Vaulting ambition again!

My first visit to the Theatre Nacional de Catalynya was almost frustrated by generous numbers of road works; an accident involving a motorcycle and general misplaced confidence. The first is par for the course; the second an everyday occurrence to which you rapidly get hardened given the suicidal approach to motoring in the cycle community and the third was a belief that money would be equal to results.

It was all the fault of my new (expensive) GPS.

I assumed that finding the National Theatre would be possible in a number of ways for which I didn’t need an exact address. A recently found guide to Barcelona was also in the car and that, assuredly would give me the information I required should I require it; which I didn’t expect to require.

The guide to Barcelona gave me a small picture of the façade of the theatre and the information that it was near Plaça de les Glòries but not exactly in it. For a GPS exactitude is everything, but I merely told (ah!) the machine to go to the Plaça de les Glòries and I assumed that I would be able to use the machine to find the nearest theatre when I got a little closer and, hey presto! I would be there.

Such assumptions are dangerous.

I made worse assumptions. I asked (ah!) the machine to give me a list of theatres and I assumed that the name of one I was given was near enough to the one I wanted and I told (ah!) the machine to navigate me there. I was wrong. I therefore told (ah!) the machine to take me to my orginal destination and then while stopped at traffic lights within sight of the facade I told (ah!) the machine to find the nearest parking. Which it did and I arrived. Early.

The parking to which I was directed only cost five euros (and believe you me, only five euros in Barcelona is virtually a gift) and I could have stayed there all night! The fact that I was at the theatre an hour and more early so I could give My Pupil his lesson is the only explanation I can find for being able to park in so exemplary a space!

The building itself is in the form of a post-modernist classical temple with rather squat modified Doric columns and the walls made of glass. It is a building made to impress with marble and classical structures but it does not invite. Yet again architects have produced a shrine or Mauseuleam whose imposing structure repulses the very people who should be attracted. Still the miniscule cheese roll in wholemeal bread with herb olive oil I had there was delicious

Any dance production that starts with a deafening roll of thunder in the darkness, uses music from The Saint Matthew Passion and ends with whale song is either hitching a ride on easy significant association or is very confident of its purpose to cope with cliché. The production I saw last night in the Theatre Nacional de Catalunya of “La Venus de Willendorf” directed by Iago Pericot had elements of both.

The eight strong company of four male and four female dancers was augmented by a living naked embodiment of the Venus of Willendorf who had the generous curves of the original stone figure and was a stage presence throughout the performance acting as a silent comment on the action of the dancers and finally the audience itself.

The performance opened with the dancers in twisted foetal positions in the darkness downstage. The back of the stage opened and in the growing light the Venus character slowly advanced and, as she passed along the line of figures they began to find themselves within their bodies. They slowly evolved into sentient creatures who explored their limbs and actions and their interaction with others. Two large table-like structures with a mirrored surface allowed a playfulness to motivate the characters while the mirror give them further opportunities to realize their development as they saw themselves.

Personal movement in space became a series of impingements on the space of others. I found the opening of the production dominated by gesture rather than dance with an amusing variety of movements which combined flowing figures with the jaunty break dance-like staccato hand gestures and body movement. The dancers used percussive effects by striking their own bodies and each other’s and by using growls and shouts.

The narrative of the piece developed into a series of power plays echoing the themes embodied in the music; rejection, isolation, conflict. The isolation of one of the female dancers allowed a powerful piece of concentrated mockery by the other dancers who also formed themselves into melded creatures that recalled the fantastic creatures of Bosch or Breughal. I found the look of the piece to be very much influenced by paintings, especially Flemish religious art where Northern Renaissance depictions of scenes of The Passion found their reflections in the movement of the dancers.
One effective episode suggested a form of The Last Supper where the two mirrored tables were set up end to end up stage and a Christ-like dictatorial character flanked by the rest of the dancers forced a series of mimetic movements and which ended up with his elation finding expression in a phallus formed by one of the female dancers’ arms thrust between his legs. His exclamation of “Espana!” at that moment seemed both comic and crass!

The reflections of ideas in the music worked throughout the piece so that loyalty, belonging, rejection, society, authority were all part of the rich melange of concepts informing the movement. A tie could represent society, clan, group and the action indicated the momentum of acceptance and expulsion.

Throughout the work the Venus figure made her stately and powerful presence felt as with hands of pendulous breasts she walked through the squabbling dancers combining power and grace as she progressed.

The climax of the piece came when the dancers emerged dressed in conventional modern clothes after the tights and t-shirts of their previous performances and, after a fashion walk into position facing each other we saw couples attracting and responding to their partners: gay, lesbian and straight they seduced each other discarding clothing in the process so that by the time that they reached and touched each other they were naked.

The disconcerting element in this display is that no matter how lascivious the glances, gestures and couplings of the characters there is a clear indication in the case of males of the extent of their arousal. It was therefore clear that the men although ostensibly enamoured by their partners remained passionately untouched!

I am well aware that this is a professional company performing a choreographed text, but if you go to the extent of full nudity then the flaccidity has to be taken as an intended comment on the act itself. And to me it made no sense.

The “love making” ended by one of each couple killing the other and then retreating from the murdered body. This could, I suppose be seen as a comment on the whole concept of the crucifixion and the clear juxtaposition of love and death. The Venus character walked slowly in front of the audience (the house lights up) and by her hard stare involving all of us in the perversion of what she stood for. And at that point she slowly walked up stage through the dead and the murderers and disappeared back into the light.

This was a production full of ideas many of which worked, but to me it looked like a work in progress with the need for the director to excise some of the more self-indulgent aspects and make the experience more muscular and focussed.

I enjoyed the piece and I look forward to more from this clearly talented company.

What bacteria!

My efforts to spend the summer bonus before we are half way through the first month of the holiday continue apace.

Not content with buying a reclining chair and a GPS that talks to me urging me to “Speak your command!” I celebrated Spain’s deserved win in the World Cup by visiting a local bookshop and buying (on the slim and thinning pretext of possibly teaching the history of art next year) a positive collection of remaindered books and one full price.

I was particularly pleased with one volume which was on the Spanish painter Joaquín Sorolla whose lively impasto sketch like way of painting reminded me of John Singer Sargent. He is perhaps best known for the series of gigantic canvases that he painted for the Hispano American Society in New York which show the different regions in Spain through scenes that include national dress, dance, customs and work activities particular to each region. These were recently on view in the MNAC in an exhibition which I attended and very impressive they were too.

A book in the same series as the Sorolla was one on Surrealism which I bought because, whatever I think about the movement generally, once one gets beyond the commercial self-seeking vulgarity of Dalí, I find the serious play of the artists fascinating. To be fair to the book they actually chose to use a painting by Yves Tanguey on the cover. Tanguey’s paintings have always looked to me like Paul Klee’s doodles given a vivid and disturbing three dimensional reality; just like that episode of The Simpsons when Homer was sucked through a wormhole into a three dimensional world and cartoon became “reality”!

The other four books I bought (ah, brings back the old days of going into town and struggling home with half a library of irresistible books) were in the “Obras Maestras” series, books worth buying because of a few illustrations that I did not have in other works. But one volume was a purchase in spite of myself.

The subjects of the other three justified the “Masterworks” titles: Matisse, Cézanne and Gauguin, with the volume on Cezanne featuring a double page spread of the view of Mont Sainte-Victoire from The National Museum of Wales in Cardiff.

The fourth volume was on Warhol. Now I think that Warhol makes Jeff Koons look live Vermeer and I further think that one of the pathetic daubs by Dubuffet are worth the whole of Warhol’s oeuvre, but there is a sort of sick fascination for the man who out-Dalíed Dalí in his zest for personal fame and the acquisition of wealth! How can one not feel a sort of excited contempt for an artist who produce s a page of badly drawn shoes and entitles the picture “á La Recherche du Shoe Perdu” His portrait of the squeaky weed Truman Capote manages to make him look like a slightly crazed Woody Harrelson! This is the “clean” version of Warhol’s work with only a sideways look at sex rather than the full-on for which he was infamous. But still, there is something there, even if I think that I am making his work art more than he ever did! I was twelve when the Campbell’s Soup cans came out and fourteen when the Brillo boxes were loosed on the world. I can remember that I was disgusted, confused and slightly excited by the sheer audacity (yes, I was using words like that then) of a so-called artist getting away with murder.

