2013 — 22 August: Thursday
Lurching1 back into some form of consciousness this morning, as I happily sup the cup that cheers... my agile brain quickly deduces that there's been some overnight rain. I really shall have to reposition the long-overdue action item "Tackle brambles" to a yet higher position on my completely non-existent "To Do" list.
Funnily enough, one of the topics during my peaceful morning tea & chat with my chum Iris yesterday encompassed her liking for 'meditational' retreats and what it means to live in the moment. She mentioned the four great immeasurables2 and we speculated on the extent to which we measured up against them. I'm all in favour of qualities of mind that promote well-being and reduce suffering. (Of course, I'm also in favour of home-made apple pie of the sort dear Mama's own dear Mama could conjure out of the filthiest oven you could imagine, but that's touching on Carl Sagan territory.)
I set out...
... full of good intentions yesterday evening to tackle my gaping educational deficit in my exposure to, and understanding of, Shakespeare. (Len has lent me DVDs of the recent Dominic Dromgoole [if that isn't a splendid Shakespearean name for the director, I don't know what is] Globe Theatre filmed "in the round" production of Henry IV [who, I gather, is a two-part King] with Sir John Falstaff played by Roger Allam.)
Despite the fact that there are both English and German subtitles to assist my limited grasp of the language of 400 years ago I was, of course, predictably derailed by a greater wish to do other things, including watching the final two parts of a somewhat later different classic production written by a lady who preferred to work with a fine brush on ivory. I will take another crack at it. These things take time, you know.
If I don't make breakfast soon, it will have metamorphosed into brunch.
And I return...
... from the care-home, quite soberly (but also relieved) following a brief but intense chat with the Kamp Kommandant of this particular "warehouse for the cognitively-impaired elderly" (as that recent NPR phone-in discussion I mentioned categorised such places). Of course, we've already been through this stage:
No, Mavis has a bit more kick left; and in a manner at once brave, tottery and (intermittently) gaga, decided this summer to move into the Casa de Mañana — one of those ostensibly cheery places known in the US, euphemistically, as a 'senior independent living facility'. The good news is she's looking forward to it. Indeed, having read the shiny brochures, who wouldn't find the Casa's amenities enticing? Swimming-pool, games room, art classes, beauty salon, a masseuse, even maybe a few quasi-viable ninety-something widowers (retired La Jolla doctors?) to escort you — despite hairless decrepitude — to in-house wine tastings or bingo nights.
Dear Mama's financial oil-well will be pumping mud in a little more than three years from now. But at that point, providing I can persuade the local authority to step into the breach, and providing local authorities still exist, and still have any form of social payment budgets in 2017, she will have been in the place long enough (over six years) for them to allow her to stay there without further payment beyond my signing over the full amount of any social allowance or benefit payment she is then entitled to from the guvmint.
Just as well: what the hell would I do with a mindless centegenarian knocking around the house and endlessly falling over? I have enough difficulty just looking after myself. The Kommandant also admits that their "long-term" client business is withering (she expressed herself much more delicately) as more and more families try to keep their elderly relics relatives at home. Despite spending even more doing so than the cost of care-home fees.
When I got back, I nipped back out to deal localised death and destruction to as many brambles as I could reach with my giant toenail clippers, noting also the presence of a couple of dozen of those red gooseberries that will have my name on them before the blackbirds attack. Then it was just a question of spending about five minutes removing a hundred or more grass (?) seeds from my fluffy white socks.
If I don't make my afternoon cuppa soon, it will have metamorphosed into my evening meal. But it's a lovely sunny day out there, and I continue to live in the moment. The moment at this moment being 16:06. Now, where's that damn' kettle got to?
Meanwhile...
... perhaps we shouldn't all be so relentlessly positive after all? Faulty maths in a piece of psychology research? Whatever next? (Link.)
Some of my spies...
... get out of the house more than I do. Visual evidence:
In my day, it was a surfeit of lampreys. Now it's pre-pubescent girls. And I believe that's both the first and last time I shall ever have cause to type those phrases. I see BoJo, the Mayor of London, appears at the foot of the warning. Should I read anything into that? Iris confessed yesterday that she thought he was "lovely". What can one say?
Having just watched...
... the first part (Richard II) of "The Hollow Crown" I've given in and ordered the DVD box set. Sometimes, I still manage to surprise myself. But I'm still drawing the line at Wagner. For now.