Splashing Out.

Should I allow myself to believe that I spent a whopping £23.99 on a shirt today? I suppose I’d better because it’s currently lying in a bag waiting to be placed on a hanger, thence to be conveyed to its appointed place in the wardrobe.

I’m short of heavy winter shirts, you see, and in this house I need them between December and March. Accordingly, I’ve been scouring the charity shops ever since last spring hoping to find one or two at the sort of price I normally pay for shirts from charity shops (that’s usually between £5.99 and £8.99.) No luck; not a winter weight shirt in sight, at least not in my size.

So today I went into one of the specialist outdoor shops in Ashbourne to see what they had to offer. (Interesting that we have two specialist outdoor shops in such a small town. It’s because Ashbourne gets lots of seasonal visitors taking a town break from the rigours of mooching around the rugged Peak District, which starts just north of the town and is full of rocky outcrops, blooming heather, and long distance walkers on their way to Northumberland.)

What they had to offer was a small variety of heavy winter shirts at various prices, but all reduced because the Peak District mooching season contracts quite considerably between November and March. I chose the grey and black version of the best of them, and the one saving grace of paying an almost unprecedented £23.99 for a shirt was that it was originally priced at £44.

That made me feel better, and it’s not the first time. My super-splendid £250 walking coat cost me £99.99, and I paid £75 for my top notch raincoat instead of £150, both because I waited for the season to be advantageous. I embrace the virtue of patience very readily when it comes to spending money.

Winter Constraint.

The early chapters of JP Donleavy’s A Fairytale of New York, follows the MC as he arranges and attends the funeral of his wife who died on the crossing from Europe.

The day of the funeral is a hard one in a typical New York City winter. There’s much cold and wind and snow and rubbing of hands and stamping of feet, but everyone involved in the proceedings works through the conditions as though they don’t exist.

That’s what I find so difficult to do these days. The cold and wind and rain and ice and relative darkness and damnable white stuff wrap me in a frigid straightjacket, suppressing both normal physical abilities and effective brain function. Everything I know I need to do requires the harnessing of a most reluctant will, or else it doesn’t get done at all.

It wasn’t always like this, so whether it’s due to the effects of ageing, the softening of resolve, or my ever increasing sensitivity to ambient conditions, I really don’t know. But it’s a nuisance.

Tonight's Disparate Oddments.

I feel the urge to write something deep and meaningful – something to stir up foam-crested waves on the placid waters of routine perception – but I can’t think of anything. You know how it is when you feel hungry but you can’t think of anything you want to eat? It’s a bit like that.

*  *  *

I was going to write a post predicting that the public lending institutions will exacerbate a looming debt crisis in the developed world over the next year or two, largely because the politicians will hide from the inevitable and do nothing to prevent it. But that would be boring, so that’s why I didn’t.

*  *  *

Buffy’s kid sister is irritating me. I’m hoping she’ll change into a demon or something, then maybe she won’t. And I do wish they’d stop pronouncing Anya as Onya, and Tara as Taira (Giles excepted, of course.) It feels disrespectful to my ancestors and my muse.

*  *  *

My office has grown colder than usual tonight, which means I’m being persuaded to use electricity that I don’t want to have to pay for. The onset of winter is worrying me more than ever this year, not just for my own sake but also for the sake of those animals kept captive in fields, the people of Ukraine whose means of producing warmth has been brutally snatched away by the wretched tyrant Putin, the homeless trying to survive in hard and draughty places, and the children of those at the bottom of a hideously divisive capitalist system forced to choose between warmth and food.

*  *  *

All the commentaries on the INFJ type I see on YouTube are unanimous in one particular aspect: we’re the ones most desirous of meaningful connections with other humans, but also the ones least likely to find them. Getting by without them can sometimes prove irksome.

A Walk in Late November.

The day dull and silent under heavy mist. Fingers tingling in cold damp air. Skeletal trees standing stark in half tone against a pallid grey void. No movement save a single squirrel seeking anonymity behind a torpid tree.

In the style of JP Donleavy

(I sometimes wonder whether the time of year into which we are born has a deeply ingrained effect on our perceptions of reality.)

But one lighted vehicle stopped beside me on Green Lane. The driver asked for directions to Home Farm, which were freely and easily given. He continued on his way alone, as did I.

Birthday Update.

Just in case anybody’s wondering, I didn’t die before midnight so I opened the card and present – a pack of three miniature scotches and a box of vegan truffles. They’re extremely yummy and don’t have any palm oil in them (which is a good thing, apparently.)

And this morning I got a wave from the Lady B’s dear mama. And then I saw a big horse galloping madly around dear mama’s field, which is always a fine sight but on this occasion entirely unexpected because I’ve never seen a horse that big in dear mama’s field before. There was also an unfamiliar Shetland pony in evidence, so now I’m intrigued.

This is really interesting, isn’t it, but that’s about it for my birthday news so far. Apart from the fact that the weather today was just how I remember it being on my birthdays as a child – cool, calm, dull, and misty. It brought back memories. (And I really must get off this ‘when I was a kid’ thing because it’s irritating me.)

The only other notable fact to report today is that in Episode One of Season 5 of Buffy (the one in which she defeats Count Dracula) she looks pregnant. I have an eye for that kind of thing and am rarely wrong. I remember that day in April 2018… but I won’t go on.

The New Read.

