Exciting Encounters.

I said to the new checkout girl in Sainsbury’s:

‘The thing which most attracts or repels me about individuals is what I feel of their presence. Some people have a strong presence, some people don’t. Some people feel presence strongly, while others don’t.’

‘Never really thought about it,’ said the new checkout girl.

The silence was pregnant for a few minutes while she scanned and I packed, and then she said (I believe it was while she was weighing the onion): ‘I think I agree with you.’ Her subsequent habit of smiling expectantly suggested she wanted my approbation. Can’t imagine why.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, Dr House drove his car into Cuddy’s living room tonight because she was being nice to her sister’s creepy bank manager. House is my kind of bloke, you know, and my only regret was that the creepy bank manager wasn’t sitting at the table which the big blue sedan demolished. And Cuddy did once tell my favourite doctor that he was the most remarkable man she’d ever known. Nobody ever said that to me. The best I ever get is new checkout girls apparently wanting my approbation. I expect it all comes down to whether you’ve got presence or not.

On Make-Up, Manliness, and Mary Davies

The latest ad to infest my inbox is from Boots. They want me to buy some firming booster serum, apparently from their make-up section. Or is it? Does anybody out there know what firming booster serum is? I need to know or else it would be foolhardy to press the SHOP NOW button. Back in my day women only had to tap their cheeks with a powder puff to face the world undaunted, but we didn’t have a retail-based economy in those days.

You know, when I was a kid my mother’s powder puff fascinated me. I used to sneak into her bedroom when she wasn’t around and take it out of its little pot, and then examine it from all angles, and sniff it, and feel the texture of the powder, and all out of a sense of curiosity. Thankfully, I was never tempted to tap my cheek with it. Imagine where I might be now if I had.

*  *  *

Tonight I’m snacking on:

Scrocchi Italian Crackers

With Sesame and Poppy Seeds

They’re rather nice, but I’m not convinced they’re entirely manly. When I was a kid you got Smiths Crisps with a little bag of salt, or nothing.

That was back in the day when proper men didn’t work in shops, of course. A woman made no bones about that when I worked in a shop. She told me that proper men worked either in manual jobs or offices. Only wimps worked in shops. I would never have got over it if my current love interest, Mary Davies, hadn’t grabbed my hand and held it out for the harridan to see. ‘Look,’ she said with a determined air, ‘he’s got calluses on his hands. Where do you think they came from?’ I would have preferred it if she’d mentioned my rugby playing, but I shall be forever grateful for her support anyway. Imagine where I might be now if it hadn’t been for Mary Davies.

Considering Which Road to Follow.

A young woman acquaintance of mine will turn 25 on Saturday and she’s not terribly happy at the moment. Her story, very briefly, is this:

In the matter of education she tripped merrily along in the groove to which I’ve made mention recently. She did her degree in Commerce and Law because that’s a fairly safe bet if you want a reasonably prosperous existence and the lifestyle trappings which come with it. The problem is that she’s not really the groove type. She’s a free-spirited, adventurous type who now spends so much time withering in the heat of the corporate kitchen that she doesn’t have the time to smell roses, dance on poles, woo handsome young dudes in Argentina, climb mountains, and muse on the big existential questions as is her wont.

So now I’m about to send her birthday greetings and I’m unsure whether to point out (from experience, you understand) that youth is very short and very precious, and that maybe it’s an awful shame to waste it on building a career which will bring merely lifestyle benefits and security in old age. After all, how do any of us know whether we’ll even get an old age? And given the apparent threat of global catastrophe through climate change, how can any of us know whether money will be worth very much in thirty or forty year’s time?

I think I probably will. If she finds my view unpalatable, presumptuous, or just plain wrong, no doubt she’ll ignore me as she always does.

A Return to Something Like.

I took a shower in daylight today. That’s most unusual for me because I’m strictly a late night showerer. I find showering in daylight uncomfortable for some reason. It’s one of my oddnesses (or peculiarities, as Charlotte Brontë called them when discussing Emily.) In fact, the last time I showered in daylight was shortly after I came out of hospital following my operation nearly fourteen months ago, and that’s the point of the post.

It was when I took that shower last April that I first noticed the full extent of muscle loss on my arms, shoulders and chest. The light coming from the window was in just the right position to show up the wrinkled skin all across my chest because there was hardly anything underneath to stretch it. All I could see under the skin was an impression of my rib cage.

Today I got the same view with the same lighting, and it was very different. The muscles are back in earnest, there’s no sign of my rib cage which I’m fairly sure is still there, and the skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. (OK, so that’s a slight exaggeration. Slight exaggerations are allowed on blogs.)

erm... not quite, but going in the right direction

So there you have it. I’m still depressed, but being depressed with chest muscles is marginally better than being depressed without them.

Da Capo.

Went to the GP yesterday about the leg problem. More hospital investigations in the offing. Here we go again. Not happy.

Something I saw in Uttoxeter yesterday led me to wonder whether feelings of guilt count towards the repayment of Karmic debt. Must ask a Buddhist.

I need some fun.

On Needing to Cover Up.

Now that my good friend, the mirror, has persuaded me to feel embarrassed about being seen in public, I’ve decided I need a disguise. I thought about getting a Cousin Itt outfit, but felt that it might prove dangerous in a farming area for obvious reasons. I thought about getting a long cape and prosthetic fangs, but feared they might attract autograph hunters. I thought of getting a black Balaclava with eye and mouth holes and affecting a mincing walk, but decided that the attention of desperate women asking if they could be my wife now would be too much to handle.

I gave them all up and settled for sunglasses. I have a pair, you know. They’re blue. (They're also polarising so the glare shall not trouble me nor the water reflect a cruel world. That's what makes them posh.) The trouble is, I need a hat to go with them and none of the ones in my possession is suitable.

One is a woolly sort which makes me look like the guy who hangs around street corners because he was fired from his labouring job for being unable to handle a wheelbarrow.

One is a flat cap which makes me look like somebody pretending to be a county type even though I don’t have the matching tweed jacket.

One is a very old bush hat which makes me look like an Australian farmhand who hasn’t been paid for several years.

None of them goes with shades, so what does? I don’t know; that sort of thing lies well beyond my experience, not to mention my comfort zone. And since I have nobody who’s advice I might seek (and since I never take advice on principle anyway) suggestions would be welcome in writing.

In the meantime I will search diligently wherever inspiration might be found. But what do I do about the withering looks hurled in my direction by passing strangers and their dogs? Squirm, I suppose.

A Matter of Values.

I decided to lighten up a bit, so I thought I’d tell the story of my new poppy plant.

Back in the spring of 2016 I noticed that an oriental poppy had seeded itself close to an ancient one at the bottom of my garden. I knew it would get well smothered by other growth if I left it there, so I decided to move it even though I’d read that poppies don’t like being moved.

I kept plenty of earth around its roots and planted it in a clearer space at the top of the garden, and was disappointed to see it apparently die back to nothing very quickly. Fortunately I’d noticed that poppy leaves do die back very soon after flowering, so I left the little newbie in place. In the spring of 2017 a few shoots appeared, but nothing else. In the spring of 2018 it grew to a height of about a foot. This year it’s grown to twice that height and has its first flower bud. Do I take great delight in that? Yes I do, because the god of small things is usually the one to bring me cheer when I need it.

