Principles and Failures.

Last night I did something in serious violation of one of my most strongly held principles. I did it because I was scared of the consequences of not doing it, which is pretty shameful and probably as good a reason as any for hiding away in a dark place for a span of time yet to be discovered. Principles are central to my priorities, you see. It’s an INFJ thing.

A supremely attractive young woman of maybe west Asian heritage (Iranian or Afghan was my guess) walked past me today pushing a baby in a buggy. She turned and smiled at me, but it didn’t help. And I watched an episode of Peep Show on DVD tonight which carried vague echoes of my experience with Sheona McCormack all those years ago. That didn’t help either because I yelled at Sheona when I shouldn’t have done and the cause was lost forever. It’s one of my most memorable failures.

But it’s all happened before, and it’s life and life only, and I expect I’ll be back eventually.

The Mad Woman of Utcheter.

(‘Utcheter’ is what the lazy locals call Uttoxeter.)

Some months ago I was walking through Uttoxeter bus station when I saw an elderly woman sitting in one of the shelters, surrounded by shopping bags and other receptacles full to the brim with household requisites, blankets and so on. I asked her whether she was homeless because I thought the bags might contain all her worldly possessions and intended to give her some money with which to buy a hot drink and a meal. She reacted sharply and denied the fact, and so I apologised and walked on.

I saw her several times in the same shelter, but then she and her ‘possessions’ disappeared for a few weeks. And then the pattern changed. At the bottom end of the bus station is a taxi rank consisting of a long glass shelter with a bench running the whole length and big enough to accommodate around eight people. A few weeks ago I took the same route through the bus station and noticed that the bench in the taxi rank was completely covered with the same collection of receptacles which I’d seen surrounding the old lady. Only the old lady wasn’t with them, and what’s odd is that this huge collection of household requisites has been in the shelter, unattended, ever since. And I should add that all this stuff looks brand new.

So, skip back a few weeks…

I was in the retail park down the hill from the town and passing the B&Q store (it’s one of a national chain of hardware/DIY/garden stores.) And there was the old lady walking out of the place with a shopping trolley full of yet more of the same bags and receptacles – all apparently new and freshly bought.

Skip back a little further…

I made a blog post about an old woman with matted grey hair who was wandering around a charity shop, eying me suspiciously and talking to somebody who wasn’t there. I realised when I saw the woman at B&Q that it was the same woman.

So now I have a mystery on my hands: Who is this woman? Why does she make an apparent career of endlessly buying household requisites? Where does she find the money, because it must be costing her a small fortune? Why does she leave it all lying around in a public place for anyone to steal? And maybe most important of all, from which attic has she escaped and should women called Jane keep a fire extinguisher handy. (I’m assuming everybody is familiar with Jane Eyre.)

End (so far.)

Sorry for the ramble, but the creature which invades the roof space above my kitchen is being particularly troublesome tonight and it’s driving me to distraction.

On Choosing When to Leave the Hell Hole.

Earlier today I read the BBC article on the upcoming Assisted Dying Bill shortly to come before the British parliament. This is the Bill which proposes that terminally ill people who are suffering badly and wish to end their lives should be allowed to have medical assistance to achieve that wish. Naturally, it has safeguards built in to preclude any possibility of people being pressured to accede against their will.

Many MPs have been expressing their views this week and making known their voting intention. Some of the objections are religious in nature, some stem from imagined demons which I think are unlikely to exist, and the Rt Hon Gordon Brown said that he will vote against the Bill because he believes that life is a ‘gift’ (without, as far as know, saying from whom) and that it is ‘beautiful.’

I could wax eloquent on this subject. In fact, I have been waxing eloquent in my mind ever since I read the article. But I dislike long blog posts these days so I’ll just offer two remarks:

To Gordon Brown I would say ‘not if you have Motor Neurone Disease, it isn’t.’ And I would suggest to other detractors that they should consider the possibility that one day they might be struck down by a condition which leaves them tormented by agonising pain, locked into a body which has become a torture chamber, and crying desperately for the mercy of release. Do they think they might then wish that they’d voted differently? 

James and the Mystery Visitor.

I said in a recent post that the last story in James Joyce’s anthology Dubliners is the longest and most tedious of them all. Seems I owe Mr J an apology because last night I read the final few pages and they contain the loveliest exposition of deep melancholy and the perception of mortality that I think I’ve ever read. So kudos to Mr J after all, although whether or not I will ever find the fortitude to read Ulysses remains to be seen.

*  *  *

And while I’m in the mood for saying things that nobody will be interested to read, I thought I’d mention that Blogger stats reports many instances of someone using Chrome browser with Windows visiting the blog on a regular basis, but the location is never shown. I wish they’d send me an email or leave a comment so I know who’s watching me.

(I should also add that I'm trying to reach 200 posts by the end of the year, because to do less would be shameful.)

Manipulation.

There’s an advert on my inbox home page for the new iPhone 16 Pro Max. Naturally intrigued, as one who declines to follow the stroke and poke brigade would be, I gave a little thought to the name: Pro Max. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?  Well… no. Actually it sounds a bit silly.

It’s obviously a portmanteau concoction composed of Professional and Maximum, ‘professional’ suggesting elevation to a higher level, and ‘maximum’ implying that it does all a piece of modern technology is capable of doing. It’s all meaningless fakery designed to manipulate the minds of the gullible into believing that having one represents a step up the ladder in the matter of tram line status. (And I suppose it probably does, tragically.)

There’s nothing new about this, of course. I remember when manufacturers of winter clothing accessories such as gloves and T shirts began to use the term ‘thermal.’ It’s intended to give the impression that the fabric is inherently superior to normal fabric, being produced by clever modern technology appropriate to the space age. All it actually means is ‘thicker.’

(Even I was initially taken in by that one, but it was a long time ago and I was much younger then. My error was pointed out by an older shop assistant who said ‘Don’t be taken in by that nonsense. It just means ‘thicker.’ Thank you. And yet they’re still doing it.)

A Short Note on Equivalence and Anti-Semitism.

No doubt we’ve all heard or read about the International Criminal Court issuing an arrest warrant for Benjamin Netanyahu, among others, on charges of war crimes and crimes against humanity. Joe Biden of the USA – which is not a signatory to the ICC and is keen to keep Israel onside purely for strategic purposes – called the warrant ‘outrageous.’ He said there was ‘no equivalence’ between the actions of Hamas and those of the IDF. Well, nobody takes much notice of anything Biden says any more, but let’s suggest an analogy:

Somewhere in America live two families, one white and one black. They’re near neighbours, but the white family believe themselves to be superior to the black family and constantly treat them badly in all manner of ways. One day the black father snaps. He breaks into the white family’s home and shoots the mother dead. That’s murder, no doubt about it. When the white father discovers what has happened he goes to the black family’s house armed with an assault rifle. He sprays bullets everywhere, killing everybody in the house including the children. That’s multiple murder. And that’s the equivalence.

Meanwhile, Netanyahu predictably called the issue of the warrant ‘anti-Semitic.’ And here we have the same old smoke screen belching out ad nauseum to shield the Israeli hard liners from blame, no matter how hideous their actions might be. The warrant has nothing to do with anti-Semitism, which is an expression tragically misunderstood by those of little brain and frequently misappropriated by those who should know better. I needn’t go on because I’ve done so often enough on this blog. (But I do suspect that there are probably a lot of good Israelis in Israel who would love to see the back of Netanyahu and his cohorts.)

Notes for a Mostly Downbeat Week.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, that if you become obsessed with death it’s considered negative and unwholesome, whereas musing on the issue of mortality is considered philosophical. I understand the generalised difference between the two of course, but I find myself frequently musing on the particulars.          

*  *  *

I worked out today that I’ve spent 40% of my life living alone. I don’t remember why I worked it out, but I did and it’s true. I gave some thought to the fact and was going to write a long piece on issues such as privacy, freedom, and the disinclination to compromise, but I can’t be bothered. I will just say that I was probably happiest back in the mid-nineties when I lived alone but had the theatre people to engage with when I wanted some engagement. I suppose that’s the sigma way. Any form of engagement is rather thin on the ground these days, and occasionally I miss it.

*  *  *

On Monday I mentioned what I referred to as a ‘coating’ of snow. That was before the real thing started – heavy snow (both bird feeding tables were under 8” of the stuff in the morning) and temperatures hanging around freezing during the day and plummeting further overnight. That would be considered cold by UK standards in January, and it’s only November. By common consent it was quite a shock because we weren’t ready for it, having just had several weeks of mild, pleasant, and dry autumnal weather. I wonder what the real winter will bring, and to what extent mortality will be the byword.

