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.

Plodding On

Bloomsday

Thought I'd read a slab of the greatest novel of the twentieth century in view of this being a special day in the calendar. Chose the Eumaeus episode. At a superficial level it's easy to follow (especially after the fireworks of Nighttown) and if you enjoy ponderous cliché - and I do - it's hilarious and sort of addictive.

Also a suitable reminder of Joyce's concern with the ordinariness of it all, with his mock-heroes plodding towards whatever apotheosis Number 7 Eccles Street has to offer.

Under Protest

Forced myself to start cleaning the bookshelves here at Maison KL. This is the  best way I know to shake off the heavy lethargy that descends on my shoulders during vacations. Apart from the practical usefulness of helping keep the homestead clean it serves as a reminder of fruitful hours of reading in the past. The implication being that I'd better keep things up in the (possible) years ahead. 

The problem is the increasing feeling that it would be so easy just not to bother doing much of anything. A sort of anomie of the aged.

Not Exactly On The Ball

Am trying to muster some kind of enthusiasm for the World Cup, but failing miserably. Odd really since the 3 Lions came so close in Euro 2024 and the squad has done so well in qualifying for these finals. I've got a feeling that if the team really plays at the group stage I'll stir myself to take an interest. Not sure I'll be bothering about securing any tv coverage as things stand though.

All this seems mysteriously connected to my cynicism regarding Modern Life in general. Once you've decided It All Sucks it's tricky to garner enthusiasm for anything outside the joys of domesticity.

Visitors

15.54

We're playing host to Hamzah et al later this afternoon. Noi is busy making sure that our guests will be well fed and I'm endeavoring to free myself from the pleasant torpor that has gripped me for the past week or so. It will be good to get back fully to the land of the living.

12.00 midnight & beyond

Our guests are, happily, in no hurry to leave. Just enjoyed a pot of teh tarik with Hamzah along with on-going discussion on the state of the Malaysian economy and the changes therein being wrought by developments in AI. All the young people in the household have expressed considerable scepticism as to whether those developments will prove positive. My guess is that you'd get similar conversations in any household on the planet at this point in time. It's exciting to still be around to witness all this. But exciting in all the wrong ways.

The Wretched Of The Earth

Even as I was indulging in my bit of a moan yesterday about the stresses of home ownership I was experiencing a deeply nagging sense of guilt at doing so. This had its considerable roots in the fact that I'd been reading the opening chapters of Zola's Germinal and couldn't help but be aware of the deep disconnect between the luxury of my life here and the utter misery of that of the workers in and around the Mountsou mine that the novelist painstakingly itemises in Part One of his novel.

Zola takes his readers so fully inside the mine in terms of everyday agonising detail as to engender a painful claustrophobia. And does so in what seems to me an almost flat style, a kind of journalistic recording of the facts as they are: The mine never lay idle; night and day human insects were always down there burrowing into the rock six hundred metres beneath the fields of beet. You are forced to witness that burrowing in inescapable close-up, right next to one of the insects involved. And it's painful. In fact, more than one; making it relentless also.

Should the suffering of those working down French mines in 1866 impinge upon a twenty-first century consciousness? Well, Zola leaves the reader in no doubt of the reality of that suffering and the fact that it called for some kind of attention. And it doesn't take much to draw parallels with the equally real experiences in our time of those whose lot is similar exploitation. So I suppose I can take some solace in the fact that I have at least some awareness of my own inadequacies as a citizen of the world.

Home Improvements

Today we've had a couple of workmen around: one to install an updated filtration system for the water; the other to get Noi's oven working again. Both endeavours seem to have been successful, though it's generally best to wait for a year or so, I find, before a final declaration on this front. By which time a couple more things will have managed to go wrong about the house. As always I remind myself we're lucky to have what we've got and as long as the place remains livable there's not much point in moaning.

And perhaps I should be even more positive than that. The fact that the old fridge has kept going since we last repaired it is surely cause for great celebration. The first attempt at putting in the spare part required didn't go well and I thought we'd need to find somewhere to dump the old model and buy a new one. But it's functioned perfectly since the second attempt. Indeed, the guy who came to repair our oven remarked that we were lucky to have it since this make is no longer available despite it being known to be an excellent refrigerator. Odd that - a manufacturer discontinuing a line on the grounds that it's so good at what it does.

