Seb Palmer

Subtitled Ninna, the tiny hedgehog with a big heart, this is a very touching and moving story, with a great title and a beautiful cover. Whilst this isn’t a literary masterpiece, by any means, it is a candid and – I found – profoundly emotionally affecting tale.

Massimo Vachetta is a vet, for whom caring for hedgehogs becomes a purpose in life that brings joy and healing. We meet many characters, both human and animal. Most of the latter are, naturally, ‘hedgies’; I was moved to tears many times by Massimo’s heartfelt stories of tending to ill or wounded hedgehogs.

Through his newfound passion/vocation, he came to set up a hedgehog rescue care centre, named after his first prickly patient, Ninna. I absolutely adored this book. Not, as I already said above, as a literary work, but as a beautiful and moving slice of life. Living with other non-human animals – I’ve nearly always had a cat – is a strange and wonderfully enriching thing.

At just under 200 pages, ghost-written in an easy going fairly informal style by Italian journalist Antonella Tomaselli, this is a fun and quick/easy read. But be warned, if you’re of a sentimental animal loving weepy sort, as I am, you might prefer to read this in the privacy of your own home. Moving, cathartic, and inspirational. Fab!

I fully intend to make our garden a haven for these fabulous little cuties. Not only are they wonderful creatures, but they eat slugs, the bane of the gardener and veg-grower!

Some years ago I really had a lucky break, when, thanks to bumping into an old school friend in a bookshop, I wound up meeting another long lost secondary school buddy, and through him… and so on.

Anyway, the upshot was that one of these ol’ pals now worked in a local publishing company, who were about to launch a drumming mag, imaginatively titled Drummer. They had an editor, and he was looking for writers. Was I interested?

You betcha!

My first assignment was perfect, a dream come true: could I write x-hundred words on Led Zep I and John ‘Bonzo’ Bonham. Could I ever!?

Well, I was (and still am) a drummer, and I’d always been good at writing at school. But could I, as an adult not writing professionally, pull this off, on my first attempt?

I went for a curry with Ian ‘Croftie’ Croft, and we also went to see a local singer do a gig. I guess he was getting a feel for me; was I articulate enough, did we get on ok?

I submitted my piece. And the rest, as they say, is history. So things went about as peachily as they could’ve done, as far as I was concerned.

Having passed my test assignment, which was published in issue #1 of Drummer, I continued writing a monthly column, called Recycled, in which I discussed a classic album from a drumming perspective, every month for about a decade.

In that time the mag went under three times. Owing me money on the first two occasions. It was always a borderline affair, as Drummer never became as established as Rhythm, our main U.K. equivalent/competitor.

Rhythm has been around for donkey’s ears, and has outlived Drummer, which did eventually fold for good. Every time things got parlous, and often that would mean a change of editor as well as bankruptcy/non-payment of contributors, etc, I’d worry I’d be given the heave-ho.

Miraculously I survived two bankruptcies and numerous changes of editor. But there did finally come a day when I was told they were no longer going to run my Recycled feature.

In the intervening years I’d also got to interview a number of drummers, review quite a lot of drum kits, percussion, CDs and DVDs, and attend some interesting events, like product launches and gigs.

All told it was great. Of course it’s annoying that some of my work – a few hundred quids worth – was never paid for. But the positives outweigh the negatives as Jupiter is to a grain of sand.

I’ve often passed a particular turning, out in The Fens on the A1101, that proclaims the nearby presence of the Welney Wetland Centre.

Today, on my way home from Ely, I decided  to go cross-country, by the back roads (always my preferred method, when time allows), in the hope I’d find somewhere nice I could stop and read, or work on my blog.

As I approached the corner where I often pass the brown ‘tourist attraction’ sign, I spotted knife and fork symbols on it. Aha! A café… Let’s check it out.

And I’m very glad I did. Entrance to the wetlands proper costs. But they let you into the café gratis. The location is nice, the visitor centre funkily and woodily contemporary, and there are huge glass windows, opening onto beautiful vistas of The Fens.

It’s a pretty typical dull, grey East Anglian day today, although of late we’ve been spoiled by a lot of warmth and sunshine. Nevertheless, it’s a terrific view, plus there are feeding stations directly outside, so you can watch the birds chow down.

The bridge pictured above takes visitors – paying visitors that is, unlike me – over to the main part of the wetlands, where there are numerous hides and the like. But I’m here to read my book, The Iron Marshal, a biog of Louis Nicolas Davout, one of Napoleon’s most esteemed Marshals, by John G. Gallagher.