*  *  *

The last short story in Joyce’s Dubliners is by far the longest and arguably the most tedious. It’s all about aunts and nephews, husbands and wives, roast goose and puddings on the dinner table, and piano recitals by diffident young ladies (oh, and the cold darkness of the city streets lying under a layer of snow, damn its withering whiteness.) And it’s very, very drawn out. I’m coming close to the end now, and it all seems to be leading up to the classic old Irish balled The Lass of Aughrim and its relevance to current company. There are several versions of the song on YouTube, of which my favourite is the album track by Susan McKeown. That’s because I like her voice and presentation. It’s a bit sad, as you might expect of a classic old Irish ballad, but I suppose a little bit of pathos can be enjoyable if you’re in the mood.

A Bottle at Bedtime.

When I was a young boy, languishing among the labouring class in a northern English industrial city, the prospect of ever having an electric blanket to warm my bed on cold winter nights was too distant to be countenanced. A person had to own their home and be firmly convinced of their status as petit bourgeoisie to have one of those, or so it seemed to me. But I did have the benefit of the next best thing – a hot water bottle.

At this point I find myself unsure as to whether the concept of the hot water bottle is known beyond the bounds of Britannia. In case it isn’t, I suppose I should offer a simple description:

A pouch-like rubber receptacle about 12 inches tall and 9 inches wide with a screw-in rubber stopper at the top surrounded by a small lip. It was half filled with very hot – but not boiling – water and tightly sealed with the stopper to preclude leakage. And such an article was my only solace when going to bed in an unheated bedroom and an unheated bed. And I had a system (Jeffrey had a system for everything and still does.)

First I would place the bottle straddling the pillow and the area of mattress immediately in front of it while I was changing into my pyjamas. That was for the benefit of my head and neck. When I got into the bed I would force the bottle to the far end to take care of my bare feet (going to bed with socks on was simply not done for some reason that was ever a mystery to me.) And when my feet and the bottom of the bed were deemed warm enough I would grip the rubber artefact between my feet, draw it up to my outstretched hands, and then cradle it to my chest ready for a now slightly more comfortable repose. And then go to sleep.

I suppose you could say that my hot water bottle was my first partner (although I probably wouldn’t), but we never discussed the affairs of the day, what we should have for breakfast in the morning, or how on earth we managed to arrive in this God-forsaken world in the first place. That came later.

*  *  *

And I’ll tell you something else about my childhood bedtime habits. I often used to attempt to climb down the bed head first with the intention of coming out at the bottom end, but I could never do it. After only a couple of feet I was gripped by strong claustrophobic anxiety and came back. I suspect that might have had something to do with a past life memory because my rational mind saw no danger or difficulty in the exercise at all. We never know, do we?

*  *  *

My ex, Mel, is a big fan of hot water bottles. She tells me that she still takes one to bed even though she has an electric blanket and a cat. I have an electric blanket too. I just switched it on.

The Other Winter Sting.

We’re having our first taste of winter in the UK at the moment: low temperatures and a coating of snow. I’m being reminded that this is the time of year when I worry constantly about the animals, consigned as they are to an entirely outdoor existence.

I know that winter brings death to a lot of wild animals, but what concerns me more is whether they suffer an emotional reaction. We know that animals have emotions, but do they function the same way ours do? Do cows, for example, suffer debilitating depressions while standing out in cold, wet fields through long winter nights? And what of those birds which spend the nights roosting in now-naked tree branches open to the elements?

I don’t know the answer to that. Does anybody? Maybe it’s better that I don’t.

I changed my bed linen over today. Off came the summer cotton to be replaced by heavy flannel and a (purportedly) 17-tog duvet. The trouble with feeling comfortable in bed, though, is that it makes me think of all the creatures out there, and then I feel the sting of guilt. Maybe I should try to develop the habit of feeling privileged instead, but to somebody like me it amounts to the same thing.

Conscientious Doctors, Dumbass Politicians, and the Numbers Game.

The problem with the doctor’s surgery to which I’ve referred in recent posts was settled amicably this evening. I’d already had the blood test and so I was given a phone consultation appointment for 5.15. The call duly arrived at 6.40…

So why, you might ask, did the call materialise nearly an hour and a half after the due time? Well, it’s like this:

Doctors – at least the conscientious ones – define success by reference to clinical outcomes. Politicians, on the other hand, define it strictly in terms of numbers. Numbers are easy to handle, you see, and since neither politicians nor the general public are required to have at least a reasonable IQ in order to exist in their respective forms, numbers are the natural means by which both parties may be satisfied. But it causes a problem:

Some years ago, when even the more mentally challenged were coming to realise that our grand socialist flagship, the NHS, was beginning to creak at the seams through underfunding, the politicians introduced a new policy of restricting the length of GP appointments to ten minutes. That was so they could put out press releases to demonstrate that GP surgeries were now treating more patients, and could cry from the rooftops ‘Aren’t we just wonderful? Vote for us again next time.’ (Because numbers don’t lie, you know. They don’t. At least, no more than politicians do.)

But the doctors saw it differently. Many of them – especially the more conscientious ones – knew that to treat patients effectively it was necessary to spend as much time as was needed to give the patients’ conditions proper attention. Ten minutes was often not long enough, and so their appointments grew later and later as the day wore on. My doctor happens to be one of the more conscientious types, and that’s why he was an hour and a half late calling me. I respect him for it; he’s a good man. And I even managed to convince myself that it really didn’t matter that my evening meal was stewing quietly away on the hob. I’d arranged it that way because I’m an INFJ and therefore a master of anticipation (a quality which causes me a hell of a lot of stress sometimes.)

But back to the issues. The appointment was required because I was due my annual medications review, and the results were as follows:

Blood cholesterol good, kidney function good, liver function good, blood pressure just about perfect. And so I asked him: ‘If my liver function is good, may I now increase my consumption of whisky?’ to which he replied ‘The phone signal was breaking up just then. Bye.’

A Woman of Note.

I was thinking tonight what an honour it would be to meet Julia Navalnaya. Such a strong and beautiful woman, a most compelling combination.

And since I get occasional visits to the blog from Russia, I felt that I would like to have some correspondence from a Russian to tell me what the people really think of the great dictator and his damnable ways.

I doubt anyone would do that, of course, for fear of winding up prematurely dead in some ice cold Siberian prison. And who knows but that the tyrant’s tentacles might even stretch as far as my little piece of earth. I doubt it, but you never know.

And so, since little old me is in no position to make a difference, it’s probably better that I remain ignorant and continue my habit of musing on the meaning of life. It seems likely that we all have to face our own karma sooner or later, even Mr P.

Questioning the Priorities.

There’s a piece in the BBC news about ignorant people among the British bureaucracy (and probably the British government) arranging a Diwali event for Hindus, Sikhs, and Jains at which meat and alcohol was served. Their ignorance has been soundly pointed out to them and a government official has apologised and said ‘it won’t happen again.’ He then went on to say that the occasion marked a celebration of the shared values between our various cultures. So what were these shared values in order of importance?

Kindness? Compassion? Consideration? Mutual respect? Co-operation? Social justice?

No:

Hard work, ambition, aspiration

These may not necessarily be bad values taken in context, but the most important? They do, after all, distil to self, self, self.

I decided to forego the concluding sentence for fear of offending a few people I hold in high esteem.

On Receptionists, Empaths, and Daemons.

I managed to get somewhere with the GP surgery today. I talked to the young woman receptionist instead of the older one who likes to identify as an Anglo-Saxon battleaxe. How many times have I said that young women are usually the easiest to deal with and the best at resolving issues? This could have been a longer paragraph, but I’ll leave it at that.

*  *  *

Skip back a day to my Ashbourne shopping foray. On walking up to the town I was aware of emergency vehicles rushing in from all directions and static traffic blocking the roads. Clearly there was something amiss, and when I walked up to the top of the old market place I discovered the source of the commotion. There were several vehicles and people milling about on the Buxton road leading uphill out of the town, and they were all crowded around two white sheets set up on frames, clearly covering something on the road. Since there were ambulances involved, I assumed it was a person.

It’s surprising how disturbing – even enervating – that can be to somebody with empathic inclinations. I was grateful I could hear no screaming, and I didn’t hang around.

*  *  *

Many years ago I read Phillip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials and found it utterly enthralling as very many people did and still do. The early part of the story is set in a parallel universe to ours which is mostly similar but with a few notable differences. One of those differences is that every human wears their soul or essence on the outside as a free-living animal known as their daemon. They communicate freely, often work through problems in tandem, and their closeness to one another is essential to the survival of both.

Ever since I read it I’ve often idly mused on what my daemon would be if such a thing existed, and nothing I ever thought of fitted the bill. If I had to choose two animals to which I feel most closely aligned it would be the dog and the brown bear, and yet neither felt right. And then a few nights ago I watched a video accompanying the Lisa Gerard song Sanvean, and I finally found my daemon.

