Gains & Losses

Finished Andrew Marr's measured, engaging and highly entertaining A History of Modern Britain today. Curiously I felt more detached from my country in his account of the Blair years than for any other period, but I suppose that was simply to do with the fact that I just wasn't there. Mind you, I wasn't there for the late Thatcher & Major years, but still recognised what was going on.

Found myself almost as enraged about Blair's complicity in the disastrous invasion of Iraq as I felt at the time. And even more puzzled. How on earth did the government convince itself that the mythical weapons of mass destruction existed? All in all, I'd say Blair's problem was, in the end, a simple one. He came to believe his own publicity. Very dangerous. For all of us.

In the end Marr's greatest insight seems to me about the growth of consumerism and its pernicious effects upon British culture: This history has told the story of the defeat of politics by shopping. Pithy, to say the least. But he has the humanity and good sense to recognise that there are many good things about shopping and many people's lives have changed in many ways for the better since I was a little lad. Including my own. But we've lost much along the way.

Trivialities

I don't see myself as a particularly moody sort of chap - though it's easy to imagine others disagreeing with this self-servicing characterisation. But it's true that I can feel the most intense irritation over the trivial business of illegible handwriting, especially when attempting to mark a script that largely comprises such. One egregious example I encountered this afternoon took a good deal more than an hour to mark, throwing out my schedule for the day. Oh, and when those big-sized ads pop up on my handphone when I'm reading a particularly interesting article, sometimes covering as many as four paragraphs, I have to confess to being a less-than-happy soldier.

And now I come to think of it, something of the reverse is true. A cup of coffee lovingly made and presented can easily restore my equilibrium. The one pictured above did this for me last Monday at 10.45 am (which led to me immortalizing it - sort of - in this post.)

All this leads me to the less-than-genuinely-insightful sort of insight that nothing's really trivial once you weigh it up.

Even More Well Fed

It's the season for special dinners and lots of goodies being showered upon one at work. Very generous and mercifully short. Fortunately I managed to get to the gym this evening as a way of keeping everything in proportion.

Not sure how those folks who get special lunches on expense accounts cope with it all. Glad I'm not one of them.

The Reckoning

Very disturbing story in The Graun yesterday concerning the death of a migrant worker in Italy. The earliest victims of the climate crisis are, predictably, the wretched of the earth. (I originally wrote 'will be' rather than 'are', shielded as I am from the grim reality of it all.)

I suspect a great awakening will take place within my lifetime to what we've done to our only home and the creatures we share it with, and those from our own species it's been so easy to exploit. It won't be pretty.

Well Fed

The algorithm that drives my YouTube feed supplies me with some odd stuff at times. I think it may have got the wrong man on occasion. But when it gets it right it does so on a grand scale.

One such moment occurred around 10.00 am today. Suddenly a link to the mighty Adrian Belew doing the business with the equally mighty Metropole Orkest popped up and all manner of things was well.

The excitement and power of Crimson live, without Crimson being present. If you see what I mean.

Keeping It Personal

Must say, I've been really enjoying my reading lately. It took me a while to finish Jon Gresham's Gus simply because I kept breaking off to read further chunks of Andrew Marr's A History... regarding which I've just reached the end of the Thatcher era. Thoroughly enjoyed reading about her fall for the basest of reasons - my deep dislike of the woman and all she stood for. Not exactly gallant of me, but there you are.

I could pick out all sorts of segments from Marr's tome that made quite an impact on me in my reading so far, but one I'll mention here for oddly personal reasons. He gives a clear-sighted account of the Winter of Discontent of 1978 - 79, and I found myself thinking back to the piles of rubbish on the streets and the accompanying sense in the press of things falling apart. But, in truth, none of it had any real affect on me. I was too busy from September 1978 being utterly miserable as a completely inept teacher. The four months up to December of that year were without any doubt the most stressful of my life as I faced failure on what seemed to me an epic scale. It was only as Christmas arrived that I found the wherewithal to start to turn things around.

The early months of 1979 were a lot better for me, though not for the country. I didn't get good at my work over night, but I knew I was making progress and that was enough. And that progress meant I was able to get my weight under control with an ultra-strict, and very successful, diet. Hence, a minor transformation took place and a much happier me emerged.

Which is my version of the late 70s. Incredibly selfish, I know, but I suppose that's the way it is for most of us. I've lived through tumultuous times in their way and somehow managed to thoroughly, and gratefully, enjoy myself for most of them.

