Cold days, cool thoughts

 

 

It’s cold and wet and blustery and dark.  A thoroughly depressing day but, as I sulked my way upstairs, I looked through a window and noticed the two dogs who live in the flats opposite us, sitting together at the top of a flight of steps, just inside the overhang of the building watching the weather with patient indefatigability.

     Dogs, especially large dogs seem to be good at patience.  Rat dogs are of course more known for their insistent irritability and hyper-sensitivity, and one barely counts them (and that is my being kind) as dogs at all.  No.  But smaller dogs with a touch of Collie in them are more than acceptable and accepting. 

     Take, for example, the dog in the restaurant we went to on Sunday (isn’t it usually ONLY guide dogs that are allowed into restaurants? But let it pass, let it pass) where the dog (some sort of Collie cross) settled down almost immediately, finding himself a place between his owner’s foot and the window, and there he stayed for the course of the meal sustained only by a few pats and a scrap or two and a water bowl provided by the staff in the restaurant.

     Far be it from me to draw a parallel between a young dog and a young human, but the difference in acceptable behaviour by the latter compared with the former when grown-ups are around in a social public situation is telling!

     I should however take some guidance from the dogs opposite where their patience in this instance (usually they are yappy buggers) is to be commended, and indeed emulated.

     I half-joke with my Catalan friends that my ‘contract’ with the Generalitat in Catalonia stipulates sun for 365 days a year, and that I have an undoubted right to a refund for every shitty day I have to experience here!

     Although the weather can be bad here in Catalonia, indeed as I type the rain is lashing down outside and we have had overly dramatic thunder and lightning, usually every day will give you a moment of sunshine to see you through the bad weather interludes.  Today for example, although the morning was cold and cloudy, there was also some hazy sunshine – not enough to tempt me to sit outside with the smokers to have my cup of tea after my early morning swim, but still, sunshine.

     It didn’t last and after lunch the rain set in and hasn’t stopped.  Yet.  But I preserve my composure by putting total faith into the quick return of scraps of sunshine to keep me sane.

 

 

 

The saga of The Christmas Lunch has now developed a further chapter as another, and who knows even better, location has been found and we are going up to Terrassa tomorrow to give the menu del dia a try. 

     My most pressing concern is not the food, but the parking.  With my knees in their present condition, each step is something to take into careful consideration.  And there are lots of quite steep hills in Terrassa as well, and while going up slopes is bearable, the going down (even slight) slopes is not.

     Whatever we think about the quality of the food tomorrow, a table for the Christmas Lunch has been booked at the restaurant and so we are hoping and praying for the best.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Duolingo app continues to dominate our lives, and some of Toni’s hysteria (what else would you call the decision to take up Navajo in the expectation of earning simple points to add to his total) has rubbed off on me and forced me to make a doggedly determined assault on the points total of the people in front of me. 

     The end result of that is that my index finger of my right hand is rapidly growing a callous with the screen-jabbing finger writing I have had to do to amass the points to ensure my ‘safety’ in the top ten to guarantee my progress through to the Sapphire League!

     My enthusiasm is bound to wane soon, but until it does, I am gaining by going over yet again those points in the acquisition of a language that I have already gone through many times before. 

     Some day they will stick.  Please!

Speak out!

 

I think that Toni and I are both now officially addicts to Duolingo, the language learning app.  Not content with Italian and French as his chosen languages, he branched out today on a series of lessons in German.

     I am sticking, one might say severely sticking, to ‘only Spanish’ in an increasingly desperate attempt to get the rudiments of the language to stick, somewhere, in my brain.  Considering that I am a retired language teacher, English admittedly and usually Literature, but a language none the less, it is astonishing how little I have assimilated of either of the languages from the multitudes of native speakers who surround me.

     Don’t get me wrong.  I can find my way around and usually I am able to talk and bluff my way through most situations ranging from official business with the city hall and the notorious Iberian paper-pushers that inhabit them, to getting my car seen to by technicians who defiantly do not speak English.

     Still, my fluency in English is a constant accusation against my enforced Trappist approach to general conversation in Spanish.  Somehow or other Spanish is simply not ‘taking’ with me, and it is constantly frustrating.  There is only so much that a slight smile and a depreciating hand gesture can convey: communication needs words placed in a firm grammatical structure.  And that is something that I am still working on.

