Chilling Thoughts.

I was thinking of my stepfather tonight, and it occurred to me that he could have been a serial killer in different circumstances. And then it further occurred to me that maybe he was; maybe he is the undiscovered solution to some enduring mystery of which I am unaware.

I didn’t dwell on it because it reminded me of that awful dream I had once, in which I had killed a woman and buried her body in a shallow grave in a wood near a lake. And the police were searching the area and closing in… I woke up convinced that it was a real memory, and remained so convinced for at least the next two hours. I wondered whether it had anything to do with those missing fifteen minutes for which I’ve never managed to find an explanation.

A Note on a Sister.

Vis-à-vis my reference to the Lady B in a recent post:

I thought I saw her walking towards me in the town today and fell to considering whether I had the courage to ask: ‘Tell me something: is your husband the father of your daughter?’ (I should point out here that I have no doubt whatsoever that her husband is the father of her daughter. The question was entirely manufactured in the hope that she might slap me in the face and walk away in a huff, for reasons I’ve already explained.) But then another consideration pushed itself to the front of the queue: such a question might seriously offend her, and I wouldn’t do that for the world, and so considering whether or not I had the courage became a redundant exercise. And it wasn’t the Lady B walking towards me anyway, so it didn’t matter.

I did, however, see the Lady B’s sister for the first time in a long time. I’ve mentioned the Lady R (for so she might be styled) before. I find her endlessly intriguing because:

1. She appears chronically reluctant to be drawn into a conversation. If I say ‘hello’ to her and get a ‘hello’ back, that’s about as much as I can reasonably expect. If I get a smile as well, that’s a bonus. Today I got a smile and felt light headed for at least five seconds in consequence.

2. She makes it plainly obvious – or appears to – that she dislikes me. I’m sure there are plenty of people who dislike me, but few make it as plainly obvious as she does. (I quite approve of that, actually; it’s authentic.) I remember the time when she cut me off in the middle of a discussion with a simple ‘bye, Jeff’ and walked away. She was in company with others at the time and they followed her. I went the other way. And I remember another time when I can be quite certain that she hid in order to avoid bumping into me.

3. She also appears to be possessed of the skill to make herself nearly invisible in plain sight. I read once that people in certain professions, like secret agents for example, are trained to do it. I believe it has something to do with reining in your presence so that people don’t notice you. And so I wonder whether she’s been trained, or whether it comes naturally to her.

4. Given how attractive she is – especially now that she’s trimmed herself to the point of being almost describable as ‘lean’ – I wonder why she isn’t either married or accompanied by a queue of young men all waiting for their chance to escort her to the ball. Maybe she dislikes balls. (Don’t we all?) Or maybe she bucked the trend and never wanted to be a princess. Sorry, frogs. No princely metamorphosis for you, my lads.

Notwithstanding all of the above, the fact that she apparently dislikes me and has no intention of ever talking to me means that I shall never have the answer to the questions. But at least it gives me something to write a post about when I’m bored.

Fraudulent October and Bits.

Autumn: Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness. ‘Goldener Oktober’ proudly proclaims the German wine bottle.

Golden? Today was dark, cold and wet in my part of the world. And the wind didn’t help. Such weather sucks the light out of me.

I remember submitting a picture of a brown puddle lying outside a muddy field to a photography magazine once, because such a sight is more redolent of a true English winter than the snowy boughs and puffed up robins of Christmas card tradition. It got published, too. Mind you, it was accompanied by several other pictures and an article which all got published. It was even translated into Dutch. It was my first lesson in the effect fame has on the ego, and how urgently one should strive to move beyond such frippery and grow up. Eventually I did, the limelight faded, and the episode ended as all episodes do.

Tonight I woke out of a bad dream which had lasted for three days and threatened to end a most valuable liaison. I also had the odd impression that absolutely nothing matters.

And today I got the call to attend hospital, there to have slimy stuff smeared all over my legs so the ultrasound thingy runs smoother. My first thought was to wonder how much it’s going to cost the NHS in paper towels.

An Odd Aspiration.

I haven’t mentioned the Lady B for a long time, have I? She just occurred to me after I’d written an apology to somebody. It struck me that I would very much like to bump into her tomorrow and say something so reprehensible that she would be compelled to slap my face and walk away in disgust.

And why would I like to do that? No reason in particular, it’s just that it seems to be my week for being excessively acerbic and I like to go with the flow sometimes.

Ah, just thought of another reason. You’ve no idea how thrilled I would feel at having my face slapped by the Lady B. Life would suddenly seem worthwhile.

Not that I have very much of it left, or so I suspect. I now have all the classic symptoms of yet another serious health condition. What an amazing time the last twenty months have been on the health front. I’ve learned a lot.

More on Being Noticed.

It is happening again.

(That’s one of my favourite lines from Twin Peaks. Back in the early nineties I lived in Twin Peaks for the duration of its run on British TV. It matched the many and varied energies filling my life at the time perfectly, so the transition from the gloom of Northumberland to the dark and danger – and occasional hilarious absurdity – of Washington State was easy. And before you ask, the answer to your question is Donna.)

But back to the beginning: what is happening again?

Women apparently noticing me. I was idly browsing (I seem to spend my life these days idly browsing) the reduced lines in Tesco today. There was a young woman in front of me – at a perfectly respectful distance I should point out – and after a few minutes she turned to look at me and then moved away. But she’d only walked about three paces before she turned to look at me again, and a hint of a smile appeared on her lips. So what was that about? What is it about me that is worth an amused double take?