Running Down

We popped into the big Kinokuniya bookshop at KLCC on Monday. After our last outing there I said to Noi that I felt it was holding up quite well in terms of the quality of its display in contrast to the equivalent in Takashimaya in our usual Far Place. That is no longer the case. The literature shelves were distinctly lacking in what I'd regard as essential works. No Balzac at all being just one example.

I suppose real readers get what they need on-line. But I still cannot help but feel that something important is being lost when youngsters who are developing a sense of what it is to be genuinely literate can no longer browse shelves that seek to exemplify that state.

That sounds horribly elitist, I know. It's meant to. 

Uncertainties

Spent the last couple of days adventuring with Robert Louis Stevenson on Treasure Island. Odd that I've never read the full novel before. I seem to remember as a kid getting up to the bit where Jim is hiding in the apple barrel on board the Hispaniola and hears Long John Silver plotting mutiny and finding the whole thing pretty heavy-going. It's certainly not an easy read at any level. Silver himself is a deeply ambiguous figure and the action is often surprisingly complex. I'm still not sure exactly how Squire Trelawney and Doctor Livesey and the rest of the good guys got themselves into the abandoned stockade on the island after the mutiny. Or why Jim suddenly took himself off to sea in the coracle. But there's enough going on in terms of raw characterisation for me to have enjoyed the outing.

And it was nice to reach the final chapters not being at all sure how the story would be concluded, and then quite enjoying the good guys winning in the end, whilst still feeling more than a touch of sympathy for the mutineers left stranded on the island. Gosh, the Victorians were fierce in their sense of right & wrong, especially when calling such conventional morality into question. It's notable that Stevenson makes sure Silver gets away with it all, including a reasonable amount of the money.

More Final Thoughts

Completed my Henry Vaughan read-through yesterday. When I set out on the Penguin Collected Poems I expected it would take me around six months. If I'd known I'd be locked-in to the volume for a full year-and-a-half I suspect I might have given the project a pass. As it is, it felt a year too long. The classic poems that make it to the anthologies were excellent, but I knew them already. And there was a lot of stuff that felt distinctly routine. I don't mind a dose or two of Christian theology, but after a time I got to thinking that HV's view of the world was crushingly narrow.

So now I'm chary, to say the least, with regard to taking on another Collected. But at the same time I do feel that I should take on something meaty on the poetic front, just to enjoy soaking in something different. The solution looks to be a reading of The Prelude in the parallel texts version swinging between the 1805 and 1850 versions. That should keep me going whilst we're in Maison KL with the edition being handily on the shelves.

Final Thoughts

It's the ordinariness of the characters in The Makioka Sisters that made the novel engaging on a simple level for this reader. For example, the four sisters themselves, Tsuruko, Sachiko, Yukiko and Taeko. None of them especially impressive or special in any way. All decent enough individuals, and loving to each other, though prone to bouts of irritation given the usual points of difference likely within any family. Yukiko's passive-aggressive behaviour in the various elaborate attempts to secure a decent marriage for her as she moves into her thirties is mildly puzzling, I suppose, and it's not at all clear the extent to which the most obviously 'modern' of them, Taeko, has exploited her various boyfriends, especially the weak-minded, over-privileged Okubata. But the ladies seem likable enough such that the reader wants things to turn out well for them.

And the family's sense of the importance of following their socially-sanctioned but semi-private customs results in sequences that are easy to relate to, despite their particularity to Japanese culture: the viewing of the cherry blossoms; the capturing of the fireflies. The reader is happily drawn into the significance of it all.

But why does the writer so subtly undercut their sense of family importance? And why hint at terrible things happening at the borders of the family's reasonably comfortable lives - in China, in Germany? And why so feature so much physical illness, sometimes genuinely deeply painful, as in the case of Itakura losing his leg and, eventually, life to the gangrene that sets in as a result of a simple operation?

I just can't figure it out. But what I can say is that the blending of ordinary, everyday aches & pains & sadness & happiness is balanced against the gathering dark in a way I don't think I've come across in any other novel. Perhaps the uncertainty is the whole point?

