Bond is born (again)

Sometimes one’s value system takes a considerable shock. One has to rally one’s reserves of moral experience to withstand the assault to one’s standing. It takes a certain sort of person to be able to withstand the buffets. It takes character to be able to take on board a new concept and still be able to carry on as if there was nothing wrong, as if the world was the same place as before.

A film that lives up to its hype! You see what I mean! Pretty difficult to comprehend, eh?

After signally failing to see the film in the spacious surround sound of the cinema, we have been waiting impatiently to be disappointed with an overrated piece of junk which certainly wouldn’t be worth the cost of hiring.

But it was! ‘Casino Royale’ directed by Martin Campbell, but rather more importantly screenplay by Neal Purvis, Robert Wade and Paul Haggis proved to be a film worth its hire. The action of the film was competently delivered with some excellent set pieces, especially the chase near the start of the film after the black and white prologue as James Bond earns his double O status. But like The Simpsons, the real pleasure is in the moments of the script which show that someone is actually thinking about an audience who might appreciate irony.

This is a darker film than most of the Bond genre while paying considerable lip service to expected hit-them-hard and blow-them-up scenarios. It makes its own rules (to a certain extent,) and certainly wouldn’t have a place for a gently comical duffer like Q who, in retrospect seems like an extraneous character from another series of films entirely. There is humour throughout this film, but also a concern to develop a reasonably convincing character for what has become little more than a two dimensional comic book character in the other films.

For me the intelligence (sic) of the film was summed up in two instances. The first was when James had won a baddy’s sports car at a card game and as he scooped up the keys with the chips he turned to the unfortunate loser and said something like, “And the valet ticket too!” A nice detail.

The second touch which raises a wry smile is right at the end of the film. What seemed like a failure is turned around by a victorious Bond who then identifies himself, with a cheeky half smile, using the famous line which includes his name, while the background music is the traditional Bond theme. By this point in the film Daniel Craig has more than justified his use of the name and is a worthy successor.

The film is self referential, frequently using using audience knowledge of previous films to make a point. Bond emerging from the sea is a clear reference to 'Dr No' - but with a more feminist, or at least less sexist or inverted sexist take! Bond doesn't order his signature drink but creates an impromtu cocktail. There are numerous in-jokes which stay just this side of irritation.

The film has its longueurs which are more as a result of its determination to fill in some of the character back story than because of poor filming. It is trying to do something which has a little more integrity than the lazier, more spectacular films in the history of Bond. Having said that, the psychological insight we get into this Bond’s character is little more than multiple references to his ego and a little game of i-spy analysis between 007 and the Treasury girl.

The poker game is an extended episode which eschews special effects for real character tension – though the genre does provide some nail biting tension as long distance, high tec. medical help gets James back to the table after he has been poisoned and had his heart stopped: an everyday story of poker folk!

As an exciting Bond film, this is one of the best.

Pity about the song!

Another day another agency and another indication of private enterprise making a fortune off the backs of public institutions. This teacher supply supplier seems to be thriving as I caught a glimpse of scores of people staffing phones and marshalling the army of dyke stoppers to vacant situations! I’m sure that every teacher who enters the portals of this thriving business must kick themselves mentally and wonder why they entered one of the ‘caring’ professions when easier money was to be made by sending in the poor bloody infantry while comfortably ensconced behind the redoubtable fortifications of a telephone!

As my CRB check is being processed and I await my certificate of health I have time to muse over what these agencies might provide for me. I don’t, of course, mean in educational terms, but rather in what extra gadgets I will need to become a modern stop gap. I envisage producing a card based on ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ by Capote where the iconic character describes herself on her mailbox as “Miss Holiday Golightly, Travelling." She explains this by saying, "Home is where you feel at home, and I'm still looking."

On the same principle I suppose I will have to change the “travelling” to “educating.”

Oh, and the name too!

The wonder of waste!

“We nursery nurses have been put in the same band as the dustbin men.” Listening to the radio and a report about low pay and the equalization of women’s and men’s pay rates, one nursery nurse made this comparison to illustrate her appreciation of the effective demotion she felt she had endured.

The concept of equal pay for equal work is so obvious that it doesn’t merit discussion. The process by which equality is achieved and the perception of workers during the process is much more interesting and problematical.

The nursery nurse had a qualification which she felt was being totally ignored and I’m sure that there is a case to be answered, but I am much more interested in her use of bin men to show the extent of her sense of injustice. It was more revealing when she made the customary denial that she was denigrating bin men in her comparison and also admitted that in the wage band in which she had been put included other ‘professionals’ than bin men.

The nursery nurse seems to share a common view that no job is lower than a refuse collector: by a simple process of association, if you deal with rubbish then you must be rubbish yourself. Surely a false connection which would be angrily dismissed by the police, judges and the rest of the criminal justice system; school teachers; doctors and all the rest of the respected professionals who deal with things that are faulty or downright wrong!

‘Education’, we have been told from its etymological roots, is a ‘drawing out’; a process which seeks to find the knowledge inside a person and let them experience an ownership of the potentiality which already exists within an individual. Although I am not sure about that as a concept, I do like to think that this process is true in some areas. In my first year of teaching in Kettering Boys’ School I vividly remember in the good old days of CSE during one of the talks that had to be given on a pupil chosen subject, one of the boys deciding to give a talk on his father’s chosen field of professional interest: sewerage. He gave a fluent, informed and totally enthralling talk during which I heard more about nematode worms than I had previously heard in my life up to that point. He brought out the fascination of one area of human endeavour which is essential to life and yet ignored by the vast majority of people whose health and wellbeing is totally dependent on the efficient working of the system they choose to ignore.

That was a valuable lesson which has (sometimes) made me ponder on those areas of normal civilized existence that can easily pass you by.

Today, a Thursday is one of those days which encourage such thoughts. It’s a day which contains a little bit of magic for me. It’s bin day.

I have never really got over the simple pleasure of unpleasant, smelly rubbish being put out and, wonder of wonders, it simply disappearing!

Before you start to worry too much; I am perfectly well aware that the rubbish is not magically transformed into roses by the garbage goblins and that its removal is an ordinary human activity with men (usually but not exclusively) and trucks. Everyday, taking Toni to work I pass the entrance to the Lamby Way refuse and recycling depot, and sometimes get stuck behind those stunted electric, left hand drive sweeping machines that issue from the depot like shrunken, conceited milk floats on a preset robotic course ignoring with contempt all other road users.

But I still find it wonderful (in the true sense of the word) that rubbish is picked up and disposed of with the (variable) efficiency of our local collectors on a (at the moment) weekly basis.

