Positive Results

Had an appointment with my back doc this morning and am happy to report that my spine seems to be in pretty good working order. I can't recall a single problematic episode in the second half of the year (so far) which is a bit of a record. I was also pleased that the doc expressed surprise (in a positive sense) at the results I recorded on blood pressure & weight & stuff recorded when I checked in at his new office space. Previously this kind of check wasn't carried out so I don't think he had much of an idea as to what I usually score. It seems I have the pulse rate of a much younger man and, since it's definitely my rate & not someone else's, this suggests that my little work-outs at the gym are having a positive effect.

When people - those who are aware of how just touch & go things were for me in late 2022 - inquire about my health I'm apt to say I've never felt better, and today's numbers appear to back me up on this. Of course, all this could easily fall apart, and quickly so, as past experience proves, but I'll happily take the results for now.

Quite A Promise

We went to pick-up a new set-box from Singtel this afternoon to enable us to actually access the channels we pay them for. The previous box failed about two weeks after installation and we just couldn't be bothered to renew the thing for a couple of months. We made the arrangement for a new 'plan' to go with the box before Noi went on her Norway jaunt, but for reasons that escaped me we needed to get the necessary from a different shop on Orchard Road. Anyway we found the place tucked away at the back of one of the big shopping centres and duly picked it up. 

But here's the thing. In a large slogan emblazoned on one of its walls the shop announced itself as a One Stop Fulfilment Centre. (I'm not making this up.) It struck me that even the Vatican doesn't go as far as that. Some danger of over-promising there, I gently suggest. Though the set-box is working, at least for the moment. Not sure I feel exactly fulfilled, however.

Matters Of Opinion

Everyone's entitled to their opinion. It's just that mine is right and yours is wrong.

Worth Listening To

Chanced upon a fascinating account from Donald Hall, the American poet, regarding his interviewing of Ezra Pound, the even more famous-cum-notorious American poet and fascist sympathiser. Hall is wonderfully balanced on the subject, showing great generosity of spirit towards the deeply flawed genius.

I'm troubled to some degree though by some of the voices in the Comments section accompanying the video. Pretty much anything featuring Pound on YouTube gets these weirdly admiring comments relating to his economic ideas and disabling prejudices. And the funny thing is that the stuff that features Pound directly, on camera or just his spoken voice, immediately comes across as more than a bit off to any discerning listener. Given the choice of spending time with one of these writers I know which one I'd choose (and benefit from listening to.)

Perchance To Dream

I was talking today to a colleague who's been dealing with a severe sleep disorder for the best part of the year. It's quite remarkable that the colleague in question has dealt with this so well that I don't think anyone else suspects there has been a problem. Indeed, I wouldn't have guessed had I not been told. I can remember only one morning in the whole year when they looked somewhat out of sorts, and I only noticed that because it seemed to me so atypical.

The ability of people to deal with quite extraordinary personal difficulties and somehow transcend them continues to surprise me, even after many years of encountering such. It also continues to puzzle me why organisations develop so-called 'systems' that assume people can be relied on as high-functioning machines that rarely if ever malfunction.

Our capacity to switch off and sleep (and possibly dream) tells us, thankfully, otherwise.

Sheer Delight

Over the weekend I also finished reading Ted Hughes: Collected Poems for Children. Definitely a book I'll go back to over and over. Such a pity that the wonderful, sympathetically imaginative, illustrations by Raymond Briggs only apply to a limited range of the text. If they'd been featured on every page I think the volume might have been acknowledged as one of the greatest ever 'books for kids'. As it is, it's breathtakingly rewarding. Part of me suspects that some of TH's poems for younger readers might out-live his work for adults.

Actually on putting the book back on my shelves I immediately felt like taking down my copy of What is the Truth?, but since I'd just read the poems involved in the Collected that seemed a bit like over-doing it. Though I would like to read it soon and remind myself of how the connecting prose narrative works.

It looks like the poetry book that will be coming off the shelves is my Henry Vaughan: The Complete Poems, in the Penguin edition I got hold of in the late 1970s. I was thinking of holding back on the read-throughs of my various collecteds / completes after struggling a wee bit earlier in the year on the epic Robert Lowell reading, but I feel I've got my breath back after reading the Hughes (as I suspected I might.) And I'm still holding off buying any new books until I finally retire. Though if I see any exciting single volumes when we visit the UK that resolution may just crumble - hence the fact that I'm officially putting the Vaughan on hold until the new year.

Another Voice

I'd forgotten, if I'd ever realised before, the quiet power of the ending of E.P. Thompson's The Making of the English Working Class. The extraordinary resilience of those at the bottom end of English society is obvious throughout the book, but it needs stating, and the great historian does so memorably in its final pages: They had also nourished, for fifty years, and with incomparable fortitude, the Liberty Tree. We may thank them for these years of heroic culture. No reader will quarrel with incomparable given the mass of evidence Thompson puts together over 800+ packed pages. And the idea that a culture can be in some sense heroic also convinces.

And this is only one of two endings. My edition, published originally in 1968, has the lengthy postscript added to the first edition of 1963 - happily so. Although much of this is dedicated to Thompson answering back some of the criticisms of his early reviewers, the inclusion of an extract from a note found in the pocket of a young 'reformer' in March 1817 is inspired: All the way we have come we have been Garded by the Soldiers and a Grate Many have gon back agen... We se very plane the are Determined to stop us, a great many of us as been put in prison in nearly all the towns we have come throw - thear sordes gliter round our heades but the thing is as it is... Tell all the men that I ham in good spirets as ever tho I do not know but I may be in prison ten minetes from now. I ham a trew Reformer yet and I do not Care who knows it.

It's reassuring to know that through intelligent listeners like Thompson we can still half-hear the voices of others giving access to worlds not quite beyond our understanding, which allow us a better, richer understanding of our own.

Completion

00.35

It's ether very late on Friday night or very early on Saturday morning, depending on you look at it. And Noi is just boarding a flight in Doha. Which means things will be back to normal in some nine hours or so.

A consummation to be wished, as one might say, if one talked posh.

10.30

Pick-up at the airport went smoothly. But this is what was being served at the CBTL in Terminal 1:

Christmas themed cake in early November. Not a good sign!

21.00

Prata & teh tarik at the Cheese Prata place on Clementi Road. Normal service is resumed.

And Still Now

Quite late in the evening, after a spectacularly busy day, I somehow remembered something I'd been listening to a year ago to this day. Playing it again it sounded somehow even better to these old ears than it did before. Strange how every now and then something transcends the everydayness of it all.

Some Discipline

Put in a good shift at the gym in the late afternoon. And have eaten reasonably moderately today. So not too bad.

But didn't get all the reading done I would have liked, even though I had a reasonable amount of free time. Sadly I remain much better at just wasting time than I would really like. So not exactly good.

But, on the balance, okay. (Those of my teachers whose reports read Could do better really knew what they were talking about, I'm afraid.)