Just a quick note about my new reading matter – JP Donleavy’s A Fairytale of New York (I gather The Pogues got the title for their near-legendary Christmas song from it, so I suppose I sort of got the title of my own story, A Fairytale of Philadelphia, from the same source, albeit second hand.)

I read the first chapter tonight and was much impressed. His observation of the New York docks was extremely keen, and his further observation of lowbrow New Yorkers highly amusing. But here’s what’s odd:

I picked the book up because I’d heard of JP Donleavy, was aware of his reputation, but had never read anything he'd written. But when I mentioned it to Mel she’d never heard of him, even though she’s got a Masters degree in English Literature. Makes you wonder about the standard of tertiary education, doesn’t it? (But then I did anyway, so nothing new there.)

Entering Hades With a Clean Sheet.

I received a small package in the mail a few days ago. It turned out to be a gift-wrapped something-or-other and a card from Mel, presumably for my birthday which is on Monday. No doubt she sent it early because of the postal strikes which are going on at the moment. And so, of course, I haven’t opened it because the relevant day hasn’t arrived yet. So should that matter or am I being pedantic? Well, to me it does matter, and here’s why:

Suppose I were to die before midnight on Sunday. In that case, the birthday for which the gift and card were intended would never come to pass because birthdays are only applicable as long as you’re alive. Ergo, the opening of a card and gift intended for a now non-existent birthday would amount to fraud, and then I would have to go to the next world with a criminal indictment sitting on my shoulder. What chance of a seat at the top table then?

A Birthday and Buffy's Bronze.

I have another birthday coming up on Monday (if I’m still here.)

I recall how much I used to like birthdays as a boy. I suppose it was partly because I felt a bit special on my birthday, but I think it had more to do with the fact I never felt comfortable as a child. I couldn’t wait to grow up, and each birthday was the attainment of another rung on the ladder of aspiration.

I was given a second hand bike one year – my eighth, I think – and the following year I arrived home from school to find that my brother had sent me a set of lights for it. I was very proud of them and made haste to go out riding in the dark just because I could.

These days, of course, I try to ignore birthdays because I’ve had a few too many. And I still think that memories are both precious and pointless in equal measure.

*  *  *

But now it’s time for tonight’s episode of Buffy, and so I suppose I should add another comment about the gang of intrepid warriors to celebrate the fact. So here it is:

The race to determine JJ’s favourite female character is coming to an interesting stage. Anya has moved up on the rails and is now neck and neck with Willow. (It’s her smile, you know. Anya’s smile is something wondrous to behold.) Buffy, I regret to say, is still running a length behind and I suspect is destined to receive whatever the horseracing equivalent of a bronze medal is.

But there’s a long way to go yet, which is more than can be said for my birthdays.

A Short Reverie on Life and Lines.

I’m standing in a maternity unit looking at a baby who was born today and is taking its first step on the road of life. And then my mind races forward to that day somewhere in a seemingly distant future when the same being is taking its final step off the road. I look ahead to a landscape now empty, just as it was yesterday.

And then I see a very short line drawn on a parchment stretching beyond my vision in all directions, and back comes that age old puzzle: why are these lines here and what are we supposed to make of them?

The Simplest and the Best.

I was walking up the lane earlier, and as I passed the school a group of young children were being taken by a teacher from the main building to the village hall for a lesson. I watched them as they walked across the open ground and saw a little girl turn and look back at me. She smiled and waved and I waved back.

So, offer me the gift of a new prestige car, or a month in the Maldives with all expenses paid and a thousand pounds in pocket money, or my name in lights and unbounded celebrity, and I’ll take the turn, the wave, and the smile from a little girl every time. Because that sort of fleeting connection is a sprinkle of magic stardust on a dark and wearisome journey.

A Pointless Pronouncement of the Aged.

I sometimes feel inclined to tell young people not to take their health and strength and energy for granted. I want to tell them to appreciate having them while they’re young because health and strength and energy become sadly depleted in later life. But then I realise that it would be a pointless, and even irrational, thing to say.

Health and strength and energy represent the default condition of life. It isn’t a matter of luck to have them; it’s the relatively small number of people who don’t have them who are unlucky. It’s like saying that if you turn onto a new page in a school exercise book you should appreciate the fact that the page is plain. Why should you? It’s the default position of an exercise book that each new page is plain, so why would you make a point of appreciating the fact?

And then there’s a simple matter of psychology to add to the argument. It’s perfectly natural and right to take the default condition for granted unless and until you’re presented with the opposite. Only then are you able to make the comparison and appreciate the default. If you turn onto a new page in an exercise book and find it unexpectedly defaced with scribbles, you turn to the next one and only then value the fact that it’s pristine.

And so, for those of us who have a life relatively free of debilitating injury or illness, it’s not until we come to old age that we are able to appreciate the having of health and strength and energy. So that’s why I don’t say it.

Brain Failings.

 My brain insisted on behaving like an engine firing on three cylinders this morning. When I booted up the computer and tried to lay out my regular arrangement of tabs, a simple process which normally takes around two minutes took more like ten. And when I attempted to make a pot of coffee I put the coffee in the mug instead of the cafetière. And when I bought my month’s supply of tobacco at the kiosk in Sainsbury’s, I picked up my receipt and debit card but left the tobacco behind. And they are just the first three examples which spring to mind.

I’m hoping it was nothing more than incipient senility, but who can tell? It might also have been the effect of a dream about which I remember nothing except that the underside of an open umbrella was about to be used as a murder weapon somehow. I’ve no idea how, so let’s say two cylinders instead of three. It’s probably all Buffy’s fault.

