In Readiness

The year ends with preparations for the year about to begin. Continuity rather than division. Flow rather than separation.

Transcendence

Couldn't help but feel that with the death of Pele a part of my childhood has been irretrievably lost, something belonging to the world of legend rather than drab reality. The man embodied perfection, not just as a supremely gifted footballer but as a sportsman of complete dignity. And everyone knew that when I was a kid. It wasn't open to discussion, just a brute fact reflecting the way things were. So when Brazil triumphed in the 1970 World Cup there was a taken-for-grantedness about it which sort of added to the wonder of it all.

He never looked hurried, as if time were a problem for others to deal with.

Continuing

We're on our way again, soon. Not a bad way to be, I suppose. Moving on means that, somehow, one is still keeping going. I think I got more than my fair share of rest in 2022.

Big Numbers

Fact of the day: We share the planet with 20 quadrillion ants. I am not making that number up. It's a real one and contains lots of noughts. Think of it this way: for each human being there are 2.5 million ants. Gosh.

Actually, it isn't really the case that we share the planet, is it? I suspect that the ants pay us precious little attention, except for when we catastrophically destroy what they need as habitat. But they seem to be able to bounce back from such minor setbacks, if their numbers are anything to go by.

All this makes me feel vaguely cheerful. But only vaguely. 

Still Building

Now trying to make sure we've got all we need as we leave Maison KL behind after this flying visit and contemplating the changes I've seen in the city over the years I've known it. These days whenever we come to Kuala Lumpur I'm struck by the sheer number of new buildings that appear, and I mean really big, chunky buildings. Driving to KLCC last night it wasn't so easy to pick out the twin towers which once dominated the skyline. They now seem hemmed in, a bit overwhelmed.

Is that how those who dwell here feel? Or do they carve out necessary spaces for themselves in which to thrive in the intersections?

Packing It All Away

Quite startled at the speed at which they've taken down the main Christmas display in the atrium at KLCC. We popped down there this evening to witness some thirty or so smaller Christmas trees unceremoniously tied, or rather wrapped, together in whitish fabric, dumped amid a mountain of black cloth which I surmised covered the carcass of the super-large tree which had dominated the space for the last month or so. It all looked ruthlessly abrupt. But as the Missus pointed out, with Chinese New Year coming particularly early in the new year there's likely a commercial imperative to ring the changes speedily.

Mind you, I noticed that they still had Xmas trees for sale in Isetan (two, I think) when we were going round there later. A forlorn hope, but possibly early buyers for 2023?

A Kind Of Blessing

Spent much of last night and this morning thinking of the kind of long cold drink I was talking about yesterday. This was provoked by our lack of refrigeration, putting said drink well beyond my reach. We've now solved the fridge problem, probably on a very temporary basis, but I still haven't had a decent cold drink. However, I'm keenly aware that in the big picture of things all this counts for very little indeed.

Today's news looked typically depressing, despite it being Christmas, so best to make the best of our secure little corner, despite its slight deficiencies - and use it as a platform to wish all who keep this season a blessed Christmas for 2022. 

A Long Cold Drink

We've been travelling north for the last two days, having set off for Malaysia in the early evening on Friday, taking Hakim with us to Melaka. Unusually we stayed over at Rozaidah's on Friday night, a first for us, arriving there after negotiating some decent sized jams at Tuas.

Then Noi and I pressed on to KL today after a leisurely morning in Sungai Petai largely dedicated to eating well. It was typically warm on the highway in the afternoon and that was when it came pressing upon me that a long, cold drink of something like orange juice when you have a thirst on is one of life's great compensations for difficulties. I mean, just fantasising about it is remarkably compensatory, and the actual act is perfect in itself. I put this to the test when we arrived at the Great Eastern Building on Jalan Ampang, near our house when we got to KL and I was right. By the time I was halfway through the fresh orange juice I applied myself to, the world had become a better place and I was entirely satisfied.

Now we are settling in at Maison KL and facing the several challenges of a house unoccupied since June. (The fridge has taken it upon itself to break down again.) I'm keeping that moment of the afternoon in mind as a reminder of a promise fulfilled.

Striking

Lots of coverage on Sky News of the various strike actions being called in the UK, most prominently that of the nurses. Even from this distance it's obvious they've got plenty of public support and given the events of the pandemic it's not difficult to understand why.

Must admit though, I'm happy to be situated in a part of the world that manages to avoid the uncertainties attendant upon industrial action. Utterly selfish, I'm afraid, but deeply practical.

Still Lost

I half expected to regain the weight I lost in my illness by the end of the year. Since I knew we would be well supplied on the victuals front during our umrah I thought it likely to put back 3 or 4 kg whilst in Makkah & Madinah, but that didn't happen, as I realised today when I went for my annual check-up at the clinic just over the road as required by my employers. The receptionist checking my weight noted I was 5 kg lighter than this time last year and the doctor reckoned I was 6 kg lighter than my average weight for the last 4 or so years.

I suppose the physical demands of the umrah meant that no matter how well I thought I was feeding myself I needed the intake from the extensive buffets to provide the energy just to rise to the challenge. At some level I'm underestimating that need for energy, I think, somehow not throwing myself into life, if that makes sense. I have an appetite, but it's too easily satisfied.

It would be nice to feel greedy again.

A Sort Of Destiny

Like I said, funny old game, football. By halftime yesterday I was convinced Argentina would win and decided to go to bed. Now I suppose you'll tell me I missed an incredibly exciting second half, and extra time, and penalty shoot out. But that doesn't change the fact that I was right in the end, eh? When it finally went to pens it was obvious which side was going to win, almost as if England had been there.

Looking Likely

Happily tested negative for covid earlier in the evening. But my nose is still running and I'm using a lot of tissues.

Ignoring all that by immersing myself in the ongoing World Cup final. Can't say I felt particularly excited at the kick-off, though mildly favouring Argentina and the mercurial Messi. Can see much to admire with France also. But as things stand, as halftime approaches, there seems only one team in it, the Argentines having dominated from the get-go.

Still, there's plenty of time left and it's a funny old game.

Simply Outraged

Entertained myself for part of the day by watching some of the outraged reactions to the Harry & Meghan nonsense on YouTube. Astonished at the level of outrage generated. Isn't it strange how ill-equipped we are to deal with the hypocrisy of others, even though at some level we can surely recognise at least a little part of ourselves in it?

To be honest, I find the blindness of the couple to their own obvious contradictions and double standards almost endearing. There's a kind of innocence in their obliviousness. 

Dysfunctionality

As a way of dealing with the monotony of self-isolating I tried to watch some of the Harry & Meghan documentary series on Netflix. I managed about twenty minutes of the first episode before terminal boredom set in. Astonishingly self-regarding stuff from a deeply over-privileged couple.

Mind you, I have no idea as to why these two seem to generate so much more loathing than the other royals and why people seem to be rushing to take sides in the latest falling out in the royal family. Isn't it obvious that the institution itself is completely unfit for purpose aside from the deeply flawed individuals who mess up both each other and themselves as a matter of historical routine?

In Isolation

When I had my little moan about the coughing and sneezing amongst our umrah group roughly a week ago I mentioned testing Noi for covid with a happily negative result. Now we're back in Singapore we've both managed to test positive. So we're now self-isolating.

Actually I'm feeling quite well, apart from a runny nose, but Noi has been putting up with a ferociously unpleasant cough for quite some time - though she has only just tested positive. Odd!

A Degree Of Involvement

Time to acknowledge the on-going drama of the World Cup. It isn't that I've been completely ignoring the competition, but I decided early on there was no point in subscribing to the tv coverage when I simply wouldn't be able to watch most of it. Instead I've been following the print coverage assiduously, supplemented by online highlights. On the whole, it's worked for me. And it meant I didn't feel quite the usual depth of pain when England went out.

Must say, I'd like to see Argentina win it this time round just to confirm the ultimate brilliance of Messi.

In Transit

Something of a lost day this one. At the moment killing time in the airport hotel at Abu Dhabi, waiting for our connecting flight this evening. Mind you, after all the frantic running around to fulfil obligations a sense of ease is more than welcome. In fact, I fancy a bit of a doze just now and there's a decent sized bed readily available. So over and temporarily out.

Not Exactly Healthy

Everybody here is struggling with a variety of physical ailments. The most obvious problem for me is my feet on which the skin is cracking, making walking uncomfortable, to say the least. But we're coming to the end of our stay, so the focus now is on packing, in a rather frantic style.

For some reason we seem to have been more pushed for time on this umrah compared to our first in 2014. Mind you, I recall my feet presenting a similar problem then, so some things remain constant.

