House Out.

Bye, Greg. Have a good trip. Forget the plot holes, I’ll miss you anyway.

The last episode had me wondering: If I were in imminent danger of death - and not wholly averse to the prospect because the future was looking black - but there was a means of escape, who would I want to hallucinate into my presence to try to convince me to carry on? It wasn’t as easy as you might think. It had to be people who aren’t here for real, people who’ve been in my life but are now either dead or left. And they had to be people I’ve connected with physically, people I’ve spoken to in the here and now. Those I’ve only connected with through the medium of cyberspace couldn’t qualify no matter how important they were – and in some cases still are – to me.

I could only think of one.

And do you know what’s odd? For most of last year, dominated as it was by the cancer issue, I felt a little concerned occasionally that my number might be up. Well, today I did one of the heavier jobs in the garden – through the heat which descended on us suddenly and has now gone again – and I didn’t have a heart attack (or whatever it was that laid me on my back a couple of weeks ago.) I got to thinking about my known prospects, and now I’m feeling a little concerned that it might not be.

The End of a Beautiful Friendship.

My posts aren’t very cheerful at the moment, are they? But can you blame me? Apart from all the other woes pressing themselves into my consciousness, tonight I watched the penultimate episode of House – and the future doesn’t look bright for him or me.

How am I going to cope without him? He’s been my nightly companion for the past six months, and that’s important when you spend 99% of your time alone. And how am I going to cope with losing a team of doctors who so often seemed to be speaking directly to me, especially in the matters of kidneys and blood clots?

Still, at least my favourite Dr Park elevated her credentials tonight by whacking dear old Greg over the head with his own walking stick. Well, he was trying to strangle a patient to death after all, and Park is such a cutie.   

Suffocation.

I have that feeling on me at the moment. You probably know the one I mean:

It’s a dull, wet Tuesday afternoon in February and you’re off work with some enervating condition or other. You’re lying on the sofa and feel slightly chilled but not desperately cold. And you don’t feel like reading, and you can’t think of any music you want to listen to, and there’s nothing on the TV, and there’s nobody to keep you company and make meaningful conversation, and it’s dark in the room but not quite dark enough to turn on the room lights, and it would be too much of an effort even if it were, and there’s an inaudible hum in the air which is squeezing your brain.

(There’s no such thing as an inaudible hum. It’s an oxymoron.

‘There is if you’re me, and I’ll bet there are a few people out there who know what I mean.’)

And your whole being is filled with the pressure to wake up out of this suffocating nightmare and fly free, but you can’t because you’re already awake. And the rain is raining in all directions as far as the eye can see…

*  *  *

There’s been a lone bat giving me its close company in the garden the past two twilights.

And I’ve had three rodent visitors in the house in less than a week. That’s never happened before.

*  *  *

The caged bird sings

With a fearful trill

For things unknown

But longed for still

~Maya Angelou

Layers and Me and the Lady B.

I had cause recently to look out a lot of the posts I made in the early days of the blog – roughly between 2010 and 2012. Much of what I wrote back then went into ‘serious’ issues covering a variety of fields from the political to the philosophical to the spiritual and the societal. I had a lot of visitors in those days, and a lot of comments came winging in ranging from congratulation and agreement to accusations of being opinionated. I spent a lot of time typing replies.

And then I developed an aversion to earnestness and the posts changed their character. The blog took on more of the tone of a little journal documenting the minutiae of a little life. Stories of likes and loathings and loves and losses dropped in like faded photographs falling from a fractured frame. Introspection and experiment came to the fore at the same time, and the result was much that was enigmatic, whimsical, dryly humorous and even surreal. A lot of people must have wondered what the hell I was talking about much of the time and the regulars fell away. Maybe they were disappointed or disgusted or simply dismissive. Whatever the reason, the comments count soon read 0 0 and 0 ad infinitum. It saved me a lot of work.

And then it was time for the health issues to begin loading my perception with anxieties and frustrations and a prevailing obsession with mortality. Can any mindset be more introspective than that? And Darkness, and Decay, and the Red Death held illimitable Dominion over all. And maybe I might be allowed to add Depression to Mr Poe's alliterative set.

And yet still it seems I can’t go longer than a week without making some mention of the woman who used to bring sunshine into my life. I wonder how she managed to transcend the layers. I wonder what she’s doing now. I wonder whether she’s aware of the little ghost tripping along in her wake. I wonder how much of her presence was illusory. I wonder how long any of it will go on.

In the meantime, if I go missing it will probably be because I’m searching the arid sky for something silly to say (and the mood to encourage me to say it.) Back soon, I expect.

A Kind of Youth Rebellion.

