Cardiff?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s worth it.

It's the waiting!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Small rooms big secrets!

“What,” asks that clever little advert on the TV, “does your toilet say about you?” What indeed!

One is inclined to say that it graphically indicates which room it is that one uses for one of the less pleasant bodily functions, and that there may be olfactory indications which point to this conclusion. The masking ‘fragrances’ that are sold point just as unequivocally towards the reality of defecation; just as the knitted dolly toilet covers (do they really still exist?) emphasise the presence of a toilet roll rather than allowing it to blend in with the rest of the knitted accoutrements of the well stocked smallest room!

We Brits have been chuckling, snigger and downright laughing at toilets since the time that time began. We have it on reliable authority that even than grim dwarf Queen Victoria WAS amused by lavatorial humour: one imagines Disraeli’s weekly audiences with Her Imperial Majesty (Empress of India) talking about the State of the Empire being enlivened with witty little farts to emphasise relevant points of national importance.

The sea side humour of postcard artist Donald Mcgill continues to delight viewers, and the toilet was one of his staples resources on which he lavished his art. The Cheeky Chappie, the comedian Max Miller captivated audiences with jokes from his ‘Blue’ book which also relied on the bathroom for much of his humour. The toilet is a vital part of our national life.

What if it does smell? That is part of its enduring comic appeal: stinks and laughs – that’s what bodily chemistry is all about.

But if the toilet can speak volumes about you, what about the rest of the contents of a normal bathroom?

The world is divided into two camps: those who put away and those who display. This is not necessarily applicable to all aspects of life – though the more I think about it, the more I believe that I might have stumbled on one of the great secrets of life. I am applying the division to the impedimenta that makes a bathroom the interesting place that it is.

I am referring to the oils, the unguents, the balms, the lotions, the pastes, the perfumes, the medicaments, the fluids, the potions, the bottles, jars, tubes, packets, sachets: the evidence which allows you to paint a true picture of the inhabitants who own the bathroom. The bathroom, viewed carefully, tells us more than any guarded conversation can. Here is personality stripped bare (!) where each bottle and jar shouts the truth about the inner personality of the user.

Too often the open display of tasteful accoutrements is only a surface truth which can clearly be discovered when the bathroom cupboard is open to critical view. Do not be deceived by a seemingly artless confusion of bottles and cartons scattered along grubby shelves. Dig deeper in that hard to get at drawer partially hidden by a cunningly draped towel and the truth will leap out at you.

God knows the perfumery companies have spent countless billions in persuading us that the right name on the right bottle is the only accompaniment to socially acceptable smelling. They have lavished obscene amounts of money and talent in producing bottles which are works of art. Take, for example, the sailor’s torso which is the packaging for Jean Paul Gautier. Admittedly the ‘sailor’ is nearer to Genet than Grimsby, but the elegantly homophile kouros-like mini sculpture reeks of style.

I had thought that the toothbrush was outside this area of snobbery. You were either a manual up-down-side-side etc labourer or you invested in one of the many electrical versions. All of the electrical versions of the simple toothbrush are bulky and speak more of the dentist’s surgery than of the artist’s studio. The problem, of course, is the energy. Or, as so many have asked in different situations, where do you put the batteries?

Some electric toothbrushes seem to need their own power station to generate enough power to bring the thing to life, while others seem to have wedded the idea of the garden hose to hi-fi to get the molars clean.

As a self-confessed gadget freak I have worked my way steadily through the (cheaper) range of electric toothbrushes and, stashed away (in one of those hard to get at cupboards) are probably enough dead carcasses of passing electronic fancies to fill a small display case in the V&A. They are dangerous mistresses, and you have to beware of falling to their sensual promise of effortless frottage. You know you have to stop when you teeth become transparent and enamel is a thing of the past!

Imagine my horror when, today, in Boots, I discovered a toothbrush which eschewed the clumsy bulk of a battery operated toothbrush, had no power lead, and yet was svelte as a young manual toothbrush. Behold the ‘Pulsar’ – as thin as a normal brush yet with the power to shudder and probe. This, surely, is the only time in the history of the world when developments in multi-bladed shaving have had a knock on effect on tooth brushing!

This masterpiece of design is even cleverer than one might think. The instructions tell us that, “No need to change any parts. Includes non-replaceable, disposable Duracell battery.” The hell with carbon footprints, this is conspicuous expenditure write large by being so cleverly small.

And because humans are humans and always will be, there is a little diagram showing how to open the device to get at the battery. Because we think that we can break the cycle of disposability by correct thinking and slip in a battery of our own. But, alas, we will not have read the small print which states, “Product is not designed to be opened unless for recycling.”

Our curiosity and parsimony drive us to explore, and that very exploration destroys.

I can’t help feeling that, were I a vicar, there might be a sermon (or two) in “Product is not designed to be opened unless for recycling.”

Amen!

Apostate!

“Stephen,” Mike Ross once said in an NUT meeting, “It’s not that we want you to agree; just don’t speak.” It was one of those times when I found myself in the position (not for the first time) when in the words of the Queen in one of the Alice books, “I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” If not impossible, then at least contradictory. It was the usual debate in the NUT when we went from the national to the parochial. I have been a long time member of CND and passionately opposed to the use, production and flaunting of nuclear weapons. Well in keeping with the most radical ideas of our noble union. The second issue was one of corporal punishment.

Here, I carried the legacy of generations of real teachers and was (at that time) whole heartedly in flogging ‘em till the blood flowed! I spoke passionately on the subject and was well received by the more reactionary elements who had been generally dismissive of my anti nuke attitude. Hence Mike’s despairing ejaculation at the end of the meeting.

Going to get Toni just before five pm today and listening to Radio 3 I had another one of those moments when I could hear some misquoted version of Wittgenstein’s dictum ‘Whereof We Cannot Speak, We Must Remain Silent’ which seemed to be translating itself into a sort of admonition to the effect that ‘You don’t know what you are talking about, so shut up before you make a fool of yourself.’

The occasion was a piece of music which I listened to with growing irritation. It had all the self indulgence of a composer who knew he had a massive number of musicians obeying his baton. It was a mish-mash of disparate musical forms ill stitched together. The portentous gave way to the melodically trite; the simple to the bombastic. Percussion was used with the subtlety of the neophyte orchestrator who felt that everyone had to have his moment of glory. The repeated motifs were ploddingly pedestrian and made one scream for the obvious conclusion that one hoped, yet feared, was waiting at the end of the score.

