Old people

Visiting a retirement home, a modern euphemism, is a very mixed experience.  We go in once a week to play bridge with a couple of residents, which is fine and enjoyable for us as well as them. Jim is 85 and Monica much the same age, though it is not polite to ask. They have led interesting lives but now they are left by their families, for good reason no doubt, to wait for the inevitable.

Looking around, our bridge played are remarkable in that for the most time they have full possession of their faculties. Many of the other residents are not as fortunate, although that is a subjective viewpoint.

The home is beautiful, it is warm, well appointed with lots of space. Residents rooms are comfortable and roomy and the staff are wonderful. I am sure that it is not cheap, and has the feel of a hotel. However, the stereotype is still there; a number of residents sit around looking, unknowingly at each other or sleeping the day away. Conversation is rare, and there is an inescapable feeling that they are just waiting to die. They do have activities laid on and even trips out, but even so it is so sad that people have to endure this in their final days. Most are placid and isolated in their minds, while a few are vocal and never seem to stop moaning or complaining and others barely know where they are or why, let alone what day it is.

Mealtimes are a highlight for many, and they seem to drift from one meal to the next in the silent company of others.

Jim yearns to be taken to the pub, something that doesn't happen at all, so we have agreed to take him out for lunch on friday. I hope that it goes well.

Signs of spring

Daffodils are already pushing through the waterlogged soil, and are the fist sign that spring is not too far away. Of course there is much winter left to endure, and who knows what the next few weeks will bring?

I am having a clear out at the moment, a sort of spring cleaning if you like. I am a hoarder, I can't throw something out if I think that it might have a use somewhere down the line, so although most rooms in the house are laden with books and likely  to remain so, my garage and workshop are now under attack. Not only is it filled with stuff, the stuff is also disorganised and largely redundant.

I have boxes of transformers and leads from previous electronic devices; most of which will never have any use. This week I have discarded dozens of SCART, phono, and telecom fittings, along with leads and drives that were only used on the very old Mac computers, I don't even know what those connections are called.  I found an old Zip drive complete with a set of discs that I have little memory of their contents; that and others like it have found their way into the bin. I have multiple duplicates of USB leads, mains leads and an assortment of audio and video connectors that will never be used again. So many things in my life are becoming redundant. I still have three complete HiFi systems, one of which I use in my study, albeit occasionally, another is boxed and stored in the attic and another is in the garage and does get played when I am working down there. I cannot bring myself to get rid of these. On day the ability too stream music or to play the store on the computer may not work and so there is an insurance. Life without music is unthinkable.

I hoard useful bits of wood, lengths of plastic and metal piping, plumbing and electrical fittings. Some of these will be going soon, but it is hard to think of those things as redundant.

So I am creating, or clearing space, and simultaneously making it easier to get rid of stuff when I have gone. At the moment what I have done is making very little difference I know, and besides space calls out to be filled. Who knows what will fill the void?

Bits and Bytes

Ok I missed a day already. See what I mean about resolutions; there is always something that gets in the way. Yesterday it was grandchildren, who are rather demanding of attention, usually both at the same time. My grandson, like me, is a fan of video games, and unlike me he is good at them.

My first brush with video games was a Sinclair Spectrum computer, with 8Kb of RAM. Programs had to be typed in on a basic keyboard, so you would spend more time typing than playing. The same was true of the BBC computer that followed; though it was a more powerful machine with 32Kb of Ram and a proper keyboard.

Nowadays I confess to owning and using a Playstation 3 and a Playstation 4 as well as two Apple Macs, an iPad and a smart phone. Yes I am a computer victim and am fully addicted.

Yesterday I was playing a game and proudly ,making a lot of progress, having practiced for quite a while. Then in comes the seven year old, who, never having played before, takes over with minimal instruction, and proceeds to make me feel both inadequate and stupid.

Children are so plastic and can adapt so quickly and we are getting left behind at an alarming rate when it comes to IT. However it is a worry that he has reached a level of addiction that has taken me a long long time to achieve. Thankfully next week he goes back to school and will have to tear himself away from screens for a while, and I will have no excuse for not writing.

Changes

I have a hearing difficulty, being totally deaf in one ear, is a real handicap. Not only is my hearing reduced but also I have no idea where sounds are coming from. The ability to hear one voice among many has become impossible and this has consequences in social gatherings. This change in my body has had profound effects on my life.  It has also underlined another change that seems to have become an acceptable norm. In the media, TV or radio, there seems to be a tendency now, whenever there are groups of people, everyone wants their say and so therefore everyone seems to talk at the same time. The civilised interview is a thing of the past. Like me, everyone has an opinion on everything, and wishes to express that opinion. To do so while others are expressing theirs, leads to a cacophony of noise.

It feels like  the world is on the threshold of something. This year should be interesting, and hopefully not in the sense of the old Chinese curse.  The political far right seems to be on the rise and is spreading like an infectious disease and is dragging along with it, those unable to think for themselves.  2017 saw the rise of UKIP, albeit temporarily, and Trump, both riding on the back of racism and self preservation.  The world is changing and changing fast.

Change is an inevitability, it is a function of time and it cannot be halted. Even in the Arabic world, not noted for progress, there are fundamental changes afoot.

Change is neither good or bad, it just is, and one change may suit some but not others. I am getting older and for those of us who are slowing down, change can be uncomfortable. We have no power to oppose it and so we must go along with it.

In a world that is clearly in trouble, we should be coming together to address some of the pressing problems. Instead we are becoming increasingly divided. Every nation seems to want to shut their doors and peep through lace curtains at what is going on elsewhere. Each nation wants to impose their own views and culture on everyone else, and like the voices in a crowded room, no-one is hearing anyone else.

