Not So Cheerful

Throat: raspy, scratchy, sandpapery. Left knee: vulnerably twisted - apt to suddenly make its presence felt. Head: throbbing, hotly. Arms: hanging heavily, aching. Nose: starting to run. In general: feeling not quite there, not entirely present.

A day to just keep going - and then, thankfully, not keep going any longer.

Looking Back - Reasons To Be Cheerful

I mentioned the upset created by the less than temperate language of the comedian Frankie Boyle in a post earlier this month. One of the Sunday papers, at the time of the contretemps, featured a couple of columns on the topic, one speaking for our outspoken friend and his right to tell it as he saw it and another more wary of his way of upsetting all and sundry. Both made worthy points and I reckon the result of their little debate was an honourable draw with some useful light shed on the very real issues involved.

But one tiny detail of one column, the one taking Mr Boyle's side, stuck in my mind as an example of someone very clever getting something absolutely wrong. The columnist was giving some telling examples of our tendency not to speak truly and pointing out the need for voices that punctured our pretences. Well said. Except that one of the examples was that of the fake cheeriness encountered in homes for the aged. (Not the exact words, but close enough.) Now at that time I'd just come from one such establishment, the one with Mum in it, and I can tell you that there's nothing fake about the cheeriness. Of course, it's all a pretence, but that doesn't make it fake. It's an act of supreme grace and understanding; making the impossible, dignity in the face of absolute indignity, possible - indeed, real.

Mum will soon be moving to what is likely to be her final home, in this world at least, a nursing home in Hyde, close to where she used to live. If she meets with the same level of care, attention and fake cheeriness she has encountered in her two residences since last September we'll be more than pleased.

I think the one thing people like Frankie Boyle aren't equipped to deal with is the manifestation of real goodness in others.

Welcome Guests

We received our first guests at the Hall today in the form of the birthday girl Fafa, her kakak, ibu & ayah and Fuad's mum. This meant Noi and I rushing to put a few finishing touches in place so that it looked like we had a real home. And it worked. So we do. Yowza!

It's Curtains

Under the tutelage of the missus I have come to realise the essential importance of curtains to the well-being of a household. How do women see these things (especially at those points in time when they're not there to be seen)? Is it something genetic?

Our little place has been transformed. Of course, it helps that the piles of boxes into which our worldly goods were packed have been reduced to almost nil and that we can now see our floor. (Which turns out to look rather nice - especially with carpets on. A whole new story, there.)

Seeing Things

Still thinking about television sets. It occurs to me that I didn't see a colour tv until I was around sixteen years old for the simple reason they hadn't been invented (or made it as far as the shores of the United Kingdom, if they had.) I caught a glimpse of some ultra-expensive models in a shop showing a game of football. I wasn't terribly impressed. Since life itself was in colour the new-fangled sets seemed a bit superfluous.

In fact, now I come to think of it, we saw black and white in colour anyway. The imagination served to provide what was missing on the screen. Case in point: I saw the red of England's shirts in the 1966 World Cup Final even though we watched in black and white. A further example: I recall watching the movie Alien at university, circa 1976, on a tiny black and white set knowing perfectly well how it would have looked on the big screen. And the clincher: I never watched a single episode of Dr Who on anything other than a black and white set and all my memories of it are in colour.

I suppose that's why I don't really care for the idea of a high definition plasma whotsit. It would be far too good for the likes of me - sort of visual overkill.

Getting Past It

When the removal men call attention to the age of your computer it's time for an upgrade. We're now considering going lap-top crazy in the interests of space (more) and mobility (greater.) Even now, though, we're not rushing it. A few considered decisions should see us through the next twelve years or so, until we, once again, have rendered ourselves laughably obsolete.

Mind you, we have no intention of changing things on the television front and that's where people who've visited us seem to have derived the greatest amusement. It was a good six years ago that one of my rugby boys from Bedok Town paying a visit to the Mansion asked with genuine concern how poor we were on seeing the set in our living room. That's the one that Siew told us qualified as an antique.

I read an article the other day telling me that in five years or so tvs will be paper thin and hang on the walls. I'll stick to our 14 inch Sony, thanks.

The Tangled Web

Part of yesterday was spent wiring up various spiffy devices in order to ensure we can receive various media and play DVDs and the like. Almost everything in that line is now fixed. Unfortunately this has necessitated the usual mind-bogglingly complex knots of wires that we try to hide behind big chunks of furniture and attempt to forget are there. These chunks over time attract vast amounts of dust and dirt becoming, I suppose, our big dirty secrets. We had quite a number of these to untangle and un-dirty at the Mansion and we are resolved not to fall into the same trap here. Our solution will be to heave forward said chunky furniture at regular intervals and face the mess manfully. (Not womanfully; it's going to be my task.)

The problem, of course, is going to be keeping up with this resolution when it's a sad truth that out of sight so often equates to out of mind.

I'm reminded of Ridley Scott's great insight in the first Alien movie. Far from appearing gleaming and glitteringly new, the future will look used - that is, the bits in the background, down where the engines are, that drive the whole shebang.

C'est moi!

Reading Madame Bovary again to prepare for teaching it to our scholars later in the year. It gets better with each reading - a possible factor in identifying what makes a work of literature great that I found myself pointing out to a class as we read Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha last week. (It works for Mr Doyle as well.)

But as well as it being a delight to read I do find myself with a radical problem with Flaubert's great novel. As he tears apart all his characters, laying bare their painful superficiality, I find the level of self-recognition painfully disconcerting. Are we really all as stupid as that? Well, yes, I'm afraid.

Handing Over

We passed the keys to the now empty Mansion this afternoon to Johnny and his mum. The place looked almost exactly the same as it had done some seventeen years ago. Noi did an amazing job of getting our stuff out and cleaning up.

I realised with some surprise that I'd lived there far longer than at any other home in my life. It was a wonderful seventeen years. From the beginning we both sensed the fundamental happiness of the house. It didn't let us down. And I like to think we didn't disappoint it either.

I suppose I should have felt sad leaving. I did, but only mildly. We enjoyed handing it back in good condition (and we've got our friend Gebian going in to paint and Siew to help Mdm Chng get some good tenants.) And we happily enjoyed thinking of all the good times, knowing we'll create more in the future, wherever we are, insha'allah.

Waste

In the course of the Big Move we've been reasonably ruthless in throwing away stuff we don't need any more. The number of black plastic bagfulls we've disposed of has been remarkable. Which leads me to reflecting on the capacity for waste of our species, especially since, with a painful sense of irony, I've never regarded myself as a wasteful sort of chap.

Next time I moan about global warming I must remember that I'm the one to blame.