Over-indulgence

I ate more than I really intended to at a lunch for my department in the very early afternoon. We were treated to a buffet at the Jen Hotel - which I've never heard of before - and since the grub was delicious and there wasn't much else to do I really tucked in. And then in the evening Fifi, who's sort of looking after me in the absence of The Missus, delivered to the kitchen counter a very decent kebab, with fries. Somehow I found room for this, but I'm now feeling the effects.

And what are they? Well I'm too full, too heavy, and too tired to care too deeply.

It occurs to me that I very rarely indulge to this extent and I'm grateful for a routine that manages to keep food in proportion. After all there's so much of it and it's so easily obtainable for the likes of me that it's not difficult to imagine living far, far too well. Tomorrow is set to be a lean day with an extra intense visit to the gym to try and set things right.

Planning

It's the time of year when most schools in this part of the world get on with the planning of what they would like to happen in the year ahead. Time was when schools and the individuals within them would essentially plan to repeat what they'd done well and cut out the stuff that just didn't work. Nowadays the emphasis seems to be on planning to do new stuff to prepare for an unknowable future which involves re-writing or re-positioning whatever was being done on the grounds that somehow this is no longer relevant. Even though chances are that people will end up wisely repeating what works.

It's a curious exercise. Exasperating if taken seriously; mildly amusing if dealt with sensibly. Actually I suspect that quite a bit of what I was doing in 1979 was better than the stuff I get up to these days. But no one wants to hear that.

Easing The Load

At some point last year it seems I had the good sense not to put my name down for marking for the November IB session. I'd managed to forget this and have been half-expecting an email to tell me to brace myself for a load of scripts. But since no such email arrived and the actual English examination papers start on Tuesday next, it occurred to me I might not have anything to be concerned about, a fact which I just confirmed by checking in the IB website covering such matters. It's not that I was dreading the marking, but the realisation I won't be tackling the marking on top of everything else I need to get done before we set off to the UK at the end of this month is very welcome indeed.

If I could celebrate I would, but without The Missus to celebrate with that would be pointless. So I'll just quietly enjoy the moment.

Getting It Over With

Realised as I was on my way to the gym just now that I wasn't looking forward to the experience. Usually the difficulty of a session only really becomes apparent to me once I've started, but I suppose I'm more ready these days to accept the grim reality of what it means to stretch myself physically ahead of the event. I'm wondering if at some point this kind of realisation is going to deter me from going at all, but that certainly isn't the case so far. The mild suffering seems rather to validate the experience.

One thing that I never feel these days is the mild high people claim that is supposed to result from the release of all the endorphins. Once I've got back and showered I just feel relieved and very tired. But that's quite pleasant in its way.

Hearing Voices

Now moving into the final sections of E.P. Thompson's magnum opus. His discussion of the development of a Radical Culture amongst the nascent working class serves as a reminder of how important the establishment of a cultural climate is and how vital the articulate consciousness of the self-taught was in English history. And how quietly heroic.

The extended quotations in these pages often make for gripping and illuminating reading. And it's possible to hear something genuinely fresh and individual and real in spite, or possibly because of all the errors: I dinna pretend to be a profit, but I naw this, and lots o ma marrows na's te, that were not tret as we owt to be, and a great filosopher says, to get noledge is to naw wer ignerent. 

Jolly Good

Enjoyed a jolly good time at the Victoria Concert Hall this evening. The SSO put up a baroque night. Every piece was immediately accessible in terms of rhythmic spring and tunefulness, which was a good job in my case as I was only familiar with one of the concerti played - that being the third Brandenburg, which I know very well indeed. In this case familiarity did not breed contempt. Quite the opposite - I loved every moment.

And the price paid for this surpassingly excellent experience? A mere fourteen dollars. I got hold of the last of the cheap seats, and at the rate for senior citizens. Of course, it doesn't speak well of my character that paying so little actually added to my enjoyment, but I'm just keeping it real.

More Differences

I'm so used to thinking of Patrick Magee's performance in Krapp's Last Tape that watching John Hurt in the role earlier today felt strange, as if not quite right somehow. And the pacing of the piece captured in the Beckett on Film collection seemed very slow indeed. But I think I now prefer the Hurt version.

Magee was brilliant, but his Krapp was a wonderful grotesque, a kind of monster. Hurt is brilliant in a quieter way - the switch in his voice from the old man to the younger versions is remarkable - and he terrifies in his ordinariness. 

Differences

It's snowing in Norway. It isn't in Singapore. In fact, it's typically hot here. I have a photo from Noi to prove this. (The snowing bit, not the heat.) But for some reason I can't download the thing from my phone to my laptop to show it to the world. Not that the world cares over much, I suppose.

Postscript:

I finally got the photo uploaded, as above. And then Noi sent me this one with what she endearingly terms the 'raindeer', which looks even colder to me:

A Little List

I'll need to read Volume 1 of David Hawkes's translation of Cao Xueqin's classic The Story of the Stone (a.k.a. A Dream of Red Mansions) ahead of being involved in the teaching of the text in 2025. This is a wee bit intimidating and very exciting. The intimidation comes from the fact I know hardly anything of the cultural context of the novel and the excitement from the same rather embarrassing piece of information, with the add-on that I'll need to find out something and quickly so. With this in mind I gabbed the Penguin Classics edition from the shelves of our department cupboard, handily situated right behind my desk in the staffroom, and this will accompany me to the UK in December.

As will a copy of Yusnari Kawabata's The Sound of the Mountain, which appeared on my desk a month or so ago with the gnomic message: It's about aging and dreams. I think you might like it. Oddly enough, I reckon I will.

So that takes care of that major aspect of my holiday planning. I doubt I'll try and take any CDs, except perhaps the Dylan Christmas album which has become a happy fixture of my December. (I'm thinking of making John & Jeanette listen, but that's something I might just relent on. There are limits as to what one might reasonably inflict on one's hosts, and the Bobster in Holiday mode is, sadly, not for everyone.)

Catching Up

Met up with AK this evening for the first time in over a decade. He suffered a bad fall a while back and was a bit unsteady on his feet, but other than that was very much the same AK, battling on. Despite having plenty to talk about it was odd how often we came back to the need to take care of our aging bodies, especially in terms of avoiding falling down. As a kid, falling is a natural activity, almost to be welcomed. In adolescence and as an adult it's a sort of non-issue. So when it starts to loom large in one's senescence it all comes as a bit of a surprise, but a disturbingly fascinating one in its way.

The Sense Of An Ending

Thought I'd take some small advantage in Noi not being around for a while by playing some stuff on DVD that wouldn't exactly fit our usual routines. To this end I got a four disk set of Beckett on Film from the library at work. Kicked off my viewing today with the version of Endgame thereon and was entirely blown away.

This production featured Michael Gambon as Hamm and David Thewlis as Clov. As you might guess they are sensationally good. Definitive in the roles. Very funny and very sad at one and the same time. It really worked as film as well with the director often exploiting extreme close-ups in an almost painterly way. Nagg & Nell in the bins looked quite extraordinary. Not just old but in something close to a state of decay.