     Though, come to think of it, although I have been to Spanish (and indeed Catalan) lessons, there are still basic piece of linguistic information that slips through my brain with the accomplished ease of a Johnsonian lie.  I have not been truly serious about learning the language, and perhaps Duolingo is the sort of mechanical relentlessly repetitive emphasis on the essentials is the thing that I need to get me truly started (after all of my time in Catalonia) in acquiring proficiency in a foreign tongue.

     Both of us are well and truly caught up in the striving towards the next level and competing against named but unknown people arbitrarily placed with us in our respective leagues.

     Absurd that it might be, I was inordinately proud to have come first in the 'starting' Bronze league and to have been promoted to the Silver league where, coming in the top three I was then promoted to the Gold league.  Apart from being told that such progress is found in a fraction of the percentage of learners in the app there do not appear to be any tangible gains from such exertions, except for the kudos of being at the top.  But, by golly, Toni and I are putting in the lesson time to gain points so that we can stay in the upper reaches of our respective leagues.  So, however futile the status, there is a real gain in the amount of time put into the hard slog of repetitious learning.

     It is far too soon to know if we are going to keep the effort up.  But I have to admit that I have done more work on my Spanish over the past ten days that I have done in the past embarrassingly large number of months!

     We are both still very much in the present tense of our languages, and I like to think that I am capable of attempting past and future tenses in Spanish if the mood takes me, but there is a sort of grounded satisfaction in regressing to simplicity and convincing yourself that ‘this time things are being done thoroughly’ and ‘every little helps’ and ‘anything is better than nothing’ so that in Ruskin’s words I will be able to see whether my efforts are ‘availing to good’ – whatever that means

 

The Saga of The Christmas Meal continues, with The Family finding out that many of the suggestions that they have come up with are all fully booked!  To the surprise of no one.  However, in spite of it being late (far too late) to find anywhere decent, we (or rather they) have found a place which has dropped like Manna from Heaven, or via a cancellation and another venue has been found.

     This Wednesday, we two are going up to Terrassa to have a menu del dia to find out the worth of the place, but in late November, we do not have the luxury of being able to be picky about the place that we finally decide on.  And what can one really judge from a normal menu del dia compared with what they might offer for a significant meal like the Christmas Repast.  Still, I maintain my rigid optimism and look forward to being pleasantly surprised next week.

Next week is also my blood test as part of the preparatory work for Doing Something About My Knees.  I am not sure how much further forward knowing about the composition of my blood will advance repairing the bone of the knees, but I await medical enlightenment, that might come the week after next.

     Since Christmas is horrifyingly near, it is obvious that nothing of any import will happen until the New Year and my hobbling will have to suffice until more specific descriptions of what can be done and how long it might take.  Something, neither the waiting nor the actualité, that I consider with anything approaching equanimity.

     But, there again, all personal conflict has to be seen as grist to my literary mill.

     If nothing is done, I shall write.    

   And if something is done, I shall write.   

     Hardship is a double-edged sword to someone who writes!   

And I’m not sure that that image works.  And I do know that I don’t care.

Sacrilege!

 

Hobbling my weary way, with the tapping stick (the only jaunty thing about my walk) from the underground car park to our rendezvous for lunch in Terrassa, we walked along a couple of streets that were littered with torn pages.

     At first, I took the pages for advertising, but then noted that the print was more book like and academic.  I then thought that they could be examination papers as the text looked suspiciously question-like and I thought that I could just about make out some equations.  I didn’t stop walking, as we were perilously near being late, and I certainly did not think picking one of the pages up seemed like a good idea.  So, I kept on walking and let my mind drift.

     One of the questionable ‘truths’ that we were fed in school was about academic progress.  The range of subjects (between 8 – 10) that we took for examination at what was then called O Level at the age of 16, would we cut down to only three at A Level, and then cut down to one at University.  We were also told that this ‘cutting down’ would allow us to focus on those, and then that, subject in which we were most interested.

     In my case, that was certainly true, as I ended up studying English Literature in University where I was academically forced to do, what I had always done – that is, read books.