The café is pretty good; plenty of nice green chairs! Shame there are no comfy sofas. And today the place is fairly empty and quiet, which totally suits me. In fact there are about 50 or so cars, poss more, in the car park. So it is pretty busy. But I guess most folk are out twitching?

I read the first couple of chapters of The Iron Marshal. It’s a reprint of a 1975 publication. But it reads fine. Indeed, I’m loving it.

By the time I left the café it had turned dark. It’s a great discovery, perfect for me in my quest for peaceful and even inspiring reading spaces outside the home.

‘I’m optimistic about the future and I do look forward to women dominating in all areas.’

Is Jo Brand really so fem-centric she doesn’t recognise this’d probably be just as bad as any allegedly male-dominated scenario? Some of the work I do takes place in a very strongly female-dominated area, primary education. And such places are no closer to nirvana as a result – for the women or the men that work in them – than some still male dominated areas like, I dunno, let’s say the road-building industry. [1]

As well as writing about, as her subtitle says, ‘How to Do Female’ [2], she touches on issues that can have a huge impact on the lives of both men and women, albeit from a deliberate and more or less completely female perspective. And some of the areas she covers are foreign territory not only to me as a male, but to women like my wife, as we have no children of our own.

Well, I suppose it’s pretty obvious I’m not the target audience for this book, being male*. But when offered it, via Amazon’s Vine programme, after glancing at the list of topics covered, e.g. ‘how to manage a bully, being different, your family and how to survive it,’ I thought, ok, I’ll have a read. For one thing much of what these phrases cover suggest Brand’s insights might just as well apply to men as well as women. And for another, as a man I want to better understand women, for a variety of reasons.

Putting my own gender to one side momentarily – and I’m not referring to dressing to the left for a change – whilst both candid and reasonably entertaining, Born Lippy is disappointing for being almost entirely anecdotal, i.e. just an extended monologue presenting Brand’s opinions. There’s also something a bit contradictory in how she’s frequently quite self-effacing, and yet ultimately this is a book that’s by and large, like certain friends she suggests one might want to jettison, one person continually talking about themselves. [3]

As a male reader, it disappoints by being practically as sexist, only from the other side of the fence, as much of what she attacks. Leaving aside the purely personal aspects, and that would be most of the book, in favour of the bigger social picture; surely society would be better if it valued more what both sexes want/need, rather than hoping the pendulum swings the ‘other way’, as is suggested by the quote at the top of my review.

But, as she admits in numerous places, ‘I have not been scientific, this has been totally my own subjective view’. Other similar provisos include: ‘I should add that this theory is not research-based but having Googled it a few times…’ Or ‘As you may have gathered this is not a formal reference book.’ Ultimately this makes Born Lippy** the printed equivalent of a long soliloquy from Jo, perhaps down the pub.

The following extract even sounds like exactly the sort of thing to start a booze-fuelled battle of the sexes down the local: ‘just, to be annoying, research shows that being married is better for the man and worse for the woman…’

Funny that, I’ve more often heard/read the exact opposite: marriage suits the needs and desires of the woman, providing a stable ‘nest’ where children can be reared, whilst discouraging the male from being a roaming predatory breeder, instead constraining him to the role of domesticated provider. But, like Jo, I will offer no evidence here, merely anecdotal hearsay.

Indeed, whilst there are plenty of moments where she says things I can relate to, such as people becoming far less polite and tolerant than they might normally be once they get behind the wheel of a vehicle, there are quite a number of moments where she says things that completely contradict my experience. As for example where she says that as soon as you start pushing a pram around you become invisible. I’ve often noticed how a lot of mothers – and it’s noticeably the mothers, not fathers or grandparents or helpful siblings. – use their prams, baby and all, as either battering rams or territorial markers. [5]

Brand’s adult perspectives do seem dominated by a legacy of negative experiences, mostly around the nexus of issues around women’s bodies, beauty, and weight. Her professional success has enabled her to salvage some positives from it all, and that’s really at the core of the best of what this book has to offer.

Overall, though I know Brand a bit better now, I’m not sure I know woman-kind much better. Like her I come from a less than affluent left-leaning background. But unlike her I’m neither a fan of Morrisey nor an advocate of legalising marijuana. [7]

In the chapter ‘Adventures In Your Head’ Brand sings the praises of books, reading, and literacy. Feelings I share completely. She also addresses whether one should slog through a book one isn’t really enjoying. Well, I did enjoy this just enough to ignore her own advice to ‘give up and find something more interesting.’

All things considered, Born Lippy is ok. I certainly wouldn’t rave about it. It seems to me too simplistic and obvious. Lacking in any great perception, depth, or insight. Sure, we all rage against the machine from time time, for a whole raft of reasons. But this doesn’t give any deep understanding of either the self, female or otherwise, nor the machine.

