Helen came today, at 0930! Early turn, or that's what it felt like having had Oramorph at about 0500 and coffee an hour later. The usual how are you was met by the usual I'm fine. No you're not, you are pale, struggling to breathe, whats your poo like and how are you peeing, what about sick ..... all the normal stuff.
My wife answered on my behalf, well mostly. She had some new morph or another, not as long lasting, not as foul tasting but should help with breathing, we'll try some now. It did help with breathing but I was being wiped out slowly. After she'd left I returned to bed and crashed till 1130.
I'm getting a double dose of the night one, something else that'll be in tomorrow and a nurse will come to do bloods. Too much risk to go to the surgery but I didn't mention that I want to try to get to see dad in hospital tomorrow. There seems no end to the lengths of goodness they will go. I feel overwhelmed with care if not energy.
At 1130 I came to, felt up to a shower, donned regulation funeral wear and went to the crem. A friend who made the most wonderful sausage rolls, scotch eggs and Bakewell buns and you get the picture. She was a year older than me.
Parked in a blue badge slot I felt no guilt so that's progress and many friendships and acquaintances rekindled. Mostly thoughts kept me company, though. What music will i have? Too much choice. What would I want said, nothing. Who to say it? Doesn't matter. Seems its sorted anyway! It's not about me it's about those left behind.
These thoughts concluded my morning, they did not start it. A few weeks ago I phoned a friend who's coped with depression for years, bi polar I believe. Last week a friend came through the front door looking awful, grey, lifeless ........ stress, anxiety? On Sunday afternoon we were informed of an acquaintance, last conversed with almost a decade ago but you just pick up where you last left off, don't you? There will be no opportunity to pick up the conversation in future as he took his life at the weekend.
I'm being looked after like I don't deserve. Blood tests I've had hundreds, scans I've lost count. With cancer there's spots they can find, monitor, measure, muse over and in some cases treat. The data from a blood test is unbelievable. My C19(?) numbers were monitored weekly then fortnightly for years it seemed. Meaningless apart from slowly increasing, still slow growth and eventually no point measuring any more.
When the problem is in the mind how do you find it? You can't scan for it, a blood test won't show it, asking about it depends on whether the patient suffering this disease is prepared to engage with the questioner, open up to the professionals in this area.
But as we all know it is so easy to hide what's going on in your head, that's the nature of the disease. And it is a disease. A disgusting disease, easily hidden, covered, ignored. A terrible disease, much worse than cancer, I think. The inevitability of my demise seems pretty set, barring miraculous healing which I don't discount as with God anything is possible but I'm not counting on it. A word that morphs into a thought, becomes a desire too great to ignore, out of control and finally explodes to the point at which the diseased mind decides that the only way out is perceived to be to take your own life.
In my case a cell went it's own way, multiplied to the point of being recognised, treated as well as it could be for as long as could be done but soon it will have its way and it'll be me in a box in the crem. But what if the disease starts of as just a word.
A word that becomes a thought, that becomes an idea, that becomes an all consuming malady from which the sufferer can barely switch off for just long enough to convince, maybe only partially but sufficiently, that they are alright. How great must the struggle be to keep that which torments the mind hidden, particularly from those who know you best?
I can't hide my spots from a scanner, nor my deranged blood from a haematologist. I can't ignore the pain. I can't fight the fatigue. I can't ignore the nausea. I can't not be pale when the hospice nurse comes.
The mind is so totally different in every way imaginable, indeed in ways unimaginable. I'm fortunate, too lazy I suppose to dwell on things although I have known stress and anxiety but I've always had outlets for them. Mostly going out in boats but at a very bad time in my mental history I was allowed to buy another motor bike after a hiatus of too many years following a broken pelvis, seriously damaged right shoulder, still apparent, a not as badly damaged left shoulder, knee borne gravel rash and so on.
I should have been a better motorcyclist. I tried, did police return to biking courses, pretty good, a police advanced course, fabulous in the rain with a plod from Camborne. Keep up with me if you can, catch me if you dare, overtake me by all means but keep to be rules of the road. I could hardly follow him, let alone keep up! Later on I also paid the fines and collected the points.
It's the only new vehicle I ever had but when you get home stressed out and you fire up the bike the only thing you notice is the two or three inch width of the front contact patch and the tarmac immediately in front of it. I did hundreds and hundreds of miles like that. It kept me sane. Boats, too! Not everyone can do things like that. I had those opportunities and I could never adequately express my gratitude for them. If I hadn't how long would it have taken my brain to shut down? it did once for a couple of days and I'm still conscious of the effect it had.
The worst thing was that I had no idea how bad I was. My mates with whom I shared a beer or two on a Friday night did, though! My wife did. One colleague did. It was only me who didn't.
In a while I'll have two of these, two of them, one of those and an extra strong mint. A preloaded oral syringe will be easily accessible and I will sleep well until I wake and squirt the syringe down my throat at which point I will lie still, marshall my thoughts and pray.
I will give thanks to God that my cancer is being treated, that I am surrounded by grace and people who I love and who love me. And I will pray for those lying awake in the desperate throes of mental turmoil about which only they are aware. And powerless in its grip.
Early this morning I read Psalm 88. It is the mind of unrelenting unrest put into words. No cure is offered. You can't snap out of it, you can't get over it, can't just get on with it. You can only suffer. Like any disease it is not always fatal, some live with it to a ripe old age, some don't. What is certain though, is that it is every bit as bad as, and I think worse than cancer. You can ask why but you won't get an answer, you can scream at the injustice but it won't bring relief, self pity only makes you more difficult to be with. So what can you say?
All I can say is that my last four years have been a trial, far more so for those who love me, though and the end is inevitable but unlikely to be sudden. I have time it seems. Those around me have time but it is not always so, is it?
The other lesson that I've learned is that the God of the bible makes himself very real to you, to us. Dependably so, often in amazing ways and always at exactly the right time. We have learned things about God in the last few years that I'm not sure we otherwise would have. Does that make up for losing Paul, having T4 ampullary cancer, honestly, no. It would take a far more godly man than me to say I'd not rather have Paul back, feel well again and do whatever, but it has been truly humbling to experience and at times almost unbearable to accept.
I shall pray that a recently widowed mum and her kids would prove that God is who he says he is and does what he says he will. I will pray that soon God's goodness, his care and lovingkindness would slowly but surely saturate them. That before too long they would be able to share their experience of God's provision for them with others. That peace would infuse their lives now, eventually shoots of joy would blossom and that one day even a degree of happiness would seep back into their lives.
I shall pray also for those anxious, stressed out and increasingly tired individuals who wrestle almost continually with an enemy I can only barely conceive of. And that they would acknowledge their predicament and seek appropriate help. If they can. I will also pray that they may be given whatever mental strength they need to combat the insidious invasion of the out of control thought and triumph over it as well as the courage to recognise and accept that they may need to alter their lives in whatever way is necessary to limit the havoc such thoughts can cause.
Without doubt, though, the greatest lesson that I have learned is that no matter what we think, no matter what we wish, God does what is best. I often don't understand it but I believe it to be true with every cell in my body. Especially the not very nice ones.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Friday, February 21, 2020
Miles of space, no distance.
I celebrate today, my sister is sixty. Sixty! I ought to be a good brother and say she doesn't look a day over fifty-nine. I was restrained from whats apping for hours and hours this morning but eventually I was graciously allowed to press send at 0800 ish.
It is still one of life's markers that on my 60th she turned up with a huge box complete with red ribbon. The aroma gave the game away as there's nothing, absolutely nothing that smells as good as a pasty. Except a boxfull of them! Three years ago today I got my piercing but the pasties come to mind far more readily
Lying still one was wondering how best to celebrate, apart from coffee. The answer was, eventually, obvious and appropriately supplied by my brother.
What more could you want to hail this auspicious morn, fried eggs and hoggs puddn. The fact that the owner of the oven was up Tescos helped. Alas it did take enough energy to require a sit down which accounts for the darker tone of the hoggs puddn than is optimal.
Hoggs puddn, handsome stuff. It was rich. Every mouthful a joyful soiree along gourmet avenue.
So, happy birthday, Amanda, thanks for the hoggs puddn, Andrew. Miles of space may separate us but no distance.
Now, once the fridge is refilled, the cooking irons sorted, cooker splatters wiped away and my energy is restored no doubt I shall be required to make coffee.
That, too will be another of life's unbridled pleasures.
Then I shall while away the hours before Helen calls dozing through F1 test day 3.
Life it just gets better and better, unless you judge it by what you can't do.
