A Message to Like-Minded Russians.

I’ve lived in this area for sixteen years now, and apart from a few Union flags being in evidence during the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations ten years ago, I’ve never seen a flag flying here. We’re not especially given to that sort of thing in the UK, regarding it as a mildly amusing American habit. But there’s one here now. My neighbour across the field has rigged up a makeshift flag pole and is flying the yellow and blue of Ukraine on it.

This says something about the strength of feeling in Western Europe; how Russia is seen as the cowardly bully and the Ukrainians as innocent victims becoming heroes for fighting back. But we also know it isn’t quite that simple. We’re cognisant of the old ‘good Russians/bad Russians’ reality, and there is some sympathy for the good Russians because we know it can’t be pleasant living under Mr Putin’s evil eye.

It strikes me, therefore, that it would be helpful if someone could design and manufacture an alternative flag to the official Russian one – a flag which represents the good Russians who just want a peaceful world in which we can all be friends. No one would dare fly it in Russia, of course, because I expect such an act would be a capital offence, but we could fly it freely just to demonstrate to the good Russians that we know they’re there.

Spring: The Good and the Bad.

The good news is that spring sprang most splendidly in the Shire today. The upwardly mobile sun shone benevolently from an azure sky while the temperate breeze blew softly and an archipelago of soft cumulus drifted at snail’s pace across the hills above the river valley. Crowds of stately daffodils joined with the rampant celandines in turning their golden faces to the great orb, patches of fresh green appeared in the hedgerow hawthorn, the whiteness of the blackthorn blossom glowed happily, and the plumping leaf buds of the horse chestnut trees looked set to burst into beneficent grandeur.

For the first time since last November I sallied forth on my walk today without the protective thatching of my beanie hat or the insulating qualities of my best winter coat. Fortunately there was no one around to fail to recognise me, thereby troubling my equilibrium with a confused sense of identity. And when I took my afternoon tea and biscuit, I did so outside in my usual spot close to one of the bird tables. A robin spoke to me in an irritated tone: ‘Do you have to sit there?’ he remonstrated. ‘You know we’re reluctant to feed when you’re sitting too close. Good job it’s warm and sunny today, so we’re not as ravenous as usual.’ ‘But that’s precisely why I’m sitting here,’ I answered smugly. ‘Mmm, suppose so,’ he replied, and then flew into the nearby hedge, studiously avoiding the low-life sparrows which congregate there. (Robins are well known for exhibiting a sense of superiority in the matter of sparrows.)

But all the time I kept on reminding myself that March can be treacherous. The verges of the Shire lanes might be set in frozen mud next week, and my beanie hat might be augmented by my voluminous red scarf to make the business of walking tolerable.

*  *  *

The bad news is that I read about Mr Putin holding a rally to help convince his supporters that murdering innocent Ukrainians is a fine and heroic way to celebrate the arrival of spring. It occurred to me – not for the first time – that the human race is broadly divided into the good people and the bad people, and that Russians are presumably no exception. It further occurred to me that the simplest way to solve the Ukraine crisis would be for someone to separate Mr Putin from his life force, but that isn’t likely to happen because good people are, thankfully, not given to committing murder. Such an action is generally the preserve of the bad people, and they’re all standing in line behind their leader, no doubt cheering and singing patriotic songs. Ironic, isn’t it?

Dark Windows and a Difficult World.

I’m still not entirely sure why I find it disturbing to sit in a lighted room at night with the curtains open. I think it has something to do with the window forming a barrier between two worlds – the closed, immediate environment which is dry and light, and an expanse of inscrutability beyond in which the unspeakable might lurk.

But tonight I was made aware of something else: I have an even stronger aversion to an uncovered window loaded with condensation, as my kitchen window was after I’d cooked my dinner this evening. The aversion was strong enough to puzzle me, and I could only conclude that the darkness was still apparent but was being hidden by the congealed water vapour. Somehow that made it even more inscrutable and therefore more potentially menacing. I’ve no idea whether I’m right or not.

Oddly, however, I have no problem with going out into the darkness because then I’m part of it and have no reason to feel menaced. I learned that lesson many years ago when I had to get out of a car parked in a wood in order to relieve myself. I found the wood scary while I was in the car, but not at all scary once I got out. I think there might be a deep lesson to be learned here, or maybe it’s simply the fact of my being a little strange and growing stranger with the passing years.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I’m growing tired of the health issues clouding my view of the future. I’m tired of Covid pollution still hanging in the air and getting thicker again. I’m tired of the impending assault on my financial integrity as the price of nearly everything rockets. I’m tired of the post-truth generation and its spawning of fake gurus trying to lure me into their pathetic webs with spurious propaganda. I’m tired of trying to avoid the traps laid by the corporate world in order that they should have more control over my life and lifestyle. And I’m particularly tired of a mediaeval-style Russian dictator apparently believing he’s justified in killing pregnant women and children and trashing the reputation of a whole population into the bargain. Making cheerful blog posts isn’t easy at the moment.

Today was a wet day and it turned cold as the light fell. Tonight’s twilight was not a pleasant twilight. No bats.

