August Finale.

So here we are with less than two hours of August to go and I have nothing to make a post about. No mysterious happenings, no interesting encounters, no accidents involving ladders, no epiphanies, nothing. As Albert and his parents were wont to complain on their day trip to Blackpool …there were no wrecks and nobody drownded, in fact nothing to laugh at at all.

The missing people are a large part of the problem. People used to provide the odd amusing, informative, or inspirational anecdote, but there’s no longer anybody in the Shire to capture my interest, and so I observe the proper pleasantries when necessary and then move on. Nobody ever says ‘come closer so I can hear you better’ since the brightest of all the stars went out.

These days I commune only with cows, horses, dogs, and donkeys. Today it was the turn of the donkeys in Meadow Lane. They approached me and received some handfuls of fresh hay and a few minutes of ear scratching in return.

And that’s about it for August. Nostromo out.

Bird Mysteries.

All my life I’ve regarded the House Sparrow as the most ubiquitous of all the small passerines. I’m sure that’s how we all regard them because, apart from a drop in their numbers a few years ago from which I gather they’ve recovered, they always have been the most ubiquitous of the small woodland birds. To people like me who are interested in birds, they’re the very essence of ordinariness and durability.

Whatever else has chosen to appear or not to appear in my garden, the space around the house has never been short of sparrows. They nest every spring in the roof space at the top of the building. And whichever route I’ve taken on my daily walks, there have always been several flocks in different places twittering to themselves on top of the hedgerows. That’s why I was so surprised when I realised a few days ago that I haven’t seen a single sparrow anywhere in the Shire all summer. I regard that as a most remarkable and mysterious fact.

So what has become of the once-so-numerous House Sparrow, and is it worth speculating on possible reasons for its disappearance? I don’t suppose it is, but if anyone has the answer I’d be pleased to hear it.

And talking of birds, I saw the bodies of three Wood Pigeon road kills on my walk this morning. It isn’t uncommon to see the odd one every two or three weeks, but to see three in one day in different locations is also unusual. Is this another of those signs from the universe to which we should be paying heed, and do I really want to know? I’m not sure that I do. The sight of a partially squashed and often headless bird is not a particularly pleasant one.

Whatever Happened to Nigel Smith?

I was thinking today about the people I used to knock about with as a teenager, and the name which rose to prominence was Nigel Smith.

Nigel was the closest I ever knew to the complete hedonist. Life was his platform; pleasure was his business. Nothing else seemed to matter to him. It worried his mother a lot, and she found surprising solace in the fact that I kept her errant son company occasionally. She thought I was a good influence. Whether I was or not is hard to say, but I played the part willingly because my own nature was more that of the chameleon. In the company of strange people I was steady and sensible. In the company of steady, sensible people, I became a little strange. I suppose it was all a matter of balance, and Nigel came to no harm while I was with him so maybe his mother’s view was justified.

The last time I saw him was at a school reunion in 1995 and I didn’t recognise him. When his identity was revealed to me, I felt an urge to keep away. I’m not quite sure why. As far as I recall, I simply felt that there was some sort of barrier between us and I couldn’t be bothered to find out whether I could break it down. And I never saw him again.

Now I’m led to wonder what became of him. Did he change his spots and settle to family life with a wife and several children? Is he now a dear little old man living contentedly with a dear little old woman and being tended by grown up offspring of at least two generations? Did he overstep the mark in his pursuit of pleasure and end up in a prison cell from which he never escaped? Did he perhaps choke to death on some part of a young woman’s undergarment which was never meant to be taken orally? Did he succumb to the effects of some noxious substance which drove him to permanent madness or the end of his days in a state of agony? Or did he simply pursue his pleasures until age and general degradation robbed him of his physical capabilities and he died of a broken ego. These are but a few of the possible ends to which Nigel might have succumbed. And that’s something else I suppose I shall never know.

Perusing the Possibility of a Parting.

I walked from the kitchen into my office last night and was unaccountably struck by a sense that something was missing. It felt as though I was walking into an empty room which isn’t usually empty.

I looked around and soon ascertained that everything was where it always is. Both the desk light and the uplighter were on and as bright as usual. And then an apparent realisation struck me: what was missing was the presence of the priestess.

You see, during the thirteen years when she and I were corresponding, it never consciously occurred to me that something of her essence was here in this room. I know I used to fancifully write about my ‘Chinese ghost’ visiting, but it was transparently fictional. Or so I always thought. Having felt the sudden sense of emptiness, now I’m not so sure.