Quite A Chill

On completing the day's prayers yesterday at Masjid al Nabawi I'd intended to write something about the experience on getting back to the hotel (the day still being Saturday here, if you see what I mean.) Noi was still at the masjid with the ladies from our party who were visiting the oldest section of the mosque, ar Raudah, which houses the tomb of the Prophet (pbuh) and those of two of his companions - Abu Bakr and Umar. I'd had the very rare privilege of actually completing the Ishaq Prayer there and was keen to memorialise my good fortune.

However, I was so shivering cold after dinner in the restaurant, with its unrelenting air-conditioning, that it was all I could do to dive into bed and wrap up warm, hoping to emerge somewhat more in order a little later. Of course, that didn't happen as I just surrendered to sleep. I suppose I do have the excuse that I definitely needed it - just as I needed to be warm.

Here And There

Left Makkah today for Medinah. The journey is now considerably faster than it was when we first did it in 2014, though then we went from Medinah to Makkah. There's now a connection by a super-speed train which means you get from one place to the other in less than two-and-a- half hours. I much preferred the seven-to-eight hour journey through the night myself. It gave time time to think and doze, usually at the same time.

Now trying to adjust to a new hotel room. Air-conditioning too cold and the water's barely warm. Shouldn't complain, though, even if that's what I'm doing. We are where we are.

Being Here

Spirits are high within our umrah tour group but there's been a noticeable increase in the volume of coughing and sneezing issuing from its members - including myself. Noi skipped dinner this evening (it's still Thursday evening in Makkah) and is running quite a temperature, but has happily tested negative for Covid. Since we are moving to Medinah tomorrow, and performing our final umrah, we need to dig deep to find the energy to pack everything, do the necessary, and get on the move. Not easy. But that's why we're here.

On The Monumental

The great mosque in Makkah, the Masjid al-Haram, aspires to the monumental. And like any massive project that does so it has spent much of its existence under construction - as it is at the present time. Indeed, it's so much in the process of being rebuilt that it's difficult to imagine when this current manifestation might be finished. And something similar is true about the hotel complex immediately surrounding it, which I had the impression had been largely completed when I was last here in 2016. It turns out that there are more very large hotels being built behind the very large hotels that immediately face the masjid. In fact, we are resident in one of them, with the adjoining one not completed yet.

Now I can understand the idea of honouring the Creator of All Things with something that reflects in a small measure the grandeur of that creation. I suppose the great cathedrals and temples of the past in other religious traditions are examples of the human desire to do so. There's a kind of nobility in such attempts which reflects well on the human spirit in at least some degree. But there's always the worrying question as to whether its the human aspect in its least attractive form of hubristic ambition that is being celebrated with the divine being pushed somewhere into the background. 

What I like about Makkah are the ways in which the crowds make it their own. Something akin to the anarchy of worship. They bring the monumental down to earth.

Everybody Hurts Sometime

It may be Wednesday (as stated above) in Singapore, but it's still very much Tuesday here in Saudi Arabi and I'm exhausted at the end of another busy day. I suppose this is likely related to my recent illness, but I've found it more difficult than I expected to deal with the physical demands associated with the umrah. Today I honestly wondered at one point whether I'd be able to complete the final ritual, one I've breezed through in the past. I ended up quite pleased with myself for keeping going yet feeling very old indeed.

It's all very humbling, painfully so. I know this is useful in some deep sense, but it still hurts.

Not At Ease

We're now established, temporarily at least, in our hotel room in Makkah. Getting here and fulfilling all our obligations on the way was not easy, which is a large part of the point. Mind you, we didn't have to face anything like the epic wait at the Immigration at Jeddah Airport we experienced in 2016 when we set out on our Hajj in that year. In fact, this time we sailed through - perhaps the fact it was a whole new airport helped.

But each journey here throws up fresh challenges. I'd say the Masjid al-Haram is more of a building site than previously and even noisier and more confusing. Again, the pilgrim faces a challenge and it's quite astonishing to see so many accept that challenge with a calm, implacable good will.

Much Ado

Reasonably frantic preparations now afoot for our upcoming umrah. We set off for Makkah tomorrow afternoon and Yazir, Wan & Maya, who will be accompanying us (along with Fuad & Rozita), are now in residence. Most things are settled, but still lots of detail to consider, both on the practical and spiritual fronts, so that's what I've been applying myself to and will continue to endeavour to do so. Useful to have no real choice.

Affairs Of The Heart

When I was seeking a discharge from the hospital in early October the sticking point was my elevated heart rate, which, to be honest, was quite a concern for me as well as the medical staff. I did wonder whether some kind of damage had been done resulting in the consistently inflated numbers even when I was just resting. And the breathlessness I experienced in the early days of my recovery also seemed to point to some sort of fundamental damage.

Things have greatly improved since then, of course, and I have recently had a strong sense of getting back to something like normal, but it still came as a relief to be told today by a specialist that my heart was functioning well and had recovered completely from the trauma inflicted upon it in September. The doc even went as far as suggesting that some exercise was now in order, which sounded very good indeed.

Of course, the most important aspect of my heart is that it belongs so entirely to my dear wife, who celebrates her birthday today. 

Further Developments

I really should devote more of my time to furthering my education in the visual arts through the resources available online. There's an astonishing amount of informative and insightful material out there of obvious expertise. The excellent Open Culture website regularly features intriguing posts on artists ranging from the classically famous to the modishly obscure and keeps reminding me of how enjoyable it is to expand my knowledge and understanding of the basics.

For example, a recent piece about Picasso at fifteen reminded me of something I once knew and had managed to forget. The young Pablo was a gifted artist in formal terms. An awareness of that helps put in perspective how extraordinary his later development was. The brilliance of Les Demoiselles d'Avignon becomes even more obvious when juxtaposed against the earlier naturalistic canvases. You are forced to understand how nothing in the modernist Picasso has come about arbitrarily: his command of technique is such that he means all of it, even if it leaves us puzzled as to what exactly it 'means'.

By the way, Open Culture doesn't provide an interpretation of Les Demoiselles, but it's very easy indeed to google quite a number, some of which sound reasonably plausible. And if you click on the title itself in the article you're given a link to a decent article on the great work. So no shortage of good stuff, like I said.

In Difficulty

Just watched, for a second time, the episode of Grand Designs in which the guy fails in his ambitious plan to build a personal lighthouse on the North Devon coast. In the process he gets deeply into debt and his family falls apart. Since most episodes of the programme see the projects featured successfully completed, this one was atypical to say the least. At least this time round I was prepared for the bitter disappointment at the end. Still left a sour taste in the mouth though.

Good to be reminded of life's difficulties, I suppose - especially when someone else happened to be on the receiving end.

Higher Things

Look at the moon! said Noi just now as we were driving home. Her excitement with regard to the appearance of our lunar friend is always to be welcomed as a sure indication of something worth paying attention to.

And it was. A gorgeous crescent moon thickly aglow in the lower sky. Still there, through the window, for the Ishaq Prayer. 

Adapting

I was quite taken aback today reading an article on the Channel News Asia website concerning transgender students finding places in halls of residence at local universities. What took me by surprise were the numbers of such students involved. Whilst these were a bit vague they went well beyond the handful I suppose I'd vaguely imagined, with an estimate of 50 to 60 in one university. I couldn't help but wonder if these youngsters were getting the support they needed at a crucial time in their lives, given the challenges I assume they face. Reading between the lines, I got the impression that the various universities were trying hard to adapt to something quite new to them (but I'm just guessing here; the article didn't give any sense of historical context, which was a pity.)

Essentially the tone of the piece was, rightly, sympathetic and non-judgmental - in many ways positive, though there were hints of the difficulties encountered in the various families of the youngsters involved. Which made me wonder whether the deep-rooted antagonisms seemingly inexorably tied in with transgender issues in the West will eventually erupt in this part of the world. I'm thinking here of the visceral responses to J.K. Rowling's critique of the notion of self-identifying gender and the like.

The High Life

Just scoffed a substantial bowl of chicken rice porridge as prepared by the Missus. It doesn't get much better. Life, that is. Also chicken rice porridge, and pretty much everything in between.

A Crafty Show

Enjoyed watching our drama guys putting on a performance for some little kids this morning, involving a couple of Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes tales very loosely and playfully adapted for the occasion. No one took it took it too seriously so it worked beautifully for its audience - a perfect match. It looked completely casual, but wasn't. Which was where the craft was involved.