Anyway this is the 2nd  day of 2018 and my resolve to write has been maintained. I hope that 2018 is good for everyone, but I suspect that at the end of it, we will be even more divided.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pl3vxEudif8

The Pughs part 2

A new beginning

Mr  Pugh woke up the next morning to a strange and eerie silence. He climbed out of bed, pulled down his flannel nightshirt that had somehow ridden up to his waist, and eased open the ragged curtains. The street was coated with a pristine carpet of snow. He shivered, availed himself of the chamber pot, and dressed hastily. Suited and booted he stumbled downstairs with sleep encrusted eyes.  Of Mrs Pugh, there was no sign.  He made a cup of tea, using the teabag that had so far lasted three days, and decided to make one for his wife.  He considered adding poison but settled for milk.  Wondering at her tardiness in rising he tiptoed up the uncarpeted staircase and knocked gently on Mrs Pugh’s bedroom door.  There was no answer so he tentatively opened the door. “Tea my dear.” he whispered in case she was asleep, and stepped over the threshold for the first time in years. The brightness of the morning peeped through holes in the moth eaten curtains. He placed the cracked cup and saucer on her bedside table and opened the curtains without making a sound.

She was sitting up in bed, her half moon glasses sat astride her thin nose, and an ancient bible that belonged to her long dead family was clutched in her bony, blue veined and liver spotted hands. Her eyes were open and glazed and and her thin blue lips were formed into an unfamiliar and discomforting smile

“Time to get up Mrs Pugh.” he softly said in fear of being scolded or worse.  There was no reply and no movement. Mr Pugh crept silently towards the bed. Her face looked very grey and there was no movement of her chest to suggest breathing. He touched her icy cold face and withdrew his hand.  Mrs Pugh was dead and clearly happy to be so.  

For a moment Mr Pugh was startled and confused, but it was only a moment before he too began to smile, and then the smile grew into laughter as he clumped around the bare boards of the bedroom in some semblance of a dance, his steps echoing off the unadorned walls of the bedroom. For the first time since before he was married he felt joy, and wallowed in that feeling.  He stopped his little jig and moved to the bedside. He removed her spectacles and closed her eyes.  He  covered her face with the bedclothes  and skipped down the staircase and into the kitchen where his tea sat  waiting and cooling.  He sat at the ancient table, slurped down the tea, which is not easy when you are smiling, and realised that this was not the end of anything but the beginning of something new and exiting. He had escaped, he was free, he could do as he wished whenever he wanted. Now he had this liberty, he had no idea what to do with it.  Nothing this exciting had ever happened to him before and he didn’t know what to do.  Who should he tell? What should he tell them?  He decided that for now he would tell no-one anything. He wanted to enjoy the moment.

He went back upstairs and into Mrs Pugh’s bedroom and pulled back the sheet, exposing only her face, afraid of what he might see if he exposed more of her. He stood back, looked her in the face and stuck out his tongue, half expecting her gimlet eyes to open. They didn’t, so suitably emboldened, he stuck out his tongue again and blew a raspberry in her direction. He moved around the bed blowing raspberry after raspberry until he got bored.  He covered her face once more, picked up the now cold cup of tea and left the room closing the door behind him.

He whistled as he made his morning porridge and, in celebration, added a large spoonful of sugar. As the porridge boiled in the blackened saucepan, he opened the front door onto the sweet day. A bottle of milk on the doorstep, cream frozen and the foil top pecked away by hungry tits. What lovely birds, he said aloud and closed the door. He whistled as he toured the house untidying things; he lit a fire and piled on lumps of coal regardless of expense, and made another cup of tea. 

He sat contentedly in front of the fire, warming his feet,  gazing into the flickering flames and decided that today he would give the church a miss. He smiled once more and dozed as he had never been allowed to before.

He awoke with a start from a deep sleep, he imagined for a moment that all of this had been a dream and that he would soon be feeling  the wrath of Mrs Pugh descending upon him. The fire had died down and strangely, the clock that he had always hated had stopped its eternal tick tock. The house was silent.

This was the first day of his new found freedom and so, digging into the bowels of Mrs Pugh’s deep brown handbag, he found, among the used handherchiefs and religious bric a brac, her purse, which rarely saw the light of day. He opened it and took out the collection of coins that it held and put them into his waistcoat pocket.

“Time to go out.” he said bravely to no-one in particular, donned his heavy coat and his hat and stepped out of the front door, childishly slamming it shut behind him. There was a cold wind blowing from the sea and the snow squeaked under his tread as he wandered into the town. As he neared the cluster of cottages that was generally referred to as the town, the footprints in the snow increased with many leading to the door of the sailors arms.

Some of the hardier women were there on their glassy doorsteps, arms folded under their ample, floral house coated bosoms, their hair invisible under the standard headscarf, and their pursed lips in a permanent expression of disapproval. The less bold simply viewed the world through their lace curtained windows.

Mr Pugh walked through Main street with a spring in his step, if that were possible in several inches of snow. Curtains twitched and eyebrows raised at  his passing, and there was a palpable communal gasp as he entered the Sailors Arms, where the clock on the wall was stuck fast  at opening time.

When he entered the snug bar, there was a silence, the silence that is reserved for foreigners, and the eyes of all of the drinkers turned towards him. He had never been seen in the Sailors Arms before and had never been seen smiling.  The silence faded slowly as the drinkers returned to drinking and the dominoes resumed their  clacking on the worn wooden table.  Mr Pugh walked to the bar.

“What will you have, Mr Pugh?’ said the landlord.

“ A pint of your best bitter.” said Mr Pugh, adding a “please” like an afterthought.  He paid and took his, anything but best, cloudy ale, to an unoccupied in the corner of the bar, where he sat, still smiling and looking at his fellow drinkers. The first mouthful of beer tasted very bitter and not at all pleasant, but he knew that this would pass.  The second was a little better and by the time he had finished half of the glass, it tasted good and was already passing on its effects to his unaccustomed constitution. He finished the first pint with a satisfied gasp and with a pleasurable belch, rose from his seat and paid for another. The second pint slipped down very easily as did the third, fourth and fifth. The drinkers, once they realised that Mr Pugh was now one of them, allowed him to lapse into the obscurity of the corner.