As with any really good production of Beckett, the viewer ends up feeling something like extreme despair but in an almost cheerful way. I suppose it's the very existence of the play that does it.

Hanging Loose

Saw Noi off this afternoon from Changi Airport on her Norwegian adventure. Felt a bit low afterwards, at something of a loose end. Decided to go to a concert performed by the students in our music programme. This was an excellent idea.

If kids performing creative wonders doesn't lift you then nothing can.

Undefeated, Sort Of

Bit of a funny day. Nothing really taxing about it. Yet, at 1.20 pm I really didn't want to keep walking around on my first shift of invigilation. And at 5.30 I really, really didn't want to carry on shopping at the supermarket with Noi. Following which I very much didn't want to do my scheduled stint at the gym at 7.20. And, finally, I could hardly stand to get going on the Isha' Prayer at 9.20. 

Somehow managed them all, and am glad I did so. Not exactly a triumph, but a lot better than a defeat. 

Mr Teh Tarik - 8

For the first time in a while Noi and I managed to get out for afternoon tea. She took a break from making her curry puffs and I managed to pull myself away from pressing workaday concerns, which, for once, were not pressing enough to pin me down. Actually this tea only involved tea as I forewent munching on a curry puff outside given that the curry puffs at home were several times more delicious.

But I was delighted to find we went to exactly the right place for a splendidly hot and genuinely large teh tarik gajah. We found this at the hawker centre on West Coast Road, I think it's called Ayer Rajah Hawker Centre. The stall at which the wonderful drink was available was number 67 - that of Abdul Aziz. I'm not sure if I've referenced this stall before in my Mr Teh Tarik saga (not having posted since back in very early 2022 when we were out and about at Geylang Serai) but it doesn't matter if it's a repeat since the teh in question is worth the repeated emphasis involved.

By the by, when we went out it felt like a surpassingly hot afternoon. We could barely sit in the overheated seats of the car when initially setting forth. There was a surprisingly large crowd at the centre, given it was a weekday afternoon. I suppose folks were sort of enjoying the relaxing quality of the heat. It was heartening to think that people were able to find time to warmly chill in this most busy of cities.

Of Real Value

One of the many contradictory aspects of my character is the fact that whilst I have very little time for academic literary criticism in general, I can really enjoy and read with enthusiasm odd examples of such on a seemingly random basis. Case in point: a little book fell into my hands a couple of days back entitled How To Read Joyce by one Derek Attridge, Professor of English at the University of York, as it turns out, and I think it's a great read.

I thought I recognised the prof's name when I was passed the book. I checked in the library and he's the editor of the nifty Cambridge Companion to Joyce which I'd been browsing in fairly profitably earlier in the year. There's a particularly good essay on Finnegans Wake in there, but not written by the editor. However, in How To Read... he writes excellently on a few excerpts from the Wake and, in the book in general, every analysis he provides of the passages he selects is both illuminating with regard to the passage in question and the broader work.

The simple notion behind the book seems an extremely useful one to me - look closely at carefully selected passages from the author in question to help explore profitable ways of reading them. I suppose it fits my notion of reading lit in general: read closely and sympathetically and enjoy what you read. That's all the Theory I need.

By the way, on the last page of the short tome the prof identifies what he terms the indispensable values Joyce celebrates in the Wake. These are the fruits of living in this fallen world: generosity, creativity and laughter.

Now there's a list to live by.

Back To Life

Yesterday, to my gratified surprise, the Blu-Ray player that decided to break down after swallowing my precious DVD of King Crimson at their seven-headed finest, for some unknown reason sprang to life, coughed up the trapped DVD, and has been functioning quite normally ever since. (Actually, I suppose the fact that I unplugged it and then plugged it back in might have helped, but a post-mortem on events isn't necessary so long as things are reasonably back to normal.)

In celebration of the fact that I was able to enjoy the great music all over again, I started playing the concert from where I'd broken off with the band themselves starting up again after an interval. They resumed with The Letters and The Sailor's Tale and I have to say that I was stunned by just how amazingly good the performances were. The sheer range of expression on the former was jaw-dropping. I mean, it's always been a dramatic sort of piece but the way the musicians negotiate the movement from the gentle, tender, delicate opening to the all out furious grieving of Mel's protracted saxophone work-out is astonishing. Even though I've listened a number of times to this line-up playing the song I'd never quite realised just how ferociously busy the three drummers get in the central segment, I suppose because they are just so controlled in their fury. And the segue to the instrumental, one of Crimson's very finest, is just perfection. Oh, and the ending of the Tale, for which the audience wisely remained silent, with Bill playing those repeated fading mellotron chords as if some great sea creature is passing away, is a surpassing example of less meaning more.

The thing is, you can focus on any one of the players at any time with the realisation that whatever they are doing is just so uncannily right, even when they are doing nothing except listening to the others and watching intently.

A Walk In The Park

Noi got hold of a new pair of walking shoes recently in preparation for her impending Norwegian jaunt and was advised to do a bit of walking to break them in. It was mainly with this in mind that we set out this morning for West Coast Park. Actually she's been a bit under the weather with a nasty, sneezy sort of cough, so in the ordinary run of things I doubt we'd have bothered to go, but she forced herself and did pretty well, so it was a fairly jolly couple of hours in a quiet sort of way.

It certainly put me in mind of the need to try and explore more of the island in our final months here. We're not going to have too much time to do so before the end of this year, what with our December visit to the UK, but I'll be on the look-out for an opportunity or two or three come November.

Anyway, I posted some highly random shots of stuff we found ourselves looking at above. I suppose I should develop greater powers of observation, but it all looked pretty good to me.

Comfort Reading

I've been trying to figure out exactly when I first read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales of the master detective of all master detectives, the inimitable Sherlock Holmes. I think I was in my early teens, though I might have been younger. And I think I picked up various of the collections from the library, where Doyle's works were easily available. And not just the Holmes stories; I recall fair amounts of Brigadier Gerard and Prof Challenger.

In those long ago days I would struggle to figure out the solutions to the various mysteries and I distinctly remember the excitement each adventure engendered and a vague sense of dread related to quite a few, as if they were tales of the supernatural. Now the excitement has gone, and the dread, and the desire to out-do the great man, or figure out how he was going to figure it out. Now it's all delightfully familiar and more than a bit kitsch.

But I'm more aware now of the quite brilliant variety of the stories. They don't follow a formula. The sheer variety on offer in the first actual collection, Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, points to where Doyle's real genius lay as a great story-teller. I'm about to re-visit the Speckled Band, and I can't wait, even though I know what's in store. Possibly because I know what's in store.

Across The Miles

We'll be zooming in on John & Jeanette later this evening to update ourselves on stuff going on in the UK ahead of a trip back we're planning for December. Most likely we'll stay in their place in Romiley for a few days and possibly travel down to the house in Devon, which is where I think they are at the moment. Noi is also talking about going to Wales & Ireland when we there as she wants to travel around a bit - which considering the fact she's off to Norway in a week or so with a few of her chums confirms her globe-trotter status. Personally I'm quite happy to just relax, but there is a kind of happy excitement about imagining journeys and making plans.

