A New Song for August.

My walk this morning took me along Church Lane. The wind was stronger than a breeze, but not quite strong enough to be called a gale. (In spite of frequently finding pieces of arboreal debris littering the road surface. I hate seeing bits of tree dying on the cold black tarmac. I'm in the habit of picking them up and putting them onto the verges so they can go back to the land whence they came -- bit like rescuing earthworms, I suppose. Ah, the memories...)

Anyway, as I passed the creepy copse I was intrigued by a strange, consistent hiss coming from somewhere among the trees. I stopped and listened, attempting a solution to an unfamiliar sound. It stopped when the wind died for a few minutes, and then I realised that it was nothing unusual after all. It was but the rubbing together of old, dry leaves, a sound I've noted before as being characteristic of August, but in a new form.

A new song for August, no less. A change of key in the score to herald the movement that is autumn. And maybe nature offering a hint of the impending change in the climate.

More Fragments.

I was thinking deep thoughts about the human condition and the state of being this morning. (I don't know why I do it; I really don't.) I intended to write a blog post around the theme, but it became too deep, too complex, too wordy, and I wasn't in a Virginia Woolf mood, so I decided to stick with the bottom line: 'Why did the Universe decide to place an indivisible fragment of God mind into the body of an animal?'

And then I read a biography of Virginia Woolf and it depressed me.

After that I received my monthly electric bill from those nice people at E.ON, and that drove me to distraction. Not the bill itself, but what happened when I tried to pay it online. I wouldn't dream of relating all the details; suffice it to say that the online method is becoming slower, more crotchety, more irrational, more marketing-oriented, and evermore frustrating with each passing month. I'd like to call them (which isn't exactly easy in itself) and ask: Please may we go back to the old method? You send me a paper bill; I send you a cheque. I doubt it would do any good. The ideocracy is gaining ground everywhere it seems.

What is also likely to drive me to distraction is the whole day 'music festival' at the local pub planned for tomorrow. If I were to mention it to any of the locals I would no doubt be asked: 'Why? Don't you like music?' And then I would have to explain to them that music is closer to my heart than nearly everything else, which is why being forced to listen to music not of my choosing drives me to distraction.

 

This brings me back to what set off this morning's early thought process. It seems that 95% of people are under the misguided impression that 100% of people are basically the same in thought, attitude, and behaviour, with just a few minor differences here and there. What they don't seem to understand is that 5% of people -- and that doesn't include the rare few who are actually psychotic -- are very, very different and have a difficult life because of it. And so they call you a miserable old git and walk away.

A Change of Mind.

I intended to make a post in praise of Virginia Woolf's stream of consciousness writing. And then I intended to make a post about the problem of being without the internet for seven days, written in the style of Virginia Woolf (to my eternal shame.) And then I couldn't be bothered because the hour was getting late (which led me to make a connection with Bob Dylan's song All Along the Watchtower, and now I can't get the phrase -- or the song -- out of my head.)

 

Instead I'll just mention that I had two splendid dog fixes today, both with Cocker Spaniels. I'm particularly fond of Cocker Spaniels, and they seem to like me. All except Honourable Sister's one time companion Ivy, that is. She always barked at me, which was unusual and perplexing in equal measure.

And that brings me neatly to the main point of the post -- to repeat with some conviction that if I lived in a world populated exclusively by little girls who want to talk to me about the meaning of life, attractive women who like the way I think, and friendly dogs who want to be my very best friend for ever and ever, I think I would be content. It would, however, cause me to be terribly scared of dying and going to heaven where angels would no doubt patronise me. Hateful.

Suffering an Unwelcome Companion.

I have an invisible but highly irritating friend, you know. He doesn’t have a name, but he looks (to me only) and sounds like somebody I used to know and didn’t like very much.

He sits, or more usually stands, next to me if I’m playing a game of solitaire or free cell on the computer in between writing something, or watching a film or YouTube video accompanied by appropriate music. He interrupts me by telling me that there’s a red seven which can be transferred to that black eight over there, or maybe there’s a two at the bottom of a file and he has to tell me that I have the ace of that suit and the two belongs on it.

I know these things and tell him I know. He asks, rather mockingly, why I don’t do it then, and I tell him that I have my reasons. He asks what my reasons are, and it’s usually at that point that I lose patience with him and tell him to go away. He does so, sullenly, and then I pity him because rejection is not a nice thing to experience.