Positive Vibes

Needed to spend a few hours of the day at NUH where I had two separate appointments, involving scans to two different parts of my body. This involved quite a bit of waiting around which, I must say, I really didn't mind at all. Why so? Well, the hospital is far from a depressing place to be. Quite the opposite, in fact. It fairly hums with life and a sense of purpose. If those running the place are trying to create a feeling of well-being then I can only say they're succeeding, in my case at least.

The amazing thing is that somehow the various departments are made to fit together. The Missus pointed out that the signage is a triumph of clarity in itself. Given the complexity of the place it needs to be.

First World Problems

Managed to get into an email account that decided to shut me out for the last six days for reasons best known to itself. Now need to remember how exactly I got in and which browser I needed to use. I suppose I should write it all down but I prefer to live dangerously (and in a state of almost permanent irritation.)

Protected

Earthquake in Indonesia today, not too far from Jakarta. So not too far from where we are, yet the geography of the region protects us. And we take this for granted. A sort of birthright - even for those not born here.

How fragile we are. How easily we forget.

Making The Best Of It

Read a few articles today related to the World Cup in Qatar and the coverage of the opening ceremony and the first game. All had reservations to express as to the likely success of the tournament but generally gave a sense of shrugging their shoulders as if to say, well this is what we've got, so we'd best get on with it.

There's a kind of wisdom in that, I reckon. I've read a few comments BTL from those intending to give the whole thing a miss - and I can respect the reasoning behind this. But the majority of comments rightly point out that we're all hopelessly compromised at various levels in our participation in various events involving those with less than stellar records when it comes to human rights and general matters of morality. An uneasy going along with it all, but a readiness to give voice to worrisome concerns when appropriate is probably the best that can be done.

Striding Out

Set out in the early morning for an extended stroll along the Changi Jurassic Mile with Nahar, Yati, Boon and Mei - followed by an excellent breakfast at the Lagoon Hawker Centre, which probably served to undo all the health benefits accumulated. Good way to spend a Sunday morning.

The Big Freeze

Spent the better part of two hours in the late afternoon attending a briefing at which I was seated directly beneath the vent for one of the air-conditioning units blowing impressive amounts of cold air directly at me. This was a very uncomfortable experience which made me wonder why people in this part of the world so often seem to think it's a good idea to compensate for a warm climate by creating conditions indoors as close to freezing as possible. Of course, one can look forward to escaping into the sultry outdoors at some point, but even then it takes a good quarter of an hour to get rid of the shakes as one adjusts to normal conditions.

I've got a feeling it costs a lot of money to maintain the big freeze that seems the default option for so many interiors. But I don't hear other voices raised in protest at the waste involved - so it could be that I'm wrong on this one and making ourselves tremble with cold is reasonably cost effective. But that doesn't make it rational. 

Warning Signs

There's a particularly striking letter from Ted Hughes to his sister, written in June 1957 as he and his wife Sylvia are crossing the Atlantic to spend a year or so in America. What makes it jump out from the general run of his correspondence at this time in his life is that it strikes the first notes of some kind of criticism of Sylvia, though the notes are highly defensive with TH defending aspects of her character to his sister: Don't judge her on her awkward behaviour, he tells Olwyn, amongst other things. Following the overwhelmingly positive stuff relating to Plath that has dominated the letters to this point it comes as something of an awkward surprise to the reader of the selected letters to realise that the picture perfect marriage is beginning to show signs of wear and tear despite the complacent certainty of May 1957 that Marriage is my medium.

What went wrong? You need to read two great, great writers on the subject in both intense poetry and prose to begin to shape an understanding. And even then answers will escape you as answers escaped them both. To leave the pain of it all. Marvelously expressed, but at a terrible price. 

In Expectation

Chanced upon an electric live performance today of Messiaen's Et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum featuring the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France conducted by Myung-Whun Chung. Maestro Chung is a Messiaen specialist, of course, so as soon as I saw he was in charge of proceedings I knew I was in for a good time, and I wasn't let down - though the coughing from the audience in the soft bits was quite an irritant. On the other hand, it served as a reminder of the dangerous 'aliveness' of it all.

I loved the remorseless onward thrust of this version. You could hear the dead leaving their graves. And the silence at the end, before the applause set in. Somehow it was made integral to the music. What we will be left with at the end of eternity.

Somewhat Quizzical

Each year my employers expect me to complete a Cyber Security quiz, and I dutifully completed the online quiz this afternoon. Somehow I passed. 

I understand the logic behind the expectation involved. After all, my work frequently takes me into cyberspace and it's only right that I shouldn't compromise the security of my students, my colleagues and the organisation that I work for in those forays into the digital realm. But the majority of the questions I was asked had little to no application to real life situations that I face and I figured out the answers based on 'hints' provided, without which I would have been clueless. All this suggests that the afternoon's exercise was a bit of a waste of time, I suppose, but who am I to question the powers that be on matters way beyond my pay grade?

Something To Add

When I was commenting on my reservations regarding Qatar's hosting of the World Cup yesterday I was uneasily aware of oversimplifying a complex situation. That doesn't mean I think my reservations are misplaced, but there's always more to learn, more stories to listen to, more perspectives to be aware of. An informative piece by Patrick Wintour in today's Graun did a pretty good job of trying to be reasonably even-handed in its treatment of the on-going story and at least helped the reader see how the emirate sees itself in relation to the western world. It was especially interesting to read of the Arab world's keen awareness of the West's hypocrisy in its criticism of the treatment of migrant workers set against Europe's often callous treatment of migrants. Ouch.

Counting The Cost

I've just started to take more of an active interest in the forth-coming World Cup in Qatar. I've found the mid-winter timing for the tournament a bit of an obstacle to the usual build-up of expectations at a personal level, but I'm slowly coming round to the idea that the competition is actually going to take place and I might as well accept the fact. And reading profiles of the various national squads involved has a fascination of its own, especially for someone who hasn't been following the international scene too closely.

However, I must confess that that my deep-rooted reservations about the wisdom of allowing Qatar to act as hosts continues to colour my perceptions about this year's tournament. I'm well aware that a degree of corruption is likely to shade into every major sporting event in this fallen world, but I've got a feeling that even Fifa may end up very much regretting their choice on this one. A couple of recent cartoons by the brilliant David Squires exemplify the doubts we should all feel given the experiences of so many of the migrant workers who provide the luxuries the tourists take for granted and what happens to those who blow the whistle on the realities of those experiences. 

The problem is, I'm not exactly sure how those doubts should manifest. Ignoring the World Cup seems pointlessly juvenile: it won't do a thing to benefit the workers who toiled to construct the infrastructure that made it all possible. I suppose the best we can do is to try and figure out ways to genuinely support their cause, directly or indirectly. Mr Squires does some little good in keeping the world informed in concrete ways of the human cost of our sporting entertainment.

Quietude

We found ourselves on Orchard Road in the early morning since we needed to go to a clinic located near Wheelock Place to get some jabs to vaccinate us against meningitis ahead of a trip we're making to Makkah in December for Umrah, and that was the time we'd booked for our appointment. It's been quite some time since we've been in the city, and I can't remember the last time time I was there before 9.00 am. Must say, there's a lot to be said for wandering around the area at that time. The traffic was light, it was easy to park and there was a general sense of ease on the uncrowded streets.

I can remember a time when I felt the excitement of crowds. But that's a long time ago. I'm more than happy encountering empty spaces, recognising a potential I don't care to be a part of.

Sort Of Phlegmatic

Another appointment at NUH this afternoon. I didn't actually realise which bit of me it was for until I found myself staring at a cross-section of my lungs which had been scanned when I was hospitalised. There were plentiful amounts of white grunge in the interiors of both which the doc explained shouldn't have been there. I'm guessing it was something like phlegm. After giving me a quick going over with the stethoscope he reckoned I'd now got rid of the grunge, but I'd need to book another scan at some point to verify this. Oh hum. 

My assumption about the phlegm, by the way, is based on the fact that when I was in ICU and they finally pulled all the tubes out of me such that I could breathe on my own, I was able to cough up quite sensational amounts of the stuff. At the time I commented that I seemed to have turned into a machine dedicated to the production of phlegm. Looking at the images on the computer screen I now understand that my playful image was the literal truth. 

Personal Grooming

My day was made considerably brighter for my discovery that the sentence: May this tusk root out the lice of the hair hair and the beard, is the oldest known sentence written in the first alphabet on a ancient comb - dating from around 1700 BC. It's somehow reassuring to think that our ancestors were deeply concerned with the grim business of trying to stay presentable in the face of all that life could find to throw at them just as we need to get ourselves ready to face the world. Also useful to bear in mind that for the most part we've triumphed over hair lice and have a much easier time in terms of keeping up a decent level of hygiene. There's a lot to be for some aspects of progress.

