On a Dolorous Day and the Colour of Boots.

Today began with an email informing me of the death of my ex’s brother from myeloma. It set the tone for a gloomy day replete with leaden skies, a cool airflow, and a damp, dispiriting atmosphere.

The afternoon was an even more dispiriting tale of dysfunction and frustration as I tried to get answers to a couple of simple queries, first from a pensions provider and then from a retailer from whom I have ordered something online. Both endeavours failed miserably, and it struck me that we in Britain are saddled with a government intent upon pursuing its fixation with the illusion of economic growth while being oblivious to the fact that the matrix is cracking badly down here at grass roots level. It might be apposite to remark that ‘modern systems suck’ (and I just did, so there you are.) I think it might have something to do with the fact that our Prime Minister is a millionaire who learned his economics in America.

On a lighter note, I find myself suddenly possessed of a desire to wear stylish shoes. I don’t know where it’s come from, but I do remember having a pair of tan Cuban heel boots when I was about fifteen. I recall how good I felt in them – so much more elevated in the pecking order, you might say. Then again, you might not, but I also recall having a second pair which were similar in style but black. They didn’t have the same effect at all, and I never could work out why.

Momentous May.

And so we meander into the merry month of May and, as always, my senses become heightened with anticipation. May stands proud as being the month which has always brought more significant circumstances into my life than any of the other eleven. Many beginnings, many endings, many substantial changes of direction, some pleasant and some not so pleasant, but all substantially instructive, and all contributing valuable strands to the weaving of life’s great tapestry.

I wrote a post enumerating some of them many years ago, and since then there have been added two more – the marriage of the Lady B and the coming of her first daughter. I could wax eloquent on why those two events were so significant, but I won’t. (Because the blog is public so I never know who might be reading it.) Suffice it to say that, without either knowledge or intent, the Lady B, bless her, taught me something I thought I would never learn. (I shall never forget that glorious May morning in 2018 and the vision of a woman, statuesque and radiant in a long blue maternity dress. If I’d been a composer I could have echoed Debussy with my composition of La Fille Aux Cheveux D’Ébène.)

But enough for now. Who knows whether this May will add a diamond or a dark grey cloud to the tapestry. The wheel of life guards its secret plans with such short horizons.

April's Other Post.

No Beltane Eve fire this year. The mood is still too dark. I bought a pillar candle instead and have left it burning in the garden where I’m hoping it will stay lit through the night. That’s how it’s supposed to be, apparently.

This week’s brief note:

Watching month-old lambs forming gangs and playing games in the sunshine is a most efficacious – though regrettably short lived – antidote for depression. (Being smiled at by a young lady pitty/staffy cross who wants a bit of fuss is another.)

Happy Beltane, fire or not.

April's Post.

Since it’s about a month since I posted anything to this blog, and since it appears that a few people still check in, I thought it no more than courteous to explain that I’m not dead, nor comatose, nor lacking things to say, nor reclining on a silken couch being distracted by a comely wench (probably of Egyptian extraction) feeding me morsels of sweet fruit with her delicate and sweetly scented fingers. It’s just that the black dog has insomnia and refuses to leave my side. His persistent attention over the past few weeks has been – and continues to be – most galling.

In short, I don’t yet consider myself to be an ex-blogger.

*  *  *

I saw the first swallow of the season today, in Mill Lane close to the Lady B’s erstwhile residence. I find it a little ironic that thoughts of the Lady B have been almost as persistent as the attentions of the black dog recently. She ran the London Marathon last Sunday and I’m very proud of her (not just because of the marathon, but the rest would be complicated.)

I hope to be back before the curtain falls.

Touching Base.

So, it’s been twelve days since I wrote a post to the blog. Same reason as usual: the heart was willing but the spirit was weak. There’s a post around the question of whether there is any intrinsic value in saving a life currently sitting half written in the file. When it became a little complicated I couldn’t be bothered to set the logic in order and translate it into well constructed ink blots. Maybe I will some time.

But I was reading through some old posts last night when I came upon a comment which directed me to the priestess’s Tumblr channel from ten years ago. Having nothing better to do, I took a peek at the first three or four of them and realised something. I realised that the apparent connection which we both appeared to believe in was at least a mystery, if not an illusion generated by a sense of something unfulfilled. The persona she projected through her activities and attitudes was such that we were about as ill-matched as two people could possibly be, and so I set to wondering why she had ever shown any interest in me.

Speculation led me to only one conclusion. I reasoned that there must have been an empty compartment somewhere in her consciousness which was rumbling like an empty stomach, and she needed something to occupy it and keep it quiet. That, presumably, was where I fitted in.

It occurred to me, you see, that I must have been the most boring person she’d ever encountered. So straight-laced, so highly principled, so perfectionist, and so much given to the idealistic tendency. I considered whether it bothered me that I must have been the most boring person she’d ever encountered. I decided it didn’t because, after all, being the most anything is some sort of position on some sort of podium, and I’ve stood on very few podiums in my life.