Simple pleasures! Don’t ask about the cost!

Some people find hoovering comforting; some people delight in ironing; others are only happy when they are filing. All of these people are, of course, irremediably mad and should be treated with contempt whenever encountered.

Take filing for example; everyone has to do some at some time or other, bringing out the old shoe box or totally unsuitable container packed higgledy-piggledy with documents which would be difficult or impossible to replace. These documents will be packed in a way which, you will be informed, is according to a logical system known only to the box owner and looking completely random to everyone else.

For most people however, there is not such thing as filing; there are merely accumulations of relevant papers in various locations of spectacular inappropriateness. In most houses important documents are found rather like erratic stones left behind after a glacier has melted: surprising outcrops of papers in unlikely places.

I have known people to have their insurance documents, MOT certificate and passports in the kitchen drawer – you know, THAT kitchen drawer which always contains the things like the zest peelers which doesn’t fit anywhere else, so it lurks under the menus for the Chinese and Indian restaurants and is never found until after you wanted to use it, THAT kitchen drawer. Well, I suppose they always knew where to find them.

There are, of course, people who actually possess filing cabinets in their own homes! How can they justify such a confusion of Office and Home: unhealthy and unnatural! Unless, of course, like me, you can justify their use. Of course!

In my present denuded state with all the things that make for civilized living cwtched in Pickford’s I am reduced to one plastic expanding wallet; a rather tasteful ‘Snopake’ document carrier and a few coloured slip cases. More than enough, you might think, for a person who has most of his stuff in store and is no longer engaged in education.

I was amazed at how much paper I had acquired and how much sorting I had to do. It was at this point that a useful confusion of Office and Home came to the fore.

At one time having a stapler in the home was an innovation. Then the computer: I remember when I was teaching in Kettering the advent of the first computer in the school which was a BBC B and regarded with wonder and awe. Now computers have been domesticated and, with their link with home domestic media made them an essential part of the home scene. Computer printers often have the facility to double as photocopiers, so another aspect of Office life finds its way into the home.

But, the most startling item of almost exclusive office use a few years ago which has migrated into the everyday home is the shredder.

I find shredder use invigorating and wonderfully liberating. That sounds somewhat overstated, but it’s true! There is a finality about the shredding of documents that eliminates them from your consciousness. That uneasy feeling that to throw away some bits of paper might turn out to be counter productive and therefore they need to be kept, can be shredded together with the document in a couple of seconds: doubt gone, document gone, mind cleared! Shredders should be available on the National Health!

It is surely only in what used to be East Germany that the cross shredded remains of documents are painstakingly pieced back together again in a doomed attempt to reconstruct the full extent of insane psychotic suspicion which fuelled the bureaucratic backed spying which characterised the old Communist regime. For the rest of humanity, a cross shredded document is, to all intents and purposes, gone.

The advent of the green composting bin in Cardiff encourages the use of a shredder as shredded paper is an acceptable product to add to the garden waste that is the basis for selective refuse collection. So, not only is shredding those stubborn pieces of paper that refuse to be thrown away therapeutic, but it is also an essential part of conservation and a way of reducing ones carbon footprint.

I’ve just been watching the Budget broadcast by Gordon Brown: a terrifying experience!

His ‘jolly face’ complete with ‘friendly smile’ is one of the most chilling things I’ve seen since the last rerun of ‘The Fog’ by Stephen King. Brown smiles as though there is someone off camera frantically grinning to him to indicate what he ought to be doing. And his breathing! He’s a mouth breather; to take a breath he seems to push his lower jaw downwards and slightly outwards and the sides of his mouth from the ends of his mouth convert his lower jaw into a an exact replica of a ventriloquist’s dummy! I feel there is significance in that observation, but I am still searching for it.

The saga of the bank continues and now First Direct has caught the contagion of incompetence which had hitherto been the exclusive property of HSBC Rumney.

The story continues.

Appearances can be deceptive

“Braggadocious!” was the word emblazoned across the crotch of P Diddy as, sunglasses reflecting the flash of a camera and clutching what looked depressingly like a glass of orange juice, he made his way towards the photographer. As the lead article in the Indie ‘Extra’ and sub titled “On the road with Diddy and Snoop” I looked forward to fuelling my detestation of his life style, morals, ideas and, above all, his so-called music. Here was another example of a topic which in actuality I loathed but about which I took a ghoulish delight in reading. Into this category you could include The Princess of Wales, The Dirty Digger, That Woman and Jade Goody. I well remember a Pluto Press (oh, the memory of a left wing publisher!) production about Dianna Princess of Self Publicity which showed her picture on a Heinz 57 varieties can, and which provided a few hours of cheerfully directed detestation towards a fitting target.

Imagine my disappointment at finding nothing in the article which could not have been applied to David Beckham or Elton John or the nasty one from Oasis: money fuelled excess without the absolute, unforgivable vulgarity which would allow a self indulgent wallow in assumed moral rectitude on the part of the patient reader! Snoop smoking hash, being arrested, and then (gosh!) smoking it again the next night doesn’t really cut it for me in the detestation stakes. This is all small beer while Robert Mugabe thrives and is able to demean himself by opening his mouth and articulating his obnoxious Jesuitical (I used the word advisedly) doublethink in the soft gleam from the rich sheen of his exclusive hand made suits.

It is always good to get learning and knowledge out of the way as soon as possible in a well ordered day. This approach characterised my mode of teaching when I adopted the indiscriminate scattering of unconsidered trifles of knowledge in lessons so that pupils could then rest easy in the confidence that they had been touched by a piece of arcane information which they would never use in the normal course of their lives. Given, however, the ubiquitous presence of the quiz show on television, radio and in pub, club, church hall and private gathering, there is always now an odds-on chance that some snippet of unconsciously stored knowledge will crackle its way from the synapses and actually prove itself to be the answer that differentiates.

This occurred for me when I diffidently and conversationally mentioned when someone was trying to describe an exotic island which “looked like a maimed hand” that they were probably referring to Celebes which was now known as Sulawesi.

The trick when saying things like this is to be as casual as possible and give the impression that this is the sort of general knowledge that really is general and known, therefore, by everyone. The way not to do it is to confess that you are an ardent reader of ‘The Nerdy Boy’s Big Bumper Book of Really Interesting Facts‘ and that you can tell them plenty more super things like that as long as they don’t instantly leave the room.