There was a teenage boy outside Sainsbury’s today, aged around 16 or 17 and dressed in the local high school uniform. He had a few items in a shopping trolley, and when he’d disgorged them into somebody’s car he came back to replace the trolley in the stack outside the store. But then he noticed there were several more empty trolleys standing willy-nilly around the pavement, no doubt left there by the sort of grown up shoppers who are in the habit of leaving things standing around willy-nilly. So he collected them all up and placed them tidily in the stack. I went over to him and said:

‘Doing that doesn’t exactly look cool, you know…’

I know.

‘… but it’s much appreciated.’

In retrospect I decided it was the wrong thing to say. What I should have said was:

‘What you just did was way outside stereotypical expectations. I’d say that sets you apart; it makes you a rebel. Be proud.’

*  *  *

It also occurred to me today that there’s something important missing from the school curriculum – a subject we might call Admanique. It’s a contraction of Advertising – Manipulation, Motive and Technique. I think kids should be taught from an early age what lies behind the glossy and usually puerile attempts by the corporate world to brainwash the mindless masses, and then they could grow up to view adverts critically rather than being taken in by them. It would probably wreck the economy, but I think it would be worth it. It might even change the world.

Thank You, Dr Adams.

Making blog posts is becoming difficult these days. No life, you see, so nothing to talk about.

I thought of making a pithy post about how men’s suit jackets are becoming shorter and how desperately un-cool they look, but I don’t wear suits so why should I care? I thought of mentioning my near-mortification when Milly the pigeon spurned my invitation to lunch today, but being thrown over by yet another woman is hardly newsworthy. I could have whinged on again about how depressing it is to be a mini invalid in the left leg department, but who would want to hear it? Or I could have complained about the land agent who is accusing me of having my rent paid into the wrong bank account when the whole fault actually lies with them. But we all know what a shady bunch of ne’er-do-wells land agents are, so that would only have provoked another yawn.

And so I thought I'd fall back on a line I heard in tonight’s episode of House.

The team are scratching their heads as usual, trying to work out why all their diagnoses keep on falling by the wayside because the poor old patient is now having a seizure, a coronary, hallucinations, projectile vomiting, or a gushing of blood from every orifice. One of the team clutches at straws by mentioning that the patient’s ex-girlfriend was a yoga instructor, at which point Adams proves that she is not only the hottest property on the block but also has the best sense of humour:

‘Maybe his chakras got strained.’

Even in my condition I managed half a smile.

Best in House.

Just thought I’d mention that I’m quite besotted with Dr Park. I have no reservation whatsoever in saying that she’s my favourite character in the whole series by a country mile.

In tonight’s episode she introduced herself to a blind patient:

‘I’m Doctor Park. I’m 5ft 2, Asian, and I don’t mind if you want to feel my face.’

And then she accidentally got high on LSD and thought Wilson was a giant rabbit who had stolen her teeth. Adams might be the hottest property on show, but Park is the one I’d want to sit and listen to all night. I like being mesmerised.

Maybe I’m odd. Maybe it’s a Chinese thing. Do I care?

Told You So.

I refer you to a post I made dated Tuesday 18^th June on the subject of pigeons and bureaucrats. Two days later I read an item in the news about a woman in Bristol who was fined £150 for throwing a morsel of sausage roll to a pigeon. She was accused of dropping litter, even though the pigeon took the morsel and ate it. See what I mean?

A Whinge and a Recollection.

I don’t mix much with people these days. Most of what communion I have is with the natural denizens of the Shire – the birds, the animals, the trees, the hedgerows, the crops of bean and barley, and the riot of wild growth in the old fashioned hay meadow up the lane. And that’s why the only two activities which give me pleasure are walking and writing. My other activities are chores.

But I can’t walk the lanes and woods of the Shire now because of this problem with my left leg. I can just about manage 200yds before the ache gets so bad that I have to turn around and struggle back again, which means that I’m being kept from the company of those to whom I most relate.

(Oddly, my grandfather had a similar experience. When he contracted TB his wife kept him in a locked room to avoid contact with the children. My aunt once told me that they would often hear him weeping behind the locked door until he died.)

But at least the condition has taught me how much we take walking for granted and I suppose it’s never a bad thing to learn something new. Although I wonder yet again whether there is any point to learning late in life. The question obviously rests on a matter of unprovable speculation. Nevertheless, being kept from those elements which give me a reason to willingly get up in the morning is a little depressing. What’s also a little depressing is feeling like an invalid, especially since I don’t know what’s wrong and whether there's some remedy available to correct it.

(Incidentally, my doctor referred me to the vascular surgery clinic at the hospital but they tell me they don’t have any appointments available at the moment. They say they’ll contact me when they do. Unspecified waits can be a little depressing.)

The second thing which gives me pleasure is writing. The problem here is that being depressed causes me to be disinclined to write, which explains the recent pauses in the blog, just in case anybody's interested.

OK, that’s the whingey bit off my chest. And now for something completely different.

Since I’m not in the mood for writing anything original, I thought I’d go back down memory lane and pick out a few things once said to me by the person who used to bring sunshine into my life. I doubt anybody out there will find them interesting, but I do and it’s my blog. The fun part lies with inferring the context (in some cases.) Here goes:

Come closer so I can hear you.

