Monday might be marred by the royal funeral. In normal circumstances it would not bother me, for these should be some of the happiest days of my life.
For example, two weeks ago the most painful and invasive hospital test of those I’ve mentioned finally gave conclusive good news. In brief, I am not terminally ill so will not be dead within two years (as the gloomiest previous prognosis suggested).
Two days after that I did something I’ve always meant to do but could never actually overcome my cynicism enough to try. I spent a day at a Buddhist retreat, learning rudimentary meditation techniques.
And the funny thing is it worked. Literally between two steps in a walking meditation exercise I had a genuine satori moment, and I couldn’t stop laughing, both in relief at a huge burden released and at the ridiculousness of the way in which it happened.
True, one of the side-effects of this is that at work I keep giggling at the way some people spend all day moaning about trivial or non-existent problems, which gets me funny or angry looks, but in general I am content.
Except today when my daughter, who I love to bits, turns 21. She also finally starts a university course she’s been working towards for years, despite personal difficulties.
So it should be a moment of pride and family celebration. Except that I was forced to leave my family home four years ago and haven’t seen her since. I am not allowed to see her on her birthday. I was even forbidden to send her flowers and wish her luck at university.
I have been offered no explanation why. None of it makes sense, and I suspect that if the situation was outlined in a Wodehouse story the reader would be rolling round the floor laughing at the inanity of all parties involved. This is both the human comedy and tragedy of true love.
There is nobody in my life now, apart from a father so deeply affected by Alzheimers that he can no longer have a conversation with me. But yesterday, as on most days when I am free of work, I took him out of his care home and talked to him anyway. Because he is my father, and that is what families do.
Or at least they used to, and the one I grew up in always has. I have no love for this new “family lite”, in which you walk away for good at the slightest problem rather than facing up to it and trying to resolve it.
As I said before, the human tragedy and comedy of love, all depending on where you are placed during the performance.
But about Monday ……
One positive thing about the wall-to-wall media grovelling to dead royals is that I learnt just how easy it is to turn off the TV and do something else.
Radio 3 saved me from such nonsense during the Covid panic because it ignored the wallowing in misery which dominated other media and public discussion. Prior to that it was a rare source of sanity during the years before I had the courage to finally quit a job I hated. It continues to be, quite literally, the reason I get up in the morning and broke my dependency upon what passes for media elsewhere.
The media furore around the death of that Windsor woman has sealed that break. By the time they have stopped wittering about the death of their Golden Goose I will have totally lost the habit of tuning in to news reports, watching BBC or Sky news channels, etc., having already lost interest in the low level ‘entertainment’ such channels spew out the rest of the time.
But at least I can put some positive spin on the death circus too. After all, it did give 21st century Brits a week to do one of the few things they’re still fit for– standing around vacantly gawping at something useless and dead.
So, all things considered, maybe we should look on the bright side.
On Monday I have a day off work (sadly already scheduled, not a bank holiday freebie on full pay). I have already bought the cakes and booze, selected funny books and DVDs, and will spend the day enjoyably free of grief.
The noise you may hear during the mandatory minute’s silence will be me exploding with laughter.
Manx Low Life 