Now I wonder whether some aspect of consciousness is capable of transcending distance because distance, like time, is illusory. After all, stranger things are happening in the world of quantum physics. So was last night the point at which the priestess finally left my orbit? I don’t suppose I shall ever know.

The Dicky Heart Issue.

I spent a few hours yesterday in the company of my daughter and two of my grown up granddaughters. I’m very lucky in having a family – small though it is – who are on a wavelength with me when very few other people are. We talked a lot, mainly about international politics, the meaning of life, spiritual matters generally, and the fate of the dead. We came to few conclusions because people like us generally don’t. The search is all-important to us, and we know that the search always leads to a bottomless pit.

And of course, when I leave such company my own search continues in the same bottomless pit but with a few new angles to consider. It also leaves me feeling dizzy, probably in consequence of having a dicky heart. A radiographer once told me that talking puts pressure on the heart, and mine doesn’t seem to take kindly to very much of that.

And talking about dicky hearts, my body hasn’t yet fully recovered from the shock to which it was exposed during that unfortunate incident with the ladder on Sunday. It surprised me, you know, it did. I’ve had lots of falls since I moved to this house, mostly off ladders and on ice during the winter, and none of them affected me like that one. I also played rugby for more than twenty years. How many physical assaults do you think the body is subjected to in every game? I used to think nothing of it, but not this time.

I’m blaming the old heart and its underperforming left ventricle for that one, too. Seems I must now avoid physical shocks and taking part in extended discussions. Heaven know what would happen if I woke up in bed one night to find a Japanese woman wearing a long white shift, and with long black hair covering all or half her face, sitting on my bed and regarding me impassively. I think I’d better think not about it.

*  *  *

None of that was very interesting, was it? But I do so feel the need to keep this blog active, and I suppose it makes me prey to clutching at straws. I decided to start this one because I had something more interesting (or enlightening or something) to finish on, only now I’ve got here I can’t remember what it was. Can dicky hearts make a person forgetful? I suppose they probably can.

Edited to Add:

I just remembered what I was going to finish on. Maybe tomorrow. Right now it's a short email and then my nightly YouTube session.

A Minor Mishap.

Today’s exciting event was the having of a minor accident.

I was up a ladder trimming the top of the tall, tough field boundary hedge which runs for 100ft down the side of my garden. It’s rather broad and so requires the use of a heavy pole hedge trimmer (I bought a new one recently because the blades on the old one were becoming blunt and the growth in that hedge is a mixture of tough stuff like hawthorn, briar, holly and so on.) It’s tiring work and my ageing body suffers quite badly, but there’s nobody else available to take over so I don’t have much choice.

I’d finished one section and started to climb down the ladder – carrying the heavy hedge trimmer in one hand – but mistook the second step for the bottom one (I think I’ve done that at least three times this year.) Matters were made worse by the fact that the piece of earth for which my foot was headed was lower than piece on which the ladder was standing. The result was that I fell over backwards when my foot did eventually make solid ground (or maybe a little before) with the result that I ended up on my back in a supine position, half on the garden and half on the lawn.

And the matter didn’t quite end there. I’d dropped the heavy hedge trimmer on the way down, but the ladder came down in sympathy with my predicament and land on top of me. Metal ladders are heavy, but fortunately it missed my face and merely pinned me to the ground by my left shoulder and rib cage. Blessings be to the Divine Lady Mother for that.

So how did I feel? A little shocked, a little weak, a little dazed, but mostly very foolish. I’d heard nothing snap and had no sharp pains, but I did have a small predicament. I couldn’t sit up. My head was facing downhill, you see, and in their weakened condition my abdominal muscles wouldn’t lift me. I did briefly wonder whether this was the end and heaven beckoned, but decided it was simply a matter of mechanics. I’d already managed to lift the ladder off my left shoulder and rib cage, so I was able to turn my body through 180°. My head was now facing uphill and sitting up was almost as easy as usual. (A little ‘phew!’ at that point.) Standing up was more difficult because I still felt weak and my legs ached, but I managed it. And then I carried on. And nobody came to my aid because that’s how life is when you’re a loner.

All that happened about four hours ago and I still feel light-headed. I’ve also got an aching back, and I’m sure I can hear a little voice emanating from somewhere in the middle of my chest. ‘Be more careful next time,’ it’s muttering. ‘Watch where you’re putting your feet so you don’t miss the bottom rung. Don’t you know I’ve got an underperforming left ventricle? Idiot!) I think I know where it’s coming from.

There’s still a small section left to trim, by the way. I can only hope that the underperforming left ventricle doesn’t stop performing altogether before it’s done. I’ve always been the sort to insist on finishing any job I start, you see. It’s one of my weaknesses.