I’ve often asked myself who this highly irritating friend is and where he comes from. Is he a common psychological condition to which many people are prey, or could he be the product of another source? I favour the latter; I think he has something to do with my indoctrination by the officers of the Anglican Church to which I was in thrall as a child. I was often cautioned that God watches every one of us, constantly judging the rightness or wrongness of everything we did. It was a conviction I carried with me throughout my childhood until I began to see the branching roads of different possibilities when I was around age 12.

And maybe the analogy is not so far-fetched. Maybe the branching roads were but a plant growing in a woodland glade, and maybe the root that was the source of my conviction never died but rather developed in a different form. That’s my theory for what it’s worth.

And why am I writing this now? Because I’ve just been reading Virginia Woolf, why else? I imagine it’s the sort of thing she might have written, and maybe she did. I had to give up the book because I was falling asleep, and I discovered long ago that while reading tends to make me sleepy, writing usually has the opposite effect. And so it has, and now you know.

On Tales and Tails.

The short story I jotted while my internet was dark has now been posted at the stories site here. It's the first short story I've written for nearly six years, so maybe the farmer and his runaway tractor (for such was what caused the destruction and seven-day internet hiatus) produced one positive result after all.

 

*  *  *

 

I had to buy a new set of printer cartridges today and it cost me £75. The last time I made such a purchase it only cost me £39. And back in the day -- not so very long ago -- when I had a printer which was just a printer and not the modern multi-function type, I used to buy pirated ink cartridges for £5 each. They worked perfectly. I think somebody is making a lot of money somewhere.

 

*  *  *

But at least I got to stroke a lovely Labrador/Retriever  dog, and was reminded again that, for all the ills of the world, being approached by a dog with eyes which say 'will you be my friend please' (augmented by an active tail, of course) is still a substantial source of pleasure.

The Dark Time's Daily Journal.

What follows is the daily journal I wrote to give me something to do while my internet was down. It's probably slightly more interesting than watching paint dry, but only slightly. If you make it to the end you have my sincere respect. And now I'm back - for now.

*  *  *

Wednesday 26^th August

I’m writing this to give me something to do because I have no internet at the moment. More on that later.

Today has been troublesome. Upon waking I received another pestering text message from the GP surgery which annoyed me as they always do. This will have to be dealt with since I’ve had quite enough of dealing with medical matters to last me a lifetime. At about the same time a power cut began, the result of which was no breakfast, no early cup of tea, no later morning coffee, much worrying about how long the freezer contents will remain frozen, and no internet. (And therefore no news, no sports news, no emails to check, and no updates on YouTube.) I was due to get the transport to Ashbourne to do my weekly grocery shop, and the power returned just as I was leaving. But at least I got to see the Lady B for the first time in several months, or it would be more accurate to say that I got to see the Lady B’s car and a waving hand which it seemed natural to presume was attached to the Lady B.

The bus turned up a little late and so it was a rush to get everything done – which wasn’t much – in the town. I managed it and was ready for the return trip with about ten minutes to spare. I saw a person – hard to tell whether male or female – coming out of Sainsbury’s with a wheeled walking frame. I would say he or she was around fifty and somewhat disabled, as evidenced by the time it took to walk the forty feet or so from the doors to the benches opposite. He or she sat on the bench and began to eat an apple. Slowly. Deliberately. With head bowed. I found it a poignant sight, and wondered how a life should be lived when there’s little to do except get through it. The young woman of around nineteen or twenty walking briskly past with a child in a buggy painted a different picture.

And then the bus turned up with an incoming woman passenger onboard. This could be a very long story, so I’ll keep it brief. She didn’t seem to know what she was doing or what she wanted, whether through drink (as the driver maintained), drugs, medications, or some pathological mental disturbance, I wouldn’t know. There was no incident as such, but her confusion and indecision – and the need to take her home en route to taking me – meant that a fifteen minute exercise took fifty. And I’d still had nothing to eat or drink except half a glass of water. (And yes, I know I should be grateful for even that blessing.)

