YouTube Lament.

I just watched a video on YouTube entitled Top Ten Historically Accurate Movies. One was Das Boot, the sets for which were described in the commentary as ‘excessively accurate.’ I’m curious to know how anything can be excessively accurate, since ‘excessively’ means ‘beyond what is warranted.’ The commentary went on to say that the movie was set ‘aboard a U-boat’ which should have been ‘on board a U-boat.’ Though the movies might be accurate, seems the commentary doesn’t quite match.

So then I searched for several Susan McKeown tracks and found five of them, but every selection came up with Video Not Available. Sometimes you just have to wonder about the people running the culture, but I suppose I got a post of sorts out of it.

The Value of Ignorance.

There were things I wrote in old blog posts that I would never write these days. That’s because blogging changed me; it’s a great tool for getting to know yourself, and in my case some of what I discovered irritated me and change happened naturally.

Then again, some of what I wrote in the early days is better than anything I scribble now, which is maybe a good reason for not getting to know yourself.

Themes and the Hat Question.

Have you noticed that there are two recurring themes on this blog? Dogs and women. You rarely hear me talk about men and cats, do you? (I suppose it’s because I never had much fun with men and cats.) So wouldn’t you think I’m just the right sort of person to have a wife and a dog? Oddly enough, I’m not.

Today I made a little throwaway dog post, so now I’m going to make a little throwaway woman post.

There’s a young woman assistant in the bakeshop whose name is Poppy. That’s a very unusual name in Britain, but it suits her perfectly because she has just the right combination of fragility and expansiveness. I was going to tell her so today if she’d served me, but she didn’t – which is probably just as well because the odd ramblings of eccentric observer types can be so easily misunderstood. It’s occurred to me more than once that my path through life might be greatly eased if I had Mostly Harmless tattooed on my forehead, but there’s the hat to be considered.

Which reminds me: I feel the urge to re-vamp my headgear. This is the sort I wear at the moment:

 

And this the shortlist for final consideration:

A Jaded Response.

During the old photography days I went to take some pictures at Norham Castle in Northumberland. The only other visitor was a young woman who evidently liked poking about in old castles, and as we walked in tandem along the tops of two bits of broken mediaeval wall I said:

‘Bit like The Famous Five, isn’t it?’

She looked at me in that way young women do so very well when they’ve decided that all men are stupid and the one in close proximity just proved it. She said:

‘No.’

And I never saw her again.

(Norham Castle is the one on the right, under Herman Hess on Nobility.)

Translating Dog.

The dog coming from my right with its human was a Cocker Spaniel with a waggy tail and friendly eyes. The one coming from my left was a smaller something-or-other with a tail and eyes which seemed determined to prove it wasn’t a wimp. As they crossed in front of me, the little something-or-other lunged and snarled at the spaniel.

'Come back, Rattus Norvegicus,' cried its benighted human, valiantly attempting to hold the force of the lunge.

(Actually, it wasn’t called Rattus Norvegicus. I didn’t catch what it was called, but Rattus Norvegicus seemed wholly appropriate.)

Meanwhile, the spaniel made a deft skip to the left which would have done justice to Phil Bennett in his heyday. (He’s a legendary Welsh rugby player noted for having a mercurial side-step.)

As the two dogs (and their humans) walked of in opposite directions, they both looked back. The spaniel’s eyes said:

What was all that about, ya mad bastard?

The something-or-other’s said:

If I hadn’t been stuck on this f****** lead, ya pansy, I’d have bitten your f******* balls off!

Or so it seemed to me.

Death by Enyaphile.

I just realised there’s a novel way to commit suicide. You leave a comment on an Enya video on YouTube which says: ‘Not much of a looker, is she? I mean, Lady Gaga she ain’t.’

There are men in this world who would cut your throat after first emasculating you with a rusty razor blade for saying that. You should read some of the sycophantic slop they write. One guy admitted he’d camped out in front of her house on a semi-permanent basis just to get a look at her. And another one wrote:

Enya still play with my Feels.

Heavens! I reckon that anyone who is glad to have his Feels played with would be capable of anything.

*  *  *

And I just caught sight of my face in the bathroom mirror (in spite my best efforts not to.) It’s a reddish coppery colour. I’d quite forgotten that the sun can affect it like that. It’s been a long time.

