Dead Fly Biscuits and Other Horrors

Apologies in advance for my feverish incoherence. I am on the first day of either hay fever or a cold – who knows? – plus, the Heatwave has finally arrived. In between explosive sneezes, my nose dribbles. I hate my nose today.

It’s to be a Saturday Only Heatwave, apparently. In this country we believe in Moderation. ‘Moderation in all things, Miss Nugent’, as Mr Swindley once said on Coronation Street.

Actually it’s not too hot indoors and I had planned to stay indoors until the Jehovah Gentlemen arrived. Yes, Gentlemen. Not the two Ladies who usually enliven the occasional five minutes of not really listening in my back garden, but the husband of one of them and another man with a foolish expression, in a suit – in a suit, and a tie, and a thick shirt, in the Heatwave! The Jehovah Gentlemen proved harder to either discourage or distract than the Jehovah Ladies – I tried them on cats, pets in general, hay fever, I remarked on their bravery to be trudging from door to door in this weather. Nothing deterred them.

Have you got a Bible?

Yes, I told your wife that last time. Which one was your wife, by the way?

Have you  heard of the Lord’s Prayer? How would we know the name of God if it was not for the Lord’s Prayer? It just (what just?) proves that the Bible was not written by earthly hands but has come straight from God…

I don’t care, I was thinking. My right nostril is about to gush.

And God is going to step very soon to save Mankind from all its suffering because like any Good Parent He cannot abide to see His children suffer…

The sun beat down on my poor, aching head, and standing in the long grass of my back garden, as next door’s Rottweiler-or-similar started to bark at us though the fence, I began to feel positively feverish.

The lawn so need mowing, I thought. Should have done it yesterday…

And God…

What a good thing I didn’t put my washing out yet. They would have been staring at my sad old underwear.

Here, you see, it says YHWH and that is the name of God in Roman Numerals…

I know. I did Religious Education O Level. I really must go indoors now. As I said, I’m not feeling well… and the cats…

Ah yes, my wife said you had many cats. All cats are beautiful, aren’t they? I ran a mental inventory of my cats.

Well no, not all of them.

Inside, I mean.

No, not even inside. Thinking of Snoots – he of the Poirot moustache and the supercilious glances – who recently gnawed through the plastic of my last loaf of bread, and also bit me on the hand eighteen months ago, causing cellulitis and a fortnight of daily drives to a very distant hospital for antibiotic injections.

Thinking of discovering my Catch 22 paperback under pile of watery cat-sick on the coffee table, and trying to mop it up. I had planned to read it next for no other reason than that there is a film of Catch 22 with George Clooney in it, which I will not see. Reading the book, finally, after having bought it at least 22 years ago, was the next best thing. The book is sopping wet, the cardboard of its front cover beginning to buckle. So also is the book of short stories that was under it. A cat did that.

The Bible…

I was unable to tear my eyes away from the moving mouth of the Husband One. He had false teeth, rather uneven on one side, but a sort of brown fleck in the middle of the right front one. I wondered how I had ever found men attractive. I prayed that in my next life, if I was forced to have one, I could go back in time and be a monk or a nun, or some prim ascetic living in a cave on a desert island…

I was listening to Radio 4. They were discussing their favourite ways of cooking aubergines. I thanked YHWH that I was not middle class and therefore did not need to care about cooking aubergines. Until that moment, it had had never occurred to me that an aubergine could be cooked. I had an aubergine in Devon once. I was on an ultra long-distance date with a lonely middle-aged farmer. This was in the days when I felt I needed to replace Ex with someone, even if they did live at the other end of the country and play the trumpet to their cows. Even if they didn’t believe in central heating, even in February…

Anyway, we stopped off at a supermarket on the way back from the train station to his isolated and unheated farm, and he told me one of his cows had died recently and he’d had to bury it single-handedly, and he bought some aubergines and some sort of dressing to go on them. That was OK, but it wasn’t cooked.

He smelt of cows.

He smelt very much of cows and I was a vegetarian.

Later he chased me round the kitchen table, amongst the muddy wellingtons.

