The Way of the World

Another outing for the photograph of the exceedingly modest fence which nearly drove me over the edge..

It’s been a peculiar week. Having slowly hauled myself back into the daily routine of spilling the befuddled contents of my head onto paper, I have all too suddenly discovered that the well has already run dry. Having reluctantly dragged myself away from what I was doing in order to conjure up something worthy of reporting from whatever lies behind the detritus in my head, I now find that I have completely lost my way back. The path between a basic, if slightly skewed, reportage of a geriatric life, back to my stock-in-trade ritual of making stuff up should be straightforward enough, but having temporarily drained the fountain of the motley I find that my capacity to fantasize has shrivelled up like a rubber duck in an air-fryer. It is a peculiarity of blogging that having found myself with nothing to either invent or describe, I fall back on reporting the void. This is me writing about having nothing to write about. This is me searching for sustenance in an empty granola packet.

The process is fairly simple and is probably best described as staring into space. I do a lot of it.

My life recently has centred around the attempt to remove two huge oak gateposts in order to erect a new fence (which you may recall from last week’s post is now in place.) It has been eventful, featuring a concrete breaker that I could barely lift, half a dozen paving slabs that had obviously seen previous service in the roof of a nuclear bunker, and a thumb that has emerged from a carelessly interrupted confluence of hammer and post, both the size and colour of an aubergine. The oak posts are of such a weight that they constitute a three-man lift and despite being both rotten at the base and full of worm, they blithely defy the attentions of the chainsaw. The ground level decay belied the fact that the two-foot deep subterranean stumps were steel-like, lead-weight and encased in sufficient concrete to preserve Donald Trump’s comb-over in the event of nuclear war.

Following an extraction campaign that involved a great deal more planning than all of America’s most recent military endeavours combined, I was left with two craters that future scientists may well decide must have been linked to the death of the dinosaurs. How I should go about setting new posts in these gigantic voids left me temporarily stumped. I felt that I might need to consult somebody. Where are the Ancient Egyptians when you need them? I persevered, I succeeded, but the quandary occupied the entire functional section of my brain for several days.

If I’m honest, being a man in possession of what transpires to be a Winnie-the-Pooh sized intellect, this is good news. Being more than fully occupied with a single, if complicated conundrum, means that there is no room for deviation without completely losing my place. In short, if I was to remain fixed on finding a solution to my post-fixing dilemma, I could not allow my brain to take off in any other direction e.g. to consider my inability to find anything even remotely interesting to say about having nothing interesting to say. I put words on paper, but the meaning is not always apparent. It is like the moment you open the consultant’s letter and realise that at least one of you completely misunderstood what the other had to say. I would love to be the voice of reason, but when I look in a mirror, all I see is an over-caffeined Norman Wisdom and I find it difficult to believe that my own beliefs will do anything other than give the man with the stick a reason to swing. I keep my opinions to myself and the buggers drive me crazy.

So here I sit and, despite a brain filled with jelly, I remain fully focussed, I will not be diverted. I determinedly keep my writing brain (the part directly behind the ‘Oh look, chocolate!’ bit) separate from the part that is in charge of managing DIY disasters. I will not rise from this seat until the page is filled and the path from beginning to end delivers some kind of logical progression and nothing, not even a world that is falling apart more quickly than a boot-sale bird house, can divert me.

On days like today I tend to edit myself into sense. I see metaphors (or possibly similies – who knows?) everywhere. It’s the way the world works. When enough of it falls over, the man with the biggest stick gets to hold it up. If I could lend him my gateposts I would.

My previous posts ‘My Unceasing Battle with Pratchett’s California’ (2019) and ‘Return to California’ (2020) demonstrate that nothing ever really changes except the words…

These Days

I guess that we all have these days: days when things just do not seem quite right, socks are on inside out, pants are back to front, contact lenses in the wrong eyes (that is the right eyes, but the wrong side) and fingers are on the wrong foot. These are the days when attempting anything even remotely challenging should be considered highly inadvisable. Usually I am happy to take on almost any task providing I have had time to think it through in advance, and space to readjust when it all turns to rat shit, but occasionally the ability to breathe seems to represent a step too far.

