Only 3 Bs Left.

My spirit reservoir is at a very low level at the moment. Apart from having little strength or energy, I’m also disturbingly deficient in the matter of the will to do anything. The only subjects in which I can still manage a healthy modicum of interest are the birds, the bats, the Lady B and her baby (OK, that’s four Bs,) and I think I’ve run those to a standstill for a while.

Maybe the latest antibiotics are to blame. I wouldn’t know. I’m tired (almost constantly.) Hope to be up and running again before too long.

On Not Helping the Disabled.

There’s a woman who often comes into the coffee shop when I make my regular Wednesday visit. She’s obviously quite badly disabled because she has a stoop and walks with the aid of a wheeled walking frame. And so, since I always sit close to the entrance, I naturally open the door for her when she wants to come in and go back out.

But I’ve been thinking about disability a lot lately and it occurs to me that disabled people must experience some degree of frustration and annoyance that they can’t do everything the rest of us can do. I also wonder whether some of them might be embarrassed by their physical shortcomings, and whether such embarrassment might be exacerbated by having to rely on people doing things for them.

And that’s why I’ve become more circumspect in applying the natural tendency to want to help. If there’s something a disabled person can do, I’m sure they’d rather do it themselves than have some well meaning but insensitive onlooker barging in when the help isn’t needed. And it doesn’t take long to weigh up the situation and offer the question: ‘Do you need any help?’

Observing the Mother Thing.

It’s all the fault of the Lady B and her two-week-old baby. I’ve now become interested in the way mothers relate to their young offspring and have developed the habit of observing them attentively. There were several in Ashbourne today, including one sitting at the next table in the coffee shop.

She was quite lovely with her little one, not in a gooey sort of way but in a bright, bouncy, giggly sort of way. It was good to watch and I realised that the way a mother relates to her offspring probably gives a good insight into the nature of the mother.

I wanted to go and tell this particular parent just how motherly she was, but decided against it. There was something about the way she invested her whole attention in the child which suggested that she wouldn’t be the sort to welcome an unsolicited comment from a third party, and so I kept my mouth shut and my observation to myself.

I expect I’ll grow tired of the habit eventually but at the moment it makes a refreshing change from observing the way people treat their dogs. And I would very much like to meet the Lady B’s two-week-old baby some time soon, but I expect said baby will be walking and practiced in the use of expletives before I do.

And I have to say that the image below doesn't really illustrate the post. I searched everything that Google had to offer and couldn't find anything that did. I just happened to like this one a lot because it reminded me of somebody.

Agitated.

There are certain people to whom I feel close, but who I know to be indifferent to me so I don’t pester them. I do wish certain other people would extend the same courtesy to me when the roles are reversed.

Today has been the kind of day when one irritation followed another and consigned my mood to a dark and agitated place. They were the kinds of irritation which get under your skin to twist and turn and niggle and nag until you want to run screaming back to planet Zod where you belong. May the gods preserve me from neighbours, administrators, and people who cross my lines because they’re too dumb, too insensitive, or too something-or-other to notice them.

On a pleasanter note, a little white moth kept flying around my head in the garden yesterday evening. It didn’t come particularly close; it just kept flying from one position to another and then stopping to hover as though it was regarding me from all angles. Maybe it was deciding whether I was edible or not, or maybe it was trying to connect with me on a level altogether removed from planet Earth, or maybe it wasn’t a moth at all but a member of the heavenly host disguised as a moth and come to teach me about peace, joy and goodwill to all men.

Being Upside Down.

It occurred to me last night that our friends in the southern hemisphere are just entering their winter, so I took fifteen minutes out of my wee small hours drinking time to send a note of commiseration to the priestess down in Oz:

Is it cold down there in Sydney

Does the wind augment your tears

Are you huddled up in woollies

With a hat to warm your ears

Does the cold rain fall a-stinging

Are the long nights extra dark

Are the beaches falling empty

And the trees all standing stark

Does it matter that you’re special

To a lad in northern climes

Who would send you warming sunshine

Wrapped in rank and wrinkled rhymes

Did you know that, according to official statistics, Sydney has never had a frost and the last recorded snowfall was in 1836? (You should do because I said the same thing in a post not long ago.) They don't know what they're missing, do they? Maybe they would benefit from changing places with somebody up on the lake in Cleveland, Ohio during February.

