Considering Importance.

Recently I said goodbye to somebody dear to me. Well, no, I didn’t actually say ‘goodbye’ as such. What I actually said was more along the lines of ‘I can be of little use to you. You have to let me go to wherever I’m going. Thanks for everything. Good luck.’ Something like that. But it amounts to goodbye, doesn’t it?

It was the intensity I couldn’t handle, you see, not at the moment. I’ve never had a problem with intensity before. In fact, I’ve usually been the one to generate most of it. But there are too many difficult currents trying to pull me down right now, too many distractions. The additional effort was too much.

And then I had a strange, sad dream, and realised that she was dearer to me than I knew. I started listening to a piece of gentle Baroque music that she’s fond of (I’m listening to it now, as a matter of fact.) I know that she believes in the power of thought, and I’ve wondered whether she’s calling out to me. How egotistical is that? Too egotistical, surely. Nobody of sound mind could ever regard me as important. I don’t think I even want to be important.

But now I feel uncertain, guilty even. I feel that I should go back, but how do you do that? I’ve never been one for going back.

*  *  *

I walked past the remains of the grand, now cut down and dead, ash tree at the top of the lane today. I thought how insignificant is the life of one tree in the context of earth’s long existence. So it is with the life of one person, one great war, or the sinking of a continent. The stage goes on and on, inviting you in, feeding and entertaining you, and then kicking you out again.

Notes on Beverages and Rileys.

1. I love cold milk as long as it’s well chilled. Once it gets close to room temperature or above, it revolts me.

2. There was a time when I made my own blend of tea. It consisted of five parts Assam, two parts Earl Grey, and one part Lapsang Souchong. Wasn’t that terribly urbane of me? I went downhill rapidly after that.

3. I can declare that the best coffee I ever tasted was Taylor’s Premium Blend. When I lived in Northumberland it was a weekly treat to drive seven miles up the coast to a coffee shop in Warkworth which served that very brew. My budget doesn’t permit such a regular luxury these days.

4. Contrary to its reputation, coffee makes me sleepy. Alcohol, on the other hand, puts me on a rollercoaster. First it wakes me up, and then it plunges me into a narcoleptic state in which I’m prone to falling asleep without even realising I’m tired. When I was in my twenties, driving at night had the same effect.

5. Gin is supposed to make people maudlin, but it has the opposite effect on me. Everything is uproariously funny after a couple of gins. You could recite the Lord’s Prayer and I’d be doubled up laughing. (Come to think of it…)

6. I love the taste of bourbon, but even a couple of small shots makes me sick to my stomach and gives me a headache. In contrast, it takes quite a lot of scotch to have any noticeable effect at all.

7. I knew a man once who used to make a bit of extra cash taking bets that he could drink twenty pints of beer in twenty minutes. He could, too. He used to have aides keeping the route to the toilets free so he could rush off and vomit the whole lot back when he’d won. His name was Riley, which is a bit of a coincidence since he was a big man with a stomach the size of a small car. (When I was in my early twenties I knew a young woman who drove an old Riley Elf. She was a typist where I worked and was in the habit of giving me come hither looks. She was pretty and smelt nice, but I didn’t like her legs so I remained hence. I did have the occasional ride in her Riley, though.)

Stopping on 7. I like sevens.

Bottles and Hobgoblins.

Somebody for whom I did a little work back in the summer gave me a bottle today in recompense. (No, no, not an empty one. Read on.)

He said he’d tried to get me a bottle of sake (not to be confused with HH Munro who spelt it differently) while he was in Japan, but was told that Customs wouldn’t let it through. He said this was further proof that the Japanese are a pretty weird bunch.

‘We spent one night at a turtle sanctuary,’ he continued…

‘A what sanctuary?’

‘Turtle.’

‘Oh.’

'Anyway, can you believe it had communal showers?'

‘What, you mean men and women together?’

‘Well, no… just men, but when I went to the toilet I thought “smells a bit fruity in here” (fruity?) and there were all these Swedish girls in there with towels wrapped around them’

Personally, I find that more than a little disturbing, but I’m probably even weirder than a Japanese Customs official.

So, having failed with the sake, he got me a bottle of Johnnie Walker Explorers Club Collection scotch instead. Maybe I’ll report on it in due course.

In the meantime, tonight’s delight was a bottle of Hobgoblin Ale by Wychwood Breweries. It’s a strong (5.6 ABV) dark ale that tastes of liquorice (and beer) and comes highly recommended (by me.)