The Big Finish

It's always slightly nerve-wracking when we arrive at the homestead here in KL as to the condition the place is in. I harbour less than fond memories of arriving here years back with various nieces in tow only to find that there was no power at all on the premises. We ended up spending the night in a hotel much to their delight. But, happily, we experienced no such trauma yesterday. Indeed, we even found ourselves with an ample supply of hot water which I'd not expected at all given what I assumed was the failure of our solar panels the last time we were here. When we departed in December last year we did so in the belief that we were lucky to have enough tepidly warm water left to allow us to shower without freezing and that we'd most likely struggle on returning until we could get the company who installed the panels to do some fixing. Mind you, the hot water we enjoyed yesterday wasn't exactly of the red-hot variety so it could be the panels have only partially failed. Or the days have been hot enough to heat whatever water is stagnant in the tank. We'll see.

But we were able to enjoy a reasonably seamless transition to these quarters, which meant I found myself with time enough to read the final pages of Junichiro Tanizaki's The Makioka Sisters. This was quite a relief, I can tell you, and not just because I was able to tick off Item 3 on yesterday's checklist. The relief stemmed from now being able to set aside a novel that paradoxically I very much enjoyed yet somehow became something of a trial for me.

When I last posted here about it at the end of April it was with some enthusiasm for a great read and I can remember thinking then that I'd probably finish the tome towards the end of a busy May by reading a few pages every evening as a way of winding down. That was not to be, and it wasn't the fault of the novel. Being impossibly busy meant not reading anything at all of literary note other than what was required for work. Which meant that I was only able to pick up the book again in late May having forgotten ninety percent of the detail I needed to remember of an extremely detailed text.

So getting going again was difficult and, unfortunately, I was still busy. And I also realised it wouldn't be wise to spread my reading over the June break since at some deep level I was fed-up with the book despite its rewards. The possibility of abandoning my reading faintly occurred to me, but I felt that would be to let Mr Tanizaki and his engaging characters down. So I got down to some deliberate, forced, I will-concentrate-and-get-through-this reading and that worked, I suppose. 

Since I've been able to close the book I've found myself considering with quite a degree of puzzlement just what kind of novel it is. At one simple easy-going level, a soap-opera-ish tale of a typical Japanese family doing what families do in a way that means the reader feels you come to know them almost as friends and want the best for them. But then there's so much to contradict that way of seeing the text, not least the implication that there's something deeply wrong with these people and they're wilfully, witlessly, walking through the years into a kind of disaster. How many stories end with a key character about to be married (finally!) yet suffering from persistent diarrhoea?

On The List

I'm continuing to operate on a checklist each day, despite now being well into holiday territory. Partly this is out of habit; but mainly it's because if I didn't it's likely that nothing would get done.

Today's list comprises three items. The first, accomplished this morning, involved completing my examiner's report for IB, rounding off my work for them in this session. It's not exactly an onerous task as I try and reduce it to statements that might be genuinely useful for all, but trying to ensure the generalisations involved have some real weight and are not just fueled by temporary irritations takes some thought. This time round I needed to ask myself was my perception that there was a distinct quantitative deterioration in the quality of handwriting real, especially since I'm well aware that I've been moaning about the challenges of reading poorly written scripts for several years. My answer to myself was, yes, it has. And I said so.

The second item, now ticked off the list, was attendance at Friday Prayers - in this case, walking down the road to the masjid at Sungai Petai. It was raining as I set out, and I expected to be a bit damp after the ten minute walk, but the rain eased and I enjoyed a refreshingly dry session.

The third task involves completing the novel I'm reading at some point in and around making our way to Maison KL. More on this tomorrow, since we're now packing up our bits & pieces here ahead of the move north. (I didn't include the big move on the checklist for some reason. Which just goes to show the limitations on lists and plans and such like, even for a semi-addicted lister like myself.) 

At Ease

16.07

We're notably in no rush to set off for Melaka today. Noi decided this morning it was better that she supplied an order of her famous curry puffs today for Kak Kia, which she's now preparing, so we'll be travelling in the evening. All very fine by me. After a month spent rushing it's time to ease up as much as possible.

Mind you, if we end up in a jam later on we might regret this display of insouciance.

