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.