Mixed Feelings.

Tonight’s women’s footie was the big one, the final of the European Championship between England and Germany. England won, which offered a few minutes of pleasure when the final whistle sounded. But then something odd happened: a sense of desolation set in. It was partly the feeling that an adventure had ended and now it was time to go back into the darkness of everyday life, and partly the sight of a young German player sitting on the pitch sobbing her heart out.

That’s always the problem for me. Winning always carries that uncomfortable mixture of sensations – the pleasure of achievement and the causing of others to suffer the pain of failure. It doesn’t bother me so much with men’s sport because I’ve never felt much inclined to sympathise with men. But when it’s women who are suffering, it’s different. I suppose it has something to do with my generation, and I further suppose that it could be argued to be another form of objectification. I grew up with the ‘women and children first’ mentality, and I wonder whether it could be argued that the imperative to protect women and children has its root in the instinct to maintain survival of the species. Life does get complicated, doesn’t it?

So what of that interesting little fact I discovered recently, that in 1921 the English Football Association banned women’s teams because they said football was not a proper pursuit for women? Where does that fit into the argument?

Ah well, it’s life and life only.

Other notes:

My toothache came back after the game finished.

Today really is the last day of July. August was only ever my favourite month when I was a schoolboy and had the blessed relief of being able to get up when I wanted to and doing whatever I liked during the day. Nowadays I find August to be the month when signs of approaching cold and drabness begin to be felt on the wind.

Trying to Work It All Out.

In less than an hour’s time it will be August. Time seems to be flying so fast now that I assume it must be getting dizzy.

(For some reason unknown to me, I felt I had to say that before mentioning a thought I had on the nature of the universe.)

I came to the conclusion, you see, that if the phrase ‘mother-in-law’ really is an anagram of ‘woman hitler’ (and it is; I checked), then I take it as proven that the universe really is both sentient and purposeful, since it would be stretching credulity to suggest that such a fact could occur by mere chance.

If only I could become familiar with the code it uses, maybe I could start paying it more attention. But first I need to work out what this has to do with time flying. Life is never easy, is it?

 

Edited to add:

 

Two hours later. Just realised there are thirty one days in July. I'm choosing to blame the way my wall calendar is laid out. Designers, eh? Who needs them?

Horse Tales.

I took a stroll up the lane again this evening to take Rosie an apple. She’s currently domiciled in a long, narrow field on the other side of a small wood, and every time I’ve been to visit her she’s been at the far end. It’s meant that either I’ve had to walk the length of the field to give her the apple (or carrots), or she’s had to make the long trudge to come and fetch it (or them.) Tonight she was standing by the fence, watching me and puckering her lips.

‘Good heavens,’ I thought, ‘Rosie must be psychic. She knew I was coming.’

I liked that thought. But then I had a different one:

‘I do hope she hasn’t been standing there waiting for me since the last time I came.’

I didn’t like that one.

But at least the raging toothache that’s been bringing me down all week has been easier today. And it rained a little, but not enough to make the trees cheer. And I saw Janet riding her big-but-handsome brute of an equine companion through the village. She stopped and said:

‘Hello. I’m Janet.’

‘I know,’ I replied (I don’t remember how many times she’s told me her name is Janet. I think she’s a bit vague, poor thing, a fact which she hides with a permanent smile.) 'Do you mind if I make friends with your horse?’

‘Not at all. He likes to stop and talk. (She’s the second person who’s said that to me. I suspect it's a characteristic of Shire women.) He’s a bit like me, really.’

Oh dear, best make a hasty retreat. And so I did. (After having first made friends with the horse, of course.)

Two Church Lane Notes.

I’ve remarked several times on this blog that this year has been remarkable for the number of first’s it’s brought my way. Well, yesterday it brought another one.

I saw two small deer in a field adjacent to Church Lane. Judging by their size they must have been either Sika or Roe deer, and I’ve never seen either species before in my life. I’ve seen Red Deer (like the two I saw, also in a field adjacent to Church Lane, last year) but never Roe or Sika.

This evening, the weather being cloudy but warm, calm and dry, I took another stroll along Church Lane purely for the pleasure of sitting on the stile by the big old copper beech tree for a while. On the way back I saw a beetle scurrying across the road and guarded it from any potentially murderous vehicles until its journey was complete. No first there, of course; I often see beetles crossing Church Lane. What’s strange is that I never see them anywhere else.

I think that’s odd. You, on the other hand, probably think I’m odd. That’s your right and I don’t care.

On Mindfulness and Aspiration.

I read recently that young people in high schools are being given lessons in mindfulness. As I understand the term, mindfulness is all about living in the moment and avoiding the temptation to dwell on the past or anticipate the future. This I don’t understand because it seems to me to be at odds with the modern imperative in education which is all about aspiration.

You see, when I was in high school things were different. Aspiration was certainly not forbidden, nor even – by and large – discouraged, but the emphasis was more about taking a relatively simple route which would ensure a reasonably comfortable level of subsistence, and then being content with your lot. And that’s how life was for the majority of people.

But now the emphasis is very much about aspiration. It’s about the imperative to work hard to get good grades. And then moving on to the next level where more hard work will be required, and so on and so forth until you reach the tertiary level where you must aim to get the best degree or degrees you can manage. Only then, say the pundits, will you be able to achieve your maximum potential in life. I’ve heard that young people are even encouraged to make ‘life plans’ at an early age.

(Life plans? In your teens? I was thirty-two before I realised what I wanted to be doing in life, and I got there by the simple expedient of self-instruction and dedication. The fact that it ultimately failed, incidentally, wasn’t my fault. It was Mrs Thatcher’s. But I digress…)

I do realise that I’m generalising to some extent here; I do realise that some people have a good idea of where they want to go when they’re not far beyond the breast milk stage. But I doubt that most do, and I still think there’s a question to be asked: If you’re going to coerce young people into planning for the future from an early age, what point is there in teaching them mindfulness?

