When I get forgetful, I always make the excuse that at my age, there is way too much in my head for fresh memories to consistently stick.
But there are times I wonder when it’s more than just an overfull mental filing system. Today, as the car was refusing to start, I went to town on my own for some nessessary shopping and banking.
I went on the bus, and got off at the top of the town, then started walking down. Half-way down, I remembered why I had got off at the top of the main street instead of travelling all the way down. I needed an ink cartridge for my printer, and the only shop that sells them is at the top. So I started walking back. I passed a cash machine, and remembered that I had to draw some cash for the week; it was out of order, so I told myself that I would try another one later.
I got to the second-hand bookshop just two doors up from the ink-cartridge shop; having plenty of time, and a little cash to spare, I popped in. Twenty minutes of happy browsing later, I emerged with a 1985 copy of Fred Getting’s “Dictionary of Astrology; a bargain at only £2.50, especially as it was in near-perfect condition, with the publisher’s review slip still inside. (So who was reviewing astrology books in Dumfrieshire in 1985?).
Feeling satisfied, I turned out of the door and started walking up the street again. Passing the cash machine again, I remembered why had had been heading down the street – to buy an inkjet cartridge. So, for the second time, I turned around and trudged back.
I did get to the shop and bought my cartridge; by this time, my knees were starting to throb. Walking ever more slowly, I progressed back up the street and did my bits of business at the bank and the shops and the Library along the way, finally heading for the Co-op for the biggest shopping.
Once there, I remembered I needed a cash machine; the Co-op has one, but as usual, it was out of order. There was celery on my shopping list – the Co-op was out of celery. So I wearily headed for the greengrocers, which I had already passed twice, and got the celery. But at least the greengroders shop was opposite a cash machine that appeared (from the queue of people using it) to be fully working. As indeed it was.
By this time, my stomach was rumbling. My original plan had been to get all the shopping done, then spend the time waiting for the Post Bus to depart sitting in a cafe enjoying a rest, a cup of teas and a sandwich. But all this walking up and down and forgetfulness had eaten up the time; I now had less than ten minutes to spare. I dived into the sweet shop by Woolie’s and bought myself a mint chocolate bar to eat.
Finally, I got to the Post Bus, heaved myself and shopping aboard and gratefully slumped into a seat.
Then I remembered…. I had got off at the top of the town not just to buy an inkjet cartridge, but also to pay my month’s Council Tax at the Council Office across the road from the bus-stop! And I had completely forgotten about it until that moment, when it was too late.
But I was too weary even to swear at myself. Maybe I’d better have a clear-out of my mental filing system…..

…are for better health for us both. And more money (so I don’t have to keep watching every damm penny we spend). And a decent working computer for me. Oh, and a little digi camera would be nice.
If you can’t manage any of that, Oh Great God / Goddess / Supreme Genderless Being / Whatever, then I’ll be happy to take world peace.

I predict, for 2006:

that some of you will become parents;
that some of you will get married;
that some of you will fall in love for the first time;
that some of you will fall in love for the last time;
that some of you will get wonderful jobs;
that some of you will leave horrible jobs;
that some of you will be justly rewarded for your efforts;
that some of you will achieve your dearest wish;
that some of you will achieve inner peace;
that some of you will learn great truths;
that some of you will discover wisdom;
that every one of you will experience many moments of happiness, joy and contentment!

Happy New Year!

…what I see, what I dream, what I believe, what I know.  You do not live my life, you cannot be my Voice!”

Getting The Truth Out.

Read it right through…..

From Deborah Lipp’s blog:

What’s this empire coming to? Now they want us to stop greeting people with “Io Saturnalia!� “We have all these different cultures in Rome,� they tell us. “We shouldn’t offend anyone,� they tell us, “We’ve got to be inclusive.�

We’ve got the barbarians from the north with their tree decorations and their fire rituals. And the weirdos from Gaul, cutting mistletoe with a golden sickle. And the Mithraists, the Zoroastrians, the Isis cults, and, of course, those characters who hang out in the catacombs. “Hail, Winter!� we’re supposed to say. I ask you, what next: we lose the feast? We stop the Solstice parties? No more honoring Ops, goddess of abundance?

