Teach? Me?

I never really know whether to be appalled or uplifted by seeing a ranting fascist dictator meekly (surrounded by television cameras and military security) plodding his way around an ancient stone building of which the claimed provenance is questionable to say the least. Such vainglorious parading of meekness (seven times around counter clockwise and a little stone throwing) is at best nauseating and at worst cynical justification for the most perniciously repressive views.

I feel the same repulsion for the self lacerating piety that motivates some of the pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago as they crawl their bloody way to the door of the cathedral on bleeding knees.

Strange gods indeed that these people have created!

Today was a day of almost work. I joined a class of youngsters that I am going to be taking for two hours a week to improve their English. The money is risible, but the contract that I will sign will give me the fabled Number which will mean that I exist as far as all government agencies in Spain are concerned.

Just to complicate things I yesterday received a missive from the Generalitat enclosing a health card with a Number on it! Which I should not have until I have worked. Strange are the ways of Spanish and Catalan bureaucracy!

Today I visited my exiled books.

They need assuring from time to time that I have not lost them from the care of my memory. They languish in my cramped storage space which is too small for me to sort them. With the advent of my new keyboard I went in search of the music which I knew that I had had packed.

I have to admit that was just an excuse. I really wanted to find the rest of my art books and some more of the more esoteric non fiction.

I have also convinced myself that I can capitalise on the care which my packers took in boxing shelf by shelf, rather than mixing the books indiscriminately. The normal procedure is to fill the available space in each packing case with a selection of books that fit. My packers filled the space with waste paper packing. I therefore reasoned that, were I to go through the boxes and repack them more fully then I would be able to cut down on the number of boxes, give myself some space in which to operate, and find the books that I want.

After only a few hours work I have managed to create a space in which I can stand. You have to have seen the way in which the space was crammed to appreciate the achievement of this!

My expensive storage facility is one of those places of endless corridors with identical yellow roll top doors. It also gives you the facility to act the messianic progress of that bloke in the TV advert who, as he walks along, his mere presence turns on lights. As you walk along dark corridors they magically lighten and this prompts you (well, me) to take a few detours to your ‘room’ just to experience the power of a sort of ‘prepare ye the way’ feeling.

Except in my corridors and by my room, where darkness reigns supreme. There is something touchingly sad in staring through the gloom to find hidden treasures: two volumes of the Gormenghast trilogy, a few of the Great Museums of the World, a few more books of quotations; the two volume photographically reduced Oxford English Dictionary; my music books (gosh! That I really did not expect); a few cookery books (including Angela’s); more poetry books and few addictive Nigel Rees productions – good for the loo!

And what is left is a three deep ten high wall of boxes. I now have a mission, which is to go through the cases and take the jewels out. Unfortunately my library is now in a quid pro quo position: anything I bring from storage will need a corresponding sacrifice from my present shelves.

The future promises to be pure torture!

Lighten our darkness!

The advent of cheap, low-power LED lighting bulbs in illuminated Christmas decorations promised a whole new age in widely available vulgarity to mark the festive season.

Multi light icicles, once a simple, effective and striking illumination for select stores are now cheap clichés.

Moving lights, something like a waving Santa, once the preserve of large companies and institutions are now within the most restricted of budgets and available from cut-price stores. The Brave New World of domestic festive light pollution, viewed by Aunt Bet in the super affluent commuter belt outside New York years ago, has now come to the most straitened inner city ghettos around Europe.

The hopes for municipal magnificence in terms of Christmas lighting were therefore high. And they seemed justified as sheets of lights replaced staid decorations. The lights may have been smaller, but there were more of them and they gave the impression of plenty.

The overall effect is still good and, as long as you don’t look too closely, the impression that you get from endlessly repeated strings of lights is one of expense and opulence.

But look a little more closely and you begin to see that those same lights which were guaranteed thousands of hours of life are not living up to their promise and in every decoration that I have looked at there are the tell tale spots of black which indicate failure.

In most it is not just black spots but whole sections that are not working. In Castelldefels the decorations lining the main road parallel to us had malfunctioning sections of the decorations within one night of their being switched on!

I feel myself imitating a desperate clergyman looking around for something topical on which to base his sermon when I see the creeping failure of gaudy Christmas decorations as a metaphor for the whole of capitalist society.

You have it all: flashy outward show, but look closer and the cracks of failure beginning to show. Even in the public demonstration of governmental care, the festive bread-and-circuses of pretty lighting to keep the people quiet the basic contradictions of our unequal society are illuminated by the darkness of the malfunctioning lamps.

There’s a lot more where that came from as my mind gathers up the unconsidered trifles of everyday experience and finds more and more parallels between cheap, cheerful and shoddy decorations and the vicissitudes of modern life.

But mental exhaustion prompts silence!

Now that I’ve noticed this glaring lack of perfection, I am seeing tawdry failed showmanship in all the decorations everywhere: real and imagined; concrete and metaphorical.

Just the sort of spirit you need to celebrate!

The Catalans are a ‘careful’ people (in the West Walian sense) and are proud to term themselves so. When it comes to wrapping Christmas presents they avail themselves of the facilities which are provided by the main supermarkets. At this time of the year a section of the space outside the tills is given over to the provision of tables set out with rolls of free paper and sellotape dispensers. There are also pairs of scissors for trimming off the excess that I for one always seem to have in abundance at the ends of the semi wrapped present.

Carme has shown me the way here by drawing off yards of paper, rolling it up and stowing it safely away for use at home! Caprabo in Sant Boi is obviously wise to this as they have stationed a formidable no-nonsense lady to asses your gift covering needs and issue what she considers sufficient paper for your task. I had to scrounge a remnant from previous present wrappers to finish Toni’s present because I did not have enough courage to return Oliver-like to such an imperious lady!

I shall steal from the much more relaxed Carrefour.

Let music untune the sky!

The second concert that I attended in La Palau de la Musica started at ten fifteen in the night.

It was the Orquesta de Cámara y Coro Nacional de Bielorrusia conducted by Piotr Vandilovsky with Liudmila Efimova as director of the chorus performing Handel’s Messiah.

So we were presented with a Russian Choir and Orchestra performing an English oratorio in Catalonia. And what language did they choose in which to perform? German!

Now I know that there might be purists among you who might point out that Händel’s birthplace was a little further to the east than London. But that does not deal with the expectation of hearing familiar archaic words sung in dreadful accents by foreigners.

How can I ever forget my first live hearing of The Messiah in St Tropez in a small packed church where the chorus sang “Foe untow uz a chi is bor!” with the enthusiasm that comes with real confidence in signing in a foreign language. The bass in that performance was singing in a tongue which didn’t even seem to be remotely related to the Indo-European language family, let alone French English. A most satisfying experience.

