Staying Quiet.

I hit a minor free-flow patch last night, but tonight I’m struggling to find anything to say. It might have something to do with being preoccupied with the priestess. She was a little upset, poor thing, and needed an ear to burn. I got chosen.

I suppose I might mention that I was accused of being ‘typical of the liberal left’ on YouTube tonight. A short, pithy (and moderately clever) reply came rapidly to mind (which is unusual for me) but I decided that:

a. If he didn't understand the point I was making, he probably wouldn’t have understood the joke. So there was no point.

b. It would have amounted to a projection of ego, and that wouldn’t do. I might still be a fan of Oscar Wilde’s and Dorothy Parker’s capacity for the ready and witty retort, but I’m trying to be a better person.

Which makes me feel noble… Damn. You really can’t win in this life, can you?

A One-Sided Expression.

The phrase ‘reduced to tears’ is commonly used because tears are often evoked by sorrowful situations when a person is brought low. But what about tears of joy or relief when a person is lifted to a state of euphoria? Why do we never use the expression ‘elevated to tears’?

When YouTube Plays Off Key.

I’m on YouTube and click on a song by Daiching Tana. It’s a slow, ethereal piece carrying more than a hint of oriental mystery. My mood matches, which is why I selected it. But what does Google give me as a preamble?

It gives me a shot of a pair of voluptuous mammary glands encased in something blue, frilly and shiny. And it carries the message: Why are women so in love with this bra?

The word ‘incongruous’ immediately presents itself, closely followed by ‘bloody maddening.’ I don’t expect a commercial organisation to possess anything approximating to soul, but do they have to so readily betray their complete paucity of taste or any appreciation of life’s finer values?

A Note on a Name.

One of my favourite authors is the English short story writer, Algernon Blackwood. And it occurred to me today that, as far as I'm aware, I have never met anyone called Algernon.

I wondered why that should be. Certain old, long-established names like Edward and Thomas have maintained a regular presence in the lexicon of English forenames, but Algernon has disappeared. And then I remembered that Rupert Bear had a friend called Algernon, only they didn’t call him Algernon. They used the diminutive, Algie.

And that gave me the clue. Algie sounds a lot like algae, and algae are green, slimy growths which float on top of water and suffocate the fish. So if you were called Algernon it would be very likely that you would go into work and people would say things like: ‘There’s nothing green about you, is there Algie?’ and ‘Hey, Algie. Suffocated any fish today?’ and things like that. And that wouldn’t very nice, would it?

A Little Self-Praise.

I’ve decided to be honest and own up to the fact that I’m really quite a nice person.

Remember me saying in an earlier post that I always make for the checkout where the youngest and prettiest of the female operators is working? It’s not always true. If I see a new checkout operator who is young, female and ugly, I make a point of going through her aisle and engaging her in friendly conversation because I don’t suppose many people do. I mean, it can’t be very nice being young, female and ugly, can it?

And that’s how I do my bit to help the disadvantaged feel they belong, which just goes to demonstrate that I’m not the lecherous ne’er-do-well that some people might imagine. Not that my mother would agree with that assessment. I don’t remember many of my mother’s statements verbatim, but one which stuck in my head was:

‘I saw how you looked at that girl in the fairground at Great Yarmouth. Just like yer bloody father!’

I put it down to the fact that my father’s ancestry was Irish on the male side, whereas my mother’s had more of a Welsh component. The Welsh are traditionally chapel people, you see, which they feel gives them the moral high ground over the more Catholic-oriented Irish. That’s the difference.

(And I'm doing my level best to be inflamatory here. Somebody yell at me, please.)

Being Ahab and Stuff.

The priestess has resurrected the idea of visiting me some time before Christmas. Seriously.

I’m happy to consent, but there’s something tantalisingly surreal about it. Here is a woman who, for nearly ten years, has invisibly occupied the centre of a triangle composed of equal parts myth, imagination and mundane reality, suddenly rising out of the depths like Moby Dick on a mission. Will it happen? Will I survive? Or will I play the tortured and vengeful sea captain, waving without volition as he is taken away to an alien dimension. 

In my case, however, the dimension might be anything but alien. I have no idea, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?

