Reverse Engineering

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You know how this thing works right?  You write the missive for the day and then you try to tag it with anything relevant that might just tempt somebody new to read what you have to say, based on the obvious assumption that anyone who has read you before will either read you again anyway or (probably more likely) poke their own eyes out rather than have to repeat the experience.  Tags mean little to regular readers and, other than when featuring words such as ‘naked’, ‘full-frontal’ or ‘see what my nineteen year old nanny gets up to on her day off’ do little to draw readers towards the boring old tosh that I am apt to serve up.  Nipple.  (Sorry, I just dropped that word into the text so that I can legitimately reference it in my Tags without the WordPress catch-a-cheat bot chasing me.)  For most of us, I think, tags are extraneous unless… Well, I just wondered what would happen if the tags actually came first.

I decided that I would check out my previously used Tags and base an article on, perhaps the most widely used five.  Unfortunately, I found that they are arranged alphabetically and, because I am a little impulsive with these things, just those that begin with ‘A’ run into the hundreds.  ‘A Little Rhyme’, A Little Fiction’, ‘A Little Poem’, ‘A Little Tale’ and a dozen close cousins all show up a little too often.  Scanning down the long, long list of only once-used entries made me realise that I really must try and be a bit more careful with the recycling in the future.  Even more so when I looked at all the listed entries which had never been used – I don’t even know how they got there – but I must conclude that I had at some time or another seriously considered using ‘Standing in the way of the intrusion of painful reality’, ‘Tea, Hobnobs and a tartan blanket’, ‘The Communal’ and ‘What was I thinking?’ and, I presume, to my great credit eventually decided against doing so.  I regret not using ‘Joy and melancholy’ though.  I will use it soon.   What seemed like a great idea at the time – see Tank Tops, Denim Waistcoats and Cork-Heeled Boots – quickly began to seem both vaguely ridiculous and unmanageable – like Tottenham Hotspur.

The first entry on my list, presumably courtesy of the inverted commas, was ‘Burn’, which I remember featured in a post about my funeral, in reference both to a Deep Purple song my wife is insistent I cannot have and the occasion’s inevitable denouement.  The last entry – apart from ‘Zoo’ which featured every week for a year and damn-near bloody killed me – is ‘Zaflora’.  (I’m not sure how widely available this little product is but, in case it has not yet made it into your neck of the woods – borne, perhaps on the wings of Covid19 – I should explain that it is a concentrated disinfectant that, when diluted, smells, as its name suggests, floral and is much revered by British shopkeepers who have to swab out their front doorways –not a euphemism – every morning, as having the great benefit of not smelling like Dettol.)  I cannot recall in which rant this featured, but it is almost certainly best forgotten.  Not surprisingly the various threads, fads and infatuations appear most often, amongst them ‘Dreams’, ‘D.I.Y’ and ‘Diet’, all of which had numerous entries – I had by this stage, as you will guess, reached the letter ‘D’ and the bottom of the glass.

There were however, amongst the zillion little ‘tempters’ on my extremely extensive list, one or two that did stand out as having been used on more than one occasion and together they probably sum up this little diversion better than anything I could deliberately create: the subjects of ‘Old people’, ‘Prostate’, ‘The Creepy Uncle’, ‘Intransigent knees’, ‘Jo Whiley’, ‘Needing to wee’, ‘Navel Gazing’, Okra’, One of those days,’ and ‘Slugs’ collectively go a long way to explaining what ‘Getting On is all about.

And finally a single little gem that caught my eye, nestling unheeded in the almost infinite list, destined to bring a smile to the lips of any UK resident of my vintage, ‘Rod, Jane and Freddy’.  Go on, tell me those four words haven’t cheered-up your day!

N.B. I have just realised that I have got to list some Tags for this little rag-bag now, and I really don’t know where to start.

The Plague Diaries (Week5)

letter box
Photo by Chris Barbalis on Unsplash

Had a mild panic attack yesterday when, having posted a letter in a big, red, disease-ridden pillar box, I was subsequently unable to remember at what stage I washed my hands upon my return and was thus forced to swill down the entire house, including the simmering dinner, with disinfectant. It didn’t matter, I am a lousy cook and I quite liked the summery Zaflora overtones in the pasta. Unfortunately had to throw away the sauce as I had used tinned tomatoes and, on checking, I realised that the label did not specifically rule out the possibility of bat-related additives therein. Lesson learned. I searched through the cupboards and was shocked to find that hardly any of my tinned or packaged items offer any level of reassurance, viz. absence of bat contamination and so was forced to put them all in the bin, along with the clothes (lycra shorts and t-shirt which, quite frankly, were clearly designed for a quite differently proportioned wearer – also padded in all the wrong places) and gloves I was wearing at the time. For the time being I will rely on fresh fruit and vegetables only – after I have par-boiled them in bleach.

