Baiting the Comfy Trap.

Yesterday I had a text message from my mobile provider telling me that my subscription is being increased by over 100%. Today I had an email from my ISP telling me that my broadband subscription is being increased by approximately 25%. (And all dressed up in friendly language in a pathetic attempt to convince the gullible that the capitalist, corporate machine is not really as heartless and psychopathic as it must surely appear even to the gullible.)

The message is becoming more and more obvious with each passing day.

What’s obvious is that the corporate world generally, the technology wing especially, and Establishments all over the ‘developed’ parts of the planet have quietly been constructing a trap and calling it progress. Almost all functions involving any sort of communication are now done by email, text message, or online facilities. Anybody who wants to live a conventional life in these cultures is now required to have well-functioning computer equipment of some sort or other, preferably several sorts. And that means that the providers of these facilities are now free to rip us off as much as they want to, no matter how outrageously.

The only way out of this trap is to cut loose and take to living in a tent, a car, or a van. Difficult as such a move would be, at least it’s still possible in Britain. Over in America it seems it isn’t. If you do that in the land of the free (dare I for once offer a hearty LOL?) you will be regarded as a vagrant, accused of being either mentally ill or addicted to illegal substances, and locked up. So how far will this spread and how long will it take?

It seems to me that the western world is primed for revolution, but of course it won’t happen. Why? Because the American middle class and its equivalent in other cultures has been carefully softened up by the lure of convenience, lifestyle obsession, and the imperative to climb shamelessly on the backs of others in order to be ‘successful’ as defined by the Big Brother system. It’s a sort of mob mentality in lavender.

The only people likely to take to the streets in protest are the PBI (an abbreviation of the British phrase ‘poor bloody infantry’). And when they do, the Establishment will revile them as criminal, mindless mobs, while the other mob – the lavender variety – will nod knowingly and call for more containment facilities. It’s happened before, even in the UK when Mrs Thatcher preached the American Dream and tagged us to America’s coat tails. And it's fascinating to note that Orwell saw this coming even before I was born.

*  *  *

Last night I had another of those awful dreams I was having some months ago – trying to negotiate a dark, depressingly wet world in which everything was falling apart; and every apparent road out led inevitably back into the nightmare. I woke up at 5.30 feeling trapped and terrified, a feeling which lasted until I took a walk up to the fairy glen above the village. Hardly surprising, is it?

Reaching the Peak.

I’m always a little sad when we reach the end of May. May is the last month in the year during which the days continue to grow longer for the whole of its span. And then along comes June which brings us to the summer solstice. The days begin to grow shorter again and the sun begins its gradual descent en route to the dark days of winter.

And it’s usually the month when the swallows first appear to thrill us with their aerial acrobatics. And the kiddies dance around the maypole to the sound of an Irish jig on the school playing field. And the wild birds feed their young ones with great energy and diligence. And things of – usually beneficent – great consequence often happen in May. (Although not this year, and there’s only three hours of May left.)

And the wheel turns. And nothing is meant to last beyond its allotted span.

The young are generally unaware of this, even though the knowledge must be hiding somewhere, waiting for the right time time to spring the ambush.

(The priestess - remember her? - was an exception of course. She felt the knowledge from an early age. It's why she was one third hedonist, one third philosopher, and one third explorer. Unlike hedonism and philosophy, exploration has no limits. If I remember the novel Sidhartha correctly, there would appear to be a direct parallel between me and the eponymous hero in the matter of the priestess. If so, all I have to do now is work with the ferryman until it's time for the crossing. Maybe I should read the book again.)

*  *  *

I’ve decided that when I die I want be greeted on the other side by a pack of friendly wolves, come to guide me to wherever I’m supposed to go. They are, after all, the ultimate dog.

*  *  *

I found a picture of mine, published as a postcard, in the 'classic postcards' section of eBay. It was priced at £5.99. Fancy that. (And that was the second, incidentally, both taken in the English Lake District.) Mel thinks I'm going to be famous after I'm dead. I won't care as long as I have wolves for company.

The First of its Kind.

I’m fairly sure I’ve never made a New Year’s resolution. Never saw the point. I don’t even see any point in celebrating the New Year at all; it’s only a change of one digit on the calendar, isn’t it? That happens every day. But this year I’ve decided to make one, and here’s the story:

I was just watching a video of a rock and pop classic from the 1980s, and the chorus consisted of a bunch of black people in New York singing their hearts out and wearing them on their sleeves. I thought: ‘You know, some people can be so fuckin’ beautiful sometimes.’ (Please excuse the expletive; I’m in a warts and all mood.) And then the conversation began.