I might add that all these books are in Spanish so I can look on their purchase as a form of homework for my slow language development her.

On a far more disturbing note I have been watching the pool boy attend to our stretch of water: a stretch of water in which I have just had my early morning swim.

He took some sort of litmus paper out of its protective wrapping and dipped it into the water and was checking it as he was walking towards the little room in which all the machinery and chemicals are found. He stopped abruptly then scurried into the room and returned with pots of chemical from which he threw handful after handful into the water. Islands of congealed white formed on the surface and he then added tablets in each of the access hoes at the sides of the pool. He has now taken the long-handled net and is breaking up the islands and trying to get whatever he has thrown into the pool to dissolve.

He is also taking away the night`s crop of insect life which has met a chlorinated watery death and is floating on the surface waiting to be ingested with an unwary gulp of air by those among us who actually swim in the pool rather than hang about like manatees in the warm water.

After such panicked action I wonder what sort of primordial soup I was swimming in this morning!

Meanwhile after a hazy start the day has developed into one of clear blue skies and baking sun and engaging silence apart of course from the unholy trinity of barking dogs; recalcitrant children and amorous feathered flying things.

I’ll cope!

None better!

Today`s (which, to be strictly accurate is now yesterday’s) highlights have undoubtedly been the gazpacho made by Toni and the paella mixta made by his mum. I laid the table. Nothing like working together to build up an appetite!

Today is basically a non-day.

It is merely the day before the World Cup Final in South Africa.

There is an air of tense anticipation which is steadily being whipped up into a nationalistic frenzy by the unbelievable television coverage. I don’t watch much television, but I have seen Puyol’s goal so many times that I feel that I am an active participant in the Association Football version of Groundhog Day!

I hope to god that Spain wins because I do not want to be anywhere near the recriminations and despair if they lose.

In Catalonia it is quite ironic that Spain are meeting Holland in the final as the relationship between Catalonia and Holland is quite a strong one based on Dutch players and coaches having done their time in Barça. Kruff who is seen as more than an honorary Catalan is in a particularly stressful position and he must be sick of being asked which side he supports; though he does now have an acceptable answer for the media off pat!

While shopping for the ingredients for the paella I met the Head of the Secondary Section of the last school in which I worked before my present one. In a quick chat she did stress that no member of the English Department had left – perhaps she was reading behind my eyes!

Her appearance did emphasise the tasks that I have left: the clearing up of the study. I will, after all, be teaching three new areas of study next year and I will not have the breathing space that I had last year. Last September we had a fortnight in school before the kids arrived; this year it is just a week. I know that sounds absurdly generous when British schools usually have two days max to get ready for the major teaching term of the year, but the writing of a three term course is no small thing, even if one only has to get the outline done.

What I should bear in mind is the mutability of firm plans in this country. I could well turn up on the 1st of September and find that my timetable bears no relationship to the one that I was given at the end of the last term. If anything happens to the History of Art bit then I will be seriously annoyed; and that is the part of the timetable which is most at risk. Although I was told that no, whatever happened, I would be teaching it the reality is more subject to ‘knock-on’ effects from other timetables than any other aspect of my allocations.

I will continue with the lesson plans that I am developing and hope for the best. And of course buy books and charge them to the school!

The medusa’s kiss is developing into quite a feature on my left leg. The casual contact of my limb with the tentacles of the floating blob has produced an ellipse of swellings which look like an encyclopaedia illustration of the phases of the Red Planet. I am liberally coating said area with a thick layer of the same transparent salve that didn’t work on Toni’s mosquito stings last year. But on the other hand I did ask for it in Spanish in Sitges in the central pharmacy which is the second most important feature of the quaint non-square shape square in the old town. The most important feature there is a restored Modernista clock which looks something straight out of The Brothers Grimm!

In a continuation of the Quick Spending of the Bonus of the Summer (we have 14 pay days with an extra one in June and in December – don’t ask) I have had to buy a new chair to replace the vaguely dentist-chair like contraption I had before. This has taken to slipping to one side and sitting on it involves a complex balancing act and is not really, in any sense, relaxing.

I have tried, in a general mood of ecology to find somewhere to repair the chair. Perhaps asking in furniture shops is not the right approach, but their looks of blank astonishment that anyone would want to try and get a chair repaired speaks volumes for the world in which we live.

I am well aware that I bought a new GPS because I ‘reasoned’ that the difference between a new device and the cost of up-dating the maps was small enough to be ignored. In the event of course I spent far more than I should have, but I do now have a GPS to which I can talk!

I do not talk to my new chair, but it is one which is solidly placed on four feet on the floor, rather than the single vulnerable post of the previous revolving masterpiece. The present one does of course recline and has a foot rest but it is not made of leather and it doesn’t go round. Even I am capable of making sacrifices!

I have resolved that some of the major tasks of the summer will have at least have to be contemplated with some degree of seriousness during the next week.

A seriousness which is seriously lacking in one of the flats on our left where ¡Fiesta! Has obviously been declared and all the rest of us have to join in!

Well the little raucous celebration in the flat will be as nothing compared to the national explosion of delight there will be if everything goes well in the southern hemisphere tomorrow.

We’ll see!

We saw!

Spain have won and all is well with the world. Though the same could not be said for the behaviour of the Dutch team (cheating bastards) and the English ref (incompetent fool) but, when all is said and done, and believe me Spanish television went on saying and doing well after everything that could be said and done was, well, said and done.

Every notable Spanish speaker in the South African crowd was, at some point, forced to give a completely inconsequential interview to some hyped up reporter.

The most touching interview was that given by the Spanish goalkeeper Iker Casillas (or “Bloody Casillas” as he is known to Barça supporters as he stops goal which should be scored against Real Madrid) to a female interviewer who also happened to be his girlfriend. Iker started well but, as he thanked his parents etc he became chocked up and finished the interview by giving the interviewer a full on kiss, to a round of applause and a muttered “¡Dios mio!” from the lady herself. It is a moment from the World Cup which is destined to be replayed many times! And believe you me, Spanish television has no qualms whatsoever about replaying quite mundane pieces of film ad nausium, so something of genuine interest becomes a sort of visual wallpaper on the screen!

But, away with jollifications: today is Monday and there are tasks to be done.

I have made a truly insignificant start to the clearing up of the Third Floor study by cutting some decorative plastic water bottles in half and filling them with pens, pencils, scissors, markers and highlighters. You can now see part of the surface of the desk. The only way is up!

But first a little light spending.

Today was tomorrow yesterday

Today`s highlights have undoubtedly been the gazpacho made by Toni and the paella mixta made by his mum. I laid the table. Nothing like working together to build up an appetite!

Today is basically a non-day.

It is merely the day before the World Cup Final in South Africa.

There is an air of tense anticipation which is steadily being whipped up into a nationalistic frenzy by the unbelievable television coverage. I don’t watch much television, but I have seen Puyol’s goal so many times that I feel that I am an active participant in the Association Football version of Groundhog Day!

I hope to god that Spain wins because I do not want to be anywhere near the recriminations and despair if they lose.

In Catalonia it is quite ironic that Spain are meeting Holland in the final as the relationship between Catalonia and Holland is quite a strong one based on Dutch players and coaches having done their time in Barça. Kruff who is seen as more than an honorary Catalan is in a particularly stressful position and he must be sick of being asked which side he supports; though he does now have an acceptable answer for the media off pat!

While shopping for the ingredients for the paella I met the Head of the Secondary Section of the last school in which I worked before my present one. In a quick chat she did stress that no member of the English Department had left – perhaps she was reading behind my eyes!

Her appearance did emphasise the tasks that I have left: the clearing up of the study. I will, after all, be teaching three new areas of study next year and I will not have the breathing space that I had last year. Last September we had a fortnight in school before the kids arrived; this year it is just a week. I know that sounds absurdly generous when British schools usually have two days max to get ready for the major teaching term of the year, but the writing of a three term course is no small thing, even if one only has to get the outline done.