*  *  *

Off now to watch another episode of an old Brit TV sci-fi series called Primeval. I have to say that it’s not of the highest quality. Much of the acting is overcooked, some of the direction is lacking finesse, it’s littered with glaring plot holes, and the death scene of the main character which occurred in the last episode is hopelessly implausible. It struck me that it’s how Charles Dickens might have written the demise of Tiny Tim if he’d allowed an unrepentant E. Scrooge to oversee the event.

And yet it retains the capacity to entertain. (And it provides some ballast in an empty compartment of my currently jaundiced consciousness.)

My latest book, by the way, is Umberto Eco’s last – The Prague Cemetery. He takes an awfully long time to get anywhere, but I like his style.

Bemoaning My Ignorance.

Today is the Ides of March.

Today are the Ides of March.

‘Today’ is singular, ‘Ides’ at least appears to be plural. So should the verb be true to subject or object? There are times when I feel quite ashamed of my lack of extended erudition in the matter of language.

Simple Encounters and Questionable Considerations.

The highlights of today’s pre-lunch walk included:

Being passed on the lane by a jogging Lady B, and being afforded the sound of a squeak emanating from that direction. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the complaining of knee caps under strain or an energy-saving version of ‘hi.’ I chose to assume the latter.

Offering my best regards to a grey-whiskered chocolate Labrador sitting at the side of his house in the village, and being welcomed most heartily with much squirming and general lolloping.

Noticing a ladybird trapped behind the glass of the village notice board, working out how to open the contraption, and releasing the benighted insect to enjoy freedom and the mild spring weather. I admit to having felt slightly noble.

*  *  *

In between the encounters with dogs, ladybirds, and the Lady B, I found myself ruminating on the fact that I seem to be moving towards the making of a difficult decision: either release most of what little savings I have and tread closer to the cultural tram lines, or move in the opposite direction and accept a life of simple survival. Such a prospect goes some way to showing you how far you’ve come in trying to make sense of being alive.

*  *  *

And of course, there was the ever-present habit of giving a little thought to the female of the species. I felt quite confident in concluding that they are at their prettiest as children, their most beguiling from late teens to early twenties, and their loveliest in their thirties. What I couldn’t decide was whether it’s rightly said that at forty they become invisible. I was content with the uncertainty because the matter no longer holds any relevance for me.

A Star in the Shire.

I was standing outside Sainsbury’s yesterday when somebody I recognised came out of the store. She’s a woman who lives in the Shire about half a mile from me in one of the old farmhouses. I’ve had a few brief, mostly perfunctory conversations with her down the years, but not enough to claim to know her.

What piqued my interest, however, was the fact that she looked at me but showed no sign of recognition. I’ve said often enough on the blog that I’m always surprised by the number of people who seem to know all about me even though I’ve never spoken to them. Yet here was somebody to whom I have spoken, but who clearly doesn’t remember me.

Is this a good thing, I wondered? Has she not heard of my reputation for being a bit strange at the very least, if not a denizen of some dark realm who luxuriates in the children of the night and the music they make? Is she the one person who will sit quietly at home while the assembled multitude drives me to the burning mill with pitchforks? To an incorrigible recluse like me, I suppose it is a good thing. And so I declined to be ignored and engaged her in conversation, a snippet of which revealed that she rescues animals.

‘What sort of animals?’ I enquired.

‘Dogs, cats, chickens, sheep, horses – we’ve got five of those.’

‘Must cost a fortune.’

‘It does.’

And then she told me of a few circumstances which gave rise to their rescue, such as the lamb which had been thrown over a hedge and couldn’t move because it was trapped among thorny brambles.

Well now, what does it take for someone to gain my approbation? A few things actually, but rescuing animals in distress would definitely vie for top spot. And so I will readily converse with her again if I should encounter her jogging around the Shire or taking a tribe of dogs for a walk. And maybe it will be less perfunctory next time. I like people who rescue animals.

It troubled me a little that she looked ill. She had grey patches under her eyes where most people develop bags as they age, and eyes are a good indicator of the state of a person’s physical or mental health. But maybe she’s just exhausted by the work of caring for numerous dogs, cats, chickens, sheep… and five horses.

(I couldn’t resist asking her whether she had a YouTube channel because YouTube is replete with animal rescue videos and I’m convinced a lot of them are fake. She said she didn’t. That helped, too.)

On Ashbourne Ladies, Smiles, and the Spaniel Phenomenon.

I seem to be becoming a connoisseur of smiles just lately. I made a list of some of the different types in a recent post, and today I collected another one for the album: the shining smile.

I was at the counter in the hardware store (it’s nicely old fashioned and locally owned, which is why it still has a counter), returning a faulty light bulb which I bought last week. I heard a woman’s voice behind me and turned to trace the source. She looked at me and smiled in a way I can only describe as the sort of smile you would expect of a little girl to whom you had just given the money to buy an ice cream. Bright, shining, almost playful. It was so bright that I hardly noticed the crooked front tooth thus revealed (or maybe the crooked front tooth contributed to the charm. How can one tell?)

