Giving Names to the Queens.

Do you know that in all my life, as far as I’m aware, I’ve never known an Abigail, Isabella or Aisling? And yet they are my three favourite women’s names.

Abigail has long been my favourite. It belongs to a quiet, hard working girl with a dark edge and an air of mystery about her. Her hair is long, brown and lustrous, and her chestnut eyes carry the qualities of knowing and dreaming in equal measure. Abi says little, but she gets whatever she needs with seeming ease and you return her stare at your peril. If you hear her calling you from a distance in the night, you try to go back to sleep and hope for the best. She would be at home in an M Night Shyamalan film, ensconced within the deep, dark woods of remotest Pennsylvania.

Isabella is my second favourite. Her raven hair falls naturally in waves, and she is thought to be the strongest evidence to date of the rumoured liaison between a maternal ancestor and a Spanish prisoner of war in Napoleonic times. She is quiet too, but more from pride and self-consciousness than mystery. She speaks when she wishes to and not until, and her sharp hazel eyes are ever capable of ensnaring those who think themselves impervious to ensnarement. Bella would be at home ruling some colonial mansion set deep in the bayous of Louisiana.

Aisling is my third favourite. She is a minx, a leprechaun, a sly yet principled little weaver of honest mischief. Her wayward, flame-red hair sets light to those whose suspicions she arouses, while her deep blue eyes could tickle a daisy one minute and blow the moon from its orbit the next. She has a temper that is quick to rise and quick to fall, and a laugh like the shyest of sirens competing with the gale. Ash belongs on the sea cliffs of Connemara where the wild Atlantic rages, content to be alone and daring the elements to subdue her spirits.

So there you have it. Come to think of it, I’ve never known a Phoebe either, but that’s probably just as well since Phoebe isn’t a favourite.

The Appeal of Nippon.

I’ve started watching a Japanese horror film about a man whose internal organs are disintegrating and going slurp, slurp, rumble, rumble, splosh in the process. After 40 minutes running time we haven’t actually seen him yet, but several doctors who have peered at him through the screen have stood back with that look in their eyes which only the Japanese can do, and said:

He smiled at me!

Now can you understand why I’m so enamoured of Japanese horror films? Who else would make such a one as that? And it wouldn't surprise me if they used Smell-O-Vision in Japanese screenings.

Please Mr Postman.

You know how it is when you’re hoping to get an email from some special person whose presence on the planet is of substantial import to you. You check your inbox in the morning, and then several times during the day, and again before you go to bed at night. And the sense of deflation grows with each empty inbox until you begin to grow weary of deflation.

And then expectation is relegated to hope, and hope is replaced by doubt, and doubt takes on the mantle of predictable resignation. The days grow into weeks and the weeks into months until resignation becomes a matter of routine. And then one day you open your inbox as usual and…

…nothing again.

‘Twas another gloomy day today. Do you know that here in the Shire we’ve had rain on thirty of the last thirty four days? The postman says he’s growing tired of the capricious nature of the British climate these days. (Only he didn’t use the word ‘capricious’, which is strictly a writers’ and clever clogs’ word.)

But at least the weather keeps me frequently closeted indoors, thus obviating the possibility of causing distress to any children, dogs, horses or damsels who might be perambulating the lanes and public footpaths of our little domain. I miss the bells, though. I need bells to give me a sense of purpose.

(Did you know that Quasimodo escaped the murderous mob at the end of Hugo’s classic? He expired peacefully from starvation wrapped in the arms of his beloved and very dead Esmeralda. Does that sound like a consummation devoutly to be wished?)

The Culture Divide and Cracking Up.

I made a joke recently on a YouTube video made by the Tan twins from Singapore. They didn’t get it. I assumed it was because they’re Chinese and that the Chinese have a different sense of humour than we westerners. By way of an example, here is China’s Number One joke:

An old man was walking along a track between two mountains in the region of Jiangnan. One mountain said to the other:

‘Let’s jump on him and crush him.’

‘We can’t,’ said the other mountain.

‘Why not?’

‘We’re mountains. We can’t move.’

‘Oh, no. Forgot about that. Damn.’

I’ve heard it said that when that joke was told on State Radio one morning during the rush hour, the whole of Beijing came to a standstill because all the drivers were immobilised by convulsive laughter. And here’s China’s Number Two joke:

During a particularly bad smog in Beijing, a woman said to her husband:

‘Let’s take a drive out of the city and escape this suffocating air.’

‘We can’t,’ said her husband.

‘Why not?’

‘We wouldn’t know which road to take. It’s too foggy.’

‘Oh, right. Didn’t think about that. Damn.’

