Cramping My Style

The final position for the prayer can be a little awkward if you're praying in a congregation. Basically it's a sitting position, but one that finds you slightly askew, at a slight angle to your own legs. (It's oddly tricky to describe, but you'd get it if you saw it.) If the congregation is packed you sometimes find yourself sort of toppling into the person next to you.

Normally I don't have much of a problem with all this, despite the trickiness involved. But today the alarm bells rang for me. As I sat into the position I realised my right leg was going into a spasm of cramp and there wasn't anything I could do to avoid it. If this happens, as it has done once or twice when I've been praying at home, I just stretch the leg out a bit and this eases the problem. But that was not an option today.

The odd thing was that I got through the minor crisis more easily than I dared imagine at the onset of the pain. I suppose it was a case of just accepting the pain since there was no other option. But once accepted it became instantly controllable, though the relief I experienced when the prayer concluded was significant, to say the least.

In future I'll just have to remember that this old body of mine isn't what it used to be - not that it has ever been all that much, sad to say.

Declining Values

Saw something on Sky News the other day about the possibility of a dramatic fall in the value of artworks by Damien Hirst and all that crew. It seems some influential types are suggesting the emperor has no clothes and if the market notices this there could be trouble. Now I've got nothing against the enfant terrible in question; in fact, I rather like what I've seen of his stuff and would willingly part with a couple of hundred dollars to acquire some. But, as you will no doubt be aware gentle reader, in this area I'm no great judge of artistic merit so my approval counts for nothing.

Now what I'm leading up to with all this is how much fun it would be to see a collapse of the market. Not that I wish ill fortune on those with shares in the stuff, but I reckon these folks can afford the loss and it would be such a salutary lesson for all of us. And, even better, it's not at all clear what the actual lesson would be - always the best way of learning from experience.

Casting Spells

For some four or so years now I've been doing this poetry workshop for kids at the annual Literature Seminar (I think it's called) and great fun it's been. Give me a roomful of young people anytime genuinely enthusiastic about books and raring to go with pretty much anything you put in front of them. This year the organisers have changed the format, though, and sort of knocked me out of my comfort zone a wee bit. Or, rather, they've prevented me from being lazy by repeating previous material since they've asked me to do a full scale lecture for a big number. This is exciting, but requires a bit of work to prepare.

In fact, I was feeling a bit stuck for an idea. And then it came to me, at 9.35 pm actually. The title's above and I'm committed to working a bit of magic. Should be fun. All I need now are the ingredients for the spells.

Battling

Wisdom is hard-won. And easily lost.

A Bit Of Bluster

Monitoring the news this morning I happened to catch the bit of video in which that dope from the Tories tried to sell 'Cameron-time' to the team who set the trap for him. Interesting to note that if he hadn't been caught in his full crass glory how likely it is he would have denied it all - or claimed that it was all sort of legal anyway. The value of these exposes lies in the ugly precision with which they expose the grimly tawdry reality of the behaviour of these characters.

The dope, a classic wide-boy if ever there were one, himself acknowledged the 'bluster' underlying all this - the emptiness of someone who's never quite grown up showing-off to make himself feel better. And, of course, that leads to the disturbing thought that his bluster probably helped him to a position of some considerable importance on the greasy pole of British politics. It certainly doesn't appear to have hindered his ascent.

Sometimes the bottom is a good place to be. (Correction: it's always a good place to be.)

The Balm Of Hurt Minds (Plenty Of)

With Noi going up to Melaka on family business over the weekend I've been experimenting with playing various CDs at reasonable volumes (or unreasonable, depending on how you look at this) and catching up on great nature's second course. Both have proved highly enjoyable, assuaging the pain of temporarily losing the Missus to some small degree.

Some findings in the light of this research: The Who's Quadrophenia is enhanced with each additional decibel, but I think I prefer Berg (Alban) at a distance. It's not wise to doze off on the sofa when this involves waking at 3.00 a.m. and having to negotiate your way to bed and deal with the glum realisation that the laptop's battery has exhausted itself and you've failed to listen to the rather tasty download featuring a discussion on Al-Birundi you were so much looking forward to. Even the enjoyment of watching the less than mighty scousers shoot themselves in the foot against Wigan is no guarantee of staying awake for the length of such a catastrophically dull ninety minutes.

A Moment In Time

Was watching and listening to the Adele Live At The Royal Albert Hall DVD the other day. Lovely stuff. I hope success and the machine attendant upon it don't ruin this girl too quickly. At the time of recording she was vibrantly alive and herself.

The tribute to Amy Winehouse, Dylan's Make You Feel My Love, complete with kitschy mirrorball and an invitation for the audience to switch on handphone lights to illuminate the hall, was absurdly, touchingly, moving.

There's a point in some singer's careers at which just everything comes together perfectly - songs, audience, the whole zeitgeist, and I reckon this was this young lady's. The funny thing is, her comments towards the end of the concert about how she'll remember all this one day in the future, suggest that Ms Adkins has the uncanny good sense to know all this.

Just Too Much

Came across the phrase culture of overwork today. It resonated with me. Silly and sad in equal proportions - the culture, that is. Oh, and painful.

Lord what fools these mortals be.

Wonderfully Messi

Does anyone seriously doubt anymore that Lionel Messi is the finest player in the world? Watching his two recent one-man goal fests I actually found myself grinning at the finesse of it all, especially the two times he lobbed the poor keeper(s).

Isn't it odd that the scoring of a goal can become a performance of aesthetic beauty?

Replete

We've been celebrating our Irish ancestry this evening, me and the Missus, dining off the simple, splendid spud. In this case baked and garnished with tuna and sweetcorn. Topped off with a smattering of salad - including some cunning cranberries. Yes, you may envy me; and I envy no man.

More than plenty.