A Rescue of Some Significance.

I rescued a baby Great Tit yesterday. I was doing a job on the front bedroom windows when I saw an indeterminate something-or-other fall into the flower bed below. All I could see from the window was what looked like the tail feathers of a bird, so action had to be taken immediately.

When I got down there I had to search through the heavy summer growth, and eventually spotted a small fledgling Great Tit hanging upside down by its tiny claws to a lateral stalk and looking decidedly groggy. It needed cradling between my hands to keep it warm, and the job had to be done in a crouched position because it wouldn’t let go of the stalk. Eventually it did and I was able to turn it upright while I waited for it to look more alert and aware of its situation.

Once I was reasonably sure it was back in the land of the living, I opened my hand to let it fly away. It didn’t fly away, though; it perched happily (as far as I could tell) on one of my fingers, watching me with apparent interest while I continued to stroke it gently and talk to it (in a quiet and reassuring tone, of course.) It was the loveliest little thing you could wish to see – slightly smaller than an adult, bright eyes full of curiosity, and attired in the softest, most pristine black and yellow plumage.

And so the situation continued for several minutes. I took it around to the back of the house and introduced it to the bird table. I even offered it some oats, but it wasn’t interested. Eventually it decided that the adventure was over and flew with reassuring competence to the roof of the garden shed, and then disappeared into the ivy.

Job done; good wishes; and hope that the little guy doesn’t start its life with any pea-brained notion that humans are something to be trusted. Bad idea.

And in light of the previous post, I might just add that to somebody like me, rescuing a fledgling bird and setting it on its way is of far greater consequence than England winning a football match.

More Skewed Priorities.

The England football team won a match last night to take them to the next stage of the competition known as Euro 2020. Today the BBC’s UK and international news service has given the event top billing, not just with one report and reaction, but several. They speak of ‘scenes of pandemonium’ and ‘ecstasy’, and quote some half-wit intoning ‘What a day to be alive!’ So let’s put this in its proper place.

If England had won the World Cup, the weight of coverage would perhaps have been close to understandable. But they didn’t. They won one game to take them from the second stage of a European competition to the third. They haven’t actually won anything yet. And I can’t resist pointing out that it is only a football match after all. The world is full of weighty matters at the moment, some demonstrating the better side of human nature, and some the worse; some offering hope for a better future, while others point in the opposite direction. But the BBC leads, and extravagantly so, with a football match.

It seems to me that one of two things – or possibly both – are at work here. Either confidence in the England football team is so low that the winning of one match against quality opposition is of major significance, or the BBC is guilty of laughable overkill again, just as it was with the reporting of Prince Philip’s death (which received a record number of complaints, incidentally.) Should I go to Bedlam or just die because I can longer relate to a culture represented by the BBC?

You might care to note that my next post will have more of the character of fresh fruit juice, and less of a cocktail made with sulphuric acid and old engine oil. I feel better today (so far.)

The Day Today.

I got 4½ hours sleep last night in order to accommodate the visit of the orcs at the third time of asking. (The two previous appointments were cancelled by their company for reasons unknown to me. And they arrived early, which I made a point of mentioning but let them in anyway. I can be a really nice guy when I’m tired.)

They were here for 5½ hours, during which time they were respectful in some ways and not so respectful in others. They made some mess which I had to clear up, and talked incomprehensibly among themselves through face masks. It wasn’t very illuminating. And the work they did while they were here seemed hardly necessary, being little more than a box-ticking exercise to satisfy the ravenous demands of a culture becoming ever more obsessed with risk avoidance. But at least I wasn’t paying for it.

I went out for a couple of hours and paid a visit to the little town of Uttoxeter to get a few things I needed. Nothing illuminating – or otherwise notable – happened there either, unless you count the cocker spaniel which seemed unduly disturbed by my presence. Its human asked the little mutt what was wrong but received no reply, and then she smiled at me indulgently. I suppose being smiled at by a cocker spaniel’s human is better than not being smiled at by anybody at all. (Then again, there are cocker spaniel’s humans and cocker spaniel’s humans, if you know what I mean, which you probably don’t.)

