So Far

We're off to the Esplanade later for some real live music. Should be fun - more tomorrow.

In the meantime, this is the day, in all its glory, so far: Got down to serious marking just after the dawn prayer, with half of the final set of IB scripts left. (Cleared these about an hour ago.) Exchanged anniversary cards with the missus over cereal and lovely hot tea. Definitely the highlight of the day. Accompanying music: Bach's Brandenburg 4. In between scripts kept dipping into Fitzgerald's Tender Is The Night which I'm starting to make serious progress with after getting nowhere for the last week or so; this was supplemented by The Sunday Times, the highlight of which was, as usual, the cartoons. Also listened to Los Lobos's Kiko and was reminded of what great songs are on it, but not so convinced of Mitchell Froom's production as I used to be. Went to wedding of Rohana's eldest brother's youngest daughter. Nice reminder of how I happily sealed my fate all those years ago, but very hot there.. Then got back and completed the marking (as above.)

All fairly mundane stuff, but I'll settle for it.

Back To Bass-ics

Although I'm still clearing the marking for the IB exam I've managed to listen to a decent amount of music today. Since this is now being played on our new system there's a certain fascination simply in how CDs with which I'm very familiar sound in these different circumstances.

A case in point today was a great favourite of mine, Richard Thompson's The Old Kit Bag. It features essentially the same line-up as on my solitary, and hugely valued DVD Richard Thompson Live From Austin TX, with Michael Jerome on drums and Danny Thompson on bass accompanying our guitar god. However, The Old Kit Bag gets beyond the pared down sound of the trio with Thompson multi-tracking on a variety of strings and, I think, occasional keyboards, to create quite a rich, full-bodied sound.

What stood out today was the superb double bass of Danny Thompson. I mean I've always been aware, how could anyone not be?, of how spot-on his playing is, but the excellent resonance of the system on the lower notes gave the sound a clarity and distinction that was revelatory. His playing allies a sense of melody and sheer bounce that is a delight, particularly on the faster material. It's such a relief to hear the wood in the bass for a change.

Fans of Sir Cliff will be delighted to hear that it's Danny's playing that underpins that most immortal of all Eurovision entries, Congratulations. Though it may not have been his finest hour musically, it's good to know the world has had a fair opportunity to be exposed to the finest bassist of his generation.

In The Balance

Heard a scary little story from Noi earlier this evening. About some lady she knows who's not short of a bob or two. Pays ten thousand a month for a service apartment somewhere. Her daughter is looking forward to the June holiday. Her stated intention: to go to Takashimaya everyday. Noi assumes she intends to buy 'branded goods'. It turns out the daughter is eight.

The only good thing I can think of about this recession - and I'm aware that as someone holding down a reasonably steady job I can count myself extremely lucky - is that it's reminded people of the virtue of frugality. I heard some lady on Oprah the other day talking about how we need to be aware of how much we're taking from a planet that just can't afford to give us what we want. The single most sensible idea I've heard for quite some time.

This sounds a bit preachy, I know. Don't worry. It's aimed at myself.

Losing It

Of course losing, especially a European final, an unfamiliar experience, hurts, but losing to demonstrably the best team in Europe, and the team that have played the best football of any club, anywhere, this season eases the pain. A little. The important thing is to be hurt enough to learn from the experience. That's what happened the last time Barca thrashed us, and it's my guess that Sir Alex will be imparting the same message this time around.

Picture This

It seems they've dreamt up something called Blu-ray which is a super-duper kind of DVD. DVD players are now termed 'venerable', according to the supplement to today's newspaper, which, I think, indicates they are well out of date, if not yet quite history. Now it's possible to admire the strands of blond hair on the head of an actress whom I've never heard of but is mentioned so casually, in a review of one of the players of these Blu-ray thingies, she must be famous.

This is all very jolly, but why would anybody want to fixate on a character's hair? Obviously people do, I suppose, as there's clearly a market for this technology, but not in this house. I suspect I'm sadly lacking in the visual department. This might explain why I find it difficult to watch almost any movie and rarely maintain full attention for any tv programme lasting more than around fifty minutes.

I still haven't watched all the cheap stuff I brought back from Medan in February. In fact, there's quite a bit from our trip to England in December that's not yet made it to our trusty DVD player. An embarrassment of riches.

Roll on June and the opportunity for couch potato-dom, just to ease my conscience.

