Domestic bliss

The long and short of the long sentence: She was determined to be more than a simple housewife. Then she thought about that thought and how it in itself was a blatant piece of stiff prejudice and was simply untrue. Nobody is simple, we are not simple creatures on any level and nobody understands the term housewife anyway. If it was to be a description, a career and compliment, or an insult towards some station in life that transcends all of them. Then she thought about the earring that had just fallen into the kitchen sink drain, how annoying was that? She though of how it looked, how it was a part of a now ruined pair, of the details, shapes and shiny faces, the fine wire work and how it had sparkled, the outfits it had gone with. Now it was somewhere down in the murky darkness of the drain, beyond her reach and now the only possible means of rescue was via the dumb spanners of some plumber or DIY expert. She blamed herself (just a little) for not pressing the back on tightly enough, it must have pinged as she leaned over. It could have been a manufacturing fault, poorly made of inferior material in the far east and in the great timings of all the small things it had failed at that critical moment when she'd been at the kitchen sink. The place where many greasy, culinary and domestic, clean events had taken place.

Then she smirked into herself and thought about the occasional sensual or sexual moment that had taken place there, across the sink, bending at the waist, glazed eyes, vulnerable, touched. After parties it had sometimes happened, a byproduct of drink and relief, a parting celebration at the dog end of a difficult social situation, a way to channel up and end the stress. His and her's in some unequal measure. These thoughts wouldn't return the earring or do the other chores, they were empty musings that passed across this kitchen sky like a flock of birds above the barrels of the hunter's guns. Those guns were always ready, pointed. Everything that flies by gets shot down sooner or later, all winged things find the hard earth as it argues with gravity for attention and supremacy. And so it was that the earring had fallen on it's golden descent and was somewhere, amongst the lost things.

She thought of the great pile of lost things that everyone imagines; teddies and toys, coins and keys, jewellery and precious stones, phone numbers, tickets and messages. The physical mixture of those things we cared about, too much to begin with and then not enough later, we were lazy and careless or taken advantage of by a surprise hole, a gash, a stretched pocket in a purse or the failure of some component part in the grand chain. We witness this small universe as it collapses, time and time again and washes it all up as foreign flotsam and jetsam on a strangers beach. She twisted the tap too hard, a stream of warm water rushed around the steel sink, swishing right then left in a desperate torrent always drawn to the drain. The crest of the wave hit the drain and a tiny hydro explosion occurred, froth and foam, bubbles and an earring, pushed up and quick as a flash back into the palm of her hand. Tight shut on the shining prisoner. More than a simple squeal was needed, she allowed herself a chocolate smile.

The economics of motoring

There isn't a financial expert or economic correspondent alive who would ever advise anybody to purchase a used Alfa Romeo. The small numbers and risk traffic lights trip them up, they dance before their eyes in an unholy significance that breeds a mathematical fear and makes them use such terms “strike a note of caution”. Modern man is undone by the backwards power of this forest fire. Nothing is safe, nothing is stable, nothing can be done but somebody is making a lot of money. Some trees were cut down in the making of this statement.

Under over pressure

A dodgy air line, a dodgy gauge and not wearing glasses, add to that the inability to do the mental arithmetic necessary to convert PPI to BAR and throw in an interfering rainstorm and you'll understand why I got my pressures so badly wrong. Then of course I had the incorrect coins and then the airline was out of order.

Eventually I've gotten it right but not before I'd magically over inflated all four tyres and still managed to mysteriously cure a slow, lazy puncture that's been slowly puncturing for weeks if not more weeks. Now the fog lamp warning light stays on, I'm sure what it's trying to tell me but at least the bulbs in the rear lamps have stopped flickering like the Blackpool Illuminations on a blustery October night. Win, lose, win I make it, could be the best week's ownership ever.

The 99th Secret

There are 99 deep and true secrets in the universe, hidden behind things, in things, outside of things and arounds things. And so it was that we realised that god knew only 98 of the secrets and not the full 99, never the 99th. Turns out that only the old wise monkey, the monkey of wisdom knew them all including the 99^th. God isn’t particularly pleased about this arrangement and he's angry and frustrated about it. He's angry that the monkey knows the 99^th and frustrated that despite the various pressures and bribes he has subjected the monkey to, the monkey steadfastly refuses to reveal Number 99. An intolerable position for any self respecting divine personage, so god lost patience with the old wise monkey. “Monkey” he said, “you know that I wish to know this 99^th secret that you persist in keeping from me, you know that I could destroy you and your family, you know that I could wipe you from the pages of history and make your name to be as nothing but still you defy me, why oh why?”

