Affliction

– It was probably something I ate. Or, more worryingly, something I cooked. And then ate.
– But you are better now?
– I am recovering slowly. I have not been at my best today: feeling fragile, listless; off my food.
– Just as well, to tell the truth: if your cooking has that effect you, you'd best keep away from it for as long as possible.
– But surely I need to maintain my strength.
– You'll be fine for a few days. A week or two even. The human body is remarkably resilient.
– Mine does not feel particularly resilient at the moment.
– I find hot sweet tea is often useful to assuage the pangs of hunger. And a handful of Jaffa Cakes. Between them, they provide all the basic nutrients you require.
– They probably provide sugar and not much else.
– I am sure a Jaffa Cake is crammed full of vitamin C. Sailors would eat them to avoid scurvy.
– That is reassuring to know. At least amongst all my other ailments, I won't succumb to scurvy.
– It'll be one less thing to worry about. Unlike you're inability to cook.

Struggle

It has been distressing to see the pictures of violence on the streets of Kiev. My father never returned to his homeland: did not live to see Ukraine gain independence from the Soviet Union. Two decades later, the fledging democracy has been shaken to its roots, with the prospect of the nation being torn apart by bitter political divisions growing by the day.

I have never visited Ukraine. I should make the effort to go: to look for my father's village and see what remnants of our family are left. But I suspect I never will: partly because I don't know what I might find; whether there is anything left to find. It seems so far away: in time, in culture, more than in distance: so that even my father would probably not recognise it or appreciate the ravages that the last seventy years have wrought.

The history of the country during the twentieth century seems too painful to contemplate: you hoped that independence was the start of a new chapter, that even with all the economic and social problems, a more robust and successful democracy might have emerged over time. Which is probably why those Ukrainians who looked toward the West have become so frustrated over recent events. But what happens now?

And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Civilisation

– It is quite a relief when it's half-term. With regard to the traffic, I mean.
– Yes, it's noticeably quieter.
– Always amazes me how many children drive to school nowadays.
– Or perhaps it's their parents.
– Of course. That makes more sense. But even so... I can't quite see why they don't just deposit their offspring at the bus stop and let them fend for themselves. It's far healthier for them. Character building.
– Catching the bus?
– You see so much of human life on the average bus journey. The highs and lows of our civilisation.
– It's been a while since I last travelled on one. And I don't notice you taking them very often.
– You can have too much of human life sometimes. I prefer it in small doses. That is why I appreciate having less traffic on my journey into work: it gives you the chance to reflect quietly on the purpose of existence, and that sort of thing, and not get harassed by people beeping at you.
– I suppose the beeping is quite off-putting.
– It can be. Especially during times of quiet contemplation. All the magic just goes.

Someone else's garden.

Card

We got off lightly last night: wild winds and rain, but not as ferocious as those encountered in other parts of the country. It was a difficult Valentine's Day for many. The rains continued here for most of the day, making everyone feel miserable. Or at least making me feel miserable, but I assume most people would feel similarly under the circumstances if they had any sense.

There are not many Valentine's cards on the windowsill. To be precise, at the last count, there were none. These things happen. Happen most years, in fact. I suppose not everyone finds it convenient to get down to the shops, choose a card, purchase a stamp, track down one of those red pillar box things; or just forget (I find the event does not receive much publicity). And my house is at the end of a cul-de-sac: I am sure the postman sometimes loses interest before he gets here, or is put off by the long walk back up the hill. These things happen.

Huff

Yesterday was difficult, with hurricane-force storms ravaging the North West, causing chaos on the roads and railways. I had a stressful drive home, encountering three roadblocks on the way, only to get home and find part of the garden fence blown away. Given it had been wobbling in the strong gusts we had a couple of weekends ago, and I had tried to secure it as best I could, it was not a great surprise to see that it had finally succumbed, though disappointing that it didn't put up more of a fight. So, all told, it was a stressful evening. I assembled a pizza for dinner to try to take my mind off things, but my heart wasn't really in it; which is unusual for me.

This morning, the back garden looked remarkable placid and tidy, other than for a lack of a few fence panels. Cat was intrigued at how easy it was to wander into next door's garden. Driving to work, the wreckage of the night's storms could be seen everywhere: twigs, branches, entire trees littering the roads. And they say more storms are on the way tomorrow, to test the resilience of what remains of the fence.