Ups And Downs

I was just reading an interview between the playwright Arthur Miller and some big name theatre critic conducted around the early sixties and was struck by how much weight they gave to Bernard Shaw and T.S. Eliot as dramatists. I can't imagine anyone seriously doing the same today, even if they were great admirers of Eliot as a poet. 

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever had the chance to see Eliot acted on stage - not even Murder in the Cathedral. And the only Shaw I've ever seen on stage is Heartbreak House - performed in Singapore oddly enough, by a British touring company, and quite brilliantly. 

Shaw is the real oddity, I think, in terms of the ebb and flow of reputation. When I was a youngster I seem to recall him as quite a dominant theatrical presence, as it were. Lots of stuff on the BBC, for example. In fact, now I come to think of it, we did his Caesar and Cleopatra for 'O' level. What an extraordinary choice. I don't think I can remember a single line of it. I've got a feeling I read a few of his plays borrowed from Denton Library without them having much impact. I suppose they just went right over my head.

Does anyone take Shaw seriously now? You don't see his plays as set texts, as far as I can remember - the exception being Pygmalion, but that's rare. (And I reckon My Fair Lady is the better night out.)

Found

Myself at the dining table, just finishing a bit of on-line business with the bank and about to post this squib to sum up my day. Noi at the ironing board near-by, having seized the opportunity to deal with a couple or more recalcitrant shirts before we sit down and munch some rojak and watch a bit of telly. It's a very ordinary, humdrum evening in our excessively unexceptional household - which is just the way I like it and for which I give deep and abiding thanks to our Creator. 

Still Missing

Noi is on her way back from Malaka but stuck in a massive jam outside the petrol station just ahead of the Malaysian Immigration. I doubt I'll get to see her before midnight, but there's always tomorrow - looking on the bright side.

I've survived on cheese sandwiches over the weekend, which is no bad thing as I developed quite a hankering for cheese over the last two weeks, and some home-made scones from the Missus herself. Oh, and I popped out with Fuad and Hakim for a gentlemen's excursion to the Adam Road food centre this afternoon and a distinctly jolly time was enjoyed by all.

I have a confession to make. Not quite sure why, but I watched an episode of The Crown, that programme about the royal family. It was all about Princess Margaret and was complete tosh, but I watched it to the end for some reason. Don't worry. I have no intention of watching another.

Gone Missing

Noi has gone off this weekend to Melaka along with Rozita to deal with some family business, leaving me to fend for myself. Of course, I'm missing her severely, but I'm trying to put the time here to good use by ploughing on with the marking for IB. But it wasn't all just mental exercise today. I took a walk up to Holland Village this afternoon as part of a long term plan to try and rebuild some level of fitness in this battered frame of mine. This followed a walk Noi and I undertook with Lee Jing around the Medway Park area on Thursday evening, our first tentative attempt to see whether I was up to recreational rambling.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that both walks went well with no obvious ill effects. However, there was one downside to today's little adventure. I was intending to partake of the cup that cheers at the CBTL at Holland Village but it's shut down since my last visit, which was before my hospitalisation. So, some disappointment there. But I showed resilience by grabbing a cappuccino somewhere else and telling myself that change is good even when it isn't. 

Reason Not The Need

The UK press has been in a bit of a furore of late with regard to an ex-cabinet minister who is intending to appear on a reality-tv show this coming December whilst still sitting as an MP. Nice work if you can get it, I'd say, but most of the UK disagrees.

The thing I find hard to understand about the guy's desire to appear in this kind of format on the goggle box is exactly that - the sheer desire to do so, the sense of need involved. How many of us would want to go to all that trouble only to face the very real possibility of screwing up horrendously and showing the world what complete clots we are in endless reruns available to all on YouTube? I can only figure that in his imagination he can conceive only of doing a great job and impressing all and sundry. Maybe he thinks he did that as a minister? If so, I can but say he is mightily deceived - but I suppose it comes with the territory.

New Ways Of Seeing

One of the incidental occasional rewards of marking Individual Orals for IB is that you sometimes stumble across new writers or artists in the extracts students select to comment upon. This session has been unusually rich in material referencing the migrant experience. I'm not claiming it's life-altering to see the world through the eyes of those who find themselves displaced and deeply uncertain of where they stand in this world, but it certainly makes it less easy to feel so sure as to your right to be where you are.

Mind you, as someone who's lived most his adult life in a kind of exile, I can't say I've ever taken my right to live in this far place for granted. But my experience has been infinitely more comfortable than those poor souls who struggle for the most basic grip on existence. And it's salutary to rub up against their concerns, if only in imagination.

Below The Surface

Very much enjoyed From Russia with Love and this despite the fact that James Bond is a thoroughly dislikable character. In fact, I'd say his general unpleasantness adds to the readability of the novel since it adds an unexpected dimension in that the protagonist is the sort of chap who sets one's teeth on edge. I suppose Fleming must have identified with his hero, yet I suspect there was a lot more to the writer than his despicable fictional alter ego. There's just too much that's really first rate in the writing for him to be as shabby and superficial as Bond.

The descriptions of various districts of Istanbul in the 1950s, for example, and the wonderful evocation of travelling on the Orient Express. I found myself deliberately slowing the pace of my reading to savour the evocation of atmosphere. Yet Fleming also keeps the suspense humming as the reader wonders how exactly will the dastardly Russian plot against Bond play out and how will Tatiana be used against him. It's very clever how this is held back until the last four chapters and then plays out at lightening speed.

Of course, the novel is supremely un-woke, but one thing I'll say for Fleming. On the rare occasions he writes from a female perspective he does so with some success. In the opening chapter he adopts the perspective of the unnamed masseuse with respect for her generosity of spirit and the danger she senses she could be in and, much more strikingly, his portrait of the life of Tatiana when we first meet in the novel has a genuine inwardness and concern for a well-rounded character. It's a pity Fleming didn't choose to give us more of her perspective as the novel developed.

Run Down

I'm getting plenty of sleep, but don't feel exactly rested. Not sure if this is related to the medication I'm on, or part of the recovery process. Fortunately I'm not overwhelmed by work at this time of year so I'm taking this in my stride, but it would be nice to find some energy somewhere. 

Mind you, it could simply be the result of me being well beyond my sell-by date. Got to keep this real, you know. 

The Green Stuff

As I mentioned the other day, I've made a start on the Letters of Ted Hughes and the great poet's genius is obvious from the very earliest letters penned in his teenage years. Amusingly another obvious aspect of TH's character on regular display in these missives, a bit at odds with the usual stereotypes of literary brilliance, is his keen interest in how to get his hands on money - plenty of it - in as short order as possible. I remember Jonathan Bate pointing out in his biography of the poet just how often Hughes got involved in money-making schemes, usually of his own contriving, but it's striking to witness this at first hand, as it were. And the schemes are invested with as much imaginative zest as his verse, as in one early letter to his older brother extolling the virtues of breeding mink in the British Isles.

Mind you, it's important to bear in mind that in these early years TH is looking for a way to forge a poetic career - and doing so with the relentlessness of Joyce. I don't think we can characterise the Hughes family as being working class, but they're not that much better off, so financial survival is an enormously real concern to allow room for writing, yet one that is obviously going to be dealt with somehow.

Just in general terms, TH's confidence in his gifts is wonderfully bracing. I love his passing reference in a letter to his sister Olwyn, to the children's stories that were to be collected in How the Whale Became, a favourite book of mine. He just knows what he has achieved: Since I came here I've written nine animal fables. They are original and I think they are very good. I have written them absolutely simply.

Hope he earned a few bob from that book alone!

Further Jollification

A bit of a repeat of yesterday. Accomplished the same amount of marking in the early part of the day. Then it was off to Woodlands with lots of eatables prepared by the Missus to confirm and celebrate the engagement of Fafa with a gathering of a fair number of the clan at Rozita & Fuad's - not to mention cutting a cake for Fifi's birthday. Somehow our nieces got all grown-up when we weren't looking.

Must say, it's been a fine way to spend a weekend, but I'm not sure I could keep up such a frantic social life beyond a couple of days. 

A Sense Of Balance

Spent the morning and early afternoon marking various Individual Orals from the November examinations for the IB. Then spent the evening eating plentifully in excellent company at Yati and Nahar's along with Boon and Mei. I know which part of the day I preferred, though I suppose they complemented each other well enough.

