Shake it up a bit, that’s what I say!  I’ve never written a post on a Sunday before and, shying away from November – who wouldn’t? – I’m hanging on to October so …

Pathetic fallacy.  There’s just something about these words – and their meaning – which I love.  I can’t quite remember when I was first enlightened but it was definitely courtesy of Betsy, my inimitable English teacher.  Not only is there a joy in their pronunciation but there, too, is something so evocative; melodramatic, even; so Jane Austen, Brontë-esque!  My interpretation has always been that of the weather mirroring emotion and how often is that so, whether in fiction or reality?  The windswept moors in Wuthering Heights reflecting the turmoil and angst of Heathcliff and Cathy; the dark and haunting foreboding of Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre … clearly, setting and atmosphere, too, then.  However, my mood will forever be susceptible to the elements and, sometimes, I feel it works both ways.

Take the never-ending rain of the past however long.  Too long.  As though the world is weeping; resigned and weeping.  There is neither turbulence nor fight but, rather, a sadness.  Ironically, as COP26 gets under way in Glasgow, the gathering of private jets is complete and the fleet of helicopters on standby – a metaphor for the car crash that is life today as the global powers flex their muscles feigning empathy and concern whilst, unashamedly, driven by money and greed.  It is a charade.  Ultimately, nothing will change unless the very nature of the beast.  Of course, there are the genuine and the brave, embodied in Greta Thunberg; the intelligent yet selfless who care and fear for the future of the planet but they are lost in a corporate sea of sharks.  Never has it been more obvious, the control of world governments in bed with Big Pharma and the giants of the tech world.  Together, they have it covered.  The voice of the people has been all but silenced by the censorship of the media, in turn, paid and controlled by the aforementioned.  Trapped, like Little Red Riding Hood in a world of wolves, civil liberty is ebbing despite the protests of the sane; protests drowned out by the inertia of those only too willing to comply; devoid of any inclination to question.  Why?!  The alarm bells have been ringing loud and clear, if nothing else, in response to the media censorship and the banning of debate.  Apparently, Edmund Burke never said ‘For evil to triumph it need only that good men do nothing.’, – or words to that effect – but he should have!  Never a truer word …

Will the rain ever stop?  Will the tide ever turn?  Will COP26 make the slightest difference?  My glass is empty …  Meantime, I have been questioning why I write this thing?  Is it a diary?  Yes, of sorts.  It does document the events and mood of the time – and, more importantly, my opinion!  Could it be slated as a sermon?  Well, googling the meaning of ‘sermon’, it comes up as – informally – ‘a long or tedious piece of admonition or reproof; a lecture’.  No, I won’t take that.  Long, yes, but tedious?!  An opinion, then?  Of course, spot on.  I have always said that.  My views are my own as each and every one of us is entitled to his/her own but I just happen to write about mine.  Thought-provoking, I hope, I do find the whole process extremely cathartic while, in my mind, I can change the world.

The other two words I wrote down, in description, were ‘instruction’ and ‘confession’!  Well, there is no doubt that it is a confession, of sorts, laying bare my opinions and views for all to read but an instruction?  Sometimes, I wish but, in truth, all I hope is to ‘awaken the dead’!  Any returning reader to Trish-Trash knows exactly what to expect.  My voice.  My opinion.  Love her or loathe her, though, I hope – more than anything – that my words, both, entertain and, perhaps, unsettle; that, if nothing else, they invoke a reaction!  Trish-Trash will never sit on the fence; abhors blind acceptance and will always fight for the right to choose  

Moving on – to my second Gin …  As if life wasn’t difficult enough, I had a bubble shattered the other day when I discovered that Our Yorkshire Farm – the wonderful series on Channel 5 which follows the lives of Clive and Amanda Owen and their nine children – is not entirely the idyll portrayed.  Worthy of its place on my Seriously Good! page – not over-full, as one might expect – together with Ben Fogle’s offerings, the opportunity to watch that delightful family, seemingly untouched by the outside world, I consider much-needed justification for a television licence.  Ravenseat Farm is the equivalent of Walton’s Mountain, more than forty years on, with one major difference – it is not based on a real-life family.  The Owen family are real!  A real family in every sense: subject to the highs and lows of life; the good and the bad.  That being so, I noticed Ben Fogle’s post of support for them on Instagram and delved a little deeper.

Our Yorkshire Farm is in its fifth series, such is its popularity.  No surprise, affording escapism from a scary reality.  Amanda has written five books, to date, and, often appears on daytime television or radio, such is the demand, but that demand translates into fame and fortune and, as the saying goes. all that glitters is not gold.  Always a price to pay, the constant intrusion into their lives and claims on Amanda’s time – not forgetting the fickle lure of the bright lights – have, understandably, taken their toll and, allegedly, the couple have been living apart.  Nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors but, apparently, ‘the image of them playing happy families is a load of rubbish’, according to Clive!

How easy it is to believe when one so desperately craves the honest and the wholesome … and one must never stop doing so, regardless.  Yes, this world has lost its way, now driven by money, greed and ego and the Owen family have turned out to be only human but the charismatic five-year-old Clemmy is a force for good – as are Sid, Violet, Nancy and their five siblings – and, together, they do embody the values of old.  There is hope.  Tony the Pony is most definitely playing himself and, remember, Santa only exists if one believes …

Verging on the sermon?  Next time, I might tackle another favourite, divine retribution.  Huge scope!

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six.  Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.’

Shirley Temple Black

… and there you have it!

This is Trish, signing off.