     Not everything that I studied in University had my approbation: some of the pre-Chaucerian poetry that we had to study, written in Early Middle English, can still bring a sneer to my mouth and, although I answered a question in my finals where I pretended that I had actually fully read sir Gawan and Þe grene knyȝt  

 

and had something coherent to say about it.  For those who have not read this, here are the ‘famous’ opening lines:

Passus I

SIÞEN þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,

Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondeȝ and askez,

Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt

Watz tried for his tricherie, þe trewest on erthe:

 

So, you will perhaps be a little more sympathetic when I tell you that I concentrated a little more on what I could actually read with some fluency, than deciphering a poem more than 600 years old, like wallowing in the prolixity of nineteenth century novels and worrying about what I was missing in the Modern Literature course that I took for two years!

     All in all, I relished what we studied, even if it was logistically impossible to keep up with the relentlessness of an historical approach to literature which gave reading lists that were unfeasibly vast.  It is not an exaggeration to say that I have spent all the years since my undergraduate course trying to fill in the gaps that our majestic sweep through literature left!

     So, to see a book, any book ripped apart and scattered to the winds, is something I find difficult to take.  I have, in my time, to be truthful, perpetrated violence against a book.  While reading Jude the Obscure by Hardy, I became so exasperated by the sheer vapidity of Jude that I threw the book against the wall of my room in my Hall of Residence.  But I also have to say, that I picked the bloody thing up and continued to read the thing to the end.  And I kept the book in my library.  But have NEVER re-read it!

 

     I’ve just remembered.  I have actually burned a book!  I bought a second-hand copy of The Naked Lunch after reading about its notoriety and read it in a sort of state of horrified delight.  I could not believe that something so depraved could have been printed.  Though I didn’t stop reading it to cast it away, until I had read every word.  I then debated what to do with such a potent piece of pornography.  As I was still living at home at the time, I could not of course put it on the open shelves of my growing library – what if my parents were to see it!  With the amazing double standards of projected innocence, I was more worried about what such stuff would do to my parents, who were obviously not as worldly wise as their young son!

     And I burnt the thing!  To protect my parents!  As if!

     It now has a place (a new copy not the burn remnants of the first purchase) on my shelves as an example of an experimental way of writing whose effects are still being worked out in literature today.

     So, good, bad, and mediocre, books now moulder (some, quite literally) on my shelves, waiting for my inclination or the current of taste to change to bring them back into my hands to be read.

     But I also know that the academic progression, refining its way to your personal point of delight, is not always true.

     One guy I knew in College was a mechanical engineer, I was friendly with him, something that did not usually occur between Engineering and The Arts as the two groups seemed to have diametrically opposed viewpoints on virtually everything. 

     Anyway, we finished our degrees at the same time and, as soon as he had finished his last exam, he piled all his engineering books in a heap and set fire to the lot!  And, as he watched the flames mount, he expressed his determination that he would never open another engineering book and that he intended to go into accountancy.  Which he did.

     I cannot imagine doing anything like that.  Three years of a degree (and he got a IIi) in which he did well, and then at the end of it, total rejection.

     Perhaps those pages on a Terrassa street were from a similar disillusioned academic – though mid-November is not the time of an academic ending.  Perhaps the student (if student it was) had simply had enough and freedom was a paperchase of white page academia on a pavement.

     I wouldn’t, couldn’t do that, not even with a Jeffrey Archer novel!

 

 

 

 

 

Where there's a will, there's an injury!

 

 

 

As domestic accidents go, being impaled by an electric toothbrush seems to combine triviality with impossibility.  And yet it drew blood!

     How, you might well ask, did I manage to stab myself with what is a fairly blunt instrument, with the bristles being the sharpest element in the construction? 

     The answer lies in my refusal to pay the inflated prices for the replacement brushes sold by the big-name maker of the toothbrush.  The cheaper alternative that I bought on line did not attach to the vibrating metal spike (the retaining, moving, part of the brush) as securely as it should have done and so it came loose, fell away from the spike and the residual hand pressure brought the spike into my face and into the right hand nasolabial fold - and that is the first time that I have ever written those last two words knowing what they mean.

     Luckily (if that is the word) the colour of the blood merely darkened the shadow of the nasolabial fold (2^nd use) and made me look a tad more mysterious.  I like to think.

