Ending, Sort Of

With the end of the year approaching I spent most of the afternoon and evening working, preparing what needs to be done for the year to come. But I took a break to clear the cobwebs, popping down to the gym an hour or so ago. And it was there I realised my resolution for the year - to end it in better shape physically than I began - had failed miserably. After just twenty-five minutes on the Elliptical Trainer I found myself fighting to keep going, sweating spectacularly and trembling in each extremity - when my routine stint is fifty minutes. The fact that the last time I got to the gym was over a month ago, back on 21 November, was to blame I suppose, but I really didn't think I could fall from the level of fitness I'd established by late November as obviously as I have. However, I take some tiny comfort from the fact I kept going for the full fifty - and sort of survived. Indeed, I suppose I should take considerable solace from the fact I'm just below my fighting weight and feel generally healthy, having got through the year dealing only twice with the problems generated by my messed-up back.

I mention all this since I'm now considering what my resolution for 2020 should be. As readers of the scribblings that comprise A Far Place are probably aware, I find much to admire in keep-goingness. Thus I'm inclined to make my resolution for the new year a realistic: I will keep going patiently, but that's a bit defeatist, just a statement of what I should do regardless of circumstance. I suppose I'll have to sleep on it and hope for inspiration from the old unconscious.

Out Of Place

Didn't sleep as well as I hoped I would last night and, as a result, struggled through the day. I did get some sleep, but somehow this seemed to hover on the edge of a disturbed consciousness. Said disturbance related to a disconcerting sense of not knowing exactly where I was. I assumed, for reasons that are not at all clear to me, that I was somewhere in Europe - but not necessarily the UK. Several times I had to remind myself I was in my usual bed, in the place I spend most of my life. Although I eventually established this with enough certainty to calm my seething brain I still went into a sort of pre-dawn panic related to my uncertainty over the room I would eventually wake up in and how I would get myself from bed to work.

Funny thing, the human brain; especially mine.

Zonked

I'm not at all sure that I've ever used the word zonked in writing before today. Since it's the perfect word to point to my jet-lagged condition I'll use it now, as in the uncannily accurate sentence: At this moment in time I feel completely and utterly zonked.

Acquisitions

Now in the final, final stages of packing for our flight to sunnier climes. (I won't miss the cold.) Am happy to report that, despite deep, often urgent, temptations, I've restricted myself to the purchase of just two CDs and two books. As mentioned in an earlier post I couldn't resist buying Springsteen's Western Stars, and the plan was to avoid any further purchase of CDs, but that fell through on the same day in the rather excellent HMV in Chester. It proved impossible to resist picking up at least one offering from Stereolab from the many available, and I plumped for Dots and Loops.

My resistance to book-buying was in some ways shakier, especially given what was on offer in the big Waterstones on Deansgate in Manchester. Fifi felt the same way, but we shared the realisation that there just wasn't enough room in the luggage for everything we desperately wanted, so it turned into an all or nothing sort of situation. Well, not quite nothing. I'm carrying back a couple of slim tomes: Georges Simenon's A Maigret Christmas and Other Stories and Alice Oswald's first collection of poems, The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile. I've been keen to re-acquaint myself with Simenon's great detective for a while but, somewhat childishly, I don't like the covers of the new Penguin editions at all. The Christmas Maigret has a lovely cover and it came as part of a 'buy two, pay half price for one' deal that meant Fifi could get her book a bit cheaper. The Alice Oswald needs no explanation, being bought alongside her brilliant book-length poem about the river, Dart, which I've left as a gift for John & Jeanette, relating as it does so strongly to their house in Devon.

And now I need to get on with packing and get this lot on its way.

The Dark Side

We watched the third and final episode of the BBC's latest adaptation of Dickens's A Christmas Carol last night. This version of the tale featured a number of major changes related to key details, though the essential underlying mythic structure survived. At first, watching the opening episode, I'd found this disconcerting. Much of the opening dealt with the story of Jacob Marley and his travails after death, greatly expanding upon the spare details given in the original and this took me very much by surprise. But once I let go of my expectations I found the new treatment of the story both apt and fascinating, if extremely dark. It wasn't exactly Dickens, but then I'm so familiar with the original that it didn't matter as I wasn't really missing anything in being treated to something quite new - and what did very much survive was the spirit of Dickens's original, especially in the contrast between a strictly utilitarian calculus, as manifest in Scrooge, and a sense of the importance of the heart, as embodied in the Cratchits.

The whole thing was wonderful to look at and splendidly acted, with Guy Pearce excelling as an oddly youthful Scrooge. His emotional rebirth in the final episode was entirely convincing, with not an ounce of sentimentality about it.

Postscript: It would be remiss of me in the extreme not to mention Vinette Robinson's performance as Mary Cratchit. She combined strength and vulnerability in quite an extraordinary manner. The scene in which she was ready to have 'intercourse' with Scrooge to secure the money for an operation for Tiny Tim was excruciating in its convincingness. Not exactly Dickensian, but appropriate to all human experience of grim exploitation.

Some More Help

As was the case three years ago, Noi's massive efforts in the kitchen delivered a surpassingly fine Christmas dinner for Maureen & John yesterday, evoking some of the spirit of Christmases past in a household that desperately needs some kind of positivity. The fact that the cook found herself having to deal with her own physical problems was an example of positivity of the highest order.

Busier Still

Having picked up our turkey we spent several of the evening hours of Christmas Eve at Tameside General Hospital to get treatment for a very nasty rash on Noi's back which turned out to be shingles. We're hoping to have caught the outbreak early. It seems that treatment in the first 48 hours is key to a good recovery. On the up-side, the rash is irritating but generally free of pain, at least for the moment. Of course, we're hoping it stays that way, but the doc prescribed plenty of pain-killers, just in case.

This wasn't exactly an optimal way to spend the day, but there were several fortunate aspects to our unwanted experience: we had a bit of a wait to see the doctor, but it could have been a lot worse, and the hospital was warm and comfortable; we managed to find a pharmacy to obtain the medication prescribed open late at night and the service was friendly and obliging; there were no problems raised at all related to Noi's status as a foreigner, and hardly any forms to fill in.

Just after we arrived at the drop-in centre next to Accident & Emergency, a lady arrived with her two children. I think it was the younger of the two, a little girl, who wasn't too well, but she was keeping cheerful, obviously full of anticipation for Christmas Day. Her older brother was clearly doing his best to keep her entertained and her mum was a model of uncomplaining patience. Somehow or other they gave the impression of being quite content about the situation when you suspected it would have been very easy not to have been. A telling reminder of how you make your own happiness.

So for all who keep this festive season, here's hoping you create your fair share of peace and contentment, regardless of circumstance.

Keeping Busy

Just back from dropping off Rozana at Manchester Piccadilly Train Station. She's decided to pop up to Scotland over Christmas. And Fifi is off to spend Christmas with a chum in Leeds, so we'll be driving her there in half an hour or so. Noi will be preparing Christmas dinner for Maureen & John which means we'll be tracking down our halal turkey once we get back to base. This is not exactly restful, but I suspect we're less busy than most folks here engaged in their fraught preparations for their big day. A useful reminder that whilst it's fun in its way to be here for the festive season, on the whole I'm happy to keep it all at a distance.

Back

Got back to John & Jeanette's yesterday evening in time to regale them with our adventures in Stoke, Chester, Liverpool and the Lakes, and to watch the first episode in the BBC's latest three-part adaptation of A Christmas Carol. A fine warmly dry end to a busily wet and cold day.