It took me a while to stop sulking that the performance last night was in a foreign language before I could begin to enjoy the music!

This was a performance in which one felt that the conductor was in control. His positive and authoritative style of conducting kept his considerable forces together. He had a modest, yet compelling presence on the stage and you could believe that Piotr Vandilovsky was an essential component in the finished sound.

This was by no means a ‘pure’ version of the piece with the chorus sometimes sounding more like the Huddersfield Choral Society than a Handaelan choir. The (very young) orchestra too, with limited resources in terms of players produced a full modern sound while respecting the ornamentation of the original. Their ensemble playing was excellent, though it did get a little more ragged towards the end of the evening as the clock inexorably advanced nearer to one o’clock in the morning.

The soloists, Titiana Petrova (soprano), Natalia Akinina (mezzo), Arseni Arsov (tenor and Zapiokin Vitali (bass) were a mixed bunch with the graph, as it were, slewed towards the left in terms of ability. After my initial shock of hearing the tenor sing some foreign version of “Comfort ye my people” I gradually warmed to him, but his later performances were far too forced for my taste and at times he was positively unmusical and tuneless. The mezzo produced an unpleasant throaty warble while the soprano’s terminal vibrato was constantly irritating. The bass was the worst of the lot only occasionally producing something which matched the music.

The orchestra, with a leader whose exuberant style sometimes missed the meticulous direction of his conductor, was excellent throughout (allowing for exhaustion!) and was always worth listening to when the soloists that they were accompanying were best forgotten.

The chorus was gusty and enthusiastic. As is often the case the tenors could have done with more resources and the division of the chorus into paired couples from time to time exposed the sometimes forced quality of the singing, but they made a wonderful and joyful sound that was a pleasure to experience.

This was a long concert, but time never seemed to lag. A most creditable performance which could only have been improved if they had made some attempt at the English libretto!

The first concert of the evening was part of the ‘Festival de valsos I danses’ which is part of the programme of music provided by the Orquestra Simfónica del Vallés conducted by José Antonio Sainz Alfaro.

The popular programme of music from Rossini to Johann Strauss did little to stretch this fine orchestra but it left you wanting to listen to something meatier – though I also know that with playing of this quality there is something to be said for a concert of pure pleasure and entertainment rather than pedagogy!

All section of the orchestra played well with a fluency that sometimes veered into superficial facility. The most revealing pieces were the Brahms Hungarian Dances numbers 5, 6 and 7. Here the more syncopated rhythms seemed to be glossed somewhat by a legato approach which emphasised lyricism at the expense of national musical idiosyncrasy. But these are carping criticisms in a concert which was obviously as enjoyable to produce as it was to listen to!

The horns (always possible sources of weakness in any orchestra were confident – and that word could stand for the whole of the orchestra’s performance. It was a little disconcerting to see the horn section perform a sort of musical chairs after each number – but then horn sections are a law unto themselves!

The conductor was laconic in his performance to the point of caricature and looked more like a stand-up comedian at the end of his career than a music maker!

In the first half of the show Rossini’s Overture to The Thieving Magpie (La gazza ladra) was the most revealing. This was a well studied piece by the orchestra with masterly use of light and shade and with the orchestra not afraid to resort to the most garish vulgarity for the brass in the conclusion. Thoroughly enjoyable!

The second half of the concert was taken up with Strauss. The conductor was obviously looking for a Viennese type of audience participation but I think that Catalan audiences share a certain reticence with their British counterparts. With we British it is only the quintessentially middle class faux ‘wildness’ of the habitués of the Proms that allows us to step outside the self imposed constraints of proper behaviour in a classical concert.

Alfaro broke the glass wall between performers and audience by picking up a microphone in the second half and talking to us. During one talk after a spirited performance of the Pizzicato Polka when the rest of the orchestra had chatted, wandered about and generally ignored the strings, then played their own jazzy version of the polka, I knew enough of what he was saying about the highs and lows in music (the high being the strings and the low being everyone else!) to murmur appreciatively when eh illustrated another high and low by referring to Barça as one and Español as the other!

The conductor’s hard work eventually paid off when we gradually became a little more relaxed about clapping and making cuckoo noises as part of the music.

For me the high points of the concert came in the encores. Alfaro (born in Sant Sebastià) first played a beautiful Basque song orchestrated with some sensitivity and then hurriedly played a fantasia on Catalan themes which reminded me of Grace Williams’ version for Wales. This was loved by the audience who were encouraged to sing along quietly – which they did. Even I was able to join in at one point in a very muted and self conscious sort of way.

The final encore, the Radestsky (?) March, allowed full participation in a Germanic display of hand clapping and provided a fittingly crashing finale.

This was a brilliant concert and I look forward to their next concerts.

At last an orchestra whose musical ability matched the mad magnificence of their setting in the Palau!

Thank god there is choice!

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

If you really want to experience infinity, you don’t have to follow Blake, all you have to do is go to a Post Office.

If you are ever homesick when in foreign parts, the solution is simple: visit a Post Office. The frustration of dead time; the sense of futility; the teeth gnashingly slow turnover – all are depressingly familiar to anyone anywhere in the world. You soon feel right at home!

There is a confraternity of Post Office workers whose code states that they must keep people waiting for as long as possible just short of a riot. Another part of the code outlines working conditions for public observation. No more than 10% of the visible workforce must actually be seen ‘serving’ the public. The other 90% must wander about looking officious but actually doing nothing. Anyone not a Post Office worker must be ignored with extreme prejudice.

Time has a different meaning when waiting at a Post Office counter. Like dogs’ lives, but in reverse, time slows down. One minute in the real world becomes seven in any Post Office. A normal Post Office is nearer to Jean Paul Sartre’s idea of hell than anywhere else that I know.

It took me more time that I thought humanly possible to post my parcel to Aunt Bet. This inordinate time delay was made possible by the prevarication of a languid Argentinean who leaned against the counter and challenged his counter assistant, while taking up the serving position and, as far as I could gather from the increasingly perplexed expression of the assistant, pointlessly wasted his time. Even the inevitable photocopying of the passport achieved nothing. The bloody man even had the gall to smile at the queue which was vibrating with hardly suppressed fury as he sashayed his way out!

I felt that I deserved a meal in town after that so, in spite of previous experience, I decided to try and understand the unaccountable popularity of the restaurant Lancaster Club at C/Mayor No 5, Castelldefels.

I suppose that entering an empty restaurant with the smell of toilet cleaner permeating the eating area should have given me pause for thought; but, ever an optimist I decided to risk the menu del dia.