See what I mean? And it’s an interesting feature of Chinese jokes that they’re required by law to end with the word ‘damn.’ I gather it comes from the days of Chairman Mao when all statements which carried a note of levity were required to end with: ‘Damn the Yankee Imperialists,’ but that this has now been relaxed to a simple ‘damn’ for old time’s sake and in the cause of economic exigency.

And I must point out here to any Chinese person who might read it that this post is also a joke. I’m something of a Sinophile and have considerable respect for your music, your dance, your art, your sense of civilisation, your quiet and restrained mannerisms, your peaceful outlook on life, your respect for natural forces, your goldfish, your bulgy-eyed dragons, your humpity bridges, your peach blossom, your pepperpot mountains, your attitude towards the sanctity of tea, your noodles, and your maidens – especially the Tan twins from Singapore. And the yangqin happens to be my favourite musical instrument when played in the Chinese style. Greetings Chinese people.

*  *  *

Vis-à-vis last night’s embittered post, it will be noted that I found the computer in the bell tower. Only I have to use it sparingly because Esmeralda keeps hanging around and if she spots me she will probably shriek, and that would hurt my feelings. At least there are no mirrors up here.

*  *  *

And at the risk of being sued by somebody, here are the Tan twins from Singapore:

 And this is one of their best videos:

Hiding, Not Swinging.

Blog posts were suspended today because I suddenly realised I’m becoming physically repulsive and it put me in a bad mood. I might be back if I can find a computer in the bell tower.

Blind Date by Spam.

Tonight I got what I think is the best spam email (probably a phishing scam, even) I’ve ever had. It said:

Can we be lovers in Newark in three days?

And it purportedly came from a woman.

Well now, if that doesn’t tempt you to click the link. But it was dated 10/5/17, which is the American format, so I assumed she meant Newark, NJ, not Newark, Nottinghamshire. Thwarted again! The air fare, you know…

I didn’t click the link.

The Wrong Sort of Horror.

I watched the start of a Japanese horror film (which shall be nameless) last night. It appears to tell the story of two young women who accidentally take a wrong turn and end up in a mysterious village buried deep in the mountains, there to be hounded by a torch-bearing mob, strung up on a suspended apparatus, and have one of their legs cut off while the mob cheers.

Will I be watching the rest of it? Are you kidding? When violence is germane to a deeper plot it’s acceptable, but when extreme violence is the plot it becomes merely sordid. I might be strange, but I’m not that sort of strange. I assume those who watch such films also take pleasure in pulling the wings off butterflies, or maybe they content themselves with watching others do it.

And maybe somebody somewhere will tell me that I’m missing the deeper plot by not watching it through. I’ll take the risk.

Becoming Gorgonzola.

My dentist has a new nurse. Young, pretty, bubbly personality. Damn.

Where did the salad days go? Why are we allowed so short a time to be crisp green leaves of sweetest lettuce, dew-picked at dawn and accompanied by fresh, plump spring onions just dying to join us on the plate of life? How do we come to resemble the mouldering remains of a long-abandoned cheese board, fragments of foetid blue and white crumbs awaiting our ignominious fate while the dancing goes on elsewhere?

I apologised to her for the ordeal, of course. Spending ten minutes of her young life sucking water from my mouth – this mouth which now spouts words aplenty but is good for little else – while Ms Medeea did the sanding job must have been awful. And then we agreed that bodies are pretty disgusting things when you really stop and think about them.

Perception is the whole of the life experience…

…is my maxim. Must try harder to remember.

(And the phrase 'dew-picked at dawn' is one I borrowed from a Monty Python sketch, just so you know how honest I am.)

Declining the Snack.

I kept wanting a sandwich tonight. ‘Want, want, want’ it went, inexorably. But I reasoned that having a sandwich just because you want one is the start of the descent into perdition’s flame. Soon you will need to buy a bigger bed, and even then parts of you will hang over the edge. You will be unable to move around without the aid of something designed by a structural engineer. Access to ordinary cars will be denied to you because ordinary cars aren’t built to take such weight or volume. Children playing hide-and-seek will attempt to secrete themselves in the copious folds of your armpits. And people will faint at the sight of you without an intervening period of shallow breathing. I didn’t have the sandwich.

Avoiding the Running Sores.

It might be remembered that I used to be a fan of the German band, Faun. There’s a track of theirs called Odin among my YouTube recommendations tonight, but I’m declining to watch it because I know that, with a title like that, my masochistic tendency would force my eyes (under protest) to the comment section. And there I would no doubt find example after example of German and Scandinavian neo-Nazis spouting prejudice, racial hatred, and a wealth of historical misconceptions like puss from a festering abscess. And then my generally pejorative attitude towards the human race would swell even further to bursting point.

(One advantage of being a misanthrope is that you have little concept of ‘us and them’, so you’re rarely tempted to take sides.)