FEATURE - Writing On A Grain Of Rice

The osteoarthritis in my hands means the strength in my grip is getting weaker. My fingers also lack the dexterity and control to do really detailed work anymore. So if I live to 82 years old, I hope I'm still able to write coherently and legibly. I do not however think I will aim to be able to write like this Japanese man, on a grain of rice or in a miniscule book. Just another example, should you need it, of the obsession with detail to the point of  awestruck wonder, that is the Japanese imagination when set free.

Watch this video click on the link Writing on a grain of rice

FEATURE - Making Japanese Hikihaku Woven Obi

 

I never cease to be amazed at the meticulous level of workmanship and attention to detail of the Japanese. The beauty of the result seemingly always worth going beyond that extra mile. Here its the production of the Hikihaku obi kimono sash. Yes, they make it out of gold or silver threads, which are gold or silver leaf stuck onto thin washi kozo tissue, then cut into ultra thin strips which are then woven into the fabric of the obi. That they also make Hikihaku out of Mother of Pearl and incorporate the beautiful blue of Lapis Lazuli, is when my jaw drops. It is such as shame that this beautiful weaving skill is now almost inevitably bound to vanish as all the remaining Hikihaku makers are in their seventies, and there are now no longer people who even know how to repair their weaving machines. Soetsu Yanagi will be turning in his grave.

WINDOW VIEWS - As Though Viewed From Afar

The note unnerved him. A small brown unaddressed envelope on the hall matt, nothing particularly unique about it. Inside a sharply folded piece of paper, which when opened out revealed a simple sentence printed in pencil - 'That's a nice sandwich' - was all it said. It perplexed him. He hadn't eaten a sandwich at home in many a week. So what the heck does this mean? Who was this person? If they were peeping where were they peeping from? The precision of its execution indicated to him, the writer was male. The sentence began to feel more euphemistic, a nudge nudge innuendo. From an admirer then? An admirer / stalker? As he dwelt on it further questions arose. Hide it away in a drawer. Ignore it. Maybe whoever this is will go away, if he gave it no energy. If he received another one, then he'd go to the police, he assured himself.

Two days later, another small brown envelope, this time with his name boldly printed on it - BEN.  The same style of excessively neat folded paper, which when unfolded revealed the pencilled message - '
You don't know how much pleasure you're giving me Ben ' 

'Ah, you creep, wanking over me are you?'. he conjectured

They must live near. He stood to the side of the window, trying not to be seen peering at the houses and flats across the road. Couldn't see a bloody thing during the day. Night time little better. He talked with his best buddy Alastair,who was quite insistent  -
'For goodness sake just phone the police, before this gets completely out of hand',
'Its just, I think I should have an idea who this is, what if its some one I know?' '
'It is a good idea mate to put a stop to this, right now'

He ignored Alastair's advice, he usually did. Didn't phone the police. Didn't wish to acknowledge why either.  He got a kinky kick out of these notes. Excitedly hanging out for the next one. It felt a dangerous thing he was doing, he knew that. He wasn't the one in control of what happened here. Who was he dealing with? If this all got way out of whack, how could he put a stop to it? Another small brown envelope lay on the matt the next morning. The message today read -
'You should linger by the window more, with your top off. Do it, knowing I'll love it.'
He thought about the message all day while at work. It wasn't a very productive today. By the time he got home there was a frisson of erotic excitement. He was going to do this. Setting up the lamps, deciding the positioning of furniture, what he was going to do. Daring himself to do this, just to prove he could.

Barely had he closed the curtains and begun to dress himself, there was a loud banging on his flat door. 'Mr Swayne, Mr Benjamin Swayne could you come to the door please. We don't want to have to break it down.' 
Ben slowly pulled the bolts back, dropped the latch. By the moment he was finished and opened the door, he was surrounded by police officers, his hands cuffed behind his back. Ben was in a panic, in amongst the noise, rough jostling, his rights being read. He was innocent, in his mind he'd done nothing wrong, this was no one else's business. Not fully grasping why he'd been arrested, until he asked the police directly during his interview back at the station.
'Well, Benjamin, we've just witnessed you exposing yourself to everyone in the street below, haven't we? Plus, for the last few weeks we've been made aware that you've been posting lewd notes to gentlemen in your neighbourhood. Do you remember or acknowledge that this is what has been going on, Ben? Isn't this exactly what happened the last time?' 