But then I called in at the doc’s to arrange my next blood test, and while I was standing in the queue at reception I noticed two young women with their little girls awaiting their appointments. I was struck by the most intense desire to meet the Mistress Mary and talk to her. She’s the eldest of the Lady B’s progeny, and since the Lady B used to be one of the brightest stars in my firmament, I suppose it isn’t so surprising that I should feel an almost proprietary interest in her offspring. (I shall never forget her telling me that she felt ‘quite calm’ during Mary’s delivery. What a lovely thing to hear.) I would so love to be able to say ‘You have your mother’s eyes’, but of course, I wouldn’t lie.

My Problem With Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Shoes. It goes like this:

When Buffy is leaping around doing her martial arts stuff like a Chinese dancer on speed, she’s rarely wearing jeans and a tee shirt, or combat fatigues, or some other item of attire that would be eminently more functional. She’s usually wearing a party frock. And because she’s wearing a party frock, I always imagine that she would be wearing shoes with heels. And that raises two questions:

1. Wouldn’t the heels be something of an encumbrance to all the high kicks and back flips?

2. Given the strength she supposedly has, wouldn’t a well aimed heel dispose of a vampire just as surely as a pointed stick? So why bother with a pointed stick?

In fact, if a pointed stick is the simple expedient for disposing of vampires, why not carry a longer one and skewer the beast before it’s in range to kick back? I seem to recall having similar objections to several scenes in Harry Potter.

And I’m only making this post to demonstrate that, notwithstanding the darkness of the hour, and the darkness of the day, and the almost unremitting darkness of my mood, I’m still capable of making a sensible and insightful one.

Thinking Beyond Economic Growth.

Today’s BBC news pages have been awash with facts, opinions, and projections on the subject of economic growth. (The UK is said to be facing the biggest downturn of all the developed countries except Russia.) It’s the big issue these days, one of the greatest of gods in the pantheon of modern life. And its alter-ego, recession, is the sourest of dastardly demons seeking to climb from the depths and drown us in a lake of fire and brimstone.

I know that the concept of, and concern about, economic growth is not new. But it seems to me – and I do acknowledge the fact that I’m no expert economist – that it’s become so much more important than it used to be. And the reason for that, or so it further seems to me, is that the relatively simple lives we used to lead, even when I was a child, have become so much more complicated and driven by the twin forces of material acquisition mania and lifestyle obsession.

And so I’m naturally intrigued to wonder what would happen if some great cataclysm having its genesis in natural catastrophe, economic meltdown, a devastating world war, or whatever, were to decimate the human population of the planet and force us back to the days of living in small, self-sufficient communities. Our food would be simple and provided by nature’s ever-renewable bounty. The sun and an expansive arboreal resource would keep us warm. We would make our own entertainment, or pay the travelling troupes a bag of potatoes and vegetables in exchange for their services. Such communication as we needed to engage with would be effected by word of mouth and the coded language of percussive devices. And our health needs would be freely provided by those well versed in natural remedies.

No technology. No gyms. No polluting transport. No billion dollar insurance businesses. No corporate world. No status symbols save the head adornment worn by the person chosen to facilitate the processes and make the decisions.

I wonder where I would fit in with all this. Maybe I could be a travelling storyteller with a taste for cakes and ale.

Depressing Weather and the B12 Issue.

There are four things which make my old house cold: low outside temperature, lack of sunshine, rain, and wind – especially an east wind. Today was cold, wet, windy (from the east) and very dark. How do you think the house feels?

The temperature in my office is 16.5°C at the moment, which is apparently 1.5° below the tipping point at which the cardiovascular system begins to operate less effectively and affect the whole body, especially brain function. It’s said to cause particular problems for those with cardiovascular issues, which I have. So how do you think I feel?

This afternoon I had a call from an admin person at the GP surgery. She said I needed to make an appointment to go in for another blood test. I had the last one less than a week ago, so my suspicions were raised. And when my suspicions are raised vis-à-vis a health issue, the stress levels go up again. The caller could give me no more information, so I had to leave it at that.

But I wasn’t prepared to leave it at that. I called the surgery back and asked to speak to someone who could tell me what was going on. Was there a problem with my liver or kidney (I only have one), or was my red corpuscle count down, or had some other serious issue been picked up from last week’s test? ‘No,’ said my informant, ‘nothing serious at all. It’s just that your vitamin B12 looks low and we want to double check it.’ I know nothing about vitamins so I naturally enquired as to the deleterious consequences of a lack of vitamin B12. ‘Oh, tiredness, lack of energy, possibly depression, that sort of thing.’

Tiredness? Lack of energy? Depression? Ha! My life in less than a line of type, and possibly all due to B12 deficiency. I’ll go for the test. Here’s hoping.

On Being a Microchip Luddite.

Just lately I’ve been meaning to write a post about the increasing reliance on the microchip in modern life. Those who largely direct the course of our lives and our dealings with the structures within which we have to operate – by which I mostly mean the corporate world and the bureaucracies – are using it to ‘streamline’ their operations so as to greatly reduce the need for human contact. Everything is being digitised, and all too frequently it doesn’t work properly. I’ve been affected personally a lot over the past couple of years, and tonight I heard another example from Mel. It’s been driving me mad and now she’s having the same experience.

If we choose to be optimistic, we might take the view that these are just teething problems which will settle down as we get more used to the changes. That does happen, of course, when new ways of doing things are coming into play.

