Pills, Potions And Piety

The Guardian

The remnants of Gonzalo landed on these shores last night and today. It had long blown out its destructive fury across the other side of the world and the gales and rain storms it brought our way were unpleasant but not deadly, although a woman was killed when a tree fell on her.

Sitting in the conservatory this morning,  looking out at the high winds playing with trees and shrubs and listening to small twigs, beech mast and leaves cluttering on the glass roof, I felt snug and warm and safe. Breakfast over, but the day not fully begun I was counting out pills and capsules - all supplementary vitamins, minerals, fish oils, plant sterols, glucosamine and chondroitin, etc. etc. for the next twenty days, thinking how soon daylight will end at four pm again and I will once again struggle to cope with SAD.

It’s my name day today, Oct 21. I don’t celebrate it as I would in Germany, in fact, I usually forget it. Ursula was adopted as a Christian saint and a great embroidery of innocence, piety and sacrifice was stitched around her in a long, involved and frequently changing legend, (depending on who is telling the story).

A more interesting story can be read in a 6000 year old script, 'Old Europe Script’,  symbols invented by ancestors of the Celts,  seen by some as the earliest proto-language. which refers to the ‘Bear Goddess’ : The Bear Goddess and the Bird Goddess are the Bear Goddess indeed. It could mean that the bear goddess and bird goddess merged into a single goddess.  Some archaeologists have claimed that the bear is the oldest European deity. I like this historically equally unproven story better than the legend of the holy maiden who was martyred for her piety.

Looking into the Perpetual Almanack for inspiration I found this short entry for Oct 22:

**By Tradition, the anniversary of Creation:

“In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth. Which beginning of time, according to our Chronology, fell upon the entrance of the night preceding the 23rd day of October, in the year 4004 before Christ.”

James Ussher  -  The Annals of the World 1658**


I thought that William Blake’s work “Europe a Prophecy"
The Ancient of Days, copy K from the Fitzwilliam Museum, would be a fitting end to Ussher’s pronouncement and to this rather cobbled together blog post.

It’s been one of those days.

The Woes Of Spring

If the waist band pinches, don't get rid of the trousers, get rid of the inches.

I wish I would listen to myself sometimes. I keep having all these brilliant ideas; do I put them into practice? Stupid question.

I've just had some pasta for lunch - lethal - , and what's even worse, a strip of chocolate for pudding.  It's been a long and boring winter, spent mainly in an easy chair, reading, or in front of my computer, either composing my magnum opus, or doing whatever we think we're doing in the blogoverse.  Even the dog's been in on the conspiracy to fatten me up: he's getting too old and arthritic for long walks and, after half an hour struggling through the mud, he looks at me as if to say, thanks for coming out, but how about going back now? He's very polite that way. There are the ramblers, peramblers and amblers (true, all three groups exist in Valley's End), but I can't see myself stumbling along and remaining civilised and sociable at the same time.

I have a large walk-in wardrobe, well, actually it is a long, slopey-ceilinged space under the roof, running along a massive bedroom, with two wide double doors. The lady who built this house was keen on providing her loving sons and daughters and their assorted children with enough space upstairs to keep them there during visits, while she was free to indulge her passion for bossing the village around downstairs. It made a mess of the house, but gave me enough room to keep my vast collection of shoes and clothes, saved for decades, most of it on the off-chance that the time will come, when a) the stuff becomes fashionable again, and b) that I'll actually be able to get into it at such time. Only about 20% of the clothes hanging on the rails fit me easily, all the rest is surplus to current requirements. Five kilos would do it, but where am I going to get the willpower to shed five kilos? The situation is depressing enough to make me reach for another strip of chocolate.