The monkey didn't answer at first and looked god up and down and set a deliberately grim expression onto his face. “God you know I love and respect you but you also know that I cannot simply surrender my deep secret to you for nothing at all, in order for me to share secret No 99 you must give me something, something special, something that at least matches the value of the secret, something truly unique and precious.” The monkey smiled, “I have waited a long time for this moment, I believe you can and will give me the full desire of my very simple animal heart.”

God sat back, clenched his thumbs and thought long and hard. Finally he broke his silence saying, “Gentleman’s relish”. The monkey looked puzzled. “I know that you desire more than anything to be like man, I know that you, if you could would rather be a man than a monkey.” The old monkey smiled and nodded, god had seen straight into his monkey soul and pierced him with a plaintive and powerful truth he could not easily deny.

“If you will share with me the 99^th secret then I shall share with you the secret recipe of Gentleman’s Relish and that my monkey friend once known to you and applied will make you more man than monkey and set you on level terms with the grass cutting, meat eating, coal diging, beast taming, number crunching men of the world.”

The monkey replied, “then tell me the recipe and give me the plain directions to the Road to China and I will reveal to you the 99^th secret.” God looked pleased with himself and allowed himself a grin and snapping his fingers produced a glass full of gin and tonic, with crushed ice and fresh lemon. He supped it slowly slurping slightly. “Approach me and whisper your tale.”

“No”, said the monkey, you first.” God looked a little frustrated but humoured the monkey, “very well, here is the recipe, once you know this, once you have mixed it and tasted it you will be more of a man than a monkey and more of a man than any man on earth.” God did a quick hand shuffle and handed the monkey an A4 sheet headed “Gentleman's Relish Recipe”. Then in another quick move he produced a Tom Tom Sat Nav, “this is set for travel to China, by both the shortest and fastest routes.” The monkey grabbed the paper and the Sat Nav and scuttled into a corner to study them. “Stand tall, stand straight monkey,” cried god, “you're so close to being human now!”

For a few moments the monkey looked over his items and then stood up, tall, straight and (for a monkey) almost erect. He approached god and cupping his monkey hands began whispering in god's right ear. After a few seconds the smug look on god's face began to change, his eyes widened, his jaw dropped and he seemed to be swallowing hard. He straightened up, ripped the recipe sheet from monkey's hand and tore it up and then threw the Sat Nav against the wall smashing it to pieces. Then he stormed out of the room, stamping his feet as he slammed the door.

A small blue bird flew into the room, narrowly missing being trapped in the rapidly closing door, the bird circled for a few moments and then settled, landing on the shoulder of the monkey. They regarded one another for a few moments. The bird began to tweet sweetly and then gently spoke in a thin, birdie voice, “so what did you say to him to upset him so?” The monkey allowed himself a little giggle that seemed to twinkle up into his eyes and across his face. “Well god wanted to know the 99^th secret of the universe, the final great secret, so, once he had given me the tokens that I asked for I told him, yes I did.”

“And just what was that?” The monkey grinned widely, “ I simply told him the truth, I told him that despite his Relish Recipe and his Sat Nav gifts the 99^th secret stays with me because long ago I promised my own monkey god that I'd never reveal it to any lesser being. I don't think he liked that.”

"Tweet” said the bird.

Closed and open roads

Though it has a powerful exhaust and the gases are a potent mixture of hot and pretty destructive materials we can't be blamed for the massive woodland destruction and subsequent blocked roads that have occurred around here. The usual routes are impassable and the everything else is either part blocked up or covered in a carpet of debris and dead foliage. Of course last year at this time we were suffering a foot and more of snow and more slipping and sliding and digging out than I've ever experienced and it was minus 10. Yesterday it was a balmy 11 degrees but the wind still clocked 100mph, that's at least 4000rpm in a Cougar, downhill with a good following breeze.

At home due to this peculiar weather and serial pylon collapse the electricity has disappeared back up it's own corrupted exhaust pipe, so coal, candles and batteries are keeping us going surprisingly well, that's country life for you. I suspect that if the power failure carries on it'll be a drive through breakfast of some sort tomorrow to prepare me for the return to work and a frantic recharging of the soon to be dead mobile devices, perhaps we should also be investing in a small Honda generator to ensure a level of business continuity during these spikes of inconvenient catastrophe,or maybe I should just try wiring the Cougar's lump up to the domestic supply, has this been done?

Even in the grip of Hurricane Bawbag II I was able to top up the ever diminishing oil supply, we're on about a strong and imperial pint a week right now but still getting 38.4 mpg. There's life in the greasy old cat yet though I'd not bet on him/her making the planned (2015) cannonball trip to the Arctic Circle via Greece, Poland and Portugal and of course passing over the highest road in Europe at the same time. Nothing like doing Europe the hard way (and this is nothing like ...etc.). The next chapter will most likely be more fiction and less fact but you can never really tell.

