The Scottish Myth.

I remember being told as a child that Scottish people take little notice of Christmas, but reserve their celebrations for New Year’s Eve – or Hogmanay as they call it. And I further remember thinking how awful it must be to grow up in Scotland where they miss all the magic of Christmas and then go wild over a date that just happens to be a date.

Christmas Eve was all about carols and candles and crispy darkness, and the glass of sherry left out for Santa Claus on the hearth, and the fear of being unable to sleep so there would be no pillowcase full of gifts at the bottom of the bed in the morning. And if the sky was clear, it just might be possible to see Jupiter or Venus through the bedroom window before climbing into bed, knowing that it was the very star which had guided the Wise Men all those years ago. New Year’s Eve was nothing more than the boring old change from December to January. It was a mere fact devoid of meaning and I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to celebrate it.

And so I felt sorry for the Scottish children, and I couldn’t understand how the Scots could miss something as special as Christmas. And later I learned that it wasn’t true anyway, at least not to the extent that it was presented to me. Another myth faded with the progress of time, and by the age of eleven there were none left.

*  *  *

And this post is made so the month’s count will be 40. I dislike 39 because it’s 13x3 and I’m superstitious.

An Empty Post.

Since 2019 has nearly gone, I’ve been racking my brain in an attempt to construct some sort of retrospective for the dear old blog. All it produced was confirmation that 2019 was a dull year.

It wandered in and limped out.

I made a lot of visits to the Royal Derby hospital.

I stopped going for walks because my left leg couldn’t manage them.

I didn’t go broke.

I ended it more depressed than I started it.

I made no new friends, neither did I lose any.

I’m probably wiser at the end than I was at the beginning.

Nothing I learned conferred any immediate benefit.

I didn’t meet the Lady B’s daughter.

I hardly noticed the scent of the seasons.

Since there are still a couple of hours to go, some of the above might be wrong.

The New Year event has no meaning for me anyway. Numbers come and numbers go. The river of life flows on unremittingly until the cataract is reached, and adding numbers to it in no way affects the scenery through which it passes.

I’m loath to post this because it says nothing and means nothing, and yet I still feel duty bound to pay lip service to the artificial. Tomorrow will be another day. Whether I shall wake to it remains, as always, to be seen.

An Inconsequential Observation.

If you live alone in an old Edwardian house, and you’re possessed of a vibrant imagination, and it’s late at night and you’re tired…

… it’s probably not a good idea to read part of an MR James ghost story until your eyes are watering with the effort of staying awake, then fall asleep with you head on the desk and wake up half an hour later feeling chilled and spooked and needing to go upstairs to the bathroom. Alone.  Or are you?

Just saying.

An Odd Christmas and Other Bits.

Christmas was a strange one this year. The first few years I lived in this house I treated the living room to a bit of a makeover, with fairy lights around the window and some minor adornments with tinsel and baubles. It looked rather nice when I was still having an open fire at night because such a scene is one of the foremost Christmas icons in this part of the world. And then I stopped bothering and largely ignored Christmas.

Until this year when it wouldn’t let me ignore it, but instead insinuated its presence into my mind almost constantly. The feeling it produced wasn’t a cheery one, though, but more like some invisible presence being darkly insistent. Rather like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, in fact. Make of that what you will; I have no idea.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, the self-service tills at Tesco short changed me by 80p today. I managed to get redress from the woman supervising the area, but I still wondered: does this happen often? If so, what does Tesco do with its ill-gotten gains? If it uses them to help fund a home for stray dogs and cats I’d be quite happy, but if they’re sequestered and used to bolster the staff Christmas party funds I would have some misgivings. I’m mean like that.

*  *  *

I saw Lucy in Uttoxeter again today. It’s odd, isn’t it, how you can go a year without seeing somebody, and then bump into them twice in a couple of weeks? She was wearing a funny hat and managed to express her desire to be moving on without actually saying so. Lucy continues to intrigue. She makes absolutely unwavering eye contact and I can never tell whether she’s observing me or dismissing me patiently. So familiar, and yet so far away.

*  *  *

I kept thinking today about Ruth’s death scene in the film I praised to the heavens last night – Never Let Me Go. Most screenwriters would have made quite the Dickensian meal of that scene, but not this one. We see Ruth lying on the operating table having some organ removed, and then the mask and respirator are taken away and we know she’s dead. Scene over. No explanation was needed because the audience had been told to expect it without actually being told, if you see what I mean. I do so love such subtlety and restraint; it makes the pathos so much more powerful. Forget Disney, Hallmark and all things Hollywood. This movie was made on a much more rarefied plane.

The Perfect Film.

I could neither read nor make a post tonight because I’d just watched a film which pushed me slightly off the rails. It was called Never Let Me Go, based on the novel by Kazuo Ishiguro. No histrionics, no overcooked melodrama, no action packed sequences, no violence, no gratuitous sex scenes – just a poignant, beautifully presented observation of life, death and the vibrant emotions which rise and fall and shiver in the gaps. And all so deservedly understated. I failed to find a single fault with any aspect of the production.

It was about three childhood friends whose lives are destined to be short and they’re aware of the fact. I like threes and I’m no stranger to a heightened perception of mortality, so maybe that made a difference.

Nevertheless, those who know the film will not be surprised that I fell in love with Cathy. I’m sure I was supposed to. Those who know me will not be surprised that I understood Ruth’s guilt and Tommy’s rage because I’ve been there. Those who don’t know the film, and have a heart to call their own, might be well advised to watch it.

Choosing the Right Diversion.

I just watched a performance of Cirque du Soleil’s Varekai on DVD. There’s no denying the skill on show, but it isn’t really my sort of thing. I was, however, impressed by the ladies on the static trapeze. It occurred to me that to be a lady trapeze artist you need to be young, slim, attractive, supple, strong, and very brave. Life doesn’t come much sexier than that, does it?

(And oddly, it was while watching their performance that I realised one of the main reasons why I’ve never been able to stay with one woman for any length of time. More on that another time, but please be assured that it has nothing to do with either sexual orientation or a rakish propensity. It’s more tragic.)

I also have to admit that I fast-forwarded through most of the performance of the contortionist-cum-acrobat in her sparkly, skin tight suit with nothing underneath. At my age it was just a bit too much.

Off to read another MR James ghost story now. That’s much more sensible – far better suited to a chilly, foggy night in late December while sitting alone in an old Edwardian house and noting the occasional strange noise breaking the silence of the deep, dark landscape. It’s good to be able to relate to one’s entertainment.

A Mother's Message.

It’s been very noticeable over the past month or two that the birds and animals in my garden have been coming much closer to me than they’ve ever done before.

I don’t know why that should be, and being me I’m naturally inclined to wonder why. Are they simply getting used to me? It seems unlikely since at least four generations of garden birds must have come and gone over the 13½ years I’ve lived here. And I doubt it’s the weather since what little winter we’ve had so far has been fairly mild.

There was a squirrel sitting by my car when I went down the garden this evening, and it stayed put even though I was only a few feet away. No squirrel has ever done that before. And when I came back to the house I found that somebody had accessed an old blog post of mine about the sanctity of motherhood. I read it myself, and suddenly it began to dawn on me that maybe I’m becoming too infected with the stain of negativity lately, and that perhaps I’m too inclined to confuse reality with cynicism.

And then I wondered whether the birds and animals are messengers from a sacred source (and considered whether I’m talking about myself too much these days.)

On Chocolate.

I was almost a stranger to chocolate when I was a boy. At the level of society in which I was born, chocolate came but twice a year – in the selection box at Christmas, and by way of Easter eggs at Easter. And even then it was of the standard pale, milky variety popularised by the likes of Messrs Cadbury, Fry and Mars for mass consumption.

