A Portrait Of The Teacher As An Old Man

The not terribly flattering representation of my good self above was captured & created by its makers last Wednesday at our Professional Learning Day. Must say, I look to be engaged in a great deal of learning judging by my expression of severely rapt concentration, I'm sure you'll agree.

By the way, the wording represented on my rather spiffy hoodie is entirely incorrect, a sign that at least one of the creators of the image must have been hallucinating. The letters should (obviously) read MUFC. And the 'Old' place is 'Trafford', not some ancient 'university'.

Something Missing

Got a lot done today, including managing to find time for a conversation about Joyce's Ulysses. That alone made it feel like time well spent. But a pity I didn't carve out a space to read a page or three. Still, can't have everything, eh?

Living Dangerously (Sort Of)

I'm in one of those periods when I enact my rather pitiful version of living dangerously. How so? Let me give you two 'real life' illustrations, Gentle Reader.

Number One: At one point today I found myself moving particularly quickly to get to an important 'event' on time. This involved moving down some stairs. Fortunately I had the wherewithal to remind myself that, within recent memory, I've come pretty close to losing my footing doing the same thing and was lucky not to have taken a pretty significant tumble. I happened to chat with a colleague about this a few weeks back who referred to having done something similar and he was telling me that with age we can have problems with what is termed 'depth perception' by those who know these things. His advice to me, and mine to him, was to keep hold of the nearest available handrail when we feel we have no choice but to move at speed. Today I took my own, and my colleague's, advice and all was well.

Number Two: In the early evening I discovered that I'd somehow failed to take note of an important event (not in inverted commas this time as it really is an event in the usual meaning of the term) taking place over the weekend at which my presence is a must. As I get older I'm increasingly forgetful, which can have its advantages in terms of not worrying overmuch over stuff, but has the built-in disadvantage of being professionally a bit risky. Anyway, said event is now noted and I'll be there, God willing.

So there it is, my version of living on the edge. Nothing really happened, but it was exciting in its way, as you may agree. (But do feel free to disagree. I won't take offence.)

Normal Service Resumed

I went back to reading The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes after Ramadhan reached its happy conclusion and now have around fifteen tales left to go before I can say I have completed the canon. Unfortunately there's something of a critical consensus that by the last couple of collections, His Last Bow and The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle had run out of steam - and, possibly, real interest in his creations - and was running on empty. I'm five stories into the penultimate collection and I can see what the critics mean.

But having said that I must say that the fourth of the novellas featuring the Great Detective, The Valley of Fear, which I read back in February, struck me as being the best of the bunch. This is despite the fact that like A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four it features the clumsy telling of an extended back-story after Holmes has solved the initial mystery. In this case, though, there's a genuine puzzle as to how exactly the characters in the back-story relate to those in the first half of the murder mystery, and the pay-off of the ending is strong and satisfying. Plus the writer invests his fearful valley in the United States, which features in the second half, with real menace such that the reader doesn't miss Holmes & Watson (who aren't there, of course) at all.

I suspect I won't really miss them either once I get to the end of the clunky, chunky Complete. I seem to have been reading it forever, even though it's been only some seven months (with two month-long breaks, I hasten to add.)

No Fooling

Lots to do, so essentially a serious day. Was witness to the usual kind of folly encountered in my line of work. So managed a smile here & there. But not enough to provoke actual laughter.

Funny how, as a child, one spent a fair amount of time just laughing. Funny that nothing is quite so funny any more.

O Happy Day

Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal, 1446

06.55

Just completed the Dawn Prayer after donning my baju raya. Now sipping on a milo, which feels happily transgressive somehow, even though it very happily isn't. Will be on our way to the second session for Hari Raya Prayers at Masjid Darussalam quite soon - but should happily have time for a big coffee - my first for a month - ahead of that.

10.00

Now back from the masjid. A beautiful morning - overcast, with just the slightest touch of drizzling rain now & then, enough to cool and refresh. Noi is about to continue her preparations for our guests this afternoon. And I'll get a bit of work done. And I mean a 'bit'.

14.05

Noi has just invited one or two other folk around, beyond the expected guests from family. She advised Boon to bring a container. Sounds like she's been cooking on an epic scale. But since she stayed up all night doing 'stuff' - as she is wont to do every year on the eve of Raya - this is not exactly news.

17.50

Our first tranche of guests have been sent happily on their way(s). Now preparing for Part 2 of the proceedings. It's all go!

22.06

And having said farewell to the second tranche of well-fed visitors there's just time to wish everyone everywhere Eid Mubarak! and we're off to a brief sojourn in the Land of Nod.

A Bit Of A Diversion

29 Ramadhan, 1446

During the vacation week, some fourteen days ago, I realised I would be easily able to complete the reading I'd planned for Fasting Month. Isa Kamari's Pilgrimage was proving an easy, quick read, and, if anything, I needed to slow myself down in my second encounter with Ziauddin Sardar's fascinating Reading The Qur'an in order to have time to genuinely reflect on ideas that powerfully resonated with me. I deliberately spun out my reading, finishing the book yesterday, happily musing upon its interpretation in its final sections of the role of Science and the Arts in Islamic thought. But this meant I had ample time to get on with something else of reasonable substance over the second half of the month - and I wondered whether to simply get back to my 'on-going' reading of fiction (which meant resuming my chunky The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes.)

In the event I hit upon a neat solution to this mild dilemma. It struck me that having come to  the conclusion some time back that I could more than happily buy into the proofs for the existence of God offered by Prof Ed Feser, I wasn't capable of explaining any of the proofs in genuine detail to anyone who might be foolhardy enough to ask me to do so. Basically this reflected lazy thinking on my part. Having completely accepted Aristotelean metaphysics - indeed, having felt their illuminating power - I couldn't give a coherent outline of Aristotle's system even to myself.

