Bank

There seems to be another banking scandal. Or possibly two. It is hard to keep track nowadays: they come along so frequently, and begin to merge into one another. But they tell us it can't be helped. These are, after all, the people who create the nation's wealth. And then somehow manage to blow it all away so we end up the poorer as a result. Although presumably a few people have fortunately increased in wealth; so it can't be all bad.

It is easy to get disheartened by it all. As if somehow we have got the wrong end of the stick regarding how economic policy works, and how to achieve sustainable growth while building a fair society, and other such trivialities. And these things just happen, driven by relentless market forces beyond all human understanding. A bit like the weather. Only you can't help remembering that the financial markets are not the outcome of chaotic and uncontrollable forces of nature, but are man-made. Still (apparently) chaotic and uncontrollable; but nevertheless man-made.

Vacuum

There can sometimes be an uneasy emptiness to these long summer evenings. Dinner quickly out of the way, the garden lures you in, till you remember the long list of horticultural chores that you have successfully ignored for the last few weeks. But it has been raining a lot, flooding in some parts of the country. Positively dangerous getting the lawn mower out in such conditions. And anyway, a slightly unkempt lawn is probably helping to support a much richer ecosystem. Rather like a hedgerow; only shorter.

But deep within, you know the real reason for this neglect. And tonight you have no excuse: an evening without football. We are becalmed; in the doldrums between quarter finals and semi finals. And to twist the rusty knife a further turn, England were knocked out yesterday. Deservedly so, you might say, if you were being coldly analytical about it all. But still a shame to see some flickerings of talent in the first half, only to be cruelly extinguished in the second. And throughout extra time. And during the penalty shoot out. So, feeling out of sorts by these sorry events, how do you expect me to apply myself wholeheartedly to the garden? There is nothing worse than mowing in a mildly depressed state. Better to wait till I can do it justice. And there is always a chance of rain returning.

Parade

It was the day of the annual parade in town. This is a traditional event that goes back at least three years. Crowds line the street to cheer gaily decorated floats and representatives of the local guilds bedecked in their ancient liveries. Street entertainers showcase their skills, juggling flaming scimitars whilst riding unicycles on stilts. Stalls groan with sumptuous sweatmeats and aromatic beverages, a feast to be shared by men of good will.

The rain held off, at least while we were out. Although it was pretty wet before and after, and drabbly grey in between. But it is good to see a town coming together, despite the best efforts of the weather, the economic downturn and Macclesfield's relegation from the football league last season.

Solstice

I went out on the bike this evening to try and make the most of these long summer evenings before the nights start drawing in. Which, according to my calculations, is tomorrow. The slow inevitable descent towards winter is already upon us. Might as well put the central heating back on and order the turkey.

I cycled along the river (actually, along the river bank), which was gravelly in places, and grassy in other places, and littered with large cow-shaped things. With horns. The river is not all that impressive at this point, and could be easily mistaken for a moderate to large stream. They should make more of it, the river. 

One of the risks of cycling is attracting the attention of passing dogs. I don't mind dogs generally, provided they keep to themselves. But they do seem unduly interested in bicycles. You notice how their owners engage them in conversation when they see a cyclist approaching, as if to provide a subtle distraction; knowing that otherwise the brute would simply hurl itself at its prey and tear it spoke from spoke. Worrying.

Ten

For what it's worth, this is the tenth post. Not an amazing total, I agree, but perhaps nine more than many people were expecting. If nothing else, I am persistent. Or I have a lot of time on my hands.

We have reached the end of the group stages of Euro2012. Against the odds, England have made it through to the knock-out stages, and have somehow topped their group to boot. It was a night of divided loyalties, this evening, with England beating Ukraine. And they will meet Italy in the next round. Which is the problem with having wildly mixed European ancestry. But on the plus side there is more of a chance of having someone to support in the final. Tomorrow will be the first evening in goodness knows how many weeks when there is no football to watch; a frightening prospect. Though possibly there may be highlights available online to preserve my sanity.

