Beggar him!

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Miss Havisham going up in flames in grainy blank and white in a BBC adaptation of Great Expectations was something I had to wait for as the novel unfolded week by week in its allotted TV spot in the schedules.  There were no short cuts, you had to wait.

     How different the present!  Having recently discovered that I had access to series and films via one of my subscriptions I have binge watched the first series of The Man in the High Castle – the story of what might have happened if German and Japan had been the victors in World War Two. 

In this version of reality, America has been divided between the Germans on the East Coast and the Japanese on the West, with a lawless Neutral Zone in between.

     The production values of the series are high and the detailing of each scene is replete with intelligent and satisfyingly visual suggestions as to how the reality might have worked out.

     The mixture of plots and sub plots using politics, espionage, deception and brutality to further the story line; the Resistance and its struggle against totalitarian governments; a love story; the clash of cultures – all of these elements can be found in any number of dramas, the ESP of this series is the injection of a disturbing element of Science Fiction.

     A key plot device in the action of the series is played by a series of films.  These films seem to show a different reality, one in which the Axis powers did not win the war and our version of the Allied Powers being triumphant is the subject of the films.  These films are being collected by the eponymous Man in the High Castle who may, or may not be an ageing Hitler.

     There are hints in the episodes that suggest that there might be parallel universes and that somehow or other elements from these parallel universes are leaking into the reality of the series: either that, or the whole 10 episodes of Series 1 was an elaborate dream in the Japanese Trade Minister’s mind!  As there is a Series 2 and 3(?) I don’t think that device can be used to justify another 20 episodes!

     As the series is set in the 1960s there are technological elements that jar, including the appearance of a German supersonic ‘rocket’ plane which has the delta wing formation of the late lamented Concorde.  The aircraft set looks very impressive on the ground, but I found it singularly unconvincing in flight, an odd glitch in otherwise excellent CGI.  There are also trains that use a magnetic drive – these things are anachronistic for the 1960s and might therefore strengthen the supposition that someone is able to travel between the parallel universes and take technology from a ‘future’ world or a parallel but more advance one and use knowledge to boost technology in the reality of the series.

     I have just discovered that I have access to the ten episodes of Series 2 – so that’s another day of my life given over to being hooked to the screen of my computer!

     The acting in the series is, for the most part, convincing and enjoyable to watch.  The basic premise of the plot it interesting and the production professional.  The script is sometimes indulgent and philosophical profundity can be signalled a little too obviously, but the action is engaging and such attention is given to the appearance of things that I am convinced and satisfied.

     Obviously, there are a number of questions that have been posed in this first series that might be addressed in the second.  I can’t wait to find out.  And I don’t have to, all the episodes are waiting for me just to click the mouse and enjoy!

In the same way that my typing for this blog is often displacement activity from doing my Spanish homework, so too is my choice of topic.  Much though I enjoyed watching the series above, there are more pressing things to talk about than an old TV series.  Like, for example, the present political situation in Castelldefels and Catalonia.

     The election in Catalonia is less than a month away and the political parties are gearing up for the fray.  One television station has taken to referring to the ‘Constitutional’ parties i.e. PP (Hard, corrupt right); C’s so-called ‘centre right’ but in reality, hard right as well, subsidised by business and sluttish in their approach to power; PSC (the Catalan version of PSOE, the so-called ‘socialist’ (sic.) party that has aligned itself with the right and is opposed to Catalan independence.)  Then all the other parties are lumped together under the Independent label as if it is opposed to the concept of constitutional, rather than the reading of constitutional that has been made by the other parties.

     According to the latest poll, the veracity of which I cannot vouch for, the figures show that the two ‘sides’ are fairly equally matched with neither side able to gain an overall majority.  The balance of power, according to this poll, will be held by the Catalan version of the left wing Podemos, which has declared itself opposed to independence, but in favour of a binding referendum about independence.

