Pragmatism is the one true faith

Lying on my chair for three days in a nest of cushions, hobbling about with a stick, and dosing myself up with various pain-killers, reminds me of how vulnerable we are even to relatively minor ailments. A pulled back is nothing on the scheme of ill-health, but is sufficient to immobilise and cripple. So too is society vulnerable to small shocks. The frenzy of the social media, the intolerance of varied opinions, the prejudice against those who dare to be different, brings home just how rapidly civilisation can collapse if we do not constantly work to maintain its good health.

Recent politics presents a reversion to simian behaviour - screaming and throwing sticks, or in this case an equivalent nearest object, milkshakes. Intolerance of others is endemic in the system and the beliefs of modern politics as much as it is in so much of religion. Trump represents support for Israel. Corbyn's secret agenda to not prosecute anti-Semitic behaviour courts the Muslim vote, which is much stronger than the Jewish vote. Hence Khan's response to Trump, and the strong anti-Trump campaign in the Labour movement, and Corbyn's refusal to attend a state banquet in the presence of Trump. He can afford to lose the votes of the Jewish community, and fend off the critisism of the Chief Rabbi: it gains him a huge undercurrent of unvoiced support, enough even to overcome the strong Brexit support in Peterborough.

No one person can always be right; no single belief system is infallible; no one political system has the sole answer to all the world's woes. So must we be vigilant to oppose strident -isms that always insist they alone are right. If we are to adopt any -ism, let it be pragmatism, and try to pick the best from each person's ideas, for we each have something to contribute, if only a tiny part of the whole.

Nostalgia and gulls

Watching "Yesterday", the new film reflecting the life of the Beatles, it seemed a nostalgic view of the Fab Four seen from a distance, but without any of the original music or film tracks; just a single singer who beat out the songs as though recalling the moments in a world that has forgotten them. It was a nostalgic trip, without grit or unexpected twists, lacking the violent death or even the inspirational Ono of the originals. It seemed somehow to be a cheap, cut down version of the past, as though made to attract the fans without the meat of reality. It was, however, good to recollect how much brilliant and original music they gave us, and reflect on how much loss there must be in our own world from genius that never flowered, like the sound of a single hand clapping, or the death of an unripe flower through lack of water. Also, much was filmed in Suffolk, so it's always good to see the county and coastline represented.

At the car park in Haverhill, a solitary gull was feasting on discarded chips. It flapped past silently without its usual raucous call. Gulls are my favourite bird, for their versatility and power of survival. They are the most human of all animals, for they hunt fresh fish, or scavenge dead ones; they survive off flesh or bread; they can walk, swim, dive, fly or glide; they can nest on wild cliffs or roof tops, and live in great colonies or in solitary isolation, and their communication is a great squawking. I miss the call of the gulls and the sound of the sea.

Last night, Edwin returned to us from the monastery in Kathmandu. He was unusually quiet after his enforced silence and abstinences, but the lateness of the plane and the hour meant it was already past 2a.m. on his clock, before we picked him up. We will perhaps hear more of his journeys when he awakens, probably late, today.

Ladders hats and benches

We narrowly escape crashing into the Moon

Our grandson Luke came to stay for a few days, and following a longstanding promise, we took him to a new escape room in Haverhill. This involved solving many logical puzzles to restart the systems of a rocket about to crash-land on the Moon..We survived this ordeal with a little help from the mission controllers, and managed to escape for a group picture.

Up the ladder in my new hat

Following the announcement about my lost hat, Lucy generously sent a new soft floppy hat, ideal for working in the few hot summer days England enjoys. I seized the opportunity to do some gardening and basic repairs, including repainting the Dragoon Saloon, now converted to an office for Edwin.

The hat protects my scalp well enough, but leaves the brain inside to stew in its own devices, and as absent minded as ever. After walking the dogs in the park at Clare, I returned home to  find my glasses missing. They had been on my nose when I left, so I worked backwards to conclude they had been left on the bench I'd sat on. This bench is dedicated to  Harriet Loram who died two years ago. I knew her well as a fellow dog walker of a greedy Labrador called Victor, after Hugo. She was a history scholar who helped set up reading groups in the library, and in 2015 helped organise the 800th-year commemorations for Clare's role in signing Magna Carta in 1215. She died alone and was undiscovered for several days. Her dog was then highly disturbed and would settle with no one else, and had to be put down. Returning to Clare as soon as possible, I retraced my steps to the bench. Someone had picked up the glasses and perched them on the side arm of the bench, which seemed to be wearing them so they were staring emptily to the blue sky, like a miniature Easter Island effigy.

Harriet Loram memorial bench in Clare

On my wrist that evening was a tiny black spot - could it be some minute insect or parasite? From experience of living in unsavoury places, I have a high respect for the malevolent benefits of small insects, and try to avoid intimate contact. It seemed to move as I watched, but it was probably the movement of my own uncertain arm that gave it the semblance of a jerking life form. Once recently, I discovered such a visitor while sitting on the toilet, and – panicking that it was the harbinger of an infestation of lice – I collected it in a small jar and took it to my local doctor for analysis. Though he confessed he had never been faced with this type of request, he duly looked up what form he needed and sent it off. A few days later the report came back that it was a harmless garden insect. This time, after watching for a while, I finally flicked it off, and any potential life was extinguished.