The video featured wolves, and for the first time in my life I saw the majesty, nobility, and intelligence of those magnificent animals. Why have I never ‘seen’ them before? I don’t know, but I was suddenly left in no doubt that my daemon would be a sigma she-wolf. (It should be noted that daemons are always the opposite gender to their hosts, which I suppose is about complimentary masculine and feminine principles co-existing in the composite whole. Nice idea, and one of which I approve.)

Icing on the Hedgerow and the INFJ.

One of the sights I find most appealing at this time of year is the sprinkling of fallen leaves lying on top of the neatly trimmed hedgerows and mingled with the green of evergreen species. I stand and look at them with a sense of delight at the contrast between the shiny, green, living leaves, and the browns and mixed golds of the fallen, dead ones. I’ve come to think of the phenomenon as ‘autumn icing.’

And it always prompts me to think again about the nature of perception. What is it, apart from being a fundamental part of consciousness which deterministic science still can’t explain and possibly never will? More intriguingly, why do I find the sight of autumn icing a little magical while others don’t even notice it?

I think it might have something to do with being an INFJ personality type. From what I’ve heard, it appears that all INFJs go through life being aware of their strangeness, and some suffer badly through being rejected, sometimes ridiculed, regarded with suspicion, and generally written off. I’m used to it by now and it doesn’t bother me.

Quote from someone I once worked with: ‘You’re good at your job, Jeff, but my God you’re bloody weird.’

Good, good. (That’s the Irish way of putting it. My ancestor’s voice, no less. There’s probably a connection. And for those familiar with classic Irish folk songs, another thing that fascinates me is the sight of the wind shaking the barley so it ripples into waves.)

On Dire Prospects and Damnable Presumption.

Over the past year or so my mind has entered a state which I used to think of as being merely apathetic, and probably temporary, but now it’s been upgraded to my End of Days mentality.

I often muse on the future of planet earth, you see, and all who sail in her. I think of the threats we might face any time from tomorrow to a few decades down the line – economic meltdown, global warming, WWIII, power-hungry Presidents, giant asteroids, coronal mass ejections, and so on.

And then I look around at all my possessions which are showing signs of needing repair or renewal and my end of days mentality kicks in unfailingly. Will the gadgets hang on long enough to see me out and save me the trouble and expense? It’s becoming a regular hope and habit because life now seems to have entered a race between the state of the world and my own mortality. Which of us will pack up first, or will it be a dead heat because the endings will be simultaneous?

‘You shouldn’t think like that,’ I hear you say. ‘I don’t think like that,’ I reply. ‘It’s the way I feel.’ ‘Then you should learn to control your emotional state,’ you remonstrate with a level of sagacity born of your deluded imagination. ‘Please don’t patronise me; go away,’ is my only riposte. (Actually I would probably use stronger language and drop the ‘please’.)

*  *  *

But for now I’ve drunk my mug of tea and eaten my slice of toast and jam, so I’m off to see whether my alter-ego Mr Joyce can depress my mood even further with tails of desperate and dysfunctional Dubliners. Odd that I should find them entertaining, but maybe it’s something to do with my Mayo roots from way back (the song Rocky Road to Dublin comes to mind.)

And now I have a new problem. I bought a fresh pot of jam last week, a more expensive and therefore upmarket brand than Sainsbury’s own. It’s blackcurrant flavour and has real, whole blackcurrants in it. They keep falling off the toast and having to be picked up from the floor with a piece of kitchen roll so I don’t have to bother washing my hands. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me that peasants like me should avoid the presumption of buying upmarket jam.

A Minor Irritation.

There are some new advertising posters all around the scruffy, near-defunct shopping precinct in Uttoxeter. They’re for KP Nuts, one of the leading brands of packaged nuts in the UK, and the catch line reads: 

There’s nuts, then there’s KP nuts

Now, any native English speaker – and even those blessèd people over the water who have learned English to a reasonable level – know that ‘there’s’ is an abbreviation of ‘there is’, and they also know that the conjugation of the verb ‘to be’ has ‘is’ when relating to a singular object, and ‘are’ when the object is plural. And so this catch line should read ‘There are nuts, etc.’

So why has the writer made this glaring error? Would he or she have written, for example, ‘there is thirty children in the classroom’? Was the erroneous verb a product of ignorance, or was it deliberately engineered for some arcane reason known only to advertising copy writers? You might argue that if writers can take refuge in the principle of poetic licence, isn’t it right to allow advertisers the same indulgence? I’m not convinced.

I thought about it for a good five minutes as I was walking to Tesco, and eventually asked myself: ‘Does it matter?’ Well, yes and no. It all depends on where I’m currently standing on the question of the meaning and purpose of life. It keeps changing, you see.

Interpretations.

I was in a discount store today and behind me in the checkout queue was a youngish couple accompanied by a girl of around ten or eleven, presumably their daughter. I soon noticed that she was staring at me, and so I glanced at her several times and every time I did she was still staring at me. I thought I’d try a smile to see what might happen. She smiled back and continued to stare at me, and when I’d finished my transaction at the checkout she was still staring at me.

And so I asked myself the obvious question: Why? Why would a young girl of that age be seemingly fixated on my physical presence, and the first answer I came up with was rather sad. It occurred to me that maybe she wanted a granddad and didn’t have one. It further occurred to me that maybe she’d had a granddad but he’d died and she missed him. (That sort of thought process is one to which I’m much given as a result of the sad stories my mother used to tell me as a child.) And then I felt like a complete piece of festering detritus at the recollection that I hadn’t waved to her when I left.

But then I had another thought. Maybe she was simply fascinated by just how ugly people become when they’re getting old. There, now; that’s much better and much more likely.

(I never had a granddad, you know. My mother never knew who her father was, and my father's father died of TB long before I was born. My step-father's father was a sort of surrogate, but it's not the same as somebody you've known since you were born. And he lived a long way away in London, so I only saw him a few times. He also gave my mother the gift of a gold swastika, and as I grew older I naturally wondered why he had it and where he'd picked it up.)

A Little Literary Question.

Having just read my favourite Dubliners short story so far (A Painful Case for those familiar with the opus) I felt an instant need to write an autobiographical one of my own and pass it off as fiction. And then a question occurred to me:

How can any story be truly autobiographical when it’s told only from the writer’s angle? Life isn’t that simple, is it?

Desperately Searching For Something to Say.

I had some time on my hands this evening and went in desperate search of something profound to write to the blog. I didn’t find anything, so eventually I gave up the quest and read some more of James Joyce’s Dubliners instead.

But by way of salvaging the evening’s surfeit of spare time, I suppose I could mention that yesterday I saw an old friend from my theatre days on the TV. And today I went searching for one of my favourite songs from my teenage years, and discovered that it had been written by a man who now lives a mere five miles from me. And maybe I might remark on today’s encounter with the Lady B, especially since such encounters are so rare these days. We had a conversation consisting of seven words – four of hers and three of mine. In mitigation, however, I might add that she was out jogging and braving the damp, dour November day dressed in a sleeveless top and shorts, while I had the benefit of multiple layers and a beanie hat.

But none of that is either profound or interesting, is it?

So what of my impressions of Dubliners? I haven’t said much about it yet, have I? It’s an odd sort of work, a collection of short stories in which the plots are always perfunctory at best, and only there to provide the platform for a character study. Since character is of paramount interest to me, I am finding it entertaining, even though the plots – such as they are – are generally as depressing as a foggy night in a dingy alley somewhere off O’Connell Street.

And it takes me back to what an indy publishing editor who wanted to use four of my own short stories said to me once: ‘I read some James Joyce today, and thought “he writes just like JJ Beazley.”’ Was that a compliment or a statement so strange as to be unworthy of note? Well, the man in question was young, American, and training for the priesthood, so maybe that explains it.

Hoist By Old Words and Pax Americana.

Several senior Labour politicians who are now seated at the top table of power in Britain since the General Election have been highly scathing of Donald Trump in recent weeks. Words like ‘fascist’, ‘neo-Nazi’, and ‘sociopath’ (and worse) have been used by people who are now government ministers to describe the Old Pretender heading for the White House.

Clearly there is an almost palpable sense that the people now running the UK are mortified to say the least that Trump is heading for a second term. The problem is that they’re going to have to deal with him, especially one of the foremost detractors, David Lammy, who is now Foreign Secretary.

‘No problem,’ says Keir Starmer (who is also known to be less than a fan). He says that the ‘special relationship’ between Britain and the USA is far too deep to allow personal differences to get in the way. Besides, there’s the matter of economic exigency to be considered. The USA is Britain’s biggest export market, and given the difference in population sizes, the corollary to this argument must be that we need the US more than the US needs us. We also need American arms to help protect us from Putin, who lives much closer to us than he does to America. And so we have to grovel and tug our forelocks even if we detest every bit of Donald Trump, from his sociopathic mentality to his Simpsons hairstyle.