     The ruling (corrupt and corrupting) party of PP stands little chance of gaining more than 8 or 9 seats in Catalonia as they are cordially despised as crypto-fascist and anti-Catalan.  PP put their hopes in the sluttish C’s party which is headed by a photogenic power-hungry Catalan (allegedly) whose party was formed specifically to stop Catalan separation and was funded by big business and who once posed nude for an election poster to show that he had nothing to hide!  This apology for a party stands to gain the most in the elections.  I hope that this is not true, and Toni assures me that it won’t happen, though I am not as sanguine as he.  The traditional party of left wing opposition is PSC, the Catalan part of PSOE, unfortunately their position has been totally compromised by their national dalliance with PP to get a taste of power.  The fact that the word ‘Socialist’ forms part of their party’s title should be a standing condemnation of their actions: PSC is a party without a soul and without an ethic.  They have shared a platform with PP and C’s: they have marched with PP and C’s; they have voted with PP and C’s.  In some ways it would be fairer to call PSOE/PSC power sluts rather than the traditional political sex workers of C’s.  Whatever, they have forfeited their right to my vote.

     Which leaves my choice on the, presumably, ‘unconstitutional’ side of the political debate!  But my thoughts about the parties which comprise this element of Catalan politics can wait for next week.

    

Lunch was from our usual takeaway restaurant in Castelldefels and was well up to standard, though the owner of the restaurant urged me to look at the rotisserie where an entire suckling pig was being roasted.  It looked delicious and only cost 100 euros!  How do they do it for the money?  I think that the test of something cooked like this is that you should be able to cut the meat up with the side of a plate!  As this beast was supposed to feed eight it means that the individual portion would only cost 12 euros per person – which, thinking about it seems like good value, or at least worth it!

     The chicken that we actually had, while perfectly acceptable, was not really as spectacular as that which I left turning in the heat. 

      At least I can live with expectation!

Polite's the point!

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I weaponize politeness.

I’ve always been, so I’ve been told, ‘charmingly polite’.  But that simple statement begs lots of questions.  Is ‘charm’ something that is part of authentic ‘niceness’ or is it something which is much more self-aware and knowing?  Is ‘charm’ a spontaneous emanation of the warm parts of one’s soul or the calculating approach to get what you want?  Or, indeed, neither of these things.  I do remember from my teaching days that I always used to promote politeness as a sure-fire way of getting what you want with the least amount of effort.  And I was able to adduce example after example of what came my way through the soft power of simply being nice.

And what, after all, is politeness?  The following an age-old code of proper behaviour facilitating human interaction, or a hypocritical façade allowing cynical manipulation?

To which the proper answer is, I think, “Yes!”

The way that I was brought up followed a fairly conventional lower middle class professional path.  As teachers, my parents had a highly developed sense of responsibility and inculcated in me a series of ethical standards that were firmly rooted in Judeo-Christian-British-Welsh-Tidy-Proper approach to human living.  This in spite of the fact that at least 50% of my parental influence (i.e. my dad) was more geared towards the robustly atheistic and cynically socialist way of life.  The actual basis of my mother’s Anglican (Church in Wales) faith, I never really discovered, and when I was old enough to engage in theological discussion with her I never really came out victoriously.  Well, she was, after all, my mother and did not hesitate to use the most underhand maternal pressures that mere biblical and theological argument merely brushed against!

 

But some ethical principles were set in stone:

1              A lady never picks up her own dropped glove, it is the duty of the man (or boy) to return it to her.

2              A man (or boy) walks on the outside of the pavement, next to the road when with a lady.

3              A gentleman tips his soup bowl away from himself and eats (not ‘drinks’) his soup from the side of the spoon.

4              Civilized people push uneaten food to the right side of the plate and place the knife and fork, parallel to each other and at 90 degrees to the person, on the right side of the plate too.

5              CPs do not scrape the knife and fork on the surface of the plate.

6              CPs should obey the more reasonable of the 10 Commandments as far as possible.

7              When taking Communion, you should take the cup from the hands of the vicar and drink from it yourself.

8              When reciting the Creed you should remain standing when the rest of the congregation (though excess of Popery) kneels during certain phrases.