And I knew that it was Mahler. I didn’t recognize the symphony, but all the tricks of the trade were in tedious evidence.

It was the last movement of the Seventh. And I take back nothing!

I do like Mahler, especially the first and the fourth. The fifth passes me by somewhat, and the eighth is only overwhelming when experienced in concert. But that period in the car really showed up the qualities of the composer which allows others to dismiss him as a self indulgent poseur. I know that listening to part of the last movement of a symphony on a car radio is hardly the fairest way to listen to the work, but surely if the work is great then even under difficult circumstances the essential quality should shine through. And my car radio isn’t bad, you know.

I think it was the sense of virtual blasphemy is thinking these treasonous thoughts against such an iconic composer that livened up the waiting period of Toni to step towards the light and home. The sacrilegious thoughts coursing through my mind and the chuckling frisson of knowing that my dismissal of such a canonical work would case something like physical pain to a number of music aficionados that I know were, I think, a great part of the pleasure.

And what if they knew that I liked (I mean really liked) the music of Philip Glass!

Another little step to the sun!

Have you any conception how many small handprints I found waiting for criminal handprint experts to dust to find the culprit? Let me short circuit this investigation and point the finger of accusation towards the 18 month palm of a certain young Catalan! I think for some of his work he would have had to have jumped or stood on a chair! How inventive are the ways of the less than adult!

The frantic work at removing the legacy of youth was as a result of the estate agent phoning up and informing me that the couple who viewed the house informally yesterday were coming back for a second more serious investigation. Hoovering, polishing, dusting, tidying, sweating – the usual accompaniments of unusual activity. This took me until about one o’clock with the visitation set for one thirty.

Vacating the house and making for the Pauls was but the decision of a moment, because I was hoping that Paul Squared would be able to tell me more about the six monthly interview in the jobcentre. While with the Pauls, one thirty came and went with nary a musical interruption from the Motorola. Depression set in and I eventually wound my heavy way to town. A desultory wander through W H Smith and a weary decision to have a ruinously expensive cup of coffee before the interview settled the slack time before I had to present myself in Charles Street.

The interview was taken by a substantial lady with one of those heavily ‘amusing’ and confiding senses of humour. How I smiled. I was given the exciting information that I had been waiting for: thanks to governmental instruction I was not obligated to go on a three day course to teach me how to write a CV and find a new sense of purpose and confidence. I can hardly wait. I pity the poor teacher who has me in her class.

I wonder how the groups are organised. When I look around on my fortnightly visits to the Jobcentre, I cannot fail to be impressed by the cross section of society that I note milling around telephones, job computers and the Jobcentre employees. It’s not a mixed ability class that I would like to take. The 30th of the month will be day one; I will keep you informed.

While I was talking to my personal advisor the mobile went off. I normally loathe and despise those people who break off conversations (especially when those conversations have been prearranged) to talk into an insubstantial piece of metal. However, I considered what the estate agent had to say of more moment than the platitudes of my advisor. After a little haggling which stretched through the interview, out into Charles Street and was finalized on the central reservation of Churchill Way – I accepted the viewer’s offer and the HOUSE IS SOLD.

I realise that I am tempting all the fates which lurk in the darkness of men’s minds when I state that the HOUSE IS SOLD. I am well aware that the offer of an offer and its acceptance is just the start of another long and drawn out process which is fraught with danger and not a little expense. But, surely, there is nothing wrong with indulging oneself with a little self congratulation that the process of living up to the title of this blog is a step (at least) nearer to completion.

Wish us luck!

Eggs is nice!

Fractured blog writing is a direct result of the aftermath of the Catalan invasion! It was delightful having Toni’s relations and experiencing why child rearing is best left to other people! Today was the Washing Experience – nothing to write home about, I keep harping on about the number of machine loads of washing that I had to complete, but the key and magic word is ‘machine’: sorting and loading is hardly the hard work that I remember my mother completing with the single agitator top loading machine with a wringer. I also seem to remember a Flatley dryer – which was a heated metal box with wooden slats on which to drape washing. Now that was something to carp about!

I have also neglected the garden. The mini daffodils have finally given up the unequal struggle. We cannot complain about our money’s worth, but when daffs have gone, they’ve gone and so we have to find something as flamboyant to replace them. The lobelia is slowly establishing itself and the alyssum is not quite ready for planting. We are relying on pansies and violas for display and, at long last, a new trailing plant called ‘White Blizzard’ has yet to live up to its name.

We have problems with upwardly mobile magpies that see the vegetation of our front garden as a sort of IKEA on demand and are establishing their domiciles at our expense. Their favourite wall basket looks as though someone has been stamping through the flowers with baby boots! I shall replant with holly – that will give their omen laden presence something to think about.

Talking of thought, I was watering the garden (ever conscientious when I finally get started) when a disembodied head drifted along the swell of the garden fence and diffidently asked me about the house. It turned out that the head belonged to a lady who, with husband and child was looking at houses without the benefit of the house agent who was not available for viewing. This is an ominous piece of information which I will need to look into. Invited in, she was all expressions of delight, up to and including the pool in the back garden as it turns out that she has a (named) fish which has travelled with them and they were looking for a home for him too. It’s funny how an element in the house which is usually a negative one suddenly becomes a selling point!

We will have to see whether enthusiasm is translated into an offer. As they have already sold their house and they are under some time constraints to ensure that they have somewhere to live, it could work out very well. We will have to see.

The saga of the Easter egg continues. Toni having made the sweeping assertion with an airy wave of the hand that I could buy myself ‘any’ Easter egg, and with the injunction, ‘Choose one!’ ringing in my ears – I restrained my consumer impulses and said that I would wait for today and the inevitable reduction in prices before squandering his money.

Tesco’s did not let me down and, after a little searching, a disappointingly small selection of remaindered eggs revealed itself to my view. As I was watching, so the assistant was putting up the half price stickers. Rejecting with scorn the cheaper eggs I concentrated my attention on eggs which had originally cost £10 (well, £9.99) and were thus, refreshingly, reduced to £4.99. You were, as lascivious eyes drifted over ingeniously flamboyant packaging, seduced by the sheer show. So I decided to be more scientific about the whole affair.

