Ahem
November’s weather became a lugubrious national talking point with deified weather presenters being lambasted for reporting what amounted to ‘gloomy’ weather. Grey clouds weighed down on southern England like the cover on a pressure cooker, but I wasn’t complaining. However, I did re-read Baudelaire’s Spleen, possibly the greatest poem ever on the multifarious subject of the north European weather. The temperatures were high for the season and although the evenings were colder, the days were mild and unfurled without the need for heavy coats. Near the end of the month, the frame turned colder, as morning temperatures fell below zero and a single morning flurry of snow reassured everyone that we were indeed on the edge of winter. Dog walks were muddier. The wood-burning heater was lit for the first time. Before the freeze, I had managed to get the allotment ready for planting action, thanks also to major help from brother-in-law Ant who spent a whole day forensically digging over a sizeable patch. When the whole lot was finally spaded over, I covered most of it with plastic sheets and now await the rite of spring, and doubtless the return of multi-generational bindweed and cornucopious teasel. In our garden, I pruned our giant catalpa, and the dramatic result has been accepted.
Alli and I went to spend some time at J3’s Brighton flat where we had hot dogs (not Jaxon) after Alli had helped with the trimming of the terrace garden. A few days later, I joined Jessie and Ella for dinner and a lively concert at the Chalk in Brighton by the Felice Brothers, who cheerfully complained about the gloomy weather while playing a great set including their trademark “Frankie’s Gun” as an encore. On the next day Gwen came to stay the night with us in Uckfield. She and I dragged Alli out for a drink with Max at the Alma before we had dinner together at home (each eating a different meal). Alli and I have recently been caught by the online Scrabble addiction, which at least enhances our vocabulary of rare three- and four-letter words. Many of our games together are razor-sharp affairs. For this, I use the spare time I have gained by leaving the X-rated Elon Musk hate-spewer, which had overtaken even the Daily Mail in its evil intentions.
While researching historical details for my forthcoming international bestseller, obviously still in gestation, I needed to confirm a date in the momentous life of the Duc de Choiseul, Foreign Minister and courtier in the government of Louis XV before the French Revolution. The date given by Microsoft Copilot, a free AI tool, was different to the one I had noted from Choiseul’s memoirs, by seven years. I alerted the tool. Its reply: “My apologies for the earlier mistake. Thank you for pointing that out.” It was a reminder that AI is just a scaled up search engine. Its self-awarded intelligence is that of multidimensional rote and learnt automatic sensitivity, but not, apparently, of checking dates, facts, or previous errors. Exaggerated to another scale, it confirms that politics can eliminate the truth (Orwell 1940s) and that computers can eventually eliminate or enslave humans (Clarke 1960s) – providing another good reason to study history in order to improve the future.
Back in the particular, Kay Miles, Alli’s mum, celebrated her birthday with most of her family and their partners and families in Broad Oaks over festive champagne and a Chinese takeaway. Four of the ten present were males and all were bearded. An errant wasp escaped from a nest apparently inside the house and bit Gwen, which caused a sudden kerfuffle involving large surprise to Jaxon, who almost swallowed the wasp, and no small pain to Gwen.
We have had much building work done, with a new garden fence erected efficiently and expertly without damage to Alli’s wall plants, the completion of the garden shed interior, and the insulation and reshaping of the loft extension. My lofty office will now be just about warm enough in winter to allow me to spend more time there instead of gawping at celebrity TV shows. The improvements and extra storage also move our house closer to our shared ambition for balanced and downscaled living. In addition, the family’s gift to Alli just over twelve years ago, an individually sculpted and engraved memorial stone bird-bath, has at long last been set in the garden, thanks to the efforts of three strong men and several strong oaths. Its arrival at its final resting place made me feel that our year-long removal is finally over.
A balanced, fenced, warm, and insulated Kwanzaa to all,
Lionel