23.30

As it turned out, no regrets at all. Now safely ensconced at Mak’s house, munching pizza (me) & mee goreng (Noi.) Easy journey - for a change.

Almost There

Just three scripts left to mark and I'll have cleared my allocation for this May. But I'm not rushing these since I'm still within the deadline, something I didn't really expect when I set out, given the number I needed to deal with, the tightness of the deadline, and the concern that my team of examiners might need lots of help along the way. Happily I've rarely had to deal with issues arising, which helps to account for the fact I've managed my load with a reasonable amount of sweat rather than the bucketfuls I was nervously expecting to shed.

And I've just completed the digital arrival card the immigration authorities will be checking on tomorrow as we make our way north yet again. I'm hoping to grab some degree of R&R in the next couple of weeks. But I'm not counting on smooth-sailing all the way. Too old & wise (sort of) for that.

Simplicity

Just drank a glass of deliciously cold water. A kind of perfection. Sometimes that's all you need.

Real Weakness

Now back into my regular routine at the gym after the hiatus resulting from my cranky back (left side of). On a hot & sweaty day it was all predictably hot & sweaty and I didn't enjoy it one bit, except for being able to stop. But I managed the full hour on the trainer at full resistance without real strain.

Unfortunately I can't say the same for my routine on the weights. Whatever upper body strength I manage to build up over a few weeks rapidly dissipates as soon as I stop working out. It's pretty depressing to be confronted by one's weakness, I can tell you. But all part of keeping it real, I suppose.

Ah No, The Years

It's a bit of a thing for me to read John Donne's masterful poem The Anniversary  on this date, and this end of May was no exception. It's a reminder of the sheer joy of discovering JD back when I was a callow sixteen-year-old. So many years have gone by since then, but the genius of the great poet has not dimmed in any way.

And many years of anniversaries have now gone by for me in the happiest of bonds, a lot more than the second of Donne's reign. He looked forward to Years and years unto years with his beloved, whomever she might have been, if she were real at all. I'm neither hoping for nor expecting quite as long as that with my very real and present beloved, but I'm definitely settle for the slightly shorter passage of Years and years, thank you,

Not Really Necessary

Threw out a lot of expired medicines this morning and was deeply glad to do so. I was given a clean bill of health after my back doc checked me out, which was a bit of a relief considering just how cranky my left side has been of late, and I thought I'd better check on the status of the various un-popped pills to deal with back pain in my possession. These dated back to appointments in 2022, but I hadn't realised the expiry dates appeared on the tabs. The doc checked them through and declared only a few to be still efficacious. So I left with a new supply of the key tablet - which I am perfectly happy not to end up taking.

Funny really, happily paying for something I'm determined to avoid taking, if at all possible. But at my age you can't take a lack of medication for granted. Better to see it as a kind of gift.

On Target

May has proved to be my cruelest month, predictably so. And as it lurches to a conclusion I remain in thrall to stiff targets for marking, but now these concern solely work for IBO. So some small relief there.

The funny thing about these targets is that I never feel any sense of achievement in reaching them. Just an empty relief that the key nagging pressure of the day has been released and I can feel free for an hour or so, until tomorrow arrives. Which is where I am now. And where I'm hoping to be this time tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. (And tomorrow and tomorrow.)

Relentless

For once the YouTube algorithm got it right. I chanced upon the outtake Did We Make The Album from the sessions for Crimso's Thrak a few weeks back and I've been going back to it frequently. There's just so much going on over Tony Levin's bass groove that each hearing manages to surprise.

The only constant is that relentless bass line. It sounds like something I could play (on a good day), yet its absoluteness rightness in the moment speaks to a deep unselfish musicianship that only those at the very top of their game can aspire to.

As far as I understand these things, most folks wouldn't regard this as proper music. Which shows I don't really understand these things at all. I just enjoy them, and intensely so.

Pausing For Breath

Eid al-Adha 1447

We prayed at Masjid Darussalam this morning, going for the second shift of prayers for Raya. The mosque is very much in the middle of being renovated, and I found myself joining a small group in a tiny room on the second level, but all was well.

And all was equally well when the family popped round to share some grub with us that The Missus magically cooked up after we'd got back from prayers.