And then, some time in the early nineties, my daughter introduced me to large, individual, hand-made Belgian chocolates. I had no idea that such exquisite comestibles existed – largely, I suppose, because I’d never noticed. It was quite a revelation, not least because I discovered that chocolate has its own hierarchy rather as wine, spirits, beer and cigars have.

And yet there’s something egalitarian about chocolate in spite of its claim to a hierarchy. Although the best chocolate is rather more expensive than the standard type, the consumption of quality chocolate somehow fails to lend itself to the expression of opulence and wealth. It simply serves the consumer’s possession of good taste, no matter what their social status.

I realised, too, that there’s something essentially Gallic about fine chocolates (and I use the plural advisedly since the Swiss and some South American countries might, not unreasonably, claim a position of pre-eminence regarding dark chocolate en-bloc as it were.)

This Christmas I received a box of small, cocoa-dusted Belgian truffles, and they are quite splendid. (If I were a woman I might use the term ‘heavenly.’ Since I’m not, I won’t, but it would seem appropriate nonetheless.) And here is what I only just realised is surprising:

We in the UK have become familiar with Belgian chocolates and their association with excellence, which maintains the Gallic theme already stated (and I hope I don’t offend any French person by extending the term to include their near neighbours.) And yet I don’t recall ever seeing any French chocolates on sale.

Is this because the French are selfish and decline to allow their fine confections beyond the borders? It would seem unlikely because they’re obviously happy to have their fine wines and Cognac travel around the globe. Is it because the Belgians are more adroit at marketing their product? Or is it because the British are remiss in failing to notice something of such quality sitting a short way across the water? It would be nice if some French person could enlighten me, but I don’t suppose they will.

The Hugging Mystery.

Something I’ve never understood is the apparent need in humans to be hugged by a loved one at times of emotional difficulty. I’ve had people come to me for a hug when they’ve been upset, and I’ve had people offer me a hug when I’ve been upset. I’ve never got it because it’s never made the slightest bit of difference. If I’m depressed or anxious or scared or grieving or in any kind of emotional or physical pain, I’ve only ever seen one of two solutions: get rid of the problem or deal with it inside. Hugs don’t work.

This doesn’t mean to say that I don’t understand the need of emotional support. I do; I felt it during the cancer issue in 2018. Sympathy helps a bit, practical assistance helps a little more, and I’ve always understood the value of comfort eating, chain smoking, getting drunk and beating the furniture to a pulp. But not hugging.

Life is difficult for me at the moment, especially in the morning when I feel empty and cold inside, and the whole thing is exacerbated by the perception of a short future consisting only of troubles which will make me feel even worse. And so, it being Christmas, I’m resorting a lot to constant nibbling and the imbibing of alcohol at times of the day when I never usually touch the stuff. That seems natural to me, and I have no sense of needing a hug because such a desire would seem unnatural, weak and ineffective. Odd, isn’t it?

So there you have it. JJ is obviously missing one of the human contact genes. It seems I'm just not made to relate to people as one is supposed to. Or maybe there’s another reason.

(And what's really odd is that I do seem to derive some benefit from having my hand held. By a woman, of course. And it has to be the right woman.)

On Mortality and Dentists.

The greatly heightened perception of mortality which came along with the cancer issue is now growing into an obsession with the subject. Tonight I looked out of my office window as the dusk was gathering and wondered whether it would be the last time I shall ever see a Christmas Day darken. And I find there to be a strange satisfaction in reflecting upon the fact that in everybody’s life there is a day on which they will wake up for the last time.

My dentist tells me that such an obsession will shorten my life, but then she also talks of the future possibility of needing dentures and suggests I might consider the alternative of tooth implants at £2,000 a tooth. She never jokes, so it’s perhaps fortunate that her Romanian accent is strong and I miss quite a lot of what she says. And I don’t suppose it will go amiss to repeat that she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.

Re-Evaluating Christmas.

I think I might have found a reason to acknowledge Christmas after all. Imagine that. But first a recap:

I’ve said before that the celebration of Christmas is driven by three factors. They are:

1. The religious base at its historical heart.

2. The economic imperative.

3. The cultural tradition.

None of these means very much to me, and that’s why I mostly ignore it. I’ve long felt that I have no reason to do otherwise. But today I was remembering that when I was younger I thought that Christmas had some sort of magic (for want of a better term) about it, something indefinable in the air which made it a special day. And now I’m beginning to think that I might have been right, but for the wrong reason.

Back then I imagined that Christmas itself produced this ‘magic’ by virtue of some arcane process connected with its roots, and that we humans were simply aware of it. Now I suspect that if this something special does exist, it’s the energy and expectation which people put into the celebration which produces it. In other words, I was getting it the wrong way round. And now I feel sure that if we all stopped acknowledging Christmas, the ‘magic’ would disappear.

So should we all stop deluding ourselves and cancel Christmas? I don’t think so. The commercial near-monopoly of Christmas is obviously the damaging one, and we could certainly do with getting rid of that. But the religious base – at least insofar as the Christian religion functions in the west – is harmless enough and the cultural tradition is perfectly reasonable. So maybe the celebration of Christmas should be maintained after all, if for no other reason than that it’s an example of how people pulling in the same direction can produce something which is subtle but verging on the palpable.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my sense of an elemental buzz was no more than the product of a vivid imagination.

*  *  *

And that brings me to this year's Christmas and a confession I have to make. I lied yesterday – well, sort of.

In my last post I related how I was driven to an odd emotional state by the sound of a brass band playing Christmas carols, and I said that I had no idea where it came from. Actually I had, but it seemed too silly and too private to state. The fact is that when I heard that brass band I was struck by a dispiriting sense that this Christmas is to be my last. That was what produced the feeling of mild desolation.

I’m probably wrong about that, too. I usually am when I get such feelings. It probably had more to do with the fact that all known prospects for 2020 are things to dread. I’m not looking forward to next year at all, but enough of that for now. Right now I’m wondering whether there is a response which is both honest and good natured to that ubiquitous question one has to face every year up to the first week in January:

Had a good Christmas?

 Oh dear. Where do I start?

Observing an Odd Reaction.

There was a small brass band playing Christmas carols in Victoria Square, Ashbourne today. I heard them as I walked through the alleyway which leads there from the marketplace. And as the strains of a long-remembered tune evoked recognition of the seasonal theme, an unfamiliar feeling came over me. I’m no stranger to sadness and I’m no stranger to the indigo touch of melancholy, but this seemed to be an unusual combination of the two. I think the expression ‘mild desolation’ would describe it fairly well. I even began to feel openly emotional, and that disturbed me because I was at a loss to know why. I wondered why I should be so affected by nothing more than a brass band playing Christmas carols. I don't even like brass bands.

After a couple more tunes they took a break for coffee while I continued to smoke my cigarette. And then they began again, this time with a spirited rendition of Joy to the World. At that point my mildly emotional state grew to a point where it wanted to burst forth, and so I hurried away because public displays of emotion are not be countenanced if you’re a man still in possession of some self-respect. I carried on to my next port of call where I excused the hint of dampness in my eyes and my slight sniffing habit by reference to the chill December air.

I wonder what that was all about. I hardly knew at the time and I still don’t. But life and the day moved on without resolution, and no doubt observation of the world without and the world within will continue unabated.

The Llama's Christmas Carol.

I was rudely – and rather frighteningly – woken up early this morning by something hairy touching my forehead. I opened my eyes to see a large presence standing by the side of my bed in the darkness, but before I could even begin to react to the shock and horror a familiar voice said ‘hello.’ I recognised it at once. The llama. The bloody llama! I reached out my hand and turned on the bedside lamp which sits next to my old alarm clock.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ I asked, making no attempt to disguise my irritation.

‘Of course not. Why would I? Llamas have no use for time. It’s a curiously human obsession.’

‘Well I’m human and I do have use for it, and it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning so I’m curious to know what the hell you’re doing here.’

