August Finale.

So here we are with less than two hours of August to go and I have nothing to make a post about. No mysterious happenings, no interesting encounters, no accidents involving ladders, no epiphanies, nothing. As Albert and his parents were wont to complain on their day trip to Blackpool …there were no wrecks and nobody drownded, in fact nothing to laugh at at all.

The missing people are a large part of the problem. People used to provide the odd amusing, informative, or inspirational anecdote, but there’s no longer anybody in the Shire to capture my interest, and so I observe the proper pleasantries when necessary and then move on. Nobody ever says ‘come closer so I can hear you better’ since the brightest of all the stars went out.

These days I commune only with cows, horses, dogs, and donkeys. Today it was the turn of the donkeys in Meadow Lane. They approached me and received some handfuls of fresh hay and a few minutes of ear scratching in return.

And that’s about it for August. Nostromo out.

Bird Mysteries.

All my life I’ve regarded the House Sparrow as the most ubiquitous of all the small passerines. I’m sure that’s how we all regard them because, apart from a drop in their numbers a few years ago from which I gather they’ve recovered, they always have been the most ubiquitous of the small woodland birds. To people like me who are interested in birds, they’re the very essence of ordinariness and durability.

Whatever else has chosen to appear or not to appear in my garden, the space around the house has never been short of sparrows. They nest every spring in the roof space at the top of the building. And whichever route I’ve taken on my daily walks, there have always been several flocks in different places twittering to themselves on top of the hedgerows. That’s why I was so surprised when I realised a few days ago that I haven’t seen a single sparrow anywhere in the Shire all summer. I regard that as a most remarkable and mysterious fact.

So what has become of the once-so-numerous House Sparrow, and is it worth speculating on possible reasons for its disappearance? I don’t suppose it is, but if anyone has the answer I’d be pleased to hear it.

And talking of birds, I saw the bodies of three Wood Pigeon road kills on my walk this morning. It isn’t uncommon to see the odd one every two or three weeks, but to see three in one day in different locations is also unusual. Is this another of those signs from the universe to which we should be paying heed, and do I really want to know? I’m not sure that I do. The sight of a partially squashed and often headless bird is not a particularly pleasant one.

Whatever Happened to Nigel Smith?

I was thinking today about the people I used to knock about with as a teenager, and the name which rose to prominence was Nigel Smith.

Nigel was the closest I ever knew to the complete hedonist. Life was his platform; pleasure was his business. Nothing else seemed to matter to him. It worried his mother a lot, and she found surprising solace in the fact that I kept her errant son company occasionally. She thought I was a good influence. Whether I was or not is hard to say, but I played the part willingly because my own nature was more that of the chameleon. In the company of strange people I was steady and sensible. In the company of steady, sensible people, I became a little strange. I suppose it was all a matter of balance, and Nigel came to no harm while I was with him so maybe his mother’s view was justified.

The last time I saw him was at a school reunion in 1995 and I didn’t recognise him. When his identity was revealed to me, I felt an urge to keep away. I’m not quite sure why. As far as I recall, I simply felt that there was some sort of barrier between us and I couldn’t be bothered to find out whether I could break it down. And I never saw him again.

Now I’m led to wonder what became of him. Did he change his spots and settle to family life with a wife and several children? Is he now a dear little old man living contentedly with a dear little old woman and being tended by grown up offspring of at least two generations? Did he overstep the mark in his pursuit of pleasure and end up in a prison cell from which he never escaped? Did he perhaps choke to death on some part of a young woman’s undergarment which was never meant to be taken orally? Did he succumb to the effects of some noxious substance which drove him to permanent madness or the end of his days in a state of agony? Or did he simply pursue his pleasures until age and general degradation robbed him of his physical capabilities and he died of a broken ego. These are but a few of the possible ends to which Nigel might have succumbed. And that’s something else I suppose I shall never know.

Perusing the Possibility of a Parting.

I walked from the kitchen into my office last night and was unaccountably struck by a sense that something was missing. It felt as though I was walking into an empty room which isn’t usually empty.

I looked around and soon ascertained that everything was where it always is. Both the desk light and the uplighter were on and as bright as usual. And then an apparent realisation struck me: what was missing was the presence of the priestess.

You see, during the thirteen years when she and I were corresponding, it never consciously occurred to me that something of her essence was here in this room. I know I used to fancifully write about my ‘Chinese ghost’ visiting, but it was transparently fictional. Or so I always thought. Having felt the sudden sense of emptiness, now I’m not so sure.