Having failed to melt the snow, the sun had long since slid away in shame, and darkness coated the town once more. The fishwives had gone back into their homes to nag their husbands and children, leaving the snow to itself. The lights in the bar  and the thin light from the rows of houses were barely lighting main street as he tottered out of the bar and into the snow once more, remembering the direction of home but forgetting his hat and coat.  He trudged back up the hill, not in a straight line and eventually came to an unsteady halt outside his front door. He turned the handle but the door was locked. In his hurry to leave, he had forgotten to take his keys. He giggled stupidly at this predicament, relieved himself noisily and carelessly against the wall and slumped down onto the doorstep, his happy but fuddled mind wondering what to do next. His eyes drooped and he fell into a deep and satisfied sleep, snoring into the night.

He was still there the next morning when, before the sun had struggled reluctantly over the horizon, the milkman found him, frozen stiff with a smile on his face and an icicle hanging from the tip of his nose.

January 1st 2018

Not being one for resolutions that I would never keep. I did decide to try to write more this year. Even without readership, writing has become, in recent years, one of the things that I can still attempt, and though I may not be particularly good at it, it gives me pleasure and satisfaction.

I admire good writers, and by good I mean those who can capture the imagination of the reader, or those who are able to make others think. To write for a living could be wonderful, or of course it could be very stressful.  Writers block is a very real problem for anyone who likes to write or has to write, and although my writing has no value or importance to anyone else, I still like to reach out in some way to a part of myself, a part of me that was dormant for most of my life.

So anyway, I am determined to write more. Part of me would like to write each day as a sort of diary, but that is unlikely. Most days I would have nothing to write about, even though I may have a lot to say, and I am done ranting. It is a truth that no-one else cares about what we think, so self expression is really a waste of time.

Today is the first day of the year and many people will have been celebrating last night and will today be suffering the consequence of overindulgence. Some of us have done that enough times to learn that it isn't worth it, so a shared bottle of wine was as far as we went. So we started the day with clear heads and without upset digestive systems.

Having washed the car in the rain, the rest of the day is free to fritter away as it is for most people before they go back to work tomorrow.  I wish them all well and a Happy New Year to everyone.

Creative writing

A Christmas Lunch (Apologies to Dylan Thomas)

The winter sun crept apathetically above the horizon, bringing a weak and insipid light to the grey and sleeping town. The  clatter and clink of milk bottles in their crates and the hobnailed steps of the milkman and the clip clop of his horse on the cobbled street were the dawn chorus that drew the people from their beds.

Mr and Mrs Pugh had been married for as long as neither liked to remember. They were childless, loveless and friendless and occupied a charmless shabby cottage on the outskirts of Llareggub. Their wedding night, all those years ago, had been a total failure, and their one and only attempt at consumation was so disagreeable to them both that they never tried it again.  After that, their relationship had gone rapidly downhill and where there had once been a degree of tolerance of each other, there was only a thinly disguised, and very sincere, antipathy.

At first light they both crawled out of bed and dressed ready for the day. Mr Pugh in his blacker than black worn out suit that he wore every day of the year, and Mrs Pugh in her spinsterly and tired dark blue frock and wrinkled lisle stockings that had been repaired so many times there was more repair than stocking. Her black and moth eaten shawl was her only salty to winter. They ate their porridge in silence, Mrs Pugh reading a worn out copy of the People’s friend, tut tutting at the contents, while Mr Pugh looked at his wife with a loathing that was more tangible than his  porridge.

“It is Christmas eve Mrs Pugh” He said after a long silence.

Mrs Pugh regarded him over the tops of her half moon spectacles. “I know what day it is Mr Pugh” she replied venomously. Hatred hung in the dining room like an icicle.

There was a rat a tat at the front door, which spoiled the moment. Mr Pugh swallowed a lump of porridge and left the table.  He opened the front door to see Willy Nilly the postman standing and holding out two envelopes. Mr Pugh took them, ignored the other hand held out by the postman, who hoped in vain for a christmas tip, and slammed the door without a word.

One envelope was addressed to him and the other to his wife.  He laid it on the table in front of her, hurried back to his end of the table and sat down to his cold and meagre breakfast. He slit open the envelope with a grubby thumbnail feigning surprise at  the contents. He withdrew the christmas card with flourish and read the greeting inside. “To Mr Pugh from Mr Pugh” it read. He smiled. “Aren’t you going to open yours dear” he said.

“No Mr Pugh, I know what is in it. I’ll keep it until next year.”  “Again” she added without a smile.

Breakfast over, Mr Pugh donned his mole black bowler hat and set out down the hill.  He was the dreaded schoolmaster, and also  the chapel warden in Llareggub, a post that he had held for a decade, even though no-one used the church other than for sleeping off a night at the Sailor’s Arms, or for their last and permanent sleep.  The residents of the town had long ago lost any use for god, a mutual arrangement that suited both parties.  In school holidays Mr Pugh went to the chapel each day, mostly to escape from Mrs Pugh. He would exchange greetings with the rueful and rudderless Reverend Eli Jenkins, dust and sweep and generally pretend that he was doing something useful, pottering slowly until it was time to trudge up the hill to his refrigerated and soulless home.

The sun sank with a sigh of relief and the town began its slide into velvet darkness once more.

It was getting dark as he passed the Sailor’s Arms, already there were the sounds of singing, fuelled by weak Welsh beer, flooding out into the street and bright light oozed from the dirty windows. Part of him yearned to join the  revellers and share their evening journey into oblivion, but he knew that if he weakened his life would be even less worth living than it was already. So Mr Pugh walked on.

They were sitting in the freezing dining room, lit by a single candle, as they did every day, drinking a thin soup that Mr Pugh slurped noisily and Mrs Pugh slowly sipped from her spoon whilst glaring at Mr Pugh across the table. The only sound other than Mr Pugh’s slurping was the steady ticking of an ancient grandfather clock that had suffered the toxicity of the Pughs for generations, and yet still continued to function. 

“You are a pig Mr Pugh.” said Mrs Pugh as she wiped a spot of soup from her withered and puckered lips with the edge of the table cloth. She drummed her taloned fingers on the bare table as she glared at him.