‘I’ve come to take you out.’

‘Out?’

‘Out.’

‘Where to?’

‘I seem to recall learning once that, in your language, ending a sentence on a preposition is frowned upon, and that the correct enquiry should be “whence?” Do people still say “whence?”’

‘No.’

‘I see, then I will accede to answering your grammatically dubious question. Out to a few of the places which you are in the habit of visiting.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m not quite sure. I didn’t plan any of this, you see. Let’s see… erm… a couple of charity shops and a coffee shop should do.’

‘Not a trip to Peru, then?’

‘No.’

‘Just a couple of local shops?’

‘Yes.’

‘You do realise they’ll be closed at this hour of the night?’

‘That won’t be a problem. Time is an illusion to a llama.’

‘Really? How interesting. And what purpose will this little local jaunt serve?’

‘It will be an attempt to re-evaluate your somewhat jaded attitude to people in general and Christmas in particular.’

‘Isn’t that a bit presumptuous of you?’

‘Presumptuous, yes. But it’s none of my doing.’

‘So whose doing is it?’

‘Never mind. Are you ready?’

‘Hang on a minute. No, I’m not ready. Suppose I refuse?’

‘You won’t refuse.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I know you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Firstly, because you’re intrigued. And secondly, because my will is stronger than yours.’

And then he looked at me in a way which reminded me of the woman with amazingly dark eyes who introduced us all those years ago.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I expect you’re right. So how do we go about it? Do I ride on your back?’

‘Good heavens, no. How very antediluvian.’

‘So how, then?’

‘You place your right hand behind my left ear and grip it gently.’

I did as I was asked, and suddenly the scene brightened. We were standing in one of the charity shops which I frequent, and there was a Christmas song playing on the PA.

‘I wonder that poor woman doesn’t get heartily tired of hearing this sort of thing all day,’ I remarked.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you find it seasonal?’

‘Oh, it’s seasonal all right. That’s the problem. It’s the words I can’t stand.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘Oh, come on.  Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ was born on Christmas Day? How imbecilic can you get?’

‘Hmm… I thought a little Christmas music might kindle a spark of Christmas spirit. Never mind. Let’s try another one.’

The scene changed to another of my charity shop haunts. A man was entering the shop just as we arrived, at which point another man came skipping along with a jolly ‘morning’ on his lips. He didn’t merely say it, though; he sang it, approximately at an interval of a falling 3^rd I would say. ‘MOR-ning.’

‘Hateful,’ I remarked under my breath.

‘Hateful?’ queried the llama.

‘Hateful. It sounds contrived, artificially jolly, pretentiously over-projected. You name it, it sounds it. Hateful.’

‘Maybe he’s happy. Maybe he’s filled with the spirit of generosity and goodwill to which the season is supposedly in thrall.’

‘Maybe he’s a prat.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear. I’m not all sure this is working quite as intended. We’ll try one more.’

We found ourselves standing in the counter queue at my favourite coffee shop. There was a middle aged woman standing in front of us, and she kept looking around as though she was expecting company. A second woman soon appeared and was soundly hugged. And then a man arrived, and he was treated to an almighty hug too.

‘I think we’re standing dangerously close,’ I said to the llama. ‘She might hug me next.’

‘Hardly likely, dear boy. She can’t see you.’

‘Can’t she? Oh, good.’

‘Would it be such an imposition if she did?’

‘What? Being swamped by a great lump of unattractive woman?  Dead right it’d be an imposition.’

The llama looked at me again, but his expression had changed. No command this time, just resignation.

‘I think it’s time to go,’ he said. ‘Take hold of my ear again.’

We were back in my bedroom. The clock still showed 4.

‘So are you disappointed by my lack of redemption?’ I asked him.

‘Disappointed? Not at all. I have no personal interest in the matter. We llamas are not in the habit of cultivating the Christmas spirit or celebrating the season. We’re far too advanced for that sort of thing.’

‘And what about my attitude to people?’

‘That doesn’t concern me either. People are, indeed, a rather strange set of beings. Most of them are probably best avoided.’

‘So please tell me why you did all this?’

‘They asked me to make the attempt.’

‘They? Who are “they?”’

‘That would take a lot of explaining. Another time, perhaps. Compliments of the season to you - I think that’s the right expression - and goodnight.’

‘It is, and probably the least onerous version of several. And the same to you.’

‘Mmm.’

And then he shrank in an instant to a tiny speck of light and flew through the window without breaking the glass. I’ve never seen a llama do that before. Getting back to sleep wasn’t easy.

*  *  *

And on a related note, I just watched the second episode of the BBC’s new adaptation of A Christmas Carol. I mentioned it a few days ago here.

Let me say that just occasionally – usually at intervals of several years – the TV offers something of great moment, something special which is fit to join the pantheon of Outstanding Television Events. With two episodes of three now concluded, this is the latest addition to that list. The writer has taken the body of the original story, stripped away the flesh apart from a few fragments at the core of the plot, and then re-arranged the bones into something dark, powerful and intelligent. He’s even managed to include a few references to modern issues, and done so seamlessly.

I could embark on an expanded critique, but what would be the point? Suffice it to say that in my opinion it’s quite magnificent. The only way to settle on agreement or disagreement would be to watch it.

Internet Paranoia.

One of my recommendations on YouTube is a TED talk called ‘The virginity fraud.’ Being a naturally curious person I’m naturally curious as to why virginity is a fraud, and so I would quite like to wile away twelve minutes of my precious post-midnight time finding out.

But I daren’t because I’m consumed with the notion that the internet has far more eyes than Bobby Vee’s celebrated night, and that my shameful indiscretion will be noted and catalogued and distributed far and wide to people I probably wouldn’t wish to know.

And what next? Dark blue emails? Enigmatic telephone calls telling me to press 1 now? Raps on my office window at unearthly hours? The police battering down my door without even knocking first because there’s a dubious man prowling the streets of Ashbourne and the data files make me a prime suspect?

Where were you at 4.28 am three nights ago?

‘Asleep in bed.’

Can you prove it?

‘No.’

Aha, thought so. Better come with us, my lad.

See what I mean? Curiosity is insufficient justification to warrant the risk these days.

Challenging Mr Dickens.

My first experience of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol came when I was nine or ten. A teacher read the first chapter to the class shortly before the Christmas break. I loved it and wanted more, but it was to be a few years before I read the whole story for myself. I was disappointed.

The first chapter is dark, frosty and chilling in every aspect, and there’s a real ghost in it. The three spirits which follow are not ghosts, of course, but merely allegorical plot devices placed there to make the ‘spirit’ of Christmas become incarnate. I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy, and even appreciate, the lessons of Past, Present, and Future, but they had nothing of the compelling sharpness so evident in Stave the First.

And now, with a lifetime of personal learning behind me, I find the message trite (although nine years of Tory administration has at least given it more relevance.) And there’s far too much Christian proselytising for my taste.

Now I find I want some humour in the plot to break up the often mawkish and sometimes patronising syrup. It needs to be dark humour with lots of irony and sarcasm, and would probably have it if a different writer were to originate the story today. I like dark humour, you see; there are very few subjects in which I find humour inappropriate. I remember when Lucy made that infamous joke about teaching me the corpse pose. My appreciation was evident, and she said ‘I know you like dark humour.’

And so I do. Without it, the misery so evident and constant in so many walks of life would be unrelenting.

Doing the Funny Handshake.

Back in the early nineties, when I was living in Northumberland and working as a freelance photographer, I had occasion to go into a shop to return something that was malfunctioning. It had malfunctioned before, and my opening remark was ‘it is happening again.’

