I Did Not Say Anything.

(The title is lifted from Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. Her heroine says it countless times in one section of the novel, and I became increasingly irritated by it with each tedious use. I do realise that it was intended to reinforce the perception of her shy and retiring character, but it still irritated me. Nevertheless, it will do nicely for an insubstantial little recollection which has absolutely nothing to do with landed gentry, big old houses, murdered wives, evil housekeepers, or simple-minded old beachcombers who don’t want to go to an asylum.)

So, when I was in Sainsbury’s last week I found myself sharing the space in front of one of the freezer cabinets with a woman who looked to be around late thirties or fortyish. I found her appearance (or let’s call it her ‘presence’, which would probably be more accurate) intriguing.

She was wearing the most un-stylish jeans which I think I have ever seen – faded blue corduroy which was clean but looked well worn, and which were too wide to suit the modern taste in jeans designed for alternative use as drainpipes. Above that was an equally dowdy brown coat which would probably be borderline rejection in a charity shop or an Oxfam clothing bank. Her face was entirely devoid of make-up, her hair clean but unstyled. The most notable feature of her dress, however, lay with the matter of her shoes – old and battered trainers (sneakers if you prefer) which were heavily caked in dried mud. This is not a normal sight in Sainsbury’s, Ashbourne.

‘Aha,’ I thought. ‘Here is my kind of woman. No artifice, no pretence, no attempt to be “presentable.” This is an attitude of which I soundly approve.’

She saw me studying her (because that’s what INFJs do without realising the deleterious inferences which might be taken in consequence) and smiled in my direction. Her teeth were strong, perfectly formed, and a little on the yellow side.

I was suddenly possessed of the urge to say to her:

‘You’ve got a lot of dirt on your shoes, by the way. Did you know? Just there.’

And then it occurred to me that such a statement might give cause for concern or indignation on her part, and I might have to explain that it was a direct quotation from young Hermione Granger in the first Harry Potter film; and further, that it was merely intended to inject a little harmless levity into an otherwise dull day.

I thought again and imagined the various responses which such a verbal onslaught might provoke. My favourite guess was a long, silent, challenging stare, at which point I grew bored with the experience and moved off to join the checkout queue. She took the one next to mine and got through first. I suppose justice was suitably served.

Dripping Towards Dystopia.

I hear the government is putting forward a proposal that couples who wish to separate should be required to engage with officially approved guidance counselling first. Only if they do that and satisfy certain requirements will they be able to avoid a substantial fine.

Proponents of the idea argue that it will better protect children from the trauma consequent upon the break up of family homes (even though the proposals extend to couples without children.) Opponents counter that it will be likely to force some women (and possibly even men) to remain in abusive relationships. Both positions are naturally matters of concern, but my personal concern is more far-reaching.

This would be another example of yet more bureaucrats being given yet more free rein to adopt a constabulary function in the lives of individuals on pain of pecuniary punishment. It’s another drip on the way to an Orwellian view of dystopia. When, I’m inclined to ask, will politicians realise that more than enough is more than enough?

A Match Made in Heaven.

Following on from my previous post about listening to female singers, this is one of the videos I watched:

 

 

Now, I’m not remotely religious, and this song does have a whiff of colonial backwoods Pennsylvanian Baptists about it, and yet I find it surprisingly emotionally charged. I do know why I find it emotionally charged actually, but it would be so difficult to explain that I don’t think I’ll bother.

What I can say is that dear, lovely Cara took an honoured place in a corner of my heart many years ago and she’s still there. I saw her once on a BBC TV series called Transatlantic Sessions being accompanied on the piano by a man called Sam Lakeman. I was very taken with his playing and judged him to be the best pianist I’d ever heard in that kind of musical context. The subtlety of his timing, phrasing, and touch were sublime. And guess what; I was delighted to discover only recently that the two of them are married. Yay? If that isn’t a success story by proxy, I don’t know what is.

Woman as Teacher.

