Now

Sometimes it's as if memories are more tangible than present reality. The memories I refer to, are those dating back to a time when socializing, travel, sensory overload could all be taken in my stride; the days when I could go to a concert, a gig, the theatre, cinema etc just on a whim, without first having to steel myself for the ordeal. I'm never sure whether clinging to these memories has any positive value as, they simply serve to throw into the spotlight my current more restricted existence. I suspect it's best to simply live in the present, maximise the opportunities afforded by spending time in the garden, dipping into a book as and when the necessary emotional stamina and concentration is available, listening to a CD, watching a DVD and, especially any time spent in the company of my beloved.

Today we went over to the garden centre at Otley, and I thoroughly enjoyed the journey, approx 15 - 20 mins either way, just about my ideal distance these days. A couple of garden vouchers, that we'd received for our wedding anniversary, went towards a pair of good quality shears, and although  tempted by many items, I only yielded to the temptation to buy a couple of alpine / perennial plants to refresh a rather outworn display in one of the stone planters. Inspired by the excursion, I got down to the necessary transplanting operation within a couple of minutes of arriving back home. Meanwhile ma belle set about a little more tidying up of one of the garden borders.

As we worked, a blackbird provided a beautifully mellifluous background melody; what more could one ask for! Yet there was more. My attention was constantly drawn to the pond, where the piscine inhabitants seemed to gleam in the newly clarified water, the underwater filter having been re-installed (by yours truly) a couple of days ago. Come to think of it, there's nothing more real than now! What's more, ignoring troublesome afflictions, I've never known a time of more contentment.

bipartisan politics!

On one side we have the Labour Party, funded to a considerable extent from the voluntary contributions paid by trade unionists. Opposing them we have the Tories, the Conservative Party, primarily funded by the bosses which, indirectly, means the involuntary contribution of those who are in the bosses workforce or paying customers of the boss. I don't believe that the workforce or the customers, who make the profits for the bosses, have ever been balloted to see if they would like the fruit of their efforts to be used to payroll the Tories.

The Labour party when in government, contrary to what the Tories would have us believe, not infrequently sides with the bosses against the unions. Somehow, presumably for historical reasons, the unions remain their loyal paymasters. These paymasters get short shrift.

The Conservatives retain total loyalty to their paymasters, the bosses, and given the chance do everything in their power to emasculate the unions. Sadly, Labour never seems to have any intention to repeal the Tories anti trade union legislation. The Conservatives, as their name suggests, are there to maintain the status quo, whereas Labour do at least attempt to rectify some of the gross inequalities in society.

Labour, under the Blairite banner of 'New Labour', inherited (and pursued further) Tory Thatcherite economic policies, which on a global scale led to the financial collapse.

The Tories now ask us to believe that under the banner of 'change' they can rectify the problems. Conservative = Change, a paradox if ever there was one!

Too tired to relax

After a couple of almost sleepless nights I have now managed, with the aid of pre-emptive painkillers, to get two successive relatively comfortable sleep enriched nights. Perhaps the "enriched" word is putting it a bit strong, even though theoretically it should prove a blessing.

Although that should have compensated for the preceding sleep-deprived nights, exhaustion seems to be the persistent companion to my waking hours. Ten minutes of magazine or web browsing, in fact anything other than idle inattentiveness, induces a state of heavily lidded eyes, and the consequent decision; do I allow myself to drift off into full snooze mode or do I resist the bodies apparent yearning?

I know that if I allow myself to catnap it will outstay its welcome, then there's a fair chance it will interfere with the later attempt to get a decent nights sleep. If I resist, I'll spend the next half-hour or more in a kind of shuddering wakefulness; it's so strange that the very flesh which so frequently overheats in cooler conditions now seems to shiver whilst the ambient temperature is considerably warmer.

Somehow, it seems as if tiredness militates against relaxation!

an unsought for exercise in sleep-deprivation

Well, I did manage to catch nearly an hours kip between 10.30pm and 2.30am, followed by briefly intermittent snatches of zzzzz before 4.00am. From that time onwards I lay abed, struggling to turn myself over now and again, accompanied by a selection of sounds emanating from the bedside radio. At approximately ten minute intervals, I found myself checking the clock assuming at least one and a half hours had passed. It seemed like a productive training course for anyone wishing to take up the post of full-time insomniac.

