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.