LOCKDOWN [Phase 1] CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 79 – Tuesday, 2nd June

It doesn’t help that my head is buzzing not only with the rules and regulations modified on the hoof in Spain and Catalonia, but also the nonsensical doublethink of Orwellian proportions that cover the gibberings of various ministers as they constantly try and square the political circle on various media outlets.

     No one really knows what is going on.  Forget for a moment the on-going series of lies, deceptions, mendacity and invention that are linked to the Unicorn figures regarding testing that Hancock delivers to a sullenly disbelieving audience; and set aside too, the fantasy that is rapidly growing up around the Track and Trace fiasco, what we are left with are a series of instructions/suggestions/laws/stimuli for the instinct/or whatever that are supposed to cover our actions during our daily life.

     I know that I can go out for exercise during certain times (distinctions that appear to be generally ignored in Castelldefels); I know that I can go to the shops to get essential goods whenever I like; I know that I can go to a restaurant and eat on the terrace of same, but I can’t go inside, or go to the loo; I know that I think that I can meet others outside in a park or a garden – but anything from this point onwards is just a bit hazy.

     It all reminds me of school.  But then most things do, it is difficult to be a teacher for thirty years and not use that experience as a sort of range of reference.  So, anyway, rules.  Every school that I have taught in or been in has a series of rules.  It might be an infant’s school, or a secondary school or the Open University, they all have rules.  And very necessary they are too, at their best they allow you to know where you are and they give you the satisfaction of knowing limits.  But.

     And there is always a ‘but’.  Take one school rule from my past: “When pupils have entered the school buildings, they must take their outdoor coats off.”  Let us, for a moment, forget about the raison d’etre for this rule, if indeed there ever was one.  Just consider the rule.  It is simple and easy to see if it is being obeyed.  As the pupils came into the school after break or the lunch hour, teachers were monitoring their entrance and could therefore urge the pupils to obey the rule.  Which I did.  In spite of the fact that I couldn’t see the point of the rule.  Take off coats in the classroom?  Yes, I could see the point there.  Take them off as soon as they entered the school buildings?  Why?  Still, I did my duty and asked hundreds of kids to “Take your coat off!” and carry it.

    In every staff meeting where rules were discussed I urged the abolition of what I saw as a completely pointless rule.  Every one!  But I got scant support.  Even from those members of staff whom I had seen (with my own eyes!) disobeying the instruction to tell the kiddiewinks to obey, but in front of the senior staff they all became rule enforcers, and to hell with reality.

     The rules of lockdown are there and people obviously can agree with them, because it for their own health and safety.  But in reality rules are always for others, or they are like Schrodinger’s Rules, they apply and they do not at the same time.  If other people break the rules then they become glaringly obvious and essential to maintain, whereas if you break then, then it’s . . .

    

Every day seems to bring evidence of the deliberate attempt of government to humiliate and denigrate the people that they are supposed to serve.  In Britain the latest idiocy of Rees-Mogg in forcing parliamentarians to come in person to the Palace of Westminster to vote was, after a three-line whip from Johnson, was passed.  This effectively disenfranchises those members who are over 70, with childcare issues and those with conditions that mean that they should shelter.  All that forced through to get Johnson some sort of crowd so that his glaring deficiencies are moderated by baying support from the rabid sheep of the Conservative party.

     In the USA, Trump’s forcing a cordon sanitaire through peacefully protesting demonstrators who were there because of the murder of George Floyd, just so the spiteful inadequate could have a photo op in front of a church holding a bible upside down, was low even for a semi evolved life form like Trump.  He never fails to find new depths of squalid self-referential unfeeling vulgarity. 

     Vile populist governments, demonstrating, with a sickening lack of regard, just how much they think of the people who misguidedly elected them, unite both sides of the Atlantic.

     God help us all!

Resist and Remember!

I am, with difficulty, stopping myself from using the Internet.

It’s not that I am addicted to the damn thing, or that I have to keep accessing it to reassert my essential character or that I need the anonymous accreditation that plugging myself into the world wide web gives, no it’s because it’s all too easy.