Whenever I moved the position of my arms, attempted to clear the mucus from my throat, or even tried some breathing exercises to aid relaxation, I was acutely reminded of the pain in my ribs. Between 7.30 and 10.15am, I almost caught myself napping, on one or two occasions, before becoming finally able to cast off the delusion that sleep was imminent.

By mid-afternoon, following a relaxing visit to Cafe Culture, sleep deprivation caught up with me. Stiff neck, bloated tum, wearily aching limbs (both upper and lower variety) and a general inability to cope with any sensory information whatsoever, eventually yielded to a relaxing snooze. I somehow suspect that it was my bodies unsubtle way of informing me that, in spite of my advancing years, I really do require more than three hours sleep in any 48 hour period. But, if that is the case, why is it currently so reluctant to grant me that luxury?

A Pain In The ...

Last night, as I sat relaxing with my beloved, I was suddenly struck by a sharply acute pain in the lower part of my chest on the right hand side. The pain was still there an hour later, although by this stage somewhat intermittently and feeling rather like a sharp bruise. it was certainly a quite unfamiliar sensation and I couldn't put it down to indigestion but, I'd have been far more worried had it been on the left side of the chest.

Checked my pulse and, that was fine and, unusually for me when I'm in any marked degree of discomfort, or even without that prompt, there was no hint of pallor. So far, so good but my beloved was quite concerned (I had to admit to her that I was too) so, I contacted the out of hours doctor who recommended I should take some of my usual pain-killers (tramadol) and, if I felt any worse at all he would come out to visit me. That provided a welcome degree of re-assurance but, he did also suggest I made an appointment with my own G.P.

There followed a night of intermittently discomforted sleep; although I've learned to cope with my regular aches and pain, any change, to the old familiar dis-ease, plays havoc with my already erratic sleep pattern. I made an appointment with my G.P., although it was a locum I actually saw, for this afternoon. As the day went on, I found at times that the action of swallowing, and even moving in certain ways, renewed the pains intensity.

The first thing the doctor asked was whether I had any pain in my legs, I had to laugh as I explained that I'd not noticed any change to their regular discomfort. She felt around the calf muscle, checking for any hint of DVT and whether a clot had travelled to my lungs. She thoroughly examined me, checking blood pressure, listening to my heart and lungs and, quite expertly (albeit inadvertently) applying light pressure to the most tender area of the rib cage. When I tried to breathe deeply, as she listened to my lungs, the pain recurred with an excruciating sharpness. The diagnosis turned out to be something to do with the intercostal muscles and, I'd already begun to wonder whether my pondly exertions (at the weekend) had maybe put a strain on the muscle. I readily admit that lifting out the planters, from the pond's murky depths, wasn't one of the easiest gardening chores.

On the positive side, somewhat like the herniated disc last year, it makes a change to have a specific pain whose cause is definable, alongside those sundry aches and discomforts the flesh is so regularly heir to!

Malcolm Evison - "Squirrel In The Rain"

Spring Cleaning

I've spent a fair bit of time in the garden this week and have finally got around to vacuuming out some of the sludgy sediment from the pond. Initial efforts were somewhat thwarted by obstacles on the pond floor. Unfortunately, until the time is right to re-install the pump and underwater filter, the water lacks sufficient clarity to be able to see where such obstacles are situated.

As the pond vac restarted, following discharge of the previous cylinder load, I became puzzled as to why the suction wasn't working, as the motor was uttering its reassuring purr of strength. Having switched off the power, I duly removed the suction nozzle and sundry extension tubes but, all were clear. Next task was to disconnect the coiled suction hose from the cylinder where I observed a dark gelatinous mass at the top, almost as if a giant slug had taken up residence there. A vigorous shake of the hose revealed all, as a full grown frog, encased in mud, slowly unfolded itself. A few minutes later it took its first tentative hop back towards the pond.

I hadn't realized quite how strong the machines suction power was!

Today I donned arm length waterproof gloves and fished around to unearth some of these obstructive items, micromesh planters full of slimy aquatic compost but little sign of plant growth, planters full of oxygenating elodea and, old drainage pipes which serve as useful hidey holes for the ponds piscine inhabitants should predatory herons venture past the marginal reeds.