Some people would obviously look at the different makes of chocolate on display and decide which one gave the greatest taste promise; some might look at what ‘extras’ might be tucked into the bulky packaging; others might be tempted to go for a more exotic make.

None of these is the correct approach. Tesco, very helpfully (and not a little shockingly) show how much per 100gms the eggs cost. I have already noted that the usual cost of chocolate at between 24 and 55 pence in its normal bar form, is magically translated into as much as more than four pounds in its egg form – a triumph of capitalism and commercialism. Hooray! Therefore, the correct approach is to look at the new amounts of price per 100gms and buy for quantity rather than the packaging. Using this criterion good old Cadbury comes out on top; to be specific, the dark chocolate eggs which is stylishly packaged as a cylindrical container containing a purple mesh covering ornamented with ribbon inside which is an egg, containing and egg containing small foil wrapped eggs with a small packet of candy covered eggs as the extra. And very tasty too.

I’m still waiting for my money from Toni to authenticate his grandiloquent gesture!

C’est la vie!

Easter workers!

BBC Broadcasting House in Llandaff was a ghost building this morning with only what appeared to be a skeleton staff enjoying triple time. A rate not enjoyed, I might add, by the contributors to the programme!

The security guard was engaged in a conversation which appeared to be a monologue from a deranged person maintaining that he had been poisoned. Such is the lot of the front of house in broadcasting!

The news room was deserted, apart from Patrick ploughing his way through the verbiage of the Sunday papers. After both of us signally failing to make the thermos devices containing boiling water and coffee work, I started to work my way through the rejects already viewed by Patrick.

‘Wales on Sunday’ yet again took the accolade as the most fatuous of the Sunday papers and you have to bear in mind that it was competing against such heavyweight opposition as ‘The News of the World’; ‘The Sunday Express’; ‘The Sunday People’; ‘The Sunday Mirror’ and ‘The Mail on Sunday’. So a considerable achievement!

I was reminded of Jimmy Porter in ‘Look Back in Anger’ who asked the question, “Do the Sunday papers make you feel ignorant?” Those were the days! Even the so-called ‘quality press’ can sometimes tyrannize by trivia – and that’s after you’ve weeded out the supplements and extras that you have not intention of reading.

The programme went well, especially as we discovered a small (but perfectly formed) cream egg in front of each microphone! Now that’s what I call attention to detail.

The drive back to Rumney was made a little more exciting by the read out on the information panel on the hired Zafira telling me how few miles were left in the tank. It is unnerving to have a precise number of miles indicated together with the inexplicable word ‘Range’ flanked by six exclamation marks and a petrol pump icon flashing ominously – as well as the ordinary petrol tank indication needle reading empty. ‘Twas almost as if the car was trying to tell me something.

I worked out that I might just have enough petrol to get to a petrol station on the Newport Road if the Tesco in Pengam was closed. At a push!

Luckily disaster was averted by the garage being open, though there was a bad moment when the petrol pump that I chose refused to give me any petrol.

Lunch was provided by Toni’s mum and was Paella and Fideuá and we were able to utilize a good old Cardiff tradition and have ‘arf and ‘arf with generous portions of both washed down by an excellent Cava. If only the Catalan meal were taking place in Catalonia!

I live in faith and will put my trust in the opening of the traditionally intensive house buying and selling period which opens with the Easter Bank Holiday and stretches until the summer.

The CRB should be completed soon and I will have to think more seriously about what that will allow me to do. But before that there is an interview with the Job Centre people and a ‘Ladies Who Lunch’ meal.

It’s a hard old life!

Humph!

There comes a time when your city doesn’t seem your own any more.

The redevelopment of the centre of the city of Cardiff is making it at the moment look uncannily like all those depressing pictures of Beirut looking war torn and picturesquely destroyed. Office walls open to the sky; multi-storey car park floors slanting at crazy angles and jutting out into nowhere; piles of rubble; clouds of dust and Christo-like installations of polythene clad buildings wrapped in the way that he would approve.

All the lively, bright and colourful edifices knocked into a sort of subfusc rubble. Just like multi coloured plasticine which when you played with it as a child transformed itself from a bright rainbow of pigments to a muddy brown. That’s what the centre of Cardiff is at the moment: a place reduced to the unremarkable waiting to emerge from its chrysalis of clay into a . . . well, let’s face it, modern civic architecture which is prompted by easy gain is not going to astonish by its ground breaking, innovative and exciting modernity. It’s far more likely to be the sort of thing which subsumes Cardiff into the mind numbing anonymity of stripped down utility building with the odd cheap flourish. Rather like the Capitol Centre which is an ordinary shopping mall with certain Cardiffian features added to the façade like a piece of cheap scenery.

I don’t hold out many hopes for the look of the New Cardiff. I remember and experience of trying to show some friends a piece of furniture that I thought would go well in my home in a little shop in Leicester shopping centre. The only trouble was I couldn’t find the shop! I was reduced to wandering around the area where the shop was last sighted and plaintively bleating that it was there the previous week! It seemed at first like one of those films where someone’s life has been erased by the government and they have moved someone else in to take the place of the original inhabitant. Just before my mind gave in to a complete belief in the Conspiracy Theory of Everything, I realised that the shop that I was looking for was actually in a shopping centre in Northampton. The centres were so nearly identical that my confusion was just about understandable. The identikit approach to shopping in the centre of cities had taken a very firm hold, and that was during my first year of teaching – some years ago.

Now it’s just the order of the shops which interest the jaded shopper not their range. Standing in the centre of any British city it is possible to recite the shops that you can be certain of finding within a ten minute walk of your position with a 90% degree of accuracy. Cardiff’s last bastion of individuality is found in the arcades (which I always assumed every city had) and the small shops which still seem to make some sort of living. Good luck to them. I only hope that the new development will piggy back on the lucrative establishment of John Lewis and the obligatory money making residential development and encourage the establishment of small stores rather than allowing the bland the national chains to anchor another forgettable shopping experience in the centre of a once distinctive city.