In The Dark

There's so much to praise relating to tourism in this part of the world, the excellent infrastructure, the first-rate service, the helpful residents, that it seems churlish to strike a critical note - but strike it I will, claiming every tourist's right to find something to moan about after a day well spent. The day in question was yesterday, which we passed happily on the move between Keswick Market and Pencil Museum (yes, really), the eminently visitable Lowther Castle on the outskirts of Penrith and the eminently viewable Ullswater, as seen from Pooley Bridge. We were on our way back to Keswick on the A66 when we decided to stop off at the services on the off-chance of getting a nice cuppa at a time when all the shops had shut in the little towns in the area.

To our surprise we found ourselves in a very lively spot indeed, known as the Rheged Centre, with tea and shops in plenty - and even a cinema showing the latest movie in the Star Wars saga guarded by imperial troopers, one in white, one in black. But here's the thing. Despite the jolly facilities on offer inside the centre the place contrived to have one of the most badly-lit car parks I've ever seen. Not a problem in daylight, of course, but we arrived in the gloom of a late-December early evening and that means gloom a-plenty. If the car park had been wide and open in scope this wouldn't have been a real problem, but it had an odd-ish sort of layout such that it was tricky to figure out exactly where the lots were in its odd corners. 

The really irritating thing was that there were lights, and rather glaring ones, but these were placed at roughly ground level or just above such that they shone directly, blindingly into the face of the driver, me, trying to park. Fortunately the car we've hired has parking sensors so I achieved what would have been impossible without. Even then it was a disturbing experience, driving forward into a glaring white light, wondering if the space that had appeared to be there remained or was about to be filled by an unforgiving small wall or the like.

Anyway, I recommend the centre to those passing with an hour to spare, but only in daylight. And to all architects out there, can I suggest it's a good idea to avoid having lights shining up into people's faces even if it looks pretty. (Oh, and if you think the notion of a museum related to pencils is a bit silly, as I did, you're wrong, as I was. I never knew graphite was such fascinating stuff.)

Time Past

We are now resident in Keswick. The last time Noi and I stayed here was some twenty years ago. It hasn't changed much since then, although there's some sense of hard times having been navigated. This was even more apparent in Cockermouth, which we visited yesterday afternoon. There's a plaque on one of the buildings there on the main street in the town centre, showing the height of the floodwater which inundated the town in 2009. It's astonishingly high, well over six feet. There's much to applaud in the recovery made since that time, though I'm guessing that scars remain. Can't imagine that the house owners in the area can get their properties properly insured.

I remember being in Cumbria in December 2009, the last time I saw Tony alive. The area had already experienced floods and at one point we had lunch next to a river in full spate, though I can't quite recall which town that was. Somewhere nearer the coast. His presence seems particularly vivid to me in this part of the world, a place he loved.

Lots To Think About

If you happen to be in Liverpool I'd strongly recommend a visit to the Albert Dock, incorporating an hour or two at Tate Liverpool and the International Slavery Museum. Both are models of how to engage and communicate with visitors in an enthusiastic but never patronising manner. Funnily enough, there's plenty of art in the museum and a powerful dose of social commentary in the art gallery - and you come out of both buzzing with ideas and a sense of the need to do something. Time well spent, I reckon.

Feeling Lush

Now resident, briefly, in Liverpool. It's Fifi who sort of brought us here. She's a part-time employee of Lush (who sell all sorts of potions and lotions to make folk feel good about themselves) and it turns out that the Lush mothership, a superstore encompassing a full four floors, is in the city. We went there yesterday and I was vaguely impressed by their endless varieties of colourful soap and the enthusiasm of the young people smilingly selling it.

This is only the fourth time in my life I've been to the city and I'm wondering why I haven't come here more often. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk between the two cathedrals, and their interiors, and we had a good time in the shops around Liverpool One. We'll going to the Albert Dock today and hope to enjoy a bit of culture having experienced quite enough commerce for now.

Temptation

So far I've come across two reasonably large and well-stocked HMV stores here, one in Manchester, the other in Chester. The two don't match the huge stores of the glory-days of the early 2000s, but considering the fact I thought the company was doomed even in the UK - having disappeared, as far as I'm aware, in the East - it was good to be reminded of the wonders of all that is still available in terms of DVDs and CDs. I must admit to feeling tempted to make some major purchases but have manfully decided (at least for now, that is) to restrict myself to Springsteen's Western Stars. I've heard the album a couple of times now, once at Simon's and once at Paul's, and since it is so obviously brilliant I'm beyond any form of resistance.

Actually, it's the buying of DVDs that I've had to mainly guard against, specifically of the various enticing box sets of excellent tv series, of which there seem to be an unending number. I still haven't started to view the few DVDs I bought in my recent foray on-line and I know that if I were to buy, say, the full set of Breaking Bad (which I've never seen but which I know is uniformly regarded as great television) it will probably take me four years or so to watch it.

But the desire to possess things simply for the sake of possessing them is still strong in me, despite my awareness of how essentially foolish a desire this is.

Restoration

Now in Chester, having spent yesterday in Stoke, looking for evidence that the Potteries are still what their name suggests. I don't think Noi and I would have had the location on our list, since our last visit to Stoke was somewhat depressing, what with factories closing down and a general air of dereliction, but since we have Master Potter Rozana in tow it would have been churlish not to have gone looking for signs of life.

Happily we found them at the Emma Bridgewater Factory. The titular lady in question took over an empty factory in the 80's (if I heard correctly from the lady conducting the factory tour) and restored it to life and prosperity. It felt good to find ourselves in a part of the country that had got something very right indeed.

Rain, Manchester Variety

Our squad strength has increased to four, having picked up Fifi and Rozana at the airport yesterday, in suitably rainy conditions. We're finally going on the move, leaving the comfort of our current loft to explore other spots in the currently grey north. We arrived here at the end of November to fierce cold but it wasn't raining then. Things have changed. It seems to have gone slightly warmer, according to objective measures, with day-time temperatures settling around 4 degrees. However, the rain that has settled in again makes it all seem much colder and generally bleak. Not a great welcome for the girls, but then it rarely is in these parts, at least with regard to the climate.

Class

We've watched little in the way of television here, mainly game shows and snooker on day-time tv when we've been at John & Maureen's. The only thing we've actually sat down and watched in an evening, in this case with John & Jeanette, was a single episode from the new dramatization of His Dark Materials. Despite the fact we didn't quite know what was going on - this was the fifth episode and I realised I'd forgotten most of the storyline - the sheer class of the series was very apparent.

Now we'll have to keep a look-out to see whether it crosses the ocean to our Far Place in the new year. Hope so, but doubt so. Too genuinely imaginative to possess mass appeal I fear.

The Bright Side

It's difficult to see much that is bright with regard to the politics of my nation, but important to look for it. John made this point to me from a place of relative darkness yesterday morning and it turned out to be the most balanced thing I heard all day. Let's hope other voices join his.

Civil Society

I'm struck by the general friendliness of people in Manchester. A basic level of courtesy prevails in social interchanges, often extending to real helpfulness. The behaviour of staff in shops is the most obvious example, and it's clearly not just because they're trying to sell you something. You hear terrible stories about the treatment of rough sleepers, but I've seen nothing but kindness and goodwill expressed towards these poor souls when I've witnessed interactions with them by 'ordinary' people.

Curiously all this is at odds with the political climate, as the results of the election make all too clear. A sombre morning in this household, and many others, I'm afraid.

Lasting

The other day Jeanette was showing Noi a Kenwood mixer that Mum bought for her and John as a wedding present some four decades ago. Nice to think that in a disposable world something has managed to last. But not sure anything manufactured these days could ever last as long.

