Many, if not all of us are asking that now, in this time of deep uncertainty.
The classic answer in the UK is that it is an oncoming train, (thus the cameo role of trains in the video below). Unfortunately in the US it was used in the Vietnam war to refer to fire bombs chucked into the vietcong tunnels. Not nice.
Either way this is not boding well. Not well at all....
I, however, would like to offer you a different point of view.
I am concerned that we have lost sight of the world around us, our new reality. This new 'normal'. To look for the light at the end of this tunnel is to find ourselves missing out on what is most important in life. The tunnel itself. That which is happening NOW.
I'll give you a metaphorical example. (Philosophy is definitely my thing today, along with metaphors...) In our garden we have a jasmine tunnel. It's a tunnel made of old concrete reinforcement rods, but what the hell, it's a great support for the jasmine that we're growing on it.
It goes from the back gate of the garden to the 'lower levels'.
But no, it is so much more than that. As you walk through it, just soak in the smells. The odour is both subtle and yet overpowering. Stunning. Here is another world, between here and there, full of sensations. Smells, colours. Life.
And that is where we are now. That is my somewhat laboured point. To get to where we are going may take more than just a long time, it may take the rest of our lives. We need to live were we are now, to the full. It's just a different life, that's all.
We need to adjust. To adapt.
When I was a young kid, I wanted to be a vet. (Lucky that really.) But there were other possibilities. Maybe something with biology? But always with animals.
Then life took over. Time moved on.
Stress mounted.
Maybe a change? Maybe do something else? Get out of this cycle of anxiety. Hmmmm... How about gardening?
Lot's of possibilities out there, but some definitely never came onto my radar. For example, I never ever wanted to be a chef. The hours, the frustration, the hassle.
Fast forward to our new reality.
My time now revolves around the house (aka the garden), trying vainly to keep fit, and cooking.
And attempting to remain sane.
This is absolutely not what I had envisaged, but it is here, it is the new now.
So why not make the most of it?
Change it from a chore to a challenge.
So what, that we have to social distance? So what, that we have to wear masks? So what, that we have to be alert? (Whatever the f**k that means.)
Life is worth fighting for. Even in the kitchen...
And so to this month's Lockdown video. Two months of confinement in one of the best places on the planet. Who can complain? The fact that my life now revolves around the intestines of my mother-in-law is not a problem. It's an opportunity.
Hahaha.
For those of you who haven't seen our latest family extravaganza, here it is; Jon on guitar, Lisa singing and myself on blues harp and photo-mangling machine...
Dawn was preceded by the usual cacophony. The cockerel strangling out his morning wake-up call, still with his timepiece in the wrong timezone. The peacocks screaming at him to shut the f**k up. The swans screeching their morning vehemence, the frogs croaking their last, and the Indian Runners, erm, bonking.
Phil cracked open his eyelids. Blackdog Day again.
Crawling quietly out of bed, narrowly avoiding various carefully placed vases intent on giving away his escape, Phil slowly made his way to his first cup of espresso and his first of many daily chores. The same chores as yesterday. The same chores as tomorrow. Keeping the cycle going, keeping the black dog behind him.
His first chore, coffee in hand; to check what the heck is going on in the world outside. The same thing as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Blackdog Day.
The curve. Always the same sickle-shaped curve. But wait, there are signs we are reaching the plateau! Did we say that yesterday? Or was it tomorrow? The number of pointless painful deaths may be higher but the most important sign is a good one; Boris is getting better.
Thousands dead, but Boris is getting better.
The Almighty-God-Ruler-of-All Trump is once more spending his time wisely, telling all his subjects of his supreme power and intellect. His immense ego feeds the black dog that hovers there, near us all.
And always that morsel of great news; the end is just around the corner.
The end is nigh.
Reading the same news every day, Phil finds himself unable to stop. He drowns himself into its mind-numbing relentless huge figures, endlessly dulling our concept of what a large number really is, eroded by politicians in joint competition to become world leaders in hypocrisy. Every one's a winner.
Finally, the pressure becomes too much, the Black Dog too close. Enough. Time to move on to the the bubble in which reality languishes. On to the next chore....
Every day, Phil takes time to understand those around him, not that there are many around him any more. He has chosen to live amongst those who speak a different language. This language must be learnt, its rules understood, its exceptions remembered, its tenses forced into a comprehensible shape, its conjugations knitted together. An hour a day with that despicable owl Duo is enough to drive any sane man into abject confusion. A chore that must be done to better understand the fineries of the French language. Like this...
Then: fetch the wood, light the fire and, as dawn finally arrives; the universal need. Sky needs a shit.