Walking through the strangely restricted centre of Cardiff today I also sensed that the demographic of Cardiff has changed and that my age group are not the commanding presence that I thought it would be. Youth is taking over (and I thought that we late baby boomers were the dominant force in the land) comprising pretty (if over made up for my taste) girls and boys who seem to have brought dressing down to new depths as all of them seem to affect drably scruffy imitations of American grunge as their dress of choice!

All the foregoing are a way of limbering up for my participation in ‘Something Else’ tomorrow: the Grumpy Old Man approach is the only one which works on the programme, which is just as well, as it’s the only approach that I’ve got.

I’ll have to learn to be wide eyed and accepting, I’m sure it will make me a much better person.

And it’ll frighten the horses!

Ah, youth!

You know you have family staying with you when not only do you have to use the ‘value’ set of cutlery that you bought as a stop gap measure, but also, you don’t care!

And the plates! You get into a routine of using plates steadily so that eventually the dishwasher is filled up ready to go, but you are still left with as many plates as you need for normal meals. The sequence of washing, stacking and using is soothing in its timeless rhythm. But, suddenly, there are people; all of whom need plates and they use them and there you are (sooner than eventually) with frantic dish washing as the food is being served out!

And it goes on. Spoons, cups, mugs – all being used and things that you vowed that you looked forward to throwing out are all pressed into service in a logistical nightmare that, apart from certain times in the night, never seems to be containable.

And the children. Well, the child.

I remember reading Stephen Hawking’s ‘Brief History of Time’ – to be absolutely truthful, I know that my eye passed over all the words in the book, even if my brain did not always manage to fit the words together into coherent sentences – and wondering about the concept of the black holes. Having been in the presence of a small child for the past three and a bit days, I now fully understand the thinking behind the postulation. How an inchoate human being, weak, inarticulate and totally vulnerable can suck into himself the energy of six adults with seemingly effortless ease day after day is wonderful (if enervating) to behold. I think the fact that he has dimples has something to do with it. Cute always cuts the deepest!

As I am no expert of children under two, he is a constant revelation. Although his vocabulary is confined to a few (and I mean a few, like three) basic words, he seems to be able to understand complex instructions and will suddenly do just as you tell him; if you speak Catalan!

His mood swings are the stuff of casebooks. His appetite is eclectic and bewildering. His manner imperious. His confidence overwhelming. His mannerisms captivating. His capriciousness bewitching. His morality, non existent!

All of this is, of course, old hat to those who have dealt with very young children before, but this is all new to me and drainingly fascinating.

You can see experience begin to dictate responses. He already almost knows what is captivating and will nearly consciously behave in a way which will elicit positive responses. This, you might say, can be said for all of us. But we are more knowing; his knowing is almost entirely instinct with just a flavour of intent!

I now know that parents of young children live for The Depletion. That magic moment when full face manic behaviour gives way in an instant to the comatose. And then the period of quietude when, for the first time that day, a breath may be drawn without the worry of what may happen by the time the exhalation has begun.

My childhood was, of course, exemplary. I remember one time after I had committed some juvenile indiscretion my father saying to himself, although my mother was in the room at the time, “Well, we have to remember that he had to be woken for his feeds.” It turned out that for my first three weeks of existence I did nothing else of note but cry: day and night. At the end of that time after my father had “thrown” (his word to me many years later) me at my mother with words to the effect that I was her child and she would have to do something about me. I then shut up and, as far as I can make out, my parents had a (relatively) easy run as far as being woken up at unreasonable hours was concerned. I will have to authenticate this reminiscence by reference to Aunt Bet: the repository of all family history, dates, lineage and true anecdotes.

I certainly played on that early (and misleading) behaviour throughout my life, leading to my father’s equally revealing observation, “Stephen, I have been waiting for you to say to me, ‘Dad, you’ve worked for me all your life; go out and work for yourself,’ – I’m retired now!” What I say is that he got off lightly!

One thing I do remember was my inclination as a child to be ‘off into the blue beyond’ as soon as the parental hand loosened. I do not remember trying to escape as a point of principle, it was just as soon as restraint, however loose, dropped – I ‘wandered’. My mother was a great believer in reins and adopted them as the only means she ever found to keep me roughly in the vicinity of her, admittedly manic, observation. The time that my mother’s attention drifted for “a few seconds” (her words) from her very young son, I was well on my way to England, periodically being swamped by passing waves, as I left the coast of Wales and the resort of Pendine far behind.

I will not dwell on the aftermath of my cheery (if somewhat spluttering) greeting, “Hi Dad!” as my father broke several Welsh, British and World records in getting out to me, urged on by my mother’s helpful hysteria! I would merely point out that if Childline had been in existence at that time I would have been more than justified in phoning them. Parents can be so unreasonable. I maintain that I was not drowning; I was merely being submerged on an increasingly regular basis. It’s all (as I didn’t get the chance to tell Dad at the time) semantics.

Who knows what excesses will be effortlessly committed before the end of tomorrow?

But, on the positive side, tomorrow is the traditional day of Carmen’s paella.

[Sighs happily!]

It's what's inside that counts!

We are all in denial about something.

Best exemplified by the memorable detail of a half remembered story (or was it fact?) when some wag wrote a note saying, “Your secret is discovered, flee!” to a whole group of people and watched as they all duly panicked.

It sounds like a story by Saki about his elegantly sinister, yet likable anti-hero Clovis. This is the sort of occasion when John Lord would have been able to supply title, author, year and publisher! I do miss his vade macum of a brain – and the series of little books in which he recorded his reading.

Or to take another instance, the time a policeman come to our house when I was about 12 or 13 and to my horror as I opened the door asked for me! I was immediately convulsed with guilt and staggered back to my parents croaking that the police had come for me. The fact that the policeman had singled me out by name because my name and address were printed clearly (by my father) in my glasses case, which he was returning, did not calm my shattered nerves. I was ready to confess. To paraphrase King Lear, I assumed I’d done such things –What they were yet I knew not – but they were obviously the terrors of the earth, and had policemen calling!

From that moment I never questioned the basic reality of stories about false confessions made under duress because I was certainly prepared to admit to having started the Suez conflict if the policeman had suggested it!

Mary Mallon was born in Ireland in 1869 and then later moved, like so many others, to the United States. She made her living as a cook which, as it turned out, was a very bad career choice. Not, you understand, because she was a bad cook, but rather because of something contained inside herself; something fatal. She was no mass murderer: she was not the American version of Sweeny Todd; the thing inside her was typhoid.

