Certainties

We've run out of episodes of Doc Martin that we haven't watched on Netflix, so that's ended our recent little ritual of late-night viewing. It's been replaced by the equally addictive Midsomer Murders. We can always count on at least two gruesome killings and, on a particularly good night, three or four. And, of course, we can also count on a neat solution by Chief Inspector Barnaby with everything satisfactorily wrapped up before bedtime. What's not to like?

We've even come to terms with the new Barnaby. It's surprising how quickly one adapts when it's one's comfort on the line. And now I'm just off to prepare for tonight's offering, with hopes of an especially high body-count to round off a gently peaceful day.

Uncertainties

Writing yesterday's post about my on-going reading prompted me to pick up the Moody biog and get on with Part Two. I'd broken off a few days back at the point when EP was about to meet Il Duce in 1933 thinking that made for a reasonable point to pause and get on with other reading and that it would be easy when the time came to pick it up again to read of this fascinating encounter. And it was. Moody is very good on explaining why Mussolini in 1933 wasn't quite the Mussolini we think of today. I don't know enough about the period to be sure Moody gets it quite right (despite doing European history of the period for 'O' level), and I wonder sometimes whether Moody has enough of a soft spot for old Ez to indulge in a degree of special pleading, but his picture of the Italian dictator as someone who could be respected for getting things done with the benefit of his countrymen in mind at this point in time rings true.

Indeed, reading of the uncertainties of the period, political and economic, was a useful reminder of just how uncertain anyone in the world at that point in history must necessarily have been regarding what directions countries should go in and what the future might hold. Sounds suspiciously like the times in which we live, eh?

Must say, though, EP comes across as more than just a little bit crazy in his certainties - warning signs of what was to come, I'd say, though Moody holds back on such easy judgements. Probably rightly. I'm good at getting things wrong.

A Question Of Momentum

I've lost a bit of momentum in my reading over the last few days, largely as a result of having to adapt to a whole new way of working. Plus trying to keep up with the latest news with regard to the pandemic has occupied a fair amount of what free time I've hacked out.

I'm still moving slowly through WC Williams's poems and Moody's Pound biog, which is an appropriate way to read both. And I've made surprising progress in a sort of anthology of Singaporean Lit edited by Gwee Li Sui entitled, Written Country - The History of Singapore through Literature. It's helped that most of the pieces therein are short and can be read at one go in those odd moments here and there. It's cleverly arranged in chronological order, starting in 1942, and I'm up to 1985, getting close to the year I arrived on these shores.

But it's the novel I'm currently reading that has caused me most excitement. To my embarrassment I need to confess that I've never read any Balzac before, I suppose constituting the biggest gap in my reading regarding the major figures of western writers. I'm now thoroughly embarked on Le Père Goriot (Old Man Goriot in my Penguin translation) and it's a blast. Tremendous energy in the writing. You might guess that Balzac was strung out on coffee when writing it, if you didn't already know of the writer's addiction. The thing is, though, that I've only really been able to get down to serious reading late in the day, usually when in bed, and my energy doesn't quite match that of the novelist.

Fortunately I've got a bit of a break this Easter weekend so I'm hoping to immerse myself in the Paris of the early nineteenth century. It's a fascinating place to be.

A Sense Of Loss

Another frantic day, but an interesting one. So frantic I quite forgot, until just now, to carve out time to reflect on Mum's life on this, the anniversary of her death.

And now reflecting on that life I'm struck by both how ordinary it was, reasonably typical in most ways of that of a working class lass from around Stalybridge way in the north of England in the twentieth century, and how fascinating: the many jobs, the conversion to Catholicism, the dancing, the visits to Singapore in old age, et al.

And a further thought strikes me: I suppose it's true of everyone, really. The interest, I mean. In our odd particularities we cannot avoid being unique and when any one of us leaves this mortal world to be gathered into Eternity a whole universe is lost.

True Royalty

Bit of a frantic day today making preparations for a whole new way of working. But found time to goof off for 10 minutes for a cup of tea whilst listening to Prince's brilliant version of a bona fide Led Zep classic.

Led Zeppelin II was a key album of my teenage years. Pretty much every kid (male) wanted to be Jimmy Page. Ever the contrarian, I wanted to be John Paul Jones. Heartening to think His Purple Highness must have been a fan. Oh, and the guitar solo is way better than anything Mr Page put on vinyl.

Important Matters

Popped out for a quick cuppa at Arab Street ahead of the big lockdown coming on Tuesday. A reminder of how precious the perfectly ordinary sharing of the cup that cheers with the Missus is - though I didn't need too much reminding. I've gotten pretty good in my old age of being aware of what really matters.

The Bright Side Of Life

Lovely story in yesterday's MEN about the almost-a-century-old lady who survived infection from the coronavirus. I felt like cheering when I read it. They breed them tough in Stockport, do they not?

And the reference to her predilection for marmalade sandwiches for some obscure reason caused in me a rush of memories of childhood. Funnily enough I'd been talking about the joys of marmalade on toast back in December at John & Jeanette's, but it was only today that I found myself for a good five minutes meditating on the taste of marmalade spread on white bread (and really, really fancying some.)

There are some things worth living for, eh?

Great Stuff

I'm not the slightest bit inclined to nominate whom I would consider as the greatest guitarist, the greatest bassist, the greatest drummer - that sort of thing. I don't think it adds much to the conversation, the sum of human wisdom - that sort of thing. Indeed, as soon as I might name one musician I admire in any of those (or other) given categories, another nine or ten spring to mind. But if I had to name the greatest drummer I've had the good fortune of watching live four times, then I'd unhesitatingly name the wonderful Bill Bruford. (Just as a matter of interest that includes one occasion on which he played with the equally wonderful and even more extraordinary Jamie Muir, which goes beyond ordinary good fortune into the realm of absolute blessing.)

Today I chanced upon a splendid interview with Broof in Rolling Stone which confirmed what I've long suspected: the sheer intelligence of the guy. Indeed, for a moment I found myself entertaining the thought that maybe what takes a musician to the next level is a kind of innate talent combined with a keen intelligence - but then I thought of Ginger Baker and realised that, plausible as the idea was, it broke up against the odd actuality of how things are.

Back In Action

It's a relief to get back to the gym. The enforced lay-off has had results, and they're not exactly positive - I wasn't on form in any sense this evening. Use it, or lose it, as they rightly say. I was keenly aware of just how much had gone.

Despite a so-so performance I must say I felt a stronger sense of purpose working out than is usual for me. Trying to get reasonably fit is one way of building up at least some immunity to what life might just decide to throw at us. I'm not keen on the role of entirely passive victim.

No Fooling

The Missus was asking me earlier whether anyone had played any good April Fool's tricks at work today. It was the entire lack of any that brought home to me the general sense of sombre sobriety that is prevalent in this time of crisis. Yes, there is humour, of course, but of an understandably more muted variety.

Fortunately on the home front we had the excellent advice of Malaysia's Women and Family Ministry to cheer us up. The thought of Noi (who is, after all, a citizen of that fine nation) imitating the voice of Doraemon to soothe my brow made the world seem a friendlier, happier place, and as for her completing her statements with a coy and feminine laugh... - the mind boggles more than fulsomely.