Ageing is a bastard. Withnail and I - Camberwell Carrot

I'm the same age as Paul McGann.   Getting old would be fine if not for regrets, the bodily decay thing and the ever-more-intrusive looming of Death.

There's also a definite feeling that you should be thankful to have got this far in years without pegging out or becoming disabled and living in John Cooper-Clark's 'piss-stained bungalow' rather than having a whinge about dodgy knees and other embarrassing, undignified and preferably unmentionable things that occur as a process of said bodily decay.  

Which I truly am.  Nevertheless...you have to allow yourself a screaming episode once in a while.  Ageing is a bastard.  It's really bloody awful.

I like this clip.  It's about the end of an era.   

 Times are dark now sure enough what with the covid and all, but they've always felt a bit doom-laden hereabouts.  Death at your fireside and so forth.  The *thud-thud-thud* of the Grim Reaper's scythe-handle hammering at the door when you least expect it, and were hoping for a quiet evening by the fire with a favourite book, a pipeful of Black Bogey, some crisps and a bucket of absinthe.

'If you aren't preparing for Death, you aren't really living,' opined the T-G.  'If you're wise like me,  you'll always keep an empty chair by the fire, directly opposite your own, as a constant reminder of your inevitable demise.'

'Doesn't Mrs T-G mind?' asked Geoffrey,  'After all surely that's her seat,  opposite yours by the fire?'

'Oh she doesn't mind.  She doesn't have time to sit by the fire.   If she isn't scrubbing the floors and blacking the grate she's usually in the kitchen cooking black sausage rolls (see paperback for recipe) and doing the washing up.'

More on stereotypical gender roles and toxic masculinity later (or not - most likely not actually)

Poem of the Day

Psyche

The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name -
But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade
Of mortal life! - For in this earthly frame
Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions making little speed,
And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.

S.T. Coleridge

Coleridge is my favourite poet not because of his supposedly opium-fuelled Kubla Khans and Ancient Mariners (though I do love those too) but because he writes about life, and if I'm feeling grim and lonely I find a friend in him.  Nature, struggle, despondency, the Elements, transcendence, the Stars, cottages, fireside, the comfort of a dying flame and the vulnerable, doomed warmth of loved ones. I identify with his struggle, physical, psychological, spiritual, through howling winds and wintry blasts.  I can easily imagine going back to the early 1800s and spending a pleasant afternoon by a fireside chatting with Coleridge about ever-present Death and the difficulties and possibilities of transcending the trials of a doomed mortal life.

Thoughts expected during the coming year.

Loss of place, loss of community - memories of a time when islands were not, or seemed not, places of isolation.
These are the things that will be occupying my thoughts during the coming year.  When I can shoehorn them in among worrying about bills, getting the car fixed, damp-dusting, the 'ageing process', Death, World War Three, eating too many biscuits, did I use up the emergency UHT milk last Tuesday, bothering the doctor with my rheumy eye, will I die 'early and suddenly' (preferred option) or wither away, alone and ga-ga, in a work-house-style care home et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, that is.  Death and Money, basically.  And as one gets older, Death, naturally, tends to predominate.
If you aren't readying yourself for Death, ur not doin it rite. Life, that is.  I read that somewhere.  Or at least, something along those lines.
I'm forever readying myself for Death.  I have been ever since I was in my 30s when I expected, due to illness, to be dead at 42.  However that did not occur.  42 came and went, and a fairly large number of years have followed.  I count myself lucky.  Now I think of myself as being in a waiting room, waiting my turn, sweaty palms and dicky tummy, reading magazines I never usually read and eating sweets to try to take my mind off the horror of it all.  Lots of people have gone on before, let's face it.  It can't be that bad - can it? We all must open the door alone and find out what lies behind it, alone.  Perhaps it's not that bad after all.  We just don't know what lies beyond, because nobody's come back to tell us.  Fear of the unknown and all that.
Meanwhile, it's probably a good idea to set aside 'readying yourself' from time to time, and enjoy oneself as much as possible.  Otherwise one might become depressed and likely to move on from magazines and sweets to truly life-threatening things such as alcohol, drugs, fatty foods, dangerous 'sports' and so forth, in order to blot out the existential anxiety, thereby increasing it by increasing the chances of an earlier demise possibly through complications arising from morbid obesity.
Can I manage that?  Can I manage to set aside readying myself?  I'm not sure.   I am sure, and I know from experience, that reading and writing are two non-life-threatening activities which can blot it out, if the subject matter is sufficiently interesting and engaging.  Obviously that won't include (at least not when anyone's looking) articles about gluten-free baking,  Katie Perry's beach-ready-body and Cruz Beckham's singing career.  That is an excellent motivation.
On the other hand, why should one bother to avoid life-threatening things, when one is going to die anyway?  It's only putting off the inevitable and you can smoke and drink merrily knowing you will be saving the state a few quid by dying 'early and suddenly' of a heart attack or rapidly-advancing cancer.  Nobody lives forever.  The reason I don't presently tend to over-indulge TOO much is because I enjoy physical activity in a moderate kind of way, walking and nature and so forth, and I want to be able to do so for as long as possible.
On the other hand - or foot, since we've used up both hands - you never can tell.  One might not have to bother setting aside 'readying oneself'.   One might come to terms with one's mortality - biting the bullet, so to speak - as one potters along, and have a terrific time doing it.
Compliments of the season, and all that.