It is still one of life's markers that on my 60th she turned up with a huge box complete with red ribbon. The aroma gave the game away as there's nothing, absolutely nothing that smells as good as a pasty. Except a boxfull of them! Three years ago today I got my piercing but the pasties come to mind far more readily
Lying still one was wondering how best to celebrate, apart from coffee. The answer was, eventually, obvious and appropriately supplied by my brother.What more could you want to hail this auspicious morn, fried eggs and hoggs puddn. The fact that the owner of the oven was up Tescos helped. Alas it did take enough energy to require a sit down which accounts for the darker tone of the hoggs puddn than is optimal.
Hoggs puddn, handsome stuff. It was rich. Every mouthful a joyful soiree along gourmet avenue.
So, happy birthday, Amanda, thanks for the hoggs puddn, Andrew. Miles of space may separate us but no distance.
Now, once the fridge is refilled, the cooking irons sorted, cooker splatters wiped away and my energy is restored no doubt I shall be required to make coffee.
That, too will be another of life's unbridled pleasures.
Then I shall while away the hours before Helen calls dozing through F1 test day 3.
Life it just gets better and better, unless you judge it by what you can't do.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Life - Epic Fail
In an hour or two the 2020 F1 season gets going with test day 1 of 6 in Barcelona. I could get mildly excited but this morning's darkness covered the first time that it's taken two doses of Oramorph to get me through the night.
Last July whilst wandering along Mumbles sea front I felt the need to go back to the house to watch the start of the 2019 Tour de France. As the previous tour ended I doubted I'd see the next one. The same thought crossed my mind later in the year listening to my oncologist talking numbers. It wasn't a big deal to anyone else and I didn't mention it but after seeing the Grand Depart 2019 I went back to stroll with the others.
Even watching F1 last year began aimlessly As I didn't really expect to see it's conclusion but LH44 wrapped it up long before the maths decided it. When the competition is inferior, inadequate, incompetent or just downright accident prone it makes his job a trifle less difficult. That's not to take anything away from his driving, he is undoubtedly a great, not Jim Clark great, but great in a modern number crunching robotic way. I just wish he'd keep quiet about everything else. Being a great driver is enough, being a evangelical vegan and prophet of woke is totally uneccessary, and frankly, detrimental to him. Great driver, jerk of a bloke!
I also watched the first two rounds of WRC 2020, go Elfyn! I remember watching his dad. Much of the cricket's been good, too.
Marking your life in coffee cups, sporting events or the intriguing passage of days is as nothing though, compared to one or two really immense days, or parts of them. Like assembling an electric BMW with a very excited and increasingly impatient nearly 4 yr old.
Before careful wrapping, not by me, the battery charger was found, carefully unboxed, plugged in overnight, carefully repacked and restowed the next morning.
Come the afternoon, come the mum and grandson. Cue amazement at the size of the box or may be the acreage of Paw Patrol paper. For me? Yup. Oooooo! Hardly delicate the unwrapping procedure but effective. Once the glory of the opened box was revealed what passes for jumping for joy was a delight to behold.
Parts removed, mostly recognised and cries of make it, granda, get tools from the shed. I duly got them and passed them to a willing helper. Rear axle, here you are, one rear wheel, here, other one, here and so it went on pausing only for the briefest explanation of the Ackermann steering Principle but I felt it uneccessary to check where the angle of intersection met in relation to the rear axle, let alone gauge the tracking, just connect it all up.
When building cars there's always something very special about putting them on their wheels for the first time, just looking at the rolling chassis is to pause and soak up the anticipation of the promised drive. Doesn't matter what the car, its the same even for a largely plastic electric BMW.
Steering wheel, various connections, seat squab, seat back and can I get in it now, granda? Well let's get it on the floor first, eh? OK. Once on the floor the start button is obvious to a nearly 4yr old. It was pressed. Nothing happened. Nothing. The disappointment palpable. Granda? A lash up. Yup. Epic fail, indeed.
I removed the seat back, his mum read the book of words with pictures, I removed the seat squab. Shouldn't this be plugged in there asked his mum showing me a picture and pointing to a very obviously loose plug residing next to an obviously matching socket.
By now the impatience was overpowering the excitement of a nearly 4yr old but as soon as the screws were screwed he was in there. Lights lit, noises erupted, the pedal was pressed and the hallway traversed. It stopped in exactly the right place. I was in awe of his ability but I am anyway. Then I noticed that his mum had got the remote control override thingy. Mum was in control. Why are mums so good? And it left the factory charged.
Over the two sleeps our hallway has been traversed countless times, endless phone videos what's apped and his granda slowly getting to grips with once again ably demonstrating how to be a proper lash up. Years of practise.
One of life's precious moments. But now it's all packed up, the two sleeps are over and his grampy and granny await their presence an hour away. F1 continues to circulate, the rain falls, the gloomy sky lowers and I feel as rough as rats but I'm hoping chemicals can sort that.
None of that matters though, last thing before they went I had a squeeze, a hug, a kiss which may have been a cwtch from a nearly 4 yr old, more precious than gold, pure gold. If I don't see the end of F1 practice day 1 let alone Melbourne in March, it really doesn't matter.
What an awesome nearly four years to have lived through. Heights of blessing, depths of sorrow I had no idea existed but our God has seen fit to let our experience be as it has been and it has been truly wonderful. Seems a strange thing to say but it has been a privilege to get to know a nearly four year old and his mum and to experience the goodness of our God as we have been allowed to do.
Last July whilst wandering along Mumbles sea front I felt the need to go back to the house to watch the start of the 2019 Tour de France. As the previous tour ended I doubted I'd see the next one. The same thought crossed my mind later in the year listening to my oncologist talking numbers. It wasn't a big deal to anyone else and I didn't mention it but after seeing the Grand Depart 2019 I went back to stroll with the others.
Even watching F1 last year began aimlessly As I didn't really expect to see it's conclusion but LH44 wrapped it up long before the maths decided it. When the competition is inferior, inadequate, incompetent or just downright accident prone it makes his job a trifle less difficult. That's not to take anything away from his driving, he is undoubtedly a great, not Jim Clark great, but great in a modern number crunching robotic way. I just wish he'd keep quiet about everything else. Being a great driver is enough, being a evangelical vegan and prophet of woke is totally uneccessary, and frankly, detrimental to him. Great driver, jerk of a bloke!
I also watched the first two rounds of WRC 2020, go Elfyn! I remember watching his dad. Much of the cricket's been good, too.
Marking your life in coffee cups, sporting events or the intriguing passage of days is as nothing though, compared to one or two really immense days, or parts of them. Like assembling an electric BMW with a very excited and increasingly impatient nearly 4 yr old.
Before careful wrapping, not by me, the battery charger was found, carefully unboxed, plugged in overnight, carefully repacked and restowed the next morning.
Come the afternoon, come the mum and grandson. Cue amazement at the size of the box or may be the acreage of Paw Patrol paper. For me? Yup. Oooooo! Hardly delicate the unwrapping procedure but effective. Once the glory of the opened box was revealed what passes for jumping for joy was a delight to behold.
Parts removed, mostly recognised and cries of make it, granda, get tools from the shed. I duly got them and passed them to a willing helper. Rear axle, here you are, one rear wheel, here, other one, here and so it went on pausing only for the briefest explanation of the Ackermann steering Principle but I felt it uneccessary to check where the angle of intersection met in relation to the rear axle, let alone gauge the tracking, just connect it all up.
Steering wheel, various connections, seat squab, seat back and can I get in it now, granda? Well let's get it on the floor first, eh? OK. Once on the floor the start button is obvious to a nearly 4yr old. It was pressed. Nothing happened. Nothing. The disappointment palpable. Granda? A lash up. Yup. Epic fail, indeed.
I removed the seat back, his mum read the book of words with pictures, I removed the seat squab. Shouldn't this be plugged in there asked his mum showing me a picture and pointing to a very obviously loose plug residing next to an obviously matching socket.
By now the impatience was overpowering the excitement of a nearly 4yr old but as soon as the screws were screwed he was in there. Lights lit, noises erupted, the pedal was pressed and the hallway traversed. It stopped in exactly the right place. I was in awe of his ability but I am anyway. Then I noticed that his mum had got the remote control override thingy. Mum was in control. Why are mums so good? And it left the factory charged.
Over the two sleeps our hallway has been traversed countless times, endless phone videos what's apped and his granda slowly getting to grips with once again ably demonstrating how to be a proper lash up. Years of practise.
One of life's precious moments. But now it's all packed up, the two sleeps are over and his grampy and granny await their presence an hour away. F1 continues to circulate, the rain falls, the gloomy sky lowers and I feel as rough as rats but I'm hoping chemicals can sort that.