A woman browsing the shelves turned to me with excited eyes and exclaimed ‘Twin Peaks!’ And she was right. My statement had been the password to recognising a fellow member of a select club: The Peakies. We were every bit as smitten with our alternative reality as the Potterheads are today, and Twin Peaks was a lot deeper and stranger than Harry Potter. This is where it came from:

A Carol Out of Tune.

I just watched the 1999 Patrick Stewart version of A Christmas Carol. When the opening credits revealed that it was a Hallmark production I should have realised that I would probably derive more satisfaction from taking a razor blade to my wrists, but decided to give the film the benefit of the doubt because it’s nearly Christmas and charity should be the watchword (allegedly.)

After about ten minutes I felt I could stand it no longer and was about to turn it off, but then changed my mind because I was curious to see just how bad it could get. It got startlingly bad, so let’s have some constructive criticism:

The script was depressingly unimaginative. The set design and lighting was banal in the extreme. The first few minutes alone were replete with glaring continuity errors. The costumes of the first and third spirits would have suited a third rate pantomime. Much of the acting was alarmingly wooden for what purported to be a professional production. In fact, most of the film was about the standard of an average am-dram effort, and occasionally it descended to a level which would have disappointed the director of a primary school play. And the whole sorry saga was suffused with that brand of syrupy mawkishness for which Hallmark is deservedly infamous.

The final scene showed us a happy Cratchit family about to enter Ebenezer’s posh pad, no doubt in expectation of a slap-up dinner fit to bring tears to the eyes of good Christians everywhere. And Tiny Tim sat on Uncle Scrooge's shoulder to utter the immortal words ‘God bless us every one,’ while I found myself warming to the pre-enlightened Scrooge after all.

The BBC is to show a new, darker, creepier version over the three nights approaching Christmas. I intend to watch it in the hope that I might be redeemed, as Scrooge himself is supposed to be. I’ll let you know if it fails.

Not Being Scrooge.

I think I should correct the impression which I have undoubtedly given that I completely ignore Christmas. I don’t. I acknowledge the tradition by allowing myself a few indulgences, these being:

1. The purchase of a pack of small panatela cigars which I smoke between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve.

2. Granting myself consent to drink alcohol before midnight during the same period, the most enjoyable indiscretion being a glass of port as an aperitif before several dinners.

3. Having something different than usual, and a little more expensive, for dinner on Christmas Day and Boxing Day.

4. Watching a few TV programmes, almost always dark and creepy literary adaptations.

5. Eating mince pies and stollen slices because Christmas is the only time I eat such comestibles so it feels right. (I gather stollen is of German origin, but I doubt the stuff which comes in boxes from Sainsbury’s and Tesco bears much resemblance to the Teutonic original. I make due allowance.)

And that’s about it. No Christmas tree, no fairy lights, no tinsel, and definitely no entertaining or visiting. I think it was the entertaining and visiting which most put me off Christmas in the first place.

(I wish I could think of something interesting to write on this blog. It’s becoming an issue.)

Mixed Fortunes.

Today presented a regular catalogue of malfunctions and mistakes which caused no end of delays, frustrations and general annoyances. Days like that happen sometimes, don’t they? Today happened to be an extreme example of the genre.

But some small relief was at hand when I bumped into Lucy in Ashbourne. Lucy is the woman I’ve mentioned quite a few times over the years, the ex-dental nurse who made that splendid joke about teaching me the corpse pose when we were discussing the issue of my cancer shortly after the operation.

What’s interesting about Lucy is that she manages somehow to divide my reaction to meeting her into conflicting states. Part of me feels an involuntary attraction to her presence, while another part feels an odd reluctance to get too close. I’ve attempted a coherent rationale to this curious condition and come to a tentative explanation:

Lucy seems to know me better than she has right or reason so to do. The evidence of things she’s said suggests that she’s an unusually perceptive person who gets into your mind with almost preternatural speed and incisiveness. Being so well known is, on the one hand, flattering. On the other hand, however, I’m not at all sure that I want to be so well observed.

There’s also the fact that she seems to command the space in which we’re talking. She stands confident and unmoving, while I fidget nervously around her. I don’t, of course, not physically at least, but it feels as though I am. And this is a perception of relationship with which I’m almost totally unfamiliar. I sometimes wonder whether Lucy really exists, or whether she’s a phantasm made manifest by a fevered imagination.

Today’s other little bright spot was provided by the manager of the Costa Coffee ladies. She blew me a kiss when she discovered that I’d left a little gift in recognition of their consideration and general niceness. I was so grateful for the distance between us. Any closer encounter than that would have caused me some disquiet, a fact which can be traced to an unfortunate incident when I was around age 10. More on that another time, perhaps.

Denials and a Missing Constellation.

I’ve mentioned a few times that my poorly left leg won’t allow me to take my beloved walks along the lanes and footpaths of the Shire at the moment. It occurred to me tonight that the problem not only denies me a fundamental pleasure, but also removes a fertile area for the making of blog posts.

I got quite a lot of posts out of the walks, particularly the night ones I was in the habit of taking through several winters. I particularly remember the cascade of pulsating blue lights around somebody’s fir tree at Christmas, and the ghostly appearance of the Lady B’s cottage one night when it was both misty and moonlit. And then there were the strange noises which were difficult to identify even when they were obviously close by.

The leg issue also prevents me making my trips to the city centres of Stoke and Derby, since the distances involved are too great to countenance while the leg is being denied its proper blood flow. Nowadays, in an environmental sense at least, I’m restricted to my house, my garden, and the little market towns of Ashbourne and Uttoxeter. All other meanderings have to be done in my mind, and the effort of wringing something out of them for the blog is becoming tedious.

I did go out briefly tonight, though, to let next door’s cats in and feed them. As I was coming back, and it being a clear, starlit night, I looked for my old friend Orion whose presence used to offer some curious comfort on the longer nocturnal perambulations. Orion wasn’t there.

I thought back to the night walks, and was sure that Orion was always in the southern sky at this time of year and that time of night. But a scan of the clear view from east around to north-west by way of south revealed no sign of him.

Can this be so? Can Orion really have gone AWOL? I very much doubt it, but I don’t know what else to conclude. So if you happen to be out at night and catch sight of him, would you please pass on the message that I miss him and the southern sky just isn’t the same these days. This is what he looks like in case you don’t know:

Stating the Obvious.

It’s that time of year again when my mind – for all it is beset by difficult issues and depressing prospects – cannot help but venture frequently into the rationale behind the basis of Christmas as we know it. Yes, we all know that having a festival at this time of year goes back to pre-Christian Pagan beliefs, but we’re not encouraged to think of it that way and very few people do.

I keep hearing those lines from a carol in my head:

For Jesus Christ our Saviour

Was born on Christmas Day

They raise obvious questions:

Christ? Who says so? Saviour? From what? Born on Christmas Day? How irrational can the human mind be? (I think it might be an apposite aside to re-quote the bishop who said, in a TV interview: ‘Without a belief in original sin [which means that all babies are born evil] there is no Christianity. Quite.)

And then there are the fundamentalist Christians (mostly in America, thankfully) who profess their certainty that anyone who does not take Jesus Christ into his or her heart is bound for eternal hell fire.

What I would like to do is take one of such people to the Dalai Lama so he can say to the esteemed one: ‘Because you are not a Christian, your death will plunge you into the fires of hell where you will burn forever.’ I would love to hear the reply.

(And might I just add as an afterthought that being a nice person is no basis for claiming, as I’ve heard some people do, to be a Christian. Since when did being a nice person have anything to do with religion?)

And I suppose all the above is glaringly obvious to all intelligent people. Sorry, it’s just that I have to keep the blog going because it’s about all I’ve got of my own choosing at the moment.

Reprising the Darkness.

The news I received this morning added yet another factor to the catalogue of Stress Expectations for 2020. The list is growing, and such prospects as are apparent are all dark at the moment.

