where art collides philosoperontap

Good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good news.

Can you believe it?

Bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news,bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news,bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news, bad news.

It’s all bad news

I was born in sixty one and am sixty one years old. I think 🙂. Couple of things spring to mind. I’m a lot stiffer nowadays and I have to scroll a long way down when inserting birth year online. The two are unrelated apart from the age link. 

Just looked and apparently a pint of beer was 2s 1/2d in 1961. That would have been of no interest to me at the time, particularly as my birth month was December as regulars at trefbash will know. Presumably we are talking ordinary bitter here. A pint of beer nowadays is a lot more and is very much dependant on where you are.

A pint of milk was 8d, something a lot more relevant to me at the time, I’d guess although I’m pretty sure I was breast fed.

The scrolling down might be annoying had I not had 61 years to get used to it and it has crept up on me over time. It does however annoy me when I have to scroll down to select ‘United Kingdom’ when the country at the top is ‘United States’.  Tossers. There, you can see I’m annoyed.

One misty morning in October. Thank God It’s Friday. Frankly my dear I don’t give a centime. RTYUI. Part of the charm. Why so much traffic? Firenze frenzy. Untitled document. Amazingly my diary has cleared today. It’s as if a bow wave has run through the calendar pushing all meetings aside. What shall I do? I could paint a picture. Watercolour. Watercolours. Or sort out dad’s tax. Finish my book. Not much left to read. Mourt’s Relation. V interesting. Listen to a symphony. Beethoven. One of his finest. Breakfast is something to look forward to. Must order some logs. Haircut? Avoid avoid avoid. Bury head in sand. Put on thick jumper. I’ve been in Southern California after the rain. You can see the mountains. Someone unplugged my Sonos. Heavy rain here. Lightning and thunder. The correct order. Avoid, avoid, avoid. The shallow politician. All shallows in short. Swirling words struggling with focus. Weeeth foe cus. A day of a gratuitous nature. It’s not about champagne it’s about which champagne. Look down upon the high sierra. Fighter or quitter? 😁 Switch off ears. Bruce bonus. Body pump booked. Class. I like fried bread but have no bread to fry. A fry down. No bread to fry. Fry away Trefor. Which tomato 🍅. You say tomato tomato 🍅. I say tomato tomato 🍅. Suffered a one off shock. Every other sentence. Life sentence. Significant other. The manager has been sacked. It’s a brutal business. I. Aye. Eye. Why? It’s about the party. Don’t slip on that skin. Slip me some skin. High four. Hi there, hiya. Steak  for dinner. Let us break bread. I. Who did you kiss in the moonlight? Wait and see.

…

I like the concept of breaking bread. Eating a meal can be done alone but breaking bread has to be some with someone else. It goes with drinking a beer or opening a nice bottle of wine.

What constitutes “a nice bottle of wine”?

No bread to break, no bread to break, no wine in the bottle, no bread to break.

Salad with a steak, salad with a steak, no wine in the bottle, no bread to break.

The youngest drinkers in town. Hannah and I were in Waitrose and repaired to the caff for a peppermint tea and a lahtay. There was a queue. They were all blokes. Old blokes.Their wives were sat holding spaces at tables. As was Han. I like going to Waitrose and occasionally frequent the caff if I’m with an offspring or pal but I never want to get into a habit of going there especially when all around are preparing for death. The slow but steady decline into a care home and oblivion. Maybe Friday morning is OAP morning. I dunno. It’s a mental thing. Preparing for death.

That moment when you realise you need to cull your t shirt collection. There are, I’m sure, many at the bottom of the pile that never get worn. It is time. Time they saw the light, momentarily. Fleetingly.

This is not a high priority job and should be reserved for a rainy day when I’ve run out of other things to do and feel sufficiently motivated to get on and do it. It ranks below spraying the shed with its annual coat of preservative and certainly behind the tidying up of the garage bench, which naturally happens when you realise that you can’t find anything anymore.

Today is a lovely sunny day. It has that fresh smell of early summer and the sense that the birds have full bellies after their early worms and are now sitting contentedly on the branches adjacent to their nests chatting to their neighbours.

…

Cleared some of the jobs off my list although not told Anne I’ve sorted the ebike insurance – she might read this and find out 🙂 Sbeen a v chilled afternoon. A perfect summer’s day really. Shed doors wide open. Shorts t shirt (one of many as you know) and flip flops.

Cleared more ivy from the border near the shed and was followed around by a robin who basically filled his boots behind me. Lots of tasty looking grubs, if you’re a robin. Seems to be a theme today. Avian eating.

Robins don’t wear boots obvs but it felt like a suitable expression for the moment.

…

As I sit now, in the shed, watching Tombstone on DisneyPlus without the sound, the birds are hitting evensong. I assume that’s what they call it. It is evening and they are in song. Nothing religious about it. Snature.

It is approaching 8pm. The shed doors are still wide open. The tall grasses growing in front of the deck, heavy with seed, are moving gently. Not swaying, just moving. Gently. Fluttering. That’s a better way of putting it. Perceptibly.

Cleared the deck. Layered with detritus but no more. It was. Dead leaves, seed cases, duty discharged. New hope. Stiff brush the job.

Outside, the swoosh of the hosepipe prevails. Thirsty plants draw deep. A good time to dilute.

Tis evening. Outside, the temperature has dropped below zero and all sensible beings have kept to their lairs. It is not a night to be abroad. For some it is their first winter. For many it will be their last. Struggle’s end. A frozen lifeless body. No time to mourn. Survival.

It was long since ordained that Sunday mornings should be a time of rest. Relaxation. With that in mind I tuned the sonos in the living room to Classic FM only to discover I had arrived in the middle of an ad break. For KFC! Did I hear that right? Fortunately calm has now been restored and I am listening to a bit of Dvorak. Aahhh.

