Bring on the bling!

At last I have succumbed to the prevailing cultural imperatives in Olde England (or at least Weary Wales) and decided to dip my elegant psyche in the dominant mode of dress of the majority of my fellow citizens and ‘bring on the bling.’

It is my accustomed pleasure to indulge one of my many passions by buying a ‘holiday watch.’ As the name suggests, this entails my spending a relatively small sum of money on a relatively vulgar timepiece, the outré nature of which is only allowable by the appellation of ‘holiday’ to it.

This vacation has been plagued with a veritable plethora of vulgarity in the form of watches that even I, in holiday mode, have baulked at the releasing of sums (however small) on the mind numbingly inept design which passes for fashion in the watch world nowadays.

Swatch (god bless it) has always produced a watch which passes all the tests that I apply to a possible candidate for purchase. They tick all the right boxes: luminous, second hand, numbers, day, and date, waterproof. This tick list can be thrown to the four winds if something of elegance and flair catches my fancy. Nothing, however, has rustled the money in my wallet, until today.

Our usual (late) departure for the playa was made even later by the hurried preparations for Toni’s birthday.

While he was in the shower I wrote his two cards, packed his smaller present and blew up a colourful selection of balloons emblazoned with the inscription of ‘Happy Birthday.’ I also placed two numerical candles of his age (ah! breathe it not in Garth!) on his pillow. My idea of having a cake brought into the restaurant with the two candles blazing flamboyantly on top of a birthday cake was just too over the top for my reticent Toni!

As usual, Toni had failed to put money on his mobile so that the massed family of Catalonia would not be able to get in touch with him on his special day. The failure of his mobile was only really apparent when we had taken a taxi to Maspalomas, and by this time the bling had been seen and seized by my good self, so I was in what might be described as a ‘mellow’ mood, so I was not averse to hunting through the telephone shops of the area to refresh the penurious state of his mobile. Which we did.

My bling however, refers to a watch. A watch of transcendent vulgarity - in a way. It is indeed a trusted Swatch, but a Swatch with leanings towards the gaudy. I see it as a metaphor for the way that modern day Switzerland is going. To the dogs I hope and trust, ‘cos, as is well known, you can never like or trust a neutral, especially a neutral with the chequered past of that unscrupulous country.

The watch is gold with a golden strap and a golden face. The golden face is set with sparkling diamond cut plastic at the hours and there are the usual three small dials that indicate figures which mean nothing to anybody. The hands are large and luminous and there is a sweep second hand. To counteract the voluptuous nature of this gleam of gold the watch itself is set in translucent plastic – just to keep the wearer in touch with reality!

It is large, vulgar fun and just the thing for a holiday timepiece. Toni is consumed with jealousy and barely content with his presents!

Tonight to Puerto Rico and Oscar’s for what I hope will be a suitably opulent meal for Toni’s birthday night.

With Jonathan as part of the party it is highly unlikely that my fingers will be dextrous enough to add further to this daily record, so make do with what you’ve got!

I’ll drink to your health! Salud!

Sun, Sand and Gadgets!

[This is actually the blog for Monday the 7th May – practicalities of technology made accurate posting impossible.]

My snobbery level is now reaching critical mass.

Travelling with my fellow citizens from Bristol to Las Palmas tested my love of humanity (in the abstract) by forcing my attitude to be tested by practicalities of sitting behind a be-ringed, metallic yellow haired, stick thin, flesh showing laced leather trousers wearing seat lowerer. In a Thomson plane (aka ‘Sardine Travel’) the correct approach to transportation in the airborne cattle trucks is never (NEVER) recline your seat.

The lack of space for the passenger behind you in the upright seat position means that any deviation from the vertical delivers swift physical pain on important extremities of the unfortunate traveller behind you. The bleached bitch in front of me ignored this basic precept of international travel and attempted to deviate from the upright. She reckoned without my stalwart knees, which, in spite of severe punishment restrained her deviational activity and hopefully ruined her expected expansive pleasure based on the misery of the Forgotten One behind her.

I dwell on length on this ageing (no ageism implied) brazen bully because she was a representative of the folk travelling to Las Palmas. The bejewelled, ¾ length trouser wearing brigade (just that bit too old to get away with their clothing) were out in force and, instead of lurking in the shadows and shunning the gaze of reputable humans, they confronted respectability with their shrieking encomiums to drink. The female of the species, with the sort of smooth, flawless complexion which is not achieved without industrial depths of concrete like make up and cantilevered eyelashes which defy all known laws of physics, behaved with the vulgar abandon usually confined to the more ruthless gangs of hen party terrorists.

In spite of having been given numbered seats for the flight, as soon as the departure gate was announced the vulgar herd jumped to the gate like the French and waited in line to wait to board a but to wait to depart to wait to enter the plane to wait to get to their seats to wait for departure.

Were one a politician, then looking at experienced travellers acting like brainless lemmings might encourage policies which predicated a complete lack of belief in the intelligence of the electorate. Wait a minute, now hat I look aback over the last ten years I do believe that I can see something which . . . let it pass, let it pass!

As this was a flight to Las Palmas it would not have been complete without its quota of queens. There they were, pastiches of stereotypes with their skin tight tee shirts, plane enveloping attitudes and a playful disregard to the boringly straight rules of in-board behaviour.

Add to this melange of chav and queen a sprinkling of school age kids extracted from their schools to join their squalling baby siblings for a cheap family holiday and you have the ingredients for three and a half hours of simmering hell.

It was, therefore, no surprise that although we had an entire small coach to take us to the hotel the requested repast in our room after our epic flight was not there.

There is, however, a real advantage to having a hotel room next to the Yumbo Centre: food at all hours! We ventured out past fornicating couples to find a perfectly acceptable café inhabited only by two policemen with charmingly camp companions which served much needed sustenance to we weary travellers.

We did not get to bed much before five am but we were up with the (latish) larks to get down to the beach.

Kiosco siete seems to have migrated nearer to the lighthouse, which is a good thing, but my feet still hurt from the amount of walking that we have done today.

The weather is glorious, but the water glacial. It is my personal belief that the Gulf Stream has indeed stopped or reversed itself. I was forcibly reminded of a youthful holiday when, on a blazingly hot August day I flung myself into Lake Windermere and had the exhilarating (if life threatening) experience of having all the air punched out of your body by the sheer inhumanly impossible coldness of British water. If the water does not warm up by a factor of ten, then Toni is not going near the H2O for the rest of the holiday!

First reaction to the buffet in the hotel is positive, which is more than can be said for the sub standard of the furnishing of the rooms. However, far be it from me to be impetuous in my judgements! Let bile simmer and mature so that the killing blow is all the more gruesomely fatal!

It’s not much of a philosophy, but it works for me!

[This is the actual point at which the blog for Tuesday 8th May actually starts – blame the hotel for not having a hot spot.]

Service is restored! To all my unique reader I say do not loose faith when all it takes is vast sums of money to compensate for the cheap hotel’s lack of a ‘hot spot’ to find an entry to the internet.

I am, as you know, the last person in the world to resent having to lay out more than a fortnight’s largess when a Jobseeker just to stay in touch!

However the money is nothing when compared with the unending delight of being close to all of human knowledge via the net.

