Celebrating a New Dialect.

I’ve always been fascinated by dialects, you know, and the UK has had a rich collection of them going back a millennium and beyond. They could be so different even a hundred years ago that a person speaking in one local dialect could be all but incomprehensible to a person from another part of the UK. I even encountered this problem myself when I lived in Northumberland as recently as the late eighties.

But I’ve noticed over the course of my lifetime that they’ve largely been diluted by the spread of universal media, and are now largely replaced by a wide variety of local accents which are relatively easy to understand with a modicum of familiarisation. Most people now use something approximating to Standard English, but with different stresses and variation in vowel sounds and a smattering of buzz words that are more or less universal.

I’m happy to report, however, that one new dialect has defied the trend and gone against the flow. We now have the Football Coach dialect, a fascinating new way of abusing the Mother Tongue that’s become almost as incomprehensible as the traditional regional dialects were. It can be heard nearly every time a football coach is interviewed after a game and either shown on the TV or reported in writing on the news pages. They slaughter the common rules of syntax, appear quite incapable of comprehending the relationship between clauses, employ amusingly inaccurate vocabulary, and almost always use the present tense when describing or commenting on past events. They give the impression that they’re trying to sound important and failing miserably.

So does this disturb me? Well, sometimes it irritates, and sometimes it amuses, and sometimes I give up because I haven’t a clue what they’re trying to say. And when all’s said and done it really doesn’t matter because a game of football is only a game of football and there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the world of professional sport (however much the managers, the media, and the big money interests like to feed the message to the masses that football is the only true religion.)

But it’s still an interesting phenomenon.

(And incidentally, I’m only referring here to coaches whose first language is English. Those coaches – of which there are many – whose first language is something else must obviously be excused. Having said which, have you ever heard Sarina Wiegman being interviewed? She speaks better English than most of the English do, and she’s Dutch.)

Progress.

Blogger Stats seeks to inform me that I’m currently receiving a very large number of visitors from two untypical sources – quite a lot from Finland and a veritable tsunami from Germany. Why?

Well, I suppose the Finns might be visiting since I imagine they only get about four hours of daylight at this time of year (and I really do sympathise with them for that) and they’re probably tired of playing solitaire and sitting in saunas. But why the Germans? They must have about the same day length as we do, and there must be plenty of interesting things to do in Germany, so why 648 visits in half an hour?

Maybe they’re just checking that we Brits are not all comatose, or become zombies shuffling along shabby streets with tattered clothes and empty heads, since we left the EU. Maybe that’s it. Rest assured, Teutonic chums, such a movement is afoot over here courtesy of Tory government policies, but at the moment it’s largely confined to people who drive Audi A4s.

(That was a British-style joke.)

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I might report that today I finally did a job I’ve been dreading for several weeks. And then just as I was feeling lighter and able to see beyond the barrier of the-thing-I-was-dreading, along came an email to produce another reason to feel anxious. Such is life and it’s nearly winter.

The Shire Transformed.

The Shire is moving into that dowdy late autumn stage now. Most of the trees still exhibiting some autumn colour are to the north-west beyond the river valley and are hidden by the lie of the land from my garden. The view I get now is one of nature going to rest.

The trees stand mostly stark, dark, and skeletal. The green of the pasture fields is turning dim, and most of the arable land has only just been tilled or is awaiting the process. Even those in which spring wheat and barley have been sown only exhibit the faint green tinge of new growth to ease the brown of bare earth.

But at around 4pm this evening I was topping up the birds’ feeding tables when something unusual happened.

It was just before sunset and a cloud cleared the sun which suddenly bathed this rustic piece of earth in golden light. Everything responded in an instant. The greens on the pastures turned warm and mellow, and the arable browns softened to a kinder hue. But the real difference was in the trees which became truly and spectacularly gilded with a most intense golden light. There they stood, proud and burnished as though some celestial artist had waved a hand and wrought the rarest of other-wordly transformation on a rural scene.