Can things acquire a sort of virtue as a result of what we make of them and their lastingness?

Distinctive Voices

Forgot to mention yesterday that my reading of the Springsteen book comes courtesy of Simon, who generously passed onto me both Born To Run and Neil Young's Waging Heavy Peace when we visited his house. I've been thinking of getting hold of both for some time, having read some positive reviews, and from what I've read so far - most of the Springsteen and a smattering of the Young - those reviews were well deserved. As you might expect from song-writers of this calibre, there isn't a ghost-writer in sight. The voices of both emerge with clarity and an almost startling individuality from the texts (as I suppose is true of their recorded voices.)

Neither tries to be the slightest bit likable, by the way. Which is why you come away genuinely liking and respecting both.

A Surprise

Reading Bruce Springsteen's memoir-cum-autobiography Born To Run I was taken aback by his references to the periods of depression he has suffered, and particularly those that blighted his life in his early 60s. But isn't it odd I should have been surprised? Given the intensity of so much of his work it isn't difficult to see how this might be linked to trying to deal with deep-rooted psychological issues. It really made little sense for me to assume a kind of stereotypical trajectory for the great man's life, with him passing gently into comfortable, fulfilled, secure later years, all passion spent.

I suspect we're none of us stereotypical and any outward appearance of such masks engagingly messy quirky individuality, making us all the richer, all the more surprising.

All Together

Got across to Hoylandswaine, Barnsley yesterday to catch up with David & Shirley. They're looking in good shape for folk in their 80s, but they didn't express much enthusiasm for travelling out to the Land of Oz via our Far Place any more. However, their enthusiasm for the Barnsley Youth Choir, of whom they are firm supporters, was massive - understandably since they'd just been to see them in concert last Friday and the choir is clearly top-notch.

How can I be so sure of the quality of the BYC? Well, David and Shirley have been heavily involved in the work of various choirs over the years, so they know their stuff and if they say a choir is good it is. And by the magic of youtube we were able to watch some performances on their big screen tv and that sealed the deal. 

Watching them sing, what struck me about the young people involved, apart from their obvious talent and technical expertise, was their complete, unguarded absorption in the joy of what they were doing. There's something robustly transcendent going here, something precious.

Light And Shade

Yesterday featured a walk along the canal with Jeanette to Marple, climaxing in tea and cakes, and then an epic fish pie and various enticing comestibles round at Simon & Judy's in the evening. Much catching-up, learning of how various friends & acquaintances have fared over the years. Generally the news is good but sadly, inevitably, not always so.

Except, of course, with regard to the news out of the Etihad, yesterday, which couldn't be better. A good time to be back in Manchester, for those of the Red persuasion, methinks.

Snug

We've been sleeping in the loft of John & Jeanette's house for the last few days. It's deliciously warm in the space, in contrast to the general chilliness of the world beyond its walls. Ascending the ladder to the embracing warmth of our quarters up above is a potent reminder of how words like snug and cosy don't have any real traction back in our usual Far Place, but become thrillingly concrete in our present context.

Something Genuine

When we were in the Trafford Centre the other day we encountered a small band from the Salvation Army setting up to play. Just five musicians accompanied by a lady and gentleman collecting for various charitable causes on their behalf. We dawdled by them long enough to give a few bob and enjoy the first bars of their rendition of Silent Night. Suddenly in the big, cosy, brassy sound surrounding us the commercial imperatives dominating the mall felt awfully fragile and the festival made sense.

A Bit Too Sweet

One story covered in the news yesterday related to the amount of sugar contained in the festive coffees on offer in the various pricey cafes over here. One offering contained 23 teaspoons of the stuff. Difficult to imagine what room was left in the mug for any actual coffee. A number of patrons of the outlets were featured rightly expressing astonishment over what they were unknowingly imbibing.

Perhaps all this relates in some way to the number of people one sees who somehow don't quite look like they should. I'm referring to those who seem over-inflated, as if they've accidentally become bigger than they really are. The kind of individuals whom I suspect would have looked quite normal in size some thirty years ago when they weren't being surreptitiously over--sugared all the time. It strikes me that such over-inflation wasn't something I was aware of in any degree in Japan, despite the substantial goodies on offer in places like Tokyo.

The Political World

Much talk with the folk here of matters political. There's a general air of astonishment-cum-despair-cum-confusion regarding the place the nation has arrived at. No one seems to have any clue as to what's actually going on or what's going to happen next. Frankly, I'm glad we won't have to stick around too long to be part of what happens. I prefer my current affairs at a distance.

In The City

Had a full day in the centre of Manchester yesterday, seeing some parts that are quite new to me. We found ourselves in Media City in the late morning, an area encompassing facilities for the BBC and ITV adjacent to the Lowry Centre. Definitely happening. And we enjoyed a great nosh-up in a swanky restaurant in Castlefield with John & Jeanette and Ray & Diane, re-living fond memories of the time we spent showing then around Singapore, prior to their adventure in New Zealand in early 2018. Again the area around the restaurant suggested a city flush with prosperity.

But the hours we spent around the Arndale Centre and Dale Street served as a reminder of those parts of Manchester showing more than a few signs of wear and tear. According to Jeanette it's best to avoid Piccadilly, haunted as it by the casualties of the modern world. It's difficult to wrap one's head around the human suffering that must be involved in having no fixed abode in this city, especially on a bitterly cold day like yesterday.

Warming Up

The relief and pleasure of coming out of a cold place into the warm is not to be underestimated. There's much to be said for cosiness. We can only hope the rough sleepers we come across over here are able to experience something of this at least some of the time.

From A Cold Place

We've been enjoying a warm welcome to a cold country. It felt a little chilly in Japan recently, but never approaching any level of discomfort. However, the cold snap we experienced last night reintroduced me to the rigours of winter in a way that I'd rather forget, but am not likely to in the immediately chilled future.

On Paper

Just completed some paperwork related to the provision of extra classes for the foreign scholars in my school. I regard this as the single worst job of my year, so I try to put it off to the last possible moment. Unfortunately it requires three full days to gather and complete all the documentation required by the Ministry of Education of this Far Place to account for all the money spent. And, even more unfortunately, I know that there will be further queries about the courses provided stretching into next year, because there always are. 

I suppose it's good to put rigorous procedures in place to ensure that money is well spent, but when you're undergoing the rigour you do wonder why so much paper needs to be generated to account for something that's essentially over and done with. And I'm doubtful that there's any real correlation between the quality of teaching and learning and the paper-blizzard whirling around it.

Not Exactly Inspiring

We're now packing to spend the end of this month and most of December in the UK. I can't honestly say I'm thrilled to be going to not-so-sunny Manchester at the back end of the year, though it will be good to see friends & family. Most of all I'm not exactly keen to have a close encounter with the messy election going wearily on, and what is likely to be its even messier aftermath. It's painful to think of the politics of the land of one's birth as faintly humiliating. Mind you, things could be worse. At least we're not going to the US of A.

Vulnerability

Got myself moving around a bit more today - but gingerly at best. Yesterday we were at Vivo City in the evening and today at Clementi Mall, both locations being crowded. I feel very vulnerable in such crowds when my back is aching. For some reason I'm wary of someone suddenly rushing by and bumping into me thinking of how painful that would be. An odd way to think since I've never been bumped into by anyone anywhere when shopping.

It's salutary to come to an awareness of how vulnerable those struggling with their health must feel all the time.

