Badge

The well crafted badge of the perpetually locked down and bewildered.

We've been awarded the non-Airbnb, non-commercial, non-infected, non-committal badge of adherence to Scottish life in 2020. This is me stepping back to admire our achievement (as designed by one of our grandsons) and our status as being reasonably safe and healthy in body, mind and spirit. If you believe in that sort of ridiculous but interesting twaddle. 

Tune

Stay alert.

A colourful rendition of a favourite plant and pot. I'm staying as alert as possible.

An unprecedented wave of bin juice: That could mean one of two things or indeed two things. One being a kitchen bin mess due to a leaky bag that requires rapid and careful cleaning before it turns into a fully blown kitchen floor disaster.  Fortunately I am trained in the correct procedures and managed to retrieve the situation. The other being a short, pithy description of the PM's Sunday night speech... bin juice indeed.

Staying alert in a stupid world: Weather-wise a bright but disappointing Sunday (that being yesterday), where has spring gone and where is it going? Then the chilly peace is shattered as the interweb gets flooded with outrage and unbelief over the (Westminster) Government's latest ineptitude, as if that was somehow unexpected. Their business is serial fuck-wittery, people actually voted them in and continue to defend them and some faceless "grandees" will benefit from the ongoing and needless chaos. 

I'm remaining locked down in the hope of mass targeted clinical assassinations via a merciful Covid 19 dose dropped in the form of some kind of intelligent weapon of God's supreme judgement from the hold of a passing alien spacecraft onto the various Tory Party / Brexit Party bunkers, all done as a form of universal Darwinism to wash the planet clean. There's a faint chance that we, as a species might survive, or advance even, following such an unprecedented (as in bin juice) event.

Chinese spy-phone

Top tips for photos: Up at 0830 yesterday, looked out of the window and snapped this with my Chinese spy-phone. Right place, right time. My tinfoil hat was discarded in haste some time previously when I was out and about recycling wine bottles. So no filters, manipulation or any shit, just the glorious and misty haze of a very still May morning rolling in from east to west or thereabouts. Wild and free photography. 

As a matter of routine self indulgence I quickly uploaded this onto Twitter, as ever seeking the slightest approval and validation of some sort from that virtual world, such is the shallow nature of my stilted personality. The still and silent pigeon atop the chimney was singled out for praise, of course I hadn't even noticed it at the time of clicking. I'm not much of a details person.

We were promised concrete

We were, I'm sure that it was in the manifesto, somewhere in the small print or a sub-section. A basic right for humans. Concrete, ready mixed, in a handy but actually quite heavy bag. Just add water. Messy to use, tends to have a mind of it's own but still strangely satisfying to work with. Now there's none to be had. The supply chain looks broken. Where did it all go wrong? Why didn't we learn the lessons from pasta and toilet paper? 

VE Day

I'll not be waving any Union Jacks today, eating jammy scones or standing up for the Queen and the National Anthem. There's no Blitz Spirit here, there's no triumph or hijacking of history. In the end our Colonial masters won something but failed to understand it or learn lessons. Now they still look down on us irrespective of service and sacrifice. My dad hated the Tories even more than I do.

The Queue at B&Q

Under the Forth Railway Bridge (abstract view), as seen as part of some daily essential exercising that takes less than the mandated hour. I'm still not completely clear on what a fully "legal" lockdown day actually looks like.

I was thinking about all the people I saw in a queue outside of a B&Q store. It's a sunny morning, I'm looking for some concrete, technically I've made an unnecessary journey but my mental health barometer told me I needed the concrete to build a stone step, yackety yack, to improve the garden etc. So I joined the fairly large queue. A sunny morning, only about 0930 but there were many eager souls in that queue, mostly couples, shorts and t-shirts clutching phones as is the custom. All lost in thoughts on doing up the bathroom, some running household repairs or fixing up the garden like me.

The queue was slow and though I've been in B&Q many times, now from this strange queue the inside of the store seemed quite a mysterious thing. How had it changed I wondered? Would it be one way? Would there be an uneasy sense of desolation? Certain stocks and facilities were not available according to the on line messages I'd seen. It was now another dark world, a small part of an unfamiliar universe distorted by Covid pandemonium. I reasoned with myself, but I just want a bag of concrete and maybe some fence paint if I can find the "right" colour, whatever that might be. 

After ten minutes I moved up one place and suddenly I saw clearly a sign that I'd been avoiding reading: "No plaster, cement or concrete products in stock. Only a small selection of fence paints. More stock due in next week." So that was it, no stock or at least nothing worth standing in a line for. I ducked under the tape, always at a safe distance of course, jumped in the car and drove over to Homebase. First thing I did was check the signs and sure enough: No plaster, cement ... etc." 

Turns out we're all the same. We just want some cement and some paint, perhaps some bedding plants and a pack of drill bits. You can try Amazon but delivery dates and times are screwed so you go "non essential" in a fake, self induced bid of desperation. We're all looking for a purpose right now and sometimes just hating the Tories or being angry at the media or the virus isn't enough. There are higher purposes but seriously who cares? You just need to get back home and mix up some concrete in your garden, in your own small world.