It’s also got something to do with the way that your mind works. Some people remember things like names, important dates, where they parked the car and significant others’ birthdays while others know the colours of the Basque flag; the name of the Muse of Dancing and the names to go with the numbers of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies. These two types are not mutually exclusive, but in reality they do not go together.

There is also the difference in the delight with which information is garnered. For some it is the discovery of a little known Building Society with an interesting ISA for others, like me, it comes with listening to Radio Three in the morning.

I listen to Radio 3 because sometimes the relentlessness of the misery which can come with over indulgence on the ‘Today’ programme is just too much. How much more intellectually bracing is it to be condescended to by superior beings who decide your musical sustenance in the mornings and who introduce Mongolian yurt rattlers throat warbling a version of an early Hadyn quartet as if it were as prosaic as ‘Abide with me’ sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. So obscure is some of the music broadcast by Radio 3 that, when they actually play something that you recognise and can hum, you instantly feel a pang of guilt, as though they are only playing it to make you feel wanted and guilt too because this piece of populist tunefulness has take the place of an exquisite rarity which will now not be played because of your vulgarity!

What Radio 3 played was not, on the face of it, obscure: music from ‘William Tell.’ Everyone knows the overture, or at least The Tune, if not the very long introduction. The length of ‘William Tell’ makes some of Wagner’s operas look like quick frivolities, and you don’t often get the opportunity to hear it in its entirety. The selection on Radio 3 was for the ballet music from the opera. The first few chords did not seem familiar, but the music had a sort of ‘rumpipumpiness’ to it which would ensure that a single listening would brand it onto the memory. I therefore settled back (as much as you can while driving) and prepared to be entertained. A theme emerged and I jolted into a deep memory. A television programme on some remote part of Russia showed a group of workers sitting around drinking vodka and singing words to the tune of “Those were the days, my friend” by Mary Hopkins. It turned out that the song was actually based on an old Russian tune! With the ballet music from ‘William Tell’ it was someone even further back in time that was brought to mind.

The singer was Andy Stewart, and the song was ‘The Scottish Soldier – The Green Hills of Tyrol’ – you can see how Rossini and ‘William Tell’ got into it! To be fair, when I looked up the words the melody was described as Midi Sequenced by Barry Taylor. I don’t know what that means, but at least the music is not being appropriated unscrupulously.

It was a shock, not only to have Andy Steward brought to mind after a quite comfortable number of years, but also to hear something recognisable in what was unknown. A little learning indeed!

My previous comparable shock was when I was downing a pint in The Carpenter’s Arms; that statement in itself shows how long ago that was, as that pub is now the sort of place that I would not enter for a nmber of free pints. There I was (in those days of yore) just about to put the glass to my lips when I stopped in mid potential gulp as the juke box played a top ten song which used the last movement of Sibelius’s fifth symphony as its melody!

It almost sounds like one of those games on “I’m sorry I haven’t a clue” where one contestant has to say something then the next contestant has to say something completely unconnected to it.

Like “bank” and “consideration.”

Bitter!

Lack of generosity?

I want to be fair. I will marshal arguments on both sides. I will be calm.But before this reasonableness, just one little question: Can you name a nation in the civilized world which has its National Library in a place other than its capital city?

Unthinkable isn’t it?

Who would denigrate the importance of the National collection of literature, manuscripts, film, photographs, civil documentation and books and condemn it to an area which is hardly a centre of population? A place which is deliberately, perversely sited so that the majority of the population of the country find it easier to go the National Library of another country rather than its own?

Who would do this?

To answer this I would refer you to a cartoon by that master of the art, J M Staniforth. As I am sure you know Staniforth was the resident cartoonist for The Western Mail in the early years of the twentieth century. He catalogued the various inanities that beset Cardiff and gave his own individualistic take on the subjects.

It was during his time on the paper that the location of the National Library was discussed. His cartoon on the subject showed Dame Cardiff looking askance at a remote region of the country and making a slighting comment about the insanity of locating a national institution in a location in which the vast majority of the population would never see or visit it.

This may be seen as an ungenerous approach when the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth is 100 years old; but it’s a constant source of irritation that the Library is in so remote a position. OK, I know that the placing of a major academic institution as a major adjunct to a fairly remote university gives the whole area a cachet which can only encourage future development, not only of the institution but also of the area in which it is sited.

I also know that the unique holdings of the National Library will make it an essential port of call for some academics wherever it is. But the ‘casual’ non-specific academics of Swansea, Newport and Cardiff are never going to traipse up to Aber rather going to the British Library – the vast majority of the people of Wales are denied the use of their own library because of a political decision of social engineering.

Prejudice can be so refreshing sometimes! (Oh, yes, by the way, Happy Birthday!)

An excellent curry in Dinas Powis with a very interesting selection of cheeses: a rock solid chevre; a subdued blue cheese which was pleasant, but left you wanting a real Stilton; an exotic boursin with nuts and figs and, finally, a cider flavoured, crust covered brie – an exotic selection. Talk about one upmanship!

It was also good to find other members of the select fraternity of Worried House Sellers. Sue and Richard seem to be in the same situation as I find myself: waiting for a “sufficient” buyer. We’re all waiting for that next stage when our worry can go to the next level.

I can’t wait!

Not sure about that!

There is a book with the title of something like, “The World’s Most Boring Postcards” which contain a mind bendingly amazing series of inconsequential scenes which had been dignified with a postcard of their very own.

I have now joined this distinguished company by virtue of a photograph which has been commissioned and sent to Catalonia. It depicts, as you can see, the Clarks shoe outlet in MacArthur Glen. I could just as easily have sent a photograph of Matalan on the Newport Road in Cardiff.

Neither store is marked by its inventive marketing or by its innovative architecture: they are boring, run of the mill stores which sell things.

Their distinction, however, becomes clear when you place a few (or a couple) of shopaholic Catalans in their proximity. Then you see the transformation; suddenly the drab becomes exciting, the ordinary becomes enticing and the available becomes a craving!

Other people’s enthusiasms are fascinating at best and are surely contemptible in the ordinary run of things!

Mark Twain can make the minutiae of a Mississippi paddle steamer interesting; Melville – whaling; Zola - coal mining; Orwell – dish washing: but there are limits.

No one can ever make American Football anything other than what it is: tedious, bombastic, pretentious, overblown, unexciting and corrupt. It’s strange; part of that diatribe was provoked because of America’s inability to appreciate the superiority of real Association Football. I speak as one who is not an enthusiast for Football (though I can recite virtually all of the Barca team) but the superiority of Football above the game the over-padded hulks play is so obvious that it seems almost like arrogant, xenophobic blindness on the part of the Americans not to be able to realise it. Seems? I know not seems my lord!

