The Big Event.

My landlord has invited us all to ‘tea in the garden’ tomorrow afternoon. How very Virginia Woolf of him. I would have thought it more appropriate to have styled the event ‘tea on the terrace’, he being a kind of lord of the manor and all. Maybe he was concerned that one of the great unwashed might soil the hallowed flagstones somehow, and be too close to the interior of the mansion anyway. The odd one might even smell bad.

Will I be attending, you might ask. No. Saturday afternoon is the busiest time of the week for me, and I’m not really the type to go hobnobbing with the landed gentry anyway. Not that I have anything against him. I’ve only met him once, and then only briefly. For all I know he might be thoroughly likeable. He might be so distanced from any antiquated notion of social hierarchy that he sings ‘keep the red flag flying here’ while playing with his rubber duck in the bath.

And that brings me to an odd and unconnected thought. Why does the Republican Party in the USA use red as their colour of allegiance? Red is the colour of Russian communism. The communist Chinese flag is red. Red is universally recognised as the colour of people power, whereas the Republicans are known for the opposite proclivity. Could it have something to do with the traditional colour of British telephone boxes, I wonder. Must ask an American if ever I meet one. I should imagine Americans would be the first to accept an invitation to tea in the garden with the lord of the manor (sort of), but I don’t think we have any in these parts.

On Strange Lights and the Silicon Chip.

A few nights ago I saw something unusual in the eastern sky. It was around two o’clock in the morning and I was on my way to bed. The window in my bathroom faces east and the first thing I noticed was usual enough – the blinking wing light of a passenger plane heading north-west out of East Midlands Airport. And then my eye was caught by a most unusual pattern of lights just above the horizon at the top of the hill.

It consisted of nine orange lights arranged in three vertical rows of three forming a vertical rectangular shape. It moved slowly across the sky – rather slower than the aircraft lights heading in the opposite direction – and then stopped. The lights were much bigger than those on the plane suggesting that the whole pattern was bigger than a commercial aircraft or maybe much closer. It stayed still for a short while before descending and disappearing behind the hilltop.

I hope my description is accurate enough to evoke a visual image because I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. My usual presumption when I see a stationery light in the sky rests on the almost certain likelihood of it being a helicopter, but I’ve never seen such a craft showing a pattern of lights like that. If anyone has a suggestion I would be glad to hear it.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, my state of mind is not at its best. Over the past ten years my world has contracted to a point where it amounts to little more than tedious chores, troubled sleep, and trawling the internet for something to interest me, usually with little success. This morning I woke up disturbingly late and booted up my computer to find an email from my phone line provider. It was titled ‘You will soon lose your broadband’ and advised me that I was to make substantial changes to both my service provision and computer connections if I was to avoid being confined to the cyber wasteland.

Well now, being confined to the cyber wasteland amounts to being also confined to the functional wasteland these days, and so I rang my broadband provider and asked ‘what the bloody hell is going on?’ A long and fairly complex explanation was provided by a man with a strong Yorkshire accent (I think he said his name was John.)

I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say this: My proclivities lie in such areas as music, quality literature, philosophy, psychology, the state of the human condition, the beauty of landscape, and the meaning of life and reality. I’m not a techno type. I have to accept that the days when our functions were largely run by cables, physical switches, and electricity are gone because that’s the way it is. But the microchip leaves me cold and confused. And that’s how I felt after spending around half an hour talking – or mostly listening – to John (or whatever.)

The one heartening thing he said was that these changes might not have to be made until the end of the year. I wondered whether I might be able to conspire to expire before then, because that would save me the trouble, wouldn’t it? Maybe I’ll feel different tomorrow (if I have a tomorrow.)

A Special Day and a Nice Note on Sweden.

Today is something of a landmark in my life because today I exceeded my mother’s lifespan by one day. (Well, part of a day at least. It isn’t over yet, is it?) That’s an odd thing to work out, wouldn’t you say? I wonder how many other people have done the same calculation. I still have nearly two years to go to match my father, but I can’t work that one out precisely because I don’t know the date of his death. I hadn’t seen him for twenty six years.