Mary was a carrier and became known as Typhoid Mary. She refused to admit that she had anything to do with the trail of case which followed her trade. She was a healthy carrier and she saw not reason to stop working as a cook. It puts one in mind of the old duffer in the television comedy show who refused to believe that the war was over and constantly rejected the more and more pointed explanations of its ending to humorous effect. When you’re dealing with real life and, at that time, a killer disease, it’s not so funny. People died because of her inability to accept reality and she herself eventually died in enforced quarantine.

It’s at this point that I should make a light hearted comment and reveal that the motivation for this writing is some gossamer thread of thought which caught my attention for a nano second before its diaphanous lightness was lost on the chilly breeze of a signing-on day. But Typhoid Mary’s death tally has rather pushed the more serious aspects of my thoughts and the fugitive sparkle of the inconsequential now seems strangely out of place.

Never let it be said that the thought will be wasted, most of us live out our own versions of ‘Groundhog Day’ – even if the ‘day,’ is spread over a rather longer time span. We constantly retread thoughts, so the one that I’ve lost (or suppressed) for this piece of writing will pop up in another alluring guise some time soon, dressing itself in the vulgarity of originality.

And I will, I assure you, be taken in by the display!

Just for Old Times!

For those of you of a younger generation, the name Enoch Powell will conjure up a whole series of memories, thoughts and emotions. Forget his previous career of thoughtful politics; we just remember the notorious “rivers of blood” speech and the ‘right’ thinking (sic) reactions of those impressionable young men as they marched against the tide of immigrants, sorry ‘blacks’, as they threatened to swamp the traditions and the way of life of fascist bigots who disgraced themselves and their country by dressing up their prejudice by actually and literally using the flag!

I am in too relaxed a state to get myself agitated by reliving the furious frustration of those times, I prefer to remember a memorable episode from Private Eye which had a Steadman (of course) cartoon of Enoch as some sort of a spiv feline and under this caricature, a page full of letters purporting to come from concerned citizens all of which started with, “Dear Sir, I am no racialist but . . .” and effectively ridiculed a whole series of bigots from the genteel vicar through to the rough worker and exposed their ‘reasoning’ for what it was. The page has been reprinted in a ‘Best of Private Eye’ and is well worth looking out and reading.

I shall now take the leap of imagination from dear old dead Enoch to Easter.

If you read the whole of Enoch’s ‘Rivers of blood’ speech (as I have) then it is possible to see that old Enoch was quoted selectively and the presentation of the extracts, the sound bites, from his speech emphasised one emotive phrase, whereas the whole speech was much more reasoned.

It is, as I say, possible to read the speech and the situation in that way, but that is to ignore the fact that Enoch was a consummate politician and he knew exactly what he was doing and what would be taken from his speech: it was a nasty, mendacious, conniving and vicious piece of rabble rousing – premeditated and calculated.

So how do we get from Powell to Easter? Well, it’s through selectivity.

Easter is the paramount festival, the resurrection of Jesus proving that he was the Christ and therefore the person from whom all Christians take their name. But what do Christians chose to take as the most important aspect of this time of paramount importance in the sacred year? Easter eggs!

Easter named, of course, after a pre Christian goddess Eastre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. A festival was held in her honour every year at the vernal equinox. The eggs are pre Christian as well and were appropriated by the ever resourceful Christians by the usual method of metaphor (egg, seed of life, resurrection, et voila! Christian already!)

So Easter is downgraded by ever reliable Capitalism from some sort of dangerous numinosity to practical, saleable and indeed edible tangibility. Select what is popular and it will take over from what is real and important.

Eggs are important. You only have to walk up and down aisle after aisle in any supermarket and see the serried rows of elegantly and seductively packaged temptations to see where the real centre of Easter lies.

And there is a sense of pain and guilt and injustice in the whole experience – all of which is provided by the manufacturer by the cunning way in which the customer is outrageously fleeced by the whole experience of the egg and its purchase.

I made the mistake of looking at the prices of these eggs. Tesco helpfully provide the cost per 100 gms so that you can make comparisons and see which is “best value.” Bearing in mind that 100 gms of chocolate in bar form varies from 27p to 55p but with the magic of a little cardboard and silver paper this is increased in one amazing case to £4-71 for 100 gms! And that wasn’t even for best quality Belgian chocolate that was for common or garden Nestle! You’ve got to admire manufacturers who actually get away with this daylight robbery!

I’m not sure about what it says about the punters who actually buy this rubbish. Celebration of the unlikely ‘resurrection’ of the founder of a major religion by paying over the odds to already bloated capitalists for a bit of gaudily wrapped chocolate.

It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?

O Brave New World!

I feel like writing to The Times.

It’s one of those occasions when a hastily penned missive to The Thunderer (in the Old Days before it was bought by the Dirty Digger) seems appropriate.

I’ve long missed the first cuckoo of spring – even if I could actually identify the bird, let alone the song; outraged howls of rage about the increase in council charges would have been lost in the chorus of aged persons demanding preferential treatment; and as a life long European (in spite of an occasion in university when I was prevailed upon by an importunate friend to help distribute anti-Europeans leaflets – on the strict understanding that I was allowed to distance myself from the information if I actually met anyone while posting the leaflets through letter boxes) I spurn to inveigh against the latest piece of Eurocratic nonsense for any one of the floating centres of disinformation in Europe.

Just as a matter of interest: did you actually manage to follow that last sentence all the way through to the end? I’ve just counted up and there are about 120 words in it. And lots of punctuation. There is a reason why we don’t have sentences like this any more; or at least we shouldn’t have sentences like this any more! I put it down to reading Vladimir Nabokov. He is one writer who really does deserve the adjective ‘lapidary’ when applied to his writing!

Anyway: writing to The Times - why? It is to mark one of those changes in the year when you can say ‘This is a significant moment.’ And like the (for me unidentifiable) sound of the first cuckoo or the shy thrusting of a crocus towards the weak smudge of misty light, it is something which indicates to we light starved northerners that hope, in the guise of greater luminescence is becoming more than a rapidly fading folk memory.