The fideuá became the only dish that I have sent back since I arrived in Spain. It was supposed to be with prawns, but they looked more like shrunken, blackened homunculi than anything else. The dish was so salty that I expected careless use of the fork to cause the whole thing to crystallize. When it came back it looked and tasted as if it had been washed in hot water to reduce its potent saline content. My request for aioli was treated with surprise and it only arrived as I was eating my last mouthful!

The delay in getting me eating allowed me to study my slowly arriving fellow customers. The one sitting opposite me was the sort of young executive derided by John Betjeman. He was scarcely more than a boy in an ill fitting suit with a red shirt and a yellow tie and trainers. As soon as he took his jacket off you could see his pocket turned inside out, which I found oddly sad. As he was eating by himself he ‘talked’ on his phone – though when his meal arrived he put the phone down at the side of his plate without visibly turning it off. Bless!

Meanwhile the horror of my meal was not over. The botifarra (to which, surely, they could do no harm) was salty –but the beans, at last, were edible. The cheese cake which followed also tasted slightly salty, but that could have been my quite justifiable paranoia by that point.

The true highpoint of awfulness was that I couldn’t finish my cortado because the coffee was undrinkable. Now that, in Spain, is a real achievement!

The wait for the food was unacceptable, but then so was the food – though in all fairness the service was well meaning and cheerful. But you can’t eat service! I think that my patience is now finally exhausted with Lancaster Club. A restaurant to miss, I think.

I now have to take a photograph of the new figures in my Belén and send it to the Pauls so that Haydn can look at it and decide if he wants me to buy some for him.

I live a complex, technological life! Still I can always return to reality by gazing at the evening sun!

It's that time of the year!

“Risk of ice!”

This chilling message flashed up on the car computer, its ominous warning presaged by a little moue of disappointment from the vehicle in the form of a plaintive bleep, as if to sympathize with my horror.

Yesterday, during an otherwise pleasant and delicious lunch, Caroline informed me that it had, at one time, snowed in Castelldefels! Admittedly it had only been for one morning and her children had only been able to build a tiny snowman. But snow! In Castelldefels! My world has turned upside down and it is as if I can hear the cruel cackles of mocking laughter from my erstwhile friends trapped in the damp and frosty islands of the north.

Perhaps I am overreacting, and there is, after all, the rest of the day for Castelldefels to get its act together and produce the sunshine of which I know it is capable. The chair on the balcony is facing, optimistically, towards the east. I cast anxious glances through the window, trying to ignore the imprints of Carles’ hands still clearly visible since his visit last Sunday, searching for the first glimmerings of that liquid gold that tempted me to Spain.

Meanwhile I will have a nice cup of tea and that will warm me up!

God bless Castelldefels: by half past three it was warm enough to sit out on the balcony facing the heat from that star ninety three million miles away and wondering where the sun tan lotion was! In December! And its good to see that there are still flowers in the garden to act as subject matter for my new camera!
The Belén (The Crib - a traditional part of Catalan Christmas decoration) is provoking some domestic controversy. I have purchased a selection of what I regard as essential figures to complete the scene. These comprise a rather dowdy (I admit it) collection of workers. But I thought that they were more of a social comment: the flamboyant extravagance of the Wise Men contrasted with the sombre poverty of the real movers and shakers. A good socialist spin on what, without the metaphysical overtones, is really rather a squalid birth scene. Toni is not impressed by the dowdy colours and pointed out that the further figures that I have bought are actually of a different size to the others.

I have to admit that when I put the holy family in their stable there certainly wasn’t, to coin a phrase, much room at the inn, and the livestock were bulging out at the sides. The original family were therefore reinstalled and the usurping holy couple were relegated to the workers: Joseph to the shepherds and wood carriers and Mary to the water carriers. They do at least swell the crowd scenes.

The Magi are not very impressive with only a trace of glitter to distinguish them from the hoi polloi. At the moment the original Magi are lurking in the computer room in their entire vulgar colour and I’m not quite sure how to integrate them into the Belén without unsettling the careful stratification of society that I have engineered on what is now a very crowded drawer top!

God knows that the Pauls will make of it all!

Open damn you!

On my first and only trip to the US of A I was constantly frustrated by faucets.

Shops, hotels and restaurants seemed to be vying with each other in providing ‘facilities’ in their ‘rest rooms’ which defied ease of use. The conventional tap with its ergonomic lugs which fit the fingers so easily and give effortless leverage to produce water were discarded utterly in the dizzying pursuit of the cutting edge.

With one particularly recalcitrant tap I pushed it, pulled it, pressed it, squeezed it and tapped it in a meaningful gesture of impatience. When all that failed I waved my hands about in a vaguely prestidigitatorial sort of way in the hope that I would break a sensor beam somewhere and that I would be thought to be shaking water from my fingers if I was wrong. Nothing. It’s the sort of experience that could make grown men weep. And I was still developing.

I could, of course, have merely left. Without washing my hands. But if you had been brought up by a mother like mine, you would have no more thought of not washing your hands after going to the toilet than you would have been able to go to bed without brushing your teeth. Some things are simply unthinking and undoable.

I was eventually saved (from possible prosecution for lingering in a men’s restroom!) by a savvy gentleman using his foot to locate a discrete button located on the floor underneath the sinks. Face and purity saved I emerged with another battle honour to add to the ribbon rows denoting successful combats with exotic bathroom ware.

This incident came back to mind as I struggled with the latest fiendish three dimensional puzzle designed as a carton of milk. It was of a fairly conventional tetra pack design (as I think it is called and which made someone or other a billionaire) with what looked like a simple screw top. It wasn’t.

As far as I could tell, the screw top was linked to a membrane which protected the surface of the milk and by opening the top, tiny internal plastic ‘blades’ cut through the membrane and allowed the hapless purchaser to get at the precious, protected liquid. The amount of force that you needed to cut through by screwing was considerable. And much more than I found comfortable with a thumb newly sensitized by the accidental insertion of a sharp edge under the nail! Even without the added pain of a self inflicted injury the force was not inconsiderable.

And then I thought of the old and the incapacitated.

Modern life is becoming more and more ‘user friendly’ – no more use for an old fashioned can opener; cans are now self opening (with a little help from the user.)

It used to be that only some tins of salmon, some oddly shaped cooked hams and all tins of sardines were provided with a metal key to unlock the delicacies inside.

I still have the scar on my right thumb from a brush with the razor sharp side of a half opened tin of salmon. As the can bit into my flesh I jerked my hand away and a trail of blood travelled up my mother (who happened to be standing on my left) and across the ceiling as my injured hand described a quick arc.

