In The Neighbourhood

Not sure if it was a wise thing to do, but I got out for a run this morning, circumnavigating the taman, for the first time in quite a few years. Since running at West Coast Park earlier this year didn't do me any lasting damage I thought it worth taking the risk of trotting around the estate and getting a bit of exercise here. And it was certainly enjoyable. In distinct contrast to working out in the gym, I don't feel running in the open air to be any kind of imposition. Far from it, in fact; it feels something like freedom.

And then there's the sense of genuinely getting up close to where we live. It engenders a feeling of something like belonging. There's so much detail to take in of the happy ordinariness of it all, of life just going on.

Second Childhood

Zonked out to an unusual depth just now listening to Debussy's ravishing La Boite a Joujoux, his ballet pour enfants of 1913. I'd rate this in my top five of impressionist pieces alongside Ravel's La mere L'Oye. I suspect the part of me that never grew up is calling the shots on this one, and I'm more than happy to let it.

The Quiet Life

Earlier today, with her usual perspicacity, Noi remarked on the dominating feature of life in our comfortably working abode in KL: It's very peaceful here. And it is, to the point you forget we've actually got neighbours here on the taman. Must say, this suits my present mood which is one more than ready to embrace the easy quietude of it all. Even my musical choices today have tended in the direction of the gentle and mellifluous. I'm now playing Dylan's magisterially sleepy-headed Shadows in the Night, a disk worth the admission fee just for Donny Herron's utterly beguilingly gorgeous pedal steel, rightly prominent on every cut. If this isn't the perfect choice for late-night listening when you're licking the wounds of the day I'd like to know what is.

The problem in all this is that it's just so easy to give oneself up to the ease of it all. I need to force myself to get stuff done. And I'm not just talking about work-related matters, which, funnily enough, I've had no problem getting on with for a couple of hours today simply because I'm accountable for it and it has to be done. It's the unaccountable that needs the willpower to get moving on.

To which end I've been persevering on Stephen Kotkin's Stalin: Paradoxes of Power 1878 - 1928. This is the first volume in the writer's acclaimed three volume bio of the Russian tyrant and it's easy to see where the acclaim comes from. The detail Kotkin provides is overwhelming in a good way - you know this is the real deal in terms of in-depth research and it feels (if that's the right word) insightful. The problem is that the reader has to provide enough energy to live-up to that of the writer and it's hard (but rewarding) work. 

In tandem with the bio I'm also starting out on yet another novel I really should have read years ago but somehow didn't. I'm ashamed to admit I've never read anything by Stendhal and I'm now rectifying the omission with The Red and the Black. It's about time.

Switching Gears

How good it felt after completing the Dawn Prayer at 6.30 am to get back into bed and nod off for another two hours and some minutes. And how good it felt to arrive here at Sungai Petai yesterday leaving enough time to iron out the creases before taking to our bed. And how good it felt to wander just now along the road side up to the little mosque for an unhurried Friday Prayers.

It even feels reasonably okay to get with some unhurried marking, listening to Dylan sing of paying dues just getting through, thinking that if this is how I need to pay my dues I'll settle for it.

And some time later, in the capital: How bad it felt stuck in a 1 hour, 20 minute jam, hardly moving, just beyond the Sungai Best toll into Kuala Lumpur. I suppose this sort of thing has a flavour of natural justice about it. In its way, balancing the day out.

Fullness

A full stomach is a blessing, but one that's a bit too full is a reminder of the need for moderation in all things. Fortunately the time for feasting is at an end, at least for the moment. And whilst I'm on the topic of filling up, unfortunately those good people running the exams for IB seem to enjoy filling my inbox with emails regarding scripts that require re-marking on appeal. Just when I thought it was all over...

Feeding Time

Now facing the not unwelcome prospect of consuming a great deal of grub over the next couple of days. This evening we're off on our annual Hall Outing, cunningly going back to the stellar buffet at Swensen's. (There's one just up the road now.) And tomorrow it's going to be the Teachers' Day lunch at some hotel or other.

This is in addition to the fact that the last few days have seen a proliferation of snacky items arriving at our place: some brought back by Noi from her Indonesian jaunt; other bits & pieces arriving as the advance guard of the goodies that come my way for Teachers' Day. Chances are that the numbers of such will increase tomorrow and it's likely we'll be taking a fair amount north of the border, assuming we get time to pack it away before setting off.

As I said, not unwelcome. But I'm keenly aware of the need to put the brakes on and not to give too much room to the gods of gluttony. Back in the long-ago days of my early manhood I certainly had that capacity, evidenced by a waist that demanded trousers a few sizes up from those I now fill out. I really don't want to need to have to move up a size or two in my dotage.

Energised

Made a conscious attempt to throw off yesterday's creeping lethargy. I was keenly aware from early on this morning how easy it would have been to surrender and allow for a gradual winding down of all systems ahead of the holiday break - which will kick-in when we take off to Alor Gajah this coming Thursday. I was powerfully tempted to abandon any kind of target for the marking of scripts for the day, especially when I suddenly realised just ahead of setting off for work that I'd forgotten about some checking of submissions for IB and would need a couple of hours just to get that done. In the event I did the checking and marked my quota of scripts and got a few minor but necessary tasks out of the way. And it's still relatively early in the day, so I can easily manage a session in the gym this evening. Must say, I'm unreasonably pleased with myself for my discovery of the energy needed to get it all done.

Funnily enough I'd been thinking of the virtues of energy over the weekend, after viewing Christopher Nolan's excellent film on Friday evening. It struck me that what I'd found so engaging about The Odyssey, above its obvious technical qualities, was its sheer oomph in terms of telling a good tale. The film-maker had somehow managed to string together all the great little bits into one pulsating whole, and had done so through a obvious determination to make it all cohere, even in its contradictions. The whole point of his Odysseus, it seems to me, was the lack of any consistency in the great hero - except for consistently being heroic in some broad sense in the many and varied situations he had no choice but to deal with. And I must say that I reckon this is true to Homer's original, a character possessed of the many-sidedness you'd expect in a figure dreamed up by the fertile imaginations of many and varied bards, fascinatingly coalesced into the 'official' version that maintains unity through the kind of imaginative generosity we allow ourselves when we know we're making it up as we go along.

Above all I thought that Nolan's re-telling of the discursive epic worked wonderfully well in the way he managed to jump - with relentless energy - from narrative to narrative: from Telemachus's tale, to the fall and sacking of the great city, to our hero canoodling with the lovely Calypso, to the monstrous Cyclops (and subsequent encounters of Odysseus and his crew in their peregrinations on whatever sea they are sailing), and back to the bloody reckoning in Ithaca. Maybe I had a bit of an advantage in having been soaked in the stories from being a kid, as I found it easy and enjoyable to follow, but from what a few of my students have said of the movie I get the feeling that contemporary film-goers have enjoyed the weaving of it all into a master design.

Oh, and one other thing. It struck me that the director had elicited great performances from pretty much everyone in his film, something that isn't the result of just sitting around to see what happens. If I ever have to cite an example of perfect casting, this would be it.

The End Of Something

The month reaches its close and I feel a bit like closing down myself. It's been one of those days when any effort has felt like an effort, if you know what I mean. I'm hoping that tomorrow's new month will feel like a refreshing new start; but I'm too wise, too old, too knowing to count on that.

Slow Reading

It took me just over a week to read Samantha Harvey's Orbital - which I completed this morning, having saved the final four pages for a leisurely read before getting on with my marking for the day. Since the whole novel (novella?) comprises just 136 pages I can't make up my mind whether I'm pleased or embarrassed that such a slight text took me so long. 

Pleased because: this is a work that in its sheer intensity cries out to be read slowly.

Embarrassed because: time was I would have read that number of pages in a day, or possibly two, and I'm really just making excuses for an old chap's lack of focus. 

Anyway, I reckon it's a brilliant book. In almost every way highly original. Gem-like in its beauty. And convincing in its often radiant picture of our poor planet in a similar light.

Found And Lost And Found

Noi has returned from her adventures in Surabaya and Malang, so life is returning to its usual satisfying routines here. I met her at the airport just now where she arrived happily on time after a smooth flight, but unhappily without her watch which she had taken off in the restroom at Terminal 2 before getting her luggage and left behind. When she tried to retrieve it, it had gone. I assumed for good, but we made a report at the info desk at Arrivals before grabbing a bite at the Cafe O upstairs at Departures.