It all started with a jingle:

“You’ll wonder where the yellow went

When you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

              The sort of jingle that has lain supressed for god alone knows how many years and then, apropos of nothing, suddenly springs into the forefront of your brain and then will not let go.  The inane “tune” established itself in my mind and got stuck on repeat.  In a desperate attempt to get rid of it I began to think of other toothpaste commercials from the past.  “Gibbs SR” came and went because there was no tune to it in my memory, though as the first commercial on British TV, with toothpaste and brush embedded in a plastic block of ice, it did provide Media Teachers with a powerful metaphor for the concept of truth in advertising!  The Colgate “Ring of Confidence” briefly surfaced in my memory and then sank back drowned by the repetition of the Peposdent tune.

In desperation I turned to sweets.  I know from excited experience that, apart from physical injuries, there is nothing that people like to talk about with more enthusiasm than “Sweets from the Past”.  And, although I personally might be referencing sweets from sixty-odd years ago, remembering chews, black jacks and sherbet fountains (Barratt's sherbet fountains to be precise, the ones with the liquorish sucking tube) my own wistfulness can easily be matched by eleven or twelve-year-olds reminiscing about the times “When I was in Primary School” as if those were twenty years ago rather than the same number of months!

So, my flittering remembrance lighted on Opal Fruits.  A sweet I never really liked, too chewy and sickly-sticky for my taste, but the advertising jingle still lives on in my musical memory:

              Opal fruits!

              Made to make your mouth water!

              Cool as a mountain stream,

              Four refreshing fruit flavours!

And this is where it gets a bit jumbled.  I think that the “Cool as a mountain stream” is actually a lying line from a menthol cigarette advert, and after the fourth line the individual flavours were lovingly articulated.

The point is, I cannot remember what they were.  They must have been citrus, so lemon and orange should be two of them.  I thought that it might be banana as the third, but that is hardly refreshing.  Lime? hardly.  Strawberry is always popular, or black current or black berry or some woody fruit.

I know that I can type in Opal Fruits and all will be revealed.  I will probably be able to hear again the original adverts on You Tube.  There will be original packets for sale on eBay and Amazon will probably deliver them to my door.

But I refuse to take the easy way out.  I lived through the introduction of these sweets, I am sure that I had my favourites and spurned the “unfashionable” ones.  But, what were they?

And if I look them up will what I find out be a refreshing of my memory or the creation of a false one?  Will I truly remember, or will I convince myself that I do?

If you study with the Open University you are encouraged to be a wide ranging as possible with your range of electronic references, but the Powers That Be in the institution caution you against Wikipedia, like God Almighty warning Adam and Eve about the Serpent.  We are told that we Cannot Trust It, beware, we are told, of the Blandishments of Easy Knowledge from something that seems so guilelessly and gratuitously munificent.

The end result of course, is that we all (ALL) use it, but then look around for something more academically reputable to back up what it told us.

So much of the Internet is not really trustworthy.  My own experience of using a range of totally authoritative websites gave contradictory factual information, and don’t even get me started on my Sisyphean task of finding out the ‘correct’ punctuation in a line of Clare’s poem ‘I am’.  I rapidly came to the conclusion that the only way in which I could be truly satisfied was to see the original manuscript and I discovered that it hadn’t been digitalized and wasn’t on line.  I had various books of poetry in which the poem occurred, but there was not consistency about the way in which it had been written and, to this day, I remain unsatisfied.

It reminds me of the time when I was studying for ‘O’ Level Art in which there was, thank god, a whole History of Art Paper (On Which I Could Get Marks) and which partially compensated for my lack of artistic ability on the other two practical papers.  I had begun to buy Art Books and I realized that I had various copies of Turner’s “Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth”.  I laid all these books on my bed, open at the painting and marvelled at just how different they all were.  It was not just the colours, though those were spectacularly different - it was how the publishers chose to size the painting, how they cropped it.  Few of the books actually gave the dimensions of the painting, and fewer still gave you the materials used.  Mostly, it doesn’t matter too much, but in the academic world it matters a lot.

Let me wrench you back to Opal Fruits – which may well still exist as far as I know.  My memory fails to bring too much back.  How can I be sure that anything that I gain about them from electronic media might be absolutely true or absolutely false.  How will I know?

Perhaps TIAT (Take It As True) is now a state of mind for us all.  The musty old libraries full of authoritative books have been superseded and we have instant, overwhelming information flows of truly questionable authority that we perhaps question too little.