Also, no longer have Parmesan cheese in the house since I saw the state of a cow’s udder on a programme about Yorkshire vets. Felt it necessary to don the Marigold’s before touching the TV remote control again.

I am pleased to reflect that in most ways, life in these apocalyptic times, carries on pretty much as it always did. Indeed, I have learned much from the experience. Having shaved my entire body in order to reduce the virus-smuggling potential of my luxuriant villi, I have discovered that, unless I continue to decorticate at least twice a day, the little buggers re-emerge rejuvenated and I itch like a hayfever sufferer in a pollen factory. The resultant irritation, consequent upon using my age-old Bic without recourse to shaving cream which I find contains a large number of ingredients that, as far as I know, could carry coronavirus, has left me looking like a peeled plum. I have found that neither cold, nor warm water eases this irritation and that the only thing I am able to do in order to find relief, is to stand naked in the soft easterly breeze outside. I have learned that the screams of next door’s children are very piercing indeed, and that police constables become much less threatening once you are covered in a blanket.

I explained that, having taken the recent decision to divest myself of all man-made materials – particularly those that left me looking like an over-stuffed sausage – I was left with just the one hatchback linen body-suit which, since the lockdown, I have been unable to supplement. The constable suggested that in future I should remain in the house, with the curtains closed and the lights off whilst my clothing was in the wash. She also suggested Vaseline for razor-burn.

I have recently spent many hours ‘re-purposing’ my garden for vegetable production. To date, my horticultural experience has been limited to throwing bricks at Monty Don every time he appears on the television, but fired by the drive of necessity, I have taken to planting every available seed, in the hope of achieving edible results. I am very hopeful for the baked beans. I planted tomato seeds, onion seeds and carrot seeds. I found some Nigella Seeds in the spice cupboard and await signs of growth with great anticipation. In the meantime, I have attempted to gain sustenance from the leaves, berries and fungi I have been able to forage from the surrounding countryside, with varying degrees of success. I have discovered that a single elderberry can tread into every individual fibre of an eau-de-nil shagpile and that it is best to assume the prone position before consuming the mushrooms. Preferably in the bathroom. I also found it comforting to have about me, some reassuring facts on a large sheet of paper that I can turn to at times of stress: there is no man in the mirror, it is you; the bathroom tiles cannot talk and, even if they could, you do not have to obey them; it will all come out with bleach… The nurses at A&E have been most accommodating and, after my third visit in two days, presented me with my very own stomach-pump. A most touching gesture, I’m sure you will agree.

I have felt much calmer since I stopped getting news updates from Eammon Holmes’ twitter account.

To pass the lonely, isolation hours, I have decided to finish writing the novel which I started in 1987. It is a horror/sci-fi/detective/farce heavily dosed with reality and irony. I will update many of the references to Norman Tebbit and remove the irony before the final draft. In general, I am very happy with my use of language in the chapter and a half I have so far penned, although I would, ideally, like to up my comma-count. Also, I will have to tweak the plotline a little as it is almost entirely…Oh, what’s the word? Stolen.

I intend to go shopping in the village on Thursday as I do not have any means of going further afield without contravening government guidelines on travel and roller-skating. Unfortunately, the only shop currently open is the pet shop, but that’s ok as I quite like their muesli. I particularly like the guinea pig on the packaging. The biscuits are a little hard for me, although the tinned stew is fine, if a little ‘whaley’ for my taste. If the queue for the chemists is not too long, I might join that as my ointment should be ready by Friday.

So there we are, another week chalked off. A life in lockdown, as uneventful as everybody else. Keeping well is all about maintaining a sense of perspective and not letting our imaginations run away with us. Stay safe everybody.

Due to budgetary constraints, the light at the end of the tunnel will be turned off until further notice – Anon

I like to think of myself as an optimist with a reality chaser. I know the glass is half full. I just want to know who the hell has been drinking out of it… – Bob Zany

Since I gave up hope, I feel so much better – John Osborne

Better times are just around the corner. I do not know which corner – Colin McQueen