It has not escaped my notice that since the HA! I've been more prone to be cantankerous. As I am now all too aware that I am on borrowed time, heading towards the mentally slippery slope towards my dotage. I find I have less tolerance for instance for novels that I'm finding frankly interminably boring, with only the off side hope of some form of last minute resolution to save it. That is simply wasting my life. The time could be spent much more beneficially and productively elsewhere.
A case in point has been the two novels in succession I read that saw themselves as cutting edge in some way. They each took on difficult terrain: one told through the voice of a ten year old child growing up in 70's a commune: the other through the wild imaginings and travails of a certifiably mad woman in a mental hospital. Both became so tied by their literary conceits, confined and trapped by the consequences and limitations of it. When your telling your story through the voice of a pre-pubescent child or a mad person, there is a lot this means you cannot say. No doubt these novels were given rave reviews by people they were at university with, who do work for the same papers. - 'courageously spending twenty four hours a day writing this novel whilst hanging upside down, which brings to it a refreshingly satirical tone that elevates the struggles of one ordinary life to a more gut wrenching level.'
Fortunately James Baldwin's Giovanni's Room came to my rescue. From the opening of the first pages, it transported me to an altogether different level with an invigorating quality of writing. For this relief, much thanks!
As we get towards the end of the month, Hubby and I, because our pocket money has run out, begin spending our mornings on Sheringham esplanade travel cups in our hands, freshly toasted tea cake in our Tupperware, Mostly doing the New York Times -Connections puzzle, and complaining about the Americanisms, and filling out The Guardian's Quick crossword. All the time wondering if this was compiled by a human or AI, when the clues seem a bit odder than usual. There are days when we can watch the Grandad's out with their motorised yachts on the boating lake. And other mornings when the RAF fighters fly over the coast and make all conversation impossible, because the noise so shakes the earth and skies. Even though ,if you can see it at all, its just one small speck of moving dust terribly high up in the sky. It feels like the God Odin is expressing his displeasure with the world through instituting the state of Ragnarok. If I was on the local Facebook - Enjoy Sheringham More page, I'd be fulminating with exclamation marks by now.
It has become quite apparent that some of my blog posts on Cornucopia do much better than others. this maybe put down to subject matter, but more likely down to the way it presents itself. They are mostly reviews of cafes, exhibitions, books or films that I take a dim view of. A negative critique being the algorithms wet dream. Regular readers will know I love taking off my belt of self censorship and let rip. Leaning into my disapproval, and further exaggerating it for light comic effect. There are, however, times when something really annoys me about a book, when I'm not entirely happy that a reasonable criticism hasn't become far from reasonably presented. And this is not good for me or anyone. I, like everyone, hold a degree of unexpressed negativity just patiently sitting there waiting for the opportunity to release its noxious gas into anything. Its so tempting to start picking at the scabs of outrage.
But then there are times when even a review can stray into unhelpful territory, But I have to remind myself. this is just a book etc, and I could just simply put it down and walk away from it. The world is not crying out for my carefully worded 'take down' or 'roasting', there's quite enough of that sort of thing out there already. The sensitivity of my own shame gauge usually alerts me to when I might have gone too far. And if it gets through that, Hubby is my final arbiter if I really did post something which might unwittingly have drifted into excoriating hate speech. But then scathing.....it is a lot more fun to write
As I am getting older, I find myself becoming more accident prone. My fingers have lost a lot of their power to grip things securely due to arthritis in the joints. So I do more regularly drop even very light stuff. My peripheral vision is less acute, so I can find my hands clip the tops of things or on occasion knocking them over. A week ago I was cooking Lunch, and draining a pan of spaghetti and water over the sink. Before I knew it the spaghetti and water sloshed heavily against the lid forcing the lid off. Hands couldn't hold it, so the spaghetti headed towards the kitchen bowl, whilst the boiling water hit my hand.
