Sort Of Phlegmatic

Another appointment at NUH this afternoon. I didn't actually realise which bit of me it was for until I found myself staring at a cross-section of my lungs which had been scanned when I was hospitalised. There were plentiful amounts of white grunge in the interiors of both which the doc explained shouldn't have been there. I'm guessing it was something like phlegm. After giving me a quick going over with the stethoscope he reckoned I'd now got rid of the grunge, but I'd need to book another scan at some point to verify this. Oh hum. 

My assumption about the phlegm, by the way, is based on the fact that when I was in ICU and they finally pulled all the tubes out of me such that I could breathe on my own, I was able to cough up quite sensational amounts of the stuff. At the time I commented that I seemed to have turned into a machine dedicated to the production of phlegm. Looking at the images on the computer screen I now understand that my playful image was the literal truth. 

Personal Grooming

My day was made considerably brighter for my discovery that the sentence: May this tusk root out the lice of the hair hair and the beard, is the oldest known sentence written in the first alphabet on a ancient comb - dating from around 1700 BC. It's somehow reassuring to think that our ancestors were deeply concerned with the grim business of trying to stay presentable in the face of all that life could find to throw at them just as we need to get ourselves ready to face the world. Also useful to bear in mind that for the most part we've triumphed over hair lice and have a much easier time in terms of keeping up a decent level of hygiene. There's a lot to be for some aspects of progress.

Ups And Downs

I was just reading an interview between the playwright Arthur Miller and some big name theatre critic conducted around the early sixties and was struck by how much weight they gave to Bernard Shaw and T.S. Eliot as dramatists. I can't imagine anyone seriously doing the same today, even if they were great admirers of Eliot as a poet. 

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever had the chance to see Eliot acted on stage - not even Murder in the Cathedral. And the only Shaw I've ever seen on stage is Heartbreak House - performed in Singapore oddly enough, by a British touring company, and quite brilliantly. 

Shaw is the real oddity, I think, in terms of the ebb and flow of reputation. When I was a youngster I seem to recall him as quite a dominant theatrical presence, as it were. Lots of stuff on the BBC, for example. In fact, now I come to think of it, we did his Caesar and Cleopatra for 'O' level. What an extraordinary choice. I don't think I can remember a single line of it. I've got a feeling I read a few of his plays borrowed from Denton Library without them having much impact. I suppose they just went right over my head.

Does anyone take Shaw seriously now? You don't see his plays as set texts, as far as I can remember - the exception being Pygmalion, but that's rare. (And I reckon My Fair Lady is the better night out.)

Found

Myself at the dining table, just finishing a bit of on-line business with the bank and about to post this squib to sum up my day. Noi at the ironing board near-by, having seized the opportunity to deal with a couple or more recalcitrant shirts before we sit down and munch some rojak and watch a bit of telly. It's a very ordinary, humdrum evening in our excessively unexceptional household - which is just the way I like it and for which I give deep and abiding thanks to our Creator. 

Still Missing

Noi is on her way back from Malaka but stuck in a massive jam outside the petrol station just ahead of the Malaysian Immigration. I doubt I'll get to see her before midnight, but there's always tomorrow - looking on the bright side.

I've survived on cheese sandwiches over the weekend, which is no bad thing as I developed quite a hankering for cheese over the last two weeks, and some home-made scones from the Missus herself. Oh, and I popped out with Fuad and Hakim for a gentlemen's excursion to the Adam Road food centre this afternoon and a distinctly jolly time was enjoyed by all.

I have a confession to make. Not quite sure why, but I watched an episode of The Crown, that programme about the royal family. It was all about Princess Margaret and was complete tosh, but I watched it to the end for some reason. Don't worry. I have no intention of watching another.

Gone Missing

Noi has gone off this weekend to Melaka along with Rozita to deal with some family business, leaving me to fend for myself. Of course, I'm missing her severely, but I'm trying to put the time here to good use by ploughing on with the marking for IB. But it wasn't all just mental exercise today. I took a walk up to Holland Village this afternoon as part of a long term plan to try and rebuild some level of fitness in this battered frame of mine. This followed a walk Noi and I undertook with Lee Jing around the Medway Park area on Thursday evening, our first tentative attempt to see whether I was up to recreational rambling.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that both walks went well with no obvious ill effects. However, there was one downside to today's little adventure. I was intending to partake of the cup that cheers at the CBTL at Holland Village but it's shut down since my last visit, which was before my hospitalisation. So, some disappointment there. But I showed resilience by grabbing a cappuccino somewhere else and telling myself that change is good even when it isn't. 

Reason Not The Need

The UK press has been in a bit of a furore of late with regard to an ex-cabinet minister who is intending to appear on a reality-tv show this coming December whilst still sitting as an MP. Nice work if you can get it, I'd say, but most of the UK disagrees.

The thing I find hard to understand about the guy's desire to appear in this kind of format on the goggle box is exactly that - the sheer desire to do so, the sense of need involved. How many of us would want to go to all that trouble only to face the very real possibility of screwing up horrendously and showing the world what complete clots we are in endless reruns available to all on YouTube? I can only figure that in his imagination he can conceive only of doing a great job and impressing all and sundry. Maybe he thinks he did that as a minister? If so, I can but say he is mightily deceived - but I suppose it comes with the territory.

New Ways Of Seeing

One of the incidental occasional rewards of marking Individual Orals for IB is that you sometimes stumble across new writers or artists in the extracts students select to comment upon. This session has been unusually rich in material referencing the migrant experience. I'm not claiming it's life-altering to see the world through the eyes of those who find themselves displaced and deeply uncertain of where they stand in this world, but it certainly makes it less easy to feel so sure as to your right to be where you are.

Mind you, as someone who's lived most his adult life in a kind of exile, I can't say I've ever taken my right to live in this far place for granted. But my experience has been infinitely more comfortable than those poor souls who struggle for the most basic grip on existence. And it's salutary to rub up against their concerns, if only in imagination.

Below The Surface

Very much enjoyed From Russia with Love and this despite the fact that James Bond is a thoroughly dislikable character. In fact, I'd say his general unpleasantness adds to the readability of the novel since it adds an unexpected dimension in that the protagonist is the sort of chap who sets one's teeth on edge. I suppose Fleming must have identified with his hero, yet I suspect there was a lot more to the writer than his despicable fictional alter ego. There's just too much that's really first rate in the writing for him to be as shabby and superficial as Bond.

The descriptions of various districts of Istanbul in the 1950s, for example, and the wonderful evocation of travelling on the Orient Express. I found myself deliberately slowing the pace of my reading to savour the evocation of atmosphere. Yet Fleming also keeps the suspense humming as the reader wonders how exactly will the dastardly Russian plot against Bond play out and how will Tatiana be used against him. It's very clever how this is held back until the last four chapters and then plays out at lightening speed.

Of course, the novel is supremely un-woke, but one thing I'll say for Fleming. On the rare occasions he writes from a female perspective he does so with some success. In the opening chapter he adopts the perspective of the unnamed masseuse with respect for her generosity of spirit and the danger she senses she could be in and, much more strikingly, his portrait of the life of Tatiana when we first meet in the novel has a genuine inwardness and concern for a well-rounded character. It's a pity Fleming didn't choose to give us more of her perspective as the novel developed.

Run Down

I'm getting plenty of sleep, but don't feel exactly rested. Not sure if this is related to the medication I'm on, or part of the recovery process. Fortunately I'm not overwhelmed by work at this time of year so I'm taking this in my stride, but it would be nice to find some energy somewhere. 

Mind you, it could simply be the result of me being well beyond my sell-by date. Got to keep this real, you know.