Something Funny

A good day for all in all. But quite serious in tone. Felt the need for laughter, of the out loud variety around 10 pm. Considered with some care what might be guaranteed to provoke the necessary chortles and decided an episode of Round the Horne would do the trick. Quite honestly the one I selected was an entirely random choice, but what a classic!

Nice to think I most likely would have listened to this live on Sunday with the rest of the family at just ten years old and been chortling away, not really understanding half of what was going on - but knowing it was funny despite my not knowing.

Forging Ahead

Much as I've enjoyed rereading some of the novels on my shelves recently it struck me as being a bit overly inward-looking. With that stricture in mind I popped into the library at work yesterday and came out with three titles intended as reading (of fiction) for the next couple of months. Not necessarily in order of merit they are: Conrad's Chance, Alice Munro's The Beggar Maid and Ian Fleming's From Russia with Love. (To be honest, they are in descending order of merit, but you're not allowed to say that sort of elitist thing these days. I'm hoping the brackets will save me from general opprobrium on social media. That and the fact that my readership remains helpfully low in number.)

I made a start on Fleming's fifth Bond outing and, I must say, it's a stormer. Vastly superior to Casino Royale, the first in the series, which I borrowed from the library some time back. There were signs of fine writing in Casino Royale, but also a lot of clumsiness and downright uncertainty. However, I've just finished the first part of From Russia with Love, which is set almost entirely in Russia as the dastardly plot against Bond is worked out and the writing is uniformly excellent. Not that I'm claiming it's got the subtlety of John le Carre - Fleming is writing in-your-face popular fiction; but he's writing it as well as it can be written.

I'd cite as evidence the brilliant first chapter, in which nothing much happens except a somewhat unpleasantly tough and mysterious chap getting a massage at a poolside from an attractive young lady. There's a vaguely sexual undertone to the description, but nothing overt - which later turns out to be important in terms of the characterisation of the chap, a Smersh assassin - but far more significant is the explicit yet unrealised sense of menace. Fleming conveys this in the slightest details. I said he wasn't subtle, but how about: To take the small things first: his hair.? I love that colon (the only one in the whole of Part 1 if I'm not wrong) beautifully suggesting the slight hesitation of the unnamed masseuse as she assesses her client's body in a detached, deliberately distanced, fearful fashion.  As I said, nothing happens, but you just have to read on. 

I should add, by the by, that I'm mixing my reading of Fleming with the very chunky Letters of Ted Hughes edited by Christopher Reid. I've dipped into Reid's selection often but I've decided it's time to go cover to cover. Hughes's spelling is something to wonder at, by the way. I suppose when you're a genius you can afford not to care about the conventions we ordinary humans have to follow but TH couldn't be bothered even before anyone knew he was officially the real thing. Though even the very earliest pre-Cambridge letters explode with something very like genius.

Received Opinions

I like to think I'm the sturdily independent sort when it comes to forming opinions relating to novels, drama, music, poetry, art, and all that palaver. However, in recent times I've come to suspect that deep down I'm more of a follower than I'd ever care to admit. But I'm also coming to think that's not such a bad thing as long as I make sensible choices as to whom to follow.

Two such choices for me, that I've mentioned in this Far Place before, are the music-themed blogs of Richard Williams at thebluemovement.com and Bob Shingleton at On An Overgrown Path. Both temporarily closed down earlier this year and I felt the loss keenly. Mr Williams's blog is only functioning intermittently at the moment, but it's good to see signs of life, whilst the quirky Overgrown Path appears to be back in its full fascinating glory, I'm very pleased to say.

I've learnt a heck of a lot from both and been guided along paths into territory very much worth exploring. I may have stumbled upon it by myself, but I somehow doubt I would have fully recognised where I was and its special beauties.

Picking Up The Pace

It's the invigilation season and I am feeling absurdly pleased with myself for succeeding in walking as quickly as my colleagues. Mind you, considering the fact that a little over a month ago I couldn't walk at all I think I can cut myself some slack on this one.

Not So Simple

Another odd coincidence. On this day, last year I was moaning about the rise in price of the week to a view diary that I favour. (In truth, 'favour' is a mild way to put it. I just have to have one of of the darn things to function.) And then just yesterday I ended up getting my copy for 2023, paying almost three times as much as usual since the only version available seemed to be the 'executive diary'. I suppose I should pretend to be an executive of some kind, but I'm afraid I really don't fit the part. A simple chap like myself requires a cheap, simple diary, but those days are gone.

Second Time Around

Odd coincidence. Yesterday I was talking about being on the lookout for examples of graft being used in the sense of corruption in a British context, vaguely guessing this crept into common usage in the last ten years or so. Then this afternoon, approaching the end of Julian Barnes's A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters, in the 'half' chapter entitled Parenthesis I stumbled upon the phrase, ...the bribe-takers to graft. Now the novel, or, rather, collection of cunningly linked short stories, was published in 1989, which is when I first read it, so the American usage of graft crossed the Atlantic a lot earlier than I thought. 

In case you're wondering why I've been rereading Barnes's book, it's really down to my colleague Saravanan, who offered to lend me his copy the other day when I was talking about running out of fiction to read in my convalescence. This prompted me to remember I had a time-faded copy on my shelves somewhere and I'd forgotten most of the stories except the first in the volume about Noah and the one about Gericault's The Wreck of the Medusa (if that's what the painting is called.) It struck me that I'd not really been all that enthusiastic about the volume, except for the Gericault story which struck me as both highly original and very engaging. One problem had been the hard work of adjusting to the very different worlds, linked tenuously by themes and motifs, in each story. Since then I've read three other novels by Barnes which I've enjoyed immensely: Flaubert's Parrot, Arthur & George and The Sense of Ending and I thought it might be worth giving History of the World another go now I'm older and (highly tentatively!) wiser.

Must say, this time around I didn't have much of a problem moving from one tale to another. I suppose having read them some thirty-three years ago might have helped, though I remembered precious little in the way of detail. I can't say I found them much more engaging this time around though. Clever, yes, but not gripping at the emotional level - except for the account of the voyage of the St Louis with its crew of Jewish refugees in the Three Simple Stories chapter, but this works at the level of simple historical truth. Can't say I really appreciate the weaving together of the various motifs. I mean it's quite entertaining in its way to take note of the woodworm and bitumen and various waterways and whatnot popping up here and there, but any real significance is strictly illusory as far as I can see (or not see, if you see what I mean.)

Facing Two Ways

We were driving back from Arab Street this afternoon, passing a building site for a new MRT station, when the phrase hard graft popped into my head as I observed the various workmen scattered across the site applying themselves to all sorts of tasks. The fact that they were all heavily clad to protect them from the sun and from injury added to the sense of just how physically tough the work was. It put me in mind of when I was a kid watching bricklayers working on construction sites back in the UK in the depths of winter with other labourers shoveling the frozen ground as they worked. 

But then it struck me that the word graft now seems more commonly used to refer to corruption, especially the sort that is political in nature. I know this seems an odd change of subject, but the deep contradiction in terms of meaning struck me as particularly jarring. I mean, I'm very much aware of the existence of 'Janus words' that face in very different directions, but going from a word that evokes a feeling of an essential nobility to the same word conjuring a sense of sleaze was quite a switch. Not to mention the notion of grafting a fresh piece of skin upon a wound, for a third meaning.

When I got home I did a bit of research into the origins of the word to see how the contradiction(s) emerged, but didn't get too far. But I was able to figure out that in personal terms I probably encountered the idea of graft as work first, in childhood I think, since hard graft is regarded as informal and British whereas graft as corruption is seen as American. I reckon in recent times - especially the last ten years or so - it's very much entered the lexicon of British political discourse. I intend to listen out for it to confirm my suspicions. I also suspect that hard graft is very much a working class thing in British terms since those are the folks condemned to it.

Keeping It Fresh

For the last three and a half weeks or so I've felt something of a sense of staleness as far as listening to music is concerned. I don't mean that I haven't been able to listen at all, or that everything I've listened to has been disappointing and fallen flat, but it's hard to think of much that's had a real impact and I haven't been spinning disks or listening to stuff on YouTube with my usual enthusiasm. I suppose this started in hospital when I got hold of my phone and ear-buds and treated myself to a listen to RVW's 5th Symphony in a live performance (in the middle of the night, actually.) It was entrancing stuff but I only managed the first two movements. It wasn't that I fell asleep as I was so rested by doing nothing I didn't need sleep; rather, I just couldn't bring the necessary energy to my listening - I couldn't do justice to the music. And I've felt that way about so much I've tried to listen to since. Even things I've enjoyed - Dylan's Oh Mercy, for example, - have sort of eventually slipped into the background as pleasant aural wallpaper when I've been expecting them to take me to another place.

