Nurture vs Nature.

I have an appointment to see my doctor this afternoon to discuss a somewhat contentious issue.

I’m a little nervous about this because I was conditioned by my mother from my earliest recollection to regard the doctor as the ultimate authority figure whose orders must be obeyed in every circumstance. Resistance is not only useless, but very nearly a capital crime where the doctor is concerned.

This doesn’t sit easily with me. I dislike authority figures in all circumstances, and mostly I’m congenitally inclined to distrust them. And that causes conflict.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m being weak and giving in too easily. At other times I wonder whether I’m being unreasonably bloody-minded and refusing for the sake of refusing. Making a sensible, informed decision isn’t easy when there’s a battle raging inside your head and you’re desperate to quieten the maddening noise of a howitzer battery.

And so the stresses go on and life doesn’t get any easier.

*  *  *

And a little side note:

I was in a charity shop yesterday, browsing the random mix of sundry, ‘pre-loved’ items laid out and waiting for a home. A young woman with long hair came walking towards me and said:

‘Did you want to pay for something?’ At this point I realised that my inquisitor was, in fact, a young man. At least I think it was.

I’m sorry? I asked quizzically.

‘Did you want to pay for something?’

No.

And then he (I think) walked away and continued with whatever business he (apparently) was engaged in. And people call me strange.

The Wrong Way Round.

I’ve noticed a trend on YouTube lately. Comments I make get relegated over the space of a few days from top of the list to somewhere around number 52. And while people who utter such profundities as ‘WOW!’ and ‘OMG!’ get 100+ likes, I get none. I’m coming to suspect that the average YouTube viewer has a different sense of humour to me.

And I saw a young Chinese woman with her little girl in Uttoxeter today. The mother was a picture of prettiness, but the kid wasn’t. I think this must be a Chinese thing because it’s almost unfailingly the other way round in Uttoxeter.

A Few More Nondescript Notes.

Today was intended to be something of a red letter day – the first time that my daughter had been to my house since I moved here over thirteen years ago. The plan was thwarted in consequence of somebody being hit by a train somewhere between Crewe and Derby. Disappointed though I was, my sympathy lay with the person who probably came off worst in their contact with several tons of fast moving metal.

*  *  *

So did I have any interesting encounters today? No.

What did I have for lunch? A vegan sausage roll and a piece of bread pudding.

Am I a vegan? No, merely a standard vegetarian. And I do realise that a standard vegetarian is no longer regarded as a member of the lunatic fringe, but has become the culinary equivalent of the bourgeoisie – despised by peasant and aristocrat alike. Oddly, I don’t entirely disagree.

*  *  *

And it occurred to me to wonder how many people there are around the world who know nothing of the English language except the words Harry and Potter. And then I wondered how many of them always get the words in the right order. And when I transposed them it further occurred to me that Mr Potter’s ancestors might well have come from the area where I grew up, only he didn’t because he’s fictional. (Having said which, I now wonder how many people know he’s fictional.)

*  *  *

This pointless ramble has to end somewhere. Better sooner than later.

I ’gin to be a-weary of the sun

Another Ramble on Self.

I’ve referred a lot lately to the question: Who am I? I’ve talked about grappling with the notion that what I see in the mirror isn’t me, but simply a vehicle in which the real me travels the road of a material life. I’m more or less of the opinion that the sense of self is effectively flawed, or at least incomplete, since I’m very nearly convinced that none of us are what we see in the mirror. What we are is mind, nothing more and nothing less.

Perception is the whole of the life experience. Everything of value in this life is ultimately traceable to the mind and is therefore abstract. Maybe I’m stating the obvious.

But let me for a moment expand the sense of self to include that which we see in the mirror. I can accept that, but in my case there’s more. My sense of self does include what I see the mirror, but it also includes my environment – my house, my garden, and the landscape beyond – and it does so at a surprisingly deep level. They are a part of me just as my body is a part of me. When I stand on the lane beyond the bottom of my garden at twilight when the atmosphere is just right, I don’t merely enjoy what I’m seeing, and neither do I simply feel connected with it. I feel an integral part of it. I think it would be impossible to describe the feeling further.