(Do you know what? I’m almost glad that my dear old friend Maddie isn’t still reading this blog. If she were, no doubt she would regale me with an invective-laden diatribe on why the two processes are not, or at least might not, be irreconcilable, because she was the cleverest, most rational person I have ever known. And she has more degrees than I have hair follicles. But I still think I have a point.)

Spotting the Signs.

I was sitting in my garden at around 8 o’clock this evening when I heard a loud, unfamiliar sound approaching from the north. I looked up to see the RAF Red Arrows aerobatics display team flying low over my garden. They were in double chevron formation – five in the front and three in the rear. That was quite a thrill.

But then I remembered that a few nights ago I’d seen three military operational helicopters flying along the river valley about a mile from my house. That was unusual, too, and this in the week when I’d seen a hawk standing on my bird table staring at me for the first time ever. I began to wonder whether there was something ominous about the coincidence of a hawk and the military making unfamiliar appearances, especially as I had a YouTube recommendation a couple of nights ago for a video entitled ‘What do you do when a hawk is performing your surgery?’

I’ve often heard it said that we should try to recognise the signs presented by the occurrence of synchronicity, but I have no idea where to start looking.

Noticing the Important Things.

Tonight’s women’s footie was the second semi-final between Germany and France. It was nothing like the visual feast served up in the France-Netherlands match. The French were wearing white shorts instead of their previous all-blue kit, and the Germans were in black and white. Chromatically, it was an utter disaster.

There were two stand-out performers, though. The French captain looked like a voodoo priestess wearing the mane of a lion she’d killed with the power of her glance just because she could. In complete contrast, the German goalkeeper was a Nicole Kidman lookalike with easily the best ponytail of any on display so far.

(I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I know. I hate myself. But when you’re still awaiting scan results to give some indication as to whether or not you have a future, objectifying women is a matter of minor consequence. So I forgive myself.)

You might be interested to know that I was supporting the French for two reasons: a) The lovely Hélène I met in a youth hostel once was French, and b) They didn’t invade Poland. But they lost anyway, so I had a slice of buttered toast and got over it.

Two Notes on Matters European.

I’ve occasionally made light-hearted references to the glumness of the Swede. Well, tonight it was no joke because they lost 4-0 to England in the semi-final of the Women’s European championship.

They did me a favour, though. At the end of the game I didn’t see a single Swedish girl engulfed in lachrymatory lament, so there was no need for me to feel guilty about my team winning. Well done Swedish ladies. Valhalla awaits and you may share my sauna on the way there. (That bit really is a joke.)

*  *  *

On the political front, I gather Europe now has a first rate narrow nationalist (some of his compatriots say ‘neo-Nazi’) in the form of Hungary’s Viktor Orban. Oh good; that’s all we needed. But here’s what’s odd:

I gather he’s a friend of Mr Putin, and one of Putin’s strange excuses for invading Ukraine was the justifiable excising of a Nazi-oriented country from the environs of Russia (even though Zelensky is a Jew.) So shouldn’t he be invading Hungary instead of Ukraine? Maybe he will. Just speculating.

Thoughts and Things.

I well remember being young. I remember being able to do forty pull-ups on a bar with my legs stretched out horizontally in front. I remember being able to run and wrestle up and down a rugby pitch for eighty minutes without sweating. I remember being able to carry 56lb bags of potatoes around all day without my arms getting tired or my back aching. And now I’m weak, constantly fatigued, and very nearly bloody useless.

I want to tell today’s young people to appreciate their health, strength and vitality because it doesn’t go on forever, but there wouldn’t be any point. It seems to be an inevitable truism of the human mind to take such things for granted, and maybe it’s natural that it should. We all do it, and we all come to appreciate the blessings only when they start to disappear and there’s nothing we can do about it. And appreciation wouldn’t make any difference to the process of gradual decay anyway.

So we’re stuck with it, and life makes less sense to me now than it ever did.

Still no results from the CT scans (and I have a toothache.)

I just had a yen for a bowl of porridge with cream and a sprinkling of sugar. And I was woken up at 5.45 this morning by what sounded like fireworks cracking and popping. I had no idea what was causing it and I still haven’t. I wonder whether Lithuanians eat porridge.

Putin's Turn in Line.

I gather the Russians are preparing war crimes prosecutions against Ukrainian soldiers. Well now, I doubt that anybody in the world apart from a certain type of Russian (hopefully in the minority) will see this as anything other than a weak and transparent deflection device, but the issue needs addressing nonetheless.

As I see it, the fact is this: abuse and murder of civilians and unarmed combatants is most certainly a crime as crime is universally understood, but it’s also a part of war and always has been. Look at Trajan’s column; look at the slaughter ordered by England’s Richard I during the Crusades; look at the firebombing of Dresden in 1945; look at the invasion of Iraq, and the conduct of wars in Vietnam, Afghanistan and just about everywhere else. War crimes happen in war.

Consequently, I’m now coming – albeit reluctantly – to the view that all current war crimes being prepared in relation to Ukraine should be dropped. Except one. The one action which I believe should be pursued with all zeal is the one against the master criminal, the fountainhead of criminality, the warmonger. And that’s Putin.

The population of Russia is currently given as 146,062,924, which means that there are 146,062,923 people who could get together and end the horror at a stroke by handing Putin over to lifelong incarceration and withdrawing all Russian forces from all parts of Ukraine. And then the suffering could stop, humanity could breathe easier, the power and grain could flow again, and the Russian people could rejoin the world community which is what I presume most of them want.

But don’t think I’m being naïve here because I’m not. I know it won’t happen because I know Russia is divided between those the world wants to embrace and those it doesn’t. Such is the human condition everywhere (even in little Myanmar where the wages of dissent are death.) The fact is that simple, sensible, humanitarian solutions never hold sway when the pursuit of power and the predominance of ego are at stake. Putin is just the latest example of that curse.

And I wish I didn’t feel moved to write stuff like this. I want to write about fun and friendship and all the finer qualities which material existence has to offer. But it isn’t easy, which is one reason for my becoming more reclusive. I’m too old and fatigued to make much difference now. Maybe next time.

