More Kids' Stuff

As is so often the case our family 'event' at Mak's house has been characterised by having a plentiful supply of littluns around who take great pleasure in ensuring no peaceful silence can be allowed to last for too long. Random screaming, giggling, shouting for no obvious reason has been the order of the late afternoon, and seems to me an entirely good thing.

Indeed, in a quiet way it's sad to see a generation grow out of this. I remember the young adults populating the house today as crazy kids themselves not so long ago. Funny how time slips away. Happy it still does so noisily; often hilariously.

Winding Down

Approaching the end of the penultimate week of the final term and things are very quiet at the workplace. Most of my colleagues are working from home, I guess. In contrast I find myself busier than usual today, what with basketball training in the morning and invigilation duties in the afternoon. Sadly so busy I won't be able to get to the masjid today for Friday Prayers. But really can't complain. Haven't been given any marking by IB, which comes as a relief.

Mildly gearing up for a trip to Melaka over the weekend. We need to be in attendance for Ayu's engagement. These days the driving duty falls to The Missus, of course, so that's another source of pressure eased in my dotage.

Kids' Stuff

Spent the later part of the afternoon at Kinokuniya, getting hold of some books to send to Imogen for her birthday in early December. The children's section of the bookshop was definitely happening, but just a bit overwhelming and difficult to negotiate in terms of the way it's divided by a vague sense of genre. Shelves devoted to something termed Young Adult fiction dominate, but these aren't notable for books of any depth, as far as I can see. The tomes thereon appear loud & derivative - but, honestly, what do I know? And as long as young readers enjoy them then that's okay by me.

But I was a bit irritated at not being able to spot a copy of Tom's Midnight Garden. It had struck me that my grand-niece was just about the right age for what I think of as the finest book for children of the later part of the twentieth century. I did find a nicely printed copy of Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, but hesitated as to whether this might seem just a bit too old-fashioned for a modern ten-year-old. Maybe next year?

Anyway, I managed to pick up four tomes that might just work. I certainly wouldn't mind reading all of them myself, but am resisting the temptation.

At My Best

Given the fact I was struggling to walk last Sunday I didn't expect to equal my personal best on the elliptical trainer this evening. But I did. And I'm enjoying just registering the fact without thinking too hard as to how this came about.

On Not Knowing

I count my lack of any real knowledge of what is broadly termed 'celebrity culture' as one of the great positives of my life. But sometimes I surprise myself when I realise I know stuff about some of the players involved, not really understanding how this came to my consciousness, usually wishing it hadn't.

Such has been the case this week in relation to the trial of a well-known British comedian in which a most unpleasant light has been shed on his predatory behaviour towards women. I'm complacently happy to say I never found the guy funny, and didn't quite understand why others did, but it's difficult to be complacent regarding the culture that fostered him and contributed to his disturbing sense of being beyond the constraints of decent behaviour. And today another case involving an equally famous name - famous enough for me to know who he is and exactly what he is famous for - has come to light (despite an attempt to employ legal injunctions to keep it in the dark) and I've found myself taking in the details without really meaning to, if you know what I mean. And the details are just depressing all round.

The problem is that taking any kind of interest in this stuff is of itself an exercise in negativity. I suppose it's good to be aware of the dark depths, but occasionally I feel it might just be better to remain in the shallows; and it's always better to foster awareness of the possibility of ascending to some kind of height.

Good Taste

That moment as you slake your thirst with cool, hard water biting through the accumulated drudgery of deep-breathing dreary effort. A reward worth all the sweat unleashed to achieve. Almost as good as the first sip of liquid after a day of fasting.

Good to have the opportunity to experience both.

Recuperating

The plan had been for me to hit the gym this evening, but that's been shelved. For no particular reason I'm aware of the nerves on the outward side of my left leg, the upper bit, decided to announce they are in pain from early this morning, and said pain has failed to settle down, remaining sharp & debilitating. I'm hoping that this eases by tomorrow, but previous experience suggests these attacks are unpredictable in terms of ferocity and duration.

I've had no choice but to take things very gently today, and in some ways have enjoyed doing so. Read a couple of pages of Finnegans Wake, Tennyson's A Dream of Fair Women, and a fair few pages from both Kotkin's Stalin bio and Waugh's The Sword of Honour, so the day hasn't been wasted, but I've also drifted into aimless dozing more than once.

Oh, and I've basked in Bill Frissell's Good Dog, Happy Man, which I've never heard before, and discovered a new composer, one Anna Sigríður Þorvaldsdóttir. She's Icelandic and sensationally good, but not in a pretty way. (The music, I mean, not the lady.)

So, all in all, on a day when not much has happened, there's been plenty going on, if you see what I mean.

Uneasy Reading

Making slow progress in Stephen Kotkin's Stalin: Paradoxes of Power 1878 - 1928, but the brilliantly dense text isn't exactly made for speed reading. It's now November 1919 and somehow the Bolshevik regime has survived. The extreme ruthlessness of Messrs Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin et al has had a lot to do with survival, but sheer good luck has made a major contribution. If I ever feel the need to remind myself that history is basically a mess then rereading Kotkin's account of the revolutions in Russia and the war that followed will certainly do the trick.

And if the reader had ever suffered in any degree from some kind of hero-worship of any of the major players, this is the book to cure them.

New Ways Of Thinking

In a meeting this morning a colleague referred to AI snobs. I think she was talking about people who automatically look down on anything generated through some form of artificial intelligence. It seems this is the default position of quite a number of young people.

Odd really. The idea that AI might be capable of producing something of genuine artistic value seems to me very exciting. Also very disturbing. But not something to regard with a kind of weary contempt.

Almost Forgotten

For some reason I found myself today thinking of the significance of this date for me when I was a kid more than I normally do. And it was very clear that my memories of Bonfire Night and its attendant excitements are very patchy indeed. A search on YouTube for something that would stir the embers of memory proved fruitless. Whatever's on there is just vaguely generic, pointlessly nostalgic.

Perhaps such poverty of recall isn't such a bad thing. Some things are best left behind.