Now I wonder whether some aspect of consciousness is capable of transcending distance because distance, like time, is illusory. After all, stranger things are happening in the world of quantum physics. So was last night the point at which the priestess finally left my orbit? I don’t suppose I shall ever know.

The Dicky Heart Issue.

I spent a few hours yesterday in the company of my daughter and two of my grown up granddaughters. I’m very lucky in having a family – small though it is – who are on a wavelength with me when very few other people are. We talked a lot, mainly about international politics, the meaning of life, spiritual matters generally, and the fate of the dead. We came to few conclusions because people like us generally don’t. The search is all-important to us, and we know that the search always leads to a bottomless pit.

And of course, when I leave such company my own search continues in the same bottomless pit but with a few new angles to consider. It also leaves me feeling dizzy, probably in consequence of having a dicky heart. A radiographer once told me that talking puts pressure on the heart, and mine doesn’t seem to take kindly to very much of that.

And talking about dicky hearts, my body hasn’t yet fully recovered from the shock to which it was exposed during that unfortunate incident with the ladder on Sunday. It surprised me, you know, it did. I’ve had lots of falls since I moved to this house, mostly off ladders and on ice during the winter, and none of them affected me like that one. I also played rugby for more than twenty years. How many physical assaults do you think the body is subjected to in every game? I used to think nothing of it, but not this time.

I’m blaming the old heart and its underperforming left ventricle for that one, too. Seems I must now avoid physical shocks and taking part in extended discussions. Heaven know what would happen if I woke up in bed one night to find a Japanese woman wearing a long white shift, and with long black hair covering all or half her face, sitting on my bed and regarding me impassively. I think I’d better not think about it.

*  *  *

None of that was very interesting, was it? But I do so feel the need to keep this blog active, and I suppose it makes me prey to clutching at straws. I decided to start this one because I had something more interesting (or enlightening or something) to finish on, only now I’ve got here I can’t remember what it was. Can dicky hearts make a person forgetful? I suppose they probably can.

Edited to Add:

I just remembered what I was going to finish on. Maybe tomorrow. Right now it's a short email and then my nightly YouTube session.

A Minor Mishap.

Today’s exciting event was the having of a minor accident.

I was up a ladder trimming the top of the tall, tough field boundary hedge which runs for 100ft down the side of my garden. It’s rather broad and so requires the use of a heavy pole hedge trimmer (I bought a new one recently because the blades on the old one were becoming blunt and the growth in that hedge is a mixture of tough stuff like hawthorn, briar, holly and so on.) It’s tiring work and my ageing body suffers quite badly, but there’s nobody else available to take over so I don’t have much choice.

I’d finished one section and started to climb down the ladder – carrying the heavy hedge trimmer in one hand – but mistook the second step for the bottom one (I think I’ve done that at least three times this year.) Matters were made worse by the fact that the piece of earth for which my foot was headed was lower than piece on which the ladder was standing. The result was that I fell over backwards when my foot did eventually make solid ground (or maybe a little before) with the result that I ended up on my back in a supine position, half on the garden and half on the lawn.

And the matter didn’t quite end there. I’d dropped the heavy hedge trimmer on the way down, but the ladder came down in sympathy with my predicament and land on top of me. Metal ladders are heavy, but fortunately it missed my face and merely pinned me to the ground by my left shoulder and rib cage. Blessings be to the Divine Lady Mother for that.

So how did I feel? A little shocked, a little weak, a little dazed, but mostly very foolish. I’d heard nothing snap and had no sharp pains, but I did have a small predicament. I couldn’t sit up. My head was facing downhill, you see, and in their weakened condition my abdominal muscles wouldn’t lift me. I did briefly wonder whether this was the end and heaven beckoned, but decided it was simply a matter of mechanics. I’d already managed to lift the ladder off my left shoulder and rib cage, so I was able to turn my body through 180°. My head was now facing uphill and sitting up was almost as easy as usual. (A little ‘phew!’ at that point.) Standing up was more difficult because I still felt weak and my legs ached, but I managed it. And then I carried on. And nobody came to my aid because that’s how life is when you’re a loner.

All that happened about four hours ago and I still feel light-headed. I’ve also got an aching back, and I’m sure I can hear a little voice emanating from somewhere in the middle of my chest. ‘Be more careful next time,’ it’s muttering. ‘Watch where you’re putting your feet so you don’t miss the bottom rung. Don’t you know I’ve got an underperforming left ventricle? Idiot!) I think I know where it’s coming from.

