The best line in all Shakespeare

 I have just finished writing vital and serious posts on 3 of Shakespeare's tragedies, each containing a different, original and  illuminating view. (You are quite right: the trumpet-blowing bypass operation was not wholly successful). Sixth Form and first year university students of Othello, King Lear and Hamlet might like to take a look at my interpretations via the link to "Top Marks" on the right of this page.

There are many contenders for the accolade of best line and, although I would like to keep you in suspense for longer, I will now do the Big Reveal. Or - leave you to first have a guess. It's not even a whole line and consists of only 5 words. 

No? Take your Complete Shakespeare and turn to Henry 1V pt 1 Act 111 scene i line vi. That looks a bit like algebra but please don't panic. 

Hotspur: I have forgot the map.

There we have it: human, clear and resonating to all ages, races and sexes (actually only men forget the map). 

The rebels against the King are planning who should have which bit of the kingdom when they have won the war. There is no 'if' about it to them - but they do need a map on which to draw the new boundaries. Our hot-headed daredevil thinks he has left it behind but Glendower, whom he derides, has brought it with him. Now they can quarrel.

This line is the perfect and ultimate proof that Shakespeare is timeless, (although Sat Nav has made such absent-mindedness less crucial). Nevertheless I reckon it is the one utterance that speaks to us all, always has done and always will. 

Does it do me good?

I will be 88 in a month's time and I have just noticed something about growing old.  I cannot put a date on when it started but it certainly wasn't happening when I was 30. It was probably  about the same time that people warn me kindly about "having a fall" instead of  "falling."

If I tell somebody that I do a daily crossword, for example, the instant and universal response is that it's good for me. It keeps my mind active, they assure me. It gets my brain working. I do not doubt that is true and that my elderly synapses need all the stimulus they can get - but that is not why I fill in the little squares. I do it because I enjoy it.

Even worse is when I am actively composing my blogs, such as the scholarly one about word meanings and semantic shift. It contains interesting information about our language which is not readily available unless you know where to look. I do it to pass on knowledge - not to oil my own mental cogs. 

People mean well - but I am old, not ill and in need of a cure. They wouldn't say it if I were decades younger and writing a best-selling novel. "Oh, well done, Mr Shakespeare, it did you good to write Macbeth" - said nobody, ever.

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.

Modern annoyances

 The internet and AI are useful and have become a modern necessity. It is difficult to know how we could manage without them. Yet there are aspects which are deeply irksome.

1) Being asked to review a delivery. A person walks up my short, front garden path and places a small package in a box marked "Parcels here". I am then asked to review this amazing achievement by rating the courier's manner, promptitude, courtesy etc. Mostly I have never seen him or her but I feel obliged to do the review so that they will keep their job or even get promotion. One day I'll be asked how kind they are to their great-aunt and I will find myself giving them 5 stars for looking after the old lady so compassionately.

2) Being offered services that I have not asked for. I make a simple Google enquiry about something and AI leaps in and asks me if I would like help exploring it further and in writing about it. If we all said we would, a whole ghastly, bland, unispeak language would take over the world and all quirky individuality would be lost. I make a point of looking for and pointing out a solecism in their use of words. I gather that AI uses a great deal of water and I deplore any unnecessary waste. Just give me the information I ask for and only that, I mumble. Even the BBC is joining this trend by suggesting that I might like to listen to mind-soothing, soupy music when all I want from Sounds is The Archers. The unctuously pseudo-helpful tone is so irritating that I am in need of my own calming remedies like a strong cup of tea. 

That's all for now but there will be more to come! Much more.

Mother, father and child.

 Have you heard those words recently or seen them written on social media? Or even read them in a solemn context such as a person writing about a funeral? 

Neither have I. They have been replaced by Mum (not always with a capital), Dad and kid. People talk about grieving for their mum or sending their kids to school. I know I am old-fashioned but I think it's a pity to lose the more formal tone entirely.  Let's keep the subtle distinctions of different registers. 

"Upset" and "incredibly"

 These two words have a profoundly disagreeable effect on me. "Upset" is a bland umbrella term used to mean anything from mildly bothered to deeply distressed. "Incredibly"denotes the exact opposite of what is meant: the speaker expects the listener to believe what s/he has just said cannot be believed.