It was as though this was happening to someone else, someone he did not know.

LISTENING TO - Growing Up by Peter Gabriel

I've been listening to this track rather a lot lately. It has a fascinating rhythm and dynamic that I rather like. This is despite the fact that I continue to find Peter Gabriel a rather puzzling musical presence. Quite inventive and happy to follow up the widest of musical paths. He's only rarely been a compulsive purchase for me. And I wonder why that is? Some of it lies in is his very archly studied lyrical style that is quite frequently lumpen with imaginative and surreal significance. Even this track Growing Up opens with the line 'Folded in your fleshy purse I am floating once again' which is a particularly vulgar and yucky way to describe someone being in the womb. Delivered with that unique Gabriel vocal which often provokes me to thinking what world does this come from? It has no antecedents that I can fathom. But what is clear is its a characterful voice, but without any discernible soul.

This version of Growing Up was recorded live in the Real World Studios and it has a grinding energ, something I find invariably missing from his studio recorded output. His songs often utilise changing time signatures and mood and these are present here. On this occasion they do give the song added dynamism. Interludes have been a common device he's employed throughout his solo career and in Genesis. You can take the man out of Prog Rock, but never the Prog Rock out of the man.

Don't ask me why, but lately I have been putting myself through relistening to The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway, I find I can only bear it in half hour chunks. I have yet to reach the end of it. This was really Gabriel's baby and has been the fated reason for the original lineup of Genesis breaking up. It is weighed down with portentous ideas of such magnitude your ears die that little bit more with every succeeding minute. All is clumsily strung together into a narrative that is impossible to relate to on an ordinary human emotional level. Its like a six form art project, on the theme of psychology, expanded beyond all credibility. Stuffed with so much 'meaning' it has no air left in it to breath naturally. So the appeal to me of Growing Up continues to perplex, as I have form in frequently finding Gabriel's output unbearable to listen to for long.

FINISHED READING - The Dark Remains - by William McIlvanney & Ian Rankin

The body of lawyer Bobby Carter has been found murdered. It is unclear who is responsible among the various street factions at work in Glasgow. Has his body been placed deliberately by one gang in order to implicate the other? What was Bobby Carter himself up to? Has he upset one gang leader enough to have him removed? What is clear is that relations between the gangs are tinder dry, and that flames could easily be fanned into an uncivil war is looking highly likely. It is therefore really vitally important that the Glasgow police crack who did the murder ASAP.  

DC Laidlaw is new to the local force. He prefers to operate as much on the fringes as he can, without incurring censure from his superiors or colleagues. Its a delicate balancing act he most of the time manages to pull off. He is fearless in talking face to face to the gang leaders, and puts himself in real danger. Yet how else will he find out what the real truth is about Bobby Carter's death, when so much is being spun for gang advantage or as a smokescreen for someone else. And who might that be?

The Dark Remains, was only in draft form when William Mcilvanney died. Its written as though this is the iconic detective Laidlaw's first case. Ian Rankin took it on to fully finish the nascent themes in the draft novel.  Not an easy assignment for even as accomplished a crime writer as Rankin. Having not read any previous McIlvanney novel, its hard to tell how good a job Rankin has done here. I'm not familiar with Rankin's writing style either, so cannot discern where one crosses over the other. 

What I can detect is that the story feels to need rounding and filling out more. It lacks a bit of edge at times, and there is a sense that it required something injecting into it in places, to give it more heft. That said the denouement when it does arrive is neatly contrived. McIlvanney pretty much invented the Tartan Noir genre of crime novel set in Scotland. So there is obviously something of worth going on here. And a lot of writers openly declare their debt to him. Maybe The Dark Remains was not the best place to start .