Nocturne

I thought a picture might liven things up a little. So that it's not just text, engrossing as it has been. Pictures can add a new dimension - a window into another world. Having said that, I'm not entirely sure what the following picture adds. But they say these things are in the eye of the beholder.

And that has made all the difference.

Earlier, I was listening to Chopin in the car. On a CD (as there isn't room for a piano). Although you know what to expect, because you've listened to it so many times before, it can still catch you by surprise: the way it resonates so deeply with how you are feeling at the time; or maybe it bewitches you into feeling how young Chopin felt. For all its reckless flamboyance, it seems so intensely introverted. One of those things that are somehow just right. Makes you wish you kept up the piano lessons.

Marmalade

A stressful evening watching England in their second group game. They made heavy weather of it, looking at first as if they were cruising to a win, before sinking to unfathomable depths of despair; and then somehow bobbing up again to snatch an edgy victory. But it's a few more points on the board, which can only be a good thing.

I bought, the other day, some marmalade. Which was palatable enough; not astonishing, but sufficient for livening up a piece of toast in the morning. This seems an ordinary enough event, other than I am not much of a marmalade person: it has never really constituted a significant element in my life. A few years back, when I was living in a desolate land, I had more contact with marmalade than I really wanted. It appeared too often at the breakfast table; and was home-made. It was not badly home-made, by any means; but there was such a lot of it: jar after jar. As soon as one jar was emptied, another would appear in its place. In fairy tales, this type of behaviour is usually seen in a positive light; in real life, however, and particularly when applied to marmalade, it soon casts a cloud over the breakfast table, and eventually over life in general. Thus my voluntarily allowing a jar to enter the house can be seen as a step towards its rehabilitation, and the start of a long-sought healing process.

Wardrobe

It's that time of year when you try your best to pause in your busy schedule, de-clutter your mind of work-related irrelevancies and start to look forward to the arrival of summer; only to realise it's already the middle of June and perhaps summer should be here by now; or perhaps it's been and gone already without having made much of an impact. That day you wondered where your shorts were, and spent half an hour searching the gloomy recesses of your wardrobe before giving up and sitting in the garden with the newspaper, only to feel increasingly irritable from a hayfeverish watering of the eyes and some unnecessarily loud conversations wafting over the neighbours' fence; perhaps that was summer. But we should know what to expect by now. One or two cloudy days and we miss an  entire season: we are catapulted into autumn before we have even got the lawn mower sharpened. I got round to planting, the other week, some flowers that I had bought at the end of last summer, apparently none the worse for spending the entire winter in a plastic tray. I like to think of this as a metaphor for my life. Am I frittering away the prime of my life in a proverbial plastic tray? Now that I think of it, perhaps there are better metaphors. But you get the drift.

Mouse

England's Euro2012 campaign has started on a modestly positive note. At least we scored a goal. And didn't lose. By our standards, that's quite a decent result. Supporting England has always been traumatic: a roller-coaster of inflated expectations confounded by grimly frustrating performances. But that's part of the charm. What is the point of supporting effortlessly successful teams, such as Germany or Spain (other than the poor consolation of winning trophies on a regular basis)? To support England requires a steely resolve and boundless optimism in the face of almost certain disaster. These are qualities that build one's character.

It is also inspiring to see Ukraine play their opening game in Kiev, with hoards of fans celebrating wildly in blue and yellow - particularly poignant considering the country's troubled history. And a remarkable victory snatched from the gaping jaws of defeat thanks to the heroic Shevchenko. I am still managing to watch two games each evening, which only goes to underline what an empty life I lead.

Molly brought another friend home this evening. I wouldn't mind other than it was a mouse; and although I am fairly broad-minded about most things, I really don't want mice hanging around the house, as if they owned the place. I try telling her what I think about this, but I don't believe it really sinks in. At least I managed to evict it in one piece; although Molly now looks rather miffed, as if she is taking the insult personally.