For example, when cooking on the beach this afternoon and reading with increasing disbelief ‘Lolita’ by Vladimir Nabokov, I was searching for the apposite word to describe Nabokov’s style and could only come up with the phrase ‘jewel like’ when I knew that there was a single word which I should have been thinking of. Kiosco Siete on Maspalomas beach has what one might refer to as distractions, but thank god for myopia which renders all surroundings pastel blurs and only the printed page remains in focus when in close proximity to the eyes. I was therefore able to concentrate with some intensity and muse, as the word did not ‘come’ on the difficulties ahead of me when trying to form a vocabulary in Spanish!

I tried the old trick of explaining my predicament to Toni in an attempt to force my memory to come up with the appropriate word. All that achieved was an ‘old fashioned’ look from the aforesaid person and no word emerging from the neurons in the grey matter.

Reading recommenced and the irritation of not remembering the bloody word highlighted each sentence and my irritation increased with the frustration of fading memory. So I gave up. And, by magic, the word ‘lapidary’ sprang, as ‘twere unbidden to my mind. And I think that means ‘jewel like’ and if it doesn’t then there is no hope for my learning another language if I can’t bring to mind such quotidian words as ‘lapidary.’

Anyway to the hotel is hand.

The Neptuno is supposed to be a four star hotel. The room is barely acceptable with air conditioning but no facilities for making tea and coffee! The balcony does look out over the pool but tangentially and we have a much better view of passers by in the Yumbo Centre staring at the loonies who would willingly patronise a hotel with such a view!

The food is good. The breakfast fare predictable but plentiful with the tea undrinkable. The selection of flavoured teas is inexplicably wide until you notice the vast number of Germans partaking of the unpalatable liquid horror that constitutes that heavenly beverage known as tea. I have yet to partake of a ‘commercial’ cup of tea worthy of the name. There is a certain about of missionary work to be done when I arrive!

I think it fair to leave a final judgement on the hotel until the end of the holiday.

Though I can feel my mind closing, even as I type.

Packing as an Art

There is only one way to start packing for a holiday. Utilising the power of Panic!

I find that the adrenaline packed potential which comes with the realisation that time is running out and the passport is not in the place you thought it was – is unmatchable. The less time you spend packing, the more acceptable it is to find out that you have forgotten something! It’s that simple.

I have tried to find my prescription swimming goggles, but that really was a hope beyond expectation. I’m sure that I have seen them some time in the past few years, but the sightings have never coincided with the timing of a holiday. But I live in hope – it’s the only way.

This is the Year of Green. As a previous blog noted I have purchased a solar powered unit which should ensure that I travel light (the pun is intended) to Gran Canaria without the heavy electronic baggage of transformers for the various gadgets without which no holiday could be considered tolerable.

In spite of the continual advice of Toni, I still have not managed to match his ability to pack the minimum required. I do not think that I have been on a single holiday without bringing back some item of pristine clothing. Minimum packing is an untaught skill which should be part of the national curriculum. After all, we all need to be aware of our carbon debt and the lighter we travel the less our debt is. You know it makes sense.

There is a particular flavour to the day before you go on holiday. It is one of those times where time itself is flexible (and not in a good way) which at least prepares you for the ever intriguing ‘time’ which governs the temporal aspects of departure lounges of airports.

This is a shorter than normal blog to allow an early night so that the panic of packing tomorrow can be done with bright eyed attention to detail.

Some hope!

I want my money back!

The concert that never was.

This was the night that I didn’t see The Zombies.
I think that this is the first time that I have got my money back for a concert I didn’t; experience. Though, thinking about it, there have been many occasions when I should have been given my money back!

After the indifferent support band had completed their set: the support singer just that irritatingly slightly out of tune and the guitarist stage right strumming away as if his mind was in a different place. The keyboard player too often resorted to the charmingly archaic percussive displacement activity of maracas and tambourine which added to the odd sound that they produced. To me they sounded like a strange mixture of The Shadows and The Beach Boys – tuneful but dated.

The end of their set was characterised by the ending: they started packing away before the last note had finished reverberating. Not only did it look messy but it was insufferably impolite! Having said all that, I did like one of their songs, a rhythmically tuneful number which pushed a number of Baby Boomer buttons!

The announcement at the end of the set that the van containing the equipment and group members of the main act had broken down on the M4. Twice. Was not welcome news.

Later information showed that the group could only arrive and set up by (at best) eleven pm, with a two hour set that meant that the end of the concert could only be at one o’clock, and getting home something like half past one. For me that was fine, but for Alison with a full teaching day this was not really ideal. So, end of evening. At least we had a good chat lubricated by a liberal amount of alcohol!

It was an evening also enlivened by the company we met in the first bar that we went to before the support act was even on. It is not often that you expect to see your ex-head teacher in a louche bar in the docks attending the same concert of an almost forgotten band. Talk about coincidences!

So an evening which also gave me time to write this blog. Not what the plan was but you must go with the flow.

Good experience!

Of course - not!

When the best part of a course is escaping for a few minutes to buy five copies of The Echo, then perhaps, just perhaps something is not going quite as the course leaders hoped.

I learned little or nothing on the course, but then I didn’t really expect to. Self fulfilling prophecy.

This was a tired course with uninspiring printed material which failed to distinguish itself either as text book for later reading or as interactive pages to ignite discussion. It is a sure sign of a course that needs to be ditched when the course leaders mock and sneer at some of the statements. They showed no ownership of this course. They should have rewritten it some time ago or ditched it altogether.

This third day was completely lacking in dynamism: extended breaks; broken promises; rubbishing of course content; disaffected course members; early finish. It all mounts up to a course which really is not delivering. At the end of the course you wondered about the finances and weather it was all worth it.

The venue got steadily worse with noisy comings and goings. At times I felt as though I was being taught in a station waiting room! The flimsy course completion certificate seemed to be a suitable metaphor for the whole experience.

A whole new saga of my CRB is developing. Someone somewhere is not telling me the strict truth.

The story so far includes the usual disbelief at the length of time that the powers that be take to provide a certificate but complicated by the conflicting stories of the main players.

I signed the application form on the 12th of March and assumed that it would be countersigned and sent off immediately. This, I am assured by the agency which gave me the paperwork, is exactly what happened. From time to time I have contacted the agency to find out what was happening to my application. I have been assured that the CRB has been phoned and progress checked.

It was with angry astonishment that when I finally phoned the CRB myself on May 1st, I was told that my application had arrived in the building on the 30th of April and the process had been started on the very day on which I was phoning. My enquiry about the number of times that anyone had phoned about my application drew the response, “None.” I was assured (this time by the CRB) that any enquiries would have been added to my file.

The agency’s response has been more bluster than anything else and the confidently, reassuringly silky voice of the agency manager produced exactly the opposite effect from that which she intended. After her oily dismissal of the CRB and her gloatingly smug declaration that the CRB had accepted blame and my claim had been accelerated, I felt unaccountably uncomfortable. How to explain the inexplicable? According to the manager, my application must have spent some time on the desk of someone in the CRB. They are like that, she intimated.

That prompted me to phone the CRB again and put to them what had just been put to me. They were not, it might be said, happy with the version of events the manager relayed. Neither, it must be said, am I. This story will run and run!

Our thoughts are turning more and more to Gran Canaria – though not to the exclusion of worries about the lack of movement on the house.

Sigh!