As a gadget sort of person the garden did not furnish many opportunities (in the bad old days) for wonton expenditure on conspicuous electronic excess. When I was young the most exciting thing that a garden held (in my young experience) was a bird bath. Gardens were for growing things. Things that took a long time to appear and then died. The gadgets of those days were mundane things like shovels, trowels, dibbers and lawn mowers and unspellable things like secateurs. Electronics were there none.

But the birdbath of yesteryear has been gloriously superseded by something which used to be the preserve only of the very rich. The working water feature. When I was young the only fountains that I knew of were municipal and sherbet. Private individuals who owned fountains also owned swathes of countryside and/or Mayfair. Now the garden without a working water feature is obviously trying to make a post modernist counter culture statement. Now it is almost a way of asserting a sort of inverted snobbery of ostentatious individuality. And that’s not just because I have four!

Nowadays a garden can be a seamless extension of the house with numerous pieces of furniture, cooking facilities, piped music, central heating, sporting facilities, water on tap, different ‘rooms’, aroma therapy and pretty flowers. With all these attractions the garden is sometimes preferable to the house!

But one of the first ways in which a small urban garden could partake of some of the élan of the good and the great was in terms of lighting. One reads of the parties in the past when servants would have been charged with hanging the trees with Chinese lanterns with real candles inside them, or placing torches of real fire at regular intervals, or lanterns. All labour intensive and only the prerogative of the rich and idle. But, with the advent of low cost low voltage lighting every small scrap of semi-detached verdure was suddenly transformed into a wonderland of dim light!

Obviously the practicalities of actually getting the low voltage to the lights from the high voltage mains supply of the house was a tickly problem which often results not in a gleam of light but the glow of conflagration or, alternatively, the complete darkness which comes with the lighting system of the house being shorted by the lack of professionalism of the person who had relied on a comforting memory of confident, competent, friendly Barry Bucknell! The same Barry Bucknell who in his ‘Do-It-Yourself’ series on BBC in the 50’s had talked a generation of house owners to destroy their period features in a bland landscape of hardboard.

So ‘lighting’ was the new black’ for gardening. Then, when the plucky pioneers had achieved the almost unbelievable by getting their garden lit (well, ‘gloomed’) with their low voltage mains connected lighting, suddenly a ‘Tomorrow’s World’ bombshell: solar lighting!

Lighting (of, it must be admitted even less power than the original low voltage type) was available to everyone with no need to court death by tampering with the mains.

And this is where; finally, I get back to my starting point. Almost. Throughout the year during the long dark evenings and nights there is sometimes a strange occurrence. You are sitting in your living room, the windows blank and dark, then suddenly an intermittent gleam of light as if you had a peeping tom crouching in the garden and sending you an incoherent Morse message. This is, of course, your solar light which, having had an unexpected hour or so of unseasonable light has charged enough of the battery to blink and splutter before it sinks back into its dark sleep until the climate in this god forsaken country attempts to get its act together again.

So, I officially announce that something like Convincing Spring has arrived because my solar lights have come on for three nights in succession for longer than two hours!

Can summer be far behind?

[Rhetorical.]

Follow the money!

Another visit to Beirut or Cardiff City Centre.

The destruction continues with machines crawling and digging and evacuating. A mass of action all seemingly disconnected. For an outsider to the building trade there is little sense of order. All the different machines seem to be doing their own thing, but doing it with some degree of intensity. The holes in the ground seem random; no connection between them. Some round, some square, some with metal sides, others just looking like trenches.

In a similar way the trenches in World War One took on a life of their own as they stretched from Belgium to Switzerland. Maps of the time show an amazingly intricate system of interlocking, parallel trenches. The soldiers at the time made up their own domestic names for their surroundings; they even produced newspapers for the trenches. They made what was, to any rational mind, organizational lunacy into something ordinary and (apart from the rats and casual death) cosy.

Of all the bloody conflicts in the twentieth century – and God knows there were enough of them, the First World War has become a symbol of bloody futility. Penguin published a black covered disturbing paperback called “The Twentieth Century Book of the Dead.” This uncomfortable read pointed out that at the point that it was published (and there were some twenty odd years left of that bloody century) over 100 million people had been violently killed in conflict.

World War Two made World War One look like a picnic in terms of human death, but it is the first ‘great’ war which remains the most powerful symbol of man’s stupid inhumanity to man. The men who fought in the battles of World War One often displayed the most amazingly phlegmatic heroism in spite of the battle plans devised by their superior officers which defy belief. In one of Brecht’s plays one of the characters says that he doesn’t like generals who want their men to be heroes because that means that the General’s plans are going to be risky; whereas generals who expect their men to be cowardly are going to devise plans which by their very nature are going to have to be able to be followed by anyone, including the fearful. These plans are more likely to result in fewer fatalities for the PBI.

And what of Cardiff? All the frantic activity centred on the most expensive real estate in the city. Our only ice skating rink demolished; the Central Library demolished; a multi storey car park demolished; a parade of shops demolished; an open air market demolished; a toy superstore demolished; another parade of shops demolished – all so more shops can be built.

To any reasonable observer the destruction and rebuilding seems to bear all the hallmarks of the worse excesses of rampant capitalism and to have none of the conservation intelligence of normal development.

The Futurist architect Antonio Sant’Elia, whose drawings of futuristic cities now seem amazingly prescient, opined that all buildings should be pulled down on a regular basis so that each new generation could present their ideas through architecture and not be held back by the dead hand of tradition! Although I don’t agree with the idea I can see where he is coming from and there is an ideology behind it.

The rebuilding of the centre of Cardiff has no ideology to underpin its actions except for the making of money. Don’t get me wrong, I think that the advent of John Lewis Partnership is a Good Thing, but it’s not an artistic philosophy. And, while a new quality store in Cardiff is attractive, the fact that a six storey replacement for the Central Library is to be built on a Hotel car park by the redevelopers makes one pause and consider the amounts of money that must be sloshing around this project.