So it was that I decided a reread of Prof Feser's The Last Superstition was in order. In addition to providing the exposition of Aristotelean ideas I needed to reacquaint myself with and thoroughly take on board, I thought I might enjoy the writer's indulgence in what is often a bracingly funny polemic against the self-styled New Atheists who were so vocal and full of themselves at the onset of this century. In the event I thoroughly enjoyed re-visiting all the jokes and, this time round, I reckon I have a good chance of really internalising the key ideas that kept escaping me. And just to make sure they lodge in this tired old brain of mine I've decided to reread the other two key works by the prof that sit on my shelves ahead of Ramadhan 1447, insy'allah. 

The Bigger Picture

28 Ramadhan, 1446

We enjoyed an excellent natter with John & Jeanette last Sunday, gainfully zooming in across the miles. In the course of our less-than-in-depth discussion of issues of a geo-political colouring it emerged that the Simpsons and their social circles are finding it difficult to avoid reference to the current POTUS, even though nobody wants to go there (to the issues, I mean, as opposed to the actual place. Though I don't think anyone's particularly keen to fly the Atlantic as things stand.) They were wondering if that's the way of things in this Far Place and, yes, I reckon it is. Reference to the craziness of the governing regime is sparing, since it's deeply depressing, but ultimately irresistible, since its's deeply real.

So even as I seek to cultivate my spiritual garden in Fasting Month I can't help but expose myself to Trump news at a glance. And then wish I hadn't.

In Production

27 Ramadhan, 1446

Readers familiar with the musings featured in this Far Place will know that the final days of the Fasting Month see heightened activity in this household. Not from Yours Truly, I hasten to add, but from The Missus who dedicates her remarkable energy and talents to putting the house in order whilst simultaneously magicking up lots of festive goodies. Some of these are intended for consumption within the premises, but most are sold to those who've been made aware of the magic involved. These now constitute quite a number.

There's something strangely comforting about being surrounded by biscuits & cakes & the like even when you're not actually munching on them.

Keeping It Fresh

26 Ramadhan, 1446

For the last couple of years my choices of Islamic-themed materials for reading in the Holy Month have gone well. I'm on track for finishing Ziauddin Sardar's excellent Reading The Qur'an ahead of Eid. There's been at least one penetrating idea on every page and often more. It's another example of my re-reading of a text I thought I knew quite well being quite startling in terms of the 'freshness' of the experience.

And I found reading Isa Kamari's Pilgrimage, an English translation of a selection of his poems related to his experience of the Haj in 2001, equally fulfilling - and helpful in my appreciation of the Malay language as the originals are published alongside Harry Aveling's deft translations. In this case I wouldn't characterise the poems as 'penetrating' in their evocations of what it's like to fulfil the demands of Haj; rather their lean simplicity and sincerity conjure that singular yet shared experience in a way I found deeply sympathetic to my own rather less articulated feelings.

And now I'm off to do some actual reading as opposed to just prattling about it.

Enlightenment

25 Ramadhan, 1446

When you're seeking for illumination sometimes just a little light is enough.

Weakness

24 Ramadhan, 1446

When I suffered my breakdown back in September 2022 I learnt a deep lesson about vulnerability. Quite a simple, indeed, obvious one, but a lesson that's easy to forget - certainly for myself, and I suspect for most people. Here's a simple statement of that lesson: We are all painfully vulnerable, and wisdom lies in understanding how easily we, and our little worlds, can fall apart. I think I'm a bit wiser now for cultivating that awareness and part of the wisdom of the Fasting Month is getting in touch head-on with that vulnerability. Weakness is written into the fabric of the human condition, and an awareness that there have been more than a few moments in which I have not handled the demands of the month in an entirely robust manner is a reminder of that essential, unavoidable truth.

When I come to celebrate getting through the month (as, God willing, I hope I'll be able to do in just a few days) I'll be reminding myself that any celebration should be of just getting through. And not triumphantly so. Just keeping going. Holding on.

Just keeping it real.

Distinctly Uneasy

23 Ramadhan, 1446

Some days are better than others. This one wasn't. 

But I'll be breaking my fast in roughly an hour from now. Which puts everything in proportion.

No Longer At Ease

22 Ramadhan, 1446

I've been enjoying a typically fairly lazy day of fasting, but this marks the final day of the vacation week, which means I need to get back in gear for work tomorrow. It isn't that I've been entirely neglecting the demands of my job over the last few days, but I have enjoyed relaxing more than somewhat, especially in terms of being able to nod off pretty much as and when I've felt the need to. Which has been often.

That luxury is about to be denied to me, I'm afraid. Still, good to finish the month being really tested.

Accepting My Limitations

21 Ramadhan, 1446

I know that I'm prone to think too much of numbers and targets. It can be useful to do so, to a reasonable degree, but over-thinking these things becomes tediously wearing. There's really not much point in counting the days of fasting. It won't speed up the month. And the whole point is to slow things down anyway.

Another number I found haunting me just now was the 50 minutes I spent on the elliptical trainer prior to breaking the fast. I'm perfectly okay with that number, but in the initial phases of my work-out I'd been seriously wondering about pushing up to 55 minutes and had pretty much developed the intention to do so by the 30 minute mark. The problem was that at 40 minutes I knew I was running out of the necessary reserves fast and it would be foolhardy to push it too hard just for the sake of a number.

In the event I gratefully, and wisely, stopped at 50 minutes; but I'm still just that little bit irritated by what now seems a bit of a failure. Following my own logic I can see I need to translate that irritation into a useful target for the future. As ever, the necessary wisdom of patience comes in more than handy.

Within Limitations

20 Ramadhan, 1446

Part of the fascination of the Fasting Month for me is how the discipline of not eating and drinking in the hours of daylight translates into the wonder of being able to do so once Maghrib signals its arrival. I've just finished a wondrously tasty confection of chicken & potatoes and it felt positively princely to do so.

Without the struggle the reward would be severely diminished.

We benefit immeasurably from our recognition of limits.

Further Limitations

19 Ramadhan, 1446

I'm looking at a reading list that my cousin John passed to me back in December. It's headed Beer, Blokes N' Books and features the titles of some 70+ novels his informal reading 'club' have tackled over the last couple of years (or possibly longer, I'm not too sure.) What I'm struck by is the sheer range of material they've engaged in, including a few meaty classics, with Middlemarch scoring particularly well. John explained to me how the ratings applied to each book were worked out, but I can't recall the process. I just know it sounded remarkably thorough for a group of blokes presumably reading just for the heck of it.

