A Bottle at Bedtime.

When I was a young boy, languishing among the labouring class in a northern English industrial city, the prospect of ever having an electric blanket to warm my bed on cold winter nights was too distant to be countenanced. A person had to own their home and be firmly convinced of their status as petit bourgeoisie to have one of those, or so it seemed to me. But I did have the benefit of the next best thing – a hot water bottle.

At this point I find myself unsure as to whether the concept of the hot water bottle is known beyond the bounds of Britannia. In case it isn’t, I suppose I should offer a simple description:

A pouch-like rubber receptacle about 12 inches tall and 9 inches wide with a screw-in rubber stopper at the top surrounded by a small lip. It was half filled with very hot – but not boiling – water and tightly sealed with the stopper to preclude leakage. And such an article was my only solace when going to bed in an unheated bedroom and an unheated bed. And I had a system (Jeffrey had a system for everything and still does.)

First I would place the bottle straddling the pillow and the area of mattress immediately in front of it while I was changing into my pyjamas. That was for the benefit of my head and neck. When I got into the bed I would force the bottle to the far end to take care of my bare feet (going to bed with socks on was simply not done for some reason that was ever a mystery to me.) And when my feet and the bottom of the bed were deemed warm enough I would grip the rubber artefact between my feet, draw it up to my outstretched hands, and then cradle it to my chest ready for a now slightly more comfortable repose. And then go to sleep.

I suppose you could say that my hot water bottle was my first partner (although I probably wouldn’t), but we never discussed the affairs of the day, what we should have for breakfast in the morning, or how on earth we managed to arrive in this God-forsaken world in the first place. That came later.

*  *  *

And I’ll tell you something else about my childhood bedtime habits. I often used to attempt to climb down the bed head first with the intention of coming out at the bottom end, but I could never do it. After only a couple of feet I was gripped by strong claustrophobic anxiety and came back. I suspect that might have had something to do with a past life memory because my rational mind saw no danger or difficulty in the exercise at all. We never know, do we?

*  *  *

My ex, Mel, is a big fan of hot water bottles. She tells me that she still takes one to bed even though she has an electric blanket and a cat. I have an electric blanket too. I just switched it on.

The Other Winter Sting.

We’re having our first taste of winter in the UK at the moment: low temperatures and a coating of snow. I’m being reminded that this is the time of year when I worry constantly about the animals, consigned as they are to an entirely outdoor existence.

I know that winter brings death to a lot of wild animals, but what concerns me more is whether they suffer an emotional reaction. We know that animals have emotions, but do they function the same way ours do? Do cows, for example, suffer debilitating depressions while standing out in cold, wet fields through long winter nights? And what of those birds which spend the nights roosting in now-naked tree branches open to the elements?

I don’t know the answer to that. Does anybody? Maybe it’s better that I don’t.

I changed my bed linen over today. Off came the summer cotton to be replaced by heavy flannel and a (purportedly) 17-tog duvet. The trouble with feeling comfortable in bed, though, is that it makes me think of all the creatures out there, and then I feel the sting of guilt. Maybe I should try to develop the habit of feeling privileged instead, but to somebody like me it amounts to the same thing.

Conscientious Doctors, Dumbass Politicians, and the Numbers Game.

The problem with the doctor’s surgery to which I’ve referred in recent posts was settled amicably this evening. I’d already had the blood test and so I was given a phone consultation appointment for 5.15. The call duly arrived at 6.40…

So why, you might ask, did the call materialise nearly an hour and a half after the due time? Well, it’s like this:

Doctors – at least the conscientious ones – define success by reference to clinical outcomes. Politicians, on the other hand, define it strictly in terms of numbers. Numbers are easy to handle, you see, and since neither politicians nor the general public are required to have at least a reasonable IQ in order to exist in their respective forms, numbers are the natural means by which both parties may be satisfied. But it causes a problem:

Some years ago, when even the more mentally challenged were coming to realise that our grand socialist flagship, the NHS, was beginning to creak at the seams through underfunding, the politicians introduced a new policy of restricting the length of GP appointments to ten minutes. That was so they could put out press releases to demonstrate that GP surgeries were now treating more patients, and could cry from the rooftops ‘Aren’t we just wonderful? Vote for us again next time.’ (Because numbers don’t lie, you know. They don’t. At least, no more than politicians do.)

But the doctors saw it differently. Many of them – especially the more conscientious ones – knew that to treat patients effectively it was necessary to spend as much time as was needed to give the patients’ conditions proper attention. Ten minutes was often not long enough, and so their appointments grew later and later as the day wore on. My doctor happens to be one of the more conscientious types, and that’s why he was an hour and a half late calling me. I respect him for it; he’s a good man. And I even managed to convince myself that it really didn’t matter that my evening meal was stewing quietly away on the hob. I’d arranged it that way because I’m an INFJ and therefore a master of anticipation (a quality which causes me a hell of a lot of stress sometimes.)