Despair

In what is an utterly barren period for me in terms of reading - I'll be so busy until Sunday that it's impossible to read anything in sustained fashion - I'm thinking back to last year when, for the first time, I bought an edition of Hopkins's poetry, well prose as well, as it was the Oxford World's Classics edition of The Major Works which has generous helpings of all sorts of material from the great Jesuit, including pretty much all the pre-Deutschland juvenilia, which is remarkably good.

Don't ask me why I'd never got hold of any kind of edition of Hopkins before this. I suppose he's so anthologised that he's never too far away, but I'd quite forgotten the power of the late sonnets, those dreadful dark night of the soul pieces. (These are the ones that rarely, if ever, make the anthologies.) Reading them again I was reminded of just how heart-breaking they are, and simply how sad Hopkins life was. For the likes of Dawkins and his crew and their claim that religion is some kind of comforting crutch they should be compulsory reading. Try the one beginning I wake and feel the fell. Some comfort. Some crutch.

Something Shared

Early in the afternoon I was talking to a couple of colleagues about Hopkins's poem Brothers. They'd asked me a while back to take them through it as there were a few details they weren't quite sure of. I'd more than happily agreed, Hopkins being a great favourite of mine. In fact I recalled doing the poem at 'A' level. Not that Hopkins was a set text, but Jack, our teacher, had a way of getting us to read and discuss a ship-full of poetry and drama that wasn't on the syllabus, great man that he was. To be honest I remember thinking that it wasn't exactly one of Hopkins greatest pieces; a bit slushy if truth be told.

So I had a look at it a few weeks back, to prepare for the pow wow. It was then that I realised a couple of lines, one and a half to be precise, quite escaped me on the level of literal interpretation. I had another look a week or so later to see if sleeping on it might have proved illuminating, but the lines remained stubbornly opaque. Not that this bothered me, I'm quite used to not getting a poem one hundred percent and rather enjoy a bit of mystery. I mentioned to one of the teachers involved that I wasn't likely to be able to explain everything and was quite prepared to find myself stalled on the lines when going through the poem as I had found myself previously.

And then something odd happened today - well not really odd as I've experienced the same thing quite frequently over the years. As I was explaining the poem I came to the lines and immediately saw what they meant with a kind of absolute certainty. It was as if the act of talking about the poem generated the meaning for me. And the slush disappeared as well. Suddenly the poem came vibrantly alive for me in a way it had never quite done before.

Frankly this is the only real use I can see for literary criticism, analysis, commentary, whatever you care to call it. Those moments when just discussing a text does something to you and the text that's transformative. There's a social power involved that takes the text beyond the private experience that's enormously useful. This is really what 'sharing', that much abused word, is, or can be.

Higher Powers

I've been treating myself to movements from Mozart piano concertos (numbers 20 & 27) in between major bouts of marking. This has done more than just soften the blow(s). It's reminded me of higher, better things.

That sounds more than a little elitist, a tiny bit silly, and generally insufferably smug. But it happens to be true. I can understand why, once upon a time, there were those who looked down on any kind of music other than what was broadly termed 'classical'. The label was inaccurate but, as I say, I can understand the sentiments of those who thought what they had was of such superiority as to leave everything else looking, sounding rather, second rate. I don't there's anyone left who thinks like that - except me, just now, for a little while, thinking that after Mozart there's not a lot worth bothering with.

According to the sleeve notes, no. 27 was written at a time of enormous physical and emotional stress. Blimey. That means the utterly gorgeous, serene slow movement blossomed out of the kind of major headaches that make my minor troubles look even more minor. Really great art has a way of making you feel small, and quite happy to be so.

Eyes On The Prize

It's been a funny old weekend. I've set it aside for getting work done, a lot of work, and Noi has gone off to Melaka with our massage lady, who'll be ministering to the family there and making a nice amount in the process. Not that she's in any way mercenary. She seems to let people pay what they want for her excellent service, but we try and make sure that she gets generously rewarded, from ourselves at least.

So the timing is good. I'm not exactly the life and soul of the party when I'm in this mode and the missus will have a far better time of it up north among folk with real lives.

Essentially I'm trying to break the back of my examination marking for the International Baccalaureate whilst clearing all the fiddly stuff that crops up at the end of a semester. If it works, if I work, I'll be home free this time next week, so I'm keeping that prize in mind. The trouble is both mind and body are announcing a state of cream-crackerdom and I need to put in at least another hour and a half starting now to stay on target. Wish me luck!

Good Things

Tonight's menu: oxtail soup and a good murder. At the end of a difficult week it's good to know the simple things prevail.