An Old Ditty Promoted.

I just read a reply of mine in a comment thread from quite some years ago. It included a ditty which came easily off the top of my head and has been ignored ever since, so I thought I’d put it into a post so it can enter the Ditties file:

 In Tennessee

I met a flea

Who said ‘now, y’all come talk to me'

 

'But treat me right

Or else I’ll bite

And then you’ll itch from morn ’til night'

No White Christmas in Oz.

The priestess has gone home to Australia for Christmas this year. I always found it quite inconceivable that the sun should be almost overhead on a day which is based on the midwinter festival to us northern Europeans. I just looked at the clock and realised that she’s only recently had breakfast on Christmas Eve, lightly clad and probably getting a suntan. 

  

It’s Christmas Eve in Sydney

The sun is burning hot

Old Santa’s in his bathing trunks

And doesn’t care a jot

 

No icy lanes or leafless trees

No reindeer pulling sleighs

What do they use for Christmas cards

On strangely summ'ry days

Discarding the Ditty.

I find it interesting, and sometimes a little disturbing, that rhymes drop suddenly into my head from an unknown source. A recent example reads:

Mr Joshua Crum

Had a very big bum

It resembled two halves

Of a gigantic plum

 

I always feel constrained at such moments to extend these seminal insights into a ditty of substance, but I didn’t much like where this one was going so I stopped. 

Having an Odd Mind.

I was pouring my first scotch tonight when the following words arrived in my head fully formed:

You will come to us on Monday

For your weekly dose of pain

Then on Saturday and Sunday

You can all go home again

Where did that come from, and what does it mean? I suppose it's about being a wage slave, but I don't know because I didn't write it.

And then I jumped straight from that to considering the question of whether the term 'hottie' is truly sexist. I suppose it probably is, but I have a problem because my perception of a 'hottie' has always been a little different from most men's.

But I do, at least, know where that thought came from. It came from watching the leader of a Polish youth orchestra playing the medley from Pirates of the Caribbean. She had her hair pulled back and arranged in an immaculate plait which ran down the back of her head, hugging the contours rather than just hanging there. To somebody like me, that makes her a hottie.

Note:

This post was written at ten to two in the morning of the 16th September. I assume I saved it in draft because it was getting close to bed time and was unfinished. And then I forgot all about it. It's still unfinished. Hope you don't mind.

On Balance.

It seems that no matter how deep the mind falls into the darkness of despond, there’s still a little light left in there which lets you look out of the window and wonder why squirrels are always in such a hurry.

*  *  *

It’s very dark again in dear old England today. It’s become depressingly rare in recent weeks to go a whole day without rain, and today is not one of the favoured ones. We used to recite a rhyme when I was a kid:

Rain, rain, go away

Come again another day

But, of course, we could hardly be happy in a land without rain. And so we might add:

Swell the grain but leave the hay

Let us have more blue than grey

Keep the cracking earth at bay

But rest throughout our holiday

*  *  *

And have you noticed that men traditionally discuss while women natter? But the times they are a-changing.

Old Habits.

I was just thinking of the priestess’s Stockholm apartment. And then I remembered that for most of my life I’ve wanted to live in a lighthouse. And then this dropped into my head, ready made.

There was an old man

Who lived in a mill

He built it himself

On the top of a hill

But when the wind blew

It wouldn’t stay still

And one day

The hilltop

Was empty

It’s a very long time since a ditty dropped into my head ready made. The fact that it isn’t very good is immaterial. It matters to me. And it probably means something, but that’s for others to decide. They always do.

On IT Tinkerers and Other Bits.

I find the workings of the software giants a little mystifying sometimes. Take my Hotmail account for example. The process of putting an email into a folder used to take three clicks. They’ve changed the system and now it takes six. Could someone suggest how that amounts to an improvement? And you have to work out the new method yourself because they don’t bother to tell you.  And both they and Google have started confusing the inbox with the spam box – putting stuff that has been previously marked as spam into the inbox, and consigning transparently genuine emails to the spam folder.

What I don’t understand is why, with all the vast wealth at their disposal, the software giants can’t employ people with common sense instead of – one is led to assume – a bunch of whizz kids with fancy IT degrees who like to mess with perfectly functional systems while being blissfully unaware of the fact that their mindless meddling is driving the users up the bloody wall.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, back in the real world, I spoke to Millie the pigeon today. She was up by the town hall feeding enthusiastically on bits of lunch detritus left behind by sloppy eaters. She ignored me as usual – didn’t even look at me. I did notice, however, that several passers by were looking at me, so I moved on to get a new strap fitted to my watch.