Better than working. (Though I did manage a fair amount of marking in the gaps.)

Feeling The Strain

18.30

Just came round from an afternoon nap and rather wish I hadn't. To say that my head is pounding would be an understatement. A timely reminder that fasting isn't easy. Especially on the first day. Must say, I'm glad there are no more days to follow.

21.17

My head now seems to be back on straight. But still feeling fragile, despite the bellyful of good things (teh tarik, mushroom puffs, dates) I've taken on board. Mildly astonished at achieving my marking targets for the day, which suggests I wasn't entirely wiped out by the fast. (Though that's the way it feels.)

20.18

Have been winding down for the last half an hour or so to bits & pieces from Maestro Ennio Morricone. A wise course of action to pursue. Recommended for all with ears & hearts. Almost fully restored.

Further Ahead

It's pretty late and I still have work-related stuff that needs to be cleared before bedtime. And, yet again, I'm trying not to moan about this, but moaning all the same. But I'm also attempting to see far enough ahead to a time when I won't feel like I have the weight of the world on my aging shoulders.

That time isn't close, I'm afraid. But neither is it so far off as to be invisible. The day is marked in my diary. And on it I will dance. But don't worry, it will be a very private dance. I have no intention of traumatising the innocent. (Or even the guilty, for that matter.)

Ahead

I remain mightily weighed down with marking & other bits & pieces. No point in complaining. There isn't time. In fact, just trying to look ahead is a tricky proposition considering the demands on attention in the present moment.

But we have scanned the horizon and Noi ensured the twinkling lights are back in action, from yesterday, in happy expectation of Hari Raya Haji coming soon. It's also oddly relaxing to look forward to a day of fasting ahead of Wednesday as a way of stepping out of time, even as time relentlessly requires things undone (still quite a number) to be done.

Right, that's it. Back to work.

Meeting Demands

A demanding day of marking, marking and more marking. Brain now fried. Left side & back fiercely aching. And a feeling of being reduced, narrowed, confined.

But the scripts are done, the twinkling lights are back on and I'm full of what Noi terms a 'simple' mee goreng.

The demands met for another day. The bills paid. 

What's In A Word?

I must have been a fish in a past life. - Not a sentence one ever expects to hear, but the source of some little joy when a colleague muttered it this morning.

And a lot better, I'm sure you'll agree, than USB device not recognised, which keeps popping up on the screen of this laptop every time I plug in my trusty mouse, which is, sadly, trusty no longer.

Reality Check

I haven't been impressed with myself lately. That's a good place to be. There are a few things that I know I'm good at. It's important to be reminded of the many, many aspects of life I'm entirely hopeless in. Ouch.

In Two Minds

If I'd heard the Stones' latest single back in 1972 I'd have thought it brilliant - a stone-cold classic, if a little overly produced. I think much the same today, except the idea of a single as a 'classic' no longer applies, does it? And it sounds a bit too much like the 1970s Rolling Stones. I sort of want them to sound their age, even whilst admiring the fact they've still got plenty of fuel left in the engine.

But watching the video just takes me to another level of confusion. I vaguely admire the edginess of it all, but can't help think they're taking it a bit too far. And the AI generated aspects of it are just doing my head in - as young people used to say. I'm all for not going gently into that good night, but this doesn't seem a terribly dignified way to be raging against the dying of the light.

Out Of Time

It seems a lot's been happening of late regarding the sale of some Swatch watches. This on an international scale, in case you didn't know. This involving people in very long queues sometimes behaving badly. 

Let me tell you, I have no understanding of the phenomenon whatsoever. I'm told it involves someone or something named Audemars Piguet and I'm not proposing to find out who or what that is. Or isn't, for that matter.

A Bad Habit

I make it a habit to catch up on what is happening in the world by checking the headlines pretty much as soon as I wake up. And at weekends there's usually time to read a few stories before the day gets into gear.

But given the downbeat nature of every single item from this morning's news I think it might be time to wean myself away from any desire to find out what's going on and pretend none of it is really happening.

I don't recall things being quite this bad in the earlier decades of my life. But they probably were.  

