Flat.

I was hoping to make a final post for May today, about the unhelpful response of the corporate world to the cost of living crisis. But I’m not going to because I’m feeling far too flat. It’s partly due to the fact that the weather here has turned dismally dull and colder, but it has more to do with tomorrow being 1^st June.

June is usually one of my two favourite months, but this year the first of the month coincides with two unconnected situations which could engender dire consequences. No more on that for now. Signing off and hoping to be back when the mood – and the weather – lifts.

The Shire as Summer Beckons.

The Shire is going through its seasonal change now, divesting itself of spring finery in favour of the glorious garments of summer.

The white May flowers are falling to dusty pink on their way to browning and shedding. The dainty and prolific cow parsley is turning to seed, while its bigger and more robust cousin, the hogweed, is coming into full bloom. The golden swathes of oilseed-laden fields are back to almost uniform green as the flowers drop and the seeds begin to swell. The first white flower buds of elder are yet to open, but they’re evident enough and only awaiting the flow of time to follow the virginal tradition of blackthorn and hawthorn. (‘Blow trumpet, for the world is white with elder’ doesn’t have quite the same poetic ring, does it? But the sight is still appealing.) The meadowsweet is also rampant and budding, so Church Lane will soon be smelling as sweet as old roses. And all the standard trees are now in full leaf and gradually attuning to the solid green of the summer season.

The only concern is the lack of water. The maize which was sown several weeks ago is now painting green stripes across the previously brown fields, but we’ve had no rain since they were set and there’s still none in the forecast. The ears of wheat and barley are also growing strongly from their supporting stems, but they’re going to need water in order to swell and subsequently ripen in the sun of high summer.

But let’s be optimistic and hope that nature will be kinder to us than it’s been to other parts of Europe and the world in general. Let’s hope that when the rain does come it comes in favourable quantity and not as destructive deluge, for it would be nice to think that this green and pleasant land of my forebears and I will continue to delight my senses for as long as I have the means to be a part of it.

Russia and the Matter of Reputation.

What I don’t understand about the Ukraine situation is this:

Russia invaded Ukraine, did it not? It wasn’t the other way round. Russia is, therefore, the aggressor, and the whole world knows it because there’s no other rational way of seeing it. In the course of prosecuting the resultant war, Russia has bombed civilian targets on many occasions causing death and serious injury to a good many Ukrainian civilians.

So what happens when a drone appears in the skies over a Russian civilian area, in this case the city of Moscow? Up jump Putin and his band of henchmen in righteous indignation. It’s redolent of the school bully knocking ten bells out of a little guy, and when the little guy hits back the bully bursts into tears and complains: ‘He hit me back. That’s not fair.’

Now, maybe Putin and his henchmen aren’t quite as dumb as they assuredly appear to be. Maybe this all part of the rhetoric designed to convince the really dumb Russians that invading somebody else’s territory and killing their people is all in a good cause and fully justified.

But what about those Russians who aren’t dumb, of which I'm sure there must be plenty? The sort of laughably irrational responses being spewed out by the Russian power base taints the whole country and makes even the smart Russians look pretty stupid. And that isn’t fair, is it?

It makes you wonder whether Mr Putin gives a tuppeny toss about the Russian people. It rather seems that he probably doesn’t.

Being Sigma in Short Circuit.

I was thinking only today as I walked down the lane in the spring sunshine about how easily so many people fall under the influence of the personal charisma phenomenon, be it peddled by rock and pop stars, powerful politicians, cult leaders, evangelical preachers, or whatever.

They willingly accept being drawn into a doctrine, an image, a mental environment, a definition of right and wrong, and even a lifestyle choice. They become subsumed into one form of totalitarianism or another, losing all sense of critical awareness along the way. And in so doing they give up personal identity and become part of a mass movement, sometimes temporarily and sometimes for life. And then tonight I watched a reaction video on YouTube to a Nightwish concert, and there it was again.

This is why I never join anything, never subscribe to movements, never stand with the crowd, but always on the edge of the flock observing the phenomenon. Being a loner has its drawbacks, but I can’t live any other way. No doubt some people think I suffer from some kind of disassociative condition, while others tell me I’m a sigma male and that’s OK. I really don’t care, for as much as I give credence to the notion of the ultimate connectedness of all things, at this level of existence you have to be who you are.

And I’m only saying this to let off steam. I don’t expect anybody else to give a damn one way or another.

Basking in the Limelight.

