Reality and the Llama from Porlock.

Another Halloween. Another one of those annual markers which remind you that you’ve used up another year of your life and make you wonder whether you did anything worthwhile with it. In my case, I can’t think of anything.

What I did think of this afternoon was the oft pondered question: ‘Is any of this stuff we call “reality” actually real?’ Well, reality is a surprisingly difficult thing to tie down once you get beyond of course it’s real. I just hit my thumb with a hammer and it hurt.

You see? Already we’re into the combination of the material and the perceptual. The solid and the abstract. Cause and effect insisting that they belong together when maybe they don’t.

And then it made a strange kind of sense that, since perception is the whole of the life experience, and since everything that is meaningful ultimately distils to the abstract, maybe the material reality which we see as the bedrock of being is actually a construct of our collective consciousness. Only we’re not conditioned to that view and so it never occurs to us. And it’s an odd irony that the brain, which is what we use to think (or think we do), is part of that construct and therefore an illusion in itself.

But my train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it and my old friend the llama was standing there again.

‘Trick or treat,’ he said.

This put me on the back foot a little. ‘Trick or treat’ is not the sort of expression one normally associates with llamas.

‘Did you say “trick or treat”?’ I asked him.

‘Did it sound like “trick or treat”?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it probably was.’

‘But why did you say it?’

‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’

‘Well, I don’t really know. It isn’t the sort of thing I’d expect you to say. And I wouldn’t know what sort of thing a llama regards as a treat, so I wouldn’t know what to give you.’

‘Why would you feel constrained to give me something?’

‘Because that’s what “trick or treat” means.’

‘What?’

‘It means “give me a treat or I’ll play a trick on you.” It’s a Halloween tradition, and treats are usually in the form of something like a Mars Bar. You don’t strike me as the Mars Bar type.’

‘Ah, that explains it. Interesting.’

‘Sorry, but it doesn’t explain why you said it.’

‘I heard two little humans say it to a man in one of the houses at the bottom of the lane, so I thought I’d say it to you and see what your reaction would be. And do you realise that this is the first time in our long association that I’ve learned something from you. That in itself is interesting. Goodbye.’

And then off he trotted without another word. And I never did get back to my musing on whether reality is really real.

Dark Words of Endearment.

Somebody said to me in an email recently: ‘I want to meet you in person so that I will be able to mourn you more properly when you die.’ Nobody has ever said that to me before. I think it was meant as a compliment, and so that’s how I took it. I suppose some people are special, and some people aren’t.

And for some reason I keep thinking of the character of Papa Lazarou from the TV show The League of Gentlemen. He’s a mysterious, swaggering figure who appears seemingly out of nowhere for the purpose of collecting women and saying ‘You’re my wife now’ in a voice that is redolent of the pit. He wears all black clothes, and is made up to resemble a clown except that his face make-up is black and white. Nobody knows where he comes from or where he takes the unfortunate women, although he is associated with the circus. It’s what passes for superior comedy in Britain. This is he:

How the two facts related above are connected, I really don't know.

A Brief Report.

I was struck today by the fact that an attractive young woman looks so much more attractive if she’s accompanied by a dog. It’s one of those situations where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I don’t know why this should be, but I think it has something to with the fact that a dog imparts a certain substance which takes the image above and beyond the mere cosmetic.

Something similar is true of young women on horseback, but there the reason is more obvious, if a little sordid.

This post has to be brief, however, because I have an email to write which has to be carefully considered and might well be long. And nothing of any consequence happened in Uttoxeter today (apart from the fact that I saw a young woman with honey-coloured hair accompanied by a border collie.)

I think I omitted to mention, though, that my infamous seborrheic keratosis fell off last Tuesday night. No more black spot, which probably explains why nobody stared at me today. Mystery solved. And I am now the relieved possessor of a cheek fit to be kissed by moonbeams and the May morning dew. Nothing else ever gets close enough.

The Backlight Problem.

Here’s the problem with having once been a photographer.

I’m watching an episode of The X Files. Muldur has gone to one of the remoter corners of the Arctic (they never explained how he got there – nor even verified the fact that the Arctic has corners) and he comes across a huge submarine with the conning tower eerily silhouetted against a patch of brightness.

Patch of brightness? Wherefore comes this patch of brightness? Why, from a light set up behind it, of course. Any photographer knows that. Backlighting is a common technique. In the studio you use a light; in outdoor photography you use the sun.

But this isn’t a studio; it’s the bitterly cold Arctic, as evidenced by the thick pack ice in which the submarine is encased. And everywhere else is pitch dark, so we can reasonably assume that there’s no sun to warm the cockles of an FBI agent’s heart. So where did the backlight come from?

This is the point at which suspension of disbelief becomes difficult. The whole plot is suddenly fractured by the incontrovertible evidence that we’re actually on a movie set. They routinely do the same thing with scenes set in woods at night, and I wish they wouldn’t. If you need a scene to be backlit, at least find a convincing reason for it to be there.

Nine Steps to Understanding Life.

Here’s my current favourite theory with regard to the meaning of life:

1. Every living thing is a vehicle housing a fragment of the Universal Consciousness existing under the delusion of individuality.

2. The progress of that life from birth to death is controlled in accordance with the Determinist principle – that every event and expression of free will is determined by cause and effect and therefore inevitable.

3. The purpose of the fragment – the soul as it is popularly known – is to ride the journey of the host’s life in order to observe and learn.

4. Notions of success and failure are fraudulent, since both are equally positive as long as the result is something learned.

5. Souls occupy many hosts during successive incarnations. The more incarnations a soul has, the more it learns about the nature of existence and the older it becomes.