What I should bear in mind is the mutability of firm plans in this country. I could well turn up on the 1st of September and find that my timetable bears no relationship to the one that I was given at the end of the last term. If anything happens to the History of Art bit then I will be seriously annoyed; and that is the part of the timetable which is most at risk. Although I was told that no, whatever happened, I would be teaching it the reality is more subject to ‘knock-on’ effects from other timetables than any other aspect of my allocations.

I will continue with the lesson plans that I am developing and hope for the best. And of course buy books and charge them to the school!

The medusa’s kiss is developing into quite a feature on my left leg. The casual contact of my limb with the tentacles of the floating blob has produced an ellipse of swellings which look like an encyclopaedia illustration of the phases of the Red Planet. I am liberally coating said area with a thick layer of the same transparent salve that didn’t work on Toni’s mosquito stings last year. But on the other hand I did ask for it in Spanish in Sitges in the central pharmacy which is the second most important feature of the quaint non-square shape square in the old town. The most important feature there is a restored Modernista clock which looks something straight out of The Brothers Grimm!

In a continuation of the Quick Spending of the Bonus of the Summer (we have 14 pay days with an extra one in June and in December – don’t ask) I have had to buy a new chair to replace the vaguely dentist-chair like contraption I had before. This has taken to slipping to one side and sitting on it involves a complex balancing act and is not really, in any sense, relaxing.

I have tried, in a general mood of ecology to find somewhere to repair the chair. Perhaps asking in furniture shops is not the right approach, but their looks of blank astonishment that anyone would want to try and get a chair repaired speaks volumes for the world in which we live.

I am well aware that I bought a new GPS because I ‘reasoned’ that the difference between a new device and the cost of up-dating the maps was small enough to be ignored. In the event of course I spent far more than I should have, but I do now have a GPS to which I can talk!

I do not talk to my new chair, but it is one which is solidly placed on four feet on the floor, rather than the single vulnerable post of the previous revolving masterpiece. The present one does of course recline and has a foot rest but it is not made of leather and it doesn’t go round. Even I am capable of making sacrifices!

I have resolved that some of the major tasks of the summer will have at least have to be contemplated with some degree of seriousness during the next week.

A seriousness which is seriously lacking in one of the flats on our left where ¡Fiesta! Has obviously been declared and all the rest of us have to join in!

Well the little raucous celebration in the flat will be as nothing compared to the national explosion of delight there will be if everything goes well in the southern hemisphere tomorrow.

We’ll see!

Book or no book

Barcelona was hot and unsatisfactory: the first I can deal with but the second, especially as it is connected to a book, is much harder to laugh off.

As I am teaching Art History (only a bit and only modern) next year I tried to get a copy of the book which my pupils are expected to know something of. The buying of this book and the even sweeter thrill of charging the cost to the school was the object of the trip to the city.

Armed with the title, the author, the ISBN number and the year at which the book was aimed I felt fairly secure in the successful achievement of my task. The reality was much more complex.

In the first few book shops I was more or less jocose about the failure of the people there to come up with the book but these people in turn spoke in hushed voices about a bookshop of whose book orders they were not worthy to type into the computer. The name of this Shangri-La of things academic was “Abacus” (in Spanish the emphasis is on the ‘b’) and I was fairly near it.

Eventually, after having asked five people, all of whom knew this shop (including I might add one council dustman) I found it. An unassuming doorway led into a subterranean labyrinth of things stationery which I severely avoided as such things negatively affect my spendthriftfulness. I asked for the books and went straight to the information section to give them the details so that they might give me the book.

The child who took my scrap of paper with all the information on it, glanced at it in a fairly negative way and after tapping half an encyclopaedia into the computer informed me severely that they did not have it with a clear indication that they would not stock it either. His look of autocratic distain was as if I had asked for a pornographically illustrated Book of Kells rather than a simple text book on the History of Art!

Thus defeated I was in no positive frame of mind to take on My Pupil who had however done some homework and who gave me three books of Chinese paintings to look through.

The bus drive back to Castelldefels, just like the drive to Barcelona was hellish. I shall not do this again. I hate travel by bus; in future I think that I shall park in the station here in Castelldefels and go up by train, much more civilized!

The evening was taken up with going to Terrassa for a birthday party but the real revelation was finding out just why my GPS was so expensive: you can talk to it!

With “voice commands” you can get a response from the GPS and you can order it to find a particular address when you are on the move or make a mid-course correction and instruct the device to take you somewhere else.

It does seem like something out of “1001 Nights” with more than a touch of ‘Open Sesame!’ about it, but it is vastly satisfying to have at least one of your passengers grinding his teeth in frustrated gadget owning passion!

I have yet to discover if the thing is actually worth the money, but as Picasso may have memorably said (at least I’ve spent years saying he said it) in another context, “It’s not that the paintings aren’t worth the money: it’s the money which isn’t worth the money.” I have also said for years (using a price that is now thirty odd years out of date or whenever the Falklands Conflict was) that if an Exocet missile cost £250,000 then paintings costing ‘only’ tens of millions seem a pretty good buy! After all many of the missiles actually missed, while a painting generally stays put and only the impoverished intellect of the observer can make it miss!

However, I am still not convinced that I have spent my money wisely.

I shall now pause for a moment to allow the hollow laughter from those that know me to subside.

As it was too late to post this writing yesterday, I am now writing on the Third Floor in the calm of the morning where broken cloud has not encouraged children to break the serenity of the day; the planes are taking off on a distant runway and arching their way out to sea, and even the clamorous pigeons are curbing the amorous one liners.

In this part of the world the pigeons are like really unimaginative morons who go into night clubs and assured by their own delusions of adequacy assume that the chat up line of “All right then!” with the emphasis on right will be sufficient to have the fluttering hearts of their targets laid instantly at their feet, or claws, as the case might be. Even a second cup of tea is sometimes insufficient to make this monotonous chorus emanating from branch and television ariel a little hard to take.

Sometimes sitting on the Third Floor I am irresistibly reminded of ‘Targets’ the disturbing excellent Peter Bogdanovich film, in which a young man for no convincingly explained reason embarks on a shooting spree. The only difference in my version is that I am a little older than the shooter in the film and my targets would be quite clearly chosen for their levels of irritation: starting with pigeons, working my way through assorted dogs in the neighbourhood and culminating in a general massacre of . . . Another cup of tea I think!

That’s better! Tea is the nearest thing to the mythical drug ‘soma’ in Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ which has the contradictory qualities of stimulation and anaesthesia. Tea calms and refreshes; stimulates and soothes; makes the world a better place and is generally an ever present friend in times of stress.

And talking of stress, the pattering footsteps and pipingly piercing voice of the first child of the day breaks into the tranquillity of my eyrie and drags me back to reality.


But wait a false alarm!


The brightly dull day (a feature of Castelldefels) has not prompted the Little One to shriek about on the surface of the pool like a demented water-boatman on steroids and it has retreated to its €1m home leaving the world to silence (always a relative concept in this part of the world) and to me and the pool person cleaning the swimming pool beyond the tennis court busily sweeping up the night’s layer of pine needles

The morning insects must be out in force as I have just been treated to the sort of ariel show by a trio of swifts or swallows which make all other birds look positively lumpen as they labour their way through the air!

I am now down to the last drops of stewed tea in my Zara glass teapot which only hardened Brits would drink and which leave Catalans gasping with sheer wonder at the masochist lengths that inhabitants of the United Kingdom will go to in the name of their cuisine.

They don’t know what they are missing!

Dark delights

Swimming at night in our pool I realized just how selfish sport actually is.

Of the three pools which are virtually adjacent to each other in our area, ours is the only one which is not illuminated during the night. I see this as a disadvantage while Toni sees it in a positive light as everything in the summer time is taken and evaluated in how far it encourages mosquitoes.

To be fair his paranoia has some foundation as the winged avengers seem to make (if I might be permitted to use an insectual metaphor) a bee-line for his blood stream. No Catalan mosquito worth its name is going to sample my foreign blood while succulent home grown corpuscles are flowing in the vicinity. This means that Toni’s legs look as though they have been used for target practice by swarms of beasts with sharpened proboscises whereas mine look as though they have been laved in daily baths of asses’ milk. Result!

