Remember September.

An hour away from October and musing on the month that’s almost gone. I can’t say it’s been uneventful.

The pre-op, the swabs, the procedure, the injections, the pains, the aches, the frustrations, the malfunctions, the early mornings, the disturbed nights, the restrictions, the weariness, the things which worked out and the more frequent things which didn’t. There are probably more if I could be bothered to think harder. And then there was the beguiling case of the mysterious Filipina nurse whose face I never saw; just her eyes, a swinging ponytail, and hands which seemed to symbolise connection.

For in that month of life, what dreams may come 

When we are shackled to this mortal coil

Must give us pause.

What on earth was September all about? Everything that happens teaches us something, so what of September? Is that the point of it all? 

Current and Prospective Nightmares.

Shall I make a valiant effort to describe today’s nightmare in detail? No? Oh good. It isn’t easy to describe the individual characteristics of every creature in a can of wriggling worms. Suffice it to say that it involved the changing of mobile phone supplier, and Virgin Media was the nightmare factory as usual. I’m changing to Plusnet. Their customer service procedures, along with their service operatives and technicians, are excellent.

This is how the days are at the moment, alas. I still have disturbing dreams at night, but they’re nothing compared with the nightmares which keep landing on my head during the daylight hours. Most days my head spends so much time swimming that it’s forgetting how to stay afloat, and the evenings are ever wan and weary. It explains why I feel scared, or at least reluctant, to get up every morning.

*  *  *

But enough of that. Let’s talk about Trump for a change. The BBC’s American correspondent described last night’s debate in Ohio as ‘chaotic.’ Well of course it was. Trump was involved, and it pleased me just a little to read that everything happened more or less exactly as I thought it would.

But at least Donald did manage to emphasise his right wing credentials, and that’s the worry. If Americans were to put him back into the White House in November, the occasional whiff of Fascism which seeps out of his Twitter account would become a full blown unwholesome smell. America would be establishing itself as a near-Fascist state run by a Fascist-minded President put there by a Fascist-minded population. In that case, I hope that we in Europe would be able to maintain as much distance as possible from the Land of the Free.

The second worry is that, no matter who wins in November, there will be a lot of ill feeling going around in consequence. The body of America is in danger of becoming a diseased mass of pustules ready to burst, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to see a few litres of blood being spilt on the streets of American cities in the aftermath. That’s Trump’s legacy, and I hope I’m wrong.

Trump: The Facile & the Fallout.

I gather Donald and Joe are going head-to-head in Ohio tonight, although I have no idea why such a fact should be considered newsworthy. Debate is all very well in committee, cabinet and government where the aim is to achieve consensus from a variety of disparate views, but that isn’t the case with a presidential election debate. They are theatre, pure and simple, and as such are pointless and eminently ignorable.

What really interests me is what will happen if Donald loses in November but refuses to concede and declines to exit the White House. Part of me hopes he really does that, because the fallout could be the best bit of theatre in international affairs in decades. On the other hand, I imagine it will almost certainly lead to violence which I wouldn’t want. So I’m going to be sensible and hope that Donald is, too.

Humourless and Lacking Symbolism.

First off, shall I tell the story of getting my flu jab today? Second question: Did anything amusing happen in the course of so doing? Answer: No. OK then, I won’t bother. And the fact that the pharmacy next door got my meds wrong wasn’t funny either. A humourless day was had by all.

But I did get an email from Mel later, complimenting my story Changing Places which she’d just read. This is the one about which an editor who intended to publish it said ‘It’s full of symbolism.’ And what’s interesting is that it’s had more than twice as many views as any of the others at my stories blog (1,060), and yet nobody has ever left a comment. I suppose it could be that the symbolism confused everybody, but I’ll let you into a secret: there is no symbolism. The initial dream sequence was deliberately written under the influence of two double scotches to make it more realistic, and the rest is just the standard rambling of my fertile mind (it’s the sort of fertile mind in which you sow carrots and get sprouting broccoli for your pains.) It’s here if anybody wants to read it.

And I received a reply to one of my YouTube comments today. It said: ‘Do you speak Russian?’ The video was published by an Australian woman on a theme of Harry Potter, so why would I speak Russian? Romanian I could understand, since that’s where the dragons are bred. Bulgarian I could also understand, since that’s the domicile of the bounder making fast and loose with my beloved Lady Hermione. But Russian? It’s been that sort of a day.

Another Minor Medical Matter.

Tomorrow I’m booked to continue my medical meanderings with a visit to the GP for a flu jab. I’ve never had a flu jab before. I always thought I was above that sort of thing, but the tyrant Time continues to crack the whip and tug the halter rope and perceptions change.

The only time in my life I had the full-blown flu was twenty five years ago. It laid me low for two days, the second of which was spent in bed with a grumbling chest, a searing throat, a head full of thorns, and muscles which had developed a mysterious similarity to comatose earthworms. At 7pm I decided that a mug of hot tea laced with whisky would afford the shot of adrenalin I desperately needed, so I went downstairs and made one.

Approximately two minutes after the first sip I felt massively nauseous and hurried through the kitchen, beyond which lay the bathroom. Some time later – and I still have no idea how much time later – I woke up collapsed on the kitchen floor. The nausea had subsided, but feeling in no condition to dance a jig I went back to bed and slept until morning. I felt much improved the following day, and the day after that I went back to work.

And so arose the notion that poncy old flu was no match for this young, fit and eminently capable body. ‘No flu jabs for you, JJ,’ it proudly declared, ‘ever. Flu jabs are for wimps.’ But that was twenty five years ago and the tyrant has taken his toll in the interim. The body is no longer young, fit or eminently capable, and so JJ has bowed to the inevitable and stooped to the status of wimp. Sad, isn’t it?

*  *  *

Seems I was right about the post-operative trauma, though. Today I felt much better and spent some time clearing the autumnal detritus from the grids over the road drains. It will need doing about once a week from now until January. I wonder whether a certain little lady will pass by while I’m doing it. If only I had a lamp post to lean on…

(I wonder whether anybody reading this blog has ever even heard of George Formby. Even I’m not old enough to remember him.)

Spirit and the Filipina.

I told somebody the story of the Filipina nurse today, and it was suggested that she might have been briefly bestowing a form of ‘spiritual’ healing on me. I found the possibility both pleasant and gratifying, and so I did a little digging into the approach to healing in the Philippines. 

It seems it’s rather different there – and in Asia generally – than it is here. In the west we place total reliance on mechanics and pharmacology. In most parts of Asia, where they have just as much mechanical and pharmacological nous as we do, they combine it with spiritual and holistic principles. That strikes me as being not at all a bad thing.