CARROT REVIEW - 5/8

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 76 - Not Over Til Its Over

The joys of reading auto -translations on You Tube, are the linguist leaps and previously unheard of word conjunctions. Here is a dictionary explanation for one I encountered the other day.

Shop Force Trauma
Is when a man, who can recall everything he needs to know about cars, football and beer, finds himself ambushed into choosing the style and colour of the new front room curtains.

So, after one night of hacking and heaving completely sans sleep, I did that daringly reckless thing that men occasionally do, and go to a doctor. Making an appointment with the practice nurse. She thought I'd probably had, not one, but a series of overlapping cold infections, which have gradually clogged up my chest and become infected. She's put me on a weeks course of antibiotics and requested a chest X ray. Just in case there maybe more to it than at first seems. Still having the sleep deprived nights, as I write, but the amount of phelgm, colour and coughing are gradually easing becoming less frequent.

As you can imagine after sleep disrupted nights I can be a little tense and on edge. Trying to encourage sleep with any 'you just need to relax' mantra is doomed to failure. I find I have to box clever with myself, distract my mind from obsessing about heaving, breathing or chest pains. Sit upright on the sofa, swathed in blankets, put on an hour long true crime investigation and somewhere in the middle of it I'll drop off to sleep for a while. Awakening to Alan Carr and Amanda Holden squealing with delight as they tart up a flat on the sunny Sicilian coastline. Bizzare.

Its Sunday, early morning. I'm watching the Astaire and Rodgers movie Carefree. The gender relationships / sexual politics innocently exploit very clumsily handled cliched mores. Very much of their era. A man gets frustrated because his girlfriend keeps accepting then backing out of marrying him. He just cannot understand what's going on. So asks his psychologist friend to treat her, to find out what the problem is. You can see where this storyline will end up within the first minutes. Girfriend falls in love with psychiatrist, who after some major misunderstanding or impediment, she marries at the end. But its all delightfully interspersed with the most fabulously neat, fleet footed dance routines along the way. If only life could be that sympatico.

I'm sleeping better, but its not quite enough of a full bodied relaxation to slumber longer  Though I'm not heaving the night away in an entirely separate bedroom anymore. My body appears not to be quite over protecting itself from the consequences of 'the cough perpetual'. My stomach clenches at the most minor clearing of the throat. On this particular morning my torso feels internally bruised, as though its been given a right royal kicking on my left hand side.

Energy levels, with 'the cough perpetual' and lack of sleep are pretty depleted. Three nights last week were completely without sleep, and the remaining were not much better. I cleaned our bathroom yesterday and it did me in for the rest of the day. So, getting over the energy draining consequences may prove more persistent than I'd wish.

Last week we did our once a year fabric hunt. This currently takes in Lincoln and Stamford. We met up with my sister and brother in law for lunch in Lincoln. It was good to see them both, for it has been a while. After which Hubby and I, trawled shops, and went to The Fabric Quarter, perhaps the most consistently useful fabric shop we know. We came away with three potential fabrics for the new season. A metre of each as we are just trying them out. Doubt we'll find much to match the seagull fabric which dominated last years sales. But you never know. The Stamford fabric shop this year was, yet again, a bit of a disappointment. So we're going to drop them from the fabric hunt next time.

Gearing up for fully reopening next week for half term. Stocked up our candle range, bought in a new card and earring range. Just a top up order for soap and finding a new wrapping paper supplier, and that will be it on orders for now, till nearer Easter. Hard to say how Half Term trade will be. I am prepared for it to be underwhelming. Also its back to five day working weeks for us, and making schedules etc. With 'the cough perpetual' hanging on so long, I've not really had much opportunity to recharge my batteries. If anything I return even more tired than I was before Christmas. Jnanasalin has had the same cold as I have, though not for quite as long or so severe. But it has also knocked his energy for six. This looks like being a make or break year for us, so let's hope we can restore ourselves to something like more resilient health soon.

