Great Expectations

Decided not to watch the footy in Germany partly on the grounds that I didn't want to pay the extra fees to watch on the telly, especially when the majority of games are broadcast at ungodly hours. But am watching stuff on-line, so I know how badly England have played so far. But the main grounds for not watching live games are actually part of a cunning plan on my part. Re: whenever I have watched in the past the three lions have come unstuck. So this time round my lack of presence is calculated to work in their favour.

The plan, as you probably realise, has proved a major success so far. Plus, by virtue of the team being so unimpressive their opponents are being lulled into a false sense of security.

So, it's really quite simple. I feel completely sure of success tonight against the boys in orange. And then Spain will fall in the final. Remember, you read it here first.

Still Fragile

Bit of a coincidence just now. Not spooky, but close. I was idly browsing some of my posts from years back in this Far Place, on a whim. Fifteen years, to the day, to be precise; a nice roundish number and date and entirely arbitrary. And I came across this, about someone in hospital: News of the sudden unexpected hospitalisation of a friend knocked me backwards, sideways and every which way today. 

Now the thing is that I had no memory as to whom the friend might be despite pondering for a minute or two - only to realise, as I browsed further through the month in question that it was no other than the mighty Boon. You could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather. Yes, the 9 July in question was the date of his first heart attack, from which he made a reassuring recovery.

Anyway, he's now out of hospital after banging himself around in the bathroom, following the loss of unreasonable amounts of blood, to end up looking like someone who'd just been sparring with Mike Tyson (and I'm talking the young, ferocious Tyson here.) Hope the next fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years or so prove uneventful on the health front for him. And for me, for that matter.

Uneasy Reading

David Attenborough’s A Life on Our Planet is a model of clarity for anyone who wants to write accessibly without in any way patronizing the reader. His ability to use the technical terminology of the fields in which he specializes without a moment’s obfuscation is unparalleled.

So why is it so difficult to read, for this reader? Answer – Because the fundamental truths in which it deals are so painful. I found it difficult to watch the documentary that it’s the basis of for the same reason.

Fortunately I’ve made it beyond the first half in which the Greatest Living Englishman makes painfully clear how mankind has almost destroyed the planet. The second half, A Vision for the Future, allows for some hope. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure there’s any real foundation for the optimism on display. But I am completely sold on the course of action so clearly outlined.

We have no choice.

Reading Myself

Spent a bit of time today reflecting on the vagaries of my reading over the last two or three months. For reasons I can't quite grasp I failed to make the progress I expected to on the small pile of books I assembled back in early May. I thought that in our June sojourn at Maison KL I'd get to grips with all the novels, but this wasn't to be. It isn't that I stopped reading, but once I'd finished Dune I really had to force myself to make progress in The Battle for Spain. It wasn't that I was bored. I just found I needed to take things slowly to ensure I did justice to all the detail. And, I felt compelled, in a mild sort of way, to goof off on stuff on-line which felt then, and now, tissue thin, not like 'real' reading at all.

Oddly enough I didn't listen to much music either, and this despite having quite a bit of time on my hands.

In contrast, the last few days have seen me banging along with a few texts, and feeling compelled to do so despite having plenty of work to get through. I've picked up the pace on the big Lowell Collected and just finished the poems in his last substantial book, Day by Day - which I found pretty accessible in terms of his late period. The first three stories in Ted Chiang's collection proved distinctly engaging and I'm settling into Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet with relish. And I should add that I've been enjoying a paragraph from Finnegans Wake here and there on a regular basis for the last week and found myself zipping through a number of reviews over the weekend in the Christmas Double Issue of the Literary Review which I'd put to one side after mid-May despite very much enjoying to that point.

So why the sudden enthusiasm? I wish I knew; I remain a mystery to myself. But here's an awkward thought: Perhaps I need to be forced into action (needing to work) in order to feel a compulsion to read in order to create for myself a space for myself. If the time is gifted me, I lose something. An essential laziness asserts itself and I lose whatever sense of purpose I've got. I'm not sure I've read myself correctly, but if I have there are implications to deal with.

Definitely Full

We found ourselves dining in somewhat grand style this evening and in jolly company. It's amazing just how much it's possible to eat when the grub is easy on the eye and tasty on the palette. I even managed to ignore a delectable looking bread & butter pudding having overdone it on the fruity deserts. Doubt that I'll feel anything like hungry for the next couple of days.

Funnily enough, it's the fact that we rarely set the boat out in this fashion these days that makes going out on the lake feel so entirely and memorably satisfying.

Cause For Hope

Finally some good news out of the UK. A good chance of a competent government after 14 years of the less than optimal. Someone asked me about the new Prime Minister's lack of charisma and seemed surprised when I said I regarded that as one of his best qualities.

And I thought I was stating the obvious.

Look Back In Anger

For no reason I can think of I felt a bit angry at one point today. I wasn't angry at anyone. Just angry about things, sort of.

Sometimes anger is a useful emotion. An energy, as John Lydon would have it. And proto-punk Peter Hammill had it in abundance. Bit like Dylan. PH was still magnificently angry in 2005 and the world was the better for it.

Wish I could put my anger to such good service, but it just dissipates.

Looking Ahead

Am looking forward to the crushing of a certain political party in tomorrow's General Election in the UK and the restoration of something approaching sane governance. But, given the record of my countrymen in recent years in the ballot box, I'm not counting on this whatever the polls say.

A Simple Lesson

Returned Beevor's The Battle for Spain to the library today. It took me quite some time to read it, owing, I think, to the density of detail involved. But in its way I enjoyed that aspect of the text. Spain in the 1930's (and before, and after) was complicated, as is every nation, and trying to simplify the dreadful conflict would be a mistake. There were no heroes, but plenty of villains, on all sides. That's the way of the world when a nation slides into open internal conflict. 

If there's one lesson worth learning from history, that's the best one.

Not So Alarmed

Managed to get to the new Woodlands Hospital this afternoon to see Boon. In fact, we didn't even need to make our way to his ward as he was able to come down to the canteen, in his wheelchair, wheeled by Mei, to share a cuppa with us. The reason for the wheelchair was twofold: he's been suffering from vertigo, though this has now eased somewhat, but there's still some danger of fainting and falling again as he did last Saturday night; and he managed to break some toes when he fell, so walking is not a good idea for him at present.

Other than that we were treated to Boon pretty much as usual, which was a bit of a relief given what he's been through. He was talking of being released from hospital in a couple of days, which points to the fact that his physicians think of the bleeding he was suffering from being under control. Mind you, his blood count sounded on the low side so it could be he's being a trifle optimistic, but mindless optimism is always a good sign of someone on the road to recovery. So, hurray!

To be honest, I quite envied him the prominent indentation-cum-gash on his forehead - the most visible result of his unexpected blackout over the weekend. He looked like a true hard man, someone not to be trifled with. Serious people, as Dylan puts it. My own stay in hospital, in contrast, just made me look a lot thinner and a lot older. Not exactly 'serious'.