Yeah, go for it.

You will find out one day, I promise.

Just feeling in need of a bit of Jeff chat.

Really sorry for the rant but I don’t really trust anyone else, they just say what I want to hear.

Your blog is my favourite bed time reading.

Jeff, you’re so clever, really you are. That is the best bed time story I have ever had.

I say all this but I don’t have a Scooby doo what I want.

I went to the village party and kept anticipating your arrival, but deep down I knew you wouldn’t show.

OK Jeff, that creeps me out.

I like to think we understand each other.

Oh, OK. That's a reasonable explanation.

I am still here you know, always.

It Was Me!!!

Life moves on, Jeff.

They’re mostly in chronological order, but not all. Some just came off the top of my head. And I wrote this while listening to the section labelled Andantino-Appassionato from the Serenade in A Minor by Ralph Vaughan Williams. They seemed to match very well. And isn’t it fortunate that the person who used to bring sunshine into my life no longer reads my blog. I doubt she reads in bed these days. Life does, indeed, move on.

A Lunch Date and a Leg Disaster.

Uttoxeter has a pigeon. Just one. At least, I think it’s just one because I only ever see one, and although she doesn’t wear a distinctive hat which sets her apart from the generality of pigeons, she does have a yellow ring on her right leg which is evidence of sorts – however inconclusive – that it’s the same pigeon.

So may we accept, for the sake of making this post slightly less boring than it otherwise would be, that Uttoxeter is possessed of a lone pigeon? Thank you.

She followed me today, bless her. She walked behind me from Greggs bake shop, where I’d bought a vegan sausage roll and a piece of bread pudding, all the way to the benches outside the town hall where I’m in the habit of eating my lunch. And, of course, she would have known that because she’s partaken of a few quite large crumbs which I’ve (accidentally) dropped there before. (I do hope you believe that my dropping of crumbs in the vicinity of a hopeful pigeon is purely the result of clumsiness. Those grey-suited people of wan aspect who sit behind wooden tables in airless offices pretending to be in charge of us generally disapprove of people feeding pigeons. That’s because they’re not proper people themselves, whereas I am. And bureaucrats do so like to find the means to punish proper people. Heaven preserve us from the ire of bureaucrats with chips on their shoulders. Metaphorical chips, that is, not the nice fried variety which can be purchased at relatively low cost from the chip shop further up the High Street.)

So, today I came over all clumsy again and lots of quite big crumbs fell to the ground in the vicinity of Millie the pigeon. (The name just came to me, probably because I have a special rapport with birds and always get their names right, albeit belatedly. Bureaucrats only have a rapport with rule books, by the way, never with birds.)

Now, is it realistic of me to suspect that Millie recognised her benefactor from the evidence of previous encounters, or would it be more sensible to assume that little Ms M has learned to follow everybody who emerges from Greggs bake shop carrying paper bags containing culinary prospects? I know which one I’m cooing for. And what was really nice was that Millie had no limp today, as she did the last time I had lunch with her.

The same could not, unfortunately, be said of me. The practice of walking around even a small town is becoming more and more of a trial these days, courtesy of my aching left leg and general fatigue (or heart problem, or lung problem, or chronic fatigue syndrome, or whatever it is.) I’m getting quite depressed about it.

When I arrived at Tesco today I went into their Costa franchise and bought a cup of coffee, simply as a means to have somewhere to sit for a while. I never take coffee in Tesco because Tesco isn’t the right kind of place to take coffee. Coffee should be taken in a proper coffee shop or one’s own home (or maybe somebody else’s home as long as it’s the right kind of somebody else.) Coffee is just too precious to be associated with a supermarket. But that’s what I did today, for the first time ever and to my eternal shame.

(And I just discovered that it’s possible to dance to Jupiter from Holst’s Planets Suite. If only I had the legs and energy.)

A Bit Overcooked.

I mentioned in a recent post that a publisher in Brooklyn had sought my agreement to reprint a story of mine in an anthology of the magazine series in which it had earlier appeared. I sent them an email to confirm such agreement.

Today I received a reply from the editor in which he says, among other things, ‘First of all, let me say how thrilled I am that you will be participating.’ OK, pleasant as his message is – and I’m not entirely blind to pleasantries, you know – there are still two points with which I’m slightly uneasy:

1. I don’t see that I’m ‘participating’ as such. They asked ‘may we reprint your story?’ and I said ‘yes.’ Is that participating? To my mind, participation implies that I will be taking some active role in the process, which I assume I won’t. At least, I hope I won’t.

2. I’m suspicious of the word ‘thrilled.’ It’s a big word, somewhat on a par with ‘excited.’ Why on earth would an editor feel that way about my little tale? In fact, it seems most unlikely that he does feel that way since he has lots and lots of little tales vying for his attention.