I have a little list

Memories of the ‘novel’ that I wrote in response to the iniquitous ‘Communication Course’ rise unbidden to mind as I complete Day 2 of the three day mandatory course for we folk who have been out of work for over six months.

When a teacher has another person (i.e. adult) in their class while teaching then the pedagogic style changes and consciously or unconsciously the teacher being ‘observed’ puts on more of a show. It always happens. Always in my experience at least. It is therefore instructive that the two course leaders don’t seem to be following the well trodden path of exhibitionism. Or at least I hope they aren’t. That would be too sad.

There has been little attempt to differentiate teaching material to suit the wide range of needs of the small group. One member has obvious hearing difficulties which were highlighted in the first session and nothing has been done to accommodate his needs. Requests about mobile phones, though reiterated are not enforced. An unscheduled staff meeting eats into course time. A lack of focus characterises all the sessions; the delivery is meandering and points are lost in reminiscence. Grammar (Does this matter? Yes it does.) is poor. Handouts are uninspired. Chart work is tattered and from another course. Supplementary material is not forthcoming. This feels like a tired course delivered by leaders who are ‘experienced’ though not inspiring.

The man who spoke to us about a possible £200 credit to ‘buy’ courses was astonishingly inept in his delivery: he had little information and little skill in conveying what he had. The fact that he looked unnervingly like one of the characters from the Muppets, Statler, the heckler in the balcony, was distracting. He focused on me to a disturbing extent; I am rather dreading the sessions tomorrow – fixed smiles all round.

My colleagues continue to develop as characters and I am pleased to announce that one of the younger members of the group actually took is coat off today, but the other resolutely kept his on and juggled the batteries from his two mobile phones while keeping one powered up because he had brought his mains charger with him! What sort of person brings a mains unit to a course? There’s still a day to go; who knows what revelations can yet ensue?

A disturbing phone call from the estate agent who mistakenly phoned me and assumed I was the buyer. The agent was ‘chasing up’ the survey. This is an unsettling development: a mortgage is not issued until the survey has been done, so why delay? Something else about which to worry.

Still, tomorrow is another day, my dear and why should I give a damn. So to speak.

Are we sitting comfortably?

I would not like to have me as a pupil in my class.

Day 1 of the course for those people who have been out of work for six months.

The course members are a group of men from very different backgrounds. It is interesting to speculate on the different reasons for our little group to be unemployed for so long. It was notable that the differences showed themselves most clearly in the attitudes to their situations that the men had. I obviously include myself here, though perhaps I should disqualify myself purely on the basis of completed application forms sent off for jobs. Everyone else had applied for between forty and sixty jobs. I had applied for none!

My requirements are, to put it mildly, niche. In fact, they are niche in niche. And rightly so!

I suppose that I am in a different position from most of the others because when my CRB arrives it will be but a step to unlimited casual wealth. Ho! Ho!

The anger of some of the members of the group is real and unsettling. They feel that so-called advisors have done nothing related to their title. I feel from listening to them that this course is the first time that anyone has really listened to them and been prepared to give good practical advice. This is not good. If these people have been out of work and have been more than prepared to move heaven and earth to get a job, then they must feel properly cheated!

I have sat as a member of a small group for a whole day and I have watched and analysed. The group leaders have been vigorously defensive, acutely aware that their audience is not there by choice. One of the course leaders blusters and is too often floundering around in the safety of her anecdotal experience masquerading as solid advice rather than following the course programme.

I always think it a bad sign when someone says about a printed page which the course members have in front of them and announces, “I’m not going to read it out,” and then does exactly that. We’ve all done it; it passes time and almost seems like real teaching – but it isn’t.

I suppose if you write off the first day as a ‘getting to know you’ experience then the course may well have worked – but day two will have to be extra intensive to make the first day worth it.

It will be interesting to see how it develops and how the characters show themselves.

We will see.

Got to pick a pocket or two!

Everyone (or is it just the people I know) has his own list of the Three Great Lies. The only one which is common, and by the way the only one which is decent, is “The cheque is in the post.” The other two are usually racist, sexist and/or obscene; if you’re lucky!

In a similar way the injunction, “You should try everything once except for [add examples],” usually includes Morris Dancing (for obvious reasons) and some unnatural sexual deviation from the present norms. For reasons which will soon become apparent I would now include ‘car boot sales’ as the equal of Morris Dancing.

Today was the day when, with packed car, I ventured into Bessemer Road Market for my first brush with open air retail marketing.

I think that the most positive things that I can say about the experience was that when the official came around to take the entry fee of six pounds he castigated my neighbours for encroaching on the ‘common ground.’ This was the area along which the denizens of the area complete their passeo occasionally interrupting their peregrinations to bestow a few coins on the hopeful peasants lining their route with tables full of quaint rubbish for their delectation. My tables’ positioning was pronounced by the official to be “perfect.” One takes compliments where one can find them!

All human life was there. From eight in the morning to one o’clock in the afternoon I staffed my tables and watched the Cardiffian procession wander by. By their reactions, so may ye know them.

One of the object d’art that I set out alluringly on my tables was a more than usually hideous green, bulbous glass vase with a narrow, squat neck. People without number (well, lots) noticed this vase, picked it up and turned it upside down to glean what knowledge they could get from the little sticker on its base. I think that they have been watching too many ‘antiques’ programmes, but I bet that they don’t know what they are looking for. Presumably the ‘made for Habitat’ logo did not persuade them as the article remained unsold.

The parsimony that one and all displayed was breathtaking. Value for money took on a new meaning when trying to get filthy lucre out of that lot!

My conversations with customers ranged from frank mutual incomprehension, via a short interlude in fractured French, to a learned discussion about the auditory excitement of using an old Zenith SLR. But, these moments of interest were interspersed with long periods of waiting for customer involvement with the riches on display. Throughout my time ‘selling’ there was a raucous accompaniment from the butcher who was stationed on the periphery of the cars and was augmented with an unreliable microphone. His tedious, unfunny, homophobic, just plain rude and uninteresting commentary on life luckily became an ignorable irritation rather than an offensive screed. At once point he said that he had been at the market for twenty eight years and one shuddered inwardly for the weekly torment that must have meant for everyone within earshot.

The cultural diversity of Cardiff was clearly on display with the sort of cosmopolitan feel which in times past was only visible in central London.

I almost made triple figures from the takings for the morning’s work, but when I think about how much the original prices of the objects ‘given away’ were, I could weep!

However, I contented myself with counting the money!

Fortuitous accidents?

Serendipity.

I like words which have their origins in Literature (with a capital L) like the positive dictionary of neologisms ostensibly ‘invented’ by Shakespeare.

There are, of course, quibbles about Shakespeare’s sole authorship of words which cannot be traced to an earlier attribution, but, what the hell, give the guy his due, to have invented one word is more than most people ever achieve in their lifetimes to be credited with so many is something else! Say only 10% are his actual coinage, still impressive! You can check out the full list at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_English_words_invented_by_Shakespeare While Shakespeare has given us some wonderful words like ‘incarnadine.’ This is a word which I am still waiting for to use in conversation: there are disgracefully few opportunities for regicide nowadays in our over regulated society!

He has also given us ‘accommodation’ which is difficult to forgive. The word, I grant you, is a very useful one – and for that Shakespeare should have all credit. But, given that Shakespeare himself spelled his name in a variety of ways, even on the same document, I very much doubt that he was consistent in his orthography.