The thing is that John showed me the list almost deferentially, as if half-apologising for intruding on my territory. Yet the list puts my limited reading of the last couple of years to shame. I'd not even heard of their highest ranked tome, Kate Grenville's The Secret River, and had to google it just now. So much for my area of expertise, eh?

Ziauddin Sardar makes a big deal of The Holy Qur'an's call for humility, and rightly so. I interpret it as simply a recognition of the reality of our place in the vastness of it all. We're not up to very much, I'm afraid. But that can't be an excuse for not trying. And good on the blokes for giving it more than a go on the fiction front.

Limitations

18 Ramadhan, 1446

Ziauddin Sardar's Reading The Qur'an is in many ways inspirational, but can also weigh upon one. He wonderfully spells out what being a Muslim is about in terms of the expectations upon followers of the faith and evokes a deep desire in this reader to live up to those expectations. But he also ruefully acknowledges the ways in which the community has fallen, and continues to fall short. And the individual has to feel that failure.

Case in point: his pages dealing with Nature and the Environment comprise a stirring exposition upon the ecological message of the Holy Book, and the unequivocal nature of that message and our duties attendant upon it could not be clearer. All creation is sacred. Yes. And an awesome responsibility. So easy to neglect.

Half A Century Later

17 Ramadhan, 1446.

It's been a few years since I zoned out listening to synth-meisters Tangerine Dream. But I managed to do so before breaking the fast today. I must say, Phaedra sounds as good, if not better, than ever. And it felt good to get back in touch with the 18-year-old hippy quietly resident within. 

The Final Stretch

16 Ramadhan, 1446

Time has a way of slowing down in the last hour before breaking the fast. Today is no exception. And it contrives to move at quite some pace after Maghrib, as it will no doubt manage to do later in the evening.

Acceptance of its essential slipperiness is wise, but not mandatory.

Gifts

15 Ramadhan, 1446

11.40

A small highlight early in the day. Just read a gently moving article about a father and his autistic son and the healing-cum-expressive power of music. Amongst other things it manages to capture the magical power of the Beatles, a reminder of the gifts abundantly afforded us even in times of deprivation.

23.15

Got back about half an hour ago from an outing to Geylang. We were there partly to pay the last of our zakat, but mainly to enjoy the bazaar for Ramadhan. Lots of light & noise & energy, but not necessarily coming from us. The usual abundance. We live in a fortunate place enjoying fortunate times. For now, that is.

Off Guard

14 Ramadhan, 1446

Exiting the gym, having concluded a pre-buka stint, for the briefest of moments I found myself imagining drinking at the water fountain downstairs, as I would have been about to do at any time outside the Fasting Month. The picture in my mind didn't last long enough, however, to create anything like a genuine sense of longing, and I was able to let it fade with no sense of regret at all. But the moment served as a reminder of what a creature of habit I am, and how the experience of the fast teaches one to be on guard against the taken-for-granted, the thoughtlessly habitual.

I was reminded of how destabilising such moments are in the first couple of days of fasting when they last long enough to create that horrible sense of expectation leading to a kind of crushing regret. Fasting gets easier for most of us, I think, simply because of learning to keep those moments of yearning under control, and learning that the monkey mind can be re-progammed (to horribly mix a metaphor.)

I also found myself mulling over another aspect of my experience of fasting that I've found puzzling over the years. On those occasions when I've been fasting for a single day (as in the day prior to Hari Raya Haji, which is not a compulsory fast) I've never really been troubled by those off guard moments. Perhaps this is because I'm more single-mindedly focused on the single day fasts, whilst beginning a long fast involves a somewhat more diffused consciousness stemming from the awareness that there will be time ahead to change a number of aspects of the self.

It's all about intentionality, and the development thereof - a simple yet profoundly important notion, enshrined in the Islamic insistence on establishing one's niat for the fast on each and every day.

Gathering

13 Ramadhan, 1446

17.45

We're off down town in a few minutes to join some of my Muslim colleagues for our annual Iftar at an eatery in Arab Street. A sign that our experience of the month is starting to expand beyond the confines of the domestic experience. As ever Ramadhan contrives to blend the deeply personal with the inclusively public.

22.55

There's a lot to be said for keeping things bright & cheerful, as in the photo above. That's how Kampong Glam looks (bright & cheerful, I mean), and it proved well worth a visit.

Losing Oneself

12 Ramadhan, 1446

Lost myself just now in a trip to the gym. In two ways.

First of all, the 50 minutes I spent on the elliptical trainer passed almost effortlessly, after the first clumsy 10 minutes or so. I double-checked with my diary of last year a couple of days ago and realised that I'd reduced my work-outs back then from the usual one hour of cardio in view of the general demands of the month and this proved efficacious. So that's what I'm doing this year and tonight the strategy bore fruit. I lost all awareness of the sweaty self peddling away, going up that imaginary hill, and got lost thinking of other stuff - especially what I'll be doing in lessons early next term.

And then, walking back after completing the session, I encountered a gorgeous moon, not quite full, but nearly there as the lunar month moves to its mid-point. There're few better ways of annihilating one's personal concerns than soaking in impersonal beauty.

Postscript: Just thought of a third way in which the essential me was lost. After stepping off the elliptical trainer Face ID completely failed to recognise me. I assume I must have aged sufficiently through the exercise to be rendered unrecognisable. It's coming to something when even your i-phone doesn't know who you are, eh?

Anger Management

11 Ramadhan, 1446

I'm very prone to lose sight of the fact that the fast is not just about abstaining from food and drink. There's much else to exercise restraint over, especially in terms of excessive emotion. Given the peculiarities of my character that involves taking care not to get unreasonably angry.

