History for our ex-colonial cousins

Hastings, where the French scored an "away" victory. The
word Rex (top right) means king; it is not an incomplete
reference to the act of national suicide now known as Brexit.

Colette questions my pronunciation of "schedule", alluded to in a comment to Speeking Sorta Bettuh. Time for a little history lesson. And I mean real history, a long time ago. Pedantic observations about unimportant historical points I've misread (or wilfully rearranged) will be deleted

For a thousand years after the birth of Christ Britain was inhabited by Saxons, a primitive lot, given to painting themselves with blue dye known as woad and fighting among themselves. True there were kings but their kingdoms tended to be limited and their names didn't sound particularly English, or perhaps TOO English. Finally, along came Egbert (his dates being 827 – 839; only THREE figures you'll notice, for goodness sake! So really, really old.)  the first monarch to establish a stable and extensive rule over the whole country. 

Then came came the diphthong kings Aethelwulf, Aethelbert and Aethelred (known as The Unready for reasons you may well guess at). Then someone we all recognise, Alfred the Great, who dropped the diphthong and later burnt the cakes. Then Edward The Elder, then Athelstan, (Coincidentally, one of my daughters, I forget which, was educated at King Athelstan's School but by then the king was long gone.), then Edmund who reigned till 946, bringing us almost up to the Start of Real Civilisation on our primitive island. I should add the Romans came earlier than the diphthongs, did their best to introduce us to central heaing but, pigheadly, we knew better and continued to set fires on the floors of our mud huts

As to the USA during this period, I believe the area was inhabited by buffaloes and they, foreseeing the democracy that would arrive in 2016, didn't go in for kings.

Being an inward-looking, fatheadedly patriotic and badly educated group of hairy men (I'm sorry to say, women didn't really get a look-in) the Saxo-Brits naturally ignored what was going on in the landmass to the south. Which served them bloody well right. In 1066 the Normans (Who were actually the French, the ones we've sneered at for centuries while being secretly terrified enough to organise Brexit to escape them) did what Hitler never managed, sailed across the Channel, landed at Hastings, kicked our collective arses and - among other things - introduced the French language at least into south-east England.

The outfought Saxons retreated to the extremities of our Jewel Set in a Silver Sea (Quote: WS), there to develop a deep-set suspicion of foreigners which lasts until this very day. Meanwhile, the buffaloes, 2000 miles to the west, munched grass unperturbed.

Thus, if the word "schedule" does have French roots these must date back about a thousand years as far as the UK is concerned. Not that it mattered. Had it been otherwise, in 1966 I was a Brit surrounded by millions of Pirates fans. I 'd have found some other way to keep up my end.

Speeking sorta bettuh

Say it, over and over, then try B

Following my first cancer op a twenty-minute chat with easily the most lustrous speech therapist in the West Midlands convinced me I needed to know more about the spoken word.

I’ve written for a living but writing is – or should be – an organised craft. Speaking tends to be impromptu, of course, but a disastrous and unfortunately memorable jumble of phrases I uttered as a bridegroom taught me to depend on the agility of my typing fingers rather than the false glitter of my thoughts when addressing multitudes.

Speech should be distinct. With many people this is not the case. Some mumble, thinking they sound casual; more often they are incoherent. Others tell jokes, unaware that the build-up may be as important as the punchline. Others “er” and “um”, the sound of a mind thrashing in neutral.

As with singing so with speech, consonants are as important as vowels. Words should make use of all their letters, not fade into oblivion. Watching someone read sentences compiled to aid speech therapy it’s amazing the way the lips flutter quickly from one sound shape to another. Lips are powered by muscles, when those muscles weaken the speech is slurred.

Tongue twisters teach us that what our speaking apparatus wants to say may not be what’s written. Even short ones: “She sells sea-shells by the sea-shore.” Note how we are tempted to insert an “h” into “sells”. Sure, you can work out why, but tell that to that free spirit your tongue.

Some therapies require us to junk our instincts. Out in the hurly-burly January becomes “Jan-yew-ry”; under the therapist’s watchful eyes and ears it takes all four syllables “Jan-u-a-ry”. That might seempedantic but certain words profit from this form of aural resurrection: for instance, where does the  “h” go in “vehemently”?

Looking forward not backward

Happier, fitter days. Probably on the "wrong"
(ie, the Italian) side of the Matterhorn while
staying in Cervinia. From the left: Grandson
Ian, RR, granddaughter Bella.

I am 87, very old. My movements round the house reflect my age. But my thoughts and opinions, plus the way I express them, are less affected. I am still capable of discovering things which please me. As I did yesterday.

Read an essay by Christopher Hitchens, left-wing atheist, journalist and thinker, discussing Evelyn Waugh, one of Britain’s greatest novelists, though a pig of a man. Two writers I know well. The essay shone light on both and widened my education. I felt enlivened.

Extreme old age tempts many to look backwards, almost permanently. But the past is fixed and its truths are known. Whereas time that’s just around the corner may contain revelations which add to our experience. Fitting in with things we already know, widening our knowledge, giving us a clearer view. The essay did just that.

I think I’ve lived a varied life; one might say journalism – my former trade – forced variety on me. I asked questions seeking answers then formed these answers into articles that were new to me. Curiosity was my stock in trade and still is, albeit less widely practised.

So what is life if we do not believe in an after-life? Physical activity may be beyond us but to disregard the future’s possibilities seems like a negation of living. A wilful rejection of our capacity to learn.

Having said that I’m about to undermine the basic premise of the above. No worries, there are always exceptions. Before starting this post I checked my inbox and found the above photo, a twenty-five-year-old moment in time. History, you might say, hence looking back. It’s a weak defence but the photo is new to me, never saw it before. But it is resurrective.

