A further thought about Mendel

 Whilst my admiration knows no bounds for early scientists who stuck pins into their own eyes (Isaac Newton) or scratched the pus of cow pox lesions into a small boy (Edward Jenner), I like to ponder on the less scary biography of Gregor Mendel. 

(That is too flip about Jenner: he had a sound, scientific basis of knowledge when he injected the boy and his discovery has had the miraculous effect of eradicating smallpox globally). 

Our curious monk (take that whichever way you please) grew and cross-bred around 28,000 pea plants between 1856 and 1863. I leave you to perform the higher arithmetic, but that's a lot of peas per annum in my estimation. Perhaps his failure to obtain teaching qualifications made him determined to continue to experiment.

From this, he deduced that traits such as colour (green or yellow) and smooth or wrinkly skins (I wish he could do something about my hair hues and facial crevasses) are inherited in discrete units (now called genes) and that some are dominant and some are recessive. He also looked at pod shape and colour, flower colour, flower position and plant height. This was thorough research and a huge finding but its importance failed to be recognised for over a hundred years. 

Whatever was made of his theories later, I love to think of him, peacefully patrolling his lines of legumes in the monastery garden and jotting down their features. Calm and soothing. I'm sure he talked to them.

Yet, did he ever have nightmares?

Definitely something amiss with the one on the left!

Thomas a Kempis

Thomas a Kempis is revered by me for one of his sayings, the translation of which would be: "Love few and simple things and you will find good peace." The second line has been rendered more poetically as "Simple life much comfort brings." The Latin reads (and I think the words are fathomable):

Ama pauca et simplicia

Et pacem bonam reperies.

I totally approve of his standards of restraint and believe that he is more than ever right in an age of luxury (for some), complexity, the endless quest for better material goods - and the resultant stress. I used to  love a hike on the Pembrokeshire coastal path, gazing at lighthouses, rocks and waves, followed by a cold dip in a surfy sea.

Now that I am depended on a rollator for mobility and go only as far as my local park, I still relish the flowers and trees and, when I get home, love to see my pet snails wave their antennae at me when I talk to them.

Perhaps even an autumn squirrel, that imagination transforms from grey to red.

Accepted in principle (and easier for a war baby, perhaps) but - what constitutes simplicity nowadays? Am I breaking faith if I eat one chocolate truffle or have a small glass of red wine with a basic dinner? Is it relative - so that I am abiding by his dictum if I spend less, much less, than other people, never fly and do not own a car? 

What's gone in won't come out

Having limited mobility and no car, I do send for items online and enjoy opening the parcels that arrive (after rating the courier for his or her courtesy, carefulness, smile, punctuality, obedience to instructions and kindness to his great-aunt, Matilda). That is to say, I relish the packages that require only a neat slit with a knife and a smooth withdrawal of the longed-for purchase. Those that require a struggle with my puny biceps (a muscle tussle) are less appealing and call for a number of neologistic expletives to express my frustration.

Then there the necessities I buy at the supermarket. Satsumas that come in little mesh bags.

Preparing to outwit me and SMIRK.

I take my trusty scissors to the mesh and cut a satsuma-sized hole. One obediently pops out but then rolls onto the floor. I blame Newton: if he hadn't invented gravity I would be doing a lot less bending. The rest refuse to leave and sit, smirking unpleasantly at me, in their nest. 

A satsuma in full smirk mode

Then one rallies the troops and they all tumble out gleefully in different directions, cheering one another on and attracting bruises as they go.

Then there is ketchup. I cannot beat Richard Armour (not Ogden Nash) at expressing frustration with this object, that declines to perform its bounded duty - as my chips go cold.

Shake and shake the ketchup bottle,

None'll come and then a lot'll.

Another item jeering at me.

Some of my angst stems from a year spent in the U.S.A., avoiding all  recipes which involved catsup, assuming it to be an exotic ingredient far beyond my limited budget. 

I have seen the future and it works - for dogs

Walking around my market town and performing my medal-winning sprint round the park on my stalwart rollator, I notice 2 things, both about dogs. Please accept that I do like most dogs and had a beloved one myself who, before her departure to that great kennel in the sky, enjoyed roaming the countryside, sniffing at unspeakable objects. If they were sufficiently disgusting to the human eye and nose, she would roll voluptuously in them and refuse to be bathed afterwards, because that made her an outcast from other canines. She also loved playing with her unfortunately odourless, clockwork mouse. A superb animal who led an animal's life. (The dog, not the mouse). 

Now that my eyes have dried and I can read what I have written, I realise that I have strayed from my theme. The first thing that I observe is that dogs are now going to cafes, although maintaining a sardonic distance from human coffee culture. It won't be long before they have their own urban venues and meet their friends there.

How will they get to Canine Cafe? In the doggy prams that I have also observed. The owners will take them, give them the right money and leave them to chat and socialise. 

 

One hour, and no gossiping about me, please.

You wait: it will happen and all you can do is restrict your pooch's pocket money.

Toddler chariota

When I go up town for my morning coffee and then whizz around the park on my trusty rollator, I see parents out with their infants harnessed into push chairs. (I never encounter those aristocratic, sprung, huge, black prams that Nannies parade in Hyde Park - my town does not do elite). 

What I love is the modern version of toddler transport: those impressive chariots that carry 4 children at once.

I say, did you see that little  dog over there chasing a big ball?

The occupants always look chirpy and inquisitive, looking around with curiosity and sharing their observations. The big plus is that they seem heavy enough to ensure that the person pushing does not have a free hand to hold his or her mobile. How many carers actually talk to the children, encouraging their interests and improving their vocabulary? 

Size ratio of dog to owner

 When I walk round my local park on my sturdy rollator and look at dogs with their owners, I am often struck by how mis-matched they are in size. Tall men have tiny pooches and little ladies have massive hounds. It is discombobulating.

The big dog knows he looks silly with his vertically challenged mistress.

I think it would be a better world if everyone, by law, had to choose a dog their own size. It would make for easier conversation between them if both were at the same level and there would be a pleasing orderliness in modern life which is sadly missing.

Look how ready they are for meaningful discourse.

Please vote me in as Minister for Pooch Co-ordination and I will pledge to do my utmost for the ultimate good of the country, drawing a line under the past, learning from my mistakes, encouraging communities and reaching out on my new journey to those who ... Where was I? Ah - yes. Something about canines. More dentists perhaps. Next Parliament for that little problem.

My posties

I am very fond of the men who deliver my mail. There are two: a short. rotund, smiling one and a tall, thin lugubrious one. Both are efficent and courteous - but shy. That is why I cannot show you a photograph of either; here is their mail trolley instead, safely attached to a convenient lamppost. 

"Letters of thanks, letters from banks ..."

Grateful though I am for my daily visit, I also recall that, in the days when Anthony Trollope revolutionised the service, there were up to 10 to 12 deliveries a day, starting at around 7.30 a.m. and ending at 7.30 p.m. George Bernard Shaw sent off a thick MS of a novel in the morning only to have it returned the same day, rejected. Trollope, during his 33 years as a civil servant, brought the idea of the post box to Britain, although they were sage green at first before becoming the familiar bright red we know and love. Of course, he was also writing many fat novels, drafting them before starting the day's work for the Royal Mail. I wonder what he did with the rest of his time.

 There is no need to show you a pillar box but here is a warning that you should never attempt to drive through a red telephone kiosk just because it looks faded.