My Sort of Exciting Day.

I saw my angel in the shoe shop again today (see my old post from quite a long time ago.) I was surprised to see her there actually, because somebody once told me she’d left. I said as much to her. ‘Somebody told me you’d left,’ I said with that rare brand of nonchalance known only to ageing persons with Irish lineage. ‘No, I never left,’ she said, feigning surprise. (Or maybe she really was surprised. It’s hard to tell when you’re shaking with excitement.) And she looked younger than she did the last time I saw her quite a long time ago, which made me wonder whether there was something odd going on.

And that was today’s most exciting occurrence. Oh no it wasn’t, I forgot the other one.

There was an old lady in the charity shop, shuffling furtively about the premises, picking things up and putting them down again, regarding me with suspicious eyes, and talking to somebody who wasn’t there. She had wild, grey, unkempt hair, and at one point said (not to me, but to the person who wasn’t there) ‘There’ll be snow tonight. They said so. Snow tonight… snow…’ (That’s meant to imitate the voice fading away as she shuffled furtively down the next aisle.) I couldn’t take my eyes off her wild, grey, unkempt hair. I wondered whether there might have been a variety of known and currently unknown creatures living therein, but was careful to keep my distance because she was a bit scary in an other-worldly sort of way, so it will have to remain one of life’s mysteries. But I was a little concerned at the prospect of snow in October. I even checked the weather forecast when I got back. No snow, or so they say. Time will tell.

Being somewhat overcome by this sudden onset of excitement in my life, I decided to imagine I was one of the celebrities on Richard Osman’s House of Games, and was required to spell the word ‘anaphylaxis.’ I got it right (and just proved it by doing it again.)

And it’s all true, every bit of it.

A Vote to Kill For.

I see Tim Waltz, Kamala’s right hand man who hopes to add VP to his credentials next month, has been out letting the men of America know that he’s a true blue (in both senses of the word) macho type. He invited the press to photograph him wearing his ‘hunting gear’ (an orange dayglo jacket with orange baseball cap) and carrying a shotgun. It was all about shooting hapless pheasants, apparently.

A few people still shoot pheasants in Britain because pheasants are relatively easy to shoot. (At least they are with a shotgun that shoots spreading pellets, rather than a rifle which shoots a single bullet, which is why lots of pheasants are merely injured and left to die slowly rather than being killed outright.) This is because pheasants walk relatively slowly, run relatively slowly, fly relatively slowly even when they’ve been scared witless into flying in the first place by people making a lot of noise, and don’t bite your head off if you miss.)

But if that’s all it takes to turn the all-American macho male into your best buddy, so be it. What can I say but Go America! (I’ve known too many good Americans – some of the best of people anywhere – to offer a thought on the question: ‘Go where?’)

*  *  *

And yet a thought occurs to me. Waltz’s message – however pathetically it’s presented – is projected at fellow males and says 'I’m one of you.' So how is Trump going to woo the women at next week’s all-women convention? He can’t send the same message, can he? To do that he’d have to wear a fake ponytail and carry a clutch bag. Will he instead rely on the old Hollywood favourite ploy and present himself as the big strong man who will 'protect you li’l ladies, so no need to worry ma’am while I’m in charge.' You know, the John Wayne type who puts li’l ladies over his knee and slaps their butt if they try to get above their natural status. Could be interesting.

Today's Little Box of Bits.

I must ask Catherine (she’s the female half of the human custodians of my best friend, Nell the Sprocker Spaniel) whether she’s familiar with MBTI. It’s just that it suddenly occurred to me yesterday that the way she looks at me is the very spit of the infamous INFJ stare. When I was her age I’d never heard of MBTI, but she’s a lawyer and being aware of fringe theories is as necessary as being au fait with case law these days. It’s that kind of world.

*  *  *

I also had my hair cut yesterday, and now I’m even more convinced that I’m morphing into Gollum. People with gold rings and big feet take care.

*  *  *

You know the old phrase ‘out of the mouths of babes and sucklings’? It occurs to me that I don’t know what the difference is between a babe and a suckling. Or is it just another tautology like ‘in the wee small hours of the morning’? Will ask Google when I’m in the mood.

*  *  *

I just wrote an unusually profound email to my daughter because I have the impression that she’s not at all happy. And when she’s not happy, neither am I. I’m a fretter.