Meanwhile: myopic swimming in the dark. Which isn’t really dark because of the light spill from the surrounding buildings; just light enough to highlight the blurred, dark, slow moving ripples and give you the impression that you are actually swimming through something like the BP oil slick – but “BP light” all the visual appeal but with none of the cloying viscosity and acrid smell of the real thing.

I am not an imaginative swimmer: I go up and down and up and down only varying the stroke from front crawl to breast stroke.

I wear ear plugs because my ears tend to retain water extending the muffled world of the pool into real life. Indeed I have a nodule in my right ear which is there as a result of swimming. It also allowed me to do my duty to the National Health Service as I was called in to the Heath Hospital to be a sample patient for budding consultants to see whether they could recognize my little nodule and its possible causes. It is, I am told, quite harmless and would cause more problems to have it operated on than to leave it, so I keep it as a precious souvenir of years of daily swimming.

Gently pushing off (remembering the arthritis)from the side of a dark pool at night you can only see (thanks to my excellent new goggles from Herr Lidl which make my short sighted view of the pool a sharp short sighted view of the pool) grey arms pointing forwards into a shapeless murk which is the rest of the pool. The only sound is your exhaled breath magnified by the ear plugs: a little world of mystery.

Luckily the spilled light meant that the end of the pool was distinguished from the rest of the murky world that I inhabit without my glasses, so I was able to turn without injury.

Even when the pool is crowded with the raucous cronies of the “popular” girl next door and her own pitiful squeaks resound across the water, an easy crawl and exhalation under water and the world of the pool erases all other human activity.

Of course there are people in the pool to contend with but, as long as you are doing lengths on the side which does not have the steps to exit then you are generally left alone. There is also a way of swimming which tells everyone that you are not going to stop and that they are going to be hurt more than you if there is a collision: I make sure of that. Fairly long nails are also a good idea as water merely acts as a lubricant for judicious slashing!

At least I am honest about the anti-social appeal of swimming unlike so-called team players where you only have to watch a striker rip congratulatory hands from himself so that he can appear alone in front of the corner camera after scoring a goal to realize that it is all self, self, self!

Perhaps squash, which I also enjoyed, is the most selfish of the racket sports because as soon as the serve is played the players sets about talking over the whole of the playing space. Even in boxing there is a corner which is yours. I am sure that there is a thesis to be written (or probably has been written) on “Seven Types of Selfishness: a study of self in sport.”

The first child has now jumped into the pool and the serenity which has characterised by tea drinking on the third floor is now shattered. The first child has now been joined by a second and where there are two children “communicating” even the civilizing effects of tea are no match for the volume of sound.

To the sound of car horns and explosions Spain have made it through to the final of the world cup. This is an historic achievement as they have always been dogged by bad luck and dreadful refereeing in previous competitions. Perhaps this is Spain’s year. We shall see.

Tomorrow Barcelona and book buying and a little light teaching.

Spending Therapy

My Pupil cancelled this morning as I was getting ready to go to Barcelona for the lesson. This is Not Good and my patience is running a little low as this is the second time that he has done it.

By way of compensation I went to El Corte Ingles and bought the ludicrously expensive update for my GPS. I could, of course, have bought the internet download of new maps for my device but that really is not my style. The one that I have bought is elegantly slim and you can talk to it and order it to do things. What things these are I know not of; but I am working on it!

This is one of those gadgets for which you really will have to download the manual to find out exactly what it can do. It might also be one of those gadgets that does enough to make you wish that it did more!

The one true disaster is The Voice.

I cannot contemplate with anything less than panic a voice ordering me to do things which wasn’t the lady to whom I have become accustomed on the previous version of the GPS. The idea of having a bloke tell you to take the third turning just doesn’t seem possible to tolerate and my real fear was having an American accent. Impossible.

Eventually the helpful gentleman in El Corte Ingles managed to find the right part of the system when he was “demonstrating” the device and there was Emily speaking British English. Good enough for me.

I actually managed to get the device out of its box and talking on the way home from the shop. It was a little disconcerting to have The Voice talking in miles but that was soon rectified. The device is now registered and that means that I am entitled to at least one map update. Given the way the Spanish change their road flow system this will be essential before the first year is out!

For the first time this year I have swum in a rather grubby looking sea lurking at the bottom of our road. I, as is my want, immediately swam out towards the Holy Land until I felt a familiar series of pin pricks on my leg. We have been inflicted with a plague of medusas (jellyfish) and these are not merely decorative but very painful. I had one sting last year and the rash stayed with me for longer than was aesthetically necessary!

One touch, or possibly two and my front crawl improved dramatically and I was half way up the beach before I stopped swimming. The pool will be enough for me I think.

Updating the GPS is another task completed and I managed to send off a letter to the General Teaching Council of Wales updating my information. I`m not absolutely clear why I am still paying the money to that august body, but as I seem to have paid for another year that should take me past the magic date in October!

Talking of which I will have to check up on the progress of my claim!

Nothing changes!

The heat last night meant that in spite of the predation of mosquitoes the window was left open. This also meant that we were regaled with the brittle forced laugh of the teenage girl next door as she showed her delight at the mawkish posturing of the males with which she surrounds herself in the pool. Her high pitched expressions of delight were punctuated by even higher pitched squeals of faux displeasure as a few drops of water touched her skin when the males went into their clumsy mating displays.

The one positive virtue this girl has is that she refuses to surface and face the world at any time before the clear afternoon. This sometimes has the negative effect of prompting her parents, especially her father, to trumpetings of displeasure and repeated howlings of her name as they try to get her up!

We have not, yet, had the farcical accompaniments of breaking crockery and slammed doors which we had last year, including what we sincerely believe to be a thrown hi-fi system during one incandescent row!

Poor weather is starting to close in around us in the rest of Spain which is fine by me as it is restocking the reservoirs that supply us with water! This attitude may appear on the surface to be a tad selfish – but it works for me!

The simple tasks for the summer are running out and I will soon have to contemplate starting on one of the more significant ones. I am trying not to panic as I realize that one thirtieth of my holiday has already gone, never to be recalled – no, wait, my calculations have been faulty; there are 31 days each in July and August, so I have only used up 2/62nd or 1/31st: much better!

Spain has just made it to the semi final to the accompaniment of car horns and the explosion of fireworks. They now play Germany in the semi finals and I know who I will be supporting!

I have re-read “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and other stories” by F Scott Fitzgerald with a view to using the stories for our equivalent of the sixth form because at the moment we are using “The Great Gatsby” which would not be my choice of book to give to students whose first language is not English. I have suggested the stories as a possible replacement, but I thought I ought to re-read them since I read them god-knows-how-many-years-ago in a Penguin Modern Classics edition which cost me three shillings and sixpence! Which does actually give you some idea of the length of time!

On one level I thoroughly enjoyed reading these stories, surprised by how much of them I actually remembered and delighting in Fitzgerald’s style and content. He doesn’t do happiness very well, but I do enjoy the misery that he writes. I think it is a function of being an English teacher that we, as a breed, much prefer to teach death and unhappiness than anything cheerful. I always cite Blake as my defence: which would you rather read “The Songs of Innocence” with their insipid “little lambs” etc or “The Songs of Experience” with running blood and “mind forg’d manacles” - no contest I think!

But how would non-native English speakers respond to them? And are they of sufficient quality to encourage the effort which would undoubtedly be necessary for an understanding of their content and meaning? I think the answer to those questions is probably yes. But I will give it some more thought until I make a recommendation. It will also give me time to find out if the edition that I know is actually still published!

I count the reading of the book as completing my task for the day. So there.

I have also reread a short book by Penelope Fitzgerald called “The bookshop” a beautifully crafted novella about a woman trying to open a bookshop in an enclosed East Anglian coastal town. It is a desperately sad (I suppose) picture of a narrow minded claustrophobic society not making too much effort to come to terms with a new sort of society. Although essentially depressing it has moments of humour and farcical moments of true nobility. It is short and sparse but what is there has a muscularity which gives the narrative a real drive. It’s a book worth reading. But not one for my kids I think. Pity.