When I was younger I was very much in the same camp as Owl [WOL] in Winnie the Pooh of whom it was said, “He could spell his own name WOL, and he could spell Tuesday so that you knew it wasn't Wednesday but his spelling goes all to pieces over delicate words like measles and buttered toast.” For me, the idea that one day I would be academic enough to spell ‘cauliflower’ with confidence and without blind terror seemed (like marriage) to be a consummation a few steps beyond possibility. 50% isn’t bad! Words [I just typed ‘words’ as ‘wrods’ but Word just corrected it for me – if only I had had a spelling program built into my young head!] like ‘accommodation’ seemed designed solely to be used against me by the arch villain, the hated nemesis of my early years Fred Schonell.

His Essential Spelling List (now available from Amazon from 15p – puts him in his place) blighted my life. I grew to hate the nondescript colour covered little book which haunted me throughout primary school. It was from that hated book that we were given lists of words to learn. Every Friday a test and a feeling of failure to take into the weekend!

In the last two years of primary school I was taught by an old friend of my father’s, a man I knew as Uncle Eric. Before I entered his class I was given a firm lecture by my parents that under no circumstances whatsoever should I make any reference to my relationship with him. I was to refer to him always as Mr Morgan and he would treat me like any other pupil.

To be fair to me, as a child brought up with two teachers as parents, you get used to parents talking and then suddenly turning on you with the injunction that, “You must not say anything of this to anyone else!” As a child growing up listening to things like this, you spend the whole of your youth wondering just who you could possibly tell who might be even remotely interested in the school ‘gossip’ you have just ignored.

With Mr Morgan, I only once make the mistake of referring about him as Uncle Eric and I was able to pass that off as a joke with my fellow school mates. And, by the way, you would have been hard pressed to see any favouritism in the way that I was treated. In the spelling tests on a Friday I was castigated as roundly as anyone else if my performance did not get up to standard. Indeed on one notorious Friday my performance was so poor that I was slapped around the legs as punishment! It later transpired that the list of words on which we were tested was a different one from the list that we had been given to learn. Such unfairness!

This incident gave rise to the most belligerent apology that I have ever had! It was, obviously, my fault that I didn’t point out to the teacher that the list was different. I probably deserved the smacks for other crimes undiscovered but, in the interests of justice I had a punishment credit to be used to cover further indiscretions. That credit did not last long! It was ‘spent’ within a few days.

I have much to thank Uncle Eric for. The somewhat laissez faire teaching of my first primary school teacher gave me an abiding interest in the fascinating digression and ‘unconsidered trifles’ in the world of knowledge, but it was Uncle Eric who focussed my attention on the basic necessities which got me through the 11+ examination and into the rarefied academic purlieus of The Cardiff High School for Boys on The Newport Road – and the rest, as they say, is history.

I would merely point out that my mother once said of Cardiff High, “That school has taught you nothing but arrogance.”

Trust your mother for the truth!

But back to serendipity. You’d forgotten about that hadn’t you? Words from literature? Like ‘chortle’?

I was wondering if it fitted the world of discovery which came with the Great Sorting of possessions which has been prompted by the immanent dispossession of the house which contains them. Things not only lost but also forgotten leapt back into my world as finger pried deeper and deeper into the morass of wires, trinkets and papers which constitute ‘storage’ for me. Many electronic devices starved for so long of their nourishment have now been reunited with the lifelines and electricity has surged anew through their famished circuits.

Can it be serendipity if you start off wanting to find things to fill a few boxes and be paraded for the vulgar view with an end of monetary gain? Does the intention take away from the basic serendipity?

Such questions exercise me. Especially as I didn’t have a swim this morning.

One of my favourite words!

The power of words! A single word. In the right context it can mean so much!

I know (in my head) that the mere word ‘sold’ on the agent’s board for the house means very little. Given the vagaries of the system which this country has for the selling of a house, anything can happen before I get my hands on the modest sum of money that is supposed to keep me in refined poverty for the rest of my life!

I have delved even more deeply into the essential possessions which I have cunningly kept behind from storage to ensure that our lives are at the basic level of acceptable civilization. I seem to have kept behind an inordinate amount of material, all of which will have to be sorted, weighed in the balance and I hope mostly found wanting, because I don’t want to take too much to Spain!

Once again the cleansing power of shredding has sustained me through a day which has drained me as a bewilderingly disparate selection of dated objects, which were once objects of casual desire, were paraded before me for judgement.

The option of a car boot sale is still something which has a sort of sick fascination for me. Richard has said that he is going to Bessmer Road to try and get rid of some of his stuff and it is an incentive for me to emulate him with the saleable elements from my depleted home.

I merely wonder at the motley collection that I will be able to amass. I suppose that the trick is not trying to remember exactly how much you paid for the stuff that you are selling for an embarrassingly small percentage of the original price.

I will have to remember that any further delving into the soon to be emptied cupboards and drawers must be self contained. The horror which greeted the chaos of emptied containers littering the floor before their final destination had been decided was a reaction that I do not want to observe again. Toni is a tidy person and the happy chaos which I can endure in the cause of eventual order is not something he can stand: in the interests of harmony I must tidy up the chaos at the end of the day before he returns from work – no matter what subterfuge I use to give the impression of superficial order.

The establishment of cleared surfaces and the presentation of tidied areas by the hurried hiding of extraneous articles which might hinder the appreciation of a potential buyer are second nature to me now!

I should remember my recent training!

Frail paper?

My past is in tatters and shreds.

Quite literally.

I am sure that there is supposed to be something cathartic about the cleansing which accompanies a sorting through of old papers, but it does take determination to start the process and see it through.

Assuming that the selling of the house is progressing satisfactorily (a dangerous assumption I know, but one that I want to make) it has become necessary to start one of the final processes: the sorting and destruction of Those Things Not Needed in Catalonia.

The ‘easiest’ part of this process is based on paper. Old documents, tax returns, letters and other codices – piled one on another like geological strata of my personal history. To use another geological term, there are also ‘erratics’ odd documents or photographs which are seemingly misplaced in their drift of documents and by their incongruity they create disconcerting juxtapositions.

I shredded programmes and information from my university days: memories of odd dramatic entertainments in which I played characters ranging from a surrealistic professor to an American father by way of a King. I can still remember the barely stifled mirth of my so-called friends as I assayed an American accent: some humiliation lives on long after the event! There were plaintive letters to the tax man asking for tax relief for a typewriter I bought. Refused. Books I bought. Partially accepted. Early attempts at well meaning work sheets reflecting hours of work and limited pupil effectiveness. Letters from organizations, bodies, associations, committees, firms, shops, friends, colleagues, unions and councils. All shredded.

Not all of those sheets of A4 were of equal importance, or of equal emotional force. It really is odd to look at something which refers to something important and deeply personal, yet it doesn’t make it to the storage container to go to Spain. There is something audacious and strangely liberating in destroying ‘unimportant’ aspects of a life; transient and fragile as a piece of paper, yet containing a key to memory as strong and immediate as a jolt of electricity.

And before anyone thinks that I have been cavalier with the past; I have destroyed nothing which is not contained in another, stronger document which is safe in the cardboard box of Catalan essentials!

