grabbed one of them by the collar, put the tip of my forefinger close to his stupid mouth, and threatened to beat him up if he ever spoke to me like that again. And I declined to carry his bags across the gangway in furtherance of his orders. It’s the only time in my life I ever did that. He backed off silently, but the prejudice remained.

I wonder whether the Malfoys are a dying breed now. I expect they are, but I'll bet a house elf's wages they’re not extinct yet.

Two Unconnected Notes.

Oh, the coincidences. They keep on coming thick and fast. Coincidences of people and places, lines in films and fiction, Ronald Weasly and my schoolboy friend Alan Taylor, snarling black dogs, and Hermione Grainger of course (she who must not be talked about.)

Is there any such thing as a coincidence? Does the number and frequency of coincidences affect the question of whether or not greater significance should be inferred? Does it matter? Well, only insofar as my own current experience of multiple coincidences is causing the fog through which I am presently walking to grow even thicker. The problem is, you see, that while I can be quite sure I’m not psychotic, I can’t be quite so sure that I’m not delusional.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, a woman Labour MP here in Britain wants to have misogyny made a hate crime. The weight of legislation continues to burgeon while the thought police grow ever closer.

Though I decline to be labelled, I would be considered a liberal in most respects. I’m certainly a strong advocate for empowering women in matters of respect and opportunity until they reach parity with men (as long as Mother Nature’s view is not pushed aside in the process.) But I have my reservations. It seems to me that we’re moving gradually closer to the point where everyone whose views detract from the shibboleths must be called a criminal and punished accordingly. Isn’t that a rather dangerous road to be walking?

The Squirrel Bird.

The nuthatch is a small bird common to much of the northern hemisphere. The ones we get in Britain are a little smaller than a sparrow. They have a distinct shape which sets them apart from most of the small birds seen in gardens and woodland, and today I saw one do something I’ve never seen a bird do before.

It flew to the top of an outbuilding at the back of my house carrying a whole peanut in its beak, and then proceeded to place the peanut in a small hole under one of the ridge tiles. It’s not unusual for nuthatches to ram food into a crevice and then peck at it to break it up, but that isn’t what this one did. It pushed the peanut well out of sight, and then collected a beakfull of moss and rammed that into the hole, apparently to hide the nut. It seemed very much as though the bird was preparing a food store for later use.

So has the bird been watching the squirrels and picking up a tip-for-winter, or could it be that birds are rather smarter than we think they are?

A Note to the Wall.

I feel fidgety and unsettled at the moment. I feel weary but not tired enough to sleep the sleep of the contented. I’m not contented. I feel the pressure of a pregnant silence in the mist, waiting to be relieved by the sound of unfamiliar voices, or the pealing of bells, or the rumble of thunder approaching from the distance. Or maybe just a hint of arcane knowledge whispered in my ear when darkness shuts out the inconsequential frippery of mundane reality.

Is anybody interested in this little piece of intelligence? I very much doubt it, but my blog is my wall and you can say whatever you like to your wall.

On Hermione and Gibberish.

My posts have been a little odd lately, haven’t they? Well, I suppose the fact that I recognise their oddness proves that I’m not completely mad (yet.)

The one I wanted to write tonight would have been the oddest of them all, but I decided not to write it and I don’t quite know why. I think it was because I was sure it would have been seen as mere gibberish. Hermione would have understood, but Hermione isn’t here. She came to me once you know, as a bird. She hung around for a while taking scraps from my table and then flew away, never to be seen again. But I did say that I wouldn’t talk about Hermione, didn't I? I did, so I won’t.

*  *  *

Today I read a feature about anorexia in a newspaper. It said that the health services in Britain place far too much reliance on Body Mass Index when assessing the risks, and far too little on mental and behavioural patterns. And that, according to an ex-anorexic author of a recent book on the subject, is why some people are allowed to progress to the most serious stage – which can result in death – when such progression could have been avoided. So isn’t it heartening to note that some people have the strength to move beyond it and into the light? It’s a fact for which I’m personally very grateful, and for which I offer my appreciation and congratulation.

*  *  *

I saw this advert on a web page tonight:

 

My first thought on perusing it was that the wildlife here illustrated which is most vulnerable and in need of help is the fish. Fish are wildlife, aren’t they? Or is that merely gibberish?  

Unanswered Questions.