Astonishingly we received a text there, telling us the timepiece had been found and handed in by the restroom attendant. And it was back on Noi's wrist by the time we set off back home.

Yet again the airport staff score maximum marks in this writer's unofficial title race for world's best staff at a great airport. Somebody here is definitely doing something right. 

The Days Are Packed

14.00

After a busy morning I still have a busy afternoon and evening ahead of me. Now in transit from Friday Prayers to receive an award I don't really want. (No money involved, I'm afraid. Yes, I'm really that calculating.) I'll be late for the event, but I quite enjoy being late for this kind of thing, so that adds to the fun. Then I'm off to the cinema to watch The Odyssey, having bowed to pressure from quite a few students to do so. Could be fun, but might not be. Watch this space for further details, as they say.

19.10

Briefly back at the ranch for a quick shave. Then it's onwards! (Again!)

23.55

Gosh, that was good. The film, I mean. I surrendered to the story-telling from the get-go - which was easy given the craftsmanship on display. In advance I did wonder whether I'd struggle with the sheer length of the movie, but it seemed pretty much perfectly paced for this viewer.

The Unexpected.

A good day - until a late-night case of students' items going missing took the final hours in a new, less positive, direction. Stuff happens, I'm afraid.

Feeling Obliged

Attended an interesting talk this afternoon delivered by three young ladies who recently directed a production of Medea. There's a video of this available to us in school, but I've not had the chance to watch it yet. From their account it sounds like quite an adventurous version of the tragedy with lots of inventive creativity involved.

Which got me thinking in broad terms of how much of an obligation a director owes to a text he or she is staging. I didn't want to put this directly to the three ladies this afternoon since it sounds a bit confrontational if you're not aware that my view is that if you're putting on a show your only obligation is to make it work for your audience and all other considerations come a long way after that. So the fact that their production features a deliberately individuated (if that's the right word) chorus doesn't worry me in the slightest - indeed, sounds exciting - but it's definitely not what Euripides intended, or how Greek drama works.

Actually a kind of answer did emerge when one of the directors said they didn't alter the sequence of events in any way. That seemed to point to some sense of the kind of obligation I had in mind. To be honest, I doubt the notion of 'obligation' had crossed their minds in any explicit sense, since thinking about this made me aware that in my days of putting on shows I never consciously took this into account. But I'm very sure I did have a kind of intuitive sense of the parametres I set for myself in terms of playing around with the script being worked on and how it was to be manifested on the stage.

Essentially I've only ever worked with material that I felt I wanted to deliver in something akin to the form originally intended. I was always in thrall to what I vaguely saw as the magic of the original. So I don't think I would have ever tried to do something with a chorus that the progenitor of the text would have found foreign to their understanding of what a chorus should do. The fascination for me lay in making whatever the writer wanted work - even if that meant an audience might struggle to 'relate' to what was on stage. Indeed, I suspect that the most exciting kind of shows are difficult in that sense.

Mind you, it's also the case that I'm not all that creative as an individual so maybe I was just taking the easy way out after all.

Sounding Delicious

Forgot to mention the 'other' reading I'm indulging in at present, in addition to the fiction that's on the go. Won't try and list it all, but suffice to say it's well under control being manfully restricted to just three 'extra' tomes at present.

One of these, that I will say something about, is the very chunky Tennyson - A Selected Edition in the Longman Annotated Poets series (which is always value for money.) The notes, courtesy of Prof Christopher Ricks, are excellent (as you might expect coming from the great prof) and a huge help in putting the individual poems in context. And I must say that reading Tennyson is a lot easier than getting on with Henry Vaughan just at the level of straightforward clarity.

The only problem, and I'm not really sure it is a problem exactly, is that it seems to me that the early poems are clear simply because they don't have a lot to say. Oodles of atmosphere, yes, and they sound gorgeous, but other than expressing a general mellifluous longing I'm not sure there's all that much going on. Mind you, I suppose there's a fair argument that mellifluous longing is quite enough to be going on with, especially for the lovelorn. 

The Right Spirit

Today had a look around the WWW for responses to Leila Aboulela's River Spirit, the novel I finished over the weekend. Was heartened to see how many good reviews it had got, especially over at Goodreads, a sign, I think, of a text with mass appeal. I suppose that's what most forcibly struck me about the novel: it obviously has abundant literary merits, especially in the expertise with which the writer switches point-of-view; but it's a strong story also, something of a Romance, I suppose, with central characters who manage to be both believably true to their time and place, yet actually likeable. I have in mind Akuany and Yaseen, who carry the central 'romance', if that's what it is, and Salha, Yaseen's actual wife, who by the end of the story seems to occupy its moral centre. It's also worth saying that the European characters escape caricature - especially the Orientalist artist Robert. Even General Gordon evokes some sympathy, possibly more than the Mahdi himself, though Ms Aboulela is completely convincing in her portrayal of the oppression suffered by the Muslim population of the Sudan.

Indeed, she strikes me as a formidably empathetic writer, as well as an assured stylist. 

Oh, and I must say it's refreshing to read a novel that embodies a fair and insightful view of Islam, especially through the abundant good sense and intelligence of the merchant and scholar of the Qur'an Yaseen. 

Real Reading

Noi is going with her sewing chums to Surabaya this week. I saw her off at the airport early this afternoon and jolly nice it was there, at Terminal 2. Her group of four had already checked-in on line before we even got there, and it took less than ten minutes for them all to complete the automated stuff needed to get boarding passes and check-in their luggage with no queue in sight. In fact, the main business of the proceedings was to catch a bagel and chai latte at Starbucks and then say cheerio, which was all highly relaxing in its way.

I took the MRT back, with a cunning detour into the centre of town for a visit to the big Kinokuniya bookshop. Must say, the shelves were looking a lot healthier than the last time I was there which made me a little more sanguine about its future. And the place was absolutely packed, for the most part with young people who kept getting in my way around the Literature shelves. Which added considerably to my optimism about the future of reading on these shores.

Picked up a copy of Samantha Harvey's Orbital of which I've heard nothing but extremely good things. And on the evidence of the opening pages, it looks like those extremely good things were accurate. This is my replacement for Leila Aboulela's River Spirit which I finished yesterday, a novel of which I'd heard nothing until it landed on my desk, though it did win the Caine Prize for African writing. Which doesn't surprise me as it proved to be a deeply engaging read. Actually genuinely exciting in terms of the action therein, and genuinely insightful regarding Sudan and its people.

Looking forward to getting some real reading done in the last couple of weeks of term and the holiday week now the marking has scaled down to reasonable proportions.

In Theory

It's that Saturday at that time of year when I find myself serving as a 'Lit Critic' at the annual Lit Seminar that takes place on these shores. Last year I found myself a bit more uneasy than is my usual wont on account of the degree to which all of the kids' presentations, first-rate as they were, were heavily informed by my bête noire: Theory. And it was the same this year. Excellent presentations, but the insights afforded by the theories referenced struck me as not as insightful as the texts themselves and the experience of reading those texts.

Fortunately the students' sense of enthusiasm for the texts was palpable - for the most part. Oddly the most sophisticated of the presentations in terms of real intellectual firepower also struck me as being the most detached from any sense of the actual texts referenced being genuinely worth engaging with. Mind you, one of the texts under scrutiny was a recent Disney offering so the notion of real value was in doubt from the get-go.

I can't help but wonder if all this is related to something I've often been made painfully aware of over my years of teaching Lit here: the strange fact that the idea of the simple enjoyment of novels, plays & poems seems almost frowned upon, as if essentially frivolous. I suppose I should be rather more reticent than I am over letting people know that I basically have a good time teaching the stuff I teach and it's not exactly work in any sense. But let that be our little secret, Gentle Reader.

The Shallow End

Now complacently pleased with myself for getting to the gym this evening, keeping up a decent level of frequency for August. Got good numbers without really trying and thought I'd tell the world the good news. Really should aim for greater depth in my life, but just can't be bothered.

The Damage Done

Still thinking about Maureen today. Dwelling on the damage I saw, and wondering when that damage was done. You wouldn't have predicted her problems with alcohol when she was younger - say, in her thirties. Another mystery, but we're all mysteries, I suppose, not least to ourselves.

