Warm thoughts on a cold day

 

O

 

 

 

 

 

Today has been one of those November autumn days that you think you remember from your childhood: flawless blue skies, bright sun, and cold.  The world seems sharper, and the air is just a little bit more bracing.

     It says something for living in Catalonia, and living by the sea, that yesterday was the first night that we added an eiderdown to the cover sheet under which we sleep!

     The eiderdown is thin and stitched and was originally my grandmother’s, and possibly handed down to her too, it’s an antique, and still efficient and not looking anything like its age.

     It reminds me of the times that I used to sleep in my grandparents’ house under that eiderdown, in Maesteg, in the small back bedroom in a bed which I only later discovered was an old four-poster with the posts cut off. 

     My mattress was feather filled, and something into which you sunk, and which I now understand is not very good for your back and posture while sleeping, but I was only a kid and all I thought about was the joy of soft acceptance.  I can’t now recall if I felt anything about the difference of my modern bed in Cardiff and the anachronism that I slumbered in in Maesteg.  I think that forgetfulness is more to do with the fact that kids are able to compartmentalise experiences, and link places with circumstances and not extrapolate to continuous ‘everyday life’.

     An example I always like to cite concerns Easter.  Every Easter my parents would buy me an Easter egg and I would be delighted.  Easter eggs were Easter eggs to me, they were made by Cadbury’s had silver foil and them and the chocolate tasted different to that in the chocolate bars. 

     But, one year a friend of my mother gave me an Easter egg that came in its own satin finish box with a thin white ribbon holding the lid, with the egg itself positioned in the centre of the box in its own cardboard cut-out place with the chocolate arranged around it!  It was opulence and luxury that I had never experienced.  It was overwhelming!

     The magnitude of the experience might be gauged by the fact that I managed to get over my initial reluctance to ‘spoil’ anything by actually eating the chocolate and dutifully consumed the lot, but I did keep the box for years.  And years.

     My parents had never given me anything so splendid for Easter but, and this is the interesting thing for me, I did not expect such a glorious, boxed egg to be repeated the next year when only my parents provided the eggy gifts.  I did not take the exception to suddenly become the norm.  The present was from an ‘outsider’, it was something different, and I was more than happy with what my parents provided.

     Although I stoutly maintain that I was not ‘spoiled’ by my parents, I have come to realize, as I have heard other people’s experiences, that I had a fortunate upbringing.  I lacked for nothing important and, while I did not get everything I wanted when I wanted it, I had most reasonable requests granted.

     So, with the kid’s ability to say ‘this happens here, but not necessarily there’ you can navigate a complex series of domestic and relationship conundrums.  The only sad thing is that degree of intelligent accommodation does not always inform your later adult life – unless you take the ‘that happened then, but not necessarily now’ variation on a childhood acceptance!

No more excuses - you've got to blame the people!

 

My full-time teaching career started with my going for interview in Kettering, a town in Northamptonshire of which I had not previously heard.  (As I was an aspiring English teacher, I do hope you appreciated my not ending the last sentence with a preposition.)  Anyway, I got the job in what was then Kettering Boys’ Grammar School, but which had become Kettering Boys’ School by the time I took up my post.  I spent a year and a bit there learning my craft and finding out that full-time teaching was a truly demanding job.

     I had long moved back to Cardiff when the Northampton that I knew went, I’m tempted to say pear-shaped, but that image is not grotesque enough for what actually happened to the political landscape.

     This link will take you to a lucid explanation of the appalling mismanagement of the council resulting in its bankruptcy: https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-northamptonshire-56488909

     In the recent elections, the electorate of the two new political entities that were formed from the rubble of what had been destroyed by the past administrations, saw fit to vote majorities to the Conservatives – the party which caused all the trouble in the first place.  The electorate have AGAIN voted for people who callously and viciously made their lives much, much worse through criminal mismanagement of public funds.

     Why?

   That plaintive question has been echoing through my mind as I have considered the decisions the electorate have made not only in Britain but also here in Spain.

