Age and Perception.

One of my Christmas gifts from Mel this year was a copy of the Rupert Bear annual. I might have mentioned in a recent post that the latest Rupert Bear annual was always one of my favourite gifts as a kid, and so it's been interesting to see what has changed since I last had one at around age ten or eleven.

Well, the artwork looks exactly the same, and the rhyming couplets accompanying each panel sound about the same. And as far as I remember, the stories follow the same lines. What’s changed is the character of Rupert himself. Except, of course, it probably hasn’t.

Back in those innocent and relatively simple days of childhood, Rupert seemed to me to be quite grown up in a childlike sort of way. I identified with him. His mother, on the other hand, homely and comfortable as she undoubtedly was, seemed a little remote.

Rupert has now become a child. He has a child’s mind and speaks a child’s language. His mother is the one I relate to now. Given the volume of experience which has passed under my personal bridge in the interim, I suppose I should have expected it.

Holding the Key to Charlotte's Code.

I said in a recent post that the principal delight in reading Charlotte Brontë’s novel Shirley lies in reading between the lines to discover the nature of Charlotte Brontë. Over the past few nights I’ve come to realise that there is a quality to be discovered by reading the lines themselves: she has the most marvellous and mischievous sense of humour.

I never noticed it in her better known novels, Jane Eyre and Villette, yet here it is in all its glory. It’s a subtle, dry, ironic sort of humour, sometimes softly stated and sometimes sharply. Who could not, for example, fail to raise a smile at her choice for the heading of Chapter XVIII:

WHICH THE GENTEEL READER IS RECOMMENDED TO SKIP, LOW PERSONS BEING HERE INTRODUCED

I suspect that plenty of people would fail to raise a smile, and that’s the beauty of it. It gives the impression of a cipher devised to be intelligible only to those whose instrument of perception is tuned to the same key. And that feels like a compliment to those of us who see her eyes so clearly that we discern the glint in them.

Being Satifactorily Alone at Christmas.

I went for my Christmas Day walk before lunch today in order to avoid having my steps constantly dogged by people wishing me a Happy Christmas, thereby effectively forcing me into making a disingenuous response.

(I have observed down the years that most people take a walk after lunch in order to ‘walk it off’, and I’ve often wondered why people gorge themselves on Christmas Day until they feel bloated and uncomfortable. Where’s the pleasure in that?)

But anyway, the fact is that I dislike making disingenuous responses. If I were to be honest, I would say something like: ‘No thanks. I don’t do Christmas.’ But then they would probably call me Scrooge, and sneer and shriek and set their dogs on me, even if they paid obeisance to the spirit of the season and delayed chasing me to the burning mill with pitchforks until Boxing Day.

I do wish people would learn to understand Scrooge because then they might realise that I am very nearly his antithesis. Why do so many people think A Christmas Carol is about correction, when it’s actually about rehabilitation?

But here’s the nice bit. During the whole progress of my walk only one vehicle passed me and guess who was in it. Yup, the only person domiciled within a 25 mile radius of here who I welcome seeing on Christmas Day. And being a passenger in a car, she was unable to wish me a Happy Christmas. Perfect. (Actually she just might know me well enough not to wish me a Happy Christmas, but as the aforementioned Mr Scrooge says at one point in A Christmas Carol – it’s the bit all the dramatisations leave out – ‘Excuse me. I don’t know that.’)

A Christmas Carol Revisited.

So what does an ageing recluse, becoming ever more cynical and tired of the daily round, do on Christmas Eve now that he’s remembered what day it is?

Well, it’s turned cold outside tonight, and when it turns cold outside it soon becomes cold inside. The first thing he does, therefore, is sit on his hands at the computer so as to relieve them of some of the chill. But while he’s doing that he’s unable to type or even read the next chapter of Shirley, and so he thinks. And after he’s thought for a while he feels the need to write something in consequence. Out come the hands and apply themselves to the keyboard.

One of his thoughts was about all the children who are currently engaged in a troubled sleep – troubled only from the excitement of knowing that tomorrow is Christmas Day, and that time is exasperatingly tardy when Christmas Day approaches. Their resting minds know that the clock is ticking and will eventually reach a point when they will be able to switch on the light (for it will probably be early) and go in search of gay wrappings hiding a multitude of pleasures. That was what he did as a child (in the days before he became cynical and tired of the daily round.)

But then he thinks of the children in poor, or maybe abusive, households who have no gay wrappings to search for. Do we still have such children in these enlightened times? I think we probably do. And he thinks of those who have lost loved ones to the pandemic, and who will be waking on Christmas Day to an empty space probably for the first time in their lives. He thinks of those shivering in feeble boats crossing dangerous seas for no better reason than to escape violence, persecution and poverty, hoping that charity will prevail and bring rescue. Christmas is, after all, supposedly about charity. But some of them won’t even have a Christmas Day, now or ever again, because the deep sea will take them and relieve them of their misery. And what of those on terra firma who have no walls to shield them from the cruel frosts of winter? How will they be spending their Christmas Eve?

And that’s when he thinks that sometimes he would rather not think at all, but stride carelessly across a sunlit meadow, his body replete with the health, strength and vigour of youth, daring to do all that may become a man (even though he's read that he who dares do more is none.)

His free bandwidth beckons at midnight, and then he will be able to amuse himself with shallow pleasures beamed in from cyberspace while the top of the scotch bottle begs to be loosened. And tomorrow will be another (Christmas) day.

(And still he wishes everyone peace, joy and happiness. Christmas should be no time for ghosts.)

Replay.