Teachers spend their time with people who don’t really want to be listening to them and don’t really want to progress in their subjects. I know that there are those students who make the job worthwhile who do share an enthusiasm for the subject in hand, but the majority are ‘pressed’ rather than ‘volunteers’ and that should make us more liberal about the interests of the vast majority of the population who are just not like us. I sometimes think that if I can appreciate that there are people in the world who do not enjoy reading, and then any type of emotional identification is possible!

I have to say that this has not helped me to appreciate rap music any more convincingly. And I feel that it never will.

At last a film which I can truly say that I enjoyed: “Pan’s Labyrinth” a film by Guillermo Del Toro. It was set in Franco’s Spain in 1944 and concerned a young girl and her pregnant mother who were travelling to be with the girl’s new stepfather, a vicious captain in Franco’s fascist forces trying to eradicate a group of guerrilla fighters hiding in the forest. This story of personal and political struggle was intermixed with a magical realist story of the girl being a lost princess of a magical kingdom.

Any account of a Civil War usually points up the extraordinary cruelty which usually characterises such conflicts. This is no exception and some of the almost casual physical viciousness makes for very uneasy watching. The fairy tale elements seem to counterpoint the historical story: the cruel step-parent; the search for a child; loyalty in difficult circumstances; the making of choices; various forms of test; the loss of friends and the conflict of good and evil – all these have their place in both strands of the narrative.

“Pan’s Labyrinth” uses the high emotion which is a natural association with the Spanish Civil War and skilfully weaves a gripping story of moral struggle, perhaps best exemplified by the action of the doctor in giving a fatal injection to the captured revolutionary and then calmly answering the captain expressing his own concept of individual freedom at the cost of his own life.

The whole concept of a civil war invokes images of the family, so the story of the mother/girl/captain irresistibly presents the viewer with an image of the country torn by the divided loyalties and the redefinitions which a civil war inevitably forces on the people affected by the conflict.

At one point the doctor points out that the revolutionaries are involved in a struggle that they cannot win, and we are reminded by this that, historically, he was absolutely right: Franco won, and stayed in power for forty years; evil won.

The film however, is not pessimistic: even though mother and child die – the newborn is saved and will grow up as a denial of everything that his father hoped for him. The magical element of the story also allows the girl to be re united with her mother and to find he long lost father: the family is complete, just as, if you push the analogy; Spain was to find a new identity with the re-establishment of the monarchy and the espousal of democracy.

This is a film which invites interpretation and a solving of the puzzle of what historical or contemporary significance it might possess.

Something to watch again!

Thou living Aton, the beginning of life!

“Never speak ill of gadgets, Algernon: only the lesser breeds without the law who read the instructions do that!” How true Lady Bracknell’s words ring in today’s society. One can only sympathize with her denuded state as she struggled for so many years without a capacious handbag in which to keep her various pieces of electronic hardware. How is civilized life possible without the vast spaciousness of various storage areas about one’s person to accommodate the essential sinuous impedimenta of normal electronic living?

Consider the normal holiday maker or traveller; what would, say a retired teacher think of taking on holiday for a week? The following is a list of only the most essential, basic electronic products that any self respecting modern traveller would take.

1. A laptop
2. A hand held computer
3. A digital camera
4. A video ipod
5. A set of mini speakers for the ipod
6. A Nintendo Lite
7. A mobile phone
8. A portable DAB radio
[Note: the DAB radio is aspirational rather than an actual possession – but time will tell!]

There was a time, of course, when all that electronic equipment would have needed its own articulated lorry to transport it about the place but now, thanks to the miracles of micro technology the individual elements in the list above are all reasonably portable; apart from the laptop, the rest of the products would barely fill a side pocket on a back pack.

Size of product is no problem for the traveller. But we have a question that in its complexity mirrors the query that perplexed so many medieval theologians. They may have asked, “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” The modern question which taxes so many technophiles is, of course, “How do you power all your gadgets?”

The last time I went on holiday half my case was taken up with a writhing mass of power leads and various inert black masses of solid transformers. Then, whenever a gadget ran down I had to search through the knotted skeins of leads and try and solve the Gordian problem and extricate the appropriate lead before finding out that I didn’t have the correct plug.

Electronic companies, as everyone knows, meet in secret conclave to agree a unified approach to ensure that all companies have mutually exclusive adaptors to maximise the inconvenience that miniaturizing gadgets seeks to eliminate.

I have however, confused “their knavish tricks” and managed to decrease my carbon footprint (see earlier blog entry) at the same time. I have purchased another gadget. This might seem to be a paradoxical position to be taking up, but what I have purchased is a portable solar energy charger with, amazingly enough adaptors to power up all my little gadgets: I feel very virtuous! Time, of course, will tell whether the little device (not much bigger than a fat calculator) will be able to charge fully all the devices mentioned above.

Wales has beaten England! Hoorah hooray O frabjous day! We turned over to see Barca play before it became clear whether or not Wales had been awarded the wooden spoon. I suppose that the newspapers tomorrow are going to be full of the “if they had played like this earlier in the season, etc” way of reporting. It was a truly exciting match with an explosive opening when all Welsh expectations must have received a boost with the early score. There was also a horrible sense of déjà vu as the seemingly healthy lead was whittled away! But we confounded sceptics, pundits and expectations and won!

I was particularly impressed by the tribute to Shirley Bassey which characterised the shirts of the Welsh team. The chest area of the Welsh shirts seemed to be gleaming with a tasteful arrangement of what looked like well spaced sequins. How encouraging to note that our national team can draw inspiration for the archetypal old trooper from Monte Carlo and they, of course, “did it their way, and they were what they were!”

Should that have been in quotation marks?

Probably not.

Presume not God to scan!

Just as we are getting used to mild weather and looking forward to an early outbreak of unaccustomed sunshine in the rain drenched land of Wales, God strikes back.

We have been told by the utterly reliable weather forecasters that Winter (note the capitalization) will return with a Vengeance and smite all the flowers that have had the temerity to poke their heads through the loamy mantle of the warm covering of earth which has erstwhile protected them.

Well, obviously not in the case of my garden which, as I have had occasion to mention before, is of the instant colour variety. It follows that the tender blooms which have seen their pampered birth and adolescence in the unutterable luxury of a greenhouse will now have to come to terms with adverse weather directly on their “yet unbruised” petals. Reality is about to hit!