*  *  *

I did another two hours of particularly awkward and strenuous (and a little hazardous) clearance work in the garden this afternoon, and then fell asleep in front of the computer as usual. How many more times do I have to submit myself to this? It’s becoming a habit to develop a death wish every autumn.

*  *  *

Off to have coffee, toast and jam, and an episode of the Channel 4 comedy, Black Books now because I need to lighten up. The morning depressions are back with a vengeance and I think it has something to do with the nightly dreams. (Day dreams are much easier on the mind because the conscious mind controls the content. If you want Mrs Thatcher’s effigy hanging from a gibbet, it can be yours in an instant.) And I do know it isn’t morning at the moment, but it soon will be.

The Sarah Collection and a Sort of Time Shift.

I met another Sarah yesterday. I’m collecting them you know, like some people collect stamps or Matisse paintings or cornflakes shaped like the Virgin Mary with a hat on. I’ve known quite a few Sarahs in my life and they’ve all had some form of notable effect on me (some good, some bad, mostly good.) That’s why a little white light flashes on and off every time somebody says ‘my name is Sarah.’ (As long as it’s a woman, that is. If a man said it the light would be a different colour.)

I said: ‘You do know, I suppose, that the name comes from the Hebrew for princess’? ‘I do,’ she replied. So that was yesterday’s put down. But then she went on to say that she wasn’t overly fond of the name. ‘It’s a bit ordinary,’ she said ruefully. I disagreed, of course, explaining that the Sarahs I’d known had always been a little extraordinary, one way or another. And any name which causes lights to flash has to have something going for it.

She could have offered: ‘But that’s just personal to you.’ (But she didn’t.) And then I could have said: ‘Think yourself lucky. There was a girl in my class in high school called Ethel Onions. Imagine going through life having to repeat ad nauseum: “My name is Ethel Onions” every time you enquired about a missing parcel or got hauled in by the police for some misdemeanour.’ I could even have told her the story of how young Ethel once vomited in class shortly after lunch, and how I saw a part-digested piece of sprout roll under my desk. She would probably have wrinkled her pretty nose (her nose is rather pretty, actually, if any nose could ever be so complemented) and said: ‘Yuck! That’s so gross.’ And I could have replied: ‘Not really. Not as long as I didn’t pick it up and eat it.’ And then the conversation would have reached a natural hiatus because she would have been rushing off to the toilet to repeat Ethel’s involuntary projection.

Yesterday was clearly a day of missed opportunities. They happen.

*  *  *

Tonight I had an odd yen to hear Frank Sinatra sing, so I found Nice ‘n Easy on YouTube and listened to it. My consciousness flew straight back to my childhood in Eaveswood Road, Abbey Hulton. It was Sunday lunchtime again. And Christmas Day. And hot fires in the living room on cold winter nights. And watching either BBC or ITV on the television because there were only two channels back then. And life was so much more settled, simple, and stress free. Whether that’s because times have changed or because I’m not quite a child any more – at least not officially – I don’t really know.

*  *  *

(Would it be redundant of me, I wonder, to mention that one particular Sarah is immovably ensconced in prime position on page one of the collection? I suppose it probably would.)

Venerating the Kiwi Who Made a Mistake.

Last night I watched a women’s rugby match between England and New Zealand in the WXV tournament being held in Canada. At one point in the second half NZ were under pressure on their own line. The ball broke to a Kiwi player who attempted to kick out from her own in-goal area and got it wrong. Her kick was charged down by an England player who gathered the loose ball and scored a try.

So what did the offending player do? Did she sink to her haunches and bemoan the fact that her error of judgement had cost her side five points? No, she went straight to the English player and tapped her on the shoulder by way of congratulation. For me, it was the most inspirational moment of the game. There are many videos on YouTube under the generic title The Most Beautiful Moments in Sport. This was one of them, and the only disappointment was that no one in the commentary team mentioned it.

Let’s widen the reasoning a little. Sport can mean different things to different people depending on the definition, but at its root is the desire to win in one form or another – whether it be to defeat an opponent, to extend your own personal best, or to overcome what you see as your limitations. They’re all about winning. As such, it’s always a competition and so competitiveness is a foremost requirement. But take it a stage further.