Obstacles removed I was able to use a freely sweeping action with the pond vacs nozzle, before restoring drainage pipe and elodea to their rightful place. 

Mal Murmurs once more

My latest posting, UNTANGLING, can be found on 'Mal's Murmurings'

A Primary Focus

Work, recreation, stimulation and inspiration; I am truly blessed in having my primary focus for all these activities right on my doorstep.

I've just spent another couple of hours intermittent labour in the garden, this morning. There was a time when most of the pruning and trimming back  of plants and shrubs was a late autumn pre-occupation but, increasingly, since making the garden a much more wildlife friendly environment, many of these tasks have been transferred to this part of the year. The priority, now that the harshest weather has passed (hopefully), is to trim the hedges and shrubs before the nesting season gets into full swing. As I amble around, I can always spot another task to be performed and, it requires a conscious effort on my part to remember priorities.

Just a couple of years back many of these tasks would have remained unfulfilled, without the endeavours of my beloved, so it's with an immense sense of gratitude that I perform these chores, a sure sign that I am continuing, a few setbacks aside, in my remission from the most disabling aspects of my condition. Even 30% of my previous activity levels is a plateau I could have hardly dreamt of such a short while ago.

As I got down to pruning and lopping an overgrown hedge, a Robin determinedly accompanied me in my endeavours; whichever way I turned my avian friend was bobbing around. Needless to say, when I decided to reach for my camera the bird was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he's a little camera shy! Elsewhere in the garden, alongside an abundant squabble of starlings, blue tits, coal tits, blackbirds, house sparrows and dunnocks were taking advantage of the garden's various feeders.

I've got to be honest, I'd deluded myself into thinking (even in pre-illness days) that a wildlife area would require less maintenance than a more formal garden; it's a marvellous resource, even though my assumption was totally incorrect. When it comes to the more 'tame' borders of the garden, intrusive ground elder aside, the greatest scourge is the neighbourhood's 'domestic' cats; domestic they may be in terms of being someones household pets but they are a menace when it comes to scratching up bulbs and plants (but not in their own backyard). Electronic cat scarers prove ineffectual, pepper washes away far too quickly and, at times, I even begin to question the value of a few strategically placed thorn & briar branches. A spray of water is certainly effective, as is a loud "hiss" but, unfortunately 24 hour vigilance is impractical! Frustrations aside, I wouldn't swap the garden for anything; it proves a source of inspiration for both my painting and writing, as well as being a more general aid to relaxation.

As I sit and scribble down these notes, a red kite is circling low over the garden; I open the back door and, the variegated pattern of birdsong lifts my spirits. I rejoice and am glad in this day the Lord has made.

Who knows why the axe falls (this particular way)? - an impromptu rant

Seems like the Director-General of the BBC is determined to get rid of 6 Music and the Asian Network but, I'm still trying to get my head around the logic of these cuts. For a start, the cost of running 6 Music could all be covered by a couple of years of the kind of salary that the Beeb (over)paid certain self-important presenters. Perhaps some of these could be made to work for rather less obscene salaries.

If the argument is that they've to leave some leeway for the commercial stations then, it's strange that they decide to cut stations that are nowhere duplicated by the standard commercial station fare. Of course, if the BBC were to cut its more populist programmes that would provide fodder for those who've always resented the beeb, "just look, this poptastic commercial station is getting more listeners than R1/R2, why should we license payers be providing this less popular service?" At the same time, I suspect that most of the moguls (and would be moguls) in the commercial broadcasting field are only in favour of the kind of competition that leaves the public service broadcasters hands tied; they're all for competition as long as it's on their own terms! 

One can't help feeling that much of the "mainstream" music output is little more than a promotional audio for the giant corporations of the music industry. Who decides to plug such and such "record of the week" or "album of the week"?

There is a suggestion that some of the "best" of 6  Music's output can be slotted into the Radio 2 schedule; is this a way of saying that there's a fair bit of dross to be cut out of Radio 2? What about Radio 3, after all Classic FM produces a (very) diluted version of much of it's music output, no suggestion of cutting that station though. I listen frequently to Radio 2, Radio 3, Radio 4, occasionally to 6 Music and Radio 7, so I've no particular axe to grind, I also frequently watch BBC2, BBC4, BBC1 and occasionally BBC3 and, I feel that an argument could be made for merging much of the output of BBC4 & BBC2 and even parts of BBC3 & BBC1 but, somehow television seems to be something of a sacred cow.