I suspect, as one might expect, female readers are likely to get more from this. And perhaps those struggling with self-image issues (but then again who, male or female, doesn’t have such struggles at times?) most of all? If Jo Brand reaches folks like them, I guess she’ll have achieved her goal.

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* When Brand addresses her reader, it’s pretty much always assumed they’re female. Indeed, the only allusion to a male encountering the contents is a disparaging reference to a female reader reading a part out loud to her partner, as he watches Top Gear, for him to chortle at the use of the word ‘crack’.

** A terrible name for the book, which doesn’t chime at all with her own account of youthful transformation from ‘nice little girl … to reformed ‘Man Hater’ turned National Disgrace.’ But, rather ironically, given Brand’s sensitivity over language and her berating of societal hypocrisy, this misleading but catchy phrase does chime with a popular image of Brand. It works for the marketing department, so fine … great title!

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NOTES:

[1] Okay, the women may enjoy or benefit from the fact that it’s a mainly female workforce. But my point is that it’s still a far from perfect working environment. And the fact it’s dominated by women doesn’t make it significantly better. Just different. Regarding roadworks: the parts of East Anglia we inhabit are utterly infested with roadworks of late, from the massive A14 ‘improvements’ to the many closed minor country roads out in The Fens. I’m not sure I’ve seen any women when I’ve driven past all these works. Certainly not doing the labouring work.

[2] I, like Jo, have my own foibles and sensitivities around language. I suppose we all do, to differing degrees. She dislikes the word lady, preferring ‘woman’, and cites being feminist as her reason for this position. Lady implies, to her at any rate, a meekly submissive vision of woman. It doesn’t to me. To me it implies the female equivalent of gentleman, i.e. a well-mannered female. And sensitivity towards the feelings of others has traditionally been a part of what is meant by terms such as lady and gentleman. But as Brand is a dyed in the wool lefty – I used to think I was but, as with Christianity, I ditched such simplemindedness years ago – she lets the fact that many uncouth toffs have labelled themselves as ladies and gentleman tarnish the terms.

She also dislikes such words or phrases as chavs and bingo-wings, both of which I neither really like or dislike, but I feel they convey very well certain ideas and images, some of which have value. Plus bingo-wings is very funny.

A similar sort of case could possibly be made against her preferred word, woman, on the etymological grounds that it derives from the Old English wifman, meaning ‘wife-person’. But it’d be a bit tenuous, so I can’t be arsed. And it even turns out that the word ‘man’ was originally gender-neutral, being more equivalent to person than the common modern gendered understanding. Fascinating! But the politicisation of language is a minefield, and some of Brand’s personal bugbears strike me as almost dourly puritanical, in a pseudo-lefty way, and surprisingly humourless for a person whose stock in trade is laughter.

And as if this titanic footnote wasn’t long enough, and before my numerous digressions prompt me to completely forget, I dislike her choice (or was it an editorial suggestion? such things happen) of ‘do’ rather than ‘be’, in her subtitle. To be something suggests a truth and authenticity, perhaps even born of reflection and conviction, whereas to do something might be ‘merely obeying orders’ (a subject she touches upon when she mentions the infamous Milgram experiments), and sounds totally like modern marketing or business speak, as in let’s do lunch, let’s do the books, or let’s do the sights. It’s an ugly turn of phrase suggestive of objectivised consumerist culture, in my view.

[3] This fact reminds me of when I heard Germaine Greer – who’s cited as a feminist hero of Brand’s – on Radio 4 fairly recently, and it turned out that, not at all surprisingly to me, the entire edifice of her career as a feminist is built, at least in part (and by her own admission), on the troubles she encountered getting dancing partners as an above average height young girl. I.e. a few less inches in height, and she might just have been another happy camper, and we’d have had to wait for her insights to come from some other disgruntled lady at some other time, quite possibly couched in some other terms, rather than ‘woman is the nigger of the world’, or The Female Enoch, etc. A similar thing struck me many years ago when I noticed that many of the most ardent lefties I encountered were simply crap capitalists who liked the sound of their own voices and having a good moan.

[4] In the bit about the female body, periods, menopause, etc, Brand laments that people still don’t talk openly about such things. I agree, and I further agree that the current state of affairs is lamentable. I’m perfectly happy to talk about practically anything. But that doesn’t seem to be the norm. But with works like his Wall of Vagina, artist Jamie McCartney shows it’s not just women who are helping us bring such things out into the open.