But should we be optimistic? The problem is that when you complain that something is wrong and you’re not getting the sort of satisfaction to which you’re entitled, nobody cares. If you get a reply at all, it’s perfunctory because the element of considered human reaction is being taken out of the equation. And so the problem persists and continues to persist.

That is the current state of affairs, but should I go into quantum territory and its assertion that some level of sentience is now being exhibited by electronic components? No, because I’m not expert enough. But we have artificial intelligence looming on the horizon and we can only hope that its benevolence can be guaranteed. Otherwise, it’s a scary prospect.

The fact is, or so it seems to me, that human affairs need to be regulated by human beings, and the right sort of human beings to boot. They used to be, and everything worked fine. But that way of doing things is fast disappearing, so what sort of future do we have in prospect? Big Brother was bad enough, but suppose the real Big Brother fifty years down the line isn’t even human.

OK, maybe I’m just being a latter-day Luddite here. Then again, maybe I’m not. The Luddites were only concerned about the effect the burgeoning machine age might have on employment prospects. The route the electronic age might take could be a whole lot more frightful than that.

Was Lucy Right?

I recall that in the film Lucy, which is about the development of the mind’s full potential, the Morgan Freeman character says something like: ‘If people had that much knowledge the result would be chaos.’ Lucy replies that ignorance, not knowledge, produces chaos. It had me speculating, as things do…

It occurred to me that all bad deeds are driven either by fear or the pursuit of wealth or power. (Even the kid who pulls the legs off spiders is deriving satisfaction from exercising power over a smaller, helpless creature.)

But is it not true that fear, wealth and power depend for their existence on the existence of hierarchy – the perceived fact that some other people or forces are superior to us? If that’s true, would it not also be reasonable suppose that if our brains reached the ultimate level of capability, the concept of hierarchy would disappear and there would be nothing to drive badness?

Is that reasonable or not? I don’t know because my brain is still in the gutter and fast approaching the storm drain, but it’s a thought.

On Balance and the Media.

A British company had to apologise this week because they released an ad in which two farmers compare suntans. All hell broke loose and people screeched their indignation: ‘This is a kick in the teeth for all those with melanomas,’ screamed one source (‘a kick in the teeth’ is the standard phrase used by those lacking the wherewithal to trust their own ability to communicate.) And the media, as usual, made a big issue of it.

So let’s be sensible about this. Too much sun is detrimental to health. So is too little because we need vitamin D. There’s nothing wrong with a suntan as long as it’s gained gradually and not through bingeing for hours in the garden or on the beach. A moderate suntan is attractive and makes people feel good. All it takes is a little common sense and reasonable precaution. Instead we get hysteria which the media does so love to promote.

And that’s something else that bothers me about the modern world. We see it from all quarters and relating to so many issues. Too much screeching and not enough balance. We’re coming to the point at which impotence beckons because everything we do or say is scrutinised by screechers ready to leap into the limelight and vilify whatever offends their personal perceptions or prejudices. Society is becoming dangerously unbalanced, and the media does so love to fill its pages with any amount of nonsense as long as it’s shouted loudly enough.

Down Time.

I woke up this morning feeling more scared than usual to get up and face the day. I wondered why, but the only thing I could think of was that it was the day for the Chancellor to make his much awaited – and largely dreaded – autumn statement. It was a start, but it wasn’t enough. Trepidation is one thing, but being scared almost witless quite another. I never did get to the bottom of it, although the day isn’t over yet so maybe I still have the chance to find out.

What I find odd, though, is that I’ve generally been able to keep a cool head when faced with scary things. Why I should be driven to a state of near-dysfunction when I don’t even know what I’m scared of is a mystery.

I sometimes wonder whether my intuition is telling me that some major, world-wide cataclysm is approaching, but what I really suspect is that it might be the low light levels which prevail at this time of year. November to January has always tended to drop me into a perpetual state of low mood – and even provided some of the most potent triggers – and the long shadows cast by the depleted sun at noon always make the day feel colder than it actually is.

But you know what? When I applied to leave my training as a naval officer, the main reason was that I couldn’t tolerate the degree of control forced onto me by the rules and requirements of the service. I felt weighed down by a kind of intense mental claustrophobia. And I decided that if the Admiralty was to be unsympathetic and disallow my request, I would take the first opportunity to apply for the submarine branch because it was said to be a lot more relaxed than life up top. Imagine that. If I can be driven down by dark skies, how much worse would it have been to languish in a big, scantily-lit tin can 500ft below the bonny briny for days or even weeks at a time?

*  *  *

I bought two more seasons of Buffy this week. Mel tells me that the odd numbered seasons are better than the even ones, so here’s hoping that Armageddon doesn’t arrive before I get around to them.

Another Familiar Stranger.

I passed a woman walking with a dog down the lane yesterday. As she approached she was smiling at me with the sort of smile which generally denotes familiarity. And then she stopped and said ‘How are you?’ All I could do was give her the stock reply I usually give when I haven’t a clue who the enquirer is and I’m not in the mood for the long explanation anyway: ‘I’m fine. How are you?’ ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied. And then she walked on, still smiling.

I don’t get this, you know, I really don’t.

Tambourine Man Revisited.

I just watched a YouTube video about a group of teenage psychiatric patients who were asked to draw something to indicate how they responded to Dylan’s Mr Tambourine Man.