The best of today’s misfortunes, however, was yet to come. At 6.15 in the evening my internet dropped out. It does so frequently since I switched to British Telecom, so I reset the router. That usually works, but not this time. I tried it again with no result. It dawned on me that I was without internet, and naturally felt the need to talk to somebody in BT about the problem. I can’t do that now because, as previously reported, BT’s customer service line restricts access to customer service advisors exclusively to customers in proud possession of a smart phone. I am not such a case, being one of those small minded mortals who still think it possible to negotiate life armed only with a dumb phone. And so I used the automated fault reporting line. I received an automated reply advising me that there was an issue in my local area and they were working ‘really hard’ (note the word really) to rectify the situation, since they ‘know how important it is to stay connected.’ They expected to have me ‘back up and running’ by 1700 hrs on 4^th September. That’s nine days away. And that’s BT.

The internet is very important to me, you know. I would rather it weren’t, but it is. I can read a book, of course, but I find myself becoming a little restive after about twenty minutes and my eyes begin to get sore. TV and radio offer nothing of interest to me. I don’t do night time things like cinemas, theatres, restaurants, or pubs. I live alone and my only friend is my ex, Mel, and so I rarely get to talk to anybody. Chores like housework and gardening keep me busy at times, mostly during the day, but I can take only so much of those. The internet provides my music, my entertainment, multifarious subjects on which to muse, and occasionally information. My only – dare I say it – ‘creative’ pastime is my blog which depends entirely on the internet. Without it I’m all but lost.

So how do I change this sorry situation short of engaging some intelligent, personable, slightly neurodivergent young woman to keep me company and feed my insatiable curiosity regarding the female of the species? I can be quite sure there would be no takers, and so I must bear my lot with fortitude until the god of technology and the corporate world chooses to release me.

Thursday 27^th August,

This morning we had a thunderstorm in the Shire, accompanied by torrential rain. When the storm passed the rain became steady and quite heavy, and remained so for several hours. I went out for my usual walk anyway, duly protected by my trusty Mountain Warehouse raincoat with the hood up, and was treated to two interesting sights.

Two girls of around late teens were walking down The Hollow, the sunken lane which has received many a mention on this blog. One was wearing a raincoat with the hood up; the other was wearing what looked like a flimsy bodice-style garment, leaving her head, neck, shoulders, arms, and the top of her chest bare for all the world to see and all the rain to rain on. I’ve never seen a girl dressed quite so openly in the Shire even in dry weather, let alone heavy rain. I tried to think of something funny to say, but failed miserably and the moment was lost.

The second interesting sight came at the top of the lane on the area of grass which the locals call the village green. For as long as I’ve lived here it’s been home to the millennium oak tree which is growing rather grandly, the old, traditionally red public phone box which has probably been there for about a century but has latterly been de-commissioned and given over to a book exchange facility, the village mailbox, and the telecommunications cabinet which plays some pivotal role in directing the phone and internet signals from the lines to individual properties. The millennium oak is the only occupant still standing. The phone box and mailbox are missing altogether, and the cabinet is dented, scored, and leaning at a jaunty angle. And the road sign which says Bag Lane is flattened. Clearly something big and hard has crashed into everything, and credence must be given to this being why our internet is currently out of action and likely to stay that way for an unconscionable length of time. I’m not happy. And thunder is rolling around the heavens again as I write.

Finally, I made my difficult phone call to the doctor’s surgery today to tell them that I was unwilling to play their games, no matter how noble they might seem to most right-thinking people. (I’m not most people, you see.) I must have seemed a bit heavy at times to the poor receptionist, and so I eventually apologised to her since none of it was her fault. The fact that she was unruffled by my heaviness and equally unmoved by my apology impressed me.

Friday 28^th August

The Great Internet Famine continues into a third day. Another six days to go if BT’s prognosis proves accurate (which is unlikely, but we’ll see.)

I took a walk down to the site of the disaster in Bag Lane to see how the work was proceeding and maybe get a more realistic prognosis from the people doing the job. The road was marked as closed, but when I arrived at the workface there was no closure. There were also no workers. Maybe it was because it was raining, and maybe telecoms engineers don’t work in the rain. They are not, after all, farmers or deep sea fishermen.

I had a bill payment to post, but the mailbox which used to be next to the telecoms cabinet is no longer anywhere in sight. No doubt it is probably awaiting its final trip to a scrap metal pile at some foundry by now. Accordingly, I had to make a two mile round trip on foot to the next nearest mailbox on the other side of the Shire. It rained the whole way back.

(If this missive is going to make its first night appearance when the internet finally raises its curtain again, I doubt many people will read it to the end. But continue it must if I am to remain as sane as I usually am.)

