On Scarves and Paradise and Moving On.

I was walking through Derby with Mel today when I thought of a good subject for a blog post. And as is so often the case, now that I’m sitting on front of my computer with nothing pressing to do, I can’t remember what it was.

I think it might have had something to do with scarves and the fact that they are the closest I ever come to expressing my virtually non-existent sense of style. I’ve never been stylish, you see, but I did realise a couple of weeks ago that scarves are my only sartorial vice. I have more scarves than I do shoes, jeans, best sweaters, jackets and winter coats. (Fortunately, I do have even more socks and underwear, but such items are hardly fit for general discussion.)

And then it probably would have continued to a muse on the extent to which the awareness of style is connected with the expression of ego, and whether that makes scarves a progressive or regressive element of clothing to a person who is trying to improve his inner self.

Sounds a bit serious, doesn’t it? OK, let’s move on.

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I remember as a young child seeing the Howard Keel version of the film Kismet, and the one part that made an impression on me was the duet which became a classic standard: Stranger in Paradise. And what an abiding impression it made. The magic, mystery and sense of promise in the title, combined with Borodin’s wonderful melody, still has the capacity to raise mild goose bumps even now. I’ve often wondered whether my response was an early indication of my soppily romantic nature, or whether it was in itself responsible for engendering that unfortunate personality trait which has given me so much trouble throughout my life.

  

I watched part of the film on YouTube recently and found it wholly unimpressive. I can’t say that the tyrant time withered my predilection for the great adventure, but it certainly taught me to expect more robust standards. My problem now lies with accepting the fact that great adventures are no longer available to me, and that such a departure is probably a very good thing. It helps to remember what somebody said to me a few years ago: ‘Life moves on, Jeff.’

*  *  *

And now the tyrant is telling me that I should wash my dishes. I had home made pea and potato soup for dinner tonight, with a buttered panini roll and a paprika rice cake. Home made pea and potato soup is one of my favourite dishes and I’ve promised myself that one day I will take the extraordinary step of crumbling the rice cake into the soup. At that point, I expect life will move on yet again.