None of that matters though, last thing before they went I had a squeeze, a hug, a kiss which may have been a cwtch from a nearly 4 yr old, more precious than gold, pure gold. If I don't see the end of F1 practice day 1 let alone Melbourne in March, it really doesn't matter.
What an awesome nearly four years to have lived through. Heights of blessing, depths of sorrow I had no idea existed but our God has seen fit to let our experience be as it has been and it has been truly wonderful. Seems a strange thing to say but it has been a privilege to get to know a nearly four year old and his mum and to experience the goodness of our God as we have been allowed to do.
Sunday, February 16, 2020
Shallow as spit
After my first term or two away at college I was back home hanging around down shore shelter. Having been away for at least a month or two and being a teenager I knew it all. I can't remember the details but we were talking about someone famous who'd said something. There was an old man, except he was probably much younger then than I am now, called Charlie Ninnis. He'd been around, war, sea, life. He never said much just smiled, sometimes but when he did speak I'm sure his beret moved more than his lips and all he said was, "Shallow as spit, boy, shallow as spit". End of. A lovely character as so many were men who'd lived a life.
Yesterday morning I noted a news report that emergency services had recovered two bodies from the sea off Margate, Kent. At or about 0520 pagers summoned the local coastguard teams, their helicopter crews and the crew and shore helpers of Margate lifeboat. I could picture every detail. Ordinary blokes responding in the darkness and storm in an instant to go to the aid of a couple of people they didn't know, not that it mattered at all,
That was it. By tea time the airwaves, internet and tv was awash with Caroline Flack. I had no idea who she was but she'd taken her own life at 40. Very sad. It seems to me that she was a minor celebrity who had climbed to celeb status by standing in front of cameras to flash her teeth and curves. Suddenly there were showers of Twitter extolling her virtues, singing her praises, unsmiling smileys abounded. One caught my ear, she had so many friends it told us. Shallow as spit.
When it really mattered she never had a friend in the world, not one she could go to, not one she could ring, she was utterly alone. Suicide is a terrible and complex thing and rarely when it is intended will it fail to succeed. It should be recognised that the state of mind must have been in unbearable turmoil which I suggest should warrant something more than emojis and tweets that are shallow as spit.
Some time this week or next we will be shown the luvvies attending her funeral. They'll make sure there's a gap between them as they parade to the door so as to ensure that they don't have to share the camera frame with anyone else. They will be hemmed in by crush barriers to keep the crowds back. The crowds with their camera phones to the fore hoping for a shot of some celeb or other and hopefully a selfie. Mourners? I think not, in their worId it's about being seen. I suspect that without press, cameras and adoring public the attendees would be noticeably fewer.
Indeed, the week began with We buy any car.schofield confessing his gayness live on air. I wasn't watching but you couldn't avoid the luvvie responders. Characteristically shallow as spit. I know nothing of him except that he began on hospital radio in Derriford and I only know that because the hospital radio man told me when I was in there. So, Schofield was able to find a shoulder to cry on, in the full glare of a tv studio, of course. Ooooo, aaaaah, hero, such bravery, we're all so proud of you and so it went on sounding somewhat less than sincere. Reminded me of sick dropping into a bucket.
I knew I was gay before I got married, he told the members of his adoring bubble. Then why did you get married? Because in those days to be identified as homosexual would hardly have furthered you career, thus marriage was the easiest option, it was self serving, self centred and utterly gutless, spineless. It used to be called cowardice and was not looked on favourably. But times have changed, to identify as homosexual now gives kudos, admiration, pats on the back and more fame yet, so it was worth wrecking a marriage, putting space between those you say you loved.
Bravery, being heroic would have cost, but then, it always does. The right thing to do, the courageous thing to do, the brave thing to do would have been to stand by the vows you made, take the hit and kept quiet about it. But self serving selfishness combined with spineless cowardice made it all a price worth paying. Shallow as spit.
Then we had Joker preaching to us at the oscars. A man recognised as being good at learning lines and pretending to be someone he isn't. I didn't see it, haven't heard it but I read chunks and that's exactly what it comes across as. A man pretending. I was bad but you gave me a second chance, be kind, look after the planet and on it went. An essay of wokeness, another actor telling us that he knows better than us and we should do what he says, not what he does of course. Shallow as spit.
My Brexit vote was always a political issue but it became a moral one when the front page of the papers showed Bob Geldof flicking V signs and hurling profanities at Nigel Farage and a bunch of fishermen on the Thames. Ordinary fishermen who earned their living the hard way ridiculed by a so called pop star. Now, let me admit that I have some sympathy for Geldof having suffered tragedy and written beautifully of his daughter, Peaches but he's not alone in that. Apart from which, what's he really done? Made about 15minutes of memorable music and organised Live aid, well done but if he's the face of live aid Midge Ure was the heart and backbone. Anyway they raised a huge amount of money for famine relief. Fantastic, kudos, respect. Now, tell me why that gives him the right to denigrate, belittle, profane and insult a boat full of ordinary working fishermen who work every day in a hostile environment, none of whom would be unfamiliar with tragedy and serious injury. Geldof, shallow as spit.
On Brexit, too, my decision was reinforced by being called every unpleasant name under the sun by another luvvie, Hugh Grant. I mean, put him in front of the cameras on his own terms and its all cheesy grins and look at me. Photograph him outside toilets in L.A. soliciting prostitutes the press are the most evil people on earth, except for leave voters who are thick as well otherwise they wouldn't have voted as they did. I hope he realises he confirmed the rightness of my vote. Who is he to pontificate on such things. He can learn lines but even Joker played Johnny Cash, Grant only plays himself it seems to me and even I can do that. Shallow as spit.
Don't even mention Lineker, ex footballer, private life hardly exemplary, sells crisps. I like crisps. Don't like football even less footballers who say awful things about me as well. Another one, shallow as spit. I could go on. My brain wants to my finger doesn't.
I would like to know who lost their lives off Margate, though. The press won't be interested unless of course, they are celebrities but I doubt that. What I do not doubt is that those two bodies recovered from the sea have families who are distraught, in the inky depths of sorrow, despair leaving the dried tear tracks just that bit harder to wipe away. We won't hear about them but we can mourn for those who mourn, whose lives have forever changed in an instant. Those left behind are going to have to face each day with a degree of bravery and the quiet heroism that just makes you get on and do what needs to be done.
You want to to know what heroism costs? Speak to the partners of those in bed in the early hours of a cold and stormy night when a pager goes off and they're left behind. Want to see a hero? Don't bother asking those who respond to the pagers, not one would consider themselves brave, let alone heroic. They're just ordinary people you'd pass in the street, glad to be able to help when it really matters but more glad to be left alone afterwards.
Real heroes, Google Bill Deacon, washed off a winchwire trying to rescue the crew of a ship in a storm under the Hebridean cliffs. Look at the names carved in stone on Penlee lifeboat house wall, or St.Ives, Fraserborough, Broughty Ferry et al.
You can learn more in a throwaway line from a person who's lived a life than a lifetime paying heed to celebrities and their luvvie hangers on who being shallow as spit have nothing to offer except by way of warning. I actually feel sorry for them in their insular, isolated luvvie bubbles, fawning studios and baying crowds of aspirants there lies a great fear, I suspect the greatest is the fear of dying alone. Or maybe it's being found out for being what they are, shallow as spit.
Thanks, Charlie. Such a depth of wisdom, made growing up where and when I did a privilege and being amongst real people who said it as it is more precious than gold.
Yesterday morning I noted a news report that emergency services had recovered two bodies from the sea off Margate, Kent. At or about 0520 pagers summoned the local coastguard teams, their helicopter crews and the crew and shore helpers of Margate lifeboat. I could picture every detail. Ordinary blokes responding in the darkness and storm in an instant to go to the aid of a couple of people they didn't know, not that it mattered at all,
That was it. By tea time the airwaves, internet and tv was awash with Caroline Flack. I had no idea who she was but she'd taken her own life at 40. Very sad. It seems to me that she was a minor celebrity who had climbed to celeb status by standing in front of cameras to flash her teeth and curves. Suddenly there were showers of Twitter extolling her virtues, singing her praises, unsmiling smileys abounded. One caught my ear, she had so many friends it told us. Shallow as spit.
When it really mattered she never had a friend in the world, not one she could go to, not one she could ring, she was utterly alone. Suicide is a terrible and complex thing and rarely when it is intended will it fail to succeed. It should be recognised that the state of mind must have been in unbearable turmoil which I suggest should warrant something more than emojis and tweets that are shallow as spit.