Do you remember the flavours?

And, no, I still have not gone to the Internet.  At least not for that.

Here we go again!

-->

 

Back to school after the holidays!

That statement is both true and misleading. 

It’s true that I did go to ‘school’, or rather a place of education for those beyond the normal years of childhood - which is another way of saying that I am getting Spanish lessons in an Adult Education Centre, though it also appears to have near school age pupils too.  Confusingly.  However, there I go, which brings me to the misleading part.  My present day schooling is only twice a week for two hours - rather different from my previous experience as pupil or teacher!

I might add that the level of Spanish that I am supposed to be doing means that four hours a week is more than enough for my brain to take in.

In a direct proof of the existence of the ‘hand of god’ element in my life, I somehow managed to pass last year’s course and that ‘success’ was used as a direct threat-and-proof by my teacher, so I reluctantly signed on for the higher level course this year.

My horror has been compounded week-on week by the explosion of fiendish verb tenses to which we have been introduced and which stubbornly refuse to stay in my memory.  Of course, mere lack of knowledge does not stop my chattering away in class, ignoring the greying, haggard faces that have to make sense of my enthusiastic but ungrammatical exposition in Spanish!  But there will come a time when surface loquacity will have to pass an exam, a written exam, and smiling-faced gibbering in roughly approximate Spanish will not be enough - or even acceptable.

This year, I have therefore decided, will be the Year of the Verb (YOTV) [And you could read that acronym in Spanish as ‘I Television’, he typed irrelevantly] and I have therefore been vaguely busy in trying to rationalise my learning.

I purchased (and have very rarely used) a sort of book/bible called, imaginatively, “501 Spanish Verbs” that, unsurprisingly contains 501 Spanish Verbs fully conjugated!  Who would have thought!  But wait, that is not all.  There is much, much more - none of which you would find remotely interesting unless you are engaged in the study of the language.  If you are, then this book is indispensable.  Truly.

And it is going to be the key to my groping way towards Spanish verbal acceptability.  The idea is to photocopy part of the introduction that gives a clear and understandable guide to The Seven Simple Tenses and The Seven Not So Simple (Compound) Tenses with a Mood (Imperative) and use these pages as my Daily Readings.  In this way, I am fondly hoping that mere looking will allow the grammatical delights to seep their ways into my brain and become something that I can actually use with something approaching proficiency.

This introduction also tempts with a glimpse of the forbidden pleasures of The Future Subjunctive and the Future Perfect Subjunctive. It says, “The future subjunctive and the future perfect subjunctive exist in Spanish, but there are rarely used” and that is a good enough excuse to ignore them completely, even if I actually knew what they were!

All displaced persons keep referencing their distant homes, and all I want to be able to do is say, with confidence, in Spanish: “When I was living in Cardiff” or “When I used to play badminton in the Eastern Leisure Centre” or “Having been educated in Swansea University” or “I am thinking about taking another course in the Open University in the next few years” or simply “When I was younger” etc.  As well as dreaming about saying, in Spanish something like, “If I had known what it would have been like, I possibly might have” etc.  As it is at the moment, I attempt sophisticated verb tenses but end up sounding like a Tarzan figure whom choses random parts of a grammar primer and hopes for the best.  Which is something!

This morning’s lesson played to my strengths.  It started late, didn’t have any new grammar or vocabulary and all of it comprises various students speaking and responding!  The two hours sped by, and the most concerning element in the lesson was worrying about whether the battery pack on my electric bike would last for the homeward journey.

As it happens it did and the pack is now safely recharged and ready for insertion to get me to my swim tomorrow.

One thing that I note is that I used the term ‘worrying’ about whether the battery would last.  Basically, it doesn’t matter.  Without a working battery, my electric bike is, well, a bike.  It has seven gears and you pedal.  It’s a bike!  It works with sheer leg power.  But the electric bike is like the dishwasher.  I am tempted to let that last sentence stand alone and not give an explanation, rather in the Lewis Carroll “Why is a raven like a writing desk” (or vice versa) but that would be pointlessly cruel.