6. Old souls are people like philosophers and Buddhist monks. Young souls are people like football supporters. Baby souls are the most prominent of all because they’re generally running the world.

7. I’m not sure whether I’m an old or a young soul, but I did observe tonight that Anna Faris is precisely the girl I was searching for between the ages of 12 and 40, whereas now I’m more of a Galadriel fan. I suppose that’s probably a good sign.

8. When a soul has learned enough, it ceases to be individualised and rejoins the body of Universal Consciousness like a raindrop falling into the sea. The analogy is inadequate, but it’s probably the best we can manage with the limitations of the human brain.

9. This theory is also incomplete. Either I have a long way to go yet or I might be completely wrong.

Awakening the Genes.

I was sitting in a bar in Donegal Town one night back in May ’96. (‘It’s a good craic in there,’ the landlady of my B&B had told me, and she was right.) At one end of the room a local combo was giving a spirited rendition of jigs and reels – and probably a few highlands and hornpipes as well, I expect – as commonly happens in Irish bars. I was sitting at the bar counter tapping out the rhythms with my fingers, and after a few sets an Irishman sitting next to me said: ‘You’ve a good understanding of Irish music.’

Had I? I’d no idea, but maybe some of my ancestral genes were remembering the good old days. At any rate, it was quite a compliment to give to an Englishman.

And so I took it to heart, and when I came home I set about teaching myself to play the spoons (since they’re readily available, cheaper than buying a bodhran, and somewhat less of an irritation to the neighbours.) And for several months afterwards all my Irish music was accompanied by JJ on the spoons. Nobody complained, but thankfully I never got the opportunity to give a public performance.

Pearls Before Swine.

I went for my latest set of CT scans today, and the first thing they did was give me a little dress to put on with a so called ‘dressing gown’ to go over the top. I decided to think of the dress as a smock because it sounds more gender neutral, but it still meant that I had to sit out in the waiting area with my lower legs bare and my feet still encased in shoes and socks, feeling ridiculous. But then a woman came in, about mid-thirties, and she was wearing pyjamas (well, scrubs I suppose.) I had those last time I was there and they were pretty neat. When you’re in a hospital, scrubs make you look like you belong. And you don’t have bare legs sticking out for all the world to see.

‘Here, how come they gave me a dress but you got the pyjamas?’ I asked her.

She seemed amused. She was the only person in the whole hospital who seemed amused by anything I said today. I think they must be feeling the pressure.

And then I noticed that there were several people in the waiting area on beds – clearly inpatients who had been brought down for scans. And my God did they look ill. I’ve never seen that before. When I’ve had previous CT scans, the others waiting for their turn were all ambulant outpatients sitting in chairs.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before I got called into the scan suite for my scan. As usual, the two radiographers were young women.

‘Are you really excited that you’ve got a fit young bloke to work on instead of all those ill old women I keep seeing?’ I asked. They didn’t bite. Pressure, I expect.

And when it was all over and I was having my cannula taken out, I said to the withdrawing woman:

‘Tell you what, there are an awful lot of ill people in here today.’

‘That’s because it’s a hospital,’ she replied frostily.

See what I mean?

JJ and the Black Spot.

You might remember the small matter of my seborrheic keratosis and the fact that I had freezy stuff squirted on it last week. Well, it hasn’t gone yet. In fact, it’s got worse. It’s bigger and darker than it used to be, no doubt because it takes a while for the freezy stuff to take full effect so it drops off. Meanwhile, it’s more conspicuous than ever and fit to attract the attention of the curious for miles around.

And so I walk around the town constantly aware of this thing and constantly wondering whether it’s responsible for the glances I get. Maybe it isn’t, but you never know. I find myself wishing that people would simply approach me and ask: ‘What the hell is that thing on your cheek?’ And then I could tell them and they would go away happy. Instead, I’m prone to imagining that a sizeable body of people out there is wondering whether I have a notifiable condition and they should inform the authorities so I might be quarantined. The more fanciful among them might even be wondering whether I’m under a death sentence prescribed by a consortium of disgruntled pirates.

The one thing that buoys me in all this is that Black Headed Gulls also have a black spot on their cheeks during the winter when the rest of their heads turn white, and there are plenty of those around. I don’t suppose many people know that, but it still helps a little to know that my condition is echoed in the avian world. After all, I am growing closer to the natural world as age takes its toll, and maybe there’s hope that I might learn to fly before long. Then I could swoop down and steal people’s sandwiches instead of having to buy my own.

Guru Stuff.

I just watched a YouTube video which sought to enlighten me with regard to the 5^th dimension. I expected to get either a philosopher or a scientist. What I got was a guru who spent seven minutes telling me nothing more than that I am a spirit being playing the role of a human. Pretty old stuff, right? And it’s one of my primary suspicions.

So then I read the comments from several other turgid, self-styled gurus with names like Pete the Powder Puff, all giving me their version of what life is about, and doing so from a position of certainty which inevitably led to the usual cynical reaction. What none of them said was:

‘I know this because I remember a time when I was pure spirit with no corporeal identity, and I’m neither psychotic nor generally delusional.’

I probably wouldn’t trust such a statement, but I might if they said it in just the right way and had just the right look in their eyes. In the meantime I’d prefer to stick with ‘I suspect lots of things, but I know nothing.’

Weighing the Evidence.

After I’d had my shower tonight I found a dead insect in the bathtub, apparently drowned.

(I say ‘apparently’ because I’m not a pathologist and so I didn’t perform a post mortem examination. It’s just that the bottom of the bathtub was wet and this thing looked all bedraggled and floppy, so I thought it reasonable to assume it had drowned. I do realise that evidence which is at best circumstantial would hardly get a conviction in a court of law, but it seemed reasonably convincing in the circumstances. May we assume, therefore, that the insect had drowned and move on? OK.)