Fortunately the natural process of aging has served to calm my propensity to explosive outbursts of rage. But I'm aware of a kind of low-lying irritability over the more debilitatingly foolish aspects of my life, especially in relation to the toad, Work. The value of fasting in relation to this problematic feature of my character is that I'm forced to keep things in proportion, and avoid harping upon the silliness-cum-unfairness of it all. Indeed, I have no choice but to laugh it all off, which brings considerable ease.

Sometimes you need to do something radical simply to achieve equilibrium.

A Prediction

10 Ramadhan, 1446

At some point in the next two or three days Noi will say something to the effect that we're already one-third of the way through the fast and it's passing so quickly. And I will agree, because I will genuinely feel the same way in that moment. But part of me will be thinking that time is passing very slowly indeed.

And another part will enjoy the paradoxical nature of all this, and think it so typical of the month. All very predictable yet freshly experienced and understood.

Testing Times

9 Ramadhan, 1446

After an enjoyably relaxing weekend with no deadlines in sight, today felt very different. Very long. A bit of a test. I recall checking the time around 10.45 am and thinking it really should be later in the day, but it wasn't. And the day took its time reaching the magic 7.20 pm, since when it has decided to speed up.

But it's a funny thing about such difficult days in Fasting Month. They remind you of what it's about. Without the struggle there would be no point. Restraint is a hard won virtue. But it makes itself available to the unlikeliest subjects.

A New Routine

8 Ramadhan, 1446

Glancing through some of my posts from this time last year I realised that I'd managed to get in some sessions at the gym ahead of breaking the fast, to no ill effect. Funnily enough I couldn't recall what that felt like in reality, but decided to give it a go today and see if it was a viable option for this year's Ramadhan.

It was a bit tough, let me tell you, but I managed. I set out to see if a full 60 minute stint on the elliptical trainer was possible, and up to the half hour mark I wouldn't have ruled it out. But 10 minutes later it was obvious I was struggling big-time to keep the wheels turning at anything like a reasonable rate, so I was happy to conclude proceedings after 50 minutes. Mind you, I followed this with my full routine on the weights without too much of a struggle, so the experiment turned out a success in my eyes. Now I'm keen to check my day-to-day diary from last year to see exactly how long I lasted then.

Actually breaking the fast after all this came as a considerable relief, but a pleasant one, so I'll be replaying the routine sometime soon.

Crashing And Communing

7 Ramadhan, 1446

The Missus saw fit to comment earlier in the day that I seemed very weak, and she was not wrong. I found it difficult to stay awake from the moment I got out of bed. I'd intended to get a good deal of reading done and some focused listening to sweet sounds, but spent a good deal of time dozing. Happily, enough. But lazily so in retrospect.

It was a good thing, then, that we'd arranged a meet-up with the gang at Woodlands to break the fast. The evening turned out suitably lively, in some part making up for the lack of direction of the rest of the day. And now I'm making ready for bed, intending to do a bit of reading to make up for the lack thereof during the hours of daylight.

I'm pretty sure, by the way, that I'll sleep well. My body is telling me I very much needed to catch-up on the zzzzzs, a sign that the day has not exactly been wasted after all.

Illuminations

6 Ramadhan, 1446

Whilst I've been galloping through his Muhammad For Beginners, my progress through Ziauddin Sardar's Reading the Qur'an: The Contemporary Relevance of the Sacred Text of Islam has been a good deal more leisurely and even more rewarding. When I first read it, probably a decade ago at a guess, I found myself very much in agreement with its basic positions on quite a few issues. But I didn't then grasp quite how deeply illuminating Sardar's analysis of the faith is. On this reading I find myself gripped by the explanatory power of his readings, and the precision of detail involved.

In his reading of the opening passage of Sura Al-Baqara, for example, his observation on what he terms the distributive nature of the Islamic worldview, in relation to the phrase spend of what We have provided them and the subsequent reference to prospering captures the essence of what the sacred text brings us to understand of a healthy relationship with money. The notion of a sense of generosity being central to the genuine prosperity of a person or nation is deeply sane, yet undercuts entirely the shabby paradigms concerning wealth that imprison us.

Just Beginning

5 Ramadhan, 1446

The first ten or so days of the Fasting Month seem to follow a similar trajectory for me every year. This takes the shape of something of a journey inwards, examining foundations. A kind of back-to-basics refreshment. Re-learning what I already know.

This year I've been re-reading Muhammad (peace be upon him) For Beginners in the Icon Books series (as pictured above.). It's one of those basic guides to a thinker or school of thought or conceptual notion, blending text and visual image in a sort of populist, cartoon-like style. I like this kind of text anyway, but Ziauddin Sardar and Zafar Abbas Malik's book seems to me a stone-cold classic of the genre. It's genuinely informative and visually highly engaging in what I can only describe as an Islamic fashion. And it contrives to be energetically humorous as well as deeply serious.

I suppose there's an element of comfort-reading involved here, but it's proving a valuable companion as I ease my way forward. 

A Small Surprise

4 Ramadhan, 1446

Surprised myself at the gym after breaking the fast. I'd intended to limit myself to 50 minutes, or less if feeling iffy, on the elliptical trainer, but easily managed a full 60 minutes. And I could happily have gone on to complete my usual full routine on the weights but cut this short due solely to time constraints and needing to get back for dinner and further prayers. I didn't expect to feel quite so 'normal' after just 3 days of fasting but am quietly celebrating the fact that this is the case.

Not over-celebrating though. I'm used to the struggle suddenly and unexpectedly becoming more difficult, more taxing. That's the point. of course. This isn't meant to be easy. But it's meant to be do-able, and quietly revelatory. And it works.

In The Slow Lane

3 Ramadhan, 1446

I'm still in slow time - experiencing feelings of being suspended between moments. Difficult to believe it's still only Tuesday when it feels like a week has gone by. Counter-intuitive. But then everything about Fasting Month is.

Slowing Down

2 Ramadhan, 1446

16.00

Feeling okay. No obvious headache. But it has felt like a long day. And it is by no means over. Just looking for the energy to keep going.

19.11

Literally counting down to buka, which is more than a bit childish. Why does time slow down in these circumstances and to whom can I complain about this?