Competitiveness is a primary human drive. Whether it’s a genetic trait developed in the days when puny men had to defeat powerful mastodons in order to have food and clothing I wouldn’t know, but I think it reasonable to suggest that it resides in the Id. Sportsmanship, on the other hand, lives on a more rarefied plane. Let’s put it this way:

Competitiveness might win empires for the few, but sportsmanship raises the human consciousness and makes the world a better place for all of us.

I wish I knew the name of the New Zealand player who committed that inspirational act, but unfortunately I didn’t catch it. Whoever you are, madam, you just made the world a better place and I salute you for it.

Contrasting Conditions.

As I was taking my regular walk this morning the words kept tumbling through my head. They went along the lines of:

I’m growing increasingly tired of a world run by psychopathic potentates, disingenuous politicians, a blatantly corrupt and self-serving capitalist system, shadowy and secretive but highly powerful organisations, and glitch-ridden technology serving the cause of separating the powerful from the people. Western civilisation is but a thin coating of cheap gloss underscored by a cesspit and driven by its fumes. And yet so few people seem to notice the rankness of the smell.

I felt angry and depressed and considered shouting the words for the birds and animals to heed and take notice, but I didn’t because I got waved and smiled at by the lovely lady with the little girl who lives by the lane. (I discovered last night, by the way, that alliteration was much favoured by writers of Old English - which was pre-Chaucer in case you don’t know - so maybe my own love of the faculty is a genetic hangover from that side of my heritage which isn’t Irish.) But to continue:

I’ve written before about the lovely lady with the little girl who lives by the lane. I’ve often wondered why she extends such delightful favours in my direction, but maybe the secret lies in the very fact that she does. I presume that she must be possessed of a certain oddness, you see, because what other reason could there be? And I’ve noticed that she has an authentic air about her, which is rarer than I think it ought to be. It’s fortunate, therefore, that I feel instinctively drawn to people who are both odd and authentic because they’re about the only people I trust. They rarely seek power, wealth, or influence, and that, in my book, is a laudable quality.

One day I must make the effort to introduce myself, preferably when I’m not feeling angry and depressed.

(And if you're able to read this post, it indicates that Google didn’t try to blackmail me as they did with the picture insert. Hurrah for now.)

October Geese.

The post with this title has been scrapped. Instead, I'll offer a brief explanation as to why it has been scrapped.

It included an image which is saved on my computer, but when I came to insert it a message from Google appeared. It informed me that posting the insert was dependent on my allowing cookies of Google's choosing to be added to my blog. That's never happened before, and in my book it amounts to blackmail. Regular readers will no doubt realise that I'm not the sort of person to submit to any nefarious attempt at blackmail by the corporate world.

There will, therefore, be no more pictures added to the blog. And if they apply the same condition to the publishing of the blog itself, I suppose these hallowed (to me) pages will have to go. I've been saying for years that the corporate world is trying to exert ever more influence on the culture in order to further its own interests, and this is another example.

I'm glad that I'm at this end of my life because I don't fancy living in a world ruled by the big players of a rampant and overly powerful capitalist elite. The post was a short but pleasant one with a hint of humour included, but I couldn't be bothered to re-structure it. And the blog itself is extremely important to me because it's my only outlet to the world outside my small family and my ex, but my principles must take precedence. Now it's a case of wait and see.

Perception of Time and Spaces.

It being the last day of September, I reminded myself today that tomorrow I must change my wall calendar. I looked at this month’s picture and it seemed only a few days since I looked at it for the first time at the beginning of the month. September seems to have flown by at an alarming pace.

On the other hand, I had to go over to the city today to pick up some paperwork, and the twelve mile stretch on the high speed highway was uncomfortable – heavy rain, mist, and spray everywhere. It seemed like an awfully long time since I’d driven in conditions like that, when it was actually only about a year ago.

It’s odd, isn’t it, how much our perception of time varies according to circumstances.

*  *  *

And talking of perceptions, the past couple of days have been uncomfortable in another respect. I’ve always seen my bedroom in a wholesome way – a safe, restful space shut away from a sometimes harsh, demanding world. But I had a bad night on Saturday. I woke up unaccountably several times with a sense of unease; I felt cold every time I did; in one instance I heard what sounded like a rat gnawing at wood followed by a bump as something dropped to the ground. I assumed it was something outside, but couldn’t be certain.