Never Forget

Danger Danger! Trite message warning: Mr Natural's been around for a while, sometimes lying low, underground as it were, sometimes right there in your face, sometimes forgotten altogether, perhaps in disguise from time to time. You never can tell. Things come and go. So as we control ourselves so as not to be too grumpy, try to take a "philosophical" view, don't take our many privileges for granted and try to solve more problems than we might create and never forget that we are all simply ... passing through. 

My Generation

The UK press is at the bottom of this chart unsurprisingly. It's a wake up call but the press still refuse to listen. Pathetic. Back in the day (March maybe?) I'd still see older folks (60+ like me) picking up daily newspapers in shops or supermarkets at about 1100 in the morning. The Daily Mail, the Sun, Express etc. Clearly taking the paper home to read news and opinion that is at least 24 hours old and distorted and twisted beyond belief, but their habit prevails. I can hardly believe it. I do not understand what compels anyone to buy a daily newspaper (any of the "popular" ones) in this day and age. 

I lost faith in "mainstream" media years ago and 2014 and 2016's events put the tin lid on it, but so called sensible, responsible people are still habitually buying into this world of manipulation and deception. Just seeing the PM's face on the cover of a paper makes me want to set fire to it never mind buy it. I just give up on a large section of my own generation, whatever is coming your way you probably deserve it (but the rest of us don't). Call it Karma.

Pond life

Pond life via the "glorious day" patented filtering system.

As I walked out one midsummer morning; surprisingly I didn't end up busking with a violin in Southampton, wheeling barrows round London, after a while arriving in Spain and getting involved (?) in the civil war and eventually getting rescued by an RN destroyer off Gib and then coming home and once back there writing a book about it all. That must have been somebody else, someone more literate and imaginative than me and it must have been at least 80 odd years ago. Please don't be confused by any of this.

So we walked out, not from the Cotswolds but from our home base in the 'Ferry to explore the rich natural habitat that exists beyond the charity shop and just down by the telephone exchange (a redundant sounding concept) and near the building site where nothing is currently happening because of the world wide shit storm that is 5G mobilization. So it was there we happened upon the mythical Ferry pond for the very first time in history. We walked around it like wide eyed tourists and looked into it's depths and took photographs, as above. A pleasant enough way to start the day. Then we walked back home taking a slight detour to explore a short section of beach and the harbour just to check that the tide was still behaving itself. Thankfully it was.

This was Monday

Dusk: A cat looks across at the comings and goings at the local Co-op. Quiet now due to lockdown, earlier closing. No restless groups of youngsters, folks coming back from the pub or an evening meander. Stopping by the cash machine. Check your balance. Getting some Chinese food or coffee. Parking up and leaning on cars. Talking into phones. Bikes and skateboards and dog walkers. Smoking. Alighting from buses after a day in the city. Shift workers and white van people. All quiet now.

The Legacy

Everything can be prefaced with "Lockdown" just now, it labels, describes and justifies all sorts of things: Lockdown drinking, eating, DIY, sex, sickness, mental illness, fashion choices, exercise regimes etc. So here's a random Lockdown TV choice from Denmark full of unlovable characters and awkward tension for the viewer. Festooned with free flowing and often too quick to grasp subtitles, irritating quirks, huge plot twists in every episode, bad writing and scripting (the word "jolly" comes up a lot), some stylish moments, shocks and cringe worthy soap opera style coincidences. Still good enough to pass a few hours under the curse of the 2020 lock, stock and two smoking grill pans. Best enjoyed on a squashy couch with some cheap red plonk and your significant other.

No hi-fi here

Purists may be offended: Telly on, tuned to YouTube, listening to the "Beano" album by the Blues Breakers. Sounds OK to be honest, a bit like an Alexa session would. This is how I mostly listen to stuff, proving that I'm just not what I'm supposed to be / expected to be at this venerable age. Next up Steely Dan. I suppose I grew up listening to music on pale coloured Dansettes with 3" speakers. There is no hope.

Fluffy Cat

Simple solutions for complex problems: When all around is grim and 2020ish and some are losing their heads (but still the weather is reasonable, cloudy but rain expected to clear mid-morning etc.), all you need is to concentrate upon a rendering of a fluffy cat asleep in a strange position to simply take your mind off all your troubles, anxiety and what to rustle up for lunch from your extensive egg collection*. 

*Even for me that was a fairly long and poorly constructed sentence but I've no intention of changing it now this far into the day.

Another view

I look at my desktop and see nothing but ... desktop. Oh and Travelling Tabby's statistics.

So this is lockdown, umpteen weeks with nothing in between but unseasonal weather whatever the season. A cycle of eating, sleeping and TV, an occasional walk or cycle and messages from the government. Not seeing the ones you love, not seeing people as real people but bags of sneezy, coughy, sweaty germs. Nothing is healthy. Thinking too much about the risks involved in buying a pint of milk. Black coffee. Looking at yourself in the mirror with a mask on and thinking this isn't so good. 