Out Of Balance

Got to the gym just now for the first time in more than a week and a half. It isn't that I've felt reluctant to go. There simply hasn't been time, and that's not by way of a weak excuse. It reflects the unbending reality of the situation. Which strongly suggests that something's out of wack.

The session itself was uneventful. It started out tough, and stayed so, but I did the necessary. So the hiatus in my attendance hasn't been that much of a set-back. But at my time of life sustaining some basic level of fitness has to be a top priority, and it wasn't for a time. Which isn't good at all.

On The Outside

Sitting drinking a cup of tea in a very brief break from pressing concerns earlier today I suddenly thought of the writer Colin Wilson. As a young teenager I had a real 'thing' going with regard to his works, basically as a result of buying his big book on The Occult. I had an unhealthy interest, indeed fascination, with the subject matter, which I only really grew out of once I left school. Then it all began to seem more than a bit silly - which is somewhat reductive of me, but there it is. But back in 1971 I thought Wilson's chunky tome was wonderful and, looking back, I think I learned a lot from it in a slant-wise manner. And I certain broadened my very limited horizons with his more mainstream stuff after getting hold of a second hand copy of The Outsider.

But what struck me this morning was how true one of Wilson's key ideas is, his notion of Faculty X. It's a bit of a silly name for something that, it seems to me now, lies a bit too deep for words. And as I thought of this notion I was reminded of seeing Wilson on some tv programme of quite a popular nature, I think in the early 1980s, and realising as he presented that he wasn't in the slightest bit bothered about not being a respected 'academic' thinker but was genuinely interested in just being himself and communicating what he thought he knew to others.

And that's what his writing felt like: uncontrived, immediate, curious about the strangeness of it all. And not afraid to look foolish. A mindset worth aspiring to, I thought this morning. And still do at the end of the day.

Not Serious At All

There's always a place for mindless enthusiasm in the great scheme of things. Shouting loudly and pointlessly refreshes the spirit. As long as you don't take what you are enthusing over or enraged by too seriously.

Anyone who's ever been triggered by a bad (or good) VAR decision understands this essential truth.

A Positive Note

Present circumstances are such that it's dangerously easy to moan about my line of work. And moan at considerable length. But I don't think that really helps anyone, least of all me. Venting can be a way of letting off steam, but often it turns into a way of generating even more of the over-heated stuff. 

So I'm now deliberately thinking happy thoughts. And here's one. And it's surprisingly true.

It's very hard to think of someone I teach that I actively dislike, even mildly so, or find difficult to like. Pretty much all the students I come into contact with are pleasantly likable in an unforced way. Even the most irritating - and some do meet that description - make up for it by being funny and goofily good-natured. And endearingly fragile somehow.

All My Trials

All you bardolators out there already know that Will loved a pun on travail (a trouble) and travel (as in a journey.) The words would have had the same pronunciation back around 1600, I'm told, and I'm sure the lousily muddy roads between Stratford and the capital played some part in the conjoining of the terms in the great dramatist's (and sonneteer's) mind (there's a lot of this particular pun in the poems, I seem to recall.)

But this is just to say that had he been alive today and experienced the journey, as we did yesterday, from Alor Gajah, down the North-South highway, through the border crossing at Woodlands to this Far Place, he would have thought the same way. It was a travail and a half, I can tell you. And that's all I will say. For now. 

Togetherness

I was a tad reluctant to set off on our weekend jaunt to Melaka, to be honest. This had nothing to do with the nature of the event or the company it would involve, both of which were pull factors. Rather it concerned the sheer non-negotiable amount of work I'm dealing with at present and the lack of any reasonably 'free' time during the week, indeed, weeks ahead to get that done.

Now I'm here, I'm very glad I am. And I've managed to cope, just about, with what demanded to be done. Indeed, past experience suggests this is something of a pattern in my life, and a useful one to recall in moments of reluctance to participate in the flow of real, meaningful, rewarding, life.

Real Achievement

I'd been harbouring an uneasy feeling about Carol Rumens's excellent Poem of the Week feature since her regular posting of poems suddenly dried up in late February. So I wasn't entirely surprised when the news of her death and subsequent tributes were posted in the column this week. Astonishing to think how long she maintained what became my favourite regular feature from any online source. And, just think, it could be accessed for free.