As a sort of pre-memorial to their ‘o so short’ lives I have taken a series of photographs so that they can live on in electronic pixels. Because of the hectoring of Paul Squared, I have taken a picture of some sort of flowering climbing plant in his garden which is now in full bloom and ripe for perishing in the forthcoming frosts. If nothing else their nutrient rich carcases will provide nourishment for the soon to be planted border plants! Nothing goes to waste in my ecological (sic) garden.

Another milestone has been passed in the underlining of the reality of the title of this blog. An offer (a woefully inadequate offer) has been made for the house. Irony or irony, it was the couple (with Mum) who Toni took round the establishment. If they should buy the place I will never (repeat never) be allowed to forget who sold it! Given the necessity of sun, I am prepared to live with burden of constant reminders.

If the potential buyers can come up with the right mortgage then it will be interesting to see how quickly a house can be sold. I have been told that I should allow something like 12 weeks or three months for the necessary paper work to be completed. As I have nothing to buy, I fail to see why it should take so long. Let’s face it the legal profession have been about their business for some time and it would argue a monumental indolence if they had not ensured that in house buying Nothing Is Simple. I am preparing to have my patience tested to the limit.

Next Tuesday is the day appointed for the potential buyers to have their mortgage potential assessed and that is the day, presumably, when I will find out if their financial capabilities are sufficient to match my asking price.

If they are, then all hell breaks loose and Stage II of the winnowing of my possessions will start to loom large in the ‘tareas’ of future weeks!

I look forward to frustrating the necessity of having to take on distasteful work to supplement my dwindling savings; apart of course from anything that the BBC would like to throw my way.

“All right, Mr. De Mille, I'm ready for my close-up.”

"Our virtues lie in th'interpretation of the time"

So, shouty acting is alive and well and being presented on stage in Stratford. Thirty years after being deafened by Alan Howard as Coriolanus I was similarly assaulted by William Houston attempting the role today.

This was a flawed production which seemed to be overawed by the social, political and historical possibilities that the play presented. Elements of ideas were tantalizingly offered and then not developed.

The explosive start of the production with a sudden lighting effect with a loud musical chord and citizens running through the audience to the stage was not sustained. There were some interesting moments but no satisfying dramatic sequence. One visual construction was provided by soldiers hoisting Coriolanus to the height of their shoulders with two large spears on either side. Coriolanus was framed by these two spears and made an athletic leap to the floor – drama and incident; but there were too few moments to remember.

The costumes were a take on Shakespearean classical and were colour coded to differentiate the plebs, the pats and the conspirators. Rather autumnal colours.

The set was the most positive element in the production. Six blocks on either side of the stage with a large painted marble flat with corniced doorways, behind this flat a second level of doorways: this gave a sort of Renaissance false perspective effect to the back of the stage. The scenery was mobile with large sections doubling for doors and the outer walls of a city. It was used effectively and was visually compelling.

Timothy West was, unusually in my experience, unsure of his lines and entrances and made many fluffs; indeed so many were his mistakes that each time he ventured on a speech he provoked tension as you waited for him to get safely through.

Some of the smaller parts were played with all the panache of an amateur dramatic society and they detracted from the central performances.

In short the central character failed to elicit sympathy because of his amazingly mannered vocal delivery: he sounded as though he had taken a few master classes with Ian Mckellen, but had only managed to assimilate the more outré aspects of Mckellen’s delivery. His performance is best exemplified by his solo bow at the end of the play: a convulsion which almost knocked his head against his knees – form without content (like much of his performance.)

If I have to wait another thirty years to see another production, I only hope that my eighty six year old eyes and ears will be treated to something more satisfying that this Stratford production.

The most unexpected aspect of the trip to Stratford was the finding of a Singaporean restaurant a few hundred yards from the theatre. This was the Georgetown which boasted Colonial Malaysian Cuisine and, for £7-50 we had a more than acceptable two course meal, tasty and satisfying – which was more than could be said for the production we saw!

Toni was volubly confident about the quality of his house showing abilities after taking potential buyers around the house while I was chatting my way down the M50 in a bus filled with Year 11 and 12 Drama students from Llanishen High School.

It was an oddly disconcerting experience going back to the school though as one of my erstwhile colleagues said, “Just back to gloat are you?”

Let’s face it; I was!

The Play's The Thing!

The epic marathonic odyssey of cleaning preparatory to the viewing of the house is complete.

I’m sure that there are some glaring examples of “what not to show” waiting for the eagle eye of the buyer to discover, but, ‘I am exhausted, therefore it is clean’ is, and always will be one of the great axioms of housework.

I await with interest to see if there is any interest.

Meanwhile there is still time for me to refresh my memory about ‘Coriolanus’ I can still see in my mind’s eye Alan Howard disdainfully displaying his wounds for the hoi polloi to wonder at. I was never entirely sympathetic with Howard’s style of acting; even sotto voce he gave you the impression that he was a bellower whispering.

For me he lacked subtlety and his mannered delivery always limited my emotional identification with his portrayal of character. As I remember it (from thirty years ago!) the setting was rather stripped down with the emphasis on the words – not bad in itself, but I can see nothing wrong with an elaborate appropriate set.

The set for the Markopoulos Case in WNO’s Maria Bronstrom (?) was almost Heath Robinson like in its detail, but effective certainly.

I am looking forward to this production and you will have to excuse this slip shod piece of jotting as I have to settle down and get Coriolanus read!

Again.

. . . and these are my books!

“It’s all done by mirrors!” is the time honoured cry of knowing spectators when a stage magician has created an illusion so stupendous that it threatens the universe of the audience. They cannot envisage how such a denial of the everyday can occur in front of their eyes, so they have to find the simplest most ordinary explanation for the inexplicable: mirrors.

A similar reaction takes place in domestic libraries when the serried ranks of books confront the sort of person who thinks that a room looks untidy if there are tomes lying about. As a person who has amassed a few books in his time I can list the questions and comments of such people, I will also add what they really mean.

1 “Gosh, what a lot of books you have!” This actually means, “God, you sad bastard, can’t you think of anything more useful to spend your money on?”
2 “Have you read all these books?” This actually means, “He’s only doing this for show, well, he doesn’t impress me.”
3 “How long has it taken you to get all these books?” This actually means, “You’ve been a sad bastard for a long time haven’t you?”
4 “Who is your favourite author?” This actually means, “I can’t really think of anything to say.”
5 “What is your favourite book?” This actually means, “I really can’t think of anything to say.”
6 “Oh, I’ve read this one as well!” This actually means, “Thank God I recognize one of these bloody books.”
7 “Do you have any really valuable and rare books?” This actually means, “I want to go home now, but if you’ve got a first folio I’ll pinch it to make up for looking at all these sodding books.”