And that’s the bit I don’t like. As a Brit – and with all due respect to some of the splendid Americans I’ve been fortunate to know – I don’t want to be a citizen of the American Empire. I’ve even taken to wondering how the citizens of the Roman Empire felt when Caligula became Emperor.

Musing on the Bardo.

I watched a video last night on the Bardo Thodol – a Buddhist text known in the west as The Tibetan Book of the Dead. It was written by a Tibetan master quite a long time ago and describes the experiences and trials the disembodied mind must expect when entering the bardo – the state between losing one physical body and taking up occupation of another. I didn’t much like the sound of it, but reasoned that it represents one man’s opinion to be accepted as a possibility along with countless others.

But one little random statement was cause for encouragement. The narrator said that those who had never contemplated the matter of death while still in their now-defunct bodies were at a disadvantage. Well, that accusation can certainly not be levelled at me, so maybe there’s hope that the angels on the light side of the picture will preserve me from the hideous demonic projections of my imperfect mind after all. And that ray of hope encouraged me to desist from leaving a very long comment asking all manner of questions which were never even referred to in the documentary.

That’s the problem with life, isn’t it? Nobody ever gives us a definitive annual report so we can see how we’re doing and make the necessary adjustments. I suppose that’s why I prefer to follow such finer instincts as I might have rather than slavishly following the babble of any religious tradition.

Knowing November.

I’m probably more familiar with the month of November than I am with any other month because it’s the month in which I was born. (And a year later it was the month in which I first heard the word ‘birthday’ cast in my direction. I suppose that was when learning the value of words began in earnest.) And November, I think, is one of the profoundest in marking the progress of the year.

October is the month of being distracted by the kaleidoscope of coloured leaves adorning the countless trees gracing hill, dale, pasture, and hedgerow, mixing with and decorating the remnants of summer green. The clean leaves fall with a wholesome dryness which makes them crackle underfoot and whisper as we accidentally brush them with our shoes.

But come November and all begins to change. The decorated trees are mostly skeletal and stark, and the fallen leaves are congealing into an oily mass which offers only silent padding to accompany the walk through the woods. The light is noticeably falling now, and the view is frequently misty as the dampness clings to the cooler air. Fogs form erratically, and the longer nights are more noticeable for starting at around the time when folks return from their daily work. And when I was a boy living in the city, the night air on 5^th November – Bonfire Night – grew almost opaque from the smoke of a thousand bonfires, while the cracks and bangs and flashes of fireworks gave the impression of having suddenly entered a war zone.

(Two particular memories of 5^th November stand out for me. The first is of driving home from work and rescuing a panic-stricken dog frantically sprinting along the main road. The second was at around age seven or eight. I was holding a supposedly safe-to-hold firework which exploded unaccountably. Fortunately the blast only bruised my thigh, and I recall punching my mother’s thigh as hard as I could to demonstrate how it felt. I think she sympathised instead of catching me one around the ear which would probably have been more appropriate.)

And so we shuffle through November until the world settles into a state of cold stasis for three months, when little moves or grows and colour becomes almost a memory. And nine months later I get to have another birthday.

Speculative Notions.

I realised this afternoon that it’s Halloween tonight, and I further realised that I forgot to buy some cake for the little people’s midnight treat when I went to Sainsbury’s yesterday. I apologised to them of course, and expressed regret that I will have to leave a digestive biscuit with the scotch instead.

At 6.20 this evening I had a missed call on my mobile phone, and when I called back ten minutes later there was a voicemail message. It was from the GP surgery (doctor’s office to Americans) asking me to give them a call, which I did. I got another voicemail message which said, in effect: ‘The phones are now switched off and there’s nobody here. Go away.’

Now, the thing is, you see, I had a blood test there yesterday so it’s reasonable to assume that they have information to impart in respect of that procedure. But I don’t know what it is and I won’t be able to find out until tomorrow, so now I’m anxious. The past six years have been dominated by an ever increasing cocktail of health issues and now I’m wondering whether they’ve found another one. Is my liver about to stop functioning, for example? Or is my blood deficient in some way that is not conducive to my general welfare? You never know, do you, when you get non-committal calls from the GP surgery. And now I’m tempted to the suspicion that the little people are responsible for the lateness of the call so as to pay me back for forgetting to get their cake. Sounds like a reasonable speculation to me. And there’s something else:

I found a massive sycamore leaf outside Sainsbury’s yesterday. British sycamore leaves are usually between 2” and 5” wide, but this one was 10” wide. I’ve never seen one anything like as big as that, and now I’m wondering whether I was supposed to get the message: ‘This is the little people speaking. Such a leaf is obviously not of natural origin. We left it there for you to find in order that you should realise that there’s something rum going on and be reminded not to forget to get our cake.’ I forgot to get their cake. Whatever next?

(The little people can be a little vindictive at times, you know. Try reading my story The Passenger at the other site if you don’t believe me.)

A Sporting Regret and a Literary Risk.

I watched the women’s footie match between England and Germany a couple of nights ago. I paid special attention to the twenty two women on the field and came to the conclusion that the German ladies outscored our dear Lionesses in the matter of prettiness (only by a small margin, but the margin was there nonetheless.) They also had the more artistic shirts, although it could be argued that ours were graphically stronger. I’d say that made the scoreline 2-0 to Germany. The fact that they ultimately scored more goals than we did was merely incidental.

And here I go making another post which is consciously and carefully designed to wind people up. I seem to be in that sort of mood lately. Maybe it’s because I’m about to start reading Dubliners by James Joyce. I read one paragraph in the shop and decided that it offered no threat to my eyesight, my peace of mind, or my health in general. I gather it’s more than can be said for his infamous Ulysses.

Roots and Language.

I’ve mentioned before that I used to be a photographer and occasionally wrote articles for a photography magazine. One of the articles was translated into Dutch and used in the Netherlands edition, and they sent me a copy. I read it through and was most interested to see the obvious similarities between what I’d written and how it translated into Dutch. Much of both the grammar and vocabulary was oddly familiar, but with sufficient difference to make it amusing.

And only today did I notice something else when I received a return comment from a Dutch YouTuber. Goggle Translate tells me that the Dutch for ‘thank you’ is ‘bedankt.’ This is suspiciously similar to the English phrase ‘be thanked’, which is rarely used but correct nevertheless. Surely an indication of the common roots of both our people and our language.

(And if you should be interested in the INFJ phenomenon – which is true of me because I am one – the YouTuber’s name is Kuro Tadorii. She’s lovely to look at and a delight to listen to. And she probably speaks English better than I do because I don’t recall a single instance of her ending a sentence on a preposition.)

On the Question of Looks.

In the matter of being attracted to members of the opposite sex – or even human beings generally, come to that – we have to consider the question:

Do looks matter?

No of course they don’t, I hear you say. Looks are just the surface impression. Using looks as a basis for attraction is shallow.

OK, I take the point. But look at it this way:

We humans go through life as material beings living in a material world enclosed within a material universe. And the first port of call when assessing the desirability of anything material is what it looks like, be it a flower, a Siamese cat, a spider’s web on a misty morning, or a slim young woman with a perfect arrangement of facial characteristics, dark hair, hazel eyes, and a faint hint of Middle Eastern provenance in her skin tone.

So of course looks matter. They do.

(And I only made this post because I was in the mood for saying something contentious and constructing an argument which might readily be seen by some as fallacious. It isn’t intended to rival the homilies of Khalil Gibran or anything.)

Finding a New Thought Process.

I’m nearly at the end of Kafka on the Shore now, and it still doesn’t make any sense. But herein lies a conundrum because it’s been a fascinating read – utterly enthralling. And so I wonder whether the last few pages will somehow explain it so it does make sense. And then the small voice that sits in my head and prompts my occasional, offbeat thought processes said:

‘Why does a story have to make sense?’

And that sounds to me like a good place to start a new thought process.

Meanwhile, I decided not to finish the book tonight but to leave it at a cliff hanger. Mr Hoshino has just been talking to the neighbourhood cat, and the cat has offered to show him how to close the stone. This pleases him because Nakata – who is now inconveniently deceased and lying in the next room – told him that once you have opened a stone, it’s an absolute duty to close it again. Can I wait until tomorrow…

We're Forever Blowing Bubbles.

Some years ago I wrote a post comprising a fiction about a little boy who liked to blow bubbles. He would blow each bubble or bundle of bubbles, then watch them transfixed as they rose and fell and flew and dipped depending on the wind. He loved to see the shimmering veins of colour in the glossy surface, and was especially pleased when one bubble grew much bigger than the rest and became the star of the show. And when each bubble burst he would blow some more, and carry on blowing more and more bubbles until the pot of soapy liquid was empty. And then he would sink to his knees and weep for the loss of all those bubbles.