9              The yellow Labrador bitch is the best dog that there is and, while other dogs (NOT CATS) might be cute, they are not YLBs and should be treated as lower life forms.

10          “Fair play is bonny play.”

11          “Never refuse a good offer.”

12          China, cutlery and glass are important: always buy quality.

13          Always clean your shoes.

14          Don’t bite your nails.

15          Pronounce ‘trait’ in the correct, French way and not by sounding the ‘t’.

16          “Anything is better than nothing.”

17          Keep coloured clothes from white clothes in the wash.

18          Close the door.

19          Always say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me”.

20          Have a cup of tea and offer a cup of tea on all possible occasions.

I have just read through those 20 rules or suggestions or thoughts and have realised that a great deal of my life is encapsulated therein!

Anyway, to get back (almost) to the point.  I have been brought up to be polite and reasonable and charming, and it either fits the character that I have, or that character has been formed by the way in which I have been raised.  Whatever, the truth (if such a thing exists) I am (as Popeye said) what I am - and that’s the way I roll.

So why does all this come to mind on this Saturday afternoon? 

Well, we have just had lunch in our usual watering hole and I had the worst meal that I have ever had in the restaurant.  My spaghetti first course was over salted, the spaghetti was nastily al dente and the sauce was bland.  My second course was of over-cooked tasteless cod with a clam sauce in which most of the clams were shut-shell dead.  The orange I had for dessert was sort-of OK.  I had rebelled against the god-awful house wine and bought a more expensive (for Spain) bottle that was the best part of the meal!  And did I say a word about this?  No I did not - except of course to Toni who had had a menu plate of pork loin and half-and-half salad and chips that he enjoyed.

I mean, let’s face it: the meal was not free, I paid for it.  It was, you might say, a service.  And it wasn’t good.  And I said nothing.  I even had to pay for the upgrade on the wine!  So why didn’t I optimize my opening sentence and say something in the nicest way possible to show that I was not happy?

It probably comes down to cowardice and an attitude that could probably be properly added as number 21 to the list above: “Put it down to experience and get on with it.”

Because, one of my Great Life Lessons was discovering that people actually listen to what you say in a sequential way.  So, if you say one thing and then say another, people tend to put the two statements next to each other rather than regarding them as separate utterances.  So, no matter how polite you are about voicing an opinion about the saltiness of food in a dish in your regular restaurant, it will not be regarded as a one-off, only of relevance to the dish in question (no matter how reasonable such an assumption might be) but rather as a negative which calls into question any previous positive there might have been.

There are exceptions.  One time in Le Monde in Cardiff, I ordered a vegetable soup.  It came and one sip told me it was impossibly salty.  I took another sip to confirm my taste and, behold, it was so!  Unfortunately we were sitting next to the open kitchen and the chef who prepared my soup was within ladle smashing distance.  But I simply couldn’t drink the soup.  So, talking my courage in both hands I timidly called the waiter and intimated that there was a trifle more salt in the soup than I could handle.  The dish was taken away and returned to the chef who immediately took a spoon and tasted the soup for himself.

One taste later, the chef asked me if it was my dish, agreed that it was undrinkable and asked me to choose what I wanted from the menu - he suggested the much more expensive king prawns which I thought was a jolly good idea.  They were delicious, I was delighted and I have not stopped going to Le Monde and would recommend the place to anyone looking for decent food in St Mary Street in Cardiff without hesitation.

But with our Saturday restaurant, we are a bit too chummy with the owner and staff, but not chummy enough to have a sub standard dish dismissed as just another irritation instantly remedied.  A tricky situation.

So, in some situations, my much vaunted charm and politeness are just veneers, have no depth and do nothing except give a gloss to the problem.

I’ll carry on smiling because that’s the easiest way!

Put a spoke in it!

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Why do the spokes on the back wheel of my bike keep breaking?  In all my time of owning bikes in the past this has never happened, but with my new electric bike it happens all the time.