[5] In a way that smacks of lack of proof-reading (as well as the numerous typos that the book contains) Brand makes this point, re prams as obstacles to other pedestrians, when she’s talking about manners, kind of contradicting her own invisibility idea. Perhaps it’s that mothers think they have become invisible behind their prams? Is this why so many compensate by thrusting their infants into the roads, or trying, Moses-like, to use them to part the seas of pedestrians?

[6]Viz do their bit for the sisterhood on the theme of menstrual pride.

[7] Cannabis may well wind up providing us with many useful medicines. It’s certainly been looking that way for some time now. But it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be delivered via the rolling and smoking of joints. For one thing the active ingredients that produce the highs and the health benefits are different. But this a whole different topic, for exploration some other time.

We put up our Xmas Tree, a fairly decent fairly sizeable fake, with built-in lights, yesterday. I brought it down from the attic, and put it together. Teresa then decorated it, with baubles and what-not.

Teresa’s a wee’un, and needs the stepladder to reach the upper regions. She looks pretty cute dressing the tree, I think.

Tigger and I sat on the couch, enjoying watching Teresa at work, and taking snaps and offering our encouragement. 😉

I switched off the lamp nearest the tree, so as to better see the both it and the lights and decorations, and so on. Lovely!

For years I insisted we have a real tree, as it’s more organic/authentic. But the annual cost, plus the mess and maintenance… in the end Teresa successfully persuaded me (i.e. cajoled/nagged!) to get a fake. Ours had a RRP of £299.99, but was reduced to £99 in a post Xmas clearance sale at Scotsdales, Trumpington, Cambridge.

The real trees we’d been buying were costing £25-35+ each year. This is our fifth year with this fake tree, so it’s just started saving us money. It also saves time decorating, as the lights are built-in, and there’s no maintenance, as it doesnt need setting in a pot, watering, or dropped-needle clearance.

Ok, it is a departure from bringing real nature into the home for Yule, but one could argue it’s greener in that respect. And granted, it doesn’t look 100% real or natural. But it’s pretty good. It’s certainly miles better than any of the fake trees I used to see in homes growing up as a kid, which is when I formed my strong allegiance with real Xmas trees.

Yesterday, Saturday, we went to Willingham auctions, got the Xmas tree down from the loft and set it up, and – as well my doing a little bit of model-making – watched a ton of TV. An episode of Poirot, an old black and white Hammer horror film (Nightmare, 1963), sundry other titbits (including most of The Island, 2005), and then finally, that toothy, bloody saltwater classic, Jaws.

I probably first saw this film in the mid ’80s. At that tender age (10-12 ‘ish) it had quite an impact, and I was rather put off the idea of swimming in the sea. Not that we ever got to any shark-infested waters; the muddy North Sea off Southwold was about it.

Over the years I must’ve seen it four or five times now. It’s become a veg-out staple. Despite repeated viewings I’m still always surprised at how the movie starts, with the kids at the beach round a campfire, drinking and playing music, etc.

The first kill is a classic; a beautiful naked young chick, Chrissy, from the beach party. In some strange and sinister way this scene touches upon the fascination we have with serial killers, perhaps of the Ted Bundy type, stalking young beauties before dispatching them with cold-blooded brutality.

Chrissy’s drunk/stoned male companion is oblivious, thanks to his stupor and the crashing surf, to her cries of distress. And we see her from both the attacking predators point of view, as Jaws approaches her from below, and also dragged about, as sharks do when they play with their catches, on the surface.

The juxtaposition of the peaceful seaside, youngsters partying, and a nubile young beauty, with this cold ‘motiveless’ killing is very effective. Once again, the mid ’70s zeitgeist might suggest a connection with such then notorious serial-killers as …

The young male, a student on vacation, reports his companions’ disappearance, and police chief Brody (Roy Scheider) is called from the small humdrum concerns of the quiet coastal resort of Amity, to find his deputy at the beach, where a gruesome discovery has been made.

Apart from it being a well-structured and well-crafted intro to a film, with the twin lures of sex and death acting like ‘chum’ on the hungry audience, there’s also John William’s brilliantly menacing score. The driving bass ostinato has passed into our collective cultural consciousness as a shorthand for the approach of cold, relentless brutality.

The cast are excellent, with Roy Scheider exactly right as the harassed, put-upon and slightly uncomfortable new man on the job, police chief Brody. Robert Shaw is Quint, salty old sea-dog with a special hatred for sharks, as a survivor of a shark feeding frenzy during the sinking of USS Indianapolis [1]. Richard Dreyfuss’ Hooper, a rich-kid college boy shark expert, completes the trio who will ultimately hunt the great white wha… er, sorry… shark! [2]

The first half of the film concerns how Brody will handle the shark attacks, what with the local mayor – Larry Vaughan (Murray Hamilton) – and businesses desirous that their 4th of July tourist trade and summer season business isn’t disrupted by a shark panic.

