Sunday, January 25, 2015

Things aint what they seem


I look at the page; the print is blurred.
I put on a pair of glasses; the print is sharp and clear.

What is the reality? Blurred print? Or sharp print?

Friday, January 23, 2015

Home for Christmas - Part something or other.


What had Boris and my father been up to in the old toolshed?

I felt the ground shifting beneath my feet, my head was spinning, my reality was disintegrating... there were probably other metaphors happening at the same time but these three are the ones I recall.

As I watched the pair walking away towards the house I was at a loss as to what to do. If only Matron were here; she was the one I could always turn to when I was in a pickle at school. I could always rely on Matron to advise me what to do. But she wasn't here.

I watched them enter the house through the kitchen door - the same door out of which I had come only minutes before. I straightened up. My knees were stiff from the prolonged crouching I had had to endure behind the wheelbarrow.

The door was unlocked. I entered. I don't know what I expected to find as I flashed my torch around the old tool-shed, but I saw nothing except old tools. Mystified, I snapped off my torch and left.

I returned to the house, only to find the kitchen door locked! Luckily I had left my bedroom window open, and I quickly shinned up a convenient drain-pipe and gained access. I lay for a while on my bed, thinking. But recent events were so bizarre that I could not come up with a useful plan of action. So I fell asleep.

It could not have been more than half and hour when I felt a stirring beside me in the bed, and a familiar female smell (although I could not, at the time place it) pervaded my nostrils. I stiffened. Who could be invading my personal space in the middle of the night? And then, a voice, husky, and heavy with emotion - either that or its owner had a bad cold. I hoped it was not the latter as I catch colds so easily and I have to watch my chest.

Holding my breath, I turned to face the intruder in my bed.


(to be continued...)

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Wednesday


Due to the success of my 'blank post'... (see R J Adams' comment)I intend to make this a regular feature of the blog.

I sometimes think we use too many words; that we are too cognitive. So consider a blank post a sort of 'detox' from words.

Of course I like words; they are my stock-in-trade, as you might say, but when you find yourself waking up in bed writing a complicated philosophical essay in your head, you feel that perhaps you need a rest now and then.

Recently, I have been reminded of an expression a friend of mine used to use: busy brain. I don't know if she meant the same kind of thing but it seems to fit my experience.

So I am taking more photographs. Here is one took a little while ago: an unknown youth on a village railway platform - and then... I found myself writing a story about it!!

A chance snap leads to ...




A crackly voice causes him to jerk his head up:

Northern Rail apologise for a delay of something, something, something to their 10.17 service to something something… 

He’s not really listening. He’s in no hurry. And anyway, he hasn’t bought a ticket. The reason he hasn’t bought a ticket is not just because the ticket office is shut – it usually is – but because he’s not sure he’s going to board the train when it does arrive.

because of an incident on the line…

He hears this. But what does it mean? Some leaves have blown onto the track? Or, more ominously, someone has jumped in front of the train?

Such a messy way to go. They must have been desperate.

He’s desperate. But not that desperate. Is he?
What’s he doing here, when he could be at home, in bed? It’s a waste of time anyway.  He knows he won’t get the job. He doesn’t even want it.
And even if he gets the job, it won’t last long. They never do. How many jobs has he had in the last eighteen months? He’s lost count. He means to stick at them - it's just that he gets bored. By the time they’ve told him where to hang his coat, and shown him where the lavatory his, the yawning starts. Of course he hides it – or tries to. But they soon cotton on. Lack of motivation. That’s what they say. And they’re right.

But how do you get motivated? You can’t just make yourself motivated; motivation has to come from the outside; from somewhere else. And, for him, it never seems to come.

Of course he should have stayed at university. Studied for his doctorate, like they wanted him to.  But he met her. And they got married. And then he needed a job. 

He stares down the line. A red light blinks to green. Does that mean a train’s coming? A thought crosses his mind.  What if he... No more interviews, no more jobs. No more HER. But he doesn’t really have bottle – or the motivation.

The train approaches.  He has an idea: If it’s full, if there are people standing, he will take that as a sign that he should not go for the interview. 

The train arrives. He can see that it’s full. But there’s no one standing. But if he gets on he will have to stand. So does that count as people standing? Difficult call. While he’s thinking about it, doors shut and the train moves off. Well that’s it. He obviously wasn’t meant to go for the interview.

He heads for the bus stop. If a No 26 comes first, he will get that and go home. If the 27a comes first, he will take that into town, and have a couple of drinks and something to eat in the Feathers. Once again, he will let fate decide.

