Distressingly Selfish

Chanced upon someone writing about how horrified he was by the taking of selfies in public the other day. It's amazing what people can find to bother themselves with, eh? In response I thought I'd post the selfies featuring The Missus and me, taken in the very public space of Jurong Lake Gardens on Thursday morning. Shameless, as ever.

In Living Colour

We thought it would be a good idea to fill our lives with some colour this morning by embarking on a stroll through Jurong Lake Gardens. It worked.

Top Quality

I was astonished and delighted at finding Mike Leigh's Topsy Turvy on YouTube the other day. Watching it I couldn't help but think of how much Tony would have loved to see it, him being both a major Gilbert & Sullivan fan and devotee of ML's brilliant Nuts in May.

Every performance in Topsy Turvy is wonderful, but Jim Broadbent's note perfect portrayal of W.S. Gilbert has got to be his finest performance. The sense of emotional depth behind the blustering façade is deeply moving, especially in the final sequence of the film. But then so many details of the movie point the viewer to the rich humanity behind the loving evocation of the 'low burlesque' of the Savoy Operas.

And to think that work of this quality is made so easily available.

Unfiltered

Not sure why I look so grim in the shot above. It was taken on one of the bridges crossing The Liffey back in December when we were having a jolly good time in Dublin. Which is what's so puzzling. I can't remember having anything other than a good time walking into the city, so why the misery? Could have been the cold weather, I suppose, undermining my usual bonhomie. Or maybe I look like a miserable old soul most of the time, and just don't recognise it.

The Positives

Does Antony Beevor's account of Stalingrad say anything positive about human behaviour? In the final analysis, emphatically yes. All sides did terrible things. And all sides were capable of astonishing endurance and courage. And great compassion at times.

Just one random example. Beevor notes the temptation to commit suicide experienced by so many Germans hopelessly pinned in the kessel. the area encircled by the Red Army in late 1942 This included the doctors, who had easy access to the drugs that made this 'easy' in its way. But the doctors felt they had a duty to stay with the wounded. He writes simply, Of the 600 doctors with the Sixth Army, none capable of working flew out.

Considering the hell that the kessel manifested, a quietly amazing statistic.

Earning Trust

It's odd how often my YouTube feed features material which has zero attraction for me. This is especially true with regard to what might broadly be termed commentary upon current affairs. I suppose it's because I try and go out of my way to listen to those whose views I'm not all that sympathetic towards, in order to ensure a degree of balance in what I listen to, that I find myself looking at links selected by the algorithm that are so obviously doubtful in their content as to be faintly depressing to consider. A case in point: over the last few days I keep seeing stuff related to the dreadful murders of the children in Southport that purport to unearth the 'facts' as to the nature of the 'terrorist' act involved. I suspect those coming up with this nonsense are well aware of the degree to which they're twisting the depressingly sad, awful reality of what took place. If not then the degree of bone-headed ignorance involved would be startling even to someone like myself, not exactly optimistic about the capacity of our species for clear and sound reasoning. 

So it's heartening when a link appears up to something of real depth and value. As in the other day when I came across a particularly insightful episode of the Chris Hedges Report dealing with recent events in Gaza. Hedges doesn't exactly hide his political affiliations and I can't say I agree with him on everything, but he clearly knows his stuff and the factual content is convincing even if one may question some of the broader analysis. And the fact that he's interviewing the great Joe Sacco is a guarantee of essential veracity and integrity. 

I can't but notice the deep sobriety of the dialogue. I'm not saying that unhurried seriousness is necessarily a mark of striving for accuracy of reporting, but it helps.

More Sadness

I passed the grave pictured above on the way to Mum & Dad's place of rest last December. I first realised that this is where my Cousin Peter and Auntie Hilda and Uncle Bert were buried at Mum's funeral. We passed it then and Peter's name jumped out at me as we carried her to her resting place.