     We have recently had elections for the council in Madrid and the electorate here have voted (in a record turnout) for a council which will be made up of PP and Vox.  The first of those, PP, is the most corrupt political party in Western Europe – and that is not my prejudice speaking, just type in  “PP in Spain corruption” and you will find a shockingly wide breadth of coverage of what is almost comical illegal behaviour.

     If you want to be more specific then you could search for “PP Corruption in Madrid” and you might come across something like, https://elpais.com/ccaa/2018/09/30/madrid/1538326069_865164.html

Where, even if you don’t understand Spanish, it doesn’t take much to make out what the headline “La década viciosa de Madrid” might mean, and you will be able to see some of the unsavoury characters who have defiled the city over the last ten years.

     And people voted for them!  Again!

     In a 71% turnout, 44.7% voted for PP!  The other party that the corrupt and corrupting PP will govern with is Vox.  Vox is usually described as a “far right” party, but it is simpler and more realistic to consider them as Franco supporting fascists.  Their pronouncements and policies are repugnant.  They are rabble rousing scum.  And they have pledged to support PP “to keep the left out”.  If you add the 9.1% of the electorate who voted for Vox  to the 44.7% who voted for PP, you have a clear majority of the voters choosing right wingers and fascists to form their government of choice!

     By way of comparison, in the Catalan parliament out of 41 representatives, only 2 members of PP were elected! 

     Catalonia truly is another country!

    

     Meanwhile in Britain, the third-rate incompetents, bullies and liars who comprise the ‘government’ of Johnson, the liar-in-chief, are gifted with gains.  Hartlepool, which has been a Labour voting constituency since its inception votes Conservative.  Admittedly, it was an area which overwhelmingly voted for Brexit and presumably, the voters have seen or heard nothing negative enough with the lies of Johnson, and the criminal mishandling of the Covid response, or the Brexit train-crash of financial and social disaster to make them doubt the positivity of voting for a shameless narcissist and his corrupt crew!

     If Johnson had been watching European politics (as if!) then he would probably be considering a snap General Election.  The Zombie leader of the PPs in Madrid has shown just how much an electorate can ignore when they are asked to put their cross next to a party which is corrupt, selfish, criminal, menial, duplicitous, mendacious, uncaring, and all the other insulting adjectives that come to mind in describing your typical Conservative, no matter whether it be in Spain on in the UK.

     God help us all!

 

Tomorrow is Toni’s birthday.  The Family will be arriving in instalments and we should have a good celebration.  Perhaps then I will be in a more mellow mood and my writing might reflect that.

     We’ll see!

 

 

    

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 29 – Easter Monday, 13th APRIL

In the best traditions of British Bank Holiday Mondays, it is pouring with rain here in Catalonia.  The one difference, I have always maintained, is the lack of spitefulness in holiday weather in Catalonia so that there is always a possibility of seeing some sunshine during the day – it may not be much, but it will be there.

     Today is the damp calm before the invisible storm as the majority of the working population in designated but non-essential jobs are urged to go back to work, taking what ever microbes they have with them into the crowded metros and buses and trains as they commute. 

     The fatal proof of this economic pudding will be in a couple of weeks time when the mortality figures for Covid-19 will be examined to see whether this ill-thought out initiative has been as deadly as feared.

     It is a salutary experience to discover that in purely economic terms, we citizens are merely collateral damage, acceptable wastage, the angels’ share, surplus to requirements or any other mealy mouthed form of words to cover up the judicial execution that such a policy is going to mean.

     ‘Mean’ is a key word for something linked to the crisis that I hope is fake news, but have been told is actual fact.  In Catalan history the year 1714 is a key one.  On the 11^th of September 1714 Catalonia surrendered to the Bourbon King Philip V after supporting the Hapsburg Charles in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714): Catalonia lost its distinctive independence as it was subsumed into the Bourbon Crown; Catalan was demoted as the language of government; the walls of Barcelona were destroyed; Catalan territories over the Pyrenees were lost.  And all round disaster; but, in the typically Catalan way, 11^th September became the National Day of Catalonia and 1714 a date which is constantly seen, I have a hoodie with the year on the back and the Catalan flag on the front!

     It is therefore pushing coincidences a little that the National Government of Spain sent Catalonia exactly 1,714 thousand masks to be used in the present Crisis!

