Clueless, Characterless, and Clownish.

I passed one of the pub/bistro bars in Ashbourne today and noticed that it was dark. 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 a proper 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.

At Day's End.

I sat out in the garden this evening through a calm but cloudy twilight. I watched two bumblebees taking their last feed of the day from the foxglove flowers. And then I noticed several small groups of jackdaws, two or three at a time, flying home to roost. A single raindrop fell on my head. Just one.

Was that meaningful? I no longer presume to pass judgement on the matter, but at least none of it was polluted by any connection to money. And it made a pleasant change from doing strenuous jobs in the garden and feeling physically wrecked for five days, or reading the news and experiencing severe disappointment in my fellow humans and their priorities.

For the Sake of Making it 10.

I briefly held the hand of a Filipina yesterday. There was a group of Filipinos shopping in Ashbourne Sainsbury’s and the hand contact happened by way of me welcoming them to our neat little town in our neat little country. (I doubt that a shopping trip to Ashbourne Sainsbury’s was the main purpose of their visit, but never mind.) The last time I held the hand of a young Filipina was in hospital 5½ years ago after I’d undergone a painful procedure. She was a nurse, and I have to say that it’s a delightful experience.

I had other encounters this week which might have been worth reporting, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they were so I’ll save us both the trouble.

And I’m only making this post because I like seeing double figures in the side bar.

I was also going to make a post around the question: ‘Do you ever miss anybody who is no longer in your life?’ It became horribly long and convoluted, so you may be pleased that I chickened out of that one too.

I might just mention that I spent the last four days doing the toughest of the spring jobs in the garden. In consequence, I’ve felt a wreck for the last four days.

Mounted Maidens.

Today I met a maiden come a-riding on a horse (of course.)

(A ditty beckons but my ditty muse has been absent for some time and I haven’t a clue where she is. She’s not the only woman to have given up on me in recent years, just the latest.)

Anyway, the fact is that I’ve been curiously attracted to maidens riding horses for as long as I can remember, and I don’t know why. It isn’t libidinous, strange as that might seem. I think it must have its origins somewhere in a past life or something buried deep in some aspect of universal mythology.

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I never knew any equine maidens when I was growing up. Coming as I did from an industrial area, all the maidens I knew occupied themselves with gainful employment in factories, shops, or offices where they sat typing all day or operated switchboards in those blessed years before automation took over and treated us to the joy of recorded announcements and menu options. (Deep breath) And they were all – or nearly all – impatient to arrive at the point when they could give up gainful employment and begin adding to the surplus population. None of them rode horses. I was in my late twenties before I met a maiden who even knew how to ride a horse, and she probably only did so because her father was a Tory.

The salient point is, however, that both maiden and horse of today’s encounter were supremely amicable and a good time was had by all. Hallelujah.

The Phantom Yucca.

There’s something slightly odd going on either in my bedroom, my mind, or my ocular faculty. When I go to bed at night I switch the light off, turn onto my right side, close my eyes, and go to sleep. Sleep usually comes very quickly, but not always. Occasionally I lie awake for a few minutes and feel constrained to open my eyes again, and that’s when I see it: the large yucca plant standing to the right of my bed, clearly, though dimly, visible in silhouette against the wall beyond. It stands exactly where my bedside table – on which there is an alarm clock, a lamp, and a few things I’ve taken out of my pockets – stands at all other times. The last time it happened I didn’t see a yucca, though. Instead I saw a large quantity of little black insects rising and falling like a swarm of midges backlit by the sun on a summers evening. 

Needless to say I find these sightings intriguing, and I put some thought into what the phenomena might be. I’ve come up with lots of possibilities ranging from the deeply mystical to the boringly mundane, and maybe there are other possibilities which I haven’t identified or are beyond the scope of my knowledge in such matters. And since there are so many of them I always decide on the simple solution: ignore them and go to sleep. So that’s what I do.

Noting a Hint of Duplicity.

One of the few sound bites I like is the one – paraphrased here after a song by Bob Dylan – which says: ‘steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you King.’

It’s the same with killing, isn’t it? If somebody with a disordered brain goes on a spree and murders 3, 4, 5 people, we call that person a serial killer and regard them as the foremost of evil villains. If they’re caught they get locked up for life or executed by the state and everybody cries ‘Good riddance.’ And understandably so, obviously.

Yet Presidents and potentates the world over routinely kill hundreds of thousands of people – sometimes even millions – in furtherance of their political agendas and call it ‘collateral damage.’ They carry on sitting safely behind their big desks, wearing their expensive suits, getting up safely every morning to the approbation of their native supporters, being seen as important, and maybe even becoming major historical figures.

There’s something wrong with our sense of balance and justice, isn’t there? It’s one of several reasons why I have little liking for the human race and frequently question whether I really want to be a part of it.

The Ultimate in Good Karma.

When I was leaving Sainsbury’s earlier, weighed down by three heavy bags of shopping, my backpack, and a bundle of garden canes, I got stuck in a narrow part of the lane behind an old man walking very, very slowly with a walking frame. I had two options: ask him to move out of the way or walk very, very slowly behind him until the way was clear. I chose the latter.

And then I noticed several middle aged women watching him and smiling. And then they looked at me and smiled in my direction, presumably in appreciation of my patience. It’s interesting how humans function, isn’t it? I wasn’t feeling patient at all, I just didn’t look it. And the reward for my reticence was smiles from several middle aged women. Oh joy.