Recently it struck me that the story is a metaphor for life. Because it’s what we do, isn’t it? We go through life blowing bubbles.

First there’s the freedom and the play of childhood. Then there are the years of education during which we learn how to function acceptably in our own type of culture. We leave education behind and move into a career, or a series of dead end jobs depending on circumstances. And often we lose one bubble of a job and blow another.

We have our flings during the early years, before settling down with a life partner. And then the children come along. They’re the next bubble or bundle of bubbles. We care for them and feed them and teach them how to blow their own bubbles, until they become independent and another bubble has popped. By then, mid life and retirement have taken a toll on the pot of soapy water, but there’s still some left. And so we blow the bubbles of freedom, travel, and relaxation until fading health, strength, and energy bring us to the bottom of the pot, and all that’s left to do is sink into an armchair or hospital bed and reflect on the loss of all those bubbles.

It’s why I’ve never been able to believe that this life is all there is. I give a high level of credence to the concept of reincarnation, but that’s not enough either. I still fail to see what purpose there is in jumping on and off some wheel of life, death, and rebirth if all I’m going to do is blow bubbles. There must surely be more – or else why are we conscious – but nobody can tell me with an acceptable degree of certainty what it is.

For now, however, I expect I will continue to write posts about blowing one form of bubble or another. I’m struggling to find any other reason to be here.

On Faces, Plums, and the Fate of a Hero.

Every time I look in the mirror these days I’m reminded that human faces emulate plums as life and the ageing process takes its toll. They both start off firm, smooth, finely proportioned, and flawless, and stay like that for a period of time. And then the change begins, almost imperceptibly at first, and gathers pace until the change to something that’s lost its form and taken on a sagging aspect becomes undeniable. It becomes soft and creased and stained with unwholesome little marks, and is then only suitable for casting aside to make its inevitable return to the land.

‘What about prunes?’ I hear you ask. ‘What about mummies?’ is the best I can offer in reply.

And maybe I should offer my apologies to French people of delicate constitution for noting that today is Trafalgar Day in Britain, although nobody mentions it any more and I suspect very few people are even aware of the fact. It was a Monday that year, apparently, and I once read that our hero Horatio was shot at 1315 by a French sniper in the Redoutable. I suppose his death must have been regarded as something of a tragedy at the time, but at least he avoided moving into the overripe plum stage a few years down the line.

(Although heaven knows what he did look like when they brought his body back to Blighty, it having been pickled in spirits – probably rum, I expect – for what was quite a slow journey in those days. It was the first thing I thought about when I first read about the death of Nelson as a boy. ‘I wonder what he looked like when they brought him ashore.’ An early sign of my strangeness, no doubt.)

A Sad Moon and a Hyper Planet.

The sky is clear as crystal tonight, and among the firmament of stars filling the bowl of night the waning gibbous moon is slumped and leaning unsteadily, close to the eastern horizon. I always think the waning moon looks ill and sad – especially when it sits among a firmament of stars – which is probably why I like writers who write lyrical text.

And judging by the number of posts I’ve written tonight, I suspect Mercury’s been at the cocaine again. I still don’t know what magic mushrooms look like, nor where they might be found in the Shire. And I’d probably be too circumspect to eat any even if I did, which is a pretty sad admission.

Superstitious Nonsense.

Is it? Are superstitions all nonsense?

The other day I was pondering the claim made by some people that life, the universe, and everything is made up of patterns, and that the phenomenon we call synchronicity is a circumstantial manifestation of those patterns.

And then I wondered whether superstitions belong in the same category. Maybe, I thought, superstition is some historic faculty deeply embedded in the genes which is there to warn us that actions – such as spilling salt for example – can adversely affect the patterns and are therefore to be avoided. And so we throw some of the spilt salt over our shoulder and the patterns continue on their merry way.

This is probably all a load of dingoes’ kidneys, but I wanted to say it so as to get the post counter off the dreaded thirteen for this month. I suppose I could have left it until tomorrow, but suppose it turns particularly cold tonight and all my typing fingers turn blue. You can’t be too careful, can you?

Words of Wisdom.

I’ve mentioned before that I feel little more than contempt for most of those empty-headed sound bites that are supposed to give you a new and better outlook on life. I think the one that irritates me most is the one that runs:

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

I wonder whether anybody has ever said that to a member of the poor bloody infantry who’s freshly returned from a hideous war zone afflicted with a particularly bad case of PTSD. And I further wonder which of them managed to survive the following ten minutes.

A Rare Example of Seeing the Light.

I was watching a YouTube video earlier and the pictures included a young bride clad in full white wedding gear, and you know what? I felt moved to the point of almost (almost!) becoming tearful. Why, why why..?

(Arghhhhhhhh!)

I’ve never in all my life found there to be anything meaningful, much less moving, in the white wedding carry-on. It always seemed theatrical, outdated, and downright silly. Yet here I am suddenly sensing something of both magnitude and profundity about it.

I suppose it’s all about gaining a growing perception of the significance of archetypes, in this case the girl’s transition from maiden to queen. That now seems to me to be a matter of great significance, where at one time it meant nothing at all. And yet I do think I know where this new awareness started.

It started in May 2017 when the Lady B sent me a picture of her wedding in which she was enveloped in the full frilly whiteness of a traditional wedding. My first reaction was to feel devastated that she had left my orbit forever, and I continued to feel devastated for the rest of the night and most of the following day. But then something in my attitude shifted from dark to light, and here I now am. That was one of life’s better experiences.

(And while I’m on the subject of the Lady B – which is a rare occurrence these days – I might also mention that I saw here wearing dungarees one day last summer, and my word don’t they suit her just wonderfully. Unlike most farmers, farmer’s wives, tradesmen, and others who wear them for practical purposes, she has the form and bearing to endow them with the look of high, yet wholly unpretentious, fashion. I’m hoping to live long enough to have the chance to tell her, but I expect somebody else has already done so.)

The Catfishing Conundrum.

I saw a feature on the BBC News website about a woman who had been involved in a ‘catfishing’ scam. ‘What on earth is catfishing?’ I asked (silently for a change.) ‘Is it something to do with catfish the species of fish, or the odd and inevitably pointless practice of fishing for cats?’ I read the article.

It appears that a Sikh woman from London was duped into having a years-long relationship-by-correspondence with a man called Bob (or Brian or Barney or something beginning with B.) Apparently it became pretty deep, but the ‘victim’ – as the BBC chose to call her – eventually discovered that she’d actually been corresponding with her female cousin who was having her on.

At that point I began to wonder just what injury the poor woman had suffered. There was nothing physical involved (the fake Mr B had always declined to meet in person and made up lots of excuses to validate his reluctance) and there was no pecuniary loss. So why was it given such prominence on the BBC News website? I Googled ‘catfishing.’

As usual with Google searches there was little joy to be had. Different returns gave different definitions with the only really troublesome ones being the intent to steal someone’s identity, and the attempt to rob them of money. But neither had happened in this case. No doubt the woman on the wrong end of this fake correspondence suffered an injury to her pride (because you would feel a bit silly, wouldn’t you) but is that adequate justification for applying a label or making the front page of the BBC’s online flagship?

And so I’m none the wiser and my education remains deficient in the matter of catfishing, which is a minor injury to my own pride. Gaslighting I understand, but catfishing remains a mystery.

(The one thing I did learn is that the term originated with an experiment by some evidently demented scientist who placed a catfish in a tank with a shoal of cod. Did that help? Not really. Although I may speculate that the catfish probably ate all the cod eventually, it seems hardly apposite to the case of the Sikh woman from London and her fake relationship with a man called something beginning with B.)

Later though, I had two thoughts:

1. This case bears a hint of similarity to my own relationship with the Priestess, so now I’m wondering whether she might consider herself to have been a victim of catfishing with me as the catfisher. Or vice versa, of course.

2. It also reminds me of the time in my teens when Pauline McNichol’s aunt called me pretending to be Pauline, and I fell for it. I must admit, I did feel a bit silly.

Being Guilty of Taking the Free Ride.

I’m developing the sense that I’m guilty of not paying my subscription for the privilege of being alive. I don’t connect and play the game as a team player. I don’t join in with people and their systems as devised by all those influential beings and agencies, current and historical, which set out the playing field and wrote the rules of the game. It’s now suggesting to me that I should feel inadequate.

‘Ah,’ you might ask, ‘but who does pay a subscription? The rest of your human co-habitees in this environment called life rarely do anything other than take whatever they can grab – the pleasures, the accomplishments, the praise, the benefits of wealth, and so on. The vast majority of people take whatever they can get and never give anything of themselves in return.’