Meanwhile, I just watched the final episode of the greatly acclaimed TV drama, Edge of Darkness, which was apparently first broadcast on BBC2 in 1985. I wondered why I missed it at the time, and then remembered that 1985 was another stormy and stressful year and my mind was otherwise engaged. But then, I was young enough in 1985 to move beyond the storm and sail a new course into positive and productive waters. All I see beyond 2020 is the final cataract.

So was I impressed with Edge of Darkness? Most certainly, not least because, of all the actresses I’ve seen in any medium, the young Joanne Whalley had the loveliest eyes.

Not a Complete Drop-Out.

The post I made earlier regarding the difficulties experienced by the recluse will have been presumed, I’m sure, to have come from personal experience. Indeed it did, but with one exception: I wouldn’t describe myself as being ‘truly’ reclusive, but only mostly so.

For example, next week I intend to take a small gift of some kind to the ladies in the Costa Coffee shop in Ashbourne because I take pleasure in their accommodation of my requests and their general niceness to me. They bring a hint of lightness to a mostly dull town, and it would seem remiss of me not to acknowledge the fact.

My request last week was that the pot of porridge which I occasionally buy be heated rather more than is customary in that establishment. I like my porridge hot, you see, for two reasons: the little sugar I sprinkle onto the surface melts swiftly and surely to a satisfying state of softness, and the cream I pour onto it reduces the temperature of the confection to a pleasant warmth rather than cooling it to the unpleasantly lukewarm. This is important to me.

And so they did, and then the manager made a point of checking with me that it was satisfactory. I offered my thanks, but it wasn’t an isolated incident and their year-round attention to my preferences needs to be met with something more concrete. Hence the gift.

And so, you see, this little example demonstrates that the dark cloak of reclusiveness has not yet fully covered me. And maybe it also demonstrates that my fairy godmother placed the Costa ladies into my path to provide the little light of which I speak. Isn’t that nice?

(So how do I reward the fairy godmother? Mmm… perhaps it would be easier to be a complete recluse after all.)

A Note on Reclusiveness.

It seems to be an interesting fact about the truly reclusive individual that the more he becomes isolated from the company and activities of people, the more he becomes subject to the influence of his environment.

Most people have jobs, friends, hobbies and social activities, and to some extent those things insulate them psychologically from their surroundings. But to the recluse who has none or very little of those things, every degree of change in the temperature is keenly felt, every raindrop is significant, every nuance of the wind’s voice is influential to his mood and can become oppressive, every knock at the door or ring of the phone suggests the possibility of pollution, and every sound not of his choosing holds the potential to sting. Add to this the fact that recluses generally have a greatly extended capacity for awareness, and the result is something which normal people won’t begin to understand.

Life as a recluse can be difficult. Factors which are of little consequence to most other people can send him to the edge of reason, leaving him unable to function normally and desperately hanging onto his mental faculties. If you think autistic people have difficulty coping with life, they do. But they’re not the only ones.

A Difficult Read.

I’ve finally got around to reading The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. I've been promising myself the treat ever since I saw and greatly enjoyed the film version (re-titled The Innocents) starring Deborah Kerr and Megs Jenkins. But oh my word, what an education it’s proving to be in terms of the writing style. I’m finding it surprisingly difficult and have to apply every ounce of concentration to keep up with the narrative.

What’s interesting here is that we expect the style of writing to change as time goes on. The Early Modern English of Shakespeare, for example, is regarded by many as too dense to follow, and if you go back to the Middle English of Chaucer, it becomes all but unfathomable even to well practiced readers.

But The Turn of the Screw was written in 1898, several decades after Dickens and the Brontës, and yet their prose is clear and relatively simple. In fact, I’ve said before that Charlotte Brontë’s style is the smoothest, silkiest prose I’ve ever read and I skip through it.

The contemporary short stories of MR James are written in a style not wholly dissimilar to that of his namesake, Henry, although it’s definitely less dense. Maybe this is because MR was English and Henry American. Maybe the different idioms of UK and US English are responsible. But they both exhibit, to a modern reader, a maddening tendency to write excessively long sentences replete with clauses – often wholly unnecessary – couched in unfamiliar terms and thrown around like confetti in an unruly wind.

So what is it about these fin de siècle writers which makes them feel the need to be so cumbersome? Is it something to do with the whole fin de siècle ethos – the rise of cynicism, geopolitics, and a sense of impending decadence?

I don’t know. All I can say is that I’m glad we got over it and along came the likes of Nabokov and John Fowles. Reading them is as easy as falling off a log, and I think I might confine myself to later 20^th century authors in future. I do intend to finish The Turn of the Screw, though. I’m brave like that.

Hope this post wasn’t too cumbersome. Merely boring.

Altruism and the Like.

It’s been another depressingly dark, wet day in the Shire again, but at least my proposal to build a hydroelectric power plant at the bottom of the lane retreated back into the realms of the imaginative. The lane beyond my garden was very wet, but at least it didn’t flow because I’ve cleared the road drains seven or eight times over the past few weeks.

What might be considered notable, however, is that I was often passed by traffic while I was doing the work, and not a single person ever stopped to express appreciation. I gather some of the parents on the school run complained vociferously about the state of the road before I began clearing it, and they often passed me while I was out there – sometimes in the pouring rain – armed with spade, rake and broom. And yet none of them stopped for a few brief seconds to say ‘thank you, Mr Beazley, for saving us the inconvenience of driving through a shallow but raging torrent in order to ferry our little ones to their place of education and enlightenment.’ (And ‘ferry’ would have been a most apposite term in the circumstances.)

Not that it matters, of course. I didn’t do it for the sake of the parents or general denizens of the Shire. My view on such matters is simple: if a job needs doing and the lot falls to you, pick it up and get on with it. And so I do. What’s more, I feel no need of approbation because all that matters is that the job got done. And even if I were mindful of the need for reward, I would take the old maxim to heart and be content that virtue is its own.

*  *  *

Which brings me to today’s General Election. I have little doubt that Mr Johnson and his Conservative cohorts will still be running the country tomorrow and fair-minded people like me will be saddled with another five years of Tory administration.

Altruism has always been notably lacking in Tory ideology, and I see no reason why it should change now. No doubt the rich will continue to get richer and the poor will continue to languish in poverty. Food banks will continue to flourish, children will continue to go to school unfed, the unemployed will still be treated like criminals, those on inadequate incomes will continue to be evicted from their homes, and the countless number of people living on the streets will carry on shivering – and in some cases dying – through several more winters yet.

But that’s what the people will have voted for, and at least Britain will leave the EU without the same people having the chance to change their minds now that they know what’s involved. It seems that democracy is an odd sort of creature which changes its coat at the whim of self-serving politicians. I suppose it was ever thus.

Being Out of Line.

Every shop I go into at the moment treats me to music (which I have no way of switching off) dedicated to one of three themes:

1. Christmas music with lines like ‘it’s the most wonderful time of the year.’ I think I’ve explained often enough why I consider Christmas to be anything but the most wonderful time of the year. I stand by my explanation.

2. Christmas music with lines like ‘let it snow, let it snow, let it snow’ and ‘walking in a winter wonderland.’ I hate snow, and my reasons for so doing are perfectly rational.

3. Christmas music about a man – purportedly an avatar – who was born in order to be sacrificed so that the badness inherent in the human condition would be washed away and everybody could go to heaven. This stopped making sense to me at around age twelve, and subsequent examination of the world’s spiritual traditions has led me to the strong suspicion that Jesus’s ministry was hopelessly misinterpreted and resulted in a ludicrously simplistic delusion which has infected generation after generation for two thousand years.

This is not about cynicism, and those who call me ‘Scrooge’ are both misinterpreting Scrooge and misunderstanding me. I’m actually quite the opposite of Scrooge, although I do admit to having one thing in common with him and it ends in ‘humbug.’