Well, February Half Term is turning out to be the non-event of all non-events. February 2023 looking set to being substantially down on February 2022, which itself only managed to scrape the same total as 2020. The days are so quiet we are experimenting with each of us only doing half the day, swapping over at lunchtime. This is just to make it bearable, otherwise we come home after a full day emotionally drained. 

On the good side I returned to swimming this week. Taking it easy on the number of lengths for now until I get some of my stamina back. It was satisfying to return to swimming after what has been two months break. My joints feel so much better, and residual muscular chest discomfort from coughing so much for so long is beginning to ease as a result.  The swimming itself I find easy, but once I get home I sleep for hours. I had my chest X-rayed on Monday, and the results and follow up appointment are a week on Monday. So we'll see if it shows anything else that may have hindered me getting over 'the cough perpetual'. I feel much better in myself this week, less drained, still a bit of occasional chestyness. Still reticent to sing a song of triumph, lest I spook it - Its really not over til its over. That's probably when I've forgotten about it altogether

FEATURE - Printing William Morris Wallpaper

If you have ever balked at the price of hand printed wallpapers, and to be honest who hasn't? This short V &A film about printing William Morris wallpaper demonstrates why. With fifteen different blocks and colours on just one design, this is a phenomenal amount of work to go into the making of one roll. Is it worth it? I guess it is, if you have the dosh. For the rest of us, it will be the mechanised reproduction knocked off cheaply, in the far east probably.  

His designs at the time were beyond all but the wealthy middle class. Though he always had an aspiration to make his designs available for everyone. Nonetheless, it never ceases to amaze me that the continuing influence of Morris goes well beyond the actual market reach of the stuff he made at the time. The idea of handmade arts and crafts endures beyond most peoples ability to participate financially. We all hanker on some level to return to a pre-industrial age, that Morris allows us to play let's pretend with. One has also to acknowledge that Morris was a brilliant at pattern designer, and you could say he was a pioneer of good design.

WINDOW VIEWS - The Old Fields

They'd decided to buy the house all those years ago, chiefly because it had a gorgeous view over the old field, with it's still visible creases of medieval ridge and furrow. Dorothy hated seeing what was happening to it now. She felt physically hurt by the rapid change. At her age, she never wanted to let go of anything. Having to let go of her husband had been hard enough. The grief lingering still. But that landscape seen from her house, had always been there. It gave her two things, it brought memories of Harry closer, and a feeling of intimacy with the countryside  Their cottage was idyllic, part of a pretty dormitory village. In reality it had long since become subsumed by the ever expanding suburbs of the town. This was now overwhelming her cottage and the old fields like a beastly juggernaut, taking this precious scenic view with it.

Harry? Well thank god he'd not lived to see this enormous building site erected, and the levelling out of the entire ancient field. Of course she'd protested. In her seventies, for the first time out with placards, organising marches, collecting signatures, submitting petitions. The remains of the village centre were Grade 2 listed, unfortunately her house and the old field fell just outside the conservation area. The force of her campaign being to get that area extended to include it, but to no avail. The really ironic kick in the shins was that what was now being built were luxury retirement flats.

Having lost that fight, she readjusted her priorities. Much as she didn't want to leave her lovely little cottage, and the downsizing would indeed be painful and prolonged, it had to be done. The cottage was put up for sale, had sold quicker than everyone, including her daughter had warned her because it was such a depressed market. She'd plucked up courage and viewed the show flat the first day it opened. All the new apartments were to have either a village vista, or one of the remaining fields beyond. She insisted on buying a flat on the ground floor, positioned in the same orientation as her cottage, facing away from it. When the apartments were finished, she was there ready to move in. 'Perhaps this will see me out' she said to herself quietly. Sitting in her armchair, describing aloud the changed view, the weather and the rolling landscape, to the vase of cremated ashes resting in her lap.

FINISHED READING - The Case for God by Karen Armstrong

A few months back I read Richard Holloway's A Little History of Religion, which was disappointing in how thin and general it was. No such problem here with Karen Armstrong, as with characteristic relish, she fearlessly enters into explaining subtle changes in Christian theology, why they happened and what was their outcome. For a small book of 316 pages, it is ferociously detailed, which lost my comprehension on ocassions. That feeling of re-reading sentences, that still mean nothing to you. So, this time, if I struggled with anything, it was the density with which its written. Armstrong is nothing if not thorough.