It lasted only a few minutes, but when it all faded the question had to be asked: ‘If this isn’t magic, what is?’

A Note on a Plummet.

This post is going to be self-indulgent, so those who dislike blog writers resigning themselves to such expression should switch off now and seek out something more entertaining such as cookery hints, flower arranging for the simple minded, show business shenanigans, conspiracy theories, or near death experiences. (Or try YouTube instead. There’s plenty available there.)

This one is about my state of mind.

You see, I realised today that the dear old thing I call a mind used to occupy a place atop a hill somewhere pleasant and positive. OK, the evidence of circumstances related on these pages down the years leaves no doubt that it took frequent sojourns to some dark, gloomy places, but it always came back out onto the airy upland eventually. Things appear to have changed now.

It appears that several years ago – and I can’t put a precise date on it or relate it to any particular circumstance – it took a fall from the hilltop and plummeted down a precipitous slope. It didn’t fall to the bottom of the hill though, but rather landed on a ledge where the cold wind blows and comforts are in short supply, and has been stuck there ever since.

(I read recently about a sheep in Scotland which experienced the same fate. The news report called her ‘the loneliest sheep in the world’, and she remained on the ledge for two years until a group of local farmers came along with ropes and tackle and rescued her. I see no obvious prospect of me being so lucky. Adult humans don’t generally get rescued; they either rescue themselves or they learn to live with it. I’ve long been of the opinion that counsellors and psychotherapists can be quite efficacious in matters of trauma, but rather less so when dealing with long term issues. Maybe I’m wrong. How would I know? But to continue…)

This evening I came across an old blog post which featured a YouTube video of a short extract from the original version of Riverdance performed in Dublin in 1995. (It was the dance called ‘Countess Kathleen’ if I remember rightly.)

Well, the mid nineties were a special time in my life, a vibrant time characterised by positivity, connections, new experiences, etc, etc. So when I saw the piece and heard the music, it all came back and my poor old mind was suddenly assailed by a sudden onset of emotion. ‘How on earth,’ I asked myself, ‘did I go from that to this? How, when, and why, did the darkness fall the way it did?’ And I had no answer.

That’s about as much as I feel I need to say on the matter, except to add that the onset of emotion didn’t last very long. It was but a passing cloud, so I would ask those who’ve come to know me over the blogging years not to judge me too harshly. The fabled British stiff upper lip still occupies the watchtower to keep emotional onsets strictly in their place. (Although it can be briefly sympathetic in exceptional circumstances.)

Pointless Dreaming.

As I sit here alone in my rustic little garret, I sometimes give myself over to long association with fondly imagined fantasies, the nature of which is such that I can be quite sure they will never come to fruition. And some of them contain a surprisingly extended and detailed narrative, developing in their own way with no preparation or planning.

Why do we do that? Or don’t we? Am I the only one? (Apart from Mr EA Poe who famously said ‘those who dream only by night…')

On False Figures and a Reluctant Read.

I have two stats trackers on this blog. One is the old Flag Counter which used to record hardly anything and was all but useless. The other is Blogger Stats from Google which comes with the system.

At the moment, Blogger Stats tells me I’m getting several hundred visits a day exclusively from Singapore, India, Japan, South Korea, and the USA. The Flag Counter, which used to record 1-3 visits a day, has suddenly started telling me that I’m getting dozens of visits a day from such disparate locations as Ireland, Brazil, Thailand, and Guatemala, and very many US states as well.

Needless to say, I don’t believe either of them. Would it be unreasonable, I wonder, to wish that the techies would devise something that works?

*  *  *

I’m just arriving at the point in Tenant where I suspect that dear benighted Helen is going to start recounting the details of an abusive marriage. I don’t want to go there because heaven knows there’s more than enough abuse going on in the world as it is, but if you’re going to read a novel I suppose you should read all of it.

‘Must be firm!’ (That’s a line from MR James’s short story The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. I find it the most chilling line in what I consider to be the most chilling of his stories.)

Life and the Hanging Coin.