Actually, it is exceedingly rare for someone to get in seven questions when a proud owner is standing in front of his pride and joy.

Some people never realise that book owning and book reading are not necessarily the same thing. You can enjoy reading helped by a decent local library and willing friends. You can buy books and immediately pass them on, give them to Oxfam or use the wonderful system devised by http://www.bookcrossing.com/ (really, if you don’t know about this system, look at the web site, it is such a good idea!)

But there are others who join with Ruskin’s sentiments expressed in my favourite quotation of that writer, “If a book is worth reading it is worth buying.” Like the Jesuits, that quotation found me young and claimed me for life!

There is something about the feel and look and smell of a book – any book – which is completely different from the experience of reading words on a screen. I have read complete books on my handheld up to and including C19th brick novels and found it relatively easy and congenial, but nothing like an actual book. But this is sounding like antiquarian ramblings so I will get back to my point.

Book lovers and avid readers always (as far as finance will allow) have unread books lying around and on their shelves.

A recent teletext survey http://www.teletext.co.uk/AboutUs/news.aspx?id=306 has discovered the most unread novels: those novels bought or acquired, started but not finished.

The lists they produced gave these five as the most unread fiction:
Vernon God Little - DBC Pierre
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - JK Rowling
Ulysses - James Joyce
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell

And these as the top five non-fiction titles as the most unread:
The Blunkett Tapes - David Blunkett
My Life - Bill Clinton
My Side - David Beckham
Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation - Lynne Truss
Wild Swans - Jung Chang

I don’t know whether I should feel encouraged or depressed by the fact that I have only read three of these ten titles – but I did read the all the way through, and I don’t have any of the other titles languishing on my shelves either here at home, or a little further off in the storage facility of Pickfords.

Wait a minute, that’s not true – I do have one volume unread, even though I did read part of it in a country where it was banned: on the steps of the Alcazar in Toledo. It was only when I was halfway through the guided tour of the Alcazar that I suddenly realised that I was standing in a monument to fascism! At least I had a corrupting book with me which, as it turns out, neither I nor Franco had read. From that it should be clear which book I am talking about, still lying unfinished in storage in deepest Pickford’s.

I was most interested by the inclusion of Rowling and Joyce in the lists. I am sure that the two ‘great’ novels by Joyce remain the undisputed champions of bought but unread classic literature in English in the Twentieth Century.

The Rowling is a more interesting case. I was loaned the volume for one (1) day by Gwen. That was a concession because she calls me ‘uncle’; otherwise I would not have got my hands on her book! I duly read the volume and returned it to an expectant Gwen. A Hard Night’s Read.

If the volume is unread it must be by adults; kids plough through the verbiage and come back for more. It is good to see a genuine popular novelist with the length, if not the gravitas of Dickens being devoured by a mass audience. As I have always said, “Any reading is better than no reading” and reading at length of a connected narrative is all the better.

It is nice (in the right sense of that word) to report that there are to be two more viewings of the house which might make the title of this blog a little more apropos. On Thursday to Stratford to see a production of ‘Coriolanus’ in the Memorial Theatre: such larks! Depressingly I have just worked out that the last time I saw 'Coriolanus' in Stratford was thrity years ago with Alan Howart in the title role.





Sigh!

Meanwhile, house cleaning.

Sigh!

It all depends what you mean by harmful!

The one interesting part about buying shoes when I was a child was The Machine.

Norvic Kiltie (?) was a firm I seem to remember which made kids shoes. The reason I (half) remember the firm is because they used to send me a birthday card: I thought that was very cool. I didn’t actually use a word like that, though, at that time in the 50s it was being used by long haired weed smokers with real sincerity.

Norvic Kiltie (?) were good with the cards but they didn’t have The Machine.

Let me explain. When you bought new shoes, or your mother forced you to buy something as boring as new shoes, it was a considerable investment. They had to be right. To convince worried mothers that their little darlings were being shod in the right way The Machine could give ocular proof that the little feet were correctly aligned in the new shoes. To achieve this the child put his feet in what looked like a giant letter box opening while the assistant and or mother looked down a viewing porthole above the feet. What they saw was a ghostly outline of the shoe with the second ghostly outline of the bones of the little foot, almost as if The Machine was using x-rays!

This was the fifties, and The Machine was using x-rays! Unprotected! In a shoe shop!

It’s the sort of thing that leaves you breathless with horror, but at that time atomic power was seen as the ultimate type of friendly power, a source of cheap unlimited electricity, so cheap that the metering of the electricity in your house would not be worth it! We all live and learn!

Though not apparently the Labour Party.

They are seriously discussing the advisability of renewing the Trident system of nuclear weapons. One feels that this is yet another betrayal. Yet one only has to read a very helpful site devised by completely neutral newspaper, The Telegraph, to wonder about the commitment of the Labour party to an issue which is close to my heart. The site gives questions and answers about the Trident nuclear missile debate at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2006/12/04/uqanda104.xml from which I have extracted the following:

“Hasn't Labour always been the anti-nuclear party?

No. It was Labour's post-war leader Clem Attlee who first set up a committee to look into the possibility of Britain acquiring nuclear weapons.

Aneurin Bevan told anti-nuclear activists in 1957 that giving up the bomb would mean Britain's Foreign Secretary "going naked into the conference chamber" in international negotiations.

Harold Wilson conducted the first tests of the UK's Polaris system.

Apart from a brief flirtation with unilateralism in the early 1960s, it was only under the leadership of CND founder member Michael Foot that opposing nuclear weapons became official party policy from 1980, until the position was dumped by Neil Kinnock in 1989.

Labour's 2005 manifesto committed the party to retaining the independent nuclear deterrent, but many left-wing MPs will most likely rebel against Trident's replacement.”

I’m not sure what this illustrates, but I certainly feel lonely still clutching my anti-apartheid CND ethos in an age of football players aspiring to ‘earn’ £100,000 a week or sports shoes costing over £150 a pair.

Watching ‘The Departed’ with another, excellent performance by DiCaprio I began to wonder why a perfectly acceptable, but unremarkable action film had so many competent and recognisable actors in it. At the end the director’s name made it all clear: Martin Scorsese.

That man’s name must be a sort of Royal Command when the possibility of acting in one of his films is mooted.