     Shaving the next day did not reopen old wounds and so, apart from giving one line on my face a more emphatic outline, no real harm has been done.  And, anyway, I dabbed a bit of TCP on the wound to do its stuff and one can’t really be expected to do very much more in terms of medical care.

 

The month of May is a sort of Family Nexus, where everyone appears to have a birthday or name day and each one of which has to be celebrated.  When I was teaching in Barcelona, this period reminded me of the start of the Autumn Term in the UK which coincided with the start of the WNO Opera Season with a consequent attendance at various performances of WNO in my triple guise of Clarrie’s Friend, Friends of the WNO ‘helper’, and Opera aficionado with an almost fatal deficiency in time allocated for school.  The start of term is the worst possible time to have a multi-tasking crisis, but it did mean that after the start of the season I was able to relax into the frenetic horror of new timetables and making ‘grouping’ work, with something approaching failed-Zen tranquillity.  It is truly amazing how much you can be powered by hysteria!

     Anyway, we have had two birthdays so far: the first in a well-aired living room with mask wearing; the second in a 50% occupancy restaurant with mask wearing and ostentatious hand washing with alcohol, and the third is about to take place tomorrow in the outside terrace of a restaurant in Terrassa.

     The last of those celebrations will not be dovetailed into the time before the curfew as that particular restriction has now been stopped, so in theory we could actually get back to Castelldefels after 10 pm rather than making sure that we did get back before 10 pm with a Toni High Speed Drive of Death, during which I kept most mousey quiet!  But we did get back before 10 pm.  And we did survive.

     The loosening of restrictions is a prickly subject.

     The End of Curfew was officially at midnight last Saturday – so you had the really odd situation that, on Saturday night at 10pm you were expected to be in your home obeying curfew, but two hours later you could, quite legally, go out again to enjoy exercising your “freedom”.

     It is significant that the right wing have framed the Covid restrictions as attacks on “freedoms” and the Zombie of Madrid actually had the temerity and barefaced audacity to run under a banner of “Freedom”.  And, in spite of the astonishing hypocrisy and mendacity – she won!

     But, having painted the relaxing of restrictions as regaining freedom, it was hardly surprising that the younger population of Madrid saw a justified opportunity for celebration, and dully swarmed into the centre of the city and partied as though it was New Year’s Eve.  They did not of course socially distance and many of them were not wearing masks, and a medical expert who witnessed these scenes of mass celebration in Madrid, Barcelona, Sevilla, and other major (and not so major) cities remarked, “We will have to look at the Covid figures in a fortnight” when the new cases of Covid that could result from the ignoring of the on-going pandemic might show themselves.

     At present Madrid has a high rate of occupancy of ICU beds; it has a reasonably high rate of infection – it is a bloody good place NOT to visit, though Parisians have flocked there because as they said, “We can do things and go to restaurants and clubs here that we would not be able to do in France!”  So, Madrid has been accepting visitors from a place with an even higher infection rate in order to boost tourism – but, as always, collateral human damage has never been a disincentive to commercial gain and political advantage for the right.

     Although we are constantly told that the vaccination rate in the country (Spain and Catalonia) is increasing, and the President of Spain was on television yesterday keeping to his assurance that 70% of the population would have had a first jab by the end of the summer, the fact remains that a small proportion of the population has actually been vaccinated and a very small percentage of the population has had the second jab.  I suppose that I am one of the lucky ones, given a late-surgery jab that just happened to be a single dose vaccination.

     The fact remains that we are not prepared for an influx of tourists.  We do not have the virus “under control” and we are in the fourth wave of the pandemic.  The emergence of a new “difficult” variant of the virus would be disastrous as most people are (in spite of evidence to the contrary) looking towards old normality and assuming that the virus is all but beaten.  This is a very dangerous attitude.  And we will pay for it.

 

Although with my single dose vaccination, I should be gaining daily immunity, I am taking no chances.  I still wear my mask at all times that I am out of the house and I continue to wash my hands with Uriah Heep regularity, but with real alcohol soap rather than false sanctimoniousness!  I am very wary when in groups and keep my distance.  I take to heart, “No one is safe, until everyone is safe” and hope that others are as fervent in that belief as I am.

     Not that safety is entirely risk free.