Wind from the West blows balmy

There’s a pain in my hip – the one I lie on when asleep. At my age and with my medical background such a matter could well turn me into a worry-wart. So I got up, switched on my PC and sought distraction.

News from the USA: today is the beginning of the baseball season. Ah, fond memories. But I’ve rhapsodised about the great game quite recently and I’d risk boring my tiny circle of like-minded friends.

So what else?

Glaring headlines. Smiles on the faces of Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert, two of my intermediary sages. Expostulations from Mar-e-Lago.

TRUMP INDICTED. (not “indicated” as Trump himself spelled it.)

Look, who knows? Maybe his followers will set fire to the whole of Manhattan. Maybe Vladimir Putin will offer him – rent-free – a dacha overlooking the Black Sea. Kim Jong Un promote him to Foreign Secretary (In the US: Secretary of State) of North Korea.

Never mind.

Let’s just savour the moment. That a judge will have the power to say to him: “With all respect, Mr T, you surely realise that what you’ve just said is untrue.”

And truth is bliss.

Nothing sharp in the boot (US - trunk)

I honestly considered cutting my throat.

It’s a lousy way to go, I know, but despair briefly suggested that solution.

Yet those subsequently shuddering at my gory steering wheel would have marvelled at my trivial reasoning.

VR, my wife, is not well but it’s not my prerogative to reveal her private details. Saturday meant the GP would not be available. I was on my way to discuss subsidiary medical matters with the pharmacist about a mile away. I could have walked but I wanted to be back quickly, to keep VR company. I parked, got out, glanced at the back seat. No shoulder bag which held important evidential material. How could I bloody well have forgotten? Perhaps, now, I can be thankful the Skoda’s toolkit doesn’t include a machete or some such.

As I drove back to get the bag my self-anger drained away. The pharmacist was a great help and my brief flirtation with ending it all is now mildly amusing history. But this post is not primarily about illness, it’s about one of the unexpected disadvantages of old age.

I am totally in charge of the house. Providing meals, for instance. In my early sixties I did just that for two years. Now the prospect fills me with dread and I cheat. I’m required to choose clothing for VR; the wardrobe is terra australis incognita and I unhook garments to see whether they’re pullovers, trousers, skirts or long dresses. Small items need transporting from bedroom to living room and back: two dozen return stairway journeys a day because I’m forgetful. The laundry. Following up VR’s emails. Pill regimes.

Fellas who have shared their wife’s responsibilities will sneer. Say I am reaping where I failed to sow. But how many fellas know the three gradations of knickers? 

King of the kitchen

What are those? You wouldn't like them.

New medical matters have intervened since my last post but, while these events have been - and are - quite demanding, I’m inclined to look for other fish to fry for the blog.

Books? Movies? Telly? Politics? Warfare? Nah, I’ve chewed on these over and over and none supports my oft-repeated belief that no blogger – even of only average intelligence – should ever confess to “there is nothing to write about”.

Grandson Ian is staying with us and in stark contrast to his granpaw he is absolutely fascinated with kitchen work. Four or five cakes (all different styles) have been baked, innumerable variants on the curry theme have appeared as if by magic, as well as quickies I’ve dreamed up just to test him (“Yeah, I feel like an omelette – a cheese omelette, that is  – oh, and perhaps with spring onions**. Sprinkled with parmesan. Why not? Fluffy of course.”)

Ian disappears for an hour and I know where he’ll be; all 6 ft 4 in. of him, bent sedulously over the sink, eagerness apparent. Is the work sometimes mere drudgery? I ask, given that all such work is drudgery for me. Very occasionally, he says. For like all proficient cooks I know of, he hates to repeat himself.

But Ian is no one-trick pony. He’s hot as the hinges of Hell on computer matters, a subject that has recently bubbled to the surface regarding a switch in my investment platform.

As recompense I offered to buy him lunch and was prepared to spend big bucks. But no, he preferred a very old-fashioned fish-and-chip shop in nearby Monmouth. It was like travelling back in time, he said. Just in case you’re wondering, my lunch (see foreground) consisted of faggots. They would be a hard sell in the USA.

**In the US – scallions. 

Laugh and then reflect

The background, by the way, is completely gorgeous

Oscar nominated movie, The Banshees of Inisherin, has a title nobody fully remembers. It is simultaneously hilarious, gruesome, profound and deeply Irish. Being Irish might have limited its appeal but a strain of parody (I think) ensures a wider audience. Since the Oscars are decided by Americans I’d be surprised if it wins - the language, its uttermost glory, is nominally English but it needs its subtitles. Certainly I needed them.

There’s also a central premise which Americans might find hard to swallow. Two men are longstanding friends; abruptly one says to the other “I no longer like you.” The other finds this hard to believe. But the first guy offers such horrific proof of this sentiment – and, horror of horrors, delivers this proof! – that there can be no doubt he was telling the truth.

Ignore the horrors, just reflect. Yes we may all change our minds, disliking someone we previously got on with. Usually due to some trauma between us. But here there is no single transformative event. The dislike is born out of intellectual analysis, a silent, private process. More than that, would you or I, having arrived at this conclusion, announce it aloud to the ex-friend?

Why not? Ah, yes.

The movie examines this situation, as a dog might worry a bone. But how can this generate hilarity? Here is a possible stumbling block. The laughter grows directly out of the language. The inverted questions (“Will I be seeing you tonight?”), the repetitions with the second statement inflected slightly differently, formality mixed up with informality (A Catholic confession which will have you in tears – of fun.). Can these things be funny? Honest! If you don’t laugh you haven’t followed the dialogue.

Even so, human beings are on trial. Most are found guilty.