A number of times I have started the dishwasher and then found a cup or plate that should have been included.  Now, you have to stay with me here, as I did not discover that you could open up the dishwasher and insert something part way through the cycle.  And that knowledge was based on the very first dishwasher I owned where I assumed that breaking the cycle would not pose a problem, and flooded the kitchen!  I know that with water saving and eco-cycles the amount of water used is minimal, but that is not the point.  I would see the lone cup and think, “Damn!  If I had found that a few minutes earlier it could have gone in the wash and now it will just have to wait for the next load.”  What I didn’t think was, “Oh well, I’ll wash it in the sink and dry it with the tea towel.”

As a bike without a battery is still a bike, so a cup can be washed by hand rather than by a machine.

Then I started thinking of other statements that I know that I have made at some point or other whose link to reality is sometimes questionable:

“The hoover is not fully charged, I can’t clean.”

“I’m not going to the shops because it’s raining.”

“I didn't contact you because I mislaid my mobile phone."

"I am wearing this shirt because I do not have any others."

"I bought it because I needed it."

"We have nothing in the house to eat."

"You can never own too many tea spoons."

And I think I better stop there as perhaps I am giving too much away!

If you have enjoyed reading this post, please feel free to click the 'Follow' button on the top right of this page.

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

Bits of paper!

The Open University





It’s thinner, but more colourful; my name printed rather than hand lettered; it has an impressed stamp like the other, but as a sign of the times, also has a holographic stamp too; it’s A4 portrait on paper rather than landscape and card – it’s my degree certificate.

            A repetition of my first degree (right down to the class) though via rather different subjects.  It is difficult not to look at the piece of A4 paper and not think about the money that such a degree now costs to students studying in many UK universities.  Even without taking living expenses and the cost of textbooks, you are looking at twenty-seven thousand pounds.  I wonder what 27K would have got me when I did my first BA in 1970s – certainly more than Room 816 in Neuadd Lewis Jones in Swansea University, and all my textbooks rebound in leather with my personal monogram embossed in 24k gold on the front!

            OU degrees do not cost as much, but the cost of the courses has increased exponentially since I took my first course over thirty years ago: what was a couple of hundred pounds or less is now a couple of thousand.  Such costs are a reflection of political insistence, especially on behalf of the Conservative party which was a vociferous opponent of the whole concept of the OU.  It has forced the OU to become more financially commercial with the result that its courses have become further and further out of reach to the very people they were designed and intended to serve.  It is still a wonderful institution and I am very proud to be a graduate.  At last.  Only taken thirty years!

I have been reading “Great Lengths” by Dr. Ian Gordon and Simon Inglis, which is a pictorial survey of the historic indoor swimming pools of Britain.  This was an inspired Emma birthday present to me as it fits well with the work that I did on the comparison of Hockney and Guevara’s paintings of swimming pools which was the subject matter for my extended essay in the OU course on Modern Art.

            There is still some discussion about the exact location of the swimming pool in Guevara’s paintings and I am hoping that some of the information in the book will allow a more precise identification.  There is a bibliography as well, so there is the opportunity for further research.

            The history of indoor swimming pools in Britain is not such an arcane area of knowledge as you might think.  The impetus to build such pools in the nineteenth century reflected the growing concern with public health and municipal pride.  Pools were divided into classes and the structure of entrances to the pools reflected the need for division of the classes so that they didn’t mix.  When you add concerns about lady swimmers and what costumes both sexes should use you have a complex history of social manners that delights!

            I have only just started reading the book seriously, but it looks like something to which I will return for future research.

            It was also poignant to see pictures of the Empire Pool in the centre of Cardiff opposite the bus station.  It is now demolished; an act of barbarism which I am not inclined to forgive.  I used the pool (only a trolley bus ride from my home in Cathays) when I was a kid and I used it until adulthood and only stopped when Cardiff built a series of new leisure centres which gave access to decent facilities in neighbourhoods outside the centre.

            I ended up using the David Lloyd Centre situated on what is laughingly called Rumney Common (you have to look very closely to find any vegetation finding a way through asphalt and concrete there now) and it had the advantage of being on my way to and from work.  I would sometimes debate, after a long and tiring day, whether I actually wanted my second swim, but I usually found that the car made the decision for me and while the debate was still going on in my head, the wheels of the car had followed the well worn metaphorical ruts and I was in the car park of the centre!