As the days pass I will have to delve deeper and deeper into the intimidating mass of ‘stuff’ which still remains in Cardiff. Having just had yet another communication from the solicitors asking me all sorts of questions; one of which needed my response that I would leave the house cleared and tidy, there is a ‘moral imperative’ [Bob Geldof] that I start clearing now!

I have always found teaching advertisements interesting. Although many of them are militantly worthless and defiantly bland one or two of them have real intelligence or take presentation a step forward by producing something which is a little masterpiece of concentrated information. Two of the Barclay’s adverts which use the hapless youth with exploding machinery and interesting at each viewing, while the animation on the Citroen advert is extraordinary in its attention to detail in the presentation of the car as skater.

The advert which has occupied a few idle moments is neither of these, but the Gillette advert. Quite apart from the glorious inanity of the pseudo nuclear imagery of a sort of bicoloured particle accelerator to give added pizzazz to a very ordinary multi-blade razor, I do wonder at their choice of men as models.

Gillette seems to have a positive policy in using ostensibly handsome clean cut American men with zero sex appeal. I don’t really know how they do it; but time after time they people the screen with testosterone fuelled ciphers which seem to have no real existence outside the bright lights of the Gillette Universe. This is a good thing as, were the world to be populated with Gillette men, it would gradually lose its population as these chisel chinned, neutered pieces of superficiality would surely have ‘difficulty’ in producing progeny.

BT man seems to have a more convincing chanced to reproduce – and he would never make it to the gallery of gallants of Gillette. Thank god

Saint Cecilia Satisfied?

As a person who is never knowingly under gadgeted and, following the moral precepts of my mother with regard to retail imperatives, I have found something else on which to squander my money. Which in my case I have not got – to paraphrase Reed!

Part of the (admittedly specious) reasoning behind the purchase of the all-singing all-dancing laptop on which this blog is being composed was that I could put all my 900+ CDs on its hard drive. Which I have done. The physical bodies of the CDs are now residing, zombie like, in the twilight world which is the Pickford’s storage facility, while their virtual souls flit easily among the electrons on this elegant piece of hardware playing carelessly in the ensnaring arms of i-tunes.

From Abba to Albeniz, Bach to Bette Midler, and Cher to Charles Ives – well, you begin to see the point; there is a wide selection of music contained in my collection. I obviously have pretensions to a liberal appreciation of music, but surely I must aspire to more than merely a parasitic leaching of the vitality of music as a passive listener; what about the creative act of music.

So, I’ve bought a roll up piano.

I have not, am not and probably will not be a piano player. The greatest musical height that I have scaled (ho! ho!) is a painful playing of Fur Elise. The opening played with winning legato while the more complex parts (requiring chords and other such extravagances) played in a most funereal lento.

Alas, I fear that my most accomplished performance was many years ago under the tutelage of Miss Cowley when I finally mastered the complex fingering of ‘Hunting the hare.’ This was a piece of fiendish complexity requiring the playing of as many as three notes together to render its haunting melody. Indeed its cadences were so much part of my being that my mother once looked in at my diligent practising and found a story book propped up on the piano music stand while my unconscious hands played ‘Hunting the hare’ ad infinitum!

The inability to play has not, however, blocked my wanting to play and the lack of a keyboard (locked with the zombie CDs deep in the heart of Pickfords) has occasioned considerable frustration.

Maplin – that store of unusually incomprehensible, yet strangely desirable electronic gadgetry, seemed to offer a painless solution when they advertised roll up pianos. At a reasonable price. They were, of course, good sellers (sic.) and of course soon went. When I finally decided that it was just the thing for me the cupboard was bare.

I have spent the last few months idly trying to find a roll up piano whose price did not stray into three figures. Maplin, while agreeing that they had sold them, adopted the when-it’s-gone-it’s-gone approach and virtually resurrected the old car mechanic’s low whistle of disbelief when asked to give an estimate of when they might be back in the catalogue.

When dealing with electronic goods you have to adapt the usual way of choosing an assistant to help you. It is my invariable practise to veer towards ‘women of a certain age’ in shops as they are more likely to know the stock, answer questions in a meaningful way and know when to ask others for help. This is not a method which avails you anything in a shop of electronics. Here the approach is to choose a youth, a boy, the more callow the better. They, after all, are part of the generation that do not need to refer to the instruction manuals for any electronic equipment. Or indeed for anything else, ask their teachers!

On each visit to Maplin I asked a different assistant and from each one I had a different answer. From ‘they are just seasonal’ through ‘they are out of stock and we don’t know when we will have more’ to ‘they have some at head office and they are available by post.’ There is something to be said for perseverance.

It has now arrived and it is a very odd beast indeed. Smelling strongly of the rubber of which it is made and four octaves to play with, the keys seem to be larger than those of an ordinary piano – I know that I find it difficult to stretch an octave, but perhaps I am out of practise.

Nothing loath to push myself to the limit, I have taken ‘My first recorder book’ out of the library and will ruthlessly attempt to emulate the six year olds that this book is aimed at and will pick out the single line of music on my rubbery keys.

I will do this, however, in the privacy of an empty house when Toni is at work. I feel that my creative genius needs nurturing gently with the ambiance that only solitude can bring, not being punctured by cruelly ironic remarks.

Well, I have attempted to play my signature pieced (the easy bit of Fur Elise) and it’s bloody hard on a piece of extended rubber. Chords (ha!) are especially difficult, but it is especially pleasant to pick out tunes and try and get back to level of mediocrity which I can live with!

An excellent lunch with Richard in the Bali in Caroline Street. I am getting used to being the only customer in an establishment, but I didn’t have a programme to read this time, so ordered a bottle of red wine instead: how fleeting is the attraction of culture! The fried potato cake as a starter was just that and, even with the fairly tasty dipping sauce, forgettable. The Singapore Noodles which followed was excellent making a very creditable meal for however much it cost.

The powers that be are being very quiet about the house. Paul Squared’s repeated assurances that no news is good news is not something which I find comforting.

I will continue to wait and worry!

To suffer for one's art!

Another milestone!

I'm not sure that, when I started this blog, I thought that I would be penning the 200th number while sitting on my sofa securely in Cardiff. I think that I had imagined that the writing of the blog would, by now, have become almost incoherent owing to (due to?) the excessive amounts of rioja and cava that would have been slipping down my gullet having been purchased as almost no cost in the local Catalan supermarket.

Instead, because God is nothing if not ironic, I sit typing to the accompanying tintinabulation of raindrops glancing musically off the roof of the conservatory.

As all the best moral stories say, "This too will pass." My wry smile is safe in the ambiguity of that sentiment!

The trouble with yesterday’s generation is that it lacks application. They pretend that they are au fait with the burgeoning technology which surrounds them but, when push comes to shove, they lack (as it were) the application.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I place myself in that generation. Going to London for just over a day I was accompanied by my PDA, my camera, my ipod, my DAB radio and a spare pair of glasses. I had my multipurpose solar power pack to feed any of the devices that were flagging. I was prepared: technology my servant!

It should not have been too difficult to pen (or pound) my blog. I was going to stay in a house hold were each house member had her own computer linked to the internet. It would have been a simple matter to log on and get writing. But I didn’t. Neither when I returned in the evening on Saturday nor when I rose upon the sunny Sunday morn. The lure of champagne and barbecued food with Pouille Fuisse was more than the temptation of logorrhoea in the ether. Weak, weak man!