Chocolate and wine have been my solace ever since I've allowed myself to be locked away in the depths of inaccessible countryside. For heaven's sake, this is practically Wales! Chocolate is absolutely essential to my survival. As chocolate is also addictive, I cannot be blamed for my cravings. Or so I thought until very recently, when some misguided scientists, in the name of the advancement of human misery, proved conclusively, that chocolate is no more addictive than a cup of tea. It seems that the bit of the brain which lights up when you eat a piece of chocolate, also lights up, in exactly the same way, when you are THINKING about eating a piece of chocolate. If ever there was a research project which should have been stifled at birth, it is this.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. In my distant catholic past, priests and nuns at school made sure that we didn't indulge ourselves. I was a sickly child, so I was allowed protein in the form of meat, but sweets were forbidden on pain of eternal hell fire and brimstone baths. A lot of people hang their need for a reducing diet on the Lent hook, maybe I could join them. On the other hand, the compost heaps need turning and there's a lot of work coming up in the garden. But I am NOT going to keep anybody informed about my success or otherwise. Should I, however, in some future post, mention that I am looking forward to a clothes-shopping-expedition, you may draw your own conclusions. Either way, of course.

Bite sized Morsels

While I was wrestling with the taxman this morning our friend Stephen Tunnicliffe came round to bring me a copy of a delightful little series of poems he wrote last year,  describing the five senses as experienced by children. I didn't mind at all being interrupted, it's been a day for 'mopping up' leftover jobs, satisfying when all is done but not very exciting. Here is one of Stephen's takes on 'Seeing'; although there are no larks rising from the fields around Valley's End into the rather misty skies in winter, spring and summer will bring them back to us.

SKYLARK

Can you see him? Only just!

He's like a singing speck of dust.

Lark, can you see me from up there?

You must have eyes like telescopes!

I stare and stare . . .

I wish the sky had great long ropes

Then I could climb right up there too,

And see our tiny house, like you.

 Overheard:

They really live in their own little world. 

Me too, of course;

the thing is that I am convinced that my world is the only right and proper world.

Friko's thought:

And they'll fight to the death over it, even if it means

that both worlds crumble and leave behind nothing

but ruin.

Found:

A child's lost glove on a branch showing you the way

to a more peaceful co-existence.

o-o-o-o-o-o

After listening to a discussion on matters esoteric and spiritual, I have come to the following conclusion :

When you think there's a beer in the fridge and you go to the fridge and actually find one there, that's belief. You've proved it.

When you think there's a beer in the fridge and you go to the fridge and there isn't one, but you still say there is one, that's esoteric.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Royal Wedding, July 29th, 1981

Thirty years ago the world was watching the fairy tale wedding of Prince Charles and the Lady Diana Spencer. 600.000 people filled the streets of London to get a glimpse of the happy couple and all the pomp and circumstance surrounding their big day,


The couple were married at St Paul's Cathedral before an invited congregation of 3,500 and an estimated global TV audience of 750 million - making it the most popular programme ever broadcast at the time.

A send-off into a fairy tale life to end all fairy tales, the watchers thought. Nobody foresaw the storm clouds gathering quite so quickly or the catastrophic shipwreck ahead.

Britons enjoyed a national holiday to mark the occasion, that is, most Britons did, but there were many people working on the day to keep essential services going. Then there were those whose services were only of importance to the organisers of the wedding itself, an army of helpers, official and unofficial, among them the musicians. Court jesters have come and gone, there are no jugglers, tumblers, players any longer, but there must be musicians.


Prince Charles was Patron of the Orchestra of The Royal Opera House. Beloved had played for him and the Royal Family many times before then, so playing at St. Paul's Cathedral was no big deal, even though this was a proper State occasion.  For a seasoned professional any gig is just that, a gig.  Or so they would like to make you believe.



The musicians entered the Cathedral by the tradesmen's entrance, in this case by the North Crypt doors and had to be at their station in a side chapel before the proceedings began.

They were playing a full programme of music long before the ceremony started at 11 o'clock, throughout the many processions, from the Ecclesiastical Procession, via the Procession of Foreign Crowned Heads, The Queen's Procession,
The Procession of the Bridegroom,  and the Procession of the Bride.