The empty night time hours are growing longer now that the year’s end is beginning to whisper its impending presence, and I’m beginning to feel the need of a companion while the internet is sleeping. I’m also being reminded again of a parallel with the character of Dr Haynes from MR James’s story The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. He, too, feels the need of a companion as the night time hours lengthen. His sister has decamped to the south of England where the air is kinder to her delicate condition, and the friend who came to stay for a short while has gone home. That’s when Dr Haynes begins to feel the incipient presence of something supernatural and unfriendly stalking his aged abode, and one morning he is found dead at the foot of the stairs. The cat is implicated, even though the house does not have a cat. Neither does mine. And so, like the good (or rather, bad) doctor, ‘I must be strong.’

Saturday 29^th August

So, how have I negotiated the third full day without my friend the internet?

With an ever present feeling of frustration, of course. Every time I come into my office I see my desktop image staring lifelessly at me from my computer monitor. I get a little jolt every time. I think to myself that even residual hauntings appear to have some purpose. A computer without an internet connection is but a darkened theatre stage between performances. I noted that we had thunder for a third consecutive day and wondered whether there was a meaningful coincidence involved. I also went to the demolition scene in Bag Lane again. Still nobody working there, but then BT did say that they are ‘working really hard to rectify the situation because we know how important it is to remain connected.’ (‘Fine worts, fine cabbage,’ as Sir John Falstaff quipped.)

On a brighter note, I’m using some of my excessive down time writing another short story. It’s a time slip story, and is the first I’ve written for several years. I’ve even been persuaded to engage in a minor piece of planning which I never usually do, but only insofar as plotting the birth and death dates of three generations of women so as to avoid a glaring plot hole. I hate plot holes. I’m also reading the third story in my new book – the complete short stories of Virginia Woolf. She had a splendid faculty for observing human characteristics and the dynamics of different social groups, and she was a fine crafter of words to boot. The latter, in particular, means that her stories are not only interesting, but even enjoyable to one such as me. Being an inveterate observer myself, I can well understand that she must have had a difficult life mentally, and am not at all surprised that she ended it on purpose in a river.

Sunday 30^th August

Dead Internet Day 4 of 9 (allegedly.)

I didn’t go around by Bag Lane today because I had a letter of complaint to send to BT and that took me in the opposite direction. Accordingly, I have no idea whether any work was underway at the crash site. And Mel reminded me tonight that tomorrow is a bank holiday in our little piece of Europe, and on such days it is customary to pay workers twice the usual rate. I don’t suppose BT are any more prepared to pay double wages than they are to look kindly on those to whom the internet has become an essential commodity, so I’m fairly sure that tomorrow will be another unproductive day and the wait will continue.

Apart from that, nothing of note happened today. I got a little gardening done when the rain stopped. And this journal is becoming quite the weighty tome.

Monday 31^st August

Dead internet day 5

Nothing of any note today except thinking about Plato and realising a rather strange fact: Human society has always been, and remains, ruled by stupid people committed to destroying, or at least nullifying, those who say sensible things. It appears patently obvious that there is no place for wisdom in politics, only opportunism.

The new short story is proceeding and now has a name. It’s called Time After Time. If it does get finished, and if ever I get my internet restored, I’ll post it on the blog stories site.

 

Tuesday 1st September

 

I walked to the crash site again this morning and found a gang of engineers replacing the wrecked cabinet. My internet came back - a little tentatively - at 1430. Hurrah.

A Slight Change of Emphasis.

I'm endeavouring to see Donald Trump differently. He remains as undesirable as ever as he lumbers around farting his rancid, overblown ego into the face of anyone who disobeys or disagrees with him, but I'm trying to see him as a phenomenon.

I tell myself, you see, that I'm letting myself down by ignoring his ignorant and ignoble approach to the rest of humanity. I've long held the view that my role in this life is to observe and learn, and you can't do that by judging too harshly. So I should try hard to see D Trump as an Interesting Phenomenon.

 

I tell myself that he's probably mentally ill, and I tell myself that he usually fails in the end despite the bluster, lies, and empty rhetoric, and I tell myself that he will die one day anyway because everybody does. It helps a bit.

A Reason to Feel Uncomfortable.