It's an odd consolation in what is often a dark world that Ms Rumens achieved this on top of her own work as a writer. But sad that such an engaging and generous presence (even if mediated on-line) is with us no longer.

Warning Sign

On the way up the hill to Masjid Tentera just now for Friday Prayers I was enjoying the climb in what felt a restful break from the struggles of the day. And then came the sign, hanging off one of the guard-rails adjacent to the steep steps. In stark black capitals on a white background it read: BEWARE OF THE SPITTING COBRA. It woke me from my reverie, I can tell you, as I glanced around the neatly manicured grass on the hillside in case the creature was putting in a mid-day appearance.

It wasn't. Which, oddly enough, provoked disappointment rather than relief. On this, Sir David Attenborough's 100th birthday, it would have felt so appropriate to make first hand contact with the world of the really untamed and dangerous.

Tricky Business

Just filled in a digital arrival card for a journey we're intending to Alor Gajah over the coming weekend. I've completed this one a few times, so you'd think I'd be used to it. But I still manage to find it a fidgety thing to do. I can remember the promises years ago that the advance of IT services would make life easier. 

Can't help but wonder: What happened?

The Wheel Of Fortune

Heard some very bad news today from a friend and colleague regarding a medical problem they are currently dealing with. Life is unfair in what it so often throws at us, without warning. Something worth remembering whenever we reflect on personal good fortune.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't celebrate good fortune, good times, good health, I think. In fact, I think there's something of a moral imperative to do so. A way of pointing to the balance at the deep heart of things. The thing to remember, for me at least, is that whatever good fortune I experience it doesn't really belong to me.

As a very wise man once sung: You know what they say about being nice to the right people on the way up / Sooner or later, you gonna meet them coming down.

A Little Learning

Spent part of the day conducting lessons on line. Was struck by the fact that such a thing was pretty much unthinkable when I started teaching. Not sure it's particularly efficacious in terms of the learning that takes place. But I'm not sure that questions of genuine learning have ever been front and central in my job in the half century that I've been involved in it.

Low Expectations

There's been a big fat debate on issues regarding cholesterol levels & prescribing statins & the like for as long as I can remember. (Which isn't all that long ago these days, to be honest.) None of this matters to me at the moment since I got the numbers in on my cholesterol levels from last week's health screening and, let me tell you, they look good. Let's face it, when one sees the word optimal on a report regarding one's tired old body, one feels like dancing, doesn't one? Well, this one does.

On The Everyday

Have almost finished rereading Declan Kiberd's excellent Ulysses and Us: The Art of Everyday Living. Found it slipped down a little more easily this time round, though I still found the final chapters went a bit over my not terribly elevated head. Still I enjoyed the flights of fancy on Joyce's relations to Homer, Dante, the New Testament and Shakespeare, though preferring the generally more earthbound stuff as DK makes his way through the great modernist epic on a chapter-by-chapter basis. 

What I'm sure the critic gets right is the novelist's deep understanding of the importance of the everyday, especially in developing our understanding of what it might mean to live decently. It doesn't sound like much of a theme, I suppose, but Joyce is the most surprising of writers. (And my appetite has been well and truly whetted for another go at the greatest novel of the 20C.)

Days

Received a pithily expressive card from John & Jeanette the other day reading: May we live in less interesting times. I endeavoured to live out that sentiment today, recording a Saturday on which nothing of note happened in my life. And that's more than fine by me since it was a perfectly happy day.

Holiday Fun

15.33

Now getting into a distinct holiday mood for the long weekend as we're looking forward to an evening at the theatre watching Roald Dahl's The BFG, in the version put together by the RSC. We're taking along Hakim and the girls on the grounds that this is a treat for the littlun. But it's really for me, as you might have guessed.

More anon.

23.55

Gosh, what a great show! It gets everything right. A kind of compendium of the magic of theatre, with a number of tricks, beautifully carried off, that I recognised, and some new ones, generally of a technological nature, that I didn't. The lighting alone was worth the price of admission.

But the deepest magic of all involved in the show is that it entirely captures the magic of Dahl's fictional world for children: unrelenting energy, glorious vulgarity, unabashed sentimentality and unrestrainedly cheerful anarchy.