And it’s a nice thought, isn’t it, that some young woman who had never met me before and never will again should deem me worthy of a little spiritual tlc? Whether it made any difference or not I can have no way of knowing, but that isn’t the point. The point is that it’s the stuff of which light is made, and was a timely reminder to a severely jaded mindset that maybe the human race is worth belonging to after all.

Then again, as ever, I freely concede that this explanation might be wrong. The little imp of pragmatism never fails to nudge me when there is the slightest possibility that I might be succumbing to fanciful notions. But until it can be proven otherwise, I will continue to accept that I might have been the recipient of a most valuable gift and be truly grateful.

Changing.

I didn’t make a post yesterday because I felt ill – immensely tired, weak, washed out and in pain. In short, useless even by my inestimable standards. I think part of it was due to having sat outside in the garden too long while the sky grew gloomier and the cold northerly wind strengthened. I still felt chilled even after a hot shower in a warm bathroom.

I think most of it, though, can be credited to post-operative trauma. I’ve learned over the past couple of years that the older you get, the longer it takes to get over operations and the more pain you experience in the process. I had my appendix removed when I was 12 and within a week I was on holiday and as fit as a 12-year-old should be. It doesn’t work like that any more and sometimes I wonder why I bother.

But today I was musing on why some of the flowering plants in the garden have done unusually well this year, while others have failed miserably. The big hydrangea at the bottom of my garden has had no flowers at all for the first time since I came here, and the sweet peas which usually have hundreds of pink and blue blooms have had about six. The times really do seem to be a-changin’, and I’m half convinced that Covid is but one part of a much bigger bull intent on upsetting the apple cart of life. 

And I’m still intrigued by that Filipino nurse and her strange behaviour. She was sitting next to me while I was undergoing the angioplasty on Wednesday, and then volunteered to help take me back to the ward. So now I’m wondering whether she knew something I didn’t, but couldn’t tell me for some reason. And I further wonder whether the gods will let me be an alpha predator in my next life.

A Nurse and Her Calling.

I have to say that I’m mightily intrigued by what that Filipino nurse did in the hospital on Wednesday. I said I was going to say nothing more about it, but I think I’m allowed to change my mind and the sense of mystery is growing. I also imagine there might be people reading this blog, wondering what all the fuss is about and why I’m being secretive. 

I’m not being secretive. It’s just that the physical actions were subtle and not easily described, and yet they seemed suffused with meaning of some sort. I can say that she touched me in a manner that was in no way improper, but was quite unnecessary and most unusual. Nurses just don’t do that kind of thing in that kind of situation, but she did it twice. And after she’d turned to walk away, she turned again and stared at me briefly, silently and intensely in a way which was too long to be a mere glance. And then she did it again before she reached the door. I had the feeling at the time, and the feeling has grown stronger since, that she wanted to tell me something. But what? Therein lies the mystery, and I don’t suppose it will ever be revealed. And there is a little more to the story, but let’s leave it at that. 

*  *  *

And while I’m talking about a nurse, I have to say something about the profession of nursing in general. I regard it as being probably the most noble of all professions. I get irritated when I come across young whizz kids who think they’re very clever because they know how to push money around, and captains of industry who think they’re so important because they’ve built a business empire, and celebrities who revel in the adoration of the weak-minded while being ludicrously overcooked and making weak jokes, or giving us the benefit of their wisdom with statements which usually fall lamentably short of wise. And these are the people on whom we confer the plaudits and the national honours.

Nurses care, and they put that caring into action. They’re on the very front line of easing the lot of the frightened, the distressed, and those in pain. They do so day in, day out, and they do it naturally. It’s their life’s work to care for people and ease the burden of sickness and injury. They make a difference where it's most needed, and they matter a lot. But how many nurses ever get knighthoods? We give those to the likes of Richard Branson, heaven help us.

Hitting the Sense of Self.

Following the surgical procedure on Wednesday, the troublesome leg had its first light test today. Only half a mile – being downhill out and uphill back – but for the first time in around eighteen months there was no hint of cumulative aching on the uphill stretch. I usually have to stop and rest at some point, but not today. Early days yet, but preliminary encouragement is better than deep disappointment.

And the change brought into focus the fact that a problem such as this is not confined to the pain and inconvenience. It’s also psychological since it affects one’s sense of self. You watch people walking normally, doing something they take for granted and don’t even think about, and you feel that you are no longer a fully functioning member of the species. It can easily make you feel inferior.

And then I realised that something similar must afflict women who require mastectomies. In most cases the loss causes no practical problem, and the cosmetic issue is easily hidden. I assume most women must suffer more from the psychological effect – suddenly feeling that she is no longer a fully functioning member of the gender and probably feeling inferior in consequence. I truly sympathise.

Procedures and Perceptions of Time.

Yesterday’s scary procedure passed off without serious incident. There was a fair amount of pain, but that’s relatively easy to deal with: lie still, ignore the doctor’s suggestion to let him know ‘if the pain becomes unbearable’, and be a big boy. Even little boys like me have sufficient pride to eschew any notion of calling out in pain when there are three attractive young nurses within earshot. (Whatever would they think?) And it never literally attained quite the level of the unbearable anyway, so my pride remained intact. There is, apparently, still an outside chance of serious (even life-threatening) consequences during the healing period, but then fate – which has been a little unkind to me in general recently – tends to treat me quite well in matters of serious consequence. So let that suffice for now. 

The day itself was an odd one. Late in the evening I found myself musing on the events of the day:

1. Being ready to leave the house at 6am having not gone to bed the night before

2. Dealing with the unfamiliar admission system caused by the wards having undergone extensive re-arrangement to accommodate Covid

3. Assessing the quality of my neighbours in the four-bed cubicle and devising ways to keep my distance from them

4. Waiting longer than expected to be put onto a drip which made me anxious as to whether the procedure might have to go over into a second day 

5. Making a valiant attempt to accept that hospital tea is somewhere remotely close to being acceptable

6. Being unable to leave the ward to enjoy a cigarette for which I felt desperate because of restrictions on movement, again due to Covid

7. Being frequently exposed to machines, cables and pointy things measuring blood pressure, blood oxygen, heart rate and body temperature (and watching my blood pressure gradually fall to a reasonable level as the day progressed and wondering why)

8. Trying to read a book without falling asleep because I only managed around 2½-3 hours in the armchair the night before

9. Working out how to relate to the various clinical personnel according to my assessment of their natures (they were actually all rather splendid)

10. Experiencing some fascination at twice being moved from one bed to another using a transfer board for the first – and hopefully only – time in my life

11. Suffering the ignominy of having to use a bottle hidden under the sheets while lying flat on my back because the procedure causes the desperate need to urinate frequently

12. But mostly feeling bored and mentally split between wanting them to get on with it on the one hand, and worrying about the risks on the other

But the most striking of all the day’s features was one which requires stating separately from a mere tedious list – puzzling over the odd and seemingly reciprocal connection which appeared to flourish with a young Filipina nurse, about which I will say nothing except that there appeared to be something inexplicably substantial and maybe even mystical about it. I have three theories.