I’m a bit glum these days, which is something of a coincidence because I seem to be suddenly getting a lot of visits from Sweden, and you might remember all those posts I made about the glumness of the Swede. Maybe there’s a connection. It was a joke, of course, because I feel a certain fondness for the Swedes. They seem to be as intolerant of egomania as I am so I always favour their football teams as long as they’re not playing England, and even then my attitude is dichotomous. I wonder what they think of Trump.

A Very Rare Connection.

I’ve said often enough on this blog that there are very few people with whom I can feel a connection sufficient to warrant extended discussion. Most people just get on my nerves.

Well, I met one today. Her name was Alisha and she was minding the store in the pet shop on Uttoxeter’s retail park. She had all the qualifications to be a JJ sort of person – authentic affability, easy and fluent use of language, intelligence, a permanent and genuine smile, and the admission that she does voluntary work at a rescue centre for injured hedgehogs. She was absolutely lovely (as several of them are in that shop, actually. It’s why I wouldn’t buy my wild bird seed anywhere else.)

During the course of the conversation she mentioned that she came from the south of England originally. ‘That’s unusual,’ I said. ‘You’re remarkably friendly for a southerner.’ After that we got on famously.

Not One for the Squeamish

Earlier this evening I was walking down Bag Lane en route to the post box when my foot slipped on something. I looked down to identify the cause and found that I had stepped on the flattened and disembodied head of a squirrel, and what had caused me to slip was the mess of brains spreading out behind it. And one of its legs was lying a foot or two away (if you’ll excuse the unintentional pun.)

That’s not very nice, is it?

And now I can’t think of a way to end this mini – and rather unpleasant – post except to say that my subsequent dinner was vegetarian as always.

All Three?

Regular readers might very well remember (though some might very well not) that a few weeks ago I reported having been apparently ghosted by the Lady B in Sainsbury’s car park. Since she had her youngest daughter with her I chose to speculate that the dear lady might have been distracted by the more pressing consideration of whether to give little pip squeak beans on toast or spaghetti on toast for lunch, and therefore being temporarily blind to the sight of some old reprobate staring back at her from a mere 30-40 feet. That would be understandable, but the matter of being ghosted didn’t end there.

A week or two ago I was walking down my lane when Dear Mama passed me in her motor car. Whenever she does that she always slows, waves, and smiles. Not this time. No slowing, no wave, no smile, no hoot of a horn. That’s most unusual, and the matter still doesn’t end there.

Two evenings ago I was doing some work at the bottom of my garden close to the gap which leads onto the lane. A movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Honourable Sister, accompanied by Oscar the Sprocker Spaniel, walking past me and down the lane without so much as a turn of the head and a ‘Hi Jeff’, which is the usual minimal greeting bestowed by said lady.

I speculated on the many possible reasons why I should have become suddenly persona non grata to the eminent members of the Shire’s top family. I won’t bother to relate the full list because most of them are probably wrong, but I did settle on one outstanding favourite: I suspect I might have inadvertently slipped through a veil and into a parallel dimension, one in which I’ve never polluted the airspace around the vaunted family and they have never noticed my presence in their demesne. And the reason for considering this the most likely explanation is that Honourable Sister’s hair was a different colour than it usually is.

Clueless, Characterless, and Clownish.

I passed one of the pub/bistro bars in Ashbourne today and saw that it was dark inside. And then I saw a hand-written notice on the window which said:

PLEASE YOUSE (sic) THE BEER GARDEN AT THE SIDE

Need I comment further?

And then I went along the high street and saw that my old favourite coffee shop, Costa Coffee, was thoroughly topsy-turvy and full of contractors. The notice on their window said that it was closed for ten days for a ‘makeover.’

I wonder what a ‘makeover’ means exactly. Does it mean that they’re going to make it a brightly lit, smarty-pants modern place like the others in Ashbourne? That would be an issue to me because my idea of a proper coffee shop is one which is clean and tidy, but a little beaten up almost to the point of being slightly seedy. It needs to be the right sort of environment for enjoying the heady, old socks aroma of French and Turkish cigarettes (even though it’s illegal to actually smoke anything – French, Turkish, Indonesian or whatever – indoors these days.)