‘You’re on the last lap of your life now, JJ.’

‘I know.’

‘You’ve done some pretty bad things over the years, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’

‘And a few pretty decent ones, too.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So why not make the last lap a good one? Make a concerted effort to stop being quite so cynical. Start to recognise and appreciate the beautiful people instead, wherever they might be found. Do something you’ve never done before: make it a New Year’s resolution. What d’you think?’

‘Mmm… sounds like a good idea. But what about the rest?

‘The rest? Oh, I see; you mean the tyrants and the warmongers and all that crowd?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, one day you’ll probably have to learn to love everybody, but it can wait until the next time around or the one after that. There are no rules.’

‘OK then, agreed. But one last question.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Just another fragment of the universe, as you are, here to keep an eye on you. Think of me as the Ghost of New Years Yet to Come, if you like’

‘Good analogy, so another last question: Can I still be cynical about Tiny freggin’ Tim?’

‘If you must.’

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

When Familiarity Breeds Content.

In order to assess how sociable I am with regard to the good burghers of the Shire, I did a head count tonight of the people whose names I know. Statistics follow:

The population of the Shire at the 2021 census was 304. I’ve only lived here for eighteen years and already I know the names of 8 men and 7 women. That’s 4.9%, which I think is pretty impressive. And that’s not counting the 6 dogs and 3 horses. I could list them if you’d like me to, but you probably wouldn’t so I won’t bother.

The thing is, you see, people in these parts expect you to know everybody. I’ve said before that it never ceases to surprise me so that so many people know my name when I’ve never told it to them, and I don’t know theirs – which can be a little awkward at times. People say things to me like:

‘I was just saying to Albert Grimsdyke the other day… You know Albert I assume.’

‘Erm… no.’

‘Yes you do – farms the land next to Robinson down by the river.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Drives a red Massey-Ferguson tractor.’

‘Oh, that Albert Grimsdyke. Got you now.’ (Which I haven’t, of course.)

Tonight I was blessed with an encounter – Catherine (one of the 7 women) and little Nell (one of the 6 dogs.) Two familiar names in the space of one unforeseen circumstance. Always a delight and a real red letter day.

The Fiction Writer's Fate.

The way I wrote my short stories – and the two longer works – was quite different from the way one is ‘supposed’ to write fiction. I never planned anything and there was no conscious attempt to apply structure. I simply walked into an alternate reality handed to me by my imagination and reported what I saw there.

Maybe it isn’t surprising – and I expect this is true of most fiction writers – that during the course of writing the stories, the reality in which they were set felt real to me. And as time went by I felt my connection with the routine outside world diminishing, especially after Mel left and the paid job I was doing came to an end. Now I realise that the writing of fiction played a large part in turning me from the sort of person who chooses his very small number of associates with great care, into something close to a true recluse.

But this has come at a price. There’s no longer anyone in the real world to associate with apart from Mel and my small family. The rest have all gone. And the urge to write fiction burned itself out some years ago so there are no alternate realities in which to move and observe. It’s hardly surprising that such a situation should lead to a sense of emptiness. Most of the time I find it tolerable; sometimes I find it desirable; at other times it approaches a mild form of desolation.

Yet sometimes something intriguing will happen. This afternoon, for example, I was disposing of some plant debris when I heard a voice say ‘hi’ from the direction of my gate. I turned to see the source, but the person had walked beyond the gate by then and all I saw was part of an arm and a hand waving to me from above the line of the hedge. I walked down the garden and looked up the lane to see a woman – youngish I would say – striding purposefully uphill. I hadn’t a clue who she was so I went back to the autumn clearance work.

And such is life to someone who continues to breathe but occasionally wonders whether there’s any point. I’m hoping that when I do finally shuffle off this mortal coil, the point will become clear.

Yet Another Tale of Three Women.

I met Ellie today. She’s the new girl in Costa Coffee. ‘Do you do banter, Ellie?’ I asked her (there’s a disturbing lack of banter between the staff and customers in Costa these days. So sad.) ‘Yes,’ she replied, and that was the last time she spoke. Make of it what you will.