An Inadequate Description.

When I went out into the garden this evening there was a light drizzle falling as the low westering sun was venturing out beneath a cloud bank. The view before me as I looked west across the valley was breathtaking.

It was divided into a series of horizontal bands. In the foreground on the far side of the lane was the mid green of mature maize plants. Beyond that lay a line of green trees appearing so dark as to be almost black. They in turn were silhouetted against the hills rising on the far side of the valley where the misty atmosphere was dense enough to make a single block of the whole range; and it was all rendered a shining golden brown by the blistering backlight from the sun. Above the hills was a narrow line of pale grey cloud, and then another line of pale blue sky, and topping the whole picture was the soft, folded texture of denser, blue-grey cloud. I’ve never seen such a glorious sight across the valley in the sixteen years I’ve lived here.

It’s difficult to describe such a scene, and near-impossible to imagine from an inadequate description given in mere words. But for a few brief minutes the imp of health and other worries kept a low profile. And sometimes I wish I weren’t so responsive to such a phenomenon, and at others I’m glad I am.

On Being Neurotic.

I’ve mentioned a few times that this year has produced an unusual number of firsts. Well, today produced another one: I saw a sparrow hawk standing stock still on the bird table.

I’ve seen them in around the garden a few times over the years, but never on the bird table. And it wasn’t quite standing stock still either; its left foot kept twitching and I was quite sure that one of my little friends had been caught and was trapped between the hawk’s talons. Apart from the twitching foot, however, it was still as a stone statue.

For several minutes I watched it through the window while the hawk stared resolutely back at me with those hard, unfeeling eyes they have. It was both spooky and intimidating. And, me being me, I began to think ‘omen.’

Still no results from the CT scans.

Footie and the Artist.

Women’s Euro footie again tonight. Same story as last night – nobody scoring any goals but a treat for the eyes nonetheless.

Tonight it was the colours. The French were wearing all mid-blue, the Dutch hot orange, and the referee was wearing a DayGlo yellow shirt and socks with black shorts.  I tell you, Vincent Van Gogh would have given his other ear for a seat in the stands with his brush and paint set. He might have disowned it, though, because his team lost 1-0 after extra time. That sort of thing seems to have been the story of poor old Vincent’s life.

An Occasion of Much Moment.

It’s my daughter’s birthday today and I was struck by how quickly the intervening years have passed by. I remember the event well enough, though – being woken up shortly after going to sleep, the drive to the hospital, the sitting around on a sofa feeling bored but not particularly tired (men didn’t go into the delivery room in those days; delivery rooms were female spaces only, which was how I preferred it.) I remember the nurse saying ‘would you like to come and meet your daughter’, and I remember driving home on a cloud in the cool of the early morning. It was the most momentous night of my life.

I remember the squidgy little proto-human which grew into the most delightful little girl for a few years, followed by the trials consequent upon growing up further, and then more growing up until the message came back: ‘Sorry I was a pain. Thanks for forgiving me. You’re the only man I ever really trusted, you know.’

And such is life, and here I am growing old and awaiting the results of a CT scan to indicate whether I have much of a prospect of further future. They say time is an illusion, and I wish I could work out exactly what that means.

On Statistics, Stereotypes and My Aunt's Ire.

I just watched another women’s footie match. This one was between the Scintillating Seductresses from Sweden (every one of them 5ft 9 and slim, and all with blonde hair or blonde highlights – they reminded me of the cabin crew on a United Airlines flight I took once) and the Glorious Gallics of Belgium (all shapes, sizes and hairstyles – one of them even appeared to be wearing a Harpo Marx wig – and all the more supportable for the fact.) The Gallics lost, however, to the only goal of the game scored in time added on at the end, which was a shame.

What I found annoying was the nature of the statistics. They were all about things like territory, possession, shots at goal, shots on target, and other such meaningless nonsense. What they should actually have been comparing was who had the most come-hither eyes, which team had the best aggregate length of pony tails, and whether Swedish or Belgian legs had the deepest sun tans. That’s pretty much what I was noticing since nobody was scoring any goals.

Jeffrey!

Yes, aunt.

You’re doing it again.

Am I?

Yes.

Doing what?

Objectifying women.

Oh, that.

You know it’s wrong, don’t you? I've told you so before and you said you were trying to get better.

Yes, aunt.

Should I presume that you were only joking on this occasion?

Erm…

*  *  *

Tell you what, though. By the end of the game, the Swedish girls all looked as though they’d just spent ninety minutes in a sauna. But then, I suppose they usually do.

Both Sides Now.

More frustration tonight, foisted on me (and plenty of others, no doubt) by the now customary incompetence, ineptitude and general inconsideration of the techno-driven world. And all I was trying to do was buy a big bag of peanuts for the bird feeder online.  (Do you know, I had such difficulty with one supplier recently that they eventually insisted I be paid compensation for my trouble. I accepted their offer, but it’s never arrived.)

It’s now four days since my CT scans. Knowing the system as I do, this is the point at which I begin to feel increasing anxiety. My brain tells me I shouldn’t get anxious, I should switch off and let things come to me as and when they will. I’d so like to be made that way, but I’m not.

And now the other side of today:

The temperature today was around 17°C lower than it was on Tuesday. That’s a big drop, so this evening I took a stroll up the lane armed with two carrots for the two lady horses which live in different fields up there. The cool, still evening air was refreshing and the hint of dampness verging on the seductive. And then a pale sun broke through to make the picture complete. Perfection at last, in one regard at least. (Unfortunately, both horses were absent and Caroline’s cat fled at my approach, but at least there was still the walk back to enjoy.)

And the drop in temperature produced another benefit. During the heat of Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, the air in these parts was cacophonous with the sound of sheep in the back field bleating in evident discomfort. Today all was silence. I like silence. Silence has no techno obsession to pollute it.

Being a Hopeless Case.

I haven’t been near the computer tonight because I’ve been watching the women’s footie – England vs Spain in the quarter final of Euro. It went to extra time and we won in dramatic fashion, at which point I did my usual trick of becoming the world’s most incorrigible softie.

