Blue Sky Thinking:

‘My soul is in the sky’ – From ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’

If I could trace it back to one particular day, it would be Tuesday 24^th March.  It was the kind of day that The Orb sing about.  Blue skies stretching to infinity, the merest wisp of little fluffy clouds.  Insects buzzed around me as I walked up the back road of the village, I lived in.  I would normally be stepping to the edge of a non-existent kerb.  Vapour trails would scar the blue sky.  Not even an RAF C-17 or a British Army Apache to follow me. 

But nothing.  Merely the existential hum of mayflies.  A beautiful day, in the middle of Devon.  A beautiful day, in the middle of a pandemic.  A beautiful day, in the middle of a crisis handled carelessly; with a side order of lies and arrogance.  I closed the door, locked it and turned my mind to something more pleasant.  I have a feeling it involved tea. 

Pandemics are generational events, so perhaps this is the first of many ‘fun’ times to look forward to.  Maybe we could reduce it down, slightly.  Make it part of the calendar, on a level with bank holidays, Valentine’s Day and Christmas.  I’ve already added it on the list of disaster, terrorism, falling in love, getting married and house moves that make up the chain of my life, as much as DNA.  Human life is fragile, but human existence is sequenced by events. 

You’ll have heard the apocryphal story that Shakespeare completed King Lear in the middle of a pandemic. So, me being a writer:  I expect you’re waiting for the title of my magnum opus; I completed during the period of my confinement.  Well, to answer your question: Josh101 is not quite finished and will still possibly require a major re-write.  Maybe it requires that little push in the right direction.  Possibly another pandemic, or maybe a lovely sight test at Barnard Castle.

Real life is something that now seems both elusive and dreamlike at the same time.  In fact, I want no part of reality at this moment in time.  When it comes to not dying and keeping both my wife and stepson alive, I am an existentialist.  Pass the roll neck sweater and pipe this way, mes amis.  When I do leave the house, it is for a long walk or for a pint of milk.  That new Aeroccino doesn’t fill itself, you know. 

When not looking at a blank screen, I’ve been reading.  I am about to finish my 44^th book of the year.  Two years ago, due to a major and creeping bout of a depression, I couldn’t read at all.  Last year, I completed 67 books.  I’ve noticed that the common denominator here, is a reaction to antediluvian events, so maybe that is the key.  See also a paper cocktail of re-reads and new doses of favourite authors.  I seem to be drawn to the books that get bad reviews in The Guardian.  Make of that, what you will. 

When not fitting characters from other David Mitchell books into the psychedelic patchwork of Utopia Avenue; I’ve been cooking a bit more than usual.  I’ve found my metier; in that I like cobbling a meal together from what’s in the cupboard.  Signature dishes include a low-carb Scouse, a mean Pasta Bake and Scrambled Eggs; which Mrs McCready described as ‘the best thing you’ve ever made me’.  Well, I thought the Salmon I made when she visited my old flat for the first time was nice.  But it was overcooked, apparently.

Everyone is a critic.

When not busy, my mind had drifted.  I’m at that age where your mind is a sinking cruise ship.  You know something is coming to an end, but at the same time you want to settle.  Where finding a Zoflora under the sink is the best thing in the world ever and finding that perfect salad spinner is a small triumph.  Leaving aside such symbols of middle-class life, I re-evaluated everything and everyone on those long country walks. 

And I made a decision.  That I don’t regret anything I’ve done.  I could have done it better, perhaps.  However, I come across a small koan: the people, whom I thought were passing through my life were my best friends.  Conversely, the people I thought were my best friends were passing through my life.  One got in touch, recently.  I have no idea as to why. I also am not inclined to reply.

 

Maybe, she was part of this great movement we were all subconsciously part of: the honking great cliché of this pandemic: ‘when all of this is over, we’ll build a better world and be nicer better to each other’.

Whilst some of us have been getting fat, sorting out our bookshelves, reading, or simply terrified to leave the house… others having been delivering food, clapping on a weekly basis, or wandering aimlessly round their gardens to raise money for the NHS. Whilst this is all completely laudable on one level, it is virtue signalling at its finest. 

People are now, mentally prepared to accept the NHS as a charity. I mean, we can pay them peanuts.  We can put them at risk of dying from Covid. But a nice clap once a week, that makes you feel better.  Doesn’t it?  See also the care system.  Infected pensioners placed back into care homes.  People died.  Needlessly and alone, because of the intransigence of this government.  In care homes.  In hospitals.  At home.  Wherever.  Blood drips from Boris Johnson’s hands as easily as bullshit. 

There are some in power, who see this an opportunity.  To make money, to gain influence.  The head of what is laughably called Track and Trace is Dido Harding.  She is also on the board of The Jockey Club.  This explains why The Cheltenham Festival went ahead this year.  By extension: the preponderance of Covid cases in the area.  Her husband, John Penrose is a Tory MP.  He is also a member of a pressure group, which favours turning The NHS into a charity. 

I don’t know.  You work it out. 

And against this blue, blood-stained background: the continuing lunacy of Brexit.  Which will be a no deal, because that what the ‘will of the people was’, apparently.  Children are not eating when they are not in school.  Food banks are growing.  And working-class anger is being directed towards those funny brown people, in a cheap dinghy, crossing The Channel.

One can only imagine their thought processes.  They’ve come from countries like Syria and Yemen.  Corrupt, intolerant, dangerous places.  Any place begins to look like Paradise, when you live in Hell.  And they think they’ll be safe here?

I have hope, that one day the people who gave Johnson the keys to Downing Street will realise he is that lethal combination of idiot and tyrant.  See also Trump, a man who inadvertently admits he’s had a test for dementia.  We are in End Stage Capitalism, which means the dickheads appointed by the rich and powerful, using working-class anger as fuel are finally revealed to be just that: dickheads. 

The sad thing at the moment is: I don’t genuinely think there is an alternative.  Anything is better than the status quo.  Biden is better than Trump.   Starmer is better than Johnson.  Maybe, in 2024 we can have an argument with the mild-mannered legal eagle about the free, just, equitable society we need. 

The only bright spot has been Liverpool FC winning the league.  Unstoppable, magnificent, inevitable.  I raised a glass to them: I toasted Klopp, Paisley, Shankly, the dead Of Hillsborough, John Peel.  A perfect shining moment. 

But: the bottom line is: we are in blue sky days.  We are surviving, just.  Floating, but alive.  Better days must and will come.