This Sunday was an indication of what the rest of the weekends in the summer are going to be like. Parking was chaos and two cars parked across the gate to our drive. There are marked out parking spaces on one side or our road and clearly no real room on the other side. What visitors do is park their cars on the pavement making it impossible for pedestrians to pass and blocking us from our houses.

Toni has suggested taking a philosophical view of this inconsideration as there is nothing we can do about it and it is not worth the heartache of trying to keep obviously selfish pigs from doing in the right thing!

Driving into the centre of the playa area of Castelldefels on Sunday evening was a horrendous experience as not only had drivers and pedestrians obviously left their consideration at home, they also appeared to have left any clear ideas about their owns self preservation there too. Peop0le wandered backwards into the road, they strolled across the road ignoring crossings; drivers meandered from lane to lane; indication was confined to my car and U turns and reversing into the main road was common.

I had to summon all my reason to tell myself that Castelldefels is a seaside town and has an overwhelming number of visitors who come here without really knowing where they are going and, when they get here they find that there are no parking spaces within what must be a largely crippled car driving population‘s idea of “walking distance” of the beach.

They therefore park on crossings, corners, pavements, driveways and generally squeeze themselves into any space that they deem available no matter how bizarre and/or dangerous it might be.

Monday saw me trying to take advantage of the “No VAT” day in MediaMarkt. I am attempting to change my GPS for a slim and over-featured replacement. My only fear is that any machine bought in this country might have an American voice for the English directions. I will not be able to stand that. I need a British woman’s voice to guide me: in the more turbulent roads of central Barcelona you need the calm assurance of some sort of Julie Andrews prim RP voice to put a tinge of normality on what can be totally surrealistic motoring on Spanish roads.

The maps that came with my present GPS are now totally out of date and the cost of updating them is almost as much as a new machine, so I am taking the advantage of almost necessity to get a better unit. The one that I am after tells you all sorts of things which my present one does not and also gives you a “real” view of difficult junctions where a simple “Keep left!” is simply not sufficient given the sometimes fractal roads that we have here.

The Family arrived at lunch time and we all went to the local restaurant for a meal. Excellent value, though the service was not so good – though it wasn’t the fault of the waiter. At the end we had excellent value again and I saw a colleague who was surrounded by her family as well – we arranged to meet for a beer when we were not quite to encumbered!

Tomorrow the lesson with My Pupil, but I think that I shall make a day of it in Barcelona and add a little culture to the occasion. I will be able to tick off one or two more of my tasks and I feel that buying a wireless printer at an 18% discount allows me to tick one for today.

Things to do

The heat last night meant that in spite of the predation of mosquitoes the window was left open. This also meant that we were regaled with the brittle forced laugh of the teenage girl next door as she showed her delight at the mawkish posturing of the males with which she surrounds herself in the pool. Her high pitched expressions of delight were punctuated by even higher pitched squeals of faux displeasure as a few drops of water touched her skin when the males went into their clumsy mating displays.

The one positive virtue this girl has is that she refuses to surface and face the world at any time before the clear afternoon. This sometimes has the negative effect of prompting her parents, especially her father, to trumpetings of displeasure and repeated howlings of her name as they try to get her up!

We have not, yet, had the farcical accompaniments of breaking crockery and slammed doors which we had last year, including what we sincerely believe to be a thrown hi-fi system during one incandescent row!

Poor weather is starting to close in around us in the rest of Spain which is fine by me as it is restocking the reservoirs that supply us with water! This attitude may appear on the surface to be a tad selfish – but it works for me!

The simple tasks for the summer are running out and I will soon have to contemplate starting on one of the more significant ones. I am trying not to panic as I realize that one thirtieth of my holiday has already gone, never to be recalled – no, wait, my calculations have been faulty; there are 31 days each in July and August, so I have only used up 2/62nd or 1/31st: much better!

Spain has just made it to the semi final to the accompaniment of car horns and the explosion of fireworks. They now play Germany in the semi finals and I know who I will be supporting!

I have re-read “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and other stories” by F Scott Fitzgerald with a view to using the stories for our equivalent of the sixth form because at the moment we are using “The Great Gatsby” which would not be my choice of book to give to students whose first language is not English. I have suggested the stories as a possible replacement, but I thought I ought to re-read them since I read them god-knows-how-many-years-ago in a Penguin Modern Classics edition which cost me three shillings and sixpence! Which does actually give you some idea of the length of time!

On one level I thoroughly enjoyed reading these stories, surprised by how much of them I actually remembered and delighting in Fitzgerald’s style and content. He doesn’t do happiness very well, but I do enjoy the misery that he writes. I think it is a function of being an English teacher that we, as a breed, much prefer to teach death and unhappiness than anything cheerful. I always cite Blake as my defence: which would you rather read “The Songs of Innocence” with their insipid “little lambs” etc or “The Songs of Experience” with running blood and “mind forg’d manacles” - no contest I think!

But how would non-native English speakers respond to them? And are they of sufficient quality to encourage the effort which would undoubtedly be necessary for an understanding of their content and meaning? I think the answer to those questions is probably yes. But I will give it some more thought until I make a recommendation. It will also give me time to find out if the edition that I know is actually still published!

I count the reading of the book as completing my task for the day. So there.

Break the mould

For me a “lie-in” has to be matter of conscious decision. I wake up in time to get up by 7.00 am and holidays do not interfere with this regular internal clock.

But, rather like the efficacy of a cool laager on a hot day; the heady adrenalin rush as Formula 1 cars roar by; the nauseating stench of the canals of Venice and other book learned experiences which are not true in practice for me, I still believe that one should try and “lie-in” because not only is it a sacred function of the holiday to indulge oneself in this way but also I am constantly told it is pleasant.

So today, on day two of the holiday (dear god, one sixtieth of my vacation has irrevocably flown!) I steeled myself to ‘enjoy’ an extra couple of hours in bed.

God, as they say, will not be mocked – though Dawkins et al seem to have done a pretty good job to me – and at the time that I was ‘supposed’ to get up The Combined Canine Cacophony Chorus started to get underway.

The dogs are positively operatic in their attempts to get sluggish sybarites out of bed. The ground bass is provided by the partially de-barked dog next door. He is joined by a couple of light tenors from the flats opposite and the coloratura glissandi are provided by The Screaming Dogs of next door but one. Grace notes in various registers are provided by assorted curs in the district. The sweep of passing aircraft provide a timpani accompaniment to the hound harmonies while the early morning rubbish truck offers a variety of percussion effects to give the whole performance a sort of crazed grandeur .

Stockhausen would wet himself with excitement were he to live here and listen to the sort of racket which makes his music sound positively melodic. I am not Stockhausen and lurid thoughts of the more satisfying parts of Macbeth come to mind together with Hamlet’s injunction that “My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.”

Who would have thought that a professed “dog person” (albeit only as far as Labradors are concerned) could be reduced to the level of hatred of all the wolf-descended life forms by which I am surrounded. And don’t get me started on pavement poo!

As I have been typing an uneasy silence has fallen on the district only broken by the mindlessly monotonous cooing of wood pigeon, or pigeon or even doves – what the hell do I know of flying rats; all I know is that I wish they would shut up or indulge in their amorous shenanigans elsewhere!

But, and most importantly, be still my beating heart, the skies are a perfect azure: what then can be wrong in this best of all possible worlds!

Another task has been completed: the sending off of the cash back form to Canon.

I am finding, indeed as I have found again my handheld computer that I am adding tasks to the electronic list just so I can cross them off! Two down and a growing list to cope with. No empty days for me!

After the sunbathing of course!

Wide horizons!

The first day of the month; the first day of my holiday “real” and, as I fear most days will start for the foreseeable future, a quick check of the Teachers’ Pensions website.

This excellent institution has a facility to allow those gasping for what is laughingly called financial security in these times of economic eventfulness, to check the progress of their claim.

According to the graphics on the website in the few days that they have had my form which was completed on the internet the claim has made 60% progress. There but two more steps according to the graphic before my claim is complete and the money can start dribbling into my account.

The progress of the claim is marked by a ‘progress bar’ which is filled in as it, um, progresses. And this is where my enthusiasm and belief both come to an abrupt stop.

