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.

Really Slow

Thought I might put in a good shift at the gym this evening ahead of my stint there. In the event I didn't, to put it mildly. The only good thing about it was finishing the full hour on the elliptical trainer, though at an embarrassingly slow pace.

What to do? as The Missus so often pithily puts it. In this case not a lot. Just keep going and do better next time, I hope.

Stirring Stuff

I was reading Simon Schama’s stirring account of the Citizens involved in the French Revolution fitfully back in mid-December, but broke off on arrival in Singapore to resume familiarizing myself with the horrors of Stalingrad. Truth to tell, the first 250 pages or so of Schama’s work, with their emphasis on the economic troubles of France under Louis XV and Louis XVI, are fascinating but demanding for a reader like myself with, at best, a rudimentary grasp of how economies work (or don’t, in this case.)

But I’m back on track now with the genuinely gripping parts of this Chronicle of the French Revolution. If a reader isn’t stirred by the fall of the Bastille there’s no hope for them – even if that fall is rendered in less than heroic terms.

Not So Slow

We were given 3 months free subscription to Apple TV in connection with the new telly we purchased in early January. Normally I ignore this kind of freebie, having little to no idea as to what the various streaming services have to offer, and no real inclination to watch anything that's time-consuming. However, I'd vaguely heard of a series entitled Slow Horses in connection with the Apple service and decided to give it a go. 

The series stars the redoubtable Gary Oldham playing a character who's a kind of spy, but a very low-life one, working out of Slough House, a dumping ground for various 'failed' MI5 types, who turn out to be pretty good at what they do. The novels by Mick Herron on which the series are based have got very good reviews from those who know about this sort of thing and I'd been meaning to get hold of one to test the waters, but had decided to put this off until retirement. So the ready availability of the tv version was an attractive option in terms of assuaging my curiosity about the series.

And it's proved to be addictive viewing for myself and The Missus. Lots of unexpected twists and turns and an impressive body-count. Sort of an on-the-edge-of-one's-seat viewing experience in which you convince yourself you have some clue as to what's going on when you really don't. A bit like life, but a lot more exciting.

We're now midway through the second series of six episodes. Not sure how many episodes there are to watch in total, but hoping for enough to keep us going up to April when our subscription ends. (I'm afraid there's not enough of interest on Apple TV from my point of view to warrant spending real money on it.)

Still Monkeying Around

Have been enjoying a fabulously relaxed long weekend for Chinese New Year - and there's still quite a bit of it left to go. It's put me in mind of other such weekends we've had the great good fortune to enjoy over the years, though a number of these were spent rather more busily in KL or Melaka, like the one back in the last Year of the Monkey.

Must say, as far as I'm concerned the motto remains the same: Don't you monkey with the monkey! (especially for all you snakes out there.)