*  *  *

And this evening I noted with a mild ripple of sadness that the evening sunshine is visibly and palpably weakening now. Summer is nearly over up here on the north western edge of Europe. Did I mention that I’m strictly a summer person? Thought so.

*  *  *

I was going to buy a new pair of jeans from Tesco today for £15, but didn’t have to. I went into one of the charity shops and found the same thing – same brand, same colour, same fit, right size, everything – for £3. And they look unworn. It’s the Lady Fu, you know. I’ve mentioned the Lady Fu before. She’s the alabaster, or maybe marble, figurine which I rescued from a charity shop and brought home. Whenever she comes out with me I always get bargains and young women smile at me. It’s how I know she’s there.

* *  *

But I wish I didn’t feel so depressed and dysfunctional every morning when I wake up.

I suspect that my brain

Is being squeezed by the strain

Of a whole lot of losing

And too little of gain

*  *  *

I’m going to watch the next episode of the murder mystery Broadchurch now. My money is on the vicar.

A Small Seasonal Ditty.

I often muse on my adverse reaction to winter, so I thought I’d express it in the form of a mini ditty. Sorry it’s such a short one, but it’s a long time since I wrote a ditty and even small steps do tend to lead somewhere eventually. And at least it’s a nice shape.

No swooping bats, no snoring bees

No hay crop on the blasted leas

And all the roving eye e’er sees

Are skeletons instead of trees

Bits of Oddness.

Sixteen weeks since the operation and I’m still terribly picky about what sort of food I want. Tonight’s supper was a can of John Smith’s Extra Smooth beer and a piece of toast and marmalade. They’re both good in their own way but don’t exactly match.

I’m trying to replace the missing muscle mass on my arms, chest and shoulders, you see, and I’m not having much success. I’ll try opening the scotch bottle next and see whether that works.

*  *  *

And on the subject of oddness, you might want to take a look at this Russian woman performing a traditional Irish folk song:

 

Pretty weird, eh, but she’s actually bloody brilliant. And what a presence. I wonder whether they’ve got any more like her in Russia – might be worth nipping over there to have a look while Putin’s in Helsinki teaching Trump the secrets of diplomacy. Shouldn't take long. I mean, Russia’s not very big, is it?

*  *  *

And now we’re into questionable geography, here’s a little ditty which I first posted several years ago when different people were reading. It can’t be called cheating because this is a portmanteau post.

There was a woman from Baghdad

Whose compass skills were pretty bad

She sailed one day for Mandalay

But ended up in Trinidad

Being Upside Down.

It occurred to me last night that our friends in the southern hemisphere are just entering their winter, so I took fifteen minutes out of my wee small hours drinking time to send a note of commiseration to the priestess down in Oz:

Is it cold down there in Sydney

Does the wind augment your tears

Are you huddled up in woollies

With a hat to warm your ears

Does the cold rain fall a-stinging

Are the long nights extra dark

Are the beaches falling empty

And the trees all standing stark

Does it matter that you’re special

To a lad in northern climes

Who would send you warming sunshine

Wrapped in rank and wrinkled rhymes

Did you know that, according to official statistics, Sydney has never had a frost and the last recorded snowfall was in 1836? (You should do because I said the same thing in a post not long ago.) They don't know what they're missing, do they? Maybe they would benefit from changing places with somebody up on the lake in Cleveland, Ohio during February.

Notes on Why.

A time to live, a time to die

A time to eat some apple pie

A time to leap, a time to lie

And never blessed with knowing why

*  *  *

I haven’t mentioned the Lady B (or her ghost) for some time, have I? That’s because her spirit in physical absentia hasn’t assaulted my being like a charging rhino for some time now, and also because it sometimes seems like a pointless thing to do. The Lady B is probably the most tantalizing mystery of my life, but only I can understand why. I'm sure she doesn't have a clue and there's no reason why she should. I’ve thought of writing the whole story down and posting it here, but that would mean breaking the odd confidence or two and revealing things about myself which I wouldn’t wish to reveal except to a most trusted confidante. Besides, no one would get it. I expect she will rise again like the phoenix one of these days, as is her habit.