‘But a poppy plant is a minor matter,’ I hear you say.

No it isn’t. It’s a small matter, but not a minor one. There’s a difference. My idea of success is not about childishly threatening to destroy Iran if it doesn’t cease being anti-American, but rather about seeing new and colourful life take hold and prosper. And I heard recently that appreciating the value of small things is a sign of emotional maturity, so I’d say the current score is Trump 0 : JJ 1.

Me and the Mood and the Muse

I’m in one of those moods today where I feel suffocated by a sense of disappointment at the quality of my fellow human beings. The European Election results didn’t help because they demonstrated yet again that a war is building between the minority given to the principles of light, reason, compassion and inclusivity, and the majority convinced of the need to be selfish, bigoted, prejudiced, self-righteous and exclusive. The sight of an exultant Nigel Farage sent me plummeting, as did the phrase ‘success of the nationalist parties.’ I remember feeling the same way when I first read Trump’s small minded dictum America First. But I was buoyed on that occasion by a sense of relief that at least I don’t have to live in America. Last night’s results were much closer to home. (Do I have a home? I’m not sure that I do.)

And in such a mood I’m led to wonder why I write blog posts like the one I did last night – posts which are both intensely personal and necessarily enigmatic. The answer is simple as always: I’m just thinking aloud, and thinking aloud is an inevitable corollary of having nobody to talk to 99% of the time (I worked it out recently that it’s actually 99.25%.) And the reason I spend so much time alone is that I can’t climb back into the groove which western culture insists is the only proper way to live and the only one it is prepared to support. Walking in the groove is as much a psychological phenomenon as it is a practical and physical one. Once your mind has seen something, it can’t unsee it.

As for the blog, I’m sure my tendency to talk aloud is the reason it gets so few visitors. But it doesn’t take long to conclude that it really doesn’t matter because the infinite space outside the groove at least gives you the occasional glimpse of magic, even though we all know that magic is a delusion. The wage slave drivers cracking their whips in the groove say so, and they know they’re right.

A Choice of Black Days.

Since the clock in our venerable old church tower has now chimed the witching hour, I suppose I can make the post I mentioned a few days ago.

It’s 27^th May here in dear old Blighty, and 27^th May shall henceforth be know as Black Monday in this household. Well, it would be if only the days and their respective dates didn’t keep changing every year. Next year it will be Black Tuesday. ('Oh no it won’t,' I hear you shriek in glee, 'because next year will be a leap year. It will have to be Black Wednesday.' OK, you got me. Seems to me that whoever set up the western calendar must have been high on some concoction derived from a plant root found only in a 10ft square patch of unhallowed ground somewhere in the vicinity of the headwaters of the Orinoco, but I expect he’s dead now so there’s nothing we can do about it.)

But I digress. It’s 27^th May and I don’t like it. I suspect it even had something to do with the infernal racket rolling up the hill from the lower levels of the Shire last night, suffocating the kind of magic which only a mild and moth-laden spring evening can convey. But I suppose everyone is entitled to their choice of noise (or so I’m told.) And I suppose those of us with more refined sensibilities just have to put up with being forced against our will to listen to it. And since I also suspect that it was contrived to accompany a double celebration, I further suppose that the weight of evidence was on their side for once.

(This could so easily go into the post about living in the groove. It’s been rolling around my mind for some time now, but I won’t force that one on you. For now.)

And you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, have you? Just as well. What value do I have left if I can’t be enigmatic while the world fades? And who knows, maybe the Dark Rider will take pity on me and offer me a pillion position before Black Wednesday stuffs my head with sawdust.

*  *  *

We lost Masters in tonight’s episode of House. That’s a shame; I liked Masters. I think I was supposed to.

Talking to Myself and Other Signs of Madness.

I hate the ageing process.

Why?

Why do you think? That guy in the mirror isn’t me. He’s not who I’m used to being. I want to be fit and strong again. I want to be able to run ten miles and lift heavy things and climb mountains and feed my addiction like I used to.

And what addiction would that be?

Never mind. I just want my young body back again, the one that had two kidneys and a spring in its step and didn’t make me feel embarrassed to be seen in public.

So you want be who you were thirty years ago?

Of course.

No, you don’t. Ageing is a trade-off. The body fades; that’s the loss. But you gain wisdom in compensation.

Ah, the old wisdom argument. So what, may I ask, is the value of wisdom?

You get to understand things better.

I know, that’s the problem. The more I understand things, the more I get depressed.

That’s just being negative. Perception is the whole of the life experience.

Plagiarism will get you nowhere. Go to sleep.

*  *  *

It is an ironic fact that the wiser you get, the less you’re sure you know. So is all this living stuff going somewhere or not? And I had a situation this morning which made me seriously suspect that my mind is fading along with my body. I was already depressed. (I always am in the morning, you know. It goes back to my childhood and I have no idea where it came from.) And it’s been an unusually busy week for me so now I’m tired and don’t want to write any more.

Except to say that House got married in tonight’s episode, just to piss Cuddy off because she’d dumped him two episodes earlier. When they returned to his apartment after the nuptials, his bride said:

‘I know this marriage is fake but I really do like you.’

‘I like you, too,’ said the good doctor with a heartening show of earnestness.

So then she began to manoeuvre into full consummation mode, and he said:

‘I can’t. I never sleep with married women. I’m going to bed; you take the couch.’

Oh for the opportunity.

Moan Mode.

Today was a crappy day. It was one of those days when lots of things happen and they’re all crappy.

‘We can’t do that,’ mumbled the young guy on the phone whose level of articulation matched that of a chimpanzee on his third double vodka, and who had evidently not yet received his copy of the be helpful to customers because we kind of need them, you know?’ training manual.

‘Why can’t you do that?’

‘We just can’t.’

‘Don’t give me the ‘we just can’t’ stuff. Give me the rationale. Tell me why you can’t.’

That kind of crappy day. There was lots more. Tomorrow carries its own worry, and Thursday has the potential to be another crappy one.

Do you know, I struggled to walk to the post box and back today. The post box is a quarter of a mile away. I have a GP appointment next Tuesday.

Random Musing and Mostly Rubbish.

I don’t know what to do tonight. Tomorrow I have to be up indecently early by my standards, and then I have to do something I find unpalatable. I’ve been dreading it for weeks, so should I bother to go to bed tonight?

I felt like this the night before my operation, and that night I didn’t bother to go to bed – just snatched a couple of hours in the armchair between watching half a tedious movie and waiting for the taxi to turn up. It was still dark when we got to the hospital. Imagine that: me getting somewhere while it was still dark. Hideous.

But therein lies the difference: I don’t have to catch a taxi tomorrow, I have to drive there. And it won’t be dark because now is May and then was March. (Please respect the imaginative use of English: it’s all I have to offer to get me through the gates when the time comes.) I’ll probably go to bed.

