Mixed Compliments and a Dog With Standards.

I saw one of the hitherto-mentioned Sarahs in Ashbourne today. She said I ‘looked great’, and then proceeded to tell me what I resembled this time last year. I didn’t quite catch it, but the look of apology she was wearing suggested it was less than complimentary and maybe it was better not to seek repetition. (My self-image isn’t exactly flourishing at the moment.) And then I got two hugs instead of the usual one.

*  *  *

I was in the pet shop this afternoon buying my week’s supply of bird seed and peanuts when a man came in to buy a meaty, munchy treat for his Staffordshire bull terrier. The dog was clearly excited at the prospect of what he was about to receive, but came over to say hello to me first. If that isn’t the finest example of canine courtesy, please tell me what is.

*  *  *

And tonight I celebrated my new-found fan status by delving a little further into the matter of the singer known as Shakira. I discovered what she looks like and how she moves. I think reserved compliments might be in order with regard to both. I was going to post the official video of her performing her song Hips Don’t Lie, but assumed that everybody in the world bar me has already seen it. That’s usually the way of things.

What's in a Name3.

My stats tell me that I’m getting a rash of visits to an old post of mine from nine years ago called What’s in a Name2. (I assume there must have been a What’s in a Name1.)

It reminded me of a young woman picture researcher I used to speak to quite often by phone back in my photography days. Her name was Lucy van Laun, and she had a sister called Emma van Laun who worked for another publisher.

Aren’t they just the most splendid of names, and don’t splendid names conjure up splendid images? They had splendid voices too – I remember that Lucy had a habit of exclaiming ‘Oh, brilliant!’ in a plumy, public school sort of accent which evoked images of long hair, longer legs, captivating smiles, and a bright, giggly sort of sophistication which leaves men of my level of discernment having to put some effort into avoiding frothing at the mouth and going weak at the knees. (I was a lot younger then.) I saw them gracing the upper sixth common room at a non-violent version of St Trinian’s, complete with gym slips and engaging pouts.

And so I used to long to find some excuse to visit one or both of them during one of my sojourns to the London publishing houses, but alas I never did. Then again, maybe my failure wasn’t such a bad thing. For as much as splendid names and splendid voices have the power to evoke splendid images, the reality is often very different. For all I know they might both have looked like a dog’s bum with a hat on.

Looking to South Korea.

Tonight I finally discovered what Gangnam Style is all about. Now I have to go one stage further and see how it relates to Harry Potter, and then my education will hopefully be complete. After that I have to consider how it relates to the meaning of life, and whether the definition of education is as subject to perception as the life experience is. I hope is doesn’t get complicated.

Advice, Academics, and Mexican Beer.

It irritates me quite a lot when people ask how my health issue is progressing and then proceed to advise me on how I should think, and how I should feel, and how I must be positive not negative, and so on and so forth ad nauseum.

Don’t they get it? Don’t they realise that giving advice is effectively taking the superior position, and accepting it is effectively submitting to that superiority? I dislike both concepts, which is why I neither give advice nor take it. Besides, it seems to me that advice is ultimately only of any real value if given by someone who knows what life is really about, and nobody does.

This was going to be a long post about whether anything really matters in the face of inevitable mortality. It was going to ask questions like: ‘is there any such thing as positive and negative?’ But it grew too complicated to bother with now that my days of thinking like an academic are over and my tolerance of extended philosophical reasoning has flown away with them.

Tonight I’m drinking Mexican beer. I have the faintest germ of a suspicion that Mexican beer might be at least part of the reason why Trump wants to build that silly wall of his, and is prepared to shut down America or turn it into a Third World dictatorship in order to get his way. 2020 is going to be interesting. Hope I’m still alive to see what happens. Not that it will matter in the long term, of course. The world will keep on turning, birth will still be the first step on the road to death, and history books will continue to be written by academics.

An Odd Affiliation.

Seems I just became a Shakira fan. I’d never even heard of her until last night, but there you are. And all because of Harry Potter, YouTube and quidditch. They say God moves in mysterious ways, don’t they? Or maybe it’s the Portuguese beer.

OMG and Stuff.

