Monthly Archives: July 2022

Day 192

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I am not by nature a competitive or ambitious person. I have never had to struggle to get what I want in life, because I don’t want much. As a child, all I really wanted was a home made bow and arrow and the ability to roam freely, popping home only for supplies. As an adult, all I want is a first class wife and a way of earning a few quid. I have been lucky to obtain both.

I once read an article of being successful, because I had a vague feeling I really should make more effort, and it told me I should visualise specific things if I wished to be successful. Don’t wish for a ‘big car’, it said, wish for a ‘black Ford Mustang’. The idea of the car stuck with me, even if the idea of working hard didn’t. That’s why I  nominated a red Ford Mustang as my car of choice in the post I wrote about being a lottery winner. In truth, if I were to win the lottery I would be happy to potter about in a Volkswagen with a bent wing, mismatched mirrors and a minor oil leak. This, by coincidence, is exactly the car I have, and that, I suppose, is why I am content.

Sometimes I do wonder what I could have achieved if I had been ambitious and had wanted more. Then I think of  a friend of mine who had a stroke in his 40s and another who dropped dead in his 50s, both after a stressful life in business. There is little to be gained from being the most successful corpse in the cemetery and, as they say in Nottinghamshire, there are no pockets in a shroud.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t try to do well at some things. I am currently trying to improve my writing, which is what made me start thinking about the subject matter for this post. One day I may even tell you a story about an eleven-year-old with a broken writing  arm and a set of exams to do. It is, as they say, complicated, and just because I’m not competitive doesn’t mean to say I’m prepared to let people walk all over me.

Simon Wilson, Nottingham Poet

Day 191

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Just listening to Susie Dent and Gyles Brandreth doing a podcast. The 21st Century isn’t all bad, I suppose. That probably means nothing to overseas readers, so I have added links.

I was pondering the blog in bed this morning, in the gap between dawn and getting up. At this time of year that’s quite a gap. It has moved from being about our group on the farm to being a general blog to being a dull diary of a man who is pottering about on the downward journey into dementia. Sadly, I couldn’t raise the energy to be concerned, so that’s how it’s going to stay for now. I sometimes feel a stirring of ambition, wanting to blog about writing or collecting but I find if I lie don and have a nice cup of tea the feeling usually goes.

Gyles Brandreth once claimed to be from the family of Jeremiah Brandreth, leader of the Pentrich Rebellion, but this has been withdrawn, though it does still appear in the Wikipedia entry. It is often claimed that Brandreth and his co-conspirators were the last men to be beheaded for treason in the UK. This isn’t true as Thistlewood and the Cato Street Conspirators were beheaded in 1820, three years after Brandreth.

They were dead by the time they were beheaded, having been hanged first. The beheading was the last vestige of the old punishment of hanging, drawing and quartering, which was thought to be too barbaric by that time. Because mutilating a corpse after death is so much more civilised, isn’t it?

What seems to be the case is that Brandreth and his two companions were the last men to be beheaded by axe. Thistlewood was beheaded with a knife, which broke, so the executioner borrowed the carving knife from the dining room of the prison governor to finish the job with the other four.

I find the civil disorder of the 1780s through to the early 20th Century to be a fascinating subject, though I suspect I am one of only a small number who do.

Anyway, those are my thoughts this Sunday morning.

The picture is me, as I could have looked if I had pursued a career in the academic sphere.

 

 

Day 190

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I made a mess of the on-line shopping last night – disappeared into a tour of the internet and lost my way out. It was interesting, as ever, but when I emerged and found how much time I’d wasted, I decided it was time to get some organisation in my life.

The result is that we only had a third of the shopping we wanted tonight, and it cost us £4 for not having enough in the order.

Annoyingly, something that was out of stock last night (when it was “too late to change the order”) was delivered, so obviously back in stock. And milk, which had been in stock, was now out. Annoying that there are two sets of standards at work here.

We have just spent two days sorting a customer out. He’s a regular buyer on eBay and always seems like a nice man. He had asked if we could do cheaper postage if he bought two items, and we had said yes. The problem was that we could only see one purchase. We tried all sorts of things and eventually, this morning, tactfully, I had to write and ask if he’d actually bought the second item from us. It seemed the only logical explanation after eliminating all others.

Turns out he had actually ordered the other medallion off someone else. Oh, how we laughed as we talked of notable senior moments. Took me several hours in total, as I worked to facilitate a sale of £6.50, but that’s customer service for you. And old age . . .

Day 189

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On my own in the shop today. The other two had family matters to attend to and there I was, a whole shop to myself, It wasn’t planned like that but one of the “family matters” was an urgent visit to the vet, which turned out to be yet another false alarm – that dog is cheery and full of energy but a canine hypochondriac of legendary proportions.

After a quiet week, things got very busy and by 01,00 I had only just managed to pack my second parcel, though I had bought two lots of stuff, turned another down, run out of money and sold some Roman coins. All that and answer the phone on an almost constant basis. I had more phone calls this morning than I had answered in the preceding week. How did they all know I was on my own?