I would have been content, and more comfortable, if he’d simply said ‘I am pleased to receive your confirmation.’ Maybe it’s an English thing. We English are rather fond of understatement and congenitally suspicious of the opposite.

Wallowing in Wimp Land.

I did some more hedge trimming today without having a suspected heart attack. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I stopped half way along the 150ft length because I felt low and fatigued and decided not to risk the consequences. I decided to leave the rest until the next time we have a dry day and I’m not doing anything else. And that makes me a wimp.

I don’t like being a wimp. It offends me, but neither do I like lying on the sofa dressed in four layers of clothing with a swimming head, nausea, a cold sweat, extreme weakness, irregular heart beat (I had the presence of mind to check) and a pain across my chest, which is what happened last Sunday when I trimmed a different hedge. (I didn’t call an ambulance because they would probably have taken me to hospital and I wasn’t in the mood.)

And this isn’t about age. I’m not old enough yet to get a heart attack just because I make the effort to trim a 150ft hedge. And maybe it wasn’t a heart attack anyway. The whole thing seems to be about a return of the old chronic fatigue thing which assailed me between eight and four years ago.

Now, as I understand it, chronic fatigue is not a condition. It’s a symptom of several possible conditions. So what the hell is wrong me, and will they ever find out so there’s a possibility that I might get better? My doctor just thinks I’ve got an aching left leg, and I imagine he’s on holiday anyway because he doesn’t appear in the appointment listing on the website for five weeks. So I’ve decided to take the strenuous stuff reasonably easy, which means also persuading myself not to commit suicide on the perfectly reasonable grounds that being a wimp isn’t what I want to be.

And now do you understand why I so hate people asking me ‘How are you, Jeff?’ What am I supposed to do? If I reply ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’ I would be lying. If I tell the truth and say ‘Well, actually…’ I have to watch the dullness of boredom appear in their eyes and suffer the sight of their feet going into spasm because they’re being denied the natural urge to flee.

Sorry for the whinge. Feel free to flee. And to those who didn’t make it this far I say: ‘I forgive you.’

Not America's Poodle.

I see Trump is sticking his nose into British affairs again, this time over the spate of homicides which happened in London over the weekend.

Does anybody know how Trump’s blubbery mouth might be shut and padlocked forever? Alternatively, is there some way of advising him that:

1. He is President of the USA and nowhere else.

2. Contrary to indications given by Thatcher, Blair and certain high profile members of the current Tory Party, the USA is not Britain’s imperial overlord.

A Note Post Absentia.

Life is a physical and mental struggle at the moment. But never mind. I expect there’s a reason.

I was listening to Kate Bush singing Running Up That Hill tonight, and it reminded me of the capacity music has to act like a teleportation device. It re-connects you with the person you were when it was part of your present rather than your past, and in so doing allows you to re-engage with the version of reality you were living in then. In the case of Running Up That Hill, it was very different from the version I’m living in now. Was it better or worse? It’s an irrelevant question.

And tonight I had an email from a publisher in Brooklyn, NY. They’re assembling an anthology of stories from a now-defunct American indy magazine and want to use one of mine which appeared in an issue about ten years ago. They asked for permission. They got it.

*  *  *

I can't stop watching this video.

It's not the kind of video which trends, and probably explains why I never, ever watch trending videos on YouTube. It's much closer to the version of reality in which I live these days.

Spielberg Flaws.

Over the past two nights I’ve been watching Steven Spielberg’s version of The War of the Worlds. I have three things to say about it:

1. Early in the film there’s one of the funniest lines I ever heard in a supposedly serious movie. The Tom Cruise central character comes home shocked and dishevelled and tells his teenage son what he’s just witnessed.

‘They came out of the ground. They torched everything, killed everybody.’

‘Were they terrorists?’ asks the son.

‘No. They came from somewhere else.’

‘What… like… Europe?’

Whether it was meant to be a joke, or whether it was meant to be a comment on American teenagers, I have no idea. Maybe it was written by an American teenager. How can I know?

2. The whole film was littered with as many glaring plot holes as I’ve ever seen anywhere.

3. The dénouement was laughably implausible, and the spoken epilogue was, I’m fairly certain, written by somebody from a southern Baptist church who was imbibing the kind of substance not usually associated with southern Baptist churches. Unless, of course, it was lifted directly from a novel written in the 19th century and applied to a 21st century contemporary adaptation. Either way, it was quite absurd.

I’ve long thought that after Duel and Jaws, Spielberg began to lose his sense of creative and emotional balance. I still think so.

Two Firsts for the Dear Mama.

The past week or so has been troublesome to me – loaded with nothing but dire prospects, worrying health issues, and a pocketful of reasons to feel both anxious and depressed. Today was no exception. The left leg which has been causing pain and difficulty since early winter was at its worst, and the 300yd walk from the supermarket car park to the bottom of Ashbourne town was unpleasant. (I found myself wishing for a cane so that I could at least emulate Dr House and be thought Miserable but Magnificent. I had no cane, just the limp and the frequent rests. And it seems it’s going to be some time before the medical professionals get around to assessing the problem with the sort of gadgets to which only they have access.)

