Not being old

I'm old, lack useful employment, am tempted towards alcoholism, living tremulously under the wing of the Angel of Death. Once things were different. Not exciting, fruitful or worthy of record, just different.

A friend drives me 90 miles from London towards Thetford in Norfolk. I am to cover motorbike racing at Snetterton for the magazine that employs me. Snetterton circuit, formerly an RAF station, is utterly flat, not at all spectator-friendly. That doesn't matter. My report won't depend on visual activity since I'll see very little of the races; instead I'll infer what happens and then ask questions.

Taking part are Britain's best bike racers of the period, Mike Hailwood (see pic), Phil Read, Derek Minter. The sport is shockingly dangerous and these guys are my heroes. I would pay to see them race if I had to.

As events proceed I compile coded accounts of the races. Each racer has a number and I record their positions lap by lap as they pass by the press box. In between races I slip down to the pits and talk to my heroes.

I joke with Phil Read, a raffish bandanna round his neck. He's helped a novice rider get his first "start" at this meeting. Does Phil expect to share his unlikely winnings? We laugh.

In the last race Mike Hailwood comes off. The sole of his elderly racing boot has torn away from the upper. His damaged toe, wrapped in a bloody bandage, doesn’t seem to trouble him. He too laughs as he explains what happened. Interview over he gets into his two-seater Jaguar with three girl-friends.

Back in the van I scribble the drama then type it up at the office. It’s late Sunday evening, just time for a pint.

A different part of my life.

The closed door

The prunus is full-leafed. Fine. How long should I stare at it?

The weather changes. Whoo-hoo! By ignoring "good" weather one is less inclined to whinge about rain, etc.

The Malverns (low hills nearby) remain. And will continue to do so.

Unlike the great majority I don't yearn to be outdoors. For those who regard this as peculiar let me explain: the trick is to turn "indoors" into a virtue. I can write, sing and think without assistance from meteorology and these activities exert a powerful magnetism. Brother Sir Hugh asks how such magnetism may be applied.

Faulkner, receiving the Nobel  Prize, put it well:

"... to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before."

Not that I'd make such grandiose claims for myself. More simply then: to make something new and, if possible, original.

This requires elaboration. Prose and thought are potential vehicles for originality but how does singing qualify? First, as one progresses, the exhilaration increases and this is a huge benefit. And of course all performances, unless they are recorded, are original, even if that is cheating somewhat.

What I'm talking about are "informed" performances. The ones that incorporate all the corrections and insights picked up at the last lesson. A singer, practising alone, must always avoid repeating the former flawed performance and aim for the improved version. And here’s the point. I’m usually singing acknowledged masterpieces. An improved version should take me closer to what the composer had in mind, even if perfection is unattainable. I am not of course creating a masterpiece only creating a step that takes me nearer to that distant concept. And that step is original.

Is this sophistry? Outdoorists, keen to be grazing on the tussocks, might say yes.

So be it.

Quintessence of un-chic

A neighbour sent me THIS VIDEO saying it reminded him of VR and me. I'm not at all flattered by this association (haven't asked VR) but it does have a certain gruesome appeal.

The best thing is it's short. The action will mystify you and I'm afraid this is intentional. It's just possible it may be intended to make you laugh, in which case it fails.

Those with a keen ear will notice it's in French. Yes, I'd noticed that too.

But such French! The actors are probably of that nation but they're worried someone might think they were Romanian or born on the wrong side of Donald Trump's blanket. A bit like the Cockneys who appeared in that dreadful British TV series Allo! Allo! Keener to suggest they came from East London than the Rhone Valley.

Make what you can of it. Never forgetting: it's short.

NOTE: This the first video I've ever embedded. At 1 min 16 sec switch it off. Otherwise unwanted junk will follow.

Unguided minds

Jo(e) showed impossibly neat bookshelves

on her blog. Here's one of mine. Would you

say Homerically untidy? Tell the truth I'm

a tiny bit proud of this lack of organisation

PJ PRACTICE At what time of day may one decently change into pyjamas? The Reagans (former White House residents) thought 6.30 pm was OK but then he was already snoring by 9 pm.

A more cogent point is: what are we risking? Are pyjamas a sign we prefer sleep and/or preparing for sleep to being awake? Intellectually we've given in? Some people cloud the issue with talk about pyjamas being "comfortable" but what does this say about the clothes they normally wear?

I was very conscious of the Reagans when I first changed into PJs while it was still light. Now Wiki tells me that Ronnie departed the presidency at age 78. And I am six years older than he was then.

Drinking booze while wearing PJs. There's another tester.

SCREENING Skyping the family is now a routine. And we've widened the circle, Professional Bleeder has joined us. For a few seconds we were even wider: Darren, Occasional Speeder's husband, could be seen tentatively cutting grandson Zach's hair, leaving him with a Half-Monk.

When VR joins me we're a foursome and you realise the need for a workable protocol. None of us is good at guessing when others have stopped talking. Interruptions become endemic. My facetiousness is now a burden to me as well as the others. There's a two-second gap before laughter is signalled and this gets on my nerves. More so when laughter is not signalled.

I have plans for our next session (6 pm today) for which OS has said we should all have a drink (s?) in advance, and then drink steadily and visibly throughout. This could alter the goalposts.