Moving through a cordoned off supermarket like it was a minefield or a lava flow or a swamp full of crocodiles. Trying not to fall from ladders, scald yourself or bump your head on a sharp object, not getting too drunk and then falling over. No one wants to be the dick head that troubles the NHS. Then there's Zoom, a thing that used to called Skype and before that something else; a phone call perhaps. Now we talk pub talk about having done nothing much really, recount dream-scapes, wish each other good health, keep safe, have a laugh and hover over the end button. 

We're the lucky ones, we have a garden with trees and birds and the noises of other people at a safe distance. We sit in amongst the hubbub of passing dog walkers and sentient Yoga people who have found meaning, bairns in prams chatter and lawnmowers are unsure of where to spill their contents as the bins are full and the dump is closed. Sometimes the dustbin lorry comes for general waste only and the music of it's warning reverse tones fills the noticeable gap between anxious ears. I try to read but the words wont stick, I pretend to have hobbies but I don't, I check my work emails, I read then again, then I read other things. 

Everyday there are special bulletins and headlines to happily ignore with their sombre tones and alarming music, they know that nobody is really paying attention, it's all rather unreliable since the Government bailed out the papers and held guns to the BBC's throbbing, sweaty temple. They all also know they are on the wrong side of history, the great manipulators who are in fact the incompetent, mediocre manipulators. Throw more fucking useless made up numbers at us please. Information is key and they've all lost control of it. It flies as free as the sparrows and isn't so hard to find if you look. No point looking here though but try this.

Lockdown Hair Styles

One of these is before and the other is after but I've no idea which is which. Neither are remotely accurate either.

For a man of a certain age, your own hair is a bit of a nuisance. It's lost colour, body, and large chunks of it have fallen out and fallen by the wayside, like a dead carpet that's suffered years of abuse. A long time ago it ceased to be something you worked hard to maintain and so a period of neglect kicked in. A trip to the barber means a good scalping and your ear and nostril hair getting torched. The steady decline of hair care in the modern man's world seems almost inevitable. Remember when Crown Topper toupees were advertised in the Sunday papers? I'm struggling to remember Sunday papers.

Young(ish) hipsters and fashionable hairy types have no idea that this point exists in life and that they'll have to negotiate it one sorry day. For me that day has long passed. My hair and I are on good terms but that's about it. It's days of growing free and blowing free and being tended to are ... gone. Today a fresh air hair cut was kindly provided, I'm clean and cool and slightly itchy - young people be warned, I'm living in your future. 

Fighting Fit

By the light of her faithful dog Jasper, Julie Cruiseliner provides healthy advice on posture, mat size, well being and taking a positive mental view on the current state of British politics. All very welcome. 

Staying fighting fit and resistant to air-borne nasties on a Mexican/Mediterranean/Mac and Cheese diet. Once upon a time we walked everyday, the official gas-lighted government sponsored slab of exercise we're all rationed to under lock-down and fuck-up. It's worked well so far, we've met fellow puffing and smirking isolationists out with their dogs, hand weights, running togs and state of the art bicycles. We've nodded a guarded hello and avoided their flying spittle, it's not so easy out there where paranoia and pavlova run hand in mask. 

But that was in the fine weather of April, now we're trudging into the damp obscurity of a Scottish May, promising much but delivering little and so the crowded world of streamed exercise programming, good health tips and well being advice is enticing and attractive. All you need is a compatible mat, loose clothing and reasonable broadband. Now choose your smooth guru with decent diction and shorter videos for seniors. We're in there.

P.S. A nice sunny morning today so we returned to walking, pond searching and remembering the golden days of the bridge tolls.

What's the meaning?

Tiny, sealed bags with various cartoon cat graphics in black, white, blue and orange, oh and explained in Chinese, not my first language unfortunately. I suspect it's some kind of cat treat but can't be sure. They arrived unannounced. It could also be cat poison or cat medicine or it could be something (presumably for human consumption) made out of cats. This isn't a pleasant thought. Based on the graphics the odds are that it's a cat treat or at least a diet supplement. I'll maybe allow the cats a brief sniff test, cats have pretty good judgement about this sort of thing (apart from them eating mice and flies).

Truckin'

Truckin' got my chips cashed in. Keep truckin' like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin' on.

Thursday's loose and ill considered thought: "Whatever it is for you that gives life meaning...do it, but don't hurt people in the process".

Actual Bike

Actual bike: Not for sale but if all else fails as it probably will I would consider a swap for a) Mazda Bongo. b) a reasonably sized sailing boat. c) a case or seven of single malt 20 YO whisky. d) peace of mind via your guru's sage advice. e) low mileage Cayman (guards red). f) £3500 in used notes in a brown leather case. Helmet not included, no haggling or time wasters please.