Thinking Clearly About Nothing

Full disclosure. In case some poor benighted soul thinks that the title of this post is spiritually related to the title of this blog, tough. Go seek enlightenment on someone else's doorstep! I believe Mother Carey welcomes dreamers.
I picked up on the Brain Pickings post about alcohol and the brain. The conclusion of this (Canadian (?) aren't we all now) comic strip is that the Devil's Buttermilk enables us to think clearly about almost nothing. A little harsh I feel, especially as I gave up the DB almost 2 years to the day now under starter's orders.  I do not consider myself to think clearly as a result and I am buggered if I can remember what it was that I was thinking about anyway... The U Tube video gives a link to all sorts of helpful little videos about drugs and a very useful reminder about hangover amelioration. May come in useful this time of year. I'm off to make a cup of tea, lashings of hot tea! It's cold enough to have the nuts off a nun here and the starter would judge my efforts to cut down on the caffeine as woeful anyway. One drug at a time sweet J, I say, one drug at a time.

Prentice Hand

I came across the phrase in Driftwood and Tangle by Margaret Leigh.
Chapter 10 - At the Peats - is set in 1940. It is, in part, a reflection on WWII.
Leigh also describes her kackhanded cutting of the peat leaving the bank gashed and uneven...

as if it were a huge chunk of butter at which a boy had been hacking with a blunt penknife.

For those of us that have not put 10,000 hours in the meter ours will always be prentice hands.

Every state should have one

A programme in the poverty series on BBC 4 drifted across my shortening attention span the other night. All good stuff and the pilgrim, an earnest young Swiss, was questioning the set up in Zambia in relation to the past disposal of assets, specifically the copper deposits. The VP of Zambia, Guy Scott,  happens to be white and the earnest pilgrim questioned him on his lack of pigmentation and, delicately, asked if this was linked to colonialism and exploitation. I have little knowledge of the Scott's politics, background or probity but I really chuckled at his reply. Obviously, he has been tackled about this before. He indicated that such a situation, having a white VP,  was not uncommon and that he believed the US had one!

Cause of Death?

A blog by Paul Mason  about Yang Jisheng. He is the author of Tombstone which is claimed to be the 'Untold Story of Mao's Great Famine'. At least 36 million dead!

Giles Fraser has a comment piece in the Grauniad about images of dead children.
Contained within it is  a twitter feed giving a link to the picture of his concern, 4 children in a morgue in Gaza.
Please be aware it is a very disturbing picture. No doubt there will be further horrifying pictures to come.

We certainly know how to kill!

Misty, Moisty, Morning

Off to avail myself of the democratic facilities at the urns in the Tithe Barn I slipped the old point and snap in my pocket.
A few photo opportunities ensued.
A web of deceit

A few (fig) leaves of respectability

 

 
In the graveyard of freedom.

Herself was concerned when she returned to find the house locked up, the fire out and the kettle boiling. Not a sign. I had passed into the churchyard and was presenting a damp, solitary figure to the memorial masonry of previous generations. Lost in contemplation of my own mortality.

(So the sun didn't cleave the woodwork then. God, but you can be a miserable bugger sometimes...Ed!)

The Usual Suspects

Nice little blog from our Paul  at the Great Hall.

Certainly nobody in the press made trouble: not even me, nor Channel Four News, nor The Guardian. We sat, watched, recorded.

Eee Paul, you becoming a southern softie? Few years in the Laogai; toughen you up a treat lad.

Certainly seemed to be a shortage of people considering it's their hall!
I have come to appreciate Paul's journalism and reportage. I sincerely hope Fatty Pang and the Posh Posse don't do too much damage!

Fun Guy

We may have missed the 5th November but I would hate anyone to say that I am not a fun guy or appreciate such in others.

Not much room for these sorts of things, I'll just squeeze in here.

Recycling

We do our share.
The council provides for the collection of garden waste, paper, cans and cardboard. We recycle glass (Did I not hear that you had forsworn the devils buttermilk...Ed? ) Herself is partial to a drop of red wine, possibly a nightcap of the finest blended, and who am I to object. Besides, there are always pickle and jam jars, bottles of this, that and the next thing for which our consumer society requires the finest vitrification. I could believe the bloody milk bottles keep some fellow and his mafia cousins from Murano in clover. I religiously take a few rags from my back that have threads bared, the furniture that the mice have had condemned by the parish authorities  and assorted electrical devices that still have their valves glowing to the town dump, AKA the Recycling Centre, to avoid the horror of landfill. As a result of my efforts for the environment I may be responsible, personally, for the failure of the publishing industry because I take my surplus reading matter to the shop that combats famine in Oxford. (I think we get the point, could you move on for the love of god and his blessed mother... Ed!)  Well I also take the little cardboard tube that appears when the toilet roll is exhausted (I share its pain...Ed.) and flatten it, putting it in the recycling. I feel an enormous pressure to do this.

I believe that I could more likely cull badgers, hunt foxes or other defenceless beasts, perform cruel and painful experiments on small animals than fail to recycle the small but dutifully flattened cardboard tube.
Strange isn't it?