Beachy Head

Went by train to Guildford for TSM to have an assessment in a vegan hairdresser, which took far less time than my trip to the barber’s opposite where there was a short queue. I was done by a Cypriot barber who was married to a Belarusian woman (we didn’t go there, conversationally) and who was wearing an orthopaedic boot after injuring himself parachuting over Beachy Head. He showed me some photographs which were frankly terrifying. “Weren’t you scared?” I asked and he said no, he was never scared; he had been parachuting for years although this was a close one – it was a toss-up between a safe landing, flying into the cliffs or being blown out to sea.
 
We had something in a little vegan café with lovely vibes, very friendly people and ghastly food and drinks. Customer service was awful even if the karma was good. Met a woman called Caroline from Bookham who was seeing an acupuncturist to cure her thyroid condition, so it wasn’t a complete waste. I always enjoy hearing about other people’s illnesses.
 
Much discussion in the social media world about Will Smith punching someone at the Oscars. I didn’t watch the video, always feels like a kind of voyeurism to watch other people fight. Apart from in a Marvel movie of course.
 
The afternoon was domestic. The annual ritual of jet washing the patio and reconstructing outdoor life. Taking Dylan to the vet again, where Thomas (our favourite animal welfare person) spoke gleefully of popping pus sacks and advised us to wait and see if things got better. 
 
I like Thomas but vets are like doctors; they hope things will improve if you don’t interfere too much, and nine times out of ten (said George Bernard Shaw) they will. Although I don’t think that applies to my painful feet. I am sure I have gout. Or diabetes. Or hypochondria. One of those three.  [Definition of terror: a hypochondriac who finds out they really do have something nasty.] My feet have been disagreeing with me for some weeks now. Months even. Possibly longer. Sixty-three years is a long time to be propping me up and taking the strain of my every walking moment.
 
And so to Attwood. My latest read is Margaret’s brilliant collection of essays “Burning Questions”. It always please me to find that a great person has been thinking about the same stuff as me, in this case the question of “do I really exist or am I just an illusion believing in myself?” I self-deceive therefore I am. But I had an insight today. According to Einstein time is an illusion and is only there to stop everything from happening all at once in the quantum universe. Combine that with the neurological theory that I am an elliptical illusion of myself and there is only one, inescapable conclusion. I don’t really exist but I will be deluded into thinking I do for ever because I am what I am. It’s a kind of immortality and will have to do until the real thing comes along.