Eheu fugaces labuntur

Don't be tempted to wear this at the interment; in

winter it will attract snowballs, in autumn conkers

Nothing’s official, you understand, but I could die later today or early tomorrow. Conceivably, no sweat. At 87 death is always on the cards. Which brings up the dismal subject of funerals.

Funerals risk being lugubrious (The New Penguin Dictionary – 1641 pp: Mournful; esp. exaggeratedly or affectedly so.) and are always awkward.

Awkward? Here’s one. During the last decade I’ve spoken at two funerals and should have spoken at a third. The difference being I spoke by invitation at the first two, but was not invited to do so at the third, despite my close friendship with the guy in the coffin. Since the omission may have been accidental or from pure dislike I didn’t fancy volunteering at the event. An awkward situation.

But mostly the awkwardness evolves out of language, What I said at those two events would, in the USA, be called eulogies. As a Brit I recoil from the word: one meaning being “high praise”. Not that I’d want to slag off the lead character, rather I’d want to be free to tell the truth. Not all of it, I wouldn’t be under oath. But the bits of the truth that mattered.

Almost no one knows what to say. They search in terror for synonyms for death and dying. “Passing on” has been popular but is now shortened to “passed”. As if death had to do with soccer.

I’ve discussed my own funeral but it’s been pointed out that no pre-death agreement would necessarily be binding. “You won’t be there,” I’m told. Raising an interesting philosophical point. Expensive wine is a no-no; most (I refuse to add "mourners".) will have driven. Music? Yeah, but not everyone will be a Schubert fan.

Just a mo. I’m saying “everyone” implying double figures. How about total silence?

Exhuming the presumed dead

I started my novel Breaking Out in 1972 (In the USA) and finished it, after a long break, in the UK in 1975. Aeons ago, when many of you were still at school. I am now rediscovering it and revising it. Here's a revised paragraph; am I on a fool's errand?

Of course her hair was the backstop: an indecent luxury, a feature that should have become extinct under the Revolutionary guillotine. Earlier in her life it had been a source of great smugness; now Wendy guarded herself from indulgence by recalling a horror movie in the fifties. In which a female vampire had aged into prehistory within fifty seconds - the face turning to pumice, then ash, while the hair remained black and luxuriant. Now, killing time in the salon,Wendy searched her face for traces of erosion, deciding, despite a default pessimism, the surface was still intact. However, as she leaned back away from the mirror, the cape fell away from her right hand - slightly puffy, telescopically wrinkled, the fingers shouting 48 going on 49. Blinking quickly she readjusted the cape.

Speaking from way down in the abyss

 

Who's this old geezer with his untended moustache?

Looks like a toff but apart from being an ex-PM he

earned a crust from publishing, as did I. Wounded

three times in WW1 (No spurs to his heel!) he was

eventually undermined by The Profumo Affair. But before

then his government's housebuilding record was second

to none. A Tory, of course, but with evidence of a heart. 

Brexit was “done” by signing up to an agreement that the then prime minister (The Untidy One) fully intended to renege on. Any warnings were said to be scaremongering. I felt ashamed to be British.

Need I summarise more recent happenings? A new broom in 10 Downing Street tried to convert our feeble democracy into a sort of plutocracy (government by wealth). It failed, but should it ever have been considered? What comes after shame? Despair, I suppose. That’s me.

I’m a leftie by fairly recent conviction. I believe in the NHS and feel it cannot be run as a profit-and-loss concern. I feel certain industries essential to our existence (eg, water) should be nationalised. I believe countries are judged by the way they look after the most vulnerable. I don’t resent income tax.  I hate nationalism and its cohort: antipathy towards foreigners. I hate delusional nostalgia, the yearning for Golden Days when our comforts were achieved through the exploitation of countries conveniently over the horizon.

I didn’t always despair. I’ve lived through other Tory governments - Harold Macmillan’s 300,000 houses in one year, Edward Heath pushing us into a logical union with our nearest neighbours – without too much teeth-grinding. Now, I view a House of Commons consisting mainly of members whose only experience of life is via a life in politics. Hollow creatures.

I moved to a more comfortable life in the USA and did OK. But in the end, for a complexity of reasons, I returned to the UK. What expectations did I have of what lay east of the Eastern Seaboard? I’m not sure.

But not this. This fatal mixture of greed, ignorance and incompetence.

Britain, says sickening Rule Britannia, never, never, never shall be slaves. Except when slavery is home-grown and self-chosen.

A new(ish) privation

German and OK.

But sometimes...

I’ve raised this subject before and not found a satisfactory answer. When did I last do something new? Followed by the inevitable corollary: are novelty and old age incompatible?

Well there is something new except not quite. After the second op I was off-booze for a while. This led to my exploring alcohol-free gin, something I cannot recommend. Or only if you’ve never tasted alcoholic gin. A dreadful – perhaps laughable – letdown. Boozeless beer was better, and boozeless German beer better still. Then my personal Alcoholic Lent came to an end and I was back to the real thing from the South Wye Brewery.

But now I’m on blood thinner. A month’s trial, then a test, then - if all’s well – five months of pills with no booze. Every so often I visit the garage with its special racking; run my fingers over bottles of white wine, cans of cider, various beers.

And sigh.

