Friday was a day of a double whammy. In the first place there was the Invisible Friend. The books (note the plural) that I bought for my I.F. were things that I would have wanted myself, apart possibly for the fact that one of them was written in Catalan, and were wrapped not only by the store in which I bought them but also by my good self with high quality wrapping paper.
It was therefore with something approaching dismay that I went into the staff room and saw on the table where I usually sit an unwrapped Wordsworth Classic edition of Le Morte D’Arthur by the discredited knight Sir Thomas Malory with a strip of paper with my name on it sticking out of it. Who, in the name of the living god, reads Sir Thomas Malory? And who, in the name of some other deity, gives an 850 page paperback of turgid prose as a present, even if it has modernized spelling? I put the book in my cupboard at once and tried to forget about it.
For all the nations other than the British the concept of an “invisible” or unknown present giver is unthinkable so I had a great deal of pleasure in watching everybody else (of the foreign persuasion) trying to find their unknown giver! I am rather flattered to report that I was accused of giving some very apposite books to happy recipients. I have no idea where I managed to gain such a reputation for consideration and perception but I am happy to count it as mine own!
My recipient has not said anything; but for a greater part of the day I was not in the vicinity to find out how it had been received. I hope to hear more on Monday.
The second ‘hit’ was in the photographic competition. The announcement was made during an assembly which had been set up with all the chaos for which our gatherings are famous!
Once the literary competitions were out of the way and we had heard readings in English, Catalan, Spanish and what passed for French when we came to the photography.
The tension built (at least for two of us) as the announcement for the staff winner grew nearer. I and my colleague became progressively more hysterical until the result was actually announced and . . . dramatic pause . . . the person who we said would win it actually won! He even gave a little gesture of astonished self-depreciating surprise as his name was announced! My colleague managed to gasp out, “I don’t believe it!” and then we dissolved into giggles of outraged innocence defiled!
The culmination of Saint George’s Day was an excellent performance by a three person drama group in the little theatre in Castelldefels in support of the work of Inter Libros.
This worthy organization, which was celebrating its fifth anniversary, exists to collect books in Spanish and send them to deprived areas of South America. As a friend is part of the organizing committee I know rather more about this group than the ordinary person in the street!
The performance took the form of a series of improvisations which were based on a member of the audience choosing a book from a pile on a table on stage, opening the book and reading a short extract. The group then had a few seconds before they start an improvisation based on the extract. One of the books chosen was a recipe book and another one chosen was a technical book! I suppose that I understood about 20% of what was being said, but the vivid mime filled in most of the gaps; or at least my imagination filled in the gaps in a way satisfactory to me!
Our attempts to go out for a meal after the performance were unsuccessful. Admittedly we only went to one place and then gave up when the people there looked distressed at our appearance! They had their coats on and were just about to leave. The face of our usual waitress spoke volumes and we didn’t press the issue.
Saturday has been a little more relaxed and I have managed to finish the book which Toni gave me for Sant Jordi. This was “The Last Dickens” by Matthew Pearl a very easy read which centred on “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” and the fact that it was left unfinished at the death of Dickens. Into the interest of the non completion was woven a mystery and murder story with a well meaning American publisher being the central character.
I liked the literary details and the historical context that the author used and, although the writing was unremarkable, the narrative bounced along in a most satisfactory manner. It is a perfect ‘beach’ book and summer is, I am told, almost upon us. It’s one of those books that read themselves and it is also one of those books that you will probably not re-read.
Tomorrow the name day of a two year old.
God help us all!
It was therefore with something approaching dismay that I went into the staff room and saw on the table where I usually sit an unwrapped Wordsworth Classic edition of Le Morte D’Arthur by the discredited knight Sir Thomas Malory with a strip of paper with my name on it sticking out of it. Who, in the name of the living god, reads Sir Thomas Malory? And who, in the name of some other deity, gives an 850 page paperback of turgid prose as a present, even if it has modernized spelling? I put the book in my cupboard at once and tried to forget about it.
For all the nations other than the British the concept of an “invisible” or unknown present giver is unthinkable so I had a great deal of pleasure in watching everybody else (of the foreign persuasion) trying to find their unknown giver! I am rather flattered to report that I was accused of giving some very apposite books to happy recipients. I have no idea where I managed to gain such a reputation for consideration and perception but I am happy to count it as mine own!
My recipient has not said anything; but for a greater part of the day I was not in the vicinity to find out how it had been received. I hope to hear more on Monday.
The second ‘hit’ was in the photographic competition. The announcement was made during an assembly which had been set up with all the chaos for which our gatherings are famous!
Once the literary competitions were out of the way and we had heard readings in English, Catalan, Spanish and what passed for French when we came to the photography.
The tension built (at least for two of us) as the announcement for the staff winner grew nearer. I and my colleague became progressively more hysterical until the result was actually announced and . . . dramatic pause . . . the person who we said would win it actually won! He even gave a little gesture of astonished self-depreciating surprise as his name was announced! My colleague managed to gasp out, “I don’t believe it!” and then we dissolved into giggles of outraged innocence defiled!
The culmination of Saint George’s Day was an excellent performance by a three person drama group in the little theatre in Castelldefels in support of the work of Inter Libros.
This worthy organization, which was celebrating its fifth anniversary, exists to collect books in Spanish and send them to deprived areas of South America. As a friend is part of the organizing committee I know rather more about this group than the ordinary person in the street!
The performance took the form of a series of improvisations which were based on a member of the audience choosing a book from a pile on a table on stage, opening the book and reading a short extract. The group then had a few seconds before they start an improvisation based on the extract. One of the books chosen was a recipe book and another one chosen was a technical book! I suppose that I understood about 20% of what was being said, but the vivid mime filled in most of the gaps; or at least my imagination filled in the gaps in a way satisfactory to me!
Our attempts to go out for a meal after the performance were unsuccessful. Admittedly we only went to one place and then gave up when the people there looked distressed at our appearance! They had their coats on and were just about to leave. The face of our usual waitress spoke volumes and we didn’t press the issue.
Saturday has been a little more relaxed and I have managed to finish the book which Toni gave me for Sant Jordi. This was “The Last Dickens” by Matthew Pearl a very easy read which centred on “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” and the fact that it was left unfinished at the death of Dickens. Into the interest of the non completion was woven a mystery and murder story with a well meaning American publisher being the central character.
I liked the literary details and the historical context that the author used and, although the writing was unremarkable, the narrative bounced along in a most satisfactory manner. It is a perfect ‘beach’ book and summer is, I am told, almost upon us. It’s one of those books that read themselves and it is also one of those books that you will probably not re-read.
Tomorrow the name day of a two year old.
God help us all!
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