Hamish passed the weekend at the coast, doing a lively round of parties and
beach events with E. Of course he skipped the fireworks, but otherwise it was
all go. As a result, when we woke this morning he was suffering from the
post-vacation illusion that joy can go on forever. “What’s on the menu? A run
beside that big noisy water? Wind in my hair? What?” Wag, wag, wag. We went
for a walk in the bower, had a game of chase with another dog, gently eased
back into the daily grind.
L and I were were in New York, visiting J. who had a rare couple of days free.
We all three spent a thirty fourth wedding anniversary watching a football
match involving Pirlo, Lampard and Villa. Pirlo was peerless. The beers were
twelve dollars each.
There’s a way of talking in New York that everyone notices. My father and I
are possibly the last people on earth who still read Damon Runyon, who captured
the speech of a certain kind of New Yorker. I’ve not his facility, but here’s
an approximation of what I heard outside Yankee stadium after the game:
Man one: I was walkin’, as we are here, an’ all of a sudden, “Bam,” I get hit
upside a da head.
Man two: Lucky you wasn’t hurt in no part you use.
We saw an excellent theatrical production of, “Sense and Sensibility.” If
you’re heading for the city, do try to catch it.
On planes I generally have very few thoughts. My eyes dry out and I feel very
uncomfortable, but this is the price we pay to get places. I did think about
inspiration. One of my favorite records growing up was two sides of, “Hancock’s
Half Hour.” (If you haven’t heard them, you’re in for a treat. On the one
side was an episode about becoming a blood donor; on the other, thoughts about
being a ham radio operator.) I mention this because my brain acts like a
radio. For two weeks now it has been on “receive.” Preparing for a talk I
have to give soon, I inputted lots of information and some analysis, muttered,
“Over” and waited. And waited. Usually if I go for a walk or take a
shower…there are a series of things I do which seem to bring stuff in from the
ether, but in this instance it seemed as if the source had been instructed to
maintain radio silence. Under such circumstances it’s hard to ignore
precedent. What, in military terms, does prolonged radio silence mean, “Tora,
tora, tora,” right? Peal Harbor and that kind of thing. Disaster.
The other thing you can be sure about broadcast technology, and here I include
phone messages, people on bicycles who bring telegraph messages to your door,
the whole deal, is input comes when it’s least welcome. Just as you’re trying
to fall asleep, when you’ve woken in the night and think that rolling over will
do the trick, up come the paragraphs you’ve been waiting for. At the point
when you’re about to be late for a tennis match or an appointment with the
president of your college or some gentleman of the press, suddenly the signal
strength indicator flicks from left to right and boom, “Incoming.”
This happened shortly before I left. I expected continuance on the planes.
Nada. Maybe planes are somehow insulated from thought reception?
As for the chickens…I was woken last week by what sounded like a cock crowing.
My first thought of the day was that someone had decided to solve a surplus
rooster problem by dumping said bird over our fence and that it was now sitting
outside Fort Squawk inviting the girls our for a round of “How’s your father?”
Hamlet’s ghost incarnate, if “incarnate” is the word I want.
Ghost: “Swear, swear on the sword.”
Chickens: “Whaaaaat?”
Ghost: “They lie to you; it’s mightier than the pen… The sword.”
Chickens: “Fugoff.”
"Fugoff-fugoff.”
"Prepare to repel boarders.”
"Person the parapet.”
“Stiffen the sinew."
"Summon up the blood.”
"Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage.”
“All together girls."
Quite the racket. I rose, put some clothes on, did a few stretches, stumbled
down to don the wellies and see what gave. With blurred eyes I searched all
over. No rooster. Four of the five chickens were marching up and down just
inside the door, looking as martial as can be. I opened the door, “What on
earth is going on?”
The chickens rushed out. From inside the sleeping chamber came a repeat of the
crowing. I peered into the gloom. Cheddar looked at me defiantly.
“I’m developing issues.”
“Issues?”
“Trans-gender issues. It’s a post-traumatic disorder.”
“Traumatic?”
“I saw the ghost of Wensleydale, clothed in white samite…”
“Mystic, wonderful…right. And when was this?”
“Last night. Or the one before. I have lost track of time.”
“I do that. But why traumatic, exactly? Wasn’t Wensleydale your chum?”
“She said we all have to change... The solstice… Woe, woe and thrice woe.
Something of that ilk.”
“Maybe it was something you ate? Or a dream.”
“I need time to reflect.”
“And change gender?”
“The jury’s out on that one.”
She’s been brooding ever since.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
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