Today I have had the simplest of tasks to perform: to fix a fence post to a wall with four specially purchased frame fixings. (The bag actually contained six fittings although I only needed four, but more of that later.) My wife constantly accuses me of rushing into jobs, of not taking advice or reading instructions and generally busking my way through life, so before embarking on my post-fixing duties today I dutifully scanned the QR code on the hardware packet, and read and followed the directions to the letter. I drilled a hole through the post and into the wall using a single long drill bit that ensured that the holes were perfectly aligned, I gently pushed the plug into place with a pleasing ease and drove in the screw/bolt which immediately buckled over at an angle of forty five degrees. This was not part of the ‘simple fittings’ usage model. I cursed, removed and slid a second bolt into the plastic sleeve. I tapped away and inexplicably it slotted straight into place so, again as per instructions, I gave the bolt head a single tightening turn at which point the head sheared straight off rendering the bolt useless and the fitting hole unusable. Four fittings left, four fittings required. I am a grown man, capable of learning lessons. I can do this. Take it easy now Colin, take it easy.

I am not easily deterred. Whatever I am faced with I will keep on trying until I am completely satisfied that I am not entirely culpable for all disasters. Happily the first three of the remaining fittings went into place and tightened exactly as the web page told me they should, but come the fourth and another head shearing incident, the post was now drilled in six places and had three solid fittings and a further two which, like a politician’s brain, served no discernible purpose. A giant old-school screw and wall plug completed the job, followed by the cosmetic filling up of unused orifices – a little like getting Donald J ready for a TV interview. One more fence post, two gate posts, one gate and two fence panels to go: what could possibly go wrong?

I like to think that things are not always entirely my own fault; that I am, at times, let down by things that are specifically designed not to do so. Yesterday I wrote a blog post which I printed (because that is how I check that it all makes sense) and saved – it is there in my files with a time and date and yet, when I open it, I am presented with an empty document which I have subsequently had to refill by painstakingly transcribing word-for-word from my printed copy. I do not feel that I am in any way accountable for this happenstance, but I am nevertheless, the designated can carrier. I am pretty certain that in a previous life I must have seriously offended the God of inanimate objects.

Great age has given me the opportunity to look at a few household chores – principally those with the greatest potential for disaster – and say ‘I don’t think I can manage that’ without feeling that I am solely responsible for the fact that we live in the kind of home that would send Kevin McCloud pirouetting to his grave. It is only really in the last few months that I have felt able to ‘get a man in’ when faced with a task that, in my younger days, I would happily have taken on and beaten into whimpering submission. These days I am not massively keen on heavy lifting, electrical works, plumbing, or the erection of anything that requires it not to deviate from level. I have not yet found a way to talk myself out of shelf-hanging and, consequently, have to glue down anything that has the potential to roll. Not yet, but one of these days I will…

One of Those Days (from January 2020) probably highlights the fact that nothing ever changes… worth it if only for the Quentin Crisp quote.

Not much of a fence, but all my own (and the gate even opens!)

Frankie & Benny (14) – Seaside (Part 2)

This originally went up for posting in a single part yesterday, but I felt as if it had to split into two although I didn’t want to leave a week between them. I think this works, even if you missed yesterday’s post…