*  *  *

And then there was the woman who seems to find me huggable for some reason. ‘You look well today,’ she said. ‘Just the sun on my face,’ I offered. ‘Yes, but it’s an improvement. You usually look like a little ghost.’ (She’s several inches shorter than me, I might add.) ‘Ghost’ I can take…

*  *  *

But the pièce-de-resistance: The senior high school girl in Sainsbury’s: tall, slender, pretty, disturbingly short skirt, long dark hair flowing down to the middle of her back, and legs so long that they might well have had a statue of Lord Nelson at the top for all I shall ever know. She was on her phone and standing in the middle of the aisle. I made to walk behind her; she stepped back. I changed direction; she moved forward. Repeat. Eventually the forward ploy worked and I looked up (!) into her face. She was completely oblivious to my presence, being engaged in talking gooey stuff with a simpering smile on her young mouth. No doubt the other side of the conversation was occupied by the captain of the school First XI cricket team whose approbation she had successfully courted – or something similar.

We never had girls anything like that at my high school. But then, we didn’t have mobile phones either. Come to think of it, we didn’t even have Sainsbury’s.

A Minor Mishap.

Today’s exciting event was the having of a minor accident.

I was up a ladder trimming the top of the tall, tough field boundary hedge which runs for 100ft down the side of my garden. It’s rather broad and so requires the use of a heavy pole hedge trimmer (I bought a new one recently because the blades on the old one were becoming blunt and the growth in that hedge is a mixture of tough stuff like hawthorn, briar, holly and so on.) It’s tiring work and my ageing body suffers quite badly, but there’s nobody else available to take over so I don’t have much choice.

I’d finished one section and started to climb down the ladder – carrying the heavy hedge trimmer in one hand – but mistook the second step for the bottom one (I think I’ve done that at least three times this year.) Matters were made worse by the fact that the piece of earth for which my foot was headed was lower than piece on which the ladder was standing. The result was that I fell over backwards when my foot did eventually make solid ground (or maybe a little before) with the result that I ended up on my back in a supine position, half on the garden and half on the lawn.

And the matter didn’t quite end there. I’d dropped the heavy hedge trimmer on the way down, but the ladder came down in sympathy with my predicament and land on top of me. Metal ladders are heavy, but fortunately it missed my face and merely pinned me to the ground by my left shoulder and rib cage. Blessings be to the Divine Lady Mother for that.

So how did I feel? A little shocked, a little weak, a little dazed, but mostly very foolish. I’d heard nothing snap and had no sharp pains, but I did have a small predicament. I couldn’t sit up. My head was facing downhill, you see, and in their weakened condition my abdominal muscles wouldn’t lift me. I did briefly wonder whether this was the end and heaven beckoned, but decided it was simply a matter of mechanics. I’d already managed to lift the ladder off my left shoulder and rib cage, so I was able to turn my body through 180°. My head was now facing uphill and sitting up was almost as easy as usual. (A little ‘phew!’ at that point.) Standing up was more difficult because I still felt weak and my legs ached, but I managed it. And then I carried on. And nobody came to my aid because that’s how life is when you’re a loner.

All that happened about four hours ago and I still feel light-headed. I’ve also got an aching back, and I’m sure I can hear a little voice emanating from somewhere in the middle of my chest. ‘Be more careful next time,’ it’s muttering. ‘Watch where you’re putting your feet so you don’t miss the bottom rung. Don’t you know I’ve got an underperforming left ventricle? Idiot!) I think I know where it’s coming from.

There’s still a small section left to trim, by the way. I can only hope that the underperforming left ventricle doesn’t stop performing altogether before it’s done. I’ve always been the sort to insist on finishing any job I start, you see. It’s one of my weaknesses.

And it occurs to me that I could have made a post which simply said ‘I fell off a ladder today.’ It’s unsurprising that nobody talks to me these days, isn’t it?

Being Mindful of the End of Days.

A few days ago I was walking along Meadow Lane in the Shire. The temperature had dropped after a spell of warm weather and a stiff breeze had developed. The glowering grey sky was all-pervasive: low, dark, heavy, and oppressive. And then I noticed that nowhere along the half mile length of the lane was there any blossom to be seen in the hedgerows – all were come to black and red berries, and these, I knew, would soon be ripped away by the McConnell hedge trimmers when the autumn hedge cutting is done. There were hardly any wild flowers left either, and last but not least was the sight of trickles of dead leaves beginning to line the edges of the lane. It all told me that summer, which always seems to pass so quickly, and which has seemed especially short this year due to the low temperatures in June and most of July, was coming to an end for another year.