Keeping It Going

Earlier in the month I was praising the sheer exuberance of the opening of Jon Gresham's 2023 novel Gus: The Life and Opinions of the Last Raffles' Banded Langur, and wondering whether the writer could keep the energy going for the full length of a fairly longish novel. Well, he could and did and I'm happy to report that Mr Gresham has created something of a modern classic, at least in the eyes of this reader. It's a wild read (pun intended) in any number of ways, gripping and inventive and generally a blast. In a curious way it has many of the virtues of a graphic novel, not least in its general irreverence.

Remarkably the tale manages to be bitingly serious as an 'eco-novel' without being the least bit sanctimonious. I laughed out loud whilst reading more than once; always a good sign.

Shining Brightly

Spent a splendid three hours this afternoon at a virtual Lit Seminar (zooming away) in the company of a lot of bright young people with many very bright things to say about an intriguing variety of films and books (and one musical.) The participants had been tasked to produce presentations of an essentially academic nature on their chosen texts and, somehow, their enthusiasm for said texts had palpably survived the exercise. They also managed to sound genuinely academic, something I've struggled with since leaving university many decades ago.

I suppose I should say something cliched about all this, on the lines of these young people giving me hope for the future. But I won't since it's quite enough to enjoy their work, as I did today, in the present moment.

Variety, The Spice Of Life

Sad to say, I wasn't exactly a model of concentration throughout Friday Prayers today. I got somewhat distracted during the khutbah (in Malay, so very difficult for this hopeless linguist to follow even minimally) by some of the slogans on the backs of the t-shirts of my fellow-worshippers. Four in particular stood out for me, due in no small part to the odd variety involved. The first I consciously noticed featured the heading TEAMihsan, which seemed appropriate for the occasion. Here I should explain for non-Muslim readers that 'ihsan' is a key term in Islam, related in part to the notion of sincerity - the desire to attain excellence, a kind of perfection in worship and behaviour.

A bit less appropriate, though perfectly acceptable, was the slogan Club Med. I saw this as a bit of a contrast with TEAMihsan, though I suspect that in the long run it's possible to reconcile the two. This shirt happened to be situated right next to a guy who seemed to be wearing a Liverpool replica shirt. The name on his back read Mac Allister - unlikely to be his own name, I'm sure you'll agree. Initially I jumped to the conclusion it referred to Gary McAllister, then decided the shirt looked way too new to refer back so many years. Fortunately I then recalled that Liverpool signed that Argentinian chappie, Alexis Mac Allister (I think) and the mystery was solved.

Which left the back of the shirt that really held my attention: Vincent Van Gogh - Starry Night, with an excellent reproduction of that glorious work above the name of the great artist. Must say, this seemed to complement our worship of the Creator of all Things somehow.

So there it is, further evidence that there's little that's genuinely monolithic about my faith. If anything it embraces the glorious plurality of this world (and others, I'd venture to add.)

Staying Ahead

The plan to eat a bit more healthily in 2024, announced to the world early this year, has been a reasonable success. I haven't attempted to measure the change quantitatively, but I'm sure I've been generally skewed towards the green stuff in recent months. I've also gained, lost, gained again, lost once more, around 2kgs, hitting, then going back below, my fighting weight. And all this whilst thoroughly enjoying whatever grub I fill my face with.

Very occasionally I get friendly inquiries as to my recovery from being hospitalised in 2022 - actually pretty much two years ago to this day. My half playful but half serious answer is that I've recovered 110%. I know you can't do that, but it feels that way. For which I am deeply, deeply, grateful.

Not Done Yet

In a quick chat with one of our student leaders the other day I realised that quite a few of our students think I'm retiring at the end of this year. I can well understand why since, apart from my obviously sadly advanced age, I let quite a few of those I teach know that I was lucky to get the S Pass that enabled me to stay on this year in gainful employment, the granting of said pass only being confirmed in November after being under review for quite a few months. But the good news (or bad news depending on your perspective on the issue) is that the Ministry of Manpower has already been generous enough to extend the pass to the end of 2025, so it looks like I'll be around until at least December of that year.

If nothing else, it keeps me off the streets for a little while longer.

A Sense Of Loss

Gripped hard by Andrew Marr's A History Of Modern Britain. So much I'd forgotten, now remembered. And so many of the writer's judgements seem to me spot on.