How many times have computer users sat in front of a screen which is giving them encouraging information about how quickly a program is loading and then found themselves grinding their teeth in impotent rage as the whole system seems to go to sleep!

You use your logic to tell yourself that if 50% of the program has loaded in ten seconds then another ten seconds should see the whole thing ready to run. But it is that last 50% or more usually the last 10% where stasis comes into its own!

There is something dreadfully mesmerizing and totally frustrating in staring at a rotating stylized hour glass. I wonder just how much of one’s life will be (and has already been) spent staring at little graphics telling you (or kidding you) that something is happening.

Ever since the beginning I have been a user – in computer terms I mean, before you jump to the conclusion that I am making some sort of philosophical confession. Machine Code was always gibberish to me and Basic was the engaging language Tarzan might have used if he had met Mac rather than Jane in the process of his entering the world of electronic civilization.

I wasted a great deal of time in the early days of “A BBC B in every school” learning how to program the damn thing. I never did advance beyond a program which asked you to enter your name (with much use of dollar and hash signs) and was approving if the input was ‘Stephen’ but dismissive if it was anything else. I can still remember the important words of this type of programming: IF, PRINT, THEN, LET, BE, GOTO. And I think that I have a little poem concrete going there! I particularly like the Shakespearean admonition with which it ends!

So the end results of my cogitations is that I am both impressed because I want to be with 60% progress in a few days, but also depressed by the fact that 40% is still to be completed.

The Pensions people know that the last day on which I had gainful employment in teaching in the UK was on the 31st of August 2006, but they don’t know that officially. There is a form with a designation similar to that of Doctor Who’s mechanical pet which they should have received from my last employer.

Which in their case they have not got.

Even more worryingly the web site states that they have everything they need to complete the calculations for my pension. As I am convinced that the so-called 60% progress so far is purely mechanical I fear what is going to happen when an actual person begins to check to see if there is any way in which the miserly amount to be paid out can be restricted even further: I dread the living rather than the silicon check before the final button is pressed.

At least I will have a job next year and I will not be wholly dependent on the amount of money lavished on me by a grateful government. That will not happen for another five years!

In spite of it being holiday I did actually go in to Barcelona to take my pupils for his individual lesson. English conversation it is not, but I expect that this will improve slowly.

I gave him a copy of The Week and told him to read though the arts information and give me his opinion. I think that I may have to resort to my visual dictionary to find vocabulary of places like “The Theatre” and “The Recording Studio” to get things back on to some sort of academic level! We seem to get to subjects and need to use vocabulary at a level which is not comfortable for him in English or for me in Spanish!

I paid my car insurance today. Every day of the holiday must see me complete or be in the process of completing some of the long list of tasks that I have set myself. I am sure that this resolve might see the week out.

Everyone has his price

Everyone can be bought. The price may be money, power, sex, promotion or the right sort of chocolate.

I have found out that my price is a fairly cheap bottle of Cava.

When school finished I left at once and miss out on the lunch that was provided. I would rather eat at home than in school and so went for chicken from the better of the two roast chicken places near us.

I was the only person there and the jolly guy serving engaged me in conversation. When I told him that I had just finished work he opened a bottle of beer and poured me a glass, inviting the person working behind the scenes to join us too. When I said it was also the first day of the holidays he brought out a bottle of Cava from the fridge and plonked it on the counter and urged me to drink it to celebrate such an auspicious day!

I must admit that such a generous impulse has bound me to this particular restaurant for the rest of my life: not only a glass or beer but also a cold bottle of Cava. I am well and truly bought.

There was a different quality to the lying out in the sun this afternoon knowing that I didn’t have to go to school the following day – even for a half day!

I intend to enjoy the next two months!

And tomorrow I will start to construct my “To Do” list.

The games go on!

Thank god that Spain has reached the next round of the bloody World Cup. I am all for domestic calm!

The penultimate day (or half day) in school. A strange sort of day which was more for class teachers than we mere foot soldiers. I tried to look busy and keep out of most people’s way. I even, at times of great stress and public view actually did some work.

I get progressively more worried by the pregnancies in our school. Both ladies are class teachers and will need to be replaced and I am determined that it will not be me. In our school, and quite rightly, class teachers (form teachers) are paid more. The extra money, which worked out at a miserable daily rate, in no way compensates for the convulsive neediness of our pupils and I have no intention whatsoever of joining the damned tribe of hollow eyed class teachers as they traipse once more to listen to the whining of yet another pupil knocking on the staff room door!

Talking of not doing more than I have to for the derisory sums that we are paid; I had an acknowledgement email to my completed and submitted pensions form – roll on October!

Another glorious day with the temperature in the car when I came home at 2.00 pm standing at 47°C! By the time I arrived home it was at a more manageable 35°C and just the temperature to go out to lunch again and sit outside on the balcony of the Maritime Restaurant overlooking the beach and the sea.

The menu del dia was an astonishingly good value feed with fideos to start and then a herby pig’s cheek to follow and all ended by crema catalana and iced coffee. Delicious and for under a tenner!

The traditional rest period of horizontal sun gazing was only interrupted by my reading another Pullman novel in the Sally Lockheart series.

“The Tiger in the Well” is set in 1881and has all the positive qualities of “The Ruby in the Smoke” which was the first of the novels in this series that I read.

Pullman uses the historic period deftly and provides a fast paced narrative with genuine excitement and unusual exotic elements. It is imbued with a certain didactic quality in its presentation of socialism and capitalism which reminded me of Dickens in its intensity and its plea for social justice. It is remarkable that many of the Victorian abuses: inequality of wealth; sweatshops; treatment of Jews; pogroms; mistreatment of immigrants; demagogy and the denouncing immigration and proclaiming the purity of the race, the problem of a possible Israel; corruption; inequality under the law and ethical investment – are all relevant today. As I am sure that Pullman intended.

This is a very eventful book with every use made of the historical setting. There is a “picturesque” villain, though you have to read the book to find out just how apposite this word is, and a truly feisty heroine. Yes some parts of the novel are laboured, for example the identity of the villain and sometimes the political message is a little too much up front, but this is an exciting book which should work well with any group of young responsive readers.

Tomorrow the last half day.

No comment needed.

Now we see through a glass darkly

Habitual glasses wearers are always surprised at the comments from non-glasses wearers who ask with pained interest how the glasses wearers can possibly see through the filth encrusted roundels of glass through which they are peering.

It is true that sometimes I have been shocked at the range and extent of detritus which has coated some lenses that I have used to aid my sight and once noticed the grime becomes impossible to ignore. But, it is only when some casual reflex action prompts an absent minded wipe that the archaeological layers of past civilizations in dirt on the glass become apparent.

I mention this because I have been swimming. As a purely quotidian hygienic procedure, rather like putting chlorine in the swimming pool, I washed the goggles that I use in Fairy liquid and placed them ready for their next use.

When I entered the pool this afternoon and put the goggles on I was shocked at the clarity of the water in the pool and the fact that trees have leaves on every branch. As the lenses are tinted a sinister yellow I had assumed that the murky world of the pool was a function of the colour of the lenses. It was like being in a Wilfred Owen poem during a gas attack. And then, with a little detergent a whole new world is revealed!

Like every glasses wearer that I know I have now decided to clean my glasses regularly. And like every glasses wearer I know I will not do it. Some lessons are never learned.

Incidentally, how do occasional glasses wearers behave? This is summer and an inordinate number of people suddenly sport astonishingly vulgar examples of designer emblazoned eye protection – sometimes wearing them everywhere but in front of their eyes – and only for a matter of months. Do they clean them or do they develop with instant facility the same resistance to clear vision as their more experienced practioners tolerate.

But today is momentous: I have filled out the form on line for the claiming of my pension. It is wonderfully liberating to think that in a few months time I will be entitled to spend some of the vast sums that I have been paying into the funds of the state for the last thirty years!


There is a strange sense of fin de siècle in the staffrooms at the moment. Some work is being done which has to be completed before the end of the term on Wednesday but there is also a sense of un-direction as people get on with what they think is important. After the fractured week that we have had, it was a real effort to come into work today!

I actually mitched off early today as I had to pay my taxes. Everyone else I know has a tax rebate at the end of the financial year, but not me, I had to pay. And of course banks are not open at reasonable hours and so I had to slope off and I got to the bank with literally a couple of minutes to spare before they closed.