Football

Day 2 of Euro2012. Despite my best efforts, I have not yet managed to watch a complete game, but it is probably a good idea to build up slowly rather than become saturated too early in the competition. There are, after all,  31 games in total, so it would be wise to pace myself carefully if I am to get to the final with all my mental faculties still intact. As a child, the best thing about major football tournaments was keeping the wallchart up to date with each day's results. (And to tell the truth I still do; though, being too embarassed to have wallcharts on display around the office where they may be met with derision by my stuffier work colleagues, I now rely on the more discreet versions to be found in the the Sunday papers. But it is still the best thing.)

I have to admit I am not the most knowledgeable of people with regards to footballing facts and figures: quite likely, there will be some players (and probably some countries for that matter) that I have never heard of, let alone be able to give an informed critique of their playing career. But at least this blog will not get bogged down with never-ending match commentaries and statistics. Rather, I will endeavour to capture the true essence of the tournament in as few words as possible. Perhaps with the aid of diagrams, if I can think of anything appropriate.

Rain

It has been difficult getting motivated about a return to work after the long holiday weekend. And it has not been helped by unremittingly wet weather, which got in the way of the Jubilee celebrations and seems intent on getting in the way of the rest of the summer. Having said that, when it was blisteringly hot a couple of weeks ago I also found it difficult to get motivated about work - the blinding spring sunshine would lure me outside for a lunchtime stroll, or would suggest not unreasonably that I should leave promptly in the evening in order to go for a stroll on the way home. (I do a lot of strolling. It's about as fast as I can go.) The driving rain should encourage me to stay at my desk and hence get in a few more hours of productive work; but in reality it makes me feel aggrieved that I am forced to remain in the office against my will, a prisoner almost literally chained to my computer, with no hope of glimpsing the last precious dregs of daylight, at least till 5 o'clock comes around. And hence the lack of motivation. It is a good job there is no supply of paper clips on my desk: I have wasted many hours of my life on paper clips.

Jubilee

I seem to have spent most of the Bank Holiday weekend watching people celebrating on television. Fortunately they were doing fairly interesting things such as waving flags and cheering wildly and trying to push their heads through the railings of Buckingham Palace. But it makes me think I ought to make more of an effort to get involved, so that one day it will be me waving a flag and cheering wildly and getting my head stuck in the railings of Buckingham Palace.

It is sobering to reflect on the past sixty years (or at least on the ones I can actually remember) - the changes that have taken place, the things that have stayed the same. 1952 seems a world away from the hyperactive society we now live in, where for all our technological advances we appear to be fairly useless at running even a modestly successful economy. I wasn't around sixty years ago; I think it's a fairly safe bet I won't be around in another sixty years. Rather puts things in perspective.

Beacon

I went out, a moment ago, to try and spot the Jubilee beacon ablaze on the nearby hill. It was difficult to know for sure: the hill is about 5 miles away, and can only just be glimpsed between the houses around the corner when the wind is in the right direction. And there were other lights on the horizon (possibly illuminated sheep)  to confuse me. I clambered up to the summit this afternoon, hoping to witness frenzied beacon preparations, but there was nothing to be seen. Perhaps modern beacon construction has reached such heights of professionalism that the things can be thrown together at a moment's notice when required. Or that I was on the wrong hill.

Loomings

Not entirely sure this is a good idea. But having recently passed a significant birthday, and feeling that perhaps my best years may be behind me, and realising that there is precious little to show for all those years if indeed they were my best, it seems appropriate to share my deeply felt thoughts and life experiences, for what they are worth, with the rest of mankind, in the hope that they may prove to be of benefit in some way; although admittedly I find it difficult to see how exactly. But we can only try our best. And hope.


This is probably as good as this blog will ever get. I say this as a gentle hint that there may be little point in re-visiting in the expectation of anything better.