I was up a ladder today, trimming down the heavy growth of ivy, clematis, and other sundry growth which crowns the top of my garden shed and hangs down either side like a duvet on a double bed, when I became aware of being watched.

Being near the top of the ladder, my head and torso were above the tall hedge which stands between my garden and the field beyond, and four young bulls – about a year old I would say –were watching my progress with a very great deal of interest. I assume this was the first time in their short lives to date that they had been privy to the sight of half a human apparently sitting on top of a hedge, waving a long green thing about and making a noise with which they were entirely unfamiliar.

I said ‘Hello, boys, nice to see you,’ but no reply was forthcoming. I hoped I might get a moo or a bellow by way of greeting, approbation, astonishment, or sheer delight, but they remained silent, watching intently like a group of children on their first visit to the circus. Clearly they were rendered speechless by the most riveting performance they’d ever experienced, and I was content to be the star of the show for once.

Current Affairs.

Given the title, I wish this post could be about dear old Jeffrey regressing back to the age of dalliances, but unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – it isn’t. It’s about the fact that for some time now I’ve been wanting to get back to making meaningful posts about the parlous state of the human condition and the decline of civilisation in the western world.

I’ve noticed over the past few months, for example, that a trend seems to be developing whereby agents of the state, here and in Europe generally, have been cracking down on public protests to a degree which might be deemed unreasonable. It’s leading me to the suspicion that the New World Order and its agenda might not be a conspiracy theory after all, but a credible vision of the future which is progressing nicely on cue. And then there’s the news coming out of America concerning the race to decide who will be Big Boss for the next four years…

… but I’ve been very busy recently and not in the best of moods. When you add depression to scurrying about for up to twelve hours a day – not doing things you want to do, you understand, but tedious things which have to be done just because they’re there – you create a cocktail which is incompatible with convivial communication.

(I am a little concerned about America, though. When I think of the top grade people I’ve encountered from the land of the free over the past few years, I truly sympathise with the prospect of them facing an agonising choice between Dunderhead Donald or Nasty Mr DeSantis on the one hand, or Old Joe lost-in-the-snow on the other. In consequence I’d like to make them an offer they can’t refuse – feel free to emigrate to the old country as long you’re willing to accept Big Macs which aren’t quite as Big and pint-size servings of sweet sugary liquids instead of gallons, and we promise to be nice to you. Unfortunately I can’t because we have a new problem over here. It’s an out of balance net migration thing caused by welcoming people from Hong Kong who were being treated badly by the Chinese, and people from Ukraine who were being treated badly by the Russians. As laudable as these welcomes were, it seems Mr Sunak thinks it’s too much and has to stop. Then again, he might make an exception for Americans because he learned his lessons in economics over there, but I can’t promise anything.)

So that’s about it for today, except to mention that the spring twitterings of birds at twilight is a most welcome addition to the seasonal round.

Oh, and I saw Gimli in Ashbourne yesterday for the first time in several months. He still strutted manfully with aid of his trusty staff, but my, had he lost a lot of weight. No more swatting of Orcs by the dozen on the battlements of Helm’s Deep, nor quaffing of ale by the gallon for him, I think. Quiet nights in and cocoa from now on.

A Day of Pairs.

Today I saw two hares racing around Church Lane, one apparently chasing the other. Up the lane and down the lane they ran, across the lane and back again, in and out of one field after another, and all no doubt driven by the natural imperative of the season. They came so close to me at one point that I feared we might collide.

As interesting as the spectacle was, however, I didn’t exactly welcome it because the seeing of hares is said to be a bad omen in English folklore. I’ve seen hares no more than maybe eight or nine times in the seventeen years I’ve lived here, and the incidence of unfavourable circumstances which followed was uncomfortably disproportionate. I tell myself that bad omens only work if you believe in them, so I try not to.

Much more to my liking was the sight of two bats out hunting together at twilight. It led me to presume that male and female – and possibly a whole family – had survived the winter and are now in fine fettle again. One of those nearly collided with me, too, and I’ve made no secret of the delight I feel at the airy brush of a bat’s wing beat.

But then came the grandest sight of all. As the pale blue of the western sky began to fade after sunset, the new moon and Venus hung majestically together over an open field and against an otherwise empty backdrop. It reminded me of the night walks of old when I would occasionally spot the moon, Venus, and Jupiter forming a cosmic triangle of great splendour. But today was not about triangles, it was about pairs. And that’s fine.