I am now a full paid up member of Catalan society with the tax office recognizing me and my address and taking my money. I have arrived!

Courses for next year are being decided and I have been given the opportunity to teach Modern Art – officially, rather than sneaking it into the curriculum on the understanding that English encompasses everything! This will be a course which will have to be taught three times during the year as the groups change at the end of each term. At two hours a week I can work out exactly how much time can be spent on each art work or each movement.

What larks!

A Match Made in Africa

I think that I made a wise choice when I decided to lie prone on my sun bed listening to the songs of Tom Lehrer rather than watch the English team be sent packing. Again.

I am however watching an appallingly refereed match where Mexico had a clearly (even I could see that!) off-side goal against them allowed by a linesman who obviously knows just a little less of the rule book than I do!

The clearly idiotic Capo (I use the word advisedly) of FIFA has made some sort of fatuous comment that the mistakes in refereeing add to the excitement of the game. I understand that this gentleman is French. A member of the nation whose national team has returned in disgrace to its home country and where a member of the team has been summoned to the presence of the diminutive president to explain himself. And I think that is sufficient xenophobia for the moment!

The best thing about the World Cup, as far as I can see is that there are now fewer teams in the competition after the group stage and there is only one game that the remaining teams play as they progress to the next round. The fewer the games the sooner it will all be over thank god.

I also fail to see that the travesties of sportsmanship that we see in every game and the blatant national hatreds that are demonstrated with startling clarity do anything to foster international understanding or anything positive at all – except to demonstrate the clear fact that there are some grossly overpaid under-performers in this world!

And I wonder if their wages are going to be reduced by 5% like government paid teachers in Spain! Thinking about it that is a poor analogy as teachers have done nothing to create the circumstances in which their wages might be reduced and there is no question about their ability to do their jobs – they are paying for other people’s mistakes. Whereas the England team, however, etc etc etc.

Listening to Tom Lehrer (a consummate professional) while ignoring the woeful performance of England (add your own adjective before the word “professional”) was a delight. Only he would have the linguistic temerity to rhyme “try to hide” with “cyanide” in the wonderful song of “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park”. As he is still alive I have considered writing to him and asking him to pen a ditty along the same lines but this time taking dogs as the subject matter.

It really does seem like an unwritten law that each house and flat should have its own wolf-descended yelping travesty to lessen the peace in the world.

The amount of dog filth on the pavements is ludicrous and it looks as though there is some sort of coprophiliac turd fairy who trips along Catalan streets distributing disgusting canine deposits as she goes! The chances of an owner being fined as, to put it mildly, remote so they don’t need to worry too much about their pampered pets fouling the pavements.

Tomorrow I am supposed to be having some sort of meeting to work out what I am going to be teaching next year: this should be interesting as, in one or two areas that I am going to teaching I have been told that I can do what I like. Within certain limits. Perhaps I will find out what those limits are tomorrow.

Always something new.

Raise the rays!

Sun bathing ought to be so last century: we know that it is linked to skin cancer and to disreputable medallion wearing criminals in the more luxurious parts of southern Spain – but I am hooked on our nearest star.

My aim of course (ignoring the Shakespearean predilection for white skin as a sign that the person does not do outside labouring work) is for the perfect tan. A recent visitor to our swimming pool divested himself of his upper garments and revealed a torso of the sort of flawless even brown that is my goal. I hated him at first sight and then, as if to show that my opprobrium was justified he took out a cigarette showing himself to be lewd fellow of a baser sort.

My skin has its own progression through the spectrum when exposed to the sun and, in spite of my best efforts and the lavish application of salves and unguents the best I can do is a sort of rugged russet: the creamy khaki eludes me!

I do not, however, intend to give up trying and with the aid of a new transparent spray from good old Lidl. I may not be brown but I do gleam!

My total domination of the Third Floor is now being threatened by other sun-worshippers, but I utilize the office swivel chair using its lowest back declination to produce a sort of dentist’s chair effect. As the back is a sort of mesh it might almost be purpose made for the sun as it allows the back to breathe – if that actually means anything!

Lazing about on the Third Floor has the advantage over the beach that I have easy access to all my gadgets. Including my iPod.

Why is it that listening to Tchaikovsky is almost like a guilty pleasure? I remember buying a (bargain) boxed set of all of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and orchestral suites when I was in university to the general contempt of my musical friends. Didn’t stop me of course, and it was a revelation listening to the ones which were not as famous as the later ones.

It was the second symphony that I listened to on my iPod and, although I have not listened to it for some time, it is not the sort of music that you ever forget.

It is also dangerous music. As the narrative of the music developed and as my hands become more and more expressive as if an orchestra were in front of me, the illusion that I could conduct a real performance of the symphony became almost an accepted fact in my mind. I feel the same way about Schubert’s Great C Major Symphony. And then I think about the score in front of me and my fingers frantically searching for some arrangement of notes that look even remotely like what is happening musically and the dream begins to fade.

Plenty of others to take its place.

Lost Days!

Tuesday 22nd June 2010

Today was the Day of the Great Disappearance. The sacred day when, in the afternoon, with unseemly haste and unrestrained glee we bid the kiddiewinks adieu.

The morning was ¡Fiesta! – or at least the form of jollifications that we indulge in at the end of course for the kids.

The school is transformed by the stringing of plastic streamers and flags of all the nations (including the Union Flag – I checked) across the patio (playground) and pupils and teachers join together in various activities to which the parents are invited. My designated area of jollity was to supervise “traditional games.”

In the way that our school operates, I knew nothing about this (or indeed these) until the actual morning when, with a colleague in the English Department we discovered that “traditional games” involved the use of ropes and chalk.

Before anyone gets excited at the sexual possibilities of considerate bondage, where the ropes are chalked before applied, I have to tell you that we were in charge of skipping and hop-scotch.

I found myself a chair and a quiet corner of the playground, threw a few ropes in decorative patterns on the floor and urged passing school children to chalk out a hop-scotch grid. I then repaired to my chair in the shade and hunkered down to pass the long hours before lunch.

Children did skip and one or two of them made a half hearted effort to skip their way along the grid.

Luckily our almost complete lack of enthusiasm was covered by a group of children playing football: so time passed.

Once the kids were out of the way the staff repaired to the dining hall to have what can only be described as a sumptuous feast of various forms of dead sea creatures followed by a spread of sweets which included totally evil tiny cakes whose weight to size ration was gratifyingly disproportionate!

The Drinking of the Liberlis has becomes something of a ritual for Suzanne and myself and our libations had become more infrequent that we would have liked. Therefore, an impulsive moment of alcoholic desperation drove both of us both figuratively and literally to The Third Floor in Castelldefels to watch the drink and the sun go down.

This formed one of the many Fridays of this week. The first was yesterday with Irene who I had to encourage to remind me (as the drink flowed down my gullet) that “Tomorrow is a working day and not the weekend!” Doing much the same on the Third Floor again needed some sort of marker to indicate that the working week was progressing rather than falling into the freedom of Saturday and Sunday.

“Better to think yourself in a Friday than the first Monday of a new term” – as the Zen Book of Teaching states.

Wednesday 23rd

The kids have not gone!

All the pupils who failed an exam have returned today to sit their recuperation exams. This meant that I had to start up my marking mode again as the marks are necessary for a meeting on the real Friday of this week.

By the time we were given lunch I was exhausted and after lunch I fled home to the pool and the cool reality of soothing water washing away the memories of the red pen!

The Family arrived in the afternoon and preparations were made for the Sant Juan meal before going out and watching the kids set off fireworks.

As a past Health & Safety Officer for my school I am constantly appalled by the risks that institutions in this country take. Their attitude towards fireworks is one which constantly amazes me.

The whole of the day has been punctuated by small fire-cracker detonations and large land-mine like explosions. This is the time for petardos (versions of the penny banger) which have been illegal in Britain for years. Here in Catalonia small wooden huts spring up so that everyone who wants to may buy as many as they like of cheap explosives to hurl around as they wish.