It was the tears that did it, the tears of all those young Spanish women who’d played their hearts out and very nearly won. The problem is, you see, that they were visibly suffering and I can’t stand seeing people suffer (especially when the sufferers are a bunch of fine Spanish ladies – cue the song), and so I fill up with sympathy and begin to wish we’d lost. I wonder whether the powers-that-be will do me the kindness of allowing me to be a psychopath next time around.

Icy Poles and Other Remedies.

I was just reading a news article on how people around the world deal with temperatures of around 40°C. It took as its example several major cities and informed us that:

The people of Sydney load themselves up with icy poles and suck them in the shade. The people of Delhi drink lots of water and travel around the city by air conditioned metro. The people of Madrid mostly have air conditioned houses in which they sit until it cools down. The people of Nairobi wonder what all the fuss is all about because 40°C is pretty average there so they carry on regardless.

The people of the UK, however, get a bit confused. They mostly open all the windows to let the heat in, and then slouch languidly on sofas making squeaky noises. It’s the dogs I feel sorry for.

I wonder how people living in Svalbard would react to a temperature of 40°C. I suppose they’d have trouble with polar bears trying to steal their icy poles.

But I’m tired of talking about the heat. I was going to talk about Mr Putin’s visit to Iran and how a prime opportunity was missed, but that would be ungracious so I won’t.

On The Last Post and Lithuania.

If you’re going to write a post entitled ‘On Heat and Open Windows’ it should be more than the inconsequential bit of trivia I wrote, shouldn’t it? It should.

‘On Heat and Open Windows’ sounds like an allegorical reference to a post of significance, something to stretch the mind and open pathways to meaningful revelations on the subject of life and the human condition. But it wasn’t, so I’m a failure. And being a failure makes me ashamed of presuming to write a blog. I used to do better, but I was younger then. And all this on the night when I get my first visit from Lithuania for ten years or more. What on earth must Lithuanians think of me?

(And why would somebody from Lithuania want to visit my blog anyway? What am I to the average Lithuanian? Is it something to do with the Great European Heatwave? Are they getting it there? Is this a matter of cosmic significance? Could it presage the posting of a YouTube video with a click bait title and an airbrushed picture of a tsunami invading the River Thames and obliterating the London Eye? YouTube is full of that sort of stuff and millions of people watch them. So should ‘On Heat and Open Windows’ have been a post about just how stupid millions of people are?)

I’m writing this because I felt like writing something and it was the first thing that came into my head. Life is strange, and waiting for the results of a CT scan can affect a sensitive mind that way. (I wonder whether the Gorgeous Girlie radiographers who took over on Monday morning appreciated their chocolates. It would please me to know that they did, even though it shouldn’t.)

OK, stream-of-consciousness rant over. I can’t turn the clock back (time runs apace after all, and time’s a blockhead) but I’ll try to do better next time as long as there is a next time.

It’s now the early hours of the morning and my office is warmer than it was during this afternoon’s heat. I don’t know why.

On Heat and Open Windows.

Here in my little corner of England it’s been unusually warm by UK standards today – around mid-30s Celsius I would guess. We’re not used to that sort of heat and so we find it oppressive. But here in my little office the temperature stayed down around 20°. Why? Because I had the windows shut to keep out the heat.

I’ve noticed that most other people don’t do that; they have all their windows wide open, presumably in the mistaken belief that it will keep the house cooler. But how can it? It can’t, at least not during the day when the ambient temperature is high. All it does is let the hot air into the house.

I’ve talked to a few people about this and realised that most people don’t appear to understand the difference between solar gain and ambient heat, and that’s what seems to cause the misunderstanding. I find this odd because the simple principles of heat transference was something I was taught during the early years of high school. Were they not listening, have they forgotten, or did high schools stop teaching useful facts shortly after I left? The situation at night when the outside air cools down is different, of course, but let’s not get complicated.

And what the hell anyway? It’s none of my business what other people do. And they say it’s going to be hotter tomorrow. And I’ll bet it was pretty uncomfortable in central London today. Serves them right for being so self-important.

On Hospitals and the Matter of Heat.

I went for my CT scans today and the department was notably thin on the ground in the matter of clinical staff. The preliminary processes normally done by three different people were all undertaken by the same person today. And what a disappointment the scanner room was. No delectable duo of Gorgeous Girlie radiographers, just a small black man and a big white woman (it’s usually the other way round, isn’t it?) But they were splendid as ever, so I still gave them the box of chocolates I’d brought with me as a small token of recognition for all the pressure they’ve been under for the past two years.

When it was all over the young guy asked me whether I’d felt strange sensations when the dye was injected. (They didn’t tell me when the dye was about to be injected, by the way, which they’ve always done before. Fatigue, I expect.) Well of course I did; I always do. This isn’t my first time, you know, it’s my seventh.

‘It was stronger than usual, though’ I remarked. ‘Did you give me an overdose?’

‘No,’ replied the young guy.

‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you? It won’t stop me suing you if I should wilt irretrievably overnight, you know.’

(Note to self: must watch my sense of humour now that we’re multicultural. I like the fact that we’re multicultural, by the way.)

While I was there I spent an informative fifteen minutes observing the other patients’ faces. Some looked resigned, some looked alert but generally unconcerned, some looked blank, and one woman looked as though she had no idea what was going on. I swear she was completely out of it. None of them spoke to me so I returned the favour by saying nothing back. And then I left once the nurse was reasonably convinced that the cannula wound wasn’t bleeding. ‘Keep an eye on it,’ he said.

(Note to self: must take a look at my cannula wound before retiring for the night. Wouldn’t want it bleeding on the sheets, would I?)

On my way out of the hospital I wasted fifteen minutes and £2.20 on a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine. It’s good, if a little too hot for comfort unless you're prepared for it. I’m an old hand, so I was.