*  *  *

And I’ve come to the conclusion that I dislike gurus. People who claim to know what life is about and expect me to listen to them make me fractious.

*  *  *

My computer, my computer printer, and my TV all exhibited strange malfunctions this morning. I wondered whether the matrix was surely crumbling, but settled instead for blaming the heavy rain we were having at the time. Or maybe it was Mercury suffering a toothache. I know nothing.

*  *  *

Am I talking tripe? Do tell me.

(For those who don’t know, tripe is boiled cow’s stomach. It used to be a staple of the British working class because nobody with the money to afford proper meat would eat it, and so it was cheap. It’s become a byword for ‘rubbish.’ Feel free.)

On Demure Drinking.

You know, it’s only recently that I’ve noticed how many people look like they’re trying to eat the mug when they’re drinking hot drinks. They shove as much of it as possible into their oversized mouths and indulge in the act of excessive gulping while part of their necks rise and fall in time with their lower jaws. It’s disgusting. How can a world which produces such creatures possibly expect me to be a part of it?

Whatever happened to the days when we were taught that hot drinks should be sipped demurely, with only the minimum of necessary physical communion between lip and cup? If my mother and sophisticated Chinese ladies know that, why doesn’t everybody?

Uttoxeter's Older Women.

I was standing outside a charity shop in Uttoxeter today, idly browsing the selection of DVDs in the wire mesh basket, when a middle aged woman came up to me and said ‘Hello, luv.’ She was wearing green trousers. I was inclined to answer ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ but such language is rarely spoken in Uttoxeter so I simply said ‘hello’ back. And then she proceeded to tell me where I could get a good time in one of the nearby villages, and it transpired that the kind of good time to which she was referring involved a show farm and demonstrations of wood turning. (Hopes of finding a surreptitious Soho were soon dashed.) I said ‘thank you’ and she walked away with a self-satisfied smile. Such things don’t happen in Ashbourne.

So then I went to another charity shop and was idly browsing the merchandise laid out on narrow tables, when another middle aged woman – one of the assistants, no less – sidled past me and, in so doing, brushed her bottom against my hand. Well, what does a gentleman do when a woman brushes her bottom against his hand? He remains silent, of course. But then she complicated matters by saying ‘Sorry, darlin’. I do apologise.’ Being a gentleman, I felt the need to respond. ‘Don’t mention it,’ I offered, and was immediately struck by the absurdity of such a response because she already had. Nevertheless, she walked away with a self-satisfied smile and went about her business. Things like that don’t happen in Ashbourne, either.

You might think that the link here is charity shops, but no: the next stop was the coffee shop where the toast-and-Americano lady was sitting with her toast and Americano while her nondescript husband munched his own toast absentmindedly. I sat at the next table, and was a little disturbed when the lady suddenly broke into a fit of wailing and sobbing (and squeaked quite a lot, too) while her husband regarded her absentmindedly (he’d finished his toast by then.) Eventually the dear old lady ceased her sobbing and all was well, and then they left. I omitted to notice whether any self-satisfied smiles were in evidence on either visage, but I doubt it.

This is Uttoxeter, you understand. Uttoxeter is very different from Ashbourne where the keyword is reserve in all things.

Next stop was the B&Q store on the retail park where I selected the best specialist gardening knife they had on offer (because I’m tired of struggling with the little old pen knife which used to be my brother’s and is both as old and as blunt as me) and made for the checkout. I did what I always do: chose the checkout operated by the youngest and prettiest of the female operators. (It’s what all men do, isn’t it? Isn’t it?) When it came to my turn to pay, the young and pretty operator deserted her post and was replaced by a grizzled and grumpy-looking middle aged woman. Isn’t it always the way?

‘Did she see me coming?’ I asked the grizzled and grumpy-looking one.

‘No, she was dealing with another customer. Since you’re buying a knife, however, I have to be sure you’re over eighteen. Are you?’

For heaven’s sake, Jeffrey, life is challenging you to find a witty response. I need notice of such a challenge. My mind doesn’t work as quickly as it used to. Erm…

‘Well, my mother died twenty four years ago, so I suppose I must be.’

