Stating The Obvious

Okay, I'll keep it short:

CHAMPIONS!!!    (again)

I think that says it all.

The Basics

I was doing a sort of talk for teachers the other week when I happened to remark in passing that listening was obviously not a natural skill. Actually I don't remember saying it, though it's the sort of thing I'd be likely to say. The reason I know I made the comment is that an afternoon or so later a colleague said something about the talk to me and drew attention to the fact he thought my thoughts on listening were quite remarkable and he'd never thought about the skill, the mechanism, whatever it is in quite that manner before.

Whilst he was fairly complimentary in tone I detected an air of scepticism with regard to my insights, and was pleased to do so. It's refreshing to be challenged, especially with regard to your deepest assumptions. And I rather hope I'd refreshed my colleague in terms of making him reconsider what he thought might be going on when people appear to be listening.

So after due reconsideration let me tell you what my experience as a teacher suggests with regard to the ability to listen in a focused, active manner. It's rare and undervalued. If you've got it, treasure it. Cultivate it. You are automatically part of an elite, though not necessarily a valued elite. But if you haven't got it, don't worry. Few folk have, and the lack of it usually doesn't do too much harm.

Looking For Clues

We made back to the Hall in time to catch the late night Midsomer Murder, and I solved it within five minutes. It's entirely elementary: look for the most famous name on the cast list and there's your man, or occasional woman. Once I'd clocked Warren Clarke it was game over - and he looked suitably nefarious from the beginning.

Another name in the cast that rang some bells for me was one Patrick Ryecart, who once essayed a particularly disastrous Romeo in the BBC run through of the full Bard. In fact, that extremely ropey production, with an entirely hopeless Juliet who couldn't speak the verse, was number one in the series. His death scene was wonderfully melodramatic, in the comic sense of the word. He looked much the worse for wear in Midsomer, but the performance was a considerable improvement.

Down South

We're about to hit the road again after a one night sojourn here at the Taman. We've paid our gardener, made plans with our contractor for June, got a copy of our latest insurance policy, and watched Afnan do a fair bit of jumping up and down. So now, soon, it's off to Melaka to return the little fellah and spend a night at Mak's.

Actually the rest of the gang are out shopping at the moment, whilst I complete some shreds associated with the Toad work. I've just been contemplating a monkey doing monkey-stuff in the trees opposite and thinking it would be nice to retire here and view monkeys full time. This is not likely to happen unless I win big-time on the lottery, and since I don't play any lottery that simply confirms the obvious.

Up North

We'll be on the move again this evening. We're taking the long and somewhat winding road to the Malaysian capital, there to speak with our contractor regarding work needing to be carried out to fix Maison KL for another decade or so. (Surprisingly the homestead has been functioning for roughly that length of time already.)

We'll be accompanied by Fuad & Rozita, which is a good thing as I'll be palming off the driving in the direction of my brother-in-law who has the youthful vigour to be up for such things. And we may just pick up the even more youthful Afnan on the way as Rozita is desirous of the company of the little chap for reasons which escape me. Not that I mind a hyper-active one-year-old being around, as long as he doesn't get in the way of my marking.

Who knows? We may just encounter some of the election fever gripping the neighbouring nation, but I'm guessing that for ordinary folk like us it'll be pretty much business as usual.

It's all go, isn't it?

Man Marking

I believe I have come to be something of an expert in how to make myself mark essays when the last thing in the world I want to do is mark essays. It's a remarkable accomplishment that fills me with no pride at all; indeed, is by definition unfulfilling. But it is necessary (though I remain an agnostic as to whether the writing of essays does anyone any good at all. Montaigne has a lot to answer for.)

Getting Philosophical

One odd development in my thought over the last few years, and more specifically the last three, has been a new interest in the serious study of Philosophy. The last time I genuinely applied myself in any strenuous, systematic way to the subject was in my first year at university. It was one of the three subjects I took and, to my surprise, the university authorities suggested I should adopt it as my major. I rather hope this was because they thought I had a talent for it, but suspect it may have been because they thought my lit wasn't up to much (which it wasn't as I resolutely chose to read what suited me rather than what I was supposed to.) I decided to take the easy way out and to entertain myself for the subsequent two years, and have never felt any regret about that. I'd reached the end of my road philosophically, was too lazy to question my fundamental assumptions in any great depth, and pretty much decided that wisdom lay elsewhere.

