An Issue of Smell and Practicality.

It’s 1940 and you’re a bomber pilot in the Luftwaffe. One night after a raid you’re making the return trip in the dawn’s early light when you get spotted by a Hurricane and badly shot up. You’re uninjured so you bail out, land in a field somewhere near Dover, get picked up by some sort of patrol, and two days later you find yourself incarcerated in a POW camp. Still wearing the same clothes. And because it’s 1940 you’re destined to spend the next five years living a restricted life at His Majesty’s Pleasure along with a few dozen of your compatriots. Still wearing the same clothes?

In all the years I’ve been alive the airways and bookshelves have been liberally splattered with dramas and documentaries about WWII, and yet I’ve never heard the need of a change of clothing being mentioned.

Good Associations and Grrrs.

Standing in my garden at twilight put me in mind of the orchestral work In a Summer Garden, by Frederick Delius. I don’t know why that never struck me before since I’m something of a fan of Delius’s music. This evening I could have imagined myself transported to his house and garden at Grez-sur-Loing in France. In fact, I did imagine it. I also discovered this evening that Delius was born on the same date as my mother.

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The good experience I had with a contact at BT recently proved to be short-lived. It’s back to normal now with bucketfuls of stress, anxiety, and serious irritation. And a new pattern has emerged in my life: I go to bed at 3am, wake briefly just after 6, and again just after 9. It’s happened the past four nights in succession. I wonder what that’s all about.

Today's Two Notes.

A few nights ago I posted about having had a harsh email from my phone line provider regarding broadband provision and computer connections. It threw me into a bit of a funk, me not being a techno type, but today I stuck my courage to the sticking place and made the call to find out what it was about and what needed to be done.

I was connected with a Lancashire lass (middle aged I would say) from Manchester who was an absolute star. She took me through the whole thing clearly and methodically, explained all the reasoning behind it in words even I could understand, and offered to send an engineer to make the connections just in case there are any problems. Now I just have to await delivery of the new router. And to add icing on the cake, it appears that if all goes well I will be paying much less than I currently am and will have a very much faster internet connection.

When have you ever heard me say something good about BT? You have now.

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Seasonal Shire news: The scented meadowsweet is blooming in Church Lane, the elder flowers are well advance to promise a bumper harvest of berries for those who want to prove that elderberry wine is the equal of anything Bordeaux might offer, the golden barley is coming close to ripeness, and the wheat is still green but plumping nicely.

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In fact, apart from a problem with arranging my transport to Ashbourne next week, it was a half decent day for a change. (My only regret is that I didn’t ask the BT lady’s name, because then I could have told you what it was.)

On the Kayak and the Cold Water.

For some reason today I was reminded of an amusing little incident during my school days. I might have told the story before in the early days of the blog, but I don’t remember and can’t be bothered search for it, so you can have it again.

Once upon a time when I was a teenager (I really was, you know, once upon a time), the boys in my high school class were taken off for the weekend to an outdoor pursuits centre. It had wooden shacks, ropes for abseiling, kayaks for canoeing, etc, etc, as well as a sizeable lake and lots of trees.

The first morning was put aside for giving each of us a kayak to sit in so we could happily paddle from one end of the lake to the other and back again. We had no idea what it was supposed to teach us or how it might add to our manly mettle, but that was the plan. And so we set off with me near the back of the group.

About 100 yds into this great adventure I was suddenly gripped by excruciating pain from cramp in both calf muscles. We’d been warned that kayaks take a bit of getting used to because they’re notoriously unstable and the trick is to keep the body in such a position in the cockpit (or whatever it’s called) to keep the little craft upright. It occurred to me that this might be difficult with both calves in the grip of excruciating pain, and so I called to the lead schoolmaster, explained my difficulty, and asked whether I should turn around and paddle back to shore. He said I should, so I dipped the port  paddle (left to the landlubbers) and began to make a 180° turn.

At that point the dear little red and white kayak grinned mischievously, overturned, and threw me unceremoniously into the lake. Fortunately, Dame Fortune was having none of it and came to my aid by dismissing both cramps completely as soon as my legs hit the cold water. Feeling somewhat relieved, I was easily able to swim to the nearest bank with the kayak in tow, and then walk back to the centre through the trees (which were rather nice I expect, although I don’t actually remember.)

Can you imagine such a situation being allowed today with our manic emphasis on risk avoidance? I expect they’d have to have a patrol boat now with lifesaving equipment bringing up the rear. Back then we just dealt with it (well, I did anyway because there was no alternative.) Maybe it was to ingratiate into us the notion that we were ‘the bulldog breed.’ Bulldogs are extinct now, although I gather kayaks aren’t.

YouTube and the Registration Obsession.

YouTube has suddenly started to throw a cocktail of new requirements and restrictions at me. One of them says: Register to like and leave comments on videos.

Where did that one come from? Why should I have to register to like and leave a comment on a YouTube video? YouTubers are constantly begging for likes and comments on their uploads.

I imagine it’s just the latest example of a pandemic sweeping so-called developed cultures in the 21^st century: registration for this, that, the other, and soon to be nearly everything else. Is it, perhaps, merely a matter of bureaucratic overkill which is something else infecting modern life in a more general sense? Or is it, as I suspect, another example of the corporate world and its insanely rich minions seeking yet another way to watch and control us so they can make more money?

Oh well, if I have to give up YouTube by way of objecting to their silly and intrusive little rules, then so be it. It would cause me some difficulty because the only time I relax these days is the final two hours before going to bed. (I set an appropriate music mix to play while I read old blog posts and the comments my old blogger pals used to leave. I have several from the Lady B, you know. They’re very precious.) But to a sad old idealist like me, principles are supremely important.

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 Supremacy.

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.

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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.