Dull Day.

Here I am in a reasonably good mood for once, and I have damn all to say. It’s been one of those uneventful days when my mind wandered easily into areas of reverie and reminiscence.

I remembered the editor who tried to dissuade me from using the word ‘moist’ in my little book The Gift Horse (the actual phrase was ‘moistening our hands in the May morning dew.’) She said it was redolent of a certain sort of literature, a category into which my novella certainly didn’t fit. I felt this was a bit of a cheek; it was akin to paying the Danegeld, and so I insisted that the phrase should stand. She wasn’t happy.

Apart from that, there were no stars filling the night sky tonight, just drizzle. And I had my hair cut this afternoon, rather badly in my opinion but who the hell is looking?

The only odd thing is that one of the canines in my upper teeth feels sharper to the tongue than usual. According to Bram Stoker, that isn’t a good sign.

What?

I've found an advert I like - a Shetland pony doing a shuffle to a Fleetwood Mac track. It's the first advert I've liked in decades. I think I'd better go to bed.

Keeping a Low Profile.

There was a big, silver-grey Aston Martin parked in Ashbourne this afternoon. It had lots of knobs and dials, deep leather seats, and a neat little transmission shift on the steering column. Not being a fan of opulence or leather upholstery, I took to wondering whether it would be worth having such a thing. In the end I decided that it really didn’t matter and was none of my business anyway.

So then I spent £1.23 on a bite of something to eat for lunch, and drove home in the cheap little Ford. There’s something unfathomably worthy about being insignificant.

The Problem With Boundaries.

There’s an ad appeared on my Flag Counter page. It says:

Somebody you know has a mental health problem.

And it goes on:

Do you want to start the conversation?

This ad seems to be directed at me personally, and ‘Mental health problem’ is a sinister sort of expression. It suggests danger; it suggests a creature out of control; it suggests the need of segregation. I’m sure I have the odd neurosis or two, but as I understand it, neuroses aren’t considered mental health problems; they’re merely psychological aberrations as defined by the canon of academic opinion, and are treatable by psychotherapists if they’re bad enough to warrant treatment. Psychoses, on the other hand, are considered mental health problems, and are treatable by psychiatrists.

So who decides where the boundary lies, and is that boundary firm and trustworthy?

*  *  *

I read a news report today, about a Pakistani soldier who was stoned to death by a local mob for crossing a boundary. He was a Sunni Muslim, and had allegedly been having a relationship with a Shia woman. They threw rocks at him until he bled to death.

It seems to me that setting boundaries can sometimes be more dangerous than having mental health problems. It’s sometimes hard to decide who the real crazies are.

Stargazing.

The sky being clear again tonight, I decided to continue my celestial education by looking for the constellation Gemini (which I always want to spell ‘Geminii,’ no doubt because western culture is still a bit obsessed with Latin constructions even when they don't apply. Heaven knows why. When you delve into the matter, you discover that the Romans weren’t actually all that advanced. They were just a bunch of organised thugs who kept on winning battles and writing history in such a way as to fool us into thinking they were advanced. However…)

I did some checking to find out where Gemini ought to be, and made it tonight’s mission. The darker part of Mill Lane (just beyond the last tree of the line bordering Miss Sarah’s paddock) is the best place to see a large part of the southern sky, and that was where I directed my gaze. I found two bright stars which I decided were in about the right place, so I made a mental note of what was around them and checked on the internet when I got back. Voila! I’d found Castor and Pollux (which, by an irrelevant coincidence, rhymes with ‘rowlocks.’ It does, actually. Americans wouldn’t understand, but anyway…) More to the point, Castor and Pollux are the heads of the twins. Now all I have to do the next time the sky is clear is extend them downwards to identify the bodies, and I have Gemini in the bag. So let’s recap:

I can now spot the constellations Gemini, Taurus, the Plough, and Orion. I can use the Plough and Orion respectively to locate Polaris and Sirius, and Taurus shows me where the Pleiades are. Venus and Jupiter are dead easy because they’re so bright. It’s all coming to together – slowly.

You know, I never used to understand why people were interested in astronomy. My attitude could be summed up as ‘Oh, yeah. Some stars. Great.’ But it’s actually quite interesting when you’re in the right frame of mind. And I’ve discovered that winter nights are the best time to look, because the cold connects you mentally with outer space. See? Lifelong learning.

A Little Proclivity.

The doctor who did my scan today was very patient (no pun intended) and accommodating. I kept asking him questions, you see. ‘What are those orange flashes?’ ‘Why is there a lot of blood flow there?’ ‘Is that normal?’ ‘What does this mean?’ ‘What do you conclude from that?’ ‘Would it be reasonable to say, then...?’ Etc, etc. He didn’t seem to mind at all, bless him – just kept answering the questions as they came up, and up.

And then I remembered what a pain I was as a kid, with my questions, questions, questions – especially since most people didn’t know the answers to most of the questions, and I was dead good at knowing when they were bullshitting me! Most of the sessions ended the same way:

‘So if that happens like that, why does this happen like this?’

‘Because it does, OK? It just bloody does! Now, will you please SHUT UP.’