*  *  *

‘Look at me. I’m 46 and have never left home. For the whole of my life I’ve lived with my parents. I’ve had a few boyfriends, but they were relatively superficial affairs and never lasted long. I’ve never been married, never had children, nor even lived the wild life. All I’ve done is kept my job and taken care of things.’

And this from one of the calmest, quietest, most consummately able people I’ve ever known. A delightful – maybe even inspirational – person who you would want to have with you in a crisis because she would handle it with relative ease. She handles everything with relative ease. Isn’t it a shame that people feel the impulse to denigrate themselves because they haven’t lived life in the manner prescribed by cultural convention?

Flat Tuesday.

What do you do

In Kathmandu

When yetis search for prey

You tell them true

You’ve got the flu

And then they’ll run away

You see? This is what I’m brought to when the day has been uneventful: writing rubbish ditties for the sake of putting something on a blog. Writing is the only active and pleasurable pursuit left to me now that my chassis is rusting badly and the scrap yard is just around the next corner.

I suppose I could mention the slug I rescued. It was on my office floor looking dehydrated so I put it outside where it’s mild and damp, talking nicely to it on the way. And then I pondered the question of whether a life has been worthwhile if you’ve made at least one slug happy.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. Interesting things sometimes happen on a Wednesday.

Becoming Over Ripe.

One day in idle reverie

I found myself to be

Upon a sunny, palm-fringed beach

Set in a sun-kissed sea

When all at once some native girls

Came running up to me

With bronzèd thighs and sultry eyes

And charms for all to see

And as they smiled I lay beguiled

But had to be so bold

To hesitate and tell them straight

‘I’m sorry, I’m too old’

It’s cold in my house tonight. It’s cold outside my house tonight. I expect there to be ice on the birds’ water bowl tomorrow morning.

And so I had my first mug of hot chocolate since the end of last winter, and wondered whether hot chocolate is the sole compensation when life is demonstrating that humans are not so different than fruit when they’re past their best.

A Couple of Bits.

Another sad and postless day, I'm afraid, but at least you can have my current favourite music video from the Taiwanese combo OctoEast. The yangqin player is amazing.

You can also have the little ditty I just sent to the priestess wandering the high Himalayas in Nepal. I felt she needed a warning.

There once was a woman called Betty

Who declined to go out with a Yeti

She said ‘You’re so big

And you eat like a pig

And your armpits smell ever so sweaty’

Fearful Priestess and Fake Kipling.

I think I’ve finally discovered the priestess’s Achilles’ heel. I had an email from her this morning as she was about to board her flight to Nepal (I thought she was already there, but apparently not) and she admitted to feeling nervous at the prospect of the cold in the mountains. I suppose it’s understandable really, since Himalayan temperatures, even in autumn, must be at a level to which Australians are drastically unaccustomed.

It still surprised me, though, because I’ve been observing the priestess for 7½ years, during which time the conviction has grown in me that she fears nothing at all. Seems she does: being cold. So should I smile? No, because I fear lots of things, among which is the knowledge that my greatly esteemed Lady Qin is trekking in the vicinity of some of the highest and wildest mountains in the world, thereby exposing herself to such dangers as hypothermia, attack by Yeti, and whatever else the remoter parts of the planet might have lurking.

In spite of these misgivings, however, it still occurred to me that Kathmandu must surely offer the opportunity for a new ditty. It didn’t. Try as I might, nothing dropped onto the ditty plate like seeds from an overripe melon. Until I thought of Kipling…

On the road to Kathmandu

Where the yaks all do their poo

And the smells rise up like thunder

From the roofless outside loo

And then I felt thoroughly ashamed at having the sort of lavatorial sense of humour which would seem immature in a 7-year-old.

Ageing in Ditty Form.

When you look like Quasimodo

And your eyes have lost their glint

And you’re ancient as a dodo

Although not yet quite extinct

And you feel averse to match them

When the young girls sweetly smile

For you know you could not catch them

If they chose to run a mile

Then you know you’ve reached your nadir

On yon bonny banks and braes

For it is no longer May, dear

But the autumn of your days

And might I just add that these things are all relative. Of course they are. It’s just what happens when you finally convince yourself, against all your natural instincts, that you’re definitely not thirty two any more.

On Loners and Relationships.