Come to think of it, much of the non-music output of Radio 3 would be equally at home on Radio 4 but, somehow, their demographic is of a social standing that the beeb's hierarchs are afraid of upsetting. Most of the musical output of Radios 1 & 2 is difficult to distinguish from that emanating from a plethora of commercial stations but, 6 Music rings the changes; there's a message here, "if you don't conform you're for the chop", a definite air of conservatism.

A Little Thermostatic Maladjustment

The night sweats seem to have returned with a vengeance; the suddenness with which the perspiration seeps from pores on head and torso always takes me by surprise. It makes little or no difference whether the bedroom is heated or unheated, the experience seems totally unrelated to the ambient temperature. I automatically throw off the bedclothes and, quite frequently, feel compelled to remove my pyjama jacket as it only serves to intensify the spasmodic gnawing discomfort emanating from the armpits.


Strangely, this thermostatic symptom bears little relation to my general state of well-(or otherwise)-being at the time of it's occurrence.

Ringing The Changes and Staying The Same

Although my beloved has had the whole week off work, the primary benefit has been quite simply enjoying each other's company for rather longer periods than her usual work routine permits. Watching the occasional light-hearted DVD, whilst still abed in the morning, has helped make ma belle's time-off seem more like a holiday. For all we'd love to change the world, in terms of social justice and the far too prevalent inequalities, and have both been activists in the political arena, our own needs are quite simple and we thoroughly enjoy the privilege of being able to spend time together in our home and garden.

My stamina level isn't particularly brilliant at the moment and, an increased tenderness of glands beneath the chin and in the armpits, alongside aching spasmodically painful limbs, has done little to alleviate this far too familiar situation. Our only two expeditions of the week have been a visit to the garden centre at Otley and, yesterday, a visit to the local tax office to sort out my anomalous tax situation, paying tax on a small pension even though my total income is more than two grand below my personal allowance (the allowance having increased when I attained full senior citizen status last June).

The taxation problem seems to have arisen as the companies paying two minute pensions are allocated to different regional tax offices. Evidently the code duly allocated to one of the pension providers had never been issued! Hopefully, after the valiant efforts of the tax office staff in Harrogate, this problem has now been resolved! Late morning, we made a preliminary visit to the office and were able to arrange an appointment for the same afternoon. This allowed time for us to go back home, where I quickly concocted a spicy chicken risotto for our lunch before the appointed hour. It feels like quite an achievement to have made and kept this appointment as, ever since succumbing to M.E. back in 2003, pre-arranged appointments in town have contributed to panic attacks on top of other excruciating ailments. I even managed to enjoy a grocery shop at Waitrose before returning home!

The day's activities caught up with me later in the evening, as lower limbs painfully refused to be fully co-operative; a vice like griping pain, seemingly emanating from thigh and shin bones rather than the muscle, made traversing the room seem more akin to attempting to skip the light-fantastic at the 72nd hour of a dance marathon. Having emerged from my duvet cocoon at around 11.00am, by 10.00pm my head was exhaustedly floating, leadenly anchored, in a mercury bath. My beloved concernedly assisted my passage to the bedroom where I swiftly collapsed into sleep mode.

A relatively comfortable emergence, into this new day, has been assisted, in no small part, by the efficacious administration of tramadol hydrochloride to alleviate the griping spasms in limbs and torso. By the time I'd managed to remove myself from bed, and attained a degree of verticality, my beloved had already headed off to her volunteer duties at the Acorn Centre.

Anniversary Celebrations

Yesterday morning I was wide awake before 6.00AM, not just a little restless interlude, that had already occurred between 2.30 and 4.00AM. Like a young child on Christmas Day morning, my mind was buzzing with excitement, after all it's the dawn of a big day, our tenth wedding anniversary. Perhaps the fact that I'd spent much of the previous evening setting up my beloved's new laptop, my anniversary gift, and knowing that I still had one or two new programmes to install, had made my mind ultra-active. So frequently an active mind resists the ailing bodies need for sleep.