There were two little girls in a charity shop today rummaging among the ‘pre-loved’ (my word, how I do hate marketing euphemisms even when they're dribbled out in a good cause) items in the toy section. Every so often one of them would squeal ‘Oh my God!’ and shortly afterwards the other would follow suit. After a couple of repetitions of this time-honoured phrase I heard their mother, who was on the further side of the shop, call to them:

‘I want no more of that language from you two!’

…and I thought ‘Now, there’s a woman with standards.’

But then I wondered whether her objection related to a phrase which she deemed blasphemous, or a platitude which she considered unbecoming of her prized offspring. What a shame I’ll never know. To know the motivation is to know the species, and knowing the species is about all I’ve got left before my teeth drop out or the langoliers come to eat me from the inside, or both.

*  *  *

Nobody said the word ‘Sarah’ today. I assumed the universe was ignoring me. (But Amy – who really does have that certain special quality and should be called Emily IMAO – is going off to New Zealand in ten days time. I doubt she’ll write.)

*  *  *

I’m currently drinking Portuguese beer. It’s better than I expected.

The Significance of Three Sarahs.

I encountered three Sarahs in Ashbourne today, one in person and two more remotely. They were:

1. Sarah, the bringer of sunshine.

2. Sarah, the woman who seems to like me a lot even though I really don’t know why and who always insists on hugging me.

3. Sarah, the little-girl-in-the-pet-shop’s prospective new rabbit.

It occurs to me to wonder whether an occurrence in triplicate during the course of one day indicates that the recipient is truly in touch with the universe. It also occurs to me to wonder whether such a thought is patently absurd, but you never know. And nice wonderings are better than the nasty wonderings to which I’m mostly prey these days.

And just to add another little coincidence to the matter of the three Sarahs, I later discovered that Sarah #1 was born in the Chinese Year of the Rabbit. Could that be the universe’s way of saying trust me? I don’t suppose so, but straws are worth holding onto when there’s nothing else to clutch and the sea is unusually turbulent.

This is the first blog post I’ve written in quite a long time which reads reasonably well. Having wondered why that should be, I decided it probably demonstrates the difference between a high functioning depressive and a low functioning one.

On Spring, Searching, and the Sweetness of a Smile.

The standard trees in the Shire are being a little precocious this year. Already they’re beginning to display that soft, furry look as they clothe themselves in a diaphanous vernal gown to cover their winter nakedness. And it’s only the middle of February.

And why am I talking like this? Why can’t I just say the buds are forming on the trees so I sound prosaic instead of pretentious? I suppose it’s because I’m trying to locate the writer who used to live here. It’s clear I haven’t found him yet, but please don’t shoot the guy who is just out searching the orphanage for his long lost brother.

There I go again.

I also saw six or seven honey bees today, feeding, or trying to feed, on the wintry-white snowdrops. I’ve never seen bees feeding on snowdrops before, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen bees out this early in the year. Maybe it’s normal; maybe I just didn’t notice. If it isn’t, then I have to wonder whether the bees are simply responding to the current temperate conditions, or whether they know something I don’t: that we’re heading for a warm spring. That would be nice.

Meanwhile, two of the February chores have now been dealt with and there are more to come next week. But today I noticed that the small hernia – which developed when I was clearing 125ft of 4-year-overgrown hedge a couple of years ago – has grown somewhat and become a little painful. The medics tell me they’ll deal with it once they’re sure the cancer business has been sorted. Life is quite the bundle of laughs at the moment.

Incidentally, the Chinese woman to whom I offered New Year greetings last week was in the same place again on Wednesday (which is a bit odd, but then lots of things are.) She recognised me immediately and cast the sweetest smile in my direction. Despite being a matter of little note, it was the biggest pleasure I got this week. And just in case you’re wondering, I did smile back.

Caught in a Backwater.

I’ve been writing words for others to read for over thirty years, and for the last sixteen years writing has been my primary focus. It’s what I do, but at the moment it’s what I’m unable to do.

The calendar for February is replete with things I have to engage with but which are unwelcome. It’s full of those impish anxieties which force the mind into a narrow corridor of resigned functionality, and functionality does not encourage the practice of writing. Writing needs flow not functionality, and the flow is currently stifled under a blanket of dull cares. And so the wings of imagination are clipped and the bird is grounded while the minor matter of mere thought – and occasional dread – takes centre stage. It’s why this blog is bedridden and running a fever at the moment.