This time round teaching Williams' Streetcar I've been struck by the palpable sense of damage not just to the obvious case, Blanche, but to her sister, Stella, to Mitch. Even to Stanley. Brando gets that in the movie, somehow. Possibly allowing his own damage to peep through.

It strikes me that in all Williams' work we see the same hypersensitivity to the damage done to others, as well as to himself. 

Not Forgetting

Another birthday for Maureen. Cheryl texted us to say that our card arrived safely at her house and she passed it to her mum to open it today. She seems to think that my sister will know who it's from and that in some sense she remembers me. Not sure she remembers Noi, though she was entirely comfortable with her the December we saw my sister last. 

It occurs to me that even as I strive to remember the many, many good years we had as brother and sister, there are things I would rather like to forget about the misery of the darker times. But that would be cowardly. Any life has its ups and downs, as Mum would have most likely said, and for Maureen to survive those downs and get through to the other side is, in its way, a small triumph.

Inconsequentiality

I was chatting with a colleague in the late afternoon, at that special hour that sees most teachers weary with woe in an affable kind of way - basically looking forward to packing our bags and setting off to homesweethome. Not sure why, but I asked him about a meeting he'd attended an hour or so back and he told me he hadn't actually been present for the duration as he was, essentially, inconsequential.

That struck me as pretty much the perfect state for anyone to aspire to in my line of work. Almost worth taking on board as a personal mission statement: To strive for inconsequentiality. 

Reading On

I'm a bit irritated at myself for not getting more sustained personal reading done. I have reasonable excuses - being close to overwhelmed on the work front; finding a lot of genuinely worthy stuff to read online + genuinely interesting podcasts to listen to relating to some key issues on my mind - but the fact remains that fundamentally I'm a reader of longer-form texts in old-fashioned hard-copy books and nothing should take priority over that variety of reading.

Most of all I really should have zoomed through Leila Aboulela's River Spirit, my current novel-on-the-go, because it's a fine and gripping work and spinning it out doesn't do justice to its impact & pace. Now halfway through and enjoying it immensely.

Intend to finish it by the weekend; and if I don't I have no excuses.

A Very Different Moment

Glancing back just now at what I was getting up to in August 2023 I was startled to hit upon a brief reference I made then to the Lucy Letby case; specifically to her sentencing for the murders of seven babies and the appalling malice involved in her deeds. Strange to think I've come to entirely change my mind over this. Indeed, from being extremely doubtful of her guilt in July I would now place myself in the 'convinced she's innocent' camp and feel certain that a major miscarriage of justice has taken place.

The change in my way of thinking on this has been very gradual, but the final pieces of the puzzle, as I perceived it, fell into place on watching again the 'Botched' series of films on YouTube put together by Guy Rowland. I'd viewed Part 1 and Part 2 in our sojourn in KL in June and been impressed by the many insights provided and the depth of analysis involved, but I'd not really put the whole critique of the investigation together since so many parts were involved. But watching again with a greater sense of the whole deeply sorry tale, followed by seeing Part 3 for the first time, having also listened to Mr Rowland in conversation with Christopher Morris, the guy who's written what I suspect might turn out to be the definitive book on the case, served to seal the deal on my certainty.

The thing is that it's only by accepting the young lady's innocence and the simple fact that there were no murders at all that all the parts make sense. And once you accept that, a deep anger over the extraordinary injustice involved takes over.

Bad News

It's sad to say this, but the news of Jason Arday's death can't have come as a complete surprise to anyone who's been following the story of the accusations made against him and the very public humiliation that followed. One of the disturbing features of the whole sorry saga was the sheer weight of the online pile-on that followed the breaking of the news and his subsequent resignation. I think it's a fair guess that this was a contributing factor to the breaking of the man. Even if you'd reached the conclusion that he was a fabulist on the grand scale - which I had - it was puzzling that so many online commentators seemed to think it was incumbent upon them to state the obvious without adding much in the way of insight, except for their own tiresome outrage.

I'd been thinking of posting something about the dangers of celebrity in relation to his story, particularly in relation to actively courting such celebrity, but this morning's news has put a stopper on any enthusiasm I felt for doing so. So I'll just state the obvious. If, like me, you've successfully hung on to being a complete non-entity for the span of your tenure in this world, be deeply thankful for what must be among the top five blessings of a good life. I'll certainly be keeping my head even lower behind whatever parapet I can find.

Oh, and I'd gently suggest that it's best to keep your outrage to yourself unless you're quite sure you have nothing to gain from unleashing it (especially in the way of 'views' and the like) and sharing it might just lead to some benefit for folks in general.

Falling Apart

For reasons best known to itself my trusty school laptop decided to fall apart just before I conducted a couple of online lessons this morning. It's a bit tricky to maintain one's cool when one's laptop screen is visibly breaking off from the body with the keyboard, but one sort of managed this as one delivered the necessary lessons. And then went into the necessary panic.

By an extraordinarily providential coincidence it was only yesterday that I'd booked an appointment with our ever-helpful IT guys to receive a brand new device as the not terribly trustworthy old trusty computer had been in my possession long enough to mean I deserved an upgrade. Unfortunately said appointment was several weeks ahead. Anyway, throwing caution to the wind I managed to charm one of our IT-support honchos into doing the swop in the afternoon, once I got back from prayers, on the grounds that by the end of the day I was likely not to be able to function as an IT-enabled sort of chap.

And the result of all this is that I'm happily typing these words on a rather spiffy brand-new laptop which has already drawn an admiring 'oooh' from The Missus. Which is all very well, but said device is missing all my old documents which for some reason didn't manage to transfer. So I'm manfully not panicking and trusting that the gods of IT know where they've gone and I'll get them back come Monday.

Positivity

Mulling over my brief thoughts on perfect moments from yesterday - in a precious few stolen moments today - made me consider the value of Positivity. And that consideration was further reinforced by a pleasant interlude this evening being in the audience for some of our students celebrating International Friendship Day. A reminder that in a world seemingly dominated by the short-sighted, narrow, grubby nationalisms espoused by those who wrap themselves in their flags, there are those who can genuinely celebrate their sense of identity whilst generously enjoying that of others.

Oh, and it's always nice to see kids dressing up and showing off.

Just Perfect

The world may be damaged, possibly irreparably, but once in a while our sorry species manages to create moments of perfection. Chanced across two today. First off, a stunning cover of the greatest pop song ever written. Gorgeous in its simplicity. And then an implausibly brilliant live version of one of the most sophisticated.

Maybe, just maybe, there's hope for us yet.

Even More Food For Thought

Last Friday I referred in passing to the controversy surrounding accusations made against Professor Jason Arday as Dom and I were discussing issues around equality & equity with our class. The story was sort of breaking then, and I've been trying to keep up with its developments, some of which have been bemusing to say the least. I've also made an attempt to acquaint myself with various points of view on the case, of which there are many, to put it mildly.

The story itself is quite extraordinary - material for a deeply satirical novel. And I'm not sure anyone is coming out of it well, except for those dogged souls doing their best to establish the facts that can be agreed on. But I will say, just for now, that I've long nurtured deep suspicions regarding the quality of work coming out of the academies around the world and what I'm hearing now prompts me to think my suspicions may have had considerable foundation.

Good To Go

08.05

After yesterday's happy sense of stasis - we never went beyond the grounds of the hotel - today will see us on the move again. First up, we'll be off to the engagement do in a couple of hours. It sounds like quite an elaborate affair, concerning which Fahmi briefed everyone yesterday evening, but I'll be very much an observer with little to do except look old and respectable and eat & drink well. I think I'll be able to manage most of that.

Then it's off again down the highway. Although tomorrow marks another welcome break from being physically at work, there's still lots to do. As there always is. Indeed, I'm getting on with some marking now, in addition to enjoying the morning calm here in Bangi. So, more anon, assuming I get the chance.

20.35

Had a jolly good time at Shibri's engagement, mingling happily and quaffing three tumblers of a piping hot teh tarik. And our journey down the highway was pretty smooth all told - slow-moving traffic now and again, but we sailed through the Immigrations on either side of the Tuas crossing. So now it's just a matter of enjoying a very relaxed Sunday evening, which is fine by me!

