Four Reasons to be There.

I was just about to start some gardening jobs this afternoon, but on a whim I decided instead to walk up to the school and village hall car park, there to lean on the fence bordering the field where the sheep used to be. If anybody had asked me why I was there I would have said:

First of all I like to look over fields while leaning on gates and fences. (It’s one of my favourite occupations.)

Secondly, I was curious to see whether Millie and Rosie (the two horses which used to share the field with the sheep) were back because I haven’t seen them for a few days. (They were.)

Thirdly, I knew it would be school run time and I would be in close proximity with a gaggle of young mothers collecting their charges. I like young mother energy. It gives me a lift. (Which is usually most welcome in present circumstances.)

Last but not least, it occurred to me that the Lady B would probably be among the young mothers and might honour me with a greeting and quick conversation. That, too, gives me a lift. (She wasn’t, or didn’t, if you see what I mean.)

So that’s what I would have said and that’s what I’m sticking with.

On the way back I saw a dead baby blackbird lying by the old school well. (That didn't give me a lift.)

On Baby Milk and the Mothers of Israel.

I signed a petition this morning raised as part of a movement to persuade Netanyahu to allow baby milk into Gaza. I asked myself the question: ‘What reason would the tyrant have to disallow Gazans baby milk, if not to kill Gazan babies?’ And then I read the response by Britain’s Chief Rabbi to an admittedly controversial anti-IDF chant raised by a performer at the Glastonbury Festival, and asked myself the question: ‘Why would a man with the authority of a Chief Rabbi spout words which are both stupid and mind-bogglingly hypocritical, if not to gain favour with the weak-minded?’

I often wonder how the ordinary people of Israel feel about all this – those who just want to live a peaceful life in which decency, justice, and inclusivity prevail. I wonder whether they are aware that Israel has become such a pariah state while the world watches agog at the atrocities being committed by the hard liners and their henchmen. I wonder whether they’re aware that these very actions only serve to augment the blossoming of those anti-Semitic attitudes which Netanyahu uses as a disingenuous shield against every criticism.

And I wondered whether Israel is relying too much on American support to keep them safe in their Middle Eastern bubble. As long as Israel remains of strategic benefit to America, no doubt the support will continue. But what if that situation changes in a world growing ever more fluid and volatile in its allegiances. What then?

There was one more wondering to be done when I’d finished with the questions. I wondered whether the future security of Israel should be placed – by consensus rather than design – into the hands of Israeli mothers. Mothers understand the importance of baby milk in the general scheme of things. Mothers are a power to behold when protecting their cubs. Jewish mothers have always had a high reputation in the matter of strength in such situations. Lionesses have been known to gang up on and kill a bigger male which is threatening their offspring. And I’ve come to a more than tentative suspicion that mothers are the most important people in human society.

Maybe there’s a seed to be planted there in hope. I expect to have gone on my merry way before it does or doesn’t come to fruition.

At the Tipping Point.

Today is 30^th June, and in just a couple of hours time it will be 1^st July. This means we’re now standing on the cusp between the up half of the year and the down half. January to June is moving towards lighter days and higher temperatures while we watch nature being reborn. July to December is the opposite. That’s why I’m always a little sad on 30^th June.

30^th June is Mel’s birthday, and I’ve read that 30^th June people are special because they’re straddling the change in polarity. I’m inclined to think they’re probably just indecisive because I tend to be cynical in matters speculative. My loss, I suppose.

I wonder whether birds are aware of this fact, and whether they, too, have been sad today.

Changing Spots and Things.

I think my aura must have changed colour or something because yesterday two horses came over to a farm gate to say hello to me. And when I crossed the road to another gate, two goats came to greet me. They even put their front hooves up on the gate so I could scratch their ears more easily. Further along the road I leant on another farm gate and a cow walked almost the length of the field to pay its respects.