Cue Hubby coming to salvage both spaghetti and me. Sending me off to douse my hand in cold water for a while. Boy did it sting. At first it was really red, then by the next day the skin had turned a mottled brown and was blistered in a couple of places. When these burst the raw skin underneath reminded me of some David Cronenburg body horror movie. By tomorrow I will have turned into a worm with fangs. Fortunately that didn't happen, and over the days I've taken an interest in how my body is trying to resolve and mend the consequences of the scald. The blister sites look similar to continents slowly shifting and destined to collide with each other and combine into one large rather scabby Pangaea.
There are of course some benefits. I'm banned from washing up for a while. And I get to wear a rubber Marigold glove on my scalded hand when I shower. I imagine myself a bit like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys, except wearing a bright pink rubber opera glove. It has made me aware that the makers of Marigold gloves, well they are a tiny bit sexist. Manufacturing their gloves only according to the specifications for a feminine hand. So those of us who are male or feme butch, apparently fall outside of that have to squeeze, coerce and cajole our handy pandys in. Presumably they just assume men never do washing up, clean the kitchen, or wipe vomit off things. However, I have to struggle to fit my damaged hand into one, without cracking or knocking off scabs. I can tell you its way night impossible. Its comparable to trying to fit a charcuterie sausage into a condom. Not that I've ever tired such a thing.
Recently the proprietor of Seagulls in Blakeney asked us if we'd consider moving our sales area. Our current place was a prime position right by the door as you came in. So we were initially a bit reluctant. But the more we thought about it the more it felt like a good move. The main advantage being our stock previously was spread over three separate areas, and would now be all together. So we agreed. The proprietor helped us by roughly moving stock for us, which I spent a few hours the next day working out the best way to merchandise the area. It gave us an opportunity to rethink our merchandising, which was getting a bit scrappy in the old area. A complete refresh did help. We need not have worried. The area looks FAB, and sales have been better than ever. Unlike Wells Next The Sea and Sheringham, Blakeney appears to be bucking the trend and sales are booming. The only problem, if indeed it is a problem, is that the new area soon gets to look empty, so we really have to be on it, keeping it stocked up. But that's quite a good problem to have.
One of the undoubted benefits of the HA! is its encouraged me to get much fitter. I continue to lose weight, I do Tai Chi/Oi Gong every morning, and meditate, maintain my diet, walk regularly, do my resistance exercise etc. The consequence being I also now sleep longer at night. I've not been a good sleeper for most of my adult life, 5 hours used to be good. But now this has extended to 6-7 hours, and reasonably regular too. Its only been disrupted by the heatwaves, where for a while during the hottest one, I got barely three hours sleep a night for nearly a week. Let's say I was somewhat jiggered by the time the heatwave relented, and temperatures cooled.
I had this recurring fantasy about plunging myself into an ice bath. Contemplating how to find a large supplier of ice cubes, how much body shock my body might be able to take, how I might safely extract myself from said ice bath wrinkly and mildly hypothermic, without causing further injury. Such was the extent of my associative rambling. Its amazing what you might contemplate when your 'in extremis'
Its a ongoing question for me, how much involvement with the internet is healthy, and when does this tip over the into addictive behaviour. Of course I spend quite a bit of time writing my blog posts, but that feels largely a positive means of self expression. But outside of that I limit my use. I've curtailed my scrolling through You Tube videos in the early hours of the morning. I tend to use the time doing meditation and Tai Chi instead. I enjoy writing about the things I enjoy. I cant see why you would want to use the internet for anything else.
But then the cultivation of outrage appears to be endemic. And you never know RAB 54 maybe that quiet chubby little retired man Mr Arbuthnot down your road, with his comb over and nylon cardies, who leads a double life as a militant right wing anti-woke warrior, with his own digital avatar. Social media has become this gift to the elderly gammon, who after a lifetime of resentful subservience can now express their outrage at a world gone completely mad, with absolute anonymity. So no one is going to send round a bruiser to punch his lights out.
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