She begins with early pre Christian belief systems and how they relate to conceptions of God when Christianity does arise. Any supreme God, in amongst a polytheistic pantheon, of most early religions cannot be spoken of and are unknowable. The spiritual life itself inhabiting this 'cloud of unknowing'.  Like in many other religions, if you can define the absolute, you do not know the absolute. The unknowable nature of God is what you have faith in. All the stories told concerning God are not always meant to be taken literally. They are frequently symbolic and mythic, meant to be instructive of something or encapsulate it. A self-conscious aurora of vagueness envelopes the form of the divine. This lack of definition, left room for doubt, left room for each disciple to discover their own connection to divinity. God's indefinable invisibility was a useful one.

But over time through the Christian medieval period into the Reformation and 18th century Enlightenment attitudes toward those unknowable elements changes. Science and religion were not always at loggerheads. But once the scientific method began to become more prevalent, believing anything you cannot know or proves exist, was no longer considered rational or reasonable. The distinctions between what faith and belief meant began to be blurred. You could no longer just have faith, you had to have clearly defined sets of beliefs, alternative facts you could hold yourself to. The presence of the scientific method, amplifying and redefining how the religious method was presented. God was no longer allowed to be unknowable. And so we have the present cultural image of God as a bearded figure resting on a cloud, dispensing benevolence and punishment in confusingly inconsistent ways. Faith, rather than being a place for what we feel, but don't know, becomes incorporated into a set of proscribed beliefs.

The dominance of this approach prepared the ground for the emergence of fundamentalism in all the major theistic faiths. Where dogmatism now rules. The Bible becomes a life guide and manual, the literal rather than the symbolic truth, eg. that God did actually make the whole world in seven days  She repeats the point several times that attacking fundamentalism only makes it more extreme. Particularly if they are opposed by an equally fundamentalist, intransigent and intellectually bullying scientific atheism. This viewpoint examines the Bible and Christian teachings as if they always describe the literal truth. Unsurprisingly Christians get caught up in this too, as people from any other faith also do, with the need to express their religious selves only in terms of certainty, belief and conviction.

She points out that religions should understand the need to hold provisional theoretical viewpoints in order to test them, as this is part of the scientific method too. As science expands its theoretical areas and tries to describe things that go beyond being tangible and touchable, it begins to venture into less knowable indescribable territories. Armstrong appears to believe that this could be where a different visualisation or conception of what God could possibly be, might reenter. 

Though I found it heavy going at times, it has nonetheless both clarified and provoked further thought about what I believe. What I find unpalatable in Christianity as it currently is, Armstrong describes in her signature calm prose how these came about, how they slowly deviated from the style of Christianity as it was first manifested. 

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

FEATURE - The School of Flock - William Morris

If I give it its full title - Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen's School of Flock that sort of tells you all you need to know right from the outset. This is fast becoming my favourite breakfast nibble in the early hours of the morning. This one is on William Morris. Lawrence is as ever informative, engaging and features himself bedecked in a three piece suit made from a Morris fabric. Understated it is not, we expect nothing less from him. Its quite simple to camera stuff with photos intercut, but this is the most fun you can have learning about fabric design on You Tube. Go on try it on for size.

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 75 - Movements in the Cough Perpetual

There is a window cleaner somewhere near Kings Lynn, who calls their business Mr Bit.

Movement 146 in the Cough Perpetual' is a very very very slowly easing. I am being reticent about calling a victory rally just yet. I still have the cough, a raw throat and nasal passage in the morning. All of which suggest caution, as I've been here before, and the bastard re-formulated itself and came back worse than ever.