The Pearl Among the Pack of Peas.

I wonder whether I’ve finally learned my lesson in the matter of observing but staying quiet.

I was in a discount store in Uttoxeter yesterday when I spotted two Chinese women. One looked as though she belonged there – aged somewhere in her forties, short and slightly built, pale features, collar length hair that looked a little dry, and dressed in a jaded blue top and denim jeans which might have come from a charity shop. (And I mean no disrespect in so saying because that’s pretty much how I dress.) Her companion, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more of a contrast.

Aged I would say in her mid-late twenties, tall for a Chinese at around 5ft 7, slim of figure with long legs, lustrous black hair cascading to her upper back, and dressed in a cream top with light brown baggy trousers which looked expensive. Unlike her older companion, she was the very embodiment of elegance, style, and sophistication.

In Oxford Street she would have been lost in the crowd, but not in Uttoxeter. Uttoxeter is a basic little town mostly populated by basic little people conducting their workaday lives in a mundane, workaday sort of way. Elegance, style, and sophistication are not the sort of nouns which readily spring to mind when observing the generally good but basic inhabitants of a little market town in the English Midlands. In consequence, the young Chinese woman stood out like a decorated Christmas tree standing tall in a remoter part of the tundra.

And so I observed her every time she came into view. More than that, I relished the occasional sight of a pearl nestled uncommonly in a bag of dried peas. Being an inveterate observer does have that effect, you see, and it was fortunate that neither woman appeared to notice my interest in them. And of course, I wanted to say something by way of compliment, but I didn’t. I took the lesson and kept my council. Whether the resolution holds firm remains to be seen.

(It also occurred to me that both women might have been Mandarin speakers on whom words like ‘elegance, style, and sophistication’ might have been lost, but it seemed unlikely.)

Another Little Late Ramble.

I was in a discount store today and the PA was playing some bhangra music. I like bhangra, so tonight I picked some up from YouTube. And while I was watching the stunning Manpreet Toor dancing seductively to the beat, I realised what a difference there is between an American Indian and an Indian American, and how confusing it would be if you got it the wrong way round.

And I still think there’s an Indian woman out there somewhere who has something important to tell me.

I keep remembering something I have to make a post about, but because I’m busy doing something else I don’t make it. But then, when I’m not doing something else, I forget what it was. It keeps on happening. Tomorrow, maybe.

I’m constantly beset by the notion that something big and destructive is about to happen to the world and the people in it. It feels like being a dog which senses an impending earthquake before the technology does.

I just remembered what I have to make a post about (see para 3.) It can wait.

Stuttering But Misfiring.

No blog posts for a while, so let’s ask what was good about the past couple of days.

 

Yesterday

1. The sun shone all day.

2. I spent around fifteen minutes talking to the Lady B’s Dear Mama. She was in her garden, gardening. I talked mostly about my health issues (which I usually do, and she did ask.) She talked mostly about here wisteria plant (which she had every right to do because I opened the conversation by complimenting it. I like wisteria.) She said she doesn’t like the colour. I disagreed, which is yet one more reason why I’m probably best suited to living alone. What’s more important, however, is this. Being smiled and waved at by the Lady B’s Dear Mama as she passes me on the lane in her big Audi is one of life’s few delights. Talking to her for fifteen minutes is even better. I like Dear Mama quite a lot, but I have to wrest myself from her presence without due delay just in case she should invite me for tea on the terrace. I'm far too much the peasant for that sort of thing, and to decline would be unthinkable.

 

Today

1. The sun shone all day.

2. I realised something. The hinterland around the town of Uttoxeter, being on the low lying plane through which the River Trent runs, is rather dull compared with where I live. The Shire, on the other hand, forms part of the eastern bounds of the lower Dove valley and is rather more attractive, being hillier and studded with more copses and woods. But the Trent valley does have one advantage over us: There are rather more hawthorn trees down there and they’re currently rampant with thick white blossom. Having been to Uttoxeter today, I can attest that the world was truly white with May. Glorious. Blow trumpet. Whatever.

And so now let’s consider what was bad about the past two days. Physical weakness so debilitating as to make even the lightest of physical tasks uncomfortable. Feeling of pressure around the heart, mostly just short of being describable as pain but unpleasant nonetheless. Light-headedness and lack of visual acuity. It came and went and came again. It disappeared the whole time I was talking to Dear Mama, so maybe it’s all psychosomatic. Or maybe it’s because I declined the beta blockers they wanted me to take because I think pills are for wimps. Or maybe it’s because I’ve never used the Glyceryl Trinitrate spray they gave me a year ago because it seems like giving in to an oppressor. How should I know?