Being Stalked by a Thing.

Remember me mentioning in an earlier post that I've twice heard a loud exhale of breath when I’ve been sitting in my living room? Tonight it was a loud scratching noise on the carpet. Have you ever read Casting the Runes by MR James?

On Socks and Solitude.

I made two new friends today, a Shetland pony and an American Quarter horse. They were both inveterate softies who were more than happy to have lots of nuzzle stroking, cheek patting and one-way conversation (and scratchy heads in the case of the Shetland because Shetlands have very hairy heads which just beg to be scratched.) They got a bit ratty with one another at one point and there was lots of stamping and squealing while I stepped back a few inches to allow them space to express themselves. Maybe they were jealous or something, but they soon gave up the spat and came back for more divided attention.

So then tonight I was sitting alone by the fireside, darning a sock that has an inconvenient predilection for springing leaks at the toe end, when I thought how strange all this is. It’s odd that a chap of extended awareness and some slight erudition should spend approximately 99% of his time alone, occasionally holding one-way conversations with hairy equines rather than the two-way variety with relatively hairless homo sapiens. I suppose it must be because hairy equines and other animals find my company more convivial than homos do. I am, after all, not the kind of person to whom invitations to tea are habitually extended.

The thought of being invited to tea was the point at which I became concerned. I’m still raiding my late mother’s sewing box for darning wool, you see, and the only colours in there are dark blue and brown, whereas the offending sock is charcoal grey. Neither wool was suitable if you’re going to be prissy about it, but I decided that brown was probably the lesser of the two evils. But then I had a terrible thought: suppose someone should break ranks and invite me to tea, and suppose they should ask me to take my shoes off. They do, you know, some people. I knew a woman once who invited me to dinner on the recommendation of her deluded daughter. She asked me to take my shoes off because the whole of her house was carpeted in white. That’s even dafter than darning charcoal grey socks with brown wool, so it wouldn’t have mattered in that case. But wouldn’t you just know it? My socks were in pristine condition. Damn. But anyway…

Being invited to tea isn’t very likely. There are a few people in these parts who seem to quite like talking to me, but only as long as we’re on neutral ground so they’re able to run away when my oddness becomes unbearable. Running away is more socially acceptable, don’t you know, than asking a tea guest to leave because he is unbearably strange and demonstrates the fact by wearing charcoal grey socks darned with brown wool. (I used to hope that the Lady B’s mama would invite me to tea because she’s sort of sophisticated like that and lives in a big house, but it never happened. Maybe her daughter wasn’t deluded enough to recommend me. And what would I have done for socks? It’s fortunate that I know my place and accept it with resigned equanimity.)

So where was I? Oh yes, darning socks with the wrong coloured wool and talking to horses. My life in a nutshell.

 

A Shetland pony that isn't the one I was talking to

and the sort of person who never invites me to tea.  

A Recluse's View on Looks.

I’ve noticed that nearly all dogs are good looking. So are nearly all cats, squirrels, badgers, rabbits, hedgehogs, cows, sheep, orang-utans, lemurs, bears (especially so), Golden Lion Tamarin monkeys etc, etc. In fact, animals just are good looking.

And yet I’ve been noticing more and more lately that most humans are anything but good looking. So if the animals can do it, why can’t we?

I met a handsome young cow this afternoon. He came across to the hedge that separates his field from the track that runs down by the side of the wood where I was.  I couldn’t get close because there was a ditch between the track and the field, but I talked and he listened. At least, I think he was listening. He looked attentive (and peaceful and not unaware of finer values) and I think we made a connection. I like that.

(Trees are also good looking. There are five in the Shire that particularly impress me. I’m wondering whether to give them names, but that might be going just a little too far. I don’t want to offend them.)

Another Idle Note or Two.

I was thinking this morning while scraping soot off the bottom of my chimney flue that wise people either question everything because nothing is infallible, or never question anything because there’s no point. And people who think they’re wise hardly ever are.

I found this video on YouTube earlier. Aren’t these people beautiful? So real and unassuming, despite being genuinely skilful. (And I get really fed up with YouTube telling me I can't spell 'skilful' just because I don't spell it in American.)