About a Brain Scan, or Stairway to Heaven ...

Mother-in-Law is an elderly lady who consults a psychiatrist.
"What are you here for?" asks the psychiatrist.
She looks blankly at her son-in-law.
"Because you can't remember anything," is St. Anley's response.

Psychiatrist reviews notes at some considerable length.
"Oh, yes," says he. "We'll arrange a brain scan."

Appointment for said investigation arrives several weeks later. St Anley dutifully accompanies M-in-Law to the hospital.

“What will they do to me?"
"Will it make me better?” she asks.

St. Anley hesitates momentarily, (wondering how best not to answer the second question,) before offering the following confabulation.

“Well, first they’ll ask you to lie down on a trolley and keep very still.”
“Then you will be conveyed through a very dark tunnel.”


“Ooh, that’s scary!” exclaims M-in-Law.

“Be not afraid!” commands St. Anley adopting a tone of ecclesiastical authority.
“At the end of the tunnel you will eventually see a very bright light.”

“What sort of light?” she asks.

“Oh, that will be the light of Jesus, welcoming you to His heavenly kingdom.”
(I wish!)

The radiographer calls her into his chamber.
St. Anley hums gently the melody, Stairway to Heaven.

Not many minutes later the patient is wheeled back into the waiting area.
“Oh, you’re here in heaven too!” she declares in some surprise.

"Did you see Jesus?" asks St. Anley.
"No, I had my eyes closed."
"That's why He sent you back!"
She concludes, "Well, that was a waste of time then; I don't feel any better, like you said I would."

"Oh, no I didn't!"

Disclaimer:

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, described in this account is utterly intentional!

About being comfortably numb ...

Saint Anley has endured a bad couple of weeks.
I guess it's no worse than anyone else.
You know: interpersonal abuse, family disputes, impending bankruptcy etc. ... nothing of global nor historical significance.
Of course, all his tribulations are utterly trivial, albeit they cause him sleepless nights.

To digress ...
Saint Anley very rarely engages with contemporary popular music.
(Who is Lady Gaga, anyway?!)
However, on Sunday, while Saint Anley was trying to look at the inside of his eyelids, Mrs St.A insisted on listening to BBC Radio 2: Johnny Walker presenting Sounds of the Seventies.
Jane is a rock-chick who likes that sort of thing.
Saint Anley was forbidden to watch Songs of Praise.

Then he heard this ...

"Wow!" he said, "Where was I in 1979?"

"What did I miss?"

Now, one wonders, how can one achieve 'comfortable numbness' without the aid of illicit substances?

Saint Anley has some difficulty in adopting this position ...

Now, empty your mind and chant with me ... "ommmmm."

That doesn't look comfortable at all!

How many wives?

Now it is time to explain ...

Last week, before visiting the Mary Rose Museum, St. Anley attended a folk music club in company of somebody else's wife.
My friend Barry was there.
I introduced Laura.
Assumptions were made.

It was two days later that St. Anley, accompanied by two wives, visited the aforementioned museum where he recognised Barry in Tudor apparel.

"Hello, Barry," said St. A, "This is my wife, Jane."
Barry took a pace back. His thinking was evident ...
"That's not the wife who accompanied you on Tuesday."
Melanie, Jane's college friend, joined us.
"Oh, and here's Melanie."
Melanie being another man's wife.

Thus are sown the seeds of confusion.

It gets even more complicated ...
Yesterday I attended the same folk song club, initially unaccompanied.
I performed The Ballad of Mary Rose, after an explanatory preamble. It was rather well received, though Barry's response was ambivalent.

Then a lady arrived.
I recognised her as a near-neighbour and friend.
I embraced her warmly, (thinking, "Here's my lift home!")
The gathering gasped, "What ... another wife?!"
"I will explain later, dear," I whispered to my warmly-embraced friend.

It gets worse ...
Lucy, a lovely lady of my long-time acquaintance, asked, "Can we sing Pleasant and Delightful."
"Yes!" said I.
I stumbled slightly when it came to the line:
...and if ever I return again, I will make you my bride.

Oh dear, there's an unsavoury reputation in the making here!

The Ballad of Mary Rose ...

Last week St. Anley, in the company of two wives, visited the Mary Rose Museum in Portsmouth's Historic Dockyard.

He met a friend who was an official guide.

Barry was barely recognisable in his Tudor attire: cap, tunic, breeches, hosen and shoon.

Barry took us in hand and delivered an eloquent account of the Battle of the Solent, (1545.)

A large crowd gathered to listen.

Saint Anley was thereafter inspired to poetry ...

The Ballad of Mary Rose

As I walked through the dockyard to see Mary Rose,
I spied an old man wearing very strange clothes.
The old man was erudite ‘bout maritime things:

Of historical seamen and ships of the Kings

He adopted a most magisterial pose,

Went on to declaim in eloquent prose.

*[His language was strange, archaic you’d say.

For ‘S’ he’d use ‘F’ like they did on that day.
(Be careful if you mean to say ‘suck!’)]

On 19th July, MDXLV of our Lord,

Mary Rose weighed her anchor, 400 on board.

Little room for manoeuvre, a very slight breeze,

She made for the French fleet upon the high seas.

She tacked onto starboard, her port side went down.

Gun-ports left open, so now they must drown.

Thirty-seven crewmen survived on that day

To speak of the chaos and dreadful affray.

On 19th July, in those days of yore,

The old man survived … he’ll tell you more.
The cabin-boy survived ... he'll tell you more!

CT, July 2014

It scans, with only a little shoe-horning, to the tune Shores of Old Blighty, (Graham Miles.)

* I might miss out that unsavoury interjection about 'S' and 'F'.

With many thanks to Barry who enlightened our visit considerably.

I suppose we should have tipped him a groat-or-two, but we'd run out!

Mandela Day ...

I declare a global day of mourning ...

Listen and weep ... Simple Minds, Mandela Day

An Autumn Walk ...

10th November, 2013 ...

This was a day to die on: clear skies, sunshine and a gentle breeze giving only a mild autumnal chill.
Jane and I determined to walk the entire perimeter of the Chidham peninsula.

Cobnor Point looking SW down Chichester Channel.
Isle of Wight on the horizon.

Another perambulation ...

Not a bad day.

The weather forecast was for sunny spells, occasional heavy showers and strong winds.
Those 'strong winds' were estimated at about 24mph.
St. Anley, being unable to cycle that fast into a head-wind, put on his boots and walked his customary circuitous route to the local Post Office.

This was the only 'sunny spell' ...

Nutbourne Channel at low tide.

Remember those glorious fields of barley?

Ready for next season.

There is something special about a lonely tree ...

What looms within that sky?

Something made St. A very cross ...

Deposited alongside a rural footpath.

... very cross!
Yes, it's a plastic bag.
I guess it contains dog poo.
The dog owner is to be marginally commended for not leaving this excreta to adhere to walkers' footwear.
However, dog poo must be biodegradable.
Plastic bags are not!

There is a more responsible way of discarding faeces ...

A pile of horse manure ready for spreading.

Now I'll clean my boots ...

Oh, they're not that bad ...
they'll do for another day!