Hooked (In A Fashion)

Back in early April, when things were getting going again after the happy hiatus of the Fasting Month, I predicted to myself that I would relish reading The Makioka Sisters. I was right. It's a blast. Which is utterly the wrong word to use of a text that is wonderfully ordinary and subtle in that ordinariness. But the word will serve as a placeholder for now. And a placeholder is what I need since almost a month has gone by and I've still not reached the halfway point in what is a reasonably lengthy, but certainly not overlong novel.

This is not the fault of the estimable Mr Tanizaki. It's down to my grievous lack of oomph in getting on with a great read due to being weighed down by the toad, Work. I really should be doing better than this at my age.

Losing It

I signed up for a free medical check-up the other day and discovered I am now 171 cm tall. Since I was regularly measured at 174 cm up to 5 years ago I'd like to know why I seem to be gradually disappearing. I could once console myself that I am at least taller than the mighty Paul Scholes (usually measured at 170, I hear.) But I reckon that that's likely to be in doubt this time next year if the shrinking continues.

On the other hand, I was pleased to discover that my metabolic age is 44. Sounds good. Wish I knew what 'metabolic age' actually means, though.

Rising Damp

Today has been one of the most humid I've experienced here in almost 40 years residence within these shores. The palpable stickiness of the humidity became apparent as early as 7.40 am when I was standing outside for flag-raising. For the first time in some years I felt fidgety during the proceedings, but managed to control the impulse to seek some respite from just standing and looking vaguely attentive.

And things were worse at 4.00 pm when I arrived at our outside basketball courts. It took less than 15 minutes for my dark blue shirt to become several sweaty shades darker. Fortunately our basketball guys proved a good deal hardier than myself, working with genuine momentum and intensity for a good three hours. I suppose in the long-ago days of my youth I might have managed to do the same, but then again English summers were never exactly humid.

I suppose it's good to face the occasional challenge. Just hope it's very, very occasional, that's all.

Another Of Those Days

Very much a day of celebrations. And very glad am I to have the inestimable privilege of being around to enjoy the unlikely good fortune of being here to enjoy it. See a bit of the evidence below:

And here's further evidence of the pre-birthday walk in the park, just to affirm the supreme joy of the public parks in this Far Place (and of wearing silly hats therein):

A Walk In The Park

Noi suggested that we get out for a walk on Sunday earlier in the week and, nothing loath as they say, or used to say once upon a time, I agreed. I'm glad I did back then because by early this morning, at the time for the Dawn Prayer, I felt pretty loath indeed and probably would have resisted going had I not so enthusiastically agreed days earlier. Apart from feeling tired I was facing a day of grading orals for IB examinations and wasn't sure I could afford the time.

But we went ahead and I'm very glad we did so. I could afford the time, as things worked out, getting a bit of work done before we finally set out. And we had a fine old time at East Coast Park, topped by teh tarik and prata at a jolly little eatery at what is now known as East Cove. It was Noi's first extended outing for a while and she struggled a little bit with leg-pain, but coped with what just be the start of a new regime.

The park was lively indeed, filled with folks of all shapes & sizes, and dogs similarly - I've never seen quite so many of our canine chums there previously - and trees similarly and pretty gloriously if you ask me. Lots of other signs of life too, all of it with its Sunday face on, looking relaxed and like itself as it should be.

The Way Ahead

I've arrived at that time of year when it's necessary to lock into survival mode. This entails seeking to get through each day without looking too far ahead, but far enough to avoid on-coming traffic and potential crashes. The great thing is that at some point in June I'll be able to spread myself again, and that time isn't too far off. And that month will also see the World Cup getting underway.

Now considering if I'll need to lay out some of the green stuff to ensure adequate coverage. Time was when it all came for free. A lost paradise. (And the football was glorious. Was there ever a better time for the Beautiful Game than the World Cup in 1970. Pele's Brazil, eh!?!)

At Ease

Now feeling at ease having reached the end of the working week. I can't honestly say there's any real sense of achievement or fulfilment involved. I'm not sure there ever is. But it's more than enough to avoid disappointment and frustration. A sort of truce with the world. Luckier than most, I suspect.