He was some three years older than me. I didn't know him all that well as a kid, but knew of him - that he was handsome, very assured, an excellent dancer (ballroom style) and doing well at school - enough to get him into quite a prestigious Catholic school in Manchester. I followed in his footsteps to the same school, but not in the looks or dancing, or even assurance, departments. Since he was very much my senior at Xaverian College I rarely saw him there, but he was a friendly enough presence. I suppose I vaguely envied him.

In his early twenties he was blinded in a bad accident. And he died very young, just twenty-seven, a couple of years after I started teaching. I can't remember what his illness was, but it wasn't associated with his blindness. Devastatingly sad. Uncle Bert also had problems with his sight, but looking at the gravestone I realise he lived to a fine old age, almost against the odds. He always seemed less well than Jack & Jim, his younger brothers, who both died in their fifties.

I briefly met Peter's wife back in December, at the gig we attended featuring Clive Gregson. John introduced us. It seems he's known her for some years. Small world, and all that. It was nice to meet her, but tinged with something on the edge of sadness. According to John, she'd been deeply affected by Peter's death, taking years to really get over it.

In many ways we never get over the deaths of loved ones, I suppose; there's something both sad yet strangely happy in that.

On Time

Couldn't get my usual lift to Friday Prayers today since Noi had something on, which means I needed to take to public transport. It's just a single bus journey to the masjid, so not a major problem, but I wasn't too sure of the timing of the particular bus I needed to catch. To be sure of not having to rush around I set off quite early, fortunately not having duties at work, the result being that I arrived a good twenty-five minutes ahead of the azan.

I half-expected a fairly empty mosque, but there was already quite a crowd when I arrived. Must say this was in stark contrast to going to Friday Prayers in the UK. The place I worshipped in, in Hyde, was generally very sparsely attended as prayers began, but then filled up as the khutbah proceeded. Another reminder that whilst the ritual remains essentially the same its 'accidental' features can vary considerably from place to place.

Greatly enjoyed the luxury of having so much time to spare ahead of proceedings today. Not sure how to describe the state this engenders. A sort of relaxed alertness, if that makes sense. A letting go around a firm grasp.

A Road Not Taken

As a little lad I thought I would grow up to be a hatter and work in a factory much like the one pictured above. I know this because I remember writing an essay when I was around seven or eight saying so. The essay was one sentence long and was on the topic What I want to be when I grow up (or words to that effect.) I didn't want to be a hatter; in fact I found the idea of going into a big noisy factory very frightening, but it seemed to me inevitable I would end up in the job because that's what Dad did. Most of the sentence I wrote comprised my explanation of this brute fact.

The factory Dad worked in was not in Stockport (where the Hat Museum is located) but in Denton, where we lived. Wilson's on Wilton Street was a well-known brand until it went out of business in the early 60s, leaving Dad redundant. I'd intended for us to visit the museum in December, but we were too busy and somehow my heart wasn't in it. I took the picture from a distance, the day we went to the panto at the Plaza Theatre. 

So that's a life I never had. Fighting in a war, followed by relentless, poorly-paid factory work, until the work dried up. Lucky me. Unlucky Dad.

Some Comfort

Visiting the grave of Mum and Dad back in December I cried a little. It was a bleak, cold, rainy day, so a few tears seemed appropriate, I suppose, but more than anything else it was the always painful realisation of the relative shortness of Dad's life that somehow hurt. At the time he died I thought of him as an old man; now he seems, paradoxically my junior. And at moments (as the one in December, staring at his age on his gravestone) it seems to me somehow unfair he didn't live to enjoy his 'golden years', to use a clunky cliché. But, of course, given the grim inescapable reality of the deaths of the young, it's foolish to entertain the idea of some kind of unfairness being involved.

But on that bleak day, and today itself, I find considerable comfort in the final line of the inscription: Reunited at Last. On a simple level a genuinely comforting cliché; and. on the deepest level of all, a profound truth.