Imagining Deliverance.

I was sitting, quietly eating my sandwich, in Uttoxeter high street today when a tall, swarthy, powerfully built young man stopped and looked at me. It struck me that there was something odd about his appearance and demeanour, although I couldn’t work out exactly what it was. And then he said something to me, or it would be more accurate to say that he grunted something in my direction because I haven’t a clue what it was. I chose to ignore him and he walked away.

Later that afternoon I was sitting elsewhere in the town having a mid-term cigarette and watching the people walk by. I was struck by how odd so many of them looked and decided that Uttoxeter is probably not the safest place to go for a white water canoeing holiday.

And then I wondered what they thought of me.

The Young Women Thing.

I was reminded this morning of the young student nurse I encountered during my last short stay in hospital and who was the subject of a glowing eulogy on this blog. The thought expanded into a realisation that’s been taking hold in me for some years now – that of all the age and gender groupings we might apply to people in western culture, it’s the young women who give most cause for confidence in the future.

This is a generalisation I know, but I don’t get the same impression of other groups. The elderly are effectively passengers, the middle aged are still so often rooted in past prejudices, and young men generally lack the searching and open minded qualities needed for change as the tradition of male domination becomes ever more eroded. There are exceptions, of course; there will always be exceptions.

But I have a young woman correspondent who is about to embark on a challenging new phase in her life and I wrote this to her last night:

…and I’ll bet you’re not nervous. It has been my experience – albeit regrettably limited – that women of your generation rarely are.

Maybe that says a lot, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m talking rubbish. I often do.

Showing the Secret.

I’ve long realised that I have a near-obsession with young women singing to a powerful and rhythmical backing. I think they are at their most seductive when they do that because they seem to capture the essence of one of life’s great secrets and hold it up for us all to see. This song reminded me.

 

I’m feeling a whole lot better today, and I think I'm probably getting back to being quite mad.

Perception or Fancy?

This evening is just the sort to persuade my spirit to go off in search of Avalon again. We in the Shire are sinking into a warm, misty twilight, with a light drizzle gracing the balmy air and the perception of magic whispering quietly to a world standing still.

My mind is finely tuned to such an evening. The sight of the trees and fields and hedgerows and copses and the high ground stretching beyond the river valley, all washed into ever more seductively mysterious half tones, speaks of the mystical side of Arthurian mythology. And the question which has to be asked is whether I really do catch a glimpse of another world in the mist, or whether I’m deluding myself with childish fantasy.

The Leaving.

The blue tits nesting in the box behind my kitchen have reached the fledging stage. Every so often today I would see a tiny juvenile head appear in the opening and look out, searching for signs of mama and papa bearing food. And when mama and papa did appear they would set about tempting the kiddies with some tasty morsel hanging from their beaks. They would perch on the nearby hedge or even fly up to the box itself, but then they would fly away again. The message was obvious enough:

Time to widen your world, little ones. Time to come out into the big one. Follow us and we’ll show you how to survive.

At the time of writing none of the babies has yet succumbed to the pressure, and when they do I half hope I won’t witness the event. I did witness it one year and it was an anxious time. I watched as each juvenile took the big leap and flew to join the parents in the hedge. I held my breath as each new life flew its first four feet of avian freedom, fearful that one of them might not make it and fall to the ground. For what would I do then? I’ve heard it said that parent birds will continue to feed those that fall, but what about the cats?

But it will be dark in little more than an hour so maybe it’s better that the young ones have another night in what has been the only home they’ve known so far. And maybe they’ll leave early in the morning before my own stirring. I think I’d prefer it that way.

And I’m thinking of the Lady B and her own new life. I’m wondering how well she will fare at teaching her own offspring to survive, because new parents have to learn the ropes too. And we take a lot longer to perform our human duty because our lives are so much more complicated than those of birds. If ever I can be of service, my lady…