“…How was the cake Frankie?”
“Well, it looked very good.”
“You don’t sound too impressed my epicurean amigo. Was it not, perchance, exactly to your taste?”
“Dry as bird seed, if I’m honest and the buttercream was split.”
“Split? Can it do that, buttercream?”
“Definitely. Altogether too much carrot and not enough cake.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear that. I note that you ate it all though.”
“Didn’t like to be rude. It’s made me feel quite queasy.”
“Oh dear, we’d better get out into the fresh air then. I can’t begin to contemplate the effect of your weapons-grade flatulence in a confined space like this.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yes you do. You try to blame next door’s dog, but it’s been dead for three years.”
“Well that accounts for the smell then.”
“It doesn’t account for why you never do it in your own flat.”
“I don’t fill me full of roughage.”
“Roughage is good for you. The doctor told me that I have to get as much of it as I can since the heart attack.”
“Do you remember when we were young, Benny, and ‘roughage’ was just the polite name for all the crap we used to throw away? People peeled potatoes back then, they sifted all the brown crap out of the flour, they treated veg with all the respect it deserved by boiling the shit out of it.”
“Times were different old friend.”
“You’re telling me. No Caballero Nero back then, we just had kale and it was only suitable for feeding cows. Carrots were all orange, do you remember that? And beetroot was always red. You never saw the bloody stuff unless it was used to leach all over your mashed potato in school dinners. Why do you think foods are called ‘refined’ when you take all the junk out of them? Refined is altogether better isn’t it? The late Queen was extremely refined wasn’t she? And unless someone has changed the dictionary in the last few years, ‘rustic’ actually means badly made and smelling of pig shit.”
“Don’t get yourself agitated, Frankie. You know what it does to your digestion.”
“There is nothing wrong with my digestion, Benny. You are looking at a man who can eat three Traveller’s Rest pasties at a sitting without once feeling the urge to boke.”
“I can’t help feeling that’s not necessarily a good thing Frankie. You are, I will admit, a bit of a legend in rancid pasty eating circles, but I was your main challenger remember and look what happened to me.”
“You always had problems with your constitution.”
“Like what?”
“Well look what you’re like with tinned pilchards.”
“Tinned pilchards?”
“I remember at school you used to carry a note from your mum that said they were never to feed you tinned pilchards.”
“That, my friend, is because they look and smell like something that a penguin has regurgitated. It has nothing to do with my constitution. It is the result of knowing that I do not want to consume something that a seabird could not keep down.”
“Yes, well… How long did you say until the bus is due?”
“I said four hours, I think.”
“And?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“So if you weren’t concerned about upsetting me?”
“Six hours.”
“Six hours? That’s a quarter of a day. A twenty-eighth of a week. I’ve had warts that cleared up quicker than that!”
“We could go to the arcade.”
“Have you got any pennies?”
“I don’t think the machines take pennies these days Frankie.”
“What then?”
“Contactless probably.”
“‘Contactless’ what?”
“You know, your bank card or your mobile phone, that kind of thing.”
“Mobile phone?”
“You know, your banking app and everything.”
“Banking app? Is that like a Post Office Savings Account, because if it is, I closed mine in 1969.”
“Well, in your case Benny, I think it probably is, and every bit as useful.”
“We’ll not bother then, hey. Come on, let’s sit in this bust stop here out of the wind and have a nip or two out of your flask before we go and find some fish and chips.”
“Good idea, because fish and chips, milky tea and bread and butter always sits better on a bed of whisky don’t you think.”
“I fully support anything that will overwhelm the effect of mushy peas on your digestive system. Sláinte my friend.”
“Here’s to keeping out everything bracing.”
“And keeping in everything ‘roughage’…”

These two are a quintessential element of this blog and I knew that they would have to be one of my first stops when I started back here. In case they are new to you, or you just want to catch up with their adventures to date, you can find links below:
1. Frankie & Benny
2. Goodbyes
3. The Night Before
4. The Birthday
5. Trick or Treat
6. Christmas
7. The Cold
8. Barry
9. Vaccinations
10. Anniversary
11. Dunking
12. Coronary
13. Jiggery Pokery

Frankie & Benny (14) – Seaside (Part 1)

“It’s very bracing, isn’t it?”
“Bracing?”
“The seaside: it’s very bracing.”
“I am no expert Frankie, but if ‘bracing’ means ‘windy, rainy and freezing bloody cold’ then bracing, my friend, it most certainly is.”
“It’s a little nippy I will admit, but it has to be good for you, hasn’t it?”
“Good for you? In what way?”
“Well it’s certainly brought the colour to your cheeks.”
“My cheeks? You mean the tiny patch of skin on my face that is the only area I have not been able to cover in multiple layers of clothing? I’m not entirely certain that blue is a terribly healthy hue, skin-wise, but it is indeed a colour my friend.”
“It makes you feel alive though, doesn’t it?”
“I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t feel this cold if I was dead. Remind me again Frankie, why are we here.”
“For a change of scenery, Benny. To get some fresh air into our lungs.”
“Fresh air? Have you forgotten where we come from Frankie. We’re not suited to fresh air. It’s like trying to revive a kipper by putting it back in the sea.”
“Well I’d love to make you feel more at home, but unfortunately I haven’t got a six pack of lager and a steak bake to hand. Here, have a cup of tea and a biscuit?”
“What kind of biscuit?”
“They’re called Puffins I think.”
“Puffins?”
“They’re like Penguins, but cheaper. A home brand. You’d never know. They’ve got just as much fake chocolate on them as the real thing.”
“Well, there’s nothing quite as likely to stave off a freezing nor’easterly as a massively inferior seabird I suppose. Is it your normal tea?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll just have the biscuit in that case.”
“What’s wrong with my tea?”
“Nothing, I suppose… at the start of the week, but by the end of it… how often do you re-use the bags?”
“I am not a rich man, Benny. My cupboards are not filled with Yorkshire teabags. I have to make the best of what I have.”
“I understand that, old chum, but you have to face facts: teabags are meant to be single-use, they are not designed to be dried out and used again.”
“I don’t do that!”
“Frankie, I have seen the little clothes line in your kitchen window. I’ve seen them hanging there. They’re not even decent teabags in the first place, they’re from the Mini-Mart Bargain Bin. Knowing the manager down there they’ve probably been used for the staff tea breaks before you even get them.”
“The boxes are sealed.”
“Are they though?”
“Well, not sealed as such I suppose, but there is always the right number of bags. I’ve counted them…”
“Yes, well unfortunately I have tasted them, so I’ll just have the cheap biscuit if it’s all the same to you.”
“Well I’m going to have a cup of tea with mine.”
“Look, why don’t we just go and find a café?”
“It might be warmer I suppose.”
“I’ll pay. I won a tenner on the scratchcards last night.”
“Did you? You kept that quiet. I’ll have carrot cake then, if you’re flush.”
“Fine, and I’ll have a little nip of whisky from your tartan tea flask.”
“What makes you think I’ve got whisky in my flask?”
“Because not even you, Frankie, would put that muck you call tea into a flask and risk drinking it three hours later. It’s not even a thermos is it? It’s just a tartan hip flask. I tell you what, we’ll go and get warm, have a cup of tea and when we come out we can have a nip or two on the prom while we’re waiting for the bus.”
“We’ve got four hours to kill before the bus home.”
“Four hours? What are we going to do for four hours? It’s the middle of winter, everything’s closed.”
“All the tacky commercial stuff is closed Benny, but all of nature is available to us. The sea breeze is free.”
“Of course it’s free Frankie, it’s very likely to be bloody lethal for two old men like us. I think I’m probably developing hypothermia of the nethers.”
“Never mind hypothermia. I’ve seen your underwear my friend, and I’d be surprised if you don’t have rising damp.”
“Well regardless of the state of my trollies, I’m tired of the wind blowing through them. I need to warm up. Come on, let’s try in here…”