I spent several hours last night listening to the music of the female voice singing many and varied songs in many and varied styles. And my, how it took me back through the hour glass of my life, there to remember and reflect on my principles, my standards, my values, my passions, my primal drives. And how sadly wanting I so often found myself to have been.

This was going to be a long post about the monkey from the Id and the angel from the Super Ego working reluctantly in tandem to set me down onto a road leading from the thrilling heat of addiction to the searing heat of perdition’s flame. But then I decided it would be a step too far on a public platform, so I’ll leave it there.

But here’s something interesting which I am prepared to reveal:

All my life I’ve held promises to be sacrosanct. I once subjected myself to the direst torment rather than renege on a promise I’d made in a rash moment some weeks earlier. I’ve always believed, you see, that promises are pointless unless you honour them. I still do, but here’s what’s odd.

One day I got married, and then six years later I succumbed to the charms and advances of an attractive young female colleague in the office where I worked. And do you know what? It never occurred to me that my marriage vows amounted to a promise. I thought of them as being merely a formality through which you had to pass in order to get the certificate. I really don’t know whether that was evidence of a blind spot in my perceptions or an unconscious hiding from standards in pursuit of adventure. But isn’t it also interesting that when another woman, a little further down the line, asked to be released from her promise, I agreed readily?

So here’s a health to the women who taught me so much. And for what it’s worth, I offer my sincere apologies for any grief I caused them. I do feel pretty bad about it sometimes.

Renko: Fact or Fantasy?

Reading Gorky Park has raised an interesting question:

The main protagonist is one Arkady Renko, a Chief Investigator in Moscow’s militia. The militia handle all police matters of an entirely internal nature. If any foreign national is involved, however, it becomes the business of the KGB.

Renko is an intelligent man – a little cold perhaps, analytical as one would expect of a police detective, sometimes on the taciturn side, but fundamentally honest and humanitarian in nature and possessed of an ironic sense of humour. He tolerates the prosecution of life under Soviet politics, but has no love for it. He’s not a party man and regards the KGB as a de facto enemy. So is he at least partially representative of an intelligent Russian’s attitude towards life in the Soviet Union?

It would be interesting to know, but it has to be remembered that the novel was written by an American during the height of the Cold War. Is Renko, therefore, more the merely imagined product of an intelligent American’s fantasy? Whatever the truth of the matter, I doubt Mr Putin would be a fan because it carries an uncomfortable echo of present circumstances.

Differences.

I’ve spent 3½-4 hours today trying to get my new mobile phone working and set up to my requirements. Well, it’s working, but only up to a point. I’m still utterly bemused – and therefore stressed – because certain facilities refuse to play ball. And none of this is really surprising because I’m not a gadget person. I relate perfectly well to trees, birds, animals, existential musing, and mysterious things which have no rational reason to be there but are anyway, but gadgets are not my thing.

(I’m a good people person, but only when it comes to that rarefied 1% of the population whose presence in my orbit I can tolerate for more than ten minutes. I soon become intolerant (and a little bemused) with the rest.)

My ex, Mel, is quite good with gadgets (and I can tolerate her for more than ten minutes, incidentally.) The main difference between her and me comes with the matter of memory. (And I’m not talking computers here; I’m talking the human capacity to retain knowledge.) Mel is the sort who can remember the names and characteristics of every character in Buffy the Vampire Slayer three years after she’s watched the last episode. I’ve forgotten most of them within three weeks.

My faculty of memory resides in a different sphere. I came across references to ‘the taiga’ twice recently and realised that I didn’t know what it was, so I did a bit of research. Now I know where it is and what its natural characteristics are, and the knowledge is firmly fixed for the duration. When I mentioned this to Mel she admitted that she would be a little bemused (there’s that word again) by it all, and even those bits she did understand would be forgotten in about the same length of time it takes me to forget the characters in Buffy.

Vive la différence, eh? Yes indeed.