Fortunately the owner was able to get in just after lunch, which took some of the pressure off. I(t was a nice day so he decided that we should pack up at 2pm. It’s nice to have  a boss with an appreciation of the life/work balance.

That allowed me plenty of time to get to the pharmacy for my prescription. There, I was nearly hit by a reversing van, hit a kerb with the front of the car (caught the bit at the front under the number plate when parking) and found myself staring at someone in the pharmacy because they looked familiar.

It was the neighbour from across the road. I’ve known her for 34 years, but in  a mask, with only eyes showing, my facial recognition skills completely desert me.

In the front garden, the teasel is starting to flower.

When I opened the front door I found a letter from the tax office.You know the feeling of a cold, skeletal hand clutching your heart, well that was just how it felt. Letters from the tax office, in my opinion, are never good. I may make an exception for this one as it was news of a £108 refund. Say what you like about the tax authorities, they are vey fair.

That’s it. A day in a  nutshell, some good, some bad and some (like the tax letter) unusual.

Teasel – breaking into flower

Day 188

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There had been few sales, despite us being closed yesterday. Summer is always quiet and when you add the Russian Roulette nature of holidays at the moment (will the flight be cancelled, will the queues be huge?), the cost of living crisis they keep talking about, the war, covid . . . Well, it’s a wonder anyone ever feels like doing anything.

I feel like doing something, I feel like being a highly paid parasite, which is fortunate as there seem to be quite a few jobs going in Westminster at the moment. A whole new set of career opportunities has opened up for me. Boris, betraying a total lack of class is ignoring Macbeth (’twere well It were done quickly) and hanging about like a bad smell. He’s either hoping that we will forget he’s supposed to go, or he is trying to book dates for his forthcoming speaking tour.

We had a parent like that in Midlands Rugby League once. He was convinced that his younger son was fated to be a great rugby player. The kids was, in truth, mediocre – a good club player but not worth a step up to regional level. He hadn’t made it to county level in Rugby Union and they saw RL as the route to the top.

So, he came to the regional trials and was duly thanked for his efforts, but told he wouldn’t be required in the second round.  He still turned up the next week, and once again, missed the cut, being thanked for his efforts and told he wouldn’t be required in the next round. This time I made a point of it, to avoid any misunderstanding.

Imagine my surprise when, the next week, I noticed his father lurking behind a shrubbery. He had  decided to come back anyway and put his kid into the next round. It’s nice to have supportive parents, but there are limits.

And that’s how I feel about Boris. It’s good that he enjoys being Prime Minister, but there are limits. Fortunately, with him being born in New York, he can go and bother the Americans, as he attempts to be the first man since George III to be head of state both in UK and America. I doubt it will end well, but recent events in both countries suggest that the joke candidate does well.

 

Day 187

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X-Ray Day.

It went surprisingly well. The taxi was prompt, the journey was quick, the driver was pleasant. I arrived early, was X-Rayed and left the department at 10.52, which was good when you consider my appointment time was 10.50. The journey home a re-run of the previous journey. I have some acidic observations but will save them for another post.

I had an inkling that something was going quite so well for Julia when I arrived home. She had left to walk down to the surgery before I left, and was still not home. I didn’t panic, as there is always a possibility she had taken a detour on the way, such as shopping or chatting to a friend. One of the advantages of being miserable and anti-social is that you don’t get delayed by people wanting to get involved in pointless social rituals. If it doesn’t involve biscuits, keep to yourself, is my view.

When she returned, a tale of woe unfolded. She arrived early, booked in and waited. And waited. After 40 minutes she was about to ask what was happening when the nurse appeared. It seems that someone had turned up and insisted that they had an appointment when there wasn’t one on the system. They were very insistent so the nurse took them through just to shut them up. It took 40 minutes to sort them out and made everyone else late.

One the face of it, it’s bad and it has just encouraged the patient to throw their weight about next time they don’t get their own way. On the other hand I recently had a case where they claimed there was no appointment on the system when I know I made it and they had it, because it had come up in conversation about something else.

Ah well, cosmic balance and all that.

Day 186

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I’v just been listening to poetry on YouTube. It’s a lazy way to ingest poetry, but it allows me to type at the same time. This is probably  not necessary as there isn’t much I’m going to do with the time I save. If I were going to write a novel with all the time I save by multi-tasking it would be OK. As I’m likely to watch TV and drink tea with the time I save, it is less important.

Chest X-Ray tomorrow. The new arthritis medication they are putting me on requires a chest X-Ray before I am given the stuff. Plus I will have to arrange to be shown how to do it. I’m not sure how difficult it can be, but the medical profession does like to look mysterious. It comes in ready ready prepared syringes and I have to stick it in my legs. Last time I had to inject myself it was anti-coagulants and they had to go in my abdomen. I don’t really feel I need more training. Self-perforation is much the same however you do it.

When you consider it is a very popular pastime with drug addicts, who don’t have the benefit of specially prepared syringes or training by professionals, how hard can it be?