Something odd just happened. For some reason – and I’m not quite sure what – I felt impelled to listen to the Tony Bennett version of Stranger in Paradise that I posted on yesterday’s blog. As soon as he began to sing the first line my conscious shifted. I was a child again, not as a memory but as an actual presence. I was back in the house I lived in between the ages of 1 and 11 – really back there, looking around at the hazy outlines of walls and furniture. I felt sure that it was Christmas and that my mother was in another room. It lasted only a few seconds and then I returned to the here and now. I was trembling, my skin was tingling, and I felt dizzy.

You will immediately conclude, of course, that this was merely a psychological aberration, and you’d probably be right. We all know that the mind is capable of producing all sorts of odd experiences which have no basis in reality. But I also give much credence to Hamlet’s assertion that there are more things in heaven and earth… than are dreamt of in your philosophy. And the message coming from the cutting edge of physics appears to say: reality is not quite what we think it is. Watch this space.

So what should I make of it? Is the universe – or one of its agents – trying to tell me something? Is it right, as some claim, that all of time exists at the same time, and that it is sometimes possible to shift to a different groove in the vinyl and pick up an earlier or later state? Or am I just a little closer to the edge of sanity than I ought to be?

We don’t know, do we? That’s the problem. All we can do is let the experience remain a mystery and take its place in the treasure chest along with all the others.

Christmas in a Coma.

I’m sure there’s never been a year in my life when I was so unaware of Christmas as I’ve been this year. I went for a walk at lunchtime, and as I passed the village school I noticed that it was obviously closed. I wondered why, and it was only after I’d worked out the date that I remembered that today is Christmas Eve.

When I was a kid, Christmas Eve was the most magical day of the year, even more so than Christmas Day. It was almost agonisingly swamped with excitement and anticipation, and the feelings were re-lived when my daughter was a little girl. Now I don’t even remember what day it is until something prompts me.

So why is this? I’ve been increasingly lacking in Christmas spirit for some years now, but never as much as this year. Is this the latest manifestation of an ongoing process? Is it simply a matter of ageing? Is it to do with becoming increasingly distant from the culture and its habits? Is it the increasing incidence of dark tunnels on my personal road? Is it the strange and stifling atmosphere engendered by Covid?

I don’t know, but only remembering Christmas Eve after being prompted half way through the day still came as a surprise. And given my enhanced awareness of mortality since the cancer issue, I wonder whether I will have the chance to find out what my response to Christmas will be next year.

The New Story.

I talked in some recent posts about the writing of a new short story. It has now been posted to the other site.

It makes no claim to quality, having been written hurriedly on a whim over a few evenings when the constraints of current conditions weighed heavy. I worked out today (in furtherance of my fascination with statistics) that during the various versions of lockdown since the early spring, I have spent approximately 96% of my time alone in the environs of my little plot. Lately, since the winter has begun to bite, it has been mostly spent within the four walls of a damp and draughty croft.

Such a situation can wreak mild, but not infrequent, havoc on the nervous system even for a recluse like me, and the writing of an inconsequential little tale was a welcome expression of fancy, and also a useful aid to the maintenance of sanity.

And those with an ear for the nuances of language might have noted that recent posts to this blog have offered faint echoes of the mid-Victorian style. That is to be expected since I have fallen under the spell of the Misses Helstone and Keelder in the novel Shirley. Such is not, however, the case with the story.

Stages of Development.

I asked myself a question yesterday (I have no idea why, but I did.) It ran something like this:

‘If you were asked to list your favourite romantic ballads, which would they be?’

No problem. Three stand out, and three YouTube clips are appended in the order in which they took root in my consciousness.

So the next query was:

‘What do these three songs say about you vis-à-vis the position of the fairer sex in the progress of your life to date?’

Well, the first of them stems, I’m quite sure, from a time early in my infancy when I saw the film Kismet (from which this song is taken). This is interesting because it suggests that my predilection for the Romantic (rather than the lower case romantic) was established long before I was capable of rationalising the combination of lovelorn lyrics and Borodin’s ravishing melody. In fact, it was even before I could write, much less be able to spell ‘enchanting.’

The second came a bit later. I was still very young, and yet the tenor and verbal nuances were already obvious to me. But then, I do remember the school nurse saying to my mother on one occasion: ‘It’s surprising how early some boys develop.’ (I didn’t quite know what she meant at the time, but I took it as a compliment anyway.)

The third came along in mid life when I had undertaken not to engage in further romantic dalliances because people were getting hurt. It brings to mind two particularly lovely pieces of passion fruit which I felt had to be left on the tree for others to enjoy. Dear old karma finally caught up with me and it was my turn to suffer. Such is life, and it’s all over now, Baby Blue (as I do so like quoting when I feel inclined to use somebody else’s words for a change.)

The Mire on the Road of Romance.

A sound bite stepped into my head this morning and asked whether it might be granted an airing on my blog. I said I’d think about it, and so I have. I decided to accede, with the proviso that all sound bites – whoever claims their genesis and however wise they might appear to the undiscerning acolyte – are generalisations which might be tolerated and accorded a due place in the canon, but never relied upon. This was it:

A promise made in the throes of romantic entanglement is the most likely to be earnestly meant, but the least likely to be vigorously kept.

What I don’t know is whether the author of this sentiment was guided by observation, personal experience, or congenital cynicism.

Stretching the Seconds.

I just realised why the elderly become so sedentary in their habits and activities, so torpid as to be almost unmoving. It’s because lively activity makes time slip by quickly, and when you perceive your time to be short, the urge to wring substance out of every second becomes seemingly important.

That’s my theory. It probably has no merit.