*  *  *

And talking of getting through the gates, I had a new thought on the mortality issue today. It seemed to me that when we’re born we take the first step on a road which is probably pre-determined by the law of cause and effect. The road goes on to infinity, but some way along it the Dark Rider starts riding towards us at precisely the moment of our birth. Sometimes the horse walks, sometime it canters, sometimes it trots, and sometimes it gallops. And then one day he meets us and gathers us up, and the rest of the road remains untrodden. I’ll mention the Dark Rider again next Monday, assuming I’m still here and in a position to make a post next Monday. Next Monday will be 27^th May.

*  *  *

There was a girl of eleven or twelve in tonight’s episode of House and she was very impressive. She reminded me, if such a thing were possible, of an American version of the young Hermione Granger. Different accent, different mannerisms, but similar personal qualities if allowance is made for the radically different context.

And talking of Hermione Granger, somebody who uploaded a video based around her on YouTube described her thus:

Brilliant and Brave

Loyal and Loving

Bossy and Beautiful

That’s pretty impressive, too. I do so like effective alliteration, especially when it’s right.

‘And Darkness, and Decay, and the Red Death held illimitable Dominion over all.’

~Poe

*  *  *

Today I was thrown into confusion by the sight of two women walking two cocker spaniels. There was a human missing.

*  *  *

I really don’t know why I’m writing this stuff. Not knowing why I’m writing something seems to be the way of things these days, and it must be nearly bed time if I’m going to have an early night. I don’t suppose I will, though. I’m sure it wouldn’t work. I think I'll just sit here and glow with pride at combining the alliterative with the palindromic. I'm easily pleased since the mirror cracked and my vanity met the Dark Rider.

A Video Gem.

I just found the most fascinating video on YouTube. It's a very long time since anything held me enthralled like this did, so if anybody out there really wants to know me - which I admit is most unlikely - watch it. Watch it anyway. It's straight out of one of those funny little backstreet shops where the creepy proprietor knows more about you than you do.

The Ghosts of Mill Lane.

Something brought Mill Lane to mind tonight, so I entered it into my blog search box and read all the old posts in which Mill Lane featured. There were plenty of them. And as with all such reflective endeavours, the memories came flooding back with it. It was much like looking through an old photograph album, or watching old home movies on a screen. Images on a screen are two dimensional, and so are shadows.

I remembered the big Rottweiler which stood by the gate of Newhouse Farm one cold, misty night, his breath steaming, his ears cocked, and his implacable stare still and intense. I remembered the nights I stood watching the stars, sketchpad in hand, trying to learn something about the constellations. (Mill Lane was the best place to study the night sky because of the distance between the hedgerow trees.) I remembered the cascade of blue lights around the tall fir tree in the garden of Rosemount at Christmastime, which glowed and pulsated quite magically in the frosty night air. I remembered the view of the creepy copse up on higher ground which stood eerily silhouetted against the eastern sky. I remembered the other-worldly sight of Walsage House glowing in the light of a full moon shining through the damp mist. I remembered the alpacas and the donkey and the giant sheep, and the American quarter horses which came for handfuls of fresh hay from the ungrazed side of the gate. I remembered the times I sang Raglan Road with some modest degree of gusto to the little people (and probably earned myself a reputation for strangeness in so doing. I recall not caring what reputation it earned me as long as it was on the odd side of normal.) And I remembered the indescribable loveliness of a young woman in a long summer frock watching her menfolk play croquet in the warm May sunshine.

I haven’t set foot on the hallowed tarmac of Mill Lane for over a year. A combination of circumstances led me to feel that the genius loci no longer welcomed my presence there, and who am I to deny the spirit of a place? And so it became my personal House of Usher, a ruined former edifice now crumbled into the marsh and occupied by nothing but distant souls and personal revenants.

I have dark moods these days, and what better to fill them with than the ghosts of old haunts? And isn’t it ironic that my reason for wanting to haunt Mill Lane myself one day is no longer there?

Remembering the Everglow.

I’ve recently become somewhat enamoured of the song Everglow by Coldplay. I’d never heard it until I found it among the plethora of clips from Harry Potter on YouTube, but it went straight under my skin and hasn’t come out yet.

The only problem with it was the fact that I couldn’t make out which of the two protagonists was gone – was it the singer, who might have been dead, or the beloved, who might have been gone for all sorts of reasons? So today I got the lyrics up by way of a Google search. I’m still a little confused about the line ‘when I’m cold’, but it’s now apparent that it’s the loved one who is absent for some reason.

What’s also interesting is that when I saw the lyrics in print, they didn’t look like song lyrics at all. There appeared to be no structure or metre to them and I wondered how on earth anybody could actually sing them effectively. And yet by dint of various devices the singer does sing them most effectively and movingly. And there were a couple of seemingly innocuous lines which meant something to me:

There’s a light that you give me when I’m in shadow

There’s a feeling within me, an everglow

Now, who does that remind me of? Didn’t I once remark that the sun came out? And why is it that, in spite of the fact that every inch of ground on which she walked was hallowed, were we never able even to be friends? Sad maybe, or maybe not; I’m sure it was for the best. And here’s the video in case anybody wants to acquaint themselves with the song and the nature of a person whose skin it gets under.

Not Singing Along.

It’s FA Cup Final day today at Wembley Stadium, the spiritual home of English football. (Is it appropriate to use the word ‘spiritual’ in connection with football? I don’t know, but journalists do, so at least I’m in bad company for once.) Anyway, the point of the post is this:

I was flicking through the TV channels at lunchtime when there, among the tedious array of game shows, cookery shows, lifestyle shows, American am dram comedies, and – heaven preserve us – shopping channels, there was some film of a remarkably unprepossessing young man apparently singing into a microphone. (I say ‘apparently’ because I decline to have the sound switched on in such circumstances.) He was standing at the edge of what I assumed to be the pitch at Wembley Stadium, and it seems his name was Lewis Capaldi. (I only gained this knowledge because there was a big board in front of him which said LEWIS CAPALDI.) And there was another, almost equally unprepossessing young man fingering a keyboard who I assumed to be his accompanist. Mr Capaldi appeared to be taking his activity very seriously, as evidenced by the fact he was contorting his face into a fascinating range of ridiculous expressions. The accompanist looked as though he was just concentrating hard on keeping up.

But what was really odd about all this was the fact that the stadium was empty. So what on earth was that all about?

There was a time, you know, when they didn’t have rock and pop stars singing at the cup final, but only an opera singer singing the national anthem (or was it Abide with Me? It’s hard to tell one dirge from another.) But times change and I don’t know which is worse.

(But I do know what takes the biscuit. It's seeing twenty three fully grown, hard-bitten rugby players, fist on heart, singing the national anthem with apparent enthusiasm. Now that's really freaky.)

What Stirs the Innocent Affection.

I’ve almost reached the middle of Season 7 of House, so the good doctor and his emotionally dysfunctional entourage will soon be leaving me. Tonight I was reminded that he only ever said ‘God, you’re adorable’ to two people. The first was a little girl of around 2, and the second was a cute, pretty, slightly gawky and highly principled young female post-grad student. It made me realise that House and I have more in common than I would care to admit.