I’m sure that’s largely true, but that’s not my business. I can only be responsible for me, and I’m not satisfied that I’m doing enough. In fact, I don’t seem to be doing anything at all. And there are exceptions to the general point, of course, people who live lives in the service of mankind as we all know.

It was brought home to me when I read of some celebrity dying in Buenos Aries yesterday, and seeing feature after feature heaping plaudits on his name. I’d never heard of him because I’m not the sort to live life gorging on cultural candyfloss as we’re supposed to do. So should I feel guilty? I suppose not.

But I was interested to hear what a psychologist said on YouTube last night. She said: ‘INFJs are born with the need to make the world a better place. If they fail to do that – or believe they’ve failed – they can become deeply unhappy.’ That would appear to sum up my problem.

*  *  *

When I was eating my lunch today I felt a sharp pain in the upper part of my jaw on one side. It’s still with me and takes the form of a dull, persistent ache rising to some seriously unpleasant pain if I chew anything.

OK then, maybe that’s the answer. Maybe I should stop eating and rid the world of a ne’er-do-well. I don’t fancy it, though. Dying of starvation might be some sort of recompense for being a waste of space, but I wouldn’t enjoy it. Back to square one.

(I'm not at all sure why I wrote that.)

Romance vs Risk Averse.

I remember writing a post once about the fact that modern trains have doors with non-opening glass panels rather than windows which you could slide down. The change was wrought for the sake of safety as we know, but I remarked that leaning out of the window to wave to someone you were leaving behind, or alternatively who was awaiting your arrival, had a certain element of romance to it which is now denied. The pleasure of waving to a loved one as the train rounded a bend beyond the station is no longer available.

Yesterday my mind turned to the atmosphere of coffee shops, and how that atmosphere is greatly augmented by the characteristic smell. In the days before smoking was banned in public buildings for safety’s sake, the smell was a cocktail of fresh coffee mingled with the aromatic scent of various types of tobacco. It might have been the classic ‘old socks’ smell of Turkish or French cigarettes, or it might have been the spicy scent of St Bruno or Condor pipe tobacco. (Even non-smokers were hard pressed to claim disliking the smell of pipe tobacco or the evocative aroma of cigars at Christmas.)

And so I propose the assertion that making life safer is a process of sanitising life which in so doing removes certain subtle but deeply felt sources of pleasure. It might help us to live a few years longer, but it also invites the question: does it make life better?

I offer no definitive answer, but I do think it’s worth asking the question.

Choosing Weird.

I had a terrible afternoon today, trying to sort out three problems and failing miserably because of flawed systems and technology not doing what it’s supposed to do. That’s just modern times, of course, and I suppose I ought to be getting used to it by now. But I’m not. By the end of it I was mentally exhausted and reduced to pulling my hair out by the roots, so I went back to making my dinner which was spoiling because I’d spent too much time trying to sort out three problems and failing because… You get the picture.

And I discovered that the new coffee shop has opened in Ashbourne. I spent some time studying it from the outside and was far from impressed. In fact, I’d go further and say it’s pretty bloody awful. Badly designed in my opinion – poor choice of fittings and décor, overly bright and flat lighting, no atmosphere, nothing to give you a reason to be there. I won’t be bothered to try out the coffee. No point. Sticking with Costa which actually feels like a coffee shop. It’s the only one in Ashbourne that does.

I was wondering this morning why I feel a deep sense of dread every time I wake up. It’s a sort of ‘oh no, not another day to get through’ sort of feeling. I think I’m beginning to understand why.

Back to my Japanese novel now. It’s compellingly weird. I’m happy and relaxed with compellingly weird.

My Sort of Exciting Day.

I saw my angel in the shoe shop again today (see my old post from quite a long time ago.) I was surprised to see her there actually, because somebody once told me she’d left. I said as much to her. ‘Somebody told me you’d left,’ I said with that rare brand of nonchalance known only to ageing persons with Irish lineage. ‘No, I never left,’ she said, feigning surprise. (Or maybe she really was surprised. It’s hard to tell when you’re shaking with excitement.) And she looked younger than she did the last time I saw her quite a long time ago, which made me wonder whether there was something odd going on.

And that was today’s most exciting occurrence. Oh no it wasn’t, I forgot the other one.

There was an old lady in the charity shop, shuffling furtively about the premises, picking things up and putting them down again, regarding me with suspicious eyes, and talking to somebody who wasn’t there. She had wild, grey, unkempt hair, and at one point said (not to me, but to the person who wasn’t there) ‘There’ll be snow tonight. They said so. Snow tonight… snow…’ (That’s meant to imitate the voice fading away as she shuffled furtively down the next aisle.) I couldn’t take my eyes off her wild, grey, unkempt hair. I wondered whether there might have been a variety of known and currently unknown creatures living therein, but was careful to keep my distance because she was a bit scary in an other-worldly sort of way, so it will have to remain one of life’s mysteries. But I was a little concerned at the prospect of snow in October. I even checked the weather forecast when I got back. No snow, or so they say. Time will tell.

Being somewhat overcome by this sudden onset of excitement in my life, I decided to imagine I was one of the celebrities on Richard Osman’s House of Games, and was required to spell the word ‘anaphylaxis.’ I got it right (and just proved it by doing so again.)

And it’s all true, every bit of it.

A Vote to Kill For.

I see Tim Waltz, Kamala’s right hand man who hopes to add VP to his credentials next month, has been out letting the men of America know that he’s a true blue (in both senses of the word) macho type. He invited the press to photograph him wearing his ‘hunting gear’ (an orange dayglo jacket with orange baseball cap) and carrying a shotgun. It was all about shooting hapless pheasants, apparently.

A few people still shoot pheasants in Britain because pheasants are relatively easy to shoot. (At least they are with a shotgun that shoots spreading pellets, rather than a rifle which shoots a single bullet, which is why lots of pheasants are merely injured and left to die slowly rather than being killed outright.) This is because pheasants walk relatively slowly, run relatively slowly, fly relatively slowly even when they’ve been scared witless into flying in the first place by people making a lot of noise, and don’t bite your head off if you miss.)

But if that’s all it takes to turn the all-American macho male into your best buddy, so be it. What can I say but Go America! (I’ve known too many good Americans – some of the best of people anywhere – to offer a thought on the question: ‘Go where?’)

*  *  *

And yet a thought occurs to me. Waltz’s message – however pathetically it’s presented – is projected at fellow males and says 'I’m one of you.' So how is Trump going to woo the women at next week’s all-women convention? He can’t send the same message, can he? To do that he’d have to wear a fake ponytail and carry a clutch bag. Will he instead rely on the old Hollywood favourite ploy and present himself as the big strong man who will 'protect you li’l ladies, so no need to worry ma’am while I’m in charge.' You know, the John Wayne type who puts li’l ladies over his knee and slaps their butt if they try to get above their natural status. Could be interesting.

Today's Little Box of Bits.

I must ask Catherine (she’s the female half of the human custodians of my best friend, Nell the Sprocker Spaniel) whether she’s familiar with MBTI. It’s just that it suddenly occurred to me yesterday that the way she looks at me is the very spit of the infamous INFJ stare. When I was her age I’d never heard of MBTI, but she’s a lawyer and being aware of fringe theories is as necessary as being au fait with case law these days. It’s that kind of world.

*  *  *

I also had my hair cut yesterday, and now I’m even more convinced that I’m morphing into Gollum. People with gold rings and big feet take care.

*  *  *

You know the old phrase ‘out of the mouths of babes and sucklings’? It occurs to me that I don’t know what the difference is between a babe and a suckling. Or is it just another tautology like ‘in the wee small hours of the morning’? Will ask Google when I’m in the mood.

*  *  *

I just wrote an unusually profound email to my daughter because I have the impression that she’s not at all happy. And when she’s not happy, neither am I. I’m a fretter.

*  *  *

I did another two hours of particularly awkward and strenuous (and a little hazardous) clearance work in the garden this afternoon, and then fell asleep in front of the computer as usual. How many more times do I have to submit myself to this? It’s becoming a habit to develop a death wish every autumn.

*  *  *

Off to have coffee, toast and jam, and an episode of the Channel 4 comedy, Black Books now because I need to lighten up. The morning depressions are back with a vengeance and I think it has something to do with the nightly dreams. (Day dreams are much easier on the mind because the conscious mind controls the content. If you want Mrs Thatcher’s effigy hanging from a gibbet, it can be yours in an instant.) And I do know it isn’t morning at the moment, but it soon will be.

The Sarah Collection and a Sort of Time Shift.