Four stitches later, and my mother’s sobbing hysterics having subsided, I was able to watch my sufferings on television. This was because my laceration coincided with a cold snap and my treatment in the Royal Infirmary was much delayed by the number of broken limbs having to be set after their owners succumbed to the slippery lure of ice. So many broken limbs indeed that a television camera was dispatched to film us all waiting, where my slowly dripping thumb was an unexpected splash of colour among fractured bones hidden in flesh.

The ability to open a tin of ham without the key snapping or the roll of metal twisting on itself and breaking was a skill few ever learned with any degree of conviction. Sardine tins would open a fraction before eagerness caused the metal to sheer, leaving the fish tantalizingly open to view, but virtually impossible to extract. If the young and lusty were constantly stymied how did the elderly ever eat?

Today, in this throw away age, more and more packaging is self opening. Except of course, it isn’t. It still needs you. And a great deal of skill.

Tins now are ring pull, with the ring pull flush to the top of the tin. The insertion of a nail to raise the metal leaves the metal un-raised: except for the thickness of a nail - which remains behind!

When eventually prised up and opened, the metal disc now attached to a finger becomes, Ninja-like, a deadly weapon. Any vicious criminal armed with eight fingers’ worth of ring pulls would give Edward Scissor Hands a run for his money!

The only real use for a ring pull is to slice open the cellophane wrapping on CDs which seem to be attached to their host with a combination of vacuum pack, heat shrink and static electricity. The little cellophane ‘tapes’ which give ‘easy access’ are merely the cynical joke of a packaging sadist who likes to see people suffering my believing that there is an ‘easy way’ into CD packaging before the inevitable stabbing which accompanies any attempted opening by knife.

Even CD packaging appears to be ‘fall apart easy’ when compared with ‘blister’ packaging. This form of torture is often the preferred from of Tantalus-like punishment which accompanies the purchase electrical accessories. The sealed edges make side access impossible. Without scalpels the plastic blister is impervious. It is the perfect cocoon.

Scissors (that you are usually too lazy to go and get from the other room) are the surest way in, but they are dangerous. Not in themselves, oh no, but in what the scissors produce. You know from previous experience that cutting a small part of the edge and then tearing does nothing. Cutting off one edge creates an opening, but one not large enough to get the contents out. You have to cut more. Being lazy you cut all around the perimeter of the plastic casing only to be cut to pieces by the blade-like trimmings that slash at your hand as your twist the packaging around.

It is a wonder that we do not hear of many more unexplained deaths of the elderly, sitting at tables clutching unopened cans in well stocked houses, with cartons of congealed milk and unused electrical appliances.

Just don’t get me started on polystyrene! A friend wrote to me recently telling me that she asked a physicist friend of hers what use was her knowledge of how to solve a quadratic equation ( x equals minus b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4 ac ALL OVER 2a – never let it be said that I learned nothing in Cardiff High School for Boys!) The friend replied that if she had a sheet of cardboard she would be able to make a box of the maximum volume. I think that that sort of knowledge is used in packaging. If what you have purchased is encased in a three dimensional puzzle of hollowed out polystyrene then getting it out of the box is an almost impossible trick to pull off. It is usually such a tight fit that tearing is the only way out – thus dislodging the heavy duty staples which inevitably find their way into your flesh.

Now for the Belén.

O false apothecary! Thy drugs are slow!

There is a significant part of me that must like life made difficult.

My medication is running low.

I realise that sentence is more like an extract from a low budget horror film script in which the psycho is giving the first intimation that something truly gruesome is about to happen. It is also a simple indication that my little plastic daily boxes are not being filled with the requisite number of ill tasting pastilles.

After my experience of terminal bureaucracy mixed with colourful ineptitude which characterised my first dealings (and second, third, fourth and fifth dealings) with the medical services in my adopted country, I had thought that my vicissitudes had settled down into bearable irritation.

Not so.

In Catalonia when you get a regular prescription they give you two: one for the immediate needs and a second dated a month in the future.

My last (and first) brush with the Catalan pharmacists was when they gave me the wrong medication and then charged me extra when they changed it! But that is old history and has been quite forgotten. Never brought to mind. What gross medical incompetence? Impossible!

Since that first traumatic brush I have complicated matters by not using the second prescription as I had enough medication from Britain which, augmented with the first prescription’s worth of stuff was enough until the present day. So I thought that I would now use the second prescription which was dated the tenth of November. Wrong!

Prescriptions last for ten days after the written date. As I was informed by the triumphantly smug lady pharmacist. I could, at once, see that my usual method of ping ponging between various medical locations was going to proceed in enervating frustration as per bloody usual. With perhaps a visit to Gavá thrown in for good measure. It always seems to make sense to my medical practice anyway.

My return to the doctors’ was to find that the place where I get the new prescriptions had closed five minutes earlier. Four hours later armed with new prescriptions I was forty-five minutes too early for the early evening opening of the chemist. Never mind, I told myself with what can only be defined as insanely self deluding optimism, I will get it done in the large shopping centre in Sant Boi. No pharmacy. Not even for ready money.

But if you think that this story demonstrates how difficult it is to get something simple like a prescription filled, try finding an A5 envelope. Or better still: don’t. Just have a glass of wine and think mellow thoughts.

That is easy in Catalonia.

I am beginning to think that envelopes are only used by businesses and that personal use was proscribed by the Holy Inquisition some time ago and placed on an Index which is still in force today!
Meanwhile work on the Belén continues.

More expense in the name of cultural assimilation!

Drive and Marvel!

Driving Toni home this evening the sunset was one of such a quality that one automatically looked around for someone to pay for such a display!

The higher clouds had a fluffy underside of sparkling pinks and orange in a deep blue generally clear sky. Shards of lower cloud were highlighted in glowing orange and yellow with an intensity which blazed. Gossamer skeins of wispy cloud draped the lower sky which was suffused with the most delicate of rose colours. Sights like that make even the most tedious motorway driving an uplifting experience!

I have started looking more closely at the history of Catalan painting. This interest has been stimulated by the extraordinary gallery of donated art which makes the museum in the Monastery of Montserrat such an unexpectedly exhilarating experience. My knowledge of Spanish art is confined to the major world figures which fill the walls of El Prado. My familiarity with Catalan artists was confined to the Big Three of Dalí, Miró and Gaudí together with the artist whom Catalans stubbornly refuse to recognize was born in Malaga, Picasso.

I am now getting to know a whole series of names like Fortuny, Alsina, Gomez, Torrescassana, Vayreda, Romá Ribera, Brull, Ramon Casas and Rusiñol - of which only Rusiñol is familiar because of his connection with Sitges. You can hardly fail to notice Rusiñol he owned two of what now are museums in the town and there is a statue of him in case you had missed the point.