*  *  *

Currently listening to the Romance from the Serenade in A Minor by Ralph Vaughan Williams. It was his first composition after leaving the Royal College of Music and contains the first expression of that brand of heroic music peculiar to the great VW. I find it very moving. And did you know that his second wife was nearly forty years younger than him? I find that pretty moving, too, especially since he was once described by an associate as looking like an old sofa with the stuffing falling out.

The Story of Abigail and Dolores.

I thought it was about time I broke my silence with the woman in one of the charity shops in Uttoxeter, and so I did on Monday.

I’ve mentioned previously on the blog that I hold her in some modest degree of esteem, although I’ve always been careful not to identify her workplace. It occurred to me that the many members of the JJ Blog Club scattered around the globe might all get together and charter planes and buses and then descend on modest little Uttoxeter en masse, there to make pilgrimage to the establishment in question and lay siege to it. I feared it might embarrass the poor woman and also place unwarranted pressure on the environment. (Of course, you could always try guessing.) But back to the story.

I often watch her when she’s working, and I expect I frown a lot in the process. It’s what I do when I’m studying people. Occasionally she glances back at me and I’ve often thought that I owe her an explanation, and so on Monday I took the plunge.

‘May I tell you something?’ I began.

She said nothing for several long seconds while she held me in a suspicious stare. Eventually she said ‘go on.’

‘It’s just that I hold you in some modest degree of esteem,’ I continued, ‘and I thought I should tell you why.’

She remained silent and I waited until I was sure she wanted to hear the explanation and wasn’t about to call the police. And then I told her:

‘I’ve observed that you never wear make-up, evidently because you feel no need of it. And your hair is held in a simple arrangement whereby it looks functional rather than flouncy. Your eyes are unusually strong and suggestive of the fact that you have no craving for approbation. You rarely speak, but when you do your voice is low and expresses impeccable manners. And finally, you dress simply, yet always manage to look stylish. I hope none of this offends you.’

She continued to watch me in silence, but I saw a change in her expression. It was more accepting and a semblance of interest appeared in her eyes. Eventually she said:

‘I’m not offended at all. I always wondered what you were thinking behind those frowns of yours. Maybe we could talk some more when I’m not busy.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘When would be convenient?’

‘I take my lunch in ten minutes. Could we meet in the coffee shop at the top of the High Street?’

‘Certainly. I’ll leave you to your work and see you at 1.’

I waited inside the coffee shop until she turned up so that I could offer to pay for the drinks. I felt I owed it to her in view of her unexpected accommodation. I was happy that she accepted the offer on the grounds that managers of charity shops earn a lot but don't get paid very much, and I was gratified that she added practicality and honesty to her virtues.

And so we sat and talked, exchanging life histories and all the other little matters of mutual interest which occupy people on a first meeting. Being only around thirty, her life history was rather shorter than mine, but it had its moments. And she told me her name was Abigail. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me. Abigail has long been a favourite of mine, almost to the point of seeming mysteriously compelling. I told her so and she smiled.

At that point a middle aged woman walked up to our table. It was somebody I knew quite well from the village, the one that all villages have, the one who regards it as their duty to know everything there is to know about everybody and then luxuriates in spreading the intelligence far and wide.

‘Hello, Jeff,’ she said enthusiastically while I grimaced in silence. ‘I’ve never seen you in here before. Is this you daughter?’

I managed a snappy reply for once.

‘No,’ I said, ‘just somebody I met in a shop. Her name is Dolores.’

‘Dolores?’ said the neighbour. ‘That’s a nice name, but rather unusual these days. It’s nice to meet you, Dolores. Don’t keep him up too late, though, will you? Goodbye.’

‘Nice meeting you, too,’ said Abigail with a wry smile. ‘Goodbye.’

I’ve often noticed that people like the interloper, people who need to know everything there is to know about everybody, rarely recognise something as subtle as a wry smile. Abigail’s wry smile broadened and she said:

‘Good name you chose.’

‘Dolores?’ I queried. ‘Did you get the joke?’

‘Of course I got the joke. I’m a big fan of Nabokov.’

To the reader:

You will have guessed, I’m sure, that most of the above is pure fiction – fiction, but not exactly fantasy. It’s just a cocktail made of three real people, the habits and observations of somebody who lives alone and lives for little other than writing, and a soupçon of imagination. And of course, it could be that in a parallel universe…

A Little Late Note.

Sorry I didn’t post the story of Dolores tonight, but I didn’t actually promise if you remember. The fact is that I’ve been busy doing other things and it’s getting a bit late now. I might do my best tomorrow. Then again, I might not.

One of the things which kept me occupied tonight was the latest episode of House, and it seems we’re back on a wavelength. ‘I loathe weddings,’ he said as he strode limpingly away from Mistress Cuddy, ‘and their seven layers of hypocrisy.’ Unfortunately he omitted to enumerate the seven levels, but I recall once writing a blog post entitled Ten Reasons to Hate Weddings so I expect Dr H and I are running pretty much in tandem.

And I did go to Homebase today, and I did buy a dwarf lupin as suggested by the pushy little geranium. One of tomorrow’s jobs is to introduce her to her new home, ensuring that she’s far enough away from the plg to avoid picking up a bad attitude.

The Three Ladies of Costa.

In the short time I have available between aspects of my evening activities, I thought I’d heap thanks and praise on the three women working in Ashbourne Costa today. (And please note that the three women motif common in Celtic folklore is a favourite of mine. Maybe that’s why the Costa women behaved as they did today, although I was tempted to assume that the Lady Fu was actually at the helm. I even said as much.)

I’m not going to go into detail for reasons which needn’t be explained. Suffice it to say that their level of friendliness, generosity, singular attention to my interest, and overall niceness went far beyond anything I have hitherto experienced from people working in the service industry. And I had no idea what I’d ever done to deserve it.

The leader of the trio was the youngest, a woman I have often observed to be one of those people who carry light around with them and bestow it to everyone in their orbit. I said ‘Would you mind if I asked your name?’ (At one time I would simply have asked ‘What’s your name?’ but that was back in the days when I was more House-like. Making an earnest effort to be less presumptuous was one of my resolutions after the people at the Royal Derby Hospital saved my life.)

‘Teagan,’ she replied. ‘It’s Gaelic Irish.’

‘Are you Irish?’ I asked, genuinely interested.

‘Not even close.’

I have no idea what that was meant to imply, but she remained the day’s hero notwithstanding. I then had to explain to the manager that the pictogram Fu, as in the Lady Fu, is associated with good fortune and has nothing to do with egg foo young. She said ‘Oh.’

But never mind. Today’s visit to Costa Coffee was mind-bogglingly splendid and I expect I’ll go again next week. I wonder whether they’ll remember me.

(And I do realise that their favour might have been driven by sympathy consequent upon the fact that I’m growing old and ugly, but I choose not to dwell on the possibility.)

The Geranium Does Graphics.