The basic premise of the film: the infiltration of a loner failed cop into the gang of the leading Boston criminal fraternity in an attempt to gain enough evidence to get the head of the organization incarcerated is complicated by the existence of an informant in the very organization trying to get him imprisoned. This narrative outline is, to put it mildly, hackneyed.

The filming is competent and there are some very effective scenes of violence which are almost balletic in their choreography, but there is little to distinguish this film from many others.

DiCaprio’s performance, in my opinion, is head and shoulders above everyone else. His portrayal is detailed and convincing and what ever he does, says or even when he says nothing, he commands attention.

Jack Nicholson does what Jack Nicholson does on film: looks manic and demented and does that thing with his eyes so you can see the whites; presumably that’s why he was employed – to play the disreputable and slightly disgusting character, but with charisma enough to make us mildly concerned about what happens to him.

The end of the film is like the end of a Shakespearean tragedy: bodies everywhere. There’s a nice little coda and an obvious symbol which anyone other than Scorsese would have hesitated to try and get away with.

A competent little film, but compared with the second film we chose, ‘The Guardian’ directed by Andrew Davis, it is an unparalleled masterpiece on a par with ‘Citizen Kane’.

‘The Guardian’ is an unscrupulous piece of filmic collage, mindlessly stitching together bits from better films and actually expecting the audience to be surprised by the narrative direction.

One to miss.

Though one has to say that two elements of idiocy remain in the mind: the gung-ho shout of “OohhArgh!” as a sort of clan cry of the coastguards which fits just about everywhere in a normal conversation with militaristic devotees. The other interesting phrase was “pop tall” which seemed to mean something like, “Do please rise from that uncomfortable recumbent position and feel free to extend your frame in a vertical direction, and, if you could do it quite expeditiously I would be enormously grateful.”

It does seem to me to indicate a film of some vacuity if that is the level of memorability!

I want my money back

Stepping Out In Style

Every day and in every way, Life sets out to get me. It is hard not to be cynical when the little vicissitudes of everyday existence prove so troublesome.

Take the simple act of buying a new pair of trainers. Now, I know if I were to be true to my upbringing I should refer to them as ‘daps’ a word which was common in my youth and now, at least in Cardiff, seems like a word as archaic as the phrase ‘considerate bank.’ I suppose that, even in my youth, there would have been a differentiation made between ‘sports shoes’ and ‘daps.’ Sports shoes would have been white and probably Dunlop Red Flash – I cannot really remember other sports shoes; that was the choice available! While ‘daps’ would have been black with particularly cheap moulded hard plastic soles.

Any parent reading the above must sigh with bitter nostalgia at the halcyon days when children would have been satisfied with a no-choice, inexpensive pair of sports shoes. Now their brand-savvy, finger-snapping, instant-gratification demanding offspring expect ‘trainers’ with correct logos, coloured laces, fluorescent insoles, built-in mp3 players, micro-chip-air-adjusted features and platinum eyelets which cost the same as a small terraced house in the Rhondda.

Alas my sarcasm is so slow footed that, since I ended that last sentence and ventured out into the wide world, a poster in my own dear Rumney is advertising a more advanced sports shoe which now automatically adjusts itself with each step that the wearer takes incorporating with what looks like a volume control built into the side of the sole. I have not had the audacity to find the shoe on the internet as I would probably become inarticulate with rage at the grossly inflated and that would never do when writing a blog! How quickly fantast is outstripped by what passes for reality nowadays!

I excoriate the cynical exploitative commercial approach of trainer manufacturers who produce over priced fashion articles with gimmicky extras.

However. Yesterday on a trip to McArthur and Glen as Toni will have it and an unwholesome rush through the shops (remember Toni was there as well) produced little that was buyable. I was not, as usual, allowed to linger but we did make a resentful visit to the Nike shop. This is usually a fruitless expedition but yesterday, as I needed sports socks which did not act as tourniquets around the ankles, it was a worthwhile diversion. It was then that Toni saw them: things from the outer reaches of fantasy, fabulous, unobtainable.

Nike Air 360! Retailing for £130! Sports shoes for the professional, or the rich, or the insistent! Playthings for chavs and those with more money than sense.

But at £30 a pop, up or grabs, I think!

So grab we did, luxuriating in the idiocy of the really rich and stupid who had stopped buying these masterpieces of air technology (hollow soles and heels) because in small embroidered print along the line of the eyelets on the shoes was the crucifyingly embarrassing information ‘2 0 0 6’; last year’s model by three months and therefore something in which the discerningly mindless dresser would not be seen dead. Undiscerning fashion necrophiliacs like Toni and my good self rejoice in the leavings of the pretentious and spendthrift poseurs who bring the unobtainable to the levels of reasonableness that tempt even an old skinflint like myself. It’s not that I’m mean, but memories of what one used to pay for these shoes (which seemed at the time to be more than adequate) indicate that even £30 is grossly overpriced.

Toni was much pleased with his purchase and paraded in a frankly insulting manner in front of me, asking with affected concern how my shoes were feeling. The reason for this unreasonable behaviour was that the shop assistant had neglected to remove the security tag from the tongue (?) off one of the shoes.

I have a morbid middle class fear of the security tag. This is partly base on wearing a new pair of trousers on holiday and virtually having to strip before I managed to get through the security machine at the airport going out. A later trip, during the same holiday, to El Corte Ingles in Barcelona was less fortunate when I set off the exit security system and had to be taken to a ‘little room’ for security checking. It eventually turned out that my trousers still had a small raised self-adhesive plastic strip which activated the alarm. A very understanding security guard explained in Catalan to a Toni transfixed with embarrassment that it was quite common and have a good day and all that.

There’s also the fear (urban myth) of the exploding security tag. I understood that not only did security tags have some sort of radio transmitter secreted somewhere in their plastic construction but that they also had a ampoule of indelible ink inside which would break if unauthorized tampering occurred and stain garment and unhallowed hand.

I think that I had visions of some sci-fi scenario acting itself out with the liquid spraying itself towards the miscreant who had absconded with a tagged garment and where the liquid landed the skin and flesh would dissolve, bony fingers clutching at flesh denuded face and everything stained a fluorescent purple. Or something.

Anyway, I don’t mess with tags so I was prepared to accept a 33% reduction if I brought it back for removal. Not one of my best negotiations which I later had criticised in detail by Toni – the Great Complainer (ha!)

Tomorrow an interesting interview.

We shall see.

What weather?

This is a country which celebrates its failures almost as much, if not more than, its successes: think of the Battle of Hastings; Corunna and The Charge of the Light Brigade to name but a few. It wouldn’t take much effort to think of plenty of other instances of breathtaking incompetence or mind numbing human waste which are commemorated in British song and poem. Given this negative artistic background it is hardly surprising that we grow up with a fatalistic and essentially downbeat approach to life.