Beloved saw little of the processions and nothing of the actual marriage service. All he has are the

official programmes, the Order of Service for the Ceremony itself, and the Ceremonial from the moment the Street Liners were in place (these are officials, NOT the populace), and the carriages began to leave  Buckingham Palace, to the moment the carriages returned. The Ceremonial runs to 32 pages and ends with the Bride and Bridegroom leaving the Grand Entrance in a semi-State Landau, accompanied by a Travelling Escort of the Household Cavalry, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Andrew Parker Bowles,  ( we all know what happened to him), Blues and Royals. at 4.00 p.m. (here the programme allows itself the first sign of a slip) "approximately".

What he did see was Kiri Te Kanawa (now 'Dame') in 'that' outfit, singing "Let The Bright Seraphim" from Haendel's "Samson". The Band thought she did well but also generally accepted that she could have chosen a less unfortunate outfit.

Just in case anyone thinks this must have been a profitable gig for the musicians, they are wrong. Prince Charles decided that all future royalties on the music, every penny coming from film, TV, CDs, and all other Rights worldwide, in perpetuity,  should go to a Charity of his choosing.

He didn't even ask them.

We met him (and Diana) at a Royal Garden Party years later, neither Beloved nor I remembered to complain.

Miscellany - In No Particular Order

Benno is totally confused once again. It happens twice a year, when humans take it into their heads that they must change all the clocks of the land. When it's a question of getting his five meals a day an hour early, well, he can cope with that. Come wintertime, though, they make him wait an extra hour for each of them. It's enough to make a dog weep.  And messing about with walkies too? What's that all about?

"What have I done to deserve that?" You can see in his eyes how hurt he is.

In case you're wondering about the five meals a day: he has a delicate stomach and needs his food divided into small portions, at regular intervals. He said he wouldn't mind a continuous drip feed, a kind of doggy feeding assembly line. He thinks it would make life easier for all of us.

This heron is standing in his very own assembly line of food, silently, infinitely patient, almost trancelike.Very occasionally he shifts position and, with great deliberation, steps sideways, like a stilt-walker, for a better vantage point.  Every so often that sharp beak stabs down and brings up a tasty morsel.  I stood and watched him for a long time; a perfect tool for meditation.

From The Heron by Theodore Roethke


He walks the shallow with an antic grace.
The great feet break the ridges of the sand,
The long eye notes the minnows hiding place.
His beak is quicker than a human hand.



I have recently been honoured with not one, not two, but three awards.  It is time I displayed this honour here and now.  

Herrad at her blog Access Denied - Living with Multiple Sclerosis
gave me the first one.
I am one of those moaning minnies who frequently whine and complain - well, we should all go and see what this patient and brave lady has to cope with, her unfailing humour and courage in the face of
this beastly disease is an example to us all.

Val of monkeys on the roof gave me this one.
I have only recently discovered Val, who lives on a Nature Reserve in South Africa.

I understand that internet access is  only so-so; in spite of it she manages to post fantastic posts telling us about her world and the world of the animals who share it.

Val's blog is better than a nature program on TV; her stories are instant and immediate, they talk about yesterday and today, rather than what happened last spring.

Jinksy of napple notes is a long time favourite.
Or she would be, if she didn't take the mickey so mercilessly.
Usually in verse form!

Anyway, she took it upon herself to design, execute and hand over this award for me and me alone - I am saying this here, Jinksy, so you can't change your mind and distribute it amongst all and sundry -.



Thank you all very much.

Followers

Let me say here and now that I love having followers.

It makes me feel all warm and wanted, important too. Every time a new follower signs in I do a little gurgle of pleasure, and every time somebody unfollows me, I sigh deeply, unhappily, and question my reason for being – for being a blogger, that is, not the general sort of being on this earth.

In the greater scheme of things, I am the most unnecessary invention, a totally irrelevant speck of dust on the sole of creation’s boot. My continued presence hardly even merits a footnote in the annals of my own family, much less in anybody else’s. Beloved would probably miss me – there’d be nobody to ask “what are we doing for dinner today?”  The kids are too busy to bother, they are the centre of their own universe, as is the way of the world; the ancient crone known as Mum is surplus to requirements. I bet they already dread the day when they are faced with the task of putting me away somewhere suitable, where I can drool and dribble, click and suck my teeth and have incontinence problems. I am planning to pretend not to know them anymore when that happens, or, at the very least, I’ll get all their names wrong.