Part 2 will follow tomorrow.

Pronounced Drah-ZHAY

Because inconsequential moaning appears to be such an integral element of this blog I have decided to present before you this week a short list of all the things that have properly got my goat over the last few days. It is not exhaustive – the daily rota of everything that puts my back up would require a blog with far more time available to it than this beleaguered beast – and it is in no order whatsoever other than that in which it occurred to me. It is a Polaroid snapshot of my disaffection complete with thumbprint over somebody’s face and a weird smudge on the bottom corner where the backing was removed too soon.

I do not expect, even for a single second, that anybody else will find themselves equally exercised over these minor peeves. It would be a strange world indeed if that were the case. Far more likely, I fear, that you will actually find me the triggering irritant. If that is the case I will do what all self-respecting Brits do in such circumstances: I will apologise profusely, remind myself to stop being such a boar and then carry on as if nothing untoward had ever happened. As far as bugbears are concerned, I am pretty sure that we Brits are at the very top of most of the world’s lists. Tally ho!

Dragées*. Those rock-hard little sugar cake decorations that look like ball bearings and, given the current fragility of my dental apparatus, might as well be so. I can see neither purpose nor joy in them. They are almost certainly sponsored by Denplan. Like kidney in a steak and kidney pie, dragées are designed simply to be removed and left on the side of the plate. Unlike kidneys, they tend to roll off, stick to your sock and leave you lame on the walk home.
Specimen boxes in the doctor’s surgery which are almost always placed close enough to the reception to ensure that you have to edge past the doctor’s queue with your little urine-filled bottle in order to drop it into the slot indicated by three foot high letters and a fluorescent arrow.
Car park spaces that are not ‘square’ meaning that however you park your car, it looks as though you have just abandoned it.
Anything that describes itself as a ‘sport’ but relies on opinion to decide a winner. Winter sport half-pipes, big airs, figure-skating; posh people on horses doing four-legged ballet; gymnastics, high-diving, surfing, break dancing… the competitors are incredibly skilled and rightly lauded, but sport requires a defined winner: ran fastest, jumped furthest, scored most goals/points, lifted most weights, took most performance enhancing steroids etc etc. The result in sport should not rely on opinion, it should rely on results. There is no place in sport for ‘Yes, of course, Usain Bolt crossed the line first, but the man in second place was much prettier and the third place athlete has tiny feet so we’ll reverse the result.’ This is not sport. This is politics.
“Your call is important to us…” No it bloody isn’t! I was prepared to believe so before three quarters of an hour of Moby on a loop elapsed, followed by an automated switchboard which did not have the option I required, but now…
Coffee machines that require more regular maintenance than a Norwegian Forest Cat.
Updates to previous updates that buggered up the computer just the night before.
Young people who walk very slowly for no discernible reason and block the entire pavement whilst doing it.
The certain knowledge that whatever I buy, it will have to be replaced because nothing ever works in the way it is supposed to.
Decaffeinated tea, coffee, cola, chocolate and life.
Babe – the term of endearment, not the film.
Dissatisfaction.
Entitlement.
“It’s all so much harder now.”
“It was all so much harder back then.”
“It was before my time,” as an excuse for not knowing something e.g. who was Martin Luther King, who were the Suffragettes, why was Adolf Hitler such an unpopular dinner guest?
The last song playing on the radio as I get out of the car.
Someone, somewhere near my house, walks a dog every day which shits, as dogs do. This person picks up the offending object, places it in a poo bag which he – I feel certain that it has to be a he – carefully ties up before dumping it on the ground alongside the animal’s previous forty attempts on the same blind bend in the bridle path – the path being, at worst, ten metres from the nearest poo bin. I don’t know who you are, but when I find out I am going to use your letter box as a composting toilet.
Me.