Anyway, back to 6.00AM; just what does one do when they're bright eyed (albeit none bushy tailed), bursting with an unfamiliar emotional energy whilst all too well aware that the limbs and torso are still screaming out for rest? Decided to pick up Diarmid MacCullough's 'A History of Christianity' for a little light reading but, a 1000+ page hardback tome proved difficult to handle from a semi-recumbent posture. Whilst the text proved exciting, wrists and thumbs were achingly struggling with the handling of the book. A couple of hours later, we decided to catch up with the previous night's episode of 'Material Girl, an episode full of romantic dilemmas, as we snuggled together au lit.

Come lunchtime we ventured down to 'Brio' Italian restaurant where I was pleased to see that my favourite item, a Linguine Marinara, was on the menu. The light sauce, a combination of of fish stock, tomato and chilli, was just perfect. My beloved settled for a fillet of sea bass with a generous vegetable accompaniment. Unfortunately, the house white was a disappointment, my  nose and palate couldn't quite determine whether it came from a bottle that had been opened a little too long or stored beyond its best by date; it was still drinkable but quite dull, unlike what I'd enjoyed on previous visits. Desserts proved most satisfactory, ma belle settling for a dark chocolate mousse whilst I had the creme brulee.

Come early evening, the early start to my day paid me back with a vengeance as I felt shattered in both mind and body. Ninety minutes rest served to re-vitalize me a little and it wasn't too long before I was ready to open a bottle of fizz, Champagne Etienne Dumont NV. I was pleased that when we acquired the bottle, a few months ago, when it was on an half-price offer; it definitely wasn't worth any more than the price we'd paid, extremely average. Still it was the intent that mattered, imbibing the bubbles whilst watching  a dvd of 'De-Lovely', we're both quite ardent devotees of Cole Porter songs.

This morning, my body clock still appeared to be in a state of confusion; this time I was quite wide awake by 4.00AM. At least I had the good sense to remain au lit for a sufficient period of rest. An unexpected surge of energy found me out in the garden before noon, secateurs in hand, for a mini tidying up exercise. An hour of this endeavour found my body crying out for a break and, after a brief seated respite, we headed out to Cafe Culture where we both enjoyed a light lunch of spiced chicken breast with mango chutney, served in naan bread, with a side salad and Thai yoghurt. The celebration of our anniversary continues as we bask in the pleasure of each other's company.

Not So Bad After All

Those halcyon days, when I was once again able to luxuriate in the habit of novel devouring, have swiftly fled. Faltering attempts to resume the third novel, that I'd begun to read, came to nought, in fact I seem to have tumbled back to square one. The suffiency of emotional stamina has once again bade me farewell; I'd like to think that it was quite simply a case of this latest book not being of sufficient character to proffer the necessary stimulation but, it's more likely related to my current state of discomforted exhaustion. Certainly my sleep patterns have become disruptively erratic and, the sleep that I do manage to grab seems to be of a curiously unrefreshing nature. An unsettling tenderness of areas under the chin and in my armpits ensures a constant need to shuffle my position and, that's not at all conducive to the reading habit.



I still seem to be recovering from the aftermath of events of 6 February. Although it felt great to have coped with a considerably extended (compared to my recent years norm) period of socializing, it definitely seems that there's a re-active price to be paid. A current inability to apply myself to the sustained pursuit of any task, major or minor, is to say the least frustrating. I feel rather like one of those people who persistently parade around the workplace armed only with a clipboard, in the pretence that they're being productive. Going through the motions, without any application, that just about sums it up.


To dispel any suggestion of self-pity, that the preceding paragraphs may have suggested, I have to say that I am blessed with the ability, periods of intense frustration notwithstanding, to wallow in the simple pleasure of "being". To observe the antics of the birds in the garden, to sit and hold hands with my beloved, to enjoy the imbibing of a glass or two of wine, and simply to be a minute part of an awesome universe; those are rewards in and of themselves.

Waitrose to Bastiani

Saturday morning, a fleeting visit to Waitrose, where references to Valentine's day were imposible to avoid, was in order. In one of the aisles we met Jane, the wife of Shaun who is the minister of Helen's church; jane mentioned that Shaun had pointed out that the date was also the feast of St. Methodius (albeit only in the Roman Catholic church). The reference to Methodius intrigued me so, on returning home, I went online to find out a little more about Methodius and, the first image I was greeted with was the celebrated icon of Cyril and Methodius holding the Glagolitic scroll.