But back to the issues. The appointment was required because I was due my annual medications review, and the results were as follows:

Blood cholesterol good, kidney function good, liver function good, blood pressure just about perfect. And so I asked him: ‘If my liver function is good, may I now increase my consumption of whisky?’ to which he replied ‘The phone signal was breaking up just then. Bye.’

A Woman of Note.

I was thinking tonight what an honour it would be to meet Julia Navalnaya. Such a strong and beautiful woman, a most compelling combination.

And since I get occasional visits to the blog from Russia, I felt that I would like to have some correspondence from a Russian to tell me what the people really think of the great dictator and his damnable ways.

I doubt anyone would do that, of course, for fear of winding up prematurely dead in some ice cold Siberian prison. And who knows but that the tyrant’s tentacles might even stretch as far as my little piece of earth. I doubt it, but you never know.

And so, since little old me is in no position to make a difference, it’s probably better that I remain ignorant and continue my habit of musing on the meaning of life. It seems likely that we all have to face our own karma sooner or later, even Mr P.

Questioning the Priorities.

There’s a piece in the BBC news about ignorant people among the British bureaucracy (and probably the British government) arranging a Diwali event for Hindus, Sikhs, and Jains at which meat and alcohol was served. Their ignorance has been soundly pointed out to them and a government official has apologised and said ‘it won’t happen again.’ He then went on to say that the occasion marked a celebration of the shared values between our various cultures. So what were these shared values in order of importance?

Kindness? Compassion? Consideration? Mutual respect? Co-operation? Social justice?

No:

Hard work, ambition, aspiration

These may not necessarily be bad values taken in context, but the most important? They do, after all, distil to self, self, self.

I decided to forego the concluding sentence for fear of offending a few people I hold in high esteem.

On Receptionists, Empaths, and Daemons.

I managed to get somewhere with the GP surgery today. I talked to the young woman receptionist instead of the older one who likes to identify as an Anglo-Saxon battleaxe. How many times have I said that young women are usually the easiest to deal with and the best at resolving issues? This could have been a longer paragraph, but I’ll leave it at that.

*  *  *

Skip back a day to my Ashbourne shopping foray. On walking up to the town I was aware of emergency vehicles rushing in from all directions and static traffic blocking the roads. Clearly there was something amiss, and when I walked up to the top of the old market place I discovered the source of the commotion. There were several vehicles and people milling about on the Buxton road leading uphill out of the town, and they were all crowded around two white sheets set up on frames, clearly covering something on the road. Since there were ambulances involved, I assumed it was a person.

It’s surprising how disturbing – even enervating – that can be to somebody with empathic inclinations. I was grateful I could hear no screaming, and I didn’t hang around.

*  *  *

Many years ago I read Phillip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials and found it utterly enthralling as very many people did and still do. The early part of the story is set in a parallel universe to ours which is mostly similar but with a few notable differences. One of those differences is that every human wears their soul or essence on the outside as a free-living animal known as their daemon. They communicate freely, often work through problems in tandem, and their closeness to one another is essential to the survival of both.

Ever since I read it I’ve often idly mused on what my daemon would be if such a thing existed, and nothing I ever thought of fitted the bill. If I had to choose two animals to which I feel most closely aligned it would be the dog and the brown bear, and yet neither felt right. And then a few nights ago I watched a video accompanying the Lisa Gerard song Sanvean, and I finally found my daemon.

The video featured wolves, and for the first time in my life I saw the majesty, nobility, and intelligence of those magnificent animals. Why have I never ‘seen’ them before? I don’t know, but I was suddenly left in no doubt that my daemon would be a sigma she-wolf. (It should be noted that daemons are always the opposite gender to their hosts, which I suppose is about complimentary masculine and feminine principles co-existing in the composite whole. Nice idea, and one of which I approve.)

Icing on the Hedgerow and the INFJ.

One of the sights I find most appealing at this time of year is the sprinkling of fallen leaves lying on top of the neatly trimmed hedgerows and mingled with the green of evergreen species. I stand and look at them with a sense of delight at the contrast between the shiny, green, living leaves, and the browns and mixed golds of the fallen, dead ones. I’ve come to think of the phenomenon as ‘autumn icing.’

And it always prompts me to think again about the nature of perception. What is it, apart from being a fundamental part of consciousness which deterministic science still can’t explain and possibly never will? More intriguingly, why do I find the sight of autumn icing a little magical while others don’t even notice it?

I think it might have something to do with being an INFJ personality type. From what I’ve heard, it appears that all INFJs go through life being aware of their strangeness, and some suffer badly through being rejected, sometimes ridiculed, regarded with suspicion, and generally written off. I’m used to it by now and it doesn’t bother me.