He did not catch me.

I was consuming the Dead Fly biscuits instead of my usual mid-morning sandwich. They were the ones left over from a packet of Sainsbury’s assorted biscuits and I had been putting off eating them. They don’t taste too bad, it’s just the look. Even Snoots wouldn’t touch them.

I was phoning the Doro helpline about my Doro phone. Doro phones are designed for rather old people, I suppose, and are Scandinavian in origin, possibly Finnish. Like their potential users, Doro phones are short on memory. Also, they tend to flash up simple but strangely unsettling phrases like ‘Welcome to Internet’ and ‘Apps For Home’.

I explained to the Finnish (or alternative Scandinavian) lady that my Doro phone would not let me move any single one of my apps to the new 32GB SD card I had just inserted, not a single one.

There are many apps that the Doro phone will not move. That is just the way it is. We can’t help you.

But surely it should move some apps. I mean, Amazon is full of comments from people who have installed a 32GB SD card in a Doro phone and been delighted with the extra storage it afforded…

These are no doubt system apps, that the manufacturer will not allow you to move…

No, it’s all apps. Every single one. Even apps that have nothing to do with the system, that I have downloaded myself. And on Amazon people are saying…

I am afraid I cannot help you.  These are system apps and the manufacturer will not allow you to move…

But, um, what is the point of the phone having a slot to insert an SD card in, if no single item can be moved across onto a SD card?

The manufacturer will not allow you to move…

And so I rang off, having thanked her, with elaborate and formal politeness, for her time. Afterward I wondered why I felt I had to be polite to some foreign woman for not actually solving, or even really listening to, my problem and could only think that it was because she had been from Scandinavia, where ABBA came from.

Turn Left At Dover

I haven’t written anything for months. Sorry.  Canadian Sister came over to stay just after Christmas, laden with bugs, gave the bugs to me, returned to Canada and got better. Whereas in March I was still trying to sleep propped up in the corner of the sofa because I couldn’t manage to breathe and lie down at the same time. Feeling that bad for that long kind of makes you feel that life is not worth living, let alone blogging about.

Anyway, where is the heatwave? For days the BBC have been exhibiting these bright red charts and warning us of heatwave horrors on their way to us from France. Apparently Nimes or somewhere similar is set to exceed last year’s summer heat record by one degree. If it does so it will also be setting a new temperature record for France. Global Whatsit, of course. They show pictures of temporary mist machines set up in public places, of young ladies in chic shorts prancing about in Parisian fountains. Apparently air-conditioned cool places have been pinpointed all over that city for citizens to escape into when the midday sun becomes unbearable. And this – delight – is about to blaze its way up to the UK.

In Britain, of course, the nearest thing to air-conditioning is the freezer section of Tesco. I was thinking of driving into Town and spending a surreptitious hour or two Freezer Bathing with an empty wire basket if things got too bad. Never do to admit that one was wilting, of course. Mad Dogs and Englishmen and all that.

I also reviewed my underwear. I decided I had to find an alternative to bras, which have been the bane of my very, very long life – at least, it seems very long when I think of all those sweltering days in the office with Les Girls encased in sturdy elastic and my shoulders being cut into by even sturdier elastic. I abhor bras. When I was young it was rumoured that my contemporaries were burning theirs in the cause of women’s liberation, although I never actually saw one being burnt and it still seemed impossible, on pain of pointed stares and terminal embarrassment, to go out in public – let alone to work – without one.

I decided to purchase a pack of three boob tubes (made in China, of course) in view of the apocalyptically hot weather. They might be cooler, and I would be able to open the door to Amazon man without having to rush about looking for a shirt to disguise any unwarranted jiggliness.  So now I am experimenting with them. They are cooler but they worry me. I am thinking  that, lacking in straps, the thing is going to end up around my waist. Or ride up suddenly, and I will find myself opening the door to the Amazon man with an inelegant roll of elastic somewhere north of my armpits. Not that he’d probably notice. They don’t look at you, just toss the parcel in your general direction and run away.

