I never know what to post about. Even my every five or six day efforts I find difficult. It is not impossible for this task to become a bind or chore rather than a pleasure. Yet when finished most of us are moderately pleased at our efforts and the responses we receive. I posted my last effort almost with a feeling of foreboding. I expected to receive from some comments that I should not interfere with man's supreme position in life, with an innate ability to rule, destroy, shoot, kill with impunity. I was exceedingly pleased to receive so many comments that suggest a love of animals and an intense dislike of cruelty is so prevalent in so many. Thanks, you made my day, indeed week.
I re-read my diary for 1985, lifesaver of many a post. It was a year to the day since the funeral of Peter, my father in law, my wife's father. I noted that 'life goes on, sometimes sadly, for some without apparent purpose, but life still goes on. We are all so vulnerable in our mortality.'
Written of course twenty five years ago. There is also a piece where I 'weeded' the garden under instruction from my seriously disabled Uncle Ron. Frustrated, he desired a lung transplant, having previously indicated that he had had a good life and was not afraid of death. In all of us the urge to live on is undoubtedly strong; less than four months later Ron died.
My original intention was to write a piece basically about our mortality. The 'tick, tick, tick' effect as time goes by and we can do 'sod all' about it. Oh to have religion. This afterlife business, is it a hope, a belief, a certainty, a type of insurance policy to some? My granny used to read the Bible in her nineties. We used to reckon she was studying for her finals. And I can't get my head round the idea of the world carrying on, existing without me, Ken Stevens, http://www.grumpyoldken.com/. The bad weather, the constant rain and nearing the end of summer bought on these morbid, morose feelings. But to hell with it all, tomorrow's another day. The public speaking season is coming up and I enjoy that. (I remember one chap talking about computers. After five minutes one old girl stood up and shouted 'We don't want this rubbish.' They don't mess about, the 'old uns!) So instead of an intense debate on the meaning of life I leave you with a final extract from August 29th, 1985 concerning Buster the Bull terrier. Far less taxing and more fun.
'Buster furtively eats a jam tart belonging to Sarah's collection of treasures and curiosities. It's centre remains as proof of his guilt. Unfortunately it is the product of the joke factory rather than the bakery. One cannot but marvel at his digestion, for it is made of what seemed to be a mixture of Plaster of Paris, wood shavings and glue amongst other less recognisable material. We await the results with interest and a little apprehension.'