Not long after Chrissy’s death, a young boy swimming on a li-lo at a crowded beach becomes victim #2. And when victim #3, a grown man in a boat, is munched up, just yards from one of Brody’s own kids… well, something’s got to give.

So Brody convinces Mayor Vaughan to bankroll Quint, who’s already offered his services as aquatic pest control. The film then shifts from the community in panic segment, to the hunt, with Brody and Hooper accompanying Quint on an aquatic safari to blue hell.

What starts out as a ripsnorting boys’ own adventure on the high seas, soon degenerates into a war of attrition. A war that’s being won, far from the terra firma of shore, by a gurt big fish in his element, terror aqua.

After Quint’s methods fail, they try out Hooper’s tactics. But once agin, that devious dirty great white outwits them. Until, finally, Brody faces the beast, alone.

Familiarity breeds relaxation. It’s not easy to recall how terrifying this all was, on first viewing, all those years ago. But one things for sure: Jaws is a summer-blockbusting celluloid classic, chock-full of all the right ingredients for a breathless edge of your seat Saturday matinee, be it at the cinema, or on heavy rotation on the TV, ever since.

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One could easily read a lot into numerous aspects of this film, and people frequently do. Indeed, it’s part of the films enduring charm and success, that it can be a kind of cinematic palimpsest, over which we write our own interpretations. Whatever it might really be all about, whether it be profound or just plain ol’ fashioned entertainment, you know a film has really sunk into the collective consciousness when it’s parodied, quoted and otherwise reprocessed.

And as well as the parodies, there was also the associated merchandising, and the several sequels. Jaws was one of the first films of its kind to be released with really hefty marketing, including many associated merchandising lines, such as the dolls below.

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There are many things about Jaws to love or enjoy. But one thing I think is less good is its impact on the film industry as a business. The biggest grossing movie of all time until Star Wars, it set a benchmark for the thrill ‘n’spills style summer blockbuster.

And like Star Wars, or the Indiana Jones movies, or whatever, as good as they may be in themselves, they’ve helped usher in an era of dumbing down in pursuit of big bucks. This not only lowers the quality of the mainstream itself, but also, by helping turn the mainstream into an all encompassing juggernaut, shoves aside and marginalises other perhaps more interesting stuff.

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NOTES:

[1] The sinking of the Indianapolis is a real event, as indeed were the subsequent shark attacks on the men who awaited rescue. These men, or rather some of these men, survived four days adrift at sea before being rescued. According to my quick glance around the interweb, only a little over 300 of the 1,200 aboard at the time of the disaster survived. Most died of injuries sustained in the torpedoing and subsequent explosions, or by drowning, starving, or drinking seawater, etc. What proportion were killed by sharks – and the sharks feasted on the dead as well as the living – isn’t made clear anywhere I can find. But one can certainly believe any survivors might well hate sharks!

[2] Surely there has to be a connection of some sort between Moby Dick and Jaws? Both embody a relentless battle between a Leviathan of the deeps and man.

It’s a strange thing, is it not, to share one’s domestic life with other animals?

On the one hand, of course, it isn’t all that strange. We’ve always lived amongst and alongside animals. Mostly chasing them off or exploiting them for food, clothing, etc. But a few species – dogs and cats being the most common and obvious – chose or were coerced into sitting round the fire with us. And from such humble beginnings…

And there have been those, amongst us exploitative bipeds, from Squire Waterton (pictured above) to David Attenborough, who’ve centred their lives around a fascination for other living things, collecting and housing all sorts of creatures most of us couldn’t be bothered coping with. From the utterly alien, like snakes or spiders, to cute furry things, like Bush Babies, who apparently delight in leaving their scented trails of urine wherever they may go.

I grew up in a home where we always had a cat. Mostly just the one cat. Although there was a period where my sister got her own kitten, Domino. And for several years he and Pishy co-existed, at our childhood home in Comberton, near Cambridge.

As I type this, Tigger (or Tiggy) [2] lies at the foot of the bed, noisily grooming, his warm furry body just slightly in contact with my cold bare feet. I call to him, in that way humans choose to interact with their pets, and he looks up. His expression is, frankly, inscrutable. I love him.