     There is no love lost between Madrid and Barcelona and the measures that are going to come into place tomorrow have met with stiff opposition from Catalonia and the Basque Country, with the Catalan President asking Sanchez, the Spanish Prime Minister, to send him the documentation of the scientific advice on which he based the decision to allow people to return to work.  Catalonia is in favour of a continuation of the strict lockdown, and I have to say that I think that is the more persuasive approach.

     Politicians should be increasingly nervous about the inevitable Public Inquiries that are going to take place when this crisis is over.  Their mismanagement is killing people and they should be held responsible.  And please, do not accuse me of pre-judging: hospitals without equipment are a simple fact; hospitals continuing to be poorly supplied with PPE are a simple fact; people dying are a simple fact.  The Conservatives have been in power for a decade: the fault lies with them – and they must pay.

The Poems In Holy Week (PIHW) period is now over and I have managed to write drafts of poems for each of the days, all of which can be found at smrnewpoems.blogspot.com  This year has been obviously different as we have been under strict lockdown and the ‘holiday’ aspect of the period has been a little ‘abstract’ to say the least.  It is a continuingly odd time as we are surrounded by literally deadly danger, yet continue to lead ordinary, safe, if isolated lives.  It is not like the Second World War where even my childhood home in Cathays in Cardiff was graced so I was told, with one (unexploded) German bomb: something tangible from the air raids.  But for us in Catalonia, at least where we are, it is like a continuing Phoney War; we go on with our restricted lives, and the medical horror is taking place elsewhere, out of sight, though vividly alive on television screens.  I think the unreality of it all is what is most obvious.  Yes, I know that the virus is real and the deaths and illness are actual, but our direct experience is limited to our own little inconveniences, not to a mortal struggle.  It’s odd and, as I’ve said, something where the actuality is difficult to take in.

     I have now printed out a draft booklet of the Poems in Holy Week and have done a few edits to get me going on the revision that they all have to undergo before publication.

     I have not yet decided on a title, but I’m working on it!  The most difficult part, I find, is writing an introduction for the collection – it forces me to look at the collection as an entity and write something that makes sense of the totality rather than individual poems.

     I also have to think about illustrations and that is always challenging.  Still, if nothing else, I do have time to consider these challenges!

The police in Spain have said that the ‘return to work’ for non-essential workers when off normally.  An interesting choice of word for anything but normal times where, surely, normality is not the way to respond to the extraordinary!

My faith in Catalonia took a knock today.  The poor weather lasted the entire day and I was not graced with even a moment of proper sunshine.  I am prepared to extend my faith to tomorrow – but anything after that and I will slip into heresy!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 23 – Tuesday in Holy Week, 7th APRIL

A lie-in this morning.  I did wonder what it was that made the extra time in bed seem like a good idea and then I remembered my expedition of yesterday to get the weekly shop, and the even more stressful disinfecting each of the purchased items before they were put away!

     It shows how bizarre the times are, that something as mundane as shopping has become a major event, for which recuperation (i.e. a lie-in) is regarded as no more than reasonable.

Although some of those in Catalan public life, including politicians have tested positive for Covid-19 none of whom I am aware has been taken to intensive care like the British Prime Minister.  Being in medical danger does simplify reactions to political enemies: there can be no excuse for not wishing Johnson well and extending sympathy to his family.  His illness will not stop the blame game both for and against Number 10, but his personal situation can now be considered in terms of the stability of government and the smooth transition of leadership to designated deputies rather than his personal day-to-day involvement in the continuing crisis.

Each day on Catalan TV we have political representatives explaining the latest situation and taking questions.  Each day we are told about the growing number of fines and even detentions linked to people ignoring the demands of the lockdown.  Pictures of people in public parks in South London and in Roath Park in Cardiff have been widely circulated to public dismay, but those of us in generous accommodation with space for separation and access to terraces or other ‘open’ enclosed spaces can only guess at the tensions for those living in inner-city cramped flats, possibly with kids, or with individual family members self-isolating within a domestic space.  In these circumstances the escape to an open space in welcome sunshine must be an almost impossible to resist temptation.