The last two sentences of a section on drug use in the sixties are just so utterly right in their bleak compassion that I just have to quote them: Nobody became wiser or more interesting through using heroin, LSD or dope, and the battle against drug use has been entirely lost. The victims began with a steady stream of performers and hangers-on who died from overdoses or drugs-related accidents and, more important by far, are the hundreds of thousands of poorer, less talented children, who followed them after having far less fun. 

It's the reference to children that nails it.

Music In Mind

I was reading a review today in The Straits Times of Saturday's concert, an appropriately favourable one, which finished with a reference to one of Borodin's melodies being used for Stranger in Paradise. Instantly the song was lodged in my head, playing on a loop, remaining there for a good two hours. And I mean 'good' since it felt great to revisit the piece, if only in my mind.

It also served to temporarily dislodge three or four ear-worms that have been haunting me for  two weeks now from various tracks on Springsteen's Magic. I gave the CD thereof a spin after reading something on a chat group about how badly produced it was whilst being the last of the great Springsteen albums. I didn't particularly agree with either sentiment, by the way, in that I can think of at least one wholly wonderful album that came later in the day and I'd never noticed anything particularly off about the production. 

But getting really close up to it again I had to admit that the sound does sound a tad overly compressed. I'm not sure there's enough room for the various strands of sound to really breathe, especially the keyboards. Be that as it may, there are a lot of great songs on there and, like I said, I just can't get several bits out of my head. Mind you, it certainly helps the time pass when invigilating examinations.

More Sweetish Sounds

Decided to play some mid-period VDGG in the early afternoon at a reasonable volume (since The Missus isn't around.) Gave a particularly close listen to A World Record, an album that a few critics don't rate too highly. As always the critics are obviously wrong, especially those who object to the cod-reggae and jarring guitar solo that plays out Meurglys III (The Songwriter's Guild). I love the groove here. The only objection I have is the fade-out rather than the big ending, but even this makes a kind of sense given that the jam at the end could go on for ever. Oddly enough they also slowly fade out on the lovely Wondering, and I mean really slowly, but the piece does seem to rather satisfyingly sputter out at the end of the fade, so I think some kind of musical point is being made.

Along with the often killer riffs, there's a lot of melody on the album, sometimes of a theatrical bent. Wondering would make a great show-stopper for example. It struck me that I felt something of a carry-over from listening to the SSO last night in terms of the simple loveliness of the sound worlds created, but given Peter Hammill's vocal extremes I suppose VDGG come with a good deal more astringency amongst the satisfying harmonies. It's just that I can't really hear how off-putting his voice is having been used to listening to, and admiring him, since I was 14 (when I bought H to He Who Am the Only One, a wise buy if ever there was one.)

Actually there was a bit of astringency last night, supplied, surprisingly by Yiwen Lu and her erhu. She's an astonishing player and the textures of sound she delivered set against the conventional sound-world of the orchestra were quite something. Apart from anything else I had no idea an erhu could sound so loud. Found myself wanting to hear a lot more of the music of Qigang Chen. We got his La Joie de la souffrance and I would have liked more, so was disappointed that another scheduled piece was replaced with some Borodin (though since I'm a bit of a Borodin fan since directing Kismet which draws heavily on his popular pieces no great harm was done.)

I must further admit that I'd not really heard of Maestro Chen before, so when I looked him up on Wikipedia I felt more than just a bit embarrassed. Music Director for the 2008 Olympics and somehow he passed me by! Now I've definitely got a lot of listening to do.

Sweet Sounds

Got myself to an SSO concert this evening for the first time in yonks. I was at a bit of a loose end since Noi is up in KL for the weekend with some of her chums, and it occurred to me that a trip to the Victoria Concert Hall might be just the tonic I needed. And I was right. The SSO on great form with not just one but two highly talented soloists.

The only thing to complain about was the unnaturally fierce air-conditioning in the hall. But even that didn't detract from the gorgeous music on offer.

Relatively Speaking

Time cannot move more slowly than the final 5 seconds of a basketball game in which the score is tied. Trust me on this.

A Question Of Focus

Got to watch a pretty powerful performance of everyone's favourite feminist Greek tragedy Medea this afternoon, and quite legitimately so. We've paid for the rights to screen various titles in the National Theatre Live series and it looks like this could be money well-spent. Somewhat to our surprise we got a very good turn-out from our first year IBDP students, who're studying the play for their Language & Literature course. We didn't want to make it compulsory to watch and we'd guessed we might get about five rows but the lecture theatre we used turned out to be fullish.