I met another Sarah yesterday. I’m collecting them you know, like some people collect stamps or Matisse paintings or cornflakes shaped like the Virgin Mary with a hat on. I’ve known quite a few Sarahs in my life and they’ve all had some form of notable effect on me (some good, some bad, mostly good.) That’s why a little white light flashes on and off every time somebody says ‘my name is Sarah.’ (As long as it’s a woman, that is. If a man said it the light would be a different colour.)

I said: ‘You do know, I suppose, that the name comes from the Hebrew for princess’? ‘I do,’ she replied. So that was yesterday’s put down. But then she went on to say that she wasn’t overly fond of the name. ‘It’s a bit ordinary,’ she said ruefully. I disagreed, of course, explaining that the Sarahs I’d known had always been a little extraordinary, one way or another. And any name which causes lights to flash has to have something going for it.

She could have offered: ‘But that’s just personal to you.’ (But she didn’t.) And then I could have said: ‘Think yourself lucky. There was a girl in my class in high school called Ethel Onions. Imagine going through life having to repeat ad nauseum: “My name is Ethel Onions” every time you enquired about a missing parcel or got hauled in by the police for some misdemeanour.’ I could even have told her the story of how young Ethel once vomited in class shortly after lunch, and how I saw a part-digested piece of sprout roll under my desk. She would probably have wrinkled her pretty nose (her nose is rather pretty, actually, if any nose could ever be so complemented) and said: ‘Yuck! That’s so gross.’ And I could have replied: ‘Not really. Not as long as I didn’t pick it up and eat it.’ And then the conversation would have reached a natural hiatus because she would have been rushing off to the toilet to repeat Ethel’s involuntary projection.

Yesterday was clearly a day of missed opportunities. They happen.

*  *  *

Tonight I had an odd yen to hear Frank Sinatra sing, so I found Nice ‘n Easy on YouTube and listened to it. My consciousness flew straight back to my childhood in Eaveswood Road, Abbey Hulton. It was Sunday lunchtime again. And Christmas Day. And hot fires in the living room on cold winter nights. And watching either BBC or ITV on the television because there were only two channels back then. And life was so much more settled, simple, and stress free. Whether that’s because times have changed or because I’m not quite a child any more – at least not officially – I don’t really know.

*  *  *

(Would it be redundant of me, I wonder, to mention that one particular Sarah is immovably ensconced in prime position on page one of the collection? I suppose it probably would.)

Venerating the Kiwi Who Made a Mistake.

Last night I watched a women’s rugby match between England and New Zealand in the WXV tournament being held in Canada. At one point in the second half NZ were under pressure on their own line. The ball broke to a Kiwi player who attempted to kick out from her own in-goal area and got it wrong. Her kick was charged down by an England player who gathered the loose ball and scored a try.

So what did the offending player do? Did she sink to her haunches and bemoan the fact that her error of judgement had cost her side five points? No, she went straight to the English player and tapped her on the shoulder by way of congratulation. For me, it was the most inspirational moment of the game. There are many videos on YouTube under the generic title The Most Beautiful Moments in Sport. This was one of them, and the only disappointment was that no one in the commentary team mentioned it.

Let’s widen the reasoning a little. Sport can mean different things to different people depending on the definition, but at its root is the desire to win in one form or another – whether it be to defeat an opponent, to extend your own personal best, or to overcome what you see as your limitations. They’re all about winning. As such, it’s always a competition and so competitiveness is a foremost requirement. But take it a stage further.

Competitiveness is a primary human drive. Whether it’s a genetic trait developed in the days when puny men had to defeat powerful mastodons in order to have food and clothing I wouldn’t know, but I think it reasonable to suggest that it resides in the Id. Sportsmanship, on the other hand, lives on a more rarefied plane. Let’s put it this way:

Competitiveness might win empires for the few, but sportsmanship raises the human consciousness and makes the world a better place for all of us.

I wish I knew the name of the New Zealand player who committed that inspirational act, but unfortunately I didn’t catch it. Whoever you are, madam, you just made the world a better place and I salute you for it.

Contrasting Conditions.

As I was taking my regular walk this morning the words kept tumbling through my head. They went along the lines of:

I’m growing increasingly tired of a world run by psychopathic potentates, disingenuous politicians, a blatantly corrupt and self-serving capitalist system, shadowy and secretive but highly powerful organisations, and glitch-ridden technology serving the cause of separating the powerful from the people. Western civilisation is but a thin coating of cheap gloss underscored by a cesspit and driven by its fumes. And yet so few people seem to notice the rankness of the smell.

I felt angry and depressed and considered shouting the words for the birds and animals to heed and take notice, but I didn’t because I got waved and smiled at by the lovely lady with the little girl who lives by the lane. (I discovered last night, by the way, that alliteration was much favoured by writers of Old English - which was pre-Chaucer in case you don’t know - so maybe my own love of the faculty is a genetic hangover from that side of my heritage which isn’t Irish.) But to continue:

I’ve written before about the lovely lady with the little girl who lives by the lane. I’ve often wondered why she extends such delightful favours in my direction, but maybe the secret lies in the very fact that she does. I presume that she must be possessed of a certain oddness, you see, because what other reason could there be? And I’ve noticed that she has an authentic air about her, which is rarer than I think it ought to be. It’s fortunate, therefore, that I feel instinctively drawn to people who are both odd and authentic because they’re about the only people I trust. They rarely seek power, wealth, or influence, and that, in my book, is a laudable quality.

One day I must make the effort to introduce myself, preferably when I’m not feeling angry and depressed.

(And if you're able to read this post, it indicates that Google didn’t try to blackmail me as they did with the picture insert. Hurrah for now.)

October Geese.

The post with this title has been scrapped. Instead, I'll offer a brief explanation as to why it has been scrapped.

It included an image which is saved on my computer, but when I came to insert it a message from Google appeared. It informed me that posting the insert was dependent on my allowing cookies of Google's choosing to be added to my blog. That's never happened before, and in my book it amounts to blackmail. Regular readers will no doubt realise that I'm not the sort of person to submit to any nefarious attempt at blackmail by the corporate world.

There will, therefore, be no more pictures added to the blog. And if they apply the same condition to the publishing of the blog itself, I suppose these hallowed (to me) pages will have to go. I've been saying for years that the corporate world is trying to exert ever more influence on the culture in order to further its own interests, and this is another example.

I'm glad that I'm at this end of my life because I don't fancy living in a world ruled by the big players of a rampant and overly powerful capitalist elite. The post was a short but pleasant one with a hint of humour included, but I couldn't be bothered to re-structure it. And the blog itself is extremely important to me because it's my only outlet to the world outside my small family and my ex, but my principles must take precedence. Now it's a case of wait and see.

Perception of Time and Spaces.

It being the last day of September, I reminded myself today that tomorrow I must change my wall calendar. I looked at this month’s picture and it seemed only a few days since I looked at it for the first time at the beginning of the month. September seems to have flown by at an alarming pace.

On the other hand, I had to go over to the city today to pick up some paperwork, and the twelve mile stretch on the high speed highway was uncomfortable – heavy rain, mist, and spray everywhere. It seemed like an awfully long time since I’d driven in conditions like that, when it was actually only about a year ago.

It’s odd, isn’t it, how much our perception of time varies according to circumstances.

*  *  *

And talking of perceptions, the past couple of days have been uncomfortable in another respect. I’ve always seen my bedroom in a wholesome way – a safe, restful space shut away from a sometimes harsh, demanding world. But I had a bad night on Saturday. I woke up unaccountably several times with a sense of unease; I felt cold every time I did; in one instance I heard what sounded like a rat gnawing at wood followed by a bump as something dropped to the ground. I assumed it was something outside, but couldn’t be certain.

All day yesterday my perception of this safe, restful space had switched its polarity and I wasn’t comfortable going into it last night. Go to bed I did, of course, but when I turned the light off sleep proved illusive, which is most unusual for me. Normally I fall asleep within a minute or two of resting my head on the pillow. After what seemed like an hour or more I considered getting up and resigning myself to having a night without sleep. I simply wasn’t tired enough to sleep even though it was the early hours of the morning. But then a switch was thrown somehow because the next thing I knew I was being woken by the alarm in order to get up earlier than usual to make my trip to the city. I wonder how tonight will be.

*  *  *

And today I read the news report on Hurricane Helene which has ravaged parts of the south-eastern US. I read of the devastation and the horrifyingly high number of fatalities. The report said that the worst affected states were Tennessee and the Carolinas, and that’s where an old and much valued correspondent – Andrea Kiss, aka ‘Peanut’ – lived during the early years of this blog. And so I became worried. I grew very fond of Andrea and thought I might have her email address stashed away somewhere. I looked, but without success. So if ever you should stumble across this post Andrea, I do hope so very earnestly that you and the family came through it unscathed.

On Fame and Post Mortem Status.