22.07

No complaints at all from me now. The super-delicious rice porridge (our customary dish at the start of Ramadhan) has been consumed (along with a couple of curry puffs, some dates & lashings of teh tarik) and life is officially good. Very good, indeed.

Starting Over

1 Ramadhan, 1446

12.46

An okay day so far, but too early to tell. Nice not to be at work, but have been getting a fair amount of work done. No choice really.

14.25

Now sitting at my desk at work. Popped over to get a couple of tasks done. Discovered it's very hot outside just walking across here and spared a thought or two or three for my brothers & sisters in Islam working outside and fasting in these conditions. Quietly heroic. Certainly stops me moaning overmuch.

17.35

Back at the ranch with a bit of a headache, but nothing serious. Hurts a bit more when I'm lying down doing nothing, so am attempting to stay upright doing something.

20.00

Even a power outage just 10 minutes ahead of the breaking of the fast could not dim my mild sense of euphoria on taking that first sip of water and munching on that date. Quite a gift. Hope all observing the fast felt something of the same - and Selamat Berpuasa to all!

Happily Recovering

There's only one good thing I can think of at the moment about being poorly and in pain. Once the recovery begins it feels good. And that's what has brightened my day quite considerably, thank you.

It seems absurd to talk about the pain from a swelling on a small toe being debilitating. But it was. I don't mean this was true from the start. After all, the problem has been around for some three weeks and most of the time it was easy to ignore. However, from around Monday of this week it manifested as more than merely irritating, and by late on Thursday I think you might apply the description close to agonising for the worst moments, when the swelling was distinctly rubbing into the adjoining big toe.

So to feel some relief on going to bed after taking the first pill in the anti-biotic course was extremely welcome. And then, on waking, I was aware that although my body in general terms felt stretched & achy my right foot wasn't burning at all. Actually, I was a bit puzzled as to why I felt generally uncomfortably fragile since Friday hadn't been such a hard day work-wise, but I've come to the conclusion that in protecting myself from the pain I was not really moving easily and this left me with a sense of having pushing my aging body a bit too far. I also felt a mild headache on getting out of bed and for the first hour assumed I would have to treat myself to a very lazy day just to get back to feeling normal.

In the event, however, and somewhat to my surprise, the day has proved fairly productive so far. I found myself able to both get on with some marking and finish Schama's Citizens, which I'd been hoping to do ahead of the Fasting Month (which gets underway tomorrow, of course.) Plus, I managed to get to the gym after all, which seemed an impossibility at this time yesterday. The swelling which had been so ferociously uncomfortable has now distinctly reduced in scope and whatever pain there is doesn't rise to deserving the idea of being genuinely painful. I doubt very much I'll be needing to get myself to the hospital in the near future as the doctor seemed to think might be necessary.

Hoping also to finish Conan Doyle's The Valley of Fear this evening so as to leave the field clear for my reading for the Holy Month with no secular stuff left hanging, as it were.

A Bit Of A Pain

The plan had been to hit the gym this evening. Alas, this did not come to fruition and, instead, I found myself at the doctor's. 

I've been nursing a poorly toe on my right foot for quite some time but what I assumed was a mildly unpleasant blister that would eventually burst, yesterday blossomed into a very noticeable lump that fairly screamed with pain when touched. I didn't sleep well last night on account of the protuberance and had no choice but to get a medic to take a look.

I've been prescribed anti-biotics to deal with the infection, but I'll need to report to A&E if the swelling doesn't reduce in three days or so. Troublesome, but anything that can deal with my present state of painful discomfort would be very welcome indeed.

Another Good Thing

Not sure that a poem is a 'thing' exactly, but very sure that Carol Rumens's Poem of the Week feature in the Graun maintains an extraordinarily high standard of selection and commentary, and that the poem That by Rebecca Watts is an outstandingly good poem in itself and generated an exceptionally good series of comments BTL. My only complaint is that it took me until this week to read the whole segment on this choice from last week. But that's my fault.

Something Good

The gap in quality between the Malay dramas produced in Malaysia and those produced in Singapore, under the aegis of the Suria channel seems to me to be growing ever more pronounced. I presume there's more money involved in the stuff from Malaysia, in production terms, as it usually aspires to a sense of glamour and the high life, and can look expensively glossy. But in general the scripting is of a very low level, occasionally approaching the incompetent if not risible, and a good deal of the acting is of the stereotypical wooden variety. In contrast, I'm guessing that many of the series that feature on Suria are made relatively cheaply, being shot in ordinary, everyday locations, with little or no sense of glamour. Yet so often the shows are well-written and many of the performers shine in terms of genuine talent, as opposed to superficial telegenic looks.

Case in point: tonight saw the final episode of the series Cuci (meaning 'cleaning', broadly speaking) and in this household we've been glued to the set throughout its run. The idea of building a drama around the fortunes of a cleaning company specialising in 'post-trauma' work might not seem immediately appealing, but it's worked brilliantly. The work in question involves dealing with the mess of death, especially when bodies are already in a state of decay, and the series has conveyed in considerable realistic detail the reality of such work and the necessity for it - despite the potential stigma involved in the Malay community. One line of dialogue resonated particularly powerfully with me, partly I think because it sounds slightly awkward yet oddly poetic in the English translation given in the helpful subtitles: There is goodness in this work. I didn't quite catch the actual Malay used, which may have been more everyday than this, but the essential idea struck me as hugely insightful and important. The mildly quaint notion of something genuinely noble in the work was made real and powerful, partly through the sense of ordinary decency and kindness manifest in the central character, the much put-upon owner of the struggling firm.

And the young actress playing his daughter was perfect in her role. Not sure of her name, but she illuminated the screen in every scene involving her, especially those with her father. Both knew how to underplay emotionally intense material, resulting in a strong sense of everyday realism. You believed in them.

I suppose a cynic might argue that the strong moral sense underlying the action resulted in something too good to be true. But the best popular drama in any context does this. A happy reminder of the truth in goodness.