I woke up this morn expecting Dante’s Inferno, having left all the windows propped a little way open overnight to get a through draught without letting the nineteen cats go sailing down into the garden – no, seventeen – one is blind and one is very, very old – they probably wouldn’t be so foolhardy – only to find it was cool. Overcast even. I went out to collect the dustbin and actually had to put on a cardigan over my sawn-off jeans, loose teeshirt, newly-purchased boob tube etc. So where exactly is this heatwave?

If asked where anywhere ‘foreign’ was my father would invariably reply Turn Left At Dover. I guess I have inherited his devil-may-care attitude to Geography. Canadian Sister is, I believe, currently on a short break in a place called Jasper with some female friends. At any rate, she hasn’t WhatsApp’d me for while. Yes, I have mastered WhatsApp. And today I even managed to stuff an SD card in my Kindle Fire. What next? A job with Microsoft?

To begin with I was convinced that this idyllic Jasper short-break destination was in Colorado. Surely Colorado is quite a long way away from Edmonton, I mused. Isn’t it in America? Which part of America is Colorado in? Then I realised I was probably thinking of Boulder, which may or may not be in Colorado, wherever Colorado is, very possibly America. Finally I bothered to Google jasper Canada map and discovered that Jasper is left of Edmonton and down a bit, in what looks like the Rocky Mountains. I am sure she will enjoy that. Whether the three ladies she is sharing a hotel room with will enjoy it, I am not sure. Can only hope that they are not unpleasant to her, as she won’t understand why.

Well, I was going to tell you how my garage was flooded in a positively vicious thunder-and-lightning storm a couple of days ago – Global Whatsit again, no doubt – and how Snoots the moustachioed black and white cat nibbled chunks out of my one and only remaining loaf of bread all down one side through the plastic – not once but twice.

I was going to tell what I had been reading, and all about the dishcloths I had been knitting. Oh yes, and that the man over the road had scissor-trimmed the front two-thirds of his ancient blind poodle-type dog (he’s doing her in instalments) and all about a lady called Ilona in Yorkshire who believes in wearing Boys Pants because they’re cheaper and more substantial, and my attempts to manufacture handkerchiefs out of some spare pillow-cases….

But I mustn’t go on. Gotta save something exciting for next time…

The Dark Christmas Of The Soul

I try not to be cynical, but when I see those Salvation Army adverts for those who are homeless, gift-less, cold, shivering or alone at Christmas, I can’t help but wonder things like…

Is the old chap in the armchair real, or when the cameras stop rolling (or whatever cameras do nowadays) does he get up from his shabby armchair, brush back his long, unwashed hair and start talking in ringing Shakespearian tones like Sir John Gielgud? And the poor young chap shivering on the street corner with snow falling all around and people pausing only to mock or kick him. Once the shoot is complete, does he stand up, removing umpteen toasty hot hot-water-bottles from beneath that snow-soaked duvet and suggest everyone repair to the café over the road for a cup-a-soup or cheese on toast? I mean, I know the lonely old chap, the child who won’t be being visited by Santa and the shivering youth exist in all their sad and multiple forms in real life, but are the ones in the adverts real? And does it matter either way?

This is the sort of thing you start pondering, when you are alone in a house for two or three days with only the cats and the TV for company. After this, I am going to look up Dark Night of the Soul. I think I may be going through it. Not dark enough, however, to merit a visit from the Salvation Army. Boring, misguiding and distracting the Jehovah ladies has consumed all my psychic energy. It has been quite fun, at times, but I can’t manage the Sally Army on top.

I went to visit Mum in the home a few days ago but discovered her, once again, asleep and corpse-like at nearly lunchtime. I was told it would be better if I made an appointment to visit her instead of “just turning up”. That depressed me. It says in the brochure that relatives are free to visit at any time. And yet I know that if I do call the Home it will ring and ring and no one will answer because the Home is just one of those places where phone-answering is no one’s specific responsibility and so nobody does it.