It’s at this point that one begins to think about the description of the Generals and the soldiers in World War One: lions led by donkeys. Certain battles, like the various battles of the Somme, seemed to indicate (to observers with ordinary eyesight and reasonable intelligence) that the heroic actions of the soldiers were futile. But, of course the ordinary soldier did not have the perspective to see the Wider Picture. The real tragedy of the First World War was that there was no wider picture. The strategy of the Generals was as brainless and vicious as it seemed to be to the people who died, senselessly on a daily basis. I share, with my Aunt Bet, a hopeless prejudice against Earl (sic.) Douglas Haig – mainly because his battle plans tried to kill her father and my grandfather – and for us he remains the outstanding example of a General who saw his men as ammunition rather than as sentient human beings.

I feel that the redevelopment of Cardiff is being produced with expensive money. I mean that we, as citizens, will benefit from a revivified city centre; extensive new shopping areas; a new state-of-the-art library and lots of other civil goodies.

But, I continue to ask myself, “At what cost?”

I don’t for a moment, compare the planning of the First World War with the planning of the New Cardiff, but I do wonder about the ethos behind the reconstruction of my city.

Who, as is always the question, is paying?

Another dream gone!

Government is ineffective. It’s official. Today gave me proof.

It is a chastening thing to find out that the people who constantly remind us that they are entirely dependent on our good behaviour and who only live to serve have failed us, or rather have given us too many opportunities to fail.

Perhaps it’s our fault. It must be. Our Government strives to bring us perfection from their standpoint of omniscience; and we fail them. We wilfully ignore their thoughtful rules and live our sordid little lives in defiance of their precepts.

On the trip to and from work (luckily not my work, but that’s not important) I counted seventeen people using their mobile phones. Of those eight of them were driving Little White Vans or larger, in one case very much larger. The count of seventeen people does not include two lorry drivers who, in suspiciously quick succession passed me, both of them with heads back drinking the last drops from hefty mugs.

Quite apart from the danger of their activities, I think it is the brazen couldn’t-care-less attitude which they demonstrate that is so infuriating.

Let’s be honest here: who, owning a mobile phone has not used it in a car while driving. I certainly cannot plead total innocence, but in mitigation I would point out that the first time I did it was when I was taking books to Oxfam in St Mary Street and as parking is limited with militant traffic wardens lurking thickly I phoned ahead when I was at the traffic lights by the Castle to let them know I was imminent so they could whisk out and take the books.

The second time was in the notorious traffic jam on my return from Gloucester when just outside Newport all movement stopped. In my defence here I have to say that although I was on a motorway I was stationary with the engine switched off and at my last gasp of patience and just needed to talk to someone to talk to or my boredom would have relieve my boredom!

You see, an admitted transgressor, but more saint like than sinner! And I don’t use my mobile phone in the car. I am therefore pure and have a total right to castigate those people who wilfully defy the law and live lives of total depravity!

All drivers break the law. The driver who maintains that he has never broken the speed limit is a liar – or someone who, by his tedious driving, has forced someone else to break the law by overtaking to get him out of the way!

It’s easy to be hard on those people who do things that don’t attract you. Smoking.

The days are running out for the smokers as they face exclusion from their favourite watering holes and eating places when the new laws come into force. For someone like myself who has never smoked (with any conviction) and hates the smell of cigarette smoke and also hates the health risks that come with passive smoking, it is like a dream come true.

My father, a life long smoker, always told me that, if laws were introduced to ban smoking in public places he would abide by them, but, as there were no laws forbidding him to smoke, he would continue to smoke in public places. I never really understood this attitude. Any more than I understood my mother’s ability to give up smoking for Lent and then start again on Easter Sunday. It took me years to get my mother to give up smoking and I never succeeded with my father. I have no love of cigarettes.

My sense of fulfilled triumph at the banning of cigarettes in public places is tempered by a sympathy for all those addicts who are going to find themselves more and more marginalised in normal society. The government has spent more on information about what is going to happen on the second of April rather than spending a vast sum of money on subsidised help to rid the addicts of their habit. There is nothing worse than walking around town and seeing what looks like groups of spivs smoking at the entrances to their various places of work. Banning smoking in firms and offices and shops is only the start of the long struggle to get rid of smoking for good.

I do look forward to smoke free pubs and public places. I just wonder about the action of the resentful minority and the enthusiasm of enforcement.

I wonder if you can make a citizen’s arrest!

So far and yet so near

There is, they say, no place like home; or near home. I once drove to Amsterdam (the boat helped), drove around Holland and drove back to Cardiff. During the course of the hundreds of miles that I drove I was only held up once in all the hours that I was on the road – and that was near Newport. The ugly sister ‘city’ that lurks close to Cardiff but always gets blotted out on weather maps by the little square that contains the temperature reading for the premier city in Wales.

I was reminded of this delay when returning from Exmouth today. A clear (if foggy) run down and a clear (if busy) run back right up until, you’ve guessed it: Newport! When it also started to rain! Talk about the pathetic fallacy!

God knows I am not that interested in football. I have had, for personal reasons, to show an interest in a certain Catalan football team beginning with ‘B’; an interest which has grown with time into something approaching mild appreciation. But I have been surprised by the absolute unreasoning fury which has consumed me watching an apparently professional team of full time footballers fail to score against a semi professional part timer team in the Nou Camp stadium in Barcelona in the first half.

I really do think that it is time for fully developed envy and righteous indignation to take over and fuel the baying for blood which seems to accompany any game by England now. If the coach had a scrap of decency in him he would now, at half time, with the score Andorra O – England O, resign. One is tempted to remind him of Antony after the fiasco of his last battle, and offer him a sword. And as for the players! That over paid bunch of talentless poseurs! I think that each player should be taken to a scrap yard and watch as his favourite car (with wallet, watch, ipod and mobile in the dash) is reduced to a tightly packed cube of metal. The player should then be told to go on a pilgrimage of penitence to the stadium in Israel and in Barcelona dragging his car block behind him while being whipped by WAGs with wet copies of the Sunday Observer.

Who would ever have thought that I could get worked up about a game of kick ball? Anything is possible! At this rate I should try one of the viciously unreadable novels of William Faulkner; perhaps I’ve been wrong all along. And what about Rap music; should I give it another chance? Margaret Thatch . . . no, that’s one reassessment too far. Hell would have to freeze over and I’d have to be passionately involved in the intricacies of mind numbingly tedious American Football for That Woman ever to rank above a retarded amoebae in my pantheon of the interestingly human. If hell, as Sartre wrote, is other people, I wonder who would be on the other two sofas if Thatcher was established on one. My own suggestion to His Infernal Majesty would be Arthur Sargill and the Reverend (?) Doctor (?) Ian Paisley. What a charming trio!