An added point of confusion for me is that the book (donated by Haydn to whom all praise!) which is the catalogue for the paintings in the museum in Montserrat is in Catalan; the guide to the Museu Nacional D’Art De Catalunya is in Castellano as is my History of Spanish Art. I am, therefore likely to be the only person in Castelldefels who learns Spanish by trying to translate pretentiously overblown descriptions of works of art by anorak wearing curators! It will make buying a loaf of bread interesting linguistically!

The tempests of last night gave way this morning to fresh breezes which in turn gave way to bright sunshine! There is none of that sense of personal vindictiveness in Castelldefels that characterizes so much of the weather in the United Kingdom. I was even able to sunbathe on the balcony after lunch!

Last night we watched ‘Ghost Rider’ (Mark Steven Johnson. USA: 2007) this dramatization of a Marvel comic hero had Nicolas Cage in the title role. It was absolute rubbish, but the sort of rubbish that I like. The cinematography was excellent, more suited to a better film and the acting, considering the players had to personate Mephistopheles, his son with attendant devils and a man who turned into a flaming skeleton at night was more than acceptable.

The Jesuitical morality of the piece ensured that there was a sort of a happy ending and, more importantly, gave scope for endless sequels.

To be fair to the film it did not really pretend to anything more than it was: well executed (sic.) justice with convincing special effects and fairly mindless watching.

I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Needs must be satisifed!

Man is an animal composed entirely of needs.

However we try and dress up our basic drives the atavistic animal hidden beneath the skin of reason will out. It is surely depressing to realise how thin the membrane of restraint is when temptation tickles the baser instincts.

A blog, almost by definition, has to be confessional.

This is mine. I do not seek to diminish my fault by pointing out that there are forces which actively encourage me in my actions. I do not look to avoid my own guilt by pointing out that what I do directly keeps people in employment. I articulate no justification in saying that my urges are in synch with the social, political and mercantile forces which determine our society.

I have bought another camera.

I know that I have written of my own astonishment about the number of cameras that emerged when I eventually moved house and had to get rid of a mass of ‘stuff.’ I could have founded an illustrated history of popular photography for the last forty years with my holdings. My cameras (together with those of my parents which, of course, I did not throw away) ranged from simple cameras which were a mere step up from the old Kodak Brownie through the almost forgotten disc cameras to early digital. Along the way were examples of ‘half frame’ cameras; early Russian SLR; compact cameras; mini cameras; cameras using 35mm and those using 110 cartridges. The various Polaroid cameras never seemed to survive long before they became bulky, empty plastic ornaments forever without film and eventually discarded.

The advent of digital cameras as well as being a gadget lover’s delight was also a way of addressing the basic problem with all cameras: you should have something to show for it in the form of photographs. Polaroid seemed to be the answer to all our prayers but the sheer expense more than anything made it impractical. With digital you could see your photo as soon as you had taken it and were able to recall it at a moment’s notice. Of course this led to another problem; that of never having any concrete example of the photos taken. They now exist in another form on computer hard disks, the memory of cameras and on the odd ipod.
Why, I hear you ask, have I bought yet another camera when I have been quoted as saying that my latest Casio is the best that I have ever had?

If you have to ask questions like that then you don’t understand the Lure of the Gadget!

‘Stuff’ magazine (which has a lot to answer for) was where I first saw something which whetted my materialistic and novelty seeking impulses. With my eyesight, small screens are a definite negative so a screen of more than 3” was interesting. Part of my discarding of past cameras was part of the Search for a Decent Sized Screen. That was my excuse anyway!

The real reason for buying this camera was that this large screen was actually touch sensitive. Not only a touch sensitive screen but also a camera which possessed the capability of applying special effects to pictures taken - in the camera itself! If that last exclamation mark seems to you to be inexplicable or overstated than I have to say that we move in very different worlds. So there!

Anyway, I have bought the thing and have already exhausted two battery worth’s of time in exploring the technical capabilities of the machine – or playing with it if you prefer.

So far I have ‘created’ ‘in camera’ ‘photographic masterpieces’ that have included a kaleidoscope image based on Toni’s nephew when he was still for a couple of seconds and an impressionist style abstract cross based on a massively ‘treated’ photograph of a section of the coffee table. Such inventiveness will, I am sure, end in artistic tears!

Tomorrow subjects new to reduce to pixels.

Be afraid Castelldefels!

And on the right you can see . . .

I am rapidly developing a propriatorial attitude towards Barcelona.

With Haydn as a visitor over the last few days I showed off Barcelona with a slightly concerned air of ownership; the sort of approach that one takes when one needs a visitor to like what he sees!

On a regularly running RENFE train (sic.) we made it into the centre and after gazing in appropriate adoration at the Casa Batlló marched down Garcia and promptly had a cup of coffee. This is the correct approach to sightseeing: overwhelming experience followed by refreshment!

A meander down La Rambla looking at a series of frankly disappointing ‘living statues’ - including one poor man dressed in a white sheet with a forlorn looking twisted twig in his hair and clutching a flapping piece of pseudo parchment. The fact that he had bare feet and was standing on an orange box gave his portrayal of a classical emperor a rather homely feel!

At some fairly arbitrary point we veered off La Rambla and headed towards what I thought was the Cathedral. After wending our way through a series of narrow and picturesque streets, which elicited coos of admiration from Haydn, we finally made it to a church, which was a basilica and not the one we wanted. As soon as we were inside Haydn gave a rather startling yelp which turned out to be his way of testing the acoustic. The acoustic was good, perhaps as a result of the inside of the basilica being fairly empty – a sparseness later accounted for by the justified conflagration of church property by outraged Republicans against the complicity of fascist clergy with the forces of repression. That last bit was my gloss on the situation, but the burning of much of the interior during the Civil War is fact.

Eventually we made it to the Cathedral after rejecting the wares of the stalls selling frankly substandard figures to populate Haydn’s proposed Belen. I had been relying on the profusion of kitsch to fulfil any expectation and was sadly disappointed.

The Cathedral was pronounced depressing filled as it was with all the aspects of Roman religion which Hadyn found the most revolting – though some of the medieval painted panels we both agreed were splendid.

Lunch was in a restaurant in a little square in the Gothic part of the city and was of reasonable standard though the waiter was obviously less than happy in his job and allowed this attitude to be visible the whole time he ‘served’ us. It was also fairly obvious that Spanish was not even his second language as his hissed insults towards the other waiter (interspersed with fairly vicious punches) were of a language a great deal further to the east.