Another Day In Paradise

Woke suddenly at 6.30 am from a dream, prompted by my alarm set for the Dawn Prayer, after a solid seven hours of sleep - a rare occurrence for me these days. This means I must have found the hotel bed pretty comfortable, though my back has felt a wee bit vulnerable during the day. Which suggests said bed was a bit too soft, but I'm not complaining.

Indeed, there's absolutely no cause for complaint over anything today. Far from it. This morning's breakfast was a bit of a cracker, for example. All sorts of goodies available from the buffet - if anything, it was all a bit too tempting. And that helped set me up for a day basically focused on work - marking and the like - whilst Noi relaxes and tries to get over the bout of head-achy coughing & spluttering, which has plagued her for the last couple of days.

I've been able to take a few breaks from my grafting over hot scripts to goof off to bits of music and stuff now and again, so don't worry about me. Indeed, at one point in the late morning I found myself deliberately fostering nostalgic memories of holidays as a small kid, inspired in part by the number of littluns on view in the hotel (all of whom seem to be having a rather jolly, noisy time - and rightly so, say I.) For some reason I found myself zooming in (in memory, that is) to a holiday we enjoyed when I was around eight-years-old at Butlin's Filey holiday camp the 'we' in this case being Mum, Dad, Maureen, little Brian, and Maureen's best friend Norma. My increasingly tired and unreliable brain couldn't recall the term for the accommodation in which we stayed and I needed to look it up by googling for the camp. It turned out to be 'chalet', a word which hugely impressed the younger version of myself. In fact, everything about the camp impressed me back then, though I'm now struggling to recall most of the details.

I have managed to salvage a few further fragments of memory through the help of on-line videos related to the place, especially the North Yorkshire Wanderer's lovely piece on YouTube which struck me as a fine example of a 'content creator' creating something that transcends content. Watching it added to the many pleasures of another day in my little bit of paradise. And now I'm going to goof off listening to The Kinks's Muswell Hillbillies which I've never actually owned but is now easily available through a multitude of streaming services. (Hope RD and the boys are getting plentiful royalties for the inestimable pleasure they have given the world. And me, particularly.)  

On The Move Again

15.20

We're off for another weekend in Malaysia - basically to attend an engagement ceremony for Shibri being held in Bangi. Got a feeling we might face a crowded highway, it being the eve of the National Day weekend. Well, we'll see.

22.20

Not too bad on the highway, and now safely installed in the Bangi Resort Hotel. Noi valiantly trying to order some grub from Room Service which has now been made efficiently difficult by having to access an on-line menu designed to be impossible to navigate. Ain't life grand! 

Really Really Hard Thinking

Was in the gym earlier this evening, doing my 60 minutes on the elliptical trainer. Set out to have an original thought to break the boredom. Failed. Ended up re-playing the old stuff and thinking other people's thoughts. Fortunately most of these were very interesting. Just wish my original ideas were actually original. I think I'd settle for that and forego the 'interesting' part.

Wasting Time

It's an odd quirk of my personality that no matter how burdensome marking might feel I don't really mind it because it's so fundamental to my work. On the other hand, put me in an urgent meeting that has absolutely nothing to do with the kids I teach and will be of no possible benefit to them and I'm liable to blow a gasket.

Yes, it's been one of those days.

Even Harder Thinking

Around about this time last year I was valiantly attempting to wrap my poor, tired, aged brain around issues attendant upon AI in education. I still am, and in my small part of the world complicated things have become even more complicated both at the practical level of real problems in the classroom, as it were, and the big philosophical problems looming behind it all. I have no answers and even my questions are confused. So it all remains, as it was for me in August 2025, exciting, destabilising and frightening, but now 'very, very' all those instead of just 'very'.

Content

It seems there a significant number of folks out there who regard themselves as 'content creators', presumably for the Internet. And, again, presumably, some of them, maybe most, do well out of this in financial terms.

The day someone tells me I too am a content creator (of anything, but most likely this very Far Place) is the day I finally shut up shop completely. Just saying.

(And if that makes folks content, then so be it. Hah!)

A Kinky Weekend

Alexis Petridis came up with a particularly excellent 'ranking' article in the Graun last week centred on The Kinks (though, I must say, I'm a bit puzzled he didn't go for the 50 greatest songs, at the very least.) And this had put in mind of giving various Kinks' CDs a spin over the weekend. But funnily enough I decided to kick off with a Ray Davies solo album, Working Man's Cafe, before plunging into the hard stuff. Not sure why. Possibly because I'd generally enjoyed the CD when I first acquired it, but thought of it as a bit routine. Not genuinely inspiring stuff. And I wondered if I might have been wrong.

Yes, I was. I gave it a spin on Saturday and every track worked for me, with the title track and Imaginary Man as bona fide classics, up there in the very crowded RD top ten tunes of all time. I suppose I'd finally listened often enough to tune in completely.

I followed that with my compilation CD of all the singles up to 1970 and, as I knew I would be, was blown away by the variety & simple brilliance of it all. It's so strange to think that we all took songs as profoundly beautiful as Waterloo Sunset and Days for granted when they first came out, as if we had some kind of right to be delivered works of genius almost as the throwaways of pop culture. And after that it had to be The Village Green Preservation Society - at which point it came to me that somehow The Kinks had managed to encapsulate in one album all of my feelings about what England has somehow carelessly lost.

Finished everything off by viewing a clip of Ray Davies's 2010 set at Glastonbury at which he dedicated the two songs I mentioned in the previous paragraph to the recently deceased Pete Quaife, the original bassist with the band, and a very tasty player indeed. At which point I dissolved.

Still Ranting

I found myself back at the doctor's across the road this morning, having blood drawn for yet another test ordained by MOM before they'll grant me a pass to work here next year. The last time I spoke to the doc was just ahead of the World Cup semi-final in mid-July when we'd talked seriously of it coming home. Today I launched into my rant concerning the ubiquities of a certain German coach following the scoring of England's goal around the 55th minute. Funnily enough I'd launched into a pretty much identical monologue last night talking to Peter & Chris. (Oddly Lia didn't seem interested at all.) I'm now hopping it's all out of my system, but suspect I'm likely to get triggered again before the year is out.

Funnily enough the news regarding my own medical condition continues to get better despite my bitterness over the events of July - though both the doc and myself proclaimed justice had finally been done with Spain's victory. It turns out that a chest x-ray requested by MOM earlier proved astonishingly clear according to the doc. He'd had a sight of the scans of my lungs as they were in late 2022 and 2023, distressingly full to the brim with an unpleasant looking grunge, so he thought the latest x-ray would show some scarring of my breathing apparatus. But it didn't, which left left me a very happy soldier.

I celebrated by performing some pretty impressive dance moves for The Missus in a free-form interpretation of The Kinks' You Really Got Me later in the afternoon. But she just seemed to find these funny rather than alluring. There's no accounting for taste, is there?

Catching Up

Met up with Peter & Lia & Chris over some excellent grub at Al Ameen's this evening. Referenced a range of colleagues from our collective pasts who, somehow or other, have gone their separate ways. Not sure that dwelling on the past is such a good thing. Unless we learn from it. Which we rarely do.

And dwelling on the future isn't so hot either.

But grasping the present moment seems to me fundamentally sound. Especially when the grub & company make it worth holding onto.

Overloaded

Spent the evening at the cinema watching the latest Spiderman movie. Very young, very enthusiastic audience for the screening. Enjoyed them having a great time. Personally felt the thing was too long, too loud visually, too angsty, too complicated, too much. But appreciated the fact that it was well crafted for an audience that might appreciate those qualities.

And, of course, I'm too old.

Recovered

Got to the gym for the first time since running that foolhardy 5 km at West Coast Park. The debilitating ache in my thigh muscles had finally eased by this morning and I was keen to see if I could handle my usual stint on the elliptical trainer without undue strain. I did, but only just.

Sometimes just keeping going is enough.

Inventing Reality

I've been airing a clip or two from the classic Elia Kazan movie of Streetcar in the classroom. Fascinating to watch Brando re-inventing acting. Munching & mumbling his way through the Napoleonic code  sequence.

And the sweat! And the itching! (Another bit.)

Made me think of the last time I watched On The Waterfront and came to the conclusion that he was acting in a different movie from everyone else. A better one.

Flat

It's been a long sort of day - which day isn't? - but it occurred to me some five minutes ago that, all in all, it had gone well and was, to most, if not all, intents and purposes, over. I suppose marking my last essay of the day contributed to my general sense of well-being. And then it all sort of fell apart. 