            It is much the same in Castelldefels.  I was a member (I still am, ah the stickiness of a standing order!) of a municipal pool on the other side of the town, but to get to it I had to go out of my way.  The nearest pool was only open air and, while that is more than acceptable in summer, it is a completely different form of masochism in winter!  When the local pool was reformed with a retractable roof I joined the centre and it is the one that I have used ever since.  My only desertions have been during the times the pool is closed for maintenance- and what happens then is a completely different story for another time.

Meanwhile, I am about to meet an ex-colleague from Cardiff who has come to visit Barcelona and we are going out to lunch to give her the opportunity to explain (as if an explanation were necessary) why I made the right decision to retire from public education!  The stories I am hearing about the administration of my last British school are heart-breaking, not only because of the misery of my colleagues but also because of the way that maladministration will make a difference to the way that the kids are taught.  It is at times like this that I remember that I am being paid money simply for being alive.  Even with a streaming cold that is something to warm the cockles of my heart!

And I’ll drink to that!

Too many new words!

This is my last weekend of freedom before my various courses start in earnest.  To be strictly accurate on has sort-of started and the other is lurking in the near future.  I have received all the books for one course and half the books of another.  Usually, of course, the receipt of printed material would encourage me to break out into my “Libros! Libros! Libros!” song (believe me the lyrics do not get much more sophisticated) which greets any package with pages, but my jolifications have been somewhat more muted for these offerings.

            The reason is that the two (count them) courses that I will be taking this academic year are both a belated attempt to improve my woeful Spanish.  This means hard work, rather than the usual voluptuous sinking into the printed word.  It means rote learning and forcing my memory to accept a whole new vocabulary.  Given that each new word in English (let alone Spanish) only lodges in my mind after the mental equivalent of using high explosives to make a space for the new information, I shudder to think about what my calcifying brain will have to do to accommodate and entire language!

            Still, the effort must be made, especially as my convincing display of verb-less fluency in the tongue of my adopted country makes most people who don’t speak Spanish think that complete proficiency is a mere nuance more in my efforts to become a consulting member of the Spanish Academy.  It would be somewhat satisfying to construct a sentence with all the grammatical parts in place rather than slurred in the Impressionistic approach to communication in a foreign tongue that I affect.

            The faux-fluency (see above) means that I am in the second level of classes for my course in Castelldefels, rather than where I deserve to be in the class of rank beginners.  This is all fin and dandy, but we had to complete an exercise on (gasp!) verbs, today, in the second lesson – and my woeful inadequacy was shown up in a series of tentative, rubbed out, unconvincingly rewritten, rubbed out again and then copied answers!

            My plea to the teacher to be instantly demoted to the class of the more comfortingly inarticulate was greeted with a blank refusal and an encouraging smile.  The way, seemingly, is now set for a true linguistic via dolorosa for my bleeding pilgrim feet to follow from now to next May.

            On the other hand this course is as cheap as chips, with the local council subsidising the cost of materials and tuition.  I cannot believe that the €50 that I have paid is for anything more than the first term, though even €150 for a year’s classes of two two-hour classes a week seems something of a bargain.

            Especially when you compare it with the other course that I am taking which is with the Open University – and which is well over ten times as much.  I am hoping that these two courses will run in something like tandem and get me to the level of A2 in Spanish by the summer of next year.

            The designation I am aiming for is not an arbitrary one.  A2 is the minimum standard necessary to apply for citizenship in Spain.

            Given the implications of Brexit and my determination, short of expulsion, not to give up my access to Mediterranean sunshine and free health care, I feel that I have to be pro-active about what might happen in just over two years time.

            I might add that I have absolutely no intention of giving up my British citizenship.  Whatsoever.  No matter what bunch of self-seeking, idiotic, self-serving, selfish bigots are actually governing (ha!) the country, it is mine own.  Like Prospero with Caliban, we are indissolubly linked.  But, on the practical side, once the UK is out of the EU (and I certainly do not trust any of the Conservatives past, present or future to look out for me and mine) I will have to shift for myself.  And one of those movements might be to apply for joint citizenship.