It’s a No. 26. But it’s full. There are people standing. And, right behind it, comes a 27a!

What was it that Jung talked about: Synchronicity?





Monday, January 19, 2015

Sunday, January 18, 2015

9.55 on a cold and froggy morning


She wrote, "I will love you 'till the snow on this Christmas card melts."

Course we get some pretty mild winters in these parts.

----------------------------------------------------

I wonder why there are no Hindu fundementalists. Have they nothing to get pissed off about?


Come to think of it - has no one asked the Moslem fundementalists: Okay, lads. Just who are you pissed off with? And why?

Of course, the Hindus used to be pissed of with the Moslems - but since the Moslems moved to Pakistan perhaps the Hindus are quite happy.

-----------------------------------------------------

Everything is 'sort of'...

Did you have a lot to drink last night?

Sort of.
Is your head hurting?
Sort of.
Do you fancy sex?

Sort of.

 Life is 'sort of'...








Saturday, January 17, 2015

An everyday tale of urban life




 

He leaves for work
On leaden legs,
His mortgage on his back –
Another nine to five' er,
Taking up the slack

Policies paid up in full,
Front and back lawns mown,
He’ll miss the flowering cherry –
My, how that tree has grown

Today, he makes a slight detour,
Turns left instead of right,
At the end of Hawthorne Avenue –
His throat feels rather tight

The railway bridge is up ahead,
The eight o five is due,
He falters, only slightly –
He knows what he must do

He leans against the parapet,
The stone feels damp and cold,
He doesn’t want to go yet –
He’s thirty six years old

The train approaches in the distance,
Doing eighty on this stretch;
A few more seconds still remaining,
He’s feeling sick – he’s going to retch

He jumps – the driver sees him –
The squeal of steel on steel,
Too late – a bump - it’s over –
No second chance, no last appeal

There is a certain irony –
Though stark and rather grim –
Each day he caught the eight o five,
Now the eight o five’s caught him

A ripple in a suburban pond,
Soon fades and dies away,
A paragraph in the local press?
Is that all we’ve got to say?                                                                  














Thursday, January 15, 2015

Conversation in a bus queue




You alright love?

Nah. Got one o mi ‘eads, innit

You bin ‘avin a fall out wi your Ted again?

Yeah

What was it this time?

He kept goin’ on about ‘ow constructivist ideas have influenced not only the humanities and social sciences but are taking hold in analytical philosophy

You didn't let him get away wi that I ope?

Course not. I told him straight: Anti-objectivist conceptions of truth and rationality are not generally accepted in mainstream philosophy departments in the English speaking world...,

What did he say?

He sed: I’m the professor of philosophy, dear – not you.

There’s bin no doin’ any good wi your Ted since they give him that chair in analytical friggin philosophy. What did you say?

Nothin’. Just pointed to mi Nobel prize for physics on t’mantelpiece.

A bet that shut him up. Hey - they got red plums on special offer in Morrisons.

A know. I got some. They're dead ‘ard.

It could be barometric pressure.

What, makin’ t’plums ‘ard?

No, yer bad ‘ead. Remember that paper I wrote on the effects of barometric pressure on neural pathways in the pre frontal cortex, and the possible link to certain forms of migraine?

Course. A read it in t, New Scientist. But this int migraine – it’s more like a throbbin’ behind mi eyes.

Yer could try puttin em on t’winder ledge in sunlight.

Eh?

Yer plums.

A did. Dog et 'em.

Greedy bugger. A don’t know why you don’t leave him.

Who?

Your Ted.

But where’d a go?

Couldn’t yer stop wi yer mum for a bit?

Mi mum! She’s on a bleedin’ lecture tour of South America. Selfish cow.

Oh. I bumped into Stevie t’other day.

Stevie Hawking?

Yeah. He was coming outta Ladbrokes. Got that bleedin’ great chair of his stuck in t'door. Took me and this Latvian Big Issue seller manoeuvre him out. He kept shouting instructions but I couldn’t understand a word. Dunno what this poor Latvian bugger made of him.

Am not surprised. Still got that crappy voice synthesiser, ‘as he?

Oh aye. A sed to’ im, when we finally got him out, Bout time yer got yourself some decent software in that thing. You sound like a fuckin’ Dalek.

What did he say?

Bugger off. He said: There were only two o’ these voice synthesisers in the world, and I bought em both.
 A sed: But yer’ve ad em twenty years as I know of. Technology’s come a long way since then Stevie boy.