I don't mean that anything particularly unfortunate happened. Simply, whatever energy I had possessed up to that point mysteriously dissipated and I felt almost completely spent. I had nothing left to offer the world; not that the world seemed to care. 

Indeed, in the utter flatness of it all I found that odd freedom of not caring in any way at all about anything whatsoever. In its way it's a pleasant state to be in, for a few minutes or so. But best to leave behind before it becomes addictive. 

Getting Out

Early in the day I had no intention of going out due to a daunting workload which non-negotiably had to be cleared today. So when Noi went off with Rozana & Aishah, who'd stayed over at our place since they'd come down from Malaysia to visit baby Arissa, I took it that I'd just stay in for the day and graft whilst others did the socialising. A bit sad, but necessary, and there's an end to it.

So I was taken aback when Noi came back around 4.00 pm with Aishah's mum & dad & brothers in tow (with whom we'd been munching some excellent grub up at Sembawang late yesterday evening) and announced they were off to Arab Street before they'd be catching the bus up to JB to make their return home this evening. The problem was that I still had scripts to mark despite making excellent progress on all aspects of work in the course of the day. So initially I thought it impossible to go along with them. That is until I realised I'd made heroic inroads into what remained whilst Noi was completing a prayer and Rozaidah & family watched a bit of tv ahead of their jaunt to Arab Street & environs.

So I ended up accompanying them to Kampong Glam where I enjoyed two very jolly cups of tea, a couple of curry puffs and a slice of murtabak. And somehow completed my marking in between (actually finishing off the final script in Masjid Sultan after I'd finished the prayer for Asr there.) Must say, my ability to mark anywhere comes in handy. And also must say, the experience reminded me of both the joys of getting out and about with family and how important it is let the fresh air in even when it doesn't seem there can be time to do so.

In Conversation

Various muscles, especially those at the tops of my legs, aching like billy-o after yesterday's compromised 'triumph'. Probably the last time I run round West Coast Park. But at least I don't seem to have done any active damage to my lower back, so feel reasonably pleased to have, to a limited degree, defied doctor's orders without undue consequences.

And enjoyed getting out and about today at Holland Village, whence I made my way in the early afternoon to meet up with old chum Tony Green. We participated in what might be termed 'good craic' in the Emerald Isle, though our craic often touched on the kind of serious stuff that old geezers often find conducive.

Much consideration of the inadequacies of various manifestations of bureaucracy - of which we’ve witnessed a good deal in our (fortunately) expansive lifetimes. I suppose the ironies involved are funny in a depressing manner. Anyway, I found myself laughing a lot.

Triumph

Finally I got my sweaty hands on a trophy. The only problem: it rightly belonged to someone else. 

Mind Wide Open

I like to think I'm open-minded in the best sense - open to new ideas, ready to revise tired opinions & prejudices in the light of new information or a better understanding. But I do wonder if I'm deceiving myself on this. Especially since I'm aware of how easy, indeed, effortless it can be to trick ourselves into believing what we'd really like to believe. So I sort of run tests of myself at times, trying to identify distinct examples of actual instances in which a genuine shift has taken place in my thinking (and, hopefully, for the better.) 

One recent quite dramatic shift, not so much of an idea or opinion, but a perspective on something in the news, has been occupying me, on and off, for the last couple of months. This concerns the case of Lucy Letby, a name not all that familiar to inhabitants of the Far Place (at least nobody I've mentioned her to has recognised it) but someone I am sure almost every British citizen knows well - she being the neo-natal nurse convicted of killing seven babies and attempting to murder quite a few others.

It's obviously a dreadful story, and when she was being tried some three years ago I was convinced of her guilt, based on the press coverage of the trial which seemed pretty thorough to me. But here's the thing. Gradually over those years, starting from a story raising concerns about the statistics cited in court based on her duty roster, I've come to think the complete opposite and now I find myself siding with those who regard her conviction as extremely doubtful. Of course, I can't be sure I'm right, and the fact that the grief of the parents who lost those children must be still raw, makes we wary of writing about this at all.

But the fact that I may have fallen for biased press coverage and an inadequate system of justice is deeply troubling and a reminder that keeping an open mind might just be a moral imperative rather than simply a sign of 'good' character.

Seeking Alternatives

Highlight of the day: set my ears on fire listening to Mason Bates's Alternative Energy. It's difficult to be cynical about the state of modern music, the plight of the USA and just how toxic the Internet has turned out to be when you hear something like this. And for free. 

A Certain Justice

Final post relating to World Cup 2026: A good weekend to bring it all staggering to a close. Crazy game for 3rd/4th place which proved how wild things get when nobody is bogged down by considerations like results. And then a dull final, except it wasn't dull for anyone who knows a bit about how to play the game, which Spain did supremely well. And Argentina didn't.

Best moment for me: the look on Enso Fernandez's stupid face (I use the adjective in a forensic rather than insulting manner) when it finally occurred to him that he was about to take the long walk and all his histrionics were for nothing.)

Genius At Work

Now quite a way into Part VII of Germinal, the final section, and hoping to finish Zola's great novel today. Completely unputdownable - which is leading me to some puzzlement as to why I could put it down when we were in KL back in June and there was world enough and time to easily read it in its entirety then. In case there's any doubt about it, I knew it was a great work from the beginning, so quality was no issue. I remain a puzzle to myself.

Anyway, just to try and capture the impact of the novel on me, here's a rushed note I made for myself earlier today when I was finishing the previous section: Just reached the end of Part VI. Just brilliant. If the whole point of lit is to widen sympathies whilst informing us about the world, then Zola scores mightily. And, I can't explain why, there is a sense of Beauty in all this somewhere, though I'm damned if I can figure out why or how or even where. What a sequence - the death of the straved child Alzire; Etienne's fist-fight with Chaval; Jeanlin's murder of the soldier on guard, who never wanted to be where he was; the death of Trumpet, the young horse confined to the pit; the troops firing on the striking miners. And Zola, astonishingly, seems able to see something like good in everyone - you can even understand exactly why the troops open fire. And then can only cry at the devastation.

Newly Discovered

When I referred yesterday to a long evening I really meant what I said. I was actually taken aback by the length of the two items in the first half of the concert, since I knew that the Mahler 5 after the interval was likely to run a good deal longer than an hour. I expected the pieces to run to perhaps ten minutes or so each, but it turned out that the concerto lasted about half an hour (and since the second movement was reprised as a much deserved encore, it went well beyond that); and the opener wasn't some sort of five minute overture as I'd guessed at, but actually the standalone first movement of a full symphony, taking a good twenty minutes to wind its way.

I'm saying this, by the way, without any sense of complaint. Rather, I'm very happy indeed at the sheer value for money involved - though I did find a couple of patches of the Mahler a tad tedious, but, then, it's Mahler and that's par for the course as far as I'm concerned. Actually the real pull factor for me in attending the concert, and I have to say I needed to think long & hard about whether I'd be up to it after a heavy week of attempts at educating young people, had always been the prospects of the new music on offer - a world premier and an Asian premier no less. I'd never heard of Messers Tan Chan Boon and Mason Bates, and was excited as to what they had in store for me.

In both cases it wasn't what I expected, which was something along the lines of excitingly atonal, in-your-face noise of the nicely textured variety. What we got in the event was delightfully tonal and tuneful stuff of the highly accessible variety, along with a distinct sense of playfulness in the beguiling Nomad Concerto. On the way back I found myself googling like crazy for whatever I could find on both composers, which led to my feeling more than a bit embarrassed that I'd never heard of Mason Bates who turns out to be a pretty well-known creative presence for those who genuinely keep their ears open.

Managed to listen to quite a bit more of both these music-makers today via YouTube and Apple Music and am now officially a fan of both.

Sounds Good

23.00

A long day and now making our way back from luxuriating in the sweet sounds of the SSO on a particularly rich & long evening. A good way to finish the day, especially dropping off on the way back at McDonald’s. Thus establishing credentials as both eminent culture vulture & man of the people.

Not Home At Last

Now feeling totally wiped out after heroically managing a day that took a desperately dark turn for the worse in the very early hours.

Now coping with a pernicious earworm from Rod the Mod: I don't wanna / talk about it / how you broke my heart. Says it all really.