The traipse to La Pedrera (Casa Milà) http://www.gaudiallgaudi.com/EA009.htm finally put paid to important muscles in tender parts of my anatomy and I began to feel like one of those crippled characters in black and white Westerns who you know is going to do something selflessly brave before dying. Well, my selfless act was not to shriek with horror at the thought of taking in La Sagrada Famillia http://www.gaudiallgaudi.com/EA011%20Escuelas%20S%20Familia.htm before we returned to Castelldefels! This visit is going to be left for his return to the flat.

This respite allowed me to revel in the extraordinary vigour of the building. The exhibition in the attic has been improved, the dressing of the apartment has been extended and the roof remains the unsettlingly exuberant experience it has always been. An excellent way to end the day and only a short walk to the railway station!

The other major trip that we went on was to Montserrat http://www.lodgephoto.com/galleries/spain/montserrat/ – a destination I never tire of visiting.

Our wait to see La Moreneta http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgen_de_Montserrat was considerably shorter than usual, though our progress was delayed by the family of Indians in front of us who had their photographs taken, individually and together, with every point of interest they passed. Although they reminded one of the worst excesses of typical Japanese tourists they also were the only people I’ve ever seen actually put money into the donations box held by the statue of a boy chorister on the way to the Moreneta!

The revelation of this visit was the museum. I had assumed that this was going to be the usual sort of thing in this environment: sparse pickings of marginally interesting artefacts connected to the monastery. I couldn’t have been further from the truth. I knew that there were one of two interesting paintings in the museum collection, but I was not prepared for the wealth and depth of the collection. I was so impressed that I bought the only catalogue they had – an expense that Haydn covered by a Grant Aid Donation as he left with some spurious explanation of his owning me money for meals! I will have to design a book plate to mark such munificence! He can come again!

All this high culture is just so much window dressing of course because the real reason that I was so delighted about this visit to Monserrat was that I was, at last, able to realise one of my dreams.

I now own a snow globe of the Moreneta! When I first saw the shop in Monserrat and the range of merchandise that was available in all shapes, sizes and tastes, I just knew that I ought to be able to find a snow globe. The fact that I couldn´t embittered me. Obviously the snow globe is a seasonal purchase and I am glad that Haydn's visit was in December!

The meals we had during Haydn’s visit were excellent with the high point probably being the sumptuous array of tapas in the Basque restaurant. Toni is now groaning on the sofa, his tummy not being able to take the richness of the diet we have had over the past few days.

Haydn phoned up when he had reached home after a flight that actually left early and said that in some ways the high spot of his visit was the walk on the beach in the morning of his last day in Castelldefels in the bright sunshine with the sea washing at his feet.

It was a little different when he reached Wales!

The best laid plans etc

In the cold light of day the tree looks even more restrained than I feared.

There is a law which states that however much you spend on Christmas tree decorations you will find that when they are on the tree there is an inverse relationship between expense and visibility.

Last year, in what I considered a well thought out campaign I scoured shops after Christmas snapping up unconsidered trifles to put on this year’s tree. (Actually, that is not strictly true as these were salted away at the beginning of the ‘house selling period’ {sic.} which meant they were for Christmas 2006!) It was therefore with a considerable amount of smug satisfaction that I finally unboxed my goodies and began putting them on the tree. The majority of the new ones were of the exotically twisted metal variety inset with beads and glass. They looked excellent in the pack and promptly disappeared when placed on the tree! If I had paid full price for them I would have been weeping. Copiously!

I don’t know why it comes as a revelation (but it does) that the most effective decorations set against a dark green background are white. I realise now of course that this simple fact is known to all window dressers who go for the simple and elegant and cost effective presentation of white on green.

The one good thing about this of course is that Angela’s Gift is seen in its full effectiveness. Angela is a past colleague of mine and a person I considered a friend. However. . . During one conversation she related that she had been on a therapeutic visit to Maskrey’s, Cardiff’s most elegant and priciest furniture and nice things store when she had noticed that there was a sale on. She has an unaccountable yearning for all things made by an eye wateringly expensive Italian designer, and as part of her therapy she tries to buy these things only in sales. While browsing through various kitchen items she saw boxed sets of porcelain snowflakes made by Rosenthal at a cut price she could not ignore so she bought the lot after one or two ineffectual attempts to resist.
“Did you,” I asked, “get some for me?”
“No.”
A short, shocking conversation which took me some time to get over. Forget? Never! Forgive? Well, when I was leaving my last school I was given a thin, elegant box by Angela and, inside, were four beautifully made Rosenthal snowflakes. They now grace the tree and are startlingly prominent in all their virgin, pristine whiteness. The only unfortunate thing is that they do make all the other decorations look somewhat tawdry.

But I can live with that!

I resume this blog with pacharan sodden fingers after an introductory night to Castelldefels for Hadyn (whose name incidentally I have been spelling wrongly for twenty years) who had the customary bottle of Cordinú Cava, followed by tapas at the Basque restaurant with surprising served wine, followed by the digestif of pacharan. And so to bed and coma.

Today by way of penance to Barcelona and Gaudi.

Culture washes all things clean.

Music! Lights! Vegetation!

Toni has bought a guitar. An electric guitar.

It could have been worse: it could have been a violin. At least with the learning pangs of this instrument the notes are fairly pure as opposed to the unearthly torment that learners can get from the other more classical stringed instruments!

With conscious irony he has indulged himself in a retro, 50s red and white model; I only hope that he does not decide to go for an archaic ‘all bonnet and chrome’ gas guzzler from the same period – you’d never be able to park the thing in most of Spain!

I am, given Toni’s new found enthusiasm for melody, more than ever determined to splash out on a new keyboard with weighted keys. My life long ambition to play ‘Fur Elise’ at the correct tempo and with the appropriate dynamics will be realised. Possibly.

I did not realise that it was possible to be even more horrified with the television advertising of children’s toys – but I am.

The general principle seems to be if it doesn’t need a battery then it isn’t a toy. Wandering through the toys section supermarkets (tagged on, disconsolately to the rest of the family) I have been able to refresh my horror by seeing how much parents are going to have to spend to keep their offspring quiet for a few hours on Christmas Day. The truly horrific items are those which comprise a ‘setting’ and require you to purchase ‘characters’ and ‘objects’ to complete the toy. My favourite is a Roman Coliseum complete with chariots, horses, characters, emperor and laurel wreaths. The exact cost of what it would take to reproduce what is shown on television would probably exhaust the GNP of most African countries, but anything less than what is seen would appear to be unacceptable. My blessings and sympathy go out to families soon to be impoverished!

One of Carles’s toys in which he has invested a value-for-money amount of time and interest consists of outsize plastic ‘Leggo’ bricks. These come in various shapes and sizes with a few characters and a set of wheels! It is the sort of thing that a two year old puts together in any-old-way and then takes great pleasure in knocking down with a look on the face which seems to ask the question, “How on earth did that happen!” If you are Toni’s nephew this is accompanied by a look of such innocent outraged surprise that it takes your breath away.