There’s still a small section left to trim, by the way. I can only hope that the underperforming left ventricle doesn’t stop performing altogether before it’s done. I’ve always been the sort to insist on finishing any job I start, you see. It’s one of my weaknesses.

And it occurs to me that I could have made a post which simply said ‘I fell off a ladder today.’ It’s unsurprising that nobody talks to me these days, isn’t it?

Being Mindful of the End of Days.

A few days ago I was walking along Meadow Lane in the Shire. The temperature had dropped after a spell of warm weather and a stiff breeze had developed. The glowering grey sky was all-pervasive: low, dark, heavy, and oppressive. And then I noticed that nowhere along the half mile length of the lane was there any blossom to be seen in the hedgerows – all were come to black and red berries, and these, I knew, would soon be ripped away by the McConnell hedge trimmers when the autumn hedge cutting is done. There were hardly any wild flowers left either, and last but not least was the sight of trickles of dead leaves beginning to line the edges of the lane. It all told me that summer, which always seems to pass so quickly, and which has seemed especially short this year due to the low temperatures in June and most of July, was coming to an end for another year.

And it took my thoughts to all those people who used to keep me company on this blog and by email. They came from all over the world – from Australia, South Asia, South America, North America, Africa, and Europe. They’ve all gone now for one reason or another. I could mention some of the special ones by name, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others so I won’t.

The question of my health issues fits neatly with a train of thought which must be readily apparent by now. I have four identified ones at the moment, which seems a little excessive. I’ve had occasional issues ever since the age of twelve when I had my appendix removed, but they’ve always come one at a time and been widely spaced. And judging by certain symptoms which have been niggling away for a few months now, I suspect that there may be more just waiting in the wings to make their entrance onto the stage.

I hardly need to add – though I’m going to anyway – that the current state of the world and the state of the human condition seems to be getting worse.

So where is all this moaning from the pit leading? Simply to a sense that my perception of life might now be summed up succinctly by the phrase that is the title of this post. And maybe I might be permitted to quote again my favourite line from Tennyson describing the end of days in Camelot: The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness.

I should also mention that I first wanted to make this post a few days ago after my walk along Meadow Lane, but didn’t because I didn’t want to present a gloomy face. That changed last night when I had a dream. It was the usual stuff full of disturbing situations, none of which I can remember in detail, but it ended with me standing before a shadowy male figure who said ‘You will die soon.’ It scared me, even though I’m happy to accept that it was no more than a reflection of my current state of mind. My dreams are rarely prophetic and I have no reason to think that this one was any exception. But it still scared me because I have an image of death as the process of being suddenly stripped of everything that once defined you, and then being pushed off a parapet in complete darkness with no knowledge of what you’re going to be faced with when you hit bottom.

But I might finish by relating the fact that I encountered a tiny mouse today sitting on the road close to my house. I’m sure it must have been a baby because, at no more than an inch in length, it was small even by the standards of wood mice. It neither struggled nor squealed complaint when I picked it up and placed it on the grass verge to save its young life being extinguished by a passing car. I wondered whether that was my good deed done for the day, but couldn’t decide. It seems to me that in matters of life and death, it’s sometimes impossible to know what’s good and what isn’t.

Awaiting November with Interest.

The American Presidential election is certainly garnering some interest over here. The BBC is positively gorging on it. It always surprises me that we pay very much attention to who is going occupy the White House for the next four years, since we over here are, after all, over here and not over there. I suppose it all started with the tug of war between JFK and Comrade Khrushchev over the siting of Russian missiles on Cuba. Even so, in all my life I’ve known very few people who paid much heed to the matter.

It seems to be the Trump phenomenon which has changed all that. All eyes are on America because we’re fascinated by the prospect of it going up in flames if Trump loses. We’re aware, you see, that American society has never been so divided since Gettysburg and all that jazz. Whoever wins, no doubt there will be an awful lot of people taking the ‘Not My President’ position, but I would imagine that the identity of the winner will make a big difference for one simple reason:

As far as we can tell, confirmed Democrats are generally a pretty peaceable bunch of people. Those given to wandering the streets dripping side arms and assault weapons are likely to be almost entirely Trump supporters. They also have smaller brains and are more inclined to seek solutions through the medium of violence. All of which makes for an interesting situation, and leads to the presumption that November will be a time to watch America from a distance.