            The language is only half the challenge.  Another part of the examinations to become a Spanish citizen involves a test of knowledge of Spain, the Spanish People and Its Institutions.  Having just come back from an exhibition in the Museum Nacional d’Art de Catalunya of the work of Lluïsa Vidal – Pintora del Modernismo I do feel that that box is ticked.  It turns out, however, that the test will not only be on High Art, but also the so-called popular arts of pop singing, and probably even bull fighting!  I have to admit that, apart from the excellent group Mecano, I am not exactly ‘up’ with yoof culture in Spain.  I look forward to the “All You Need To Know About Spain” book for budding citizens!  I can’t wait to see what they say about Government and Justice, especially as both concepts are little more than farcical jokes at the moment in this politically benighted country!

            Just as with a range of Catalan artists that I have come to know and now can recognize and enjoy their art, so too I hope to find a whole new way of looking at this country as I make a determined effort to become au fait with its geography, history, religion (ugh!), politics (ha!), bull running (ugh!), architecture, film stars etc etc etc.

            I did take a look at some of the questions that applicants for British citizenship were asked and, if the Spanish equivalent is anything like those, then there is no way that I can feel jocose about my present knowledge being deep and wide enough to get me through!

            Last night I went again, after a lengthy absence, to the Barcelona Poetry Workshop.  It was, as it always is, a delight to be with people who do not sneer when you try and write poetry, and are respectful (or at least quiet!) when you recite it!

            The theme for the evening was poetry and paintings and I was encouraged enough to draft out some ideas based on my experience of the Rothko Room in the Tate Modern.  The poem and some ‘explanation’ is available at smrnewpoems.blogspot.com and is called, imaginatively enough, The Rothko Room, Tate Modern.

After I discovered that swimming with your mobile phone in the pocket of your bathing trunks was not a good idea and looked around for a replacement, I settled for something which was not (under any circumstances) an iPhone and would keep me quiet until I found something which would truly replace my Yota phone which, uniquely in my phone experience had two ‘faces’ with the back one being the equivalent of a Kindle!  Ideal for me.  Well, after one Yota phone stolen and the other drowned it seemed like the communicative gods of commerce were telling me to look elsewhere.  And look I did, until I fell under the spell of the Samsung Galaxy Note 7.

            This phone is, I imagine, a thing of beauty: big, blue, with screen to the edges, a pen to write with, waterproof (see above) and with a decent camera.  It was of course (I am after all Marion Rees’s son) eye-wateringly expensive – but, I thought to myself, soon the untold wealth of my State Pension is going to come tumbling into my grasping hands and, anyway, I do not smoke and therefore it is OK to splash (unfortunate word in the case of my phone) out.

            Unfortunately, although paid for, I do not have this exclusive piece of ostentatious materiality in my hot little hands.  Hands that could be hot because the one thing that people know about this phone is that the battery has a habit of bursting into flames when it is being recharged.

            That, of course, is a gross simplification.  There have been just under (?) 30 cases out of a million or so units manufactured that have malfunctioned, but that number is more than enough to create absolute chaos.

            The Note 7 was the flagship phone for Samsung; its release date was days before the new iPhone and it was backed by an intense advertising campaign.  Utter, complete disaster.

            I should imagine that the release of the Note 7 will be a key element in business schools around the world as part of the How-Not-To-Do-It class in the course.  It will be there with “New Coke” and “The Edsel” as horror stories to frighten neophyte businesspeople.

            The financial repercussions for Samsung were catastrophic with an unbelievable sum of money being wiped from the shares.

            As far as I can understand one battery manufacturer is at fault.  Perhaps.  The units sold in China are fine, the ones elsewhere might explode!  As part of the general hysteria I have read of a newspaper in Samsung’s home country suggesting that part of the problem has been used by the Americans to further their own company’s fortunes!

            My attempts to find out what exactly was going on after the release was abruptly cancelled and units started to be exchanged was frustrating.  Helplines were anything but, and I only got some sort of reasoned response by phoning a sister company in the UK and speaking to a very helpful young man who shared my exasperation as he had purchased the same phone for his parents and even he, working for the company, had been unable to get his hands on any.

            You might ask why I am still allowing people to hold my cash when they haven’t delivered the goods.  Well, that is difficult to answer, but the phone does look good (in pictures) and it does do what I want it to do and it is waterproof.  So I can wait a little longer rather than compromise.  Again.

            We in Spain have been given a date of the 7^th of October for the phones to appear.  I will wait and see.  And decide what to do on the 7^th.  But, it is very pretty, so . . .