But then, as I was limping back to my car, I heard my name called. I turned to see that the person who was stopping my way on my own version of the blasted heath was none other than the Lady B’s mother. In the thirteen years I’ve known her, she’s never sought to attract my attention by calling my name before. That was today’s first first.

Now, the Lady B’s mother has been mentioned a few times on this blog, usually under the more archaic and poetic title of ‘the Lady B’s dear mama.’ You might remember her. She’s the one who played the Grand Duchess parts in my little Shire fictions, the one who called me Mr Jeffrey, the one who addressed me in a gently condescending manner without realising for one moment that she was doing it, the one who offered to send over the table scraps with the footman, the one who asked ‘And how are Mrs Jeffrey and your seventeen children? It is seventeen, isn’t it?’ And I replied: Dunno, Ma’am. I lost count, while tugging my forelock.

Only it isn’t true. The Lady B’s mother is nothing like that at all. (Well, a bit I suppose, but not much.) I’ve always liked her, and it really is most unusual for me to like somebody when I don’t even really know them. She, too, has an almost palpable presence about her, just as her daughter does. And although it’s a very different kind of presence, it’s every bit as strong. And that’s why it was very pleasant being accosted by her in the middle of Ashbourne.

We chatted for about fifteen minutes, during which time I mostly whinged about my troubles (which has become a most unfortunate habit of mine over the past 18 months and for which I always feel truly sorry in retrospect.) But eventually the conversation took a more general tone, during which she gave me a broad hint of her age.

Well, I was genuinely surprised. She doesn’t look that old, she really doesn’t, and I couldn’t resist remarking on the fact (without the slightest hint of affectation, I might add.) And so I regarded her more closely in order to assess the source of this apparent mystery and came to the following conclusion:

The Lady B’s mother has never been youthful during the time I’ve known her, but there’s always been a certain youngness about her. It shows in the way she dresses; it shows in her bearing; it shows in her strong and perfectly modulated voice; and it shows in the clarity of her eyes which appear ageless. And here’s what’s really remarkable: she’s still physically attractive.

Now, you might ask why that should be so remarkable, and I’ll tell you. It’s a sad fact about me that I can only recognise physical attractiveness in young women. Whatever other – and maybe more laudable – qualities the older woman might have, physical attractiveness can never be among them for me. I know that’s a reprehensible admission, but I can make no apology for it because it’s in my genes. It’s an integral part of who I am and will remain so no matter how long I live. And I can say with certainty that never in my life have I found a 60+ woman physically attractive. That’s today’s second first.

So where does that leave me? Surprised. But my subsequent mood was lifted immeasurably, so that was good.

On Heart and Heart Matters.

There have been no posts from me since Tuesday night because I’ve been feeling a little distant and depressed. It was due in part to the fact that all my immediate prospects are unwelcome ones, and partly because I’ve been feeling physically unwell. But I don’t want to go into detail because I’ve whinged enough over the past couple of years and I’m tired of it.

I will mention one thing though. The physical symptoms hit a new and sudden high today shortly after I’d completed one of the garden’s more physically demanding operations. They were extremely unpleasant and suggested the possibility that I had a minor heart attack of some sort. Some of the symptoms are still with me nine hours later, but no matter. Their progress will determine whether or not I will pursue the issue with the health professionals. The reason I mention the occurrence is this:

You might remember that I said in a post once that there was somebody I wanted to talk to an hour before I die. It may have come across as a joke, but I meant it. I wanted to tell her a story, you see, but I didn’t want to cause her any embarrassment or other form of consternation until it was too late to require any unwarranted response from her. The problem with such an intention is that I might not get sufficiently accurate forewarning of my demise, and so after today’s alarming episode I decided to start writing it down so that it can be given to her after I’ve gone.

This is how far I got earlier. I’m posting it simply because I needed to put something on the blog after five days of silence and it’s going reasonably well so far. I fear it might not be finished tonight, so I’m hoping that today’s imp of a heart problem (if such it be) doesn’t send his big brother along too soon.

*  *  *

I think the narrative on which I am about to embark began during the late winter of 2007. I was walking along Mill Lane when I spotted a young woman and a Cocker Spaniel puppy walking towards me. Given my love of dogs, it’s hardly surprising that I should stop and ask ‘may I make friends with your dog?’ Assent having been given, make friends with the dog was what I did. But matters didn’t end there.

I judged the young woman to be around late teens or maybe twenty, probably not older. She was slim, elegant, pale of complexion, roughly dressed though not unpleasingly so, and appeared to have a quiet disposition which I attributed to a natural reticence when meeting strange men on quiet country lanes. Her hair was dark and roughly gathered up in no particular style. What I found intriguing was that I couldn’t see her face clearly.