As is drink.  Catalan television has shown emptying shelves of booze in supermarkets, especially beer (or what passes for it in this country) sales of which have gone up by a substantial amount during this crisis.  This is one facet of life which passes me by.  Not, I must admit, though strength of character and commendable restraint, but rather through medical insistence.  I have not had an alcoholic drink for a couple of years and, apart from a certain hankering with some meals where a glass of decent red would go down a treat; I have not really missed it.

     Of more importance to me are those things with sugar and fat that seem to make up the more interesting sorts of foods that I ought to shun, but in times of crisis it would be inhuman not to have a treat from time to time to keep one’s sanity – and the square of dark chocolate with bits of caramel was just the thing!

On my pool walk today I was stymied at first by a pool worker being there before me.  Rather than walk around the worker, I decided to let him get on with his job without my distracting presence.  It was interesting that, although he was working by himself, he was wearing a facemask.

     When I went for my delayed walk after lunch, I was soon joined by a neighbour with a pram and we walked around the pool on opposite sides, keeping a damn sight more than two metres social distance between us!  Today I have observed others utilizing my exercise space, including a neighbour’s daughter attempting to make an (aided) circuit on a monocycle – that smacks of a father getting increasingly desperate to keep his progeny amused.

     And we have at least three more weeks of this!

The draft of the third poem in my sequence of poems in Holy Week can be found at smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

Lost!

Sometimes a harsh reality can break through the façade of domestic tranquillity.

 

It did tonight.

We had both just suffered through an evening meal of such unrelenting austerity that a cup of tea or coffee appeared to be an absolute luxury.  I was shuddering my way through the tales of terror that make up the stories in The Guardian nowadays, lurching in despair from the lunacy of 45, through the on-going self-harm of Brexit, via the laughable ideas of democracy and justice in Spain to various natural and man made disasters, when the front gate intercom buzzed into life.

We do not usually have unannounced visitors at night time so picking up the intercom to answer is usually tinged with concern.

It was our next-door neighbour who had found a small girl wandering the streets, lost and without a parent.  She wanted to know if anyone spoke Russian, as the little girl appeared not to speak anything else.  We could only offer Spanish, Catalan and English, with a smattering of French.  No use!

But after, regretfully putting down the phone, I thought of the large detached house opposite, which has, in the past been occupied by Russian speakers, so I slipped on my coat and went down to the street.

Our next-door neighbour was walking along with a very small child taking one hand and carrying a small scooter in the other.  She was accompanied by another neighbour from a few doors down with whom we had yet to speak.  The little girl was distressed and close to tears but she was comforted by my next-door neighbour with motherly hugs.

Obviously the police had to be informed, but my suggestion of trying to get someone from the big house on the corner to speak to the kid was taken up and, as I had seen lights there from our kitchen window which is at first floor level, I knew that there were people at home.

We buzzed through and we were greeted with an entire family exiting and our discovery that the kid did speak Russian and so did they, but they did not know who she was.  The son of the household was obviously asked if he recognized her and he replied in the negative.

Although the Russian family offered to take the girl in and contact the authorities, I felt that as the police had already been called, it was important to wait for them and a neighbour went to the outside of our houses and eventually brought the police back.

It then appeared that the police knew where the mother was and that the kid had wandered off and managed to put ten blocks between her mother and herself before she was taken into protective care by my neighbour.  Neighbour and girl were asked into the police car and with much happiness and thanking on all sides, they slipped away into the darkness.

Throughout this incident, I kept thinking how my own mother would have reacted.  And then stopped myself because it was too distressing to contemplate.  Even in its hypothetical state and allowing for the fact that my mother is no longer around to be concerned.

My parents told me that I had to be watched at all times when I was smaller as, given any opportunity, I would be away like (as my father used to say confusingly) “a long dog”! 

My crawling ability was legendary and my mother told me that I had to be “attached” to the sides of my crib to keep me in it.  This didn’t always work, as on one occasion I was found to be out of the crib, crawling along with a side still attached to me.