Some time this week or next we will be shown the luvvies attending her funeral. They'll make sure there's a gap between them as they parade to the door so as to ensure that they don't have to share the camera frame with anyone else. They will be hemmed in by crush barriers to keep the crowds back. The crowds with their camera phones to the fore hoping for a shot of some celeb or other and hopefully a selfie. Mourners? I think not, in their worId it's about being seen. I suspect that without press, cameras and adoring public the attendees would be noticeably fewer.
Indeed, the week began with We buy any car.schofield confessing his gayness live on air. I wasn't watching but you couldn't avoid the luvvie responders. Characteristically shallow as spit. I know nothing of him except that he began on hospital radio in Derriford and I only know that because the hospital radio man told me when I was in there. So, Schofield was able to find a shoulder to cry on, in the full glare of a tv studio, of course. Ooooo, aaaaah, hero, such bravery, we're all so proud of you and so it went on sounding somewhat less than sincere. Reminded me of sick dropping into a bucket.
I knew I was gay before I got married, he told the members of his adoring bubble. Then why did you get married? Because in those days to be identified as homosexual would hardly have furthered you career, thus marriage was the easiest option, it was self serving, self centred and utterly gutless, spineless. It used to be called cowardice and was not looked on favourably. But times have changed, to identify as homosexual now gives kudos, admiration, pats on the back and more fame yet, so it was worth wrecking a marriage, putting space between those you say you loved.
Bravery, being heroic would have cost, but then, it always does. The right thing to do, the courageous thing to do, the brave thing to do would have been to stand by the vows you made, take the hit and kept quiet about it. But self serving selfishness combined with spineless cowardice made it all a price worth paying. Shallow as spit.
Then we had Joker preaching to us at the oscars. A man recognised as being good at learning lines and pretending to be someone he isn't. I didn't see it, haven't heard it but I read chunks and that's exactly what it comes across as. A man pretending. I was bad but you gave me a second chance, be kind, look after the planet and on it went. An essay of wokeness, another actor telling us that he knows better than us and we should do what he says, not what he does of course. Shallow as spit.
My Brexit vote was always a political issue but it became a moral one when the front page of the papers showed Bob Geldof flicking V signs and hurling profanities at Nigel Farage and a bunch of fishermen on the Thames. Ordinary fishermen who earned their living the hard way ridiculed by a so called pop star. Now, let me admit that I have some sympathy for Geldof having suffered tragedy and written beautifully of his daughter, Peaches but he's not alone in that. Apart from which, what's he really done? Made about 15minutes of memorable music and organised Live aid, well done but if he's the face of live aid Midge Ure was the heart and backbone. Anyway they raised a huge amount of money for famine relief. Fantastic, kudos, respect. Now, tell me why that gives him the right to denigrate, belittle, profane and insult a boat full of ordinary working fishermen who work every day in a hostile environment, none of whom would be unfamiliar with tragedy and serious injury. Geldof, shallow as spit.
On Brexit, too, my decision was reinforced by being called every unpleasant name under the sun by another luvvie, Hugh Grant. I mean, put him in front of the cameras on his own terms and its all cheesy grins and look at me. Photograph him outside toilets in L.A. soliciting prostitutes the press are the most evil people on earth, except for leave voters who are thick as well otherwise they wouldn't have voted as they did. I hope he realises he confirmed the rightness of my vote. Who is he to pontificate on such things. He can learn lines but even Joker played Johnny Cash, Grant only plays himself it seems to me and even I can do that. Shallow as spit.
Don't even mention Lineker, ex footballer, private life hardly exemplary, sells crisps. I like crisps. Don't like football even less footballers who say awful things about me as well. Another one, shallow as spit. I could go on. My brain wants to my finger doesn't.
I would like to know who lost their lives off Margate, though. The press won't be interested unless of course, they are celebrities but I doubt that. What I do not doubt is that those two bodies recovered from the sea have families who are distraught, in the inky depths of sorrow, despair leaving the dried tear tracks just that bit harder to wipe away. We won't hear about them but we can mourn for those who mourn, whose lives have forever changed in an instant. Those left behind are going to have to face each day with a degree of bravery and the quiet heroism that just makes you get on and do what needs to be done.
You want to to know what heroism costs? Speak to the partners of those in bed in the early hours of a cold and stormy night when a pager goes off and they're left behind. Want to see a hero? Don't bother asking those who respond to the pagers, not one would consider themselves brave, let alone heroic. They're just ordinary people you'd pass in the street, glad to be able to help when it really matters but more glad to be left alone afterwards.
Real heroes, Google Bill Deacon, washed off a winchwire trying to rescue the crew of a ship in a storm under the Hebridean cliffs. Look at the names carved in stone on Penlee lifeboat house wall, or St.Ives, Fraserborough, Broughty Ferry et al.
You can learn more in a throwaway line from a person who's lived a life than a lifetime paying heed to celebrities and their luvvie hangers on who being shallow as spit have nothing to offer except by way of warning. I actually feel sorry for them in their insular, isolated luvvie bubbles, fawning studios and baying crowds of aspirants there lies a great fear, I suspect the greatest is the fear of dying alone. Or maybe it's being found out for being what they are, shallow as spit.
Thanks, Charlie. Such a depth of wisdom, made growing up where and when I did a privilege and being amongst real people who said it as it is more precious than gold.
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
The descent to perfection
Last evening as Leonard Cohen entertained with his words of wit, wisdom and timeless truth I came across an article bemoaning the demise of printed magazines. The claim was made that it was largely caused by "influencers" who attracted advertisers budgets to their online sites. Now, I confess, I have no idea what an "influencer" is but I do know what makes a good magazine. Specifically, quality prose and visually arresting art. This led me to a consideration of a couple of tall piles of magazines in the small bedroom upstairs.
In the days when Car Magazine was a much anticiated monthly event the longed for parts were written by George Bishop, who may have mentioned a car or two as he wrote mainly about the cuisine he encountered on his journeys to collect said cars. But the highlight was always LJK Setright. As well as road tests he had two monthly columns, "Handlebars" which focused on motorbikes and "Any other business" which didn't. The piles of Car are supplemented with interspaced Supercar Classics. The latter was eagerly awaited for the quality of the artwork, the Car photos were excellent apart form a little overuse of graduated filters but Supercar Classics were something else, and by far the best parts of it were the pages containing illustrations by Bob Freeman.
In the early hours of this morning I was thinking of LJKS, died at least 15 years ago in his 70's but the finest automotive writer to have ever written. I read tomes of engineering books, magazines, papers, anything, but to mis quote The Boss, I learned more from a 10 minute consideration of LJKS than I ever did from them. He was erudite. He knew stuff. Not just car stuff, an engineer, a musician, a conisseur of everything fine in life and he could write. His writing flows, it caresses, it is to be savoured. It's only words on paper but it's a bit like a toasted tea cake and butter. Apart they're not a big deal but together the butter melts into the cake and it visbly gets better before your very eyes, the anticipation of it is a delight, the eating of it an end in itself. It leaves you wanting more, just like articles by LJKS.
I remember he once did a piece comparing a Rolls to a Bentley and in describing their suspension characteristics he likened landing a Rolls to his old Linn Ittok tonearm, it landed, he said, gracefully and under control with only the very slightest rebound as the stylus took up its position but if observed carefully from head on it was possible to discern the slightest sideways movement, the Bentley landed like his new Ittok, the one I have, landed with a little less vertical rebound than the former but looked at from head on no matter how studiously observed you could detect no latertal deflection whatsoever.... You've got to love that. Yumping RR's and Bentleys. Mind you he once remarked after taking a 3.8 E-Type Mk1 from London to Great Malvern via Oxford and Cheltemham parking up one was aware that the previous 105 miles were covered in just under 90 minutes .... on crossplies!
On another occasion he described his VW Scirocco Storm as unsuited to this tyre, suited to this but best suited to that before going into an explanation of rubber hysteresis, slip angles, spring rates, damping and the iniquity (his word) of ever thicker anti roll bars. From that moment on I have never had a car with anything but seriously decent rubber on each wheel. Indeed, just last week when a friend with a Jazz, newer than ours, came over he was bemoaning its tendency to run wide on corners. Fit such and such Bridgestones I said. We have and ours holds its line like it was on rails, bearing in mind that a Jazz is probably incapable of overwhelming a decent tyre anyway. Our old Lexus had some amazingly grippy Bridgestones fitted when we had the suspension optimised .... just a little bit! The Merc has Michelin Pilot Sports on and we had them on a previous Jazz and our old Rover GTi. I suppose LJKS was an influencer.
By far the most eloquent piece I remember him writing got me into trouble as I once used it in a personnel report when I described a person as approaching perfection in an engineering environment, not terribly wise, or clever, me. LJKS stated that in engineering terms the closer one approached simplicity the nearer one approached perfection. KISS, keep it simple, stupid but he's right. A good engineer will make a machine perform using the minimum of components. I have applied that to many things, a fixie bike, a Lancia Strato's, my Fuji x100. It doesn't call for minimalism, it calls for the most efficient use of materials and space needed for the item to do its job well and reliably.