But I exaggerate. This blog was never anything special anyway, but it was my nothing special and I miss it.

I rarely miss things, you know. The only thing I can be guaranteed to miss is my freedom when it’s denied me. I was thinking only last night that I wish I were the kind of person who is able to connect with close friends instead of being programmed to keep an arms length of a distance between us, the better to observe and work out and assess and judge. I wish I were the sort of person who could run into the arms of some precious person I’ve missed dreadfully during their absence and hug them with real feeling. But I’m not. It’s an interesting snippet of irony that the only person I’ve missed dreadfully over the past decade was never there to be hugged in the first place and I still miss her most pointlessly. I suppose it’s all in the genes and I should feel amused since I’m usually amused by ironic humour.

This evening I was minded to write a post about why February is the dullest month of the year. The words came dropping in as usual but the flow was missing. Flow is so important, you know, for without it a piece of writing is like a stagnant backwater which the fish avoid for lack of oxygen, languishing in foeted isolation while the teeming river runs on regardless to the welcoming sea.

Addressing the Dilemma.

I’ve been considering the question of natural remedies lately but it’s seems well nigh impossible to get a balanced view.

If you read books or websites or seek advice from the proprietor of a health food shop, you’re dealing with people driven by commercial imperatives, proselytising zeal, or both. And you can’t ask a doctor, at least not an NHS doctor, because they’re forbidden to discuss anything other than officially approved medications. So one group of people is talking natural remedies up as much as possible because they’re trying to sell you something, while the other is hidebound by the rules and sworn to silence.

So what do I do about it? I decided tonight to rely on the fact that I’m partial to spinach and mayo sandwiches, and that if I eat enough of them I should live forever. If I’m wrong, then no doubt natural justice will have been served and there’s probably somebody in the other place who will tell me the truth ready for next time. I just had one.

On Being Remembered.

I watched an episode of House tonight in which a terminal cancer patient declined all palliative treatment. The reason he gave was that if he passed away quietly he would pass unnoticed, but if he chose to suffer, people would remember him.

I never understood why some people are so desperate to be remembered after they’re dead. If there’s nothing but oblivion after death, then we’ll never know whether we were remembered or not. On the other hand, if we move into another state of being in a different version of reality, I see no reason why being remembered in a previous reality should matter. And if, as I suspect, we’re simply moving through a post-mortem stage en route to another life as another human, it should matter even less.

I suppose this comes down to the fact that the idea of beginning our existence only when we’re born into a human body and then continuing as the same person through eternity seems nonsensical to me. It’s one of many reasons why I cannot see exoteric Christianity as anything more than a delusion engendered by the need to follow a prescribed route however illogical it might be.

But even if I’m wrong and the Judaic tradition does have all the answers, then surely the focus of attention must be on the route onwards and upwards, not being concerned about whether the folks following behind remember us. And maybe this is just my loner gene seeking to express itself while it still has the means so to do.

The Cathay Connection.

All day yesterday I wanted to encounter a Chinese person so I could wish him or her a Happy New Year. Two things stopped me:

1. I felt ill following the cystoscopy procedure and didn’t fully recover until around bed time.

2. I didn’t see any Chinese people.

But today I got my wish. There was a Chinese woman in the Co-op in Ashbourne, so I approached her boldly and said:

‘Would you mind if I wished you a Happy New Year?’

She looked at me for a few moments in that inscrutable way for which the Chinese are – probably unfairly judging by my experience – much renowned (but which is actually compellingly exotic when it does happen) and then said ‘Do you know what year it is?’ ‘The Pig,’ I declaimed triumphantly. At that she relaxed, smiled demurely, accepted my greeting, and said ‘Good.’ So then I told her what the Chinese chef said in the TV programme yesterday (‘What does the Year of the Pig actually mean?’ ‘It will be a good year for pigs’ – see yesterday’s post.)

It was a heart stopping moment. I hoped she would get the joke, but I’ve no idea what the Chinese find funny, what they find offensive, and what they find downright idiotic. Every culture has its own views when it comes to humour. I waited with bated breath while she frowned and considered the matter. Eventually she said: ‘That’s not correct.’ ‘I know,’ I said. And then she walked away. It was fun while it lasted.