In the good old, bad old pre-and incipient dementia days, of course, I would have gone over to Mum’s on Christmas Day and we would have sat, mostly in silence because of her deafness and increasing unwillingness to read, or even look at, the notes I passed her. Eventually she would just toss them down on the imitation parquet flooring. We would knit blanket squares together for around three hours in her underheated living room. Poor Kitten (now rescued, and still alive at the human equivalent of 115 or thereabouts) would be crammed underneath the lukewarm storage heater, her nose tightly wrapped in her tail. The clock would be ticking loudly on the mantelpiece, and there we would sit, having consumed…

Well, for a while it was a cooked meal, though not a Christmas cooked meal. Towards the end it would be Ryvita with increasingly eccentric toppings. And then nothing. Shops, meals, preparations for guests or visiting daughters – all such had been erased from her mind.

Canadian Sister is actually in the UK but oop north with her late husband’s rellies. She flew over here solo for the first time – passport renewal, navigation of Schiphol airport, jetlag – the lot. She has texted me once or twice. I was teaching her to text, transatlantic fashion, soon after her husband died. She seems to have mastered that and has sent me several texts from oop north – mostly about underground trains – how many stops between Euston and Victoria – even though Victoria is closed between Christmas and New Year as I keep on and on trying to explain, to no effect whatsoever. However, it hasn’t seemed to occur to her to telephone me, as she would have done if she had been at home in Canada on Christmas Day. I did casually text explaining that it would be possible for her to call my mobile – sorry, cell – phone from oop north on her mobile – sorry, cell – phone – so as to avoid having to run up a bill on mother-in-law’s landline. But maybe the technology tutorials haven’t quite stretched that far. A phone call would have been nice.

By day I look out of the window and note the cars crammed into all the driveways, and wonder who is having whom to visit. By night I look out of those same windows and, up and down the hill, am treated to richly decorated and flashing council house façades. I know why this is. It’s because the Parish Council are offering three prizes of £50 each to the most festively-decorated houses. A few days ago they sent round pairs of judges – all of them couples, each couple with a borrowed dog as a cunning disguise. Disguise dogs… It seems to me it would cost considerably more than £50 to purchase so many fancy lights and keep them lit up with expensive electricity night after night – but perhaps I’m missing something.

My friend down the road had another great granddaughter on Xmas Day. She texted me, joyously. I can’t imagine what it is like to possess a great grandchild, but did my best to sound appropriately pleased, and decorated my reply text with what seemed like appropriate icons.

I listen to my neighbours playing video games. It seeps through the walls. I think they have got a new baby – at least, I can hear something very small and new crying at intervals – and she did get a trifle tubby for a while… But though the rock music marathons have mercifully ceased since the small crying sound started, the intermittent video whooshes and crashes have not. The child – if it actually is a child and not a figment of my imagination – will no doubt grow up to be one of these Pinball Wizards with the joysticks and clickety-buttons, slumped in a beanbag in front of a screen all day.

What else have I done? Now, let me think. I must have scooped out poop at least fifty times over the last few days. The moggies seem to be going into poop-overdrive for the festive season. And I have fed all nineteen of them twice a day, and washed all the dirty bowls up after. Not to mention the current outdoor moggie, Buster, a scary hissy-and-snarly ginger bruiser who has been turning up every day at dawn and dusk recently in the expectation of a whole tin of Whiskas and then waits round the corner or behind the bins, just out of sight, for maybe another 400g tin? It’s like that figgy pudding song – We all want some figgy pudding, so bring some out here!

I have watched a whole lot of Call The Midwife Christmas Specials – so many of those lifelike rubbery babies emerging – so many nuns – and a whole afternoon’s kind of box set on Channel 4 or something similar, of The Yorkshire Vet. I just got into it whilst knitting squares for my blanket and somehow or other couldn’t turn it off. Do you know, in every single programme he takes his top off and puts his arm up a cow? And in every single program at least one set of gonads are removed with a squelch – pig, dog, cat, ferret, polecat … I feel I could now castrate almost any living thing, from memory.

Monday Mash-Up

To be honest, I am not entirely sure what a mash-up is, except that it may or may not be something to do with music. The image I have is of a musical – or possibly visual, or whatever – Bubble & Squeak.