Thus in the silent darkness of the early hours I was thinkling of my descent toward perfection. After all, what is the minimum I need? A bit of strength and control to draw air into my lungs and a heart to pump the oxygenated blood to my brain. Pretty minimal, eh? Just not much fun. The lungs are strugling, almost vainly at times, the heart seems OK and once the drugs wane a bit the brain livens up. Even going upstairs last night someone inside tried to cut their way out with an assegai stinging into my lower right side. My right neck, shoulder, upper arm hurt. My belly ached. It's like a broad belt being inexorably tightened which in turn aggravates the breathing. It's not nice. Enduring it is not nice but the thoughts engendered are worse. But the most horrible part is responding to the one beside you when asked a question. What comes out is not very nice and apologies are called for just as soon as you realise what you've said and who you've said it to.
Fortunately my cogitation of the descent into perfection was interrupted by the need for relief. Under the influence of whatever morph is most potent the desire manifests itself hastily which is OK if you can move fast. Our toilet at the other end of the landing is adorned with picture rail. Over the years I've restored the picture rail to all our rooms bar one and the offcuts are fixed in the toilet. Adopting the manly position one is left face to face with a framed Bob Freeman. It depicts a detail water colour and ink drawing of the left hand bank of a Maserati V8 complete with Bob's annotations. Like the magazines it was a bequest from my colleague and dear friend, Justin, at whose funeral I should have eulogised but I was in Singleton Hospital, Swansea in the ICU for babies, our grandson having been born the day before 3 months premature.
I learned how I ought to see from a book called The art of seeing by John Berenger but a day with Bob Freeman taught me how to see. Even if that engine, perfectly depicted had never worked it remains a thing of beauty. Indeed, what I learned most from my time with Bob was how nice a bloke he was and how to see what is truly beautiful. He called it the ABC, the Accidentally Beautiful Consequence. Anything well made (and he was specifically talking of the Curtiss Aero engine in The British Museum) and made to work well will be beautiful. It is not made to be beautiful, it's beauty comes from being able to do what it's designer intended. The Maserati on our toilet wall is a thing of beauty.
I can still think, write this nonsense, enjoy music, even Leonard Cohen, I can speak albeit a bit quietly at times, I must apologise, I can still engage D and my right foot still dances on the pedals, albeit a little slower but everything about my life is.
Magazines are not going bust beacuse of their advertising revenue going to influencers, they are going bust because their writers and graphic artists are just writers and graphic software users. There is poetry in Bob's Maserati as there is in the writing of LJKS, there's information, too from a life lived not a jobsworth writer, there's romance and erudition, learning and all together these make the joy of reading LJKS or looking at Bob Freeman's work a delight in themselves.
Indeed, that's what art is all about, taking you somewhere, preferably somewhere better somewhere you want to be. So much currently displayed is the product of angry minds, disturbed by life, rightly filled with injustices, cruelty base human characteristics but I know anger, I know pain, I know distress, I know injustice but I want to be taken somwhere else, I don't want to engage with the mind of a distraught artist with an agenda to shock. Indeed, when so many try to shock it becomes commonplace, unable to shock it ends up being ignored which is surely the worst outcome for any artist. Maybe that's why I was so grateful to Princess Kate for her holocaust portraits in full on Rembrandt lighting. Shocking subjects, beautiful art. Bravo, Kate.
Even at its' most indivisible there's beauty. I have become aware that when tired I've been shuffling, surfing the furniture and doorways. My feet have noted the thresholds that they never noticed before so at the threshold I look down to see it and there's a beautiful piece of polished oak. It brings a joy, a delight and removes the thoughts blighted by recognising increasing inablities. Art literal, visual, aural, when it can take you somewhere nice, fill your mind with pleasue, displace the pain of reality is doing it's job, making statements of the obvious can be done by anyone, seeing beauty is only for those with minds open to it.
I shall shortly go up and dig out some of Justin's old magazines again and reread bits of them just for the thrill of reading them, after all they're 60's, 70's, 80's and a few 90's so not exactly current. But as Keats said, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. I don't expect many magazines in Smiths this morning will be kept for weeks, let alone cherished for decades.
So the descent to perfection is not yet complete but I'm on the way and one day I shall be made perfect, but not whilst still living in this world.
 |
| Decades of Car, years of Supercar Classics |
In the days when Car Magazine was a much anticiated monthly event the longed for parts were written by George Bishop, who may have mentioned a car or two as he wrote mainly about the cuisine he encountered on his journeys to collect said cars. But the highlight was always LJK Setright. As well as road tests he had two monthly columns, "Handlebars" which focused on motorbikes and "Any other business" which didn't. The piles of Car are supplemented with interspaced Supercar Classics. The latter was eagerly awaited for the quality of the artwork, the Car photos were excellent apart form a little overuse of graduated filters but Supercar Classics were something else, and by far the best parts of it were the pages containing illustrations by Bob Freeman.
In the early hours of this morning I was thinking of LJKS, died at least 15 years ago in his 70's but the finest automotive writer to have ever written. I read tomes of engineering books, magazines, papers, anything, but to mis quote The Boss, I learned more from a 10 minute consideration of LJKS than I ever did from them. He was erudite. He knew stuff. Not just car stuff, an engineer, a musician, a conisseur of everything fine in life and he could write. His writing flows, it caresses, it is to be savoured. It's only words on paper but it's a bit like a toasted tea cake and butter. Apart they're not a big deal but together the butter melts into the cake and it visbly gets better before your very eyes, the anticipation of it is a delight, the eating of it an end in itself. It leaves you wanting more, just like articles by LJKS.
I remember he once did a piece comparing a Rolls to a Bentley and in describing their suspension characteristics he likened landing a Rolls to his old Linn Ittok tonearm, it landed, he said, gracefully and under control with only the very slightest rebound as the stylus took up its position but if observed carefully from head on it was possible to discern the slightest sideways movement, the Bentley landed like his new Ittok, the one I have, landed with a little less vertical rebound than the former but looked at from head on no matter how studiously observed you could detect no latertal deflection whatsoever.... You've got to love that. Yumping RR's and Bentleys. Mind you he once remarked after taking a 3.8 E-Type Mk1 from London to Great Malvern via Oxford and Cheltemham parking up one was aware that the previous 105 miles were covered in just under 90 minutes .... on crossplies!
On another occasion he described his VW Scirocco Storm as unsuited to this tyre, suited to this but best suited to that before going into an explanation of rubber hysteresis, slip angles, spring rates, damping and the iniquity (his word) of ever thicker anti roll bars. From that moment on I have never had a car with anything but seriously decent rubber on each wheel. Indeed, just last week when a friend with a Jazz, newer than ours, came over he was bemoaning its tendency to run wide on corners. Fit such and such Bridgestones I said. We have and ours holds its line like it was on rails, bearing in mind that a Jazz is probably incapable of overwhelming a decent tyre anyway. Our old Lexus had some amazingly grippy Bridgestones fitted when we had the suspension optimised .... just a little bit! The Merc has Michelin Pilot Sports on and we had them on a previous Jazz and our old Rover GTi. I suppose LJKS was an influencer.
By far the most eloquent piece I remember him writing got me into trouble as I once used it in a personnel report when I described a person as approaching perfection in an engineering environment, not terribly wise, or clever, me. LJKS stated that in engineering terms the closer one approached simplicity the nearer one approached perfection. KISS, keep it simple, stupid but he's right. A good engineer will make a machine perform using the minimum of components. I have applied that to many things, a fixie bike, a Lancia Strato's, my Fuji x100. It doesn't call for minimalism, it calls for the most efficient use of materials and space needed for the item to do its job well and reliably.
Thus in the silent darkness of the early hours I was thinkling of my descent toward perfection. After all, what is the minimum I need? A bit of strength and control to draw air into my lungs and a heart to pump the oxygenated blood to my brain. Pretty minimal, eh? Just not much fun. The lungs are strugling, almost vainly at times, the heart seems OK and once the drugs wane a bit the brain livens up. Even going upstairs last night someone inside tried to cut their way out with an assegai stinging into my lower right side. My right neck, shoulder, upper arm hurt. My belly ached. It's like a broad belt being inexorably tightened which in turn aggravates the breathing. It's not nice. Enduring it is not nice but the thoughts engendered are worse. But the most horrible part is responding to the one beside you when asked a question. What comes out is not very nice and apologies are called for just as soon as you realise what you've said and who you've said it to.