*  *  *

According to Wiki, a hobgoblin is a mischievous but friendly creature who does your ironing for you while you’re asleep. They like to be given food, apparently, but if you give them clothing they take the hump and desert you forever.

It all sounds pretty weird to me. I wonder what they think of towels.

Google, Know Thyself.

I just typed an email direct into my Gmail account. It included the term ‘Gmail’ and Google’s spell checker put a squiggly red line under it. Isn’t that dumb?

A Muse on Mutual Need.

Following on from the last post, there was something else I remembered about my walks to the town centre. I would often see a couple walking up and down the hill, apparently a mother and son judging by their body language. He looked to be in his mid forties, and she thirty or so years older. They gave the appearance of being exclusive to themselves and inseparable, a visible exposition of symbiosis – she needing his support as she grew increasingly frail, and he never having relinquished the need of her maternal presence. I used to wonder how such a man would cope when his mother passed beyond his reach.

I saw him again a few months ago, alone that time. He seemed to be coping.

Demolishing a Prop of Personal History.

Before I moved here to Derbyshire I spent nine years living on the outskirts of a medium sized town in the neighbouring county. They were lean years following the collapse of my photography business, and I couldn’t afford to run a car so I walked everywhere. Fortunately, everything I needed fell within a two mile radius and so the imposition was easy to live with.

I did my grocery shopping at a supermarket about a mile away, situated on the edge of the town centre at the bottom of the hill. I went there three or four times a week and bought enough groceries to fit in a back pack.

Such a high frequency of visits meant that several of the staff got to know me, and in addition I would often bump into neighbours and people I knew from the theatre where I worked. Strange as it may seem, that supermarket became almost a home from home, or a kind of social club if you like. I can’t claim any specific ‘happy memories’ of the place, but the overall recollection carries a warm and comfortable resonance.

I took a walk around that side of the town today for the first time in several years, and discovered that the store had been demolished. I remembered the summer days, and the misty autumn evenings, and the Christmas colour, and the countless easy conversations with familiar people. It was a nice part of my history, and now it’s gone.

I seem to be saying ‘now it’s gone’ a lot lately. I’m thinking it even more.

Another Blessed Holmes.

I was pleased to discover that there was one more Rathbone/Bruce version of Sherlock Holmes still to watch. It was made in 1942, evidently with propaganda in mind, and is called Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror. I watched half of it tonight and saved the other half for later.

I have to say that the customary deduction-by-footprints is the daftest of all, and by the half way point the identity of the secret Nazi agent is obvious. But the style is impeccable, as ever.

Reflecting the Monkey.

I was watching a video tonight and realised how much more engaging is the smile than the grin. The smile is a little more reserved and therefore safer. The grin carries a hint of potential menace (unless the eyebrows are raised, for some reason.)

I expect it’s all to do with ape ancestry. I seem to recall that a central theme of The Name of the Rose was about laughter being an emulation of the monkey, and therefore an insult to the Deity. By contrast, the smile is essentially human with its implication of humane.

It’s complicated. I swear I’ve known dogs which could smile (although they rely more on their ears.)

Why do I write this stuff? Why do I even think about it? I hope my friends in New York (state and city) don’t get any more snow. Can’t stand it myself.

(Chuckles are OK, by the way. I'm good at those when the mood permits.)

R.I.P. English Dottiness.

I’ve decided on my favourite line from a movie. It belongs to Katie Johnson who played the terribly upright and delightfully dotty Mrs Wilberforce in Ealing’s The Ladykillers:

‘And who is Mrs Lopsided, may I ask?’

Fire, Water, and Bits.

According to the astrologers I have my sun in Sagittarius, my moon in Pisces, and my ascendant is Scorpio. That’s one fire and two waters. Now, as I once wrote in a post (it’s about the only thing I remember having written, and I’d quite like it to be engraved on my tombstone just to confuse the parishioners)

Water falls to rest. Fire rises to oblivion.

It’s hardly any wonder I get confused, is it? And somebody once told me it’s the perfect combination to produce a sot. See, I always said it wasn’t my fault.

*  *  *

Why have airline companies suddenly started quoting prices as 499 GBP? What was wrong with £499? They do the same with USDs.

*  *  *

There’s a track on YouTube entitled The most beautiful rendition of Ave Maria I’ve ever heard. It would have to be.

*  *  *

The woman who sings Alegria – the video to which I’ve already posted twice so I’m not going to post it again – has a most astonishing voice which makes my skin tingle every time I hear it. She’s worth ten of the paste-encrusted bimbos who pass for music stars these days, and yet I don’t even know her name.