In case you're wondering, I've tried to listen to new stuff accessed on-line, but nothing has really tickled my fancy. It's as if I've recognised the vocabulary employed and felt a cozy, dullish familiarity. Very unfair, of course.

But today I made a bit of a breakthrough, courtesy of one of those usually silly lists in the Graun of the '20 greatest songs ranked', in this case of the mighty Steely Dan. First of all, it's a great list with no filler. Second of all, it's easy to immediately think of another 20 songs that could replace the 20 given. Third of all, there's an unusually full Comments segment (925, when I last looked) chock full of other suggestions, probably covering the full SD catalogue and straying into the territory of Fagen & Becker solo albums. And fourth, and most important of all, based on all the above I was inspired to spin Katy Lied twice today and each time I fell in love with the album like I was eighteen again.

Another Fine Mess

When I posted here just over a week ago regarding the UK's now ex-PM's lack of any obvious qualities I didn't quite expect her to resign so soon. Having said that, the deficit in terms of evidence of competence did point to the inevitability of her fate.

But on deeper reflection it makes sense to see the omnishambles that the current Tory Party has morphed into as the direct outcome of the disastrous referendum of 2016. Our ex-European partners see this quite clearly. The Brits for some reason remain parochially, stubbornly, wilfully, blind.

The High Life

I remember next to nothing from the first three weeks or so of my illness - except for Noi's reassuring presence -  but one detail sticks in my mind, floating free of all context, but associated with the Missus somehow. This was the idea that sharing a cup of teh tarik and a slice of cake with friends represented a peak experience, worth striving for. And when I found myself again in ICU this simple notion became central to my thinking, especially when the tubes were removed from my throat and I was able to actually drink water again (though very gently and with considerable trepidation. I had to pass something called the swallowing test, which I failed miserably the first time round, and there was even some loose talk of a tracheostomy, for reasons I cannot fathom.)

Anyway, I mention all this as context to Noi and I scoffing some tasty curry puffs from the hawker centre at 353 Clementi Avenue 2 washed down with a jugful of her very own teh tarik this afternoon, around 5 o'clock. I've generally made it something of a rule to remind myself to celebrate these little occasions - now I need no reminders: it's automatic. I'm put in mind of that wise uncle of the wise Kurt Vonnegut Junior and his - the uncle's - pithy: If this isn't nice, what is? Might even adopt that for myself and pretend it's mine - would probably get away with it.

Something Forgotten

I'd just started reading E.M. Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread before being admitted to hospital. There was a battered old penguin paperback of the book on my bookshelves and since it's little more than a novella and I'd pretty much forgotten the details of the plot I thought I might as well renew my acquaintance. However, I'd struggled through the opening few pages with their abundance of characters and when I came to consciousness in ICU and felt like asking for some books to read I didn't feel up to Forster somehow.

Over the weekend I thought I'd better get back to my planned reading and, somewhat to my surprise, Forster's first novel proved almost unputdownable. The social comedy was both razor sharp and funny, the glamour and sheer 'foreignness' of Italy (to the parochial English) in the early twentieth century wonderfully evoked, and the sudden shifts to darker aspects of human experience came both naturally and shockingly. (I just didn't expect either of the two deaths involved.)

But here's the odd thing. As I implied earlier, my assumption was that I'd read the novel before, and judging from the publication date of the edition involved this must have been around 1985. Yet I remembered absolutely nothing. Does this mean that I dutifully read to the end in an entirely superficial manner without taking anything in? Or did I manage a chapter or two and abandon the attempt? (But the state of the book with a broken spine suggests otherwise.) 

Another mystery. Though not a terribly interesting one.

Must say, I'd rate Where Angels Fear to Tread above Howard's End in terms of sheer pizzazz, but a long way short of A Passage to India in all respects - but, then, that's true of most novels, I suppose. It's easy to forget just good Forster is.

Sheer Genius(es)

Another good day featuring a judicious mixture of work and idling round. Several worthy highlights, the most unlikely of which came in the form of an article by Nick Hornby on A tale of two geniuses. I've always found the work of Mr Hornby a bit hit and miss, generally depending on how simpatico I find myself toward his subject matter. In this case he's dealing with two of my major enthusiasms - Prince and Dickens - and whilst making an actual comparison between the two is essentially bonkers I'm very happy indeed to go with it just for the pleasure of reading about the two. 

Come to think of it, the linking of His Purple Highness with The Inimitable isn't totally crazy. Each represents something far beyond what we think of as the limit of human creativity in a way that's both astonishing and deeply life-enhancing. It's difficult to encounter either without feeling both awed and inspired.

Priceless

Spent the morning editing some testimonials for my class then watched Danny Boyle's movie Millions, and was very glad I did so. I've had the DVD for quite some time, since 2004 when it first came out, but the last time I gave it a spin, around 2006, it refused to play properly (on more than one DVD player) and I became convinced there was something very wrong with it. Since I loved the film, and the novel by screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce, I'd been very disappointed at the time. Then why did I try to play it today? Well, I now possess a blu-ray player for one thing, and there are no obvious marks on the actual DVD of the movie to indicate anything definitely flawed about it. So it sort of seemed like a good idea to give it a go, and that's the way it turned out to be.

If anything I think I enjoyed the movie this time round more than previously. It's possessed of tremendous charm, imagination, verve and a real sense of wonder. The two juvenile leads are sensationally good, by far the best child-actors I've seen in films. They are so unaffectedly unselfconscious that you start to wonder how exactly the director got the performances out of them. And the fact that the whole thing is based in Manchester is the icing on the cake for me.

The puzzling thing is that so few people have ever heard of the film as far as I can tell. Their loss, I'm afraid. 

A Change Of Perspective

As my first week at work for quite a while comes to an end, I must say I've felt grateful for each day, as if each one has been something of a privilege. I honestly can't remember ever thinking like this about any week previously in my rather long career. Not sure this feeling will last, but it's been nice to accomplish it this one time.

Progress

Popped back to the hospital a couple of times in the course of the day for appointments related to checking on the state of my liver, first of all to give blood, late in the morning, and then for a consultation in the afternoon regarding the results in relation to that august organ. Concerns had been raised as to possible liver damage towards to the end of my stay in ICU, but the consensus had been that the problems were likely transient and a by-product of the treatment I was receiving for the lung infection and seizures. That was happily confirmed today with some good-looking numbers.

Earlier in the morning I'd enjoyed another kind of progress in the shape of some guidance at work from Lee Jing in the use of what are known as resistance bands. These are ways of getting a bit of a workout for the muscles without overdoing things. Just what I need at the moment. I'm still way too weak to consider going to the gym - just going up a flight of stairs is apt to leave me breathless, so I've been feeling at a bit of a loss as to how to speed up the rehabilitation process. But now I've regained a sense of direction, and at just the right time.

An Embarrassment

Time for a confession as to how I filled the hours in hospital and convalescing at home since I wasn't applying myself to the finer aspects of reading and film so readily available to me. I'm afraid I spent far too much time idly browsing stuff online through my phone. My rather pathetic excuse for this, which has some relevance to when I was in hospital, is that in my weakened state it was easier to hold the phone than a book and the habit sort of stuck.

When I finally awoke from my delirium the first news I took in concerned the death of Queen Elizabeth. To be honest, I didn't quite believe it at first, but then realised that Mei, who first told me about it, was being perfectly serious. She then confirmed for me that Liz Truss was the current PM of the UK, which was no surprise. For some reason the latter point sparked in me a minor obsession regarding following the progress of the UK government through the news online and this fed into my use of the phone.

I was reminded of the feeling of incredulous horror I felt in the early days of the Trump presidency. How could a serious nation be led by a woman without any notable qualities? The puzzle has remained, if anything growing in intensity as I have become more familiar with the lady in question, and the ministers she has surrounded herself with. Time was when even if I detested a particular government (the Thatcher regime springs to mind) the essential competence of the politicos in charge wasn't in any real doubt. But this government are so obviously incapable of running a country it's painfully embarrassing to watch and read about.

One simple example. Surely the giving of speeches is central to what politicians do? Now I don't expect every party leader to be a brilliantly charismatic speaker, but it's reasonable to expect then to sound fluent and relaxed. So far I haven't heard a single public utterance from the current PM that hasn't sounded stilted and clumsy in the way of very average students who just don't seem to 'get' the basics of public speaking.

But the folly is mine for bothering to spend so much time following this stuff and the intemperate commentary that follows it. One of the good things about getting back to work has been the way I've managed to distance myself from it.

