Of Mothers & Massage

Yesterday's phone call found Mum in the finest of fettle. She related at considerable and repetitive length a tale of brother-in-law John's culpability in messing up some mysterious 'box' that gives her television a lot more channels. It was actually fixed on the same day as he accidentally turned it off by pressing some mysterious red button, but not quickly enough to assuage her wrath. It seems she smoked two cigarettes as he struggled to repair it, giving new meaning to the notion of fuming with rage. The fact that John bought the thing in the first place seems to have temporarily escaped her. I sometimes think it's her sheer cussedness that keeps her going - may that long continue (but at John's expense, not mine, thank you.)

At this end of the phone we had a relaxing day at home, so relaxing we both fell asleep in the middle of a Midsomer Murder we'd taped before managing to drag ourselves to bed. Our tiredness was due in no small measure to the ministrations of Noi's 'massage lady', a lady who turns up once in a while to give a spectacularly powerful Malay-style massage to anyone who happens to be around. Noi usually invites a couple of friends to partake of the good lady's services and yesterday Norsiah dropped in.

I should specify, at this point, that Malay massage is of the strenuous variety. It involves finding which muscles are reluctant to be pummeled and subjecting them to an unforgettable, unforgiving raking with industrial strength fingers. It's not wise to scream as that just leads to an even greater focus on the area that hurts. This is all supposed to do you a lot of good. Just surviving the experience made me happy. And very tired.

Today I've been moving on with Herzog and finding much to enjoy simply at the level of style. But I still cannot connect with the characters.