It was one of those little flying things with a long, dangly bit which hangs down and swings back and forth as the insect dances in the last rays of the evening sun. I assumed it had got into my hair or something while I was gardening. And since I’d washed my hair while taking a shower, a picture of the tragic circumstances under which this little being had met its end seemed clear.

I was devastated, of course, as I always am when I have reason to believe that I have been responsible, albeit unwittingly, for the demise of a fellow traveller. But then I had a thought: if this creature had not become entangled in my hair and been lost to the world courtesy of the relentless flow of water from a shower rose, it might well have been eaten by a bat instead. So then I took to wondering which of the two causes of terminal effect would be preferable: being drowned or being eaten by a hungry carnivore. If it were me, I think I would prefer drowning. So then I felt better.

… until I considered the poor bat which had been denied a mouthful of sustenance in a cruel world in which survival is the primary imperative. Is anybody taking this seriously?

I did say that being me can sometimes be difficult, didn’t I?

Muldur's Secret Mission.

A new conspiracy theory occurred to me while watching an episode of The X Files tonight. At least, it’s one I haven’t heard before.

I started to suspect that the show was created by some covert organisation to encourage the mistaken belief among Americans that the FBI is the only government agency which can be trusted. So beware the FBI.

I like irony.

Bettering the Big Man.

I went to the doctor’s today to have my little seborrheic keratosis squirted with freezy stuff so it will drop off and never darken my cheekbone again. I felt guilty about having it done actually, because a seborrheic keratosis is a benign skin tumour, and I think of tumours as being sort of living things, and so having it squirted with freezy stuff to do it in is a bit like conniving in the murder of a fellow being. Culpable homicide, no less. And so I apologised to it before I went in and hoped that my karma wouldn’t be too badly compromised.

I was hoping I’d come out with a dressing on it, so that I could go into the coffee shop and they would ask ‘What happened to your face?’ and I could say ‘I was protecting this poor woman from an axe-wielding maniac and I didn’t duck soon enough.’ And they would look at me with undisguised suspicion and say ‘You mean you had a mole removed?’ and I would say ‘Something like that.’ No luck. No dressing. Just a red mark around the poor little guy now sitting on death row.

But I did discover a way to avoid the tedium of sitting around in reception before seeing my name on the big screen. I realised that if I sat at the front close to the computer check-in thing, I could work out the astrological signs of all the patients. The idea occurred to me when I saw a young girl go up to the screen and press the letter B. That’s the first question: What is the first letter of your surname? And then she pressed December. That’s the second question: What is the month of your birth? ‘Ah,’ I thought. ‘Another Sagittarian like me.’ And then she pressed 29. What is the date of your birth? Ah no, a Capricorn. Never mind.

I told the doctor of my new game and he was impressed. ‘How do you know these things?’ he asked. ‘I was born curious,’ I answered, realising in the process that doctors might be great at testing urine samples for evidence of infection, but hopeless when it comes to the weighty matter of astrology.

‘And would you mind if I started a petition in your reception?’ I continued, buoyed by the new level of respect now being afforded me. ‘I want to have all that silly stuff on your big screen removed and replaced with Marx Brothers films.’

‘Good idea,’ he replied with a smile that was borderline genuine. ‘I’d approve of that.’

‘And we could mix in some Laurel and Hardy films, too.’

A discussion ensued, during which I discovered that my doctor and I have one thing in common: we both watch Laurel and Hardy shorts on YouTube. And that gave me the impetus to explain why all that stuff on his big screen is both trite and utterly unrealistic. He didn’t answer that one, but went straight into squirting keratosiscide onto my face. ‘This might sting a bit,’ he said. And thus revenge was swift.

And then it occurred to me how times have changed. When I was a kid the doctor was a demigod. When he was examining you it was considered proper to lick his shoes clean, only being afforded a brief respite when he wanted to stick a thermometer under your tongue. The doctor was He Who Must Be Obeyed (since most doctors were still men in those days.) Doctors were not to be toyed with, and here I was discussing Laurel and Hardy films and demonstrating my superior knowledge to boot. So that’s two things I’m better at. My mother would disown me if she knew.

Beating Harry Potter.

I just read some big news on the entertainment front. The BBC has recently finished filming the 1^st series of Philip Pullman’s trilogy, His Dark Materials. It was first adapted back in 2007 as a single feature film called The Golden Compass. As I recall, that version only covered the first part of the trilogy and plans to continue the story were subsequently shelved.

So, let me offer an opinion here: This production promises to outdo Harry Potter by some way. It has magic, intrigue and characterisation to match, but it has the added virtue of considerably more depth. Bear in mind that Harry Potter – which I’m not criticising for a moment – was written as YA fiction by an author who was competent but not outstanding. His Dark Materials was written as true adult fiction by a master, and it shows.

The 2007 film was under two hours long, and the main criticism of it was that it was far too short to do a complex story justice. The first season of the BBC’s effort will consist of eight hour-long episodes, and that’s only the first book. It appears, therefore, that a whole 24 hours will be allocated to the complete story, and that should ensure a far better adaption of it than the film.

And I might just add that the heroine of the story – Lyra Belacqua – is every bit as compelling as Hermione Granger. It might even be said that she’s more compelling because she retains the qualities of youth throughout. It starts in Britain and the US on 3^rd November. I’ve no doubt it will be shown elsewhere, too, so it’s something worth looking out for. Having been a big fan of the books, I can say that this is the first time in many years that I’ve been excited by an upcoming TV production.

Revelations.