*  *  *

I had to drive a different route on the way to the hospital because the main Ashbourne road from here was supposed to be undergoing repairs. (I later discovered that it wasn’t happening. I suppose the workmen had been laid off because of the ‘ferocious heat’ we’re suffering at the moment. According to the BBC news website, this ‘ferocious heat’ – their term, not mine – is going to be killing people in droves if they dare set foot outside. They’re even giving us advice on how to stay alive, one particular little gem being: ‘stay in the shade as much as you can.’ I ask you, what would we do without experts? According the my car thermometer – which is fairly accurate – the temperature when I reached the main road close to where the repairs were supposed to be taking place was 27.5°C, but anyway…)

The detour took me along some narrow, twisty country lanes, and I discovered that the mowing of the barley has begun. This is my world, you understand, in precisely the way that driving to city hospitals for CT scans isn’t. I decided that ‘The Mowing of the Barley’ should be the title of an ancient English folk song, and maybe it is.

(I’m not suffering from heat stroke, by the way, just in case you’re wondering. The temperature in my office is a perfectly pleasant 20°C. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen any beetles yet. The heat isn’t ferocious enough.)

On Meeting Refugees.

I was in Mill Lane today giving the little white pony her apple and carrot treat when I met two refugees – a Ukrainian woman and her little girl. They’re currently billeted in a house nearby. I offered all sympathy and hope for a speedy return home, and said I hoped they were receiving all kindness and support during their enforced exile here. I wanted to do more, but what is there?

There was a hint of bleakness – and maybe even a little suspicion – in both sets of eyes. It was all rather sad. But at least the sun was shining, a fact which I considered important.

The Phantom Channel Mystery.

Some woman with the username robin my beloved has subscribed to my YouTube channel. She’s the second person in two weeks to do so. My ‘channel’ now has 12 subscribers.

There’s a mystery here, though, because as far as I’m concerned I don’t have a YouTube channel.  I know I have one technically because Google says I do, but I never asked for it, I’ve never used it, and I wouldn’t know how to. All I’ve ever done on YouTube is left comments and engaged in the odd discussion with a responder. So what are these twelve people subscribing to exactly?

But best of all is the fact that I took a look at my ‘channel’ – which is nothing more than a bunch of comments – and discovered that one of my ‘uploads’ has been removed because of copyright infringement. I’ve no idea how a comment can be in breach of copyright, but maybe this is the beginning of a reason to feel important. Would I like to feel important? Not really.

Nevertheless, I must say that, since the robin is my favourite garden bird, a woman who calls herself robin my beloved might well be the kind of person I’d be happy to have subscribing to something apparently belonging to me. So thank you, madam, whoever you are.

On Dentists and Frivolity.

My NHS dentist’s surgery has deteriorated since the pandemic. It’s become more overtly commercial. The penetrating rust of profit obsession is dripping remorselessly and leaving dirty marks on what used to be a fine institution (an opinion I related to Ms Medeea on entering her lair, quickly followed by ‘Thank God you’re still here.’)

There’s now a 7ft tall banner in the waiting room advertising ‘AESTHETICS’ which comprises lists of products and processes which appear to bear little relation to regulation English (by which I mean that I had no clue as to what any of them meant.) The only one that stood out – being couched in perfectly intelligible English – was Hopi ear candles. (Whether that’s a process or a procedure I couldn’t say.)

‘What the hell’s a Hopi ear candle,’ I asked Ms Medeea, ‘and what’s it doing in a dental surgery?’ She didn’t know, but thought it might have something to do with ear wax. Ah, so that’s what they mean by ‘AESTHETICS.’ It’s relevance to oral health, however, remains a mystery.

So there I was, lying supine and helpless with two women hanging over me like vengeful harpies with instruments, when I noticed how lovely the nurse’s eyes were. During a lull in proceedings I turned to Ms M and said ‘don’t tell her I said this, but your nurse has the loveliest eyes.’ Titters ensued and I was moved to protest that I may be permitted to say such things at my age. The nurse was also brilliant with the sucky tube – I didn’t have to swallow and interrupt proceedings once – and was also taking an extraordinary level of interest in the interior of my mouth. At one point her head was so low that I thought she might be checking my heartbeat (and maybe she was; maybe she was really an undercover agent for the cardiology department at the hospital, irritated as they are by my refusal to take beta blockers. I think I’m being fanciful now.)

When it was all over, I stared long and hard at the nurse’s eyes and asked: ‘Do you have any middle eastern element in your ancestry?’

‘One of my granddads is a Greek Cypriot.’

‘Ah, close enough. That must be it then.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘I know. Am I a genius or just very clever?’

‘Clever.’

And so a good time was had by all, and I followed Ms M’s instructions to the letter by not having any food or hot drinks for two hours (…and said what a good boy am I.)

I went to reception and booked my six monthly check-up. ‘Do you have any preference for which dentist you see?’ asked the new young receptionist who doesn’t know me yet. ‘Bloody right I do. Ms Medeea is little short of a goddess and I decline to take any less.’ And so she is, and so I don’t, and so I now have something to look forward to: spending a little time in the company of one of the very few people with whom I feel entirely comfortable and relaxed. How rare is that?

Debt and the Universe.

A week ago I wrote this:

So that’s two smiles I was given today – one from Honourable Sister and one from Lady Luck. I usually average around five a year, so now I’m wondering how much the Universe is going to charge me for today’s excess supply.

Well, now I know. Computer woes and the hospital backtracking on the post-cancer screening system. Two smiles, two exorbitant charges. I’m not happy.

Tomorrow is dental work, which will no doubt occasion at least a little pain and discomfort. I don’t mind that. A little pain and discomfort is a small price to pay for the pleasure of Ms Medeea Popei’s inestimable company for half an hour. (For those who don’t know, she’s my splendid Romanian dentist.)

CT scans on Sunday. I wonder whether my negative karmic balance is going down any yet. I paid off a little more today when I waited all afternoon for the land agent to visit me to discuss a problem. The choice of date and time were hers, but she didn't turn up.

The Wheel Turning.