A Bit Of A Mess

Spent most of the day on the floor feeling sorry for myself. Couldn't really get comfortable enough to read, so watched a fair amount of telly, unusually for me. Finally saw the train wreck of an interview involving that most egregious of the Royals, Prince Andrew. The lifelong Republican in me rejoiced as he managed to embody all that is wrong with the system of privilege upon which the monarchy rests. If he'd have been heir to the throne it would surely have been game over for the Windsors. As it is, I'm hoping to see the end of the institution within my lifetime, and since he's still around in the background that'll surely be of some help.

Floored

Woke up with a bit of an ache in the left side of my left leg. In the course of the day the ache got steadily worse. Now I'm trying to cope with major discomfort in my back and the coping isn't going terribly well. A reminder of how little of a fan I am of pain. I intend to get back to lying on the floor, seeking some kind of ease, as soon as I've finished writing this. Ouch.

Out

Two deeply impressive naps today serve as evidence of just how tired I was left after the Japan jaunt. Did manage to fit in a trip to my back doc and some household cleaning so all was not lost.

Called

I'd spent the morning at work, despite nominally being on vacation, since my to-do list is of fairly epic proportions at the moment. Arriving at the masjid for Friday Prayers, my mind was still running over an email I needed to write. I can't honestly say that any of this felt like particularly burdensome: I didn't need to go back to my desk in the afternoon and I was vaguely enjoying thinking over the details of the email, feeling confident that I would be able to manage the tone I was looking for and keep the thing to just a few simple lines.

But as I sat waiting for proceedings to really get going, and the call to prayer abruptly commenced, I realised just how far my thoughts had drifted from the business of worship at hand. This was particularly the case since the azan was gorgeously melodic and wrenched me immediately to another place. In that moment I experienced a powerful sense of release, made strangely sharper by the fact I hadn't been in any way lost poorly in my thoughts.

It occurred to me that my ability to re-focus, as I found myself doing in that moment, has become stronger as I have grown older, possibly because my engagement in any line of thought has become less intense, even when the thoughts are serious, even troubling. Somehow I'm less invested in whatever is on my mind and more ready to surrender to the needs of the moment in terms of the kind of attention demanded. I'm not exactly sure that I'm finding it easier to let go, but I'm certainly more ready to follow when called.

Playing Around

On the flight out to Japan I watched the first 15 minutes or so of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood and thought it was very good. I would have watched more, but needed to sleep. So I had a pretty good idea in advance that I would thoroughly enjoy watching the movie in its entirety on the flight back, and I was not wrong. I did wonder whether the full 2 hours and 40 minutes of the film would hold my attention throughout, but in the event time flew by and I was disappointed when it was over.

The film combines inventive energy and an enjoyable playfulness without ever really taking itself too seriously. I'm informed that there's a level of controversy about the way Tarantino distorts his source material, especially with regard to the ending of the film, but I found no problem in accepting, indeed relishing, the director's imaginative take on the period.

In fact, the touchingly sympathetic portrayal of poor Sharon Tate - quite unexpected given most of the commentary on the dark events surrounding the Manson 'family' - was a triumph, justifying the whole enterprise.

A Little Learning

We're off to the Kyoto Imperial Palace and Arashiyama Bamboo Grove this morning, ahead of our return flight from Osaka. Gosh, we've kept ourselves busy out here. And most fruitfully so.

These trips are intended as ways for the students involved to extend their learning, and I suppose I'm here to assist in that process, but I seem to undergoing much the same kind of experience - indeed, learning both with and from them. Oh, and I think they're having fun as well. I know I am.

Spoilt For Choice

Now thinking of what movies to watch on the flight back on Wednesday. It's a hard life, eh?

Perspectives

Spent a fair bit of time travelling today, arriving in Kyoto in the evening. Now installed in a very big hotel room, in which it would be possible to swing two or even more cats, in contrast to my cramped quarters in Tokyo. Have been enjoying reading a number of haiku by my travelling companions, giving various illuminating perspectives on Mount Fuji.

Also read and enjoyed the August-October issue of the Mekong Review whilst sitting on the bus. I was reminded again of just how fascinating this entire region of the world is - and just how many struggles are playing out involving points of view so different from my own.

An Uneasy Calm

What to do after a day spent on and around Mount Fuji? Challenge oneself to write a haiku and listen to Jonathan Harvey's Bhakti. Not exactly in that order, and not exactly restful - but strangely calming.

Twisted

Despite keeping busy on our various jaunts around Tokyo and dealing with on-going work stuff in any spare moments in the evening, I've managed to make good progress in Lee Child's Tripwire. In fact, progress has been a bit too good since I think I'll finish the novel tomorrow and have got nothing else of a relaxing nature to replace it.

Mind you, having said that, I'm not at all sure that relaxing is the right word since it's the gripping nature of the plot that has hastened my reading by keeping me on edge. I think I've figured out what the final plot-twist is going to be, by the way, and this with a 100 pages or so to go. If so, it'll be a bit of a first for me and I'm keen to find out whether I'm right this time.

Not Entirely Perfect

Spent much of the day at Disneysea, Tokyo's equivalent to Disneyland. The place is extraordinary in its strenuous attempts to make everyone within happy by offering beautifully designed and crafted landscapes loudly shouting their various perfections. Sterile, of course, necessarily so. Promising paths on which to stray and get adventurously lost, but never allowing anyone to really do so.

But the human stuff trotting around remained stubbornly imperfect, not quite living up to their surroundings, and having a cheerfully foolish time. A real enjoyment was on hand just observing the mismatch. Never thought I'd find such a disney-fied experience charming, but I did.

Scaling Down

Now resident in Tokyo, in the smallest hotel room I've ever occupied. Not complaining though - fascinated rather by the design and cosiness by which I'm so closely embraced.

On A High

Found myself involved in something our PE teachers term 'High Elements' this morning. Thought I'd be whooshing elegantly through the air on a flying fox, but discovered I needed to climb rope ladders and walk across narrow bits of wood and the like whilst not looking down. Realised just how much effort it takes to try and look reasonably dignified when the old knees are knocking fearfully against each other. And how trying on the arm and leg muscles it is to clamber across bits of rope strung together. All this was supposed to be fun, by the way.

And, oddly enough, that's exactly what it turned out to be.

Transformational

In late 1981 I visited The Great Japan Exhibition: Art of the Edo Period 1600 - 1868, at the Royal Academy, having been invited to tag along with the Art Department at Rawmarsh Comprehensive who took a group of interested students along. It was an extraordinary experience for me and I've wondered if the same might have been true for some of the students who were there on that weekend.

I had no idea of the scale of the exhibition, for one thing. The Royal Academy is a big place and the multifarious works on display - not just painting but calligraphy, woodblocks, ceramics, textiles, weaponry, lacquer work, armour, sculpture - went on gloriously for ever. And the information provided was rich in its detail. I was keen to buy a copy of the official catalogue, a handsomely chunky volume in itself, but it was way too expensive for me. (Oddly enough, I came across a second hand copy of a misprinted version a few years later, which now resides on my bookshelf.)

But the main thing about the experience was something I didn't expect at all. I assumed I would find the art involved in some sense exotic, but this wasn't the case. I remember realising in the first room I went into that I felt more at home in the exhibition than I'd ever felt in any art gallery before. In the simplest of terms, I knew right away exactly why what I was looking at was beautiful, even if it manifested other qualities - of humour, of the grotesque, of the spiritual, of the homely.

In some way that unexpected sense of familiarity changed me and the way I looked at the world. I suppose I've been happily working through that transformation ever since.

Intensity Mode

It's just a short novel but Woman At Point Zero packs several lifetimes of pain into its pages. I've just read it again after an interval of some years and Nawal El Saadawi's evocation of the oppression of women in the Arab world embodied in the tale of her heroine Firdaus seemed if anything more deeply bitter this time around.