But here’s my latest thought: I learned a few days ago that my hairdresser’s aged mother died recently. She was sitting on the toilet, apparently, and went in the blink of an eye. Now, I’m the first to congratulate those who pass quickly and painlessly in the blink of an eye because there are very many worse ways to go, but I wouldn’t want it to happen while sitting on the toilet. I’m quite sure my ghost would be so embarrassed that I wouldn’t be able to haunt anybody, and that would never do.

In the Web of the Woman from Estonia (or Wherever.)

I did it again today. You might remember me saying in a post a few weeks ago that I should learn to observe but keep my mouth shut. Well, it seems I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.

Coincidentally, it was in a charity shop again. The manager there is a young woman of around late twenties or perhaps thirty, and she told me when she started there that she comes from one of the Baltic countries. I don’t remember which one it was, but she has that look that isn’t quite Russian, and isn’t quite West European, and neither is it Scandinavian. It’s Baltic, OK? And quite attractive.

So, there I was perusing the jeans, coats, and sweaters, when I noticed her walking in my direction. And she was staring at me as she walked – not merely glancing, note, but looking pointedly at me. I returned the look for a mere two seconds (without recourse to the seconds hand on my watch) and then returned to perusing the merchandise. She disappeared into the back.

Eventually I found a DVD of a film collection that I thought would be entertaining for a few hours and called her from the back in order to pay for it. I noticed that she looked different somehow, and it intrigued me.

‘£4.99, please,’ she said.

‘What have you done?’ I asked. ‘You look different.’ And then I thought: ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, you’re doing it again.’

I expected a response which would be offended, guarded, or at least cold in one way or another. (That was how she responded the last time I spoke to her several years ago when I asked her where she came from, and she said Estonia, Latvia or Lithuania.) But she smiled instead, rather nicely.

‘Different in what way?’

(Cripes. I think I’m heading for the ropes here.)

‘I don’t know, but there’s something different about your face, as though you’ve applied your make-up differently in some way.’

(I wish I hadn’t started this.)

‘The only thing that’s different is that I’m using pink lipstick instead of my usual red,’ she said, still smiling nicely.

(Phew! Don’t mention the war. I did but I think I got away with it.)

‘Ah, that must be it then’

‘Is it better or worse?’ she asked (still smiling nicely, dammit!)

(Oh dear, now I really am on the ropes. If I say ‘worse’ I’ll be offending the poor woman. If I say ‘better’ I’ll come across as some pathetic ageing Lothario trying to sweet talk an attractive young woman of foreign extraction, which isn’t the most favourable impression to convey when you’re becoming genuinely old and look like a cross between Golum and Quasimodo.)

I bottled it, or at least tried to hide the squirming sensation spreading downwards to the back of my neck. ‘Oh, I really don’t think I should say,’ I replied, hoping to give the impression that an English gentleman has lines beyond which he considers it improper to cross.

She fixed me with her smile. I sensed it had a steel rod running through it.

‘Yes you should,’ she continued in a manner that offered no choice. ‘You may say. Is it better or worse?’

Well, what could a chap do when strapped to the interrogation chair by a woman from Estonia (or Latvia or Lithuania) except be honest?

‘I think it’s better,’ I said, which I did.

The steel crossbow bolt waiting to be fired dissipated and the smile became just a smile again. And then she gave me a £5 note in change for a tenner instead of £5.01. I didn’t argue. I escaped hurriedly and with gratitude instead.

So have I learned my lesson? Apparently not. Will I ever? I doubt it. And it’s life and life only.

An Old Friend Fading.

I’m fairly sure that George is dying. George is a cock pheasant which has been visiting my bird tables for several months. and I always felt some sympathy for him. He had a damaged or malformed beak, you see, which caused the top and bottom to cross over, and that must have made feeding difficult. But feed he obviously did, at least up to a point, because he survived the winter and I became quite fond of him.

He was clearly at the bottom of the pecking order though, because I saw him being bullied by another cock bird one day, and all George could do was keep running away until his adversary lost interest. He obviously didn’t have the strength to offer even minimal resistance.

