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.