But I've certainly changed as a reader. The first time round I took the novel as offering an entirely accurate picture of the Egypt of its period, especially in its depiction of the brutality involved in the way women were treated. Now I'm that bit more aware of the criticisms of the novel as presenting a kind of orientalist version of Arab men, and I really don't know how far this criticism is valid - though I intend to try and dig deeper since I'll be teaching the text in 2021, and I think I owe the writer, the men and women she's depicting, and my students, the honour of an attempt to get as close to some kind of truth on this issue as I can, despite my limitations.

But I remain certain of the essential truth of the work. The wretched of the earth remain so and the truth of their suffering is an essential one.

Relaxation Mode

Started on my second Jack Reacher novel today and it's proving to be a blast. I'd intended Tripwire as my trashy read for the Japan jaunt lying ahead, but I'm in danger of finishing it before we set off, unless I stop myself reading on and do so now. I really should reread one of my guides to Japanese art instead, but I'm drifting into something of a relaxed mode - which is a case, I'm afraid, of getting ahead of myself, there being plenty not to get overly relaxed about.

But that's sort of the story of my life. Mind you, it's not as spectacularly unrelaxed as that of Jack Reacher.

Grossly Inappropriate

Noi and I took ourselves off to our old familiar stomping ground of Geylang this afternoon, partly to buy something at Joo Chiat Complex and mainly for the fun of it. Enjoying typically excellent kueh at the Mr Teh Tarik there was a bit of a high point, but the low point came soon after. We'd popped into the Fairprice in the complex since Noi needed some bits and pieces for various dishes in preparation when I became aware they were already playing Christmas songs to create what I assume they believe to be a suitable ambience for their shoppers. I checked the date. Yes, it was still 8 November.

(To add to the horror of it all, the song I recognised was that one about All I Want For Christmas Is You in the version done for the film Love Actually (I think) which in its particularly odd yuckiness I have come to regard as my least favourite yuletide number.)

Must consider when to give Dylan's Christmas In The Heart a spin to redress the balance, but that certainly won't be for a few weeks.

Sure Fire Winner

Gave way to all my acquisitive instincts recently to purchase a number of CDs and DVDs from those good people at amazon.com. The music of Richard Thompson featured heavily, which is justification for a mass purchase in itself. Amongst other treasures I got hold of the Great Man on a DVD with The Richard Thompson Band playing Live at Celtic Connections. Stellar playing all round (of course) but the version of Can't Win takes us to another, better universe. It features what is now, officially, my all time favourite guitar solo. Listen, and I guarantee it will become your own favourite, Gentle Reader.

Shocking News

Peter and I were chatting today, as we often do, about the latest news out of the US and the UK. And, as usual, we were expressing something close to astonishment at various events in something like the following terms: Can you remember anything even close to crazy stuff like this in the past? (The answer being a simple no, by the way.) We spent a fair amount of the conversation laughing loudly, and an equal portion expressing deep, bewildered concern.

Later in the day I happened to switch on the telly to catch someone I regard as a generally insightful, well-informed commentator on the higher levels of politicking in one of the nations involved, saying the following: ...the government launching a deliberate disinformation campaign against one of its highly respected career diplomats... The sentence went on, but I lost heart just listening to that fragment.

A mad world, my masters.

Under Maintenance

Am trying to get to the gym at two day intervals ahead of a trip to Japan next week. That'll be some compensation for the necessary enforced break whilst I'm in the Land of the Rising Sun. I've come to the conclusion that I'll never achieve the continuity that might lead to significant improvements in my level of fitness. But what I can do is ward off the body's decline for a little while. Any small mercies happily grasped these days.

A Bit More Learning

When I started reading Misquoting Muhammad: The Challenge and Choices of Interpreting the Prophet's Legacy a little over a month ago, I was taken aback at just how much I didn't know about the scholarly tradition within Islam, especially in terms of how the whole system of Hadiths was developed in relation to the concept of the Sharia. Now approaching the end of Jonathan Brown's fine book I know a whole lot more, though still not enough to regard myself as anything more than a very mildly enlightened amateur in the field. But I feel that perhaps even more important than what I've come to understand of the work of the many scholars in this field, I've arrived at a much sounder grasp of the ways in which those of all faiths, or, more broadly, systems of belief, come to frame those beliefs against the world of facts, experience, truth, reality.

Professor Brown's work strikes me as embodying a quality of humane patience that I have come to see as central to Islam and relevant to any belief system that helps sheds light on the mystery and pain and wonder of it all. And it manages this in an entirely unpretentious fashion, though not shying away from some big philosophical ideas. Somehow it deals with them in a plain-speaking manner that looks easy but I suspect isn't.

One of the reviews quoted on the back cover rightly recommends Misquoting Muhammad to all who are interested in Islam in a general sense but I'd go beyond that and say anyone who's interested in the way we think and make sense of the world will find much of great insight to mull over in the book.

Completion

Went to the cemetery at Sungai Petai yesterday to visit the graves of Abah & Mak and then heard of the sudden death of Intan's mum just after midnight. We drove back a bit earlier than intended today to pay our respects. We'd visited her at her home about three weeks back after she'd been taken ill and Noi went to see her last week in hospital after she'd been readmitted. She was complaining of pain and her blood pressure was low so it was not an entire surprise to hear the sad news, but she was only in her middle sixties so there wasn't any of that sense of expectedness that follows a long illness & a life that feels completed.

Still Well

Bit disappointed at the World Cup Rugby result, but South Africa were brilliant throughout and the victory was well-deserved. Happy to see a fine team win, and to think of what that must mean for the players from the townships. Good to see Springboks of many colours still doing it the way of the old Springboks, with lots of class. 

All Very Well

Just back from a splendid eatery, Warung Hijau by name, on the road from Alor Gajah to Masjid Tanah. Epic portions of seafood mee goreng consumed, courtesy of Encik Rachid, and that was after we'd treated ourselves to epok epok and samosas on the journey up to Melaka. Young Aiman fairly demolished a massive plateful of seafood char kway teoh before assisting us with the mee goreng. Reminded me more than somewhat of the tribulations of trying to keep his elder brother, Ashraf, well fed when he visited us as a youngster many years ago. My goodness me, can those boys eat.

And it looks like I'm well set to watch the big Final tomorrow on the big screen next door. Life is good, eh?

Wisdom Of The Ages

The irritating thing about kids is the way they keep busily being themselves when you want them to be someone else. Also part of their charm, of course.

For Free

Forgot to mention the other day that it turned out the Rugby was actually available free, buckshee & gratis on Astro and I could have watched England vs the All Blacks live had I known. However, I was ultra busy at that point on Saturday so it was a good thing I didn't know as I avoided a major quandary. Watched a replay of the game late in the evening and marvelled at just how good England were. I mean, they made the brilliant All Blacks look almost ordinary. Astounding.

Managed to watch most of Wales vs South Africa live the next day. Dour but fascinatingly so. Peter reckons Wales would have made more worrying opponents in the final simply because they're Wales. He's very sanguine about us beating the Springboks and I readily (hopefully) bow to his definitely superior wisdom.

Will be in Melaka for the final next weekend and am figuring out if there's a way to try and make sure I can watch the final. Problem is I'm not at all sure anyone else there will be in the slightest bit interested.

A Bit Tricky

Reviewing our time in KL just now, I felt more than a little pleased with myself for getting all the necessary done. Then I looked at what lies ahead, and ended up feeling more than a little sorry for myself at the full range of what's necessary before I reach next weekend.

The trick is to live in the moment and forget about the self. Wish I could master it.