There was no obvious barrier preventing a clear view. Her face was in plain sight a mere three feet away, and yet I looked hard and failed to categorise it as pretty or plain, welcoming or reluctant. It was as though a mist hung between us, even though the day was dry and clear. It took me a very long time to realise that maybe she didn’t want me to see her face, and maybe such intentions can manifest themselves literally if the mind is strong enough. What I don’t remember is whether I asked her name on that first encounter. I certainly did eventually, but it was probably some way further down the line. It would be most unlikely for me to be so presumptuous on a first meeting.

And that first meeting was short, as all our subsequent meetings proved to be. I think the longest we ever spent in one another’s company was probably around half an hour, and that was a rare exception which I’ll mention later in the narrative. Most of our meetings were substantially shorter than that. And they all occurred by accident, mostly when walking somewhere on the lanes of the Shire in opposite directions. During such meetings I grew exceedingly fond of the little dog, but my response to the young woman defies such a simple description.

Whenever I saw her the sun came out. Not literally, of course, but somewhere inside me. And I began to notice a lot about her. I noticed her quiet yet confident demeanour. I noticed the upright elegance of her walk. I noticed her voice which was perfect in pitch and modulation. I noticed her gentle eyes and watched them for every little sign of meaning, even though it might seem odd that I never noticed what colour they were. (It was to be some years before I discovered they were hazel.) But above all those qualities, what I most noticed was her presence. I won’t risk an inadequate appraisal of such a term; suffice it to say that it was almost palpable and I felt warm and comfortable in its aura.

*  *  *

Sorry to frustrate, but I doubt I’ll post more. Maybe you can guess the rest. Think Irene Adler.

A Small Personal Note.

I’d like to say a quick word to the person or persons in Romania who are regular visitors to my blog. (I suspect there are at least two.)

First of all, thank you for being regular visitors to my blog. Secondly, I finally got around to investigating the geography and history of Wallachia tonight. The name has long fascinated me, even though I associate it with that rather unpleasant man, Vlad III. It’s very complicated, isn’t it?

On Cuteness and Kidneys.

There’s a new medic in House. She’s very Chinese, very young, very small, and is House’s team of one now that he’s out of prison and his regular team have moved onto other jobs. My problem is that I don’t know whether I like her or not.

The fact that she has the kind of Chinese characteristics which I find adorable is OK. I can accept that one. But she’s also adorably cute and I’m suspicious of liking somebody on that basis. It always feels like the faculty of cuteness is ingratiating itself into my affections sneakily by a back entrance somewhere.

Another problem I have with House is that it gives seemingly undue attention to kidney issues. Tonight’s episode had the line: ‘Now her kidneys are shutting down.’ They say it a lot, and given my experiences over the past seventeen months I find it mildly disconcerting.

A Note on Energy in Communication.

I’m currently considering the question of the part played by energy in the process of communication. When we speak to somebody we take an abstract concept which we call meaning and convert it into sound. That sound is a form of energy which travels through space and has a physical effect on the listener’s eardrum. The listener’s brain then converts that energy back into meaning using a pre-conceived algorithm called language, and voila: we have communication. So now I have three questions:

1. What happens to the sound energy, given that it carries meaning which most sound energy doesn’t? Does it lose the component of meaning and simply dissipate or not?

2. Another form of sound energy which carries meaning is music. Does this explain why music is often referred to as ‘the universal language’, in which case how was the algorithm designed since it clearly isn’t constructed by human artifice?

3. Is there any energy involved when communication is made via the written word? If not, does it mean that storytelling is more powerful than writing?

If I come to any conclusions I’ll let you know, but I doubt I will. I’m not clever enough. And I expect scientists and musicologists already know the answer because they went to university and I didn’t.

Waiting for Summer.

There seems to have been a palpable sense of gloom hanging in the air today. By the end of the afternoon it was sitting on my shoulders and producing a deep sense of despond, so now I’m wondering whether some subtle and all-suffusing energy is really responsible or whether it’s just me.

And tonight’s twilight didn’t help. It was cold, damp and gloomy. There was little sign of the bats or moths and everything in the garden dripped and drooped. I put my old winter coat on to go out there, and when I came in I felt chilled enough to think of donning an extra sweater.

The seasons aren’t progressing as they should. After a relatively mild winter we’ve been getting bursts of summer temperatures ever since February, but always the cold returns. You expect that in February, but by June it seems reasonable to expect the temperatures to rise and stay risen. Summer is proving reluctant to assert itself this year. Maybe tomorrow.

Charity Today.

I went to my old city centre today and was accosted by a woman called Holly.

‘What are you trying to sell me?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. We’re just trying to raise awareness of an issue.’

‘What issue is that?’

‘Deaf children.’

OK, now I know where this is going. My suspicions were confirmed when she went into the routine which effectively amounted to: I’m a really nice person, and you’re a really nice person, and I’m sure we can be great friends, so let’s get acquainted.