I have noticed that when adults are near the Leggo rubble they almost unconsciously start putting the blocks together and trying to make something. Their frustrated architect persona is usually stymied by another adult noticing what they are doing, at which point the architect manqué then busily starts putting the blocks away. Not so Toni.

Ignoring the usual constraints of observant adult company he constructed a multi arch viaduct. The sort of thing that, if your child made it, you would back away from his smiling face waiting for the sinister chanting of demented monks to start. Luckily Toni is no child so I did not have to start searching for the triple numbers – and anyway he doesn’t have the hair to hide them! I took a photo to mark his achievement because I am sure that I will be able to use it against him at some point!

As yesterday was spent in Terrassa I did not get my tree and Belen ready.

Belen (Bethlehem) is word for the Nativity Scene that many Catalan homes set up for the Christmas season. To call them Nativity Scenes is usually to do them a gross disservice. The complexity of these scenes stretches (quite literally) well beyond the stable. There is a roaring trade in ‘extra’ figures which include a whole range of animals and fowl, workmen and vegetation.

The square in front of the Cathedral in Terrassa was filled with stalls selling all the basics and accessories to make your Belen a thing of wonder. I, however, being the eternal cheapskate purchased my Belen from the Chinese shop underneath Carmen’s flat which comprised: the Holy Family, the Three Kings, three animals with a fairly basic Stable and I bought an extra figure of an angel. A Catalan Nativity also has the figure of a caganer, which I bought in the local supermarket. If I had waited for the Terrassa stalls I could have had a vast choice of caganer from the President of Spain to an electric version with a hand clutching paper appearing and disappearing. If you don’t know what I am talking about then put ‘caganer’ into Google and see what you come up with!

The tree (artificial because of alleged allergy) has been adorned with three new sets of lights and a mass of new decorations augmented by some old favourites. Toni has pointed out that the colours of the lights actually create a Barça tree so he is happy! The overall result is not quite as vulgar as I had hoped because I find tasteful Christmas trees anathema. The whole concept of a tree at Christmas is pagan at best and a German import at worst. Vulgarity seems a reasonable approach!

Roll on the Christmas cards!

Music denied!

Part of the point of the short story by William Golding about a young boy taking piano lessons years ago in a small village was that his teacher thought that she was the standard by which good piano playing was to be measured, but already her young pupil was listening to world masters of the instrument on the radio. Appreciation and expectation had moved on. And keeps on moving on.

That is part of a real problem with concerts. You get to know a piece of music played by world class musicians and sung by the greatest the musical universe has to offer. Wherever you are, no matter how small and remote the community in which you are living, if you have a radio or a CD player you have instant access to the masters of classical music. And you can listen again and again to a note perfect, well balanced rendition with an ideal acoustic not interrupted by the hacking cough of some semi invalid who has forgotten to bring his muffling handerchief.

Then you go to a live concert with all the expectations of your CD collection and almost always are disappointed.

When Edward Heath (life-long hater of That Woman – his only positive feature) started conducting live orchestras the music got slower and slower. This was because he was used to conducting his record collection and following the beat of the orchestra. In real life, as the orchestra is usually behind the conductor’s beat, if you follow the living orchestra in front of you, they must get slower and slower as they assume that you are ahead of them. A nice Catch-22 scenario! Another danger of thinking recorded music is the same as live concerts.

Expectation and reality.

The concert I attended yesterday in the Palau de la Música in Barcelona had a programme which was, in many ways, a hostage to fortune: Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’, Pachelbel's ‘Canon’, the Adagio by Albinoni and you can guess the Bach they had! This is music that everyone knows in version after version; it is a musical vocabulary which is the equivalent of everyday speech. People will tolerate different accents in the music, but not different words! We know it and expect it to be a close equivalent of what we know.

The orchestra I heard last night (for the second and last time) were woefully inadequate to honour the expectations of the audience.

It seems irrelevant to separate the items that they played as all of them suffered from the same inadequacies. The ensemble playing was approximate; there were clear instances when some players were simply out of tune; the style of playing was more suited to Tchaikovsky than Vivaldi or Bach.


The Adagio by Albinoni was give a presentation which was positively funereal – a ponderous, deadly rhythm that robbed the music of its power and put you in mind of the cry of the composer who said of one performance of ‘Pavanne for a dead princess’ that it was the princess who was dead and not the music!

The ‘Four Seasons’ was little short of torture with a battle between the cello and the ‘soloist’ which made for rough listening.

At the end of the first half of the concert a man stood up and applauded. I hope, for the sake of his musical appreciation, that he was directly related to one of the players, because I can see no other justification.

I had other comments to make on this concert but they seem out of place: the concert was awful, the playing insensitive; the programme clichéd; the approach amateur – my money wasted.

Instead I will expiate on the qualities of the meal I had in the completely deserted restaurant of the Palau de la Música. I had about 50 minutes to eat a meal which appeared to be more complex in reality than I had expected. Firstly, the menu that I had thought that I was going to have was not available at that time of night and the menu that I chose instead had five courses.

I have to say that I didn’t really understand all of the courses and some were better than others but it was an interesting experience.

The Palau has been renovated and the as part of the renovation the façade of the concert hall has been given a glass front which effectively encloses that part of the building. A building incidentally which comprises a World Heritage Site and therefore has to be protected. I wonder if this is the way forward and those designated buildings are going to find themselves encase in a protective sheath of another building to help them survive. I think that I am with the Italian Futurists who wanted to pull down the buildings of each generation to give the next a chance to express itself, unhindered by the baggage of the past!

Because of the construction of the restaurant I was able to look through the glass roof at the façade of the Palau and admire its many eccentricities and enjoy the warm glow of the light passing through the stained glass window. From time to time, a member of the audience would come up the steps to the restaurant and then disappear back into the darkness.

My food was presented immaculately and with service that was faultless. It was cooked to bring out the flavour – something which other restaurants seem unable to do without the help of monosodium glutamate! The meat and mushroom risotto and the steak were particularly to be commended: it is so rare to find a restaurant actually take one at one’s word when one asks for a very rare piece of meat!

I finished my meal with three minutes to spare before the start of the concert which only left me a brief time to be amazed, yet again, by the sheer amount of fantastic (and I mean that word in its literal sense) imagination that has informed its construction.

Orchestras playing in such surroundings have to make something of a statement in their playing if they are to rise above their heightened artistic environment. This orchestra did not manage to do that.

Perhaps I should give them another chance: they are playing American composers on Sunday.

Or I could put up the tree and decorations.