But blow me if I didn’t see a second Chinese person walking towards me along the high street – an elderly woman with bow legs – so I thought I’d try it again. ‘Happy New Year,’ I said. She smiled immediately and said ‘thank you.’ And then she bowed to me.

Well, what is one supposed to do when a Chinese person bows? I had no idea, so I nodded and ran away (well, walked briskly.) And when I saw her again she ignored me completely. Cultural interchange is such a minefield sometimes.

But I think the Lady Fu must have been well pleased (the Lady Fu is my beautiful Chinese figurine who brings me good fortune when she’s in the mood) because she proceeded to introduce me to three very attractive young women over the course of the following hour, and amicable conversations were had with all. Pity none of them were Chinese (although one did have the most engaging pale blue eyes) but you can’t have everything, can you?

On Trials and TV Trivia.

Today was the occasion of my fourth cystoscopy in the space of twelve months. It appears the good doctors at the Royal Derby Hospital fear that some precocious offspring of the grade 3 cancer which was domiciled in my right kidney last year might set up home in my bladder. It happens, apparently.

It wasn’t one of my better days. Having arrived at the almighty bulk of the RDH half an hour early, I sat for 25 minutes in a queue waiting to get a space in one of their seven car parks. It meant I made my appointment time with seconds to spare, and was then kept waiting for a tedious 1¼ hours before being seen by the doctor. That’s most unusual and I did complain, but only briefly and obliquely because I still regard the NHS as a privilege, not an entitlement.

The wait was not, however, entirely without interest because the Urology Day Case waiting area is one of the few which has a TV set mounted in the corner of the room for the entertainment of the fretful rabble in the brown, fake leather seats.

First up was The Jeremy Kyle Show, which I would never watch voluntarily because every aspect of it speaks volumes for the alien world which lies gross and grovelling at the heart of popular culture. I didn’t watch it today either, but there was no escaping the sound. It confirmed my worst fears by validating the predictable fact that the human genome is remarkably close to that of the chimpanzee.

Next came a DVD tutorial on How to Wash Your Hands Properly which began with the instruction: ‘Rub your hands around the bar of soap until there’s lots of lather.’ I took careful note so that my post-operative resolution to attain enlightenment should be further augmented by finally knowing what to do with a bar of soap.

The troublesome bit was the next recorded NHS special in which patients recounted the gruesome horrors they experienced consequent upon their conditions, followed by the further gruesome horrors engendered by the relevant treatments. I think the message was meant be: Do not ignore your symptoms! But I didn’t view it that way. I saw it as all the more reason not to go running to a GP to ask ‘Doctor, doctor, I coughed twice on one day last week and I fear it may mean that I have any one or more of a dozen rare conditions, each of which is potentially fatal if I do not seek the immediate and harrowing attention of your specialist colleagues.’ Seems I’ve become scared of doctors. Can you believe that? Can you blame me?

But there was light relief to come because the TV set reverted to popular culture mode by showing one of those awful mid-morning magazine programmes in which two very nice presenters – one male and one female, of course – take an in-depth look at a matter germane to the hour. Today being Chinese New Year, they introduced a Chinese chef come to celebrate the occasion with a tutorial in his native cuisine. One of the presenters asked ‘So what does the Year of the Pig actually mean?’ to which the chef replied: ‘It will be a good year for pigs.’ Whether he was joking - with a degree of irony which I find both distasteful and yet perversely laudable - because he was about to prepare a pork dish, I mercifully never found out because rescue was at hand in the form of a very nice doctor who cordially invited me into the torture chamber.

As for the procedure itself, it was different than the previous three. It was rather more painful and I left the hospital feeling nauseous, sore, dizzy and cold. And here I am ten hours later feeling only a little recovered. That’s life I suppose, but I am beginning to wonder whether my hope of returning to the fold a fully functioning member of the species might prove to be forlorn.

And if anyone is wondering why I’ve gone twelve days without making a post, it's because my mind hasn’t been operating at a wavelength conducive to writing so I didn’t bother forcing the issue.