And it occurs to me that I could have made a post which simply said ‘I fell off a ladder today.’ It’s unsurprising that nobody talks to me these days, isn’t it?

Being Mindful of the End of Days.

A few days ago I was walking along Meadow Lane in the Shire. The temperature had dropped after a spell of warm weather and a stiff breeze had developed. The glowering grey sky was all-pervasive: low, dark, heavy, and oppressive. And then I noticed that nowhere along the half mile length of the lane was there any blossom to be seen in the hedgerows – all were come to black and red berries, and these, I knew, would soon be ripped away by the McConnell hedge trimmers when the autumn hedge cutting is done. There were hardly any wild flowers left either, and last but not least was the sight of trickles of dead leaves beginning to line the edges of the lane. It all told me that summer, which always seems to pass so quickly, and which has seemed especially short this year due to the low temperatures in June and most of July, was coming to an end for another year.

And it took my thoughts to all those people who used to keep me company on this blog and by email. They came from all over the world – from Australia, South Asia, South America, North America, Africa, and Europe. They’ve all gone now for one reason or another. I could mention some of the special ones by name, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others so I won’t.

The question of my health issues fits neatly with a train of thought which must be readily apparent by now. I have four identified ones at the moment, which seems a little excessive. I’ve had occasional issues ever since the age of twelve when I had my appendix removed, but they’ve always come one at a time and been widely spaced. And judging by certain symptoms which have been niggling away for a few months now, I suspect that there may be more just waiting in the wings to make their entrance onto the stage.

I hardly need to add – though I’m going to anyway – that the current state of the world and the state of the human condition seems to be getting worse.

So where is all this moaning from the pit leading? Simply to a sense that my perception of life might now be summed up succinctly by the phrase that is the title of this post. And maybe I might be permitted to quote again my favourite line from Tennyson describing the end of days in Camelot: The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness.

I should also mention that I first wanted to make this post a few days ago after my walk along Meadow Lane, but didn’t because I didn’t want to present a gloomy face. That changed last night when I had a dream. It was the usual stuff full of disturbing situations, none of which I can remember in detail, but it ended with me standing before a shadowy male figure who said ‘You will die soon.’ It scared me, even though I’m happy to accept that it was no more than a reflection of my current state of mind. My dreams are rarely prophetic and I have no reason to think that this one was any exception. But it still scared me because I have an image of death as the process of being suddenly stripped of everything that once defined you, and then being pushed off a parapet in complete darkness with no knowledge of what you’re going to be faced with when you hit bottom.

But I might finish by relating the fact that I encountered a tiny mouse today sitting on the road close to my house. I’m sure it must have been a baby because, at no more than an inch in length, it was small even by the standards of wood mice. It neither struggled nor squealed complaint when I picked it up and placed it on the grass verge to save its young life being extinguished by a passing car. I wondered whether that was my good deed done for the day, but couldn’t decide. It seems to me that in matters of life and death, it’s sometimes impossible to know what’s good and what isn’t.

Awaiting November with Interest.

The American Presidential election is certainly garnering some interest over here. The BBC is positively gorging on it. It always surprises me that we pay very much attention to who is going occupy the White House for the next four years, since we over here are, after all, over here and not over there. I suppose it all started with the tug of war between JFK and Comrade Khrushchev over the siting of Russian missiles on Cuba. Even so, in all my life I’ve known very few people who paid much heed to the matter.

It seems to be the Trump phenomenon which has changed all that. All eyes are on America because we’re fascinated by the prospect of it going up in flames if Trump loses. We’re aware, you see, that American society has never been so divided since Gettysburg and all that jazz. Whoever wins, no doubt there will be an awful lot of people taking the ‘Not My President’ position, but I would imagine that the identity of the winner will make a big difference for one simple reason:

As far as we can tell, confirmed Democrats are generally a pretty peaceable bunch of people. Those given to wandering the streets dripping side arms and assault weapons are likely to be almost entirely Trump supporters. They also have smaller brains and are more inclined to seek solutions through the medium of violence. All of which makes for an interesting situation, and leads to the presumption that November will be a time to watch America from a distance.

What’s also interesting me is Trump’s choice of tactics while the opinion polls indicate a close contest. Having tried and apparently failed with the race card, he then moved onto the conspiracy theory: ‘That crowd welcoming Air Force 2 when it landed in (wherever it was) didn’t exist. It was AI generated. Nobody turned up.’ Well, that was soon quashed and I wondered whether he might try the sexist card next. He didn’t, probably because somebody with a few more brain cells advised that it would be very risky. And so now he’s busy pushing the ‘I, victim’ button, another favoured ploy in the propaganda game. Having already had ‘If I’d turned my head at that moment, I’d be dead’, ‘I shouldn’t be here’, and ‘I took a bullet for democracy’, he’s now fallen back on the bullet-proof screen gag.

