The piano tuner, the monk and a ghost

(Sorry – the blog about strikes is still parked. I’m having difficulty justifying anyone’s right to strike, ever.)

Hubby went off to France yesterday afternoon for a week-long MAMIL-fest (Middle Aged Men In Lycra). There might be some MAFILs there as well. As long as they’re Middle Aged and not Young Females, I’m cool with that. Then again, whether they’re younger, prettier and slimmer than me or not, I reckon my nails are sharper and I can still emulate Norman-bites-your-legs-Hunter better than anyone. What if there’s a MATIL? (You really don’t need it spelled out.) Then Hubby has strict instructions to take notes for a future blog.

In a perfectly comfortable ‘been married a long time so don’t read anything into this’ kind of way, I was looking forward to a week on my own: a clean and tidy house; no meal-prep twice a day every day; no sport on the Telly; snore-less nights (not me; him!); a fully stocked wine fridge (well, at the beginning of the week); and oodles of time to catch up with various projects.

Individuals trump ‘society’

I was working on a blog about trade unions and strikes, but parked it when I read about nine-year-old Olivia Pratt-Korbel. She was shot dead while standing behind mum Cheryl, who was injured, in their terraced home in Kingsheath Avenue in the Dovecot area of Liverpool. Residents say that Kingsheath is a close-knit community where children play together on the street. They describe Olivia and Cheryl as quiet, respectable people.

My very own Silent Spring in summer

Hubby and I have just come home from a mini-break somewhere in Warwickshire. I didn’t enjoy some aspects of it as much as I thought I would. The reason for some disappointments – rudeness –was obvious, but others it took me until I got home to realise why.

We went ‘up-north’ as Hubby called it (he’s a ruddy geographer for crying our loud, but I reckon his Southern upbringing trumps that) for a special cycle event with his mates and dinner on the Saturday night.

Not knowing his cycling buddies, not knowing anything about cycling, not wanting to know anything about cycling, and not really being attracted to the county, I was wondering why I agreed to go … Because I’m a dutiful wife, that’s why! If I’m not defending his honour against the likes of Fearful Sharkey and his Snivelling Sycophants, or the Gobby Guardian and its Regurgitating Rabble, I’m by Hubby’s side, smiling sweetly (well...) and making polite (well...) conversation.

The incredible lightness of being

The title of the 1984 novel by Milan Kundera was actually The unbearable lightness of being, but I prefer my version, which I hope will be self-explanatory later. I’ve wanted to use such a title for one of my blogs for ages, and I’ve just found the excuse or hook, even if it’s a little contrived.

The story centres on two women, two men and a dog in the late 1960s and early 1970s, incorporating the1968 'Prague Spring' when Czechoslovakia was invaded by Russia … These guys just can’t break the habit! The central character is Tomáš, a womanizer who “considers sex and love to be distinct entities: he has sex with many women but loves only his wife, Tereza. He sees no contradiction between these two positions”, (per Wiki).

With rights come responsibilities

While I try not to repeat myself when I write, I am partial to a few mantras that seem so apt so often and are so irreplaceable that I trot them out with perhaps too much regularity.

Those who can, engage with the issues; those who can’t, resort to insults is one I use whenever anyone who ever had any objection to any development for any reason is dispensed with as a Nimby. It works for other topics too. Most recently I fired it off on LinkedIn and was confronted with an aggressive barrage of every criticism ever aimed at any person who ever deigned to hold non-lefty views. One moron culminated his diatribe with something like, “I don’t want you polluting my feed so I’ve blocked you. Ha!”

I wonder what his employer or clients would have to say about his lack of professionalism or even basic decency when they see how he responds to a polite (if pompous, I admit), mainstream comment. He’s done himself far more harm than he’s done me who, after a few glasses, imagines a potential lucrative new client telling him he’s a wazzock and has lost the contract. Ha!

Four Yorkshiremen of the Apocalypse

Who doesn’t love a good Monty Python sketch? And those pre-Python sketches can be even better. In case you haven’t guessed by now, I’m referring to the "Four Yorkshiremen" classic from the 1967 TV show At Last the 1948 Show, starring Tim Brooke-Taylor, John Cleese, Graham Chapman and Marty Feldman. Click here to laugh at four monied Yorkshiremen reminiscing about their childhoods, each trying to ‘out-destitute’ the other and getting increasingly ridiculous.