It’s odd to think of the things we sometimes feel compelled to do. Sitting listening to YouTube late at night, I feel the odd compulsion to trace my eye sockets with my fingers and imagine what they would look like with the flesh removed. The eye sockets are so much bigger than the eyes, you see. And then I get a yen to be buried rather than cremated after I’m dead, in order that my skull should become exposed and maybe some little vole will build a nest therein (I’d prefer to avoid either process any earlier than that.)

And today I was listening to a Dolores Keane album in the car when a lively Irish reel suddenly filled the vehicle with positive vibes. I’d never quite realised before just how much a lively Irish reel can lift the jaded mood, and so I turned the volume up so the whole of Uttoxeter might revel in the spirit of my forefathers (on the male side, that is. The female side has a dominant Welsh component, and Welshmen are wont to gather in groups and sing familiar harmonies with great gusto and not a little self-possession. It doesn’t have quite the same effect.)

Gaining the Upper Hand.

I got waylaid today by two young women representing a charity for deaf children. The main spokesperson followed the usual routine:

‘I’m Jessica. What’s your name?’

That’s normal – establish first name familiarity to encourage trust and conviviality.

‘Do you have children of your own?’

That’s also normal, and when I told her the age of my daughter she feigned surprise that I was old as I must be to have a daughter that age. Pay a compliment at the earliest opportunity.

‘So how old are you really?’ she continued. I declined to answer as I usually do.

‘What’s your shoe size?’ asked her companion. That isn’t normal, and when I freely offered the information she giggled and said ‘Aha!’ I haven’t quite worked that one out yet.

So then I engaged them in conversation until they became bored with me and made it clear that they wanted me to move on. It’s a technique I developed some years ago when approached by a couple of Mormon missionaries, only on that occasion it was they who moved on. But since today’s spokesperson was young, female, passably attractive, and not a missionary, I offered my hand upon parting. I don’t do that with Mormon missionaries (or anybody else trying to sell me religion.) And do you know, it’s so long since I held a young woman’s hand, albeit briefly and with impeccable propriety, and I’d quite forgotten how nice they are.

Bringing the Girlfriend Home.

I watched an episode of The Royle Family tonight. It was the one in which the son of the house, Anthony, brings his first girlfriend home to meet the family. And such nostalgia it did evoke.

Anthony was eighteen, but I was only fourteen when I first took a girlfriend home. (She wasn’t my first girlfriend, just the first one I took home.) That was Sandra, the one I’ve mentioned before on this blog. She was only thirteen, and she was the one who gave me a scented handkerchief to keep under my pillow while she was on holiday with her parents. Every night I used to sniff it before going to sleep, and what light through yonder window did break (figuratively speaking, of course, it being 11 o’clock at night.) See what a nice boy I was?

I was seventeen before I took another girlfriend home. That was Mary, who I’ve also mentioned on this blog. My mother didn’t like Mary. She didn’t tell me she didn’t like Mary, she told the next door neighbour. Now, it just happens that the next door neighbour was the one with whom I subsequently had an affair, and it was she who told me that my mother hadn’t liked Mary. There goes the good old universe weaving convoluted patterns again.

Next up was Pauline. My mother liked Pauline. I suspect my mother read things in people’s eyes, and she read – with unerring accuracy – that Mary was a bit of a minx. Pauline, on the other hand, was wholesome as a fresh-baked loaf. She was also exceedingly pretty and had an Irish bricklayer for a father. She came from what some people would deem a lower social class than me, but my mother was never that kind of a snob (and neither was I.) Unfortunately, and notwithstanding the impeccable credential of having an Irish bricklayer for a father, Pauline threw me over six weeks later for a lad a year older than me. I gather it was because he wasn’t as nice. The universe’s convolutions can be a little difficult to fathom sometimes, but the upshot was that Pauline never came to my house again.

The point about all this, however, is that I never took a girlfriend home for the purpose of introducing her to my parents. I might have been a nice boy, but I was never a dutiful son. I took them home simply because I lived there. My home was where my bedroom was, and my bedroom was where my music was, and my bedroom was where my girlfriend and I spent most of our time when she visited. That fact is particularly true of Mary, and I always kept my bedroom door shut when Mary was in it (for reasons which you may feel free to infer.) And all these years on, it’s just occurred to me that maybe my mother was standing outside listening.

Old Habits.

I was just thinking of the priestess’s Stockholm apartment. And then I remembered that for most of my life I’ve wanted to live in a lighthouse. And then this dropped into my head, ready made.

There was an old man

Who lived in a mill

He built it himself

On the top of a hill

But when the wind blew

It wouldn’t stay still

And one day

The hilltop

Was empty

It’s a very long time since a ditty dropped into my head ready made. The fact that it isn’t very good is immaterial. It matters to me. And it probably means something, but that’s for others to decide. They always do.

The Blogging Itch.

The problem with blogging is that it can become a bit of an obsession, especially if you live alone, your poorly leg won’t permit you to perambulate the lanes of the Shire in the hope of being leaped on by a lollopy dog, and even next door’s cats run away in panic if you come to within fifteen feet of them. I spend quite a lot of my time trying to find something to say even when I don’t have anything to say. So where does this curious compulsion come from?

I wonder whether there’s a little being residing somewhere in my jaundiced and deeply troubled mind who just wants to reach out and connect with his fellow mortals. Well, if there is, I’ll pretend I can’t see him because I find the majority of my fellow mortals more than a little irksome. I think it more likely that this blog is my version of S.E.T.I. I suspect my unconscious mind is encouraging me to send random words deep into the vastness of cyberspace in the hope that some intelligent life form on the other side of the universe will send a load of computer code back. I won’t understand any of it, but at least I’ll know that there’s life beyond YouTube.

Nature's Instrument.