The whole point of saying all this, however, is to relate that by late evening my mind was becoming a mess of images and recollections, at which point I was losing track of which ones happened today and which yesterday. And then I suddenly realised that none of them happened yesterday. They all happened today.

I found it verging on the unbelievable, and at that point I said to a nearby nurse: ‘Have you ever noticed that time seems to work differently in hospitals?’ Her response suggested that she hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

A Stew of Troubles.

Most days these days something jumps into my life bringing one form of stress or another. That’s life at the moment, but today was exceptional. Today they came pouring in like envelopes out of the Dursley family's fireplace on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning. They coagulated into a boiling stew of festering ingredients, each bubble loudly demanding attention until my head was swimming.

It wasn’t funny, and none of them are resolved yet, and there will be no going to bed tonight because it isn’t worth it for a mere 2½ hours of sleep, and I’m due to get whisked off to the hospital early in the morning for the scary procedure. Whether I shall be writing more to this blog on Thursday remains to be seen. Scary procedures are like that.

What on earth is happening these days? Is it something in the air, or is the implacable process of karma bringing me to book all in one go for my many sins? How long will it go on, and will it get better or worse after I’m gone for good?

Right now I feel done to a crisp. I’m making this post to let off a little steam because there’s no other way of doing it. And still I feel done to a crisp.

 

Today is the equinox. It means 'equal night.' But at least the moon is waxing.

Having an Odd Mind.

I was pouring my first scotch tonight when the following words arrived in my head fully formed:

You will come to us on Monday

For your weekly dose of pain

Then on Saturday and Sunday

You can all go home again

Where did that come from, and what does it mean? I suppose it's about being a wage slave, but I don't know because I didn't write it.

And then I jumped straight from that to considering the question of whether the term 'hottie' is truly sexist. I suppose it probably is, but I have a problem because my perception of a 'hottie' has always been a little different from most men's.

But I do, at least, know where that thought came from. It came from watching the leader of a Polish youth orchestra playing the medley from Pirates of the Caribbean. She had her hair pulled back and arranged in an immaculate plait which ran down the back of her head, hugging the contours rather than just hanging there. To somebody like me, that makes her a hottie.

Note:

This post was written at ten to two in the morning of the 16th September. I assume I saved it in draft because it was getting close to bed time and was unfinished. And then I forgot all about it. It's still unfinished. Hope you don't mind.

Beware Dragons Bearing Cotton Buds.

Today was Swab Test Day, which meant I had to get up two hours earlier than I usually do which did nothing to improve my habitually awful morning state of mind. I managed, however, and dutifully arrived at the appointed time.

I’ve never had a swab test before. I don’t suppose many people have. Swab tests are one of life’s ubiquitous new experiences, kindly donated to us by a poor, friendless pandemic which just wants a warm home to settle down in and somebody to love it.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely pleasant. The mouth bit was OK, but having an oversized cotton bud rammed up both nostrils almost as far as the eye sockets hurt. I have sensitive sinuses, you know. I do. If they can get sore through being affected by something as innocuous as a change in barometric pressure, how do you think they react to assault by oversized cotton bud? And it didn’t help that the assault weapon was being wielded by the wrong nurse.

Maybe I should I explain what I mean by ‘the wrong nurse.’ Well, there were two of them (as well as a third working in the corner of the canopied enclosure and looking decidedly furtive.) One was a proper nurse, everybody’s idea of a proper nurse, my idea of a proper nurse: young, female, pretty, self-assured, pleasant of disposition, and projecting an indisputable air of authenticity (her only make-up was a light foundation and the merest hint of powder. I notice things like that.) But she was doing the preliminary stuff – taking my name, date of birth, telling me what a nice address I have, that sort of thing.

The second was much older and will probably never smile again. She could have been the young one’s grandmother, and that’s not right, is it? Admittedly, she was also self-assured, but it was more the panzer variety. ‘Open your mouth (plunge and scrape.) Put your tongue over your lower lip (plunge again.) Say ahhh (swish and flick.)  Now for the nose (jab, wriggle, jab, wriggle.)’ ‘OUCH.’ ‘You can go.’ I suspect she might have been Dr Mengele’s granddaughter, although her name was Spanish. Her tag said ‘Nurse El Draque.’ (Well, it would if she’d been wearing one.)

And there was some confusion over the pre-attendance instructions. The letter said I should blow my nose before the test and keep the tissue, so that’s what I did. I assumed they would want the tissue for analysis or something. But no. When I arrived at the entrance to El Draque’s lair I was told ‘First we need you to blow your nose.’ I just did, I replied. The instructions said so. ‘Oh.’ Do you want the tissue? ‘No.’

Confusion reigned for a moment, but only briefly. El Draque was not to be deflected from her purpose. And I worked out later that it was simply a case of a badly written letter. What it should have said was:

You will be required to blow your nose before the procedure, but keep the tissue and take it home with you. We have quite enough unsavoury matter lying around in bins, awaiting collection by specially sealed wagons and removed at dead of night, without adding your nose blowings to the unholy soup.

Then it would have made sense. 

The ordeal was over in about ten minutes and I survived with nothing more injurious than sore sinuses, a headache, and an irregular sneezing habit. Unfortunately, my lifelong fondness for dragons took a bit of a knock.

Just Wondering.

I won’t begin to enumerate the regular flow of incidents that have heaped difficulty, frustration and anger onto my already-beleaguered brain this week. Let’s skip to the bottom line: 

We in the so-called developed world have the progress of our days increasingly manipulated and controlled by an unholy consortium of meddling techies, inept, sometimes corrupt, and often psychopathic politicians, and the heartless corporate world.

So now I’m wondering whether, once the dust has finally settled on the corona business and the world has changed, we might look back on the pandemic and realise that it did us a favour after all.

Virgin Sucks.

First point: Have you ever noticed that you can make a reasonable assessment of a company’s customer profile from the choice of music they play while you’re waiting half an hour for one of their service agents to pick up your call? In the case of Virgin Mobile (part of the Virgin Media empire which is part of the greater Virgin empire) it’s evident that their average customer is under 25, of generally low intelligence, and paddles in the cultural shallows while dutifully following the life-road laid out for them by the corporate world. 

