After last night's lack of nceticing, I compared the way my writing experience (to use the current survey-speak) has been improved/impoverished by removing any form of spell-check from this computer. I am undecided, but at least I read through this shite at least once before I hit the publish button.
The pros include not having to correct the 'correct' American spellings, even though I had set the machine to U.K. English years ago, and that I do not have to put up with the internal dictionary having the vocabulary of an eight year-old and suggesting words which I would have rejected myself at that age, when I am half-way through typing them.
The cons include adding an extra 'a' to 'that' as I did just now above, because accumulated work-injuries have produced a spur of bone-growth on the left knuckle of my little finger which keeps hitting the 'a' key without me noticing (or nceticing). This problems is worse at night, which is one of the reasons I usually only post in the daytime.
The other reason is that my sense of balance and reason is usually thrown out of kilter by the evening drinks quota, and I end up either swearing at people or expressing a life-long ambition to have a sexual relationship with them. Neither of these is a very good idea when viewed in the cold light of day.
I do, however, leave and respond to comments in the evening.
You will be familiar with the way in which I block people who look at me the wrong way at night, or how I become inappropriately suggestive with some of the female bloggers. What you don't know is the background to this behaviour.
When I leave the pub at around 6.30pm, I walk the quarter mile or so home, and my progress is either hindered by idiots getting in my way, or diverted by having to follow a particularly shapely arse in tight trousers. By the time I get home, the tone has been set by whatever mental state either of these situations has produced.
More often than not, both of these things happen simultaneously. I cannot count the amount of times that an idiot has got in the way of my view of a particularly shapely arse.
Now that you know this, I hope you can be a bit more understanding the next time I swear at you, or make a lewd comment about your underwear.
This title was inspired by The Forests of Was, as imagined by a fellow blogger's spelling correction - or lack of. It puts me in mind of Doctor Who and the Thyme Lawns. Old-timers here will remember that it is actually a misreading of some house signs spotted by me from a passing bus near Farnham, almost 50 years ago.
The signs actually read, 'Runfold Place', 'The Towers', and 'Jocasta', but we did not know this until an expedition party had been sent out to explore the exotic location.
I had been in a dream when flying past on the bus, and this was an everyday occurrence when I was young. Sometimes I would in such a deep one, that I would watch the bus pull up, other people get on, then watch it pull away again before realising that I should have got on it as well.
If you look at my avatar here (it is a cropped photo of me when I was five years old) you will actually see the propensity to dream in my eyes. I was a dreamy kid.
These days I do most of my dreaming at home. It's safer. Our home does not have a name which will give you an idea of what we aspire to dream about. It is a number against a street name.
How many 'Dunroamin's are there in the leafy suburbs of G.B.? How many 'Lindisfarne's? How many 'Shangi-La's?
I thought that 'Jocasta' was a game played with a rubber ball which is tethered to a wooden block - in fact I know it is. I stopped myself from buying an old set for sentimental reasons the other day.
So I sit here at home, dreaming, whilst I wait for a delivery of specialised adhesive to arrive from Germany which will send me back out into the harsh, real world again.
You have to remember that cooking has become a chore for me, so I find no escape in recipes. I must try to change my attitude - take pleasure in the small, day to day things. I must grow older if I find the time.
Here is where I went yesterday. Alfred's Tower on the edge of the Stourhead estate. 196 feet high, built from 1.2 million bricks in 1772 (I think) to commemorate a battle between King Alfred the Great and the marauding Danes on this spot, sometime in the Dark Ages. Alfred won.
There is a scar in the brickwork on the left-hand side from when an American plane flew into it one foggy night around 1942. The tower survived but sadly the crew did not.
Stourhead House itself was built for the Hoare family, who were - and still are - bankers, in the 18th century. Their reputation has now surpassed Cootes for longevity and exclusivity. Some of my clients have Hoare accounts. I wish I could say, "My mother was a Hoare!"
I used to know these woods intimately, but now I find they have grown out of all recognition. I could not find my preferred entrance into them, and toward the end of my walk I actually got lost and had to tramp through brambles to find the path back. If it were not for the fact that I knew I should being going uphill, it would have taken me until dusk to find the tower again, by which time it would have been as invisible as it was to that WW2 flying crew.
It is strange to be suddenly thrown back into childhood by a brief moment of panic, alone in a dense wood. You talk to yourself in the same way that you would advise a child too, using logic to dispel fear.
I didn't find any edible mushrooms, but this is the beginning of Autumn.
The end of the Indian Summer has put the lid on the Tupperware box which is G.B. out of season, and watching the documentary filmed in Alleppo last night left us exhausted with impotent grief.
John also threatened to mothball Going Gently, and made this threat/announcement here on my blog. Unthinkable.
So today, I am going to spend a few hours in a forest in energetic meditation by going on my first mushroom hunt of the season. I haven't told H.I. this yet, partly because I feel guilty enough about taking the day off as it is, and partly because mushroom forays are just not meditative if you are not on your own. It would be like fishing at a garden party if you attempted it with more than one other.
Every year, the commercial pickers at The New Forest make life more difficult for amateurs than the last. It is almost war there now, I am told, and the situation hasn't improved with the arrival of all the Eastern Europeans who have been brought up to hunt for the family since they were kids.
It has got so bad in these big forests, that most of them have imposed a blanket ban on picking of any kind, but the lure of hard cash from restaurants means that the commercial lot ignore it completely. There is a fungal war about to break out in the woods.
The forest management have tried to make up for it by having official identification outings, but what is the point of trooping through the trees with twenty others, only to be shown mushrooms which are the best edible varieties, then told that you are not allowed to pick, let alone eat them?
If I return with just two good mushrooms, then I will do what I always do and have them as the centrepiece for tonight's dinner. Sliced Penny Buns (or Ceps, or Porcini) or Hedgehog mushrooms browned in butter with maybe some scrambled egg on the side is a seasonal bonus which caps off a walk in the Autumnal woods wonderfully, but to go home empty-handed and exhausted is also satisfying to the soul.
Tomorrow, most of the specialist materials I bought yesterday (including a biocide...) for work are due to arrive. Tomorrow can wait.
It's hard being a man. It's even harder being a boy.
I used to think that women and girls had it easy, if you disounted childbirth. From the male perspective - where else? - it always seemed to me that boys were challenged to prove themselves at every turn and in every situation, until they ceased to be a threat to their peers or were no longer a viable proposition to girls. I think I will have to blame my mother and father for this, and move on.
There is an old Sikh warrior in Rudyard Kilpling's 'Kim', who just cannot move on. He constantly harks back to the days when he was young, strong and very handy with the sword he still keeps by his side at all times, occasionally unsheathing it and slicing through ghosts as if they were air.
Given the choice between eternal life and eternal youth, most men would opt for the youth elixir, and women would like both bottles so that their children remain at their cutest forever. This is where the problem lies - well, more of a conundrum really.
I had a very melancholy dream last night about an old girlfriend from forty years ago.
In my dream, she was the same age as when I lived with her, but I was as I am now, so she refused me. It took a while, but she got her own back for the mild disrespect I had unwittingly shown her at the time.
As Bonzo Dog once said, 'If I could do it all over again, I'd do it all over you.' A double-edged compliment?