Footnote

I jokingly said to one of the young women in the coffee shop: 'Will you be doing mad things for Christmas and hoping to live to tell the tale?'

The reply was an ironic and dismissive smile.

'So what will you be doing?' I continued.

'Getting through it.'

Seems I'm not alone.

The Trend.

I reported last night that YouTube was offering me Psalm 104 sung in ancient Hebrew. Tonight it’s Ave Maria translated into Aramaic.

There’s something odd going on here with YouTube’s algorithm. If the next recommendation is And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda howled with commendable earnestness by a pack of dingoes, I’ll know I’m right.

And I might listen to that one.

'Like one that on a lonesome road...'

‘I sometimes wonder,’ I said,’ whether there were creatures from other dimensions loitering around me when I used to take those walks at night.’

‘Doubt it,’ she replied. ‘If such creatures exist, I expect they’re sleeping soundly in these more rational times.’

‘But I’m not of these more rational times,’ I offered with a hint of hesitation. ‘Maybe they woke when I moved among them, and sniffed the air in expectation of an encounter.’

There was one night when my route took me along Church Lane towards the copse that stands on the highest point of the road overlooking Mill Lane and the valley. As I walked, the conviction grew to absolute certainty that there would be something among the trees that would not allow me to return without serious injury of some sort, either physical or mental, and I truly felt a level of terror to which I’m entirely unaccustomed. When it became unbearable I turned and hurried homeward, checking the road behind me every few yards.

That much is true, ashamed as I am to admit it, and I hadn’t read anything from the pen of MR James that night to explain my lack of fortitude. Tonight I have, sitting here in my old Edwardian house with the dark December night being suitably punctuated every now and then by a mournful, moaning wind. There are times when the past and present match nicely.

The Recommendations Mystery.

My current recommendations on YouTube include a recording of Psalm 104 sung in ancient Hebrew. Why on earth would YouTube’s algorithm connect my viewing preferences with Psalm 104 sung in ancient Hebrew?

‘It doesn’t know you’re not Jewish.’

Ah, I see. OK.

Another recommendation invited me to find out whether I’m definable as a Holy Man according to the pronouncements of Lord Buddha. Seems I’m not, and I’m happy to take his word for it.

The Invisible Years.

I got a bit lost in reminiscence tonight and realised something interesting. I have no group photographs at all from the two institutions in which I spent a large part of my teenage years. No class photograph from high school, and no divisional photograph from the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth. I don’t recall anybody even mentioning the idea of taking a photograph. It’s as though fate was intent upon keeping any record of my connection to a common cause out of the historical record.

I do have one photograph of me during my Dartmouth period. It was taken by my mother during a leave period and so naturally I’m alone, which seems only fitting. But it does at least offer compelling evidence that I was once a naval officer cadet. The real mystery, however, is how I went from looking like that to how I look today. Time is never kind in such matters. And do excuse the lack of sharp focus. Getting photographs out of focus was something my mother was particularly adept at doing.

 

Dimensions and Things.

I watched a YouTube video last night in which a couple of eminent physicists discussed the question of whether the physical world contains more dimensions than the three we’re used to.

They talked a lot about gravity and space-time, and not being a physicist – much less an eminent one – I admit that a lot of what they said went floating off into a black hole somewhere over the rainbow. And yet I was left with the impression that the whole of the universe is contained in a small bubble floating in a vast ocean with a very large number of other small bubbles.

I struggled to know what on earth that had to do with extra dimensions, but it didn’t seem to matter. I just felt frustrated at wondering how I’m supposed to know what to look for in this life when even the experts can’t tell me what reality is.

And, of course, this is quite separate from the theory that there are many unknown life forms occupying the same space as us, only we’re unaware of them because their sub atomic particles vibrate at a different rate than ours. That one does, at least, have the advantage of being easy to follow.

And then there’s the question of parallel universes…

This is the point at which I begin to wonder whether we’ll ever really get to the bottom of why cocoa tastes nice.

The Winning Word.

I daresay there are people still alive who remember when the magic word was abracadabra. It’s gone now. The magic word these days is unlimiteddata. The rich, fat wizards in suits only have to utter that word to have people prostrating themselves and climbing aboard the train to the debtors’ prison. I expect Voldermort would have won if only he’d realised the fact.

And I heard recently that excessive use of smart phones and their ilk is regarded as an addiction equivalent to alcohol and tobacco in South Korea. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. I heard it on YouTube, and believing everything you hear on YouTube makes you a suitable victim for more than just rich, fat wizards in suits.

The Fun Thing.

It seems like a very long time since I did anything you might describe as fun. I do sometimes think I would like to have fun again, but having fun always seems to involve being with other people and engaging in activities prescribed as ‘fun’ by the culture to which most people belong. You know, things like partying and scuba diving and racing cars and playing charades in the drawing room. I know the last one is a bit old fashioned, but that’s my problem. It’s a little difficult for me to remember what fun is as usually perceived. The things I get pleasure from these days are passive things like hearing a robin sing, or watching a frolicsome dog with a wagging tail, or quietly observing a young parent diligently attending to the needs of a young child. Not exactly fun, are they?

So where do I go and what do I do to have fun? I really have no idea. Tonight’s Miss Marple story involved a bunch of people with a connected history taking a coach tour by invitation to unravel a mystery and bring a guilty party to book. I think I could find that fun, but such things don’t happen in real life. And besides, if I took a coach tour with a group of strangers, one or more of them might want to befriend me. Think how awful that would be.

Better stick to writing a blog, I suppose. If only I could find something to say that is worth saying. Recounting a time when I had fun would fit the bill, but I’ve already done all those. If the nice people in the NHS can mend my left leg, maybe I’ll give the matter serious consideration.

Dealing with the Desultory.

There I was, a desultory sort of specimen sitting in his office on a desultory sort of evening, the curtains drawn against the dark and a desultory sort of wind moaning outside, wondering what on earth I could do to stop being quite so desultory.

I decided to read – for probably the fifth or sixth time – Mr James’s most celebrated short story, Casting the Runes (it’s the most celebrated because it’s the only one to have been adapted for a feature film called Night of the Demon.) And as I was reading it I realised that one of the leitmotifs in MR James stories is the bachelor of middle or advanced age, living alone and spending desultory evenings closeted in his study and engaged in some form of sedentary pursuit involving paper.

Recognition of both the type and the lifestyle quickly became apparent. All I needed was a guttering candle to replace my smart chrome desk lamp, and the likeness would have been complete. The story became rather more personal in consequence, which wasn’t encouraging because it’s about a man suffering the metaphysical machinations of a spiteful and highly skilled alchemist intent on bringing about the poor chap’s demise. I persisted nonetheless, since I knew that the protagonist was to escape his fate at the conclusion of the story.

I also had the advantage of knowing that I had a DVD of Agatha Christie’s Marple to watch, and that such a marvel of the modern age would be more than adequate to lift both the desultoriness and the sense of doom with sufficient plot holes and other devices devoid of plausibility to leave me chortling into my mug of cheap coffee. And that’s what I’m going to do now.

(Incidentally, I fear that the last of my metaphorical candles might be guttering and about to expire. If it does, it will be reported here – with sadness.)

Dull.

Such a dull day today. How am I supposed to make blog posts when there’s nothing to excite my delight or disgust, to massage my ego or set me musing on the state of being?

I’ve decided that Ashbourne is a dull town. There’s a smug and settled air about most of the people one sees in Ashbourne, unlike Uttoxeter where there is a regular drip of people to observe who look lonely, dishevelled or broken in some way. Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe I do. Today I went to Ashbourne and saw nothing of interest.

I haven’t mentioned the Lady B for a while, have I? Well now I have, so that’s all right. (I still sometimes hear her ghost whispering from somewhere over the horizon, you know. Never the rainbow, heaven forbid.)