Plenty Ado

Just as I wasted valuable time in my convalescence by not reading very much, I similarly failed to get down to serious viewing of films of any note. The sole, happy, exception being that I watched Joss Whedon's excellent version of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing on the Sunday morning before going back to work on Monday.

I got hold of the DVD quite some time ago, based on the very good reviews I'd read, but failed to really get into the film on a first viewing. I'd watched some five minutes or so only, and it somehow didn't seem to work for me. Possibly this was due to the fact that it's so very different from the Branagh version which I generally consider my favourite Shakespeare on film of all time (first viewed in the cinema back in the 1990s). But on Sunday Whedon's version worked for me and, if anything, I enjoyed it all the more for the differences from the Branagh version. The subdued black and white photography had a different kind of glamour than the earlier Italian sun-kissed version and the low-key naturalistic speaking of the verse seemed completely fitting for a movie largely shot indoors (in Whedon's own house, I believe.) I'd also consider Whedon's cast as more uniformly strong than Branagh's and more of an ensemble than a series of star turns. Whilst Amy Acker and Alexis Denisof are a satisfying Beatrice and Benedick they by no means steal the show, and I really enjoyed Hero (Jillian Morgese, I think - few lines, but great presence, really inhabiting the character) and Claudio (Fran Kranz - managing to make a potentially irritating character genuinely sympathetic and likable.)

One thing I'm noticing about myself as an audience for Shakespeare in my more mature years is that whilst I enjoy the real fireworks of the poetry once he turns it on, I'm quite happy with the more cliched stuff when he's just chugging along. That's partly why I was okay with the Hero/Claudio subplot, I suppose, apart from the excellent performances, whereas at one time, as a callow youth, I would have dismissed it as stale stuff. Perhaps I'm going backwards, but if that increases my enjoyment it's fine by me.

Business As Usual

I was a little nervous about going into work this morning. I knew that Noi was wondering whether it would be more sensible to extend my MC, and I had other friends thinking in that manner. Somewhat to my surprise the day went reasonably easily - almost like an ordinary day, except for the fact I was moving slowly and speaking in something like a whisper. The whispering is related to what I assume is some kind of damage to my vocal cords caused by the intubation. But other than that I wasn't really stretched in any obvious way, though I covered plenty of ground. I had a strong sense that the exercise was doing me a lot of good, in fact. 

Halfway through the day it occurred to me that it was the simple normality of being at work, a routine I've been accustomed to for decades, that helped shift my perspective from that of an invalid to someone who was expected to just get on with it and, therefore, did so. All told, a bit of a triumph - but one I'll need to keep repeating, so no point in celebrating too early.

Back To The Books

One of the disappointing aspects of my recovery has been that I didn't grasp the opportunity to get more reading done in the time afforded me. Once I came round in ICU and was freed from being tied down (a massive relief, I can tell you) I asked Noi to bring in a couple of old Stephen King novels off my shelves for rereads. There was a simple logic involved here. It was some years since I had read Misery and The Stand and I thought both would slip down easily at the story-telling level in a period of convalescence, with Misery in particular having a vague relevance to my current situation. Beyond that simple logic, the work of SK had featured in one of the fantasy sequences in my delirium - specifically the full length version of the The Stand, which I've never read - and that in itself had sort of planted a sense of enthusiasm for a fresh encounter with material read in my distant past.

In the event, I only managed a full read-through of Misery, finding myself deeply impressed with the sheer intensity of King's prose, especially in the early sections of the narrative in which he's at his most tellingly poetic - and I mean poetic in a way that never loses sight of narrative drive. I think I would have gone on to read The Stand in its entirety, in fact, I was cutting between the two novels as I approached the end of Misery, but Fuad arrived with a pile of books culled from Fifi's shelves and that put an end to my single-minded pursuit of just the one text. Must say, I was struck by the sheer detail of the world King brought to life, and death, in The Stand - I suppose this is true of all his work, but the epic scale involved emphasised just how richly textured a world he effortlessly conjures, from chapter to chapter, from viewpoint to viewpoint.

Anyway, once I found myself staring at a pile of books on my beside table I couldn't resist sampling bits of one after another, encouraged by the fact there were a couple of anthologies in there. The result was that I put The Stand to one side and ended up reading only one more book from cover to cover. This was the excellent If the Oceans Were Ink by Carla Power. The subtitle gives a clearer sense of what the book is about: An Unlikely Friendship and a Journey to the Heart of the Qur'an. The American author's friendship with the somewhat conservative Sheik Mohammed Akram Nadwi is full of surprises, even for a Muslim like myself. The book served as a welcome reminder that, contrary to some people's expectations, there's nothing monolithic about the faith (or any of the major faiths for that matter) and the sheik's various perspectives helped me open up my own, fruitfully and healthily, I hope.

I have one further excuse for not getting enough reading done. The doctors made a change to my medication, this being the pills I have to take to ward off any further seizures. The original prescription had no side effects upon me at all in terms of drowsiness; in fact, I really didn't sleep very much once I came round in ICU since I wasn't doing very much and just didn't seem to need much rest. But with the new pills came an irresistible drowsiness, manifested in the form of constant napping. Much as I enjoyed the restful shut-eye it came at the cost of making real progress in reading anything of note. And I'm still dealing with the situation.

Connections

Still considering my recent hospitalisation and its aftermath. When I started to come around in ICU, but was still highly confused, I often felt lost and alone. Fortunately this was mitigated by Noi's frequent visits which anchored me to at least some sense of reality and helped keep me going. 

And when I finally arrived back in the real world and transferred to an ordinary ward a large part of the process of recovery was being able to have visitors, of which there was a steady, welcome stream. The same has been true of the last eight days at home. Each visitor has left me feeling so much better as if the unwell version of myself has been left further and further behind. We've just enjoyed a jolly old time with Boon and Mei, for example, and it felt suspiciously like any of the times we spent together prior to my illness.

I'm also aware of having benefitted immeasurably from all the messages of goodwill I've received. It's touching to be told that someone remembers you in their prayers and, at the same time, it's somehow bracing - as if you'd better get on with the job of recovering to live up to their expectations.

So, not lost or alone at all. Highly connected, in fact. Nice.

The State Of Play

As I indicated a couple of days ago, I'm not exactly fully restored yet, and progress towards a sense of being my normal self again remains irritatingly slow. Mind you, the irritation is largely superficial since I'm so grateful to be functioning at all.

The plan is to try and get back to work on Monday. This has raised a few eye-brows, and understandably so, but since I can pull the plug on the attempt any time I want and beat a hasty retreat I think it's worth taking a chance. When I commit myself to just getting on with ordinary life and ignoring the fact I feel like I'm ninety years old, things work themselves out. This afternoon, for example, Noi and I took ourselves off to one of the big shopping malls and it was pretty much business as usual, except for the fact I struggled to just stand around outside one shop for a quarter of an hour as the Missus did her thing inside. But that in itself was a bit of a discovery. It hadn't occurred to me that I was a good deal more comfortable being on the move than standing still.

One peculiar thing about all this is that at one point, just before I left the ICU, one of the doctors remarked that I would be left with some deterioration of the brain. Not sure exactly why he thought this, and no one else since that time has developed the idea further, but even as he said it I felt generally fully recovered mentally and haven't noticed any obvious slowing down since. I think part of me is keen to see if I can still cut it at work, such that Monday seems both practical and sensible - to me, at least.

Fantasyland

Thought I ought to add something to what I said yesterday about having no memory of actual events from late August for some three and a half weeks. Whilst this is absolutely the case it gives the impression that the period is represented by a kind of protracted blackout in my consciousness. In fact, in that time I experienced an extremely vivid series of fantasies almost all of which I remember very well. These were not at all dream-like in the conventional sense. The narratives involved unfolded at something like a 'normal' pace and there was nothing obviously surreal in terms of content, though what took place was disturbingly heightened and intense, sometimes involving an unpleasant smattering of violence.

I've talked to a few friends about the fantasies in general terms but stopped short of going into detail since it's difficult to single out a sequence that wasn't disturbing to some degree and distancing myself from my memories seems a sensible thing to do at this point in time. And I'll adopt the same strategy here. Besides, I suspect that dreams, however vivid, are only really of interest to the dreamer.

I should say that it's been extremely embarrassing to be told how I was actually behaving whilst caught in my delirium. Noi and various friends who were there in hospital to support me have been taking some delight in describing my odder moments, of which there more than a few. Must say I find myself baffled by the fact that I developed an intense desire to conduct Beethoven from my hospital bed - this before being consigned to the ICU. If I had any sense of dignity before my illness it's definitely all gone. Though it's well worth losing when I consider all the support I was given by so many to get me through the ordeal.

