There’s nothing quite like an upcoming birthday to remind you that time is relentlessly marching on and the ultimate epoch of eternal nothingness is approaching ever closer.
Aye, it’s being so cheerful ….
The calendar doesn’t tell the full story however. To fully appreciate the passage and for that matter ravages of time, nothing quite beats the moment when you inadvertently catch a glimpse of your reflection in a shop window.
‘Blimey, who’s that miserable looking old git?’, you instinctively ponder before harsh reality kicks in and you realise that the vaguely familiar aged misery-guts in question is, in fact, you.
Things change. That’s the way of it. And you change too. Not a thing you can do about it.
It’s the little things you notice most. I’ve recently started teaching music in a school in a neighbouring village to my own, our local rivals, our nemesis you might say: the Edinburgh to our Glasgow, Kilburnie to our Cumnock, Paisley to… well, just about any other town in Scotland, I suppose.
Finding a young person called Gary in an Australian school these days is about as likely as coming across a Norman, a Wilfred or a Reginald. According to those in the know - teachers with 30 plus years’ experience - there hasn’t been as much as a fleeting sighting of a student with any of those names since 1969. Well, not a male, at any rate.
Actually, these days all the little girls seem to be called Taylor, spelled various different ways – Tayla, Tailia, Talea, Tailor etc. Sadly, for me, if not them, this trend hasn’t been explored with the boys, none of whom are named John Collier, Burtons or Krazy House.
Times change. And it’s only when you look back you realise how much progress has been made; most of it for the good, your own appearance notwithstanding.
I’ve recently made the Facebook acquaintance of a fabulous bloke called Eric, a brilliantly talented musician who, as it turns out was a member of that 1960’s politically indecorous ensemble, The Black and White Minstrels.
Very much of its time, it’s fair to say such a show could not possibly be given a timeslot these days, despite the fact that modern TV is generally thought to be relentlessly crap and not a patch on the Good Old Days, (another rotten show from the mists of time).
Somewhat of a visionary, I hated the B&W Minstrels back then.
Partly because I considered it to be racist, anachronistic and offensive, featuring as it did, blokes in boot polish make-up singing The Camptown Races whilst pushing women in floppy hats on garden swings, but mostly because it was, let’s face it, pure, unadulterated s****e.
So, though most change is clearly for the better, the traditionalist in me hankers for some of the old-fashioned names of yesteryear, which explains why I’ve taken to naming the various livestock around our farm, long-forgotten handles such Effie, Senga and Magrit for the females and Rollo, Uriah and Peregrine for the boys.
Or sometimes, vice-versa.
It’s an ideal solution because it resolutely keeps the old customs alive entirely without malevolence; unlike children, the beasts don’t grow up to resent or even hate you for saddling them with such a humiliating moniker.
(And if they do, you get the last laugh by sending them away to market, the very moment recalcitrant adolescence kicks in.)
On that note, I’ve been asked by various people about the horsemeat scandal, a situation which has resulted in equine flesh being known in Australia, as -inevitably I suppose - ‘Pommie Steak’.
To be honest, apart from the labelling issue, I can’t really see what all the fuss is about. I’ve eaten steak in France where it’s freely available in supermarkets and, as far as I remember it tasted pretty much exactly the same as beef. This isn’t surprising of course, as both animals eat grass and lead a similarly unexciting, pastoral lifestyle.
I’ve never really understood why it’s acceptable to eat some animals and not others, a modern tendency for sure which possibly bucks the trend that all advancements are an improvement. Our ancestors – for instance – no matter where they came from, would have eaten pretty much anything they could, including, when times were particularly hard, each other.
On the subject of meat, an acquaintance of mine – i.e. a bloke I know in the pub – a butcher – told me that clued-up people in the stripy apron business reckon that the tastiest meat of all comes from a castrated male, regardless of the species.
Apparently this is due to the stress and anxiety free lifestyle led by an animal which doesn’t have to worry about all that hogmagandie nonsense and can thereby devote itself to simply chowing down, looking at the scenery and contemplating the after-life.
Food for thought, isn’t it?
Especially if you’re a cannibal called Senga.
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