The paseo along the beach was a ribbon of fire as young and old engaged enthusiastically in the traditional towing of fireworks at each other. Many of them, to be fair, only set them off among pedestrians so that a walk along the sea front was punctuated by some fairly energetic skittish behaviour as the more limb threatening tongues of fame snaked at ankle level along the paving.

It is also traditional for people to camp out on the beach and drink and have fires on which to roast various pieces of meat. In Castelldefels this year, this had tragic consequences.

Castelldefels has two stations, one in the town and the other at the beach. Late last night as people who did not want to stay out on the beach all the night were trying to get home, they crossed the tracts (something which is specifically forbidden) and a train ploughed into them.

12 or 13 people were killed and many more were injured, some, horrifically by body parts which were flung about as the bodies of the unfortunates trying to cross were fragmented by the force of the impact! The story kept running on what appeared to be a tape loop on the television and put, as you might expect something of a damper on what was a bank holiday.

However, the tragedy happened at the other end of Castelldefels and in the part where we were there was no indication of anything amiss.

The long delayed meeting with Caroline took place in the Basque restaurant where I felt fully justified in drinking the local wine as I had made my way there by bike.

So yet another Friday!

Friday 25th June 2010

I set off a little earlier than usual and was met by virtually empty (for the roads I usually take) rondas and I got to school far too early. It did however allow me to complete the two remaining “catch-up” papers of the students that I had to mark. These marks had to be collated for a meeting which lasted from 11 am to 2 pm! The whole of my contribution to this meeting consisted of the words “Tres comma ocho” Thank god I was there!

Staying in school one second longer than was absolutely necessary after yet another meeting of stultifying tedium meant that I eschewed lunch and went out in Castelldefels instead.

The most difficult thing I will have to do tomorrow is realize that it is Saturday!

Another day to forget!

For a day I have been transformed into a class teacher and have had to be with a first form. Not in itself too stressful but when you don’t know what is going on a little unsettling.

Part of the time wasting involved taking the two classes to a local park along relatively busy roads. There is little point in worrying about these trips because virtually none of the procedures that are essential in Britain are followed here. “Stephen, remember this is not Britain!” rings in my ears as such things occur!

All I have done today is to do things that I haven’t wanted to do – and the one productive thing that I should have been doing was made impossible by everything else.

Even the lunch was crap.

The one bright spot was going out with Irene and receiving my papers back at last from the lawyer who was going to “do something with them” to help bring about the demise of The School That Sacked Me. Needless to say nothing has been done and it is now down to me to go back to the law courts and try and find out what, if any, progress has been made with the case.

Easily the most interesting even to school was phoning the Teachers Pensions people in Britain. I contacted a charming lady who engaged me in light conversation for some time and informed me that I could fill out a form on line and get the ball rolling for me to have my pension and lump sum on United Nations Day this year.

It appears that one essential form has not been sent to the office from my previous school so I phoned that place and had another excellent conversation with one of the secretaries who assured me that the form would be sent post haste. And then back to the awful reality of a school quite quickly imploding!

Still: one half day left and then the kids will be gone.

Something to think about!

A day in the sun

Two young children: yes. Two young children with their young friends: no! I grace fully bowed out of a barbecue with enticing food but over-the-quota children.

Children can only communicate by shouting. In Spain they can only communicate by shouting at the same time. I am prepared to put up with this in my professional life, but not in my free time.

I spent an intellectually demanding day lounging about on the Third Floor raiding the fridge and listening to Radio 4 on my wireless headphones. I also used my time to debate whether I had the energy to go for a swim. I did change into my new bathing costume, but that was as far as my exercise went. There is always tomorrow after a day at school whose format is something which I am dreading.

Time with the students is running out. One and a half days to be precise. The half day is largely given over to a fiesta where the pupils staff a series stalls. Last year I managed to avoid all of this by supporting a colleague who was showing a series of plays to parents who felt that they had the right to barge in to a performance irrespective of the stated starting times. Trying to keep the door closed to allow the pupils to perform to the best of their ability on the stage without interruptions was a losing battle.

But first the empty waste of a day without notion of what it should be doing. We are one colleague down and in a school that refuses to bring in supply this has a very real consequence. Another colleague is getting married and who knows somebody might be ill. That is a recipe for absolute chaos.

At the moment I have very little idea of what my timetable is going to be next year. Timetables will not be issued until the first day of term next year if we are lucky. Still, this is how it has always been so there is no point in worrying about what might be when there is no possibility of it happening.

I am adding to my list of Tasks for the summer (which is growing exponentially) the monumental one of sorting out the power leads. This is not so much a task as an aspiration. I don’t see why I should succeed at this when everyone else in the world (with the possible exception of Andrew) has a box or some sort of container which houses a writhing mass of electrical power sources. My particular box is made of transparent plastic and its appearance is like one of those displays in museums which show you cross sections through a particularly eventful geological stratum containing twisting fossils. I think that I will need the patience of a geologist just to separate each individual entity as I try and remove it from its compressed surroundings. I have already prepared a series of labels which I hope to attach to each lead and then match it to its raison d’être (camera, iPod, eBook, headphones, printer, computer, Nintendo, handheld, etc) in a IKEA CD tower to contain the bits and pieces. In theory it is a workable solution which will lessen tension when the power on something runs out. Who knows how it will work in practice.

Meanwhile bed beckons.

Keep going!

It is not yet 11 o’clock but already the day is rubbish and to cap it all the sun is shining and I am most unequivocally indoors.

The day started with my “supervising” a seething mass of 14 year olds who were just about to deliver their speeches explaining and defending what they had done over the past week when they should have been working on a project.

I am now sitting in front of a denuded class which is composed of those pupils who failed the earlier exam. At least it is quiet, but the time in which they are completing this paper extends over the “patio” or playground time and the sensitive souls have demanded that the double glazed windows be shut so that they can concentrate more! Bless.

When this is over I have a meeting with the Directora, presumably about next year and then a segue my way back to the class that I started the day with who, by that stage will probably be in a heighted hysterical state as everything that they will have had to do will have been done. Snatching a quick lunch takes me up to my lunch duty (oh the shame of it!) and by that time the powers that be will have found something else for me to do.

The only (ONLY) thing keeping me going is the knowledge that we have three more days with the kids and then they are gone. Gone I tell you!

Tuesday the 22nd is the End of Course and is a school fiesta and, more importantly a half day for the kids. I hope. The staff then have a mariscada composed of various forms of shellfish all washed down with Sangria. The 24th is San Juan and we have a day off. You can tell the level of desperation by the adding up of these moments of freedom until the final release on the 30th in the broken week which, at last ends the term.

I do not pretend to know much about Association Football (except when I think I can get away with it) but the fear-gripped, boring incompetence that characterised the English “game” against Algeria (!) was of such stupefying irrelevance as an entertaining event that I stumbled my way to bed at the end of the first half completely uninterested in the eventual outcome.

I would be grateful if anyone could explain why Heskey was our striker, or indeed why he was playing at all. And why was Rooney placed where he was on the field? The five million pounds a year earning English manager looked like some bloke who had been tempted out of a local pub for a couple of hours to give it a go for the lads. I don’t know what a manager should look like but I am bloody sure that it should not be like Capello. I do know that one shouldn’t judge on appearance. So let’s consider last night’s game, oh yes, and the game against the US of A. We could build a school for what we pay him. And if we add to that the grotesque salaries that we pay to the players who cavort their way on a patch of grass sullenly kicking the ball to the opposition, then we can staff the new Capello Institute for Useful Things Other Than Football for the next fifty years. Bitter? Me!

And while I am in the mood; I am getting progressively more fed up with the sanctimonious gibbering of the American President as he mouths xenophobic popularism which puts one more in mind of a typical French president rather than an ally. If it does nothing else than finally put to rest the dangerous myth of the “special relationship” then at least something positive will have come out of this ecological disaster.

One is tempted to think of Union Carbide and the real disaster in Bhopal and the compensation paid out there by an American company to sense the hypocrisy of the present demands for the wealth of the Indies to be placed at the feet of a group of “Southern Gentlemen” who are going to milk BP for every cent they can get to scrub each grain of sand to pristine whiteness.

But the sun is out, the sea is calm and at the moment everything seems right with the world.

At the moment.