Second point: Have you also noticed that the corporate world is very skilled in boosting your ego and serving your confidence with carefully crafted language and images in their promotional material, aided and abetted by soothing, well modulated, clearly trained voices when they force you to listen to seemingly endless and mostly pointless recorded messages when you try to talk to them by phone?

This is, of course, all to give the impression that the corporate world really cares about our needs and interests, while the systems they use (and sometimes the personnel) at their customer interface give the opposite impression. They clearly don’t give a tuppeny toss about their customers’ needs and interests except insofar as it’s deemed necessary to serve their own profit motive.

So, I’ve had a Virgin Mobile pay-as-you-go phone for eighteen years. A few weeks ago I started receiving texts from them telling me that I needed a new SIM in order to continue to receive service. It would take too long to go into the finer details of what subsequently transpired; suffice it to say that my many attempts to sort this issue out have resulted in nothing more than a catalogue of closed-mindedness, unhelpful attitudes, and sheer incompetence. And I’m not exaggerating one jot.

Today I gave it one last try. I finally got to speak to somebody and was asked a load of ‘security questions’, every one of which I answered correctly. ‘You do not pass the security checks,’ said the operator, ‘and so I cannot continue this call. Thank you.’ And then the phone went dead. And that was after I’d waited half an hour to speak to somebody on a paying call because, unlike some of the better companies, Virgin Media don’t have a toll-free customer service number. 

I’ve had this experience with Virgin Mobile several times over the past eighteen years, but this was the worst of all. And so, to anyone thinking of moving in their direction, the absolutely unmitigated advice has to be: Don’t. Have nothing whatsoever to do with Virgin Media. They really do suck, big time.

Negotiating a Change of Course.

The persistence of the Covid issue is beginning to get me down. It isn’t an issue in isolation to me, of course. In my case it’s just another brick in the wall. But it has me thinking about the extent to which we all rely on there being a certain level of predictability and routine in life. We walk the steady Road of Normality and don’t even notice we’re doing it until we’re suddenly confronted by an impediment. And then it becomes a misty, rickety track with the sky darkened and so many familiar features in the landscape disturbingly absent.

And how are we responding to the change mentally? Mostly it seems, by assuming that the whole thing is temporary, a bad dream out of which we will awaken soon. And then the beloved road of normality we’ve grown used to will appear again and everything will be fine. 

Meanwhile, the rickety track on which we’re currently walking weaves a mazy course and has many offshoots. The government changes the signposts on an almost daily basis, telling us: ‘You must do this now. You mustn’t do that at the moment. You must go this way if you live here; you must go that way if you live there.’ But all the time the underlying message keeps on repeating: It will all be over eventually and then we can go back to living the way we used to live before any of this started.

Well, maybe we will. Maybe a failsafe vaccine will come along, the mist will clear, the old road will still be there to welcome us, and soon we’ll forget that the pandemic ever happened. But suppose we don’t, which I think more likely.  

You might at this juncture point to the fact that pandemics have been an occasional feature of life on earth throughout known history – most of them far more devastating in terms of lives lost – and nothing changed very much after they’d moved on. I know, but life was very different then. Money was a luxury reserved for the chosen few; now it’s the very wheels on which modern society runs. The value and supply of money are at the core of the world’s economies, and economic stability is the immutable foundation of the current road of normality. And let’s not forget that money doesn’t actually exist. It’s just an abstract mechanism based on trust and consensus. 

So what happens if there’s a breakdown in the value and supply of money and we have to build a new road? How long will it take to do that? Will it be better or worse than the old one? And what trials will we have to face in the process of getting there?

Sorry to be a gloom merchant at a time when gloom is already in the ascendant. I’m simply letting off steam because I feel concerned about how today’s younger generations will cope with the rigours of a possible radical change in direction.

On Being Confused and Cool.

There has been a sense of disquiet about the progress of today. Nearly everything I did was lightly touched by a hint of vagueness and confusion. I had to be particularly careful when I was driving to and from the hospital because I kept noticing that the car was rather closer to the kerb or the centre line than it should have been. I half expected to be stopped and asked to prove that I hadn’t imbibed something generally frowned upon in conservative society. And the rest of the day proceeded in similar vein. 

Today was the day for the pre-op examination preparatory to next week’s scary procedure. Being a little nervous, I did what I always do to buoy myself up in circumstances conducive to mild alarm. I took refuge in the inane.

‘Would you take your upper garments off, please, so I can do an ECG,’ said the nurse.

‘Even my T shirt?’

‘Yes, please.’ 

‘What, after all these months? It might hurt.’

She did what you would expect any consummate professional to do when faced with a patient who is not only crass, but male to boot. She ignored me. I imagine she was thinking ‘there always has to be one, doesn’t there,’ but she said nothing. 

Today did, however, present one little spark of light amid the general tenor of gloom and disorientation.

The hospital currently follows the practice of taking everybody’s temperature before they’re allowed access to the inner sanctums of the institution, and so I stood at the door and had a pointed instrument inserted into my ear (having first enquired whether said instrument had ever been inserted into anybody else’s ear, and having been assured that the pointy bit was indeed virgin and intimately acquainted with no other ear than mine.) The deed having been done, I naturally asked whether I was cool.

‘You’re cool,’ said a different nurse.

And do you know, I do believe it’s the first time any woman has ever said that to me in my entire life.

Another Classical Note.

You know, the sound of massed women’s voices singing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy is still capable of stirring within my breast feelings with which I am generally unfamiliar these days.

Yes, I know it’s the anthem of the EU. Forget that. Forget the lyrics even. It’s all about the sound which evokes hope that the human animal really is capable of aspiring to its greater potential, however stupidly, aggressively, selfishly, cruelly and small-mindedly it mostly seems inclined to behave.

The Wrong Hair Problem.

I just watched a Chinese orchestra playing some Brahms, and do you know what was odd? All the women violinists had black hair. I’ve never seen such a thing before.

I’ve often noticed that in western orchestras, the overwhelming trend is for female violinists to have blonde hair. I always assumed it was a required qualification for the job. Cellists are the ones with dark hair. Hair to suit the tone of the instrument, you see. Simple.

But of course, the difficulty of maintaining the tradition now that we are thoroughly globalised is that not many Chinese women have blonde hair.

Subscribing to the Principle.

I said I wasn’t going to write anything else about the movie Mary Magdalene, but there’s one thing I want to say because it touches on a matter which is important to me.