As soon as I could walk I was put in reins in a desperate attempt to keep me in the same locality as my parents, but again, my mother said that letting the reins slip from her hands or putting them down for a moment to pick up and examine some article she needed to buy in a shop was an opportunity for escape that I never rejected.

The only time that I can recall that I “escaped” by mistake was when I was too small to see over the counters in M&S.  As a six foot adult I find it difficult to think back to a time when I was so small, but I know I was because my early memories of M&S were of the wood veneer of the sides of the counters, of nothing interesting to see, and of light in the store that was far too bright.  On one occasion I was standing next to my father and when his trousers moved so did I.  I must have been in a mood of mildly sullen obedience as I traipsed around with nothing more than featureless material to keep my attention.  Eventually I got bored with this textured landscape and looked upwards towards my Dad’s face.  And it wasn’t him.  I had been following a strange man’s trousers!

I can still remember the bemusement I felt, but not how quickly the situation was remedied.  Knowing my mother, and her constant observation and monitoring of my potential fugitive propensities, it must only have been seconds.  But seconds are not what the event felt like.  I can remember no panic.  Which is interesting.

When I was a small child in the 1950s in Cathays in Cardiff, I was allowed to play out on the road with my friends - and this, remember, was with a mother who was close to paranoid (no, make that clearly paranoid) about my safety.  But I was allowed to play, and nothing much happened to me apart from the usually scratches and cuts.  There were also very few cars around then and the streets were generally empty.

I could be playing streets away from home, but I was trained to listen for my father’s distinctive whistle and reappear in double quick time.  Which I did, sometimes disappearing from a friend’s house in mid-sentence at the sound of the whistle!  

When we had a dog, the same whistle was used for her, but I have to say that I was much more responsive than she ever was.  Well, she was a pedigree Labrador!  And everyone knows what they are like!

So, the small girl is now reunited with her mother.  How will the kid think about this experience in the future?  As an interestingly confused experience with a group of people she saw once, with police and people speaking different languages, something to think back on and giggle?  Or something altogether more serious: something that threatened her worldview that showed her just how fragile what she thought she knew was?  Who knows?  Nothing happened, but what might have happened is too awful to contemplate.

And what of the mother?  As I’ve said, thinking of my mother sends shivers of horror down my spine.  I know that my mother would, instantly, have thought the worst and suffered indescribably until my return, and then she would have blamed herself and . . . well, you get the idea.  The delight of reunion would have been overshadowed by the dark imaginings of what might have been.

But let’s be positive.  The girl is safe and has been returned. 

And who knows what memory will make of what has been?

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If you would like to read drafts of my recent poems please go to:                                                smrnewpoems.blogspot.com

'Twas the day before . . .

 

“¡Valiente!” commented gentleman on the stairs down from the restaurant where we had just had lunch.  I wish that I could tell you that he was commending me on some characteristic act of bravery, but he wasn’t.  He was making a comment about the fact that I was wearing sandals.

I suppose that the 20^th of December is fairly late in the year still to be in denial about the demise of summer, but I am.  And I would further maintain that, as an ex-resident of Britain, I can still tell that the temperatures that I experience even in the harsher months here in Castelldefels are as nothing compared with the temperatures that I would experience were I still in my home city of Cardiff.

Not that Cardiff is really cold.  At least in comparison with the rest of the UK.  I noticed on weather maps that the temperatures in my city, while hardly tropical, were usually among the warmest on our benighted islands.  And for me, it was never really the low temperatures that got to me about the British weather: it was always the rain and grey skies.  

A cold and crisp December day in Castelldefels I can take, but take that temperature and place it in a sky sullen with washed out clouds and a soul-destroying drizzle permeating every inch of clothing in southern Wales and I start turning towards Strindburg for light entertainment!

And my feet don’t feel the cold as much as other parts of my body.  I am not an idiot, I remember my father’s comment, “Only a fool or a pauper is cold!” and maintain that I am neither, nor cold.  For example, I am typing this on the third floor, looking out (well, I can touch type) through single glazed French doors and windows that do very little to keep the cold out, so I have the central heating on.  We have two duvets and my grandmother’s eiderdown on the bed: we are warm.  But I can wear sandals without my feet getting cold.

