Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 2 December 2014
Comforting blankets of fog
If there is one thing I have learnt from this blogging lark, it is that if you are desirous of large quantities of comments, then the best thing you can do is admit to some sort of personal weakness, failing or illness.
I have even had emails from people (who know who I really am and how to get hold of me) wishing me well, together with tons of advice about how I achieve this state.
Of course, not all of the advice is given with good intentions. Heron's prescription of the strict adherence to Ayurvedic Yoga turns out to be a way he can remotely stop me from doing everything that makes my life bearable, such as drinking and staying up late. I knew it was too good to be true.
Rachel's violin came out of the cupboard for the briefest of brief moments, like a flash of light coming from the chink in the curtain of a hostile neighbour.
Britta insisted that I was displaying all the symptoms of something called 'Bekhterev' and hoped that this was not the case, because 'Bekhterev' is - apparently - an uncomfortable and incurable condition, but then she understood that Bekheterev and A.S. are one and the same. Hey ho, as John would say.
John himself advised me to avoid rear collisions when driving my car, as shunts like these can turn sufferers into paraplegics, as if they don't have enough on their plates already. Well I don't set out on a journey with this sort of collision uppermost in my mind, and actively taking steps to decrease the chances of it happening would probably cause accidents in any case. I suppose this is the equivalent of saying, 'good luck', then waving goodbye.
Anyway, changing the subject, I received a Christmas card from BBC's Radio 4 yesterday, so I don't feel so bad about showing you my own so early as I did.
It is a really nice and evocative one, and is a photo dating from around the 1950's depicting a mother and child standing on the steps of St Martin in the Fields, looking at a Christmas tree with a back-drop of heavy London Fog - or smog. I've just posted it on, so you didn't really need the description. Hey ho...
I don't know how they got my address, because I don't remember giving it to Cathy Clugston when I spoke to her on the phone last year, even though she knew exactly which bank account I had from the card number, which happened to be the same as hers - the account, not the number.
H.I. said - in a rather puritanical way, I thought - that they shouldn't be spending money on fancy cards, but I disagree. It's called 'goodwill', and if there ever a time to dish out goodwill - even if it is not for entirely altruistic motives - then Christmas is it.
I wonder who I will talk to this year? I'm hoping for Neil Nunes if I can't get Cathy again...