Jesus and the disciples have entered Jerusalem and are heading for the temple. Jesus is visibly appalled by what he sees going on there and wants to intervene, but he knows that causing trouble will bring terrible consequences. He looks heavenwards and sees an image in his mind’s eye – a bloody arm affixed to a piece of wood by a large nail driven through the wrist. This is the pivotal moment: to do what is easy or what is right. It passes in a couple of seconds, but it’s the most profound moment in the film so far because of what it represents about the prosecution of life in general.

I remember when I faced that moment once, and I did what was right. I’d been in similar situations before and taken the easy route, but I’d learned the lesson. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I didn’t even have to face crucifixion in consequence, merely a mind-numbing brand of mental torment.

Oddly enough, it made no practical difference. The decision was taken out of my hands and disaster followed, but at least my conscience was clear. Should that matter? I don’t know; I suppose it’s a matter of opinion. There are those who believe that life has no meaning and no purpose, so the easiest route is always the one to follow.

I’ve never been able to subscribe to that view, however much I’ve wanted to occasionally. I suppose it’s why one of the few things I heard as a child has stayed with me all my life: ‘To thine own self be true.’

Salome's Solution.

I see Donald’s at it again. ‘Trust me,’ he says after viewing the devastation caused by the fires in the western states. ‘It will get cooler. Science doesn’t understand climate.’ And he does, apparently.

Trump is 74. He’s coming to the end of his life. And yet he’s prepared to put the future at risk for all those millions of young people – not just in America but around the world because climate doesn’t respect national boundaries – and for what? To give vent to his irrational whims and maintain his outdated belief in the financial benefits of fossil fuels.

If I were a young person who still had a future to navigate, I don’t think I’d be very pleased with Donald. In fact, I think I’d want to emulate the dancing girl and demand that the head of Donald the Dunderhead be brought to me on a plate.

Finding the Bright Spark

Today I was thinking about my almost manic need to live independently. I remembered my childhood and how I’d never had any sense of family. I was just one of three people who happened to live in the same house. I remembered how, by the age of around twelve, I couldn’t wait for my parents to go out occasionally so that I could have the house to myself. I remembered how, at around the same age, I went into hospital for an appendectomy and hadn’t wanted to go home afterwards. And when I did get home I sat by the open doorway in the sunshine feeling depressed. Now that I do live independently, I hate the thought of being in hospital.

I’m sure I’ve said all this before on the blog, but today it took me into a new realisation. I realised that the only time I felt comfortable and relaxed at home was when my parents were out. And that led me to think that I probably spent a large proportion of my childhood in a state of repressed and unrealised stress.

So where did it come from? Was it genetic, some abnormality of the brain, the general atmosphere of separation and tension in the house, or something I haven’t thought of yet? Maybe it was a combination of things, and I don’t suppose I shall ever know. Further, I don’t suppose it really matters.

But it was interesting to suddenly see the seminal roots of my lifelong tendency to be prone to both anxiety and depression, a tendency which is becoming more frequent and pronounced these days. And there is a little light to be found here. If my problem really is caused by some abnormality of the brain, it probably isn’t anything acute. It’s probably been there for most of my life.

The End of Mary and Oddments.

Seems I got it all wrong. The character I thought was John the Baptist is, in fact, Jesus. Well, that’s mumbling actors and modern movie sound production for you. Or maybe I’m deaf or stupid or both. Nevertheless, having got something so fundamental so wrong, I feel a complete fool and intend to say no more on the subject of Mary Magdalene (2018.) Except, perhaps, to remark that Jesus resembles a cult leader and Mary appears to be a victim of Guru Fetish Syndrome. She does, however, have an exceedingly pretty smile.

*  *  *

So should I write something about the relationship between health issues and heavy garden work? Can’t be bothered. Suffice it to say that I survived both today. 

*  *  *

I’m missing my oddball llama friend, and also the sunshine I used to occasionally encounter on my walks. Now I have to make do with the yellow thing which moves across the sky when there are no clouds in the way, as it did at lunchtime when I was in the churchyard eating my spinach sandwich and cheese roll. 

I noticed something odd while I was in there. I saw a headstone marking the grave of a man whose name is given, along with the year of his birth and the year of his death. That’s perfectly normal, but underneath was a second inscription which simply said And also his wife. She isn’t named, and that isn’t normal. I sensed a hint of either sexism or acrimony in the air. 

*  *  *

If they decide to bury me after I’m dead (and I do hope they wait that long), I should like my headstone to read:

  

Here lies the pupa case of 

JJ Beazley

It's of no consequence whatsoever

The butterfly has flown away

Sounds a bit pretentious, doesn’t it? OK, forget that one. 

*  *  *

 

I’m tired of hearing myself think. A piece of this would help:

An Unashamed Vege Post.

Something reminded me tonight that I need a new block of vegetable-based deep fat frying oil for my chip pan. (Do people other than the British have chip pans, by the way, or does the rest of the world rely on those soulless, microwaveable excuses-for-the-real-thing these days? And just in case there are any Americans who still don’t know, what we call chips are what you call fries.)

OK, I need vegetable-based deep fat frying oil… Problem is, the Sainsbury’s store in Ashbourne doesn’t sell it, and I haven’t found anywhere else in Ashbourne which sells it either. Ashbourne is still a lard town. Ashbourne people are, or so it would appear, lard people. They still insist on utilising the renderings of a dead animal rather than the healthier and more ethical alternative.

They still have hog roasts, too. Big notices are occasionally seen in the town centre proclaiming the fact that a whole pig is to be roasted on a spit, while people rub their hands with glee. ‘A whole pig! Lovely. Can’t miss that, can we Fiona? Better take the kids along, too. It will contribute to their education.’

Now, the odd thing is that Ashburnians generally dress normally, if a little conservatively. You’d think they’d be wearing loin cloths carefully crafted from the hides of woolly mammoths, wouldn’t you?

More on Mary M.

I just watched the second twenty minutes of Mary Magdalene (2018.) I’m breaking it up into short episodes because, frankly, I’m finding it a little troublesome. So far it’s all based on exoteric Christian mythology, when I was hoping for something different because I’ve long thought of Mary as an ambassador for the Divine Feminine – a concept which is largely at odds with exoteric Christianity (yes, I know the Catholics offer a nod in that direction with the ‘Mary, mother of God’ thing, but in practice they studiously support the pre-eminence of masculine superiority at every opportunity.)

So, tonight it was John the Baptist’s turn to hold forth. At least I think he’s John the Baptist because he has a disturbing habit of being a little histrionic and pushing people into the sea as a precursor to winning God’s favour. (And the actors in this film mumble so much that I’m missing a lot of the dialogue.)