Jnanasalin finished our self assessment tax return yesterday for 2021/22 and submitted it to HMRC. So that's it all over for now. We're planning to carry on inputting the current tax year 2022/23 and be ready to submit early.  We need to break our cycle of leaving it to the last minute in January. Which only adds to the stress of it all. Also, I suspect in the coming financial year 2023/24 we'll need to be a wee bit more on top of our expenditure.

The shop is open two days Fri/Sat at the moment. Time and space are luxurious for a few more weeks yet. Its our sole opportunity to take a break from the constant demands of the business. There is always a balance to be struck between relaxation and preparation, Somethings we do need to do regarding the shop during this time.  Next week, however, we have six days penciled in to be completely off. What we are going to make of that time has yet to be decided. I expect a mixture of visiting favourite places, a bit of culture, depending on what we feel like, and whatever the weather presents an invitation to us to do.

Movement 154 in the Cough Perpetual. After forming a stiff diaphragm of phlegm in my upper throat that nearly asphyxiated me during the night. The 'cold' has now begun bunging up my nose and throat and running like a rather gloopy tap. As ever I am optimistically seeing this as its final flourish in a rather wish fulfilled whim. After six weeks of this surely it must come to an end soon? Whether this has ever been 'a cold' in a traditional sense has been called into question. If it is a 'viral infection' apparently, the mucus will be transparent -off white, anything else will produce varying shades of sludgy green. So I have coloured coded it as onyx green.  Whatever it is, I have reached the point where being tired through coughing all the time, has become a state of existence.

After completing our tax return and paying what we owe before the Jan 31st deadline for submissions, we are feeling like the veritable saints we are. Particularly with all the threats and shenanigans going on with our former Chancellor Nadhim Zahawi's. Whose 'carelessness' over a few undeclared millions is a lesson in the HMRC's finely drawn use of language. We have learnt the albeit miniscule difference between Tax Avoidance and Tax Evasion. The former is legal but occupies a grey area, and the latter is for the really bad boys in the naughty corner. And though the former is legal. it is morally corrupt. I have one, no doubt, overly simplistic solution to this gap between legal and moral rectitude. Turn everything we currently call Tax Avoidance into Tax Evasion, make using any method of hiding, obfuscation or misrepresentation of your wealth and income wrong. Demand complete transparency. There, that's that all cleared up then.

Movement 160 in the Cough Perpetual. On the first day of the seventh week, we ran out of Lem Sip. So unable to sooth the throat and cough before bedtime proved to be a bit of a wah wah wah. My nose orifices so bunged up unable to breath through them. Forced to mouth breath using an extraordinarily over sensitive phlegm lined throat. After half an hour without a glimmer of its unproductive ruttling and heaving easing off, I got up, for who knows how long. By which time things had seized up sufficiently for sleep to be at least feasible. The Husband says my snores sound like the sort of thing you'd discover residing in on old cupboard in a horror movie.

Five hours later, awoke congested everywhere in my face. The morning routine has not been an unalloyed joy. Throat phlegm thick and intractable, tried a bit of hot steam inhalation. Helped - ish. Have blown my nasal orifices as raw as a fog siren on heat. Three hours later comes the first signs that last nights accumulation of phlegm might now have largely been blown out, leaving a soggy bin full of crumpled paper tissue squares. Am I being a bit of a drama martyr? Oh, we are well beyond all that.

Movement 166 in the Cough Perpetual. In scary movies you generally know something is not right when a child or adult open their mouths wide and a thin creepy muttering tone emerges from within their throat. Softly wailing incoherent syllables without any effort from the zombie host. Well my phlegm lined throat has developed that quality. I form an oval shape with my mouth and out comes this wheezy fluctuating whine. As if some demon is now whispering from within me. I have been possessed by a mucal incubus that will never ever let me go.

This was the oddest experience I've had whilst using a Public Toilet. The loo in the town centre of Dereham are down a side alley. Faced in bright ultramarine blue tiles with equally intense orange coloured toilet urinal furniture, hidden behind a cloaking wall. The only sit down toilets are separate lockable cubicles. After you've entered you press a Lock The Door button and a red light goes on above the door. Whilst you are remaining seated doing your thing, it plays a short sixty second orchestral snippet of Greensleeves over and over again. Interrupted only by a woman's voice saying 'The Door Is Locked' between each sixty second cycle. To say this felt a bit unnerving is an understatement. I left swiftly before the Toilet changed its mind.