(If Bubble & Squeak turns out to be a purely British phenomenon – and just to add another layer of confusion – it’s a kind of fried mess of mashed potato and cooked cabbage – a tasty, greasy way of using up leftovers.)

So, if that’s what a mash-up is, this is a mash-up, and is indicative of a chilly, soggy Monday afternoon inability to string a coherent narrative together. Who cares? Just start with the rat and carry on.

Or maybe it should be the glasses…

OK, the glasses. This morning I was pottering around in the double nightie and hideous but comfortable and practical crocs…

(bother, now I will have to explain the double nightie… but can’t be bothered right now – Bubble & Squeak has exhausted me)

…feeding the five thousand cats, washing-up the five thousand feeding bowls from last night, drinking tasteless coffee, knitting a row or two and trying to unglue myself from the TV, where the nightmare mash-up of Brexit continues to play itself out – and I leant forward, and my glasses fell off and crashed to the floor. This in itself is not unusual, but this time, when I picked them up, I realised they were done for – not by the fall, but by the severing of some little piece of metal in the arm.

Sadly, I consigned them to the cardboard (ex-kettle) box under the sink marked Spex. Fortunately, I have two other pairs since I usually find myself compelled buy two (or more) of – whatever. This is a kind of nervous compulsion inherited from my mother, along with wisdom teeth painfully lacking a sense of direction, and one of those faces that looks miserable even though it feels perfectly normal – smiley, even – from the inside.

Which reminds me:

I watched a Christmas movie yesterday. I think it was called The Christmas Candle. I looked it up on Wikipedia whilst watching it – it was that boring – and it seems to have been a total turkey from 2013 or thereabouts. However, badness has never stopped me watching a film. By far the worst thing about it was Susan Boyle cast as some kind of Victorian churchwarden’s wife. The plot was so confusing I am still not sure why there needed to be a churchwarden’s wife in the film at all, but the worst thing was – she hardly moved – it was as if they had plonked her in a church pew and there she stayed, rigid in her poke bonnet, throughout the film and her face remained exactly the same. I know Susan has problems, but in that case why put her in a film where she is supposed to act, which she manifestly can not do? Why not get her up as an angel and let her just sing, something she does miraculously well?

And another thing it reminds me of – the rat.

I have often wondered whether men were really better than women at specific tasks, or whether it’s all a case of gender expectation. Handling dead things, for example. Is it a case that they are by nature more brave or less squeamish than women? Or is it maybe that they are better at disguising fear and disgust – putting on a poker face.

So, when I went down to feed the birds – in the drizzly rain and the double nightie – which I shall not explain – and I suspect in full view of the neighbours, but I no longer care – on my way to the bird table I nearly stepped on a poor, soggy dead rat with some sort of gaping, probably cat-inflicted wound in its neck. Part of me thought – just go indoors and forget about it. Sooner or later something will come and “take it away”, or maybe if I don’t go out there till spring, it will still be there but will have reduced itself to bones and be almost – handle-able.

But then, I thought, I will not be able to feed the birds, and I like to look at the birds out of my kitchen window. And then, Canadian Sister is coming to stay in early January, and if anyone is likely to tread on a dead rat and be totally freaked out by it, it is she. No, I must remove the rat.

And so – still in the double nightie and the crocs – armed with a plastic bag and a roll of kitchen paper, I forced myself to approach the corpse – rats are always much bigger than you expect, somehow – and not be sick, and reach out and wrap the paper round the rat and – ugh, it’s tail was all dangly and snakelike and cold and – ugh – put it in the plastic bag and throw it in the dustbin.

And it’s still in there, somewhere. Supposing it wasn’t dead but, revived by the warmth of all those recycling sacks full of fermenting cat-litter, somehow came back to life? And when I next open the bin lid, will it jump up, all hideous wound and cold tail, and…

I was looking for new genre to write a story in. Maybe I’ve found it…

I seem to be knitting a dog blanket

Yesterday evening, whilst watching TV and trying to decide What Just Happened at Westminster, I happened to look down at my hands and realised I was knitting a dog blanket. The thing is, I have nineteen cats but no dogs, so why am I knitting a dog blanket?