     Today we went out to lunch as we usually do on a Tuesday and, although we deemed it still just a fraction too inclement to eat on the terrace, we were happy enough to eat inside in a reduced capacity restaurant.  Toni is punctilious about hand washing with the ubiquitous 70% alcohol hand wash which is good, but the alcohol soap while disinfecting the hands also gives them a certain slipperiness which was disadvantageous when attempting to move a cup of Coke.  The glass certainly moved, but the contents of the cup moved even quicker and flowed along the tabletop from Toni and into my lap, my meal and my legs.

     Our waiter was one of the old school Spanish waiters (though Indian) and was effortlessly efficient in clearing the table and mopping up.  My meal was taken away, and I was given an extra portion of Catalan tomato and garlic bread to keep me happy while my meal was re-plated.

     The one good thing to come of this is that I will have to wash my shorts.  The shorts are new, and red - so the Coke did not stain, or not visibly at least.  They are also too big, and that brings me to our late PM Mrs May.  During her sad Brexit-fuelled decline, as the more rabid parts of her party turned on her in an orgy of self-delusion and lies, she was described by John Crace in the Guardian (and if it were not he, then it is something he certainly could have said) as having the same authority as the “Do not tumble dry” instruction on a garment.

     If clothes cannot be tumble-dried then they should be thrown out.  I therefore buy T shirts and shorts deliberately large on the expectation of shrinkage when they ARE tumble-dried.  So, if my super plan is correct, the Coke defiling will ensure that the clean shorts are a snugger fit.

     Never let it be said that I cannot find something positive in the most trivially negative irritations!

Unclean! Unclean!

 

 

 

 

In the unfolding sleaze of Johnson’s incumbency at Number 10 (and the flat in Number 11) the suggestion that he tried to get a donor to pay for his childcare costs comes as nothing of a surprise. 

     I assume that he floated the idea of having some sort of By Prime Ministerial Appointment coat of arms that would be affixed to all those aspects of his sordid life that he could get someone else to pay for.  I imagine a coat of arms of Pig rampant on a Mount Or with motto Quod corruption vitae est; supporters: dexter, Tory Donor Lord with flowing cash; sinister, Red Wall Voter with vacant expression, beneath ribbon with motto Semper impune tuli!

     Much though I loathed and will continue to loathe Thatcher and all her god forsaken works, I would never accuse her of the moral vacuum that is the present Prime Minister natural milieu.  And to think that we have years of his corrupt and corrupting “rule” before we even get a chance to vote him to the oblivion that he richly deserves – though he won’t get it, because the Tory “faithful” will keep him in speaking engagements so that he will continue to make money out of his shamelessness.

     Talking of “faithful” brings to mind the description of Lancelot in Idylls of the King by Tennyson, “His honour rooted in dishonour stood, and faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.”  The fact that illicit love was behind the phrase means that we get an almost perfect description of Johnson, a man whose basic character is so debased that any positive aspect he demonstrates merely means that we haven’t focussed properly on the real low and disreputable reasons for his actions.    

 

Meanwhile the weather is less than wonderful and I have heard no more about a real physical appointment for the vaccine.  But, in spite of our unvaccinated status (and of course, the unvaccinated status of most of the country) we are working towards a loosening of the restrictions.

     This loosening will first show itself in the fact that we can now celebrate birthdays and name days.   The rules governing the number of households and people in bubbles and the total numbers are so complex that it makes finding out the date of Easter each year look like childsplay (and should that word be two words, or be hyphenated and should it have an apostrophe?  I only ask in passing) and no one really knows the exact details.

     It does mean that we will go to Terrassa for a celebration meal during the week and perhaps Terrassa will come to us at the end of it to celebrate another anniversary.  That will be the first out of region event that we will have experienced for the last umpteen months.

     In circumstances where the numbers of vaccinations were high and the number of infections were low, this would be something to celebrate indeed – but as the situation does not seem to be substantially better than it has been for months, it does cause a little concern.  Still, I now walk around with a container of alcohol handwash and I am punctilious about my use of the mask, so, as long as I demand the same degree of protection demonstrated from those whom I am likely to come into contact with, I should be able to consider myself reasonably secure.

     I will feel a damn sight more secure when I have my first jab and Monday will see me taking a rather more pro-active approach to my injection than I have previously.  We will see how receptive the powers that be, will be to my importunities!

