Be wary of asking for CDs of Vaughan Williams in Barcelona.
I was in ‘the other part’ of El Corte Ingles and browsing through the classical music section looking in a determinedly desultory way for bargain box sets of the music of Vaughan Williams on the occasion of his significant commemoration (you can tell that I am a bit wary about just when he was born or died.) I have read about such things in the very wonderful BBC Music Magazine and am eager to spend a sizeable amount of money for a frankly astonishing number of CDs.
One of the basic problems with Vaughan Williams in his bid for musical immortality is that he chose the wrong bit of the alphabet for his surname/s. This name/s is/are too near the end of the alphabet. His stuff is likely to be mixed into the ‘Various’ section of the display shelves and his serious symphonic works are likely to be mixed in with bargain basement boxed sets and crossover trash by however is being touted as the new Caruso. This is no way for a serious musician to be treated.
Having searched through the Various and sneered my way through Vivaldi I eventually discovered that our Ralph (or Rafe as we pseudos like to call him) was firmly placed in the Mr Williams category. And there was nothing new or remotely interesting or bargain basement about anything.
Throwing linguistic caution to the winds I intimated to the friendly looking woman of a certain age behind the counter that I would like to have a box of Vaughn Williams.
The blankness of the stare which greeted this request forcibly reminded me of Toni’s mum as she struggles to make sense of my enthusiastic yet essentially flawed Spanish. I further explained in fluent foreign (far be is from me to claim that my excited gibber was anything approaching Spanish) that Vaughan Williams was a very important English composer. Her blankness, if anything, became even more vacant.
I then had one of those ideas which, almost invariably, have landed me in almost terminal social complexity. “His name is Bough-ch-an Why-ii-anz.” An immediate look of recognition closely followed by infectiously chuckling laughter and a gurgled compliment on my pronunciation!
Still no boxed sets though, so that it will have to be The Boys or Amazon.
After the thunder and lightening of the early morning and a sluggish sort of sulking weather up to lunch time, we were treated to a reasonable day of sunshine. We used the opportunity to go to Barcelona to ‘do’ the shops from El Corte Ingles to Mare Magnum. And back again.
After an extended period of energy building (or staying in bed till late) the girls were more than eager to expend their reserves on serious shopping. I told them, only half jokingly that a lack of purchases would mean the lack of seat in the car going back to Castelldefels.
I am glad to report that I had two exhausted passengers on the return trip.
I think that we would have to tick the Culture box because the girls visited the Market just off the Ramblas and had their photographs taken with a variety of ‘living statues probably the most notable one being the white painted gentleman on the toilet. Payment of money for the photograph eventually produced a most realistic fart, which I only half suspect was electronic in its delivery rather than gustatory! (Not the right word possibly but it’s in the same ball park.)
Our meal this evening was Japanese and for the first time we were given seats on the periphery of the integrated steel cooking area. Sushi was obviously not going to extend his dexterous use of cooking utensils, so I was somewhat relieved that we all ordered at least one hot thing.
Our cook provided the sort of interesting floor show of redundant flourishing of clanking metal knives and scrapers and those things that look like overlarge icing sugar smoothers that left us thinking that he could have done it better. But it certainly gave our food a certain vibrant urgency. Most enjoyable.
Tomorrow the girls fry during the day, while at night we have been urged to attend Reeven’s band performing some way down the coast. The girls seemed genuinely enthusiastic when this little excursion was mooted and we will have to see how the reality matches expectation.
It will, if nothing else, give me an opportunity to compare notes with the headteacher and for us to indulge in some cathartic skulduggery on the side of right!
A day to savour to come!
I was in ‘the other part’ of El Corte Ingles and browsing through the classical music section looking in a determinedly desultory way for bargain box sets of the music of Vaughan Williams on the occasion of his significant commemoration (you can tell that I am a bit wary about just when he was born or died.) I have read about such things in the very wonderful BBC Music Magazine and am eager to spend a sizeable amount of money for a frankly astonishing number of CDs.
One of the basic problems with Vaughan Williams in his bid for musical immortality is that he chose the wrong bit of the alphabet for his surname/s. This name/s is/are too near the end of the alphabet. His stuff is likely to be mixed into the ‘Various’ section of the display shelves and his serious symphonic works are likely to be mixed in with bargain basement boxed sets and crossover trash by however is being touted as the new Caruso. This is no way for a serious musician to be treated.
Having searched through the Various and sneered my way through Vivaldi I eventually discovered that our Ralph (or Rafe as we pseudos like to call him) was firmly placed in the Mr Williams category. And there was nothing new or remotely interesting or bargain basement about anything.
Throwing linguistic caution to the winds I intimated to the friendly looking woman of a certain age behind the counter that I would like to have a box of Vaughn Williams.
The blankness of the stare which greeted this request forcibly reminded me of Toni’s mum as she struggles to make sense of my enthusiastic yet essentially flawed Spanish. I further explained in fluent foreign (far be is from me to claim that my excited gibber was anything approaching Spanish) that Vaughan Williams was a very important English composer. Her blankness, if anything, became even more vacant.
I then had one of those ideas which, almost invariably, have landed me in almost terminal social complexity. “His name is Bough-ch-an Why-ii-anz.” An immediate look of recognition closely followed by infectiously chuckling laughter and a gurgled compliment on my pronunciation!
Still no boxed sets though, so that it will have to be The Boys or Amazon.
After the thunder and lightening of the early morning and a sluggish sort of sulking weather up to lunch time, we were treated to a reasonable day of sunshine. We used the opportunity to go to Barcelona to ‘do’ the shops from El Corte Ingles to Mare Magnum. And back again.
After an extended period of energy building (or staying in bed till late) the girls were more than eager to expend their reserves on serious shopping. I told them, only half jokingly that a lack of purchases would mean the lack of seat in the car going back to Castelldefels.
I am glad to report that I had two exhausted passengers on the return trip.
I think that we would have to tick the Culture box because the girls visited the Market just off the Ramblas and had their photographs taken with a variety of ‘living statues probably the most notable one being the white painted gentleman on the toilet. Payment of money for the photograph eventually produced a most realistic fart, which I only half suspect was electronic in its delivery rather than gustatory! (Not the right word possibly but it’s in the same ball park.)
Our meal this evening was Japanese and for the first time we were given seats on the periphery of the integrated steel cooking area. Sushi was obviously not going to extend his dexterous use of cooking utensils, so I was somewhat relieved that we all ordered at least one hot thing.
Our cook provided the sort of interesting floor show of redundant flourishing of clanking metal knives and scrapers and those things that look like overlarge icing sugar smoothers that left us thinking that he could have done it better. But it certainly gave our food a certain vibrant urgency. Most enjoyable.
Tomorrow the girls fry during the day, while at night we have been urged to attend Reeven’s band performing some way down the coast. The girls seemed genuinely enthusiastic when this little excursion was mooted and we will have to see how the reality matches expectation.
It will, if nothing else, give me an opportunity to compare notes with the headteacher and for us to indulge in some cathartic skulduggery on the side of right!
A day to savour to come!
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