My lady fair

The Lady Fu

Is ever coy, though not oblique

From iv’ry hair

To iv’ry shoe

She’s all a gentleman might seek

The Lady Fu is my 18" high statuette of a fine Chinese lady. I'm very fond of her. So...

I keep thinking lately about members of my family who’ve gone now – grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, my half brother, my only full blood cousin… Most of them died early between their forties and their seventies; only a few of the women made eighty. And when I do think about them I’m struck by the fact that when they went, I was one of those people in their orbit who was left behind to carry on. One day it will be my turn to leave and everybody else’s function to carry on.

Not that there are many people in my orbit, of course; I’ve never been the sort to make commitments, connections, or even close friends of any stature. Maybe that’s because I’ve never known what the word ‘love’ means, not even when it comes to grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and cousins.

Actually, that probably isn’t quite true. A psychotherapist once suggested that the only normal (whatever that means) relationships I ever had were with my daughter, my dogs Em and Penny, and Dylan the tomcat. Maybe that’s what love is. It would be nice to think so.

I suppose the salient point here is that children and animals are relatively simple creatures who give their affection unconditionally, and that means they can be regarded with a reasonable amount of trust. Adult humans, on the other hand, are too informed by cultural and environmental conditioning, a feature which produces the kind of flaws guaranteed to keep an idealist like me a bit at arms length. There have been – and still are – a very few special people whom I’ve been able to greatly like, respect and want to be with, but I doubt that would be anybody’s definition of love.

(Maybe there is one person who might qualify, but I really don’t know. I avoid the question because there seems little point in committing to a ghost.)

So is being the perennial loner a good or bad thing? It’s a pointless question. A life is a life and in the end we have little honest choice but to be authentic. Besides, being a loner encourages the tendency to observe. And if my suspicion with regard to the purpose of life is right, that probably isn’t a bad thing.

After Kipling.

I just set the alarm on my little mobile phone which cost all of £15.99 from Tesco, and which I feed with about £5-a-year's worth of credits. That's because I hardly ever use it except to reply to the odd text from the one person who sends them to me.

You're supposed to feel guilty these days if your phone fits easily into the pocket of your jeans and doesn't have the power to read Facebook posts from Alpha Centauri, aren't you? Am I? A little ditty jumped onto my desk and said 'post me.' So I'll do that instead of wasting money on a megaG smart phone. I'm sure the sweet chariot will still swing low to carry me home when it's time.

If I bought myself a smart phone

Would I be a different bloke?

Would I be somehow superior

If I learned to stroke and poke?

Or would I lose the lessons

That I learn from twilight skies

And the hint of deepest meaning

In a Chinese lady’s eyes?

I suspect I’d be a martyr

To the ways of modern times

And the path laid out by robots

And the hill up which it climbs

So I think I’ll stick with wand’ring

Down the road to Mandalay

Taking refuge in my ramblings

And the view across the bay

Being a Failed Poet.

No, one more blog post to come tonight. I’m trying to build up my stock of silly ditties, so I thought I’d copy this email I just sent to somebody. Now can you see why I’m best ignored?

Oh Mistress Qin, Oh Mistress Qin

I’d like to rummage in your bin

Imagine what I’d find in there

A stale pork pie, a scrap of hair

I’d eat the one and save the rest

To lay upon my heaving breast

When all the world is turning cold

And I’m returning to the mold.

It probably won't be long at this rate. Insanity is almost as dangerous as smoking.

Unbalanced.

What am I going to do about the priestess? The current score of our last eleven items of correspondence reads:

JJ 11 : Priestess 0

How do I know she isn’t taking the corporate ladder seriously and feels that I don’t belong in such exalted circles? How do I know she hasn’t been eaten by a shark or rabid wombat? How do I know she hasn’t changed her mind about being Most Beloved and Esteemed Empress next time round? I don’t, do I?

Priestesses do this sort of thing. One minute they’re talking to you, and then all is silence and you find that they’ve disappeared down some track going heaven knows where.

Is this her latest lesson? Patience is a virtue.

*  *  *

And while I’m on the subject of the high Romantic tradition (sort of) I came across a Kate Rusby track recently called The Elfin Knight. I haven’t heard it yet, but you can if you want to. It’s here:

  My first thought on reading the title was:

If I could be an elfin knight

I’d say ‘Oh no, not that’

Too many fears

Those pointy ears

Would make me feel a prat

Why don’t I just get a Facebook account and a smart phone like everybody else?