All very fascinating. November beckons. I haven’t looked forward to November since I was a small boy and was still being given birthday presents.

The Gnome Stayed Home.

Most of today was awful. It was one of those days when you begin seriously to suspect that there’s a little gnome of misfortune suffering with toothache who is intent on causing you all sorts of irritating mischief just because he’s in a bad mood. A day of mishaps, mayhem, and malfunctions.

(Isn’t it odd that so many words with a negative connotation begin with the letter M?)

Actually, there probably wasn’t any gnome. It was probably all due to my being tense over today’s trip to the Royal Derby Hospital for my annual CT scans. The whole arrangement has not gone well this year, you see, apparently due to the backlogs that have developed in the NHS for several reasons. Today’s arrangement was over a month behind schedule and all attempts to find out what was happening fell on stony ground, but on Wednesday afternoon I had a phone call offering an appointment for today.

‘Will I get a letter as usual?’ I asked. ‘No,’ replied the man making the offer, ‘but you might get a text reminder.’ Having received neither letter nor text message by this morning, I was in neurotic mood. I was feeling quite sure that I would go to all the trouble to prepare for and keep the appointment (you know – nothing to eat for at least four hours, making sure that there’s plenty of fluid in the bladder to keep it well inflated, driving twenty miles plus a side trip to Ashbourne to buy a box of Lindor chocolates for the radiographers, using twenty miles worth of petrol, probably having to queue for a parking space and then pay for it, negotiating the rabbit warren to get to the CT suite, etc) only to find that I had no appointment after all. I would have been a little miffed.

But no. The appointment was safely on the computer and the road ahead was clear. The two radiographers were an absolute delight and virtually squealed with joy when I handed over the box of chocolates. ‘You’ve made my day,’ said the younger and prettier of them (and that, as you might expect, made mine.)  And then Maria, the Portuguese nurse who did the cannula fixing and general conveyancing, and with whom the chocolates had naturally been shared, told me off for not having given them to her. But she was only joking and told me that I knew how to please a woman. I declined to agree, of course. (What I actually said was that I was too old to care any more.) ‘Give a woman chocolates,’ she said, ‘and you will melt her heart.’ Why didn’t anyone tell me that when I was twenty? I finally learn how to melt hearts just when it’s too late to bother. Life eh? Maybe next time.

And so the difficult day went down not in wan and weariness, but in smiles, pleasant connections, and good grace. Thank heaven the gnome didn’t fancy a road trip.

Little Nigel's Big Piggy Bank.

Remember Nigel Farage who has been the subject of several dishonourable mentions on this blog? He’s the British politician generally seen as the most visible political underachiever for the past several years, but who is now a bona fide member of the British parliament. He won a seat, you see, in a staunchly right wing constituency in the south-east of England at the last election. (For all his posturing, he’s never been an MP before.)

I read a news item today which said that his earnings from his numerous non-political activities amount to over £1m a year. This has raised a few eyebrows because it brings into question the amount of time he has left to spend working for the constituents who voted for him. Well, that’s a fair question, but what I found particularly astonishing was this:

Apparently, one of his little money making schemes is the practice of writing personal notes to people at their request. We’re not talking lobbying activities here – legal or illegal – just personal notes. No doubt he signs them ‘Nigel’, and maybe even appends ‘personal friend of Mr D Trump of America’, which is what he claims to be. And this is what I’ve been asking myself on and off all day:

‘Why on earth would anybody want a personal note from Nigel Farage?’ I haven’t come up with an answer yet.

But I have come up with a startling revelation: We all know what an over-inflated ego Mr Farage possesses, but I would never have guessed that it could be so profitable.

The Twin Torments of Idealism and Perfectionism.

Since I’m a Myers-Briggs INFJ, it’s unsurprising that I’m both an idealist and a perfectionist, and both of those traits can be inconvenient.

Idealism frequently places the weight of frustration on your shoulders because few things are ever really ideal. This is becoming more of an issue in a world run increasingly by glitch-ridden technology put in place prematurely by greedy people who want to keep as much of the available money for themselves. And a combination of the internet – especially in the form of social networking sites, search engines, and a shamelessly biased media – encourages the abandonment of common sense and personal experience in favour of post-truth lies and misinformation. And then there's the fact that the world is run largely by people with strong psychopathic tendencies, as well as the state of the human condition generally which is worryingly flawed.