 Mind you, this is something of a diversion from the main topic of this posting but, it was the starting point for a little process of rediscovery. As I viewed the icon, I wondered if I could possibly find a reproduction of a painting which has gently haunted me for several years. The painting I had always thought to be attributed to Giovanni Bellini but, on referencing the artist and the collection in which this picture could be found I was delighted to discover an illustration ( http://nicepaintings.org/works/85156) of this wonderful painting attributed to Lazzaro Bastiani (who had evidently worked, at times, with both Giovanni and Gentile Bellini).

I first became fully aware of this painting, of the Madonna and Child, in the days when I occasionally attended exhibition previews and Open House at the beginning of the season for Harewood House. Those who attended these openings with me invariably knew that, regardless of the purported preview I was attending, they would be likely to find me enraptured by this painting. The image is very simple and direct, a flush-cheeked teenage mother cloaked and hooded in a dark blue garment holding a child, apparently somewhere between two and four years of age. The mother has a rather dolorous expression, her eyes conveying a deep sense of foreboding, a touching vulnerabilty. Her hands have a somewhat tentative gentle hold on the robustly healthy child, almost as if they yield to the knowledge that all too quickly she'll have to let him go his own way. The infant in this painting is definitely a child, rather than the miniature adult so frequently portrayed in paintings of this period.

I've saved a copy of the image to my computer, cropping it from the elaborate frame, and printed a small copy from which I find it difficult to avert my gaze. As someone whose primary area of art historical interest is American and British painting of the mid-twentieth century, it seems rather strange that this simple image could hold me in such thrall.

A Rather Special Day

Yesterday was my busiest day in, literally, years but there was a very special occasion to celebrate. Helen's sister Janet, whose husband died five years ago, was getting married to Graham. We were well aware of a marked change in Janet's demeanour for a considerable time before we were informed that she was "seeing someone"; whoever the someone was had to be special, rarely does one notice such a marked transformation in a person that one knows reasonably well!

A blessing for their marriage was held at St Wilfreds Church, in Harrogate, which we were pleased (although in my case somewhat apprehensively) to attend. Unfortunately, the temperature in the centre of the church was somewhat akin to a butchers cold store and, I was quite prepared to leave the venue before the service had even started. Fortunately a lady, who I assume was one of the church wardens, pointed out a radiator far from where the main congregational gathering was seated; it took some time before my uncontrollable shivering sttled down. It's the first time that I've worn a wooly hat inside a place of Christian worship and, I wondered whether it might be mistaken for a skullcap as worn by members of another Abrahamic faith, or perhaps I could have been an over-zealous Quaker (of a bygone age) who quite simply refused to doff his hat!

At least we did have a good sing in the final hymn, Love Divine; no matter what state my faith is in, I just can't help but to be stirred by Charles Wesley's hymnody. It was a terrific sense of relief to find that the venue for the reception, The Yorkshire Hotel, was more than adequately heated. Having spent the best part of an hour at the church, I still managed a further three and a half hours at the reception before succumbing to an overwhelming exhaustion, leaving just before the Ceilidh was about to begin. The speeches were among the most entertaining it has been my pleasure to endure. Fatiguing discomfort aside, it was wonderful to have been able to share in the celebration of this special event.

*******************
A poem, SOMETIMES (for Janet & Graham), can be found on 'Mal's Factory' 

 

Malcolm Evison - Two Recent Poems

Get The Drift

A dull grey day greets my belated emergence from the duvet lair, a quick look out confirms it's damp as well. As the day goes by, the drizzly rain changes to sleet and a few properly formed snow flakes emerge from the squally gloom; obviously a day to sit by the fireside!

Early afternoon and my physio arrives; a little chat over a cup of hot beverage precedes the acupuncture therapy, melodic strains emanating from Radio 3 create a suitably relaxed environment. I lie back, breathe slowly and deeply as she ascertains the appropriate points for the needles insertion. As I relax, I feel a warmly gentle golden glow radiating through my limbs, allow myself to drift with the background music. Mere idleness transformed into a bissful relaxation.