Good Things

Can't complain too much today about inanimate objects behaving badly. Indeed, if one were to regard the oxtail soup patented by The Missus as a 'thing', then the two bowls-full I've just consumed might be rightly regarded as constituting the perfect restorative. Evidence, if it were needed, that things can be good after all.

Things

You know it's been a tough day when inanimate objects turn against you. 

Just now the little carpet in front of our sink got painfully stuck between the big toe on my right foot and the toe next to it, which was already painfully blistered. Trust me, it hurt big time. According to Noi it was my fault and entirely due to the way I walk. I deeply doubt this. I reckon I walk pretty well and the carpet was just waiting for an opportunity to pounce and cause the maximum damage where it really hurt. I'm working mainly on instinct here, but if I think hard enough I could get logic on my side. But for now I'm just too tired to care.

On The Way, Again

12.55

At the time of writing the title of this post is something of a misnomer. We'll be setting off for our usual Far Place of residence in the late afternoon, and I'm hoping this post won't be featuring updates from where we are on the actual road, as this will mean we're stuck there for some dark reason. The cause of Friday afternoon's jam, by the way, was a collision between a truck pulling a massive trailer and two cars. I'm told there's film of what happened somewhere on the Internet, but I can't be bothered to view it. Not sure if there were casualties - and certainly hope not, since that's the only thing that really counts in these mishaps.

Anyway, for now life is fairly free and easy since I've managed to clear all work-related matters this morning as well as enjoying the cup that cheers at Warung Nek Munah's with Fuad & Hamzah for company - plus another later with Noi in the kitchen. Also the water for the house seems to be restored. It suddenly ran out yesterday at the very end of the kenduri when our student-guests were leaving. We figured the pumps may have have been over-used considering the large numbers taking their ablutions for prayers. So I wasn't able to shower properly this morning and remain grittily unshaven, but I've just managed a good wash and now feel a little more human.

I'm off now to lose myself in Citizens. I'm in the final stretch, with the Committee for Public Safety just formed and lots of killing to come on its behalf. (Shades of 1984 in the naming thereof, eh?) Hoping to complete Schama's Chronicle before Fasting Month begins as I've lined up my Islamic-themed reading completely now, and that will take priority.

Job Done

A very hot day here in Sungai Petai. Our kenduri now completed with everyone enjoying a most satisfactory time. Amazing the amount of effort that goes into these occasions. And how deeply worthwhile they are.

On The Way

14.35

Just back from Friday Prayers and making final preparations for a trip north, to Melaka. We're hosting a kenduri on the morrow ahead of Ramadhan. Hope the road ahead isn't overly bumpy!

19.08

Posting from on the highway for the first time ever. The Missus is on driving duty and we are going nowhere fast. One of those completely inexplicable jams that you can find only in Malaysia. This is not fun.

19.46

Our first time in Malaysia for months and we choose the day when all the lanes on the main highway get blocked due to a catastrophic accident. Oh hum. Well at least the jam is no longer inexplicable.

Quite some time later:

Made it to Mak's house by 9.45 pm, so not so bad. And ate a meat and cheese sandwich to ease the pain of the journey, which was excellent!

History Is A Nightmare From Which I Am Trying To Awake - 8

Schama describing the fate of the Swiss guards assigned to protect Louis XVI at Versailles:

Hunted down, they were mercilessly butchered: stabbed, sabered, stoned and clubbed. Women stripped the bodies of clothes and whatever possessions they could find. Mutilators hacked off limbs and scissored out genitals and stuffed them in gaping mouths or fed them to the dogs. What was left was thrown on bonfires, one of which spread to the palace itself. Other bits and pieces of the six hundred soldiers who perished in the massacre were loaded haphazardly onto carts and taken to common lime pits. It was, thought Robespierre, "the most beautiful revolution that has ever honored humanity."

As I noted yesterday, I can't look away. Not sure what that says about me. I hope it's an indication of a concern that if we fail to acknowledge our capacity as a species for carrying out this kind of violence it's all the more likely to happen again, just as it did on 10 August 1792.

And this is by no means the worst paragraph in the book in terms of sheer bloodiness. There's one on the killing of the Princess de Lambelle a bit later that I just cannot reread.

Quelle Horreur!

Simon Schama is holding me tightly in his narrative grip as he unfolds his Chronicle of the French Revolution. I mean, I knew from its reputation that Citizens is a superb book, (though I'm also aware that some historians disapprove of its lurid retelling of events) but I really didn't expect it to be so riveting, and this in telling a story I already know the broad outlines of. Ever since he reached the later part of 1789, his compelling understanding of what fueled the appalling violence, and his graphic outline of the grim realities of the horrors involved in the revolution, has reminded me in an odd way of the very best of Stephen King.

I'm now wading through the blood spilt in the September massacres of 1791 and rather wish I wasn't. Though, paradoxically, I can't look away. One sign of which is that I'm reading every paragraph twice just to try and take it all in.

In Praise Of The Fridge Magnet - 9

As I wisely noted some five years ago the world has a way of closing in on you. Especially so when the workload mounts.

Reminded myself of good times in Dublin with a little help from the mage above. Looks generic, but created by a local artist I'm told. And I don't care if I was deceived because I just like the picture anyway.

Surviving

Stumbling towards the end of the first unreasonably busy day of my working year. Sadly this is in the secure knowledge that it won't be the last. Happily I survived sort of intact. I think.

Lost

My reference yesterday to enjoying a cuppa in a bistro that was formerly The King's Head at Crown Point got me thinking quite hard about where I'd been on that December day before taking refuge in said bistro from the rain. A few hours earlier I'd been to Denton Cemetery and I'd gone from there to Haughton Green in search of something. But I'm not exactly sure what I was looking for. The past, circa 1961 - 65, perhaps?

Whatever it was had largely gone. I drove around the little network of roads adjoining Cargate Road, where we lived at that time, and was pleased to see that the council houses looked in pretty good nick. Some years back I'd heard stories of rat infestation around there, but everything looked spruce enough. But I couldn't get any clear sense of having played football on the road. I think it's more built up now than it was decades ago with the bits of field that existed here & there long occupied. And I couldn't remember which house we lived in. They all looked nicely anonymous, evoking nothing for me.