A Bit Of An Interruption

It's been quite some time since I posted to this Far Place. The reason is both straightforward and a touch mysterious. I've been very ill, spending quite a few days in ICU with a serious lung infection, and suffering a series of seizures which effectively robbed me of all memory of events for some three and half weeks. Actually my stay in ICU came after the initial delirium and I sort of came round to a sense of reality when I was in there, though given how deeply uncomfortable it was to be intubated I rather wish this had been delayed. Fortunately, towards the end of my stay in ICU I managed to get a grip on reality again and by the time the tubes were removed and I was able to breathe without assistance I had shaken off the confusion and found myself again.

I've been out of hospital for a few days now, but recovery has been slow. When I first came round I'd lost a lot of weight and had no strength at all. I've made progress since then, but patience has been necessary, and will be for the foreseeable future. My trousers are still hanging loose despite the fact I'm eating well.

So what's the mystery? Well, the doctors haven't yet come up with any kind of definitive explanation as to what happened to me, though there's been plenty of conjecture. I'm on medication for epilepsy, on account of the seizures, but I'm not sure that anyone is convinced that I've suddenly become epileptic in my old age.

One last reflection for today: It's deeply humbling to be reduced to being completely dependent on those around you and effectively as helpless as a baby - and you don't even have the compensation of being cute.

Stating The Obvious (Sometimes Useful)

Expect the unexpected.

The obvious truth of the seemingly obvious cliche revealed itself again today, when I genuinely didn't expect it. If I had known in advance how bad it got for around five hours I would have panicked, which, of course, would have been worse than useless. As it was I had no choice but to grin and bear it  which I just about managed to do. I think.

The Beautiful Game

Checked my phone for the overnight footy results on waking at 5.55 am, and the world came alive with light, a burden lifted. But where do Liverpool fans disappear to when you spend the day looking for them to taunt? - that's what I'd like to know.

By the way, Gentle Reader, I know you're thinking: This old man only posts about the beautiful game when it goes well for his team. And you're right. Utterly childish - so, deal with it.

A Wry Observation

It's good to be busy, I said just now to the Missus, but perhaps not quite as busy as this. 

Strong Stuff

I enjoyed the first half of Ken Follett's A Column of Fire more than I did the second. Don't get me wrong, it's a good read from start to finish, keeping up pace and energy, but I couldn't quite buy into the main characters' close involvement in just about every key event of Elizabeth's reign, and the treatment of the gunpowder plot in the final segment struck me as a coincidence too far. But a great way for a young reader to get acquainted with the period.

Funnily enough the Parisian segments struck me as having some of the raw power of The Pillars of the Earth. The chapter on the St Bartholomew's Day massacre generated a real sense of dread - and dreadful loss. I suppose not knowing all that much about the episode was helpful in my case. For some reason I kept having flashbacks to a very early episode of Doctor Who which had a considerable effect on my younger self. Strong stuff for an eight-year-old. The BBC didn't hold back in those days.

At Ease

We found ourselves late this evening in one of those slightly upmarket coffeeshops characteristic of the times in which we live. The sort of place one tends to take for granted, yet which would have seemed exotic in the extreme when I was a callow youth. I'm told it opens for a full twenty-four hours a day - which, even today, seems a touch exotic. Just round the corner from this hostelry was a large supermarket, which we popped into before heading home, just to check-out the bananas. Closing time was a more-than-reasonable 11.00 pm. Again, unimaginable in days of yore.

In the event we gave the bananas a miss since they weren't up to expectations, and drove home from the north of the island in a comfortable twenty-five minutes or so on the excellent highway.

This all sounds a bit like an advertisement for this Far Place, and in a small way it is. It's useful to remind oneself occasionally of how much can be available to us simply by the good luck of being in the right place at the right time.

Far Away

It's Maureen's birthday today. Not sure how much that will mean to her, given her current circumstances. Hope she's achieving some decent quality of life in the home and is longer retreating into the solving emptiness she's seemed to look for in recent years.

It occurs to me that we actually got on very well as brother & sister, and rather took that for granted. Those days seem a long way off.

In Response

I'm into one of those phases when I'm not really interested in listening to much else than Messiaen. This came upon me over the weekend when I gave a spin to Des Canyons Aux Etoiles and realised just how much I loved the piece, possibly even more than the Turangalila Symphony. It was the humour of the music that got to me, something I've never quite taken in before. The bursts of birdsongs are often funny in a kind of charming, Disneyesque manner. At least, that is, to this listener. Since I don't quite know what the standard response is meant to be, I'm sort of inventing my own. 

Still Sad

I remember reading Wordsworth's Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey in one of Jack Connelly's lessons and feeling the impact of But hearing oftentimes / The still sad music of humanity. Suddenly I understood why Jack thought of WW as a genius. Odd to think that even at a callow 17 years old I thought myself capable of hearing that music. 

Heard it again today. And thought of myself, Peter, Simon and Sam the dog walking in the great poet's steps in the Wye Valley, in another life.

A Bit Sad

A funny sort of day. For the most part it went well for me, though I needed to deal with a sore back. Even then it was just sore, which is a lot, lot better than painful, and easy to live with. Yet somehow it felt like a sad day. Not my sadness, exactly, but my dispiriting awareness of the sadness of others.

Case in point, a devastating report on Sky News in the early evening about the dire state of hospitals for children in Afghanistan. Trying to count one's own many blessings in the shadow of such truth just feels monumentally selfish. This is territory that goes beyond words. They don't just fail; they become obtrusively irrelevant.

Taking Sides

Have been enjoying reading Ken Follett's A Column of Fire and will be continuing to do so, since I'm only just over the half-way mark. Well-crafted story-telling with some genuine insights into life in Elizabethan times. Having said that, it lacks the almost mythic power of The Pillars of the Earth. There were moments when the earlier novel transcended craft but it would have been foolish to have expected that level of inspiration to be replicated, and I didn't. But I did expect a good tale, and definitely got that - in fact, several neatly inter-woven stories.

And another thing I like about Follett: he does decency so well. Sometimes it's nice to know whose side you should be on.

Endings

Watched the ending of Shakespeare's The Tempest twice today, switching between two productions on DVD I've been showing to a class to whom I've been teaching the play. What a strange play it is. We know perfectly well how it will end from the beginning: Prospero will reveal himself to all and be acknowledged as the true Duke of Milan, and will marry his daughter off to the king's son in the process, and all will be well. Except it won't, will it?

Nothing has really changed at the end. Perfidy is acknowledged, but hardly punished. Indeed, it's kind of accepted as being an inherent aspect of what it is to be human. Art changes nothing, but eases our passage through the storms that necessarily assail us. There's nothing remotely uplifting about the end of the comedy. Yet it offers a melancholy satisfaction in its absolute honesty.

By the way, the two Prosperos I've been watching, Roger Allam in one of those productions at the Globe and Simon Russell Beale from an RSC production at Stratford, could hardly have been more different in their approaches - Allam being wonderfully crowd-pleasing and Beale disturbingly intense. And I loved both.

Beyond Compare

It suddenly occurred to me the other day that there were likely to be a number of videos featuring Ella Fitzgerald singing live available on the Internet. Funnily enough my listening to the greatest female singer of the twentieth century has tended to be restricted to material recorded in the studio, though the live stuff I managed to hear was deeply impressive.

Anyway, I've put things right of late by watching and listening to a great deal of the great lady live and I can tell you it's stunning. Utterly flawless. A complete joy. My favourite at the moment is an improvised sequence with the Count Basie band at Montreux from 1979. Quite late in her career, but her voice has lost none of its youthful exuberance. Not quite sure why this is entitled A Tisket a Tasket since she doesn't actually sing her first ever hit, but who cares when something sounds this good?

(By the way, here's a link to the actual song, and if it doesn't make you cheerful you need serious help.)

At Random

Struggled big time with back pain today, the ache being, unusually for me, centred on my lower vertebrae, right in the middle of my back. Sitting down for any length of time proved uncomfortable, but trying to stand up took on the proportions of a considerable ordeal. Fortunately, once on the move the discomfort was comparatively mild, so I was able to function reasonably well at work.

I suppose the most annoying thing about all this is that the pain came yesterday out of nowhere, as I sat to do some work with no undue rushing that might have served to bring it on. It just seems so arbitrary and impossible to protect against. But there's a good side to that; sometimes we need a reminder that life isn't fair, especially when it's generally been more than fair to us in the big things. As I've said before, with ironic clumsiness: A little suffering never hurt anybody. How dumb, eh? But how strangely true.