Postscript: Well we had a good natter and things sounded tickety-boo all round. But it seems the big cities in the UK are getting more than a bit run-down and discipline in schools more than a bit doubtful. Makes us count our blessings being able to enjoy our lives in this far place.

No Hurry

Still happily reading E.P. Thomson's The Making of the English Working Class at a very slow pace. Am now at the central chapters dealing with The Transforming Power of the Cross, a brilliant account of the interplay between various religious enthusiasms, especially Wesleyan Methodism, and the lower classes from 1790 - 1840 (or thereabouts.) When I first read the tome decades back I found this the most striking and engaging chapter and the same is true today, except that, if anything, I find it more powerfully engaging and oddly moving in its evocation  of the deep need for meaning and purpose in the lives of the oppressed and, to some degree, the betrayal of that need.

The section on the greatest Prophetess of all, Joanna Southcott, is particularly fascinating. How did people fall for this nonsense? As always, easily. 

But who can reasonably resist her deranged poetry?: Who is he that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah; that speaketh in righteousness, mighty to save all that trust in him; but of my enemies I will tread them in my anger, and trample them in my fury; for the day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of my redeemed is come.

No Worries

I knew the day was going to be a busy one when I set off for work this morning. What I didn't know was quite how busy. Which was a good thing as I had nothing to worry about when it started and no time to worry as it was going on. And now I'm just too tired to be bothered to worry about anything.

Of course, tomorrow is another day. Whatever that might mean.

Breaking Down

I was playing the rather splendid DVD from Crimson's wonderful live set Radical Action to Unseat the Hold of Monkey Mind the weekend before last when the Blu-Ray player I was using suddenly decided not to work. The DVD is still inside it as the machine just shut down and refuses to open the rather nifty little sliding tray you put the disks in to play them. I was left flummoxed, and still am as I've really no time to attend to failing electronic devices.

In fact, the list of failing, or failed, devices we own is now fairly extensive. The television in Maison KL gave up the ghost this year and is in sore need of replacement. Similarly we removed the tv set here since the number of odd blotches on the screen made it difficult to watch anything. This was temporarily replaced by Hakim's huge set which he's waiting to move into his new apartment when it's ready, but that should be soon, so we'll need another replacement for that. The set-box we got from Singtel has not worked for yonks, so we've been watching Starhub, which suffices for now, but we're still paying for the Singtel so we need to do something about that. And the Bose CD player has been refusing to play CDs for around a month, though the radio is working, so that's something.

I've got a feeling I've missed some other defective item, but that's enough for now. I have a vague feeling that things used to last longer, but if they ever did those days are long gone. 

Wallowing In Nostalgia

Some guy calling himself Rael, presumably in tribute to Peter Gabriel's persona on The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway uploads these brilliant 'imagined albums' on YouTube. Not quite sure how he does it, but it seems he that gets hold of all sorts of material from bands, like Genesis, aligned to certain periods of time, stuff like demos and radio sessions, and then tweaks them to create 'what might have been'. So Cynthia's Dream is what might have been released, instead of Nursery Cryme, if Anthony Phillips had stayed in the band. It features three of the songs off the real album, these being Musical Box, Harold the Barrel and Harlequin, and a load of other interesting material and is a treat to listen to. Especially if, like yours truly, you saw Genesis live in this period and fell in love with them.

So listening to the imagined album was generally a nostalgic experience but, quite to my surprise, it was the version of Harlequin that packed a wallop for me. It's not exactly regarded as a classic track in the actual album version, and I don't think it was performed live by the band, but listening to the 'new' version, which features the voices of Gabe & Phil Collins more upfront than in the original, I was struck by just how lovely a song it is and how evocative of something I can't quite explain. Except a very young Brian felt it deeply and the older version sort of plugged back into that for a glorious four minutes or so this morning.

Everything's Okay

A fab evening at the Victoria Concert Hall was just the ticket after an artistically heavy week. The proceedings kicked off with something from Hans Werner Henze that the programme notes claimed to be angular and harsh, but struck me as darkly beautiful. Noi managed to nod off so it couldn't have been overly abrasive. Then came a big slab of Papa Haydn, a piano concerto and a symphony, which is always a very good thing. I knew the symphony well (the A major Fire Symphony) and it's a bit of favourite of mine and familarity bred the opposite of contempt. And finally Stravinsky's Pulcinella Suite which I thought I'd recognise but didn't. I felt happily stupid over this gap in my musical knowledge, the suite being obviously delicious, and I intend to make a much closer acquaintance with the piece over the next few days. As I will with the Haydn concerto.

The very fact of Haydn's existence makes me feel better about the world somehow. A sort of assurance that at the back of it all everything's really okay, even if it isn't.

Moral Imperatives

Two novels I don't think I'll ever read again: Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian and Paul Lynch's Prophet Song. Just too painful. I'm trying not to think of the final pages of the eighth chapter of the more recent novel. And failing.

Indeed, the moral power of the book is haunting me, as did that of McCarthy's great work. In McCarthy's case it was like looking into the deepest places of cruelty and pain in the human heart and not being able to see much else. Lynch's novel is more ordinary, in a sense. This is just normal life in a typical city in the developed world when things start to fall apart. And the suffering engendered becomes painfully real because it is so ordinary and you can't not think of the pain of all refugees fleeing anyplace and what's happening in Gaza and Lebanon even as I write and what happened in Pinochet's Chile, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But the moral imperative is to do something about this, fueled by the outrage, the fury, you can't not feel.

Kafka: A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. Prophet Song is exactly that.

Really Hard Reading

I was right yesterday about Prophet Song. Devastating.

But the hour is getting late and there is no time to process this today. This is not a time to talk falsely. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Hard Reading

Paul Lynch's novel Prophet Song is stunningly good, and in many ways an easy read. Completely convincing in its speculative setting; completely convincing in terms of its central characters; and a convincing, compelling storyline. So why couldn't I finish it today when I had enough time to do so? Because the sense of dread created makes it hard to go on even when desperately needing to know what happens next. And because each extended paragraph segment has so much going on in terms of the evocative quality of the writing it just can't be rushed and demands to be read slowly, painstakingly.

I'm pretty sure I'll finish it tomorrow. And pretty sure I'll be devastated. 

Not Paying Attention

I stumbled across something I wrote late last year in praise of Miles's album Tutu, with specific reference to how great it was to listen to it in the gym. Somehow I'd forgotten this, but I thought that in view of my previously expressed enthusiasm I'd give it a spin on the workout I'd planned for this evening.

So spin it I duly did and found it engaging enough for the first couple of tracks. Next thing I know I'm into the last five minutes of my stint on the elliptical trainer and am zoning in on a very busy blues piece having zoned out completely on a good 45 to 50 minutes of Miles giving forth. I'd been thinking about some stuff at work as I was peddling up the endless hill and got completely lost in it.