Indeed it was instructive to watch the audience watching the show. They did pretty well for a young crowd watching a, to say the least, sombre performance, but not surprisingly a significant number struggled to view the proceedings in an entirely attentive manner. It was a timely reminder for us to put in place some sort of protocol regarding appropriate behaviour. I'm not talking about a set of rules to be imposed as a disciplinary straight-jacket but something genuinely educational to help develop an understanding of how theatre works.

A few years back (probably about twenty-five, come to think of it) I did the same in the secondary school I was teaching at when we screened what I termed Lit films as 'enrichment' (and those were compulsory viewing.) Actually we were very successful at getting civilised behaviour from even the youngest kids. It's surprising what you can get out of people when you communicate the reasons why the conventions of what might be broadly termed 'theatre etiquette' developed. Mind you, in those far-off days we didn't have smart phones to contend with. Progress, eh?

By the by, Helen McCrory was sensationally good in the starring role. She scared the heck out of me.

Dining Al Fresco

Number one surfer dude Rob is currently visiting Singapore on a business trip, hence he's solo, without Kate & the kids. His hotel is situated in Chinatown so Noi took the opportunity to explore Lau Pa Sat by taking him out to dinner there - a nice 15 minute walk or so from the hotel in question. It's been a long time since we were last there but The Missus managed to secure an excellent table, next to the satay stalls, slightly outside the covered confines of the hawker centre and we ate quite a feast from one of the seafood stalls - plus a healthy helping of chicken & mutton satay. Oddly Rob had never encountered the mutton variety before.

With lots of news on the home front to catch up it was a highly satisfactory, if somewhat over-indulgent, evening out. Worth breaking our cover for, I'd say.

What Matters

Andrew Marr's A History of Modern Britain throws up fascinating stuff on every page. The segment on British theatre in the 1950s was enthralling and enlightening in equal degrees. It was good to see his appreciation of the popular theatre as well as the more 'worthy' variety.

Must say, I thought I knew a bit about Joan Littlewood's Theatre Workshop simply from my appreciation of Oh! What A Lovely War! (At one time I owned the soundtrack on vinyl.) But I didn't quite grasp the scope and revolutionary nature (in all senses) of the work she was behind. Marr's point that the real driving force in a nation's theatre is often provided by the producers and entrepreneurs, the people who shape the institutions, discover the plays, coax the companies, is particularly well made and down to earth.

This is history that feels like it matters.

Law And Order

My inner fascist has been quietly rejoicing in the banging-up of a wide variety of idiots back in blighty on account of their getting involved in the idiotic riots. We're likely to be visiting my homeland this December and I'm hoping for calm by then for both civically healthy and personal reasons. I suspect they'll have let quite a few of the rioters out by that time due to prison-overcrowding, but hopefully I'm wrong. It doesn't speak well of my character that I really don't mind the idea of the idiots over-crowding each other in the nick. I'm really good at vengeance, in case you haven't noticed.

Cancellations

For the past two weeks my YouTube feed has featured quite a number of links to various folks sounding off about some allegations made against the writer Neil Gaiman. From what I can gather a number of serious complaints have been made about him taking sexual advantage of women and these complaints, though not yet proven, have enough weight to lead to the folks I referred to making a good deal of noise, not usually favourable to the writer, about these in public. Not sure if that's a great idea in itself since I would have thought the best thing would be to let these things play out in court, or, at least, in a methodical investigation of what has been taking place.

But let's imagine the man has his dark side, and it's very dark indeed. Does that mean that the fine work he's done, like the Sandman series or Coraline, to name two pretty obvious examples, should now be put to one side and deemed not worthy of public consumption? I just don't see how this makes sense. There's a pretty obvious gap in all cases between the creator and what is created. Of course, it's easy to imagine that those actually suffering abuse from a writer, artist, musician, might find it impossible to engage or respond in any way to their work again, but I don't see how this can extend beyond those genuinely impacted. After that, if the work has something to offer that means it's worth engaging in then I can't see how the flaws of its creator compromise it in any deep way.

By the by, one of the folks who's been commenting on the allegations sounds as if he's very much enjoying making plenty of noise about the scandal, and, I presume, building a bit of an audience around this. He claims to be a writer of speculative fiction himself, though I haven't heard of him, and is so obviously envious of Gaiman's success that it's a bit embarrassing. It's this kind of thing that gives righteousness such a bad name.