All day yesterday my perception of this safe, restful space had switched its polarity and I wasn’t comfortable going into it last night. Go to bed I did, of course, but when I turned the light off sleep proved illusive, which is most unusual for me. Normally I fall asleep within a minute or two of resting my head on the pillow. After what seemed like an hour or more I considered getting up and resigning myself to having a night without sleep. I simply wasn’t tired enough to sleep even though it was the early hours of the morning. But then a switch was thrown somehow because the next thing I knew I was being woken by the alarm in order to get up earlier than usual to make my trip to the city. I wonder how tonight will be.

*  *  *

And today I read the news report on Hurricane Helene which has ravaged parts of the south-eastern US. I read of the devastation and the horrifyingly high number of fatalities. The report said that the worst affected states were Tennessee and the Carolinas, and that’s where an old and much valued correspondent – Andrea Kiss, aka ‘Peanut’ – lived during the early years of this blog. And so I became worried. I grew very fond of Andrea and thought I might have her email address stashed away somewhere. I looked, but without success. So if ever you should stumble across this post Andrea, I do hope so very earnestly that you and the family came through it unscathed.

On Fame and Post Mortem Status.

Dame Maggie Smith died on Friday. Widely considered one of Britain’s finest actresses, she was a double Oscar winner, a regular star of both screen and stage, and best known to the public in recent years for her starring roles in the Harry Potter franchise and the Downton Abbey costume saga. She was 89.

For two days straight the BBC news website led with her death, and added more and more mostly predictable platitudes from the great and the good in the industry because that’s what always happens when a public figure dies.

But being greeted for two consecutive days with a website dominated by Ms Smith, it was easy to miss the report of another death in a smaller piece at the bottom of the page.

The unwilling star of that report was a 45-year-old woman who was taken to A&E at her local hospital suffering from asthma complications. The senior doctor on duty refused to treat her – for reasons which were not given – despite being apprised of the fact that the patient was in a life-threatening condition. And so the patient died.

I asked myself why a well known actress who died at 89 – a good long life by anybody’s reckoning – should be given such priority over a member of the general public who died at 45, apparently as a result of medical negligence. The answer is obvious, of course: Maggie Smith was famous; the other woman was unknown to anyone other than family and friends.

I have nothing whatsoever against Maggie Smith; she was indeed a consummate actress. But is that a sufficient reason? I have an opinion on the matter which needn’t be stated.

Two Ladies and a Coincidence.

For the purpose of having something to stick up on the blog tonight I thought I’d note an interesting coincidence.

During the early years of blogging I attracted a number of people who became regular correspondents. I came to feel a special bond with some of those people, and I’m prepared to speculate that I even grew to love them. Two of the outstanding examples of that rarefied ilk were Mistress Madeline of the USA (aka the Venerable Borg) and the Priestess from Australia (more latterly domiciled in Sweden and the UK.) Both received many mentions on the blog down the years.

They meant different things to me, as you might expect. I always thought of Mistress M as my kid sister who was cleverer than me. She came bearing bucketsful of erudition, could juggle complex psychological equations while poring over knitting patterns, and had a marvellously dry sense of humour which was splendidly uplifting at times.

The Priestess was more of an honoured travelling companion. She had an expansive breadth of vision coupled with a willingness to take risks, lacked any hint of vindictiveness or triumphalism, and led me firmly – but with never a hint of didacticism – into considering different ways of looking at life. That’s a rare feature in my experience.

So what’s the coincidence? Well, I did a bit of checking recently and discovered that today – 28^th September – is exactly a year since my last correspondence with the Priestess, and exactly two years since my last correspondence with the Venerable Borg. (And they were both Geminis, by the way.) Is there something special about 28^th September, I wonder?

And am I to believe, I ask myself, that there really is no such thing as a coincidence? I don’t know the answer to that one, but what I do know is this: If I’m to be permitted the honour of indulging in the practice of spectral manifestation after I’ve gone over the cataract, I will most certainly haunt these two special ladies. (Nicely, of course.) I have little doubt that Mistress M will dismiss my presence as nothing more than a digestive disturbance brought on by an underdone piece of potato (and will probably consult Dickens to ensure that it was potato to which he referred and not any other troublesome vegetable) and will then continue with her knitting, while the Priestess will smile and remark ‘Oh it’s you, is it? What kept you?’ And then life and death will suddenly feel like comfortable bedfellows.