Things on my Mind.

When I finally rolled out of bed this morning, a little later than normally because I had no plans at all for today, and filled the kettle for a cup of tea I looked at the smart meter which sits right by the breakfast counter. At first I thought it had gone wrong, perhaps it was broken? But no, everything else looked fine and I had to believe the rather alarming figure the meter showed. By midday, the total consumption for the day so far, without using any electricity except that first cup of tea and things like fridge and freezer, clocks and other stand-byes, had reached the charge that even last week would be my total cost for an ordinary day without laundry, vacuum cleaning or other heavy uses of electricity. Twice the cost already and in October energy prices are increasing by another 80%! And again in January. There are people in this country whose income is less than the cost of their energy. How are they going to manage? It's utterly frightening. And winter's just around the corner.

At the same time there are "preppers", millionaires and billionaires, I read this morning, who are discussing among themselves and with consultants, how best to organise life in underground bunkers come the inevitable collapse of society, for whatever reason. Climate change, mass migration, nuclear winter, a plague worse than Covid, you name it, they are preparing for it. Or so they think. Several of them have already retained small armies to defend their underground fortresses. When it's all over and they crawl back into whatever light of day there still is, do they think that their money will see them through? Money will be worthless in a post-apocalyptic world and they themselves will be surplus to requirements. Strikes me that only skilled people will survive, bakers, gardeners, engineers, etc. and any Navy Seal who knows the whereabouts of the preppers' food and water stores will make damn sure they will get their share of it, by whatever means.

For those of you who say 'don't believe everything you read' this very long and reputable article named names, quoted sources and was signed off by a 'consultant' who had been hired to advise the tech titans.

Some of you have asked "is the shroud + scaffolding gone?" No it isn't, and not likely to for some time, the very least until the end of October. As if I weren't miserable enough yet. I have cut small holes and gaps into the shroud, but I will soon be cutting larger windows. I have asked my solicitor to explore if I can have compensation. If only it weren't so expensive to involve legal experts like solicitors and judges.

On a lighter note: I watched the 1940 film of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' with Greer Garson, Maureen O'Sullivan and Laurence Olivier on TV at the weekend. (Do those names mean anything to people nowadays other than to such as me at my advanced age?) I have seen many newer versions on the BBC, some very recent, and I have to admit that the MGM 1940s version was a bit of a letdown. Large chunks of plot were left out, the women wore clothes from different eras, Regency customs were mercilessly adulterated, and the characters hardly developed from beginning to end of the film. Jane Austen's old dragon Lady Catherine de Burgh was turned into a fond aunt, I ask you. Mr. Darcy did not rise from the lake in his frilly shirt as Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy did in the 1995 version, much the best in my opinion of all the many adaptations. 

And then best news of all: it's finally raining!

We've never had it so good.

All the windows are shut, on both sides of the house. Curtains are drawn, as are blinds. The only door wide open is the kitchen door, mainly to aid the heat from the ever-on Aga to escape. England is sweltering. There are two more days of extreme heat forecast before thunderstorms are predicted. All heat waves in England end in thunderstorms, we desperately need rain. This is all so very un-English; very few houses in the country have AC, up to now you are more likely to need functioning insulation to keep your house sheltered from the winter cold, also normally a moderate affair, Moderate temperatures is what the weather amounts to here, winter and summer, with rain more often than not. Not any longer.

Climate change is here. Many parts of the world suffer far worse than we do. Because I keep the windows wide open during the night and early morning and then march through the rooms sealing everything hermetically, it is bearably cool. I cannot imagine what people in small flats without easy access to greenery have to live with. Just like it was during lockdown, unimaginable. 

The weather has captured the main part of the news. The elderly are warned to stay hydrated, keep out of the sun, work as little as we can get away with, forget about BBQs because of fire danger. There is this panic in the air, as if heat is an enemy threatening our very existence.

As if we didn't have enough to contend with; after Covid - which is still rampant and predicted to be worse during winter - came Ukraine. The Russians are occupying the biggest nuclear power station in Europe which happens to be in Ukraine. Shelling and bombardment put the plant at risk and we are back to the fear of a nuclear holocaust in Europe. 

Want more? How about the energy crisis? Millions of people  in the UK face energy poverty. Eat or heat, that is the question. How do you tell your children that you cannot afford to keep them fed as well as warm? Energy bills have doubled this year and will again from October and then again increase in January. Add to that increased food bills, crops dying in fields and shortages on supermarket shelves, hosepipe bans and water shortages.