A Healthy Lifestyle

I'm not sure I can claim to maintain a thoroughly healthy lifestyle, but in my own way I suppose I try. Except that I'm not keen on the concept of a 'lifestyle'. It's more the case that I regularly do stuff that is intended to help me stay as healthy as I can. This includes deliberately doing a lot of walking around at work, even when I don't really need to - including always using the stairs and avoiding the lifts. Then there's going to the gym - my target being three times a week for an hour of the torture machine what I think is generally known as cardio and some fiddling about with weights. And, finally, I try to eat sensibly.

I reckon this regime, though far from perfect, does some good. I don't get ill too often and, usually, late in the day, can call upon some energy from somewhere. And I seem to be sleeping quite well lately, rarely suffering from insomnia. Above all, my comeback from the breakdown I suffered in September - October 2022 has been pretty sensational. When I got out of hospital I thought I might manage to eventually function at something like 80% of my former self, so getting back the full 100% has a faintly miraculous quality about it.

But one thing I've noticed of late is a distinct sense of peaking in terms of what I can manage in the gym. This afternoon, after a consistently maintained three sessions a week for seven weeks, I noted that I'd still not got back to the numbers I posted in early May before the lay-off forced on me by a busy end of term and our journey to Malaysia for the vacation month. Not that this bothers me too deeply. I'll most likely get there in a couple of weeks, assuming I avoid the crankiness of lower back pain that sometimes puts a stop to any possibility of exercise. But I know that despite my best efforts that level of fitness will drop away once life and its attendant circumstances messes up my efforts at maintaining regular sessions.

The simple fact is that, if I'm lucky enough to keep going to the gym for a few months, I'll always face that sense in the first ten minutes that my body isn't quite what it used to be, and then the painful awareness that keeping going is just very hard work indeed. But the funny thing is that I sort of don't mind as long as I can walk about after its all over and not feel like I've reached one hundred without noticing.

So, despite the not-so-good bits, it's all good, if you see what I mean.

Waxing Poetic

It's taken me more than a year to complete the big Collected Poems of Robert Lowell, and I mildly celebrated this morning when I read the final poem. If nothing else, it's good to be able to move on. 

To be honest my encounter with the full works of the great poet has been an odd one. Enough great poetry to easily prove that greatness, but a fair amount of the simply baffling. Just this morning I was grappling with a sonnet sequence intended for Notebook that I don't think ever saw publication and I had no idea what it was about. Then a short piece entitled Kaddish, a lyric originally intended for Bernstein's 3rd Symphony of the same name, which struck me immediately as quite brilliant. (As these things do, that sent me for a listen to the actual symphony, which I've never heard before, but I could only handle the 1st movement. Just too much drama to take in and a spoken narration that struck me as way over the top. A pity that Lenny didn't use RL's words - his exuberance might just have been reined in.)

But I was faced with a bit of a conundrum after finishing the tome in question. What to move onto? The answer came in the form of Ted Hughes's Collected Poems for Children. Yes, I'm opting for pure pleasure for a month or two or three. It's time for the brow to unfurrow.

High Energy

Made a start on the last of the Sing Lit novels the Missus bought me for my birthday, under the guidance of Fifi, as I understand it. I saved Jon Gresham's Gus: the Life and Opinions of the Last Raffles' Banded Langur until last since it looked and sounded so appealing. (Sorry about the odd psychology involved in that choice, but it's just me.)

I mean, talking monkeys - what's not to like?

I've just finished Part One and if the writer can keep up this level of exuberant entertainment then I'd say we have a classic on our hands.

Jack-in-the-box

As I predicted yesterday, this morning's discussion was pretty much the same in terms of essential content as the stuff being discussed when I started out as a teacher (a very bad one) in September 1978. Though back then there was something like actual discussion. Nowadays people stand at the front and tell you stuff claiming you are in a 'conversation'. But it's not their fault; it's just the nature of things.

I did a bit of sage nodding, and a fair amount of inscrutable frowning of the sort that used to get under the collective skins of my own teachers: Is there something wrong, Connor? No sir, I'm thinking. Oh, and I made one pretty strident intervention. 

Funnily enough this came about as a result of having the first lines of Dylan's Mississippi running through my head once the phrase 'boxed-in' had occurred to me in response to a question about how I felt: Every step of the way, we walk the line / Your days are numbered, so are mine / Time is pilin' up, we struggle and we scrape / We're all boxed in, nowhere to escape. 