Not Quite Home

Incongruous situation of the day: So there I am in the doctor's surgery in the late afternoon for a mandatory check-up demanded by MOM. We talk for some three or four minutes about my medical history & such, and all goes smoothly. Then we talk for a good deal longer about the upcoming England - Argentina semi-final, completing our dealings with a rousing rendition of It's Coming Home with the doc incorporating a new lyric about Tuchel, with which I am not familiar. Not sure what the folks in the waiting room thought of all this. But we were definitely loud enough to be heard.

We were both wondering whether we'd be able to drag ourselves to watch the game, screening at 3.00 am in this Far Place. And we both reckoned we could take the strain of rising early, but whether we could take the stress of the actual game was quite another matter.

On The Outside

As far as I can remember when I was around forty years of age I felt I had a pretty good understanding of the world. A bit of an insider in some ways. Most ways, indeed. In contrast, increasingly these days I feel like an outsider. Like someone who doesn't quite get the joke. Someone off the wavelength. 

I suppose I should be bothered by this. But the mild paradox of the situation is that I quite enjoy not really knowing what's going on, not knowing the answer, being unable to solve the puzzle. In a quiet way I'm stepping out of the machine.

Prog On

Even as I write this I'm mentally goofing off, in auditory fashion, by revisiting the early 1970s via Steve Hackett and his band's brilliant recreation of an early Genesis gem: The Fountain of Salmacis. I'm not sure if the original band played this when I first saw them live in the Free Trade Hall at the time they put out Nursery Chryme, but I do know I played the track over and over once I acquired the album (usually playing air drums or pretending to be Peter Gabriel. But let's not probe overly deeply into my embarrassing youth.)

By the way, for any appreciative youngsters out there who've clicked on the link and enjoyed the splendour of it all, I'm sorry you weren't around in that era. A great time to be alive for anyone with keenly open ears. 

A Bit Of A Mix

A long day featuring a bit of everything, with a couple of hours still to go (if I last).

Made an early start at 5.00 am watching the England - Norway quarter-final down in our Staff Lounge. Frankly I thought Norway were the better team for much of the game, especially after the cagey opening, about 30 minutes in, when they went to a high press against a shaky England defence. Still, a win is a win, and winning like this is a sign of a squad who've adapted to the demands of tournaments. Then stayed on for the Argentina game and ended up happy that we're avoiding the very handy Swiss team. I'm convinced they would have edged the encounter if it weren't for the (deserved) sending off of the daft Embolo. I reckon this version of Argentina is vulnerable and might just decide not to turn up for the semis if Messi is marked out of the game.

After that it was time for a bit of IB marking whilst listening to a slice or two or three of Bill Frisell - and wondering why I don't listen to a lot more. Oh, and I caught up with the zzzzzzzs for an hour or so whilst The Missus worked her magic in our kitchen.

She confected a delectable chicken curry to help feed-up niece Fafa, to whose place we went in the late afternoon to make the acquaintance of the 12-day-old Dahlia Arissa, who doesn't look like anybody yet, as far as I can see, but sort of resembles everyone, except me, of course. I spent some time chatting to her in my best Manchester accent in an attempt to introduce her to the joys of being a Citizen of the World. But she didn't seem overly impressed. 

Refreshed

Woke from a cobwebby night's sleep in need of mental cleansing and found it in a morning stroll around West Coast Park with The Missus. We'd planned originally to go to the Botanic Gardens, but it was drizzling when we set off and we felt more assured of the necessary spots in which to shelter if we went to the closer and more familiar location and I'm glad we did.

Actually it looked like we might have had to abandon the jaunt some ten minutes after arrival when the light drizzle threatened to metamorphosise to heavy rain, but we took cover at one of the bicycle rental places for a few minutes and the rain eased. To tell the truth, walking in the drizzle was distinctly pleasant and I wouldn't have minded a couple of hours of it, but the light rain itself petered out quite quickly and, despite the overcast skies, we enjoyed a dry late morning.

In the interests of full disclosure, I need to tell you that we punctuated proceedings by stopping off for teh tarik and prata at Niqqi's Cheese Prata shop at the bottom of Clementi Road around the halfway point, which definitely hit the sweet spot. So, all told, a highly successfully outing with nary a cobweb left in any corner to worry about.

Getting Political

Finally the Clacton byelection back in the UK affords me a rare opportunity to make an unequivocal political declaration of allegiance: Ich bin ein binliner!! 😁

Frankly Speaking

Caught up in the iron grip of Zola's Germinal for various reasons, but essentially because it's just so darned good. (That wouldn't score well as lit analysis, but I don't care.)

Was intending to write a post praising Zola for his frankness in the novel regarding matters of sexuality, especially the unashamed promiscuity of many of his characters and his directness in depicting such. Indeed, the text had something of a revelatory quality to me in that regard since I couldn't think of a single British writer of the nineteenth century writing in such a manner.

But a couple of days ago, quite by accident, I came across a comment in the introduction to my Penguin edition of the novel, that suggests the writer is not being honest in his depiction. The editor, Roger Pearson, (who provides an excellent intro & notes, by the way) notes that contemporary documents about the mines provide nothing to support Zola's account. The suggestion is that Zola felt it was a kind of Naturalistic truth that the miners would behave in such a fashion and he imposes his assumptions upon his characters.

Must say, at this point I have no idea where the truth lies, but I'm fascinated by trying to find out more. Having said that, I'm rather more fascinated by getting on with Germinal to find out what's going to happen to Catherine now she's nearly died in the mine and Chaval, her sort of husband-cum-lover - and not a nice guy - has briefly been genuinely loving to her.

Lost And Found

Keys are very important things. A truth made accessible simply by losing one or more of them. It's been a long time since I was foolish enough to mislay a set, but over the last few days I made up for that by conspiring to lose keys of some importance twice, in the same key pouch ironically, though the keys were quite different.

First of all I managed to lose the keys to the apartment, last Thursday, if memory serves. There I was at my desk, packing my bags in the afternoon and looking forward to getting back a bit earlier than usual, when I put my hand in my pocket to check for my key pouch only to discover an airy nothing. Well, that's not entirely accurate. There was a white board marker lurking there, but no pouch. Which was impossible since I only ever put the keys in my pocket or in my briefcase. So I checked my briefcase, knowing they weren't in there, and, no surprise, they weren't. Showing something close to iron self-control I managed not to explicitly panic and thought hard as to the last time I was sure the pouch was in my possession - i.e., lodged neatly in my trouser pocket.

And here comes the happy part. I recalled definitely having them with me roughly two hours earlier in our Staff Lounge. At which point I mentally retraced my direction of travel since that time, which had been worryingly many & various, but I knew the winding path for sure. Which I then began to follow, estimating it would be quite some time before I could retrieve the keys which, with naïve confidence, I assumed I would be able to based on the fact the keys were not likely to have fallen through a wormhole in space. Hoping against hope they would be somewhere in the Staff Lounge, most likely on the table at which I'd been sitting, I opened the door only to view an empty table in the distance. Downcast I approached thinking it highly unlikely they would be on the floor below the chair in which I had been seated - and there they were, to my considerable relief, ending some five minutes of minor, muted but real, panic.

And then, just yesterday, I found a way to experience another stressful five minutes, this time involving the key to our 'cage' for basketball - a spot for storage of all sorts of basketball-related doings, which I was due to open in the afternoon when the guys would be practising out on the courts. I store the key in a little box on my desk, and that's the only place it ever goes. Which meant the fact it simply wasn't there when I looked for it in the late morning was inexplicable. Which meant I needed to ask a colleague if we had a spare, which we didn't, which was embarrassing and further meant I needed to borrow his, which was even more embarrassing, and now getting complicated since I'd need to return his key and somehow get another for myself.

But the key was definitely gone, since there was no alternative location possible. But then I thought of my key pouch as it suddenly occurred to me that the last time we'd been practising at the courts was Friday when I'd gone back to prepare for setting off to Malaka; and possibly I'd not followed the usual routine of going back to my desk to store the key safely; and possibly I'd stored it safely in my trusty key pouch and just forgotten; which was what had happened as I opened the pouch to find the 'extra' key inside. Relief, of the considerable kind, yet again flooded all my bits & pieces, and I quickly returned my colleague's key before I managed to mislay that one.

