Missing the Coffee Shop.

You know, I haven’t been into a coffee shop since lockdown descended in March 2020. That’s two years without taking my seat in the cinema of life at its most immediate. For that’s what the coffee shop was to me: the place where I could watch anonymous strangers, picking out the occasional interesting specimen in order to observe the human creature going about its business and reporting the observations to these pages.

I still don’t go into coffee shops for several reasons, not least the fact that Covid is on the rise again at the moment. My only window on life now is the news pages beamed from the BBC onto my monitor screen, and there’s little to see there except politicians and people in distress.  It’s edifying only in the fact that it projects a world in a state of inscrutable flux. It’s all so impersonal, producing a sense of anxiety where the intimate nature of the coffee shop once offered a mild form of enlightenment.

Another Irish Connection.

The following is a small extract from chapter 1 of Flann O’Brien’s novel, At Swim-Two-Birds:

Whether in or out, I always kept the door of my bedroom locked. This made my movements a matter of some secrecy and enabled me to spend an inclement day in bed without disturbing my uncle’s assumption that I had gone to the college to attend to my studies. A contemplative life has always been suitable to my disposition.

I regard Flann O’Brien as one of Ireland’s most notable personages, and that extract goes some way to explaining why. Both style and content are eminently suitable to my own disposition. Accordingly, I like to imagine that I, too, might think of myself as one of Ireland’s notable personages, albeit around five generations removed.

And isn’t it interesting that some of the best writers of English prose were Irish? Did you know that Charlotte Brontë – she whose prose style might be likened to the finest Cognac – was half Irish? You do now.

On Corporations and Cockapoos.

Having just won my minor skirmish with the land agent, I now have a battle of slightly more magnitude to fight against E.ON Next, my energy supplier. They’re happy to tell me that my energy bills are to rise by a staggering 40% from next month, but they’ve gone suspiciously quiet on the matter of paying me an allowance to which I’m clearly entitled. The corporate world is becoming enemy number one these days, what with its self-serving interests, its campaign to seize greater and greater control of the way in which the culture functions, and its persistently faulty computer programs adding further stresses to an increasingly stressful life. I wonder whether Mr Putin has any connection with it.

 

But I did get assaulted most affectionately by a cockapoo today, and returned its good favour with much gratitude and enthusiasm. And I was understandably relieved that its accompanying human showed no similar inclination. This is a cockapoo:

 

Becoming Subordinate.

The Lady B used to drive a perky little Mini, but has now gone over to the far side and cruises around in a big, studiously bourgeois Land Rover Discovery. One effect of this metamorphosis is that she now looks down on me when our vehicles pass, as they did in a car park recently.

I find it mildly disconcerting to be looked down on by the Lady B. I wouldn’t be in the least discomfited if the person taking the vulture position was some innocuous creature like a TV celebrity, senior politician or captain of industry, but the Lady B occupies a rather more rarefied plane in what passes for my consciousness.

Fortunately, there’s no reason why it should matter any more (and her dear mama still seems to acknowledge that even savages like me can be noble) so that’s OK.

Ukraine: A Furrowing of the Brow.

I have two questions regarding the current situation in Ukraine:

1. I presume the Russian military chiefs are real people with a modicum of intelligence and the capacity for finer feelings. If that is the case, why is it that when the President goes too far and orders them to invade a smaller and weaker neighbour without provocation, they don’t just say no?

2. How does Russia manage to remain one of the five privileged members of the UN Security Council when its behaviour flies in the face of everything the United Nations is supposed to stand for (and against which the Security Council is supposed to safeguard)?

Sorry, Bhutan.

Some years ago something I read in some arm of the western media led me to the view that Bhutan was a quaint but rather backward country. It’s why I occasionally make jokes (respectfully) about it on my blog.

So, I just came across a YouTube video of people from Drukair, Royal Bhutan Airlines, taking part in the Jerusalema dance challenge. First thought:

Bhutan has an airline? I thought they didn’t even have TV.

It got better. The landscape, the people, the architecture, all stunningly beautiful. (And they really do have an airline. Judging by the uniforms, it seems they even have women pilots.)

Now I want to go to Bhutan, if only to apologise for being led astray by some arm of the western media. No more jokes.

Two More Incongruous Notes.