DEFINITION The question: What's posh? arose. Daniel, Ysabelle's partner, said it depended on having two or more gravy-boats. That went down well.

A little fervent noise

I'm a creature of habit. I believe routine helps octogenarians maintain their tenuous hold on life even when black-shadowed Plague is not idly deciding who next to strike down. When he is abroad I want him (He's surely a he.) to think: "Nah, not that old geezer with the wavy white hair. He's too ordinary."

Thus I reserve my news gathering for the TV News at Ten, late evening. I am under-informed during the day.

So it was VR, facing our living-room windows, who announced a degree of action among our otherwise non-existent neighbours last night as it got dark. "They're getting ready for the hand-clapping," she said.

I was shot through with guilt. Hand-clapping on our own door-steps, as a tribute to our much endangered National Health Service and health carers, has become a nationwide tradition, 8 pm, Thursday. I'd missed it the previous week because of my news habits. I rushed out in my stocking feet.

Not much was happening. I shouted to L, emerging with her kids: "Looks as if we're going to be lonely." But I was wrong. Other front doors were opening, often poignantly disclosing a singleton widow or widower. R who is neither, who lives opposite and who has loaded us with kindnesses, played Land of Hope and Glory, someone else blew a whistle, the rest clapped.

The nearby houses are all detached which meant clappers were somewhat dispersed. But unity may arrive less obviously. Dupuytren’s Contracture has curled my little finger inwards and I’m a lousy clapper. But I adapted. Back indoors the TV revealed larger crowds, countrywide, making more noise. We were understated, very British, no adjacent TV cameras.

I’ll do it again next week. I urge participation, even if you’re alone. I promise: you won’t feel a fool.

It beats crying

Neighbour Richy asked could he bring us

anything from Tesco. Yes please, we said. These
appeared (full) on the doorstep. Guess why

I like making people laugh. It’s socially rewarding, of course, but it also has psychological advantages.

Make someone laugh and you’ve aroused their interest. That’s always worthwhile even if it may be fundamentally selfish.

As in France where laughter can be a powerful conversational tool. Laughing Frenchmen are comparatively rare. Address one in French and he’ll immediately detect the foreign accent. His face takes on a certain remoteness, a certain condescension. He imagines he’s starting out on top.

Let’s suppose he operates a DIY shop and I’m looking for bath taps. “They must be easy to operate,” I say. He nods. I pause, then add casually, “Although I’m English I do wash regularly.”

That initial pause may disconcert him; have I been struck dumb? However the following admission will not only surprise him it may suggest this is how Frenchmen do, or should, regard Brits. Other nationalities would apologise here. Not the French. My DIY man laughs knowingly, showing he’s in on the joke. Spreads his hand on the counter, better disposed to listen, to treat me as an equal.

Doctors are different. They are endowed with built-in superiority. You are a medical conundrum that needs resolving, often a humdrum and familiar collection of defects. This mode has been repeated a thousand times.

You stop, you sigh, you wriggle in your chair. You say, “These symptom confessions are a problem. Too much detail and I appear paranoid and self-centred. Too little and I’m surly, perhaps resenting the fact you’re not a herbalist.”

Hey, I’m sympathetic. There’s not much to laugh at in the average doctor’s surgery. Especially now. Doctors enjoy an occasional laugh. Indulge them. You may save the human race.

TECHNO-NOTE
This post attracted NO COMMENTS. I wasn't offended; it has happened before. Tone Deaf is not one of the world's must-reads.

But perhaps you tried and didn't get through. Perhaps - for reasons unknown - the system didn't pick up your blogonym automatically. This is required info; without it a comment is blocked. However if the slot adjacent to "Commenting as:" is blank, just fill in your blogonym manually and the comment should go through. When you make your next comment (I'm been terribly optimistic in this) the previously empty slot should now carry your blogonym and all should be well.

Viral stuff

Plague positrons

THE BIG WIPE? Toilet rolls have been leaving supermarket shelves at rocket speeds. Yes, customers are panic-buying but why toilet rolls? Is Britain suffering from collective diarrhoea? If not, why not flaked almonds or vanilla essence – two things we recently invested in. And “invested” is the right word; the tiny bottle of essence cost £6.

The answer is mundane. Toilet rolls have high unit volume (ie, they’re bulky) and they’re sold in multiples, four rolls being the minimum. Twenty purchases could clear 3 metres of shelf-space; twenty purchases of Heinz baked beans and you’d hardly notice. We’re more aware of the absence of toilet rolls than that of other stuff.

VERSE SUSPENDED. I write occasional verse. Not very good but we literary guys have to aspire. Verse is two things: the subject and the unique way we handle it. Two factors that don’t always arrive simultaneously. When they do, we start scribbling.

A month ago I had me a subject: the onset of death. The conceit involves analogies with tidal function and the present tense of verbs. I’m almost finished. But now hardly seems the time to publish.

IT LOOKS ARTIFICIAL. The Plague is keeping me away from Shara, my stylist. My hair it groweth, as you can see. But whence came the wave? Does prettiness presage The End?

SILENCED VOICE My smartphone allows me to command Google orally. At which I become bossier than normal, which means much bossier. I was mildly interested but after a week I reverted to traditional methods. Does anyone still use this unnecessary function?