I decided to introduce my four new geranium plants to their garden home today. They were still in their pots, of course, and so I placed two of them in the space I’d made to the left, and the other two in the space to the right. I moved them around a bit so they had maximum distance from the other plants, and then turned to fetch my trowel. I heard a small, thin voice behind me.

‘Hey, you,’ it said quietly but clearly.

I turned around half expecting a fairy visitation, but there was nothing with wings and smiley faces to be seen anywhere.

‘Down here,’ continued the voice.

I followed the sound and was forced to conclude that there was nothing in the immediate vicinity except one of the geraniums.

‘Are you talking to me?’ I asked.

‘Of course I’m talking to you. Who else would I be talking to? The fairies? Do you see any fairies?’

‘No.’

‘Right then, so listen: You’re getting it wrong. Don’t you know anything about plant graphics?’

‘Plants have graphics?’

‘Of course plants have graphics. Everything has graphics.’

‘So what’s wrong with the graphics? Two that side, two this. What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is, numbskull, that plants don’t respond too well to either symmetry or the rectilinear persuasion. We like to stick together and we like curves. You should place us in a line which curves around the back of that bunch of stuff there, finishing in front of those guys with the yellow bells.’

One of its leaves waved in the direction of the guys with yellow bells. I expect it was the wind.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘OK, if you say so. But there’s a problem.’

‘What?

‘The space I cleared on the right will be empty. It won’t look right.’

‘So put something else there.’

‘Like what?’

‘How should I know? You’re the gardener.’

‘I noticed last week that they have dwarf lupins in Homebase.’

‘So get a dwarf lupin from Homebase.’

‘OK. Tomorrow.’

‘Yay!’ said four quiet but clear little voices in unison.

And so I followed the geranium’s instruction and transferred all four from their pots, placed them nicely into four neatly dug holes – lovingly reinforced with fresh peat – and watered them in. And do you know what? They didn’t even say ‘thank you.’ Seems there’s no pleasing geraniums.

Tomorrow I might tell the story of the shop assistant called Dolores. (Or was it Abigail?) Then again, I might not.

Verbal Cricket.

Repartee was never my forte. I can talk long enough to worry any donkey which feels emotionally attached to its hind legs; it’s just that I don’t have the sort of mind which is ever ready with the quick fire, witty retort. My brain works too slowly to be a Groucho Marx or a Gregory House. And that’s why I was thrown into difficulty today by the woman who served my coffee in Costa, and who pitched me a vicious, dipping curve ball just I was engrossed in wondering how the hell young women manage to be so tall these days.

Curve ball? Why am I using an expression derived from baseball? Why don’t I play the proper Englishman and say that she bowled me a googly? (For those who don’t know, a googly is a leg spinning ball bowled with an off spin action to fool the batsman – this is cricket we’re talking about, you understand – into thinking that the ball is going to bounce in a different direction than it actually does. A Chinaman, on the other hand, is the opposite. So if ever you hear a sport commentator say ‘that was the best disguised Chinaman I’ve ever seen’, he isn’t referring to Chow Yun Fat in drag.

‘Do you have a busy afternoon planned?’ asked the wench, almost appearing to be genuinely interested.

It threw me. It’s a bit of an advance on ‘are you having a good day?’ and it’s one I’d never heard before so I didn’t have a stock reply on the shelf. Panic began to nudge me gently in the ribs, encouraged no doubt by the growing conviction that, since I’m getting old and ugly, I no longer have the right to expect anybody to even talk to me, much less take an interest in my immediate prospects. I assumed a nonchalant air by way of appearing to prepare a slog over midwicket for six, and then managed a reply of sorts in the three seconds allotted to a person in such circumstances in order to avoid looking stupid and speechless.

‘Nope,’ I replied to give time for the rest to formulate itself. ‘I don’t do busy. Life’s too short to waste on being busy. The busier you are, the faster it goes.’

It was the best I could manage, but she didn’t speak to me after that. Then again, since her hair colour didn’t match the colour of her eyebrows, I decided it didn’t matter. I drank my coffee and then bought four geranium plants to give vent to blessed relief.

A Big Hole and Small Appendages.

Tonight’s episode of House featured a plot hole as big as any I’ve ever seen. But at least there was another memorable line this week (to me, that is.)

‘You only chose her because she looks like Cameron, although Cameron had smaller breasts… by which I mean she was smarter.’

Should I explain why that line resonates with me? No. I’m tired. The pressure of having renewed confidence in the existence of tomorrow is weighing heavy.

Consciousness Concepts.

When I watch the blue tits busily flying back and forth to feed their brood in the nest box behind my kitchen, I’m often tempted to wonder whether they feel relief when the job is over and they can relax for the summer.

It occurs to me that as naturalists and ornithologists learn more about birds, it’s becoming ever more evident that they’re more intelligent than we thought they were. But this isn’t about intelligence. Machines can be intelligent when it comes to matters pragmatic. This is about consciousness and its ability to recognise abstract principles like love and hate, relief and despair.

It certainly seems apparent that certain species of birds – the parrot family in particular – experience moods. And it further seems to me that any creature which can experience moods is capable of recognising the abstract in some form or other. So do the blue tits experience a phew! moment when the kids have flown the nest and learned to feed themselves? I don’t know. Does anybody?

*  *  *

The other thing I’m noticing a lot lately has nothing to do with any consciousness but my own. I keep seeing snowflakes drifting across the garden, only they’re not snowflakes, of course; they’re dandelion seeds. I watch them sailing through the air on the prevailing breeze and am struck by the fact that here are tiny fragments of potential life riding the wind in hope of finding a place to call home. The word ‘hope’ is, of course, the odd word out.

Rueful.

It was thirty years ago this month when a highly attractive and well dressed young woman picked me up from my hotel in downtown Toronto. She was driving a black BMW and proceeded to take me for breakfast in the sort of establishment which offered a choice of tea blends.

Such things were impressive to the young JJ back then, and I swear life would be a lot more accommodating if they still could be.

Trial by Social Visitor.

If anybody is wondering why I haven’t made a blog post yet today (which I very much doubt) blame the social visitors. I said they were coming, didn’t I? And so they did, and here’s an inventory of the problems which they visited upon the peaceful and well ordered life of the loner known as JJ:

1. They encouraged me to talk so much that at times I wondered whether they had homes to go to and whether I had the lung capacity to survive the ordeal.
2. They hung around so long that I was nearly two hours late having my dinner – and on the very day when I had ironing to do afterwards.
3. They walked roughshod on the hallowed turf of my lawn in the pretext of looking to see what flowers I was growing.
4. They made a war zone of my treasured routines. I was sitting in the sunshine drinking tea at precisely the time when my biological secretary kept insisting that I should have been doing something else.
5. They used my bathroom which I’d only cleaned a week ago (and dried their hands on the fresh towel which I’d only put there yesterday.)
6. They cost me four tea bags. Four!
7. I had to put all the cushions straight on the sofa after they’d gone.

So was it good to see them? Yes, but that isn’t the point.

Excepting Lederhosen.

Tell me I’m foolish

Tell me I’m wise

Tell me whatever

But no alibis

Whatever you do, please don’t try to make my blue eyes brown (I'm old enough to remember Crystal Gale.) I wouldn’t like having brown eyes.

