The Peasants Are Back.

The House Sparrow (Passer Domesticus) has long been regarded as the humble runt of the bird world. It was also the most numerous, at least in Britain and possibly the rest of Europe too, and maybe its sheer ubiquity was the reason for its peasant status. It suffered a decline some years ago but is now, as far as I'm aware, back up to something like full numbers. 

In the twenty years I've lived in this house I've always had a resident population of between twelve and twenty birds. One shrub in the garden was their regular perching place during the day, and another was where they retired to roost at twilight. My garden was never without sparrows for the whole of that time and I was very fond of the little guys. I couldn't care less for their peasant status. Most of my ancestors were peasants, and what's wrong with peasants anyway? And there were several sections of hedgerow lining the lanes and fields where I'd see a small flock them every time I went for a walk, especially in the late autumn, winter, and through the spring while the hedges were neatly trimmed with flat tops. They usually twittered as I walked past, and it was nice to think they were offering a greeting even though they probably weren't.

But this year they disappeared. Completely. No sparrows in the garden, and no sparrows on any of the lanes. Not a single one. It went on for months while the hot, dry summer lasted, and I was obviously curious to know what had happened to them. I missed them, you know? I really did. My best guess was that they'd relocated to spots near the river a mile away where there was water to be had because bird numbers were low generally during the summer. But I still saw the odd robin, blackbird, dunnock, blue tit, and so on. So why no sparrows? Could the whole population have died out for some reason? I hoped not.

Today was a day for celebration because the were two of them on the bird table, one male and one female. I watched them for some time to make sure I wasn't mistaking them for the similar looking dunnocks, but no. They were unquestionably sparrows, and hopefully more will arrive soon and the peasant status quo will be re-established. If I see them tomorrow I'll ask them where they've been. And if I get a reply I'll be sure to report it here.

Latecomers.

Every year at around this time I report on the appearance of one or more skeins of geese flying overhead, honking loudly, and evidently heading for some place with a milder climate before the winter arrives. Tonight was the night. There were eighteen of them and they were headed ESE.

But then, a few minutes later, I saw another pair of birds coming from, and heading in, the same direction, and the sound they made was less of a honk and more of a quack. So what's that about? And why were they late.

(And they were definitely geese, by the way, just in case anyone thinks my eyesight or my judgement is fading with my mood.)

Virginia's Gift.

I'm warming to the writing of Virginia Woolf. 

 

Tonight I read one of her short stories called The New Dress. It's about a woman with a new yellow dress which she wears to attend a soiree at the house of Mrs Dalloway (the eponymous MC of a novel which I must read one day.) But she has a problem. She's utterly lacking any trace of self-esteem, and the whole work is a ramble on the issue. Over the course of eight pages she lays down her train of thoughts as she mingles dutifully with the other attendees, using metaphor, simile, memories, general allusions, and even logic. And she isn't truly mingling at all, of course, but seeing her shortcomings reflected back to her in every conversation and situation. A recurring theme in these rambles is that she isn't actually depressed, just flat, and the yellow dress is the fulcrum on which these many sided musings pivot.

I'm beginning to get the impression that all of Virginia's writings are effectively one long string of autobiographical fragments, strung together through a brilliantly perceptive mind and a penchant for prose which is perfect for the endeavour. Eight pages of self-absorption or not, I found it most compelling.

 

(I was meaning to write a post today about the growing sense that my own connection with this mortal life is fading -- not physically, but mentally. Hardly anything attracts my interest nowadays. When I'm not depressed, I feel flat. But maybe we've had enough self-absorption for one day, so I'll leave my own ramblings for another.)

The Eating Dilemma.

We think of eating as one of life's great pleasures, don't we? It's wired into us, presumably because a body has to eat in order to live and function normally. But I have a problem with it. 

One of the INFJ personality type's leading characteristics, or so the experts in such matters tell us, is the unconscious need to dive deeply into every subject and assess it from all angles (it's why we tend to be slow at making decisions) and if you do that, the practice of eating shows its dubious side. I wrote a long post about it in my head last night, but it was getting close to bed time and so I decided to leave writing it until today. Today I changed my mind because the main thrust of the piece was, should we say, unacceptably unsavoury. Instead, I'll just mention the way I was brought up with regard to the matter of eating.