I suppose that for those of us pet owners who don’t have kids of our own, our furry friends take on an even greater role in our lives. What do they make of our grabbing them for cuddles? Tigger, now somewhere around 15 years old, isn’t the most tactile or affectionate of cats. Having said that, he’s becoming more and more of a lap-cat – at least with me – as he grows older.

He has the run of the place, and makes free with the environment. Our only control is that now that we let our guest room, via AirB&B, we try to keep him out of there. And whilst he’s allowed out via his cat-flap in the kitchen/back door (and thence wherever he chooses to go), we don’t let him out the front, as it opens onto a reasonably busy road.

Currently, and for many years now, he has a bowl of dried cat food that’s kept continually stocked, along with a bowl of water, ditto, and a third bowl, in which every evening he gets his dose of ‘wet’ cat food.

[Tigga’s most recent mouse kill…]

Occasionally I think about changing his diet. I’ve toyed with trying to feed him something closer to what cats might eat in the wild. But in the end, he seems happy enough as is. And we occasionally give him special treats, or bits of what we are eating.

Interestingly, feline bereavement has brought deeper sadness in my life than any human losses, so far.

[Pishy]

Pishy, our first cat, lived to about 18 years old. He passed away around the time my parents were heading towards a break-up, and I was getting ready to leave home for college. He was getting old and infirm, and my parents had him ‘put to sleep’. I was very sad about his passing. But the combination of other external human events, and his long-ish decline, meant the blow was somewhat softened.

Pishy was a big, black short haired cat. Domino, my sister’s cat, was also black, but longhaired, and with white mittens and a ‘blaze’ of white on his chin and chest. He was supremely cute. He lived with my dad and his new family, after both Hannah and I had flown the disintegrated family nest.

[Pishy & Domino?]

I went through a tough patch in my late twenties and early thirties, during which I occasionally stopped over with either mum or dad. I would always check in with Domino, when staying mit mein farter, for a playful roll around the floor, with lots of stroking, poggles, and purring.

On one of the last of my visits in this period, I noted the absence of Domino, and inquired as to his whereabouts. He was dead and gone! I was devastated. And burst into uncontrolled tears there and then. Having moved away from home, I had no inkling that my bond with him was quite as strong as it proved to be.

I learned that he had taken to sitting in a particular spot in the garden – as cats are wont to do – and was regularly to be seen or found there, sleeping away the lazy hours. One day, he just fell asleep there, and never awoke. That’s how a cat should die!

Thinking about him, curled up, sleeping happily and drifting away, brings the tears back even now. On the one hand I’m happy that he died peacefully. But on the other I’m sad that I wasn’t there.

I believe that he lies buried in his favourite spot. Bless him!

My sister has always kept cats, as far as I know, and we have been lucky enough to inherit one of them. And that’s Tigger, our fabulous furry, feline four-legged friend.

[Tiggy as a kitten]

It does seem strange to me that we share our lives with this little critter. But it’s a strangeness I love. Goodness only knows what Tigger makes of us, clumping about doing all kinds of strangely pointless human stuff.

And I do hope he’s happy? My sister often allowed one cat to bear a litter, so Tigger is part of a small clan or dynasty linking us to several other cat and human families. But like most pet cats, he’s had his fertility taken from him. He seems happy enough.

And he certainly brings Teresa and I, and visiting friends and family, immense pleasure. And for Teresa and I deep happiness. The love between humans and their pets is very different from that between humans. But it’s certainly a very deep and real love.

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NOTES:

[1] I learned about Waterton via Attenborough’s More Life Stories, in which he’s the subject of a chapter.

[2] Or Tiggy-Wiggles, Tig-meister, Count Von Tigulus, His Royal Hairiness, Furry Fella, Little Hairy Man, etc, etc. You get the picture!

[3] This post is a WIP, as I’m struggling to find certain pics, esp. of Pishy and Domino…

Many moons ago, some time in my mid teens, I think when I was fifteen, I developed a strange spot on my inner right thigh. It looked like some devilish bug had bitten a small chunk out of the flesh. That was the beginning, I was soon to learn, of my psoriasis.

As the years passed the condition worsened, spreading all over my body, and even affecting my internal workings; I developed psoriatic-arthropothy in my mid-twenties. As I understand it, psoriasis is an immune-system malfunction, in which the body kind of attacks itself, and ends up overproducing skin cells, which form the lesions/plaques.

The way it affects one, or at least the way it affected me, winds up being as potently toxic psychologically as it is physically. As time passed and the conditions deteriorated, it took an ever increasing mental and emotional toll. By the time I’d reached my late thirties, early forties, I was severely depressed over it.