In actual fact, I don’t have blue eyes. They’re a fetching shade of blue-grey. When I was a kid I had blond hair and people said I looked like a German; and bear in mind that Germans were still a little unpopular in Britain at that time. Some of the older generations reluctantly admitted that Germans made good clocks, but they were generally of the opinion that good clock making was a poor excuse for threatening us with paratroopers, invasion barges, and the possibility of having our beloved fish and chip shops replaced by sauerkraut bars staffed by men in leather trousers. They didn’t mind the proliferation of Indian and Chinese takeaways, on the other hand, because there was little evidence that the Indians and Chinese had very many paratroopers (and men in turbans and coolie hats were perceived as less of a threat than men in leather trousers.)

I think I’m going to get slaughtered for making this post. You have to be so careful what you say these days even when you’re only joking in your innocent, childlike way. We’re all friends now and that’s just how it should be.

My mother often used to tell the kid known as Jeffrey: ‘Never judge anybody by their country or the colour of their skin. There’s good and bad in every nationality.’ Oddly, however, she did make the odd exception and mock Americans, but who doesn’t? And she never said anything about not judging people by the colour of their eyes. Maybe she hadn’t quite got there yet, and maybe it was my job as the representative of the Next Generation to take the argument that bit further. And it was never a problem anyway since I’m notorious for not noticing the colour of people’s eyes. I had to ask the former Lady B once what colour her eyes were, because when I did finally look I couldn’t put a name to it. ‘Hazel,’ she said. Really? I remember Googling it because I’d always thought that hazel eyes were brown (hazel being a tree, you understand.) Ah, but what a lady she was – and still is. If only she would change the colour of her eyes maybe I could finally consign her to that draw with the unpickable lock where she belongs.

So, cordial greetings to all Germans, Indians, Chinese, Americans, people with hazel eyes, and everybody else except men wearing leather trousers. I’m really a brotherhood of man type, you know. Really.

And do you know what? I haven’t a clue why I wrote this post. I’d just watched an unusually nice episode of House and it was all about a writer with a death wish. It inspired me to want to write something, and this is what came out. Hope nobody’s offended (except the lederhosen brigade. Sorry chaps, but there has to be an exception to every rule or else what’s the point of having rules? And you could always say ‘Morris dancers’ if vengeance is your forte.)

Dreams and Relativity.

Sorry, this isn’t going to be a deep and meaningful post. It’s a short, nonsensical one.

It’s just that the dream I had last night has been clinging like a limpet all day. I dreamt that two of my ex’s were in my house. One was lodging here temporarily, while the other was here to pick up some of her things. Meanwhile, the landlord was in the garden tearing my plants out. I swear that if only I could know my own mind the universe would make much more sense.

And I noticed the other day that tractors coming towards you on a narrow lane travel much faster than those you get stuck behind. I suspect a young framers’ conspiracy, but maybe it’s just a cigar being a cigar.

Ups and Downs.

Today was a day of gains and losses. Let’s start with the losses.

Delays on the road, delays getting into the car park, delays in the town. Thursday is not a good day to go to Ashbourne, but I can’t be bothered to explain the reasons in detail. Let’s just say it’s about old people, old traditions, and old habits.

The bigger loss was the mysterious disappearance of three £10 notes from my back pocket. They were there when I left the house. I drove to Ashbourne and went into Sainsbury’s, but when I came to pay for something the three notes were missing.  I dislike losing any amount of money and £30 is a lot of money to me.

I decided to rationalise the issue, or maybe I should say fantasize.  It occurred to me that some single mother with three kids might have seen the notes lying on the pavement somewhere and picked them up. Maybe she was one of those mothers which are proliferating in Britain ever since the Tories took control of the country – the sort who can’t afford to give their kids breakfast before they go to school in the morning, and can only afford to give them dinner at night through having demeaned themselves by asking for help from the local volunteer-run and volunteer-supplied food bank. Such kids get meagre dinners, and such mothers are often on the verge of emotional collapse. It’s a common problem these days.

If that were the case, I would be more than happy to have contributed positively to her mental state and her children’s tomorrow. I can’t know, of course, but I can fantasize. Maybe it wasn’t true; fantasies often aren’t. But it made me feel better. And now for the gain:

Twenty four days after my last set of CT scans I still hadn’t had any results. Enquiries with both my GP and the hospital had proved fruitless, so I called in at the GP surgery again and explained the situation to the young woman receptionist. Not only was she young and attractive, she was also clued up.

‘OK, let’s have a look,’ she said in a tone which inspired my confidence and made me wonder yet again where the hell the last thirty years went. ‘What’s your date of birth?’

‘Do I have to tell you?’

‘Yes. What’s the problem?’

‘Then you’ll know how old I am.’

‘All those years under your belt and you’re still as vain as ever.’

Actually, she didn’t say that, but she should have done. I gave her my date of birth.

‘OK, we still haven’t had a report from the hospital but they can take ages. Let’s look at the correspondence. Ah, here we are. The consultant wrote to you today and sent us an electronic copy of the letter. Shall I read it to you?’

Deep breath followed by assent.

Dear Mr Beazley

I’m happy to be able to tell you that the CT scans you had in April showed no evidence of recurrence. We’ll see you again in August for another cystoscopy.

I’d say that was fair recompense from the universe for my lost £30. Wouldn’t you? And by way of celebration I made straight for the Poundland store and paid £1 for a new soap dish to grace my kitchen. ‘Hang the expense’ became the order of the day.

*  *  *

My favourite quotation today came from Dr House. The guy with the nose asked him:

‘What’s with the death’s head stick?’

‘They didn’t have a death’s ass stick in my size.’

Kudos to the writer, or maybe Hugh Laurie if he ad libbed it.

*  *  *

Finally, I enquired in Sainsbury’s today whether Amy was back yet from her antipodean and Asian travel trip, and was told that she isn’t expected until late July or early August. Since there’s now a reasonable chance that I’ll still be here by then, I’ll look forward to it. I like Amy.

Sex and the Countryside.

Tonight’s post was going to be all about House, and how American writers and producers seem to be very confused about the connection – or lack thereof – between love and sex. I started writing it in my head, but in the end even I became confused so I dropped it. I thought I’d say a brief word about the Shire instead.

I was walking along Church Lane today thinking about the recent and very worrying report issued by the UN on the ways in which human activity is seriously messing up the planet. And then I looked around and realised how isolated from the bigger picture we are here in this little English country backwater.

The trees are looking wonderfully healthy this spring in spite of the unseasonably cold weather we’ve been having lately. There’s a venerable old copper beech in Church Lane which has easily the widest spread of any tree I’ve ever known anywhere, and this year I swear the weight of new leaves (they’re a deep, coppery red for those who don’t have the beauty of copper beech trees to enjoy) must be putting quite a strain on it.

And then there’s the proliferation of May blossom on the hawthorn trees and hedges. I noticed the buds a week or so ago, but now the flowers are breaking and parts of Church Lane are seductively perfumed with their heady scent.