I had to watch it, didn’t I? My daughter told me recently that she thought my rendition better than Dylan’s. High praise indeed, but taken with some circumspection of course. And I think I played it for Zoe once, but I can’t be sure. I do remember playing it to a wild rabbit sitting in my garden one evening, but all I got from the rabbit was indifference.

In any event, now I’m left wondering whether the patients would have drawn different pictures if they’d heard my version.

More Rambles Before Midnight.

I watched the second half of Prometheus tonight and realised by the end that it wasn’t effectively a remake of Alien as I’d previously thought. I’m sure it was intended to be a prequel. I suppose I could look it up for confirmation, but I can’t be bothered. I find that sort of film entertaining enough to be worth watching but it doesn’t go deep enough to be worth dwelling on 

*  *  *

I thought of something funny to say earlier, and you know what? I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Nothing new there then.

*  *  *

When I was driving to the doc’s this morning I hit a bird. It flew out of a wood and struck the car so quickly that I didn’t have time to react and brake. That bothered me a lot, but I looked in the rear view mirror and saw it flying away apparently uninjured. I’m pretty sure it was a sparrow hawk, and that left me with a question:

Should I be glad that I didn’t kill the hawk, or should I consider the fact that it will now kill other small birds? Where should the balance of considerations take me on this road we call life? The last thing I want to do is play God. 

On Blood and Left Ventricles.

It was blood day today at the doc’s. The Senior Nurse took a sample of the stuff for examination and also checked my blood pressure four times. (I wonder what they do with the blood when they’ve finished examining it. I imagine they might use it to feed the vampires locked in a secret, government-controlled vault under the hospital complex, but that’s only because I’ve been watching Buffy lately instead of House. It’s what watching American TV series does to you, and it’s probably intentional.)

Anyway, there were two upshots to these seemingly innocuous procedures. The first was that my daily dosage of Amlodipine (anti-hypertension pills) was increased from 5mg to 10mg. I was reluctant to agree at first, but the nurse persuaded me. It’s interesting that I find it quite easy to tell male doctors where to get off, but I have great difficulty saying ‘no’ to a female nurse.

The second was that she mentioned in passing while reading my notes that I have an underperforming left ventricle. Well, that’s a nice thing to say to a man who’s still got a smidgeon of pride left, isn’t it. It sounds like a euphemism for impotence, for heaven’s sake. I said nothing, of course. The days when such a prospect would have mattered are long gone, so what would have been the point of talking about it? I’m reliably informed (by the young female radiographer who performed an ultrasound scan on the vital organ) that talking stimulates the heart, and I don’t suppose underperforming left ventricles like that very much.

And then it was off to see good old Doctor John to have the keratosis squirted. (Only doctors are allowed to do that, you know. It’s outside the remit of nurses, even senior ones. Seems a bit silly to me, but lots of things do.) I was hoping to have a chat with him about Laurel and Hardy again, but he was running forty minutes late and the place was heaving with patients – half of whom shouldn’t have been there according to the Senior Nurse – so I trudged back out into the pouring rain and called in at Poundland for a few supplies on the way home.

And that’s today’s exciting news so far (although I wonder what dreams may come when I have shuffled off… whatever you shuffle off when you go to sleep. Maybe I’ll get chased to the burning mill by the vengeful spirit of a keratosis, or find myself trapped, alone and bloodless, in the darkness of an underperforming left ventricle. We shall see.)

Insubstantial Notes.

I have a pressing feeling tonight that there’s something deep and meaningful knocking at my brain and demanding to be said, but I can’t hear what it’s saying so I don’t know what it is.

Maybe it has something to do with the strange – and strangely memorable – dreams I had last night. There was the unfamiliar man in my house studying my blog posts from the year dot and deciding whether to give me a pass mark. And there was the crowded little corner shop full of boxes and people, all getting in the way while I was becoming concerned because it was nearly closing time and there was something I needed urgently. I remember the wall behind the counter being un-plastered and painted a dingy blue, and the door in the same wall being open and giving a view of a woman gardening. The narrow street to the side of the shop was blocked by a badly parked car and other impediments, and that made me angry. And then, finally, I was standing at the bottom of my garden in the Shire when a car slowed and the Lady B smiled and waved at me, but she was so utterly changed as to be almost unrecognisable. It seems my state of mind is finally manifesting in pictures.

But I still can’t access the deep and meaningful message, so there’s nothing else to say on the matter.

*  *  *

I might just mention that I met Buffy’s new boyfriend tonight. He’s big and beefy and utterly boring. Mel did tell me that season four is not the best of them.

And I think we might have an outbreak of avian flu among the wood pigeon population because I keep finding dead ones that look otherwise unharmed. It’s made me more tolerant of wood pigeons.

Tonight I watched half of Ridley Scott’s Prometheus, and so far it appears to be effectively a remake of Alien. They don’t tell you that on the CD case.

Suspecting an Invisible Audience.

Just lately I’ve become prey to the notion that someone is watching me surreptitiously from the wings as I strut and fret my hour upon the stage. And I’m not talking anything spooky here, just real flesh and blood.

I realise, of course, that I have a vivid imagination. I also realise that the imaginative faculty is easily roused when there is even the merest hint of wish-fulfilment in the air. But I also attach significant credence to the notion that connections sometimes exist between people, and that such connections can be impervious to the destructive power of fire, flood, frost and the ague.

We never know, do we, because so very few things in life are certain.

Meanwhile, I’m developing quite the urge to approach Emily and ask: ‘Are you an INFJ by any chance?’ I’m very nearly certain that I won’t.