I was buying some greenery down by the Forum the other day, and there’s old Macrobius with some Visigoth chick, and she goes, “Gut Jule.� And I go, “Hey! In this country, we say, “Io, Saturnalia! Maybe you should go back to where you came from.� Then Macrobius goes, “She can’t, she’s a slave.�

Whatever.

At this time of year, the Visigoths sacrifice a pig and burn a special log that they dance around, instead of acting like normal people and going to the temple of Saturn.

I swear, I was at this party over at Septima Commodia’s house the other day. She always has a Saturnalia party. Anyway, she decorated the place with prickly green leaves. “It’s holly,� she said, “The latest fashion from Brittania. They all do it in Londinium.�

It gets worse.

She had this statue of some goddess from Ultima Thule or somewhere, name of Frigga, sitting right there on the dining room mensa. I mean, this is darned near blasphemous. I’d be scared about what the lares and penates would do if I put that thing in my house. But Septima Commodia just said, “Oh get over it! We’re cosmopolitan around here.� Cosmopolitan. That’s what they call it. Well by Jupiter, I live in Latium. I’m a Roman. And this empire was founded on the principle that the gods, our gods, must be honored at the appropriate time and in the appropriate way. None of this foreign heretical nonsense or these strange customs from Germania or Hibernia or Palestine. I say, “Io, Saturnalia!� and if you don’t like it, you can leave.

Yesterday, we set out to do some shopping. We got in the car, drove five miles to the nearest cash machine and garage. I did the cash machine business, climbed back in the car to go to the garage, B tried starting the car up.
“No clutch, we can’t go anywhere” was all he said. So we were stuck – miles from home and two hours to the next bus. I swore a bit, while he went up the road to the public telephone (we have a mobile, but never remember to take it anywhere). We don’t have breakdown cover, so he had to fix up a tow.
The tow came pretty quickly; I was dreading the cost. It didn’t come out half as bad as I thought, but still took quite a big chuck of our cash.
But luckily, I had advertisedg come computer bits & pieces for sale; and somebody came this morning and bought some. The cash from that just about replaced what we had had to spend.
You lose some, you win some….
Meanwhile, we’ve a duff car sat outside, and no money to fix it. Ho ho bloody ho…

Who killed Christopher Robin? Disney, that’s who

IT’S enough to bring out the Eeyore in us all. The Disney Corporation has announced that Winnie the Pooh is about to relegate Christopher Robin, his faithful friend of 80 years, in favour of a six-year-old girl.
For Disney, it is a rebranding opportunity. But for the legions of fans who grew up with AA Milne’s whimsical stories, it is nothing short of sacrilege.
It is hardly the first time Disney has outraged Pooh purists, of course. They bought the rights to the Pooh stories and images in 1961. Pooh, Piglet, Tigger and the rest were duly Americanised and their characters changed; the wistful bear of little brain, who was regularly described as “growling”, acquired an effete little voice and West Coast perma-cheer.
By the end of the decade the original cast had been augmented by a new character called, with crushing inevitability, Gopher. “The latest stories are just regular American cartoons with Pooh and friends as characters in them,” writes one angry blogger. “I have a book where Christopher Robin goes to school, through the Hundred Acre Wood, in an American yellow school bus. Ouch!”