*Pronounced drah-ZHAY for no conceivable reason.

Vagaries

I’m not fishing for sympathy here (although it is, of course, always welcomed) but I have not been well.

Now, being unwell, you will rightly suggest, is nothing unusual – certainly nothing to write home about for someone of my age – but I am now staggering into month three and, lassitude in hand, facing certain facts for the first time in my life: a) although this is almost certainly not something that will kill me, it is nonetheless, something that I will most probably die with; b) I feel certain that it is not something to which I would so readily have succumbed in my previous six decades on this earth and c) that it has been able to knock me so low is almost certainly due to my advancing years. I don’t like it.

In common with most people I imagine, whilst I have always known that old age would be coupled with increasing ill-health, I was pretty certain that I was well-equipped to sidestep it. I am not, after all, most people. I am perfectly aware that my eventual fate is the same as everybody else’s, but if I am asked I cannot picture it at all. Infirmity is for other people. Death will call on me, but I do not plan on being around to meet it.

I have retained a child-like brain that refuses to envisage a future without me in it. Unfortunately that self-same brain is in charge of my less ageless body and when my grandkids say, “Can you do a roly-poly grandad?” it answers “Of course,” before I have the opportunity to talk some sense into it and, let’s face it, once you’ve told the grandkids you can do a roly-poly, you’re bloody well going to have to do it even if it means taking your vertebrae home in a sack. You can surround yourself with kids, or you can surround yourself with people of your own age, and we all know what they are like.

It is hard to pinpoint the age at which we start to regress, but it is there for all of us: the second childhood; the age of ‘To hell with it. Why not?’ The age of resenting being told you can’t do something to such an extent that you will resolve to do it, no matter the price you will pay. Consequence disappears from view like a five-year old with a skateboard on Ben Nevis. The ability to foresee the consequences of your actions is something you do not achieve until puberty, at which point it is trumped by the ability to ignore them. Everything bad will happen to somebody else.

Once we have children, our lives become ruled by cause and effect and the fear of death becomes far more potent, not because a foreshortened existence is any more terrifying than it ever was, but because the thought of leaving the kids to fend for themselves is something we are all programmed to resist. Risk is something taken by those without children. Until, for the rest of us the grandkids come along. They are your joy, but they are the responsibility of your children and if their abiding memory is of you dying whilst doing something monumentally bonkers for a person of your age… there is a certain appeal in going out to a chorus of “Doesn’t he realise how old he is?”

For the last few weeks I have been robbed of all potential of behaving in a thoroughly age-inappropriate manner and the sooner it sorts itself out the better. It is very easy to tire of being a pin-cushion. I have things to do that would be considered extremely foolhardy in anybody else of my age. I have a life to live that does not embrace illness and is more likely to involve a stolen half-hour in a soft-play than Sudoku on a river cruise.

I may have aged a few years in the last few weeks, but I have decided to leave consequence behind me.