A Little Person's Ides of March.

Something reminded me earlier that today is the Ides of March, that fateful day when Julius Caesar met his end and Mark Anthony cast a sly eye in the direction of Egypt. It is a day worthy of note, a portentous day, the day on which I had probably the strangest experience of my whole life. I decided that I couldn’t let it pass without making a blog post, but I knew I’d told the story of 15^th March 1995 before on this blog and it wouldn’t do to repeat myself. Good writers don’t do that, do they?

I did. I searched the date and found that I’d told the story of 15^th March 1995 three times in different years. They were told in different words and set in different contexts, but they were all the same story. I felt truly ashamed of myself (but you can read one of them here if you’re interested.)

So did anything of note happen to me today? Yes it did: I saw the first bat of the season out hunting at twilight, which is always one of spring’s great pleasures. I also did the first of the serious shrub-trimming jobs in the garden which included using the heavy pole hedge trimmer for the first time since last autumn. The effect on both my injured arm and my cardio-vascular issue was most uncomfortable, but as far I know I haven’t died of either yet. Sorry to disappoint.

Today's Lessons and Irritations.

I learned from my long-deceased Irish friend, Mr O’Brien, that I habitually use the figures of speech known as litotes and meiosis in my writing, especially in contexts where they’re effectively synonymous. I doubt that many people reading this statement will have a clue what either term means, which affords me a fraudulent sense of superiority because neither did I until about fifteen minutes ago.

Another strange dog leapt affectionately at me today (strange in the sense that I’d never seen it before, but actually rather handsome), leaving muddy marks on my £250 coat purchased from a posh coat shop a mere five years ago. It being easily the most expensive coat I’ve ever had, I couldn’t decide whether to be pleased by the gesture or irritated by the effect. I settled on both.

Two emails arrived in quick succession from two employees of a damnable denizen of the corporate world. They both irritated me mightily. One I considered beneath contempt and therefore ignorable, the other occasioned much gnashing of teeth and a modicum of unwelcome employment at an inconvenient time.

I performed the first trimming job of the season in the garden, and learned that the wrist pain which began last autumn is not only still with me but is worse than it was last autumn. I suspect this will continue to irritate until next November, assuming I make it that far.

It rained unexpectedly. This was the least of the irritations.

A pretty woman from America loved my comment on her YouTube channel, which failed to irritate me at all. I thought it unusual not be irritated by something.

Alcohol and the daily YouTube session now beckon, so that’s probably it for today.

Rejecting Ancient Roots.

I just watched a YouTube video on how the various body parts are an indicator of genealogy. It started with foot shape, divided into the five standards which are Greek, Roman, Celtic, Germanic and Egyptian. Seems I have a Greek foot (which is the best, of course.) But judging by some of the Greek statues they showed, I think it would be inadvisable to explore further.

Heading for Santa Fe.

I recall that as a young boy I felt a longing to travel to the Wild West, only it wasn’t the wildness of the west that fascinated me. It was the sense that here was the ultimate setting of the sun, and the setting of the sun was my goal, and the cow catchered train that sought to plunge headlong into the crimson and cloud-scattered sky was taking me home. And now it seems I feel the need to write like an Irishman. Must be in the blood (or the whiskey, or from reading Flann O’Brien for my sins.) But it’s all true.

A Sign from Doris.

Why, oh why do I have Doris Day singing The Black Hills of Dakota looping around in my head mercilessly? It’s not as though I’ve heard it anywhere recently. It keeps impressing on me my sense of the world when I was a small child, and maybe therein lies the clue to something.

Tentative Signs.

It was bright and mild in the Shire today, and I saw several bees feeding on the early spring flowers in the garden and on the embankments. I told myself not to see this as the precursor of summer because in the month of March it might only be the precursor of winter’s late sting, but it was good to see them anyway.

At twilight I looked for the return of the bats, but no luck there. Maybe they have the gift of foresight. And I’ve started to find ladybirds wandering the floors in the house. They hibernate around the south-facing window frames in the autumn, and it seems that some of them now want to be about their business. Unfortunately, they’re going in the wrong direction. Such are the perils of life.

Hoping.

One of the reasons why the Ukraine business disturbs me so much (and it really does) is the fact that after many thousands of years of evolution, the human animal still feels the need to do this sort of thing. Why can’t we grow up, I ask myself? What is this obsession we have with territory and wealth and superiority? Why can’t we tip all the weapons into the Mariana Trench and concentrate on just getting on with each other

But maybe there’s a glint of light to be seen in all this…

I think it’s probably true to say that throughout human history people haven’t generally cared about what this psychopath or that empire builder has been up to as long as it didn’t affect them personally. Now it seems they do. It seems that people from Argentina to Alaska to Australia are united in their condemnation of Russia (or at least Putin and his military lackeys.) People now feel an emotional stake in global affairs as well as local ones, so maybe globalisation has something going for it after all. Maybe we’re slowly getting there.

(Do you know, every day I try to find something funny to say on this blog but it’s mostly a lost cause. Tomorrow, maybe.)