I often emphasised during the early years of writing this blog how much I wanted to stay in this locality. It’s set in the southern foothills of the Pennine massif as they gradually give way to the flat land of the Trent valley to the south. It’s a patchwork vista of trees, copses, bigger woods, hedgerows, pasture land, plough land, hay meadows, low hills, and a river valley. As such, it’s not so rugged as to make life tough, and not so flat as to make it tedious. It’s as near perfect as you could wish and a delight to the senses. The problem with living here is not the location, but the house I live in.

It’s not particularly old by European standards – a little over 100 years and therefore Edwardian – but it has a lot of shortcomings which make it uncomfortable at times, especially during high winds, heavy rain, and in the winter. Such difficulties I’ve largely learned to live with and accept for the benefit bestowed by the wider environment, but I’ve often been led to wonder whether there’s a more speculative issue in play.

In common with the style of the Edwardian period, there’s no hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Instead, the stairs are accessed from the living room, and there’s a door at the bottom of them which can be closed in the winter to stop the heat from an open fire escaping upstairs. What I found odd when I first moved here was that the door to the stairs had a bolt fitted on the living room side, the purpose of which could only be to stop somebody upstairs from coming downstairs. That has something of a mad-woman-in-the-attic feel about it, I would say, and I was led to wonder whether there was something dark in the history of the house.

And there have been occasions when I’ve woken up in the early hours and felt a presence in the bedroom. Sometimes I’ve even fancied I could see a figure, slightly darker than the darkness, standing in the corner of the room. I realise, of course, that this can be put down to a simple mental aberration and I’ve always been able to go back to sleep easily enough.

But what about those times when I’ve woken in the night feeling chilled, even when there seems to be no reason for it? It happened again last night. I awoke feeling chilled, and when I moved my legs the sheets were icy cold. And this was on a mild night in August with the temperature perfectly normal for the time of year. I woke up again later and the bed was warm again.

More latterly I’ve been more concerned about my waking state. I feel utterly exhausted both physically and mentally nearly every morning when I wake up. My legs struggle to carry me weakly to the door, and my mental state is all for giving up on this life. It improves to some extent as the day wears on, but it has begun to have me wondering whether some vampiric entity is draining my life force at night. Naturally I’m inclined to dismiss such a speculative suggestion, but times are changing and perceptions of reality are changing with it. The fact that a range of health conditions began shortly after moving here may be put down to the simple matter of ageing.

Put all these factors together, however, and it should come as no surprise that I don’t feel entirely comfortable here. I wonder whether houses and other buildings really do have a genius loci, and whether the one attached to this place doesn’t like me for some reason. Or maybe it’s a previous tenant who’s reluctant to move on and objects to being invaded. Or maybe I’m simply being fanciful and overly imaginative. My nature has always been a little strange, no matter how hard I’ve tried to hide it.

So should I tolerate it or seek to move? Well, moving house requires a lot of time, trouble, and effort, and I would find it more than merely difficult to raise the will and energy to do so. If I had a partner to share the load it would probably be feasible, but since I don’t the answer should be obvious.

Nonsense for the Sake of It.

Flowers will be blooming in Sydney today.

I wanted to post that because it reminded me of an old Brit TV show called Candid Camera, in which silly scenarios were visited on unsuspecting members of the public while a hidden camera looked on. I think they still produce such a programme, but with a different name. The only one I remember had a man sidling furtively up to a shopper and saying quietly: 'Is the Count eating kippers with your mother-in-law tonight?'

I tried it in a branch of Argos once, at a time when they followed the practice of asking you for a password before they'd give you the goods. The assistant at the counter didn't smile one inch, but frowned and said: 'I'm sorry?' Different generation, I suppose. And when I related the fact on an early blog post, somebody commented: 'What are kippers?' That was when I realised that the joke was all but lost.

I did half of the toughest job in the garden today. When I finished it, my energy level had achieved a negative value. Such a situation can be quite alarming, yet here I still am. 

And then my daily daydream broke forth. I was speaking French fluently and rescuing an elderly lady, whose English was inadequate, from a false accusation of shoplifting in Sainsbury's. It reminded us both of something from a M Hulot film and we both giggled. I can be quite a nice guy in daydreams, you know. I can.

Tit for Tat.

It occurred to me today that it would be amusing if Canada acceded to Mr Trump's invitation to become the 51st state, and then waited until the next 4th July to issue a Declaration of Independence.