I have probably never told you about the public toilets in Mansfield, a town about 20 miles from here. They have blue lights in the toilets. I mentioned this to someone as I thought it was strange. They told me that it prevents drug-addicts shooting up, because they can’t find their veins under the blue light. However, someone else told me that it’s still possible if you mark your veins with felt tip pen whilst you are standing outside in daylight.

Not really looking forward to the trip to hospital. I don’t see why it couldn’t just have been done while I was there, like my last lot of arthritis X-Rays , but it seems the system has been changed. This will be the “new and improved version” I suppose, involving a second trip to hospital and an appointment’s system and letters. It’s hardly what you’d call streamlined.

 

 

Day 185

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During the day I had, as usual. several great ideas for tonight’s post. As the day progressed, also as usual, the ideas gradually seemed less good, or simply faded away. The one about plagiarism seems less interesting now that I am sitting in front of the computer, and the other two have simply been forgotten.

The result is that I have a blank screen and a blank mind. It is not unusual. If I were still planning to write the post on plagiarism I would have to point out that “It is not unusual” bears similarities to the words of a song by Tom Jones. It can, I imagine, be quite complicated.

It’s all a question of monkeys. With an infinite number of monkeys and a finite number of words, duplication would be inevitable. If they can write Hamlet, which always seems to be a favourite when discussing this subject, they could certainly manage some of my stuff, or the tedious instructions for jury service I was recently sent, or a shopping list.

However, if a monkey duplicates something, is it plagiarism? It’s much the same question as, if a monkey kills someone, is it murder? Murder requires intent, and it’s not likely that monkeys can form the intent to kill in the same way that a murderer would. People seem to see plagiarism as something that can happen by innocent coincidence.

However, other definitions refer to it as  a process of copying the work of someone else without giving credit. In that case the typewriting monkeys there is no copying, as, to the monkeys, it is an original work, even if they are the second ones to produce it.

In my case, the worry is that with a limited number of words, ideas and conventions, it seems almost inevitable that two people will eventually write the same haiku. It’s always worried me about haiku.

Then, finally, we come to the inevitable question of whether I am a poet or a monkey.

Day 184

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Well, I spent last night planning what I was going to do today. It was quite a list. Today was slightly different in tone and I did very little apart from avoid doing anything on the list. That is, I suppose, an achievement in itself, but not quite the outcome I was hoping for.

Breakfast, which hadn’t been on the list, was quite pleasant, as was lunch. We had bacon sandwiches for breakfast, with mushrooms, fried tomatoes and black pudding. Nutritionally I could have finished after tomatoes. I was tempted to leave the black pudding out of the list and appear more virtuous and sensible, but I am fairly truthful in the blog, and the black pudding presents a more rounded picture of both my character and my figure.

Lunch was fancy cheese on toast. I chucked some eggs and finely chopped spring onions in the grated cheese before toasting. We have been using thick-sliced malty wholemeal, which has been good.

We had vegetable curry for tea. Tomorrow we will be having vegetable curry for tea. Julia hasn’t quite mastered the art of portion control since the kids left home. It’s something I have struggled with over the years. I can still picture myself in the late 1970s with a pressure cooker full of vegetables – enough to feed  a family of four, to be precise.

At that point I realised that I had left home, but was still using the portion size I was used to seeing. Four days later, finally free of vegetables, I started to cut back on portion size. I should really have cut back a lot more, but that is a different story.

I have just been reading about a diet that could help me lose a lot of weight. Breakfast is a banana, lunch is chicken, rice and broccoli and tea is a protein shake. It’s a diet developed by someone who has more self-control than I do.

On the one hand I’m looking at a short, increasingly unhealthy life. On the other I’m looking at chicken, rice and broccoli. It’s a tough choice. Well, actually it isn’t. Chicken, rice and broccoli is not a winning combination.

Meanwhile, in a different part of the family (and one where I suspect that chicken, rice and broccoli is a winning combination) Number One Son just did his first Ultra-marathon.  Eighty miles in 24 hours. No, I don’t know why either, but I am glad he’s found a sport he enjoys.

 

Day 183

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Last night, whilst browsing the internet, I found an interesting documentary on Wilko Johnson. His music may not appeal to you, but I think his story and personality may do, despite any musical differences. It’s called Oil City Confidential but I can’t find the link at the moment. It features music, poetry and the story of a man who was told he had just ten months to live because of inoperable cancer. As it turned out, he had a rare operable cancer and survived. I offer this as proof that there is interesting stuff on the internet if you can get through all the kitten videos.

Work was a little busier than average, with people coming to buy a variety of things. It always feels more like a shop when people come to buy stuff. When it’s just eBay we might as well be in a warehouse. Though if we were in a warehouse I wouldn’t have things falling on my head when we open the cupboard doors.

As a note for that mythical PhD student who will, one day, use my blog as a guide to life in 2022 – these are the edited highlights. The reality involves much more snoozing in front of TV and staring into space than the posts suggest. Of course, by then the life of a student will probably be so sanitised that drinking caffeine and driving a car will be seen as dreadful acts of self-destruction. Or, as they type in an underground bunker, my use of fossil fuels will be seen as part of the global warming process that produced the desert on “The Surface”, as they will call it . . .