What’s more of a problem to me, however, is the scourge of perfectionism. Let’s coin a little sound bite here: Perfectionism is never saying ‘it will do.’ To a perfectionist, saying ‘it will do’ is akin to beating yourself over the head with a lump hammer and therefore to be avoided if at all possible. But suppose you’re also a depressive? People who suffer from true depression (I avoid the term ‘clinical depression’ for reasons beyond the scope of this post) naturally and frequently sink into a state of torpor out of which it is massively difficult to raise themselves. And in that state, the phrase ‘it will do’ is a natural and frequent antidote of sorts because there’s a fire inside your head which can only be extinguished by the cessation of unwanted effort.

I hope that’s explanation enough because it’s time for coffee and toast. Next up will be a brief note of incomprehension concerning Nigel Farage.

Patience: More Than Just a Virtue.

 The advert for Curry’s (a major UK electrical retailer) says:

 

Buy now, pay

Up to 9 months

Later

29.9% APR

I would re-write that as:

Save for

 9 months and

Then pay cash

My method has two benefits:

1. You avoid going into debt and therefore escape one of the major sources of the heightened stress levels endemic in today’s society.

2. Assuming inflation runs at less than 29.9%, which it almost certainly will, you’ll get the product cheaper.

I suppose I’m just old fashioned and illustrating why I don’t belong here.

Mental Health and the Matter of Priority.

I was talking to a woman yesterday who’s had a lot to do with mental health services in the area. She told me that mental health provision is the ‘poor relation’ in the NHS. It’s the one that’s most underfunded and afforded lowest priority.

I find this a little disconcerting because, as I’ve regularly asserted on this blog, perception is the whole of the life experience. Everything we regard as important in life ultimately distils to it – pain, pleasure, aspiration, everything. It’s all ultimately in the mind. Exterior factors in the outside world and the machine that is our body often provide the stimulus, but the mind is the bedrock of the experience.

That being the case – and notwithstanding the need to repair the machine when necessary – shouldn’t the mind be the highest priority, not the lowest? I think so.

And there is, of course, the question of whether the mind is a function of the brain and entirely dependent on the physical organ, or whether the mind – and in this context I presume synonymy with consciousness – is an independent faculty which uses the brain in order to organise and facilitate its many functions. I favour the latter and so maintain my support for better understanding of mental health issues. I do realise this is a difficult expectation of a health establishment seemingly entirely reliant on material science, but it would good to think that they might take the issue more seriously.

Unrelated note 1:

I’m reading a new book at the moment – Philip Pullman’s The Book of Dust. It’s a prequel to his much-vaunted trilogy His Dark Materials and I have to say that I’m finding the writing style less than satisfactory. I have the impression that it was written in a hurry and not edited well. But the plot is sufficiently engaging and I’m getting through it quickly, so quickly in fact that I’ve been searching for something to take the literary reins when it’s finished. Today I found a novel in a charity shop which appears to be right up my rickety street. It’s by a man called Haruki Murakami (who I assume is Japanese because I haven’t looked him up yet) and is called Kafka on the Shore. The synopsis makes it sound pretty surreal – talking cats and showers of fish falling from the sky, for example. Me to a tee, I hope. Looking forward to starting it.

Slightly related note 2:

Every night I find a new insect bite somewhere on my arm, my neck, or my hand. They itch from early evening all the way up to bed time, so my question is: why do insect bites only itch when the light falls? Could it be that my mind only recognises the external stimulus when the diurnal energies are low? Should I be taking some important inference from this? Off to read about Dust now.

(This post is unedited, by the way, because I’m in a hurry. And today I picked up an information booklet on pre-paid funeral plans. That was enterprising of me, wasn't it?)

Some Random Notes to Make a Post.

I’ve always had the ability to get to know quite a lot about a person on a short initial acquaintance, and to know them in some depth after a few longer conversations. So it comes as a surprise to be getting the tentative impression that somebody I’ve known for many years might not be quite who I thought she was. My instinctive reaction is to remove her from the elevated position she’s held for quite a long time and walk away. If I’m right, she won’t give a damn and neither will I. If I’m wrong – and sometimes I am – I’ll be sorry. We’ll see.

*  *  *

I had a phone call at 5.30 this evening to give me an appointment for my next set of CT scans at the Royal Derby Hospital on Sunday afternoon. I have mixed feelings about it, but I still intend to donate a box of Lindor chocolates to the radiographers by way of payment to the ferry man. They might ask ‘what does that mean?’ and I can reply ‘think Styx.’ And then they’ll probably conclude that I’m completely barking and not speak to me again except to mutter from their radiation-safe cabin ‘we’re about to inject the dye.’ Come to think of it, that’s usually about all they say to me anyway, so the rest will be a welcome bonus.