This evening I saw George resting on his stomach on next door’s garden, which is an unusual thing for a pheasant to do. They will occasionally perch on some raised position somewhere, but when they’re on the ground they tend to be constantly on the move searching for food. I went about my business, but when I went outside later to have a cup of tea in the garden I heard a commotion by the front porch. George was being attacked by his old adversary again, but he wasn’t running away this time. He was spread-eagled on the ground looking completely helpless. I shooed the attacker away, brought George a bowl of bird seed, and kept an eye on him.

He made no attempt to feed, but lay on his stomach the whole time seemingly too weak to do anything. It seemed obvious to me that George was coming to his end, whether through age, starvation, or an ailment like avian flu – which is a serious epidemic at the moment in the UK – I had no way of knowing, but it seemed all up for the poor old lad.

I decided to put him into an old outbuilding for the night. It’s the only place the rats can’t get into, and it seemed the best thing I could do for him. It seemed to me that dying in peace in a quiet, dark place was better than being eaten alive by rats in the garden or the shed. Such a prospect would have haunted me, I think. Dying is one thing, suffering quite another.

And so I fully expect to find him dead when I go out in the morning, and then I can remove his body to the ditch at the side of the lane where sundry creatures might find sustenance thereon.

(I heard somebody ask me the question while this was going on: ‘Why do you bother with something as insignificant as a pheasant?’ And I answered: ‘Because it is my considered suspicion that every living creature is an expression of the universal consciousness. And as I live, so does everything else.’)

Future Prospects.

As previously forecast on this blog, today I went the doc again to ask him about my latest apparent health issue.

Oh dear (sigh) here we go again…

He took a look at the offending appendages. He checked this, he checked that, he asked questions, he mused a lot, he suggested various possibilities which included the fact that it might all be down to my current medication for an otherwise unrelated nuisance. He deleted said medication and substituted two more, and then said that I would need a further blood test to establish the condition of my liver.

Where is this going? Is this the start of yet more hospital adventures, a type of adventure which encourages entirely the wrong sort of adrenalin? I’m tired of it all, I really am. All I want from life now is peace, quiet, and the freedom live my little life in my own little world, rambling the Shire and planning my next incarnation as the Emperor of China (and any Chinese people reading this might like to be forewarned that things are going to change big time when I take over.)

And then there came a little mystery. When I got home my right ear started to hurt – on the outside, that is, not the inside, as though someone had given it a forceful knock with a baseball bat. I don’t recall the doctor doing that, so who did? And if nobody did, why did my right ear contradict the evidence of my memory?

I remembered the old maxim relating to situations when the ear exhibits inexplicable symptoms: ‘left for love, right for spite.’ (It seems to me that this maxim owes its popularity more to a subconscious recognition of the appealing nature of alliteration and rhyme, but you never know.) Is there somebody out there who hates me so much that my right ear is picking up the vibe? Is that too fanciful? Well, of course it is, but you never know.

It would be interesting to think that somebody hates me that much, but I can’t come up with a suitable candidate. Historically, probably, but not for the past few decades. I suppose it could be the woman who engaged me in conversation during my walk through the village this morning (or, to be more precise, the woman who arrested my perambulation and lectured me mercilessly on a variety of fascinating subjects, such as the fact that she doesn’t mind cold weather as long as it isn’t raining, and that her reading of world stock markets indicates that China is about to invade Taiwan. (I omitted to inform her that I was going to be Emperor one day, and that all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?) Eventually I managed to extricate myself from her clutches by mentioning that I had to go because I had a doctor’s appointment. What I omitted to say was that I had 4½ hours to kill first. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?

(The blood test is booked for 1^st June by the way, and the follow-up appointment on 13^th June. If anything noteworthy transpires I’ll report it here. That’s if here is where I still am, of course.)

A Brief Brush with a Nurse Called Elaine.

I had a telephone consultation with a Senior Specialist urology nurse from the Royal Derby Hospital today. (Senior Specialist nurses are virtually doctors these days, and my attitude to the fact is ambivalent. I like to think of nurses as surrogate mothers who tend to your physical and emotional needs as your own mother did when you were a little boy, but never mind. Life moves on and ’twas ever thus.)

She began by asking me how I was feeling generally. I told her that I was malfunctioning literally from head to toe, but I wouldn’t bore her with the details since she wouldn’t want to know. She did want to know, she said, and so I wasted five minutes of her valuable time giving her the briefest run down I could manage. She listened patiently and then moved on (I assume my multifarious health issues were not germane to her professional interest, which just goes to demonstrate that I can be right occasionally.)