My mind keeps going off to strange places these days. Tonight I found myself sitting in a misty coffee shop where there was a woman at the next table staring at me intensely. I tried to ignore her, of course – because staring back isn’t polite – but her eyes were so compelling that I couldn’t resist taking the odd sneaky glance in her direction.

She continued to stare for some time, and then she stood up and came over to me. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Right about what?’ I enquired, not unreasonably in the circumstances. ‘I’ll tell you that when you’re ready.’ ‘Ready for what?’ ‘To be told what you’re right about, of course.’ And then she walked out of the door and out of my life until I’m ready to hear whatever it is I’m right about. I have my suspicions.

And all this the result of an unfortunate and most irritating experience. I got to 1.49.27 in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince tonight when the video stopped working and wouldn’t start again for love nor money. Harry and Dumbledore were just about to discover what really went on during Professor What’s-his-name’s meeting with Tom Riddle, and then *pouf* it went.

By that time, however, I had discovered something interesting. Seems Hermione Grainger is saddled with my demon’s kid brother, poor girl. (Or maybe it’s his sister, which is probably more likely.) You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? I’ll tell you if and when I decide you’re ready to hear it.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I did a three hour hedge-trimming job in the garden today. Present indications are that I’ve survived, but I’m still being troubled by a question that’s been pestering me for some time: How do you know when you’re dead? Does some misty, floaty spirit come drifting into your sight line and say:

‘Excuse me, I thought you ought to know that you just died.’

Did I?

‘You did.’

How did that happen?

‘Don’t you remember?

No.

‘OK, I’ll explain it to you when I decide you’re ready to hear it. For now, follow me and I’ll see whether there’s any porridge left.’

On Hermione and the Demon.

Dear Hermione woke my demon up tonight.

‘Look,’ I said to him in no uncertain terms, ‘it’s a bloody film, you idiot. Go back to sleep.’

Well, he wasn’t entirely convinced. He continued snarling and slavering for a while, but at least he didn’t set my entrails on fire like he usually does.

He’s snoring now. I wish he’d shut up.

*  *  *

And today I did some more semi-strenuous gardening to further test the progress of my post-operative rehabilitation. How did it go? So-so. I still have about as much energy as a drunken slug, but the muscles are getting a bit of colour back in their cheeks.

*  *  *

And just to continue the success stories, I went for a walk today armed with a carrot and paid a visit to my two equine chums down the lane – the big, black half-shire and the little piebald Shetland pony. I haven’t seen them for some weeks and they seemed genuinely interested in my approach. They liked the carrot. If only Hermione was so easily pleased.

On Hermione and Reality.

You think that Harry Potter is a fantasy, don’t you? Everybody does. It’s just the product of a fertile mind closeted in an Edinburgh coffee shop on a wet Thursday afternoon. And so it is. What’s more, it’s an eminently commercial fantasy which lets us dream and smile and cheer and hiss, and then slip back into the real world duly refreshed.

But what does it tap into, I wonder? What about that?

You see, a lot of strange things have happened in my life, what with the moving shadows on the walls and floors, the footsteps on the stairs, the objects which move unaccountably, my own wraith being seen by a reliable witness walking the floor of the dorm while my body slept at the far end, doors which open and close by themselves when there’s nothing to explain it… And then there was the black dog which leapt out of the wall of my bedroom with fangs barred back in the winter. That was the best of them all; that one had even me – familiar as I am with strangenesses – shaking slightly and questioning the wisdom of turning the light back off. The dark presence which enfolded me in ice and said it had come to kill me a few weeks later was relatively minor fare compared with the black dog.

‘You must be seriously psychotic,’ I hear you scoff. Actually, I’m not. That's the point. So when I finally ring down the curtain on this latest episode of physical existence I intend to ask those in the know a question:

‘Where was Hermione when I was young and fit and free? Why did you hold her back all those years?’

But I already know what their reply will be:

You weren’t mature enough then.

And so I wasn’t.

*  *  *

I probably shouldn’t be making this stuff public, but who cares? Maybe I should mention in passing, though, that I had a good practice with the hedge trimmer today to see how my post-operative body would react. It wasn’t too bad, but I don’t think I’m ready for the tall stuff yet. The experts say I should be back to normal some time between the end of September and the end of next March. That's if I'm not asking the question by then.