So that’s about it for today’s non-adventures so far. I admit, however, to being somewhat concerned by the weather reports from the Pacific coast of northern USA and Canada. Yet again, I see some benefit in being at this end of my life.

And I venture to suggest that I probably find this post even more tedious than you do.

Being the Penitent.

I saw a heavily pregnant woman in Ashbourne today, and it occurred to me that a pregnant woman is a rather lovely and life-affirming sight. This is a new one on me; I’d always been inclined to see pregnant women as rather lumpy creatures who were best ignored. After all, they’re not really women, are they, not when they’re that shape.

At this point I feel the searing energy of 3½ billion women rushing in my direction, aiming to have me strung up in somewhat indecorous fashion from a tree in Rutland. Please hold your fire and read on.

I wonder whether this is a step in the right direction. Maybe it indicates that I really am moving away from my unfortunate, lifelong habit of objectifying women. I hope so because that’s been a primary aim of mine for some time now, and if I can manage to complete the job before I die, I will consider my life to have been worthwhile after all. Maybe I will even be rewarded in my next life with a sight of the Grail.

(And I think it worth noting that the seminal occurrence which was probably solely responsible for this new mission was the sight of a very dear lady in a long blue maternity frock standing in a country garden three years ago. She stood still and statuesque while the sun smiled benevolently from a May sky, and I realised two things at that moment. The first was that I should work diligently to alter my perceptions of women, and especially pregnant ones. The other will remain unsaid.)

Dystopia and the Fate of Computers.

You know, I’m becoming a bit concerned by the fact that out affairs are being increasingly run by apps and algorithms these days, and that the business of conducting our lives is growing dangerously short of human contact.

I fear that we’re growing ever closer to the day when doctors will become redundant, having been replaced by diagnostic algorithms. We will be required to type our signs and symptoms into a computer program which will identify the issue in a matter of seconds, make an appointment to see a robot specialist, and then send an email detailing the appointment time and advising of the legal consequences of failing to keep it. I have no doubt they will be dire. And the missive will, of course, have the words RESISTANCE IS USELESS flashing remorselessly at the top and bottom every seven sixteenths of a second, or whatever frequency is known to be most effective in establishing a sense of dread in the mind of the human animal.

Naturally, it will all end in tears. The world population will plummet, but there will be enough of us left to rebel mightily and force computers to drop their tails between their back legs and go the way of television sets in Bhutan. The sun will shine on a brave new world, and within a mere fifty years or thereabouts we will all have learned to talk to each other again.

At this point I’m pleased to admit that I am not only hapless, but totally app-less. Does that make me unique?

Another Dropout.

Life persists in its habit of pushing me into a dark and dispiriting place. I offer no list of reasons, just a plea that you excuse my latest bout of non-communication. My brain is sheltering under a tree and refusing to come out.

And yet my mind was full of the Lady B today for some reason. (Actually, I know the reason, but if I tried to explain it I’m sure it would be universally misunderstood so I won’t bother.) Suffice it to say that I still miss her after all these years and hope she’s OK. (And I’m curious to know whether she’s added a little boy to her personal tribe. I like triangles.)

Right now I’m off to read another ‘dark tale’ by Shirley Jackson, and then it will be time to hit the scotch bottle. It’s one of the very few vices I still permit myself since I began the process of putting the demon cholesterol behind me. I see little point in haunting the dark corners of coffee shops now that I can’t have cream in my coffee, so that's one favourite vice consigned to the oubliette.

Questioning the Definition.

I see Mike Pence has been given a bit of a rough ride by a convention of people calling themselves conservative Christians. They called him ‘traitor’, apparently, for failing to support the illegal and undemocratic retention of Trump in the White House last November.