It’s quite a nice blanket consisting of twenty-five multicoloured squares – ten plain, five with small doggie paws on, five with medium doggie paws and five with huge doggie paws – but the fact remains, I do not have a dog.

I have observed this, with my decision-making process. Other people seem to identify a need or a problem, work out a strategy to deal with it, then implement that strategy. So it’s kind of cause and effect. I don’t do that, mostly. I find myself doing things, am mystified as to why I am doing them, and then try to work out why I might have decided to do them.

So, it now occurs to me that I am knitting the dog blanket for Queenie, my almost-Godmother’s almost-dog, for Christmas. Queenie is old, and has been quite ill this year. She doesn’t quite belong to Godmother, who also isn’t technically, officially my godmother. But she ought to be.

Queenie is a small, white nondescript pooch, possibly a Scottie or a Jack Russell or combination of both – I’m not good on dog breeds. She belongs to the overweight, elderly alcoholic woman who lives over the road from Godmother. Godmother regularly responds to slurred phone calls demanding rescue from the foot of the stairs, which the lady is unable to climb due to her day-long wine consumption.

Queenie has to return to the alcoholic lady for one hour a day, but Godmother, who is in her eighties, takes care of Queenie’s daily walks in the park, vastly expensive veterinary care and general need for love and affection.

So Godmother is my guardian angel, Queenie’s owner’s guardian angel, and also of course Queenie’s. I can’t say how much it has comforted me, throughout my life, to know that angels do walk the earth, and that one of them, miraculously, assigned herself to me.

So, the dog blanket is for Queenie. And of course, I knew that all along.

Didn’t I?
NB: Please see my reply to Belladonna’s comment below for further details and a link to the pattern, which was originally connected with an appeal by Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.

In no particular order, 50 things without which life would be intolerable

  1. Cats
  2. Blue summer skies
  3. Grey winter skies
  4. Any skies
  5. A hand, or paw, to hold
  6. Thomas Tallis
  7. A Nan and a Grandad, deceased or otherwise
  8. Books
  9. Ice Cream
  10. Vanilla essence
  11. Newly-sharpened pencils
  12. Boxes of B2 pencils as yet unused
  13. A4 refill pads, wide feint
  14. Inbuilt BS detector
  15. Grim sense of humour
  16. Tears
  17. Bumble bees
  18. God, or a concept of similar
  19. Faded things
  20. Worn things
  21. Lost things found again
  22. The Lark Ascending
  23. Knitting needles
  24. Poetry
  25. Silence, inner
  26. Silence, outer
  27. A sister, or someone you can giggle with
  28. Five minute naps
  29. Freesias
  30. Snowdrops
  31. Bluebells
  32. Paper tissues
  33. A healthy scepticism
  34. Grief, preferably past
  35. Exultation, preferably past
  36. Daydreaming
  37. Memory
  38. Forgettory
  39. Log fires, present or remembered
  40. Singing
  41. Vincent Van Gough
  42. Cave paintings
  43. The ability to listen
  44. The ability not to listen
  45. Snow
  46. Rain
  47. Thunderstorms
  48. Aspirin
  49. Death
  50. Cats again

Why not start your own list?

The Antipreneur

I thought of this snazzy little title on the way to the vets, with Winnie. In fact, when approaching an awkward mini-roundabout. That beastly little roundabout is particularly good for popping blog post titles into one’s head, I’ve noticed. No wonder cars always seem to be having collisions there.

Money or the lack of it always crosses my mind (multiple times) on the way to the vets, with a cat. But today being the Sabbath it was a locum, and he mightily impressed me by not extracting money from me when he undoubtedly could have, since having nineteen cats (as he could see from his computer screen) tends to give the game away – that you will do anything for a sick or suffering moggie, even if it involves remortgaging or maxing out the plastic.