And it took my thoughts to all those people who used to keep me company on this blog and by email. They came from all over the world – from Australia, South Asia, South America, North America, Africa, and Europe. They’ve all gone now for one reason or another. I could mention some of the special ones by name, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others so I won’t.

The question of my health issues fits neatly with a train of thought which must be readily apparent by now. I have four identified ones at the moment, which seems a little excessive. I’ve had occasional issues ever since the age of twelve when I had my appendix removed, but they’ve always come one at a time and been widely spaced. And judging by certain symptoms which have been niggling away for a few months now, I suspect that there may be more just waiting in the wings to make their entrance onto the stage.

I hardly need to add – though I’m going to anyway – that the current state of the world and the state of the human condition seems to be getting worse.

So where is all this moaning from the pit leading? Simply to a sense that my perception of life might now be summed up succinctly by the phrase that is the title of this post. And maybe I might be permitted to quote again my favourite line from Tennyson describing the end of days in Camelot: The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness.

I should also mention that I first wanted to make this post a few days ago after my walk along Meadow Lane, but didn’t because I didn’t want to present a gloomy face. That changed last night when I had a dream. It was the usual stuff full of disturbing situations, none of which I can remember in detail, but it ended with me standing before a shadowy male figure who said ‘You will die soon.’ It scared me, even though I’m happy to accept that it was no more than a reflection of my current state of mind. My dreams are rarely prophetic and I have no reason to think that this one was any exception. But it still scared me because I have an image of death as the process of being suddenly stripped of everything that once defined you, and then being pushed off a parapet in complete darkness with no knowledge of what you’re going to be faced with when you hit bottom.

But I might finish by relating the fact that I encountered a tiny mouse today sitting on the road close to my house. I’m sure it must have been a baby because, at no more than an inch in length, it was small even by the standards of wood mice. It neither struggled nor squealed complaint when I picked it up and placed it on the grass verge to save its young life being extinguished by a passing car. I wondered whether that was my good deed done for the day, but couldn’t decide. It seems to me that in matters of life and death, it’s sometimes impossible to know what’s good and what isn’t.

The Gnome Stayed Home.

Most of today was awful. It was one of those days when you begin seriously to suspect that there’s a little gnome of misfortune suffering with toothache who is intent on causing you all sorts of irritating mischief just because he’s in a bad mood. A day of mishaps, mayhem, and malfunctions.

(Isn’t it odd that so many words with a negative connotation begin with the letter M?)

Actually, there probably wasn’t any gnome. It was probably all due to my being tense over today’s trip to the Royal Derby Hospital for my annual CT scans. The whole arrangement has not gone well this year, you see, apparently due to the backlogs that have developed in the NHS for several reasons. Today’s arrangement was over a month behind schedule and all attempts to find out what was happening fell on stony ground, but on Wednesday afternoon I had a phone call offering an appointment for today.

‘Will I get a letter as usual?’ I asked. ‘No,’ replied the man making the offer, ‘but you might get a text reminder.’ Having received neither letter nor text message by this morning, I was in neurotic mood. I was feeling quite sure that I would go to all the trouble to prepare for and keep the appointment (you know – nothing to eat for at least four hours, making sure that there’s plenty of fluid in the bladder to keep it well inflated, driving twenty miles plus a side trip to Ashbourne to buy a box of Lindor chocolates for the radiographers, using twenty miles worth of petrol, probably having to queue for a parking space and then pay for it, negotiating the rabbit warren to get to the CT suite, etc) only to find that I had no appointment after all. I would have been a little miffed.

But no. The appointment was safely on the computer and the road ahead was clear. The two radiographers were an absolute delight and virtually squealed with joy when I handed over the box of chocolates. ‘You’ve made my day,’ said the younger and prettier of them (and that, as you might expect, made mine.)  And then Maria, the Portuguese nurse who did the cannula fixing and general conveyancing, and with whom the chocolates had naturally been shared, told me off for not having given them to her. But she was only joking and told me that I knew how to please a woman. I declined to agree, of course. (What I actually said was that I was too old to care any more.) ‘Give a woman chocolates,’ she said, ‘and you will melt her heart.’ Why didn’t anyone tell me that when I was twenty? I finally learn how to melt hearts just when it’s too late to bother. Life eh? Maybe next time.

