Entrusting a Tooth to a Transylvanian.

I called in at the dentist when I went to Ashbourne today, to see what they could offer by way of service to a broken tooth. My regular, albeit newly appointed, Greek dentist was busy, so I got placed under the maternal wing of Miss Medeea. Remember Medeea, the woman dentist from Transylvania who got a mention on this blog about a year ago? (And whose name I incorrectly spelt the Greek way, by an odd coincidence.) She was between patients and agreed to take a look.

She was good. She explained what condition it was in, why she couldn’t smooth off the rough edges, and what would be needed to put it right. And then I was booked in for a half hour appointment, which indicates that she’s going to take a bit of trouble to do a decent job. She inspired my confidence. She did. And my confidence is not easily inspired, you know. It isn’t.

Only one little glitch. Try saying ‘Hello, Medeea,’ and see what it sounds like. And I saw from the name plate on her surgery door that her surname is Popei. I didn’t have the heart to ask how it’s pronounced. I could feel a 'Release Brian' moment coming on.

Precariat and Proud.

I watched an extended news report on the class system referred to in the previous post. It explained that the criteria used for defining class fall into three categories:

1) How much money a person has.

2) The ‘quality’ of a person’s cultural activities.

3) The ‘quality’ and quantity of their friends.

‘Quality’ is, of course, defined according to traditionally conditioned notions that the system then seeks to reinforce. (People who have professional friends, for example, score higher than those whose friends are bus drivers.) In other words, it’s essentially incestuous.

Shouldn’t we be getting beyond this by now? Do we need to reinforce traditionally conditioned notions of quality? Do we need to categorise people into classes in order to judge them, because that’s what this is all about in the final analysis?

At the end of the report, all I could say was ‘What a complete load of utter b****cks!’

I’m happy to say, however, that the report confirmed my status as one of the Precariat. I think I might have a tee shirt printed along the lines of the post title, then everyone can be in no doubt that I belong to the lowest form of human life.

Being in the Right Class.

A recent social study in Britain has concluded that the old three-tier class system of working, middle and upper is now outdated. It suggests that a new seven-tier system should be recognised, running from ‘elite’ at the top to ‘precariat’ at the bottom. ‘Precariat’ is a contraction of ‘poor, precarious proletariat,’ apparently.

This is heartening, since it explains why I’m down here at the bottom. It’s because I like alliteration.

Being the Lost Child.

It’s become a habit of mine lately to watch compilations of clips from Lord of the Rings on YouTube. There are loads of them, all accompanied by different music. I saw all three films years ago, but my memory of them is vague. Now I have the boxed set of DVDs sitting on my office desk waiting to be watched, and yet I’m incessantly reluctant to make the time to do so.

I’m reminded, you see; I’m reminded that adults make a clear distinction between reality and fantasy: ‘this is real, that’s just entertainment.’ I’m reminded that children don’t make such distinctions. Everything blends together into a more comprehensive view of reality. It isn’t so much what LOTR is, but what it represents: the magic, the heroism, the beauty, the suffering, the triumph, the spectacle.

I never lost that blurring of the forms, and so I’m concerned that in my present situation I could so easily be stolen away. I could become The Lost Child and find it hard to return, and then I’d be tilting at windmills even more than I do already.

Maybe I should get back to commenting on politics instead. That’s real enough. The problem is that what I hear coming out of the mouths of government ministers at the moment is even further removed from reality. It’s absurd, dishonest, self-serving and delusional. How is one supposed to know what line to walk in this crazy, complex life?

Consciously Untitled.

I thought of packing the blog in today. I thought of explaining my reasons with a long and detailed swan song. Then I thought of explaining them with a greatly truncated swan song. Then I decided I didn’t want to after all. Sometimes people just disappoint me, you know? It’s probably more my fault than theirs, and I’m sure I’ve disappointed plenty of people myself in my time.

My shopping today consisted of chocolate biscuits, coffee, paint, porridge oats and porter. I deem it a good day when my shopping not only sums me up, but is even alliterative. The proper shop is tomorrow.

And tonight I decided to be adventurous and take a different route on the walk. I disturbed a surprising number of pheasants roosting in trees, poor things. No doubt they are unused to having a dubious human reprobate creeping furtively around their environment in the dark, intent upon all manner of unspeakable malefactions. It’s a good job they have no use for windows, isn’t it?

Now I think I’m being guilty of a sort of passive aggression. Well, why not?

Pairs and Patterns.

Three things I noticed on tonight’s walk:

A plane approaching me low coming from East Midlands Airport. Green light to the left, red light to the right.

Orion looking resplendent, even though the sky wasn’t quite fully dark, flanked by the two brightest stars:  Sirius to the left, Jupiter to the right.

A young woman applying underarm deodorant; two sweeps to the left, two sweeps to the right.

It’s odd how sometimes the things we observe follow the same pattern.

The Dilemma.

This pheasant issue really is a problem, you know. I watched him walk slowly across the lane this morning, and I was immediately concerned that he might get run over. But then I heard his thought processes, which went something like:

‘OK, OK, you win. I’ll be off now to die quietly of cold and starvation, alone and unloved, in that dreary, windswept field over there. The one with snow on it. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

If only he would talk to me and we could make a deal:

‘How about I put two handfuls of oats and two handfuls of seed down behind the bottom hedge every morning? Would you leave the bird feeders alone then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

As it is, if I don’t keep chasing him off, there are fifty or sixty garden birds – which are more susceptible to cold owing to their size – which will go hungry instead. So what am I to do?

His life is harder than mine; mine is more complex. Which is worse?

Lunchtime Notes.

There’s no sign of spring yet. The ground remains unworkable, and since the temperature continues to full significantly below freezing every night, there wouldn’t be much point trying to do much with it anyway. And the cold east wind that so readily invades my house is due to strengthen again through this week.

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Blogger has started messing with the formatting of posts, mostly inserting spaces where there shouldn’t be any. So if mine look a mess, don’t blame me.

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The cock pheasant which lives in the field opposite my house continues to try and eat all the food I put out for the garden birds. He’s most persistent when I try to chase him away, and even gets belligerent with me. This morning, for once, he gave up and walked back across the lane. And do you know what? I felt sorry for him. That’s always been my problem: all you have to do to get whatever you want out of me is look sad. Such a weakness augurs badly for success in life.

A Genetic Connection.

This is the commercial end of Irish folk music as it was before Celtic Woman invented Gaelic Glam Rock. Only Irishmen have voices like this guy, and it’s the sort of thing that the reprobate strand of my paternal ancestry would undoubtedly have understood. I hear echoes of both my father and me in it. It’s little wonder that I’ve spent my life pleasing myself, rather than pleasing the system merely to make money. I wonder whether any nice young lady washes her clothes in the pale moonlight in the Shire. Too late for me, even if there were such a vision.

A Rare Event.

There was a young woman from Kent

Who decided to eat less for Lent

So instead of a roast
She had caviar on toast
And considered it money well spent

Not very good, but don’t knock it, right? This is JJ writing a ditty. How long is it since JJ wrote a ditty? It means he’s breathing, albeit fitfully. He’s even about to have a piece of toast to celebrate. I'm out of caviar.