OK, the wheels on this bike are small and I am not, but I refuse to accept the depressing analysis that says that my avoirdupois is the reason for metal failure!  Taking the bike back (again) to the shop, the technician was mystified by the constant breakages.  I have to admit that the original spokes looked somewhat flimsy, but those have been replaced (at great cost) by much sturdier struts and so there is even less justification for breakage.

The shopkeeper did point out my foldylock (one of those jointed thingies that locks your bike to something immovable) and suggested that I might have hit its bulk against the spokes when locking the bike, but this is something that I have thought about too and make every effort to keep foldylock and strut apart.  So the mystery continues as does the outpouring of money.

But the money will have to be paid because I am now reliant on my bike.  This has nothing to do with a zest for exercise, but all to do with the fact that my bike is electric.  This is the sort of bike that I needed when I was growing up in Cardiff.  Living in the suburb of Rumney, going in to the centre of the city was a delight because you could coast your way down the long length of Rumney Hill.  But any delight was limited by the thought that to get home you would have to cycle up it or, following the eminently sensible philosophy of my dad’s “If it’s easier to push the bike than ride it: push it!” by pushing it.  The long slog either way of attacking the slope was waiting and depressing.  How might my early life have changed if all I had had to do was put the bike in first and the assist on five and peddle nonchalantly.

I do not want you to feel that I have succumbed to old age and smile vaguely at passing scenery as I press a button and whizz along.  No, my bike (electric though it is) uses the battery to ‘assist’.  The bike has seven gears and operates as a normal bike if you want it to.  The motor gives you five levels of assist to make the peddling easier.  To be absolutely truthful there is also a throttle which does give you a ‘free ride’ but I tend to use this feature to cross roads where the throttle will propel you forward without the need for clumsy peddling, especially if you are stationary and starting off in seventh gear!

So I am reasonably ‘good’ about the level of cheating that I use with my bike and even though I use the fifth level of assist to go up hills, I leave the bike in seventh gear which means that you still have to peddle to go where you want.

What owning the bike has meant more than anything is that I now use it more.  I am much more likely to go into town on various errands using the bike because not only is it easier to park when you get there, but you are able to enjoy the experience without too much effort.

You also have to bear in mind that I am not in Britain and I do not have to worry as much about rain and cold as I do here.  It is only in the last week or so that I have started wearing a jacket and I am still wearing shorts and sandals!  And as I am typing this, the setting sun is illuminating the tops of the pines and wispy cloud adds interest to an otherwise faultlessly blue sky.  So there is an incentive to get out and about - and to feel good about making the effort too!

My Spanish lessons (two hours, twice a week, subsidised by the city hall, god bless them) are in the centre of Castelldefels in an adult education centre whose immediate vicinity is devoid of free parking spaces.  Or at least the nearest free parking spaces are up a one-in-one hill and ‘officially’ too far away.  On the bike there is no problem as I can lock the thing up next to my classroom and within feet of the front door.  And since the classes started last month there has not been a single occasion where adverse weather conditions have encouraged me to use the car!  Not one!

My bike is also foldable.  Its construction is solid so, although various bits and pieces fold up and down and together it is hardly easy to manhandle into the boot of the car when it needs to go to be seen to, but it can and has been done and will be done again when in an hour or so I go to pick it up so that it will be available for me to go to my lesson tomorrow.  I wonder how much the guy who has repaired the spokes on three or four occasions will have the temerity to charge me?

This typing, as my more experienced readers will have guessed, is more displacement activity than literary endeavour.  I have the exercises 3B in both our textbooks to do on the use of the subjunctive in Spanish.  In one of my informative Spanish/English dictionaries in the middle ‘note’ section the explanation of the subjunctive and when to use it stretches from page 58 to 65 - and that is in note form!  What chance have I got!

Well, I’ve stopped typing, so I will now have to go and get the bike, then it will time for a cup of tea and a little light TV watching - and then copying from the back of the book!

