A Bowl of Cherries

I started this last week.

The first thing I heard on the news this morning was that some government watchdog had banned the proposed re-showing of the ‘Go to work on an egg’ adverts with Tony Hancock, first shown 50 years ago, because they ‘don’t promote a balanced diet.’ As a lover of eggs, as well as Tony Hancock, I was moved to publish a rant about the idiocy of the judgment and the fact that we’ve actually got a body that has the authority to make such judgments.

Read about it here:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23401245-details/'Go%20To%20Work%20On%20An%20Egg'%20advert%20banned%20for%20failing%20to%20promote%20balanced%20diet/article.do

I shall make a mess of hiding that link. So I won’t try.

But I decided not to. Rant, that is. I’ve been doing too much moaning recently. I must stop getting wound up by split infinitives and the European Union, by Islam and women wearing flip-flops, by people ordering hot chocolate in the pub and God’s botched attempt to create a universe.

Morning

Today I’m going to list all the things that have made me happy. And the first, believe it or not, was waking up at 5.30 am. I love that time of day. It’s quiet and peaceful, and after last night’s thunderstorm – something else I revelled in, even though I was out in it – the air was fresh and cool. The birds were singing outside with tremendous exuberance. I can’t recognise the individuals’ songs, but no matter. Together, they form some spontaneous and accidental choir, singing hymns to who knows what. The romantic in me says it must be more than territory and mating. But then the romantic in me – no, I’m not going there.

I wonder if my thrushes are out there waiting to say good morning. But before I go out, I shall watch those old adverts on the Egg Information Board’s website. They don’t come much better than Tony Hancock, even though he was a grumpy old soul.

The ‘Listen Again’ facility is one of the best things about owning a computer, and I used it earlier to hear Round Britain Quiz on Radio 4. The BBC website even lists the questions in case you want to have a go at them yourself.

Now that’s a quiz I’ve always liked. I suppose it is the kind of thing that appeals to a cruciverbalist and general knowledge magpie.

As I walked to the bus stop, I stopped to look at the thrushes, at least three of them. They flew off, not far, just enough to feel safe. I notice they fly close to the ground as a rule, but swoop up to the top of a wall when they want to keep an eye on me. A blackbird was sitting on the highest part of the roof, singing his heart out.

I like travelling by bus. I know buses are a source of much complaint (I’ve an unpublished blog somewhere which catalogues the sins of passengers, subdivided by age, sex and socio-economic group), and I know I should walk more, but on the bus I get the chance to read. It’s amazing how much I get through on my daily journeys. I’ve laughed out loud at Tom Sharpe, spluttered angrily at Guardian leaders, sighed more in sorrow than anger at the idiocies of the local paper. I’ve been had to wipe away a furtive tear, but I forget what caused that. I’ve just finished Violet Bonham Carter’s biography of Churchill, and started Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion is next.

It’s only 11 am and already a lot to be cheerful about. Wait till I get to the pub.

Afternoon

The wine festival is over, but that’s not a complaint. I find wine – red, full-bodied and fruity preferred – a great pleasure, but only if it’s occasional. I’ve recently been drinking a rather nice Rioja as well as my usual favourite, Chateau Neuf du Pape, but they are best accompanying food. In fact I’ve suggested to the pub that at the next festival they should sell some decent cheese – Stilton – and crusty bread to go with such wines. I’ve found Villa Maria is a good red wine to drink unaccompanied.

Beer, of course, is the thing. You know where you are with a pint of beer. Spirits go down too quick, and unless you want to get drunk in a hurry, are an expensive brevity. Rather like Lord Chesterfield’s comments to his son about sex. Actually, not like it at all.

Lingering over a few pints and doing The Times crossword is a civilised way of spending an hour or two, or three, because some crosswords are a three-pint problem. Solved in partnership – the only way for me – they lend themselves to conversation, interspersed with long pauses for thought and observation of the passing world. ‘Quinquagesima’ was one of today’s answers, a word I know only because of being sent to confirmation classes many years ago. Parents today send their children to a family planning clinic or MacDonald’s, but I was learning the difference between Quinquagesima and Quadragesima. Not for the C of E things like irresistible grace and justification by faith, just Quinquagesima and the difference between a bishop and a deacon.

I had to persuade my companion that there is such word as ‘brouhaha’, but we were both proud of guessing correctly that there is such a word as ‘esurient’, later confirmed as meaning ‘greedy’.

Evening

The best reason of all to be cheerful, tonight, but that’s my business.

Apart from that I’ve pondering all the cheery things I haven’t done today. No Jerry Lee Lewis, no John Wayne, no steak and chips, no cat, no poetry read or written, no Sopranos or Prison Break. I wonder if I turn all these treats into a personal version of Reasons to be Cheerful.

And to finish the day, a large meal of toast and scrambled eggs.