No one and I mean no one, expected to win (odd word!) the venue for the 2012 Olympics. We were quite comfortable in making a lackadaisical effort to gain them with a lack lustre campaign supported in a desultory fashion with only sports fanatics sounding desperately sincere.

We would, in the normal course of events, then lose to the Bloody French, as we always do in the period since we won back their country for them. And, in the traditional manner we could then retire, hurt and bloody, to sulk about the unfairness of life; how nobody loves us; the Bloody French being the cause, yet again, of national humiliation.

When we won the games, we had to put Plan B into immediate operation: produce a silly estimate for the total cost of the games which would, within two or three months, be lost in a blizzard enhanced avalanche of wildly escalating costs so we could get back to where we are comfortable: moaning about a world class event which will show that we can still stage a spectacular disaster as befits a country with a lost empire.

I will never forget one British world sporting event which was televised around the globe where part of the opening ceremony included a cavalcade of Mini Minors. Forget ‘Doctor Who’ a Smugness of Mini Minors really is something which deserves to be experienced from behind the sofa!

I truly believe that this country has not put on a World Class Show since the Festival of Britain in 1951 – that is over half a century ago.

Like the Great Exhibition of 1851, the Festival of Britain was staged at another tipping point in the history of our country. The Great Exhibition was supposed to demonstrate our supremacy in the developed world, and was, indeed an assertion of economic might, but it could also be described as illustrating the modern resources that would soon spread throughout the world and the monopoly of economic opportunity was to be snatched away from Britain. The Great Exhibition celebrated achievement and pointed the way forwards that other countries were swift to follow and then surpass.

The Festival of Britain was a fantastic exhibition of invention and design and was, as it was intended to be, a glimpse of a Bright new World waiting at the other side of The Age of Austerity in the immediate post war world. But what was the most potent symbol of the Festival? Skylon: a hollow structure filled with light, tethered to the ground, yet seemingly not firmly, looking like some sort of ambiguous exclamation mark. It could be seen as a metaphor for the whole enterprise, as if to say here we are, but God knows where we are going next and how we are going to get there! And, of course, as one of the most popular and vibrant aspects of the Festival, it was destroyed at the end of the exhibition. How like us!

So where is all this unrelenting pessimism leading?

To a barbecue. Toni has expressed his determination to bale out the barbecue and in spite of inclement weather cook outside. As is usual at the time of the year, mornings are quite encouraging, but they lack the staying power of real climates and by the time elevenses has arrived the wintry aspect of the day is impossible to ignore.

As someone who has sunbathed in the rain (on a particularly expensive holiday in Gran Canaria when every day had to contribute to the inexorable increase in the tan) I am more than prepared to revert to national type and ‘plough on regardless’; rain, after all, will only serve to regulate the fiery intensity of rogue charcoal. Toni, however, has not been born into the same degree of national fatalism and acceptance of the unpropitious. We will see if his character has been markedly changed by his sojourn in this Cold Climate.

Grey Britain claims another soul!

That is the question?

If you had just a single question to put to a person in order to discover the person’s essential and real character, what would it be?

I know that Toni’s question would be, “What football team do you support?” Any answer other than “Barca” would in Toni’s view tell him everything that he needed to know and he would rest secure in the knowledge that support for any team other than the Catalans (of various nationalities that make up More Than A Club) would condemn you to one of the less salubrious circles of hell.

For some the question would be, “Do you believe in God?” for others, “What political party do you support?” for one or two who I could name, “Where do you shop?”

You could phrase it in terms of ‘either/or’, e.g. “Of the two painters Dali and Miro, which do you prefer?” [The answer to that one is, of course, Miro, because Dali was a shallow, self-publicising fraud. For Toni though the answer could be either, because both are Catalan.]

But I can’t be there to guide you to the narrow snake free enclosure of the saved when The Essential Question rears cobra-like in your face and threatens to strike with mortal force if the answer you give trumpets forth the fact that you are contemptible and vile, without form and void and read ‘The Daily Mail.’

What would my question be? I have given this much thought and rejected such simplistic questions such as “How would you end ‘Edwin Drood’? Or, perhaps, such trick questions as, “If you could save either a run-of-the-mill Giotto or a damn fine Vermeer, which would it be?” I prefer a question to which everyone can relate and reveals far more than literary invention or artistic judgement can ever display.

My question is: “How do you eat chocolate mousse?”

No doubt you can see the multi layered and sophisticated potentiality of this seemingly innocuous enquiry.

Here too Professor Joad’s perennial qualification is of essential importance, “It all depends,” he would have asked, “what you mean by chocolate mousse.” How very true.

Some chocolate mousse seems to be made with more than 100% fat; almost as if the confection has transcended the normal boundaries of time/space and created a universe where a sort of chocolate dark matter has been barely contained in a force field in your pudding receptacle. It also creates an instant addiction and like all addictions, the addicts savagely protect their fix. You try getting ‘a taste’ from a person with a super-fat concoction.

So, what can we tell from the answers to this question?

The speed with which people eat; the wary looks they give other eaters; the way they lick their spoon; how much they put on the spoon; the expression on the face; the way they scrape the dish; whether they lick the container – all of these are significant, but change the question slightly and it becomes even more revealing.

If you ask a person, “How do you eat your Aero chocolate mousse?” there are more factors to consider.

The manufacturers of Aero mousse are remarkable. I know that a mousse, at its best, is light and that lightness is because much of the confection is actually air. If you stir an Aero chocolate mousse you will find that the actual material in the dessert seems to reduce to something more like a smear of chocolate at the bottom of the tub rather then a substantial container filled with chocolate!

If you are the sort of person who is prepared to sacrifice bulk for the intensity of taste which is found in the air denuded solid flavour of the stirred mess then you speak volumes to those who can interpret human behaviour.

Listen carefully to answers to the question and the whole of a human soul will be revealed.

This concentration on mousse is, of course, displacement activity as I have spent part of the day accumulating evidence to confront the evil bankers of HSBC and their cheque losing proclivities to illustrate that they don’t know what they are doing when they are, or not, doing it. The only thing which is troubling me is what I should ask the bank to do; after all an apology cost them nothing and they couldn’t care less if they are not out of pocket.

I shall give it some thought. I am determined to think bad thoughts to produce the appropriate imagination to form the condign punishment which will be the only satisfaction for their duplicitous mendacity.

Blood will have blood!