You wer tekin a chance there. Yer know what he’s like when he gets angry.

Yeah. He said: Think a don’t know that, you silly cow. This gives me mi distinctive voice. Makes me sound like God. D’you think a want to come across like that upstart Coxey!

Oh, that reminds me, he wer round our house on Saturday.

Stevie Hawking?

No – Brian Cox.

Not on the cadge again?

No, it seems BBC av asked him do another telly programme: The origins of the universe – some shit like that. Couldn’t get his Big Bang equations to work out. Asked me to have a butcher’s.

He’s a cheeky sod, that one.

Aye. A sed: Look Bri, darlin’, ad love to help but am so busy. Got to get mi new book out by Christmas. Mi publisher’s givin mi ‘earache.

What did he say?

Just whipped out this tin o’ Quality Street, didn’t he.

Oh, that’s not fair.

No. Anyway, next minute we’re getting stuck in on t’kitchen table.

Wi chocolates or equations?

Both. And you know where he’d gone wrong?

Go on, surprise me.

He’d only missed out t’conversion friggin factor for nano seconds to planck time.

Cosmologists? Av shit ‘em.

Yeah. Dunno why he gets on telly so much.

Fish!

Eh?

A need get some fish for our ‘Arry’s supper.

What, he back from Cerne then?

Just for t’weekend. They aint found that Higgs Boson particle yet.

I’m not surprised. A told ‘em when they was designing that bleedin’ Collider - they should have used glass fibre optics in both primary and secondary circuits on the acceleration virtual display. But they wouldn’t listen.

Oh. Talkin o’ Morrisons –

Eh?

They got three for two on Sherbert Lemons.

Have they? Am havin’ some o’ that. I love Sherbert Lemons.

Yeah. And yer can mix and match wi assorted toffees... He,s ‘avin Oscar shot into space, you know.

Who is?

Stevie Hawking.

What’s he wanna do that for?

Well, he wants to go himself really, but they can’t get his wheelchair into t’rocket.

Them rockets should be made more wheelchair friendly.

That’s what he said. But if he can’t go, Oscar’s t’next best thing.

I’m surprised that dog ain't in a friggin wheelchair – he’s had it nearly as long as his voice synthesiser.

Eh up! 'ere comes mi bus. Shall I see you down the bingo on Thursday.

Aye, more 'n likely. But if a don't get down there a'll see yer at the Symposium on Climate Change next weekend.

Oh, A'd forgot about that. You tekin t'chair agen?

Aye, but for the last time. They're only payin' me 2k, plus travel of course.

Stingy buggers.

Yeah, anyway must go. Ta ra love.

You got yer bus pass?

A' got our Annie's. They never check. See you later.

See you later.











Yeah, well, I gotta be off, love. I’m chairing that all-party committee on Press Regulation.
That reminds me – ‘ow’s yer piles?
Oh, they’ve cleared up a treat, after the doc prescribed that ointment
That’s good. Cos didn’t that Harley Street geezer want you to have the operation
Yeah. I told him to piss off
I should think so too
Well, al say tara then. Will I see you down the bingo on Thursday?
I’m not sure, but if not I’ll definitely see you at that symposium on climate change, at the weekend. Don’t forget to bring yer knittin’
What’re yer like!
Tara then
Tara

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Part VII


Christmas Eve. Carol singers from the village arrived at the door. Not very tuneful, in my estimation.

When mother discovered they didn't do VISA she asked me for some spare change.

I had no spare change so I gave them a £5 note, warning them that this covered next Christmas as well.

When mother had had a couple of gins I pressed her about father. She gave me a knowing look, at the same time tapping the side of her nose. What can this mean?

Realising I would get no further with mother in her present state, I repaired to the music room intending to collect my thoughts whilst playing a few swift arpeggios upon my cello. It was there I  encountered our housekeeper, Mrs Browning, tuning the piano. And it was she who furnished me with another piece of the jigsaw.
'Georgie,' she said, 'I'm afraid I told you a little fib earlier on.'
'Good heavens, Mrs B,' I riposted  'I never took you to be one for the old fibberoony'
'Ah well, I was sworn to secrecy, you see. But now it's all in the open I can tell you.'
'Tell me what?' I asked.
'You remember that peasant we observed through the drawing room window, gathering winter fuel? Well, that was no peasant, George - it was your father!'
'What!' I ejaculated.
'But he was gathering fuel - that part was true - to make a fire in the old boathouse. That's where he's been holed-up these past three days'.
'"Holed-up! 'I think you've been reading too many American detective novels, Mrs B.' I joshed.
'Shut up, you precocious little person, (she didn't actually use the word 'person') and go and see if your mother's sobered-up.'
'Mother is never drunk!' I retorted, 'And I'll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mrs Brownlow, and remember your position.'
'Whatever.' snorted the old harridan. 'Tell her I'd like a few words with her about that so-called Borris.'