I had a visit today from Mel, my ex and best friend. It was pleasant sitting outside in the gentle September sunshine with tea and cake, talking over matters of current interest to us. And yet after she’d gone I experienced something that I’ve experienced a few times lately. I felt uncomfortable, and when I investigated the feeling I realised that my sense of self felt fractured because another entity had been sharing its space and shaking the components about.

And now I really don’t know where I go from here because I seem to be contradicting myself. It's that old business of logic reaching the edge of a continental shelf...

I just noticed that the first line of another favourite song by Daiching Tana is translated as: The moon rises in the silent sky. Does it rise? Or does it hang, or does it float, or does it sail, or does it take up station? It’s all about perception because none of them are literally true. And so the coming of full circle confuses me.

The priestess told me recently that she became aware of other layers of reality co-existing with the one we take for granted as the real one. She felt herself dissolving and saw life as death. I was quite envious. And now I need a drink.

A Short Note on Generations.

It’s an odd fact that every time I read a biography of somebody on Wiki and discover that they were born later than me, I get an odd sense of being in limbo.

I grew up with people older than me and now they’re all dead. So who are all these younger people who’ve taken their place? And what am I supposed to do with them?

On Chinese Women and Creamless Coffee.

A new trend appears have started at the Costa Coffee shop in Ashbourne. Women who may be categorised as Chinese women who look as though they don’t belong in Ashbourne have begun to appear there in substantial numbers. (Well, two actually, but that’s a lot for Ashbourne.)

The first appeared around two weeks ago. She had long, wavy, henna-coloured hair and a Bohemian style of dress. This is most unusual for Ashbourne because the closest thing you’re ever likely to find there which might be described as Bohemian is the odd vinyl recording of something by Smetana or Dvorak in a charity shop. Ashbourne doesn’t do Bohemian; Ashbourne does waxed jackets, Hunter wellies and shooting sticks. Ashbourne is a true blue Tory town, and the woman in question looked like a walking representation of a rainbow. The fact that she spent a whole ten minutes in the toilet refreshing her make-up might or might not be significant. I chose to style her Ms Taiwan.

Today’s woman was completely different. She was even wearing blue. She was very smart, almost businesslike you might say, but in a way that was different than the way in which British business women look businesslike. It was a Chinese sort of way – smart black trousers, dark blue blouse, and wearing her long, silky black hair in a pony tail held tightly against her head with a matching blue band. I spent the whole time while drinking my double shot Americano (more of which later) trying not to reveal the fact that I was fixated on her. I so wanted to go over and say ‘Do excuse my presumption madam, but may I say how splendid you look and how splendidly Chinese to boot.’ Eventually I decided not to because she had the type of Chinese eyes which, lovely as they were in general terms, had a certain fierceness about them and I feared she might hurl one of those sharp twirly things at me like they do in the films. I chose instead to style her Ms Hong Kong and then consign her to my mental photo album for posterity.

*  *  *

Now, to change the subject…

I walked up to the counter and said to the first serving wench:

‘Medium Americano with cream, please.’

‘Medium Americano with cream,’ said the first serving wench to the second serving wench, who promptly disappeared into the back. She returned empty handed a few minutes later and said to the first serving wench:

‘They didn’t deliver the cream this morning.’

‘Oh my God!’ said the first serving wench, falling into a stunned silence. The second serving wench turned to me and said apologetically:

‘We haven’t got any cream.’

‘No cream?’ I intoned with a downcast air. ‘I suppose I’d better have milk then.’

‘Do you want full cream milk, semi-skimmed or skimmed?’

Now, I ask you. Would a man who is clearly lamenting the fact that he is being denied cream in his coffee really want to insult said beverage with skimmed milk instead? No, he wouldn’t. How fortunate, therefore, that there was a Chinese woman who looked like she didn’t belong in Ashbourne sitting a few feet away to distract me from my sense of destitution. I think it was probably a fair exchange.

Hermione's Hair.