Oh, I have drafted another poem called, 'The Victors' - it's about flies!  You can read it at:

http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es/

 

Better tomorrow?

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There is something infinitely galling about having you flu jab and within a week being gifted a stinking cold from your nearest and dearest.

At least mine is not as bad as his and with my judicious doctoring (i.e. going to bed to sleep it off) I think that I am well on the road to recovery.  I must admit that today has been a lazy day (for purely medicinal purposes) and I did not shower until later in the day; have only worn a tracksuit and have taken to my bed twice!  I have not been outside the house at all today and I have rejected the idea of going for my daily swim!

I have not been completely slug like and have completed a poem called ‘Misophonia’, the inspiration for which was found (or rather heard) on a metro station in Barcelona when I was returning from a demonstration demanding the release of the Catalan political prisoners held by the right wing minority Spanish national government.  And yes, I do know that the government makes out a case for their being nothing of the sort, but rather like northern Cyprus that is only recognized by the Turks, so the government is the only one persuaded by their fatuous arguments.  Anyway, all that political agitation and I write a poem which has nothing to do with the reason why I went up to Barcelona in the first place!  Ah well, par for the course!  If you want to read the poem it is at http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es/

I have also been reading Mark Twain, the 1872 book “Roughing it”.  It is always a delight to read something that is generally regarded as a classic and discover that it really does deserve that accolade because it is so good to read.  Twain’s language has a freshness and he writes with such an ironic eye that you are captivated by his descriptions.  The pace of the book is also helped by the fact that this early semi-autobiographical episodic approach to travel writing is set in the high and dangerous days of the Wild West and includes epic journeys on stagecoaches, silver exploitation, violent death, Mormons and easy racism.  Twain’s approach to Native Americans and African Americans may well be ‘of his time’, but it still makes for uncomfortable reading - but that is also part of the literary history of America and must be dealt with.  I have not yet finished the book, but it is well worth reading.

The Spanish lesson yesterday was sparsely attended.  I suggested to the teacher that was because we were going to tackle the subjunctive and it had struck fear into the hearts of her pupils!  I think that was only partly a joke.

She took us through the basics of the subjunctive with the aid of a printed handout and seemed to find some inspiration in our faces as she explained.  I think that I maintained an air of frightened acceptance throughout the lesson and I am not sure that I was substantially more informed about when to use the subjunctive with confidence than when I had contemplated it as a esoteric unknown concept last week.

The teacher sought to encourage us by suggesting that we would not find many more references to the subjunctive in the rest of our course and that it would not play a substantial part in our examinations.  This is fine and dandy, but it does not tie in with the undoubted fact that the Spanish use the subjunctive much more than the English speakers do in their language and it is much more common than with us.

Tomorrow I have to essay the homework that we have been given which is to insert the correct form of the subjunctive in sentences.  At least I can do this armed with my trust “501 Spanish Verbs” book, the textbook, the Internet and the handout.  And if all else fails the answers are at the back of the book!

There is always a way!

Listening & reading & worrying!

Well, the years of living in Spain must have counted for something: the guided tour around the houses of Los Indianos in Sitges in Spanish was basically understood by me as long as I concentrated.  And therein lies the rub.  Art, poetry, gastronomy, swimming, music, literature and so on and so on - they are all more interesting than studying Spanish for me.

As a past language teacher I should find the acquisition of a new mode of communication an exciting challenge.  The trouble is, I don’t.  And don’t think that I haven’t rehearsed all the possible arguments in favour of knuckling down and getting stuck in and putting various parts of my anatomy to gyrating rough surfaces, I have.  And I have yet to be convinced.

You would think, would you not, that someone with my proven inability to keep silent on any subject completely irrespective of how much, or indeed if any, knowledge informed my contributions, would embrace the chance of finding another mode of expression.  But no.  I do my homework with sullen resentment and little sticks.  I have gone over verb endings (-í, -iste, -ió) in various modes (-ía, -ías, -ía) and at various times (-é, -ás, -á) and I still look at such constructions with unalloyed, clear, blank, incomprehension.