I’ve had various favourite musical instruments down the years. I remember as a boy being particularly fond of the oboe and the French horn. Later I transferred my allegiance to the cello. I like the fiddle in Irish music, and my two favourite Chinese instruments are the erhu and the yangqin.

But today I was driving back from the hospital playing Cathie Ryan’s album The Music of What Happens in the car, and I realised that there’s really no contest. I have no reservation in saying that the best of all musical instruments is the female voice. So many nuances are there, and when the nuance matches the mood and the musical arrangement, the female voice leading it all can be truly transformative.

Thursday's Jottings.

I’m one of those people who can place hand on heart and say ‘I love the human race. It’s people I have a problem with.’

I suppose I should now go on to explain why I don’t see that as a contradiction in terms, but why fray the edges of a neat little statement just to serve the interests of earnestness? And I wonder how many people said it before I did.

*  *  *

The big issue in the sports world at the moment is the effect Typhoon Hagidis is having on the rugby world cup in Japan. What’s interesting is that if the match between Scotland and Japan is called off, Japan will automatically go through to the knockout stages for the first time ever. And yet I haven’t noticed a single BBC journalist use the term ‘kamikaze.’ Standards are falling rapidly at the BBC these days.

*  *  *

The wind is getting up in the Shire tonight, too. I got up in the Shire at 6.15 this morning. Did I say? What I didn’t say was that it left me feeling ill all afternoon. I’ve felt better this evening, though, so now I’m going to watch another episode of the X-Files. I’m scouring them all for signs of Mormon missionaries so I can swell with pride and cleverness.

*  *  *

An attractive, 40+ woman with black hair raised above her head in a sort of fountain arrangement smiled at me twice in the coffee shop today. I was sure I knew her from somewhere, but I hadn’t a clue where it was. At one point she walked past me at a distance of a few feet and swamped my senses with her heady perfume, and still I couldn’t place her. Maybe she’d never got that close before, so I don’t suppose it matters.

Noticing the Boy.

A young man of about twenty walked past me in Ashbourne yesterday. He was around medium height, but thin as a bean pole. That and his pale features, fine blond hair, delicate walk, and apparent lack of even the lightest beard growth gave the impression of something unnaturally insubstantial. I imagined a slight gust of wind would carry him off and deposit him somewhere on the lea side of the nearest hill.

As he walked past me he smiled and nodded in a way which I thought oddly benevolent. I’m sure I must have returned his smile and nod with a different inclination of my own head and a quizzical frown. And then I saw that he had a large black patch on his cheek. If it was a keratosis, it was a very big one. Beyond that possibility I couldn’t guess.

And as he walked beyond me I saw that he was carrying something black in one hand. It looked like a book. I thought it was probably a Bible. The suspicion that he was an X-file subsided and I assumed he was probably a Jehovah’s Witness missionary. (They’re not the same thing, are they? I know the Mormon missionaries are redolent of an X-File, but this lad looked anything but well-fed and American. And his oddly benevolent smile looked real.)

On Legs and Fine Words.

When I went to the doctor with my leg problem about four months ago, he took the pulse at groin and ankle and told me: ‘You’re not getting proper blood flow through your leg. The arteries are probably silted up.’ He referred me to hospital for further tests.

The doctor at the hospital took the pulse at groin and ankle using a little sonic device. He told me: ‘The blood isn’t flowing properly through your leg. The arteries are probably silted up.’ He referred me for an ultrasound scan.

Today I went for the ultrasound scan. ‘Have you heard the term “furred up arteries” asked the radiographer? The blood isn’t flowing properly through your leg.’

Erm, I think I’m getting the message here.

She said she’d refer the case to the consultant and the next step will probably be an angiogram before deciding on treatment. The case goes on, and the term ‘step’ seems oddly ironic in the circumstances.

And do you know, I had to get up at 6.15 this morning to make my early appointment. That’s about four hours earlier than I usually get up because I don’t go to bed until around 2.30. And to make matters worse the sun was shining. Why is that a problem, you might ask? Because the drive to Derby is unerringly eastward in direction, and the sun is low at that time of day and at this time of year. By the time I got to the hospital I had a stiff neck from trying to keep my eyes above the level of the visor so I could see where I was going. You’d think they’d know that, wouldn’t you, and not call people for early appointments if they’re coming from the west? Wanting the world to be perfect isn’t too much to ask, is it?

*  *  *

So I did what I always do when I’ve been released from the clutches of the Royal Derby Hospital – called in at Ashbourne on the way back for a cup of decent coffee in Costa by way of celebration.

The manager was on the counter today. The last time I saw her she was looking a little wan and largely deficient of make-up. She explained that she wasn’t feeling well because she’d had an infection in her leg and was waiting for the antibiotics to take full effect. Today she looked a lot better.

‘I see you’ve got your eyes on today,’ I said.

‘Ah, you noticed.’

‘Of course; I notice everything. But do you still have your gangrenous appendage?’

‘It’s getting better.’

‘Congratulations.’

And that, dear reader, is an object lesson in how to woo the ladies even when you look like Quasimodo with a hangover and the blood isn’t flowing properly through your own appendage.

On the Health Front.

I’m booked in for my next visit to the hospital tomorrow, this time to have ultrasound scans on both legs to see whether they can sort out the constricted arteries problem. And because it’s an early appointment, and the hospital is twenty miles away, and it’s normal to queue for up to half an hour for the car park, and then there’s the length of a very big building to walk searching for the requisite department, I have to be up approximately four hours before I normally get up. I’m really not designed for that sort of thing.