On retreat

Edwin has retreated to Kathmandu to a Buddhist monastery, for ten days of contemplative silence. We also contemplate ten days of silence, but in the peace of our own home in Suffolk. The water supply in Kathmandu is reputed to be lacking any official certificate of  hygiene, and Ann cautioned him to be careful where he eats and drinks. Ann was telling MA about this general lack of hygiene in the East over lunch in Bury, when a blackbird walked in through the open door and hopped down the steps to peck a few crumbs from the floor beneath their feet. It then pooed on the floor, hopped back up and walked back into the street. "You were talking about the general lack of hygiene in the East?" asked MA. No one else in the cafe seemed to have noticed the bird, and Edwin said it was his spiritual self come to visit them.

I used to have a lovely soft Australian hat, but I have a poor habit of leaving things in restaurants, and I lost it some time ago. At the hospital today for my three monthly check up for myeloma, the dermatologist asked how long I'd had the other mark on my ear. He diagnosed actinic keratosis, a pre-cancerous skin condition also caused by too much sun. He prescribed a powerful anti-cancer cream which should reduce it; if not, they might be slicing off the top of my ear to match the bottom slice, leaving just a strange little flap in the middle.  I really must get a new large brimmed floppy hat to keep the sun off.

Father's Day

Double Rainbow over Bury

With Edwin away for the night, it has been a peaceful Father's Day. So yesterday Ann arranged a meal in Bury St Edmunds, and a film, "Sometimes Always Never", a poignant film about an older man (Bill Nighy, though really a "younger" man as he's only in his 60's) whose wife has died, following which one of his sons runs away, and for whom he spends the rest of his life searching, to the neglect of the remaining son. There is an element of The Prodigal Son here, but it certainly drives home the deep sense of loss of a child and how it affects everyone else.

On the way home was a wonderful double rainbow, which Ann insisted on chasing and photographing. I must admit the picture turned out quite good though. It put me in mind of the film we had seen, where the missing son was portrayed as a pale reflection of the strong father, now fading now strengthening, but always in the far distance no matter how hard one ran to catch it.

Today, Ann and I went to the Globe in Clare, one of my favourite watering holes. They generally have a group playing on Sunday afternoon, and today was heavy metal/rock with a lively beat from a good singer. A perfect Father's Day present.

Sunday afternoon in The Globe

Gatecrashing Shaw's House

Stayed the night in London at Stratford Moxy following meetings. Next morning, as Ann was sipping her first coffee, the fire alarm sounded. Ann insisted she would not go down in her night attire, so I told her we would leave or die together and waited while she got dressed and found her handbag. Finally, as we were ready to join the fleeing throng, the bell stopped ringing. Later, a maid told me it was someone burning the ironing had set it off!

Outside Shaw's writing hut

On the way home today, we stopped off at Shaw's Corner, always a favourite spot. We arrived at 11:00, and noticed the sign saying "Open from 1pm-4pm", but a woman was already opening the doors and told us she was nearly ready to let us in.

"Why does the sign say "1-4pm?" I asked.

"That's when we're open to the public, but we open early for groups," she explained. We showed our cards and waited in the shop area, and three more people joined us. "Right, we'll just wait for the last one," the guide said, but looked surprised when another three people came. "Oh," she said, "they must have made a mistake with the booking. Never mind, we can manage eight as well as six," and she led us off to view the house. We said nothing, and followed as though we were part of the group. This had the big advantage that all the rooms had the safety ropes drawn back and we were allowed to tread the hallowed carpets (albeit in overshoes) and get up close to the original artefacts, in addition to a personalized running commentary.

The death of a woodpecker

Juvenile Great Spotted Woodpecker

Cars were parked all along the road into Clare this afternoon, and twitchers were out in the fields with binoculars and telescopic cameras boasting huge lenses, trying to spot some rarity. Back home, I heard an almighty bang as a bird flew into my window. On the patio, I picked up a colourful bird, but it seemed already dead. I am not knowledgeable about ornithology, but the RSPB site seems to identify it as a juvenile great spotted woodpecker, due to its prominent red cap.

Birds often seem to fly into our windows. I believe the reflection must appear to them similar to the sky, but sometimes they revive after a period of recuperation in a straw-lined box. We've had pigeons galore, a thrush, a blackbird, a coal tit, and even a kingfisher which we ferried to the river at Clare once it had revived, where it shot off as a speck of iridescent blue. Woodpeckers are reputed to have tough skulls to withstand the pounding from their drumming. Alas, this one's skull was not tough enough when it crashed into my window this morning. I just hope it wasn't the bird the twitchers were waiting for, but the RSPB site says these are common birds so I guess they can continue looking in hope.