I’d tried numerous treatments, mostly under the auspices of the NHS, but some self-administered. The NHS treatments were predominantly topical steroid ointments. Years of daubing oily unguents on various parts of my anatomy had very minimal effects physically, but were profoundly depressing, as they were messy, time-consuming, and not very effective.

My own interventions were either dietary, or attempts to address the possible psychological angle; the latter chiefly via meditation, to de-stress. It has long and often been alleged that stress plays a role in these diseases. In my own personal experience this doesn’t really ring true.

The dietary angle was based on desperation in the face of the ineffectiveness of the NHS treatments. I’d read up about psoriasis, and/or the related form of arthritis, once that had begun to compound matters, and frequently read about people who believed there is a dietary cause for the diseases. I tried a number of exclusion diets: cutting out dairy, avoiding the nightshade family (potatoes, peppers, chillies, etc.), and various others.

Some of the exclusion diets, for example gluten-free, I only tried for a few months, others, like the dairy-free and non-nightshades, I tired over many months, or even years. None of the dietary stuff made any discernible difference whatsoever.

With me it wasn’t  case of a fluctuating condition, getting better sometimes and worse at others – hence my scepticism about the stress-related factor – both conditions, once established, simply gradually encroached further and deeper, spreading over more skin and into more joints as time went by.

It had got to the point where I was regularly thinking about how I might end it all. What was the point in continuing to live if I was always ashamed of my appearance and in an ever increasing amount of pain? I couldn’t enjoy myself either in company or alone.

I’ve known some folks with psoriasis, even pretty bad cases, who appear relatively unfazed by it. Are they just putting up a better front? Or are they genuinely less bothered by it? I suppose both things are equally real possibilities.

Anyway, I was, by this time, on antidepressants, to help me cope with the psychological aspects of the conditions. And I was making my state of mind as abundantly clear to the health professionals I was seeing as I could. These people were mostly dealing with the physical aspects, but I was also occasionally taking various forms of state-sponsored counselling as well. And I let them all know just how seriously it was affecting me.

And so it was, that finally and mercifully, Dr Norris, of Addenbrookes Hospital’s  dermatology department, finally suggested, almost every other avenue, including light/photo-therapy, having been tried unsuccessfully, that I be tried on a ‘biologic’ treatment. This turned out to be Humira,  or Adalimumab. And this medicine, injected fortnightly, has totally transformed my life.

For the first time since my teens, my body is pretty much entirely free of the plaques/lesions caused by psoriasis. And the aches and pains, and lack of joint mobility, caused by the later development of the arthritic component are also almost completely gone.

I’d say the lesions are 99-100% cleared up, whilst the joint pain is 97-100% clear. In other words I do occasionally have some joint pain – I have some now, particularly in my right hand, on account of all the painting I’ve been doing in the last few days – but it is nothing compared to what it had become at its worst, some few years back.

Skin wise, its is a constant source of joy to me to be able to not worry about shedding a constant snow-fall of dead skin flakes, or fear the disapprobation of folks that I always assumed would judge me to be a scabrous leper.

I believe that humanity has a deeply in-built sense that illness is a form of outward manifestation of inner evil. This may sound ridiculous, perhaps. But it isn’t at all. In art and movies, and so on, heroes are beautiful, villains are ugly.

It may be primitively minded and related to our legacy of superstition and religion, but it’s still completely normal, even for folks like me, who believe themselves to be rational ‘naturalist/free-thinker’ types, to think of disease less as a form of mechanical physical malfunction and more as a form of divine punishment for moral wrongdoing. Rather like those American fundamentalists who believe that catastrophic weather is God’s tool for punishing the ungodly!

This may be rank nonsense, but it’s deeply ingrained in the human psyche. So, to be free of the anxieties that come from that whole nexus of primitive ignorance is unspeakably wonderful.

And further, I think I’m someone who naturally gravitates towards not just naturalism in philosophy and science, but naturism. I don’t find the naked body offensive. Rather I find the way in which human culture has made the naked body taboo far more deeply offensive. I’m a naturist at heart. And now, thanks to this effective medicine, I can be one in practice as well.

This is, funnlily enough, also related to one of the most notable side-effects of the medication itself, at least as far it affects me. I used to be someone who ‘felt the cold’. I’m now someone who feels the heat. The change in my body-temperature metabolism is, along with a few other things (bouts of dry-retching, and some very intense headaches), amongst the most notable of the side effects of my current regimen of medicine.