Her call was all to do with my impending next set of CT scans (which I knew already) in preparation for which I had submitted urine and blood samples. She told me that the urine sample was clear of any little nasties (like microscopic cancerous bits), and my blood test indicated that my remaining kidney was functioning precisely as kidneys are supposed to function. So now I can be booked in for the scans, and there you have it.

Her name was Elaine, she was from Northern Ireland, was very lovely and patient and friendly, and I felt better already, don’t you know. End of story.

(I wonder whether Elaine is an alternative form of Helen – or Hélène if you happen to be French. I think I wrote a post once about meeting the lovely Hélène from Le Puy. I’m sure I did. She wasn’t a nurse though, she was an English teacher. Does that make a difference?)

The Shire in Glorious Technicolour.

I’ve written before on this blog about the subtle variety of colours to be seen in the woodland margins now that most of the standard trees are replete with this year’s new leaf growth. The solid mid greens, the muted sage greens, the pale greens, the corn yellows, the hints of russet, and so on and so forth. Add to that the hawthorn blossom on trees and hedgerow shrubs glowing white in the May sunshine and you have quite a picture. But there’s more.

Last year, following the Russian invasion of Ukraine, we began to see the yellow of oilseed flowers painting a few fields a solid mass of bright gold. And this year there are at least twice as many joining the tapestry of green hay meadows and the pale brown of freshly tilled fields awaiting the appearance of this year’s maize crop. And still there’s more.

The landscape here in the Shire, and across the valley on the rising ground of the neighbouring county, is liberally studded with single trees, small copses, and bigger woods, and many of those trees are Copper Beeches. So now you can add splashes of deep wine red to the green, white, brown, gold, and buff.

You know, I’ve often wanted to see the lavender fields of France and Italy, but the last three days have been sunny here and I think the Shire can compete with the best Europe has to offer in the matter of gloriously coloured landscapes. If I still had a functioning camera I would take a picture and post it, but I haven’t so you’ll just have to take my word. Sorry.

Seeing Life In Vitro.

I was walking up the lane called The Hollow today. That’s the sunken lane I’ve talked about before on this blog, sunken – or so it is said – over many centuries by the weight of pigs being taken by smallholders from the village to the woods to grub for truffles.

The sides are steep and reach a height of around fifteen feet in places, topped on one side by a wood, and on the other by a line of old oaks, sycamores, and ashes. Much of the lower level is covered by a carpet of white garlic flowers at this time of year, and the uppermost level is festooned with the leaves of countless bracken plants come nearly to full growth. The intermediate level is liberally splattered with wild plants of many denominations, while the whole is backed by a ubiquitous mantle of wild ivy.

Even though it’s only around three hundred yards long, I’ve always thought it the most characterful – and I wouldn’t hesitate to say ‘magical’ – lane in the whole Shire. The atmosphere there is quite unique, especially now that the arboreal canopy is beginning to fill and imparting a sense of being in a natural grotto. But today something else captured my attention. I felt a sudden and deep awareness of being alive.

You might think that there’s nothing unusual about feeling alive. We’re all aware of being alive, aren’t we? We all think about life; we ponder the meaning and purpose of life; we all think, at least occasionally, about our inevitable mortality; we all, at least occasionally, take pleasure from a sense of being alive in those instances when life is vibrant and enjoyable. And yet at the same time we take it for granted, and that’s perfectly normal. But that’s what was different about today’s experience, and I have no other way of explaining it except in a feeble and half formed way.

I became aware of my life from the outside somehow. It was as though my consciousness eased a little distance away from me and observed the process of being a material body functioning in a material environment and responding emotionally to the delights contained therein. It was a dispassionate, pragmatic experience which lasted for only a minute or two before I slipped back into simply being me again.

That’s a hopelessly inadequate description I know, but it’s the best I can do. And the only thing to add is that I’ve never had it before.

Two Tiny Tales.

I saw the Lady B’s car this morning for the first time since Christmas Day. So why should that be noteworthy? Well, because everything I encounter which has a direct connection with the Lady B sprinkles a teaspoonful of magic dust into my life, and I don’t get much of that. ’Twas ever thus and I suspect it always will be.

*  *  *

But on the downside, I also received a hint of chiding from Millie the Horse’s human. I told her of my efforts to track down the elusive Millie so that I might confer upon the dear old lady the gift of raw carrot, and Millie’s human expressed a note of reservation. The problem is, apparently, that Millie’s field has a public footpath running through it, and said human was concerned that if Millie gets used to being given the gift of raw carrot – or any other popular comestible come to that – she might start pestering walkers passing through the field and become a nuisance.