Now, find my stick and oil my truss, I’m going for that roly-poly…

Mission Statement 2.0

Seven and a half years having elapsed since my original ‘Mission Statement’ I thought that it was perhaps time for me to once again take a moment or two in which to ruminate on the disparate reasons for all of this. I, in common with the rest of the world, have changed over that time: in 2018 the UK Prime Minister was Theresa May, The U.S. President was Donald J Trump, Russian President Vladimir Putin and Chinese leader Xi Jinping… so, ok, the world has not actually changed that much at all: maybe it just feels more f*cked up than it used to be…

I have changed. I was approaching my sixtieth birthday back at the start of this and I am comfortably past my sixty-seventh now. Physically I have changed – hence the new site icon with which I appear to have replaced a smug Kenny Rogers lookalike with a startled Freddie Mercury – I seldom drink and write these days and if I have a peanut butter sandwich I owe it to my teeth to make certain that it isn’t crunchy, but this blog continues to be principally about me and how I fit into the world that surrounds me.

Well, not terribly well as it turns out. We rub along ok I guess, the world and I, but as I get older, the world is definitely gaining the upper hand. Since the start of this picaresque narrative we have, in the UK, blundered through Brexit, staggered through Boris Johnson, done God-knows-what through Liz Truss and we are now about to bequeath Nigel Farage to the world (although, let’s be honest, some of you deserve him). The rest of you have had to endure the age of the three Presidential Marx Brothers: all of them barmy and each with a finger on the nuclear trigger. Between them they have made the sad descent of each of us into mental and physical decrepitude far less certain – we may well not have the time required to get there.

So, where should I start with blog 2.0? Writing blog 1.0 sometimes required the kind of attention usually reserved for drunken games of Jenga and cooking risotto – the former being far too fraught with possibility for me to even consider these days and the latter having become so routine a part of my existence that it now requires little conscious thought except in attempting to correctly double the amount of wine stated in the recipe. Going forward – nonsense phrase of the day as I have yet to find a way of taking my life backwards – I feel that I will have to come up with some kind of agenda which I will pin to the office wall. If it is anything like as efficient as my medication-taking regime, we may well all find ourselves at a loose end before the year is out.

It occurs to me that I should also probably tackle my tendency towards self-obsession, but I have no idea what that would leave for me to write about. Even when I write fiction I seldom actually create characters, but rather pick out threads of my own personality – almost always the ones that I would most like to eradicate – and magnify them. It is the only way I know to find empathy with the bad guys. It is the only way to give them a third dimension – unless of course they are politicians in which case, having two faces, they each have four dimensions, the fourth being naked, self-serving greed.

I have tried many ways of keeping up to date with WordPress Reader, but setting a few minutes aside before each writing stint seldom works as I always get drawn into the ‘Comments’ boards and either write nothing of my own or do it at 2am fuelled by coffee, chocolate and whisky – a regime which, as I have said, I have endeavoured to leave behind me (a task made much easier by my current lack of deadlines: everything can wait) so I tend to block read on my office laptop which has a screen of sufficient dimensions to ensure that I can see the words without resting my nose on it. I can lock myself away in my office and shut myself off from the world, but the world doesn’t care for that very much. It is insidious. It always finds a way in.

Managing distractions should be easy, but almost anything can get a grip on my attention: raindrops on windows, squirrels on fences, delivery drivers on my driveway, birds on feeders, who sang that, who wrote that, I wonder what time it is in Ulan Bator? It doesn’t take much.

Now, where was I?

Focus is the thing. I am really good at focus – compulsive almost – when things must be done, but far less so when completion is merely desirable. Latitude is something I should never be given – unless, of course, you are attempting to give me directions, in which case it could be very advantageous. I am capable of drifting off from almost anything and I spend much of my time trying to work out how to get back to where I was – if only I knew where that was.

I am, in truth, a bit of a rambler – except I hardly ever wear shorts and never with a knapsack – and where I go is hardly ever where I intended to go, so maybe detailed planning is not entirely feasible. I very much hope that this blog can offer a view of the world through the eyes of someone who is beginning to reap the harvest of sixty odd years of life. I do not want it to be about growing old, but about living with growing old. I don’t intend to regale you with a list of everything I have that is packing in, but to concentrate on everything on and within my body that is not giving in to the ravages of time. I can’t think of much at the moment, but leave it with me…

If I’m honest, the plan remains pretty much as it always was, to cock a snook at age and everything it brings with it (although, not with sufficient severity to annoy it to the extent that it buggers off and leaves me). Over the last few I have learned that I cannot ignore everything I am told (my wife is particularly adamant that I adhere to this particular principle in all my dealings with the medical profession – even when I would dearly like to believe that they don’t know what they’re talking about) but I can choose to not necessarily hear everything. My age makes that so much more believable. My mission is to catch old age with its pants down and to take a snapshot for all the world to see.

Your mission – should you choose to accept it – is to come along for the ride. You might as well. I mean let’s be honest, how long can it possibly take?