Much Ado About Nothing

A day of hollowness; an aching void replaces any kind of fulfillment. A sense of frustration started yesterday when I set up a recording using PDC (possible only with analogue transmissions - no such luxury afforded when digital is the only option), only to discover that the BBC, in it's wisdom, had interposed an additional programme advert into the schedule resulting in the 34 second advert being all that was recorded; a confusion of signals!  Today I set off a recording of a classic movie, direct to DVD, only to let the recording overrun by twenty minutes which proved quite irritating. At least I have the recording of the film, albeit rapidly followed by far too many minutes of some Aussie soap.

Any regular reader of my blogs will be well aware of my antipathy to sport but, this morning, I made an exception to that rule to watch Murray vs Federer. I was swiftly hooked on the match even though my mind, or perhaps my soul, was telling me that I was just wasting time. This sense of squandering precious hours was not subject to any probable outcome of the match, it's quite simply that observing grown-up people chasing a ball around is a time-waster, nearly as much so as participating in the sport. Had I been listening to music, watching a film, reading, or even just browsing a reference book, no such thoughts of wasting time would occur. That privilege is apparently reserved for sport alone. This sense of vacancy almost distracts me from the sundry aches, pains and general discomfort my flesh is all too frequently heir to.

Earlier this afternoon, Radio 2 provided background accompaniment to our lunchtime dining experience; on several occasions EP, the programmes presenter, told us that a song was performed by "the late ..." but, I very much doubt it! Adam Faith, Jean Simmons etc. may well have recorded the songs whilst they were alive, prior to attaining the status of "the late", but, I couldn't help being haunted by the vision of a medium channeling the voice of some ectoplasmic projection onto the acetate. The deceased, in my experience, very rarely if ever, perform songs in or out of the studio. 

In an attempt to overcome this negativity of absence, encouraged by my beloved, we go out for a walk. As we pass the local pharmacy, my attention is caught by a notice proclaiming "Chlamydia Often Has No Symptoms"; if I was feeling in the best of health that could prove worrying, I have no symptoms therefore I may have got that disease. Truth be told, I have symptoms of all sorts of possible conditions so, I'm hardly likely to have that one. Honestly, I don't know who the message is aimed at but, in small letters the notice says "ask the pharmacist for a confidential test"; I just imagine thousands of people, not knowing what chlamydia is, popping in to the chemist for a confidential test because they have no symptoms. The least they could do is incorporate a few words saying that it could be contracted through unprotected sex!

And The Point Is ...

Well, for a start the point is on the pictured needle attached to a syringe. The text reads,"smoking is addictive don't start". The message is on the back of the cigarette pack. Before you see the message you must have first purchased the cigarettes. I suspect that purchasing cigarettes is the act of one who already smokes. When you get the packet, the lid is flicked open from the front so, there's no need to look at, let alone read, the said packets backside. If the intention is to stop people smoking why not just ban the sale of cigarettes and, forsake the enormous revenue raised thereby for both manufacturer and exchequer?

Governments and health authorities must be seen to be spreading the right message but, placing the adverts on the coffin nail packs themselves, does seem like an exercise in futility. The smoker is already paying a financial penalty, to maintain their habit, which theoretically should prove a sufficient deterrent.

As a smoker, whose first indulgence in the pernicious weed occurred at a pre-teen age even though Iwas brought up in a non-smoking strictly tee-total household. I also accept that it can lead to health problems, especially as an irritant to a latent condition but the constant reminders of this fact have little effect. On several occassions I had thrown off the habit, only tobe lured back by the constant refernces to it on national no smoking days. I am also aware of the addictive properties of caffeine, my most recent return to the nicotine habit having been a direct result of an attempted ban on caffeine consumption by my physician.

In earlier times, I indulged (at times quite heavily so) in the partaking of purportedly addictive substances which were not legally available.I failed to become addicted; these illicit substances turned out, in my case, to be a passing fad.

The question is, would their free availability over the counter have encouraged me to further pursue the habit, bearing in mind that they were already relatively easy to obtain? If their illegal status was a deterrent to my continued use, then it's time that the government outlawed cigarettes on the same principle!

There could, of course, be an ethical principle at stake; if land is used to grow a cash crop (tobacco) where food crops would be more appropriate and, if the producer is not being paid a fair price for his commodity, this for me would be a more compelling consideration should I, once again, attempt to discard the habit.