My mother was raised in poor circumstances where social niceties held little sway, if any at all. It was also an unhappy upbringing, and I always had the impression that she wanted to adopt the mindset and -- where possible -- the mannerisms of the more genteel folks (and all without ever being snobbish, I might add.) She had spent time as a young woman working in service for a posh family somewhere in the more refined suburbs and had observed their habits with regard to meal times. And these she passed onto me in case I ever graduated to a more rarefied level so that I wouldn't let myself down. Eating came with strict rules which I took to heart in childhood and have never relinquished. They are:

1.Know the right table settings for cutlery, glasses, side plates etc so that you are always sure to use the correct implement.

2. Be diligent with regard to the rules of using such implements. They are immutable. Any careless descent into using your knife like a pencil or a skinning tool, or your fork like a coal shovel, will consign your reputation in the minds of the genteel to the grubbiest of gutters. And never allow your elbows to extend more than two inches from your waist whilst eating.

3. Only put small amounts of food in your mouth, so the fact that you are engaged in masticating is hardly visible on the outside. This even applies to casual eating of things like biscuits, cake, and pastries.

4. Keep your mouth tightly closed as long as there's even a small amount of food in it.

5. Never open your mouth to talk until you've swallowed everything.

6. Never take a drink while there's food in your mouth (because few working class habits are quite as disgusting as that one.)

7. Avoid picking things up with your hands. If there is a spoon or fork available, use it.

8. Never grunt while eating (as my step father did every meal time.)

 

So there you have it. Those genteel folks managed to devise a code with which to balance the necessity of the act with the unsavoury nature of the process. Clever, weren't they? And all this is one of the reasons why I would never go into a fast food joint even if I wanted to.

Confused By the Darkness.

I've been wondering all day how to make a post about the Christa Pike story, and I'm uncommonly confused as to what my feelings on the matter really are. I don't even know why it's bothering me so much. I suppose it's the layers of tragedy, the smell of injustice, the abject nature of capital punishment, the surreal denouement and presumed incompetence, the question of what will happen next... and probably more than I can think of at the moment. There's almost something of the blackest of comedy about it if only it weren't real

The one thing I can be sure of is that the whole affair will do no favour to the reputation of the USA justice system and the state of Louisiana in the minds of compassionate people everywhere.

No more. Too late.

Ronnie and the Reluctant Horses.

I encountered my first ever robotic lawn mower today. It went by the name of Ronnie, or so a small voice in my head suggested with not a little conviction. And it was quite small -- maybe 30 inches by 15 or thereabouts, and looking for all the world like a vacuum cleaner with a mind of its own -- and was wandering up and down a patch of grass on one side of somebody's boundary wall. I watched it for some time to assess how it knew when to go straight, when to turn, where to go next, and so on. There was an appendage at the front with a glass panel which I assumed read the height and spread of the grass in front of it in order to make an informed decision. My attention paid off because I was eventually afforded the opportunity to say 'you missed a bit' because it had. Modern technology isn't all it's cracked up to be, you know.

The real problem, however, was evident a little way along the lane. Two handsome palomino horses were standing by a farm gate looking a bit tetchy, while their two women riders had dismounted and were holding onto the bridles looking irritated.

'They won't go past that robot thing,' said one of them. I had the impression she was blaming me in the absence of easier alternative.

It's hardly surprising, though, is it? A vacuum cleaner wandering about on its own, apparently aimlessly to a horse's perception no doubt, and making a funny buzzing noise to boot. Maybe I should have gone back to the machine and said 'Morning Ronnie, and how are you today?' And maybe Ronnie, bless his mindless modernity, would have performed something approximating to an Irish jig and squeaked happily. And then the horses would have strolled past in all their haughtiness and everything would have been well with the world. Never thought of that.

Goodbye Today.

