Being Harmless.

I keep remembering that bit in my dream where I ran on all fours. It was a rather splendid feeling, being able to sprint at great speed with hardly any effort. I also felt a sense of wildness in my perceptions; I cared for nothing except the freedom of the movement. It even occurred to me that I was turning into something like a werewolf, which I remember worried me slightly – until I saw the frightened dog and felt sorry for it.

So there you have it: if JJ ever turns into a werewolf, he will be a cuddly one. No silver bullets, OK?

What Dreams May Come.

The dream last night was another long one.

It began with me driving home and realising there was something wrong with the car. I took it to a garage where they found so many things broken that it was obviously a write-off. I felt full of irritation. I was aware that I had a new car at home, but how to get home?

I walked along major roads and over busy junctions, and eventually arrived at a locality I lived in during my twenties. I knew my ex wife would be in the house, but I spent the night elsewhere to avoid her.

In the morning I set off for some unknown destination and passed the road where my old house was. My wife was outside, putting things into the supposedly defunct car. How it had got there I didn’t know, but she saw me and I felt guilty. I hurried on.

And then came the strange bit.

I was no longer in the old locality, but walking down the lane where I live now. It occurred to me that if I walked on all fours, I might make better progress. So that was what I did, and found I could run at lightning speed. I felt the freedom of a four footed animal, but stopped when I saw a medium sized, tan coloured mongrel dog looking frightened of this strange creature. I stood up and stroked him, to reassure him that I was human and perfectly safe.

I reached the pub and turned right to walk along Mill Lane. There was an open wooden structure taking up the whole road, and in it sat a young woman who smiled as I approached. She seemed to want to know me, but her manner was hesitant and her mode of speech unduly formal. I moved on, meaning to come back and get to know her better after I’d done what I was there to do.

And what I was there to do was really quite innocuous. I was taking film to be processed in a lab, and I stood there for a while discussing the merits of larger format cameras with the technician and Kaetlyn of An Marcach. And then I woke up.

So, go on then, analyse that. Bit of a mess, aren’t I?

The Reason For Doing.

A friend of mine in New Jersey was recently part of an authors’ panel talking to an audience of fifty five wannabee authors. So I ask myself ‘Why do they wannabee authors?’ (Well, I would if I spoke American, but you know what I mean.)

Is it because they want to be rich or famous, or both? Is it because they want the author’s lifestyle – sitting with a typewriter in the drawing room while the scent of magnolias drifts in through the French windows? Is it because they have something they desperately want to communicate to the world?

Well, obviously I don’t know, and it’s none of my business anyway. What I realised, though, was this:

I was the ripe old age of twenty five before I stopped doing things for where they could get me. It just didn’t suit. Since then, I’ve only done things because I wanted to do them. And that includes writing. And they haven’t got me anywhere, which is why I’m a Man of No Consequence. But that’s OK.

What's In a Phrase?

"I know I’m not saying anything to you, but I’m not ‘not speaking to you.’ It isn’t the same thing.”

No, I don’t suppose it is.

A Bit of Trivia.

Having just spent three hours trimming my neighbour’s hedge (for which I’m promised a reward of home-baked scones – my neighbour bakes well) I’m settled with a cup of tea and looking at the Countries list in my flag counter. According to that, the only letter of the alphabet that doesn’t provide the first letter of a country name is X (they apparently haven’t heard of Kubla Khan and stately pleasure domes, but never mind.)

Three letters are used only once, and they’re all Arab countries:

O (Oman)

Y (Yemen)

Q (Qatar)

And herein lies further evidence of the dire symptoms to which those who’ve fallen prey to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (or whatever it is) have to submit.

In Thrall to the Condition.

This ‘condition’ is proving to be a bit of an education. It involves having intermittent pains from my right ankle to the left side of my head, as well as almost constant pain in various other places like my right shoulder. Sometimes my heart thumps, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes my chest feels tight, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it brings me psychologically low, and sometimes I feel quite buoyant – in spite of whatever pain happens to be manifesting at the time.

The problem is that it’s beginning to dominate my consciousness, and there isn’t a great deal of room left for silly ditties, random musings, philosophical speculations, lyrical waxings, or rants against damn politicians. And there’s a very long hedge at the bottom of my neighbour’s garden which is badly in need of a trim (it’s adjacent to the lane, you see, and I don’t like the place looking uncared for.) My lawn needs mowing, too, which is a moderately heavy job because of the slope.

All of which is meant to excuse the fact of my posts being thin on the ground and rather poor lately. Bear with me, if you would. Should the culprit responsible for these symptoms eventually be identified, I’ll let you know.

The Question of Climate.

I just went for a walk to the top of the lane and back. I needed a winter coat to be comfortable. The wind was howling and the rain spitting. In June I should be sitting out in the garden of an evening, listening to the blackbirds sing and watching the martins perform their aerial acrobatics.

March was the warmest for over fifty years. April was the wettest for over a hundred years. The first two thirds of May were unusually cold, while the last ten days resembled a good July. There are hosepipe bans in force because of low water levels caused by two unusually dry winters in a row, but now they’re lifting them again because we’ve had an unusually wet spring.

Britain has always had a capricious climate, but it’s becoming unusually capricious even by British standards. Is this the shape of things to come, I wonder, or only the start of the shifting shape?

Wee Timorous Beastie?

A little wood mouse has found the bird food I put out on the lid of my compost bin, and here’s the odd thing:

He isn’t at all afraid of me. If I go and talk to him, he just looks me in the eye and carries on eating. If a bird approaches, however, he runs away – even if the bird is a blue tit smaller than him.

Maybe he recognises that blue tits are tougher than JJs.

A Little Word Oddity.

Isn’t it interesting how the words ‘solitude’ and ‘multitude’ have different prefixes added to the same root, and yet they’re used in quite different ways – ‘multitude’ being a simple noun meaning ‘a crowd’ or ‘a great number of,’ whereas ‘solitude’ is used to indicate a state of being? A person in a crowd is ‘part of a multitude,’ but a person alone isn’t ‘the member of a solitude.’

In Lieu of Optimism.

Where should I look

While searching for

The Giant Onion Tree?

I think it’s big

And smelly and

A somewhat rarity.

I’ve asked my friends

But they just say

“This really is too bad.

You’ve gone and lost

The plot, old boy

You’ve gone completely mad.”

Well if I have,

That’s fine by me

There’s nothing more to seek

I’m far too old

To be so bold

As contemplate next week

Or ladies fair

Or prospects rare

Adventures pass me by

I might as well

Be mad as hell

And sulk until I die