On Buffy and Big Hollywood.

I’m beginning to get the hang of Buffy the Vampire Slayer now. Tonight I watched episode 5 of the fourth season, so what should I say about it so far?

Well, the formula is unerringly – and therefore tediously – predictable, and the obligatory party scenes too loud and American-college-kids-ish, but the nightclub scenes seem at least to have been inspired by Twin Peaks so thank heaven for David Lynch’s imagination. I do get the jokes, and I did say that I preferred the redhead, didn’t I? Tonight I realised why.

Her name is Willow (had to look it up) and she combines dippy and deep in equal measure. That’s attractive, and so is the fact that she’s engagingly intuitive and possessed of high emotional intelligence. So where’s the contest?

*  *  *

I also watched the American version of The Ring2 tonight. I found it about as subtle as a doggie poop scooper and marginally less scary than the stay puffed marshmallow man. There was lots and lots of pointless noise and the actors insisted on delivering the majority of the most informative lines in a sibilant whisper which was quite unintelligible. Why does Hollywood do this kind of thing? Are they trying to impress or to influence, that’s the question. Or are dollar signs full justification for dumbness?

But at least I was reminded that the original Japanese film Ringu was not Ringu2, but a different film called Rasen. I said once that I hoped to impress somebody with that little gem of erudition one day, but I haven’t yet been afforded the opportunity. Maybe when I’m finally consigned to that hospital bed and about to take my last breath, a nurse will pass by and I can say ‘Excuse me nurse, did you know…’

The BT Story: Epilogue.

Do you want to hear the latest update on my phone line problem? No? OK, I’ll tell you anyway.

I’ve been busting a gut trying to get BT to understand that I don’t need an engineer’s visit to my house. I don’t see why I should have to wait in for up to five hours when I know that the fault isn’t in my house, it’s out there somewhere. Seven previous engineers who came to the house told me so and it’s plainly obvious anyway.

So, you might remember that a couple of days ago I spoke to a man from ‘tech.’ He was good; he listened to the symptoms and told me that I didn’t need a visit to my house because the problem is obviously out there somewhere and the cables, connections etc need a hands-on check. He would get it organised. Fine.

BT admin didn’t agree. This morning I had an email saying ‘You will shortly be meeting Graham, our engineer. He will call at your house some time between 1pm and 6pm.’ (It didn’t actually say: ‘Please be kind to him. He’s a sensitive soul and tomorrow's Sunday’, but it might as well have done given how downright crass both the situation and the email were.) I rolled my eyes and prepared myself mentally for Graham’s visit.

The hours rolled by, and by 5pm Graham had still not materialised. By then I was coming to presume that this was just another example of BT doing what BT does best: getting it wrong. But at 5.10 my landline phone rang and I picked it up. ‘My name’s Graham,’ said a somewhat cultured voice. ‘I didn’t need to come to the house. I’ve traced the fault and fixed it. You’re good to go.’ He even told me where the fault was. What Graham had done was precisely what the man from ‘tech’ (whose name was Dave from Newcastle, by the way) said needed doing, and which was obvious to me all along. Apparently, it wasn’t obvious to BT.

And a final note: at 5.30 I received two emails from BT. The first was to inform me that my problem was fixed. The second said ‘Graham is just around the corner and will be with you shortly.’ It was timed at 11am; it was sent at 5.30. That’s BT. If only they would just let those who know what they’re doing get on with the job we'd all be a lot less stressed.

But all is now functioning normally again, so please give a big round of applause to Dave and Graham. It seems that even trash cans can have the odd angel or two living in them.

Snakes and Ladders.

I spent another two hours on the phone to British Telecom today, trying to get something done about the problem of my dysfunctional phone line (which also carries my currently agonisingly slow broadband connection.) I soon grew dangerously close to seething point again, until I finally managed to talk to somebody in ‘tech.’ (It appears you have to submit to having burning matches pushed down your fingernails in order to speak to somebody in ‘tech.’)

Matters took a turn for the better. The man from ‘tech’ was intelligent and accommodating, and eventually came up with a plan to get the matter sorted once and for all. I was mightily pleased; my mood lightened and I felt that the negative energies might be reversing at last. Fifteen minutes later I received an email from BT sending me back to square one and even further. The tech man’s plans had been overruled by admin people and they’ve now got something else wrong. BT sucks big time, and that’s how life is.

*  *  *

Having little to amuse me during the increasingly long hours of darkness, I’ve been scouring the charity shops for DVDs which I might find at least tolerable. Mostly I’ve been unsuccessful, but yesterday I discovered a handsomely-presented boxed set of Season Four of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I only saw oddments from Buffy when it was shown on the TV, but I know of its reputation for lightweight cult status so I bought the box. Tonight I watched the first episode and have only one thing to say so far: I prefer the redhead.

On a Film and the INFJ.

I watched the remainder of the film Never Let Me Go earlier, and found myself affected by it in a way that very few films can manage.

 

 

For most of my adult life at least, I’ve been very much an observer of films. I tend to watch them dispassionately – following the camera angles, taking note of the lighting, and looking for loopholes in the script. I rarely engage with them as completely as I did with this one.

The result was that when the film finished I sat in my chair experiencing a frame of mind which I think might best be described as ‘emotional stasis.’ My consciousness seemed to have relocated to some quiet inner space, while the physical world around me turned into a grey, still, silent, almost ghostly facsimile of reality. It lasted for about ten minutes, and that’s rare.