So an utterly trivial narrative to reinforce two very important points. Hold firmly onto your keys everyone. And don't panic when eventually they go missing, because they always will. 

Justice Served

On a fairly busy day I only managed to catch-up with the World Cup news in the late morning. Must say I felt a strong sense of satisfaction upon seeing that Belgium had really done the business over the USA. Quite some surprise also as it had looked like the light of Belgium's golden generation had completely dimmed. Nice to know that it might just shine long enough for them to beat the odds in 2026.

But it was my satisfaction over the US getting a pounding that took me by surprise. Early in the tournament they'd impressed me and I'd genuinely been hoping for them to go far as an 'outsider' team. So what had changed, I asked myself. And the answer came readily. The blatant disregarding of well-established international rules as to the non-negotiable suspensions of those who'd been unfortunate to get a red card, that's what.

Interestingly, I noticed that the vast majority of commentary I read on the game on social media reflected the same feeling.

Something Left

Caught the last twenty minutes or so of the England vs Mexico game live this morning, in the jovial company of a lot of rightfully noisy boarders watching events at the Azteca ensue on the big screen in our Staff Lounge. I think the atmosphere if anything served to intensify the tension I felt as Kane was subbed & the 3 Lions moved to a back 5. Something in my mind was telling me the creaking defense would not be able to handle the more than handy Mexican movement upfront, and when the (astonishing)11 minutes of extra time was declared (which somehow turned to 12 and a bit more) I thought the team would never see the game out without conceding. I was delighted to be wrong - and that being very wrong indeed given the relative comfort of the final minutes.

This version of England seem to handle adversity with some room to spare: the very real problems of playing at high altitude; the aggression of the crowd; the (deserved) loss of a full-back. And since they're likely to face even more troubles moving ahead, that augurs well.

I suppose that in a small way I felt the positive result made me just that bit more motivated to do my thing at the gym in the afternoon and rise above the circumstances of considerable physical decline. Unexpectedly, I actually felt okay on the elliptical trainer rolling out my 60 minutes at full resistance and thought I might have put in good numbers when I speeded up for the last couple of minutes. But it turned out that the numbers were very average and I was gasping more than somewhat after my foolish sprinting. I'm feeling it now, to be honest. The sense that there's really nothing under the bonnet. 

I'm pretty sure the England boys have got a lot more left than me, though. So that's something to hold onto.

The Hard Life

There's much to admire in the sheer energy of Zola's Germinal, its powerful sense of the moral necessity of recording in sometimes overwhelming detail the bleakness of the lives of most of its benighted characters. And, once the narrative picks up with the story of the miners' strike, there's something genuinely gripping in the unfolding of the fates of its many characters. Though I'm not holding out much in the way of hope for them at the halfway point of the novel.

It's taken me quite some time to get towards the end of Book IV because, for all the energy of its telling, the grimness of the subject matter doesn't make for an easy read. I feel I need to be at full attention as I go since anything less than complete absorption will be an injustice to the writer and his suffering creations.

But that's not to say there's nothing positive about the text. The simple fact of their survival engenders respect for even the least of the inhabitants of Village Two Hundred and Forty. And there are striking moments of genuine pleasure in life scattered in the novel that often beguile, even in the most desperate circumstances. Etienne's discovery of the semi-feral Jeanlin's hideaway down the abandoned mineshaft won't be easily forgotten by this reader. It has something of the quality of myth about it.

Sort Of Stopping

Arrived here in the very early hours of the morning having managed to nod off somewhat in the car. Then enjoyed a few hours of sleep, though awoken before the time for the prayer at dawn by the fierce air-conditioning in our bedroom here. And then managed a good hour and a half back in the land of nod before getting up and ready to attend the wedding.

So I'm really not too sure why I felt so deeply wrecked once we got back here after eating & drinking & chatting and the usual wedding stuff and completely crashed out for a couple more hours. But I'm glad I did!

Not Stopping

The highlight of our weekend will be a wedding in Melaka. Nice to have happy family business to look forward to. But it means we'll need to get there tonight, so life continues non-stop. 

Not So Shocking

One match report I read on this morning's England game claimed that DR Congo scored a first half 'shock goal'. If this means that no one would have expected the goal to be scored it's complete nonsense and seems a relic of the old idea that somehow European or South American sides have some kind of entitlement to win World Cup games. They don't. The only thing shocking about the goal was the amount of room surrendered by the England back four. Cipenga had acres of space and, even then, Pickford should have got to the shot.

Having said that, I can't join in with some of the ridiculous criticism of Tuchel's merry men. They created plenty of chances against a well-organised team & have a decent chance against Mexico, assuming they up their game. Though I reckon Mexico go in as obvious favourites, given home support and their excellent form.

And I can't say I would seriously mind if England go out since it's great to see supposedly 'lesser' teams playing so well. It wouldn't surprise me to see Mexico go all the way to the final. The real disappointment so far as far as I'm concerned has been Japan going out, as I really fancied them and was hoping an 'outsider' nation wins the thing this year. Mind you, it would be difficult to quarrel with either France or Argentina getting their name on the trophy yet again since they've both been playing in the style which deserves that outcome.

Anyway, Azteca here we come. 

A Thing Of Beauty

Am beginning to regret not spending a few bucks on getting full coverage of the World Cup given the quality of some of the games so far (judging from the highlights I've seen, that is.) France, Mexico, Argentina, to name but three, all looking the real deal so far. Will be surprised if the 3 Lions get past Mexico, assuming they do the business against Congo (which, to be honest, I'm not assuming.)

That French midfield remind me of Brazil in their pomp back in 1970. And that's not something I was expecting to be able to say again in my lifetime. 

Football - bloody hell, eh!

Things Newborn

Very much reminded just now of one of my favourite lines from The Winter's Tale. The Old Shepherd observing literally and thematically: Now bless thyself: thou met'st with things dying, I with things newborn. When I first read this many, many years ago the inherent contrast seemed to me strange in its way. Now I've reached an age when dying & being born seem quite familiar as intertwined aspects of this thing we call life, but the line has not lost its simple magic.

And it sprang forcefully to mind when Noi confirmed that, after quite a long labour, Fafa was delivered of a baby girl today. Just typing that makes me happy. Noi showed me a picture of the child (unbelievably cute) and I almost cried. But didn't. Instead smiled broadly with a sort of silly happiness. Isn't (new) life wonderful?

Home At Last

Came back just now from a late-evening duty. Opened the door to find the apartment delightfully suffused with the smell of porridge. It really felt like home.

(And if you've never heard the mighty Dan bring it home, here's how it's done.)

Living In Hope

I hardly feel involved in the World Cup at all. Just following the results and checking the highlights, but haven't watched anything live. Happy to see England top their group and progress to the knock-out stages, and relieved they're not meeting Senegal. (Had a bad feeling about the prospect.) But also have a feeling that Congo might just surprise.

Actually the really entertaining thing these days is reading the comments below the match reports. It's astonishing how sure the various writers are of their opinions. Helps in understanding how Gareth Southgate was seen as some kind of failure despite his consistent success in creating squads that genuinely competed at the highest levels.

Heat

I've been reading reports of scorching temperatures in Europe in the last few days, especially concerning the UK and France. Not sure how climate change denialists deal with such regular reports of records being broken. I know that I'd be more than happy to support any politician who genuinely tried to deliver net zero emissions or any initiative that sought to do away with our reliance on plastics. It all looks very urgent to me.

In the meantime it's a matter of just getting on with what can be done even when temperatures soar. Today it's 31C here and feels hotter, I think due to the overwhelming humidity. So the idea of cleaning our bookshelves wasn't such an attractive one. But I managed to get on with it, at the cost of a very wet t-shirt, once I decided enough was enough. Actually, the enough wasn't enough and I'm all set to get ferociously sweaty again tomorrow.

In Sickness

We were intending to eat dinner at Aziz's place on Tuesday when we were in Alor Gajah. On arrival in the early evening we were a bit surprised and disappointed to find his eatery closed with no sign of life at all. And shortly after that we got a text that Aziz wasn't well, with a worrying reference to a heart attack.

Much to our relief we found out next day that the reference to a heart problem was misleading and that the pain Aziz had experienced and which had sent him to the doctor was due to a kidney stone. An operation was necessary, but nothing life-threatening was involved, thank goodness. However, he couldn't be operated on immediately as he was suffering from jaundice and needed further monitoring.

