The thought was there!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday evening, I hung out the flag of the Spanish Republic from the kitchen window fronting the street and felt that I was prepared for the events of the morrow.

     Today, I watched it.  The Funeral I mean.  In spite of all my protestations about totally ignoring it. I watched it.

     I tried to tell myself that I was watching it for the music – not an unreasonable excuse – but, alas, not the right one.  Yes, the music was glorious; the hymns rousing, the older musical items satisfying and the newer ones stimulating, especially the last choir contribution.  But I watched more than would have been justified by an interest in music.

     Yes, I could tell myself that I did do my Duolingo Spanish lessons on my mobile phone during the longueurs (the archbishop’s mini sermon), and I was (I’m ashamed to admit it) mildly surprised that the new Prime Minister With No Popular Mandate, did not make a complete pig’s ear of her contribution.  I may be hopelessly prejudiced (no, wait a minute, ‘prejudice’ is for an attitude not based on reason and evidence) against her, but she always looks as though she is sporting a permanent sneer on her ashy face, and nothing she said in the scriptures appeared to have any bearing on her actual politics or ‘morality’ as well – but, even I had to admit that she got through her words – and then was seen no more.

     It was well done.  God knows they have had enough time to prepare for virtually any eventuality, but it still went almost like clockwork. 

     There is a sort of internal logic for ceremonial that seems to take away rational thought by the observers, and it becomes an end in itself, and the more you watch the less you think about the reasons for doing something in the absurdly elaborate way in which it is realized.

 

     I loved the way that the coffin was handled.  The Bearers Party, looking like Chocolate Soldiers, doing those little steps and shuffles to ensure that the coffin was safely transported and placed.  It its own way it was exquisite – something so mechanically complex for something so basically simple.  It was Baroque (no, Rococo!) rather than De Stijl!

     Like the 142 naval ratings drawing Queen Victoria’s gun carriage: so many questions!  Why 142?  Why were they there?  Why were they dressed in the way they were?  And their little turns and sidesteps, perfectly co-ordinated and choreographed a military Busby Berkeley!

     And ‘choreography’ is the key word, it all becomes like a sort of dance, with some participants, like the fitter members of the armed forces able to do the niftier, complex,  numbers, but it also about trying to make allowances for the whole ensemble that included the old, the older, the infirm, the foreign, the young, the younger, and many precious (in all senses of the word) individuals, many of whom were not wearing clothing suitable for easy movement!

     It went well, and I am glad that I used the music as an excuse to allow my ‘precious’ self to enjoy a performance well executed.

     Of course, that ‘enjoyment’ has nothing to do with my attitude to the monarchy and my belief that it has no place in a modern democracy where the key word should be ‘meritocracy’, not ‘hereditary’ and ‘privilege’.

     Tomorrow, so called normal life resumes and politics rears its very ugly Conservative head spewing ill-begotten policies that will have little immediate effect on the real problems of the majority of the population in the short term, but given another two years of the Tory poison, is likely to damage our reputation and standard of living for generations to come.

 

Today was the first day back to the local pool and to celebrate I swam 2K.  I must admit this was not entirely my celebratory intention.  I take my cue from a lady who swims in lane 1 on the opposite side of the pool from me.  When she does her spaghetti-float exercise, I know that she is getting to the end of her pool activity and, when she leaves, I swim an extra six lengths and that usually brings me up to my accustomed 1.5K – which is enough.

     I’m not sure if she was making up for lost time over the last fortnight, but she swam on for longer than usual and hence I did a third more than usual.  It just made the cup of tea and baguette in the café afterwards feel all the more merited.

     As I get up at 6.15 am, it means that I set off in the darkness and dawn comes up nowadays round about 800m or so and, as it is getting cooler by the day, it also means that the extendible roof remains closed and therefore we have to wear swimming caps.

     I am not totally convinced about the need for caps, apart from the obvious advantage of keeping hair (from those that have any) from floating free – and there is little more disturbingly disgusting than having a loose strand from someone else’s head wrap itself around hand, face, or most disgustingly mouth!  I did once ask why they were mandatory and was given some sort of explanation about the concentration of chemicals in an enclosed pool reacting with hair in some way – a reaction apparently not to be feared in a pool open to the elements.

 

After much internal debate, and writing little notes to myself in my notebook, I have taken the plunge and bought a season ticket for 14 Saturday afternoon concerts in the Palau de la Musica in Barcelona.  The building is a Modernista masterpiece, and the central glass bulge is remarkable – but the thing is, I miss purely orchestral concerts.

     Years ago, I was a season ticket holder, but then I migrated to the Liceu, and opera and the clashes of dates (and the money) meant that I had to make a decision and I opted for Opera.

     I have rather less money than I had years ago, but my thinking was more along the lines of “why the hell not” rather than financial rectitude, and I also told myself that a Saturday (6.30 pm) series of concerts would never coincide with Opera, which is never, ever on a Saturday for my season ticket there.

     And the first of the concerts is an all-Dvorak programme that I can mentally hum along with.  What’s not to like?