Clearly the film was very well crafted in every detail (I even noticed one or two as it went along), so I was pleased that it won none of those pointless Oscars. It was far too good to fall into that money-obsessed melee. And, equally clearly, all the major characters were portrayed by the actors so seamlessly that their talents became invisible. In short, they became real, which is how it should be in the cinematic version of the craft. And one, of course, stood out:

Carey Mulligan as the leading character and narrator, Kathy H.

I realised later when my brain came back into gear that the secret of her appeal was that she presented the character as a typical INFJ. Being one myself, I was drawn to Kathy H as a moth might be attracted to a bright light. And what’s really interesting is that the younger actress who played Kathy’s child self in the early part of the film (Izzy Meikel-Small) managed the same trick. Somebody, somewhere, is to be congratulated.

Finding Flippancy in the Darkness.

A middle aged woman of my acquaintance once asked me why I wasn’t married. ‘I’m not the marrying type,’ I told her. ‘Nonsense,’ she replied. ‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet.’

By then I knew myself quite well, and I’d come to know her quite well, and I knew that she wasn’t the sort to understand that not everybody has the psychological or emotional means to subscribe to standard perceptions and behaviour. And so I knew she was wrong, and I knew that I was right in taking the pledge to engage in no more romantic entanglements because the ‘right woman’ simply doesn’t exist.

So anyway…

Having recently read the novel Never Let Me Go, tonight I decided to watch the film again, and what should I see but Carey Mulligan wearing a woolly hat. The effect was immediate: Had Carey Mulligan and I met when we were both twenty eight, and had she been wearing a woolly hat, she would have been the woman who doesn’t exist. She would have been the one to disprove the rule. She would have been the one I could have grown old with and of whom I would never have tired.

The last one was Audrey Tautou. I wonder who’ll be next.

A Note on the Hierarchy of Demise.

I saw a wood pigeon struggle briefly and die on an empty verge beside a lonely lane yesterday. It hurt. It occurred to me how much easier life would be if I were one of those people who kill things for pleasure, although I wondered whether any of them suffer pangs of guilt when their own deaths draw nigh. I doubt it.

And then I found myself wondering how many thousands or tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands or millions of lives leave this world every day. I have no way of knowing, obviously. But then I considered whether any one of them is of greater consequence than any other. Is the death of a monarch or president or great social reformer or the men who wrote the Bible more worthy of regret than that of a wood pigeon? If personal connection is left out of the equation, I think not.

Feeling Repugnant + Oddments.

I’m beginning to dislike myself. I’m starting to see myself as dirty, dishevelled and useless. And because the view I have of myself has taken this startling turn, I feel ashamed. And because I feel ashamed, I’m inclined to the view that I must put more effort into maintaining an even greater distance from other human beings than has become my general practice of late.

Last night I woke up in the darkness of some ungodly hour and felt the presence of something strong and malevolent hovering above me. (I’ve felt presences in that room before, but I doubt the room is to blame. If some malevolent presence wishes to assail my senses, I don’t see why it shouldn’t choose its location randomly. Unless, of course, it has to wait for me to be asleep first, and I mostly sleep in that room because that’s where my bed is.) Whatever the facts of the matter, I decided to keep my eyes shut and try to go back to sleep. I told myself that whatever it was couldn’t hurt me physically so it was best ignored. I woke up to the daylight and it had gone.

I wonder what an expert would make of all this – somebody well versed and well practiced in Matters of the Mind, somebody revelling in one of many titles beginning with P. I expect he or she would decide that I should consider receiving treatment, but I would have a problem with that because the word ‘treatment’ carries too much of a physical connotation. It suggests the bandaging of a wound, or the setting of a broken bone, or the act of administering medicine with a spoon. Something to do with my generation, I suppose. When I was growing up, treatment never had anything to do with the mind and it still doesn’t.

And it goes without saying that I really shouldn’t post this. Suppose I were to be found dead one day in suspicious circumstances which allowed the possibility of both suicide and homicide. This post would be brought to the coroner’s notice in order to justify the former, and nobody would care from that point on. (And neither, I suppose, would I.) But just in case, it might be worth adding that I don’t feel remotely suicidal. Maybe that will do the trick. Alternatively, suppose I were to be suspected of some heinous crime I didn’t commit. Suppose some dastardly person devoid of an ethical dimension had reason to frame me. ‘I would bring to the court’s attention, M’lud, this blog entry which was found on the accused’s computer.’ Fait accompli. Life is rarely fair.

I had an unexpected visitor today. That’s very rare. He brought me something to do which I don’t want to do, but there’s an unwritten contract involved and my word is my bond.

I’ve started reading John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold and am enjoying it so far. But the house is turning colder now and too many of the days are depressingly dull and wet. I anticipate the winter with anxiety; I anticipate the spring with hope; I anticipate the following summer with pleasure. But all anticipations carry the same caveat: ‘If I’m still here.’

I think it important to acknowledge that this post was written quickly off the top of my head. Tomorrow I might make a joke (if I’m still here.)

On Apples, Fraud, and a Little Local Fame.

Following on from the post I made last night about commendations from persons and situations mostly unremembered, today I received something else to add to the collection. The problem is, however, I fear it would be fraudulent to do so. But to begin at the beginning…

Yesterday I took the nine apples remaining on my tree up to the local school. ‘May I contribute a few apples to the school kitchen?’ I asked the comely young woman – a teacher, I presume – who opened the door. She took them from me and said ‘How very kind. Thank you.’