We’ve reached that point in the year when the verges and hedgerows start giving us signs that summer is half way through its annual bounty. The early cow parsley and hogweed which so dominated verges and field hedges with their white umbrellas have now turned brown and gone to seed. The creamy white meadowsweet blooms are just past their best and losing their scent, while the pink willow herb tucked in among it is reminding us that when they go to seed, the summer will be over. The copious bunches of elder and bramble blossoms have also mostly gone, and in their stead the fruit is beginning to form and offer the prospect of much wine and jam making for those still so inclined in these hedonistic days when life is about lifestyle and self-reliance is but a memory of yesteryear.

My mother used to harvest blackberries and make sufficient blackberry jelly to last through to the following summer. As a child I always saw the pots lined up on the pantry shelves as a sign of poverty because other kids I knew had proper strawberry jam bought from a shop. My, how time and experience does alter one’s perception of values.

And should I remark that, as with summer, so with life? I think I’ve done that one to death if you’ll excuse the pun. (Did I mention that I have my next CT scans booked for this coming Sunday? I think I did.)

*  *  *

I’m particularly nervous about the prospect of winter this year. This house is far from comfortable in the winter, even though the electricity bills are enormous. Given the recent price rises and another one in the offing, I fear that this winter is going to require the making of unacceptable sacrifices of one sort or another. Maybe they will finally do me in. I don’t suppose one has to worry about electricity bills once the final curtain has descended.

What I might have to worry about is the question of who to haunt and how to go about it. No doubt some will get the pale face watching them through the window as darkness falls on a winter landscape, while others will hear only a quiet voice singing their children to sleep. The best of them might even find themselves receiving a helping hand in unusual circumstances. Now there’s something to look forward to.

Busy Boy.

I did a 2½ mile round trip walk this morning to take the little pony at the end of Mill Lane her apple and carrot. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, poor thing, and I wonder whether she’s going to be around much longer. Maybe the heat was just getting to her.

So then it was more painting, giving my bathroom its occasional mighty clean up, watering the garden, doing the week’s ironing, cooking dinner, vacuuming, tending to the bird feed and water bowls… By twenty to ten I was whacked and gave up for the day.

I have to admit that being busy does tend to keep the depressions at bay, but it also stops you ruminating on the important things in life (such as whether there is anything intrinsically important about life itself, whether moths are really fairies in disguise, whether humanity proceeds in yuga-style cycles, and whether true reality lies somewhere over the rainbow.)

And now I’m tired, but sleeping might prove a little difficult tonight. A cloud cover has formed, you see, which means that the heat of the day will be trapped and the night will be uncomfortably warm. Looks like I might have to take my sweater off when I go to bed.

*  *  *

But before I do, I intend to read some more of Klara and the Sun. So far it’s unspectacular. The writing style – which is of substantial importance to me – is simple and prosaic; there’s nothing rich or lyrical about it. But the plot and characters are engaging and that makes a comfortable change from the stuff I usually read.

Boris's Ides of March.

The first headline on the BBC News website this morning was about Boris Johnson being asked whether he would endorse any of the candidates in the upcoming leadership election. He said he didn’t want to spoil anybody’s chances by doing that

Well now, isn’t that just prime example of passive aggression? I’m sure what he really meant was ‘I’m not going to help any of these rats who stabbed me in the back when I was down get my job.’

Isn’t the world of politics wonderful? Laugh a minute, these guys. And now the band of brothers and sisters who brought Boris down have their claws out and are engaging in a cat fight among themselves. I suppose it’s just another predictable example of decency and decorum disappearing through the window when there’s a whiff of power in the air.

Contrasts.

It’s been quite a while since I watched any shuffle dance videos on YouTube, but I seem to be in the mood again so tonight I did.

Tonight I also stood at my open bedroom window as the air was turning cooler, entranced by the sight of the moon rising over a summer field at twilight.

Weird, eh?

When I was fourteen I went on holiday with my parents to Great Yarmouth. All I wanted to do during the day was fish on the Norfolk Broads or snorkel in the sea. At night all I wanted to do was immerse myself in the lights, the music and the teenage girls at the fairground.

’Twas ever thus.

Yet More Unconnected Notes.

It was rather warm by UK standards today and the clear atmosphere meant that the sun was baking hot. I spent a tedious hour being roasted by it while painting an old fashioned casement window (small panes and lots of wood at different angles) brilliant white, and I discovered that using white paint with a high, hot sun behind you makes your eyes ache

*  *  *

The delayed Women’s European Football Championship is taking place in the UK at the moment and is proving very popular. Bearing in mind that football (soccer) has traditionally been a man’s game in Europe, I wonder how many men are really interested in the game, and how many simply like watching twenty two nubile young women running around a field in short shorts. And I don’t think I’m being unduly cynical in saying as much. On the contrary, I think it inevitable that the latter should be true in many cases. For my part, I admit to having a foot in both camps, but I am trying to get better.

*  *  *

I have my next CT scans booked for next Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling rather nervous about it. I have only eight months of the 5-year post-cancer screening process left, and I fear they will find something at the eleventh hour and the whole damn thing will start again. I realise that I’m being neurotic, but if such a thing were to happen it would be like coming home from five years at war, having survived the bombs, the bullets and the bayonets, only to have a large tree branch fall on your head when you’re within spitting distance of your front door.

Exits in Threes and Excess Smiles.

Isn’t it odd how things happen in groups? First Boris Johnson is hounded out of office by the overwhelming will of his party, then Shinzo Abe gets assassinated, and now the President of Sri Lanka has had to flee a protesting mob and their Prime minister has been forced to resign. Meanwhile, most of the worst tyrants are still holding the reins of power unmolested. That’s a shame.

On the home front, today was singularly uneventful unless you count my being smiled at by Honourable Sister from the driver’s seat of her new black Volvo. Actually it’s a second hand black Volvo, but it’s newer than her older white Volvo. I wonder whether she’s a Wallander fan. He drove a black Volvo if you remember. You should because I remarked on it often enough.

(I wonder whether this post is worth continuing. It’s a bit lacking in substance so far, isn’t it?)