But there is always the government to make things better, isn't there? Oops, the Tories are shredding themselves and each other in a farcical fight to 'appoint' a new prime minister, after having finally got rid of the utterly incompetent and endless liar Johnson. So no help there, I'm afraid. 160.000 mostly white, mostly old, mostly middle-class members of the Tory party are about to decide this country's fate.

I have always felt that politics have no place in this blog, although nobody can possibly have got the impression that I am right wing. If I am to continue writing here then politics may come into it now and then.

So, some of you have asked, what happened, why have I gone awol? Thank you for your concern but I needed to withdraw for all sorts of reasons.  I have not been ill, nor more than usually depressed; all the same, I've missed writing. Maybe I'll catch up now.

Midlife Crisis

 It’s only now, when midlife has long passed, that my midlife crisis is hitting me. ( Google says that Midlife crisis” may be another name for the grief, exhaustion, and anxiety that can affect people for a prolonged period between ages 40 and 60. The origins may be physiological, emotional, or societal.) When I was in early midlife my attention was on surviving. Now, in old age, for the first time, motivation is lacking, targets and goals have vanished and there is a panic-stricken feeling that time is not only passing too quickly but also being wasted. Could that just be the effect of Covid? 

I would love to be able to boast that all the idleness under Covid has encouraged me to broaden my horizons, to give serious time to serious reading, to watch critically acclaimed TV programmes, to catch up on concerts, plays and philosophical discussion, documentaries and improving lectures, all widely available digitally. What riches there are to be sampled, what depths to be explored.

No, sadly, what I have done is broadened my bottom instead, sitting for hours, watching endless repeats of ‘Midsomer Murders’ and ‘Morse’ and ‘Poirot’. Yes, I have spent many hours reading, book after book, mainly novels, but of the calibre that needs almost no engagement of brain cells :’Mary Stewart’, Angela Thirkell’, 'Georgette Heyer’, ‘Marcia Willett’, ‘A. Mc Call Smith’, ‘Barbara Pym’, and others, whose names I have forgotten. Whenever that diet of 'warm bath’ literature has become too cloying I have picked up slightly more demanding non-fiction but for the life of me I have not been able to choose the option of reading Kindle-downloaded writers like Hilary Mantel, H. Jacobson, Garcia-Marquez, Sebastian Faulks, or Ian McEwan. I have a highly acclaimed production of Checkhov’s'Uncle Vanya’ recorded, ditto several series of ‘Deutschland’. They are all awaiting less fraught times. For now I need that warm bath escapism. 

I recently had an email from a former blogger who still reads blogs but no longer writes herself, saying that she felt a little intimidated by me, because: " You are so articulate, possessing an air of intellectualism and, with your considerable and impressive knowledge of literate, poetry, art and theatre; your husband, a Classical musician; your friends, most of whom seemed to be cultured and well educated, made it a little daunting to leave a worthwhile comment.”

Well, did you ever! Dear commenter, I don’t know if I am flattered but, if you are reading this, you will have been disabused of your false impression of me for good by this post. Intimidated, Goodness, Gracious Me.

As for further reading material, I picked up my March 81 diary last night, which had the following gem:

“A silly clot from the Gas Board came on Monday. He pronounced our Ascot Boiler unsafe for use. It is now an offence to use the thing. We know all about the danger from gas fumes and we are all quite careful about using the bath or shower, always leaving the window open. Nobody wants to die there, after all. Still, I suppose there will be a letter soon, giving instruction on future use. The silly fool trod in Kavli’s (the cat’s) toilet tray and tipped the whole mess over his shoes. He wasn’t particularly friendly when he came, he was even less friendly when he left."

I found some good advice easily adaptable to pouring over old diaries in "Finding Henry Applebee” by Celia Reynolds:-

"If you want my advice, kiddo, Uncle Frank once told him, you’ll do as I do and think of the past as a casual acquaintance: warmly, but not to the point you want to invite it over for a beer every other night of the week. “

Well said.

Cheerfulness is Breaking Out ?

There are one or two reasons to be cheerful after all,  this winter flowering viburnum is one of them, even if the picture is, once again, of very poor quality. I have no idea how I can make photos clearer, as clear and focused as they were with the old Blogger. I am using the same camera and doing nothing different, that could account for it.

Life is more and more circumscribed in the UK, we are in the third lockdown and there’s little hope that we will climb out of the pit any time soon, vaccinations notwithstanding. I am still waiting for mine, but the advice is, that even after having received the vaccine, we are to remain vigilant and as close to home as possible. Staying out of circulation makes for a dull life and there’s little of any interest to blog about. Zoom meetings are a poor substitute for meeting in the flesh.