As a consequence of ignoring the inner voices…

I feel that I ought to start with a (mercifully short) apology. This is my first post in a number of weeks: my absence was initially the result of ill-health, which was followed by a much longer period of indolence that I would find totally unacceptable in anybody else, and while on the first count things remain unresolved, on the second I have given myself a firm poke in the midriff and strongly suggested that it would be in my best interests to pull myself together and grow a pair. I need to get back on the horse. (A task made all the more difficult by the fact that I seriously do not care for heights and even less so for huge beasts with minds of their own.) I can’t help but feel that what a world dominated by the likes of Trump and Putin really needs is even more of my whingeing and whining, so from next week, it is my intention to get back to as close to normal as I have ever been. (On a slight side note, in my absence I have received a number of emails from WordPress advising me of a surge in my readership which made me wonder whether the best thing I could say would be nothing, the many thousands of bots that seem to appreciate my badly out of date drivel can’t all be wrong, can they? I feel as though I should probably thank them for their loyalty.)

If I’m honest, doing what I am told has never really been my thing. I might recognise the truth in what I am told, but nag away at me for long enough and I will almost certainly dig my heels in. It’s not a trait that I am particularly proud of, but I consider it no worse than nagging, even when well-intentioned. The water torture drip, drop of ‘you must’, ‘you mustn’t’ is almost certain to bring out the oppugnant in me. Tell me that I should be mindful of what I eat and I will be so. Tell me each and every time I go to put something in my mouth and I will almost certainly go for something supersized and greasy instead. There is a fine line between benevolence and overbearing, and infinite repetition is the bridge across it.

This is a bridge that I built myself. I am the king of self-enlightenment, which comes complete with an innate inability to leave myself be: I always know what is best for me and, furthermore, it is nothing adjacent to what I am habitually doing.

A couple of days during which I was incapable of putting pen to paper were followed by weeks of “What you need to do is to get back to writing” which, inside my head translates as “Sod that, I’ll just sit here in the warm and watch crap on TV.” My advice is sound, but my inability to listen to it complete. Only after I realise that I am not heeding my own advice do I stop giving it, at which point – and never before – I realise that it is sage.

So here I am. I hope that I will be back properly from next week and, for that, I can only apologise.

You have been warned.

BTW. In my absence the default font for my new posts and (it appears from this end) all of the old ones appears to have changed. I’ve tried to address it to the best of my (sadly limited) abilities. If the changes are too jarring I can only apologise. Like most things ‘Word Press’ it appears to be a problem with no obvious solution.

All That Cecil Wanted

Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

All that Cecil wanted
Was a shiny yellow bike
So he wrote to Father Christmas
And he told him what he’d like
A dozen gears
Suspension spring
A horn to honk
A bell to ring.

Then little Cecil posted
His missive in the box
With a postscript at the bottom
Saying “Please don’t bring me socks!
A paint set’s fine
Or Lego bricks
A football shirt
A box of tricks.”

But Cecil he insisted
Whatever else he had
He had to have a bicycle
Or else he’d go quite mad
He’d stamp his feet
Or scream and shout
He’d make a scene
There was no doubt.

Yet Cecil had a problem
Though he really didn’t know
His parent’s impecunity
Was something of a blow
They had no cash
To throw around
He wouldn’t like
What they had found.

And so on Christmas morning
Young Cecil was bereft
And he railed at Father Christmas
For the rubbish that he’d left
But he didn’t scream
He didn’t shout
He grabbed his coat
And just went out.

Though Cecil went a-walking
To heal his broken heart
The lack of what he wanted
Was tearing him apart
He held back tears
He wouldn’t cry
His Christmas dream
Was just a lie.

The hollow Christmas Story
Was nothing but a joke
If Santa wouldn’t help him
Because his folks were broke
It wasn’t fair
It wasn’t right
He made a plan
He vowed to fight.

So Cecil took his chances
Imagination fired
He scanned the streets around him
And stole what he desired
The Christmas dream
Became at best
“Take what you want
And sod the rest.”

The moral of this fable
Is don’t just sit and moan
If Santa doesn’t bring it
Then go and get your own
A sin, it’s true
Maybe a vice
You steal the bike
And pay the price.

The price for our poor Cecil
Was screaming in his head
He wanted to be honest
But he’d turned to crime instead
A cost in pride
A price in grief
When conscience says
“You’re just a thief.”