You know, up until two years ago I visited the doctor on average about once every five years, and it was usually for something minor which required nothing more than a short course of antibiotics. I’ve always been fit and healthy and free to get on with my life without let or hindrance. In the last twenty one months I’ve made eleven visits to the doctor, seventeen visits to the hospital, and had four stays in hospital. And in the course of all this I’ve had nineteen procedures including two operations, one set of X-rays, one ultrasound examination, multiple cystoscopies and CT scans, as well as too many blood and urine tests to bother counting. I currently have three unconnected issues ongoing.

Why now? Why all at once? Where has my life gone? Will it end soon or carry on until I fall off the conveyor belt?

Sorry for the whinge, but the wall doesn't bother listening to me any more.

Egghead.

So there I was, sitting in my car on the retail park in Ashbourne, munching my egg and cress sandwich and generally musing on the state of the world, when a scene was enacted in front of my eyes without forethought or provocation.

A mortuary attendant goes over to a cadaver lying on a slab and cuts its head off with a chopper. He carries the head to his desk, sets it upright on a plate, fetches one of those saws the pathologists use, and neatly trims off the top of the skull. He takes a teaspoon out of a drawer in his desk and proceeds to spoon out the brains and eat them. And then he stops and thinks for a moment.

He gets up and goes into the staff kitchen where he toasts two slices of bread and butters them. He collects the salt and pepper shakers from a cupboard and returns to his desk, seasons the brains, and uses the toast as a dip. He carries on munching quietly and nonchalantly while reading a magazine.

Now, what kind of mind manufactures such a horrific scene without forethought or provocation? It seems that mine does, so I asked myself why it should amuse me so.

Because it isn’t horrific, merely gross. If the head had remained attached to a live and conscious human being it would have been horrific. As it is, it’s surreal. And funny, which is why I do believe my talents are truly wasted on an uncomprehending world.

Considering Frugality.

There’s a coat I’ve had my eye on in a Uttoxeter charity shop for a few weeks. It’s a very smart coat – cream coloured moleskin, nearly new condition, tastefully designed, and originally from NEXT which is a good brand. And all for the absurdly low price of £4. £4 for a stylish NEXT coat. Who could possibly walk past without buying it?

Well, the first question I ask myself is: ‘Do I need another coat?’ to which the answer is a reluctant but truthful ‘no.’

The second consideration is more of a realisation than a question. I’ve got to that point in life where there’s no prospect of me looking good no matter what I wear, and nobody has the slightest reason to take a blind bit of notice of me anyway. I’m reminded of those elderly women who spend an inordinate proportion of their weekly pension having their hair styled, permed and coloured. It doesn’t disguise the fact that they’re deep into the rigours of physical degradation. It just means that their malformed bodies have purple wigs stuck on top of them. Where’s the point in that? There isn’t one.

And then I ask myself what else I could do with £4, and the first thing which springs to mind is that it pays for about eight hours worth of having the fan heater on in my office on cold winter nights. Now that does matter. I get miserable sitting in front of the computer feeling chilled, and my office is the warmest room in the house.

That settles the matter: somebody younger, and possibly poorer, than me can have the coat. I swell with pride at the realisation that my propensity for kindness is manifest yet again, and I walk past without buying it.

JJ and the Baby Thing.

I saw a young man and woman in the town today, pushing a buggy with a baby, appropriately supine, contained therein. They stopped a couple of times and fiddled with the plastic cover and the blankets, ensuring with commendable diligence that the little proto-human was as warm, dry and comfortable as babies have a right to be. It gave me a lift. It seemed a rare example of something right and proper in this absurd existence we humans live out for heaven-knows-what purpose.

And then there were two women standing talking, one of whom was carrying a little girl of maybe 12-15 months. The child and I exchanged glances, and the glances became longer stares, and I resorted to my very best Stan Laurel impression, and the kid smiled.

What is this connection I seem to have developed with babies over the last year or so? Dogs and horses I understand, but babies?

I remember being a baby, you know. I remember the feeling of delighted expectation when my mother approached with a spoon and a jar of Virol. (Virol was a brown paste consisting mainly of malt extract, although I learned only tonight that it also contained a little refined beef fat. I wasn’t a vegetarian in those days, much to my eternal shame, and I get my daily dose of beloved malt extract from quite a different source now.) I also remember the feeling of extreme annoyance when something I was being fed with a spoon dripped off my bottom lip and my mother scooped it up. I distinctly remember moving my head about – and probably making the odd unearthly noise or two – in the hope of circumventing the operation, and I remember feeling doubly irritated when the drips still got scooped. It probably explains my lifelong suspicion of women and things that drip.

And do you know that I haven’t met the Lady B’s little daughter yet? I’m told that she doesn’t have her mother’s eyes, but she does have her mother’s temperament. I didn’t enquire further, but I assume there’s reason to hope that another earthworm rescuer will soon be joining the ranks.

Late Scribbles.

I often wonder whether the clever people at YouTube have the facility to record every instance of somebody pressing the Sound Off button when the initial, ludicrously incongruous ad assails their reluctant senses, and how often people press the Skip Ad button as soon as it appears. And if they do have that facility, do they make the results known to their advertisers? Or is this just my cynical loner gene showing itself?

*  *  *

I can smell the scent of jasmine upstairs in my house again tonight. Where does it come from? Where does it go? One of my short stories – The Visitor – features that very phenomenon. In the story it transpires that the source of the scent is the butterfly deva come to take the protagonist for a ride in return for a place to hibernate over the winter. That’s a rather pleasanter prospect than the alternative: that there’s something wrong with my brain, rather like the David Niven character smelling fried onions in the film A Matter of Life and Death. Mind you, he did get the girl in the end.

From YouTube to the Abyss.

I swear I could make a full time career out of insulting most of the people who write comments on YouTube.