‘My name’s Holly, what’s yours?’

‘Jeff.’

‘Is that short for Jeffrey?’

'Yes.'

'I must be psychic.'

‘What other forename could be abbreviated to Jeff?’ I asked. ‘I suppose there’s Jefferson, but that’s an American name. I doubt there are many people in Britain called Jefferson.’

‘Some people think I’m Russian. Or Polish.’

‘Well, your appearance does hint at the suggestion of Slavic somewhere along the line.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Neither. People are whatever they are.’

By now it was becoming obvious that Holly wasn’t the brightest button in the box, and then she asked:

‘Do you live locally?’

‘No. I live near Ashbourne.’

She seemed impressed by that and asked how far away Ashbourne was.

‘About twenty three miles.’

Her mouth and eyes opened in seemingly genuine astonishment.

‘How on earth did you get here?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Erm… in a car?’ (Why I didn't reply 'partly on foot, partly by helicopter, and the final leg by narrowboat on the canal system' I really don't know. Maybe it was because the day was dull and I felt cold.)

And so it went on. Eventually I reminded her that I wasn’t about to sign another direct debit form for a monthly subscription because there are hundreds of charities out there and I’m already a contributor. ‘They’re a side effect of the free market economy,’ I pointed out. ‘If human beings would only grow up we wouldn’t need charities.’

‘Thank you for stopping to talk to me.’

Ah, the brush off.

‘You’re welcome.’

I walked away wishing I had Dr House’s edge in such matters, but I haven’t. And I know charities are all trying to get a piece of a limited pie and the job of so doing is difficult. I just wish they’d be a little more clued up and a little more authentic in their approach. Knowing that I’m the recipient of a transparent routine doesn’t help.

So then I went and bought a cake because I felt hungry. I accidentally dropped a piece of it and the pigeons pounced, but that was OK because I like pigeons. They’re never anything but authentic. And a beggar asked me for a pound to get a drink so I gave him one. He looked authentic, too.

And when I got back I heard a loud thump on my office window. I went out to find a baby Great Tit looking wet and forlorn lying under it (it was raining heavily at the time.) I picked him up and cradled him in my hands for about ten minutes to keep him warm while I waited for him to get restive. When he began to struggle I let him go, but he wouldn’t let me go. He hung onto the sleeve of my sweater for quite a while, looking up at me as I talked gently to him and stroked his head. Eventually he flew away and I wished him well.

And that’s the story of today so far.

Shame on You, America.

For the past few days I’ve been trying to think up some way by which we might stop that imbecilic, egoistic windbag of a US President from coming here to pollute our green and pleasant land. I failed, so now I have to avoid even the BBC home news pages for the next three days because the very mention of him makes me mad as hell.

When America gave him the White House, they didn’t just inflict him on themselves. They set him loose to run amok everywhere. That’s why I’ve been avoiding the world news pages for a while, because every time I looked at them all I saw was Trump does this, Trump says that, Trump demonstrates his kindergarten mentality with childish threats and bellicose bluster. Sanctions here, sanctions there, Trump just can’t stop sticking his nose into other people’s business. And so on.

Americans, don’t you think you owe us an apology?

A Reason to Respect Sarah.

There I was, sitting absentmindedly on a bench in Uttoxeter and munching quietly on my vegan sausage roll, when I became aware of being stared at by a young woman (young by my standards, that is.) And so I stared back and soon realised that here was a fond memory from my past come back to re-impress itself after all these years.

The person staring at me was none other than the first of the Sarahs to come into my life and set my heart strings vibrating, back in the days when I worked at the theatre. This is she (the one in the blue dress, the one I’ve posted before because it pleases me to see that I once stood this close to a very attractive woman):

  

‘Jeff?’ she queried. ‘Sarah!’ I exclaimed. ‘Have a seat.’ Well you would, wouldn’t you? And so she sat and we had a splendid – for me, that is – 10 or 15 minutes of chat before going our separate ways.

The thing is, you see, Sarah was my manager for a while when I worked at the theatre, and occasionally she would yell at me. But when she did so, she did it without any hint of ill-will. And here’s my theory:

People who yell at you with evident ill-will are trying to hurt your feelings, and are therefore begging a bop on the nose or at least a very sharp retort. Those who don’t yell at you at all are betraying the possibility that they lack emotional security and daren’t risk losing you’re approbation. (It isn’t always the case by any means, but it does encourage the suspicion.) Those who yell at you without any ill-will, however, are simply doing so because, in their considered opinion, you deserve to be yelled at. And that’s fine by me.

And that’s why I not only enjoyed being seen standing next to Sarah O because of her splendid looks, but also enjoyed working for her because I respected her. And maybe one day soon I’ll bump into her again. That would be nice.

The Endings Fallacy.

Every ending is a new beginning.