There is a small espresso at my side, fresh off the stovetop and I have time ahead of me to indulge in the required restorative inactivity.

My use of the “Living Room” Sonos speaker was not straightforward this morning. Not compatible with the relaxation it was meant to facilitate. Turns out the Sonos S1 Controller on my macbook needs upgrading to S2. However the upgrade button doesn’t appear to work. I had to resort to using my phone which is fine but it isn’t really acceptable that the laptop version doesn’t work. 

Further investigation has revealed that Sonos don’t have a Mac version of the S2. Hmm.

All appears to be well in the Davies world. I’m not taking into consideration any “external to the bubble” factors here: global warming, a corrupt/inept political elite, food shortages etc. Two of us are up and at it with the third still sleeping off last night’s rum tasting evening at the cricket club. sfine.

In the news this morning is the death at the age of 64 of UB 40 singer Astro. People come and people go and after the flurry of interest has faded away he will fade from our memories but for the moment we think of him, and his family. The issue for me is that he was only 64. Time was, admittedly when I was so much younger than today, 64 was a long way off and not an unusual age at which to die. Now with only a month to go to the big one (oh no six oh!) it is quite a sobering thought.

It makes sorting out your life plan all the more urgent. Mine includes focussing on just doing stuff I enjoy. This means no stressful work and a concentration on creative projects. Easy really. This Christmas will be a watershed.

I’m quite looking forward to my 60th birthday. I really enjoyed my 50th which felt more like what 40 was supposed to be. I have a couple of big parties planned, one, trefbash60,  in London at the usual venue and the other at home in Lincoln. If you are coming to either I really look forward to seeing you. 

It’s the first time the date for trefbash has coincided with my actual birthday. It’s a terrific gig and I typically only remember who was there because we have a photographer which this year is going to be Paul Clarke again. The theme is Pirates of the Caribbean. Better start thinking about your outfit.

Outside, a colour laden washing line sways gently in the breeze. Important to have colour in your life. Don’t be blue or grey. The exception to this is my friend Martin Levy who carries grey very well. Only wearing grey makes choosing his wardrobe easy and his outlook is far from grey.

I am pondering a change in direction with my shirts and jackets. This isn’t one to rush into but I feel a simpler style might be in the offing. We shall see. It may be that the shirts and jackets I seek may not be available in the shops which is not that much different to half the ones I already have so maybe that doesn’t matter. You will find out when I find out.

In the meantime there are pictures to put up and garlic to be planted. It is Sunday morning after all. A time to get the jobs done 🙂

Interesting that the “country needs an opportunity to let its hair down”. Note so does the opposition.

Interesting that politicians come out of the woodwork as football fans, make speeches about it in the House of Commons and wear England football tops newly sourced for the occasion. Don’t they realise the contempt this engenders.

Interesting to see the unleashing of a drunken nationalistic fervour.

Interesting to watch the periodic build up of hopes and expectations – beware they are mostly dashed in the final analysis.

Interesting to observe the lack of understanding when English people find that Scots, Welsh and Irish are ambivalent to the outcome of the final.

Interesting that cheating seems to be accepted as part of the modern game (they should introduce the sin bin).

Raoul Castro has finally taken his bus pass. I have visions of him travelling around on the front seat of a rickety old 1950s bus taking in the sights of Cuba. And why not? After a long career in public service people need to be able to finally put their feet up before they pop their clogs 🙂 I wouldn’t have thought they play much golf in Cuba so he will probably have to find other things to keep him busy. Writing in to the Havana Times and similar.

That’s the sort of thing I could envisage doing. After my breakfast of boiled egg and soldiers washed down with locally grown coffee, sat outside on the patio, I’d get my writing pad out and pen letters on subjects close to my heart. Complaints about the bus service. Stuff like that.

I’d probably stroll into town, maybe catch a bus, and meet my pals in Cafe Arcangel. It is one of the city’s best coffee shops. The sort of place you can while away the hours, glancing occasionally over the top of your newspaper at people going about their business in the street outside. The owner Joao always has a cheery smile.

In 1803 Britain declared war on France. This is not a concept we can get our brain around these days. Not declaring war on france specifically. Just declaring war. We have had wars in recent times but they tend not to involve a declaration. We just pick on someone smaller than us and send in the tanks. Or drones.

An unusual opening sentence that. I think I overheard it on the TV and wrote it down. I no longer recall the context. This is of no consequence. I haven’t even gone to the effort of finding out why war was declared. Some French shenanigans somewhere no doubt. Or English. Nowt to do with the Welsh or Irish. The Scots would have been on the side of the French.

We have declared war at least three times in my lifetime. The Falklands and the First and Second Gulf Wars. These are all events that were played out in the media to a greater or lesser degree. Nowadays we all sit back and watch battles happen on our screens.

A time of change. Turning over an old leaf.

Classic Sunday afternoon in January. The wind is howling out there and it will soon be dark accompanied by plummeting temperatures. When I was a kid this would have meant watching a cowboy movie on the TV or perhaps playing a game of Monopoly with my sisters. Just trying to survive Sunday afternoon until the week reset itself and Monday came again.

To some extent very little has changed even though the choice of entertainment has increased massively. It doesn’t feel right sitting in front of the TV all afternoon though. Most of it is rubbish anyway. My alternative is to sit at the table the conservatory looking out at the weather and write.

It will gradually get darker and at some point I will decide I need to turn on the wall lights, dim as they are. The day will have morphed into night. Life will change. Life takes on a different complexion at night in winter. Cosier. As long as you are indoors and warm and the curtains are drawn.

Watching the TV in the evening seems more acceptable.

I’m glad I’m not a plant.