*  *  *

I looked in the mirror yesterday and made a startling observation. My new wheels – the little French Princess, the Lady Clio – is silver grey, and almost exactly the same colour as my hair. I’ve never driven a car the same colour as my hair before, and I’m tempted to think it must be significant in some way.

*  *  *

I saw a woman of mixed race in Ashbourne today who radiated so much sunshine from her eyes that I couldn’t help smiling at her. That’s most unusual for me, and fortunately she didn’t smile back. And I had a double dog fix from a pair of dogs accompanying two elderly humans. One was a laid back Labrador who just looked happy to have my attention. The other was a pushy little scrufty dog who kept shoving my knee and saying ‘Hey, what about me.’ (I speak fluent dog, by the way. Hadn’t you noticed?)

Half a Blue Moon and Other Bits.

I have a question.

I was out in the garden at twilight this evening, topping up the birds’ feeding tables as I’m wont to do, when I noticed something. My eye was drawn to the bright, first quarter moon hanging splendidly about 30° above the horizon against the mid blue of a clear southern sky, and I began to wonder why I could only see the illuminated half.

The dark side must be there, mustn’t it, to the left of the light side? So why is there only uninterrupted blue sky to the left? There isn’t some celestial being adding layers to the moon as it waxes, and then taking them away from the other side as it wanes, is there? (Although maybe I could write a children’s story called The Moon Maker about just such a being, and then I could let some struggling young independent film maker have the film rights free. Much better that than selling them to the Hollywood moguls, soulless Philistines that they are. But I digress…)

So why couldn’t I see the dark half of the moon in silhouette against the blue of the sky? Could it be that the dark half of the moon is exactly the same shade of blue as the sky at 9pm on 12^th August, and is therefore effectively camouflaged? That seems unlikely. As far as I know, and in direct contradiction to the adage and the romantic song, no part of the moon is ever blue. So then I wondered whether it’s some sort of optical phenomenon, but couldn’t work out how. Or could it be that the blue light from the sky somehow bends around the moon and hides it? I believe light is capable of doing that sort of thing. Is there an astrophysicist in the house?

(More importantly, I couldn’t remember how to spell ‘astrophysicist.’ My mind is definitely faltering these days. But at least the birds are coming back. A lady blackbird joined me in the taking of tea in this afternoon’s sunshine. And yesterday evening I had another first: I saw a deer walking down my lane, at the top near the Harry Potter wood. I’ve never seen a deer walking down the road before. I think it was a young Roe Deer, but we have six species of deer in the UK and some of the smaller ones are similar. And I think that’s about it for today.)

Imagining Demons.

The same thing happened again today as it often does: my late morning walk was full of musing on the recent riots in Britain, the worrying road western culture seems to be taking, consideration as to what, if anything, is driving the change, and where it might all be leading.

It began with a question which suddenly occurred to me: whether there are vague parallels between the recent riots in the UK and Kristallnacht in 1938 Germany. I began to identify the similarities and differences, the differences including the reaction of our government which was quite the opposite of Hitler’s National Socialists. But then, Hitler’s National Socialists promoted the exercise in the first place and didn’t win in the end anyway. Is that relevant perhaps?

But then, as usual, all the musings and questions and considerations fragmented and faded into the mists of distractions and more pressing priorities, and the long post didn’t get made. This is becoming a trend. And maybe I’m imagining demons where there aren’t any.

I’m also beginning to suspect that my blog might be being monitored, apparently from Singapore. Why would anybody do that? The blog doesn’t function as a social media platform and I’m no sort of influencer. In fact, I’m not any sort of anything. And yet I can’t think of any other explanation for the strange pattern of visits Blogger stats says I’m receiving. Probably more imaginary demons, I expect, but if two men in black suits turn up at my door (and they’re not Mormon missionaries), I’ll let you know (assuming I don’t disappear altogether. And I’ll probably let you know if they are Mormon missionaries.)

It’s a scary old world sometimes, isn’t it? I could write a long post about my countless and fruitless attempts to find out what’s happening about my annual CT scans which are a month overdue already. It seems that nobody in the CT/MRI department at the Royal Derby Hospital is picking the phone up these days. And when I rang the switchboard number to see whether I could access the department that way, my call went straight to Mental Health Services. Scary.

The BBC and Fake News.