Mostly Today's Whinges

1. More hassle from the corporate world again today. I’m growing sick and tired of their self-serving demands and their attempts to scare me into bowing to their will. I’m capable of seeing through the fraud, but it doesn’t help with the stress levels.

2. And today brought more evidence of physical degradation. I do so fear losing my mobility and independence. I honestly think I would prefer a terminal diagnosis to that, but maybe it’s all just stress-induced fatigue.

3. I’ve developed the habit of spending money on things which turn out to be unsuitable when I get them home. Today it was only £1.50, but sometimes it’s a lot more and the cost is rising.

4. I still wonder why I bother to write blog posts which amount to nothing more than additions to the catalogue of whinges. If only I could re-discover my sense of humour I might develop the worthy capacity to become a second Karl Pilkington, but it’s gone into hibernation again.

5. But to jump off the whinge wagon for a moment, I read something today which indicated how the world has changed during my lifetime. A survey of young people from the UK, France, and Germany indicates that there’s a growing suspicion of the US and China. When I was a young person our only enemy was Russia, but that’s all changed since the great Slavic Bear gave up the USSR which provided both a cash cow and a defensive perimeter. It doesn’t have quite the capacity to instil fear these days as it used to have during the Cold War. Interestingly, one of the things the young people said was that Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has made them more aware of the Taiwan situation. It’s good that they can make such connections. And perhaps even more interestingly, they also said that much of their suspicion about America stemmed from Trump being President during their formative years. I always said that Trump would be the ruination of America’s reputation, didn’t I? I did.

Putting the Cart Before the Horse.

You see, here’s the problem with seeing a film first and then reading the book on which it’s based.

I saw the film Gorky Park many years ago. I liked it, and that’s why I bought the book when I saw a second hand copy in a charity shop. As far as I recall, the film concentrated almost exclusively on the crime and subsequent investigation, whereas the book goes deeply into characterisation and is very much richer. At least I think it is because I remember very little detail from the film, but it’s what you’d expect anyway. So here’s the rub:

I’ve arrived at the point where a black sable hat begins to have significance, and now I remember the end of the story quite clearly. Well, you don’t want to know the end of a story until you get there, do you? That’s what spoiler alerts are all about. My only hope now is that, since the book has a richer and more detailed plot, so will the ending.

This is, of course, less of a problem than reading a book first and subsequently discovering that the film adaptation misses the point completely, as happens with every adaptation of Wuthering Heights ever attempted. (At least according to Emily they do. And since it was her ghost which told me to write an essay on the matter, I rest my case.)

Out With the Winter Brown.

The mild temperatures, light but persistent rain, and occasional sunny periods we’re having at the moment seem to have persuaded Lady Spring to start donning her finery. The Shire is awash with yellow and white daffodils, and down on the green space by the post box somebody has planted a patch of purple crocuses next to a stand of golden daffodils.

The roadside verges and the path through the wood at the top of my lane now have yellow celandines and white wood anemones blooming in close harmony, and the hedgerows, composed mostly of hawthorn, are showing flashes of fresh green at regular intervals. And if you like the colour white (when it isn’t laid on thickly by winter snow) the blackthorn bushes and trees are now coming into full bloom.

What a pity then that my enjoyment of it all is clouded by fatigue when I walk among it – aching legs, sore feet, tight chest, mild dizziness, and shortness of breath. The walks are an uncomfortable chore at the moment, taken out of a sense of duty to my body and mind. But if I can’t fully enjoy the vigour of a new spring, at least I can still appreciate it.

Two Late Brief Notes.

I think I’ve said before that I regard the nose as probably the least attractive attribute of the human face. (I wonder why we even have to have them, but we do so there you are.) Anyway, tonight I watched Sinead Lohan in concert on YouTube, and came to the opinion that her nose is probably the closest I’ve ever seen to being acceptable.

Sorry Americans, but tonight I saw some video footage of Mongolia in the fall. It’s even more spectacular than New England.