BROTHER DAVID ON - Meaning, Purpose & Play

 

"Meaning is that within which our heart finds rest"

"Purpose is a very different thing. 
We work towards achieving a particular purpose,
and when that purpose is achieved, 
the work ends "

"Play has no purpose. 
Play has all the meaning within itself.
You do not play in order to get somewhere.
You dance in order to dance.
That is a meaningful activity
because it has all its purpose within itself."

"The goal is not to play off
purpose against meaning.
The goal is to combine purpose and meaning,
and that means to work meaningfully
and to play constructively and creatively.
That puts the two together."

"Work and play together is leisure.
To work leisurely and to play leisurely
that is the combination of the two (meaning & purpose)."

"Once in a while we are struck by an experience
where meaning suddenly takes hold of us.
Because purpose you have to take hold of,
you have to keep things under control
in order to achieve your purpose.
But meaning takes hold of you.'

David Steindl-Rast

WINDOW VIEWS - The Self In Isolation

She had decided to stay at home a while back, of her own free will. It was just a standard preventative measure, in times of infection, to reduce contact. Little had then been known about the Mir-Th virus, other than the more obvious symptoms - sudden amusement, a slight chuckle fast accelerating into uproarious fits of giggling, similar to canned laughter. In the worst instances to the point of prostrate hysteria, where blood vessels could burst. If the latter went unchecked it could be life threatening. For Rita, an occasional inappropriate guffaw had been the earliest indication of the decay in her social inhibitors.

Where the Mir-Th virus had come from, no one yet understood. Essex had been mischievously suggested. Outbreaks had come out of the blue, but quite uniformly across the Home Counties. Not everyone saw the unbridled hilarity as being the problem it was. As the laughter was often directed towards the government, it appeared entirely justifiable. The silent curfew they subsequently imposed had seemed rather self serving, and face saving.  The BBC, as was then expected of them, self censored and took Michael MacIntyre off air as a precautionary measure. The media saw this as either too little, too late, or an easy but empty gesture. Because MacIntyre had ceased being actually funny a long long time ago.

Rita had taken to staring out the second floor bay window of her flat, with little sense of purpose. Since she'd put her self in isolation, it automatically became a regular habit to sit there contemplating, observing all the many eccentricities, contrived and otherwise, parading themselves outside in the street beneath. A world these days seemingly full to bursting with a lot of vain preening and self preoccupation. A rather willowy middle aged man swinging by in a hurry, caught her attention. Something in the character of his bearing, came across as po-faced, so consumed was he by superior derision for everyone surrounding him. This caused a slight featherish tickle of hilarity within her. It was beginning again.

Once self amusement was present, uproarious laughter was never far behind. Then there'd be melodramatic pointing and the crude gesticulations from her window, urging the other folk walking by to just look at the state of this man. Such out of control hilarity making everyone who saw it cringe with embarrassment. Since the appearance of the virus they'd be seen stepping slowly away from anything like this. Removing themselves to a considered safe distance. Rita's saving grace was that she was one floor up, and behind glass. Otherwise she'd probably have been arrested and incarcerated in a secure hospital ward by now.

Even when the Mir-Th restrictions were lifted, Rita chose to remain voluntarily confined to her flat, waiting for her virus symptoms to fully clear up. Only going out, to get her doctors note and hand it in at work. She continued to find everything, including the Mir-Th itself, just too unbearably hilarious. Her boss and work colleagues were concerned she might never get over it. There'd been broader questions about what to do with individuals who suffered from Prolonged Mir-Th. The muscles in her chest and throat were now so permanently damaged, rubbed raw and torn from the near constant laughter. Catching the virus had turned her lifestyle upside down. For Rita her flat, though a refuge, had now become a prison, a sealed shrine to it. She also frequently laughed at herself, but that was also part of the problem.