Sheerness shock

Main event tonight at UK level seems to be the finding of the pianist who has apparently lost his memory although he is still able to play the piano by ear. He was picked up in Sheerness during a heavy rain storm. Theory is that some massive event has shocked him. I can understand that – being in Sheerness on a wet night would drive most sensible people out of their wits. Sheerness is where old cars go to die, a motorised version of the story about elephant graveyards.

The sun of the weekend has gone away somewhere else. It was nice whilst it lasted. Strange really, we saw lots of swallows and they are supposed to mark a summer. I’ve suggested that we keep a bag each packed and ready and, as soon as we see even a glimmer of sun somewhere, we dash off in that direction and call it a holiday when we get there.

My mention the other day of Ashridge Management College has led to another example of synchronicity. The Only Other Blogger In The Village used to live nearby. We share similar initials and other items in common. I think I’m being stalked.

One of the blogs I follow is by a magistrate. He has been explaining the thinking behind some sentences. This helps to understand why they sometimes appear to be unduly lenient. The thing I get from his writing is the exposure in his work life to sad, wicked or just helpless people who are unable to surmount even the slightest difficulty or, seemingly, control their lives. I remember an old boss whose adage was “If you enjoyed your work, they wouldn’t call it work” but I have a great sympathy for this magistrate. To face a daily fare of unremitting misery must take some strength of character. I had jobs that had a fair share of wretchedness included but there was always one day or even just one victory that made the work/life balance tolerable.

The rear windows of our upper floor overlook the back yard of the newsagents. They are Pakistani. Some weeks back they acquired three lambs which were quartered in this yard. There is plenty of grass and space for them. The young daughter was obviously appointed to look after them and often fed them from a bottle. The Hound Dog was most interested and used to spend long hours sitting on the staircase watching these lambs. This practice of having a private lamb is a Muslim tradition. The idea being that they know how the animal has lived in the weeks leading up to a festival when they kill and eat it. I thought this is what was going on at my neighbours. Last week the lambs disappeared. I saw the mother in the shop over the weekend and asked her how they had enjoyed their lamb. Turns out that they were not destined for an appointment with mint sauce and new potatoes. The daughter is studying to be a vet and the keeping of the lambs was a sort of work experience thing.

Have to be careful – the Thought Police will accuse me of racial stereotyping.