“Yes my dear.” Wheedled Mr Pugh, as he finished his meagre meal. He picked up the dishes and carried them to the scullery where he rinsed them in cold water, dried them on a greasy tea towel and placed them into the cupboard that held two cracked cups, one saucer, and two unmatched plates.

He sighed deeply and returned to the dining room to snuff out the candle leaving Mrs Pugh in darknesss.  “Thankyou pig” she hissed.

“You are welcome my dear.”Mr Pugh wheedled and shuffled off to bed. He shivered as he lit the bedside candle, undressed and put on his grey flannel nightshirt and climbed between the cold  grey sheets.  He heard the  heavy tread of Mrs Pughs large feet as she climbed the stairs to her own bedroom.

There had once been mice in the house but they, unlike Mrs Pugh, had voluntarily eaten the poison put down for them, death being preferable to life with the Pughs.

He picked up a dog eared book and began to read. The life of Doctor Crippen was the only book that he owned and he had read it so many times that he almost knew it by heart. He read a chapter before his eyelids drooped and the book fell to the floor. He forced his eyes open, blew out the candle and fell into a deep sleep.

Mrs Pugh  let down her hair from its tightly packed snowball bun and and put on her cold and starched nightdress that came down to her ankles, climbed  into bed without a shiver and fell asleep almost immediately. 

Mr Pugh dreamed that he was murdering Mrs Pugh as he did every night, and each morning woke up feeling disappointed.

Mrs Pugh lay on her back and dreamed her own puritanical dreams, her mittened hands outside the bedclothes.

Mr Pugh woke with the Christmas Day dawn to the sound of the cracked bell of the chapel, and, left the house as usual. He walked down the hill into the town and was ignored by the women on their knees, scrubbing the worn front doorsteps eroded by time and elbow grease.

The few shops were closed for the day and the fishing boats were harboured and empty, bobbing gently on the grey and oily water.

His refuge, the chapel, was open and the Reverend was there on his knees, talking to a god that he had long ago abandoned and who had abandoned him. Mr Pugh sat  and listened as Eli Jenkins continued to complain about his lot and cursing the godless town.

The day went by, no-one came; eventually the reverend, sloughed off his vestments and vanished, leaving Mr Pugh dozing and alone.  Clouds of breath vented from the still solitary figure and the at last the cold seeped in waking him. It was time to go; he locked the church door and wandered slowly back up the damp cobbled street, passing warmly lit houses disgorging sounds of jollity and high spirits. The air was thick with the smell of coal fires but that faded along with the sounds of laughter and children.

Mrs Pugh was there, ready seated at the dining table, having prepared their evening meal. In the centre of the table was a saucepan contains some overcooked potatoes and scrawny roasted chicken that  looked as if it had starved itself to death. A small  and smoky coal fire burned in the grate, its flames too shy or too scared to dance.

There was very little meat to share, but Mr Pugh made an effort to strip the carcass of every morsel. His grip on the knife tightened as he regarded his harridan of a wife; enjoying the thought of impaling her. Instead he served her the potatoes and  tiny portion of dry white meat and as a final  insult drowned the poor offering in a thin brackish gravy.

He poured them each a small glass of sherry from a bottle that had been in the cupboard for a number of years, and raised his drink as a toast.  “Merry Christmas Mrs Pugh.”  he said, almost sincerely, and drank his  stale sherry in one gulp..

Mrs Pugh’s stony face broke into a scowl and she sipped her drink with the disdain that she held for everything and everyone. She said nothing.

They ate their meal in silence, he, eating hungrily while she pecked at her meal like a sick bird, and as they did every night of their sad little lives, went to their separate beds, hoping to dream of better things.

“Goodnight my dear”

“Goodnight Pig”

The Sailors Arms emptied, the drunken men and women tottered out  and sang all the way to their homes. Their voices thinned out as they went their merry ways. The lights in the houses flickered out one by one, and as the darkness enveloped the town, and  it, along with the Pughs, drifted slowly into sleep.

Is anything right?

The only good thing I can think about religion, is that in the early days of civilisation, it helped to bind people together. Gods have always been used to explain what we cannot understand, and for some that has not changed.

As a society we are going through a very bad patch. Instead of groups adhering, the opposite seems to be taking place.  Our civilisation has been under stress for quite a while, but now it seems to be cracking and is likely to fall apart.  Laws and social conventions are being questioned and disregarded and at the same time, gender boundaries seem to be vanishing.

The whims of infants are being read by some adults as expressions of identity, especially when it comes to gender. No-one seems to be concerned about invisible friends, or the childhood creativity of play but are driven by an apparent need to be something that they are not, long before they can even comprehend the meaning of gender.  The thought of a gender neutral society is quite terrifying. We ignore biology at our peril.

Fragmentation is a step on the way to chaos and anarchy and it is easy to imagine a future of tribalism, rebellion and a plunge into the abyss.

As individuals we are pretty useless. Consider anything at all that exists as an object. However simple it may be, you or I are incapable of making it. A matchstick, a paperclip, a sheet of paper are all beyond our capabilities as individuals. In order to produce anything at all, a team effort is required, and to progress, we need the brightest and the best to create and to solve the huge problems that we face; yet in the west, it seems that to be smart is not to be cool, so the pressures on young folk come from the lower common denominators through social media and popular culture as well as their direct peers.

Religions, other than Islam are on the wane, creating a vacuum that sooner rather than later will be filled, and so fanatics with their own dogmatic views may well step into the breach.

A la Mode

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QA5gJ0hZpCc

Oh the Kinks, bring back the  Kinks.
Fashions come and go all of the time and have always done so. Mainly the purpose is to keep designers in work, and partly to keep the markets alive. It is also a reflection of the zeitgeist of the time.  I grew up in the sixties and seventies and was just as conscious of the trends and fashions of the time, even if I could not really afford to indulge in them.