It seems that a previous horse – a big warrior of a gelding called Ben who died of old age a few years ago – had a disconcerting habit. He, too, was domiciled in that field during his retirement, and if he saw anybody walking through it wearing a hat he would trot over to them, steal the hat, and run away with it, leaving his poor human to be harassed by the heated complaints of hatless ramblers.

I sympathised, naturally, and tonight I left a raw carrot by the field gate so that dear Millie might receive a pleasant surprise the next time she ventures that way. I thought it the best compromise in the circumstances. I'm nice like that

A Note on the Big Occasion.

So, today King Charles III had his kingliness officially ratified with much pomp and circumstance in Westminster Abbey (or wherever it was.) I didn’t watch it, of course; I went for a walk instead.

The lanes and byways of the Shire were largely deserted as would be expected in such a monarchist area, and I imagine there was a bit of tutting going on if my perambulations were spotted through the windows of the loyal celebrants. Some of them think me odd as it is, and they probably regard the missing of a coronation as the next best thing to a cardinal sin. And maybe someone will one day take me to task for my less than respectful behaviour. I imagine a conversation running somewhat thus:

‘You’re not a monarchist then?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re a republican, like that horrible man who got arrested for leading a protest against the coronation?’

‘No.

‘Ah, a fence sitter, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Well if you’re neither one nor the other you must be undecided, and that makes you a fence sitter.’

‘No it doesn’t. I’m one of the third persuasion.’

‘Which is?’

‘Well, first of all you need to consider the question which nobody seems to be asking: do we need a head of state at all? I admit to being ambivalent on that one. I can see a benefit of sorts in having a head of state, but as long as he or she has no executive function I don’t see that it matters whether they’re elected or not. I do admit, though, that having an executive President carries its own dangers. We might end up with a Trump or Bolsonaro, and where would we be then? As for the man who got arrested, I imagine he’s just somebody with an anger issue giving vent to it. I’m sure he’s of no consequence, although I expect he thinks he is.’

*  *  *

Although I didn’t watch the coronation, I’ve seen several pictures on the BBC News website, and in every one of them poor old Charles looks reluctant if not downright miserable. One showed him and his wife in the fairy tale coach after the ceremony. She was smiling and waving; he was looking the other way and appeared terminally glum. Then again, it could have been that he was attempting to distance himself from the woman sitting next to him. She was wearing her Queen consort’s crown, and if I think women look stupid in the sort of hats they wear to weddings, the sight of Camilla and her crown belonged in a rarefied league of its own.

On Millie's Carrot and the Magic of Spring.

The dinner was eaten, the dishes washed, the floor vacuumed, and still the evening was truly vernal and demanding my presence outdoors.

So I went out laden with carrots to find Millie the Horse. She gave me the slip last night, so tonight I tried a different tactic. I went up the lane to the top of her field where there’s a stile and saw her grazing about a hundred yards away. I climbed the stile and walked towards her, holding out a carrot to serve as a ticket to gain access to her esteemed presence.

She watched me for a few minutes, started to walk slowly towards me, and then changed her mind. Clearly she was nervous and began to amble to one side. ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘new tactic. Stand still, keep the carrot in sight, and let her come to you in her own time. And so she did – eventually. It took her a while but she duly arrived and accepted her first piece of carrot. And then she wanted another, and another, and when there was only one left which I intended for another horse in another field, she was having none of it. As soon as I tried to walk away she followed me closely, nudging my shoulder in the way women do when they want something and won’t let you go until they get it.

Another tactic was required: take the last carrot (which was fortunately quite a big one), break it into three pieces, give Millie one of them, and put the other two on the ground where she could see them. It worked. I left Mistress M cheerfully chomping on raw carrot while I walked back to the stile and headed off down the lane. The sun shone, wisps of white cloud hung benignly in the blue bowl of evening, the warm air ruffled not so much as a blade of grass, and all was right with the world for a change. And it didn’t end there because the evening was still too seductive to be wasted indoors.

I went and fetched my shovel and spent half an hour clearing the mud, tree seeds, and other detritus soiling the road grids. An old lady drove past me while I was so engaged, parked her car by the green triangle at the end of Bag Lane, and began strimming the grass. Finding myself to be in a rare amicable mood, I decided to exchange a few words with my fellow worker. We complained about the tractor drivers who mount the kerb of the little grassy triangle, leaving deep, ugly tyre tracks along one side of it. She told me that they really didn’t need to do that, and having been a farmer’s daughter, she should know. Since she looked to be in her late seventies at least, and having noticed the line of white beard growth on one side of her chin, I conceded the point without hesitation.

