On Danegeld, Bad Ditties, Ducks, and Days.

Yesterday I read that President Xi of China has warned the countries of the world not to give in to American bullying in Trump’s trade wars. It reminded me of that episode in history when bands of Danish Vikings would rampage across a territory, terrorise the population, and then demand money in return for some peace and quiet (for a while at least.) The payment was known as the Danegeld, and Kipling wrote a poem about it which includes the line:

If once you have paid him the Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane.

If Trump wins this one, he’ll know he’s got the world on a string, won’t he? We’ll all be puppets to be played with at will. Not a good idea, so let’s hope he loses.

(This week’s cover cartoon on Private Eye, by the way, shows a brat-like Trump bleating: ‘It’s Easter. Where’s my egg?’ And the reply comes back: ‘On your face, mate.’)

*  *  *

I made mention of Ellie, the new barista at Costa Coffee, didn’t I? I did. It occurred to me that the name Ellie should be suitable for the creation of a ditty, something I haven’t done for a very long time. I tried to think of suitable rhymes and decided that ‘smelly’ and ‘belly’ were entirely inappropriate. In fact, I didn’t do very well at all and could only come up with a second rate Limerick which doesn’t really pass muster. I’m going to publish it anyway, though, because even a cupfull of your own urine is better than nothing when you’re stuck in an arid desert awaiting rescue and there’s no water for miles.

There was a young woman called Ellie

Who saw something strange on the telly

A cook with no taste

Preparing a paste

With cow dung and raspberry jelly

*  *  *

For a span of several evenings last week I saw a pair of ducks flying over my garden at twilight. I thought it a rather comfortable image, but on the fourth or fifth night only one duck flew over and I thought it a little sad. The following evening there were no ducks at all, so I reasoned that they might have argued over the best place to spend the night and one of them had won. The female probably. Females usually win that sort of argument. So then I felt better.

*  *  *

I often wonder why I’m still trying to keep this blog going. It isn’t what it was, I know that. It lacks the flow, the humour, and the little bits of cleverness it used to have. It’s all in the mind, of course, beleaguered and belittled as it is by a consciousness become very demanding. I’m trying to stay afloat in a sea of existential speculation replete with capricious tides and opposing cross currents. Most of what I have around me is malfunctioning and so is my body, so there’s an ever present end-of-days feeling in the air and in my dreams. But the blog is still here and sometimes plays the role of pressure valve, so letting it go would probably be a bad idea.

Did I ever mention that words have a similar effect on me that certain foods have on other people? The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness is my baked Alaska, and Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable Dominion over all my slice of chocolate gateau. I expect I probably did.