Typically I would wear my hair long, flared cotton trousers called Loons, which were very cheap at the time, a shirt and waistcoat with a cravat, and in the cold weather an a naval trench coat.  We all thought we looked wonderful, and at the time most of us thought the same. That was how it was even though we gave no real thought to it. We read the IN things of the time, the International Times, Private Eye, and anything else that could be described as subversive. They were subversive times where the new music and ideas replaced those of our parent's generation. They of course disapproved of all of the changes, and many people at that time left home to be with others who they imagined understood.

The language underwent changes too and many words and expressions remain today. Though calling someone "man" seems to have lost it's impact.

The Hippie culture probably reached a peak in 1968 withe the groundbreaking Woodstock festival and later by the Isle of Wight Festival which probably tripled the population of the Island for a long weekend. Drugs abounded, and transcental experiences were the thing along with psychadelic music and even more outrageous clothes Then many of our generation found that they had to get jobs and begin careers thus the hippie hordes gradually declined.

The punk era was reaction against the music scene at the time. Big stadium bands like Pink Floyd, Genesis and Queen were making a lot of money and leaving up and coming bands behind. Punk was a rejection of this and along with their primitive and not very good music came fashions the included mohican hair cuts, safety pins, zips, leather and a general disregard for any sort of respect. Punk was a revolution, in the same way that Hippie culture was; the main difference being that the former was about peace.

Since then we have had Goths, EMOs and other minor trends but elements of the previous fashions still exist in pockets.

Raves were another rebellion and house music and the like grew and still exists in pockets

Among the young these days we have a huge influence  from the Afro Caribbean culture.  Rap music,  trousers with waistlines hallway down the thigh,  gang warfare in the big cities and the carrying of offensive weapons are a cause for some concern.

Not all fashions bring about major shifts in population behaviour, and some are inconsequential. Language is evolving all the time as are trends in its use.  It is currently popular to begin a sentence with  "So"  and to end a sentence with a slight rise in pitch. My guess is that these came from the American culture which seems to export all of its bad trends, almost as a weapon of subversion.

Music seems to have become very bland. Though good bands still exist, much of the pop music is spawned by the reality shows and is designed to make some people wealth in the short time that these acts last. It is the way - instant fame, instant gratification and fast failure.

All of this was prompted by colour supplement views of current "High" fashions which to my eyes anyway, seem rather ridiculous. I cannot imagine any that appear on catwalks today being worn by ordinary people.

Looking back at the Kinks; both their music and their dress seems very old fashioned but I still admire them after all these years.

Koyaanisqatsi

Koyaanisqatsi

• "If we dig precious things from the land, we will invite disaster." • "Near the day of Purification, there will be cobwebs spun back and forth in the sky." • "A container of ashes might one day be thrown from the sky, which could burn the land and boil the oceans.”

Hopi are a North American nation that call themselves the peaceful people.  They and their philosophy provided a background for Godfrey  Reggio’s film Koyaanisqatsi which literally translated means Life out of balance. The soundtrack, composed by Philip Glass compliments and enhances the visual images that carry such an important message.

You lie in bed reading the sunday papers. It is cool outside and there is something nice about a lazy sunday.  After a long week at work you deserve it. You sip your tea and turn on your radio which is tuned to radio three. Sunday morning at this time on radio four is focussed on religion, and that is the last thing you need on a sunday.  Bach plays quietly in the background as you browse the summary of the week’s news.  Mostly you find the news depressing and you wonder why you bother with the papers.  

Most of the front page is devoted to the continuing story of conflict between America and North Korea, and how like confused adolescents, the two leaders have continued to hurl insults at each other. You sigh deeply at the announcement that Kim Jon-Un’s regime had exploded a hydrogen bomb over a remote part of the Pacific Ocean.  This of course had been met with outrage by the International community, while the Korean leader continued his diatribe against Trump and the USA in general.

Tired of this ongoing saga of pessimism you turn the page to find an article that postulates a link between the current abundance of Earthquakes, to mining and extraction of oil by fracking. Cavities in the earth’s crust have caused in imbalance and imposed  stresses that the earth has to equilibrate.

It is only a working hypothesis but the evidence seems overwhelming.

You close the paper and turn instead to the colour supplement and flick through the pages, mostly devoted to celebrity and fashion. You finish your tea, by now quite cold, sigh and get out of bed to look at the day. It is another beautiful autumnal day, the trees ablaze with colour, the sound already covered with leaves. You think that you must start raking them up. Perhaps this morning as you have nothing planned. You stretch, and half heartedly go through some morning exercises that are supposed to increase your chances of living a long life and smile, knowing that your fate  will probably be determined by others.

You turn on the shower and step in, enjoying the hot water and the caresses of water on your skin. You stay there longer than usual, it is sunday after all. You step out and grab a towel, wrapping it around your waist, and you return to the bedroom. The radio is now playing Monteverdi and you smile and turn up the volume. You towel yourself down and again gaze out of the window.  The blue sky is criss crossed with vapour trails as it so often is.  You wonder what all of this air travel is doing to the atmosphere and realise that whatever that may be, we are all complicit.

The music stops suddenly and an announcer apologises for the break but states that there is important breaking news.  North Korea have shot down an American bomber that was operating just outside their territorial waters.  The USA have responded by launching an attack on Pyongyang. Missiles carrying conventional warheads have been targeted at last known locations of the Korean leader.

In return the Koreans have exploded a nuclear device over Guam and the North American military bases have been wiped out.

The American response is awaited by the rest of the world.

The radio is silent.

You realise that raking up leaves  is of no importance whatsoever, and like so many others throughout the world you wait for the inevitable.

Originality

Most of us have never had an original thought and probably never will. Having said that, it is possible that we may have them all of the time, but because our minds are not prepared, we don't recognise them. This makes the distinction between ordinary people and this with genuine talent or the ability to make a difference.

Every time I think I have had an original idea, I find that someone beat me to it, thus negating the originality that I was hoping for. Maybe I am the wrong environment for such a thing. perhaps I need to be in a working environment along with colleagues with which ideas can be exchanged. In such situations at least people can tell you if you are barking up the wrong tree or simply talking complete rubbish.