Dame Maggie Smith died on Friday. Widely considered one of Britain’s finest actresses, she was a double Oscar winner, a regular star of both screen and stage, and best known to the public in recent years for her starring roles in the Harry Potter franchise and the Downton Abbey costume saga. She was 89.

For two days straight the BBC news website led with her death, and added more and more mostly predictable platitudes from the great and the good in the industry because that’s what always happens when a public figure dies.

But being greeted for two consecutive days with a website dominated by Ms Smith, it was easy to miss the report of another death in a smaller piece at the bottom of the page.

The unwilling star of that report was a 45-year-old woman who was taken to A&E at her local hospital suffering from asthma complications. The senior doctor on duty refused to treat her – for reasons which were not given – despite being apprised of the fact that the patient was in a life-threatening condition. And so the patient died.

I asked myself why a well known actress who died at 89 – a good long life by anybody’s reckoning – should be given such priority over a member of the general public who died at 45, apparently as a result of medical negligence. The answer is obvious, of course: Maggie Smith was famous; the other woman was unknown to anyone other than family and friends.

I have nothing whatsoever against Maggie Smith; she was indeed a consummate actress. But is that a sufficient reason? I have an opinion on the matter which needn’t be stated.

Two Ladies and a Coincidence.

For the purpose of having something to stick up on the blog tonight I thought I’d note an interesting coincidence.

During the early years of blogging I attracted a number of people who became regular correspondents. I came to feel a special bond with some of those people, and I’m prepared to speculate that I even grew to love them. Two of the outstanding examples of that rarefied ilk were Mistress Madeline of the USA (aka the Venerable Borg) and the Priestess from Australia (more latterly domiciled in Sweden and the UK.) Both received many mentions on the blog down the years.

They meant different things to me, as you might expect. I always thought of Mistress M as my kid sister who was cleverer than me. She came bearing bucketsful of erudition, could juggle complex psychological equations while poring over knitting patterns, and had a marvellously dry sense of humour which was splendidly uplifting at times.

The Priestess was more of an honoured travelling companion. She had an expansive breadth of vision coupled with a willingness to take risks, lacked any hint of vindictiveness or triumphalism, and led me firmly – but with never a hint of didacticism – into considering different ways of looking at life. That’s a rare feature in my experience.

So what’s the coincidence? Well, I did a bit of checking recently and discovered that today – 28^th September – is exactly a year since my last correspondence with the Priestess, and exactly two years since my last correspondence with the Venerable Borg. (And they were both Geminis, by the way.) Is there something special about 28^th September, I wonder?

And am I to believe, I ask myself, that there really is no such thing as a coincidence? I don’t know the answer to that one, but what I do know is this: If I’m to be permitted the honour of indulging in the practice of spectral manifestation after I’ve gone over the cataract, I will most certainly haunt these two special ladies. (Nicely, of course.) I have little doubt that Mistress M will dismiss my presence as nothing more than a digestive disturbance brought on by an underdone piece of potato (and will probably consult Dickens to ensure that it was potato to which he referred and not any other troublesome vegetable) and will then continue with her knitting, while the Priestess will smile and remark ‘Oh it’s you, is it? What kept you?’ And then life and death will suddenly feel like comfortable bedfellows.

On Life and the Undertaker's Den.

I took the plunge and paid for my funeral plan today, so now there’s a big hole in the hull of my bank account. No doubt the ship will sail on regardless to whatever its final destination is.

(Not that there’s any such thing as a bank account, of course. It’s just a theoretical concept to add credence to the illusory notion that money is real. But let’s pass on that one for now.)

What was much more interesting about my trip to the funeral parlour (I was in there for 1½ hours, would you believe – mostly going over things I already knew with a woman called Jo whose laptop was maddeningly slow. Do I feel a ditty coming on here? Having been regaled with the story of old Joe lost in the snow as a child, I come to the other end of my life and encounter young Jo whose laptop is slow. This really must be a message from the universe. Mustn’t it?) was meeting one of the undertakers.

He assured me that after I shuffle off this mortal coil I will be taken very good care off and treated with the utmost respect. He declined to accept my assertion that once I lay this body down I won’t be in it any more, so it doesn’t really matter. And when I suggested that being an undertaker seemed a somewhat strange occupation, he declined to accept that as well. He said he couldn’t think of a more satisfying way to spend his life than dealing with dead bodies and bereaved people. I supposed that he was the sort of person to place compassion above practical considerations and was happy to accept his point of view (although I did mention that I was happier taking photographs of trees.) Come to think of it, I also asked whether the notion of ‘utmost respect’ included me being bowed to because I’ve never been bowed to before. ‘Oh yes,’ I was assured. ‘We always bow to the deceased even in the case of a direct cremation.’ (That’s where you don’t waste money on a fancy funeral service where everybody dutifully sings Abide with Me while thinking of the free buffet to come.)

So that was today’s big adventure, apart from being stared at by several young women who then did a double take. I wondered whether spending 1½ hours in a funeral parlour has some deleterious effect on one’s skin tone. ‘Maybe it’s vapour from the embalming fluid,’ I thought. But probably not. And then I remembered meeting Lucy, the ex-dental nurse, shortly after my cancer operation six years ago. She promised to teach me the yoga position called the ‘corpse pose’ while I was still young enough to be able to do it. And I’ve never seen her since. Life eh? Never works out.

Shakira's Mysterious Magic.

Earlier this evening I was possessed of an urgent desire to watch the official video of Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie again. Heaven knows why, but possessed I was and so watch it I did.

Ye gods and little fishes!

The lyrics; the dark Latino setting; the sinuous movement; the witchy eyes; the voice (which her high school music teacher said sounded like a goat – some goat.) And all finished off by the magic Shakira smile. Shakira’s smile is more than just a smile, you see, much more. It’s a light source.

I’m not the sort of person who is supposed to like Shakira, you know. My daughter even joked about it once. And I have no interest whatsoever in any of the other modern lady pop nightingales. Taylor Swift and her ilk might as well be checkout operators in Tesco for all the interest I have in them.

But Shakira exudes that certain something which has no name, but shatters the shell, grabs hold of something inside, and refuses to let go.

I wonder whether that’s what a crush is. And at my age, too. Shameful.

(And why am I suddenly writing again? Is it Mercury’s birthday or something?)

On Writing and Reality.

Last night I read a chapter of my new novel, Kafka on the Shore, in which a somewhat surreal character commits an act of extreme cruelty on several cats. I thought of skipping that chapter when it became apparent that this was going to happen because there’s enough darkness in this world as it is and I really didn’t want to accept any more by way of recreation.

I decided I shouldn’t. It’s a very good novel containing a selection of mysteries and I felt that to skip a chapter would leave the reading of it forever unfinished. And then there’s the fact that the very best of novels contain something which can be taken as a lesson, and I feel this one might prove to be no exception. And so I read the chapter.

On later reflection I realised that I could never have written something like that myself. I said in an earlier post that I lived my stories when I was writing them, and I could never have walked a road which involved the torture of animals. I also said that I assumed other writers felt the same way, and that made me question the nature and character of Mr Murakami, the writer of Kafka. Presumably, the same is not true of him. It would appear that he is the sort to remain dispassionate and accept that his fiction is just fiction and not be taken personally. On the other hand, maybe he did suffer through the writing of it, but felt he had to do so anyway in order to say what he needed to say.

And that reminded me of the story of Gustav Mahler who felt reluctant to write his song cycle, Kindertotenlieder (dirges for children), because he was superstitious and feared that it might provoke disastrous consequences. He did so anyway and his own two children were drowned soon afterwards. It’s said that he suffered badly, obviously from the loss but also his sense of guilt, for the rest of his life.

I asked the question on this blog many years ago: when a person puts pen to paper and creates a story – be it in prose, poetry, or musical form – are they creating some kind of subtle reality which will affect their consciousness and maybe even their worldly affairs? I still don’t know the answer to that and I doubt I ever shall. That’s because I don’t know what reality is, but I do strongly suspect that the reality in which we appear to exist and to which we appear to relate is but the tip of an iceberg. The rest is hidden to mortal eyes and senses, but we need to exercise caution if we’re not to emulate the Titanic.

The Decimation of the Squirrels.

There’s something odd and rather dark going on with the squirrels in the Shire.

I normally expect to see no more than one or two a year dead on the roads in these parts, and sometimes none at all. And yet there have been several this summer alone. And then there was the one I wrote about yesterday close to the tree where a squirrel clucked at me. Today I was coming back from Ashbourne and, just as I approached the top of my lane, two of them ran separately across the road in front of my car and very nearly added to the tally. I had to hit the brakes hard to avoid one of them. And guess what I found when I went for a short evening walk: a squirrel dead on the road right outside my garden.

What on earth is going on with the squirrels in these parts? Is this another sign from the universe and am I supposed to take some meaning from it? If so, what? Always the problem.