After that I went into another store where a young woman was on her knees arranging the merchandise on a lower shelf. She looked up at me and smiled broadly, and repeated the action at least three more times while I was (guess what) idly browsing the shower curtains. And when I decided that none of the shower curtains would do and made to leave, she did it again. (I didn’t return her smile that time. I felt there was a level of presumption creeping into this young woman’s behaviour of which I did not entirely approve.)

I really don’t understand this. As far as I’m concerned, the only remarkable thing about me is the difference in age between what I see staring back at me from mirrors and shop windows, and how I feel inside. It’s about thirty years, give or take a few. But it appears there’s something else of which I’m unaware.

I wonder whether it’s the fact that I have Daniel Craig-style high cheekbones and a similar head shape. Maybe they think I’m James Bond’s older brother. Or maybe it’s my hair which is overdue for a cut. Maybe I look like a cartoon character.

I do wish one of them would have the courage to come over and explain:

‘Excuse me, but did you know that your nose is a really silly shape?’

And then at least I’d know, wouldn’t I?

The Frowner.

I have a feeling that if ever the priestess and I do meet, she’s not going to like me.

‘You don’t look like Gregory House, do you?’ she asked me tonight. ‘He frowns a lot.’

How do I explain to her that no, I don’t look like Gregory House, and neither do I frown a lot. The fact is that I never stop frowning. I can’t because I’m a keenly aware and highly sensitive individual who has lived a chequered and somewhat unconventional life, the upshot of which has been that my frown lines began early and grew exponentially as each year passed wearily by. My frown lines now look like Clapham Junction from the air and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I do try, you know. Sometimes I look in the mirror and try to ameliorate them by stretching my forehead sideways, but trains could still run on them with consummate ease. They’ve even got points to ensure that the Eastbourne trains don’t accidentally end up in Southampton.

I suspect the only solution might be to treat them with embalming fluid, but I doubt such a product is easily purchased over the counter. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to the Co-op funeral parlour in Uttoxeter and ask whether they might decant a few fluid ounces into the little urine sample bottle I’ve had in my backpack ever since last year’s health issues were in full swing. I think it might be advisable to wait until the priestess’s visit is imminent, however. I hate to think that some unsuspecting funeral parlour receptionist might come over all queer when faced with such an unconventional request unless the balance of interests warranted it.

And all this does make me wonder just what other strange things people carry around in their bags. The next time I see somebody I know, maybe I should ask them:

‘Have you got anything strange in your bag?’

‘What sort of strange?’

‘Well, I’ve got a urine sample pot in mine. I’m keeping it in case I should need a little embalming fluid.’

Minor Speculation.

My Hotmail inbox frequently gets polluted by those cheap, click bait adverts which Microsoft chooses to allow in its infinite wisdom. One of the current ones shows a picture of an insect, appended with the message:

This is not an ordinary bug.

If you see one…

Well, I’m never going to get to the punch line, am I, because I’m not the sort to be susceptible to click bait? So I thought I’d speculate a little, since it’s late and I’ve got nothing better to do.

This is not an ordinary bug. If you see one…

Eat it.

Call a vet.

Call a doctor.

Call a psychiatrist.

Don’t eat it.

Put it in an envelope and send it to your worst enemy.

Invite the neighbours to a bug appreciation party.

Lay off the liquor.

Kiss it and hope for the best.

This blog is not what it once was. I think I’m drying up.

Why Yorkshire?

The priestess asked me tonight whether I have a Yorkshire accent. That’s an unusual question to come from an Australian. Why on earth would she ask me that? Is it significant in some way? Does she know what a Yorkshire accent sounds like? Is this the beginning of my doom?

I told her that I don’t have a Yorkshire accent, and pointed out that there are several different accents in Yorkshire anyway. My accent – such as it is – comes somewhere close to English RP. It’s the nearest excuse I can manufacture to persuade myself that I’m a gentleman after all, even though I don’t really believe it.

And did I ever mention that a radio producer once suggested I should consider doing a late night jazz programme? The way other people see you can be quite intriguing at times, can’t it? Fortunately, I have little to no interest in jazz.

Being Reminded.

I just watched the episode of Sherlock in which the intrepid detective attends John Watson’s wedding as best man. At the end of the episode we find ourselves at the post-reception hooley. The PA is playing a Bee Gees song and the attractive young woman who has been paying Sherlock so much attention all day is now dancing with another man. Sherlock realises that he is alone in a room full of people having fun, and leaves.

I’ve been there several times. It’s what comes of being a bit different and you get used to it. And it brought to mind an insignificant but mildly amusing memory.

It was in a city centre nightclub back in the days when I was younger than Sherlock Holmes. The DJ was playing lots of Bee Gees tracks that night. Marie Harrison was young, blonde and wearing a cheesecloth dress. She paid me a lot of attention all evening, and then disappeared.

The following day I pieced together what little she had told me about herself and set about tracking her down. I gate-crashed her next engagement and waited for her to notice me. Eventually she did, and then she approached me with peevish eyes and said ‘What the hell are you doing here? Would you like to come and meet my husband?’ Whoops.

It’s interesting to note that it was through that little adventure that I met the woman I was subsequently to marry. Doesn’t life weave interesting patterns? And the only interesting thing I subsequently discovered about Marie Harrison’s husband was that he liked his rice pudding served cold.

A Case of Criminal Pollution.

You know what those soulless nerds at Google are doing now? They’re interrupting longer pieces of music with adverts. Mid bar. No natural break. No warning. Nothing. There you are being swept along by a piece of exquisite piano playing when some woman with a chirpy and mumbled American accent suddenly starts trying to sell you a pair of shoes.

I do understand why the people at Google feel entitled to throw adverts at you, but not in the middle of a piece of music for heaven’s sake. Where is the law when you need it? Why are Google not fined 10% of annual pre-tax profits every time they commit such a crime. For crime is what it is. No argument.