Of course, I didn't abandon philosophical thought entirely and dipped in now and again to what caught my fancy, but not in a way that could honestly be seen as central to my orientation to the world and its mysteries. And this was especially the case since Theory as applied to lit, seemed to me useful only as the starting point for a good satirical novel, and the whole postmodern shebang was obviously a passing fad.

Even my move towards theism was quite consciously not fuelled by matters philosophical, except in the most casual sense.

But all that has changed, and I suppose the Internet is to blame. A mild interest in what's available online in the way of philosophy blogs and the like has turned almost addictive. One example is the excellent blog maintained by Prof Edward Feser. I disagree with quite a number of his views, but the clarity of his writing is a joy. His piece on The Road From Atheism is a nice example of the genuine substance he brings to material I once thought of as a done deal. My belated recognition that there's more to think about than I ever thunk is exciting, but faintly intimidating - where to find the time to get the rusty engine of the mind working again? By a strange coincidence I recently had the good fortune to come across his intro to Philosophy Of Mind on the library shelves at work and I've now got it on a long term loan.

More anon, as they say.

My Back Pages

It's been a long time since I bought any books, and it looks like it may be even longer before I do so again. I seem to be finding so much on my shelves that I consider myself as not having done justice to. And I've also developed an impulse to read stuff that catches my eye on the shelves of the library at work.

This latter phenomenon accounts for my post-Trollope choice of novel. Quite by chance I happened to spot four rather battered old tomes by Anthony Price the other day, and they happened to be the four earliest volumes in his highly entertaining series centring on Dr David Audley, a sort of super-cerebral member of British Intelligence with a taste for the arcane corners of history. Although I became a big fan of the series a few years back, I never actually read the early stuff, probably because my entry point was Our Man In Camelot, which was number five.

Anyway, I'm now well into the first of them all, The Labyrinth Makers, and it isn't letting me down. The great thing about Price is that he doesn't really take any of it too seriously, but there's enough that connects with the grimmer side of life to keep the whole shebang reasonably grounded. Oh, and the other great thing is the beguiling sense of just how completely absorbing the past is.

Never underestimate the sense in which a good novel functions as a way of escaping the narrow concerns of our little worlds - and Price offers a particularly fruitful world to escape to.

Conclusions

The last 100 pages or so of Trollope's The Prime Minister were a bit of a let-down, at least in terms of the Emily/Arthur romance. In contrast I quite enjoyed the last days of the Palliser administration, and the formation of the new government. The political element of the novel is entirely convincing all the way through, and really quite an unusual achievement. The notion of dealing with a PM who doesn't exactly want the position and the human cost in doing his duty is extremely insightful at every point. The very lack of fireworks is beguiling. Given Trollope's essential conservatism I suppose this quietist version of the political world might be seen as deeply reactionary, but the novel also manages to deal convincingly with the currents of political change and progress. And Trollope is quite brilliant in conveying a sense of how things get done, or don't get done, in the corridors of power.

But the stuff about Emily refusing the marriage everyone wants for her was all a bit much. I suppose it's in there because Victorian readers liked their gratification delayed but I was rather hoping that Arthur would find some other (reasonable) woman and kick it all in the head. Either that, or have Emily absolutely refuse him out of her sense of misguided integrity and end the novel on a deeply sombre note of disappointment (as Tolstoy might have done.) But I don't think Trollope's readers would have stood for that.

Something Good

Just finished watching a murder, Midsomer variety, with the new Barnaby investigating. We are adjusting, but any murder is a good murder, as they say.

Before that we tucked into chicken porridge, which had been preceded in the late afternoon by tea and two big cobs of corn.

And who said life was dull, eh? The worlds keep turning and all this is highly, mightily satisfying, for those who know, for those who know.