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!