They (my open feet) have become something of a defining feature of my winter wear here in Castelldefels.  Catalan people dress according to the month, whatever the actual weather is like.  December is Winter, you must, therefore, be thoroughly and warmly dressed up.  Young children display all the characteristics of victims about to be pulled apart by horses, as they wear so many layers of clothing that their arms and legs are angled away from their rotund bodies so that they look as though they are little neophyte priests with their (well wrapped) arms perpetually raised in blessing!  If my feet felt cold then I would wear shoes or trainers.  But they don’t, so I don’t.

The restaurant was at the bottom of our road and next to the beach, with startling views of the Med.  The meal was excellent.  It started with calçots - a local variety of an leek-like onion which are cooked over flames until the outer surface is charred and blackened, then they are wrapped in newspaper and served with a tasty sauce.

The real delight of this dish is that it is filthy.  You are provided with a paper bib and plenty of serviettes because to eat the calçots you have to peel away the outer layer, with blackening hands, extract the long oniony inside, dip it in the sauce and then lower it into your open mouth.  Not an elegant way to start the meal, but a deeply satisfying one!

My main course was of a fish called “denton” which is in none of my Spanish dictionaries and is unrecognized by Google translate.  I was told it was “salvaje” (wild) and when it arrived it was complete with head.  The flesh was juicy and sweet and I can’t say I recognized the type from its appearance.  The real joy of this course, though, was the vegetables: a mix including mushrooms, asparagus and peppers.  They were cooked al dente and had the sort of taste that makes you believe that being a vegetarian might not be such a bad idea after all.  That idea doesn’t last, but it is nice to have a dish that makes you believe it if only for a moment.

The last course was a sort of chocolate sponge, cream and caramel topping that I will not describe further as I can feel the calories adding themselves to my girth even as I think of them!

The wine was more than drinkable and my post meal cup of tea was acceptably strong and the milk was brought in a little jug and it was cold.  Believe you me, that last detail speaks volumes.  It has taken me a long, long time to get restaurants in our usual round to produce a cup of tea that would not have British people phoning for the kitchen police and, even though I give exhaustive and exhausting instruction as to how I expect my tea to arrive, I am constantly flummoxed by the details that Spanish tea making assassins can get wrong.

And so home after a little light shopping for the final aspects of Toni’s Christmas present and the realization that we are actually fairly well set to survive the season and to my delight and relief, Toni has volunteered to wrap the presents tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

December 21^st.

Perhaps everything that I have written up to this point as been to avoid typing, or even thinking about what is going to happen tomorrow.

The election in Catalonia.

Today is the day of reflection.  Candidates have ceased campaigning, and today is the day when people can think about what has been said (and shouted) and weigh up the possibilities and make a measured judgement about how to cast their vote.

Today is also the day when the leaders of all the political parties but their rivalries aside and join together in a photoshoot which shows them all together.

But not this year.  A photoshoot of all the leaders would be a tad difficult as one of the leaders is in prison and another is in exile in Belgium!  So the shoot has been cancelled.

Now right thinking people (i.e. me) might think that this non-happening photoshoot is the clearest indication possible to voters that some sort of Rubicon has been crossed.  The courts have been politically manipulated and motivated; an 'invasion' has been mounted against the Catalan government; our leaders have been cynically deposed; a minority government has staged a pseudo coup d’état, among other things.

It is perfectly easy, of course, to take a radically different view.  To aver that the ‘deposed’ politicians have behaved in an unconstitutional way, they have used public funds in an illegal fashion, they are seditious and in rebellion against the state.  The minority right wing Spanish government therefore, has done no more than assert the rights of the majority and uphold the constitution.

If we had a Spanish national government that wasn’t so deeply mired in corruption; if we had true separation between the courts and the executive; if we had politicians who thought about the country and not their own well being; if we had a President who had political nous; if . . . and so on, and so on.

Rajoy is President, he must accept the lion’s share of responsibility for the present situation.  He has been president for some time.  His party objected to the settlement, that passed both houses in Parliament, that would have given Catalonia a different status and got the higher courts to overturn the plan.  He has been president while the situation has worsened and he has done nothing to find a real settlement.

