Sheer Laziness

To say that I've been making little progress in my reading of late would be an understatement. It's take me a long time to finish Part 1 of Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, yet that's not much more than a hundred or so pages. I suppose my being unforgivingly busy for most of this term is partly to blame, but the majority of blame should fall on the shoulders of this reader himself. It's not that I can't get going on the text; in many ways I find it fascinating. But Hobbes demands intelligent attention as he builds his argument, and I generally can only sustain those most necessary qualities for a couple of paragraphs at a time. The funny thing is that as I'm reading the paragraphs I find myself entirely engrossed, yet as soon as I've got the point in question I'm quite happy to put the book down.

For someone who regards himself as something of a reader I can be astonishingly lazy at times.

Losing Track

Just realised that I've contrived to get the anniversary of Mum's death wrong by a day for a few years now, thinking it was 9 April when it was a day earlier. Not sure how the miscalculation came about, but I don't think she'd mind. I figured out the error when I realised I'd completely lost track of how many years it had been since she left us. To be honest I was shocked to find it's six years. It doesn't feel anything like that long.

But that's true of all memories of the past, I suppose, especially those connected to those we love, or loved. (Both really.)

For a long time I wasn't really all that interested in photographs as a way of preserving the past since I didn't need them as a way of remembering people who'd gone before. Now I see their value, but that's not because I'm in danger of forgetting. Understandably people talk of memories fading - but they don't. If anything, my memories of Gertrude Connor (nee Wardle) have increased in intensity.

You might lose track, but you don't lose sight of the folks on the track.

Two Halves

Last night's Manchester derby was the archetypal game of two halves. At 2 - 0 down, with Sterling through with just the keeper to beat (twice!), I thought the Mighty Reds might be facing the ultimate in humiliation. Fortunately Act 2 saw the right team scoring 3 and all was well: the perfect end to pretty much the perfect day, in fact.

The sad thing is that there are no City fans at all amongst my colleagues to relentlessly taunt tomorrow. But, then, you can't have everything.

Acting Up

What is it about a theatrical experience that can take you to another place? Today my drama guys, and the most recent alumni from the team, put up our annual version of Rough Theatre. I'd watched all the pieces a number of times prior to performance and found them quietly, occasionally noisily, enjoyable. But played in front of a properly appreciative audience each item that comprised the whole suddenly manifested its share of lovely moments; and there were three or four quite unforgettable ones.

It's difficult to think of any drug that can take you higher than a sequence on stage that works to perfection.

 

 

Soggy In The Middle

Soggy in the middle, muttered the Missus early this morning as she trundled around the kitchen. For a moment I thought she might be making a wry, and probably accurate, comment on my poor self. But it turned out she was referring to a banana cake she had baked the night before.

She gave me two pieces to take to work, and I can tell you I was more than a little disappointed to find out that they were not both for myself. Not sure how Peter gets on the list for goodies, but he got one of them, commenting that being soggy in the middle might just be a fine thing when I shared Noi's reservations with him. Must say, I saw his point.

Anyway, my piece of cake was huge, delicious, and not at all soggy in the middle. If not the absolute highlight of the day, munching it with a cup of tea certainly got into the top three.

And isn't soggy a lovely word? - one of those that seems to enact itself even as you say it.

Oh Goodness!

Happened to watch part of a documentary today about a couple in Korea who have taken in a number of abandoned children, for the most part kids with disabilities, and given them a life. What is it about that kind of radical goodness that's so powerful, so disturbing? It sort of re-orders the world, not so much putting things in proportion, as tearing up the map and making you see the territory as it really is, or really can be.

Fully Packed

23.13
The day started for me at 05.55 and since that time I've managed precisely two 15-minute breaks from all out work. And it's not over yet. You can have too much of a bad good thing, you know!

Less Than Impressive

Got myself to the gym this evening, having sort of survived an epically busy day, and was fairly pleased with myself for doing so - up to the point I found myself staring at the elliptical trainer, realising that I had little to no idea how I was going to get through the next forty-five minutes. But get through them I did, though only just, and in deeply unimpressive fashion.

I'm sort of vaguely pleased with myself for making the effort; but I'm keenly aware that that pleasure may well be misplaced.

Some Things Don't Change

So what was the younger version of myself up to, back in 1969? Well, amongst other things, watching the distinctly uncool Top of the Pops on BBC1 and thinking that Peter Green playing Oh Well with Fleetwood Mac was one of the coolest things he'd ever heard or seen.

And almost fifty years later? Much the same. Only the channel has changed.

The March Of Folly

It was just a few days ago, after a workshop I attended on what's known as our Professional Learning Day, that I found myself contemplating Lear's great, sad, mad lines: When we are born we cry, that we are come / To this great stage of fools. Said contemplation followed upon an interesting digression as to whether an optimistic view of life was reasonable and something that should be 'taught' to students. I noted that this would be difficult to ask of any reasonable pessimist, but I don't think my objection was really understood. Meditating on a necessarily tragic view of life I retreated into Lear.

And today, on this Great Day of Folly, I find myself thinking on those lines again after playing Gentle Giant's magnificent live album capturing them at their most brilliant on the European tour in 1976 nicely entitled Playing the Fool. There's a neat irony in the title in that you'd be a fool not to recognise just how great they were, yet within three years they were finished as a musical force, swept away by the folly of changing fashions.