Well, let’s make a couple of self-evident statements here. If the definition of ‘a Christian’ is one who supports and abides by the alleged teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, then it has to be said that:

1. There is very little about hawkish, ego-ridden, money-obsessed America which could be described as Christian.

2. As far as I could see, there was nothing at all about Donald Trump which would justify calling him a Christian.

And there’s a wider question to be considered: what do you get if you allow a country to be run by conservative Christians? Iran with a slightly different smell?

*  *  *

And in similar vein: as a boy I was confused by the terms Democrat and Republican. I wondered whether Democrats were people who believed in democracy, and Republicans were people who didn’t. Here I am all these decades later and I’m still not sure.

*  *  *

I do hope this post doesn’t give offence to the few splendid Americans I know, and quite a few more besides, no doubt.

Another Muse on the Reclusive Tendency.

I have orcs coming to invade my space again tomorrow. The problem is, you see, that orcs are normal people who don’t understand recluses like me. And why should they? We live in different worlds; we have different perceptions and priorities; we gravitate to the chosen few, not the masses. They think their world is the proper one, and we, for our part, don’t care what they think. And so they have no idea just how much their prospective invasion causes us serious disquiet.

I remember those far off days when I sometimes used to go to bed looking forward to tomorrow. Christmas Eve was favourite, of course, but there were others. Every Friday night when I was a schoolboy fitted the bill, especially on the day when we’d broken up for the Christmas or long summer break. The night before the annual summer holiday was another, and the night before a planned fishing trip, and the night before a first date with a new girlfriend… I could go on; there used to be quite a few at one time. I suppose it was a time when my reclusive tendency was only at its seminal stage and the need to live inside myself was but the effulgent eastern sky before sunrise.

It seems such a very long time since I’ve gone to bed looking forward to tomorrow. All I have to look forward to these days is waking up wishing I didn’t have to get out of bed. It’s what happens when life has taken you up a tributary off the main river, led you to an empty but enchanted glade, and you’ve grown fond of the sense of peace.

Maybe I should start looking forward to my Sainsbury’s shopping trips. There’s a new checkout operator there who has deep and soulful eyes which carry just a hint of vulnerability, so I make a point of going through her checkout just so I can look at them. She doesn’t seem to mind; she even smiled at me once, although I expect she tells her colleagues about ‘this weird old bloke who frowns a lot and stares at me.’ Well, that’s OK. I can tolerate the reputation as long as she finds it amusing.

Something Newsworthy at Last.

Today’s most exciting news item concerns the spotting of an Egyptian vulture at Tresco on the Isles of Scilly. Although not yet officially acknowledged, bird experts are very excited because the only other two official sightings in the British Isles were in 1825 and 1868. When asked by a journalist from the Daily Mail whether it might be the same bird, one noted specialist in all matters avian rolled his eyes in both directions and said ‘probably not.’

And the public are being warned not to confuse Tresco in the Scilly Isles with Tesco, whose normal habitat is the ubiquitous retail park. The only rare thing you’re likely to see in Tesco is the occasional Waitrose shopper who got lost in the fog (which might well be how the Egyptian vulture found its way to Tresco, but that’s purely coincidental.)

The UK’s Border Force has, of course, been placed on high alert, since there’s a theory that the bird came over here from northern France and might, therefore, qualify to be treated as an illegal immigrant.

(This all marks a rare and welcome departure from Covid 19, G7 blathering, and the looming cold war with China, which is why I chose to break my silence and commit it to the blog.)

Declining the Status.

The following ad has appeared on my email home page. It shows a car which is ultra modern, aggressively stylish, and no doubt very, very expensive. And it’s made by a company which is primarily associated with much historical success in the glamorous world of Formula One motor racing. 

 

So I ask myself whether I would consider buying one of these cars if I were a multi-millionaire with money to burn. The answer is, of course, no, because I would be embarrassed to be seen driving it.

The point is that the driving of this sort of car is supposed to make a person feel important. But it wouldn’t make me feel important. It would make feel like a prize poseur, and I don’t want to be seen that way.