Back to boozeless beer again. What’s different is the length of abstinence. Five months takes me all the way to Spring 2023, by way of a less-than-festive Christmas.  Those familiar with Tone Deaf will recall my upping the average price I pay for a bottle of red wine to £35. And, yes, red has accumulated.  These days I open a bottle, fill a shot glass to keep my taste buds active, and pour out the rest for VR. Who is careful not to appear too enthusiastic.

Other than those quick nips of red I do not intend to cheat. Advice about booze and blood thinner is distinctly minatory. Drink booze and the liver spends all its time processing the alcohol and ignoring the effects of the pills.

Periods of yearning come and go but I find clinging to life more persuasive. Anything else new?

Dissecting Ludvig van B.

Click to enlarge; identify first

18 titles in 79 strong repertoire

Singing lessons. Some 260 weeks of solo lessons over nearly six years. Initially lessons lasted an hour. Twice I upped V’s fee and she – without mentioning it – extended the lessons to 90 min. Repertoire now 79 songs; mainly classical composers, several folk tunes, a couple of pops, a hymn and an oddity or two.

So am I now a singer? Probably not; I only sing for V and myself. What’s the point then? It’s difficult, I relish the struggle and take comfort in my progress. A self-contained world.

Latest development: Beethoven is famous but not particularly for songs. One exception is An die ferne Geliebte (To the distant beloved), five songs sung as one and lasting about 14 minutes. I ask V: Why not try that, concentrating on the first song?.

I’ve possibly heard that first song twice – purely accidentally, My recollection is dim. I’ll be starting from scratch.

The first run-through of any song is usually revelatory and alarming. My barely remembered impression - that ADFG is comparatively simple – quickly takes a knock. Regular phrases, starting as downward scales, hinge on the same note repeated. Doesn’t sound difficult, does it? But a downward scale tempts you to keep going down and must be resisted. Also ADFG consists of repeated “sentences” each with tiny melodic variations. Please stay alert.

What seemed simple to the ear is complicated in notation. Anyone familiar with Beethoven’s major works, especially the piano sonatas, won’t be at all surprised. Never mind, ADFG is beautiful if not straightforward. Click on this pro’s performance and see if you agree.

Note: This video covers all five songs. The first song, the one I allude to above, lasts until 2 min 37 sec

And possibly breed shame elsewhere

My gentle tribute. I’d like to up their pay but lack the resources. This is my best shot. While they laugh they may briefly forget being under-valued by the politicoes.

OP ONE: The mouth. Biopsy on slightly enlarged neck gland (yesterday).

Nurse guides me from reception to oddly named Ultrasound room

RR: Glad you’re with me. A person could get lost in here.

Nurse: Oh, if only I could.

RR: Hey, that’s my line.

Nurse: (Brilliant smile)

Surgeon agitates bottle of antiseptic; droplets accidentally spray my bared chest.

Surgeon: Sorree!

RR: It’s like some rite, preparing a gruesome public sacrifice.

Surgeon: (Chuckles, deep down).

Procedure is over. Wobbling somewhat, I descend from the table of butchery.

Surgeon: Don’t forget your fleece and jacket. Wherever it was we put them.

RR: I warn you; they won’t sell for much.

Surgeon and nurse: (Snigger as a duet).

OP TWO: The bowel. Oncology surgeon telephones me at home with results of post-chemo scan five weeks ago (today).

Surgeon: Nothing to worry about.

RR: Phew.

Surgeon (As a throwaway line): But you do have a gall stone.

RR: Given what you said earlier I’m gonna have it out, then pierced, then hung from a necklace.

Surgeon: (Short silence followed by rumble of laughter.).

Question: Have I been around?

It could be all yours but you'll

need a passport and some moola

This is probably going to look like boasting. Well, what the hell? For a citizen of the UK there’s little to boast about now or in the foreseeable future.

A blogging friend, native to the USA, admits to never having had a passport and to have only visited Canada. In contrast (see list below) it seems I’ve been something of a nomad. Some explanation is necessary, however. National Service in the RAF, journalistic work and being interested in snorkelling and ski-ing are the reasons behind some of these destinations.

I did wonder idly whether I’ve visited all the English counties. I think so but can’t be sure. Not surprisingly my knowledge of those in the north betters that of those who call south-east England home. Where, ironically, I have lived for over thirty years. 

At least a week (in some cases months and years): USA (Flitting to and from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Washington, Oregon, New York, Georgia, Indiana, West Virginia, California, Alaska), Canada, France, Germany, Singapore, Malaysia (then called Malaya), Japan, New Zealand, Scotland, Wales, Austria, Italy, Portugal, Italy, Greece (Islands: Karpathos, Rhodes), Sweden, Mauritius, Switzerland, Venezuela, Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, Croatia (then called Yugoslavia), Czech Republic.

Ate a meal in: Bahrain, Finland, Thailand, India, Belgium, Holland.

Stayed overnight in: Iraq, Pakistan, Cyprus, Spain, Sri Lanka (then called Ceylon).

Would have liked: The Baltic States (any of them), Hong Kong (but not recently), Australia, Patagonia, Lebanon (pre-WW2), Bermuda (not entirely sure about this).

Pleased to have avoided: Albania, Chechnya, Columbia, The Democratic Republic of the Congo, the others called Georgia (in what used to be USSR/an island in the Southern Ocean), Turkey.