I do like to see the sorts of changes that improve things for most of us, but deplore change for the sake of change. In the art world it must be very hard to come up with something new. I my lifetime we have had so many changes and ideas, some of them good, some less so.  I am probably talking rubbish, but it seems that the bottom of the barrel has been reached and now we are drilling through it.

Modern art seems to be graffiti, any surface can be victim to spray cans and random offerings, some of which are clever and attractive, and some like Banksy who produces images with political messages behind them. Unmade beds and diamond encrusted skulls leave me cold; it looks as if ideas have just run out.

Music seems to have hit a low. Not just pop music but what some call classical music. Tunes seem to be absent and atonal noise has taken the place of music.  There are some who think that this is a good idea, but then they would.

There is good pop music out there, but you have to look for it. The whole pop scene is based around the stuff that is promoted by TV reality programs and what will fit into the mould. There is no more anger or protest in the scene and that is sad.

Redneck America has bucked the trend of establishment  I guess, in their electing an orange megalomaniac as president. That is pretty original, and we see to be going along the same lines in allowing  a few lying sped politicians to persuade our equivalent of rednecks to force us out of the European Union. The world has, in recent times begun to divide.

An idea, though not original, is that we should focus on uniting, that might deter the likes of North Korea fro feeling isolated and threatened by the man with the orange face.

Equinox

We have reached that point in the year where day length and night length are the same. It heralds the time of year that I like least. There is something about autumn that I find depressing. the falling leaves mean that the trees will soon be bare and skeletal. Fungi will appear in abundance, feeding on decay and recycling death.  Within a few weeks the clocks will go back an hour and the nights will be longer and the days shorter.  Temperatures will plummet and so the heating has to be turned on, and then there are the bleak days when it never really gets light. Spring is far away and we have winter to look forward to.

Apart from all of this we have to put up with the Americanised halloween fiasco and the highly commercialised Christmas, that simply serves to indoctrinate children to become consumers, and to encourage the greed and acquisitiveness that powers the capitalist system. thousand of tons of plastic crap is already here or on its way from China, and millions of pounds are on their way back.

Gone are the days of seasonality, We have access to the same foods all the year round and so there is no real benefit to the change in the year. Diets will remain equally unhealthy and supermarket profits will go up along with prices.

I heard someone talking about all the things that they were looking forward to. This include a range of reality TV shows, which I despise, and the aforementioned festivals of stupidity. I look forward to it all being over and we can begin the drudgery of winter. At least then we can look forward to spring again.

So those of you that love Autumn, or fall as the Americans like to call it, find in it what you can and enjoy it. Just remember that not everyone does.

What's it all about?

We have a Tory government that appoints ministers that know nothing about their departments but are ready to confront and divide those who work in them. Each new minister has to make their mark in order to appease the hard line Tory supporters who by and large live in the world of the colonial past.

I can only talk about Education, and that with a limited knowledge, but is does seem that each time there is a chance of minister, there is a major change in the system. It is no wonder that recruitment is failing and that so many are choosing to leave their profession in order to seek new and better opportunities.

I remember the catastrophic days of Keith Joseph and Kenneth Baker, the  latter who introduce Baker days, for in service training. Of course they took away a day's holiday in order to make them happen and as a result, most of those days were met with resentment and had no real value at all.

There is of course plenty of room for improvement is the educational system, but so many babies have been thrown out with the bathwater. There was a time when children had access to a wide variety of courses that were suitable for them. I remember that  we offered woodwork, metal work, boat building, drama, music, arts well as the normal academic courses.

Academia is not for everyone and yet the government believe,  in their infinite wisdom, that it is, and so children are forced along a route that ignores the needs of this with practical abilities and cranes them into a system that is inappropriate.  Practical work is all but gone in many schools, partly because the curriculum is overcrowded, bu also because it is expensive and it is hard to attract people to teach those subjects.  More students than ever are driven into university courses that have little real value and land the students with huge debts, from which private companies make profits. There was a time when around twenty percent of students went to university  because courses were demanding and were a route into professions.

The system is in dire need of many changes. I maintain that schools should, as they were, give students choices and opportunities that match their abilities and skills. The academic courses should be available to those that are suited. Perhaps subject barriers could be lowered and the weekly program made more relevant,  Of course literacy and numeracy should be focussed on and perhaps information technology should be given a high profile, but maybe citizenship and life skills in general should be emphasised.

I am no longer teaching, but I remember most of my career being both rewarding and enjoyable. Mostly students were happy and were not assessed at every turn, Some were very successful in academia but many went on to become successful  in other ways.

So here we are again with a system unfit for purpose and a bunch of sycophants being urged into support for a division  between Grammar Schools and the rest. The idea being that some deserve privilege whilst others do not. My grandchildren go to a private school and I find it hard to accept that they have such a wonderful experience of school that so many do not have. Let us get rid of the noxious political dogma and produce a working system that does not divide. I doubt if that will happen whatever government is in power, but under the conservatives there is no hope at all.

Reading and writing

I don't remember not being able to read, and then again I don't remember being read to as a child. Learning to read is a valuable and long process that we rightly put our children through at an early age.  I was hospitalised at three, and my the time I was transferred to the special school at six, I could read very well. I am guessing that it was nurses that taught me to read but I don't recall.

I know that I was taught to show respect for books. I was told to turn pages from the top corner, not o fold pages, not to bend the books far enough to damage the spine, not to deface them and to handle them carefully.  I found out from an early age that in books there were escapes and they helped me through long years of lying in a bed. I read everything that Enid Blyton had written and was deeply ensconced into the world of both the famous five and the secret seven.

I must have read thousands of books in my life and the sad thing is, that very few of them have lodged in my mind. Each book is an experience, a vicarious journey through the mind of an author, Each one carries us away to far off places or into experiences that we may never have nor want to have. I still love to read although I tend to read in bed. Only then can I stay awake long enough to manage several chapters. Reading during the day puts me to sleep.

Many of us who read a lot, would like to write a novel. They say that there is at least one novel inside everyone. I am not convinced that it is true, though we all have  stories that may well be worth telling.