So they say. Personally, I think it’s another one of those fake sound bites which seem impressive only as long as you don’t move beyond an unthinking trust in sound bites. Not every ending is a new beginning. Endings sometimes clear the decks for new beginnings to take root, but just as often they merely leave you in limbo.

I’ve had a number of endings over the past couple of years, and it seems I’ve had some more this week. Current state is limbo.

The good news is that I now have the final Season of House to watch. What on earth am I going to do when it ends?

A Kind of Logic.

I watched the penultimate episode of Merlin tonight. There was a point at which the poor lad, having been stripped of his magical powers by the dastardly Morgana, is trapped in a deep, dark cave with no means of escape. Suddenly, a hole appears in the roof. You might find this hard to believe, but at that very moment I became aware of something large and hairy peering over my shoulder. It was my old friend, the llama.

‘Where did that hole come from?’ I asked him.

What hole?

‘That hole in the roof.’

There is no hole.

‘Yes there is. I can see it, there.’

Dear boy, said the llama, affecting that manner with which he loves to irritate me.  The very definition of a hole is a place where there is nothing. Ergo, it can’t be there, since how can nothing ever be anywhere?

‘Your logic is very strange.’

It’s llama logic. You wouldn’t understand.

I turned to look at the screen again to reassure myself that where there was logically nothing, there was, in fact, a hole. When I turned back to remonstrate further with the llama, there was nothing to see.

Getting the Reason Right.

Do you want to know the real reason why I can’t be a poet? It's because I don’t have the hair to go with it. Poets have flowing locks, don’t they? No chance.

That’s often been my problem, you know. It was usually the lifestyle that attracted me to an endeavour rather than the activity itself. All my life I wanted to be a writer because I was drawn to that whole scene with which it’s associated – the typewriter, the French windows opening onto a summer garden, tea on the terrace at 4pm sharp, and then back to the study in order to get the manuscript finished because my publisher is hounding me. Or maybe the same typewriter in a sordid garret, air full of tobacco smoke, empty scotch bottles filling every corner, sweltering in the heat of the night while the world passes anonymously below me. I was happy with both.

As long as I saw it that way I couldn’t write for toffee. I tried, but everything read like a second rate business letter. It was only when I discovered that I actually wanted to write stories just for the sake of writing stories that I discovered how to write stories.

I suppose the first hint I had of the Right Reason to Do Something was being a photographer, which I only did because I loved taking photographs and couldn’t think of any better way to spend the daylight hours and get paid for it (and I was a landscape photographer because I’d always loved landscapes.)

So there you have it. Just thought I’d mention it because it cropped up in my head. Lots of things crop up in my head, but they tend to trip over each other and fail the test of Things I Want to Write About.

American Bosses and an Abigail.

I see the latest little sledgehammer-and-egg tactic to float up from the American sewerage system is the requirement for visa applicants to provide details of their social media accounts. Well, that’s just another one of Mr Pea-Brain’s attempts to rule America by fear, and is nothing more than one has come to expect now that America is Great again. What I really don’t understand is why the hell anybody would want to go to America in its present condition.

And since I mention eggs, I’m waiting to see just how many of them get thrown at a certain American politician when he makes his state visit. What surprises me a little is why a state of emergency hasn’t been declared in Britain and the sale of eggs banned to anyone between the ages of five and eighty five. Or maybe it has. I don’t buy eggs.

As for the straw-haired loon’s endorsement of our very own straw-haired loon, Boris Johnson, in the Tory Party leadership contest, may I paraphrase a line from Harry Potter:

The people of the United Kingdom send their compliments to President Trump, and ask him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.

And while I’m on the subject of America, I think I mentioned that I’ve finished Season 7 of House and won’t get Season 8 until tomorrow (that’s if Mel remembers to bring it with her.) I really can’t wait to see what’s happening to my favourite American. The last I saw of him he was limping happily along a palm-fringed beach somewhere or other, having attracted an arrest warrant and become Public Enemy No. 1 in consequence of having driven his car into his boss’s living room.

*  *  *

But here’s today’s nice news: I got a reply to one of my YouTube comments from an oboe player called Abigail. Isn’t that splendid? She even agreed with me.

Reflecting on a Road Kill.

There was a dead Wood Pigeon near the top of the lane when I went for a walk this evening. It was obviously a road kill and the freshness of the blood indicated that it hadn’t been there very long.

‘So what,’ you might say. ‘There’s no shortage of Wood Pigeons and everything dies.’

But this isn’t about Wood Pigeons; it’s about a Wood Pigeon – a creature as individual as I am, a creature which only this morning was brimming with life and consciousness setting out to do whatever Wood Pigeons do. But there it was, lying in a position to which no bird is ever accustomed in life with a small pool of blood under its head and its eyes closed in death.

And of course everything dies, but death is still the most definitive of endings and all endings are significant. And maybe that’s why it was only natural for me to close my own eyes in abject sorrow at the sight of it.