Must remember this next time I make a claim to being a reasonably good listener. Only some of the time, I'm afraid, even when what I'm listening to is a slice of perfection.

My Blank Pages

Acquired my week to a view diary for 2025 yesterday. It’s the same edition as the one I’m using  this year , which means that, like this year’s, it will be most likely falling apart by October 2025. But I don’t mind. As long as it gets me through each working week without my missing anything of crucial importance to my working life I’m fine.

As with last year, getting my hands on what I’ve come to regard as foundational to my routines makes me a happy soldier. But I must confess that looking at all the pages waiting to be marked by doings that will need to be done is a little intimidating. I’m assuaging the mild panic engendered by reminding myself to live in the moment. Or, rather, live a week at a time with the odd glance into a future that will soon turn to messy pages.

And I mustn’t forget there’s a fair amount of 2024 that still needs negotiating. It may be all downhill from here, but there’s a lot of slope ahead. 

Something Cool

Went looking outside myself on a warm, comfortable Sunday afternoon for a few moments of cold perfection. And found them in a kind of silence.

True North

Just finished reading the Under the North Star section in Ted Hughes; Collected Poems for Children. Hughes at his considerable best, I reckon. Brilliantly observed animal poems, some with that sense of the abstract that characterised the 'newer' style in some of the Wodwo poems, but more immediately accessible. And wonderful touches of humour.

I assumed before I embarked on a reading of this Collected that I would be in for delight on every page, and that, happily, has proved to be the case.

Uplifting

These days I can't drive at all since the authorities wouldn't renew my license due to my being 'labelled' an epileptic. (I'm quoting my brain doc there who distinctly put the term in inverted commas when he told me the diagnosis.) I sort of feel the loss, but, on the other hand, Noi is an excellent driver and it's nice to be chauffered all over the place. (And Fifi is fine as well.)

The positive side of my incapacity came home to me today when I was driven to Friday Prayers. The azan is a bit early at this time of year and we arrived a little bit late. Now in the old days I'd have been rushing to park and then would have run-walked across the carpark to arrive a wee bit frazzled. Today I got dropped right outside the back entrance to the masjid and enjoyed a leisurely stroll of less than a hundred yards. And after, of course, a lift back during which I could do the necessary adjustments for getting back to work. 

I enjoy a challenge, but sometimes it's nice to feel deeply at ease. 

Going Local

A trip back to Manchester & Environs & probably a few other places is pretty much confirmed for us in December. The last time we were there was back in 2019, pre-pandemic. I can't say I miss my homeland, but I'm looking forward to a drab December in my fashion, and I think Noi is distinctly enthusiastic, as is her way. 

I've been keeping up with a funky little series in the Graun, entitled Where tourists seldom tread that explores towns with hidden histories. It's been a reminder of just how much I don't know about the UK and how many places I've never actually been to. Part 10 has a few paragraphs on Stockport which made me more than a little nostalgic for a spot I can't recall taking Noi to see. According to cousin John we're likely to grab some tickets for a Stockport County home game and the County are attracting bigger crowds what with their recent successes. (In case you're wondering, a trip to the Theatre of Dreams is definitely not on the cards, even if we could get tickets, which we can't, given our recent tribulations.)

And I fancy a visit to the Hat Museum. Almost obligatory for someone whose dad was a hatter, until the industry abruptly collapsed. But that's another story.

The Noise In My Head

A moment of illumination early this morning. Around 6.35. I'm watching Sky News and they're doing the review of the press in the UK. The talking heads are discussing events in the Middle East and behind them a large telescreen is filled with shooting stars above a city, the same 30 seconds of footage looped. These are missiles coming down but being intercepted by other missiles. At the same time I'm reading a story from the Graun on my phone about some Brit celebrity's arc of redemption as he appears on a ghastly-sounding reality show about being stuck alone on some kind of island. At the same time as I'm half-watching the goggle box and reading off my phone I'm figuring out how to negotiate the first two hours of the day and how I'll get some marking done in the cracks.

Then I realise there's a noise in my head. I suppose I'm speaking metaphorically, but it felt loud. So I stopped reading. And I stopped thinking. And I listened to the guy on Sky who was talking some sense about the madness, and the act of attention was soothing. It lasted about three minutes, and then the day really started up.

I suppose a lot of people hear the noise as they divide their attention between all that demands it. Maybe they don't know there's genuine peace if they choose to step out of the storm?

Blind Spots

I began marking some material today relating to African cinema when it suddenly occurred to me that if asked to place Nigeria on an outline map of the continent I would struggle. How can I have got to my age without a general working picture of that part of the world? 

And how can I possibly criticise teenagers for the occasional glaring gaps in their mental pictures of the world and its storied history?

Sometimes it's salutary to turn one's gift for sarcasm on oneself. Even when it hurts.

The Devil In The Details

Making slow but sure progress in E.P. Thompson's The Making of the English Working Class. 'Sure' in the sense that a slow reading allows for assimilation of the often compelling detail of what it was like back then. And still is today, in so many ways.

Here's a little something from one J. Smith's Memoirs of Wool, published in 1747: 

The poor in the manufacturing counties will never work any more time in general than is necessary just to live and support their weekly debauches... We can fairly aver that a reduction of wages in the woolen manufacture would be a national blessing and advantage , and no real injury to the poor. By this means we might keep our trade, uphold our rents, and reform the people into the bargain.

Thompson doesn't tell us anything about J. Smith but I reckon we can safely 'aver' that he was one of the masters from the upper classes happily looking down on those suffering below. His voice reminds me of those I hear today who favour austerity and an end to unions organising for the rights of ordinary folk to protect them from from creeps like him and those who regard themselves as somehow superior to those who have to genuinely labour manually for a living. 

Nothing much changes, eh?

Unmedicated

Noi was just asking me if I am still taking the pills my neurologist put me on to guard against epileptic seizures. My happy answer came in the negative. As I referenced back on 19 September I managed to persuade my new brain doc that it would be reasonable to terminate the treatment that I'd been pretty cavalier about on a few occasions anyway. I was a good boy and obediently reduced the dosage, as instructed, to one a day for five days and then stopped. And how do I feel? As right as rain, that's how.

I just don't like popping pills, for whatever reason, even if they're doing me good. And I'm pretty sure the epilepsy ones weren't doing anything for me at all. So now I'm happily unmedicated as nature intended.

A Bit Much

Stumbled across an excellent podcast yesterday going under the moniker The Rest is History. The particular episode related to the French Revolution and was extremely informative. So far, so very good. So where's the downside? There's always one somewhere.

Well, in this case not really. Except for a suspicion lurking in the darker part of my mind that the riches so readily available to me through various media could easily become overly rich. And I could find myself drowning in all the choices. And panicking that I can't cope with everything on offer.