Vulnerability

Just back from visiting Hamza & Sharifah & family. My brother-in-law sustained a very nasty head injury last Monday after slipping on a wet floor in his masjid and falling backwards. A scan showed some bleeding on the brain, fortunately relatively minor, but enough to require close care for the next three months. Initially we thought we'd be visiting him in hospital but he was given a reasonably clean bill of health and allowed home - but is not allowed to drive and such and is being forced to rest.

It was good to see him looking like his usual self, but it wasn't difficult to notice signs of frailty now and again. He impressed on me more than once the need for guys of our age to take care, clearly still taken aback by how close he'd come to a very bad place indeed. Excellent advice, of course, for those of any age, but, let's face it, especially ours.

Something Missed

Was discussing with Peter some four weeks ago whether it would be worth shelling out for the World Cup Rugby package on Starhub. Decided not to on the grounds I was going to be so busy I'd struggle to watch most of the games. For some reason I also didn't fancy England's chances whereas Peter was distinctly hopeful - and sensibly went for the package. I've been regretting my decision ever since, though, oddly enough, not today, even though victory over the brilliant All Blacks is particularly sweet. The reason is simple, even with the game available for viewing in our usual Far Place, I'd have had to come over here and miss it anyway.

As it is I'll keep reading the reports on the game over and over until I can catch up with a recording somewhere. Looking forward to seeing Brian John Chirnside on Tuesday - but not to rub it in.  Like most NZ citizens he's incredibly sporting. Actually I'll be genuinely commiserating with him. On that note, it was fascinating to read the BTL comments on the game in two or three of the reports I've looked at. All sounded genuinely appreciative of both teams in today's game, and of the nations in the competition generally. Nice!

All Accounted For

We travelled up to KL this afternoon, setting off after I got back from Prayers and arriving on the hill around 9.00, which is not bad going for a Friday. The traffic in the city here was ferociously busy and typically crazy, so we were happy to touch down without incident. It's a bit unusual for us to travel up at this time of year. I've got a long weekend, with a holiday on Monday for Deepavali, but I'd rather have stayed where I was and got on with marking and bits & pieces. Of course, I'll be able to do plenty of that here, but the time spent on the road, and the nervous energy used up, might really have been better spent getting on with the usual.

The problem is that my time is so much accounted for in the weeks ahead that this will be the only chance I get to spend time in Maison KL before the end of the year and there're a few things I need to accomplish here before we say goodbye to 2019. So I'll be making an early start tomorrow so that none of the weekend is wasted. Quite how my time got to be so valuable I can't figure out, but that's the way it is for now. Nice to have a purpose, I suppose.

Transformational

Was feeling a wee bit run down in the middle of day and took a bit of a break, thinking it would be a good scheme to see if anyone had recently uploaded anything in live performance by His Bobness on youtube. Fortunately they had and I enjoyed 4 or so minutes of musical paradise. Went back about my business completely recharged.

True Royalty

Very good Long Read in the Grauniad on-line today about the wondrous Sir David Attenborough. If Britain must have a King why not elect him to the position, say I.

Part of the strength of Patrick Barkham's highly informative article is the way it tempers a measured but real adulation with an intelligent critical sense - and it's clear, by the way, that Sir David is more than capable of recognising the truth of the best of that criticism. Barkham's tracing of the development of our hero into the eco-campaigner of today is astutely sympathetic. And I must say, it's this version of the Great Man that is, possibly, the most inspirational of all. As I pointed out to Noi just now, it's going to be difficult to leave the air-conditioning pointlessly running when someone says to you, But David Attenborough isn't going to be at all happy about that.

Splendid Ignorance

Still not sure why John seemed so upset about Prince Harry the other day. Saw a short article related to the P and his wife complaining about the coverage they are getting in the British tabloids but nothing in it was the kind of thing to upset a brother-in-law, no matter how irascible he might be. I imagine it was something in one of the tabloids in question that must have set him off - John, that is, not the Royal in question.

But it all got me wondering as to why anyone would bother to get upset about what gets said in the press about them, or on various social media platforms for that matter. I suppose such things count if one feels it important to make a good impression in such places, especially if job-related, and I suppose being a Royal is a form of employment. But I reckon a sensible approach to the whole media circus is to just ignore it. After all, it's not really 'there' unless one acknowledges it, and the kind of friends who might acknowledge it, and one might lose due to iffy coverage, are the ones worth losing.

Anyway, that's my plan for when the scandalous stuff about me finally gets out there. (Not that I can think of anything terribly scandalous for now, which, sadly, makes me sound pretty boring all round.)

Much To Complain About

Just phoned John, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. More of the latter than the former, I'm afraid. Maureen is blind in one eye at present due to a lens going out of position. It doesn't sound too much like she's in a fit state to have this put right. John at least had some energy, railing about just about everybody and everything, especially the National Health Service. He proudly announced that he's never voted for anybody in his life.
 
Also it seems he's not happy with Prince Harry and his missus for some reason. Not quite sure what it was, but seems related to South Africa. I can't remember him targeting the Royals before, but the fierce republican within me quite enjoyed that bit of the rant.

Out

Intense marking, cake and exercise have left me tired. Very. But it feels good.

Over and well out.

Hard Listening

Drove across to a busy Serangoon Road earlier this evening, playing VdGG's Do Not Disturb as I went. When I first heard the 13th studio album by Messers Hammill, Banton & Evans I knew it was great, but the odd twists and turns in every song also signalled the fact it would take a while to assimilate. Well, it's been a while, just short of a couple of years, and now every piece sounds like that's the only way it possibly could be.

To think that the trio were all rising seventy when they put this together. Younger chaps like myself really have no excuse but to just get on with it and find some way to stay equally aloft.

A Bit Of A Panic

I hate the feeling of panicking, that debilitating sense of knowing you might be messing up on a grand scale and not having the wherewithal to control the situation. I was viscerally reminded of this truth when I found myself in a minor crisis at 11.45 am today. The state lasted until 12.25 pm but coloured the day.

I won't go into the tawdry, trivial details, but these involved the need to figure out and generate a list of names based on some quite complex data requiring a bit of nifty work on the IT front - and do it in less than 40 minutes. And then send out the list to colleagues who needed it for reasons that had not been explained to me, but sounded pretty desperate. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure of exactly who needed it. I'm not terribly good at anything involving computers but can just about cope in an emergency, which is what I did.

Actually I'm still not entirely sure my work was accurate, but since no one has got back to me to tell me otherwise, things are okay for now. And I've got time to recheck the data which I originally assumed would only be needed early next week. So it seems there's no harm done and a quartet of valuable reminders to self. 1) Expect the unexpected just at the time you don't expect it. 2) Remember how bad it feels to panic unnecessarily and do as much as possible to avoid circumstances in which this can happen, knowing full well it will happen anyway. 3) Avoid inflicting such situations on others, remembering how bad it feels to be one of the afflicted. 4) Don't worry; be happy.

Time For A Change

Many, many years ago, when I was learning my trade as a teacher, things didn't really change much from one year to another. That sense of predictability was hugely important to me. There was a frame within which it was possible to try new things and, simply put, get better at the job. Generally speaking, I thought I knew what was going on and what would be going on, and that gave rise to a feeling of being in control, almost a sense of mastery.

How things have changed. At this point in time everything about next year seems to be in flux. Which is also the case with regard to the end of this year. It's less and less possible to rely on routines as there seem to be none left. Fortunately I've been in the business so long now that, whilst this is troublesome, it's really no more than an irritant. But I look at younger colleagues and wonder how they feel about the shifting playing field. My guess is, none too good. I know I wouldn't.