And now I have the latest missive from the priestess to read. Will it be long or short? Will it say anything of interest or will it be the sort of trivia which makes any attempt at meaningful response difficult? No doubt I’ll find out later when I have a drink to hand. I like myself and trust my responses more when I have a drink to hand. It’s why I sometimes think that I should drink a lot more than I do. Sobriety and self-control can be such a curse at times. I never know whether to blame myself or my upbringing for being so generally steady. 

Dullness is definitely in the ascendant.

The Secret of White.

It struck me this evening that there are three big, white animals in folklore and literature which stand apart as something extra special. There’s the white buffalo of Native American tradition, Moby Dick the white whale, and Iorek Byrnison, the great white bear of His Dark Materials.

All have something of the Romantic about them, if not always the mystical. All are single and singular creatures which live their lives alone, all are formidably powerful and determined, and all are winners in the end.

This is interesting because whiteness is more usually associated with purity, virginity and the quietness of a winter landscape. So why are we so enthralled by a mighty, indomitable creature which happens to be white? What’s the secret of whiteness that it can so readily become a symbol of supreme power? Forget racial supremacism because it doesn't fit the examples. It has to be deeper than that, so what is it?

A Powerful Alliance.

I’ve been thinking a lot today about last night’s episode of His Dark Materials, mainly by way of pondering why that scene of Iorek and Lyra heading at speed across the icy waste was so important to me.

Well, at the very least it was thrilling because it was both adventurous and primal at the same time. But there was more to it than that; there was what it represented by way of human aspiration – the strong and powerful animal carrying the young, idealistic maiden to the fulfilment of her destiny and the changing of a world. This belongs at the forefront of the Romantic tradition; and I’m a great lover of the Romantic tradition because it speaks of the potential in humans to be a lot better than they generally are; and I decline to see the Romantic tradition as fantasy because it’s a damn sight better than the fantasies fed to the masses by politicians, the corporate world, and the advertising executives. And what have I been saying on this blog for some time now? I’ve been suggesting that if the world is to become a better place, and humanity a better state of being, it will be the young women who will lead the way.

I have a Lyra Belacqua in my family, you know. My youngest granddaughter is intelligent, idealistic, forthright, positive, courageous and strong minded. She’s begun to take an active role in various causes because she scoffs at the prescription for success offered by the mainstream, preferring instead to be at the forefront of the battle for change and leading the way. Whether I can do anything to help remains to be seen, but if not I wish her the company of a great white bear on whose back she can ride to achievement. Such an alliance would be formidable.

Observing a Flaw.

There’s a disabled woman who often frequents the coffee shop at the same time as me on a Monday. She rides in a motorised wheelchair and appears to be wholly dependent on it. She also has strange eyes which move in a way that is difficult to describe but is obviously unusual. And she's the person I’ve mentioned before on this blog – the one who appears to be trying to eat the glass while she’s drinking her cappuccino.

Today I sat idly observing her while I was drinking my own cup of Americano, and an unpleasant thought occurred to me. I realised that I didn’t see her as a human being in the same way as I see other human beings. Instead, I saw a broken facsimile of a human being struggling through a life that is restricted, uncomfortable, and ultimately pointless. It suggested to me that as well as being largely disengaged from my fellow humans, there is also a side to my nature which is callous. I dislike the thought that I might be callous.

In my defence I can say that my view of her was not in any way a judgement, merely a perception. I would afford her the same courtesy and general regard as I would afford anybody else. But I didn’t pity her, much less feel the level of empathy which I tend to feel for other human beings in difficult circumstances. I had, for example, just given some money to a busker because I felt moved by the fact that he was sitting on the hard ground on a cold day, trying to get by in a world which allows those less capable or less fortunate to slide into the gutter. But in all other respects he was normal, while the disabled woman wasn’t. That’s where the callousness comes in, or so it seemed to me at the time.

So what do I do about this? How far can any of us go in changing those aspects of our nature which are fundamental? I suppose we should observe them and make an effort to change our perceptions as far as we are able, because what else is there?

On a Witch, a Bear, and Wanting Revenge.

Those who’ve been reading this blog for the past few weeks will remember that I was hoping to meet Serafina Pecula tonight. She’s the leader of the warlike witches in His Dark Materials.

And so I did, and she disappointed me. In all physical respects save one she looked the part: lean of form, fair of face, dark of hair and countenance, but lacking the uncompromising fierceness of eye which defines the great lady’s strength. Her dress wasn’t up to much either (come to think of it, neither was it down to much, if you see what I mean. You probably don’t.) And then she spoke. Oh dear. She’s supposed to be a wild and mysterious denizen of the Carpathian Mountains (or somewhere thereabouts), but she sounded more like a reject from Roedean School.

But ample compensation was to come. Tonight we were treated to my favourite scene from the whole series of books – Iorek Byrnison, the great white bear, galloping across the icy waste with young Lyra Belacqua on his back. I confess to a slight watering of the eyes. I delight in reporting that what vascular system I still own coursed with the flow of recognition. ‘This is home,’ I rejoiced. ‘This is my reality. This is me.’ (Yes, I know I said I hate snow but that isn’t the point.)

And then Lyra got kidnapped by the ne’er-do-wells and there the episode ended. I didn’t like that bit. I don’t think it’s really good for my soul to want the nasty Church people to be savagely torn apart and eaten by a great white bear.

Losing the Barn Owl's Voice.

I was coming in from the garden at dusk as the air fell below freezing, when I spotted a movement above my head. I looked up to see a barn owl settling to perch on the telegraph pole just beyond my hedge. It folded its wings and began to stare at me intensely, occasionally moving its head from side to side in that curious manner which owls are wont to exhibit.

I stared back. I greeted it courteously. I wondered whether it was considering my size to determine whether I was too big to eat. It stayed there and continued to give me its undivided attention, while I almost forgot the cold because the stare of an owl at such close quarters – especially a ghost-white barn owl – is little short of hypnotic.

It’s rare to see a barn owl here. I’m sure they’ve always been about, but a sighting depends on the coincidence of a bird beginning its nightly hunt in this part of the Shire and in the few minutes before I disappear indoors.

I remember that time shortly after I moved here when I was shaken in the early hours by a terrifying shriek puncturing the silence of the night as one flew overhead. It was the shriek to which Shakespeare was referring when he had Macbeth say:

The time has been my senses would have cooled

To hear a night shriek…

I’ve never heard one since then, even though I’ve occasionally seen one. It makes me wonder whether that’s another of the changes brought on by changing times and changing practices. I wonder whether the barn owl has lost its shriek as most roses have lost their scent.

Words and Wondering.

Arthur Schopenhauer famously said:

To live alone is the fate of all great souls.

This is a generalisation, of course, as the vast majority of popular sound bites from the great and the good are. I like it, nonetheless, for obvious reasons (for those who don’t know, I’ve lived alone for the last fifteen years.) And what’s interesting is that shortly before I came across that pearl of generalised wisdom, I’d had the oddest feeling that there is something of substantial significance – maybe even grand – somewhere up ahead in my destiny. I’ve never had such a feeling in my life before and I have very little doubt that it derived from a fevered imagination. But you never know. Come to think of it, I’m glad I don’t know because knowing that there is something of substantial significance – and maybe even grand – in my destiny would scare the living daylights out of me. Look what happened to Joan of Arc.

Schopenhauer also said:

Life swings like a pendulum backwards and forwards between pain and boredom.

I disagree with that one, even though it’s generally true of me these days.

*  *  *

I watched a bird perching quietly on the branch of a tree today. Eventually it flew to a neighbouring tree and perched quietly on another branch. I wondered why.

Tedium.