Now the penance (or is it the reward) of making up for lost time.

The ostensible reason for visiting London was to take advantage of a rare opportunity to see a good production of Satyagraha by Philip Glass. The reviewer in The Indie dismissed the music and argued that the Opera had had a better production than it deserved. I am used to people being dismissive about the operatic oeuvre of Glass, dismissing it as repetitive rubbish. And even those who should know better have spurned my enthusiasm and forced me to go alone to productions!

This time I had the company of Mary who was as appreciative as I could have wished: all things come to those who wait!

The overpriced programme (£4-50) indicated some of the production ideas which were going to be incorporated into the finished work and gave an outline of the ‘narrative’ of the opera. To put it mildly, the narrative of Satyagraha is not conventional and I think it would be difficult for anyone, without a prior knowledge of what was supposed to be happening on stage, to understand the ‘action’ of the piece. As I have come to know the music from CD and have not bothered to read very much of the unilluminating booklet which accompanied the discs, it was not much of a disadvantage to discover that the dramatic accompaniment to the singing was more of a suggestive gloss on some parts of the libretto rather than a literal interpretation of the words.

ENO has collaborated with Improbable to produce this version of the opera. Improbable added a dramatic content which used stilt walkers, giant puppets, flying, fire, and a mass of newspaper to produce some set pieces which were genuinely moving and emotionally uplifting.

I was particularly impressed with the ‘fantastic’ appearance of Krishna with paper clouds of glory and wands used as manifestations of his refulgence. Paper was constantly employed in the visual and audio dynamic of the piece. The production of the Indian newspaper was simple and effective with sheets being handed from one person to another and pushed across the stage as if in a printing press. The transmogrification of the individual pages of newsprint into a continuous unwinding roll of paper eventually enabled the creation and breaking of barriers and a particularly effective maelstrom effect of thrashing lengths of paper which engulfed and disengorged the central character.

The singing (with the exception of Jean Rigby playing Mrs Alexander who was woefully underpowered) was uniformly excellent with Alan Oke being outstanding as Gandhi.

The music, inventive and engaging, constantly delighted with the intricacy of melodic style and for the first two acts the hypnotic power of the score gripped the listener’s attention. The last act is not as strong as the first two and, although powerful in its own way, it lacks the immediacy of the rest of the opera. Or perhaps it was the eventual effect of the wine in the intervals!

I am delighted that I made the effort to go to London to see this opera, well worth the effort. I have not changed in my opinion that Akhnaten is the stronger piece, but I am enthused enough to search out the final part of the trilogy that I do not have, Einstein on the Beach. More expense!

Clarrie and Mary’s house continues to impress, though the amount of money which is needed to bring this delightful residence to its full glory is daunting. The garden is glowing with colour and potential; the resident bluebells provide a colour base which will be augmented in the forthcoming months with the hidden riches that Clarrie has painstakingly planted as they burst through the chicken-shit enhanced earth which graces the garden (bindweed allowing!)

The lawn that Clarrie has laid is eventful in its topography, but, as they say in the older Oxford colleges, it only takes a little watering and rolling to make the perfect billiard table sward – as long as you are prepared to do it for a couple of hundred years! I am in no real position to speak as I am a devout follower of the Way of the Small Stone approach to flat areas of garden. And it makes weeding a doddle!

The barbecue was an (eventual) triumph with the fish kebabs being particularly fine. I must also admit that I am relieved that there is no branch of Waitrose enticingly near otherwise I fear that I would be living entirely on the micro dressed crab shells and the mini blinis with smoked salmon!

And another one bites the dust!

Isn’t it sad how quickly what in one film is breathtaking and spectacular becomes in another clichéd and banal. Having just watched ‘Eragon’ (Director: Stefen Fangmeier) the vistas that inspired in Lord of the rings here are simply boring and an excuse for lack of narrative.

This dreadful little film has the sort of silted dialogue that even Jeremy Irons finds difficult to say and poor old John Malkovich is woefully outside his competence in voicing the pseudo archaic claptrap that the script asks him to articulate. It put me in mind of The Man in the Iron Mask (1998 Director: Randall Wallace) where the Americans (including, as it happens John Malkovich assaying an eighteenth century nobleman) in the cast made the script appear to be unsayable, while the English character actors made is almost reasonable. Almost.

The story line had all the hackneyed predict ability of a fairy story without its charm. Actors who should have known better frolicked around for what I hope were large sums of money to make at least their bank accounts look respectable if not their curriculum vitas!

Like the Pirates of the Caribbean this film came to no conclusion leaving a clear threat of another film or three.

I trust that the viewing public has given no indication that a continuation of this sorry saga will be necessary.

In the interest of fairness, I have to say that there were one or two set pieces which had moments of vague splendour, but they were not sustained.

A sorry saga of instant forgetability.

Tomorrow London and Philip Glass – as well as Clarrie and Mary.

Who could ask for more?

If at first you dont . . . um . . .

Well! Overweening Man has been put in his place. Again! I wrote a scintillating, witty, provocative, intriguing and seminal blog entry. Microsoft (God bless it) though its program, Word, put paid to it all.

It will now never be written, except in the rogue electrons that have now made their way into the vastness of the uncharted universe.

Somewhere, on the other side of the dimensions, that only Hawking knows, something is reading it.

Not us, however, not now.

More tomorrow?

Microsoft volente!

Another day . . .

Another day, another story of breathtaking horror! Thirty two random murders in America one day, one hundred and sixty murders in Iraq the next. No wonder the parasitic pedlars of the apocalypse feel that things are going their way.

How tempting it is to look to religion and its manifest failure as the reason for the unreasonable actions of so many.

Have you noticed the links between religious apologists and the National Rifle Association? The mantra of the NRA is that, “It’s not guns that kill people, it’s people who kill people.” Religious thinkers who look at the carnage which their religious beliefs so often bring about say, “It’s not the religion that kills people, it’s people’s misinterpretations of religion that does the damage.” No wonder the image of Pontius Pilate washing his hands is such a strong one! And applies to so many situations in the world today.

As the bloody horror in Bagdad seems to be perpetrated by Islamic bombers on Islamic victims, it is instructive to look at the divisions within the faith that allow this murder.

The major division in Islam is between Shia and Sunni.

An informed discussion can be found at: http://islam.about.com/cs/divisions/f/shia_sunni.htm but I was interested to read that the division is more political than religious in its historical basis.

The vast majority of Islam is Sunni and a small minority of some 15% is Shia.

The differences arose from the disputes which resulted from the death of the Prophet Muhammad. Who was to take over the leadership of the Muslim nation? The Sunnis agree with many of the companions of the Prophet who elected the close friend and advisor of the Prophet, Abu Bakr to be the first Caliph.

The Shia, on the other hand, believes that the leadership should have stayed with the Prophet’s family and therefore they believe that the succession should have passed to the Prophet’s cousin and son in law, Ali. Ali was the first in a line of Imams which Shia believes are divinely appointed.

I know that I am simplifying a complex historical, religious, and social mix, but the differences are instructive.

The Shia believes in divine appointment, venerate the Imams as saint-like characters and complete pilgrimages and ask for intercession. The Sunni reject a divinely appointed spiritual hierarchy and the concept of saintly intercession.

