Normal Service Is Resumed

It's late Friday night in Cardiff and I'm listening to a bit of Handel on Radio 3 - specifically his fine oratorio L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, a very satisfying way to spend a cold, wet evening in Wales, I can assure you. And adding considerably to the satisfaction is the rather marvellous fact that my bag finally arrived at the hotel and I have shaved and am wearing reasonably civilised underwear.

In fact, I believe I can claim to have discovered something. It is almost worth losing your luggage in transit for the unadulterated joy of finding it again. Almost - but not quite.

Not Too Much Baggage

Well I'm here in Cardiff (where, due to the change of time zone, it's still Thursday whatever the date above may say) but my baggage isn't. This is not a good thing.

I've been assured that it is on the way at some point in the future, which is good. But the utter indifference of anyone at the airport regarding the fact that they weren't able to give me the baggage they claimed to be handling for me was irritating, to say the least. It's clearly my problem, not theirs. And they don't even begin to pretend otherwise.

Back On The Road Again

I've got a horrible feeling that despite my feeling extremely tired I'm not going to sleep too well on tonight's flight. In which case it's highly unlikely I'll be on top form for my working weekend. And, a further point to consider, I'll probably be in an even worse mess when I get back here to work next week. It's good to be optimistic about these things.

And, of far greater importance in the great scheme of things, I reckon United will go for Moyes, and I for one won't be disappointed if they do. The end of an era, eh?

Well Well

Poor Noi is coughing, spluttering and complaining of feeling feverish. And at a time when I can't afford to be ill, with a (working) trip to the UK looming, I'm selfishly worried about being next in line for a little bout of misery. I'm not very good at being ill, which is why, I suppose, I'm generally lucky enough not to be.

Time For Change

Some disappointment in this household, on the distaff side, with regard to the election results of last night. But here's the thing. Anyone who thinks a change of government anywhere will magically change a nation is naive. Real change in organisations is possible, but  happens slowly, sometimes so slowly you're not consciously aware of it until the day when you recognise things are not really the same anymore. (This requires memory - genuine memory.) Real change in nations is also possible, and a change for the worse can come very quickly indeed once you've passed the tipping point. But making things better requires engagement from citizens at all levels all the time. And it can happen under any government assuming a reasonable level of sanity in the people at the top because, in its essence, real change is not dependent upon them.

Countdown

It looks set to be a long and exciting night for those watching the results of the General Election in Malaysia. I reckon the Missus is likely to be one of them, although she has said she might just wait until morning to find out who's going to be in charge for the next few years in the country of which she is a citizen.

I just feel privileged to be around to witness events in this part of the world. I've seen considerable changes in a number of nations in the region in the last twenty-five years, most being for the better, I reckon. But the only real judges can be those who really live here. And no one's ever come up with a better place to judge than the ballot box, says this believer in democracy.

Connections

Finished Philip Roth's incredibly sad Nemesis and immediately listened to Bill Frisell's Have A Little Faith, an album featuring all sorts of melancholy Americana. The initial connection for me was the cover of the CD, featuring a photo of kids racing towards the camera in some sort of impromptu race undertaken on 4 July 1941. It reminded me of the scenes at the Indian Camp in the second half of the novel. But then the music seemed to fit as well. Never such innocence again.

Looking Back

Very occasionally I take a look at my journal from years back. Usually I limit myself, in an entirely arbitrary manner, to whatever was going on ten years ago. Sometimes it's hard to recognise myself, sometimes not.

I was a little startled just now looking back to May 2003 to realise I'd written one or two things relating to my considering asking for a transfer from the school in which I was teaching at that time. Indeed, it turns out that it was in that month that I made the request. I must say I was pleased at the sense of cold logic that went into the decision. It would have been more comfortable to stay where I was, but I would have been betraying whatever principles I've got.

Doing the right thing is always tricky when you don't know what the right thing is. But doing the difficult thing that could be right is preferable to doing the easy thing which probably isn't. At least you can live with yourself after.

Under The Spell

I blame the library. After returning Philip Roth's wonderful Indignation what else could I do but take out the other novel by the American master on the shelves? So now I'm utterly captivated by the opening pages of Nemesis at a time when I really can't afford to be. But at least there's nothing more to tempt me: one advantage of a (very) basic library - the only advantage.

In fact, I've only ever owned one book by Roth and that was a long time ago. The tome in question was Portnoy's Complaint, which was something you sort of expected to see on a university student's shelves in those days - that and Goodbye Columbus and Letting Go, both of which I borrowed from other guys' shelves. I don't think Roth was held in terribly high regard back then. He was just seen as a pretty good popular novelist, as far as I can remember. I think somebody purloined my copy of Portnoy somewhere along the way - probably thinking it was a bit of a dirty book and, therefore, worth grabbing.

I only started to read him again back when I was living in the Mansion because the highly accessible Marine Parade Library had a few of the later novels and I'd noticed just how good the reviews had been getting. They weren't wrong.

Roth does something I can't think any other writer comes close to. He writes in such a direct, uncluttered simple way that you really start to think it is simple. He's so easy to read it's ridiculous, as if transparent. A bit like Anthony Burgess's idea of Somerset Maugham as story-teller when he compares Maugham to Joyce. In Maugham the medium, the language, doesn't matter. And so it seems to be with Roth, until you realise just how crafty, how much of an artificer, he is. And when that's allied to an emotional wallop - my goodness.

The early pages about the protagonist of Nemesis visiting the parents of the little lad who's the first victim of polio in the story are just excruciating in the way that Dostoevsky at his best can be. Yes, really that good.

Goofing Off

This being a public holiday I'd intended to get quite a bit of work done, as is the way of things in this Far Place. But I ended up doing not very much at all. I kept finding ways of urgently entertaining myself, and I must say I consider the day well spent.

First I indulged in a bit of serious listening to Ludwig Van - Symphony 1, as essayed by Roger Norrington and a group of those original instrument chappies. From what I can gather the cognoscenti regard the First as more than a little conventional and, thus, a bit of a damp squib in the great Romantic revolutionary's array of fireworks. But I love the piece, especially when it features the kind of drums Norrington employs.

After that I decided I needed to make some headway with Anthony Price's The Alamut Ambush, having got bogged down around the third chapter. To my surprise I'd finished it by early afternoon. Definitely readable, but lacking the kind of historical background that becomes a hallmark of the later Audley novels.

Then for some reason I don't quite understand I put on Roger Waters's The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking. I suppose because I've hardly listened to it since buying it on a whim and felt it deserved better. Now I'm not sure it does. Some excellent playing, especially by Eric Clapton, but hollow at the centre, and Mr Waters's vocals are off-puttingly overwrought.

And then I picked up Philip Roth's Indignation, and was lost. Another in the remarkable line of extremely readable, resonant novels Roth has produced seemingly effortlessly in his senior years. I couldn't put it down and went cover to cover in around three hours, most happily.

Yes, a day wasted is a day to savour.