And she waved her hand, as if dismissing me. Whatever is this country coming to, when servants think they can behave in this fashion.
'You haven't heard the last of this.' I called out over my shoulder, as I left the room.

Mother was sleeping peacefully on the chaise longue when I returned to the drawing room; I did not have the heart to wake her. Instead, I returned to my room to reflect upon this latest piece of news. I resolved to text father to demand some answers. Then I remembered mother had thrown my SIM card, with all my contacts, down the lavatory.

There was nothing for it. I would have to go down to the old boathouse and confront father, face to face.

I pulled on a cricket sweater over my thermal shirt and donned my parka. For footwear I chose a stout pair of boots that I found in the bottom of the wardrobe. I hadn't worn them for a couple of years, and they were a bit tight I was amazed how much I had grown - well, my feet had grown, anyway.

I slipped quietly out of the kitchen door - there was no sign of cook. It was bitterly cold, and I realised I had forgotten my gloves. No time to go back for them now. As I was creeping round the side of the vegetable garden, I thought I could hear voices. I stopped, Yes - they were coming from the old tool shed. Suddenly the door opened. I crouched behind a wheelbarrow. A figure emerged. It was Borris. But when I saw who followed him out, I gave an involuntary gasp.

(to be continued)





Monday, January 12, 2015

Popular Myths Exploded... No. 173



Marie Antoinette never said: Play it agen, Sam

Food fact for the day



Did you know, there is more fibre in one banana than in five ping-pong balls?

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Today I sail on



If you keep going, after you should have stopped long ago, you won't fall off the edge of the world - you will discover new lands.

For many days the only entry in the Santa Maria's  log was: Today we sailed on.

Well, if was good enough for Columbus...

So, Today I sail on.

Saturday, January 03, 2015

Part VI

Father is a whistle-blower!

That's what mother told me. That's why Badger and Quinn are so anxious to find him.

They work for the Security Services - and, so it appears, does father! Imagine: father, a James Bond! I wonder if he has a licence to kill?

When mother opened the cloakroom door in response to Quinn's knocking, she was very cool.
'If you were bursting for a pee, love, there's another lavatory on the other side of the hall; we don't stint on bogs in this house.'

'No, Mrs Turner. I just want to tell you we are leaving now, and I am taking this with me.'
And, horror of horrors, he had father's laptop under his arm. The one father had text me to throw in the lake. I was aghast - for the second time that evening. 'But you can't take father's laptop,' I protestested, 'It's his private property!'

'Oh, Badger... err Mr Fothergill... will give you a receipt.' Quinn smiled - more like a horrible grin, really.
'Well, we'll be off. I've telephoned for another car - ours slid into a snowdrift. You certainly have bloody awful weather out here in the sticks.'

There was a knock at the front door. 'That will be our driver' said Badger, 'Sorry about all this Georgina - a bloody mess, eh. Never mind, we'll sort it out. But you must ring us immediately if you hear from Cyril.'

And they were gone.

'But mother,' I wailed, 'Father had wanted me to throw his laptop into the lake - now it's too late. That horrible personage, Quinn has it.'

'No, George - Quinn thinks he has father's laptop - actually he has mine. Father's is already at the bottom of the lake.'

'But it was on his desk...' I began.

'I switched them earlier.' smiled my resourceful mother. 'I hope he enjoys viewing all those porn sites.'

I wasn't sure what a whistle-blower was so I looked it up on Google, I found links to You tube and  a woman name Annie Machon. She was a whistle-blower some years ago, along with her colleague David Shayler. She said that Britain has become a Police State. I could hardly believe it: that this green and pleasant land, with its village pubs and church fetes had become like Russia or some other communist country. But she was very persuasive. Apparently there are laws already in force which, although not yet used, could restrict our liberty to a degree previously unheard of. And this made me think that the  government wanting to censor the internet - supposedly to 'crack down on paedophile rings' - could be just the toe of the fascist jackboot. And that unless we stand up to these people we will soon experience the full weight of that jackboot on the neck of our once free society.

I resolved to join in the struggle for freedom, although I was not quite sure how I might do this.

My opportunity came sooner than I expected.


(to be continued)