Random Days Doing Nothing Don't Mean the Same Anymore

They just don't.  It's pretty much undoubtedly to do with the sense that there will be fewer of them.  When you're young, or even young-ish, days stretch ahead and boredom seems full of endless possibilities that slowly emerge like sailing ships through fog, adrift upon a mind-smothering and smothered-by-mind miasma which has been formed by doing nothing but sitting for hours in your pyjamas staring at a grey, flat stillness through the window, drinking too many cups of tea, and poking at shapes formed by biscuit crumbs at the bottom of the empty packet, and if you fail to choose one, which invariably you do because it doesn't matter, everything simply slides back into the timeless grey to emerge just the same on another dull day.
It's something to do with infinity and when you're older you know that infinity doesn't exist.  You've lost the courage to imagine it.  You can almost smell encroaching old age it's so close and you fear it.  You fear not managing.  You fear stumbling round the kitchen in a baggy acrylic cardigan and trousers that smell of urine, groping for the kettle with your arthritic fingers and barely seeing where the teabags are through your rheumy eyes and also because you've forgotten and there's nobody there to remind you except the underpaid under-trained nineteen year old care worker who pops in to change your leg bag at lunch-time - at least you hope it's going to be her and not the sixty-three year old care worker who steals from your wallet because she's angry and bitter about the dreadful state of her life and she's got no pension till she's seventy-one and her partner left her for a bloke and her daughter's an internet escort and she's lost all her money buying scratchcards and tattoos and paying off Wonga loans.  During those flat grey hours in your cold and empty house you look back on your cold and empty life and forwards to a cold and empty death.   You look up at the night sky as you struggle up the icy path to put the bin out and you don't wonder as you did when you were young, you don't see wonder, you can't, you only see that the stars are cold and distant and most of them don't even exist any more anyway. they're dead.  You're living on a planet spinning in a hopeless void and you've hardly any time left and it's all been for nothing and you don't know why.

Enjoy your day!

Will there be an Apocalypse, and if so, after, will we be able to buy and enjoy cheese?

Of course not!  To both!  Although wait a minute - how can I say that with such dismissive certainty?  Nobody knows if there will be an apocalypse, or indeed what form it might take should one occur.
Say, for example, there was an apocalypse booked in for next Tuesday.  Would it wipe out the entire globe, or just half of Kilmarnock (not the good half, obviously)?  We simply do not know.  Would cheese be available, in either respect?  I think it is quite likely that some foodstuffs might survive, and that cheese might very well be among them.
Especially the hard kind,  such as Parmesan.
Would we be able to buy it?  Only if money and a trading environment survived.  Money and buying might be consigned to the dustbins of history, post-apocalypse.  We might have to stoop to 'looting' it.
As for 'enjoying' it - well, stolen fruits and all that.  And it would all depend on a decent cheddar being available. And on not impairing one's enjoyment of said cheddar by worrying about skyrocketing cholesterol.
I'm bored thinking about it now, and am moving on to 'what if the whole world went underwater due to apocalyptic flooding and to escape Kevin Costner - how quickly would we develop gills?'

Our Saturday Night plans: thinking of less cliched ways to describe Death.

'Does anything matter any more, Tuppy?'
'No Geoffrey.  Nothing matters any more, except the magical, the strange, and the unknown.'
'Isn't everything magical, strange and unknown, really, when you sit down and think about it?'
'I don't know about that.  I only know that my knee hurts, and my joints ache more in the morning with every day that passes, and if I'm not careful my back goes out when I'm least expecting it.  On top of that,  I can't manage any drugs harder than a junior aspirin unless I'm really in the mood to dice with Death.'
'Then you must come to terms with your own mortality.'
'I suppose I must, although I'll try my hardest to find a less cliched way of putting it.'
'All right.  So will I.'
'Great!  That's our Saturday night sorted.  Pen and paper Geoffrey - crack open the Madeira and the ginger crunch creams, and let's see what we can come up with!'
'By the way Tuppy....'
'Yes?  what is it?'
'You might try, as kind of a sub-set of our evening's task slash fun, to find a less cliched way of saying 'dice with Death'.  If it's not too much for you and all.'
'OK.  Fair point. I'll work on it.  But don't interrupt me again when I'm concentrating, or I'll tell everyone it was you who wee-weed in the community centre teapot last Friday, in a fit of pique after you failed - yet again - to win the DebSoc Whingers Anonymous Whinge of the Week Hamper.'


If they DO come up with any less cliched phrases, for anything, I will post them tomorrow.....

Meanwhile here is a link to more Tuppy and Geoffrey tales, on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1411817855&sr=8-1&keywords=sea+penguin+part+three