Hazardous Creatures.

When I was doing my twilight tasks this evening, I found my steps being constantly dogged by small critters getting in the way – a small salamander and the two resident baby hedgehogs, Harry and Hermione. Well, neither salamanders nor baby hedgehogs are all that easy to see in the gathering gloom of dusk, and one obviously doesn’t like to tread on either of them, however inadvertently.

The salamander was easily dealt with. He got picked up and placed under some growth on the garden. But what do you do about hedgehogs which keep turning up just where you want to sweep or walk or whatever? I was told a very long time ago:

‘Never pick up a hedgehog. They’re absolutely riddled with fleas, so you’ll end up either scratching yourself to nothing or succumbing to severe loss of blood.’

Such statements make quite an impression when you’re at an impressionable age, so I’ve never picked up a hedgehog. A bit wimpy, but there you are. In consequence, Harry and Hermione got stepped over carefully and with a commendable lack of complaint

Woman with a death wish

Reflecting on an E

I only noticed today that there's a lane running off the main road just beyond the Shire called Virginsalley Lane. That's an odd name as it is, but imagine what a different provenance would be suggested if it was called Virginsally Lane.

Capricious Climate.

A week ago the news bulletin said that it had been the hottest day ever recorded in Britain.

Today I searched the Sainsbury's beer shelves, comparing the discounted ones. I settled for London Porter. It was a reluctant choice because porter is a dark, bitter beer best suited to winter nights; India Pale Ale is more suited to July, but porter was the best on special offer.

Guess what. Tonight it was so cold outside that wearing a winter coat wouldn't have been inappropriate - seriously - so the choice of beer was about right after all.

*  *  *

And I wonder why anybody bothers to read such inconsequential drivel as this. Where have all the ditties gone? Gone to young girls, every one.

Actually, that's only partly true. And anyway, where have all the young girls gone? Gone to warmer climes, one way or another.

A National Characteristic.

There’s a very big book on my bookshelf called The Rules of the Game. It’s a blow-by-blow, more or less real-time account of the Battle of Jutland, in which the Germans were getting the upper hand at one point and British battleships were exploding and sinking with alarming frequency, taking thousands of men to the bottom of the North Sea with them. Catastrophe loomed (from one point of view,) although some balance was restored in the end.

However, what I find interesting is the reaction to this watery carnage-on-a-grand-scale. A German admiral might have muttered ‘Gott im Himmel!’ and his French counterpart ‘Mon Dieu!’ An Aussie variant would have been something like ‘Jeez, mate!’ and the American version ‘Ah, shit!’ By contrast, Admiral Beattie’s famous response was a calm:

‘There’s something wrong with our bloody ships today.’

That’s the attitude referred to affectionately over here as British phlegm.  

A Tale of Two Smiles.

The young woman supervisor in Sainsbury’s did something odd today… but first, to recap:

Regulars might remember that incident last year when I felt compelled to point out to somebody in Sainsbury’s that their new signage carried the line ‘…park at there own risk’ when it should obviously have been their own risk. The young woman in question happened to be the recipient of my valuable intelligence that day, and I felt only the tiniest glimmer of suspicion that her declamation ‘Oh no!’ carried sarcastic intent. And maybe it didn’t, but…

Ever since then she has pointedly ignored me. In fact, she appears to pointedly ignore everybody unless they direct a query at her. I suppose that’s what supervisors do. But today she was supervising the self service tills when I walked across to pay for my lunch. I realised she was watching me and eventually turned to look at her, and you know what she did? She smiled. It was a sweet, ‘I forgive you’ sort of smile. (I’ve seen it before and I’m rarely wrong.) Forgive me for what? Being a clever clogs who notices wrong spelling and can’t bear to think of it going uncorrected? I smiled back anyway. It isn’t something I do often, but smiling is like riding a bike.

(At this point the post was going to enter a dangerous arena: the difference between teenage girls and young women. My courage failed. Sorry.)

*  *  *

The woman in the coffee shop on Monday was different. She was around forty, a mere customer, and had a little girl with her. I was having coffee with Mel at the time, but I couldn’t help noticing this woman’s eyes turned in my direction. More than that, I could feel them. They were powerful eyes, so I gave in and looked back. And you know what she did? She smiled. Hers was more of an ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere’ sort of smile. (And I’m rarely wrong.) But it was strong in a feminine sort of way, and rather beautiful, and I decided she looked French.