So Cecil took the cycle
And made an honest stance
He twice tried to return it
But the owner said “No chance.
My parent’s paid
All that is true
But it serves them right –
I wanted blue…”

MERRY CHRISTMAS ONE AND ALL…

The Capacity to Believe

I am 67 years of age, I have had more than enough time to earn my ‘Cynical Badge’ and yet, fundamentally I am a believer: fairies, pixies, ghosts, werewolves, dead certs, 100% guarantees, honest politicians, ‘humble’ film stars, karma, parallel universes, the Big Bang, UFO’s, Big Foot, Santa Claus, Donald Trump’s conscience, I have an unrivalled capacity to believe, and at this time of year my openness to the suspension of scepticism is legendary. I do believe in father Christmas, not as the white bearded, ruddy-faced individual who drops a gift off at every house in the world over the period of a single night, but as the reason that the mince pie and glass of whisky I leave out every Christmas Eve is always gone by the morning – and let’s face it, it’s a far more logical thing to believe in than Donald Trump having a conscience.

There is a good will at Christmas that is almost defiant. The soldiers who ceased fighting on the Western Front in order to play football (Germany won by the single goal in extra time) share rations and show one another photographs of their loved ones were not smiled upon by their superiors. It was tolerated, eventually, but definitely time-limited. Anyone unprepared to skewer the man with whom they had shared their duff just hours before could expect to be shot by their own side. The higher echelons were so worried that this spirit of camaraderie between the two armies might persist that they withheld pigs in blankets until the troops could produce a chit affirming that they had robbed at least one child of a parent on Boxing Day. The spirit of Christmas can prevail, but seldom for long in the face of those with something to gain.

In my life, the spirit envelopes me at the beginning of December and lasts for the whole month, generally crashing around my ankles on the dreaded New Year’s Eve with the singing of Auld Lang Syne and the reckless expectation of hugging people whom you wouldn’t touch with a bargepole at any other time of the year. We all fear that we are that person.

So December is all about ignoring the fact that January is on its way and with it the two great portents of mortality: New Year’s Eve and another birthday. New Year’s Eve generally sees me in bed and asleep in time to be woken by the midnight fireworks; New Year’s Day is often the day on which my wife begins to pack Christmas away and January Second is the day on which I become another year older. Death is not something I choose to think about – it is an inevitability – but it does come ever closer along with its sister inescapability, infirmity. Illness is something I do think about, but if I’m honest, in a very abstract sense; never deeply enough to actively delay it. Over these three days, though, my thoughts do turn to the final days, weeks, months, or even years of sub-standard existence and, should I make any resolutions – always broken by the 2^nd – they are always to do with keeping myself on my feet and doing the crossword. (I am aware that elderly people traditionally take up Sudoku for brain exercise, but it is a complete mystery to me. Numbers float in all directions and every grid features two 9s.) I am fortunate enough to be relatively fit and mentally acute – I know that neither are ‘given’ – but always on the lookout for signs of deterioration. Forgetting to put the cat out is a worry, forgetting that we’ve never had one is far more so. I try to enjoy each Christmas as if it is my last which – for all of us – it could possibly be.

Of course, nobody wants their last Christmas to be marred by family feuds, burned turkey or indigestible Brussel sprouts. (To many, Brussel sprouts are always indigestible, but Christmas without them – like Love Actually – is unthinkable) so the pressure is always on to make it a good one. Children embrace it properly and are even prepared to forgive you for being totally lame for anything up to twenty-four hours. The even become suitably competitive for the Christmas Hat Game*. They might even sit and watch a film with the rest of the family and abandon their phones for minutes on end. I suppose it says much about our nation that the most cherished ritual of Christmas is the afternoon nap. It wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t sleep through The Kings Speech and wake up with the desperate desire to open the windows.

I am supremely lucky to be part of an extended family that wants to spend time together. We gather, in various formations, as often as we can. Because there are so many of us we tend to drift in and out of one another’s Christmas these days – even if only by Zoom – but Christmas is a day when nobody minds a phone call during dinner or a visit just as the pud is being lit. ‘Come in, pull up a chair and grab a spoon. There’s plenty of everything, and not a single cynic in the house. So, what did Father Christmas bring you?…”

*Everyone wears the paper crown out of the Christmas Cracker. When the first person (hopefully discreetly, but after a couple of snowballs, who can say) takes theirs off, everyone else must follow suit as subtly as possible. The last person left wearing their hat must accept the ridicule from the room as well of the responsibility of being the first person to remove their hat in the next game – and there will be a next game, there always is: it is surprisingly addictive.