And Spanish has two verbs for the English verb ‘to be’ so ‘I am’ can be ‘yo soy’ or ‘yo estoy’!  So, the English sentence ‘I am ill’ can be written in Spanish as either ‘Yo soy infermo’ or ‘Yo estoy infermo’ - but they mean different things.  And you probably wouldn’t use the ‘Yo’ in Spanish either, because the verb form tells you the person.  So, ‘Estoy infermo’ would indicate that you have something like a cough that you hope will clear up soon, while ‘Soy infermo’ means that you are permanently ill.  That’s quite a useful differentiation, but not useful enough to merit having to use two different verbs, when the use of an explanatory phrase might clear things up!  But one has the learn the language as it is and not as one would like it to be.  And English has phrasal verbs that are revenge enough for Spanish learners of our tongue!

 

Anyway, I was quite pleased with myself for following a fairly detailed social, historical and architectural wander through the narrow streets of Sitges and there were always English speaking friends to fall back on in the group when the sheer concentration on sequences of foreign words just got too much!

I got more pleasure from finding out that the name Sitges is derived from the word for silo!  There was, in times past, a small natural harbour near what is now the church and a brisk trade in the commodities that were stored on the shore in silos.  These silos were used for twenty years or so and then demolished and new ones built.  For archaeologists the delight is finding one of these disused silos because they are always filled in with rubbish, but historic rubbish, the bits and discarded pieces of what our ancestors thought worthless, broken and lost.  They were described by the guide in enthusiastic terms because of the ‘treasures’ they reveal to modern eyes.

We went to Sitges by train and I cycled up to the station, as there are racks and bicibox to store bikes.  As my bike is a fairly flash electric number I am very much disinclined to leave it on public display - even with the sturdy steel jointed lock that looks the business.  Far better to have my tastefully blue bike hidden from questing eyes.  The bicibox is a sort of Nissan hut looking construction that has a series of slotted covers that can be raised by the resting of a special credit card sized ‘key’ on the operating pad of the ‘hut’.  A screen will inform you of the available spaces for your bike and you can select a ‘box’ open it and place the bike securely inside.  That, at least is the theory.  For the first time in my experience I found that all the spaces in the bicibox outside the station had been taken.

There was a Plan B.  Behind the station in a large car park for the commuters who go to Barcelona every day there is another bicibox.  I confidently cycled a couple of minutes to that box and took the last available space.  Never before have I experienced such demand - even by the station.  I fear that what was a good idea used only by the few has now become an accepted way of bici life!  This is disturbing because if I cannot put my bike in one of these bici boxes I will not leave it out in the open air when using the train.  And for two full bici boxes there is no Plan C.  I will have to give this some thought.

Which I have now done and I have reminded myself that there is a third bici box a hundred yards away form the front of the station in the car park by the church.  So that is Plan B, but what do I do if all three of the bici boxes are filled?  There really is no Plan C - apart from returning home and taking the car!  Which rather defeats the whole idea.

I am typing this with the Diana Newall book, ‘Art and its global histories: A Reader’ lurking tauntingly or teasingly on my left.  The ideas from yesterday’s read are still fresh in my mind and I yearn for more information.  I have just opened the book at random in the section for ‘Art, commerce and colonialism 1600-1800’ and have seen a primary source text entitled:

‘Iohn Huighen van Linschoten. his discours of voyages into ye Easte & West Indies Deuided into foure books (London: John Wolfe, 1598) 

that the Reader informs me is, “one of the great travel narratives of the early modern period” - as any fule kno!  Well, I didn’t.  But do now, and I love that sort of thing!  And the spelling has been modernised for ease of reading - who can ask for more!

I have replayed the interview of Alfonso Dastis, the foreign minister of the minority right wing National Government of Spain and Tim Sebastian (see yesterday’s blog) for the unadulterated pleasure of seeing an over-confident Conservative apologist discomforted.