Dressing the Part.

I’ve been uncommonly busy during the day lately, which is why there have been relatively few blog posts. I did find time to go for a short walk this afternoon, though, and it came on to rain just as I was leaving the house as it usually does. Nil desperandum: I was wearing my new(ish) rain jacket, so I pulled the hood up and carried on.

But then, when I got back home, I saw something disturbing when I caught my reflection in the window glass. The hood on this coat rides quite high off the shoulder, and so the pointed top sticks up some way above the top of my head. And to make matters worse, the two little green loops that you pull to draw the hood tight also ride higher than usual. The result is that it makes me look like a blue elf with little green ears.

Maybe that’s why the sprites have moved into the kitchen. Maybe they feel at home in the company of blue elves with little green ears.

The Kitchen Sprite.

I have four plastic magnets in the shape of mice à la Beatrix Potter on the front of my fridge. They’re arranged in a vertical cascade, and sometimes I find that number three has turned through 90° and is lying on its side instead of standing upright. No mystery there – I’ve always assumed it slipped due to vibration when shutting the door. This morning it wasn’t on the front of the door, but had been moved to the side of the cabinet. That isn’t vibration. It happened overnight and I’m the only human in the house – at least, the only live one. And maybe that gives the clue as to how the switch on the socket into which I’ve got my kettle plugged frequently gets turned off. I only do that when I go to bed; I have no reason to do it during the day and never remember having done so.

I just asked the culprit to start being useful for a change instead of playing tricks that don’t really help very much. My mother used to have the same thing happen, so maybe the sprite is family.

Gender Roles.

There was an old BBC radio show called Down Your Way, in which our friendly roving reporter travelled around the country talking to ‘ordinary’ people about their lives and lifestyles. A typical episode would run thus:

‘Good afternoon, everybody. Today I’ve come to Much Gobbling in the Vale to talk to Mrs Fiddlybits who lives near the village green. Good afternoon, Mrs Fiddlybits.’

‘Good afternoon.’

‘And how are you today?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’

‘Tell me something about yourself. How old are you?’

‘Twenty five.’

‘Are you married?’

‘I am.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Three years.’

‘Three years? Quite a veteran, then.’

‘Giggle, giggle.’

‘You’re a housewife, I suppose?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘Quite a skill being a housewife. Tell me what you’re good at.’

‘Cooking.’

‘Do you enjoy cooking?’

‘Oh yes, very much.’

‘And what are you good at cooking?’

‘Bacon, boiled potatoes, erm… toast. I make very good toast.’

‘Ha, ha. I’ll bet you do! Making good toast is a greatly underrated skill.’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, sort of… What else are you good at?’

‘Erm… flower arranging… erm… making jam… erm, erm…’

‘Well, that sounds like a pretty good range of skills to me. Do you have any children?’

‘I do.’

‘How many?’

‘Twenty three.’

‘You have twenty three children?’

‘I do.’

‘Well now, forgive me being personal Mrs Fiddlybits, but it sounds to me as though you must be rather good at something else.’

‘Does it?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well… you know… making babies?’

‘Oh, I don’t make them.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. Mr Fiddlybits brings them home from work.’

‘Oh. What does he do?’

‘He’s a milkman.’

‘A milkman?’

‘Yes. He works night shifts, you see. Well, the other men don’t like doing night shifts, so Mr Fiddlybits does all of them. He’s a very kind man.’

‘Oh, right. So where does he get the babies from?’

‘They’re strays.’

‘Strays?’

‘Yes. He finds them crawling around the garden at dead of night, looking for something to eat, so he brings them home. Like I said, he’s very kind.’

‘Indeed… Tell me, Mrs Fiddlybits, do you and your husband sleep in the same bed?’

‘Of course. Him in the day and me at night.’

You see, this is what I’ve been saying for ages. They just don’t make women like they used to.

Equinox and the Rack.

I think it’s time to stop the twilight walks, since they’re starting to encourage a regular sense of melancholy. In trying to identify the cause I keep coming back to that sense of falling energies, a subject about which I’ve already waxed ineloquent. I never really noticed it when I lived in the town, but the countryside has a way of drawing you into more natural cycles and imperatives, forcing you not only to acknowledge them, but to feel them as well. And while the solstices bring an imperceptible switch of polarity, the equinoxes are the time of palpable transition.

Religious Asides.

I gather YouTube has blocked The Video in certain countries where its contents are most likely to give offence. (They say it’s in countries where the material is illegal, but it seems there’s also been a bit of blackmail going on.) What I don’t understand is this: if people in those countries are likely to be offended by it, they won’t download it anyway, will they? Will they?

*  *  *

The concept of blasphemy interests me. I think it may simply be defined as ‘giving insult to a religious figurehead.’ But surely, it’s widely accepted that the capacity to take insult stems from one of two things. Either it varies in inverse proportion to the subject’s level of emotional insecurity, or it’s a manifestation of the subject’s power mania. In either case, it would appear that an accusation of blasphemy indicates a low opinion of the religious figurehead on the part of the accuser.

*  *  *

And now some academic has discovered evidence in a 4^th century Coptic Gospel that Jesus had a wife. Well, that should have a few fundamentalists getting very angry and going into extreme denial.

*  *  *

Can’t we all just grow up?