And so the difficult day went down not in wan and weariness, but in smiles, pleasant connections, and good grace. Thank heaven the gnome didn’t fancy a road trip.

Winning the Argument.

My mind this morning was full of seething condemnation of Big Capitalism – its selfishness, its greed, its underhand tactics, and the way it tragically divides society. I had a long post all written up in my head and ready to go. And then I became busy with other things and forgot all about it. When I stopped being busy and remembered it, the thoughts were fractured, the words badly jumbled, and I realised that nothing will change until The Great Cataclysm hits (which probably won’t happen until I’ve shuffled off the present mortal coil) so I didn’t bother. Instead, I thought I’d mention something of much greater personal significance.

*  *  *

In the early hours of this morning, while the imp of mild inebriation was perched on my shoulder being impish, I wrote an email to the priestess for the first time since last autumn. The imp was all for me pressing the send button, and wasn’t at all pleased when the muse of common humanity kept whispering in my ear that sending it would be an act of selfishness. ‘Hang selfishness! he intoned petulantly. (Actually I seem to recall he used an expletive). Selfish is good. Send the damn email.’

Mistress muse was not to be outdone, however. ‘Leave it until the morning,’ she advised. ‘Sleep on it. It’s usually the best policy when ambivalence is creating eddies in the water of self-control. Consider the matter in the morning.’

By that time it was getting late and even the imp’s eyelids were drooping, so I went to bed.

When I booted up the computer this morning I made the decision. I do rather like my little imp; he can be fun at times and I wouldn’t want to lose his company altogether, but he generally has less energy in the cold light of day. The muse, on the other hand, is wide awake. She stays silent but gives me the look – half warning and half smiling, as you might expect – and is all but irresistible. I decided that I dislike selfishness and I dislike selfish people, so I didn’t send the email.

(But it’s still sitting in ‘drafts’ just in case…)

On Pressures and the Paucity of Passerines.

I remember mentioning in a post a few years ago that a woman had told me about her daughter’s high school where 50% of the pupils were taking anti-stress medication.

I’ve long been interested in this apparent epidemic of mental health issues. Some say that there is no epidemic; it’s simply a matter of us being more aware of mental health. Others argue that the mental health of the nation really is deteriorating to an alarming degree, and I’m inclined to agree because I think we’re seeing the signs of it in the cracking of British culture. So I naturally ask myself: who’s to blame? And I’m tempted to conclude that a major aspect of fault lies with an alliance of the medical establishment and the politicians.

We’re constantly bombarded these days with ‘advice’ (for which read ‘surreptitious instruction’) on matters of diet, exercise, vigilance, and so on. We’re constantly being told that that we must eat five of these vegetables every day, that we must drink this much water every day (apparently ignoring the water we get from tea, coffee, milk, breakfast juice, fruit, vegetables, potatoes, and so on. How is one supposed to know, for example, how much water there is in a 12oz baked potato?) We must restrict our daily consumption of salt/sugar/calories/saturated fat etc to a prescribed number of grams, because if we don’t, the daily round will be made miserable and our lives substantially truncated

And then there’s the question of exercise. People under 50 must do so much of this form of exercise every week. If you’re over 50 the numbers change. If you’re over 60 you must stop doing this and do that instead. And if you’re over 70, gardening is no longer beneficial. You must do strengthening exercise instead in order to maintain muscle mass. (This is to prevent you from falling over... seriously!)

The information screen in the GP’s waiting area is crammed full of this kind of thing, and plenty more besides. It even includes a detailed exam to ensure that all these facts and figures are now learned by heart and will be acted upon. We must carry a calculator at all times, noting the nature, weight, and composition of everything we consume and reading every label assiduously.

The latest example has now appeared in the men’s toilet in my local Tesco store. Above each urinal is a notice telling each man who is just in for a pee, y’understand (quoting Billy Connolly) to check their… erm… discharge for signs of cancer. What on earth will they think of next?

Of course it’s good to eat a well balanced diet and to maintain a reasonable level of exercise. But to achieve that end it would be necessary to rein back the amount of advertising put out by manufacturers of ultra high processed and other junk food, not to mention the innumerable retail outlets selling it.