It is not difficult to see the parallels between the divisions in Islam with the divisions in Christianity. In both great divisions of religion there is a fundamental belief in the central tenets of the faith, but the differences which have evolved with the different interpretations of authority have made them infuriatingly distant.

As an Anglican atheist I can see some aspects of the Roman Catholic / Protestant split in the Sunni / Shia division, though the numbers are reversed. If you take the veneration of saints and the concept of divine appointment as the Roman Catholic position, and the more democratic Protestant stance then the position becomes a little clearer.

I feel that I am straying well outside my area of competence, but the vicious horror of the religious wars which have torn Europe apart over the centuries by combatants who all prayed to the same God should be a dire warning to other faiths which fail to unite.

The real trouble with religions is that they have to deal with human beings and that invariably brings all-to-human frailty into the equation and, in my reading of history – religion invariably loses out.

On a more digestible note, I had an excellent meal in the restaurant of the Macdonald Holland House Hotel on the Newport Road in Cardiff. The meal was quite pricey with a three course lunch cost £28, with a more than adequate glass of Rioja and a cup of coffee the total was £36.75!

I was the only person in the dining room for the whole of my meal, I felt rather guilty at arriving fairly early for my meal and interrupting the maître d'hôtel having his! In spite of the natural resentment that he should have been feeling, I had excellent service throughout the meal: attentive without being assertive.

The range of food was good with various appetising alternatives. I plumped for the crab tortellini on a bed of wilted etc etc etc. You get the general idea, but what intrigued me was the addition to the various listed ingredients of ‘crab foam.’ This is not something I have come across before and when the dish arrived looking very clean and elegant, the foam looked alarmingly like spit on top of the tortellini, but with rather more adhesive quality. And it tasted good. Nothing on the plate was wasted. I had already been provided with excellent onion bread with two types of butter and a small dish of olive oil. This was used to good effect to mop up the delicious foam and accoutrements!

My main course was medallions of tenderloin wrapped in black pudding and ham, set on a bed of mustard mash with a small lake of jus.

My other vegetables consisted of truncated baby carrots up ended and placed in a row looking like those contrived Chinese islands which you assume only exist in the imagination of Chinese scroll painters and then are astonished to see in reality. Rather like my line of orange incongruity!

Dessert was just as imaginative, but I plumped for the cheese. This provided the only discordant note in the meal, as; when it arrived it was rather chilled. The selection, however, was excellent with an adequate range of bread and biscuits with chutney and half a fig.

Why half? What do they do with the other bit? Does the chef eat it as one of his perks or is it placed to one side waiting another person to order the same? As no one arrived during the whole course of the courses I imagine that it must have been used as an unexpected ‘garnis’ for a startled guest!

As usual I feel a metaphor forming itself using the half fig as its basis, but, rather unusually, I will restrain myself.

Prepare yourself for an outburst later!

Irony is not enough

Blame is like a drug that promises so much and delivers so little.

As someone who enjoys every instance of irony that comes his way, I have been savouring the ramifications of the cash for confessions affair in Britain. How is it that the illegal detention of British sailors by a regime headed by a president who is a holocaust denier has resulted in the denigration of the Senior Service, the humiliation of a country and the near resignation of a minister?

The low comedy of the interviews of the returning sailors and their descriptions of their ‘hardships’ have given an air of unreality to the whole experience. One can well imagine the desperation of a group of Brits who find themselves in the disturbing position of being held by a government which regularly calls for the destruction of Israel and whose descriptions of our government do nothing to help one sleep at night. But their seemingly cheerful complicity in the audacious propaganda coup which the Iranians pulled off was, to put it mildly, depressing.

One could, of course, push the irony a little further by pottering back into the history of the relationship between Great Britain and Iran. Our complicity in ensuring the stability of the government of the Shah and our earlier cavalier behaviour in the modern re-establishment of the country ensure that an observer taking a dispassionate assessment of the country could point an accusatory finger at the high handed approach of Britain and the west. How fitting then that a country historically manipulated to serve the best interests of a country far away should now return the compliment.

How ironic too that that bastion of western idealism should now be rocked by a tragedy which surely must make that country question its very identity. The blood drenched campus in Virginia is an obscenity and the pictures we have seen can only remind us of the horror we felt when death came to another campus in Kent State. Leave aside for a moment that similar senseless slaughter is a daily occurrence in the land liberated from the bloody grip of a dictator by US forces, with the admitted complicity of other countries. Although 30 people dead is a starkly unpalatable statistic, if we are talking numbers then it pales into insignificance when compared with the relentless death toll from conflict throughout the world.

The images of the Vietnam War, thanks to the miracles of modern communication, enabled coverage of American soldiers’ deaths beamed directly into the houses of parents who could watch their sons die on live TV. In Virginia today we have the rough Cinéma Vérité of myriads of mobile phones taking their jerky pictures of an event whose horror can hardly be grasped. The internet was talking to the world from the dorms in the university to the world as the tragedy was unfolding. Students were calling electronically to find an explanation for their world being turned upside-down.

The ironies of this event happening in Virginia today stream from the tragedy like some obscene slinky effortlessly and jauntily flowing from step to step.

I’d just highlight two aspects which strike me at times like this. Gun control in the USA is a problem which for bemused observers in the UK seem to be rooted in the soul of the American people. I have never forgotten the American TV advert which showed national flags being shot through by the number of bullets which corresponded to the number of gun deaths in the respective countries. When it came to the American flag it was totally destroyed by the barrage that represented the appalling statistics which are associated with gun crime in that gun crazy nation.

It has been estimated that there are more guns in the country than there are inhabitants. That is a problem. But we can still expect the apologists to troop out the ever youthful Charlton Heston to voice the platitudes which seem to convince the population to keep their amazingly self deluding belief in the safety which the gun apparently bestows on America. The guns, we are told, are not dangerous; it’s the people who use them.

We can also expect the reiteration of the misreading of the ‘constitutional’ right to carry a gun. Perhaps that is reasonable in a country whose more extreme Christians like to parade their faith by insisting on a literal interpretation of the words of the Bible - leaving aside, of course, some of the more tricky prohibitions in the Book of Leviticus! How often the militant anti-abortionists look to the gun as a natural part of their unnatural world.

It is difficult not to look at the situation with a bitter grimace and realise, as the final irony, that the multiplicity of images held in memory, sound, tape, phone and god knows what other forms of recording material will provide conspiracy theorists enough raw material for generations.

Welcome to information overload where, as in the library which is the Bible, you will be able to pick and choose, cut and paste, and be satisfied with your belief in the Answer.

Cardiff?

The simpering, gyrating ‘weather person’ on BBC Wales has just used a weather map of Wales on which the most obscure places that he could think of are given prominence while the centres of population are ignored. If the News is an informative programme, surely there is some necessity for it to reach and inform the majority of the listeners.

This sort of playful politically correct idiocy with the national recognition of the few at the expense of the many is part of the un-stated policy of some aspects of our so-called national institutions in the woefully misplaced implementation of that most misused of concepts, ‘inclusion’.