I read them, you know, I do. Lots of them. It’s like sitting on a chair in front of a stage watching a procession of Karl Pilkingtons saying their piece and then asking ‘what did you think of that?’ And I want to tell them, honestly and in well ordered English, precisely what I thought of that. Only I mustn’t because I’m trying to be a better person. And I don’t want to hurt or insult people anyway (apart from the likes of Trump and the other psychopaths running the world who exempt me from the karmic process because they’re not really people in the accepted sense of the word.) Hurting and insulting people is not what you do when you’re trying to be a better person.

So I stay quiet, and I congratulate myself for staying quiet, and then I remonstrate with myself because self-congratulation is yet another form of ego-projection, but I grudgingly accept it because it does at least ameliorate the frustration.

And then I go off onto one of my ‘what’s it all about?’ trips, in which I face the unanswerable question of whether this life is all there is, or whether it’s only a small part of a much larger existence. Because if there’s nothing beyond this pathetically short span of life I see slowly fading in the mirror, it really doesn’t matter a damn what I do. But that’s a recipe for anarchy, and anarchy can be pretty uncomfortable, which is perhaps why humans invented God and religion. Or perhaps they didn’t.

The search goes on. No gurus please.

Not a Fan of Bodies.

I will admit that certain parts of the human body are reasonably pleasing, but what about those which aren’t? These are the four Great Ugly Things – genitals, buttocks, noses and toes. I think it a reasonable hypothesis that the GUTs were designed by an incompetent assistant while the Great Architect was sleeping off the effects of a night with the nyads.

And that’s only on the outside. When you think of the stinky, slimy stuff slopping about on the inside, it really makes you wish you’d been born a tree.

And what’s kissing all about. Why do people have to press their slobbering mouths against other people’s slobbering mouths just to prove they like them? Do we not have language? Why do we have to eschew the primary means of communication and resort to a knocking of teeth and exchange of saliva? I mean, what person in his or her right mind would ever want somebody else’s saliva in their mouth?

As for sex, that particular form of recreation takes the biscuit for sheer grossness and absurdity. One person sticks a bit of itself into another person, makes a lot of silly noises which have nothing to do with the primary means of communication, and the result is a third little person who will go on to behave just as idiotically themselves one day. If God really is the omnipotent being we are led to believe, surely he would have been aware of the test tube and its potential application.

And that’s why I have serious reservations about those who enter the medical profession. What sort of person willingly devotes their life to touching the physical manifestation of other people? I watched them while I was in hospital, and when they turned their attention on me I was beside myself with incomprehension.

Discovering Local History.

Tonight I had cause to delve into the history of the locality where I grew up, and in so doing discovered a couple of interesting facts.

It seems the final resting place of Hugh Despenser the Younger was Hulton Abbey, the remains of which were about half a mile from the house where I lived. On the orders of Queen Isabella, poor old Hugh (or poor young Hugh to be precise) was hanged, drawn and quartered in 1326 for having been a favourite of her deposed husband, King Edward II. And maybe it should be pointed out that only part of poor Hugh rested in Hulton Abbey. Several bits of him had been set up on spikes atop the walls of various cities as a salutary lesson in the fate which may befall those who transgress the accepted mores of kingship. I expect the crows had the flesh and the dogs the bones.

But there was also an area of wild grassland just beyond the estate of houses on which my house was situated. It was called The Butts, and was where I spent many a happy summer’s day fishing for bullheads in the stream which ran through it. It was also the favourite location for games of cowboys and indians (in which I was always the cowboy called Jim. There was always a cowboy called Jim in westerns.)

I gather it was so named because it was where the local men practiced their archery skills during the Middle Ages, which was a legal requirement at a time when the French and English kings were squabbling over who owned which bits of France. The archers were indispensible to the need to remove a few French knights from the equation. It was how Henry V ended up in Paris long before the place became fashionable.

But the fact I found most interesting was a lot more up to date. I discovered that during WWII a German plane had crashed on The Butts, probably while returning home from a raid on Liverpool. Why did nobody ever tell me that? My best friend’s mother was Austrian and had a crush on Clark Gable, so surely she must have known.

Garden Stuff.

We had a rare dry day today, which afforded me the opportunity to trim and smarten up one of my tall hedges ready for the winter, and also give the lawn what I hope will be its last mow of the season. And I had my hair cut, which is in no way connected with the aforesaid.

What is connected with the garden, however, is this:

I’ve often wondered why some snail shells are empty, and so I asked the question of Google. It appears that snails are subjected to predation from things like mites and ants, which left me wishing I hadn’t asked the question at this time of night. My brain has an inconvenient habit of turning the day’s information into an impressive range of bad dreams, and I wish it didn’t.

A Mushroom Tale.

There was a knock at my door earlier. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 9pm. Hardly anybody ever knocks on my door at any time, and nobody ever knocks on my door at 9pm. I wondered whether it might be some local kids practicing for Halloween and opened the door tentatively. My old friend the llama was standing there large as life, his head cocked slightly to one side as is his wont.

‘Do you have any mushrooms?’ he asked without offering any sort of preliminary greeting.

‘Mushrooms?’

‘Mushrooms,’ he repeated.

‘I do actually. Why, do you want some?’

‘Certainly not. Can’t stand the horrid little things.’

‘So why did you come all this way to ask whether I have any?’

‘I didn’t come all this way, as you put it. I was in the vicinity and it occurred to me to wonder whether you have any mushrooms.’

‘Why would it occur to you to wonder such a thing if you don’t want any?’

‘Questions come and questions go, dear boy. Why would I waste my time deliberating over the value or origin of them?’

‘But that’s absurd.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s no more absurd than asking what time it is, or whether the train to Plymouth stops at Bristol on the way.’