It is a mildly interesting fact that Hermione Granger only wears a fringe in the first two Harry Potter movies. Once she starts growing up it disappears.

This indicates to me that the showing of the forehead is something of a rites of passage experience in the world of women. I wonder whether it has anything to do with ancient mating rituals. And should I assume that the move from centre parting to side parting indicates something even deeper?

Counting On Experience.

I keep a portable electric fan heater in my office for use on cold winter nights when the wall-mounted storage heater is coming to the end of its diurnal tether. The one I have at the moment was cheap and isn’t very good, so I decided to be prepared for the dark time and buy a better one.

And so I searched the Argos website because I know from past experience that they have a comprehensive range of products running the price spectrum from ridiculously cheap to extortionately expensive, and in the process of so doing I read some of the customer reviews. I mean, what better way is there to assess the likely quality of a thing than by hearing from those who have used it?

It didn’t quite work out that way. I hadn’t realised that the mental faculties possessed by those who write reviews for Argos products are a little less than encouraging. In fact, I admit to a suspicion that they are probably drawn from the ranks of the YouTube rejects, and low doesn’t get much lower than that. I offer three examples to demonstrate my point:

Person A said: It gives out plenty of heat but I wish it wouldn’t keep melting the plug and making it stick to the wall socket.

Person B said: The heater is fine but the cable isn’t very long and it won’t work with an extension lead.

Person C said: This is an excellent product. I haven’t used it yet but I’m sure it will be fine.

I’m not making this up. That really is what they said. So now I offer it to a voting process to decide which of the three should be given the Useless Product Review of the Year Award. Being something of a rationalist at heart, I think I have to go for Person C, though the picture engendered by Person A is clearly the funniest. As for my final choice of heater, I will clearly have to prepare myself for yet another of life’s leaps into the dark.

Multiplying the Skill Base.

I remember a time not so very long ago when the ability to type proficiently was a skill possessed by a relatively small number of professionals. People went to college to learn it, while the rest of us were generally categorised as one-finger typists. Now we have the internet, and especially the social networking facilities, and everybody but the most diehard reactionary has become a typist.

What interests me most, though, comes from watching young people doing what most young people seem to be doing most of the time these days – typing on a smart phone while being oblivious to the world passing them by and even their own forward progress in some situations. They do it by resting the phone across the fingers of both hands while pressing the keys with their thumbs, and they do so with remarkable speed for an action which is not ergonomically sound.

So now we’ve stopped being a nation of one-finger typists and become a nation of two-thumb typists. I suppose an increase of 100% has to be considered progress of sorts.

Celebrity Quest.

Everybody who reads this blog must know my opinion of celebrities by now, at least the majority of them.

(‘Are you allergic to anything?’ they always ask me at the hospital.

Politicians and celebrities I always answer.

‘But not latex?’ they reply, trying commendably hard not to look exasperated.

No.

And it’s all true.)

Anyway, I’ve finally found one that I’d like to spend time with. Not simply meet, you understand, because there wouldn’t be any point in that; but spend time with, talk to, explore, possibly even connect with.

The fact is, however, that she isn’t really a celebrity in the conventional sense. She’s only famous to a relatively small number of people. I’d never heard of her until she came up in my YouTube recommendations last night. She sings exquisite songs exquisitely, and her band makes exquisite music to match. But I suppose that’s only my taste manifesting itself.

Nevertheless, there might be a few kindred souls out there who might have similar taste, so I thought I’d kick my depression out of the way for a few moments and post one of her shorter songs. Her name is Daiqing Tana and I believe she comes from Inner Mongolia (which is a province of China, unsurprisingly.) And this is she:

 

I’ve engaged in a new exercise routine lately. I look at my image in the mirror and try to convince myself that what I’m seeing isn’t me, but just a biological machine I’ve been occupying for a few decades. I haven’t quite achieved the desired result yet, but the quest will go on because…

You gotta have a quest

If you don’t have a quest

How you gonna welcome the inevitable

My left leg is currently numb and I have a toothache. And Australia won the Ashes.