Farmer Stan’s traditional hay meadow is growing strong and lush, too. Traditional hay meadows are much less commercially efficient than the modern practice of growing monocultural grass strains and collecting two or more crops of silage every year, but they look so much richer and they’re far better for the birds and insects. And that, at least, is one thing we’re still getting right in our little backwater as long as there are farmers still prepared to work that way. All we need now is four days of dry weather at haymaking time around the end of June and the job is complete. Must remember not to don my robes and shake my rattle at the blue sky around about then.

And you know, of late I’ve been much consumed with the fact that the afternoon of my life is moving into evening and twilight is fast approaching. I look into whatever future I have left and see only a dark place populated by demons. Well, I suppose as long as I have the means to walk freely among the perennial pleasures of an English country backwater, it needn’t necessarily be so dark. And as long as there are heady scents in which to luxuriate and unicorns to look out for, the demons might be kept at arms length sometimes.

Da Capo

House and Cuddy are now an item. They proved their unequivocal love for one another not only by saying as much, but also - and much more tellingly - by having sex three times in the space of a few hours (or was it four? I lost count.) But then they expressed doubts with their eyes at the end of the episode. Well, they say the pen is mightier than the sword. Maybe the eyes are mightier than... the other bits. No doubt the confusion will be resolved in the fullness of time.

On House, Surrogate Mothers, and Picky Pigeons

I just watched the last episode in Season 6 of House. It was very dark, very dramatic, very depressing, and now I’m feeling very drained. It was all too close for comfort in more ways than one. I could have titled the post On Legs and Lovers, but some people might have thought it was going to be mildly pornographic and been disappointed. I do so hate to disappoint.

Today was as dull and disappointing as most days are, unless you count the woman in the Birds cake shop who offered me a napkin with my cream-doughnut-to-go. I’ve never been offered a napkin in a cake shop before and so I queried the offer. ‘As you were taking it out I thought you might like a napkin,’ she said. ‘I’m not posh enough to use napkins,’ I answered, and declined the offer with an appreciative smile. She’s the same woman who volunteered to butter me a cheese scone a few weeks ago if you remember. I’d say she’s between fifteen and twenty years younger than me, but I swear she thinks she’s my mother. She behaves like my mother. Apart from that she’s sort of growing on me.

The pigeon-with-a-bad-leg which shared my lunch was very taken with the wholemeal bread but seemed distinctly unimpressed with the cream cheese and spring onion. It struck me as odd, but then I wondered whether feral pigeons are actually quite posh and my feathered guest would have welcomed the provision of a napkin. The coincidence of Birds and birds was not lost on me.

Oh, and Cuddy finally said ‘I love you’ and House finally looked happy.

Discussing the Conundrum.

There’s a familiar car coming up the lane.

I know, I can see it. I expect lots of the cars which come up this lane are familiar to you. You live here. So what?

Yes, but this one’s special.

Why?

Because the driver is somebody who has occupied a prime seat at the top table of my consciousness for a long time.

Oh, I see. Is that a problem?

Yes.

Why?

Because I don’t know whether to wave or not.

You don’t know whether to wave or not?

No.

I don’t get it. If you see a familiar car being driven by somebody who happens to be significant to you, what’s the problem with waving at them?

Reciprocity. Or, to be more precise, the lack thereof.

God, you’re a weird one sometimes. Go on then: explain.

Well, I don’t hold any seat at all in the consciousness of the driver. Or if I do, it’s one a little below that occupied by an earthworm struggling to cross a dry road on a hot summer’s day. So if I wave I’ll be guilty of both pretension and presumption, but if I don’t wave I’ll be seen as impolite. And stop looking at me like that. And stop shaking your head. I’m a sensitive bloke, you know.

Mmm. Don’t I just? OK, so the issue is one of self-perception, in which case all you have to do is decide whether you’d rather be seen as pretentious and presumptuous or impolite. Which is it?

Well now, let’s see. Pretension and presumption are subjective faults; rudeness is objective. I think I’d prefer the former.

Good. So wave. I calculate you have approximately 1½ seconds in which to perform the dreaded deed.

*  *  *

There, now. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Do you feel better?

No.

*  *  *

This makes quite a change for me, you know. I’m usually the one in italics.

The End

Today's Sweet Toppings.

I’ve mentioned in earlier posts that I get very few knocks on my door. Well, I got one today at lunchtime.

Knocks on my door make me nervous, especially on a Sunday when it might be somebody trying to sell me the secret to finding a clear route through the pearly gates and a place among the heavenly host. I opened the door anyway, and standing on the threshold were two little girls – one aged five and one seven – bearing a bottle of scotch (unopened.) I spoke nicely to both of them and relieved the 7-year-old of the weight she was carrying. See what a nice guy I am? The full story is far too boring to be worth telling. Being approached by two sweet kids bearing Bell’s whisky (unopened) was the icing on a mud pie.

*  *  *

The eggs in the blue tits’ nest box have evidently hatched because both parents are now engaged in flying madly back and forth carrying food on the inbound flight. Soon they’ll be carrying faecal sacs the other way. I watch them while I’m engaged in the tedious business of washing the dishes, which is another example of icing on a mud pie.

*  *  *

The wild garlic in The Hollow is now in full bloom, dressing the earthen embankment in swathes of white drapery. It looks all quite spectacular, and do you know what it puts me in mind of? Icing on a mud pie. To avoid any confusion, I believe the Americans call icing ‘frosting.’  I’ve no idea what they call mud pies.

Women and Waving of Arms.

I was watching a couple of classical orchestral videos on YouTube tonight when I was struck again by that odd coincidence: classical conductors nearly always have white, wavy hair, and the violin section is nearly always well stocked with pretty young women.

And talking of women – which, as you may have noticed, I very rarely do…

I was standing on the lane communing with the bats at twilight this evening when two women-with-dogs came out of Bag Lane a little way down the road and walked off in the opposite direction. And then one of them turned around and waved to me. I haven’t a clue who she was.

I wondered whether she had a clue who I was, but I waved back anyway just to avoid getting a reputation for grumpiness.

The Social Visitor Problem.

I have visitors coming next week. Social visitors.

Social visitors?

Yes. Social visitors.

How many?

Two.

OMG!

It’s OK. You can say ‘Oh, my God!’ since you’re talking and I’m listening. You only say O.M.G when you’re not actually talking to somebody face to face.

Oh, yeah. I forgot that. OH MY GOD!’

That’s better.

What are you going to do with them?

Don’t know. That’s the problem. What does one do with social visitors?

Offer them something to eat?

How can I offer them something to eat? The food I have in my house is carefully planned to last precisely the one week between shopping trips. My life is organised for my needs, not those of social visitors. I do keep two weeks worth of bread in the freezer, though, so I suppose I could say: ‘Would you like something to eat? I have bread.’ But suppose they take me up on the offer? That will put me in a blind panic until I go shopping again and buy some extra bread to make up the shortfall and get my life back on an even keel. The only other thing I keep in any quantity is milk.

How about offering them bread and milk?

Don’t be ridiculous. Bread and milk is what old people eat when they’ve lost all their teeth and they’re clean out of Steradent. These two are a lot younger than me. They’d be offended.