Which is why we found ourselves in the main hospital in Melaka yesterday afternoon, visiting the sick patient before making our way along the North-South Highway. It was good to see Aziz looking pretty well and not complaining about being in pain, but I can't imagine that his surroundings were conducive to striving for full health. It's an old hospital and, despite some heroic efforts to make it look cheerful, it has a sense that the wear and tear of time is now deeply ingrained in its fabric. I wouldn't have wanted to spend a night there, and I'm not the sort who's overly fastidious about these things.

Funnily enough the visit helped put the journey back into perspective. Better on the road and feeling well than being stuck in a hospital bed waiting to get back to the joys of just being normal.

Getting Moving

Today I decided to take the pills prescribed by my back doc since my left side is feeling distinctly cranky. I'm doing so with some reluctance as I much prefer to let my body take care of itself. But since I paid for the medication I figure I might as well experiment and see if it helps in a decisive way. If it doesn't, I'll discontinue the experiment and let nature take its course.

Actually I suspect the crankiness is related to a glaring lack of genuine physical exercise on my part after arriving in Malaysia. I've repeatedly failed to establish any kind of regimen in these parts, even simply walking. So, somewhat counter-intuitively, I'm looking forward to getting back to my old routines as these featured lots of healthily moving around. Since we're heading south later today it could be that I'll be back in the gym tomorrow, which I suspect will prove efficacious. I'll be more than happy to put the pills back into storage.

Wise Words

Hamzah was in fine form when we went out for dinner with him, and Aiman & Aziqah, on Monday evening. Two particularly resonant observations have remained with me: Better to follow your heart than your mind, and There are more angels than devils. He applied these to the very practical matter of surviving in the jungle when completely lost and did so in a most down-to-earth fashion, by the way, so nothing overly esoteric going on here, despite appearances.

Not Meeting Expectations

I had quite a clear picture of how I was going to spend the day before dutifully checking my email in the early afternoon. I was all set for some complete relaxation. Then everything abruptly changed.

I found myself staring disconsolately at a message from an Assessment Operations Analysist from IB informing me I'd been allotted more marking of the 'at risk' variety - essentially a kind of double-check on other examiners' initial marking. I've done this before, but what took me by surprise was a screenshot showing how to access the new scripts which suggested a significant number needed to be re-assessed fairly urgently, this number being well in excess of what I've tackled in previous years.

It turned out that the screenshot wasn't related specifically to my own load. The number I'd actually been allotted was even greater. But the urgency was definite, as indicated by an equally unforgiving deadline as in the illustration. So I was not in any way, shape or form a happy soldier.

But, having no wriggle room at all on this one, I put my shoulder to the wheel - which entailed firing up the old brain cells to move back into marking mode and forcing myself to full-on concentrate and do justice to the efforts of the students whose scores were in doubt. I managed some three hours of this today, and there's more to come tomorrow & onwards.

It's not exactly a fulfilling way to spend the final days of a holiday, but at least it keeps me off the streets. 

On Our Way Again

Our June sojourn at Maison KL is rapidly approaching its end. As usual this is signaled by Noi impressively vacuuming & mopping & brushing to ensure the place looks spick & span, ready for our next visit, whenever that might be. And I'm now starting to put together all those bits & pieces that of necessity accompany us on our travels.

Real life is beckoning, but only gets going in earnest this time next week, when I'll be back at work. In the meantime we will be holidaying on with a visit to Hamzah & family later in the day, followed by a couple of days at Mak's house. So the sadness of leaving is balanced by the cheerfulness of arrival, as ever. And another ending balanced by beginning again. 

Holiday Reading

After I'd finished cleaning the bookshelves here earlier in the week I took down one of several novels and short-story collections by P.G. Wodehouse residing thereon, Jeeves in the Offing. Much as I'm enjoying Zola's Germinal I felt the need for something lighter in mood, and Wodehouse, of course, is just the ticket in such circumstances. I could have raced through Bertie's adventures at Brinkley Court - the first time I read it was in a single sitting on a flight back to the UK in the 1990s. But I decided to take it slowly and relish the wonderful craft of Wodehouse's creation of Bertie's voice, and that unhurriedness proved wise, adding to the sense of happy holiday enjoyment. 

So much that is seen as humorous these days is possessed of a kind of cruel delight in man's folly. (And woman's, I hasten to add.) But Wodehouse somehow pulls off a supremely charitable, good-natured kind of comedy, which strikes me as utterly sui generis. The reader is led to see the world as, not exactly a better place, but somewhere a lot funnier than it usually appears to be.

Stormy Weather

Am gazing out upon a distinctly righteous storm that hit Bukit Antarabangsa some thirty minutes ago. It began fiercely and has kept up its intensity. When it suddenly broke our excellent gardener-cum-termite-treatment-guy-cum-general-helper-out Devan was doing his thing in the garden, but he's now set off home, having borrowed an umbrella from us so he could get back to his car without looking like he's been wading through a river. Not sure how the monkeys are faring in all this. Presumably they consider the sudden flood all part of life's rich tapestry even when they're stuck out in the foliage taking cover.

Of course, it's easy for us to contemplate the rich tapestry of it all, being as we are delightfully dry in the shelter of the house. Life here has proved wonderfully easy over the last couple of weeks and it's going to be difficult to break the spell when work starts again. When your fridge & oven & air-conditioning & solar panels & lights & stuff are all working and no leaks are being sprung, it's worth celebrating a bit on the inside, and a storm somehow seems an appropriate time to do so.

Epically Failing

Engaged in some pointless browsing of YouTube videos earlier today, I was struck by the number that enjoy pointing out major failures, ranging from individuals screwing up at the personal level to corporations getting it wrong on a scale that can transcend all reasonable sense of value. I suppose there's a sardonic comfort to be gained from the realisation that others are, astonishingly, even more idiotic than oneself, but it's also more than a bit depressing to be given a handle on how much we are able to waste of our resources.

Prominent in my earlier viewing were videos detailing the catastrophic demise of what was known as the metaverse. Funnily enough this sad tale was something I had some awareness of. I was involved in a visit to the Meta headquarters in Singapore back in March 2023 as one of those odd 'learning journeys' my employers think do me some good. This would have been a few months after Facebook's big announcement of its virtual reality world as detailed in the link above. I sort of enjoyed the trip simply because it was so obvious to me (and, I think, to all in attendance) that the concept just wasn't going to work. Even the guys tasked to introduce to their visitors the Horizon World (I think it was) clearly thought it didn't stand any chance of success such that they won sympathy by manfully covering up their doubts.

In its way it feels good to know that my scepticism was entirely warranted. But the sort of sadness of all the wasted talent & effort involved makes it difficult to laugh too loud even at the funniest of the videos that take delight in celebrating the off-the-scale-stupidity of it all. Though I must say the narrator of How Did The Metaverse Fail So Badly? elicited more than a few guffaws, to emerge as my favourite of the bunch.

Just hope all the folks we met back in March 2023 who got retrenched later, were able to get decent jobs after being sent on their ways doing something that actually benefits people.

That's Entertainment

We are definitely getting value for money out of the telly we brought for Maison KL last December. The only streaming service we've got is Apple tv, but that's quite enough for our needs, thank you. Having completed all four seasons of the increasingly unlikely but highly entertaining The Morning Show we embarked this week on Down Cemetery Road which has a high enough body count to keep us interested. Not sure I follow the plot, but that's been true of almost everything I've watched over the last decade. I've come to assume that not really grasping what's going on is the point of most tv dramas these days and I'm quite okay with that as long as no one expects me to take the contents seriously.

I suppose the programmes we watch these days hold up a mirror to nature as it manifests itself somewhere in the world, but it's not the sort of quiet, easy-going, uneventful nature we spend our lives coming into contact with. 

Distinctly Aching

I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to set about cleaning all the downstairs windows at the homestead this afternoon (of which there are plenty.) I managed to complete the job by the late afternoon, at which point I knew it wasn't a good idea at all. Of course, the fact that the windows are now clear and sparkly in a quiet way is a distinct positive. But not as distinct as the aching of this frail old body of mine, an aching that is at this point in time wholly negative, with nothing remotely sparkly about it. Sparkly, I'm afraid, is over for me.

I really need to remember just how demanding these household tasks are and how I've reached an age when it's best to parcel them out over time.