W.W. (wiry and willing) called today. He promised that we will soon be out in the garden again. There are jobs he can do now, like laying a crazy paving kind of path; all stones have come from the walls of the old castle which have got buried in the garden over the centuries since the castle was razed, and have since been dug up by me and Beloved and old gardener and kept aside for just such a purpose as the one I have in mind. I also want to lower all the hedges which have grown taller than necessary and take far too much light from beds. A job for W.W.’s chainsaw. Snowdrops are out in several places and aconites are just beginning to show their golden heads above last autumn’s leaf fall. More reasons to be cheerful! 

I really must go out more, while we had snow and ice I was worried about slipping and breaking something. Hospitals bursting at the seams with Covid patients are not an attractive destination at present. Amazing, how fear concentrates the mind. 

I am very fortunate that my son has stepped up to the mark, he rings me once a week, usually on Sundays, for a long chat. I had no idea that he has a well developed interest in politics, we only ever used to ‘just chat’, but now he is my weekly ticket to staying sane and letting off steam about the dire state of the world, in general as well as specifically. While casual meetings with like-minded friends are verboten, I miss a good old session of getting hot under collar. To the rescue comes son; we have an hour or more of serious raving and ranting and, boy, do we have something to rave and rant about! There is no need to go into details, there cannot be a single person anywhere who is not aware of the near tragedy, all of us, in our respective countries, might be facing. Still, as George Orwell said: “A people that elect corrupt politicians, imposters, thieves and traitors are not victims... but accomplices”.

And finally (there has to be an ‘And finally’, as they have on the news, something silly and light, to make you go off with a smile on your face) : very occasionally I have contact with my ex-son-in-law, we might send Christmas emails or birthday wishes, we have remained on good terms through the years. Well, we had a light hearted correspondence during the festivities, nothing much about nothing much. But he ended his message with:

Onwards and upwards, and don’t give up on the blog… much of Shakespeare’s best output was penned during plague!

giving me an unexpected chuckle. Friko and Shakespeare, eh? I didn’t even know that he followed my blog.

Would Raving and Ranting Help?

 

The ancient Greeks had a word for it, they called it HUBRIS, closely followed by NEMESIS. I can’t say that I was surprised when the long-expected news broke. Contrary to the reaction from some (only some) parts of the international media I am also not going into hypocritical overdrive. Does anyone think he is going to learn from this? Probably not. Our pound shop version said at first that he now knew the score, but it looks like he has long forgotten it again.

So, it’s autumn now. At first I didn’t want to believe it, I carried on digging and forking and pulling up, but then it started to rain. And rain. The days drew in markedly and there’s a definite chill in the air. In spite of the rotten quality of the photos (oh, damn Google, will they ever get it right?) you can see the difference in colouring.

I am staying in bed much longer in the mornings and going to bed ever later in the evenings. Some days I will have a nap in the afternoon. The weekend was dismal, I didn’t see a soul. Whatever am I going to do with myself for a whole dark winter? The PM  has warned us all that it will probably go on until Christmas and beyond. After feeling no serious ill effects during spring and summer I believe winter will be a whole different kettle-of-fish. Enough already! While the weather is awful I read, and read, and read. A book a day is nothing, sometimes I finish one and start another within hours.

I feel like constantly moaning and complaining, except that fulminating without letup is so tiring! Do you know what I mean when I say I mutter curses under my breath, slam around in the house, find fault with everything and everyone? The other day I got cross when collecting medication from the surgery. They’d left out my lifesaver COPD inhaler and I had to go back to claim it. “We had to wait for it to be delivered”, said the woman at the window. Not a bit of it, I don’t believe it; at other times somebody would have made a note on the packet telling me so.

There’s something else which annoys me every time I open a new packet of pills: they stick sticky tape over the ends now. Both ends.You fumble and fumble to get this tiny bit of tape off, if you succeed the bit of tape then sticks to your fingers and you stand over the open kitchen bin trying to get it off and deposit it inside. Of course, it won’t come off, it’s too small and too sticky. You have to go and find a piece of dry kitchen roll and transfer the remaining fraction of tape from your finger to the paper. You could, of course, just cut through the tape while it’s still attached to the pill packet but what do you do with that? Plastic sticky tape is not meant to be recycled. 

Oh, dear saints in heaven, life is getting ever more complicated. And Google definitely isn’t helping. Getting these two mean and fuzzy photos on took ages. Grrrr!