Then I took off to explore the area behind the old St Mary's Church. I parked in front of the houses near the church, but couldn't remember them from my childhood even though they'd been there forever, being part of the old village pre-dating the council houses on the overspill estate where we lived. This is where I started walking down Meadow Lane through the mild drizzle, heading down towards the river, through what I now know is Haughton Dale. But I can't recall calling the area by that name as a kid. I don't think it had a name for us. It was just where we went a few times for fun, exploring.

On one exploratory expedition I'd got very wet, having sat down in the river for reasons which escape me now. It was a hot day and me and the gang I was with thought I'd dry out, but that wasn't to be as someone chucked a stone at me and it opened a gash on top of my head (and hurt like crazy.) I'd put my hand on my head to check the damage and saw it was covered in blood. Lots. So I panicked and legged it back home - which was quite a way off in those car-less days. I needed a number of stitches from the doctor and got into big trouble with Mum.

But here's the point. On 18 December 2024 I couldn't recognise anything at all in the area, except for the church. The place, its buildings especially, can't have changed that much from the early 60's, but I clearly have. It made me feel somewhat inadequate, I can tell you. I mean, there are all these writer johnnies who clearly have something close to complete recall of childhood - Heaney, Roddy Doyle, King, Proust - and I just don't. 

True Royalty

Yesterday morning, as I was queuing for a tea in SAC, a student asked me if I'd heard that Denis Law had died. I guess the young man asking the question was aware of my footballing allegiance. My sad answer was that I had heard the news and that Manchester in general was in muted mourning for one of her favourite sons, adopted of course. It was good to know that someone of a very different generation had heard of the great footballer.

And it put me in mind of using a poem about Denis in my classroom as a much younger teacher, back in England in the early eighties. The slight disappointment then was that although my classes sort of liked the poem, they didn't really appreciate the resonance attached to the name of the player and quite a few of the kids had never heard of him even back then. But around Crown Point in Denton, where we lived for several years when I was a teenager, it was guaranteed that everyone had some consciousness of Denis since The King's Head, the pub on one of the corners of the main road junction, opposite The Red Lion on another, bore his unmistakable features on the crest above the main entrance.

When we back there in December the crest had gone. Indeed, the building was no longer a pub, having been transformed in a very pleasant bistro. I popped in there for a very nice cuppa on my own one rainy day when Noi had gone out shopping with Jeanette. But that's by the by, just a fragment of the past and its glories and sadnesses being inevitably forgotten.

Just to try and help with a bit of remembering, here's the poem by Gareth Owen that featured in a few of my lessons. I normally don't record poems in full in this Far Place, but I'll make an exception for an old favourite that happens to say to say a lot about me as a little lad in its own way:

                Denis Law

I live at 14 Stanhope Street,
Me mum, me dad and me,
And three of us have made a gang,
John Stokes and Trev and me.

Our favourite day is Saturday;
We go Old Trafford way
And wear red colours in our coats
To watch United play.

We always stand behind the goal
In the middle of the roar.
The others come to see the game -
I come for Denis Law.

His red sleeves flap around his wrists,
He’s built all thin and raw,
But the toughest backs don’t stand a chance
When the ball’s near Denis Law.

He’s a whiplash when he’s in control,
He can swivel like an eel,
And twist and sprint in such a way
It makes defences reel.

And when he’s hurtling for the goal
I know he’s got to score.
Defences may stop normal men -
They can’t stop Denis Law.

We all race home when full time blows
To kick a tennis ball,
And Trafford Park is our back-yard,
And the stand is next door’s wall.

Old Stokesey shouts, “I’m Jimmy Greaves,”
And scores against the door,
And Trev shouts: “I’ll be Charlton,” 

But I am Denis Law. 

In Exchange

Highlight of the day: a slightly later exchange of slushy cards than is usual at this time of year. Actually effected in the car on the way to Friday Prayers. Involved intertwined giraffes and a heart pumping Bedok. Which is already to give away a little too much privileged information. 

Hope your day was equally satisfactory, Gentle Reader! You are distinctly fortunate if it was.

Something Afoot

Popped up the road to the hospital this afternoon to get a clean bill of health from my neurologist. It was a pretty brief appointment, with me affirming my sanity and general well-being, but not being able to get my driving license back. Gosh, they're tough on epilepsy in this country.

Ironically it's the other end of my body from the brain that's giving me problems at the moment. My feet are mildly killing me. Or, rather, my toes are. On both feet. They're sort of pushing up against each other and occasionally blistering in an unpleasant manner. I'm dealing with this in appropriately manly fashion by moaning about it whenever I get the chance. And The Missus is skilfully ignoring me. How well she knows me, eh?!

In Need

Enjoyed a very jolly hour or so this afternoon watching enthusiastic young people advertise their enthusiasms at a noisily colourful and happily vaguely chaotic CCA Fair. One individual was walking around with a sign on his chest, and back, reading We Want Girls. Must say, this struck me as eminently sensible in any young man of vim and purpose.

Never Mind The Hype

It’s hypocritical of me to complain of hyperbole from others when I’m more than a little prone to it in my own writing. But putting aside that mild sense of guilt, I have to say that wildly over-stated titles acting as clickbait on YouTube videos are intensely irritating for this viewer and don’t work anyway. Usually.

Take for example The title The Greatest Actor Of All Time Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Silly, eh? And I had absolutely no intention of clicking on this, despite my admiration for the actor involved. And did so only by accident. A slip of an irritated finger. 

To discover that, hyperbole aside, at least for the duration of the video, I sort of agreed. So not a good example. But great, great viewing. 

Something Magical

When I first started buying music on vinyl, around the age of fourteen, I listened to every album I managed to buy as much as possible, to get my money's worth. I reckon that might have involved playing a new LP every single day for a month or more, possibly more than once. I can't recall getting tired of anything at that time. I suppose I was usefully learning to listen. But by the time I graduated from university things had changed regarding the frequency with which I listened and no longer played every album to death - with honourable exceptions. I have a feeling that Springsteen's The River featured in my life with some regularity, and I would have been approaching my mid-twenties by that time. But, as I say, that was an exception to the general rule. 