This week there has been an American comic called Sara Barron on virtually the only TV programme I watch. I liked her accent, so I looked her up. Seems she hails from Chicago, which presumably means I like the Chicago accent. Isn’t it odd how you can find little things to like in this bloody awful world? Seems the god of small things is still riding shotgun for me.

*  *  *

I had an email from the land agent last week telling me that I owed £60 on my rent account and would I please pay it. The problem was that she didn’t tell me why I owed them £60, so I queried it in somewhat direct terms. Yesterday I received another email, this time from the accounts department, offering the explanation. Not wishing to stray into the boring details, let it suffice to say that I thought it unreasonable so I asked them to write the debt off. Today I had another email from the accounts department telling me it had been written off. My reply included: ‘May your karma be ever in credit.’ It seemed apposite.

Putting Russia Back on the Map.

I have a dream.

All the top brass in the Russian military wake up one morning and discover they’re not the psychopathic cyborgs the rest of the world thinks they are. They’re actually human beings with souls and a sense of right and wrong.

So off they go to the Kremlin, pick Mr Putin up by the ears, and send him off to the remotest gulag they can think of. (I assume the gulags are still there in some form or other.) They withdraw all their forces from Ukraine, undertake to make such reparation as they are able, and make a TV announcement to the Russian people:

‘We are now in charge and will remain so for a period of six months, at which point we promise to hold free and fair elections so that you may have the President and government of your choice. We will support you in that choice and there will be no skulduggery.’

And then they keep their word.

Am I being naïve?

An Appearance and a Coincidence.

I was coming out of my bathroom this morning when something small and dark flew towards me and continued over my shoulder. At first I assumed it was a moth, even though moths are rarely seen in winter. I turned and saw that it was, in fact, a butterfly trying frantically to get out through the closed window.

In all the years I’ve lived here I’ve never seen a butterfly in the house. Butterflies are not much given to the habit. Moths are regular invaders, being attracted to the room lights after dark, but butterflies don’t fly at night. They spend their days outside busily feeding on flowers, and then disappear until the next day. And they only fly during the warmer months.

And then there are two interesting coincidences. It was a Red Admiral butterfly, which is the same species as the one featured on my blog banner and also the species which plays such a notable part in my short story The Visitor. The circumstances of its appearance are also eerily similar.

So what was it doing in my house? Hibernating, I suppose. But why did it wake up into a cold bathroom in early March?

I did a little research into the folklore around butterflies, but it was all rather vague stuff about butterflies being identified with the soul or spirit, and their appearance representing signs of changing fortunes which can be anything from unexpected luck to death. Not much to go on there, and probably irrelevant anyway.

The main point, I suppose, is that I opened the window and set it free. I have little confidence that it will survive whatever remains of the winter season, but I assumed that freedom would be the overriding priority for a butterfly.

Variation on a Theme of Moaning.

To add to the woes which are making a habit of landing in my lap from a variety of sources, today I received an email from my electricity supplier. It sought to inform me of the extent to which my electricity tariffs will be going up from 1^st April. 40% (forty percent!) They say it’s all to do with wholesale prices, and who am I to argue? And since my old house is entirely heated by piecemeal electrical appliances (but still remains mostly uncomfortably cold throughout the winter months) there’s no way of escaping it.

So, a little story: when I first moved to this house nearly sixteen years ago I was massively insolvent, burdened with a large amount of debt which wasn’t mine but for which I was legally responsible. Fortunately, I know how to economise. I come from poor, working class stock and had a naturally frugal mother, so it’s in the blood. I put this skill to good use and eventually moved from debit into credit, and since then I’ve managed to build a little capital so as to have a modest sum to leave to my ex and my daughter when the big day arrives. That seems only right and proper because my mother did the same for me.

I worked out how long this little capital will last, assuming all other factors remain constant, given the projected increase in electricity charges. It came to ten years. Better hope I don’t last that long.

*  *  *

Today’s nice news is that I was able to pet two donkeys, a horse and a Shetland pony in Meadow Lane at the bottom end of the Shire. It hasn’t escaped my notice that making physical contact with friendly animals is most beneficial when you’re feeling glum, and so it was today. And doesn’t ‘Meadow Lane’ have a delightfully pastoral ring to it? I assume it’s so called because it runs along the eastern edge of a range of meadows leading down to the river. I haven’t seen the river for a long time. I assume it’s still there.