My strategy for dealing with this threat is simple. I'm very good, at least for now, at putting off the day when I consciously immerse myself in material I'm longing to swim in. And I don't go looking in a methodical way for anything new. I let it come to me by chance. The strategy, primitive as it is, seems to be working. The challenge will be in keeping it up in a world that's becoming more interesting and exciting than ever.

A Bit Noisy

Another understated heading. I'm not referring to any specific noise today. It's been busy, but calmly so. And the noise I'm hearing now is Cream live at the Albert Hall in 2005. So, by definition, good noise.

But yesterday, in the middle of all the frantic franticness, there I was in SAC. Awash with all the little blighters from Year 1. (SAC, not me.) And I'm suddenly aware, queuing for my tea, that the noise level is dangerously high. Not quite as bad as Deep Purple live at Belle Vue, circa 1971, when they were the loudest band in the world and set young Brian's ears ringing for about two days. But getting there, and in closer proximity than Ian Gillan, Ritchie Blackmore, Ian Paice, Jon Lord and Roger Glover ever were.

Funnily enough the sheer intensity of the racket in SAC had a calming effect in its way. And the tea helped. Assailed as I was, I was somehow outside of it all. Still can't understand how the kids inside it all didn't seem to know they were in the eye of their own storm. The joys of youth, eh?

A Bit Frantic

I got up quite a bit earlier than usual this morning knowing the day was going to be not just unreasonably busy but close to impossibly busy. (The heading above is an understatement.) To be honest, days like this are rare, but they do happen and you've got to be ready for them if you're going to stay reasonably sane.

Now I'm old enough to appreciate the nature of these occasions I've developed the ability to put aside a very tiny part of my mind to sort of monitor what's going on. There's a kind of fascination in realising just how useful basic routines are in holding things together at the same time as being aware of how even the most routine behaviour is under threat of being derailed due to unforeseen circumstances (which manifest with an eerie certainty just when you can't afford the time to deal with them.) It's also very helpful to be able to walk at high speed and ignore urgent messages which aren't quite as urgent as the urgent messages that arrived 60 seconds ahead of them

I think tomorrow will be calmer, but I'm still getting up earlier because you never know. All quite exciting really!

Magnificent Self Control

I don't know about you but I get more than a little fed up when a remote control for some electronic device suddenly stops functioning because the batteries have taken it upon themselves to leak but the stupid thing gives no indication that the batteries are running down; in fact in darker moments I find myself harbouring the thought that our mighty Tech Overlords those nice people at Starhub may have designed the stupid thing to fail so you have to buy a new one. And don't get me going on the fact that when you try and start the set-box it's incredibly difficult to find the manual controls on it and when you try to change channels it's, again, incredibly difficult to do so because you can hardly see the stupid controls on the stupid box and they work at an incredibly slow speed. First world problems eh?!

So I'm not going to rant about this stupid situation. Except for just a bit.

Over and out.

At Ease

Life is never exactly easy, is it? I don't think it's really meant to be. But after hot lentil soup and accompanying crusty bread it gets pretty close.

Out Of Nowhere

Listened to Crimso's improv Starless and Bible Black for the first time in years today. When I first heard it, as the title track off the album, I thought it was an actual composition, as opposed to an improvised piece, which I'm guessing would have been true for the vast majority of listeners back in 1974.

And even though I know it was improvised on the spot I still can't get away from the half-belief that it was carefully composed. Astonishing. The way those guys somehow knew what each of the four was about to play. 

Also astonishing to think that David Cross came to be regarded as the weak link in the band. His work on the keyboards and violin, so sympathetic to everything else that's going on, is what elevates the whole to the next level, the highest level.

Above all, this is a brilliant example of what can happen when people listen to each other.

Reading Lists

I think I first read E.P. Thompson's magisterial The Making of the English Working Class around 1978, just after leaving university. I know it made a huge impact on me in terms of its explanatory power. But I suspect I rushed through it somewhat, driven by the excitement of the discoveries I was making.

I say this since I have a strong sense on rereading it some forty-something years later that I'm taking in a lot more of the fine detail this time around. This is particularly true of the various lists that Thompson provides. Reading Perec's Life: A User's Manual taught me the immense value of even the most random-seeming list, and I find myself deliberately slowing down when I encounter a list like that enumerating some of the products of Birmingham's skilled artisans around 1807: buckles, cutlery, spurs, candlesticks, toys, guns, buttons, whip handles, coffee pots, ink stands, bells, carriage-fittings, steam-engines, snuff-boxes, lead pipes, jewellery, lamps, kitchen implements. As Thompson notes, the list in itself evokes an intricate constellation of skills. A sort of lost world, in its way.

Back in 1978 I suspect I would have just glanced at the list and impatiently took it in as a kind of whole with little or no sense of the particularities. Now the whip handles alone fascinate.

Over The Moon

I've been taken by surprise at the sheer number of poems Ted Hughes wrote for Moon Whales and other Moon Poems. I've never actually owned a copy of the collection, though I'm very familiar with a number of the poems from encounters in various anthologies, and I've always taken it for granted that the original book was about the same length as Meet My Folks. But reading the Moon poems as they are sequenced in Ted Hughes: Collected Poems for Children it's obvious that this book was not intended in any way as a kind of companion to the earlier publication.

Indeed, the general tone is quite different. I think it's reasonable to say that Meet My Folks is essentially comically cheerful. Moon Poems is often downright disturbing. The rhythms are more obviously galumphingly broken; the images surreally weird so that what might have been intended as funny isn't, except in a funny strange way.

As evidence, the opening lines of The Snail of the Moon:

Saddest of all things on the moon is the snail without a shell. / You locate him by his wail, a wail heart-rending and terrible...

Not sure I'd want to read that out to a class of ten-year-olds. But I love reading it to myself. 

Stepping Out

Covered over 22,000 steps today and now am feeling it. Deeply cream-crackered, which is not a bad way to be as long as there's nothing left to do but surrender to sleep. Which is exactly what I intend to do in the next five minutes.

An Impatient Patient

Had an appointment this afternoon at the Neuroscience Centre at NUH. It was scheduled for 3.00, but I didn't get to do the screening thingy that they always carry out prior to any procedures or consultations until 4.25, which was quite a wait - and very unusual for the hospital, in my experience, since they nearly always stick pretty close to the actual appointment time. Mind you, the place was packed and I reckon they were struggling to deal with the number they had intended to cater for in their afternoon session. For me it was no big deal as I didn't have anything to rush back to work for and Noi, who'd come along with me, wasn't terribly bothered either. Mild irritation was as much as I could muster.

But one guy, who also seemed to have been delayed, was really upset and started to create quite a fuss at the main desk around about ten minutes before my number finally got called. He was holding up his phone and loudly complaining that the staff had forgotten to notify him that his number had been called, so he'd missed his slot. Initially I thought there was going to be trouble and that the guy was just being more than a bit selfish. Then I realised that he was trembling excessively and in a very bad way. It was clear that he was deeply distressed by the crowds in the waiting area and just couldn't deal with the situation - hence taking himself outside earlier as a way of gaining some control.