I read a news report on the BBC website a couple of days ago. It concerned a group of people who were asked to leave a pub in the town of Conwy, North Wales for being rowdy and upsetting other customers.

Sian Lloyd, a Welsh woman and well known British TV presenter, took to social media and complained that she was disgusted by the fact that a group of people had been thrown out of a pub in Wales for singing in Welsh. The landlord of the pub was interviewed and explained what had happened.

It seems the group in question had sung the Welsh national anthem – in Welsh – which he described as having been ‘very beautiful’, and when they finished he asked them to tone it down to avoid disturbing other customers. They didn’t; instead they carried on until people found the noise objectionable and began leaving the establishment without finishing their meals. Eventually they were asked to leave.

He was also at pains to point out that the incident had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the offending group were singing in Welsh; the problem was entirely a matter of them being rowdy. But the BBC reported this with the headline:

People ejected from Welsh pub for singing in Welsh

The BBC often carries articles about the harm that is done and friction caused by people spreading misinformation on social and other media. (The riots currently plaguing the UK are a notable example.) Yet here they are doing the same thing

This is just one example of the steep decline in standards at the BBC over the past decade or two. The BBC used to be highly regarded for the standard of its journalism, not only in the UK but in the world generally. I could write a whole post on the subject, and maybe one day I will. Or maybe I won’t bother because it’s merely one aspect of the many cracks appearing in British culture.

Off to read some more of my latest book now. Had enough of being earnest for one day. Thank you and goodnight.

(Oh, forgot to mention: tonight I met the Shire’s newest dog – a lovely, 7-month-old lady Labrador called Red. Such encounters matter.)

On Connections and Class.

I was walking through Ashbourne today when I spotted a cockapoo puppy clearly desperate to make my acquaintance. ‘May I say hello to your dog?’ I asked its human who was supping his pint outside one of the town pubs. The human agreed and so make friends we did. (He was one of those dogs which like to nip your fingers playfully with their sharp little teeth, but it doesn’t hurt very much so you accept your role as pin cushion with good grace and accept that it’s all part of the privilege.) ‘Thank you for the dog fix.’ I said to the human eventually, and moved on.

Later, I was standing outside Sainsbury’s when a man approached from the car park with a young but fully grown white Labrador on a leash. The dog was intent upon trying to connect with every human they passed, but her own human was equally intent on restraining her. And then he stopped for a while and a group of four passing humans gave the dog their undivided attention. She was ecstatic, squirming and wriggling and rolling as though all the good things in life had come at once. And I found it interesting that I derived almost as much pleasure from seeing a dog get its human fix as I do the other way round. It’s all about connections between humans and animals, you see, something that means a lot to me.

*  *  *

And talking of connections, I have to mention again that the Lady B’s dear mama is the classiest person I’ve ever known (she drove past me again today, slowing and smiling as usual.) She once asked me what I was having for dinner one evening, and I answered that it was to be a simple dish of my own invention consisting of a bed of rice with mushrooms and sugar snap peas fried in sesame oil. ‘Sounds rather nice,’ she said. ‘Fills a hole,’ I replied. ‘Fills a hole… fills a hole… That’s an expression with which I’m unfamiliar.’ ‘It’s common enough where I come from,’ I offered. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The working class do have some quaint but rather interesting expressions, don’t they?’

Did that conversation really happen? Of course it didn’t; that’s the point. Truly classy people – at least in the UK – never strut their class; they don’t wear it on their sleeves. They’re possessed of an innate understanding that we’re all created equal under the stars and the greenwood trees. Only fakes need to show it off.

Questionnable Lady Day.

I had three lady encounters today. The first was friendly and chatty, the second no more than perfunctory, the third kept her eyes averted and pretended not to see me. I think I must be losing my boyish charm. But at least I got to stroke a friendly dog.

And for those who read last night’s note about going into B&Q, I might add that I didn’t, partly because I was running late and partly because I’d lost interest in saying what I wanted to say. Pity really; it might have been amusing. But I can be like that. Matters which seem important one day can pale into insignificance the next. It’s probably why I could never have been a man of scholarly pursuits, however much I might have liked being addressed as ‘professor.’

And do you know what’s odd? I dislike being called Mr. I think it stems from the habit of my sociopathic stepfather to tell me that ‘you know you’re somebody when people call you Mr.’ Oh, right. And now I'm off to see whether my computer will allow me my YouTube fix tonight. It's often reluctant.

Issues (with American Subtitles.)