Fortunately my cogitation of the descent into perfection was interrupted by the need for relief. Under the influence of whatever morph is most potent the desire manifests itself hastily which is OK if you can move fast. Our toilet at the other end of the landing is adorned with picture rail. Over the years I've restored the picture rail to all our rooms bar one and the offcuts are fixed in the toilet. Adopting the manly position one is left face to face with a framed Bob Freeman. It depicts a detail water colour and ink drawing of the left hand bank of a Maserati V8 complete with Bob's annotations. Like the magazines it was a bequest from my colleague and dear friend, Justin, at whose funeral I should have eulogised but I was in Singleton Hospital, Swansea in the ICU for babies, our grandson having been born the day before 3 months premature.
I learned how I ought to see from a book called The art of seeing by John Berenger but a day with Bob Freeman taught me how to see. Even if that engine, perfectly depicted had never worked it remains a thing of beauty. Indeed, what I learned most from my time with Bob was how nice a bloke he was and how to see what is truly beautiful. He called it the ABC, the Accidentally Beautiful Consequence. Anything well made (and he was specifically talking of the Curtiss Aero engine in The British Museum) and made to work well will be beautiful. It is not made to be beautiful, it's beauty comes from being able to do what it's designer intended. The Maserati on our toilet wall is a thing of beauty.
I can still think, write this nonsense, enjoy music, even Leonard Cohen, I can speak albeit a bit quietly at times, I must apologise, I can still engage D and my right foot still dances on the pedals, albeit a little slower but everything about my life is.
Magazines are not going bust beacuse of their advertising revenue going to influencers, they are going bust because their writers and graphic artists are just writers and graphic software users. There is poetry in Bob's Maserati as there is in the writing of LJKS, there's information, too from a life lived not a jobsworth writer, there's romance and erudition, learning and all together these make the joy of reading LJKS or looking at Bob Freeman's work a delight in themselves.
Indeed, that's what art is all about, taking you somewhere, preferably somewhere better somewhere you want to be. So much currently displayed is the product of angry minds, disturbed by life, rightly filled with injustices, cruelty base human characteristics but I know anger, I know pain, I know distress, I know injustice but I want to be taken somwhere else, I don't want to engage with the mind of a distraught artist with an agenda to shock. Indeed, when so many try to shock it becomes commonplace, unable to shock it ends up being ignored which is surely the worst outcome for any artist. Maybe that's why I was so grateful to Princess Kate for her holocaust portraits in full on Rembrandt lighting. Shocking subjects, beautiful art. Bravo, Kate.
Even at its' most indivisible there's beauty. I have become aware that when tired I've been shuffling, surfing the furniture and doorways. My feet have noted the thresholds that they never noticed before so at the threshold I look down to see it and there's a beautiful piece of polished oak. It brings a joy, a delight and removes the thoughts blighted by recognising increasing inablities. Art literal, visual, aural, when it can take you somewhere nice, fill your mind with pleasue, displace the pain of reality is doing it's job, making statements of the obvious can be done by anyone, seeing beauty is only for those with minds open to it.
I shall shortly go up and dig out some of Justin's old magazines again and reread bits of them just for the thrill of reading them, after all they're 60's, 70's, 80's and a few 90's so not exactly current. But as Keats said, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. I don't expect many magazines in Smiths this morning will be kept for weeks, let alone cherished for decades.
So the descent to perfection is not yet complete but I'm on the way and one day I shall be made perfect, but not whilst still living in this world.
Monday, February 10, 2020
Our first electric car.
I'm going green, or so it seems, our first electric car has been ordered. A BMW Something. I've been looking around for my carbon footprint, alas it has eluded me thus far. I'm sure I must have one as it says so all over the interweb but if you can't see it how do you offset it? We have planted a tree to take the place of all the ones we had in our garden but which we elected to burn as it seemed a green thing to do. Kept us warm, cleaner than coal, too. So now we have ordered an electric car. Go us, yay!
I've read the science, too. I must confess to being a bit fed up with teenage Swedes telling me to listen to the scientists without telling me which ones. I get the distinct impression that her and her unthinking ilk only want us to listen to the ones they agree with, though. I've just read a paper explaining why the infrastructure to maintain a totally electric future is beyond reach, even with science fiction technology.
I've just read, too about he stupidity of all the green doomsayers going on about fossil fuels when tyres don't get a mention. Consider.... every car has four tyres each beginning with 14mm of useful tread. We get rid of them when there's 1.6mm left. Now, ask the question, where does the 12.4mm of rubber go?
We can see that some of it burns off as smoke when we lose traction by the injudicious use of power. It smells nice, looks good and leaves a smug grin but the enjoyment is mostly felt by the tyre manufacturers. However, tyre smoke is totally insignificant and most cars are unable to put enough power through the driven wheels anyway. We don't see clouds of rubber wafting about and apart from shredded lorry tyres lying along the motorway we don't see any other rubber anywhere. But it has to go somewhere.
We hear of micro plastic inhabiting even the deepest oceans, that's not empty drinks bottles or bacon packets from Tescos, is it? Could it be over a century of tyre rubber? After all, our tyres disappear, the rain washes the roads, the water is collected in drains and eventually ends up all at sea. Tyre wear is so gradual that we only notice it once the tyre is worn out and I doubt that there is a water filtration plant in the world that can remove the naturally worn tyre rubber particles from the water passing through. Strange that no one ever mentions it. Strange too, that no one ever mentions the weight of cars After all the weight largely determines tyre wear. Thus volume for volume a petrol engined car is likely to be lighter than a diesel and batteries, well? Lifted any electric motors recently? Ever noticed how large the tyres on a Tesla are?
Sorry that was a bit of a rant but that's nothing to how stupid we are over beefburgers. Give up meat say the vegans, its cruel to keep animals for food, they say. Eat plants. They say this whilst walking their dogs. Get rid of dogs and cats and you could reduce cattle by well over 30%, look at every dog, every cat and think, there's a tin of cow every day for the life of the dog or cat on average. Thats a lot of cows feeding the cats and dogs that litter our world. So, get rid of the dogs and cats, working ones excepted, of course and we'd do a great deal to combat climate change at a stroke and I could still enjoy beefburgers. Excellent. It would also get rid of the autumnal harvest of black bags left in every hedge along every path in this country, too. Result.
Whilst I'm on about these vegan types, have they considered how plants grow? I only ask as I read recently that every inch of mature topsoil took 500 years to mature. The best fertiliser is dung so farm animals help there. Plants take nutrients out, animals put it back. Rotate crops and animals, job done, environmentally most friendly.
Ditch the animals and make us all eat plant based concoctions and eventually we'd need artificial fertilisers. Insecticides, too if we needed sustained volumes as well. Seems to me thousands of years of farmers farming actually knew what they were doing after all. Todays moaning evangelical vegan may just end up destroying the very planet they all seem so eager to save. Makes me wonder how we ever managed to get to 2020 without adopting their ideals. Maybe we just thought about things with a grain of intelligence applied to knowledge as opposed to mindlessly adopting the current fad. No worries, though, it'll be something else next week.
Anyway, an electric BMW arrived today.
I know a soon to be 4yr old who'll love it.
Thursday, February 06, 2020
World Cancer Day, really?
Tuesday 4th February was, so I'm told, World Cancer Day 2020. Is there any day that isn't world something day, so many in fact that irrelevance through overkill beckons and is anyone unaware of cancer?
My day began poorly, long night waiting for Oramorph to join the Zomorph and unite in the battle against the belly and right side. Eventually they must have managed because I remember waking up, grabbing the paracetamol and waiting till 1000 for the next dose of Zomorph. I may have plundered the box a little early.
Our friend from round the corner came at 1030 and two coffees were a joy, alas my company must have been a matter of endurance for her but she was spared an awkward exit as I knew that the caffeine fix was the precursor to her Pilates.
Feeling a bit more human I was delightfully surprised by a great friend with whom I spent 25 years in a workshop, ringing the doorbell at about 1230. A couple of hours flew by. History flowed and current affairs intruded. He knows me so well that he makes every conversation easy and is unafraid to raise issues that few others would. Today I was appraised of The Death Cafe, meeting an evening every month in a library in our nearest city centre. I may like to go but running from 1900 - 2100 is mostly past my bedtime or at least eating into my listening time.
I found the whole notion of a Death Cafe hugely interesting but would I go? No. I'd be too disruptive, too certain of things that most expend energy to remain uncertain of. The fact that people desire to talk about death does not mean that they are prepared to think about it, think deeply, long and hard. One of the saddest signs of this is the clap for a minute mentality that has usurped the minutes silence. Thinking for a minute is hard work and may not be pleasant when the object of ones thought is death.