The above does not mean that I am depressed, no more than on a good day anyway; no, I see it as a pretty accurate description of the human condition generally.

But, I digress, the point of this post is to address my followers. So, where was I?

First of all, dear people, thank you very much for being my followers. I really appreciate it, That goes for those of you who only want to sell me something too; I am not proud.

Obviously, the followers I like best are those who leave their name and calling card, i.e. blogging address, and if you are amongst those who comment too, you have earned my undying gratitude. Besides, I probably follow you too and the whole thing is a bit like a mutual admiration society. Everybody's happy, at least I hope so.

Then there are followers who leave an address, but never comment. To begin with, I visit your blogs, introduce myself and leave a comment wherever possible.  If there is no feedback, I will eventually stop visiting.

Next come the followers who leave their name, but no forwarding address.

Your blogs are barred to me unless I sign in and apply for membership. Well, how do I know I can? You might be an axe murderer, or worse, the Smith Family blog, detailing every burp and belch, every tooth and cute new lock of hair in  little Johnny's life, which makes your blog such a riveting read.

As you by and large never leave a comment, I have no means of getting back to you, and as I am curious enough to visit every follower, every blogger who leaves a comment, and everyone who gets in touch, at least once after the initial contact, we might both miss out.

Last, and most certainly least, come the anonymous followers. There are, of course, exceptions, where somebody is with a different blog host and can only follow anonymously. To those of you my special thanks, it must be quite a palaver to do that. I consider your presence  a great compliment.

But the genuinely anonymous followers I simply don't understand. Do you actually read the blog? A blog name flashes up when I point the cursor at you but that is all there is. Are you blogging at work and can't afford to be traced? Are you blogging against the wishes of your nearest and dearest? Do you actually not have a blog at all but would still like to be part of blogland? Are you spies?

Do tell, one or two of you, if you can, curiosity is a weakness I prefer not to overcome.

What I really hope will not happen is that I will now see a spate of unfollowings - that's what blogger calls it - . You really wouldn't want to break my heart, would you? Just when we are beginning to get to know each other.

Miscellany

I can't think of anything very meaningful to say today, so I'll probably waffle even more than I usually do. How about letting this chap show me the way? Or could he possibly be a beggar?

Can you see him?

Air Accidents

At this time of year there are always baby birds, which fell out of the nest a few hours or days too soon, hopping about the garden, chirping and calling pitifully for Mum and Dad to bring a juicy worm, and 'please show me again, how I can make these soft, useless, fluffy feathers lift me up into the air, out of harm's and the cats' way'. For me that means a few days of vigilance, setting the dog on any cat which examines the garden too curiously and periodically checking progress, always ready to pick the bird up and set in the branch of a tree. At the moment it's a baby blackbird.

Click on the photo

and you can see how immature the

feathers still are.

I took this photo yesterday morning and everything is still fine this evening. The parents are feeding regularly and young Pecksniff with his wobbly wing is safely hidden under a dense shrub for most of the time.

Urgent Shopping

I've been to the nursery to look what's on offer.  

Plant nurseries are like books stores; I can never pass one without buying something. This plant nursery was totally on my way, just an hour's detour; unfortunately I couldn't continue with the errand I was doing because I couldn't very well leave the dog there, and once he was back in the car there was only room for the plants and not other shopping.

Apart from the dog, this is what I came away with.

Not more Bloody Poetry !

Fear not, not here for the moment, but I have started a wholly self-indulgent poetry blog, Friko's Poetry and Pictures, where I shall publish all my favourite poems without let or hindrance, thus saving poetry haters from accidentally stumbling over poetry bores. I would be happy to publish other poetry bores' favourite poems, we could have a positive poetry orgy!

Perish the thought !