Something To Look Up To

Spent yesterday evening over at Rohana and Osman's. He's looking somewhat frail, and is frustrated at the seeming lack of progress in his chemotherapy, but retains his remarkable fighting spirit, even if the odds don't look great. We talked at some length of the ins and outs of his current treatment and the doctor's prognosis and I suppose it should have been a bit of a sombre occasion, but it wasn't. Far from it.

I suppose that's something to do with being in the presence of grace & courage.

Something Special

People used to ask me if there was anything I missed about life in England. My stock reply was a simple no, though obviously there were people I missed. Funnily enough nobody ever bothers ask me the question these days, yet now I can readily identify one or two aspects of life as I led it up to the age of thirty-three that I do miss, though generally not in a yearning manner.

Chief amongst these is the greater frequency of exposure to live music available in the land of my birth. Today I was keenly reminded of this when I came across a video on youtube of one of my favourite bands performing at Glastonbury back in 2009. And I must admit I experienced a distinct sense of yearning to have really been there. Especially when Ms Amy Winehouse joined them on stage.

In an alternative universe somewhere beyond (where alternative universes tend to be) she lives on, having become a full-time Special, and every summer they make the glorious music of the spheres.

Getting Better

Just got back from the gym. Slightly improved on my previous performance, and I mean slightly.
 
Mind you, that's more than can be said for Germany, eh! Ha! 😁 😁 😁

Starting Over

I got myself to the gym last night for the first time since before Ramadhan began. I'd had the intention of getting myself there in the early days of fasting month, prior to leaving for KL, and as soon as we got back to Hall, but the muscles in my back and legs had other ideas. I wasn't all that sure about resuming business last night, in truth, having felt some strain after starting work on Monday, but I figured I had to get back in harness some time, and would probably always feel a certain vulnerability, which only regular exercise is likely to assuage.

I must confess, I struggled more than somewhat, coming close to giving up for the last ten minutes of my scheduled forty-five. Somehow - probably by going very slowly - I kept going, but it was painful to realise just how much general fitness I've lost in a month and a half or so. But just to be sweating hard again was a kind of reward. At least my body lets itself be used in this way. One day that isn't likely to be the case any more, so I'll seek to enjoy the experience whilst I'm still sort of able.

Regeneration

The recent Carpool Karaoke featuring Paul McCartney was a blast. A powerful reminder of the staggering talent of Sir P and the inexorable passing of time. He looks so old; at least, he looks old to someone like myself whose essential image of the man is fixed on the cheekily fresh-faced youngster he was when the Fab Four really were the Fab Four.

But something odd happens in the video in the brilliant sequence when Macca and band are playing in the pub for that lucky, lucky audience. At one point he looks at least forty years younger. And he sounds like he's twenty-five again.

Recovering

We watched the footy at Fuad's last night, after an excellent post-Raya nosh-up, with much hustle & bustle from Fahmi & the boys to add to the collective excitement. I predicted England would be two up by halftime, sort of jokingly, and was stunned when it turned out to be a lot more than that. I'm still in recovery from finding myself enjoying an England game in the World Cup in totally relaxed fashion. Can't remember the last time this happened. Possibly at some point in Italia '90? Doubt it, though. Offhand have no recall of a single easy game back then. 

The odd thing was that they managed to look very vulnerable at the back in the opening ten minutes, but still appeared assured somehow that it would be alright on the night. England have the look of a newly promoted club team who are still enjoying the game, despite the possibility of eventually being shot down by one of the big clubs. It's as if they see themselves as no-hopers with a chance to shine, though having considerable faith in their innate ability.

I reckon the key factor is the lack of big name players with medals to prove it. There's no one to live up to anymore.

Not So Mundane

Didn't get all that much reading done over the break, but I did manage to finish the two novels that Karen bought me for my birthday this year. Both made for easy reading representing, I suppose, the kinds of genre fiction that's intended to slip down with the minimum of effort. Certainly Lois Austen-Leigh's The Incredible Crime didn't pretend to be more than a fairly typical crime novel of the 1930s, though I was slightly taken aback at the degree of naked snobbery, of the social variety, implied if not displayed on every page. I suppose that was part of the fun of reading this in a twenty-first century context. The bland acceptance of fox hunting as a representation of the pinnacle of the English cultural heritage was a reminder of just how much a society can change - and this in less than a hundred years.

In contrast, Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus seemed very much a work of today despite the fact that the action is set around the turn of the nineteenth century. To be honest there was little real attempt here to conjure any kind of historical reality. Rather, readers are invited into a version of the past that's intended to be little more than comfortable atmosphere. I suppose this is an example of modern-day fantasy, and I'm guessing the readership is predominantly female. (Yes, unpleasantly if not appallingly sexist, but there you are.) There are no fewer than two young couples in love, and this is the kind of love that reads as destined and transcendent from the first glance. There's not much of the mundane involved here, and I guess that's the point. It was easy to imagine someone wanting to make a movie of this involving a fair amount of CGI, and, again, I guess that's the point. Not quite sure why the writer went for the fragmented chronology, but did wonder if this was simply to make the whole thing feel a lot cleverer and more significant than it actually was.

Time Gone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now back in our usual quarters and Raya seems a long time ago. But memories persist. Fortunately aided by photos.

Pointlessness

Isn't it a privilege to live in an era when there are two clearly, obviously, unequivocally, brilliant-to-the-point-of-genius footballers plying their trade? - and isn't it astonishing that they've done so relentlessly for so many seasons? - and isn't it wonderful that it's pretty much impossible to differentiate which is the greater player, such that any argument over this quickly becomes manifestly pointless?

The odd thing is that for so many vocal fans out there the answer to the above seems to be in the negative. Reading the Commentariat dealing with Argentina's defeat last night is a powerful lesson in the astonishing ability of the human mind to fail to recognise the obvious. It seems that it was all down to Messi, regardless of the fact that his team were uniformly clueless and, what's hardly been recognised at all, that Croatia are one hell of a side, both on paper and on the field.

But I've emerged a little wiser after the day's reading. I've been a bit puzzled as to why I've kept coming across the acronym GOAT of late in connection with the beautiful game, especially in contexts in which the names of Ronaldo and Messi have been the focus. I'm guessing it stands for Greatest Of All Time, debate over which in any sport is utterly pointless if conducted in any spirit of acrimony. Since almost every discussion of the two players I've read has been characterised by painful (and painfully stupid) acrimony the pointlessness of all this is especially intense.

Killing Time

In the last couple of days I've read articles relating to the addictive qualities of on-line gaming and viewing series on Netflix. Both have been followed by significant numbers of comments happily and often angrily debating the very notion of addiction as applied to these activities, with many suggesting further usefully useless ways of eating up time. Indeed, the very act of reading the repetitively pointless commentary had about it something of an ironically addictive quality. I'll really have to stop doing this.