‘Is something distracting you?’ asked Mel, who was trying to talk to me about something-or-other.

‘That woman. She’s incredibly compelling. Do you think it would be impertinent of me to ask her whether she’s French?’

I didn’t get graced with a reply. Mel can be quietly dismissive when she wants to be.

‘No, suppose you’re right.’

I made do with smiling back – in a non committal sort of way, you understand.

*  *  *

And now the muscles in my face ache. Too much smiling for one week.

Deep Purple.

I'm currently in one of those subdued troughs where I say nothing because nothing seems worth saying. But I did find this:

I've no idea what the lyrics to this song mean. I don't want to know because I don't need to know. For me, music - even when sung - was ever about sense and sensation, not verbal expression. That's the job of the poet. And this, I have to say, is one of the most powerfully melancholic pieces of music I've ever heard. It's breathtakingly beautiful, taking the mind to that dark, divine place where the greatest works of man pale in the face of his inevitable mortality.

This isn't morning or evening or night music. It stands apart from life's normal parameters, practical or temporal, speaking to the mind that is empty of point and purpose. It seems to say 'Melancholy is a perfectly proper state of perception. It's simply the means by which you look through the veil and wonder what lies hidden in the purple mist beyond.'

Comparison.

Commercial Rock:

Art Rock:

I like both. One makes you want to dance, the other makes you want to smile and nod knowingly.

Come to think of it, though, there's a big comment thread on the CCR video on YouTube around the fact that some people hear 'there's a bad moon on the rise' as 'there's a bathroom on the right,' so maybe commercial rock has hidden charms.

And vis-a-vis the other one, I often wondered what the Freudians made of the line:

You gotta be cool on Wall Street
When your index is low

Early Learning.

Since there’s always somebody doing work at the primary school opposite my house, I occasionally take a sneak peek at the latest additions out of school hours. Today I discovered that in addition to the old tarmac yard and the field where most of the play equipment is set up, they’ve created a new corner consisting of:

Paths laid in limestone pea gravel and slate chips, neither of which is cheap.

A child sized summer house.

Decking areas like little stages with seats provided by sections of tree trunk.

A wooden, covered seating area in hardwood modern style.

A huge tractor tyre turned on its side, filled with earth and planted with flowers.

A wooden water trough served by an antique well pump which has been engineered to work.

… and several other features which I don’t remember. And all areas are bounded by rustic wooden fencing about 3½ft high.

The inner city primary school which I used to visit while working for the charity had an area of tarmac for the kids to run and play games of their own making, and it was bounded by an 8ft wire fence. The contrast between poor inner city areas and the mostly wealthy rural ones couldn’t be more marked.

So do I begrudge the local kids their playground delights? No, of course I don’t. I’m perfectly happy that they have such a splendidly imaginative learning environment. After all, it isn’t the kids’ fault that their parents are wealthy and dyed blue through and through. But I do have to ask the question:

‘Which environment is more suited to preparing them for an often difficult, and almost universally unjust, world?’

Or maybe I should see it as being part of the mechanism by which children of wealthier parents are conditioned to live in a different form of reality than those in the inner cities. I think that’s probably the best way to go. It explains a lot.

Sharks Scenting Blood.

The Tories are planning to make a further £12bn cut to the welfare budget on Wednesday. (Oh, and they just confirmed that rich people will henceforth be able to inherit up to £1m worth of property without paying tax on it. Just so you know.)

I think this is something of a sharks’ feeding frenzy taking hold.

Yes, yes, I know that the scent of blood sends predators wild with desire for more. And I know that the law of the jungle dictates that the predator attacks the weakest in the herd.

But we don’t live in the jungle. We’re not animals. We’re human beings and we’re supposed to be possessed of higher consciousness. Aren’t we?

Reading from the Same Old Script.

There’s been a murder or some fatal accident and a senior police officer is giving a statement to the press. He looks like an animated mannequin dressed in starch and plastic, dripping shiny buttons. In fact, he looks so artificially smart that he could be trying to impersonate a West Point cadet being presented to the colonel’s mother after the passing out parade. He gives the statement in predictably subdued tones, the like of which seem transparently unfamiliar to him, and then finishes with the final sentence:

Our thoughts are with the victim’s family at this sad time.

They say it every time, and if I were a member of the attending press I would want to raise my hand at that point and ask him:

‘If you truly feel the sadness of the time, couldn’t you come up with an alternative to the same sad old cliché that everybody else uses? Only it doesn’t really ring true, you see.’