Currently beset by the dreaded ennui. Nothing to do, nothing to write about, and nothing to look forward to save a growing catalogue of things to be anxious about. I made another virtuous attempt to come to terms with the writing of George Eliot but continued to find it tedious. When she’s observing the quirks of human nature she can be most readable, but the seemingly endless, sluggish flow of trivial conversation in dialect threatens to send me to a premature sleep every time. Trivial conversation is no less trivial for being 160 years old whatever the academics say.

The birthday passed off largely without incident. I received one card and a box of Taylor’s Hot Lava Java coffee bags. The weather was dull and wet as usual.

But I did discover a few interesting things about Karen Carpenter, like the fact that she was a highly rated drummer and that if she were still alive she would turn 70 next March. It occurred to me that there is a perverse blessing in dying young because it means that nobody will ever see any photographs of you looking old.

If this isn't a reason to get drunk I don't know what it is, but I have to be up with the alarm in the morning to face one of the things to be anxious about.

Irritants.

I occasionally see hand written signs in shop windows which say something like:

Sorry. Had to pop out. Back in fifteen minutes.

And they never, ever put the time on, so you don’t know when the fifteen minutes started. This goes some way towards vindicating my attitude to human beings.

*  *  *

Somebody who knew of my many dalliances and truncated relationships once called me a commitmentphobe. They were in error. A commitmentphobe is somebody who is capable of making a commitment but dislikes the idea and so fights shy. I never disliked the idea of making a commitment. The intention to commit was, ironically, an integral part of the romance game. The problem was that by the time I approached middle age I realised that I was simply incapable of doing so. I was born without the commitment gene. I suppose it’s a bit like colour blindness and equally blameless.

And then there were those people who told me: ‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet.’ They were so certain of the fact, but they were speaking from ignorance. Had they known me they would have realised that there was no such thing as the right woman. Foolish people are so damnably convinced of their simplistic certainties. And now I really am tired of talking about women.

*  *  *

I woke up in the dark early hours of this morning certain that there was some sort of discarnate entity in my bedroom which was not friendly. It was pretty spooky, and I’m not easily spooked. I convinced myself that it was best ignored and eventually went back to sleep. It's happened before.

On Birthdays, Bikes and Things.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, but please don’t even think of offering felicitations. What is a birthday anyway but another number to add to a list which is growing depressingly long?

My reason for mentioning it is that I realised only today (or it might have been yesterday – the numbers on birthday cards grow in indirect proportion to the number of brain cells capable of storing short term memory) that I don’t remember ever having had a birthday party at any time in my life. Is that unusual? I don’t know.

I went to one once, at around age 10. The recipient was Janice Turner who lived in Friar’s Road, and the only thing I remember about it was knocking something off the table and feeling feverishly embarrassed. I suppose the fact that it was the one and only birthday party I ever attended suggests that such celebrations were much less common then than they are now. Or maybe I was known as the kid who knocks things off tables and was therefore persona non grata. Or it could have been the fact that I was a fat slob in my pre-adolescent period and fat kids didn’t get invited to things. I never knew and I never shall.

And come to think of it, the only childhood birthday I remember at all was the one when I got home from school and was given a parcel sent by my older brother. That was at around the same age, and the parcel contained a set of lights for my bike. I remember feeling very proud of my acquisition because not every kid had lights for his or her bike. In fact, not every kid even had a bike. The fact that my bike had come second hand was of no consequence back then because I lived on the wrong side of the tracks and having a bike made you a bit special. I expect I’d get mugged for it these days, or maybe not since it was second hand.

I do vaguely remember one other birthday when I was much older. The woman I was living with offered to take me out for a meal to celebrate the occasion, but I declined and she became very cross. There were several reasons why I declined, but I don’t think I want to elucidate further because I’ve done quite enough confessing for one week. And I wouldn’t want people thinking ill of me on the eve of my birthday, would I?

Divided by the R.

One of the most noticeable differences between American and British RP pronunciation is the way we treat the letter ‘r.’ Americans mostly pronounce it wherever it appears in a word, whereas we Brits only pronounce it when it precedes a vowel. Anywhere else the ‘r’ merely extends the sound of the previous syllable. And that’s why the only time Gregory House’s accent grated with me was when he called a member of his team ‘thirteen.’ As a British actor expertly faking an American accent, his pronunciation of thirteen was the one time when I felt he overstated the difference.

Playing the Game of Romance.

The rant I engaged in earlier is now a distant memory, at least until tomorrow. I said I’d lighten up later, didn’t I? So maybe now I should permit reflection to replace the ranting and go back in time as I sometimes do anyway.

Somebody once suggested I write my memoirs, but the concept is far too grand for one such as me. Nevertheless, maybe a confession is in order, and maybe it can be taken as a memoir of sorts. I don’t expect anybody to be particularly interested, but it’s been running through my head since yesterday morning and I felt inclined to write it down for my own amusement.

*  *  *

The song playing in one of the charity shops yesterday took me back to the start of it all. The song had been a big hit when I was fourteen and taking my last holiday with my parents. We’d gone to Great Yarmouth in Norfolk and I was in the habit of going to the fairground every night on my own. Much of the reason for my regular visits to the bright lights and music was the group of teenage girls which I kept seeing there, and the one in particular who attracted my fancy to quite a considerable degree.

I’d already had a couple of regular girlfriends by then – one of whom had been three years older than me – but they’d both been girls I knew from the local youth club and we’d just drifted together. What I’d never done was approach a complete stranger and asked her to walk out with me (what a nice old fashioned phrase that is.) The problem I had at the tender age of fourteen, however, was that I hadn’t a clue how to go about it.

Now, it just happened that I’d got know an Irish lad of seventeen who was also on holiday with his parents and we’d become pals. It seemed to me that he would have a greater level of experience in the matter of pick up lines in consequence of his more advanced age, and so I asked him how he thought I should go about it.

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said. You just go up to her and say “are you coming, then?” and she’ll walk away with you no problem.’

Do bear in mind that he was Irish, and whatever else the Irish are or are not, they’re certainly the world’s best blarney merchants. It occurred to me later that he probably had no more idea of how to pick up strange girls than I had. At the time I simply wasn’t convinced that it would work, and I was also aware that such an approach would put my vanity at risk of being mangled. But I had nothing better to offer. I prevaricated until the last night before we were due to go home, and then desperation encouraged me to take the leap into unknown territory. I approached the group, singled out the gorgeous one, and said ‘Are you coming, then?’ Her eyes showed no evident response as they looked into mine for several pregnant seconds. ‘No,’ she said, and then walked away with her friends while I shuffled off in the opposite direction with a waddle and a quack and a very unhappy frown.

But that was the beginning of the great game of romance which became the abiding passion of my life (about equal with fishing but of greater longevity, and slightly ahead of playing rugby and partying.) For such it always was – a game of discovery and observation which I played compulsively for the next thirty years. And the benefit of experience made me far more adept at knowing the right moves in the right circumstances.

Sounds like a lot of innocent fun, doesn’t it? It wasn’t, actually. It was more of a bumpy rollercoaster ride than a soft sailing on sleepy tides. I’m a complex sort of bloke, you see, and the complexities played a game of their own with my sense of wellbeing on many occasions. The thrills were always followed by the ducking stool, and the feather beds were ever laden with sharp needles. It’s why I can say that thirty years of playing the game of romance caused me far more injuries than I received in twenty years of playing rugby.

And now it’s all over. The loner gene has finally achieved a position of unassailable ascendancy and I don’t need the mirror or my birth certificate to tell me that my body is no longer a vehicle fit for either of my favourite games. I’m washed up, worn out, and undecided whether to groan at the bitter taste of cold turkey or simply feel relieved at having acquired a safe spot on the sidelines. That’s where old men belong, isn’t it, however much the old instinct insists on whispering ‘I’m still here’?

So that’s about it – an inconsequential little anecdote which led to a life less sordid than you might imagine. Make of it what you will. Or don’t bother to make anything of it at all.