That wasn’t so bad, Jeffrey. Well done.

The G&G one was suitably amused, and so I forgave her for being there. She even called me darlin’, so there you are. And it was Uttoxeter after all.

Last stop Tesco, where another middle aged woman gave valuable assistance (despite omitting to call me either luv or darlin’) when the self-service till I’d selected chose to have a strop. They do, you know. Uttoxeter Tesco’s self-service tills are legendary for their moodiness. Every week there are several which stand glaring at you with one hand thrust firmly onto the hip while a big notice on the screen reads ‘Don’t you dare come near me with your stupid shopping or I’ll scratch your eyes out.’ You think I’m joking? Come to Uttoxeter and try them some time. Ashbourne Sainbury’s self-service tills, on the other hand, are much different – more sedate, more self-effacing, and infinitely more reliable. Reserve in all things, you see.

But it’s Uttoxeter which has the characters while dear old Ashbourne does prosperous and smug exceedingly well. And this is the sort of stuff which really should be in the guide books, but never is.

*  *  *

I just listened to a song on YouTube called Calls Me Home by some woman called Shannon LaBrie. It was really nice. I wonder whether she’s young and attractive and fancies a job in B&Q.

On Porridge and Punishment.

I decided to step into the void and have an adventure today. Instead of having the usual pastry with my coffee in Costa, I had a small pot of porridge instead. What’s even more outlandish is that I used the excess cream in the pot I ordered with my coffee to pour onto the porridge. I did think of asking permission to do that, since the improper use of cream might have attracted dire retribution from the serving wenches, or at least harsh stares and sibilant whispers, but I decided to be the devil that I’m not and just do it anyway. I even sprinkled sugar on the whole confection. It was the most exciting thing I’ve done in years (that’s if you exclude six-hour operations, frequent cystoscopies and several CT scans.) Should this make me sad, I wonder?

And talking of retribution, I had a lapse of concentration today which resulted in the back end of my car making contact with a steel rail. It was a fairly light contact, but enough to break part of the plastic cover on one of the tail lights. I felt stupid and angry with myself, and when I feel stupid and angry with myself I proceed to feel guilty, and when I feel guilty I become mildly consumed with the expectation of punishment. That’s because I was punished for mistakes and misdemeanours quite a lot as a child – sometimes even for things I didn’t do or which weren’t my fault – and the expectation of punishment becomes ingrained after a while and never fully goes. I apologised to the car, of course, but sometimes an apology just isn’t enough.

And then tonight I watched the penultimate episode of Series 2 of Broadchurch. The last words before the credits rolled came from the Clerk of the Court who asked the jury foreperson: ‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’ The defendant’s face filled the screen…

I think today’s theme must be obvious by now.

Here's Another Fine Mess...

I said in a recent blog post that ‘it is easy to argue that nothing is beautiful in an objective sense.’ It now occurs to me to say that ‘no physical thing is beautiful in an objective sense,’ because what about a random act of kindness? Isn’t that beautiful?

Well, yes and no. I would suggest that there is nothing beautiful about the act; it’s the kindness which is beautiful, and kindness is a product of the mind, and matters of the mind are abstract. And if some bystander witnesses the act and gets a lift from it, it becomes a matter of perception. And don’t I keep saying that perception is the whole of the life experience?

Ah, but maybe I now have to revise that dictum because it doesn’t take account of the person who committed the random act. Maybe it should now read ‘Perception and intent are the whole of the life experience.’

So now it begins to get complicated, especially so because we haven’t yet considered the fundamental question of semantics.

And now I ask myself why I’m bothering to write this, and further, why I even bother to think about it? I really don’t have the patience, the commitment, the attention span or the mental dexterity to be a philosopher. I just want to find the place where the unicorns live so I can go and say hello. And if only I could go through life a somnambulist like most people, life would be so much easier.

But I can’t because I was born to think, and some congenital chains have to be borne bravely no matter how old you get. So think is what I do (along with a few other things.)

Am currently listening to some beautiful music, except that it isn’t beautiful. It’s simply a succession of wavelengths which evokes a sense of beauty in me. And now I really must shut up and top up the tumbler. Going to bed fully sober would be little short of offensive.