Sandbag

– The rain doesn't look like easing up. It seems to have been going on for months now.
– You certainly begin to feel that the novelty has worn off. A few sunny days would not go amiss. But we should count our blessings: it is worrying that much of England appears to be under water at the moment.
– Though mainly the south.
– That is reassuring, I know. But, even so, it is a shame to lose the entire south of England. It has its uses, after all: cream teas, the Royal Family, the London Underground, to name but a few.
– Perhaps we should make preparations in case the waters reach this far north. In case the river breaks its banks.
– We are quite far from the river. And the canal. And located halfway up a hill.
– Even so, you never know how bad it will get. Complacency is the biggest threat to our safety. Some of the guttering was overflowing menacingly earlier on.
– I suppose we are not well equipped to cope with extremes of weather. Where is our emergency stock of tinned food, for example?
– I've let it slip. It kept going out of date. Apart from tuna: there is usually a tin or two of tuna in the larder. And some jars of interesting sauces. Though nothing that would actually go with tuna.

Slope

– It only seems a couple of years since the last Olympic games. And here we are again.
– But these are the winter ones. Hence the snow.
– Of course. We don't tend to do all that well, do we? I mean, in things like skiing. Or skating. Or bobsleighing. Or anything, really.
– I suppose we are at something of a disadvantage, with our balmy climate. It's alright for these Nordic and alpine types, who have snow literally on tap, and can practise their sledging whenever the fancy takes them. But for us, in this sceptred isle, this blessed plot, this England, we are at a bit of a loose end.
– There are always the indoor ski slopes. And skating rinks. And Scotland.
– It is not the same. It's rather like the last Olympics: we aren't really set up for things like beach volleyball. It just doesn't work on the average British beach. Especially with shingles. It's the same with the winter Olympics.
– We have had success in the past: figure skating; ice dancing; curling.
– They are few and far between. Mind you, maybe it is time for the next British Winter Olympic champion to step forward. Or perhaps slide forward.

Hyacinth

– Did you notice the fragrance?
– What fragrance?
– In the kitchen. The fragrance in the kitchen.
– I noticed something. I thought at first it was the cooking. And then I wondered if something had crawled under the floorboards.
– It is a solid floor.
– Of course. My sense of smell is not very sensitive. It has proven a hindrance all my life.
– But you must have been aware of the heady perfume coming from the hyacinths?
– You mean the blue things on the windowsill? I was wondering about them.
– I thought they would add a bit of colour. And, of course, the unmistakeable fragrance. A sign that winter will soon be gone, and spring will be here.
– It is still quite wintry outside.
– Well, yes.
– Storms and gales and floods.
– It has certainly been inclement, these last few months. But that is why a few delicate blossoms can be so uplifting. You must feel uplifted?
– I suppose. It is just a relief that there is nothing dead under the floorboards.

Fretwork

I was at a concert, the other day, to mark the 450th anniversary of John Dowland's birth (give or take a year or so), featuring a selection of his lute songs and music for viol consort. Given the popularity of Shakespeare's scribblings among the general public, it is a pity that this music is not more widely known, being pretty much exactly contemporary with Shakespeare, and often ploughing similar emotional depths. I suppose I first came across some of it as a teenager, playing simple lute pieces on the guitar, getting to grips with the quirky re-tuning of the third string in order to reproduce the tuning of the lute. It was many years later before I got around to buying a lute, and subsequently developed a great respect for any lutenist who was able to cope with the plethora of strings and the peculiar right hand technique, while managing to stop the instrument, with its impractical polished rounded body, sliding all over the place while you try to play. After six years or so of practice, I am still fairly useless at it. But it looks pretty.

I don't know if viol players have similar difficulties. Perhaps getting hold of catgut is a challenge, unless you happen to know some accommodating cats. But it is a rare pleasure to listen to viol music, with its typically gentle, contemplative polyphony creating an atmosphere where time seems to stand still, in contrast to the more driven fugal momentum of the baroque. There is a lot to be said for music that doesn't particularly want to go anywhere.