(Can you imagine the politicians allowing that, except to a limited degree in order to save face by pretending to be on the side of fitness and good health? Hardly. The purveyors of unhealthy comestibles form a major part of the free market philosophy on which we’re all now dependent. They can’t be interfered with too much or the government wouldn’t be free to witter on about economic growth and congratulate themselves in the process.)

And so the constant pressure of facts and figures and general scare tactics will continue and probably get worse, and it’s my view that the constant, pernicious descent into mild paranoia is probably a major factor in the development of mental health issues.

I could go on, but it would lead into other areas and become yet another tedious rant, so I’ll mention a couple of totally unrelated items of personal interest instead:

1. I’ve seen hardly any birds in my garden over the past two days of warm weather. Even the wood pigeons and jackdaws, which normally assail the feeding tables so voraciously, have been almost entirely absent. And most interestingly of all, I’ve seen no sparrows – normally the most numerous of the many species – all summer. That’s very unusual.

2. I saw the first of the blackberries in the hedgerows ripening today. That’s about the only nice thing I have to say. Sorry.

On Politicians and Selective Blindness.

I was just reading about the horrific incident in Southport in which a 17-year-old boy attacked a group of children with a knife. The children were aged between six and ten. At least two of them are dead and several more are seriously injured. The politicians, as usual, take no responsibility for this appalling state of affairs. They offer their ‘sympathy, condolences and prayers’ to the families of the victims, and that’s all.

This sort of thing never used to happen, but it’s becoming ever more frequent now. Knife attacks on innocent – usually young – victims are becoming almost routine. It was part of the reason why I asked a question before the last General Election, and I ask it again now:

Why do politicians witter on about economic growth and the iniquity of budget deficits – and all those other pecuniary concerns which are deemed to be of paramount importance in a free market economy, and which are mostly aimed at benefiting the rich and the reasonably well off – while British culture at grass roots level is cracking to an uncomfortable and dangerous degree?

There are many angles and outcomes to this issue – senseless murders and burgeoning mental health issues to name just two – and the politicians are ignoring the problem because they seem to think it has nothing to do with them.

Sorry politicians; you might think you have the Nelson touch when you put your telescopes to blind eyes, but this is a different situation. It does have something to do with you because you’re the ones entrusted to guide the culture along safe, sustainable, and reasonably egalitarian lines. If you continue to ignore your culpability, this general breakdown of cultural standards and behaviour will likely get worse, and then your sympathy, condolences and prayers will be utterly worthless. In fact, they already are.

Questioning the Source of Knowledge.

I just read a quotation attributed to Abraham Lincoln. It says:

All I have learned, I learned from books

I find it a little odd that the quoting of it should be considered an indicator of great wisdom (as indicated by the quoting of the statement.) I mean no denigration of books – they have, after all, been a primary source of learning for a very long time – when I say that you can’t claim to truly know anything just because somebody said it, whether in a book or by any other means. I would be more comfortable with the statement:

All I know, I have learned from personal experience

Maybe I’m being pedantic again, but I might just mention that I found the quotation on a bookmark given away free by a book retailer.

Of Mice and Men and Women and Things.

The weekly visit to Uttoxeter was a little odd this morning. Women of various ages kept smiling at me, and several young men on bikes nodded to me. One even said ‘hello.’ Have I somehow become a local celebrity, do you think? And then there was the matter of the woman store assistant in B&Q for whom I’ve held a bit of a candle for something like twenty years. But maybe that can be left for another post a little further down the line (when I’ve stuck my courage to the sticking place and have something – probably humorous – to report.)

But of course, today’s real madness was going on over the big water. I saw the headline about Trump claiming that he had ‘taken a bullet for democracy.’ Well now, I said recently that he had uttered the first sensible words I’d ever heard from him when he said ‘I shouldn’t be here’ (even though he’d intended something quite different from the meaning I’d chosen to take.) But of all the dumb things I have heard him say over the years, this latest claim is the dumbest of all. How can it be that a man can say something so transparently misconceived and so gloriously stupid, and yet still people cheer? This is America?

And then we got the big news: old Joe is pulling out of the race and handing the baton to his female assistant. I said to Mel a few weeks ago that I didn’t think America was ready yet for a woman President, and I still hold to that opinion. But who knows? Could it be that there are enough people strategically placed in the swing states who are so desperate to keep the dunderhead out of the White House that they’d vote for a wombat with rabies to achieve that end? You never know, do you? After all, this is America.

(And I decided this evening that I’m no longer fit to engage with human company, but I decline to say why.)