Getting It Done

After yesterday's evening's uncertainties regarding whether Noi and I would wake to a day of relative wellness, I'm happy to report we remain on the ticketty-boo side of things. Our health if not exactly rude might reasonably be described as fairly vulgar. And to celebrate such I got myself off to the gym earlier this evening.

I can't honestly say I enjoy physical exercise these days - in sharp contrast to my running days when I invariably felt good pounding the pavements. But I'll tell you what does feel good: when I'm able to think to myself, even on a day when I feel a bit low, well at least I'm clocking up some form of physical exercise, even if nothing else is going too well.

There's something real, something definite, something certain about working up a sweat. In an uncertain world it's nice to know that.

Good Health

Noi just mentioned to me that she feels like she's on the edge of some kind of illness, like a mild flu. But so far, so good, and there's no outward sign of anything obviously wrong. I'm reminded that I've had the same feeling a couple of times this year and managed not to succumb (except to the bout of sciatica that messed up the end of the June vacation.)

I suppose we're both a bit hypochondriac in this respect, but models of good health with regard to the happy fact that we rarely find ourselves actually ill. Long may this continue! But we are neither of us foolish enough to think there are any guarantees related to exactly how long that might be.

The Height Of Smooth

If memory serves me well Philip Glass was the first contemporary composer of 'serious' music I listened to. I bought Satyagraha on vinyl after reading a stellar review in Gramophone and thought myself very cool for doing so. But by the time I brought Akhnaten on CD I'd come to think that Glass wasn't as daring as I first assumed. It all sounded a wee bit too smooth, a wee bit the same.

So the later opera never got quite the same play as it deserved. I realised that when I gave it a spin today. Yes, it sounds smooth, but gorgeously so, and that hypnotic smoothness is entirely appropriate to its dream-like subject matter. This is another of those works that really cries out to be experienced in its theatrical context, and I don't think I'll ever get the chance to see it performed in the opera house. But letting its sound world envelop me is the next best thing, and to be soundly recommended.

Getting Away

Now approaching the end of The Portable Nietzsche. Basically just the  brief Nietzsche Contra Wagner to read and a smattering of the letters that preceded FN's mental breakdown. There's a kind of oddly mounting excitement in the final sequence of works that seems to foreshadow that breakdown. Brilliant de-stabilising yet repetitive ideas are fired off in an oddly random manner. I'm glad I got so close to the thinker through Kaufmann's selection but I'll be happy to get away from him.

Still Useless

Back in 2013 I posted something related to the great Japanese composer Toru Takemitsu. Today I happened to be introducing a Japanese novel (Kawabata's luscious Snow Country) to a class and it seemed like a good idea to goof off ahead of the lesson, in a spare 30 minutes, into the piece I referred to back then, From me flows what you call Time. And a good idea it most certainly was.

I'm trying to think of something as hypnotically beautiful and, in this frozen moment in the flow of time, I just can't.

Good Judgment

Reading my journal from a decade and a half ago made me realise it's exactly fifteen years to the day that we got rid of the guy who was supposed to be looking after our little garden in KL - he was quite happy to give up the job, by the way - and hired Devan who'd been treating the house for termites but seemed keen to do whatever work came his way. I noted then that he seemed a reliable sort, and how right I was. The fact we've had him keeping an eye on the place for us for all these years, and doing a great job keeping the garden in order to boot, has considerably reduced our anxieties about owning a place that's so far away. A reminder, if we needed one, of just how reliant on others we are, no matter how independent we think ourselves.

Something Old, Something New

In a quiet sort of way I suppose I regard myself as a bit of an expert on the progressive music scene of the early 70's. So why is it that, whilst having heard of Magma and having some sense of what kind of band they were (and are) I'd never actually heard any music from them until today? I suppose the fact that I didn't have much money at that time in my life played some part in the formation of this rather alarming gap - it certainly limited the range of what I could afford to purchase. And possibly the way in which my tastes turned away from the weirder edges of the music scene as I grew out of adolescence, such that by the time I did have a bit of spare cash I wasn't going to spend it on anything quite so arcane.

But listening to the band in question performing one of their most well-regarded pieces today, I have to say I feel a bit of fool for not listening to them before. Weird, yes, but in the best of ways. They're simply brilliant.

Odd to be discovering something that was always there for me, at my age.

The Way Things Are

There's been some excellent reporting in The Guardian of late regarding the exploitation of low-paid workers in the construction industry in Qatar. It's going to be difficult to watch the World Cup scheduled for that country in 2022 knowing of the extraordinary number of deaths related to heat exhaustion suffered by the migrant workers employed to build the stadiums, roads and hotels needed. And it comes as no real surprise to read of how the fatalities are being covered up.

I grew up with some understanding of the need for unions to protect workers. It puzzles me enormously that perfectly decent people are sometimes blind to this necessity, seeming to believe that a laissez-faire approach to labour relations will somehow produce fair systems in which workers are decently treated. What's going on in Qatar seems to me related to a simple truth of history, of the human condition: Those at the bottom will be ruthlessly exploited if their rights are not firmly protected; it's criminally naïve to assume otherwise.

A Step In The Wrong Direction

Went to a wedding today and stepped on a fork. Yes really. Now feeling the discomfort in my left foot where the prong went in. Don't ask me how; frankly, I don't know. Other than that it was a lovely do.

A Bit Of Cheer

It's strange how location can change one's perspective on what one is reading. Case in point: this morning, in a break to grab a coffee I was reading a paragraph or two of Nietzsche - Twilight of the Idols - with the old chap waxing lyrical on the greatness of Rome & Venice: Those large hothouses for the strong - for the strongest kind of human being that has so far been known - and all that kind of thing. Now, I suppose if I'd been reading this somewhere alone in the mountains, or in some dire accommodation in Manchester or New York or Moscow, it might have possessed some resonance for me. But there I was in a nice little café in Jurong Regional Library on a sunny weekend morning, and it all just seemed a bit sad.

I reckon it would have cheered FN considerably if he'd have had the chance to come and see the one and only performance of our No Parking v2, which took place this very morning in the Programme Zone of the afore-mentioned library. Apart from enjoying a few good gags and the obvious enjoyment of those performing (a strange, almost magical, thing theatrical reciprocity) he'd have been forced to empathise with the little man, for once. I think it would have done him a lot of good.

It certainly made for a splendid morning for myself. Everything felt just so right, if you know what I mean. Oddly enough, the piece actually looked as if it had been planned for the performing space, it fitted so neatly and looked so good. 

Mending

Made up for the mistakes of yesterday, getting all yesterday evening's intended tasks done in the course of the day. Also got to the gym in the evening and somehow kept going when I didn't really want to. Still avoiding doing anything with weights due to my aching neck, but the debilitating pain I had to deal with last week has largely faded. So, all in all, I'm on the mend. Always a good place to be.

Messing Up

I was busy in a happily productive sort of way this morning at work, actually doing some real teaching for the first time for quite a while. It certainly beats invigilating exams and marking scripts. And then in the late afternoon Noi and I visited Intan's mum who's not been too well lately. In fact, she was admitted to ICU just last weekend, but we didn't try to see her then since we knew she'd be deluged with visitors. It was good to see her looking a lot better than you might expect of someone just out of hospital. So, all in all, it was a good day up until around 7.30 pm.