Well, today I met no dogs, no horses, no friendly cows, and no strange ladies in woods, but the weather was good and I did have a stroke of good fortune. Remember me ordering a copy of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun from a second hand bookseller for the knock-down price of £4.99? It arrived today earlier than forecast and it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. I was expecting a second hand paperback with a bit of scuffing and a few dog eared pages. What I got was a pristine hardback copy which looks as though it was lifted off the shelf of a bookshop.

So that’s two smiles I was given today – one from Honourable Sister and one from Lady Luck. I usually average around five a year, so now I’m wondering how much the Universe is going to charge me for today’s excess supply.

Duck Egg Blue and Other Nonsense.

I painted two casement windows in my kitchen today, changing their colour from light green to a lightish blue/grey. It’s a remarkably close match to the colour of coral contained within a picture that hangs next to it. It’s also very close to the colour of my eyes, which is a little disconcerting because the name of the colour given on the can is ‘dark duck egg.’ I’m now looking forward to the day when some strange lady (like the sort you meet in woods with wine and cats) asks me:

‘What colour eyes do you have?’ and I can answer: ‘dark duck egg.’

‘Are you related to any ducks?’ she will continue, exuding that brand of innocent charm possessed only by ladies of a certain strangeness.

‘Not as far as I know,’ I will answer honestly, but the matter won’t end there. She will look dreamily aside for a short span of time perfectly calculated to be not quite long enough to allow the making of a hurried exit, and then say:

‘I met a gentleman in Australia once who told me that I had some sort of bandicoot in my ancestry. (I suppose he'd noticed that my eyes were brown.) I didn’t like to ask him what a bandicoot was because he said he was ashamed. I can’t for the life of me imagine what he had to be ashamed of. He had such a lovely suntan and a very deep voice which made me quite giddy for a moment.’

‘Are you sure he said ‘ashamed’? Might he have said he was a shaman?’

‘Oh dearie, dearie me. What a silly cuckoo I am. Perhaps that was it. What’s a shaman?’

But before I can attempt an explanation she will change into a wombat with unusually long ears, and then disappear in a cloud of duck egg blue smoke. I will go home to tea, trying unsuccessfully to convince myself that reality is really a lot simpler than I think it is.

*  *  *

I visited Rosie again today. She came walking purposefully towards me with a distinct ‘where’s my carrot?’ look on her face. Horses are good at that, so Rosie got her carrot. And then I made friends with some young cows in a field where I’ve never seen cows before. Two of them allowed me to scratch their ears, for which honour I was exceedingly grateful.

On Caroline, Cats and Climate.

I met a woman called Caroline this evening. She was standing in the wood at the top of the lane, clutching a glass of wine and accompanied by a cat. It occurred to me that a woman who would take her recreation by walking in a wood with a glass of wine and a cat probably had something of consequence to offer a strange person like me, and so I was happy to be engaged in conversation.

Most of it was about the attributes associated with various women’s names (at least by me because women’s names happen to be one of my areas of interest.) I imagine she must have found my waffling rather tedious, but she did tell me a rhyme associated with the name. I don’t remember a word of it, of course, because I don’t remember that sort of thing unless it happens to have been written by Shakespeare, but I think it was quite sweet. (Actually, it’s patently untrue to say ‘I don’t remember a word of it’ because I do remember a word of it. Caroline was a word of it. I even remember a second one: ‘shine’. That came into it somewhere. But that’s all.) And she told me that she’s not really a cat lady, she just happens to have two cats which like to go for walks with her. Well, that must make her some kind of cat lady, mustn’t it?

And then I went to say hello to Rosie the horse who was in a paddock on the other side of the wood. Rosie and I are old friends and she was happy to come and greet me. She put her muzzle over the fence, apparently indicating that she would like to have some of the longer fresh grass growing on my side. I picked some and offered it to her. She looked at it, smelt it, declined it, and then nutted me in the ear, presumably by way of protest. It was quite painful. I promised to take her a carrot next time, and then we were friends again.

*  *  *

The weather forecasters say that we in the UK are in for a heat wave over the next few days and they’ve put out a health alert. What we call a heat wave in the UK is what people in California and the Australian Northern Territory call ‘a bit chilly for this time of year.’

*  *  *

I painted a window frame this afternoon. It took a surprisingly long time, but do feel free to be uninterested.

The Girl from Romania.

Two or three weeks ago I saw a new Big Issue seller in Ashbourne. She looked out of her depth, making no attempt to attract people’s notice but simply standing there and hoping that people would come to her. People don’t generally do that, so I decided to be the first. I offered her a £10 note which she said she couldn’t accept because she’d sold no copies and didn’t have any change. Fortunately I had enough small change in my pocket and was able to buy one anyway. She had a foreign accent so I asked her where she came from. She said she was Romanian.

I saw her again today in the same place, and the passing populace was still keeping its distance. She looked sad, maybe a little helpless, and possibly even friendless and far from home. I know I’m probably wrong, but that sort of perception provokes my sentimental nature into a call for action. I wanted to offer to buy her a coffee and sit with her for a few minutes. I wanted to ask her which part of Romania she was from, and why she had chosen to leave a country which seems so lovely, and where she had learned such a good command of English. I wanted to know her name, and hoped it would demonstrate that she was not alone and insignificant.

Ah, but then the impediments came flooding in. My gesture might scare her. She might fear that I’m a potential pest, a stalker, a nefarious opportunist of some sort, a psychopathic religious cult leader seeking to entrap her, even a sex trafficker, heaven forbid. She is a young woman after all, and not entirely without feminine charm. And so I smiled and walked on.

Was I wrong? It’s so difficult to know in the modern world where rank opportunists of the worst kind proliferate and ethical principles lie comatose. All I wanted to do was help, but could I persuade her of that quickly and certainly? And maybe she doesn’t want any help. Who am I to give vent to such an unwarranted presumption?

I don’t intend to give up though, not yet. Some things have to be left to the universe to decide, so I’ll keep my distance and watch out for the signs. It seems that I also need help in this matter, and sometimes I wish I was normal.