I have  joined a book club. There must be thousands of them; they seem to be growing as people live longer and have more time on their hands. This is my second book club, I left the first because it was rather stilted and disciplined. There was discussion about the books and that was it. There was never any real social interaction and for many it was an intellectual exercise and a chance to show off their superior intelligence.  My current group is far more entertaining. We do discuss the book of course but that is not the sole point. We drink a glass of wine and talk about all sorts of things other than that.

I have also joined a creative writing group, and am on the cusp of joining another. Each session we are given a choice of topics and are restricted to one side of paper. The following session we all read out what we have produced, though there is rarely any real feedback. Everyone makes polite noises and so therein no learning.  The group itself is made up of elderly people, some of whom no longer produce anything new, but regurgitate stuff that they wrote years ago. Some write about their lives and some about their careers. One is an accountant; enough said.  I do enjoy writing and having a topic set is ideal as that give a starting platform, which is not always easy to find. It struck me today that the number of entries into this blog would be sufficient to fill a book but it would have no coherence and certainly no audience, so I won't go there.

I have difficulty parting with books. I have shelf after shelf filled with books. They are like treasures and each one begs to be read again. I doubt that I will read any of them for a second time but giving them away is almost unthinkable and I find it hard to resist adding to that collection.

I pity those who do not read or cannot read. From my point of view they miss out on so much, but of course the counter argument is that so much time is devoted to fantasy worlds that could be better employed focussing on reality. It is a valid point.

Annoyances

The people, it is said, wanted us to leave the European Union. The word Brexit was coined during the noxious  and dishonest campaign that did more to divide the country that even Margaret Thatcher managed to do.  As in any election or referendum, the bulk of voters do not know what they are voting for and tend to go along with what their tabloid newspaper tells them to. As a result we get the result that some of us deserve. Annoying as it is, we have to accept that Nigel Farage has got his way and that Boris Johnson is manipulating his way into deposing Teresa May,

In the US we had the surprise election of Donald Trump, who, only an idiot would think that he is presidential material.

There we have it, the world is swinging in favour of the unthinking and blinkered. Ruled bu the will of the tabloid press, which of course is run by the right wing.

The media provide a diet of crap for us to escape our own miserable lives. Celebrity and reality TV seem to be the norm and so many are absorbed by these banal TV programs. North Korea could invade us at peak TV times and no-one would notice, or care.

It is the age of blandness and lack of talent. Only those who are promoted by the likes of Simon Cowell are likely to find success, while those with any real talent tend to be ignored and are destined to stay in the background. There is nothing new anymore, just a revamp of things that have gone before. The present day make the Punk scene of the eighties seem pretty good; they were original if not particularly talented.

Kids today are often victimised by peers if they show any sign of wanting to learn, and gang culture, another vile import from America is on the rise.  We are in a sorry state and yet we hear about a need to protect our culture, the theme song of Brexiteers. I suggest that we have little culture that is worth preserving as anything of real value is no longer respected.

I am reminded of a one liner from someone on the fringe who said. "I went to a tough inner city school, where your chances of being beaten up increased exponentially every time you used the word exponentially."

On that note I will stop ranting.

Absence

If I have any readers left, I apologise for my extended absence. I have no excuse really other than a spell in hospital to have a knee replaced.

As we get older, some of us begin to fall apart, just like an old car. Cars can last a long time if they are taken care of, and humans too can evade some of the wear and tear through careful use of their bodies and healthy diets and exercise.

My knee had been failing for quite a while and the pain of walking, or even sleeping was getting unbearable. X-rays showed that there was very little cartilage left and what there was, was torn and not doing anything must at all. So I was put on a waiting list for a replacement. having been told that the waiting list was six months long, we looked into the private option. We visited the private hospital and were given the sales pitch and told that a three day stay, with the operation would cost more than ten thousand pounds.  

We saw the surgeon again and told him that we were investigating the private route. He looked surprised and told us that we did not need to do that, and that we could get it done on the NHS. Within two weeks we had a call from the hospital to invite me for a pre operative examination and so I complied, and was told that I had been booked in for the op the following week. I suspect that the surgeon had pulled a few strings.

Most people dread surgery and I am no different. I checked into the ward and was given a bed. I lay there for what seems a very short while and barely took in my surroundings and found that I was first on the list. I walked, hobbled from the ward to the theatre and sat on the table. I was given an epidural and within second I was paralysed from the waist down. A Cannula was put in my hand and a sedative pumped into me. Darkness descended and I woke up in the ward, still paralysed from the waist down.  It was only when the epidural wore off that the pain became obvious. and it grew and grew. The pain killers seemed to have little effect but I wasn't going to risk not taking them.

Anyway, after that came the slow recovery process, beginning the following day when I was forced out of bed by a physiotherapist. I hadn't imagined that the pain could get worse, but it did. The agony of that first step out of bed is still stuck in my mind.

the worst was almost over. Because I hadn't peed in two days, I had the pleasure of  having a catheter inserted. That is also an experience best avoided, as is having it removed.

Two days later I was kicked out, to make room for the next batch. And the rest is just a slow process of getting used to the new knee and the exercises that I have to do. I walked a couple of miles today so I hope that I will soon be able to play golf again. I don't suppose I will play any better though.

Common people

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_fCELuMsAs

I was at Hogwarts last night; well that is how it seemed. Tonbridge School is quite something and a mere glimpse into how the other half live. Other half is probably more like one percent now as most people have, over the past years seen their own incomes fall whilst those at the high end have all benefitted enormously. Fees at the school are thirty seven and a half thousand a year, for which I assume that you get a good education and plenty of contacts to keep the old boy network alive and well. The school seems to occupy quite a lot of the centre of town, with huge houses for those who board. I have no idea of numbers but the chapel that we attended last night has seats for over 500 and is in itself a magnificent building.

Everything is in pristine condition, and there is no sign of graffiti or other rebellion; even the hymn books looked barely used. They grounds of this school are enormous, there are rugby pitches and cricket squares in abundance and there seem to be no plans to sell any of them off. The drama department has its own theatre name after E M Forster, who, I assume was an old boy. A lovely theatre it is too, full equipped and able to accommodate audiences of more than a  hundred.