In a matter of minutes, Wednesday 30th September 2026 will qualify to enter the history books and never be seen again. That's the sort of fact I find profound.

Winds of Change.

The feeling is growing in me that, in a world run by sadists, psychopaths, technocrats, and the big corporations, the winds of change are strengthening. It's happened before, of course, just not this quickly. And change isn't necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, a state of flux has ever been natural to the progression of life and reality. But natural change tends to happen slowly and allows for adaptation, and one of the things which most concerns me is the battle cry of politicians everywhere now: 'We must have growth.' They mean economic growth, and that's where the problem lies.

 

As I understand it, economic 'growth' is based on the amount of money in circulation (and we may conveniently forget that money doesn't actually exist for the purpose of current concern.) This is where the epidemic of consumption mania comes into the picture.

Britain's new left-leaning Prime Minister is saying a lot of good things in his attempt to level the playing field a little, yet even he is now attacking the state pension -- not radically or immediately, but he's put the cards on the table. And there have been others recently who have railed that the state pension is too much; the country can't afford it; honest, working people are going short while the pensioners get richer. Richer? I don't think so. 

 

The real reason for attacking the state pension is the simple fact that pensioners are the least active consumers, and so -- if my understanding is correct -- they're the least likely to contribute to economic growth. Why keep the pensioners (who have, let's not forget, spent fifty years or more working and paying into the system through national insurance contributions) comfortable when what growth really needs is tax breaks for younger, middle class working people. They're the ones who are driven by expectation to spend £1000 on a new smart phone every two years instead of three; to buy 60" TVs to make their living rooms look like cinema auditoriums; to buy newer, more prestigious cars so their social status gets a boost; and so on. The fact that they're burning themselves out and often neglecting their children just to keep up with the consumption game is sidelined in favour of the growth imperative. Lifestyle is everything now because the elite want it that way.

(I'm even tempted to ask whether economic growth has any actual value at all, but I'm not an economist so I decline to expound upon the question. My best guess is that the presumption of necessity is inevitable in a free market economy, but not so much in the sort of mixed economy we enjoyed in the UK before Mrs Thatcher shackled us to America's coat tails.)

That's just the start of my feelings about the winds of change. Technological overkill is another, but this post is too long already so I'm going to shut up. I think it's at least three weeks since I stroked a friendly dog and I'm feeling denied one of life's real essentials.

A Seasonal Note.

Today in the Shire seemed to encapsulate that defining shift in the turning of the year. The air was mild and the sunshine comfortable, a far cry from its burning aspect in July. This week's twilights, however, have embraced the first few cutting chills of autumn to remind us that cold will soon be the new normal. It's a little premature for me because I make it a point of pride, principle, and pecuniary discretion to delay the switching on of the various electric space heaters in this house until at least 1st October. The result is comfortable days, but uncomfortable nights in the office and in bed. Won't be much longer now.

 

*  *  *

I was going to make posts on two subjects of interest to me: the case to be made for not preventing Iran from having nuclear weapons, and the lesser matter of elite sport losing its heart. They seemed inappropriate to September so I might make them later in the year. (And I don't expect anybody to care one way or the other, by the way. It's just that if you have a blog you have to say something on it.)

Choosing One's Reading Matter.

In the Virginia Woolf story I was reading tonight she frequently uses the phrase 'the contagion of the world's slow stain.' I felt truly ashamed because it revealed the uncomfortable fact that if one is going to presume to read Virginia Woolf, one should at least be sufficiently erudite as to recognise her references. A trip to Google had to be made to hide the slow stain of my own ignorance. Apparently it's a line from a poem by Shelly in memorium to the recently deceased John Keats, and refers to him now being free of the slings and arrows of mortal life. I should have guessed, shouldn't I?

And then I saw something quite startling when I loaded YouTube. There was a video in the recommendations claiming that a lot of young people no longer read all the text in books. They only read the conversations because, they say, description is so boring. I suspect many of them might go the way of John Keats if they tried to read dear Virginia. I clicked on the video in hope of leaning more and thereby finding something worthy in the state of being old. It wouldn't play.