The morning walk is a discrete moment of calm thrown into the long day of... more calm.
This morning's walk is kept within the confines of the law and the confines of the garden. As it was yesterday. As it will be tomorrow. That it takes three quarters of an hour to finish this brisk morning stroll, interrupted only the occasional stop for nature's call (several of them, for both man and dog) gives some idea of the huge expanse that is the life blood to Phil's every day. His love, his hate. His chain, his freedom. His garden.
Then begins the first of many times allotted to his main purpose in life. The calls can be heard. "Feed me!"
Donning his protective gear, he enters the arena. First; the ducks and swans. He is welcomed with the usual caterwauling. The ducks flapping, quacking and bonking. The swans, well, the swans...
The mute swans are regal, if not actually mute. They emit grace. Their slow movements make them almost unflappable...
And then there are the black swans.
Two soft feathery killing machines. Their sole purpose in life to attack that peasant that comes every day to steal their eggs. You can't really blame them can you?
Tactics have slowly developed to avoid fatal injury to both parties. First a stick, then a broom, now a complex series of gates and fences, including a portable piece of fencing designed to separate the two warring parties.
None of which seems to stop those Indian Runners bonking. Only for them, bonking often ends in the death of the poor sod underneath. This seem a very poor evolutionary development. These three crazed sex maniacs have had to be put on an indecency order and confined to barracks. The occasional escape provides entertainment for all.
Leaving this den of madness, Phil then makes his way to the aviary, wherein lies tranquility, serenity and supreme vanity.
The two cranes have gradually become less timid, but still must retain a significant amount of social distancing. The chickens cluck about as if there is no international crisis at all, and the peacock struts his funky stuff as if he doesn't give a shit about others, nor even a care for the health of Boris.
In this place the Black Dog dare not tread.
Once the evening's omelette has been retrieved from under the bums of various dinosaur descendants, it is time for a spot of daily exercise. A 2K swim every morning helps clear out the cobwebs of another Blackdog Day. Every day. Every yesterday. Every tomorrow. An hour swimming back and forth in a small pool may sound like the extreme end of boring, but the ability to listen to a book at the same time makes this experience a true escape from reality. A reality which has become somewhat strange and bizarre over this last few weeks. At least, it could be a few weeks. Who knows?
The hours are passing. Chores to be done. Get on with it. Escape the black dog.
That old list of 'things to do' that has laid buried in an inaccessible place for sooo long has been shown the light of day, no more excuses. Weeding and feeding, Repairing and varnishing. Cleaning and maintaining. Jobs that are ticked off one end of the list, just to magically reappear at the other. Today, like yesterday, like tomorrow. Blackdog Day.
All then focusses in on lunchtime. There is a houseful to feed. Time to see what's in the fridge. Time to get inventive.
Two meals a day to cook. We used to eat one main meal a day, but with the addition of an extra member of our family, all has changed,
Yes, Phil's household has increased by one. His story about the 'rescue' of his mother-in-law will not be repeated here. It was previously published on Facebook as a parody but, little known to him, some of the French side of his family saw an 'automatically translated into French' version. Parody does not translate well. Suffice to say that some of the family think that he really is a member of a Special Weapons and Tactics team (spelt in full here to avoid another translation farce) and thus his status in the family tree has been lowered by several branches so that he now nestles somewhere amongst the roots.
This, the Black Dog loves!
The afternoon slowly arrives, following a quick nap.
Then on with the chores, be it building support for the rapidly growing kiwis...
... extending the railway system vital to the country's infrastructure...
...fighting back the flowering undergrowth...
...pretending to work on the computer...
...all the time enjoying the peace and quiet of the countryside in lockdown.
Oh yeah?
Every day, Phil takes precious moments to play with himself.
Loser.
In these closing hours of the afternoon, Phil finds time to play his blues harp.
Having played the chromatic harmonica in his youth, (in an orchestra for christ's sake!) he has now decided to torture civilised society, or what's left of it, with the minuscule diatonic blues harp.
Bending notes was not something that you did in orchestras...
After which, it is once more time to torture the bird's children by whipping them up in a bowl and frying them. And Phil wonders why the swans are so angry with him.
And thus we see the extent of Phil's day, covering more hours than actually exist in any normal day. But these days are a new normal, on repeat, on repeat. And this is how the Black dog is kept at bay. It was kept at bay the same way yesterday. Tomorrow? When will he break through?
And what is all this for? Why does he do these laboriously enjoyable chores?
Because life is good. Savour it.
La vie est belle. Soit prudent.
Dawn was preceded by the usual cacophony...