Students who attend the school are very very privileged and have come from families who expect that.  They have probably come from long lines of privilege and to them, school fees a written off against tax.  I can only imagine that students there have a number off motivations, one of which being fear of losing that privilege.  The boys in the town are always well turned out and well behaved, and that you would expect. What goes on behind the closed doors though is anyone's guess, though I am pretty sure that is doesn't involve wizards.

Money makes the world go around

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8P80A8vy9I

The economy seems to be largely concerned with manufacturing stuff that people can buy whether they need it or not. Thus the money goes around and around and with each rotation the fat bastards who own the world take out their bit, putting every country in the world into a spiral of inescapable debt. As they own the countries, they control the laws and so have made themselves pretty much untouchable.

Looking around the house, there is so much clutter; so much stuff that we simply do not need, and yet getting rid of things can prove to be very difficult. Take books for example, I have books in every room of the house, most of which I will never read again and some of which I never read at all. I could be ruthless and bundle all those memories into boxes and take them to the charity shops but they seem to have plenty and besides if I have empty shelves I will just buy more books to fill the space. The same applies to almost everything I can imagine. We seem to have more music outlets than rooms and so some lie unwanted and unused along with stuff that is rapidly becoming outdated junk that no-one will ever want.  I have disk drives and other extensions for old outmoded computers and boxes filled with leads of every description. I dare not go into the loft these days as I know that we have stuff there that I have completely forgotten about.

In the basement we are storing stuff that does not even belong to us along with piles and piles of stuff that I see just in case.  I must have hundreds of plastic plant pots down there. I think I have three sets of golf clubs and yet I don't play any more, I keep them in case I do, but  three sets?
I confess that I am a hoarder by nature and I do find it hard to throw away anything that looks like it might be useful.

I have hundreds of CDs on shelves in the dining room and yet I almost never play CDs any more as their contents are stored on hard drives and are more easily accessed. Again I could take them to charity shops but they get very little for them as they are dying out with people accessing music online. I even have shelves filled with vinyl albums and audio cassettes.

My wardrobe has stuff in it that I will never wear again, largely because it will no longer fit, and so it goes on.

If we all had a really good clear out, the charity shops would be inundated as would landfill sites. Maybe we should do that and start again, rebooting the economy at the same time. I am sure that the likes of the Rothschild family would be delighted. On the other hand if their fortunes were put to good use we'd have a wonderful health service and  quality education free for all.

Electric Avenue

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtPk5IUbdH0

I had an electric shock this morning. The pull light switch in my study failed and so I set about replacing it. Things are never as easy as they should be are they? This time the fitting was smaller than the original- anyway that is irrelevant really. So I armed myself with the necessary tools and bits and headed for the consumer unit. I switched off the lighting circuits for downstairs and also the garage as I knew that there are overlaps there and I set to.

It is a one way switch so the wiring is simple and the old one came off very easily.  The new one as I said was slightly smaller, but after some fiddling I manage to fit the new base in place and started to attach the three leads. It was at the point when I was wiring in the earth lead that I must have touched one of the others and was rewarded with a jolt that I did not enjoy very much and sent me scurrying down to the consumer unit  it with the rest of the lighting circuits off.

It was a reminder of shocks in the past. I grew up in a rural environment. Electric fences were all over the place; they are used to keep livestock from wandering and make effective, temporary barriers as long at they are on. They are powered by vehicle batteries which need to be periodically refreshed or recharged. I can still hear the  periodic clunk that they make as they release surges of current. Mostly fences were recognisable from their insulation even if you couldn't hear the clunks. Animals would occasionally brush past and receive a small shock, this deters them from going that way again.

As boys these fences were one of the fascinations of farm life and wherever there was a hint of danger, there would always be dares. It would start with touching the wire with a stick - don't.  Then we'd progress to actually touching it; not recommended, and then holding it for the longest - Oh boys can be so silly. One day we went too far - there was a boy in the group; we were a disparate band, probably dissolute too; anyway this boy - I'll call him Eric, though that wasn't his name, was not very bright. He lived in a different reality from the rest of us - maybe he was just exceptional, I don't know, but we dared him to pee on the fence. Now should anyone feel the need to copy him, I can still recall his scream as he leapt backwards still holding his boyhood and ending up flat on his back. I think that puts this mornings episode into a context.

Heroes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCt0x98Y2SY

As a boy I grew up imagining that characters portrayed in comics were heroes. Dan Dare was there to protect the Earth from the Mekon, Roy of the Rovers was a hero on the football pitch and then along came the Marvel superheroes like Superman and Marvel man. Almost exclusively the heroes were men and they were there to inspire. I guess they did and like the newspapers, they manipulated those young minds.

So what is a hero?  I think that we can all recognise real acts of heroism; a fire fighter risking his own life to rescue someone from a burning building for example but there are many uses of the word hero that seem much overused and out of place.   Let me be controversial and take the armed services. Mostly people go into the services as a career move and a way to see the world. Some may go in wanting to kill other people, but there are psychopaths in all walks of life.  Today most troops who are sent to fight do so in middle eastern countries defending the interests of big business and yet whilst everything is done to keep them safe, some do get killed. Does being killed defending oil interests make someone a hero?

The propaganda machines in 1913 and in 1939 convinced many young men to enlist in the forces and go to war defending the interests of the rich, and later in both campaigns huge numbers were conscripted and had no choice in meeting the butchery that they were led to. Wars are inevitably futile and the carnage on both sides serves to make rich people even wealthier. 

Conscientious objectors who refused to go along with things were branded as cowards and imprisoned or shot, they suffered and died for their convictions, maybe they were heroes.  

Women who became the Suffragettes refused to endure the status quo any longer and made personal sacrifices in order to bring about change. Maybe that is an act of heroism.  

When I see footage of football teams returning after a successful campaign being referred to as heroes, or even those who have been maimed in action; serving not their country but those who own it; I cannot see them as real heroes at all. The former are overblown, overvalued athletes while the latter are just victims of propaganda.