But there was one piece of dialogue I did hear clearly. The actor playing John is American, you see, and most American accents close and elongate the ‘o’ phonetic when compared with UK English speech. And so when I heard him – in slightly histrionic fashion – proclaim:

This faith will surely lead you to the Kingdom of Gard…

… he reminded me very much of a Southern Baptist preacher. And since I have some considerable difficulty with the whole concept of faith anyway, I feel a sense of turn-off coming on.

But I will persevere. For a start I’m curious to see what the film makes of the character of Jesus. I’ve long had a suspicion – and I think I’ve said so before on the blog – that what Jesus was actually preaching was completely misunderstood by the Hebrew proletariat, steeped as they were in Judaic conditioning, who were his first followers, and was subsequently turned into an irrational folk tale which has persisted for 2,000 years. I can’t know that, of course, but I’m still interested to see what line the film takes.

Mostly, however, I want to see whether Mary is afforded the gravitas which I think is her due, and which is why bought the damn DVD in the first place.

More Confusion.

I keep coming across videos on YouTube which tell me that my current mental torment – both internal and in relation to the world around me – is a perfectly normal part of experiencing the dark night of the soul. What is actually happening, I’m told, is that I am awakening spiritually and therefore on the way to enlightenment.

Well, that’s encouraging I suppose. It might even be right. But what none of the videos are telling me is whether my persistent desire to experience baked Alaska is part of the process, or whether it indicates authentic insanity and I should check into a clinic.

Disappearing Dreams.

One of the problems of getting older is that it takes your dreams away. And I’m speaking, as you might already have surmised, of daydreams.

 I’ve always been the type inclined to daydream and make no apology for it. What was it Poe said?

 Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Quite so. And there are different kinds of daydream. My own favourite is what might unkindly be characterised as the Walter Mitty type – fond imaginings of sometimes fantastical scenarios which might actually be gained if I were lucky enough or played my cards right. And some of them actually were, though most were simply too improbable and fell by the wayside.

Things are different now. Improbability has, for the most part, been elevated to impossibility, and all because of age. And that’s a shame because, as you become older and more reclusive, daydreams are usually about the only thing left capable of capturing your imagination and encouraging some level of enthusiasm.

A Whinge, a Worry, and a Werewolf on the Threshold.

It’s about time I had a whinge. It’s what I’m best at and lets me know I’m still functioning, so…

I’ve had the call for my next hospital procedure, and this one is even scarier than the last one. And it isn’t even just one procedure, it’s three. First there’s a trip for a pre-op because the last one has expired, and then another trip for a Covid swab test followed by three days of complete isolation, and finally the business itself. And if that all goes well (which is the scary part) I’ll be told that I mustn’t drive for four weeks. The nearest grocery store is seven miles away, there’s no public transport, I really don’t fancy taxis because coronavirus infections are shooting up at the moment, and I have no practical support. How can I not drive for four weeks?

And today the dear ol’ boys at Google decided to force their new blog interface on me. You know how much I like my stats, don’t you? I do like my stats. With the old interface the details were tidily placed and easily accessible with the minimum of navigation. Now they’re sloppily strewn all over the place and it’s a right bloody pain. I ask myself yet again why those who control our lives, and especially our technology, do so love to mend things which aren’t broken. Why do they insist on crowing about how much they’re improving my life when they’re actually making it more difficult? Why is it that the real glitches which do need mending get left un-addressed for months or even longer? I wish I knew. Or maybe I don’t.

 *  *  *

 Last night I was woken up by a very loud grunting noise which seemed to have come from outside my bedroom door. It was really quite spooky, so I considered what I should do about it. Being unable to think of a reasonably rational explanation, I decided to go back to sleep rather than open the door. It seemed the more sensible option.

A Note on Clickbait.

A message to all YouTubers out there:

Any video with an introduction claiming it will make me ‘laugh out loud’, or is ‘the funniest thing’ I’ve ever seen, or even claims to be ‘absolutely hilarious’ gets passed over immediately. Got it?

Such a claim presumes to know my sense of humour, and you don’t. I consider presumption an insult and therefore very irritating. It’s also intolerably juvenile. If you want me to watch your video, don’t presume to know me. I suspect I speak for a lot of people in so saying.

End of message.

In Defence of Knowing Nothing.

There was a podcast on the BBC News website tonight covering the fact that an anti-Covid vaccine might be ready for general use early in the New Year. I read the first dozen or so comments, and every one of them came from conspiracy theorists making claims ranging from the assertion that Covid doesn’t even exist, to the fact that any vaccine will be a scam to get us all pumped full of ‘nano technology’ (and that will be the end of us.)

It had me thinking about conspiracy theories again, and it occurred to me that conspiracy theory is virtually indistinguishable from religion. It serves a need within a section of the population to believe that there is something hidden below or beyond the surface reality. That’s fine as far as it goes. I, too, suspect that there is something beyond the surface reality, and my lifelong quest has been to find out what it is. The conspiracy theorists, however take a different road from me.

They take whatever real or imagined evidence they can find and use it as the foundation on which to build a more elaborate belief. And then they begin to see themselves as possessors of arcane knowledge, with the upshot that anyone who fails to agree with them is either naïve, deluded, or even complicit in the conspiracy. Furthermore, if we fail to act on their belief, we’re in for seriously deleterious consequences. Religions – especially the Judaic ones – generally do the same thing. Religion and conspiracy theory are both belief systems (as is atheism in my opinion, but in a slightly different way.)

The problem is, of course, that both belief systems have elements which might actually be true, but there’s no way of knowing which bits – if any – they are. The only way of knowing something is to prove it, and once something is proven it’s no longer a theory and soon becomes the very opposite of arcane.

And so when I hear conspiracy theory invective, I’m reminded of those fire-and-brimstone preachers who rail at us that hell awaits anyone who fails to take Jesus into their hearts precisely as they define the process. I’m also reminded of the old maxim: ‘knowledge is power’, and maybe that’s what it’s all about. Maybe even fake, or at best dubious, knowledge can evoke the sense of having received the gift of omnipotence in the mind of the believer.

On Being Under the Weather.

I’ve been feeling ill again today – extreme weariness, nausea, thick head, sore chest, pains in various places, and now my sinuses are beginning to get sore. It’s almost certainly due to the change in the weather. It’s turned suddenly warmer today, and sudden changes in temperature have that effect on me. So do sudden changes in barometric pressure, humidity, and even wind direction sometimes. And then there’s the matter of the usual depression, of course

I’m sure that if I went to a doctor and described my daily round of depression and anxiety, he would diagnose mental illness and bury me under half the contents of the pharmacy (which is one of several reasons why I don’t go to a doctor.)