Uses for animal entrails

For 7% of my life I've been a Ford Cougar driver. Well not exclusively I have driven a considerable amount of other vehicles in the 7% period of Cougar ownership, often for many miles and in other countries. Anyway I'm now not sure what to do next, how likely am I to stretch that unexpected 7% up and into double figures? I suppose I could by simply doing nothing and working out some rough calculations. I check my red top horoscopes, flayed animal entrails, tea leaf markings and Autotrader pages but the bright light of imparted wisdom still fails to shine on me.

Life makes sense

She was thinking of it as now (well not today because it was in the past right now) and how it had been the best day of her life. A simple, an easy and a best ever day. No love, no romance, no flowers, no proper sunshine, singsongs or chattering but just the best day. A day spent on her own, on her own terms, in her her own time. In fact it was less than a day because that was the way it worked out. Less than a day, mere hours and still the best day of her life. Not even twelve hours come to think of it, just a perfect flurry of the preening and pictures, reflections and glimpses squashed up like a crazy slide show and compressed into a wonderful presentation, only for her eyes. So short, so long, so parallel to everything and yet so out of step. Metaphysically magical. She stopped and caught that thought, the best thing ever but somehow short (in time) but so deep in experience. Really all the measures we use here are wrong. Stupid priests, scientists and explorers who fail to catch the reality of reality. We see through the wrong end of some cosmic telescope, trained on silly and unimportant things that we have been badly educated to value, all magnified by a cruel emphasis on time. But take that time element out and just see things for what they are, running, crawling, lumbering along and onwards outside of time's boundary. What a strange and open freedom that is. Life makes more sense, eternity is far less of a pressure to plan to fill and all lifetimes however rich or barren are removed from disappointment. Time is over. “Now”, she said to herself, “I can relax and simply await that next moment.”

Happy Christmas and don't drink...

...and drive, well not very much anyway, a better Christmas for all concerned will be the likely result. Currently I've been driving on the opposite side of the road and not in a Cougar, that won't last however because in a few days I won't be here in sunny/cloudy/warm/nice Portugal, I'll be back in the UK. Anyway if you've stumbled upon this, fair enough, seasons greetings to you and I'll try to do better next year.

Watching TV

Sometimes I'll watch a film or a football match on TV not because I'm particularly interested in it but because I know that my son is watching it and he's not here. Maybe that seems like an odd thing to do, maybe it is, it just feels good. TV pulls things apart, corrupts and makes folks lazy or so they say, at other times it also makes you feel less alone.

Moonlight

After we had eaten the pheasant the farmer's wife wife produced a warm, home baked sponge that was topped with fresh peaches, sliced and juicy. It was a glowing, delicious moment and none of us could believe our luck. Here we were, rescued from the wilderness and now dining in some style. Our fatigue, minor injuries and the disappointment of our failure to find the passage was temporarily suspended. I sat back in the old wooden Captain's chair and couldn't help but grin across the table at my fellow travellers. The farmer's wife then began to clear the table, we all began to help, chatting, laughing and satisfied.

There was a full moon that night and I glanced out of the dining room window. I could see right across the fields and there in the near distance I could now make out a figure, it looked like the farmer. The moonlight was picking him out like a searchlight, he was standing over something, a shape on the ground. As my eyes grew accustomed to the scene and distance it became clear that he was bending down examining the carcass of a red deer.

Bad light stops play

Not much is more maddening than the twist and turn clips on the Cougar rear light clusters. Bulbs regularly turn and fail of their own accord rendering you without rear lighting and up for a blue light stop from the police. It has happened to me. Perhaps it's wear and tear, poor fitting or just a GM based gremlin. I'll never know but the overall effect is the loss of winter driving confidence and a lot of time spent fiddling with the three plastic screws that hold the thing together and then trying to persuade the bulbs to remain in place and just peacefully cooperate with the light switch, how hard can that be?

Demon of Scribes

In my sleep I was visited by the spirit of Titivillus; the demon who ensures that errors and omissions are made in sacred writings thus frustrating the writer and confusing the reader. He was in a philosophical mood and wanted to talk about the past, the “good old days” when life for such a specialised demon was straightforward. He/she did his/her* best work (he says) in the days of heavy calligraphy and quill pen use when monks ruled. Those guys must have hated him, now he's almost redundant, straightened out and thwarted by the spell and grammar checkers that run in everything these days. Anyway the “patron demon of scribes” told me that nowadays he's kept busy by collecting all the idle chat that occurs during church services, in mosques, in temples and in ashrams everywhere (he has no real boundary issues – any gathering will do). His mission now being to take these remarks, hold them tight in labeled bundles and bring them to Hell where they will counted and used against the offenders – nice that they're all going to Hell you may say. When I showed him Twitter, a few tweets and what was trending his little face lit up – fun times ahead and you will hear his/her name again.

*bored with the gender change.