During the long, dark, depressive period recently, the only animals which would have anything to do with me were dogs. I suppose that probably says something about me. Does it? I don’t know; maybe it just says something about dogs. But I remember some of the things people have said to me down the years:

You’re an old soul. (OK.) You’re one of the chosen ones. (OK again.) You’re a light worker. (I wonder what one of those is.) And then there was the woman in the coffee shop who stared at me for a long time before coming over and telling me there was something I needed to know and she would tell me when I’m ready. I never saw her again.

What should I make of it all? If any of it is true, when is it going to start being of some benefit to me or those with whom I come into contact? Haven’t noticed any benefits yet. Maybe I’ll find out when it’s too late to make a difference. That’s usually the way. Although I did learn one thing from my animal encounters: one has to be careful with goats when they’re throwing their heads about because their horns are very hard and very sharp.

(Sorry this post is a bit egocentric, but I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. Well I could, but it was terribly serious and I wasn’t in the mood.)

I saw the year’s first Red Admiral butterfly in the garden today. It’s pretty warm here.

Trying to Run Before Learning to Walk.

I watched a YouTube video last night which considered the question:

‘If all sentient life ceased to exist, would the whole universe also cease to exist since it would no longer be observed?’

This was based, of course, on the discovery by the quantum physicists that sub-atomic particles exist in a state of infinite but undefined potential until they are observed, although they don't understand why yet. And so the commentary speculated that the universe would probably become invisible but still have form.

It was quite fascinating, but then I listened to an old Simon and Garfunkel song and asked myself why I should be using my time considering level 10 of the great existential enquiry when I don’t fully understand level 1 yet. The most profound question I considered today was how slugs and snails feel about the extended spell of dry weather we’ve been having for the past three months. They’re probably not very happy.

Taking our Language Back.

If a student were to write the expression ‘computer programme’, he or she would be told off and downgraded. ‘That’s not how it’s spelt,’ says the person-in-the-know. ‘When you’re referring to computers, it’s spelt program.’

‘Who says so?’

‘The Americans do.’

‘Quite.’

And this is why I would like to spread the word throughout the United Kingdom, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and every place where English is commonly spoken as a second language:

‘Spell it “programme,” I say, with two Ms and an E at the end after the French fashion.’ (English gets much of its structure and vocabulary from French. Did you know?) And that would be sweet revenge for the Boston Tea Party.

Technicolor Shire and the French Non-Connection.

The Shire is in its summer colourful phase at the moment. The barley is just about ripe and their fields are glowing pale yellow. The wheat is beginning to ripen and the heads are now yellow/green rather than blue/green. The borage (I’m told that’s what it is) which flanks the edges of the cornfield as part of a re-wilding policy is in flower, and they add a most fetching lilac blue to the mix. And of course, the copper beech trees still have their full mantle of deep wine red. Add to that the blue sky, white clouds, and the pale green covering the hills across the valley, and the whole is a picture to lift the spirits.

Over the next two moths the harvest will happen and the borage flowers will die off. And then the fields will be a scrubby mess of pale straw until the muck spreading and ploughing turns the fields back to dull brown.

Autumn will begin to show its face and soon the autumn colourful phase will be upon us as the leaves turn to gold and red. And then they’ll fall as so much dry detritus and return the land to a brown vista dotted with black skeletons.

And so we enjoy the picture postcard view as long as it lasts because we know that nothing ever does.

*  *  *

A car with French plates passed me slowly and respectfully on the lane today. It was only the second car with French plates I’ve ever seen in this Shire or the previous one. The last one I saw some years ago stopped and a young woman with what sounded to me like a Parisian accent asked me for directions to the Old Manor. Today’s car didn’t stop at all, and that was a shame. Maybe I would have better luck if I wore a badge proclaiming I’m Currently Driving a Renault. Not much point though, is there? I’ll probably be long gone before another car with French plates saunters and shrugs its way along the local byways. (It was red, by the way, instead of blue as one would expect of a French vehicle.)

We do have a French woman living in the Shire, but she drives a German car. It’s black.

Mixed Fortunes.