But he would probably be right, you know. I probably do have some mental illness by the modern definition. It’s just that, where I was brought up, the term ‘mental illness’ was reserved for those given to truly mentally ill forms of behaviour, and I’m not. I don’t escape from the attic at dead of night and set fire to people’s bed linen. I don’t run naked along Ashbourne High Street shouting ‘I’ve just slept with a woman from Turkmenistan and this is me lunch break.’ (Lifted and paraphrased from a line in Spike Milligan’s Puckoon which can no longer be quoted verbatim.) I exhibit no psychotic symptoms whatsoever; I’m just scared to get up in the morning because I know it’s going to be another day of feeling anxious and depressed and I’m thoroughly fed up with it.

But at least I had an email from the priestess to excite my interest when I booted the computer up this morning. It seems the fine trade winds carrying her ship of contentment steadily through the sea of life have suddenly backed and driven her off course. Or maybe she threw the rudder hard over and re-set the sails herself. (I don’t know yet. She was economical with the details.) Maybe she’s even mentally ill, though I very much doubt it. Not the type. I expect I’ll find out sooner or later, assuming I make it through the intervening days.

*  *  *

Today I ordered the DVD of the 2018 movie Mary Magdalene without having been given any firm recommendation. It’s just that I’ve long had some interest in dear old MM, so I thought I’d see what the film made of her. It was a lot more expensive than the used DVDs I usually buy from charity shops, but I still regard charity shops as forbidden territory. All those possibly unwashed strangers milling about, browsing the shelves, picking things up and putting them down again. It doesn’t strike me as a particularly healthy pursuit, and I do so care about the state of my health.

The Remarkable Stephanie Jones.

I made a remarkable musical discovery over the past two nights on YouTube. Her name is Stephanie Jones. I know nothing about her except who she is, and I know that because of how she plays classical guitar. My comment runs thus, and bears repeating on the blog:

I've listened to a lot of classical guitar in my time, going back to the days of John Williams and Julian Bream, but I've never come across anything like this. And so tonight I gave much thought to what makes this woman unique:  

It's as though the guitar is part of her body, and so she plays it as naturally as the rest of us would make a cup of tea or scratch our noses. But it goes further than that. Since the guitar is effectively an extension of herself, the nature of who she is - her personality and emotions - comes through it. You listen to the music and you feel the essence of Stephanie Jones invading your head. The result is explosive and almost disturbing in its teasing intimacy. And I'm not being pretentious in saying this, really I'm not. That's just how it feels to me.

Trump and Cohen Go Slagging.

So who should we side with in the Trump vs Cohen spat? Cohen paints Trump as the lowest form of sub-humanity; Trump says Cohen is a liar and a loser. So which is right?

Well, Cohen’s depiction of Trump is pretty much exactly how I’ve always seen Trump anyway, so Cohen’s depiction is vindication of my own judgement through watching the whole sorry saga of the Trump presidency from 3,000 miles away (and growing very tired of it.). But I’m not stupid. Could it be that Cohen is simply tuning into the general opinion of his adversary held by the savvier end of American society, and is making the whole thing up to preach to the converted so as to make a lot of money from sales of his book? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, but I did find a couple of the assertions at least amusing.

Trump on Hispanics: ‘I will never get the Hispanic vote. Like the blacks, they’re too stupid to vote for Trump.’ So only smart people vote Trump? What a fascinating and hilarious concept.

Trump on Stormy Daniels: ‘But I bet (my supporters) would think it’s cool that I slept with a porn star.’ That’s because they’re stupid, Donald. You need no credentials to sleep with a porn star. You don’t even need a libido. All you need is lots of money, because that’s the game they’re in.

A Simple Question.

Tonight's recommendations on YouTube include a video entitled 'Spacetime.' It asks the question:

 Do we travel through time at the speed of light?

So, would there be any point in me watching this after three double scotches, or should I just go to bed? I've already had an internet dropout and a whole load of stress consequent upon presuming to refresh Firefox (you'd think I'd know better by now, wouldn't you?)

Life's very complicated at the clever end, isn't it? I think I'll go to bed.

No Shoe Fetish Here.

When I was a kid I was taught that shoes are the most defining feature of a person’s dress. They’re the first thing everybody looks at, I was told. Shabby shoes betray a shabby person. Shoes that are clean, in good condition and well heeled are the mark of an upright and respectable person. If your shoes are good, you can hold your head up in any company. Cue the spit-and-polish mentality, but only for a while.

It occurred to me when I was cleaning a pair of my own shoes this evening that I never notice other people’s shoes. I routinely study all manner of things about people: their eyes in particular, but also their general dress style, their facial features and how they use them, their body shape, the style and condition of their hair, how they walk, how they talk, the kind of voice they have, their deportment, and in the case of women, their legs. (Sorry.) A person’s shoes are about the only aspect of their external features I don’t notice. (Apart from the colour of their eyes, that is, but I’ve already said that in another post.)

So now I’m wondering whether this is a rejection-of-roots thing or just another sign of my oddness. I also wonder whether I shall now succumb to paranoia with regard to my shoes. It’s unlikely. I freely confess that I’m often neurotic, but never paranoid.

On Losers.

I gather Donald is in trouble again for referring to the occupants of an American military cemetery as ‘losers.’ Well now, this is slightly complicated because, if you’re going to be rational about it, those who lose their life are, by definition, losers. But the point isn’t based on the rational. It’s based on the fact that in a systemically aggressive and violent culture like America, the word ‘loser’ is synonymous with ‘failure.’ In fact, it’s probably even more pejorative. And that’s what’s upsetting people, especially when it’s revealed that Donald was using the term as an excuse for not turning up because it was raining and he didn’t want to get his hair wet. (Though with a hairstyle like his, who can blame him?)

But let’s just sidetrack a little here. Much of the rhetoric being fired at Trump refers to ‘men who laid down their life in defence of their country.’ Did they really? The fact is that in most major wars, a large proportion of the military personnel are enlisted by a government (or King or President or whatever) which gave them no choice but to be there or be in gaol. And while they were out there they went where they were told to go and did what they were told to do without exception. And if they got their heads blown off in the process, it was because they were expendable pawns in the game of government policy (or that of the King or President or whatever.) The conscripts didn’t lay down their lives at all, they had it taken from them.