It frequently happens that I’m ‘boiling’, and I will be literally sweating, when others aren’t warm at all. Indeed they may be, as Teresa often is, feeling cold. This can lead to some, I guess, reasonably comical scenarios. Such as me repainting the kitchen last night, in the nude, whilst Teresa watches TV, under a fleece-blanket in the lounge, with the electric heater on full! And bear in mind that we’ve both just had a hot bath, and the kitchen is very draughty, on account of the door to the back garden being very poorly fitted/insulated.

Now I’m no Adonis. And whilst I’m not fat, I have a somewhat bloated paunch. But, frankly, I don’t care. Sure, I’d like to be in better shape. And I have at times past made differing degrees of effort, exercise wise, to try and improve things in this area. But, truth be told, now that I’m free of psoriasis and arthritis, I’m happy enough with my body as is. Indeed, I enjoy it. And that’s how it should be, in my opinion

The culture of body-shame that we perpetuate through our media is an awful thing. It still effects me to some degree. But to a massively lesser extent than it did when I was worst afflicted with psoriasis and the related arthritis.

Writing this reminds me of a thought I’ve had many times over the years since I began my current successful treatment. And that’s that I ought to thank Dr Norris, and perhaps even the developers and manufacturers of the drugs themselves – although here we run into the thorny issues of big-pharma profiteering from the ongoing sufferings of countless millions – for the incalculable improvement this treatment has brought me.

So I’ll say it here; thanks Doc Norris, and thanks also to the developers of Humira/Adalimumab. I feel like I’ve got my life back.

I’m happier now than I’ve ever been since, oh, my early/mid-teens. Indeed, I’m as happy at times at present as I ever remember having been, even as a child. And that’s really saying something, given that now I have the innumerable cares of adulthood to deal with, which I didn’t have back then.

Late-ish in the evening, I decided to tape off the kitchen, ready for a repaint tomorrow. that was done so quickly, however, that I chose to do the re-painting right away. One whole sampler pot did the room. There’s really not too much surface area that needs covering.

Certainly it’s an improvement. But I’m not 100% sure it’s quite right. Thinking I might buy another sample pot tomorrow, and do a second coat. Should I stick to the same colour, or go with something a little more sagacious?

I’ll be painting a lot of the woodwork – skirting mouldings, door, window, etc. – white. As I did in the bathroom. So I may need to buy some more Permoglaze. I’m planning to totally rebuild the kitchen cabinets, etc. But they’ll almost certainly be painted some other different colour. In the meantime, it’s nice to gradually improve things.

We need to sort out all the curtains and associated fittings as well. Then there’s the butler sink. And the outside tap… sheesh kabop. It never ends!

* Not accurate colour reproduction!

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The following day, tape off:

During a break from today’s decorating (well, yesterday’s, I guess, now it’s after midnight) I watched a few YouTube things. One of the suggested videos I spotted was a PBS Wyoming thing called Brotherhood of the Broadaxe (see below), which I thought sounded intriguing.

The story of the Wyoming Tie-Hacks, and the Tie-Drives, where thousands of trees are felled, and the resulting logs are turned into rough ‘ties’, for the ever-expanding railroad network, being sent from remote camps by flume and river, is fascinating.

The log flumes were miles long. The Warm Spring flume looks, on maps, to be about five miles or more. Note the guy perched on the catwalk in the above pic. Precarious!

In the period and location which this documentary covers, not one fatality occurred under the auspices of the Wyoming Tie and Timber Co.

When you consider the extremely hard work, long hours, and the vast volumes of timber cut down, prepared and transported, using only hand tools and very primitive methods of transport and processing, that is really quite amazing.

The industry, a short-lived boom created by the burgeoning rail network, but soon to be rapidly superseded by industrialisation, lasted only one generation. It was a hard life. But judging by the accounts of those interviewed for this film, a good one… fascinating!

The Scandinavians were a big part of this particular epoch, with the Wyoming Tie & Timber Co. set up by a guy who’d done similar work back home in Norway. He got a lot of folks from the ‘old country’, and Sweden, to emigrate, and they formed the nucleus of the business.

Local Indians and other more or less ‘native’ Americans would fill out the teams and bulk up the numbers, especially during the Tie Drives, after the Scandiwegians and other more expert Tie Hacks had done the felling and hacking, getting the wood from source to destination.

Hearing the old-timers and their wives and children reminisce about this period, it sounds both very hard, and yet very satisfying. The work was intense and seasonal, the logging locations were remote, and incredibly beautiful. Winters were hard, and skiing was an essential daily skill.

The Wyoming Tie & Timber Co. really looked after their workers, building homes and camps, buying the employees kids Christmas gifts, and feeding the workers well (tourists would sometimes stop to watch the work, and were even invited to feast on the abundant victuals!). They even had programmes to look after the older less able men.