Last night I heard a guru (considered somewhat eminent among western gurus) claim that ‘there is no such thing as past and future. There is only the ever-present now.’ This appeared to contradict one of my own favoured views and I thought about it all the way around my walk this morning. And eventually I realised my error. I was seeing the concept of ‘now’ as being effectively synonymous with ‘the present moment.’ And of course, it isn’t.

The term ‘moment’ implies a finite, divisible point fixed to a spot on the flow of time and is universally recognisable as such. The term ‘now’, however, is an abstract concept which moves constantly through time and is entirely personal to every fabric of phenomenal reality. ‘Ah, good,’ I thought. ‘I am not at odds with the eminent guru after all.’ I was content.

Ah, but then I remembered what a celebrated physicist (whose name I don’t recall) also said last night. He claimed that he had proved mathematically that reality – as we understand it – cannot be real. He gave no details of his mathematical reasoning and I’m certain I wouldn’t have understood a word of it anyway. Neither did he define 'reality.' But he did say that on an emotional level he found the fact difficult to accept, while being quite certain that his maths (or math if you happen to be colonial) were (or was) impeccable.

So then I began to think about that one (which is difficult if you don’t have the calculations to hand and wouldn’t understand them even if you did) and arrived at no conclusion. I arrived home instead and became more concerned about what to have for lunch and whether I’d have time to do a job in the garden which I regarded – falsely or otherwise – as rather pressing.

And talking of food, I had to have a makeshift meal consisting of a plate of chips (French fries…), a few plum tomatoes, and a pickled onion for my dinner tonight. I was going to make my fabled pea and potato soup until I realised that I’d forgotten to buy an onion in Sainsbury’s on Wednesday, and home-made soup just wouldn’t be the real deal without a base of fried onion. (I’ll get one from Tesco tomorrow.)

You see, this is what makes this vale of tears such a … vale of tears. It’s all an endless flow of questions and problems. One minute they concern the possibly illusory nature of time, reality, the universe and everything, and then it’s the sense of deflation and the need to seek alternatives because you forgot to buy an onion from the supermarket. I really do wonder sometimes whether it’s all worth it.

(But tomorrow I just might go into B&Q in Uttoxeter and say to a certain assistant something I wanted to say to her two weeks ago, but didn’t because I chickened out. I make no promises, mind. I can be a terrible wimp these days when it comes to offering unsolicited compliments to women who haven’t yet lived as long as I have. I start off feeling positive, but eventually sink into the self-perceived identity of a sad and ageing Lothario who has nothing better to do with his life. Come to think of it...)

Winning the Argument.

My mind this morning was full of seething condemnation of Big Capitalism – its selfishness, its greed, its underhand tactics, and the way it tragically divides society. I had a long post all written up in my head and ready to go. And then I became busy with other things and forgot all about it. When I stopped being busy and remembered it, the thoughts were fractured, the words badly jumbled, and I realised that nothing will change until The Great Cataclysm hits (which probably won’t happen until I’ve shuffled off the present mortal coil) so I didn’t bother. Instead, I thought I’d mention something of much greater personal significance.

*  *  *

In the early hours of this morning, while the imp of mild inebriation was perched on my shoulder being impish, I wrote an email to the priestess for the first time since last autumn. The imp was all for me pressing the send button, and wasn’t at all pleased when the muse of common humanity kept whispering in my ear that sending it would be an act of selfishness. ‘Hang selfishness! he intoned petulantly. (Actually I seem to recall he used an expletive). Selfish is good. Send the damn email.’

Mistress muse was not to be outdone, however. ‘Leave it until the morning,’ she advised. ‘Sleep on it. It’s usually the best policy when ambivalence is creating eddies in the water of self-control. Consider the matter in the morning.’

By that time it was getting late and even the imp’s eyelids were drooping, so I went to bed.

When I booted up the computer this morning I made the decision. I do rather like my little imp; he can be fun at times and I wouldn’t want to lose his company altogether, but he generally has less energy in the cold light of day. The muse, on the other hand, is wide awake. She stays silent but gives me the look – half warning and half smiling, as you might expect – and is all but irresistible. I decided that I dislike selfishness and I dislike selfish people, so I didn’t send the email.

(But it’s still sitting in ‘drafts’ just in case…)

Summer's End in Sight.

So here we are at the start of August and, true to form, the signs of a dying summer are beginning to show themselves. The wheat crop is nearly ready for the harvest, the first red berries have appeared on the rowan trees in Church Lane, and the leaves of the massive copper beech tree (where I’ve asked for my ashes to be scattered, incidentally, because it’s my favourite tree and favourite spot in all of the Shire) standing aside the dip below the creepy copse are changing from claret back to bottle green.

So soon…