I was making my bed this morning when I was struck, apparently without any obvious prompting, by the fact that I have never been or done anything notable. I asked myself whether I’d ever achieved anything of substantial significance. Not really. And then I asked myself whether I’d ever made any major difference to anything. Not knowingly. My immediate response was one of simple disappointment. I felt that I must have failed to grasp some opportunity somewhere along the road, and by so failing allowed myself to remain insignificant.

It didn’t last too long because it’s the same for most of us, isn’t it? We plod through our lives without ever scaling any previously unclimbed peaks, or winning any battles when the odds are stacked against us, or catching the serial killer before he can strike again. It seems that 99.9% of human beings are no more than monuments to mediocrity. And then it all comes to an end and, as Shakespeare wrote: Our little lives are rounded with a sleep.

So why do we venerate life so much, as most of us do? I’m no exception to that, regarding all life as sacred and preserving the life force of any creature when presented with the opportunity. Is this the obverse side of the same coin, and is it why I’ve never been able to accept that this mysterious and staggeringly complex thing called life stops and submits to oblivion when the human host casts off its mortal coil?

When regarding this question, it seems that most people toss the coin and accept the evidence of whichever side is visible when it lands. I’ve never been so lucky – or so gullible, if you prefer. When I toss the coin it hangs in the air in precisely the same way that everything else doesn’t. It hangs there still.

Discovering Anne and Some Oddments.

I’m now getting deep into Anne Brontë’s magnum opus (I hope you’ve been paying attention and know which magnum opus I’m talking about) and find myself surprisingly impressed by the level of intelligence she must have possessed. I’d come to think of her as the sweet and demure little baby of the family, forever slightly in the shadow of her more illustrious sisters. Well, I’ve changed my mind.

Tenant does not treat the reader to the honeyed prose of Charlotte’s work, and there’s no trace of the darkness, tempestuousness, and mystical implications of Emily’s Wuthering Heights, but her eye for detail is exemplary. More to the point, her understanding of the vagaries of human nature, and how those vagaries interact with social conventions and expectations, is most impressive. And even more to the point, she appears to have been way ahead of her time in presenting her heroine, Helen Graham, as a strong, independent woman who flatly refuses to bow the knee to any notion of feminine subservience in the matter of marital relationship. It goes way beyond what I was brought up to consider normal even in the relatively modern day.

Reading on (and being quite in thrall to the experience.)

*  *  *

There’s a woman I occasionally see walking up the road to the school. She’s very small and thin with unusually pinched features. One hand is always holding a lead, at the other end of which is a very small and thin dog with unusually pinched features. The other is always holding the hand of a small boy who looks normal in every way, and I’m never quite sure which aspect of this odd picture I should find the oddest.

*  *  *

Today I had two replies to comments I left on YouTube videos. They both agreed with me. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Must try harder.

*  *  *

Late last night I began to write a blog post, but soon dispensed with it because of the lateness of the hour. I intended to write it in full today, and since it only contained the first few lines I didn't bother to save it. And now I haven't a clue what it was about. That's so typical of me these days.

A Trial, a Terror, and a Bad Habit.

Today I had my latest visit to the doctor arranged to evaluate my scrupulously kept daily blood pressure readings and conduct a minor medications revue. (I have a little blood pressure monitor, you know. It affords me a sense of being rather more competent than I actually am.)

Since I was in Ashbourne anyway, I decided to kick my heels for a while in the town rather than needlessly wasting petrol to go home and come back again. My appointment was for 3pm and I checked in at 2.40. The screen said ‘You are the first patient to be seen.’ ‘Oh good,’ I thought. ‘He’s running early for a change. Maybe I’ll be back in time to have some lunch after all.’ And so I waited expectantly for the call to come any minute. At 3pm the screen flashed up a short message which said: ‘Dr Curry is currently running 40 minutes behind schedule.’

‘Damn.’

