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.