___
To avoid further confusion and/or depression: the Black Dog
We've done a fair bit of work on the Barn Station since I last posted. We decided that the sidings took way to much space up in the main layout, so we extended into the other half of the mezzanine. It's taken longer than expected, but we are now up and running again.
Also started on the scenery, I estimate another ten years should see it put to bed...
Here's a video catch up. Best watched with the amp turned up to full deci-deafening-bels....
Another year older, and finally I get my hearts desire. A new cock...
and what a big perky innuendo he is too...
The times they are a'changin'. This year someone forgot Winter. The Pyrenean slopes are devoid of the white stuff, with afternoon temperatures soaring to the 20's. We may be doomed, but so far it's quite a gentle doom down in the South of France.
Say one thing for climate change.
Say that my birthday, once in midwinter, is now well into spring!
And nowhere is that more clear than with my hoard of birds. Sorry. Flock to you...
My peacock (yet more possible play-on-words available) is really getting in the mood. His display is nearly fully grown and bloody impressive to everyone.
Everyone, that is, except his missus.
It was always and will always be thus.
Last year's baby has grown to the same size as its mother and appears to be of the same ilk. However, in the animal world, looks can be deceiving. Transgender has nothing on peacocks. It'll be another 6 months before we see if she's male or female. Or hairdresser.
The other newby birds, the Crowned Cranes, are developing a pink flush on their cheeks.
I'd feel pretty embarrassed too, living close to that vanity stricken peacock.
In other Early Spring Bird News, the lesbian swans started laying breakfast in mid January! I'm not sure what the lethal dose of omelette is, but my arteries live in fear now that the second of them has started laying too.
That rose bush also appears to be slightly concerned.
Birds, as I'm sure you are aware, are the only living dinosaurs. Thus, being short of non-avian dinosaurs, we've decided to plant one.
This weeping cedar will one day grow into one of those dinosaur shaped trees. Await the next photo in about twenty years time.
Planting for posterity.
I'll leave you with this picture of unrequited vanity.
Tonight, instead of watching Coronation Street (I'm not sure of the French or American equivalents), instead of being depressed by the latest Trump Travesty, the latest Boris Buffoonery, the latest Macron Misstep, or even the Coming Climate Catastrophe, try watching this video instead!
It's a long one, nearly half an hour, but it will be half an hour of relaxation with a few thrills and spills, along with some suitable African music. All in less than 30 minutes.
It's a collection of my favourite photos from the seven days we spent in the Serengeti last year, compressed into a cornucopia of pleasures.
I hope the festive season went well for you. The year has started a little rapidly with raging fires, the Mad God Trump attempting to start a world war, whilst Mad King Boris has done his usual disappearing act.
Depressing stuff. So I thought I'd cheer you up with a very few of my favourite pix from our week in the Serengeti, along with a bit of African music. It's only 3 minutes long so don't start yawning yet.
I'll post a (much) .longer version soon, but if you missed all the previous blogs, they start here...
What a week that was. We have seen more wildlife in a week than many see in their lives. We are privileged to have done so. I can only hope that this variety of wildlife will persist for our grandchildren, and theirs, to see and marvel at.
Despite having written seventeen chapters covering twenty-eight different species, there were many more than that we saw. It would be impossible, as well as interminably boring, to include everything here, but this final chapter is for those that got away.
The Bat-eared Fox.
It's a fox.
With bat's ears.
The warthog, now apparently renamed the Pumba.
The mongoose. Most of these run off before photos are possible, except of their backsides. These Pygmy mongooses however like to pose.
These Rock Hyrax appeared previously in this blog, being nearly munched by a baby leopard, and I promised them their own chapter. Sadly, they've been downgraded to a bit-part.
Anywhere there is a rock, there is a rock hyrax. They just seem to be hanging about everywhere.
They're something like a cross between a guinnea pig and a rat. They're almost cute, but not quite...
This whole time, in all these chapters, we've mentioned no primates other than humans. Actually, we've hardly mentioned insects and reptiles apart from in the into, but anyway, just to balance things, here are the only two primates found in the Serengeti:
The Vervet monkey, he of the blue balls that I refrained from photographing...
And then, of course, there are those vicious, dangerous killers. Man. Oops, sorry, the gentle baboon.
The little guys can be cute...
except when they dangle their thingies...
So that's it. All done.
An amazing week full of amazing wildlife, plus some random bits of weather.
Thanks to Nomad for the accommodation and food, thanks to Dixon for helping teach me Swahili, and most of all, thanks Ian for guiding us through this cornucopia of life. (Hehe, he will be desperately looking that word up to see if it is a complement or not.)