I do hope not because I’m growing tired of the smarty-pants, sanitizing trend now infecting modern times in all sorts of ways. The big casualty is character, and I’m a big fan of character.

*  *  *

Finally, it might have been noted that I haven’t strayed much into the political arena lately. It’s because I’m becoming thoroughly disenchanted with politics and politicians everywhere, especially in America it has to be said. I do sympathise with good Americans who have to tolerate the lamentable state of their politics and politicians. It seems to me that the only difference between a circus and American politics is that in politics the clowns wear business suits.

Alternative Interpretation.

The field behind my house has quite a steep slope on it, and running up the middle at an angle is a track worn by the wheels of the farmer’s quad bike. The field is home to forty heifers and a smaller number of ewes with lambs.

Yesterday I saw one of the ewes with her two lambs resting half way up the hill on the track. The heifers were on the ridge at the top, and one of them decided to come down the field on the higher part of the track. I watched with interest to see what would happen when the lone cow reached the three sheep. Would she go around them, trample on them, or would the sheep move?

Ms Cow began to take a detour to pass the still resting sheep at a distance of a few yards, but when she came level with them she stopped and turned her head to look at them. I fancied I could hear her thoughts which went something like:

Bloody sheep. Who do they think they are making me go out of my way so as not to tread on them? I’ll show them, just see if I don’t.

And then she walked over and nudged the sheep which dutifully stood up and moved away. But then Mrs Cow continued to walk down the field without using the track, which made me wonder whether I’d mistranslated and what she was actually thinking was:

Poor sheep. Not very bright, are they? Haven’t they noticed that the big noisy thing goes up that track, and if the farmer doesn’t notice them he might run them over? Better go and move them I suppose, and that can be my good deed for the day.

Either way it would seem to be further indication that cows are smarter than people think they are. I well remember Ermintrude from The Magic Roundabout. She was pretty smart in a neurodivergent sort of way.

Questionable Comparison.

Today my thoughts fell to musing on the late conservationist, Dr Jane Goodall, who died aged 91 last October.

Being the incomplete spirit that I am, I fell to comparing people like Dr Goodall with the people who run this world of ours – those weak, seemingly soulless creatures who value nothing but money and power, however impoverished their claim to value might be.

I’m quite sure Dr Goodall would not have wanted me to say this, but I’m going to anyway: my thoughts proceeded to the matter of winning and losing, and a certainty soon settled that the true winners in this world are the Janes, and the real losers the likes of Trump and his fellow little failures.

And then came the usual question: why does the world have to be like this? Is it, perhaps to demonstrate the true nature of worth and worthlessness to those capable of seeing through the darkness to something worthier beyond? I wish I knew.

Not Quite My Way.

Sometimes when I hear a song – or even get one stuck in my head for some reason, as I have today – which was popular when I was a boy, it doesn’t only evoke memories of circumstances and environments prevalent at the time. Occasionally it connects me with my old sense of self and perception of life back then. I literally, though briefly, feel like the child I was.

It always takes me aback a little, and is usually followed by a feeling of disappointment that life didn’t turn out the way I expected it to. There have been thrills and spills and the occasional grand adventure along the way, but never any overall sense that life met my vague childhood expectations. It all feels a little too rhapsodic; there’s no architectural edifice on which to look back with satisfaction. And so, of course, it always takes me one step further into the old question: ‘what on earth was it all for?’

I’m the same with food, you know. I can have some favourite dish and enjoy it until it’s finished, but once the last piece has been swallowed there’s no rubbing of tummy and exclamations of yum, yum. Once it’s gone the pleasure disappears completely.

And do you want to know what prompted this little outburst? It was seeing a video on YouTube about the surprisingly high number of deaths connected with the playing of Sinatra’s My Way in Malaysian karaoke bars.