I have a great idea. You got a week before they arrive. Just buy some extra food the next time you go the store.

And what the hell do you suggest I buy, clever dick? I don’t know what social visitors eat, do I? I don’t get social visitors. It’s twenty years since I last opened my door to people who knocked on it purely for the pleasure of my company. And I never knew why they did it anyway. I’m not the social visitor type. I’m a loner, remember? So you tell me: what do social visitors eat? Corn flakes? Bowls of trifle? Bags of yoghurt-coated raisins? How the hell am I supposed to know?

Yeah. Guess you’re right.

You said ‘store.’

I’m sorry?

You said ‘the next time you go to the store.’ Why are you speaking American?

I just watched House.

Oh. (Damn Yankees.)

OK, so how about you forget the food and just sit around talking and having a good time?

Sit? Sit where? My house isn’t laid out for social visitors. It’s laid out for me and me alone.

What’s wrong with your living room? You’ve got an armchair and a three-seat sofa in there. The sofa can get some exercise for a change.

But suppose it’s still cold next week like it’s been for the past three days. The living room is too cold to sit in. That’s why I don’t sit in it. I sit in my office where the bigger of the storage heaters is.

So use the office.

I can’t use the office. The only furniture in the office is my computer chair, and that isn’t big enough for three people. So what am I supposed to do? Buy bean bags? And where would I put them even if I did? The space in my office is all taken up with me things like computer equipment, and files and books, and old vinyl records, and big pot plants, and shoes, and battery chargers for the garden tools. My office is a cockpit in my spaceship-made-for-one. Don’t you get it? I’m in trouble here.

Gee, buddy, guess you’re right.

And don’t call me ‘buddy.’ I’m neither American nor gay.

Sorry. You could offer them a cup of tea and drink it standing.

Oh right, that’s a great idea. So now you expect me to find those matching mugs which have been sitting somewhere at the back of a cupboard for God knows how long becoming coated with kitchen grime. For all I know they might have disintegrated by now, and if they haven’t I’d have to wash them. Some use you are. Get out of my head.

I just remembered something. You never had this trouble entertaining girlfriends.

That’s because girlfriends weren’t social visitors. They were opiates. And anyway, that was then. Are you still here?

Nah. I’m gone. See ya.

Big Dogs and Little Thoughts.

Two Leonbergers insisted on making friends with me today. And since each of them was the size of a small bear and weighed more than I do, I chose not to spurn their advances.

Just in case you don’t know, Leonbergers are not slices of roast lion topped with grilled cheese and coleslaw and served in a bun. They’re dogs. Note the spelling; they’re named after a town in Germany and have no trouble finding ways of making you talk. This is a Leonberger:

 

On a completely unrelated note, there’s a lie I want to tell on my blog. The problem is that I always said I would never tell a lie on my blog and I never have. Not wanting to break my golden rule, I’ve been trying to think of a way in which I can suggest an untruth so compellingly that it will be instantly and wholly believed. But that would only serve my intention to deceive, which is effectively the same thing as telling a lie. And so I've discovered that serving one's intention to deceive without telling a lie in some form or another isn't at all easy.

At the moment I’ve given up, but I’m paying great attention to Dr House in the hope of picking up a tip. He’s very good at that sort of thing. And it stands to reason that I’m not going to reveal why I want to engage with the game of deceit because then it wouldn’t work, would it?

And on another completely unrelated note, there’s a young woman I often see in the coffee shop and she was there again today. I first noticed her because she bears an uncanny facial resemblance to the former Lady B’s sister, but there the similarity ends.

Today she was keeping the company of a late middle aged woman who was droning on and on to such an extent that the object of my interest was relieved of the compulsion to reply. All she had to do was carry on eating, only offering bits of eye movement and general body language to indicate that she was listening. And so I watched her eat, and her method was not quite what you might call ‘decorous.’ I imagined her thought processes running along the lines of ‘If I open my mouth just a bit wider, maybe I can fit even more in next time.’ And she seemed to be enjoying remarkable success in that endeavour.

Eventually I grew bored with observing her munching method and widened my inspection a little further. I noted that her eyes looked substantially more intelligent than her mouth, and that her feet were far too big to belong to a native of a small market town. But then I remembered that Ashbourne is surrounded by farmland and concluded that her antecedents probably lay somewhere in that direction.

The only thing I couldn’t work out was what the look in her intelligent eyes meant when they occasionally turned to watch me watching her. That one failure apart, I can report that an interesting twenty minutes was enjoyed in the full knowledge that being a born observer can make being endlessly alone quite a lot of fun.

Currently listening to some heroic Vaughan Williams. I do so love VW when he’s being heroic.

Women and the Butterfly Thing.

I’ve been noticing lately how some women go through a metamorphosis between their late teens and their early thirties. They transition from being adorably pretty to knee-bendingly beautiful. And then, all of a sudden, they lose their teeth and start hitting their husbands with the biggest saucepan in the house because it really doesn’t matter any more.

This is not a theory. This is an observation. Resistance is useless. I’m trying to get drunk but it isn’t working yet.

Well Met, Lady May.

The moon is now over the yard arm and we in the UK have entered the merry month of May. It’s now May Day, or Beltane as I prefer to call it. (I had my Beltane Eve fire a few hours ago. It was a very good fire, but nothing of any great note happened. Unless, that is, you count the odd noises which drifted Jeffrey-wards from some indeterminate source and which I couldn’t quite identify. It might have been my stomach rumbling I suppose, but I don’t think so. I’m more inclined to suspect that it was a unicorn calling from a distant wood, but it probably wasn’t.)

So, the subject of May. May has long been my favourite month and I always feel a little sad when it ends and greatly disappointed if it hasn’t been a good one. May has also been the month most inclined to throw life-changing experiences at me. Something of great personal significance happened last May, and something else of great personal significance happened the previous May. (I’m not going to say what they were because that would be telling, and I don’t feel inclined to tell until approximately one hour before I die. I’m pleased to say that I feel a reasonable expectation of still being alive when I go to bed tonight, so that’s why I’m not telling. Hands up all those who can’t wait for me to die.)

So what else happened in May? Let’s see…

I first placed my foot on foreign ground in May. It was in Canada at the quayside of St John’s, Newfoundland to be precise. And the second time I went to Canada to do my first foreign assignment for a publisher was also in May. Toronto that time. I met the woman who was to become my wife in May, I took my one and only holiday with Mel after our reconciliation in May, and I started the worst job I ever did in my life in May. I left it to preserve my sanity one year later in May. And then there was the minor matter of escaping from the nightmarish clutches of HM Customs and Excise with whom I had been employed for eleven long years. It finally happened in May with a pretty good settlement. Later the same month I got my first contract with a major London picture library. I could go on. May has been a significant month in the calendar for all my adult life.

So what, I wonder, does this May have in store? Given the events of the past year and a half, maybe it would be better not to make any rash guesses. In any event, I extend the usual welcome to the Merry Maid of May. Whatever you have in store my lady, serve it up and may the universe make me truly thankful.