I was reminded of this sketch the other evening while sharing a (one? surely not) bottle of red with my like-minded neighbour, whom I shall call N to spare her blushes. We were sitting in my garden, despairing at my dead lawn, dead shrubs, dead pots and how quickly the wine was evaporating. To wind me up, N said the forthcoming hosepipe bans were all the fault of the water companies (remind yourself of this blog to see why I think the water companies are given an unfair wrap these days). I countered with a story on the news this week about a chap who was complaining about the brown colour of his water that his local supplier was blaming on “unprecedented demand”, but that the water was still ok to drink. The chap carried on complaining, saying he first noticed the discolouration after filling the kids’ paddling pool.

It's not easy being rural

We’ve heard a lot about rising energy bills and price caps recently.

The energy price cap limits how high some people’s gas and electricity bills can go. It doesn’t apply to everyone, only to those who are on their supplier's basic energy tariff and not, for example, if you’re on a fixed-term energy tariff. Neither does it apply if you’re on a standard variable ‘green’ energy tariff – not exactly an incentive to go green, is it. 

The price cap is adjusted every six months and the last change was an increase in April 2022 to £2,000. The next review is due in October, when a further increase of £800 minimum is expected, landing the typical domestic customer with a likely bill of over £3,200 p.a. from October, and over £3,300 a year from January 2023. Ouch! Prices are rising sharply because demand for gas increased when Covid restrictions eased, and because the war in Ukraine has threatened supplies from Russia.

Allison Bailey knows who her friends aren’t

Cheering news. An employment tribunal has ruled that barrister Allison Bailey was discriminated against by senior colleagues at her chambers over her gender critical views, i.e. the sex of a person is immutable: women cannot become men and vice-versa.

These views are what the silent majority would refer to as ‘common sense’. Cross-dress, have surgery, take hormones all you like but you cannot scientifically change the sex you were born into: female or male. Some people are genuinely convinced they were born with the wrong body and they take various steps to ‘rectify’ this. Assuming they’ve had the necessary advice and support, then they should be allowed to live peaceable lives as they wish and not be discriminated against. Live and let live is what I say. 

Channel 4 – 2 wrongs don’t make a right

I was skim-reading news online the other day and registered the following isolated words from a Twitter extract: “insane”, “government consultation”, “ignored”, “travesty”.

I didn’t have to read any more to fill in the gaps and deduce that someone thought it was insane that a government consultation had ignored responses and was pressing ahead with whatever they had always intended to do, which was a travesty of democracy. Why was this news? I’ve never met a government or local authority consultation that was worthy of the name.

Nothing to see here. Move along please.

But then I saw who had Tweeted, and I was torn. I’d never read anything this bloke had ever written that I agreed with. That would mean that this particular consultation was actually kosher. Oh dear. If I don’t sort this out before lunch I’ll get indigestion.

Climate change - truth or dare

I signed up to the climate change mantra a long time ago when the science was ‘less certain’ than it is today. As I saw it:

• The long-term trend in global temperatures was upwards

• The rate of increase was alarmingly outstripping any previous trends, suggesting this was more than just the usual cycle

• It was more than likely that human activity (e.g. gas emissions, deforestation) was contributing towards this long-term trend

• Humans therefore had a moral duty to try and repair the damage and prevent further harm

• The cost to the most vulnerable in national and global society would be worse if we didn’t invest in our mutual futures

• If we chose not to act immediately, and in 30 years’ time realised that we should’ve done, it would be too late. Prudence was the name of the game.

Catch-22 meets Franz Kafka

I’ve had the most surreal time dealing with a bank. Think Monty Python and Black Adder, or Frank Spencer on roller skates. The phrase “couldn’t make it up”, “get a grip” and “shitshow” spring to mind.

I used to work for a bank, am financially literate and married to an accountant, so you’d think if anyone could cope with banks, it would be me. Not so. I’ve lost the will to live, taken solace with my mate Tanqueray, and kicked the neighbour’s cat down the lane out of sheer frustration. 

Am I bovvered?

My recent Boris-tribute blog drew mixed reactions in the blog comments, other platforms, by email and in person. They were small in number but mega in back-slapping (mine) and arse-kicking (mine again). Boris isn’t the only one with a cohort of bashers. Yay, I have something in common with the man himself!

I’d rather people read my blogs and hated them than didn’t read them, or worse, read them and didn't feel compelled to respond, favourably or no, civilly or no. Indeed, those who responded unfavourably to the Boris blog enticed others to have a read and, within 48 hours of posting, it became my most-read blog ever. What’s the mantra? No publicity is bad publicity? Who knew?!