What’s also interesting me is Trump’s choice of tactics while the opinion polls indicate a close contest. Having tried and apparently failed with the race card, he then moved onto the conspiracy theory: ‘That crowd welcoming Air Force 2 when it landed in (wherever it was) didn’t exist. It was AI generated. Nobody turned up.’ Well, that was soon quashed and I wondered whether he might try the sexist card next. He didn’t, probably because somebody with a few more brain cells advised that it would be very risky. And so now he’s busy pushing the ‘I, victim’ button, another favoured ploy in the propaganda game. Having already had ‘If I’d turned my head at that moment, I’d be dead’, ‘I shouldn’t be here’, and ‘I took a bullet for democracy’, he’s now fallen back on the bullet-proof screen gag.

All very fascinating. November beckons. I haven’t looked forward to November since I was a small boy and was still being given birthday presents.

The Gnome Stayed Home.

Most of today was awful. It was one of those days when you begin seriously to suspect that there’s a little gnome of misfortune suffering with toothache who is intent on causing you all sorts of irritating mischief just because he’s in a bad mood. A day of mishaps, mayhem, and malfunctions.

(Isn’t it odd that so many words with a negative connotation begin with the letter M?)

Actually, there probably wasn’t any gnome. It was probably all due to my being tense over today’s trip to the Royal Derby Hospital for my annual CT scans. The whole arrangement has not gone well this year, you see, apparently due to the backlogs that have developed in the NHS for several reasons. Today’s arrangement was over a month behind schedule and all attempts to find out what was happening fell on stony ground, but on Wednesday afternoon I had a phone call offering an appointment for today.

‘Will I get a letter as usual?’ I asked. ‘No,’ replied the man making the offer, ‘but you might get a text reminder.’ Having received neither letter nor text message by this morning, I was in neurotic mood. I was feeling quite sure that I would go to all the trouble to prepare for and keep the appointment (you know – nothing to eat for at least four hours, making sure that there’s plenty of fluid in the bladder to keep it well inflated, driving twenty miles plus a side trip to Ashbourne to buy a box of Lindor chocolates for the radiographers, using twenty miles worth of petrol, probably having to queue for a parking space and then pay for it, negotiating the rabbit warren to get to the CT suite, etc) only to find that I had no appointment after all. I would have been a little miffed.

But no. The appointment was safely on the computer and the road ahead was clear. The two radiographers were an absolute delight and virtually squealed with joy when I handed over the box of chocolates. ‘You’ve made my day,’ said the younger and prettier of them (and that, as you might expect, made mine.)  And then Maria, the Portuguese nurse who did the cannula fixing and general conveyancing, and with whom the chocolates had naturally been shared, told me off for not having given them to her. But she was only joking and told me that I knew how to please a woman. I declined to agree, of course. (What I actually said was that I was too old to care any more.) ‘Give a woman chocolates,’ she said, ‘and you will melt her heart.’ Why didn’t anyone tell me that when I was twenty? I finally learn how to melt hearts just when it’s too late to bother. Life eh? Maybe next time.

And so the difficult day went down not in wan and weariness, but in smiles, pleasant connections, and good grace. Thank heaven the gnome didn’t fancy a road trip.

Little Nigel's Big Piggy Bank.

Remember Nigel Farage who has been the subject of several dishonourable mentions on this blog? He’s the British politician generally seen as the most visible political underachiever for the past several years, but who is now a bona fide member of the British parliament. He won a seat, you see, in a staunchly right wing constituency in the south-east of England at the last election. (For all his posturing, he’s never been an MP before.)

I read a news item today which said that his earnings from his numerous non-political activities amount to over £1m a year. This has raised a few eyebrows because it brings into question the amount of time he has left to spend working for the constituents who voted for him. Well, that’s a fair question, but what I found particularly astonishing was this:

Apparently, one of his little money making schemes is the practice of writing personal notes to people at their request. We’re not talking lobbying activities here – legal or illegal – just personal notes. No doubt he signs them ‘Nigel’, and maybe even appends ‘personal friend of Mr D Trump of America’, which is what he claims to be. And this is what I’ve been asking myself on and off all day:

‘Why on earth would anybody want a personal note from Nigel Farage?’ I haven’t come up with an answer yet.

But I have come up with a startling revelation: We all know what an over-inflated ego Mr Farage possesses, but I would never have guessed that it could be so profitable.