Well, herein lies the problem: my donation wasn’t really driven by kindness. The fact is that I’m not terribly keen on apples but I hate anything going to waste, so the school kitchen seemed the simplest way of putting them to good use.

This morning I saw a sheet of blue paper in my mailbox. On one side was a simple child’s drawing of some flowers; on the other was written in a child’s hand:

Dear Jeff

thank you for giving garding club very nice stuff We are so gaful

Love from garding club

Arria

And below that was written, in a mature adult hand:

‘Written by Hannah age 9

Signed by Arria age 4

 

Norbury Primary School

Nature Garden Rangers’

Could I imagine anything more efficacious in brightening a dark, dismal, damp day than a hand-written letter of thanks from two little girls? A few maybe, but not many. This is the stuff to stir the emotional faculty simmering beneath the distant exterior. It’s definitely on a par with music and acts of kindness, notwithstanding what I said in a previous post.

But there’s that word ‘kindness’ again. Since my act was not driven by kindness, would it be fraudulent to put it in the box? I suppose it probably would, but the letter is far too precious to be thrown away so in the box it goes.

(And there are a couple of minor mysteries involved. The apples were explicitly offered to the kitchen, so how did the Norbury Primary School Nature Garden Rangers get in on the act? And secondly, how did they know my name? I don’t know anybody at the school, and none of them know me. But I have remarked on the blog before that I never cease to be surprised by the number of people in this area who know my name, even though I’ve never told them what it is. It suggests that I get discussed.)

When Visitors Leave No Footprints.

Tonight, having nothing better to do as usual, I decided to sift through a box of old missives – letters, notes, greetings cards etc – going back over twenty years. I had thought them significant at the time of saving, and tonight I was in the mood to have my memories flushed out of hiding; I thought they might even set it sparkling with nostalgia. What I found surprised me.

I expected there to be a dozen or so, maybe twenty, but there were very many more than that. I read a few, glanced at some, passed over even more, and still I didn’t surface for at least two hours. And they were consistent in tone: they were all expressions of gratitude or praise for something I did or said or was. ‘Thank you for being there when I most needed somebody to understand.’ ‘Your letter arrived just at the right time.’ ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ That sort of thing.

What did I do or say? I don’t know; I hardly remember any of it. There was even some correspondence from a person – a woman I presume – called Kat. I vaguely remember there being a woman called Kat, but I can’t bring her to mind. No face floats before my eyes when I see a narrow piece of paper on which is typed:

Do you know the following quote from someone called Flavia? “Some people come into our lives, dance upon our hearts and we are never the same.” Would it be too forward to suggest you have done just that? – Kat.

Who was Kat, and how on earth did I manage to dance upon her heart? And then there was Louise, a young colleague from my theatre days who went off to Edinburgh University and wrote to me from there. I remember receiving a letter from her, but I found at least seven in the box, and they were mostly very long ones. So many words; so much forgotten. The one thing I do remember about Louise is that when she came back for the hols and returned to voluntary work at the theatre, I asked her whether she would have coffee with me one day. She ran away from me – literally – and I never saw her again. I have no idea why. I even found a letter from Peter Cheeseman CBE, the Theatre Director, sent shortly after my last night of duty. It said that I would ‘definitely be missed’ (exclamation mark.) I don’t remember that. And then there was another piece of paper on which was written, apparently with a pencil:

For if the darkness and corruption leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had, better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.

Who wrote it, and why?

(There was even a note from Sheona McCormack, for those who’ve read the story at the other site. I don’t remember getting that either.)

So what should I make of it all? Should I infer that all these people and moments and episodes suggest that my little life performed some purpose after all? That would be nice, and I don’t suppose there’s any need for me to remember the details.

A Missive from the Secret Service.

I was treated to a little mystery tonight. I received a comment on my last post which, you might recall, made mention of the author John le Carré, and it purported to come from MI6.

(MI6 is one of the two arms of British Intelligence, the other being MI5. MI6 is the one which sends agents overseas to drive fast cars and collect knicker elastic from as many exotic women as possible. James Bond is its most celebrated alumnus. MI5 employs spies in this country to watch out for persons of foreign extraction who might be engaged in dubious behaviour, such as waylaying the outpourings of the Prime Minister’s private toilet and examining them for anything which might be of value in the event of WWIII breaking out. Or so I’ve heard. Of course, this information might just be part of a fiendish plot to confuse the Chinese. Who can tell?)

But back to the mystery…

The first mystery is the question of why the exalted people at MI6 would be interested in the private/societal/political/philosophical/spiritual musings of a little person like me – born and raised on the wrong side of the tracks and now subsisting in the dark and lonely wasteland beyond them. And even my dark and lonely wasteland is on the wrong side of the fence, given the explanation provided above. But it did contain much detailed information regarding le Carré’s life and associates during his employment with the said service in the 50s and 60s, so who can tell?

The second mystery concerns the means by which the comment was conveyed to me. It appeared, as usual, in my Gmail account. It also appeared, as is also usual, in the ‘Comments’ section of my blog’s dashboard. But it didn’t appear on the blog itself. That still shows ‘no comments’, and that’s most unusual.

I’m inclined to suspect that the comment didn’t really come from MI6. It seems a bit far-fetched even for my near-limitless imagination, and the detailed information is probably in any number of reference works. So why didn’t it appear on the blog? And what is the real identity of some anonymous person communicating with me using the handle ‘MI6’?