On the positive side today has been marked by a more than acceptable meal with Ingrid in the Devoncourt Hotel in Exmouth. A table by the window with a view of the well tended grounds of the hotel and a clear view of the sparkling sea as well as a tasty meal made for a very pleasant time. I returned to Cardiff with, of course, my soupçon of Geman cooking courtesy if Ingrid. She once made me a poppy seed cake which I ate with wonder and a certain amount of rapidity, and it rapidly become a tradition of my devouring at least two a year supplied by her fair hand. As Ingrid is not particularly well, I have, ever the considerate gentleman, given her due warning that I expect one for my birthday in some months time. She therefore can plan my treat in a more leisurely way. I pointed out to her the possibility of her not making one for me, was not to be entertained. Some traditions must be sustained whatever the struggle there might be.

My green credentials have taken a knock, as the panacea for the multiplicity of electronic gadgets that I acquire – the solar recharger – does not work! I have had to take it back and start all over again in testing its capabilities. God knows what that does to my carbon footprint: futile charging and waste of power; driving to shop to exchange; having to wait for replacement; driving back to collect; old charger sent back to be scrapped; much printing of vouchers, till receipts etc., etc. My attempts to be green have probably destroyed a whole copse of unsustained trees.

My only response is to remember Queen Victoria and say with her, “I will be good!”

The future is a wonderful place, and always out of reach!

A little light is needed!

How satisfying it is to use words as weapons! With the obscenity of a director in banking receiving an annual bonus of £22m it is easy to feel short changed when a misbehaving bank offers you compensation of a tenner.

I wonder what a bank would offer a customer for the sum of £10. I suspect that no ‘service’ from a modern, thrusting, relentless bank would actually have so low a charge. But this sum is deemed sufficient to throw to a mewling customer who has the temerity to request information to explain the seemingly inept actions of its employees.

You can tell that the paragraph above is based on personal experience, can’t you? It’s the barely suppressed rage, expressing itself in vituperative verbosity. With my usual style that is a nice judgement to make! So, I have sent off my missives of . . . – add your own word which alliterates with ‘missives’ and is nasty. The clock is ticking. Having sent off three letters to a Chief Clerk, a Manager and an Area Director, I will be interested to see who, if anyone, responds. And how quickly. And how much. Especially how much!

I would have thought that a brief five lines by a bank as a response to four questions asked by customer shows contempt. If that customer has shown a certain tenacity in demanding a well reasoned and full explanation for apparent mistakes, it would be foolish to dismiss the concerns with meaningless weasel words. But Banks are not bound by the normal concerns of your average Joe. We don’t have bonuses of £22m – which just goes to show how little our concerns should be regarded. One could see a wonderfully circular argument develop here which would delight Joseph Heller!

Enough. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I will await the replies of my correspondents before dipping my pen in the vitriol of justified outrage.

If your house has an open plan living room which is ‘L’ shaped and lighted by three modern style chandeliers which each have five candle-like light bulbs in them; what is the likelihood, if they are all inserted at the same time and they are all new, of them all stopping at the same time?

Don’t hold your breath. That was not one of those questions like, “How many feminists does it take to change a light bulb?” Answer? “Bicycle.”

The makers of light bulbs can do what they want to, when you think about it. Who actually times how long their bulbs last? There are sad people in the world; but that sad? And another thing, when do you replace light bulbs? No, no, forget the “bicycle” thing. I mean in real life.

There are some people who replace at once, because they know that they have a supply of the correct wattage bulbs in a location that they are sure of. The rest of the population has a suspicion that they might have some bulbs somewhere, but God alone knows where they might be.

My musings are occasioned by the fact that one of the bulbs in one of the chandeliers has blown and it has not been replaced for two days. Even as I sit here underneath its lack of light, I prefer to write about it rather than replace it. Such a small action, so little inclination to do anything about it.

Perhaps something for tomorrow so that I can complete a task and get the work element of the day over and done with!

It’s a hard life.

Contemplate the smaller things

It is a sad statement of my present predicament that I can get genuinely excited the marketing of a new toilet cleanser by Harpic. I felt a real surge of enthusiasm as I plodded my weary way towards the fresh bread section of Tesco after I had dropped off Toni at work. This ended a spirited ‘conversation’ about the relative badness of our respective countries in their colonial days which had lasted from the bottom of Wentloog Road to the drop off point. I’m not sure what such ill defined discussions do to Toni, but I find myself in need of a mind numbing swim to rid my head of slavers, conquistadores, armies of occupation, defunct treaties, and mind numbing injustices!

You can see why the vision of a newly designed bottle of toilet fluid can have an ameliorating affect. I have always found shopping to be a wonderfully fulfilling experience. Obviously I’m not putting shopping on the same level as that memorable performance of Beethoven’s seventh symphony played in the Colston Hall in Bristol by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra conducted by Edo de Waart, but it’s well in the frame of satisfying experiences.

I wonder how you would define a ‘satisfying experience’. How does it differ from a good experience or a fun experience or a profound experience?

Just consider, as I often do, the various types of shopping.

1. Shopping Direct: a very slovenly form of shopping where a person has already decided what is needed and goes out and gets just the item.
2. Shopping Educational: otherwise known as the ‘informed meander’ where the shopper visually grazes the commodities which are not part of the shopper’s usual repertoire.
3. Shopping Serendipitous where an unexpected purchase leaps unbidden into your hands
4. Shopping Arid: trapped in an environment where there are what MP’sFC described as ‘itemries’ none of which are of any possible interest to you e.g. car parts. There is a very distinct limit to how far I can look at gasket thingies and pretend that they are symmetrical op art found objects!

And, the making of lists is a lazy form of blog writing, though it does appeal to the dilettante in all of us.

I suppose that ‘satisfying’ would, really, have to be defined in terms of sex and family and friends – this would be the first level of ‘satisfying’ and a little too profound for my flippant take on life today.

I have eaten a square of 85% cocoa by Lindt and I feel very much more serious than I did a few seconds ago, but not serious enough to write more.

So many words; so little inclination to use them.

Tomorrow!