The Value Of Discomfort

Went to the gym just now thinking I was in for business as usual, only to discover the air-conditioning had failed. Mr See was there, coming towards the end of his session and he'd already checked all the fuse boxes to no avail. It seems he'd actually turned up in the early afternoon and on discovering the problem had decided it was far too hot inside to risk a workout. By the early evening he'd decided it'd cooled down enough for him to cope and I figured likewise, thus deciding to do my statutory fifty minutes on the elliptical trainer.

The first thirty minutes weren't so bad. I started off at quite a lick, in fact, I suppose based on the notion that the warmth of the environment meant I didn't need to warm-up slowly to the task. But the last twenty minutes saw me struggling, partly I think due to mild dehydration. I was, predictably, perspiring profusely. At the finish I decided not to bother doing anything on the weights, just rushing downstairs to gulp down quite a quantity of water. 

It was something of a reminder of the time I completed the Singapore Marathon, in the early 1990s, and discovered the remarkable degree to which a body could leak sweat. I wasn't quite as exhausted this evening as I had been all those years ago, but I was reminded of the value of the territory you enter when you push yourself further than you really should. On the one hand there's a faint sense of accomplishment in the fact you've kept going; on the other there's a salutary sense of just how limited you really are. Being able to cope with being in an extreme place is, I believe, a genuine sign of depth of character. I hasten to add, however, that I'm not terribly convinced I cope all that well.

The Virtues Of Laziness

It's been a lazy day, and officially so. Mind you, that didn't preclude me getting a couple of jobs done (and the Missus, for that matter.) But when you've been ultra-busy for five solid days a bit of work doesn't feel like even a bit. Oh, and I paid a work-related visit to the doctor's across the road this morning. I've reached an age when in order to convince my employers I'll actually make it through the year ahead I need to get a signed note from a physician to confirm it.

I reckon that if we improved the prospects for laziness at work I'd definitely have no problem in surviving a year, but my statements in support of useful laziness seem to fall on deaf ears. I'm not sure why people would think I'm kidding them over such a serious business, but they appear to. I know there are arguments associating hard work with virtue, and for those who need to ensure survival and a reasonable way of life it's easy to buy into those. But when it becomes difficult to see any real point in being hard-working for its own sake I think the world would be much the better a place for constructive relaxation.

It's worth considering that in my line of work there's a whole class of people whose efforts lead to more stuff to cope with for those on the receiving end, and it's difficult to see exactly how those efforts lead to young people getting educated. Now if such as those could learn to be usefully lazy the world, or my corner of it, would be a better place.

Some Disagreement

Noi wants to watch Suria, I  want to watch Sky News. It's rare we disagree over what to put on the telly since I'm rarely bothered about watching anything. However, yet another supposedly crucial vote is taking place related to Brexit and I feel a strange desire to watch my nation get absolutely nowhere on the issue yet again.

It all makes for oddly compelling, pointless viewing. (To be honest, Suria is a lot more entertaining.)

A Bit Of A Mystery

Why do manufacturers of sticky notes so often manufacture notes that don't really stick? One of Life's smaller but highly significant mysteries upon which I have spent several fruitful minutes meditating in the course of the day. (Fruitful in the sense that the meditation helped me not to lose my temper with the stupid notes and throw them into the bin.)

On Balance

On a number of different occasions Life contrived to be quite spectacularly unfair to me today. So what? In general Life manages to be more than spectacularly fair to me. And you, I suspect.

That'll do for me.

Plotting

I'm now in one of those periods in which getting any sustained reading done is a major challenge - i.e., impossible. At least I managed to get a bit of reading done last week, the highlight of which was John le Carre's The Russia House. It's obviously a fine novel with much to recommend it, but I need to make a humiliating confession with regard to my experience of reading it. Whilst I coped with the intricacies of the complex plot for the first two-thirds of the novel, I got lost in the final sequence. I just have no idea how the twist, in which the sort of hero figure double-crosses the intelligence service he's supposed to be operating on behalf of, actually worked.

I glanced at some reviews after finishing the book to see whether anyone explains what takes place but none did (rightly so, for spelling out what takes place would be a horrible spoiler) yet it was clear that other folks understood how it worked (or, at least, cleverly bluffed the world they did.) Sadly, I'm not capable of such bluffing and have to accept the grim truth that in certain ways I'm just not very bright.

A Matter Of Choice

I was originally intending to write about the grimly epic journey we experienced in getting back to our safe abode on these shores yesterday, just after midnight, thus thoroughly discombobulating myself for the first day of a new term due to a distinct lack of sleep. But I won't. Instead I'll record how wholesomely combobulated I now feel as a result of watching the splendid final of Dansa Mania just now on Suria. Very talented young people being creatively expressive and having fun, very intensely so. Best telly of the year so far. Worth a tiring journey to watch.

Something New

Posted this yesterday, in Melaka, but an iffy Internet connection meant it never saw the light of Sunday:

For years I've assumed the word loofah, as in the spongy thing you wash your pots with, was a Lancashire dialect word. My assumption was based on a teacher, one of the Brothers, actually, making fun of my use of the word on a school trip - asking where the loofah was in order to help clean a table. I assumed then that the very sound of the word should have alerted me to the fact it was non-standard English, part of the minefield of supposedly incorrect terms used at home that had no place in the classroom. I also thought I'd been dealt with in a snobbish fashion, and it obviously stung since I've remembered the rebuke to this day.

Then yesterday I saw the word on a signboard outside a rather funky little shop promoting the whole recycle & reuse culture in the rather funky new Linc shopping centre, not far from KLCC, where Rozana has her new outlet for the crockery she makes at her Bendang Studio. I was a little surprised to find a bit of South Manchester talk on a KL signboard, but then it occurred to me that loofah might just be a perfectly respectable Standard English term, and a glance at the appropriate page on dictionary.com confirmed my suspicion.

Evidence, I suppose, that you can learn something you sort of knew you knew every day. Wish I'd known that in 1969.

3 Puzzles

I've had occasion to ask myself the following questions in the course of a long day, and as the day wanes I'm afraid I have no answers:
 
Why do so many shops in Malaysia maintain a level of air-conditioning that makes the average chap (i.e. me) distinctly uncomfortable, to the point of actual shivering? Can this be cost effective in any way?
 
Why do people queue (yes, really) to gain admission to crowded shops selling bags? Expensive bags.
 
How do the emporia in this part of the world sustain their version of Capitalism when I spend so little in them? (And I hasten to add that the Missus, although a little freer with her purse, is not exactly a big spender either.)

Onwards

Noi is busy baking another set of delicious scones and ensuring she uses up all the eggs purchased the other day as we prepare to motor up to some resort near Genting Highlands to join the family (well, a number of those who can make it) for a day and night together. On my side, I've managed to get some necessary marking done and other bits and pieces of work whilst Noi has put the house in good order. I'll be packing for the journey and preparing for Friday Prayers soon, but I'm now listening to the utterly brilliant eight-man version of the Crimson King making Epitaph sound as fresh and alive as the day it was written (long ago in what seemed, in its way, the most positive decade of the twentieth century. But even then as Peter Sinfield knew too well: I fear tomorrow I'll be crying. Indeed. We may think we're moving onwards but nothing really changes.)