And of course, the real sufferers in the final analysis were – and continue to be – the friends and family and other loved ones left behind to mourn. And so the point is fairly made: Presidents should not be stepping on the toes of those who mourn.

As for the rest of us who are not mourning, maybe we should put the dead behind us. We all have to die anyway and life is, and always will be, about the living. But disrespecting those who are both living and suffering is a mark of the true psychopath.

A Kind of Coming Out.

I’ve lived in my present house for more than fourteen years. That’s the longest by far that I have ever lived at one address. And they’ve been troubled years in which depression, anxiety, desperation and various other forms of malaise have never been far beneath the surface, and have often been the predominant feature of the daily round.

The move to this house switched my emotional baseline from positive to negative. Positive people try to see the best in others; they ride the difficulties and push through adversity with a strong heart. Negative people are ever ready to see the worst in people; they’re brought to their knees by difficulties and do their best to hide from adversity. I decline to accept that one is right and the other wrong; they’re just different forms of experience and response. What I would be foolish to deny is that positive people are generally happy, while negative people generally aren’t.

And yet, on an uncharacteristically positive note, I think it’s true to say that I’ve probably learned more about life and the human condition over the last fourteen years than in any previous fourteen. And I’ve changed a lot in the process. I’m tempted to suggest that I might even have become a better person.

So the question which presents itself is this: Does the process of learning and becoming a better person have any value, since all we do in the end is die? Do we take our learning and improved proclivities with us into the undiscovered country? Do we build on them through successive lifetimes? Is this what being an ‘old soul’ is all about? Is this the stuff of which wisdom is made, and does that wisdom prove useful in the future? Does it even improve our lot in the final analysis, whatever the final analysis might be?

I don’t see how you can begin to address that question unless you truly know whether life has a purpose and, if so, what that purpose is. I don’t see how anybody can know, whether they seek the answer through religion, philosophy or science. I’ve tried all three and always ended up unconvinced.

All this might be complete balderdash, of course. It could be that something is amiss in my brain, or it could be that I have a malfunctioning gene, or it could be that my fractured childhood produced a constant drip of slimy black stuff which won’t stop dripping, or it could be that this house is simply an unhappy house. There are those who believe in such a phenomenon, just as there are those who believe in the dark night of the soul.

Meanwhile, I’m still conscious and still breathing. And as long as that situation prevails I shall continue to perceive life as my nature determines. And maybe I’ll be a happier person when I arrive at the terminus, or maybe I won’t. For now, life is a matter of getting through the days. And this post is really opening up, isn’t it?

I’m going to finish watching The Count of Monte Cristo now. I don’t really see the point, but it’s better than sitting alone and in silence while feeling disinclined to meditate.

Anxiety Fallout.

I'm becoming utterly hooked on watching Chinese people shuffle dancing. Glued to the screen I am, hopelessly fascinated. I suspect this is an INFJ's response to interminable stress.

Skills Post Mortem.

I often think about what skills I’ll need to learn when I become a ghost. So far I’ve got:

1. How to float outside people’s windows at night while my mouth opens and closes like that of a cod fish, silently.

2. How to get children to talk to me so their mothers can say ‘Who are you talking to?’ and the kid can answer ‘Mr Jeffrey.’ ‘Who’s Mr Jeffrey?’ ‘The nice man who comes and reads me stories after you and daddy have gone to bed.’

3. How to manifest to people in the form of a wizened old man with long, straggly hair and a gaping hole on the left side of his breast, to which I can point and say ‘Look what you did to me’ (in a croaky voice.)

4. How to blow cold air into people’s ears just before they go to sleep, while whispering ‘Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes.’

5. How to be invisible to humans but visible to dogs, so I can have fun persuading countless canines to make whimpering noises while wagging their tails, pushing their ears back, and staring into empty space.

6. How to get every spider in the house to congregate on somebody’s pillow.

7. How to get the radio to come on just as a person starts reaching out to press the switch.

8. How to crawl out of the TV set in the middle of Loose Women.

9. How to make the top of the ketchup bottle shoot off and the red sauce ooze out and run onto the table.

10. How to change the alarm clock to 4am instead of 7.30 on three successive nights.

11. How to flush the upstairs toilet while everybody is downstairs.

12. How to get under the sofa and make gurgling noises.

13. How to make the milk smell like cow dung.

14. How to call from the top of the stairs: ‘Do come up, my dear. I’m waiting.’ (Followed by a deep chuckle.)

I expect what they’ll actually try to teach me is how to write on walls in red paint and move fridge magnets around. I hope not; I’m so beyond that sort of thing.

But first I’d like a couple of days off to create my new environment in which my two lovely, late dogs will come bounding joyfully towards me while a bunch of young Chinese women shuffle dance in the sand. And the ice cream will be home-made and free. Hauntings can wait.

Days and Nights.

The disturbed nights are back – waking up chilled and feeling icy air on my face, even though the bedroom is heated and I’m well covered. I’m tempted to wonder whether it’s a symptom of a known condition, and then I wonder whether I’m being honoured with a visitation from some form of otherworldly presence. I even looked around the bedroom the last time it happened, but I couldn’t see anything.

(I always find it odd, you know, that some people hide beneath the bedclothes when they’re frightened. I was a nervous kid, but I never hid beneath the bedclothes. I always had to keep my eyes wide open, looking for inexplicable shadows or apparent movements in the darkness.)

And then there’s the return of the uncomfortable dreams. The one I remember from this week was of being in my home town and wanting to go somewhere. I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn’t know how to get there. And I couldn’t work out whether I’d simply forgotten the way, or whether the road layout had been changed. It brought on the beginnings of a sense of panic.

So then I woke up with the sun already climbing and didn’t want to get out of bed because I dread having to negotiate another day of daylight in present circumstances. I find darkness easier to deal with.

Where has the humour gone? Where the silly ditties? Where is my friend the llama these days, and where the musings on moths and mazy pathways? Where, indeed, are those more comfortable dreams in which I’m sitting in the Lady B’s kitchen while she consciously ignores me (which she would never do, of course; she’s far too polite for that.) But at least the childhood dreams of being menaced by a mad woman haven’t returned. Not yet, anyway.

Actually, the humour hasn’t gone altogether either. These days I save it for YouTube after midnight. Nobody ever gets the joke, of course, probably because the humour is as singular as everything else about me since I took up the reclusive habit. Gone are the days when I could make a comment to a bunch of people and they would laugh hysterically. That really did happen, you know. It did. One man scared the living daylights out of me once by nearly choking. He was in a wheelchair I remember, and it struck me as odd and salutary that humour can be so humorous that it becomes anything but funny. I suppose it’s all about living and learning.