Quote from someone I once worked with: ‘You’re good at your job, Jeff, but my God you’re bloody weird.’

Good, good. (That’s the Irish way of putting it. My ancestor’s voice, no less. There’s probably a connection. And for those familiar with classic Irish folk songs, another thing that fascinates me is the sight of the wind shaking the barley so it ripples into waves.)

On Dire Prospects and Damnable Presumption.

Over the past year or so my mind has entered a state which I used to think of as being merely apathetic, and probably temporary, but now it’s been upgraded to my End of Days mentality.

I often muse on the future of planet earth, you see, and all who sail in her. I think of the threats we might face any time from tomorrow to a few decades down the line – economic meltdown, global warming, WWIII, power-hungry Presidents, giant asteroids, coronal mass ejections, and so on.

And then I look around at all my possessions which are showing signs of needing repair or renewal and my end of days mentality kicks in unfailingly. Will the gadgets hang on long enough to see me out and save me the trouble and expense? It’s becoming a regular hope and habit because life now seems to have entered a race between the state of the world and my own mortality. Which of us will pack up first, or will it be a dead heat because the endings will be simultaneous?

‘You shouldn’t think like that,’ I hear you say. ‘I don’t think like that,’ I reply. ‘It’s the way I feel.’ ‘Then you should learn to control your emotional state,’ you remonstrate with a level of sagacity born of your deluded imagination. ‘Please don’t patronise me; go away,’ is my only riposte. (Actually I would probably use stronger language and drop the ‘please’.)

*  *  *

But for now I’ve drunk my mug of tea and eaten my slice of toast and jam, so I’m off to see whether my alter-ego Mr Joyce can depress my mood even further with tails of desperate and dysfunctional Dubliners. Odd that I should find them entertaining, but maybe it’s something to do with my Mayo roots from way back (the song Rocky Road to Dublin comes to mind.)

And now I have a new problem. I bought a fresh pot of jam last week, a more expensive and therefore upmarket brand than Sainsbury’s own. It’s blackcurrant flavour and has real, whole blackcurrants in it. They keep falling off the toast and having to be picked up from the floor with a piece of kitchen roll so I don’t have to bother washing my hands. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me that peasants like me should avoid the presumption of buying upmarket jam.

A Minor Irritation.

There are some new advertising posters all around the scruffy, near-defunct shopping precinct in Uttoxeter. They’re for KP Nuts, one of the leading brands of packaged nuts in the UK, and the catch line reads: 

There’s nuts, then there’s KP nuts

Now, any native English speaker – and even those blessèd people over the water who have learned English to a reasonable level – know that ‘there’s’ is an abbreviation of ‘there is’, and they also know that the conjugation of the verb ‘to be’ has ‘is’ when relating to a singular object, and ‘are’ when the object is plural. And so this catch line should read ‘There are nuts, etc.’

So why has the writer made this glaring error? Would he or she have written, for example, ‘there is thirty children in the classroom’? Was the erroneous verb a product of ignorance, or was it deliberately engineered for some arcane reason known only to advertising copy writers? You might argue that if writers can take refuge in the principle of poetic licence, isn’t it right to allow advertisers the same indulgence? I’m not convinced.

I thought about it for a good five minutes as I was walking to Tesco, and eventually asked myself: ‘Does it matter?’ Well, yes and no. It all depends on where I’m currently standing on the question of the meaning and purpose of life. It keeps changing, you see.

Interpretations.

I was in a discount store today and behind me in the checkout queue was a youngish couple accompanied by a girl of around ten or eleven, presumably their daughter. I soon noticed that she was staring at me, and so I glanced at her several times and every time I did she was still staring at me. I thought I’d try a smile to see what might happen. She smiled back and continued to stare at me, and when I’d finished my transaction at the checkout she was still staring at me.

And so I asked myself the obvious question: Why? Why would a young girl of that age be seemingly fixated on my physical presence, and the first answer I came up with was rather sad. It occurred to me that maybe she wanted a granddad and didn’t have one. It further occurred to me that maybe she’d had a granddad but he’d died and she missed him. (That sort of thought process is one to which I’m much given as a result of the sad stories my mother used to tell me as a child.) And then I felt like a complete piece of festering detritus at the recollection that I hadn’t waved to her when I left.

But then I had another thought. Maybe she was simply fascinated by just how ugly people become when they’re getting old. There, now; that’s much better and much more likely.

(I never had a granddad, you know. My mother never knew who her father was, and my father's father died of TB long before I was born. My step-father's father was a sort of surrogate, but it's not the same as somebody you've known since you were born. And he lived a long way away in London, so I only saw him a few times. He also gave my mother the gift of a gold swastika, and as I grew older I naturally wondered why he had it and where he'd picked it up.)