I saw a female chaffinch on the bird table yesterday for the first time in a very long time. There’s an air of cuteness about the female chaffinch which is entirely absent in the more colourful male.

I also saw three house martins feeding over the garden yesterday for the first time this year. I used to see a flock of 20-30 more or less every day from May to September, but times change as do we all. I haven’t seen a single swallow for about two weeks.

*  *  *

While perambulating the lanes earlier, Honourable Sister waved to me from her mother’s garden. She was wearing blue shorts. I felt truly honoured, if not actually elated.

*  *  *

The one thing that pleases me at the moment is that, while my body and most items of previously functional technology continue to fade inexorably towards terminal dysfunction, my capacity for enjoying irony and ironical expression remains undiminished. This is a useful attribute since it means you can dispense with the need to seek excitement.

The garden requires my attention.

America Today.

Pictures of the potty political trinity in America keep appearing in the BBC news pages, and I find myself being almost mesmerised by their images. I keep trying to clarify what those images mean to me so I can give them all nicknames. It isn’t easy and all I’ve come up with so far is Donald ‘the Windbag’ Trump, JD ‘the Robot’ Vance, and Plastic Pete Hegseth. And so shall they be addressed henceforth until I come up with something better.

We often see all three together, and whenever we do I note that their relative positions in the layout have been carefully choreographed (deliberate choice of word) to leave no doubt that Donald is King and the other two but minor acolytes. I wonder whether they employ a theatre designer to set the chairs out so that the little guys are placed in such a way as to keep them strictly in their place. It seems that Donald is no King Arthur. No round tables in his court.

You know, I remember the days when American Presidents were imbued with the authority gene. Eisenhower and Kennedy come instantly to mind. And then American politics became really silly and gave the world Reagan, GW, and Clinton, and now it’s hit rock bottom with Trump. Seems to me that Donald is entirely devoid of the authority gene, relying instead on mock frowns and empty bluster.

So what about the Iran situation? Trump says ‘We cut the Iranians off at the knees, but they done nut’n to us,’ and the Ayatollah replies with ‘Tis but a scratch, but we really biffed them damn Yankees.’

You can’t believe anything anybody says these days, can you?

A Minor Ramble.

According to Blogger stats my page view count broke the all-time record last month by a country mile. 36,935. With five days still to go in June they’ve broken it again at 38,779. Do I believe it and does it matter? I think the answer to both is ‘no’, but just in case I really have become the darling of the blogosphere I thought I’d better say something just to keep the old girl going.

The trouble is I have nothing to say. A few things happened over the past few days which I thought worthy of a short mention, but they all floated past the ship and disappeared on the wake with the rest of the gash. And the current news in the political sphere is dominated by two features:

Home: The Labour Government in Britain continues to be set firm in its demolition of the welfare state in order to have more money to spend, and is aiming its fire mainly at the sick, the disabled, and the pensioners. Meanwhile, the insanely rich are being quietly passed by. I think it’s about time the Labour Party changed its name.

Abroad: The Great American Windbag continues to leave no-one in any doubt that he is King of the World and everyone must obey his diktats without question. And he used a questionable expletive in a public statement to augment his authority.

I could go on and on about Trump and his laughably theatrical sidekicks, but why bother? I’m sick to death of their presence in a world I have to share.

Apart from that, nothing worth reporting apart from my two rescues this week – a newt which I thought I’d trodden on, and a ladybird slowly drowning in the birds’ water bowl. The god of small things who normally provides my life’s better experiences is largely absent at the moment.

I finished reading Siddhartha but didn’t learn anything new, which was disappointing. Then again, lessons sometimes jump into your pocket without you noticing, and then jump onto your shoulder and say ‘boo’ somewhere down the line when they feel it’s time to be relevant. So who knows? And I could see why Siddhartha’s Kamala was a reflection of my priestess in one regard, but it’s unlikely the priestess will pre-decease me. I still wonder where she is sometimes.

Bye for now.