The staff dealt with him brilliantly. No fuss at all, no attempt to subdue him; one lady took him to one side and allowed him to keep venting whilst helping him calm himself as much as he could. And somehow he did calm himself which considering his obvious sense of shaky panic took a lot of doing. It suddenly occurred to me that quite a few folk needing to see neurologists probably did need to overcome severe stress just to get themselves into the clinic at all. It turned out that he ended up being screened - essentially just a check on blood pressure - at the same time as myself, in the cubicle next to mine. He was still venting his concerns as that went on and my heart went out to the poor guy for everything he was dealing with.

Anyway, once they'd took my bp things moved very fast. I was supposed to do a memory test (basically a check for signs of dementia) before seeing my doc, but that was abandoned since the doc reckoned I'd most likely ace it so it was a bit pointless. And it was further decided that the medication I've been on related to my epilepsy could be terminated, basically because I was fairly brutal in letting the doc know how unhelpful I thought it was and she was prepared to listen. (It wasn't my usual neurologist, whom, I suspect, may have moved on to another hospital, or higher things, or whatever.)

So all in all not such a waste of time, despite the delay. Sort of a case of 'good things come to those who wait', if we're looking for some kind of message in all this.

Time Found

Managed to watch the entirety of the National Theatre production of Streetcar starring (and I use the word advisedly) Gillian Anderson. Did so by watching just a couple of scenes at a time, so didn't quite get the flow of it all. But that might have been a good thing since it was so astonishingly intense that keeping some distance was sort of healthy in its way. When I watched the final scene today it pretty much broke me up completely. I suppose Ms Anderson was largely to blame: she is so sensationally good that it's impossible for me to imagine a world in which she isn't Blanche Dubois, if you see what I mean.

Just one small example. Her drunkenness, broadly speaking increasing from scene to scene, is note perfect. When Blanche is hammered out of her head in Scene 10 (very difficult to watch, but impossible to turn away from) she just gets every detail of extreme alcoholism right. Depressingly ugly and distressing. It was like watching my sister at her very worst. Just devastating.

To be honest her performance is so strong in its weakness and pain and vulnerability that she blows Ben Foster's Stanley off the stage. But that works so well. This isn't a Stanley with the animal power of Brando. In some ways he's also deeply insecure, a reading that had never quite occurred to me before, but fully realised, as it is in this production, it just feels right.

Not sure I'm looking forward to watching the whole thing in one sitting when we screen it for the kids, simply because I know how overwhelming that's going to feel.

Sweet Sounds

Got up close and personal with the ondes martenot for a very good half-an-hour this morning, having discovered on YouTube Messiaen's sensationally mellifluous Fete des Belles Eaux which features no fewer than six of the instruments. Then moved on to a brilliantly informative account of how Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead fame sort of saved the ondes for a modern audience. To be honest, I think the very existence of Messiaen's Turangalila Symphony, which, amazingly, gets regularly programmed in the concert hall to this day, is a guarantee that the instrument will survive, featured as it is so heavily in that great work. But it's good to know that manufacture of the ondes has considerably expanded since it's become something of a signature of the Radiohead sound post OK Computer.

Back On Form

I was struggling with a bit of a bad back on our final day in Melaka and the days following when we got back to our usual abode. In fact, I avoided going to the gym for three days for that reason and was ultra-cautious when I finally got back on the elliptical trainer last Thursday, setting it at quite low resistance. And I didn't try anything on the weights that evening, or on Saturday afternoon when I had my next session. Actually on Saturday I really struggled trying to complete a sixty minute stint on the trainer, this time on full resistance. It didn't help my morale much that I was still experiencing some back pain then, though it was easing.

So I wasn't expecting much to write home about this evening. Which means that managing some good numbers over the sixty minutes of cardio and coping pretty well with my standard routine using the weights came a surprise. An exceedingly pleasant one.

I have no idea why the sudden return to form came about and I don't intend to think about it too much. But I do intend to enjoy the sense of accomplishment while it lasts.

Suffering

Was thinking quite a bit about trauma and suffering last week, especially in relation to art. Generally exploring the idea of art as healing and how that links to concerns about texts being 'triggering' for some readers. Had one long and illuminating conversation on the topic, with part of the light being shed touching on my own experiences. (The illumination being mine only, I suspect, rather than that of my interlocutor. But that's the usual way of things, I suppose.)

I saw very clearly that the suffering I endured in the course of my protracted visit to what I termed Fantasyland around this time, two years ago, has not resulted, as far as I can tell, in any sense of trauma at all. I know that 'suffering' sounds a wee bit over the top here, but that's what it was, something I generally hesitated to let friends & family know at the time. The experience didn't involve anything quite as extreme as torture porn at its worst, but there were times it wasn't too far off, and the fact it lasted (as far as I could tell) pretty much continuously for some three and a half weeks comes close, I think, to a definition of protracted mental torture. Mind you, all in all it lasted less than a month so, keeping it real, I was a good deal more fortunate than those poor souls whose experience of psychosis literally can be counted in terms of years, or prisoners who are subjected to deliberate mental torture over months and months.

But back to the point: Why no sense of trauma at all? I think the answer, inadequate as it may sound, is pure luck. I'm not built that way, or, at least, my brain isn't. And I'm not implying any particular resilience or ability to rise above pain on my part. In fact, the experience showed me that those are qualities I lack. I was purely a passive sufferer with no direction or sense of agency. Other people saved me - Noi, my friends, the medical team. But the flat truth is I can think about these things now without any feelings of distress at all. Just a kind of somewhat bewildered, puzzled, slightly fascinated, interest.

And that leads me to something else that crystalized for me last week. Those who can somehow carry on when the pain is unremitting are truly astonishing. I'm thinking here particularly of those who endure psychotic states for long periods (for some, forever) without falling apart. (On Friday I was reminded in a confab with a couple of colleagues of another colleague of many years standing, whom I didn't ever know all that well, who went through some kind of crisis a few years back and sort of disappeared. (That can happen in a school with a staff as large as ours.) I saw the colleague just once in the crisis period and was taken aback at the degree of pain written into them. Somehow I'd managed to forget this, until being reminded on Friday. I suppose that's the way we protect ourselves from the reality of unreasonable, unfathomable, suffering. And I suppose it's good that we are able to.)

No Words

I've been wondering whether to make a perspicacious comment or two on the on-going run-up to the election in the US, but couldn't find the words. Then I realised I might as well let First Dog on the Moon do it for me.

Moving On

Noi came across an on-line advertisement for Maureen & John's house at Lord Derby Road just now. It made her a bit sad, understandably so. There are few things sadder than a house abandoned, as it were, and the memories contained within dispersed. But, then, there are few things more open to fresh narratives than a house ready for new occupants to move into.

We endlessly begin again. In new shapes. New possibilities. 