Rarely Positive.

Today was a positive one. Such days are exceedingly rare.

Today I had contact with two Sarahs – first with the one who seems to like me a lot even though I don’t know why (her disabled daughter does too, which is more pleasing but less surprising) and who I haven’t seen for a long time, and then with my MP from whom I’ve been expecting a response for over a week. Even the response was positive.

And then I was afforded an opportunity to pour oil on the troubled waters of my relationship with the neighbours. Relations are now back on an affable footing and living here has become less toxic than it’s felt for the past twelve days.

(There’s a lesson here that I’ve been trying to learn for a long time but never quite managed: when matters are not perfect I need to change what I can but accept what I can’t. And I mean really accept, not just put up with. I wonder whether I’m getting there yet.)

There was more to come, several things actually, most notably regarding the book I mentioned in the previous post – Klara and the Sun. I did a little searching on the web and found a second hand copy (stated to be ‘very good’ by a vendor with a good reputation) on sale for only £4.99 with free postage. That’s cheap, so it’s now on order.

But of course, you know what comes next… I don’t trust positive days, but see them as the universe toying with me; winning me with honest trifles to betray me in deepest consequence (and look what happened to Macbeth in the end.) I doubt I shall ever get over that one. If I’m to be born a jellyfish next time around, better try to be one of the Stoic persuasion.

Anticipating an Empty Space.

Tonight I finished reading To the Lighthouse. Mr Ramsay and the two children have finally reached the island and Lily Briscoe has decided that all matters are now satisfactorily resolved. The End. So what will I find to occupy myself now as the evening runs down to midnight and the darkened world has disappeared behind firmly closed curtains? What shall become of me?

I want to read Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Klara and the Sun next, but where to get a copy? I always used to get second hand copies of books from Amazon, but I refuse to buy from them now owing to their nefarious ways. In my eyes Amazon stands as an exemplar of all that is worst in the corporate world, and my only recourse by way of objecting to their nasty practices is simply to refuse to buy from them.

In an ideal world, of course, I could go to a bookshop and buy a new copy, but the world is far from ideal. There is the issue of economy to be considered in these days of burgeoning living costs, and then there’s the dearth of bookshops. Ashbourne used to have two; now it has none. Uttoxeter used to have a second hand bookshop run by a charity, but that closed down several years ago. No doubt the city centres still have bookshops, but I no longer visit city centres because too much about them runs counter to my tastes in the matter of life.

It would be nice if I could think of something satisfying to write, but I can’t. It would be nice if I didn’t feel grindingly uncomfortable on account of my latest health issue, but I do. It would be nice if some rare and special person were to visit me and offer sparkles and refreshment to a jaded spirit, but no rare and special person is offering. Maybe I might discover the pleasure of just sitting and doing nothing. It’s what Mr Carmichael does in To the Lighthouse and he seems happy enough. (But I expect he isn’t really doing nothing; I expect he’s thinking. That won’t do because I get tired of thinking.)

Maybe it’s time I became a jellyfish.

Currently listening to Little Black Book from the movie Hanami – Kirschblüten. Why do I never tire of hearing it?

On Absentees and Distant Prospects.

I took another walk in the sunshine this evening and went a different way than usual. Up the lane this time, up to where the little wood on the left always calls to me, and the big plantation sitting on the lea to the right always watches me, and the Harry Potter wood opposite the top of the lane exudes its tantalising hint of mystery.

But I saw a sad sight. A single swallow was hunting food over a nearby field; just one. By this time of year the swallows have finished their breeding activities and the young are now fully grown and hunting with the adults. And so there should be twenty, thirty, forty swallows; not one. That's how many there used to be. Where are they now, and will they soon stop visiting at all?

And then I came to the farmer’s gate which offers a panoramic view across the river valley and beyond, and noticed again how different the landscape looks in the evening compared with the view I usually have in the late morning. The shadows and the sunlight strike different parts of it, you see, and so it’s like seeing it all afresh.

It seems that life still offers new pleasures for the enjoyment of those so minded, for the time being at least.

This afternoon I noticed that the clematis fronds on top of my garden shed are growing prolifically, and that augurs a good show of flowers next spring. But what a distant and uncertain prospect that seems these days. The times they are a-changing as times always have.

On Mornings and Musicals.

Here we are at the high point of high summer and the evenings have the chill of early autumn about them. I’m tempted to wonder whether the bats are getting confused and Mr and Mrs Bat are arguing over whether it’s time to go to sleep yet and whether the kiddies need a hat on to go out for their evening whizz.

Then again, I do feel the cold easily these days and being tired doesn’t help. I’m tired because I had to get up with the alarm at 9 o’clock this morning in order to make my blood test appointment at the doctor’s. I do realise that by 9 o’clock most people are well into their working day, having already been out for a five-mile jog, made and eaten breakfast, got the kids off to school, accidentally trodden on the dog’s tail and had to say sorry, performed their regulation bowel movement, and sat in a two-mile traffic queue while humming along to some manufactured noise masquerading as music on Radio 2. But to me, reprobate that I am, 9 o’clock is the wee small hours of the morning.

And talking of the wee small hours of the morning reminds me that I’ve long been something of a Frank Sinatra fan, and that I’ve had him singing Send in the Clowns in my head for much of the day. And that brings me to another thought:

As far as I know, Send in the Clowns comes from some modern musical or other, but I can’t be bothered to find out which one because I feel a serious level of distaste for modern musicals. From what little I’ve seen of them, they seem to be all about razzmatazz, gaudy costumes, gallons of over-projection, and music which falls far short of being musical. (I assume that at least 90% of the world disagrees with me.) I’m a little ashamed to admit that I find the classic old 50s Hollywood musicals reasonably tolerable, though. Their sheer plasticity and naiveté is somewhat disturbing, but at least they had melodies (including my all time favourite by Mr Borodin.)

The only other song I like from a modern musical is Tell Me on a Sunday. I don’t know which musical that comes from either, but it’s obvious that I must be very sad.