The result of this intense listening was burn-out, generally speaking. If I gave Fairport Convention's Angel Delight - one of my earliest purchases and one I delighted in - a spin this evening (I've now got it on CD) I reckon I'd enjoy it but find it more than a tad predictable and, therefore, kind of tired. 

But in later years the way I listened, and listen now, to 'new' purchases changed significantly. I might play an album three or four times initially, and then put it on hold, happy to go back to it intermittently but not obsessively. I've rarely found myself so besotted with an album that it demanded extremely frequent listening and generally even those that have hit me hard initially will lose that entirely magical edge in a few months.

However, there remain, I'm happy to say, exceptions and I hit upon one on Sunday morning, and have been repeating the magic this evening. The Yellow Shark bit me hard over the weekend and continues to grip. I hear stuff now in every piece that I've never quite picked up before, with an awareness that next time round the textures are likely to strike me as even richer and I'm likely to notice a detail of phrasing or harmony that I didn't quite pick up previously. The Ensemble Modern have got to be the best people to go to for Zappa at his most demanding, also doing ample justice to the Great Man at his most accessible. Let's face it, if G-Spot Tornado doesn't do it for you nothing will.

It helps considerably that the CD package comes with a highly informative booklet with lots of commentary on the music from FZ himself and from Peter Rundel, the conductor of the ensemble and, I suspect, a genius himself.

Out Of The Storm

We seem to have reached the end of the rainy season in this Far Place. It's a typically sunny afternoon out there, and the birds are in especially good voice. Quite a far cry, I must say, from experiencing the high winds that were sweeping the UK at various times in December. As evidence of such I offer some shots of the sea off the promenade at Llandudno, taken on the weekend we drove there from Conwy, just before Christmas. Take it from me, it was uncomfortably cold out there, and almost impossible to walk against the wind.

The Missus, by the by, is pictured looking out on the blustery scene from a very comfy café in the Imperial Hotel (if I remember the name rightly) that had been strongly recommended by Jeanette. And rightly so - the tea and scones were to die for. Funny how so much fun is available, even in the storm. And, in line with that thought, I should add that the gulls pictured against the backdrop of the mighty ocean were obviously having a very jolly time indeed.

Back In Shape

Felt more than a little gratified on receiving the results yesterday of the latest scans and blood-tests related to my liver to be told it's in good shape - the best numbers since it went deeply haywire back in late 2022. To be honest if anyone had told me back then that I would make a complete recovery with all my various bits going back to functioning entirely normally, I would have thought the idea distinctly unrealistic. So now I am back to normal, or my version thereof, I can only express deep gratitude to those who got me back there, including the powers above.

I followed up the good news yesterday by hitting the gym, and doing pretty well there, adding to my small sense of celebration. I'm well aware this may not last - the fact of our complete vulnerability being one of the big lessons I learned painfully in 2022 - but that doesn't matter at all. The mercy I've been granted so far is more than sufficient.

Crossing The Line

Peasants and townsmen alike were vividly aware that some sort of boundary had been crossed when they burned manorial titles or took their knives to the chicken coop. They reassured themselves that they were enacting a kind of primitive moral law authorized by the National Assembly and the King and which wholly superseded the institutions by which they had been held captive. But not far from the exhilaration of release was the apprehension of punishment. What if they had been led astray?

Thus Simon Schama getting into the heads of his French Citizens as the Great Panic of 1789 descends. And he's wholly convincing, making the middle segments of his wonderful Chronicle of the French Revolution powerfully gripping as you're there with the people as they are bloodily finding themselves. At least, that's true for this reader who has to admit to crossing that line into the sheer heady excitement of violent transgression himself - as a younger man.

I'm finding the book slow reading for the best of reasons - the pleasure of soaking in the details and relishing the sense of illumination and understanding of the world so vividly evoked.

Wisdom For The Ages

Learnt a couple of new words today that come together in the phrase, delulu is the solulu. It seems young people use this to mean something like: 'It's good to be delusional as this can be the solution to one's problems' (I think.) This idea strikes me as being both extremely stupid and oddly wise at one and the same time.

A Disappointment

Went to the big Kinokuniya bookshop over the weekend. I found myself still in possession of some book tokens (from the Lit Seminar last year), which I'd tried unsuccessfully to pass on to some of the youngsters in the family, and intended to trade them in for something that felt reasonably urgent for me to read. I had three books in mind related to historical concerns, but not a single one of these was on the shelves. Oddly enough I chanced upon a copy of Citizens, my current reading, and was surprised at the price - a good one-third more expensive than the copy I picked up in the UK in December. In its way that made me feel pretty good at the 'saving' I'd made.

But in general the expedition to the shop involved negative feelings, and not just about the fact that the books on my list weren't available. What bothered me most was the general sense that the place was getting pretty run-down. A surprising number of the books I browsed looked less than brand new. I came across two copies of Vasily Grossman's novel Stalingrad both of which looked as if some careless owner had been reading them and putting, possibly dropping, them down with no regard for their general well-being. If either one had looked reasonable I would have bought it.

But more than this it was the odd way that the general 'literature' shelves often featured multiple copies of a single text by a writer but simply ignored, or almost so, their other works that grated. Anyone glancing at the section devoted to Dostoevsky would conclude that by far his most significant work was Crime and Punishment with The Brothers Karamazov coming in a very poor second. And most egregious of all, the three rows of shelves devoted to Donna Tartt (which strikes me anyway as two and two-thirds shelves too many) featured multiple copies of The Secret History, implying this is the single most important novel in the English language, and just two of The Goldfinch (and none of her other novel, whose title escapes me.)

I'm guessing this weird stacking has something to do with our old friend 'the dictates of commerce' but I'm not at all sure how exactly this works in the mind of whoever decided what might best occupy the spaces available. None of this speaks well for the modern world, but then few things do.