There is nothing good about cancer. Absolutely nothing. It is a vile disease. It is when cells selfishly do their own thing with no regard for the good of the organism sustaining them. It is a wicked disease. You cannot fight it, even though celebrity deaths generate headlines of their brave fight it's rubbish. The most you can do with cancer is thank the nurses, drink as much water as you can before they need to put a needle into you and offer your arms willingly. You cannot do anything to stop a maliciously multiplying cell from doing that which it is designed to do. Drugs can but you can't.
Death is different. Firstly the death rate is about 100% last time I looked. It happens. And it is a horrible thing. You can dress it up however you like, he/she are in the other room, they've sailed away, gone outside. So much nonsense prevails. The dead are dead. They aren't coming through the front door ever again, they aren't going to ring and you can't ring them, no more emails, no more whatsapps no more communication. No more photo de jour. No one to advise in their area of expertise. No one to tell you to not be so stupid. Not there. Not living. Dead. Full stop. Final. Precious memories but death is death. You can't dress it up as any other, no matter how nice the clapping, tweeting, sadface icons or whatever.
Whether I like it or not Paul is never going to drive our Merc. Every time I get in it that's my first thought. He would have loved it. He'd have taken his wife off in it, after checking the fuel gauge and left us with a grandson. He'd have come back with a grin a mile wide and a somewhat lighter fuel tank. But he will never do it. He died before we got it. Death is unavoidable and it is a terrible thing.
However, it is not the end and this is why I'd be so disruptive at a Death Cafe. With no agenda, no rules, no definition it's left up to you so it would be a talking shop. Ideas would be exchanged and comfort sought. Comfort in mindfulness and calm, comfort in spirituality, reincarnation, whatever brings you a degree of peace. What it could not cope with is certainty. As soon as you insert certainty and a confidence into such a situation it destroys whatever peace there is and inevitably brings conflict simply because if I'm right it logically means that everyone else is wrong and we simply can't have that, can we?
As a whole western society appears ever more frightened of certainty. Worse, we deny the fact that one can be certain. Lately, if you are certain of pretty much anything it's labelled "hate" and the police come knocking. It is inevitable once we allow such laxity in the meaning of words we become like Alice, a word can mean whatever I want it to mean. Thus, certainty now equates with hate simply because it challenges uncertainty and as long as we remain uncertain we can cope, we are happy but certainty brings challenge. It brings rational and logical challenges to our mindset. We are forced to decide what is true and what is not. That is challenging me. It is so much eaiser to let your truth be yours and let mine be mine. Just think of the logic of that for a minute in silence. That results in conflicted thinking. I dont like it so it's hate. That shuts the door of our minds, bolts it, locks it and swallows the key.
All our views are equally valid we are told, comfort and being kind is most important. No. Truth is all that matters. Not my truth or your truth but absolute truth. Its not about what I may or may not think, its what you know to be true. However, I'm nobody special. I have no great intellect. I have nothing special in my thinking that I would seek to offer anyone else. What I do have is an unshakeable faith in Jesus Christ, the one written about in the bible. I offer nothing, Jesus offers everything. The faith of Christianity is not a vague belief in a book, its not a mindset that sorts problems. It is a person. A very special person who the entire bible is devoted to showing us. The bible just paints word pictures to show us who Jesus is.
I can't help it if people belittle the bible, consider it nonsense and readily dismiss it for whatever reason they choose but if they do all I would ask them is have they read it? Most of the sceptics I've met haven't. At most they've read bits that are difficult, bits they find far fetched, bits they've read about or bits they just heard about. But rarely have they read it, rarer still without preconditions.
So, no, I couldn't go to a Death Cafe as all I have to offer is certainty and a hope that is set in concrete. I couldn't offer peace based on reincarnation mindfulness, being at one with nature or whatever else is on offer. If attendees find a degree of solace, comfort and peace in the company of others that is a wonderful thing for them and thus I heartily approve of the intentions behind the Death Cafe but for me there is only one who brings solace, comfort and lasting peace and I am satisfied in Him.
The God of the bible as shown by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is all I need. It's all I've got. It's what allows me to look at the edge of eternity and feel such a depth of excitement and joy that peace just fills every pore. I don't need discussion, or counselling I just need to know that when I die I'm going Home, to be with Jesus which is exactly what it says on Paul's headstone.
Unfortunately, after my friend left I went as well. Firstly to bed, waking up only after dark. Once woken I wobbled down to the back room for an hour or two and then back to bed where I'd like to say I slept soundly all night long. I didn't. But this morning I eventually came to feeling as bright as a dull day.
Today, however was calm and sunny so we went across the moors and saw my Dad in hospital. I'm not sure he knew my name but he knew who I was which was pretty good for a 90 year old who thought he was in Egypt. One day soon well meet in our new home and we'll all know who we are, where we are, why we are there and just who it is that brought us there.
Death isn't the end, what comes after is so much better and if you'll forgive me for saying so, sometimes I can't wait.
So that was World Cancer Day 2020, I hope today was World Visit Your Dad in Hospital Day, tomorow can be World Enjoy Roast Lamb With Friends Day and one day will be the day we finally go home day.
Peace, Joy and Comfort in abundance. A day to look forward to.
My day began poorly, long night waiting for Oramorph to join the Zomorph and unite in the battle against the belly and right side. Eventually they must have managed because I remember waking up, grabbing the paracetamol and waiting till 1000 for the next dose of Zomorph. I may have plundered the box a little early.
Our friend from round the corner came at 1030 and two coffees were a joy, alas my company must have been a matter of endurance for her but she was spared an awkward exit as I knew that the caffeine fix was the precursor to her Pilates.
Feeling a bit more human I was delightfully surprised by a great friend with whom I spent 25 years in a workshop, ringing the doorbell at about 1230. A couple of hours flew by. History flowed and current affairs intruded. He knows me so well that he makes every conversation easy and is unafraid to raise issues that few others would. Today I was appraised of The Death Cafe, meeting an evening every month in a library in our nearest city centre. I may like to go but running from 1900 - 2100 is mostly past my bedtime or at least eating into my listening time.
I found the whole notion of a Death Cafe hugely interesting but would I go? No. I'd be too disruptive, too certain of things that most expend energy to remain uncertain of. The fact that people desire to talk about death does not mean that they are prepared to think about it, think deeply, long and hard. One of the saddest signs of this is the clap for a minute mentality that has usurped the minutes silence. Thinking for a minute is hard work and may not be pleasant when the object of ones thought is death.
There is nothing good about cancer. Absolutely nothing. It is a vile disease. It is when cells selfishly do their own thing with no regard for the good of the organism sustaining them. It is a wicked disease. You cannot fight it, even though celebrity deaths generate headlines of their brave fight it's rubbish. The most you can do with cancer is thank the nurses, drink as much water as you can before they need to put a needle into you and offer your arms willingly. You cannot do anything to stop a maliciously multiplying cell from doing that which it is designed to do. Drugs can but you can't.
Death is different. Firstly the death rate is about 100% last time I looked. It happens. And it is a horrible thing. You can dress it up however you like, he/she are in the other room, they've sailed away, gone outside. So much nonsense prevails. The dead are dead. They aren't coming through the front door ever again, they aren't going to ring and you can't ring them, no more emails, no more whatsapps no more communication. No more photo de jour. No one to advise in their area of expertise. No one to tell you to not be so stupid. Not there. Not living. Dead. Full stop. Final. Precious memories but death is death. You can't dress it up as any other, no matter how nice the clapping, tweeting, sadface icons or whatever.
Whether I like it or not Paul is never going to drive our Merc. Every time I get in it that's my first thought. He would have loved it. He'd have taken his wife off in it, after checking the fuel gauge and left us with a grandson. He'd have come back with a grin a mile wide and a somewhat lighter fuel tank. But he will never do it. He died before we got it. Death is unavoidable and it is a terrible thing.
However, it is not the end and this is why I'd be so disruptive at a Death Cafe. With no agenda, no rules, no definition it's left up to you so it would be a talking shop. Ideas would be exchanged and comfort sought. Comfort in mindfulness and calm, comfort in spirituality, reincarnation, whatever brings you a degree of peace. What it could not cope with is certainty. As soon as you insert certainty and a confidence into such a situation it destroys whatever peace there is and inevitably brings conflict simply because if I'm right it logically means that everyone else is wrong and we simply can't have that, can we?