I do not, for a moment, believe that the ‘weatherman’ is using odd hamlets on his weather maps as his own weak wave for ‘inclusivity’ (if such a word exists) it’s just his camp take on Andy Warhol’s apercu that in the future, “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.” The weather man is, like some condescending spotlight (secure in his base in Cardiff) giving all the little people in their little villages, their own little moment of prominence as a named spot on his map. “’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.” Dream on!

For me and the way I see attitudes in Wales developing, it is yet another sign in the fear and terror than some have about the position of the capital city in the life of the country. The carping criticism of Plaid Cymru as spokesperson after spokesperson emphasises the danger of putting any institution, museum or attraction in the City becomes more than irritating, it is directly insulting.

Not content with condemning the National Library of Wales to a location where the vast majority of the population will never see it, let alone visit it is, in my view, a national disgrace. The scandalous treatment of the Industrial and Maritime Museum which was hijacked from its base in Cardiff Bay and given to Swansea is an issue which has never been satisfactorily explained.

I do not begrudge Swansea a museum which demonstrates and illustrates its industrial history, but its foundation in the city is one which is another chapter in the denigration of the Capital.

It is often said that Cardiff is Europe’s youngest capital; with the expansion of the countries in the European experiment that is no longer true, but its status is still something which has to be earned by its constant development and in its role as an iconic symbol for the country something which should be supported by the population as a natural extension of national pride.

I am not so naïf to believe that Cardiff has not siphoned much which should have gone to areas in the country which are much more deprived than many in Europe. It is also true that physical geography ensures that it is easy to show how divided the nation is north from south; east from west, and the centre from everywhere. How often do the majority of delegates to an ‘all Wales’ conference have to trudge up from the south east to the tedious ‘fairness’ of a location in Builth or Llandrindod Wells, only to find that delegates from the north have decided to stay away. I speak anecdotally, but from repeated experience.

On the Gabalfa interchange on the road going towards Llandaff there is an art installation on the walls of the road which consists of simple geometric shapes in primary colours. It has all the hallmarks of a department store’s attempt at something arty. At the time of its installation I welcomed the impetus of the Welsh Arts Council in embracing the concept of public art, but I loathed the ‘cheap’ look of the end result. I did not at the time, regard the money spent on this art as being wasted, even if I did not much appreciate the work. I have come to enjoy the burst of colour and form which characterises this small stretch of otherwise unremarkable road. It has survived and now become a valued part of the colour of city life.

It works. It’s worth the money. Yes, there are other things to spend money on and any hard faced politician could reel off a list of ‘worthy’ enterprises that would command public approbation. But art has its place in something like the same way that the status of a city can have its place in national regard.

The Sydney Opera House was one of the star chapters in the wonderfully entitled book, “Great Planning Disasters” by Peter Hall. If you follow the story of the Opera House it is one humiliating debacle after another, with public loathing and contempt following every stage of the project. Now, the Opera House is a proud symbol of a nation, let alone the city. Wembley Stadium (a worthy successor to the Opera House) will soon become the iconic masterpiece that it looks and the chaos of its construction will be forgotten in national pride.

With the rubble at the heart of Cardiff as redevelopment flattens its way into our sight, the city has a golden opportunity to restate its credentials as a worthy symbol for the country – with the country’s support.

It’s worth it.

It's the waiting!

I am waiting for the Job’s Comforters to start relating their stories of how they (or more likely people they know or knew of) almost got to exchange of contracts when the buyers decided to pull out. I’m not sure that I will be able to listen to their anecdotal horror stories with anything approaching equanimity. I have discovered that my stress levels have exponentially risen now that the process of selling the house has taken another step forward.

I must admit that, like Doubting Thomas, I will not believe even this small step until the sign saying ‘SOLD’ has been tastefully attached to the board outside my home.

With something like an organic appreciation of the pathetic fallacy the (expensive) vegetation in the front garden has decided to burst forth in bloom, as if in relief that another stage has been reached. The woefully mistitled ‘White blizzard’ trailing plant which was bought as an alternative to the missing alyssum is at last living up to its name, albeit in more of a scrappy partial slush drift rather than the torrent of white that I was expecting. The trailing multicoloured lobelia is still getting its roots settled in and has not yet deigned to blossom forth, but its greenness is vigorously encouraging. Wherever I look there are buds or swellings or growth indicative of future colour.

Going on the (optimistic) time scale given by the estate agents the maximum colour coverage should be at completion! Such is the possibility of metaphor exemplified by a garden. I’m sure that, probably in the eighteenth century, some gentleman gardener wrote an elegant little treatise on irony and gardening – with six hand coloured engraved plates.

As is usual at this time of year there is the traditional double (or sometimes triple) bluff played by flowers on the neophyte gardener. This game which plant delight on playing (sometimes at the risk of their own fragile existence) consists of the plant pushing up ambiguous foliage to tempt the nervous gardener into weeding mode and thus consigning it to the green organic recycling bin. Alternatively a plant may suddenly develop multiple shoots which look like precursors of flower stems, thus staying the hand of the enthusiastic and wanton pruner. In one case, speaking from personal experience, this led me to water, tend and nurture a large pot of what turned out to be grass! It was then used an a colour design way as a foil to more colourful pots to make it seem as if it were all planned.

The present plant prevaricator sending out possibly mendacious shoots is a plant in a pot in the front paved area. It is indisputably healthy and has developed what look like tightly closed buds promising a profusion of colourful flower heads. I am, however, beginning to suspect that these promising buds merely hold yet more greenery and the hint of colour in the tip of the bud is merely evolutionary camouflage for the confusion of the urban gardener. I shall pander to its virility and feed it plant food and report back on any spectacular floral developments.

Yesterday to Eleri’s 50th birthday party held in the salubrious surroundings of Cardiff Yacht Club. That title is perhaps a misnomer as my new little device for finding my way around the world did not recognise its existence. I have yet to use this device for any real journey but I bought it as a sort of good luck charm to ensure the sale of the house – buying the version of the machine that had maps of Europe at street level. You see my point.

Cardiff Yacht Club is in the Bay at the Windsor Esplanade. This is near a row of houses that at one time were in a very shady position (and I don’t mean sheltered from the rays of the sun) but now must be very desirably property indeed. The building of the Club House is of that type of modern architecture which looks temporary and designed by sticking together bits of other projects’ plans. The upstairs bar, still smelling of cigarette smoke (so pre-April my dear!) does have the advantage of panoramic windows. The full effect of this sweeping vista was somewhat lessened by the lack of daylight, but the night merely served to open up the view of the bay and surrounding area to an abstract interpretation of light on water. Even though we have summer weather the illumination of the various facets of the city deserving of optical highlighting has not yet persuaded the city fathers to squander the requisite electricity. So swathes of the shore line are dark and churches like St Augustine’s in Penarth are not yet shining out against the sky.

The Yacht Club seems to be situated on the shores of a swamp; which I’m sure is designated as a wet reserve for wildlife. In the darkness however the scraps of light illuminate scraps of vegetation fringed pools while the actual waters of the bay are filled with the reflections of the gaudy life of the restaurants and walkways. At night the view is most impressive, and there is even a balcony so that the nicotine addicts can indulge without infecting the wholesome majority!

A good time was obviously had by all and, perhaps reflecting the average age of the participants, the festivities ended at a more than civilized hour whatever the more raffish elements were intent on doing!

Late to bed and late to rise makes a man lazily content. Who can ask for more?