After that point nothing went well - on the work front, that is. I came back intending to get on and force myself to do three different admin tasks. The first I had to abandon, losing a recommendation I'd written for a colleague, as the on-line form was one of those all or nothing types where if you didn't submit the whole thing it couldn't be kept  as a draft anywhere. Since I was lacking some necessary info for the final box, I lost the lot. The second involved uploading stuff already written to a website that resolutely refused to let me upload anything. And then, to put the tin hat on it, (as they say, or, at least, used to say, in Manchester) I managed to delete and lose an entire document I'd worked on for a good three hours a few weeks back before uploading it to where it needed to go in yet another system. 

That last one was the really painful one. It actually created a lot more work for no reason, which meant that all my efforts to get things done had achieved genuinely negative results. And worse, my own stupidity was entirely to blame, so I didn't even get moaning rights about other people's stupid systems. Funnily enough, I thought writing about this might make me feel better. But it doesn't. Grrgh.

The Real Thing

It's been quite a dramatic week so far. Monday and Tuesday were largely occupied with a Camp for our drama guys, centred around rehearsing for a performance coming this Saturday at Jurong Library. We're doing a sort of repeat of No Parking On Odd Days, which comprised half of our July show, but with quite a few changes in the ensemble. We're also dumbing it down somewhat, aiming for a sort of children-friendly version since we often get kids in our Library audiences.

Rehearsals continued this afternoon and we'll be putting the finishing touches to No Parking v2 on Friday afternoon. And here's the thing: wouldn't you think you'd get a bit bored of working on something like this for as long as we have? Yet I find myself utterly engrossed in every run of the piece we do, despite knowing exactly what to expect.

But there's the rub, of course. It's never the same. The differences are not necessarily particularly marked ones, and casual viewers might feel it is the same, time after time. But when you're as close to the play as we are, in a kind of absolute focus, a difference in intonation, a new rhythm to a line, a gesture that wasn't there before, a facial expression that's somehow more right than what you've become used to, and it all seems to change.

Much as I enjoy watching great acting in movies or on the telly, it seems so limited compared to the real, live, vulnerable, thing.

Not Quite Good Enough

Read of someone describing himself as a personal optimisation advisor the other day. Nice work, if you can get it.

Must say, I'm doubtful of the good sense of anyone striving for personal optimisation. Sounds like a recipe for a life undercut by a permanent sense of anxiety. Not what I'd call optimal.

Above All

Nice to see a piece in today's on-line version of the Guardian in celebration of the seventieth birthday of the Greatest Living Englishman. He and Dylan are the supreme examples of musicians whose genius has somehow deepened with age. And in RT's case astonishingly his voice actually got better.

All At Sea

Found myself in Wardah Books this morning attending a talk by my chum Tony (Jamal) Green on the publication of his very handsome tome Kapal Haji: Singapore and the Hajj Journey by Sea. The last time we spoke, in early August, Jamal told me quite a bit about the volume, which has been some years in the making and featured in even earlier conversations between us. Some of this was recapped in this morning's talk which, if anything, made it all the more enthralling as the various bits and pieces fell more easily into place for me, into more of a coherent whole.

Jamal had quoted to me something from a Brian Patten poem entitled The Betrayal back in August, as a way of explaining the obvious urgency he felt to capture something of the history of the pilgrims who endured so stoically, so heroically the journeys by sea he deals with in the book. When he read some of the poem again this morning, in his typically understated way, the lines floored me with their relevance to my own life, my own betrayals. It seemed somehow overwhelmingly important in that moment to acknowledge those whose fate it has been to be just the loose change of history.

There was another moment later in the talk, almost an off-hand one, when he paused to think of a word to describe how it felt to research the experiences of those undertaking the sea-borne hajj and came up with: humbling. Yes and I know it's going to be usefully, rightly, humbling to read of them.

A Little Learning

I thought I knew a bit about the history of Islamic thought and that's true, but not quite in the way I thought. You see I assumed the bit I knew was a reasonably big bit, but having embarked on a reading of Jonathan Brown's Misquoting Muhammad: The Challenge and Choices of Interpreting the Prophet's Legacy I've come to realise how much of a tiny bit the bit was. I could manage a broad summary of the Islamic scholarly tradition, certainly, but I was profoundly ignorant as to the details within that tradition. I could, at a pinch, tell you there are four major schools of law - madhhabs - in the Islamic world and name a couple, but I had no idea at all as to how they came into being and why Muslims could and can so easily (and sometimes, sadly, not so easily) agree to disagree on individual points of law. Now, some 50 pages in, I'm starting to grasp something of what took place in the formative centuries that shaped so much of the rich system of belief I inhabit.

I'm also coming to realise that, for all my appreciation of Islamic learning, I've always, somewhere in the back of my mind, assumed that the majority of scholars of the period in question were not terribly sophisticated thinkers. Prof Brown has a gift for making you realise otherwise.

It's a salutary thought that maybe most of those thinkers we sort of vaguely dismiss as mediaeval and, therefore, sort of backward, thinkers in all sorts of traditions - Christian, Judaic, Buddhist, to name just three - were a good deal more sophisticated than we give them credit for. Indeed, a good more sophisticated, more radically knowing, than ourselves.

Full

Replete with sausage & mash as the week ends. Even so, recalling times of need, times of emptiness. It's good to be full, but there are other ways of being. Good to have experienced them all.

Good Taste

For reasons best known to her enigmatic self The Missus provided me with three Jacob's Cream Crackers to munch at work today. It's been years since I had one. I ate them, without trappings, with my first cup of tea of the morning and, my goodness, they tasted good. Just like Jacob's Cream Crackers always used to taste, if you see what I mean.

Something I've never thought of before: Who was Jacob, actually? And what possessed him to put cream in his crackers?

A Real Pain In The Neck

I blame eight days of fairly heavy marking. But, having said that, my quota per day whilst tough was not excessive and allowed me plenty of breaks. Ironically the majority of scripts I marked looked pretty good too, so they certainly weren't a figurative pain in the neck. However, they've somehow caused a very literal pain, across my shoulders and creeping up the left side of my neck. And it really hurts.

Unfortunately I can't take a break to allow the problem to subside, so it looks like more of the same for days to come. Ouch.

Another Story

The great thing about getting to read someone else's story is the privilege of being reminded that, contrary to appearance, you are not the centre of the universe. The sad thing is that not everyone's story ends well, and so many are sad even in the telling.

Every loss diminishes us.

Keep Striving

Noticed in recent times the increasing usage of strive as a noun in students' work. As in: It was all part of his strive to success. Odd. It appeared in the (usually) excellent subtitles for the Suria series Kisah Tok Kadi the other week, so it's obviously well-established, even if relatively infrequent.

Where does it derive from? Is there some kind of false equivalence with strife? Has it crept into American English without me noticing? I've noticed it in evangelical contexts a couple of time. If it really takes off I wonder how long it will be before I stop bothering to underline it. I'm already considering on giving up on reveal as a noun, for which I blame the Property Brothers and their ilk.

Under Maintenance

I was distinctly ambitious in framing my resolution for the year ahead back in January. I knew I was aiming high, but perhaps didn't quite realise how high. Just keeping one's body ticking over in reasonable shape is quite a stretch at my advanced age, I'm afraid. I suppose that by the time we got to Ramadhan, back in May, I'd enjoyed some success in actually increasing my overall level of fitness if the numbers I posted in the gym might be trusted. But since the catastrophic problems presented by my iffy back in June derailed any regular programme of exercise, I haven't come close to achieving such results. Happily though, I am back to regular exercise and tonight's trip to the gym suggested I'm back to a sort of average performance. Unhappily, achieving the average has left me exhausted.

Perhaps I should re-cast the resolution: I am resolved to end the year as reasonably fit as I started it. When entropy stares you in the face I suppose that's as good a way as any of staring back, eh?