As a whole western society appears ever more frightened of certainty. Worse, we deny the fact that one can be certain. Lately, if you are certain of pretty much anything it's labelled "hate" and the police come knocking. It is inevitable once we allow such laxity in the meaning of words we become like Alice, a word can mean whatever I want it to mean. Thus, certainty now equates with hate simply because it challenges uncertainty and as long as we remain uncertain we can cope, we are happy but certainty brings challenge. It brings rational and logical challenges to our mindset. We are forced to decide what is true and what is not. That is challenging me. It is so much eaiser to let your truth be yours and let mine be mine. Just think of the logic of that for a minute in silence. That results in conflicted thinking. I dont like it so it's hate. That shuts the door of our minds, bolts it, locks it and swallows the key.
All our views are equally valid we are told, comfort and being kind is most important. No. Truth is all that matters. Not my truth or your truth but absolute truth. Its not about what I may or may not think, its what you know to be true. However, I'm nobody special. I have no great intellect. I have nothing special in my thinking that I would seek to offer anyone else. What I do have is an unshakeable faith in Jesus Christ, the one written about in the bible. I offer nothing, Jesus offers everything. The faith of Christianity is not a vague belief in a book, its not a mindset that sorts problems. It is a person. A very special person who the entire bible is devoted to showing us. The bible just paints word pictures to show us who Jesus is.
I can't help it if people belittle the bible, consider it nonsense and readily dismiss it for whatever reason they choose but if they do all I would ask them is have they read it? Most of the sceptics I've met haven't. At most they've read bits that are difficult, bits they find far fetched, bits they've read about or bits they just heard about. But rarely have they read it, rarer still without preconditions.
So, no, I couldn't go to a Death Cafe as all I have to offer is certainty and a hope that is set in concrete. I couldn't offer peace based on reincarnation mindfulness, being at one with nature or whatever else is on offer. If attendees find a degree of solace, comfort and peace in the company of others that is a wonderful thing for them and thus I heartily approve of the intentions behind the Death Cafe but for me there is only one who brings solace, comfort and lasting peace and I am satisfied in Him.
The God of the bible as shown by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is all I need. It's all I've got. It's what allows me to look at the edge of eternity and feel such a depth of excitement and joy that peace just fills every pore. I don't need discussion, or counselling I just need to know that when I die I'm going Home, to be with Jesus which is exactly what it says on Paul's headstone.
Today, however was calm and sunny so we went across the moors and saw my Dad in hospital. I'm not sure he knew my name but he knew who I was which was pretty good for a 90 year old who thought he was in Egypt. One day soon well meet in our new home and we'll all know who we are, where we are, why we are there and just who it is that brought us there.
Death isn't the end, what comes after is so much better and if you'll forgive me for saying so, sometimes I can't wait.
So that was World Cancer Day 2020, I hope today was World Visit Your Dad in Hospital Day, tomorow can be World Enjoy Roast Lamb With Friends Day and one day will be the day we finally go home day.
Peace, Joy and Comfort in abundance. A day to look forward to.
Sunday, February 02, 2020
Bitter Belated Brexit Blues
The first time that I had an opportunity to vote was in 1975 on the EEC. At that time I was a bit younger, far less wiser and may be not quite as cynical. The issue as far as I was concerned was fishing. I was used to the bay filling up with Frenchie Crapoos when the weather was poor. We even did some trade, various items were exchanged for canifs, very good home made ones et vino which was not my choice. I remember one of my trades was a gallon of paraffin, requested, collected from Fisherman's Co-op and scullied back out in a punt.
The French fishermen always struck me as to be not terribly well off but pleasant enough. Once we joined the very first thing we gave away was our fishing rights. It doesn't take a genius to see the result. Look on AIS and nearly every boat fishing from Start Point to the Smalls is from Roscoff, Concarneau, Duarnanez et al. Those ports pretty close to each other seem prosperous and their boats look state of the art. Their old boats adorn roundabouts. Our old boats are still in use, yes there's a few new ones but no where near as many as in France. Spain tells another story. I have watched Spanish fishermen land fish so small that they're hard to recognise. I once saw a box of monk being landed and each fish would have comfortably sat on a swan vesta box.
The 2016 referendum saw my vote cast in the same way and for the same reason because it seems to me that if the unelected autocrats pass a law we follow it to the letter, mainland Europe think about it and carry on as they always have done.
I am still disgusted at how our government was instructed to prosecute a few market traders who continued to mark fruit and veg in lbs and ozs. It sums up for me the iniquity and inequity of the EEC which became inexorably worse and politically ever more distant, undemocratic and ever more authoritarian as it morphed into the EU. Eventually it will become totalitarian because with ever closer union there's nowhere else to end up.
I love Europe, driving around France has been amongst the best drives I've ever had, Spanish beaches and hospitality utterly wonderful but the overriding political self aggrandisement of the EU and the endless promotion of failed minor politicians who end up placed in the highest positions by gift of their peers is abhorrent.
Given the choice I'd be walking this beach again tomorrow and I never did drive over the bridge at Millau.
Thus I was looking forward to the removal of the Union Flag from Brussels and Strasbourg. I even had my wish for a bottle of Italian fizz to be put in the fridge until 2300 last Friday night.
Alas, energy was draining quicker that an unaudited EU budget so at 2130 the bottle was opened, a very small amount put in a glass and sipped but by 2200 I was pilled up and crashed.
I missed it. That for which I had voted twice, the moment of sovereignty regained, the responsibility of our parliament to us who vote for or against them restored, the symbol of our nation removed from an aspirant imperious institution. I missed it.
However, in all honesty I haven't noticed any difference, but the crash promised by George Osborne immediately after the referendum, WW3 breaking out, the sky falling in, Cameron's dishonesty and Carneys pessimism is long forgotten. Indeed since Jeff Randall went off to play at racehorses I've never heard a sensible economist but I guess that none of them know what's going to happen either so they invariably spout pessimism on the off chance that they can come back to gloat and tell us they told us so but I think that the real reason for their pessimism lies in the media. Our media which will never expend effort to tell a good story when they can scare us silly. Or try to. Fortunately there is evidence to suggest that increasing numbers pay no attention to them.
I'm glad the beginning is over because I'm optimistic for what comes next and even if it isn't quite what we think it might be we can vote this crowd out and another lot in which is more than any in EU land can do to any of their commissioners.
The French fishermen always struck me as to be not terribly well off but pleasant enough. Once we joined the very first thing we gave away was our fishing rights. It doesn't take a genius to see the result. Look on AIS and nearly every boat fishing from Start Point to the Smalls is from Roscoff, Concarneau, Duarnanez et al. Those ports pretty close to each other seem prosperous and their boats look state of the art. Their old boats adorn roundabouts. Our old boats are still in use, yes there's a few new ones but no where near as many as in France. Spain tells another story. I have watched Spanish fishermen land fish so small that they're hard to recognise. I once saw a box of monk being landed and each fish would have comfortably sat on a swan vesta box.
The 2016 referendum saw my vote cast in the same way and for the same reason because it seems to me that if the unelected autocrats pass a law we follow it to the letter, mainland Europe think about it and carry on as they always have done.
I am still disgusted at how our government was instructed to prosecute a few market traders who continued to mark fruit and veg in lbs and ozs. It sums up for me the iniquity and inequity of the EEC which became inexorably worse and politically ever more distant, undemocratic and ever more authoritarian as it morphed into the EU. Eventually it will become totalitarian because with ever closer union there's nowhere else to end up.
I love Europe, driving around France has been amongst the best drives I've ever had, Spanish beaches and hospitality utterly wonderful but the overriding political self aggrandisement of the EU and the endless promotion of failed minor politicians who end up placed in the highest positions by gift of their peers is abhorrent.
Given the choice I'd be walking this beach again tomorrow and I never did drive over the bridge at Millau.
Alas, energy was draining quicker that an unaudited EU budget so at 2130 the bottle was opened, a very small amount put in a glass and sipped but by 2200 I was pilled up and crashed.
I missed it. That for which I had voted twice, the moment of sovereignty regained, the responsibility of our parliament to us who vote for or against them restored, the symbol of our nation removed from an aspirant imperious institution. I missed it.
However, in all honesty I haven't noticed any difference, but the crash promised by George Osborne immediately after the referendum, WW3 breaking out, the sky falling in, Cameron's dishonesty and Carneys pessimism is long forgotten. Indeed since Jeff Randall went off to play at racehorses I've never heard a sensible economist but I guess that none of them know what's going to happen either so they invariably spout pessimism on the off chance that they can come back to gloat and tell us they told us so but I think that the real reason for their pessimism lies in the media. Our media which will never expend effort to tell a good story when they can scare us silly. Or try to. Fortunately there is evidence to suggest that increasing numbers pay no attention to them.
I'm glad the beginning is over because I'm optimistic for what comes next and even if it isn't quite what we think it might be we can vote this crowd out and another lot in which is more than any in EU land can do to any of their commissioners.
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