But he spent a long time making a gentle fuss of poor Winnie and listening to her alarming breathing, and then told me it was a difficult one. He said he asked himself, if this was his own cat, or a human being, would he put them through an anaesthetic, an x-ray, a battery of blood tests, to find out what was wrong. Long experience has equipped me with a mental calculator for veterinary investigations. You’re looking at hundreds, I thought. Hundreds and hundreds… in fact maybe a thousand… Simultaneously trying to recall the PIN for my credit card – the one I swore I would never again buy anything on.

There is some sort of process going on inside Winnie, he said, but without the investigations it is hard to guess. I can tell by the flecks in her eyes, he said, that she is maybe fourteen or fifteen years old (this is news to me, as she was a stray, but I am not surprised). Winnie is an old lady. As long as she is eating and drinking, and seems to be happy, I think it might be better just to watch her, and wait. Bring her back to me when the time is right.

And with that he restored my faith in human nature. I hope he won’t get into trouble for not selling anything this rainy sabbath. I seemed to be their only customer this morning, so his lack of financial killer instinct will be pretty obvious when they come to do the till at lunchtime. I hope poor Winnie’s “time” will not come for a while yet, but when it does I will know, because he also restored my confidence in myself, my own instincts.

As for Anti-preneur – I guess that is I what I must be. At intervals I research into ways of supplementing the meagre income; preferably very, very quickly; without a huge outlay for three years of evening classes in upholstery, or the purchase of a stack of books on website design. Apparently website design is now becoming a bit “niche” as an income-generator, since the technology for building one’s own website is nowadays available to all online. I throw out that hint in case any of you are also making long lists of How To Make Money.

Truth is, I just haven’t got the mindset. I need money but I am not interested in it. I need money but I am not terribly willing to do – or terribly capable of doing – any of the things that are necessary to get it. I found a very useful article in The Guardian – Fifty side businesses to set up from home.

What is a side business, I wonder. I suppose if you are making oodles in the City, a side business would be something you did in your back bedroom, after spending three hours commuting home on a tightly-packed train. I have never had a front business, let alone a side one.

I run through the list, listlessly, trying to convince myself that I could manage one, or any of them:

Antiques dealing – what do they think I am going to purchase the antiques with? (Sigh!) And would I know an antique if I saw one? (Sigh!)
Babysitting. No one would let a childless old baggage like me near their children. And I don’t even much like children. I would be like Nanny McPhee… without the magic.
Bed and Breakfast, it says. I don’t want another person under my roof – unless they are my sister, for a week, in January – and anyway, I would have to hoover, relentlessly. And what about the nineteen cats?
Biscuit-making – oven broken
Cake-making – ditto
Car boot sales (Sigh!)
Car cleaning/valeting (Sighhhh!)
Census distributor – not till 2022, and I have a feeling I somewhat failed to impress at that the time before last…
Computer repairer/trouble-shooter – if only I could, I could save myself hundreds of pounds in visits from Scary Computer Man…
Become a DJ – seriously?
Be a doula – OMG, no….

Every time I think about making money my subconscious, which utterly refuses to stick to the point in any situation, however dire – in fact the direr the situation the more it is tempted to stray from/misremember any conceivable point – reminds me, visually and facetiously, that I need only to purchase a Red Hat and walk up and down the High Street murmuring… whatever ladies in Red Hats are supposed to murmur… Hello sailor! Got a light, dearie? Maybe ladies in Red Hats did murmur that sort of thing in the days when there were plenty of sailors and everybody used to smoke. Maybe. I doubt if they wear Red Hats nowadays, and suspect that whatever they now murmur to passing gentlemen, it is  direct, and graphic.

Deceased Devon Aunt once informed me that if I bought a bottle of Devon Violets perfume I would smell like a Lady of The Brook (or, as her Deceased Brother – my Father – would more likely have put it – like a Whore’s Handbag). Perhaps I should look on Amazon to see if one can still purchase little bottles of Devon Violets perfume – or red hats for that matter – and if so set forth to supplement my pension in this time-honoured way.

If only I wasn’t so old. And if only I could bear the thought…

So I suppose I will just have to write the novel. But that will take years. And what sort of novel. And whatever sort of novel, nobody is likely to publish it. And…

(Sigh!)