Perhaps Rajoy’s ‘master plan’ (I use the term very loosely for a political pygmy like him) has been to force things to a catastrophic denoument then sweep in like an avenging angel and reset the relationship with that 'difficult' region/country of Catalonia once and for all.  After all his party scrapes lower than 9% of the popular vote into his grasping paws, and he has nothing to lose and everything to gain by trying whatever he feels like in a country that has constantly rejected him and his ‘ideology’.  

Perhaps chaos is what Rajoy has been working towards.  If he has, he has royally succeeded!

So tomorrow is the vote.  Toni is confident that the independence parties will get over the magic 68 seats needed to gain an absolute majority.  I'm not, but I am prepared to go with his optimism.

As an outside observer I have been shocked at the one sided reporting of the election.  Rajoy knows that his own corrupt party stands no chance of winning in Catalonia and so the power of the right wing press and the money of various industrialists have gone into Ciudadanos that, although it sometimes like to describe itself as a centrist party, votes or abstains to aid the minority right wing Spanish PP governing party.  Rajoy knows that a vote for Cs (Ciudadanos) is, in reality a vote for the continuation of his corrupt government and the only way that he is going to get anything approaching a majority in Catalonia.

The Spanish equivalent of the British Labour party, PSOE or PSC in Catalonia have sided with PP and Cs.  They do have a policy or renegotiation of the relationship between the regions and the central government.  They reject the idea of a referendum for independence.  They have lost credibility, and in all important aspects will, will have to vote with what are their natural enemies if they wish to prevent a declaration of independence by Catalonia.  They do not have individual power or the likelihood of a coalition to get their ideas anywhere.  

The same goes for Podemos, the further left party.  Their idea of a binding referendum is doomed to failure in the national government because they do not have a majority or partners who might support their ideas.  Without power these parties can say what they like, but it is not going to happen.

Even if the independence parties gain an absolute majority tomorrow, they will have to cope with the implacable opposition of Rajoy and PP with the support of Cs and the active support of PSOE voting with these parties or usefully abstaining.  PP will, therefore, get what it wants.  And it has a built in majority in the Senate.

Whatever happens, it's going to be a rough time for Catalonia.

Keep watching!

Polite's the point!

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I weaponize politeness.

I’ve always been, so I’ve been told, ‘charmingly polite’.  But that simple statement begs lots of questions.  Is ‘charm’ something that is part of authentic ‘niceness’ or is it something which is much more self-aware and knowing?  Is ‘charm’ a spontaneous emanation of the warm parts of one’s soul or the calculating approach to get what you want?  Or, indeed, neither of these things.  I do remember from my teaching days that I always used to promote politeness as a sure-fire way of getting what you want with the least amount of effort.  And I was able to adduce example after example of what came my way through the soft power of simply being nice.

And what, after all, is politeness?  The following an age-old code of proper behaviour facilitating human interaction, or a hypocritical façade allowing cynical manipulation?

To which the proper answer is, I think, “Yes!”

The way that I was brought up followed a fairly conventional lower middle class professional path.  As teachers, my parents had a highly developed sense of responsibility and inculcated in me a series of ethical standards that were firmly rooted in Judeo-Christian-British-Welsh-Tidy-Proper approach to human living.  This in spite of the fact that at least 50% of my parental influence (i.e. my dad) was more geared towards the robustly atheistic and cynically socialist way of life.  The actual basis of my mother’s Anglican (Church in Wales) faith, I never really discovered, and when I was old enough to engage in theological discussion with her I never really came out victoriously.  Well, she was, after all, my mother and did not hesitate to use the most underhand maternal pressures that mere biblical and theological argument merely brushed against!

 

But some ethical principles were set in stone:

1              A lady never picks up her own dropped glove, it is the duty of the man (or boy) to return it to her.

2              A man (or boy) walks on the outside of the pavement, next to the road when with a lady.

3              A gentleman tips his soup bowl away from himself and eats (not ‘drinks’) his soup from the side of the spoon.

4              Civilized people push uneaten food to the right side of the plate and place the knife and fork, parallel to each other and at 90 degrees to the person, on the right side of the plate too.