Finding Time

I'm very keen to get to grips with the National Theatre's production of A Streetcar Named Desire, featuring Gillian Anderson as Blanche Dubois which I can now access through the school's account. We're intending to screen it to one of our cohorts in a couple of weeks and I need to familiarise myself with the show ahead of that - as well as being very keen to watch for my own viewing pleasure. But, as is so often the case, I find myself time-starved just when I need the stuff.

Managed the first five minutes just now and it looked great. Simple set and in the round, which shouldn't work but probably will. And the voices, the rhythms, perfect. Actually I can't see, or rather hear, how anything by Williams can possibly work unless you get the voices right.

Mixed Signals

Just munched on a delicious bowl of salad from those good people at the Stuff'd franchise. Felt extremely virtuous and am happy to announce such to the world. But moments after eating the final green bean I felt a distinct sense of guilt. Why so? Reason: the bowl in question is quite big and very plastic - I suspect of the single use variety. And all my attempts at sustaining sustainability have gone (literally) to waste. 

So much for virtue signaling, eh?

Good News

I'm pleased I got to see a few of the finals from the Paris Paralympics on-line but wish I'd made time for more. Great to see my home nation maintain second place in the medals table with an incredible overall total, but just as good to see talented athletes from other nations delivering the goods. Lovely to see the French crowd go barmy over their lads & lasses doing so well.

The coverage in the press was also excellent, especially in The Graun which outdid itself this time round. Good news, for once.

Almost Completely

It's remarkable what a good break can do. In just ten days I completely forgot how physically demanding my job can be.

Unfortunately it took rather less than a day to completely remember.

Night And Day

With no fewer than two eateries adjoining Mak's house, we are spoilt for choice both night and day.

From Below

Picked up my old battered copy of E.P. Thompson's The Making of the English Working Class a few days back. Decided to read it again before it falls apart (and possibly before I fall apart also.) It resonates with me as much today as it did back in the 70s. Possibly even more now as I feel I have a wider sense of what history from below might comprise.

Frustration

Question: What is it best to do when you've just lost some 350 predicted grades, assiduously keyed into the International Baccalaureate's online system for recording such, since the system has decided to time you out for lack of activity, despite the fact you've just spent a considerable amount of time, energy and concentration keying-in said grades, which felt like some kind of activity?

Answer: Attend Friday Prayers. And pray hard for designers of online systems. And their victims.

Altered States

Something I've noticed about myself that has become more pronounced in recent years: I feel far more sleepy-headed during holiday periods than when working. This week, for example, it's been a real struggle for me to get going before 10.00 am. I've had to force myself to start marking, and since I've had a fair number of examination scripts to deal with on a daily basis the forcing has been a grim necessity. Yet on an ordinary work day I'm fine getting on with stuff from 6.30 am onwards, with no sense at all of having to force things.

Is it the case that somehow my body 'knows' that, technically speaking, it should be on holiday and is making a less than subtle protest at being made to do stuff it fundamentally doesn't want to?

And another odd thing. I've been sleeping early and deeply these last few days, but I don't wake up refreshed. I wake up wanting to sleep some more. Yesterday I felt particularly thick-headed and had to deal with a very distinct ache running along the jaw-line on the right side of my face. I suspect I'd somehow slept awkwardly face-wise and strained myself somehow. Fortunately the ache has eased considerably today, but getting my quota of marking done was a challenge.

All this has made me think a little more circumspectly about retirement than I was wont to do. When the day arrives that I don't absolutely need to get out of bed I'd better find good reasons for doing so.

Simplicities

Pepperoni pizza and mushroom soup (with bits of garlic bread). At a new eatery (well, new to us) called Mainroad, just off Ampang Road.

Team GB a strident second in the current medals table for the Paralympics 2024.

A family of monkeys in the trees opposite, which are ripe with birdsong in the long afternoons. (The trees, that is; not the monkeys.)

What's not to like?

Beyond Elementary

Took The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes off the bookshelves the other day, having decided it would be interesting to undertake a read-through. The novels and stories are sequenced in the order of publication and it struck me that whilst I knew the canon pretty well, having started reading the tales as a very young teenager, I had no real sense of the development of the body of work as a whole and it would be interesting to acquire a sense of that sequence.

I've been reading A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four over the lest three days and it's quite remarkable how fully formed the Holmes-Watson relationship is from the outset. Doyle established the template right away, from the opening pages of the first novel - or pamphlet, as the good doctor refers to it in A Study in Scarlet. But it's also odd how Doyle seems compelled to give us the rather tedious backstories of the perpetrators of the wicked deeds in both, with the requisite chapters occupying a good half of the first novel, completely derailing the Holmes-Watson heart of the story. Things aren't quite so bad in the second work, but the pages covering Jonathan Small and the Indian Mutiny are still pretty tedious stuff. I suppose Doyle thought his readers wanted plenty of foreign colour, when all they required was as much of No. 221B, Baker Street as possible.

By the by, the foreign colour in The Sign of Four is so racist as to be painful, but this is oddly fascinating in itself - and it puts the racism of Kipling and Conrad into massive perspective (as in, if you think these guys are bad get a load of what the average 'popular' writer of the period with few if any literary pretensions was capable of.) Mind you, Doyle manages to be reasonably even-handed in his treatment of Mormonism in A Study in Scarlet, being quite sympathetic to those undertaking the great migration to Utah, even though he's firm in his negative judgement upon their leaders in the years that followed.

More Heaviness

Just lately I've been noticing quite a few people in this Far Place who are, sadly, carrying a good deal more weight than is good for them. I suppose this sounds unpleasantly critical and self-righteous of me, but what I feel when I observe such folk doesn't feel that way. I hope I observe them with some degree of compassion, understanding and genuine concern. The problem is, of course, that there's nothing I can do to help them, though I'd like to.

What I'd like to say to them directly - but, of course, cannot - is that there is something that can be done when you're overweight and that it's not the natural way of things. Indeed, it can give a life real direction and purpose when you do something about the excess poundage; the feeling of being in control when you do take control is worth the effort of ignoring the promptings of appetite, no matter how impossibly urgent those promptings seem.

I noticed a couple of ladies the other day at the Ya Kun outlet at Clementi Mall. They looked like mother & daughter, with the elder being around 60, at a guess. The daughter possibly some 25 years or so younger. Both were carrying a lot of weight and in the mother's case she was having problems walking, needing the younger's one's assistance. It looked painful for her just to stand and move off from their table and I was struck by just how much intense effort simply walking around the mall required from her. In contrast the daughter looked sprightly, but I'm afraid the signs were there. The physical resemblance was striking but seemed to worryingly foretell more painful times ahead. Yet I felt sure that if the younger one recognised the problem then plenty could still be done to avoid a difficult few years in the future - and that if the elder were to shed some weight in the here and now her difficulties would be considerably eased.

In another time, before the age of the consumer, the quality of life of the two would have been so much better, I suspect. The price paid for the growth of consumerism (as so resonantly outlined by Andrew Marr in his book about my own country) is much higher than its victims suspect.