(But at this juncture it might be apposite to remind any Americans reading this and feeling desperately sorry for me in my hour of trial, that these visits are free. Nobody has to forego a visit to the doctor just because they can’t afford it. We never had the issue of Obamacare here, so none of our dear, rich capitalist bigwigs had any cause to rise up raging, frothing at the mouth, and risking incontinence at best if not terminal apoplexy.)

It turned out that the screen was doing the worst case scenario trick because I got called in at 3.30. My readings were determined to be satisfactory, my current little cocktail of meds given the all clear, and the world declared to be the best of all possible worlds. ‘Can I go now?’ I asked (even though I’d only just walked into his office.) ‘Yes.’ ‘Thank you. Bye.’ (I was intending to relate my favourite joke from a Laurel and Hardy film – since we’re both fans – but I’d noticed the next man in the queue looking a little restive so I thought I'd do the poor chap a favour and skip the pleasantries. When I passed him on the way out he said ‘You were quick.’ ‘I know,’ I answered smugly. ‘I made it so.’ Because I had. But it was still too late to bother with lunch when I got back.

*  *  *

Last night’s dream was an unpleasant one. I found myself treading about in a mess of all sorts of random bits and pieces. I had no idea what they were, why they were there, or what I should do to put them in some sort of order. The confusion continued for about an hour after I woke up, and the Blogger stats facility chose that inopportune time to start malfunctioning. (It still is.) I was led to suspect that either the stars are in seriously unfavourable alignment, or maybe my guardian angel is experiencing hot flushes.

But that wasn’t as bad as what happened a couple of weeks ago. I woke up some time in the early hours while it was still dark, feeling seriously scared because I was sure that there was an unfriendly presence in the room. This has happened before, and my usual recourse is to open my eyes to be sure there’s nothing to be seen, and then say ‘what the hell’ and go back to sleep.

This time was different. I was reluctant to open my eyes because my mind’s eye was suddenly filled with an image of a little girl in a long white gown climbing onto the end of my bed. It watched as she crawled slowly up the bed towards me. Her eyes were large and dark, and her face carried an inquisitive expression. I began to fear that I would soon feel her hand touch my leg, and then I did feel something apparently touch my leg. But it didn’t feel like something physical; it felt like a mild electric shock which produced a rippling sensation in my knee and a spreading of the effect throughout my body. And then it happened again a few seconds later. I waited anxiously for it to happen again, but instead I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew I was waking to a bright morning.

It appears that my imagination is a most potent force. Either that or I must hope that my guardian angel doesn’t make a habit of suffering hot flushes.

*  *  *

I noticed in the supermarket today that I’m constantly fascinated by ugly people (and there are plenty of them about.) I stand and stare at them, wondering how they came to be so ugly and to what extent it’s an impediment to living a normal life. And then I tell myself that such thoughts are unbecoming, so I stop and look away. Until I see the next one…

Getting Me Spot On.

Tonight’s Tenant session (three chapter’s worth) was a bit of an eye opener.

Mr Markham inadvertently witnesses Mrs Graham behaving in a – let’s call it an unusually friendly rather than ‘intimate’ manner with another man, because I mustn’t pre-judge the unfolding melodrama – and finds it an extremely distressing experience. Why? Because he’s heard all the gossip about her, but the strength of his romantic affection and uncompromising faith in her virtue has led him to dismiss everything as no more than idle tittle-tattle. And now he feels like an abandoned puppy that’s been taken in and then kicked out again (my words, not Anne Brontë’s.)

Dear Anne then goes on to describe Mr Markham’s feelings (in his words because he’s narrating the story.)

It reminded me of a night in 1995 and an incident involving a young woman with whom a romantic connection was developing. Markham’s reaction was eerily and disturbingly familiar, so much so that I was greatly impressed with Anne Brontë’s intimate knowledge of the male psyche. That’s unusual for a female writer (and the converse is also generally true.) So how did she come by this knowledge, having been the baby of the family and coming from such a sheltered environment? But it soon went further than that when I found myself questioning how she could know me so well…

Just an odd coincidence? I suppose so, but I’ve felt a strong sense of connection with the Brontës for a very long time.