Sort of says it all, really. As Dylan usually does.

Still Rushing

Tomorrow morning I'll be involved in discussion of something known as Future Ready Skills. I've got the oddest feeling we'll be talking about the same kind of stuff I was talking about back in 1978, at the beginning of my teaching career, when the future seemed a long way off. Now it's been and gone.

One difference though. In those far-off days it felt like there was time to genuinely talk. Now things rush by even faster than they did a decade ago. I think I'll just stick to nodding sagely and looking like I know what people are talking about. It usually works.

Feeling British

Since I was referring to questions of identity in yesterday's post to this Far Place, it's only fair to say I'm feeling unusually British today. I think this is on account of just how well Team GB are doing at the Paris Olympics, a detail I pointed out with childish glee to one of my unfortunate classes this morning. This is very petty of me, of course. And deeply satisfying.

On The Surface

Not quite sure what to make of Karina Robles Bahrin's The Accidental Malay, which I finished reading today. Tash Aw reasonably refers to it as slick and sharp, (as quoted on the front cover, no less) and it's certainly not a difficult read, but I came away from it with a sense of mild disappointment over what it doesn't do. Now that's a bit unfair, I guess, but when a novel consciously sets out to deal with matters of identity, both racial and religious, in a part of the world in which those terms are pretty loaded, it does create expectations of some kind of weight, gravity, depth, whatever. And that's what's missing here.

Of course, if the writer has set out to deal with a world of surfaces then fair enough. But I get the sense that she shares her protagonist's view, or views, of the world and these seem based on fairly narrow stereotypes to this reader. And it doesn't help that the sort of triangular love affair at the centre of the plot reads like an essay in wish-fulfilment. Is it really possible that two guys as nice, decent and filthy rich as Jasmine Leong's boyfriends exist outside the pages of women's magazines (or telly dramas)? Oh, and she's also very rich and a highly capable CEO, though we rarely see her actually at work.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for voicing coruscating criticisms of all belief systems. It's a fine way of testing them out. But I looked in vain for a voice to counter this generalisation, which is fairly typical of the text, voiced by the identity-threatened protagonist, but springing originally from a disenchanted Malay source: Us Chinese, even the Indians, we come from elsewhere much larger than this tiny peninsula. Thousands of years of history. Not like them. The Malays... only have this. Oh dear. Where do I start?

I suppose I'm hoping for the big blockbuster novel in English from Malaysia or Singapore or Indonesia, that blows the reader's head off in terms of capturing the sheer glorious plurality of it all and seeks to undermine all the glistening or, for that matter, mundane surfaces that hold us in. I reckon there's a fair chance we'll get it in my lifetime.

Endless Summers

Just read the section from Marr's A History of Modern Britain dealing with the rise of the leisure camps in the 1950s. It seems that the first Butlin's was the one at Skegness. We went once, to the camp at Filey, around the time of the first James Bond film, Doctor No. I remember the posters there for it. And I remember the relentlessly jolly redcoats, who seemed to the little Brian impossibly glamorous. I wonder how those youngsters (for that's what they were, after all) did it.

I suppose I should be writing something wittily dismissive of the whole experience, but I loved it. In fact, I can't remember any summer as a kid that was less then magical, and, of course, they all went on forever. Until they ended.

Apostrophising

I make a bit of a fuss about using apostrophes appropriately with my students, but the truth is I'm not all that bothered about them. In the recent kerfuffle over the Yorkshire apostrophe I'm very much in the camp of the Bard from Barnsley and looking forward to the demise of this tricky bit of punctuation. But in the meantime I tell my students that since some 70% or so of those taking exams haven't a clue how to use the things, they may as well stand out a bit as experts, which isn't too difficult if you let yourself recall what you were taught in primary school. Putting the apostrophe in the right place will impress those examiners of English who actually themselves know how to use the things.

But having said I'm pretty relaxed over the things, I must say it's hard to figure out how someone from Yorkshire might not realise the beautiful precision of Gerrit in t'bin. How could it be otherwise?

Must say, it's good to know that Ian McMillan's ultimate plan is for the royal family to speak like us. A worthy project indeed.

A Bad Day

Actually I had a very good day. But one of my colleagues had a bad one. And that's worth remembering, especially if there's a way to help. And also as a reminder of one's own good luck in a generally unforgiving world.