‘That’s rubbish. Those questions are bound up with some form of rationale. They’re part of a wider issue to which they are pertinent.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear; what a lot you do have to learn about the nature of reality,’ he said with a sad and dismissive air. And then he turned and walked away, as he always does.

The night was cold and so I shut the door. There’s never any point in trying to follow a llama. It seemed natural in the circumstances to make a cup of tea, although I have no idea why.

*  *  *

Ten minutes later there was another knock on my door. I opened it again to find a young Chinese woman standing on the doorstep. I deduced with remarkable speed - not to mention alacrity - that it was the priestess come all the way from Stockholm to visit me. I've never met the priestess, but being possessed of all gentlemanly virtues I invited her in.

‘Would you like a mushroom?’ I asked.

‘A mushroom?’

‘A mushroom,’ I repeated.

‘You mean a magic mushroom?’

‘No, an ordinary mushroom.’

‘Why on earth would I want an ordinary mushroom?’

‘Yes or no?’

Have you ever seen a young Chinese woman frown deeply and cock her head to one side in the manner of a llama?

Chilling Thoughts.

I was thinking of my stepfather tonight, and it occurred to me that he could have been a serial killer in different circumstances. And then it further occurred to me that maybe he was; maybe he is the undiscovered solution to some enduring mystery of which I am unaware.

I didn’t dwell on it because it reminded me of that awful dream I had once, in which I had killed a woman and buried her body in a shallow grave in a wood near a lake. And the police were searching the area and closing in… I woke up convinced that it was a real memory, and remained so convinced for at least the next two hours. I wondered whether it had anything to do with those missing fifteen minutes for which I’ve never managed to find an explanation.

A Note on a Sister.

Vis-à-vis my reference to the Lady B in a recent post:

I thought I saw her walking towards me in the town today and fell to considering whether I had the courage to ask: ‘Tell me something: is your husband the father of your daughter?’ (I should point out here that I have no doubt whatsoever that her husband is the father of her daughter. The question was entirely manufactured in the hope that she might slap me in the face and walk away in a huff, for reasons I’ve already explained.) But then another consideration pushed itself to the front of the queue: such a question might seriously offend her, and I wouldn’t do that for the world, and so considering whether or not I had the courage became a redundant exercise. And it wasn’t the Lady B walking towards me anyway, so it didn’t matter.

I did, however, see the Lady B’s sister for the first time in a long time. I’ve mentioned the Lady R (for so she might be styled) before. I find her endlessly intriguing because:

1. She appears chronically reluctant to be drawn into a conversation. If I say ‘hello’ to her and get a ‘hello’ back, that’s about as much as I can reasonably expect. If I get a smile as well, that’s a bonus. Today I got a smile and felt light headed for at least five seconds in consequence.

2. She makes it plainly obvious – or appears to – that she dislikes me. I’m sure there are plenty of people who dislike me, but few make it as plainly obvious as she does. (I quite approve of that, actually; it’s authentic.) I remember the time when she cut me off in the middle of a discussion with a simple ‘bye, Jeff’ and walked away. She was in company with others at the time and they followed her. I went the other way. And I remember another time when I can be quite certain that she hid in order to avoid bumping into me.

3. She also appears to be possessed of the skill to make herself nearly invisible in plain sight. I read once that people in certain professions, like secret agents for example, are trained to do it. I believe it has something to do with reining in your presence so that people don’t notice you. And so I wonder whether she’s been trained, or whether it comes naturally to her.

4. Given how attractive she is – especially now that she’s trimmed herself to the point of being almost describable as ‘lean’ – I wonder why she isn’t either married or accompanied by a queue of young men all waiting for their chance to escort her to the ball. Maybe she dislikes balls. (Don’t we all?) Or maybe she bucked the trend and never wanted to be a princess. Sorry, frogs. No princely metamorphosis for you, my lads.

Notwithstanding all of the above, the fact that she apparently dislikes me and has no intention of ever talking to me means that I shall never have the answer to the questions. But at least it gives me something to write a post about when I’m bored.

Fraudulent October and Bits.

Autumn: Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness. ‘Goldener Oktober’ proudly proclaims the German wine bottle.

Golden? Today was dark, cold and wet in my part of the world. And the wind didn’t help. Such weather sucks the light out of me.

I remember submitting a picture of a brown puddle lying outside a muddy field to a photography magazine once, because such a sight is more redolent of a true English winter than the snowy boughs and puffed up robins of Christmas card tradition. It got published, too. Mind you, it was accompanied by several other pictures and an article which all got published. It was even translated into Dutch. It was my first lesson in the effect fame has on the ego, and how urgently one should strive to move beyond such frippery and grow up. Eventually I did, the limelight faded, and the episode ended as all episodes do.

Tonight I woke out of a bad dream which had lasted for three days and threatened to end a most valuable liaison. I also had the odd impression that absolutely nothing matters.

And today I got the call to attend hospital, there to have slimy stuff smeared all over my legs so the ultrasound thingy runs smoother. My first thought was to wonder how much it’s going to cost the NHS in paper towels.

An Odd Aspiration.

I haven’t mentioned the Lady B for a long time, have I? She just occurred to me after I’d written an apology to somebody. It struck me that I would very much like to bump into her tomorrow and say something so reprehensible that she would be compelled to slap my face and walk away in disgust.

And why would I like to do that? No reason in particular, it’s just that it seems to be my week for being excessively acerbic and I like to go with the flow sometimes.

Ah, just thought of another reason. You’ve no idea how thrilled I would feel at having my face slapped by the Lady B. Life would suddenly seem worthwhile.

Not that I have very much of it left, or so I suspect. I now have all the classic symptoms of yet another serious health condition. What an amazing time the last twenty months have been on the health front. I’ve learned a lot.