 

Meanwhile I continue my daily swim and daily bike ride.

     Last weekend I was stopped by the police on the paseo who informed me that it was illegal to cycle and to prove it showed me the screen of a police mobile phone with a bike symbol with a red line through it.

     I have seen no diminution in bike riding and have therefore made enquiries about the exact regulations for cycle riding.  As you would expect (at least, if you have lived in the country for any time you would expect) exact information about the regulations is opaque.  The Tourist Information Office (situated ON the paseo) knew nothing about any regulations and indeed there is a cycle rack to park your bike just outside the office itself.  Exploration of the council website gave no up to date information, though I did discover a few dated and worrying regulations which stated that no bike should be ridden at more than 10 kph.  As my bike is fitting with a (full colour) digital display, I was able to see just how slow 10 kph actually is, and I can report that not even very small kids travel at that speed!

     I did find references to other regulations that stated that the wide part of the paseo has different regulations from the narrower newer part, and the only place where cyclist could consider themselves totally fitted was in a special bike lane which was removed a few years ago.

     As I was stopped at the weekend, I have reasoned that regulations, if they actually exist, are only going to be enforced during peak visitor times on a sunny weekend and so I will use the road for those two days.  Even though today was somewhat dull, I still took the precaution of going to Gava rather than Port Ginester because there is a clear, marked bike lane for virtually the whole of the route.

     What is going to happened during the real part of the summer is something that I will have to play by ear – or call into the Tourist Information Office in the Centre of Town to find out a definitive answer.

     One does have to careful because the police are prone to high profile fining for infractions, and ignorance of the law is absolutely no excuse in this country, even if you can point to notices at entrances to the paseo which give specifically different sets of regulations to the ones that you have been accused of breaking.

     And breathe, and exhale!

 

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - Day 96 -Friday 19th June

Early morning swim today and I’ve booked another early morning swim for Saturday!  I am getting back into the groove – just in time to be told that the system will be changing on Monday!

     On Monday the pool will revert to the normal opening time of 7 am and the app-based system of booking will end.  You just turn up.  The showers which have been taped off will be open again and this will be the club getting to the New Normal.

     As far as I am aware we will still have to wear masks when we come into the reception, and our temperature will be taken with the non-contact forehead thermometers.  Presumably we will be back to multi-occupancy of the swimming lanes.

     That will be the single largest step towards how this particular aspect of my ‘sporting’ life will be continued in the phaseless future.

     On Monday we will be in Phase 4 probably and that is only a step away from no phase at all.  Statistics still tell us that the number of cases of infection are growing every day and that people are still dying of Covid-19 – but in an age (because every week feels like one) where German tourists have arrived in a holiday resort and where there will be a general opening up of the country to foreign tourists, it is hard not to believe that we are out of the other end of the pandemic.

     I know that we are not and I will continue to take every precaution – unfortunately it is not only the precautions taken by the wary, but also those of the heedless fickle people who believe that they are immortal that will decide how the final results of this pandemic pan out.

     Most of me is looking forward to a more open approach to living, but I have a deep underlying concern about the evidence for the progression that we are living through.

     It seems almost unbelievable that the change in our lives has been concentrated (so far) in about 16 weeks.  Life at Christmas time is nothing like it is now.

     This afternoon there was a large children’s party in one of the houses opposite.  As I type this evening I can hear a large group of adults talking into the night and laughing together.  In a few days time it will San Juan when it is traditional for fireworks, drinking and parties on the beach to take place.  Catalans are a convivial people and they love getting together.  And who can blame them?

     But these days of sunshine and festival are going to be testing.  Asymptomatic people walk among us and opportunities are going to come thick and fast for the spreaders to infect a whole chunk of the population.

     There have not been obvious attempts to take a critical account of what has gone on so far in the approach to the spread of the virus and its treatment.  We are ill-prepared to cope with a second spike in infection any better than we have done with the original outbreak.

     This is a phoney war after the initial disaster and things do not bode well.

Toni has gone to Terrassa to visit his family and I have given myself a list of tasks to fill his absence – those tasks that always seem able to wait for a better time to be completed.  Large and small I have listed them in my notebook and I have made a decent start for a Friday evening.  We will see how far I get before inertia and distaste limit my achievement!