5              CPs do not scrape the knife and fork on the surface of the plate.

6              CPs should obey the more reasonable of the 10 Commandments as far as possible.

7              When taking Communion, you should take the cup from the hands of the vicar and drink from it yourself.

8              When reciting the Creed you should remain standing when the rest of the congregation (though excess of Popery) kneels during certain phrases.

9              The yellow Labrador bitch is the best dog that there is and, while other dogs (NOT CATS) might be cute, they are not YLBs and should be treated as lower life forms.

10          “Fair play is bonny play.”

11          “Never refuse a good offer.”

12          China, cutlery and glass are important: always buy quality.

13          Always clean your shoes.

14          Don’t bite your nails.

15          Pronounce ‘trait’ in the correct, French way and not by sounding the ‘t’.

16          “Anything is better than nothing.”

17          Keep coloured clothes from white clothes in the wash.

18          Close the door.

19          Always say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me”.

20          Have a cup of tea and offer a cup of tea on all possible occasions.

I have just read through those 20 rules or suggestions or thoughts and have realised that a great deal of my life is encapsulated therein!

Anyway, to get back (almost) to the point.  I have been brought up to be polite and reasonable and charming, and it either fits the character that I have, or that character has been formed by the way in which I have been raised.  Whatever, the truth (if such a thing exists) I am (as Popeye said) what I am - and that’s the way I roll.

So why does all this come to mind on this Saturday afternoon? 

Well, we have just had lunch in our usual watering hole and I had the worst meal that I have ever had in the restaurant.  My spaghetti first course was over salted, the spaghetti was nastily al dente and the sauce was bland.  My second course was of over-cooked tasteless cod with a clam sauce in which most of the clams were shut-shell dead.  The orange I had for dessert was sort-of OK.  I had rebelled against the god-awful house wine and bought a more expensive (for Spain) bottle that was the best part of the meal!  And did I say a word about this?  No I did not - except of course to Toni who had had a menu plate of pork loin and half-and-half salad and chips that he enjoyed.

I mean, let’s face it: the meal was not free, I paid for it.  It was, you might say, a service.  And it wasn’t good.  And I said nothing.  I even had to pay for the upgrade on the wine!  So why didn’t I optimize my opening sentence and say something in the nicest way possible to show that I was not happy?

It probably comes down to cowardice and an attitude that could probably be properly added as number 21 to the list above: “Put it down to experience and get on with it.”

Because, one of my Great Life Lessons was discovering that people actually listen to what you say in a sequential way.  So, if you say one thing and then say another, people tend to put the two statements next to each other rather than regarding them as separate utterances.  So, no matter how polite you are about voicing an opinion about the saltiness of food in a dish in your regular restaurant, it will not be regarded as a one-off, only of relevance to the dish in question (no matter how reasonable such an assumption might be) but rather as a negative which calls into question any previous positive there might have been.

There are exceptions.  One time in Le Monde in Cardiff, I ordered a vegetable soup.  It came and one sip told me it was impossibly salty.  I took another sip to confirm my taste and, behold, it was so!  Unfortunately we were sitting next to the open kitchen and the chef who prepared my soup was within ladle smashing distance.  But I simply couldn’t drink the soup.  So, talking my courage in both hands I timidly called the waiter and intimated that there was a trifle more salt in the soup than I could handle.  The dish was taken away and returned to the chef who immediately took a spoon and tasted the soup for himself.

One taste later, the chef asked me if it was my dish, agreed that it was undrinkable and asked me to choose what I wanted from the menu - he suggested the much more expensive king prawns which I thought was a jolly good idea.  They were delicious, I was delighted and I have not stopped going to Le Monde and would recommend the place to anyone looking for decent food in St Mary Street in Cardiff without hesitation.

But with our Saturday restaurant, we are a bit too chummy with the owner and staff, but not chummy enough to have a sub standard dish dismissed as just another irritation instantly remedied.  A tricky situation.

So, in some situations, my much vaunted charm and politeness are just veneers, have no depth and do nothing except give a gloss to the problem.

I’ll carry on smiling because that’s the easiest way!