And still the evening hadn’t stopped seducing me with its vernal charms. For the first time in around seven months, I took my mug of tea and pack of biscuits into the garden and watched the sun set over the Weaver Hills across the valley.

So who says I’m not responsive to the odd charms that life has to offer on the odd occasion when it chooses to do so?

On May and Happenings.

I think I wrote a post once about the significant things which happened in the month of May and which profoundly affected my life. I think I did, but I can’t be bothered to find out so I’ll write another one. The first three should (for reasons known only to me) be reported generically, and their relevance to my personal circumstances may be freely inferred.

May is the month when people go to Egypt, then return to the home shore and say ‘life moves on, Jeff.’ May is the month when precious people marry, and in so doing leave my orbit irrevocably and shut the door behind them. May is the month when they stand still and statuesque in the warmth of the late spring sunshine, the long, dark blue cotton maternity dress betraying a hint of the new life inside, entirely ignorant of my presence but presenting such a picture of incalculable loveliness that my heart leaps with the learning of a new lesson and the remembering of an old one: perception is the whole of the life experience.

So now let’s shift to a properly first person narrative. What of the more explicitly personal ones?

The two most unpleasant and mentally enervating jobs I ever had began in May, and they both ended in May. I met the woman who was to become my one and only official wife in May. And I’m fairly sure it was in May when she came back to the marital abode to collect her piano after our separation, and I never saw her again. My first footfall on a foreign shore was made in May, the shore being the concrete quayside of St John’s Newfoundland. My only visit to the Emerald Isle (land of my fathers by all accounts) was made in May, and the weather was unusually clement for that time of year in Ireland. And May was the month when I moved into this house, a change of circumstance which eventually led to my base psychic energy level shifting from positive to negative, and producing a catalogue of health issues which is still growing. It also led me into the blogging habit which has produced many questions and left me feeling less certain of anything than I have ever been. It has become my latest – and possibly my last – monomania.

Is that all of them? Probably not, but I’m too tired to wade through the morass of recollection so it will have to do. And will this May add anything to the list? I don’t know yet, do I?

But now the darkness of night is approaching under a heavy cloud cover, so it’s time to do the twilight chores. I might be back later.

A Blood and Bowl Day.

Two exciting things happened today. The greater of the two was giving up yet another small tube of blood to a nurse at the GP surgery. She wasn’t one of my favourite nurses unfortunately, being functional but lacking in both personality and a sense of humour. (‘Which arm do you want?’ I asked. ‘The left.’ ‘They always take it from the left.’ I grumbled. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off by now.’ Zilch.) She seemed pleased that my blood pressure was only 144/80, but expressed her displeasure silently when I said that I couldn’t be bothered taking my own blood pressure at home and that I hadn’t given up smoking yet.

(It was perhaps no coincidence that she called me in ten minutes early, which is most unusual for a GP surgery. I suspect that some of the others had got wind of who was on duty today and decided to call in sick.)

The lesser happening of note was that I spent the alarming sum of £3.50 on a new washing up bowl because the old one was getting a bit manky. I mention it only because I like confusing the three (I think) Americans who still read this blog. ‘What’s a washing up bowl? Don’t they have sinks over there? And what does manky mean? Brits are weird.’)

Considering Beetle Mind.

It’s an interesting fact that wherever I’ve been walking over the past week or two, be it around the precincts of my little abode or perambulating the byways of the Shire, I keep seeing small beetles – presumably baby ones – scurrying frantically across the hard surfaces of lanes and paths. And so I ask the question: why do they do it?

Is there something they want on the other side, because if so it would suggest that beetles are capable of aspiration and therefore conscious intent? Or is it simply that beetles are genetically programmed to walk rapidly in a straight line whenever the day is dry and the temperature convivial (they don’t seem to do it in cold or wet weather)?

So therein lies another oddness in the matter of JJ’s perception of life, the universe, and everything. While others question the wisdom of a change in interest rates, the rightness of allowing unemployed foreigners to enter the country without a valid ticket, or the soundness of the judges' decision in determining who should be crowned victor in some TV reality show or other, I concern myself with wondering why baby beetles cross the road.