Trying.

Had a little trip out to the city today, delivering up Monsieur Renault to Nigel’s tender mercies in the hope of getting the windscreen wipers to do what they’re supposed to do. I didn’t get offered the little red sports car to come home in this time – had to make do with Nigel’s van instead. I’m not complaining, though; Frothy 2 is a characterful little chap, with his deely-bopper radio aerial and the flashing yellow lights mounted on the roof. I wondered whether I might turn them on when I go shopping tomorrow, but I’d probably get arrested for disturbing the peace, or the cows, or the farmers, or something.

I spent some money while I was over there, mostly on stuff to tart up my office now that I’m redecorating it, although I also bought a new toothbrush. That was pretty exciting because it was an expensive one on special offer. It occurred to me that it will give me something to say to the dentist’s nurse the next time I go. ‘Do you know what I bought recently? A new toothbrush!’ And she can give me a withering look, which is better than no look at all, I suppose. Is it? I don’t know. I’m fed up.

It was warmer there than it is here in the countryside, and a very pretty girl smiled at me in the pasty shop – three times. Haven’t a clue why. Was I supposed to smile back? And I got free coffee as usual, courtesy of my old friend Mr R.

You can’t say my blog posts haven’t got some zip in them these days, can you?

September Twilight.

This evening’s twilight was typical of what we often get in September, and with which I can’t say I’m particularly comfortable. There’s a harshness about the light, a quarrelsome look about the western sky, a chill in the air to which we haven’t yet become accustomed, and they fade quickly. In thinking about the quality of the light, however, I was served a bonus: I finally solved a twenty-year-old mystery.

Back in the early nineties I was living up in Northumberland, and I was surprised one night at about 1am to see that the northern sky was very bright. That surprised me because even in June, which it was, you expect the first light to appear in the eastern sky a couple of hours later than that. Tonight I worked it out. I'm sure it's all to do with axis tilt, light spill, and the reflective quality of Arctic ice.

The only point of note about the walk was that some of the boys up the lane paid me great attention as I walked past. Graham didn’t; he was too busily engaged in having a play fight with one of his pals. And he was doing so normally, head to head. At no time did he pick up a stick and hit his opponent with it. I felt truly honoured.

Whose Fault Dependency?

I see Mr Romney has shot himself in the foot again. The Republican Party does have an endearing habit of pushing the fools to the front, doesn’t it? I think his little faux pas invites a brief comment.

The reason why ‘47% of Americans’ (assuming the statistic to be accurate, since we all know how readily politicians throw spurious figures around) feel themselves to be dependent and entitled to food, clothing and a place to live is because of the way Mr Romney and his pals have been mismanaging the balance of wealth over the past few decades.

I was told a long time ago that as technology took over the jobs people used to do, the wealth thus generated would enable people to work fewer hours for the same pay. It didn’t happen, of course. Instead, the greedy entrepreneurs simply did away with the ‘unnecessary’ jobs, kept those still in employment working forty hours a week, and pocketed all the extra money themselves. The banks were the worst offenders. It seemed that nearly every week through the 90’s, big banks would announce record profits one day, and then sack a few hundred people the next. But the same was happening across the board. The entrepreneurs used technology to make themselves into billionaires instead of mere millionaires by doing away with jobs to reduce labour costs, thus making it more and more difficult for ordinary people to get a decent job.

Those same entrepreneurs are Mr Romney’s friends and backers. They’re the ones who created a dependency culture and the need of a better welfare system by their unmitigated greed. If blame is to be laid at any door, it must be theirs. They should stop talking selfish rubbish; they should start taking responsibility for their actions; they it is who should be paying to support the victims of their greed. But, of course, they won’t unless somebody makes them.

Being Brave.

While I was parked up to visit the dentist today, I was very brave and went into the posh Marks & Spencer’s food hall. I find it really quite intimidating, you know, to mix with all those rich people buying expensive food as though it isn’t an issue. All I wanted was a 6-pack of crisps because I knew I was running short (and they were 11p dearer than they are in Sainsbury’s.)

So, duly laden with my 6-pack of crisps, I pushed my courage beyond its usual limits: I used the self-service till, even though I didn’t have Mel there to take the reins if I got stuck. And I did it, all on my own. Well, apart from having to ask the shop assistant where to put the money, because they don’t exactly make it obvious.

But that was OK; I remembered her from when she used to work in a bank, so it seemed no disgrace to defer to her greater knowledge of such matters. All I have to do now is get over having spent the extra 11p. That could take some time.

Tea and Waiting.

I just went and made another cup of tea. That’s what Brits do if they’re tired, anxious, depressed, irritated, bored… You name it: if it’s negative, the panacea is another cup of tea. Hence the old story:

First old lady: ‘It’s windy today, isn’t it?’

Second old lady: ‘No, it’s Thursday.’

Third old lady: ‘So am I. Let’s have another cup of tea.’

That’s about where I’m at right now. Maybe I should stop speaking American. Back in the good old days when the English still spoke English English, we never said ‘where I’m at.’ Neither did we say ‘No way!’ And ‘Hey, man’ was a mere languid legacy of Woodstock, used only by the new and fleeting breed of English male who not only valued flowers, but even watched them grow in the rain.

It’s all about waiting, you see…