I used to read Winnie-the-Pooh (the original one) to my kids when they were little. They loved the stories. The Hundred Acre Wood was a magical place where no adults ever went, the inhabitants were all well-loved toys and Christopher Robin was the carefree child that they all wanted to be.
And it was all very familiar to children. Winnie and his friends were all recognisable. Piglet was the irritating, squeaky little toddler sibling who trailed along everywhere; Roo was the silly little baby who had to be carried; Kanga was the bossy, maternal older sister; Owl was the bookish nerd. Eyeore was the slow, timid one, Tigger was the hyperactive clown.
The friends went on exploration expotitions – young kids going and exploring gardens and alleyways. They had adventures – and scares; the terrifying Huffalump, the monster that lives in every child’s bedroom, always turned out to be imaginary. And at the end of the day, there was always Home, with its larder always full of delicious Hunny to feast upon.
I’m glad I’ve never watched the Disney travesties of that world.
But Winnie hasn’t been the only childhood literary treasure ruined by America. As a young child, I read every single Paddington Bear book in the library. One day, during the 80s sometime, I saw that a Paddington Bear TV cartoon series was starting. So I settled down with my kids to watch. That first episode was enough.
It wasn’t just the crude animation and bad writing. The whole thing was just wrong. As an illustration: In the books, one of Paddington’s habits is to give people a “hard look” when they are doing something he doesn’t quite approve of. It’s a very English thing to do – you convey your disapproval and feel you are doing something, without having to disturb the atmosphere by saying something; and, often, without the other person actually noticing. Very English, as I said, and with quite subtle nuances. Paddington – like most children – doesn’t have much power but does have a strong sense of rightness. His “hard look” is often the most he can do; it almost invariably passes by the recipient, but it makes Paddington (and, by extension, the reader) feel better.
The phrase “Paddington gave the man a hard look” conveys all those nuances quite nicely. The US cartoon-makers, however, completely missed all this. The cartoon-Paddington (totally unlike the book) was given magic powers; when he gave one of his “hard looks”, sparks shot from his eyes and magic stuff happened. Oh dear. Yet more proof that the Americans just don’t understand English. That was the last episode of “Paddington Bear – The Cartoon” that we watched.
Of course, this is just another in the long line of English literature that Hollywood has taken and ruined by squeezing it into that narrow, crowd-pleasing template that will give the studios the most returns. I often wonder why they bother to buy up filming rights at all, when the end result bears no resembalance to the book.
The most notorious example of this that I know is the case of Pat Barker’s novel Union Street. Set in Hull, the heroine, named Iris, is an obese 18-year old who overeats to compensate for the grief of her father’s recent death and the miseries inflicted on her by an uncaring family and boyfriend; the story charts her growing friendships with a varied group of women (including a 60-year old prostitute), who each impart some wisdom to her, inbetween telling each other their life stories. The tale ends with no great resolution – Iris is still overweight, still lumbered with her family and boyfriend; but, thanks to her women friends, she is now happier and stronger. Message of the book: good friends can help a woman through any troubles.
The 1990 film that was made from this was Stanley & Iris. It may be sufficient to tell you that Iris was played by a 52-year old Jane Fonda, without a fatsuit. In case you need to know more, there was no character named Stanley in the book – nor any character corresponding to him; there was no prostitute, of any age; Iris is a widow; the film ends with the eponymous couple driving off together to the big city, to live there happy ever after. Message of the film: sod the friends, all a woman needs is a bloke.

Finally got Transit off to the printers – late, as it happens. Nobody told me the deadline was going to be much earlier than usual – I decided to get it sorted by the 15th, but it should have been at the printers by then. O well, I’d better check next time….

C. had a drumming moot at her house on Thursday night. I went along – not for the drumming, but because she had a bonfire, which I usually enjoy.
But not this time. We all sat around it for an hour or so, in the cold drizzle with the wind blowing the smoke everywhere. Eventually, everyone went indoors and started drumming. I made my excuses and went to my house. Almost immediately, a friend phoned with one of her regular crises, which kept me busy for a good hour.
The next morning – urghhh… I was stiff and aching from sitting in the damp, and with a sore throat and eyes from the smoke. Getting Transit printed and posted was a priority. With a page to spare, I had fully intended to write a quick editorial full of insight and wisdom, words to make men weep and women gasp. But, sitting at the keyboard, my head remained aching and empty. So I found something else to fill the page, printed it out, shoved it into the post office, went to bed.
Woke up to a message from the AA office asking where was Transit?
Blahhhh….

But what a sight the Moon has been!