And so as we walked to the door side by side – purely by accident, you understand – I couldn’t resist the urge to compliment her. ‘Excuse me,’ I began, ‘I hope you won’t mind a personal comment, but you do have the most engaging smile.’ She did it again, so I felt emboldened to continue: ‘It’s real, which isn’t as common as you might think.’ And then I luxuriated for several minutes at the thought that she might go home and tell her husband: ‘There was this really nice man in the hardware store, and do you know what he said?’ Or the alternative might have been: ‘There was this creepy old guy in David Neil’s today. Made me shiver, he did, dirty old scrote.’ I will never know of course, for such are the mysterious vicissitudes of life.

I might add, however, that I’d just come from Sainsbury’s where I’d engaged the deputy manageress, or whatever she was, in a discussion about my having been overcharged to the tune of £5 last week. She didn’t smile. Her manner was one of constant aggressive defensiveness to everything I said, as though she’d been trained by Catholic nuns, well versed in the corrective use of a whippy cane, scaring innocent young children with tales of the Devil coming to pull their fingernails out very slowly if they didn’t pay obeisance to gentle Jesus every night. ‘And the screams of agony will be so terrible that they might carry all the way to Tipperary if the wind is in the right direction.’ Or maybe I exaggerate a little (but not much.) Not being an innocent young child, however, I did come away with my £5.

And then a lady smiled brightly at me. Job done.

And I’ll tell you what was odd about Ashbourne today. I saw several people walking dogs, both driving there and walking around the town, and every single one of the dogs was a Cocker Spaniel. No other breeds or mongrels at all, just Cocker Spaniels. Was that a message from the universe, do you think? I did wonder.

Oh, nearly forgot the young woman customer outside Sainsbury’s. She was walking up from the car park and noticed an errant shopping trolley which had been lazily left on the paved walkway that leads to the town centre. She made a detour to collect the article and placed it neatly on the line of trolleys outside the wall of the store. That was impressive, and so I said ‘Congratulations. Not many people do that sort of thing.’ She didn’t smile either. She coloured up quite alarmingly and hurried past.

And then I noticed something interesting about her. Her lissom form, body language, hairstyle, and clarity of skin suggested a mid-to-late teenager, but her eyes carried the experience of a 30-year-old. I considered approaching her to suggest that she might be an old soul, but then I worried about the fairness and clarity of her apparently young cheeks. Maybe they wouldn’t take too kindly to the sanguinary experience to which she seemed inclined to subject them, so I didn’t.

And that was today in Ashbourne. The car behaved well today, bless her. She’s French, you know. Time for coffee and toast now (I’ve missed four hours sleep this week and the caffeine helps.)

The Dichotomy of Spring Markers.

The weather turned in Britain today. The chill winds relented and calmer, milder weather moved in preceded by yet more rain.

(It’s been a very wet winter and the land has been saturated for three months now. The cereal crops have suffered badly in some of the fields, and I fully expect to read that wheat and barley prices will be high later in the year. That means dearer bread, cakes, cereals, beer, and whisky to name but a few of the affected products.)

And the downside of this combination of warmth and wetness was that I was harassed by midges for the first time this year. Apart from wondering how many insects you’re breathing in during the onslaught, the real nuisance is the way they go for your eyes. I wonder whether anybody has thought of inventing a human version of those hoods with gauzy eye sockets which people put on horses during the summer midge season. Or maybe I could set a trend by wearing swim goggles on my morning walks. If the locals think I’m a fruitcake anyway, what difference would a pair of poncy swim goggles make?

In other firsts – the wood anemones are showing their first blooms in the little wood at the top of the lane, I saw the first bee of the year today, but I also saw the first ant in the garden. I’m sorry to say that I dislike ants quite a lot and my garden is overrun with them during the summer. That’s where the dichotomy comes in. Must make sure I’ve got plenty of white spirit to smear on the wellies I wear for digging. Ants are known to dislike white spirit and are generally reluctant to associate with it.

*  *  *

And here’s an odd thing: Why is there a region of London called Waterloo? Well, no doubt it was named after the area where the battle took place between the allies (mostly British) and the French in 1815. But it occurred to me today that the word ‘loo’ is the commonest colloquialism for toilet (previously lavatory, and WC – water closet – before that. Forget that they’re called ‘heads’ in the navy. There is a logical reason, and sailors are a strange bunch anyway.) And the term ‘loo’ is derived from ‘l’eau’, the French for water. So why would somebody combine the English for water with the anglicisation of the French for water, and name an area in Belgium after it? Never thought of that before.

*  *  *

I think that last paragraph is probably the most tedious I’ve ever written. Blame it on the fact that I got up three hours earlier than usual this morning in order to accommodate the young man from the land agent who had been sent to do a ‘property survey.’ So I’m tired. And I do wish they would leave me alone and stop sending young men to irritate me with their property surveys, especially when it means I only get five hours sleep the previous night. Dropping and signing off.