I might do a little post on the result later, if I decide it isn’t too boring. If I don't, I won’t.

Strange Day.

In brief:

Certain chronic issues that are getting me down were made manifest again today. I’m attempting resolution, but no joy yet.

*  *  *

On top of that, I’ve been uncommonly nervous about my next hospital visit which is due tomorrow. I was going to say ‘don’t bother to wish me luck, it never works,’ but maybe I would be wrong about that. I’m being unreasonably cynical at the moment.

*  *  *

HSBC Mastercard demonstrated yet again how incompetent the commercial and financial worlds are becoming, both in terms of their practices and their approach to customer service. Their practice screwed up today, and when I tried to find out what was going on I spent half an hour on the phone becoming ever more angry and frustrated. In the end I hung up without getting an answer. I wonder how long it will be before we sweep all this away and get back to a simpler way of doing business. Bankers in the dole queue. Nice thought.

*  *  *

After the walk tonight, which was a rather cold and care-laden walk with no stars a-twinkling, I fell asleep in front of the fire for two hours! I think the last time I slept for two hours in the evening was when I had a bad dose of the flu in 1995. Ironically, it’s going to make me late going to bed, but no doubt it was the work of some guardian fey just trying to help knit up the ravell’d sleeve of care. ’Tis grateful I am, friend.

*  *  *

I thought I’d post this short clip from an episode of Open All Hours. The reason I liked that series so much was because it was set in the version of England in which I grew up (and which made me what I am today…) It was a pre-internet, pre-credit card world replete with Balaclava helmets and a simpler way of doing business. Note the way the Balaclava-betopped Thorndyke pronounces ‘book.’ Takes me home.

*  *  *

So now I’m going to watch the official video of The Stranglers’ Golden Brown again. That, too, carries a strong resonance with something real but unremembered. I wonder what it was. Whatever it was, it always shifts my consciousness into a slightly more comfortable place, which isn’t so bad for going to bed on.

Reading Between the Lines.

It occurred to me that what I said about the women who appear in mature dating site ads might well be misinterpreted. People might ask: ‘What is it about these women he so objects to? Well, I expect it’s…’ Fill in the blank.

And people will fill in the blank, in some cases based on stereotypical attitudes and presumptions. In order to avoid any misunderstanding, I was going to make a short addendum post to explain myself further. But then I considered whether it was necessary to do that. If people think they know me well enough to presume a stereotypical attitude on my part – and especially if they feel inclined to distance themselves from me in consequence – then let them do so and reduce the surplus population.

Meanwhile, I’ll try to take the same lesson when it’s my turn to make erroneous presumptions, as I occasionally do.

*  *  *

The depression has eased a bit, by the way, but the bad mood is as bad as ever. They’re not the same thing, of course.

Hovering.

I’m reminded that the only acceptable excuse for going five days without making a blog post is being dead. Well, I’m not dead, at least not quite certifiably so. I suppose that makes me a fraud, for which I apologise. Would it help if I said that I’m not quite certifiably alive either?

Here’s the next best thing to a blog post. I might make a proper one if and when I get to the point of being a little less dead than I’m not already.

a) I had an e-mail from the Venus of Brooklyn today. It was a mere ten words, but the flint hit the stone as usual.

b) I’m getting a bit fed up with being inundated with adverts for mature dating sites which assume that I’m attracted to women from whom I would actually run screaming – insofar as I would be able to scream in between extended bouts of projectile vomiting. And why are they all called Rebecca, and why do they all live three miles away?

c) Winter just won’t let go this year, which might explain why the winter blues won’t let go either. The longer it goes on, the worse they get. The Shire is well frozen tonight; I swear it was the coldest night of the winter so far, and it felt desolate.

d) My living room window has no curtains up at the moment. That’s because I top-coated the frame this afternoon and the curtains had to stay down while it dried. I hate that. I don’t mind going out into the night, but I dislike having the night coming in through the window, especially when it’s a desolate one.

e) The grunting creature that I described a week or so ago startled me by grunting from the other side of a hedge I was passing in Mill Lane. I doubt it was Miss Sarah. She never struck me as the grunting sort. And I nearly got run over by a car that came roaring around a bend at speed. Maybe I shouldn’t have hopped out of the way, then I could have made a post saying ‘Hey everybody, I’m not a fraud. I really am dead.’ Then everybody would be content.

f) While I was out walking, I looked up at the stars and tried to imagine how far away 50 billion light years is. I gave up. It’s what dead people do.

After I’ve had my shower I’ll make some attempt to answer several post comments that have been languishing for lack of mental energy on my part. I really do apologise for that, but I really was gone you know? I’ll have a couple of drinks first, and maybe watch something with Arwen in it. She usually picks me up.

Late Night Listening.

A producer from a local radio station once told me I had the right voice to do a late night jazz show. Well, that was very nice of her – and I said so – but I’ve never been much of a jazz fan. The idea did appeal, however, but it wouldn't be jazz I’d be playing at 3 o’clock in the morning, but this:

  

And if some desperate young woman were to call in and say ‘Play Misty for me,’ I’d be sure to give the maid the next day off before throwing Errol Garner into the mix.