Boris, my kind of leader

Because Boris got Brexit done as he promised he would, and stood his ground against the EU, Irish, French and Russians as I prayed he would, I consider him to be my mate, and mates are there for each other, through good times and bad, warts and all.

So I find it all very sad if not scary that Boris, our Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, elected with a thumping majority just 2 ½ years ago, is stepping down at the behest, not of the electorate, but of disloyal and/or incompetent civil servants, biased and unprofessional media, selfishly ambitious Cabinet Ministers and other Traitorous Tories (TTs), traitorous against Blighty as much as against Boris. They prefer instability to peace and progress; personal advancement to team-playing; lemming mentality to loyalty; insults to reasoned debate; subservience to the bullying EU despite the democratic will of the people.

Write, write, and write again

One of my regulars (blog-readers, that is) recently sent me a fascinating article by Ludwig Siegele, Business Editor of the Economist, on “Foundation Models”. Initially, I thought this term was somehow a politically correct replacement for ‘Under Wear’, the word ‘Under’ being deemed either crude, or evocative of serfs being socially under their lord.

I read further and realised instead that Foundation Models are huge Artificial-Intelligence (as opposed to artificial butt-and-boob fillers) algorithms that are much more versatile than earlier forms of AI. According to Siegele, most of the algorithms can write “eerily good prose, analysing a text’s sentiments and explaining jokes.” Hmm, I wonder if he means ‘explaining’ jokes or ‘justifying’ them to the thou-must-not-offend-laugh-or-disagree-with-my-opinions woke brigade.

Planes, Horses and Automobiles

Our Icelandic holiday has had some transportation issues.

The first mode to rear its ugly head – and they don’t come much uglier – was flying. Yes, we flew to Iceland and, surprise, surprise, we flew back, much to the consternation of my email inbox, which must now contain every possible perm and com of: You didn’t fly did you; I trust you didn’t fly; Please tell me you didn’t fly; and You did what?

My conscience however is clear. This is the first time I’ve flown since January 2020 (thank you, Covid) and I won’t be flying again until at least 2024. The only reason I do fly is because Hubby wants to, and as he does loads-a stuff he doesn’t want to that I want to, we give and take and compromise, a concept that is alien to the wokerati, Remainers and the aviation industry.

Nine lives later

When one goes on holiday at my time of life (think hot flushes and temper tantrums), one looks to relax in beautiful, fascinating and safe environments. One does not expect to spend an entire day in a state of stomach-churning anxiety, wishing one had packed Diazepam as well as Stugeron.

I'm thinking of doing something naughty

This is how I imagine BoJo broached a subject with Lord Geidt, who recently resigned as the Government’s ethics adviser because, he claims, the Prime Minister put him in an "impossible and odious position.”

The usual BoJo Backstabbers are, of course, in paroxysms of delight at this ‘cast-iron evidence’ that Bojo is a criminal. My working hypothesis is therefore the opposite: that BoJo is nothing of the sort, and his Backstabbers are too busy backstabbing to smell the coffee, see the light and analyse yet another situation remotely fairly and intelligently.

I think I'm in love

So many to choose from, but only one made the grade.

Firstly, it wasn’t the Icelandic tour guide with the biggest put-you-off-your-puffin builder’s bum I’ve seen in a long while. He needs to forgo carbs in a hurry if he wants to keep his job plodding up black (can I say that?) sandy cliffs with even more overweight tourists in his wake (not me and Hubby, I hasten to add).

And what about those puffins, eh? As if they couldn’t get any cuter, I learned (from the builder’s bum) that they don’t sit on their eggs; they tuck them under their wing to keep them warm. So much more heart-string-plucking than a Mills & Boon nausea-fest. But I’m not in love with puffins.

An embarrassing puffin-watch

Iceland’s a funny place. Parts of it remind me of the Lake District, others the Somerset Levels and the Mendips. Then there are landscapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a Mad Max movie or even Pirates of the Caribbean. (Johnny Depp won! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

But the movie that comes to mind the most is Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds: oyster catchers, snipes, red shanks, kittiwakes, arctic terns, golden plovers, fulmers, whimbrels, knots. We saw them all. But we didn’t see any boobies.

Golliwoggs, and all that jazz

You might think it a tad premature – I haven’t even applied for probate yet – but we (me, Sis and Bro) have decided to put Mum and Dad’s bungalow on the market. Yes, Dear Reader, at the age of somewhere between 49 and 79, I am an orphan.