Choices, choices.

Down Sir Cynic, down!

Watching ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ (Clint Eastwood, 1995) was like listening to a piece of self indulgent Philip Glass: immediately intriguing, but could have been more effective if it had been edited more thoroughly and reduced by at least a half.

The slow pace of most of the film allowed me to consider, yet again, my problems with Meryl Streep as an actor. Whenever I see her I think to myself, “Isn’t she a wonderful actor!” but I find myself admiring her technique rather than losing myself in the character she is supposed to be playing.

Her character in ‘Bridges’ allowed her the opportunity to show off her amazing proficiency with accents and portray, with the detail which has made her famous, the crushing tedium of totally predictable life in a farming community in Iowa. She is a ‘busy’ actor, forever using ‘business’ to create the person she is supposed to be. Her eyes, face, hand movements, tilt of her head – everything is considered and displayed for our admiration. What a craftsman! What observation! How ‘real’ it all is! At one point in the film a fly, trying for his fifteen minutes of fame, and ignoring the lese majesty involved, landed on Streep’s arm and she shrugged him off in character in a way that had me gasping with admiration!

So why do I always see a professional, accomplished and confident actor and never the farmer’s wife or fashion diva with Streep?

The nearest comparison in acting terms that I can think of is Alex Guinness – another accomplished, professional and immaculately detailed actor. But with Guinness, for me he was Swift in ‘Yahoo’ or Obi-Wan Kenobi or Smiley. He was a joy to watch because he brought the character to life – not the actor.

In ‘Bridges’ I thought that Clint Eastwood produced a remarkable performance in his role and almost made me believe that the instant love affair was believable – but then I’m a sucker for those people who quote Yeats and it knocks my critical appreciation!

The direction of the film was efficient but leisurely to the point of tedium and the ending (with love and respect breaking out all over) sentimental to the point of derision.

Some of the more wordily pretentious parts of the script could only have been salvaged by two competent British actors who could breathe believability into the most banal words – perhaps John Hurt and Judi Dench. Perhaps set the whole thing in Suffolk and have John Hurt taking pictures of groynes for the National Trust! Now that I would like to see!

I am just finishing off reading ‘Stupid White Men’ by Michael Moore and am wondering about the sense of humour of the San Francisco Chronicle which described I as ‘hysterically funny’ – and I thought that we Brits were only divided from the Americans by a shared language!

Tonight to a concert in the Palau of unbelievable popularity: I shall try and get a good seat and wallow in the sheer tunefulness of it all!

I am putting my trust in RENFE to get me there.

I always was a trusting soul.

Look around you!

I am not one to be intimidated by power and influence. I speak out fearlessly against the forces of repression and oppression.

As assiduous readers will know, many facets of the axis of evil have already been identified from Microsoft to BBVA and from That Woman to ‘Big Brother. But, there are other forces that I have decided need to be recognized for what they are: malign and deleterious to human happiness.

When I first came to Spain and Catalonia in 1958 the one thing that was impressed upon me as something absolutely essential was that I was, under no circumstances whatsoever, to drink the water. To me, on my first foreign holiday, this seemed very strange and, like the Spanish policemen with guns, it disturbed me.

I did not, I hasten to assure you, consider in an unbearably precocious way that the basic infrastructure of a country must be in a parlous state if something as essential as water was not available from the taps. Which, of course it was. I turned on the taps and water duly came forth. Cleaning of the teeth was fine with the stuff on tap, but drinking – no!

Part of me, I’m sure, merely accepted the obvious fact that I was in a foreign country and as H E Bates wrote about the past, “they do things differently there.” Like bull fights and squid and castanets and fans – things were different. Apart from a secret glass of tap water given to me by a sympathetic waiter (and never revealed to my mother) I was only allowed bottles of Vichy water con gas. To me it always tasted somewhat salty and it never really satisfied my thirst.

Probably, even then, every particle of my young soul was reaching out, inchoate but purposeful sensing that in Tossa de Mar I was tantalizingly close to Sant Sadurní d'Anoia the home of Codorníu and Cava – my drink of choice, after the via dolorosa alcoholic experimentation represented by the progression from cider to laager to port (!) to beer to sauterne to dry white to decent red to Cava. With, of course, a great deal of senseless, stupid self indulgent excess along the way!

Today in Castelldefels the water is something you clean your teeth with and not drink. The calcium level in the water makes it most unpleasant and, for someone used to drinking soft Welsh water from the tap and enjoying it, it is a salutary experience to find myself, willingly, buying bottled water.

The bottled water is generally cheaper than it is in the UK and is available everywhere but that, surely, is not the point. In a highly developed western European country it is simply unacceptable for the tap water to be unpalatable. It is not unsafe, just not drinkable.

The bottled water industry in this country is vast. I have yet to come across a family that would put a jug of tap water on the table at a meal. Everyone buys bottled water. Everyone! Imagine what that represents in money terms. And when you’ve thought about that, consider what numbers of people must be working in the industry. And not just in the industry but in all the ancillary trades and professions. A plumber will always say, “Water will find a way!” as the repair holds but water seeps out from somewhere else. Well, in Spain, water has found a way; a way in which, like the circulatory system in a body, it has become an essential self perpetuating conduit of money.

I think it is scandalous that people have to buy their water to drink. It is indefensible when it is necessary. If the empty headed rich want to pay pounds for a litre of water imported from Fiji or whatever, let them; but for an ordinary citizen to have to pay for drinking water is a crime.

One wonders what level of vested interest there is in this country to keep the situation as it is. I am sure that were there to be an investigation into the supply of water to homes it would make the squalid chaos of the present rail link to Barcelona look like a little local difficulty. And believe you me, you would have to be a very strong, confident and well armed person to admit that you worked for RENFE in this part of the world at the moment.

There should be no need for the use of bottled water except as a sure indication of mental deficiency on the part of the environment hating purchaser.

And then there are printers.

I don’t mean the human ones, though some of the so-called craftsmen who worked on the national press when it was situated in London should be remembered with contempt for their abuse of the trade union system with their cavalier contempt for truth and honour. I mean the home presses that we now have in the form of the ever decreasingly expensive gadgets called printers.

Those of us who grew up with the absolute magic (as we then thought it) of dot matrix printers are now aghast at the sleek multi purpose machines which sell for a fraction of what we paid for much, much less years ago. But the ink is a different matter.

We are now getting to the stage that it is cheaper to buy a new printer than pay for a new cartridge. The printer firms have responded by producing special ‘with printer’ cartridges which are more empty than full and run out in a depressingly short period. And it is a horrific experience to find the price of the replacement that you need.

It was thought at one time that the advent of the computer would produce a world which was ‘paperless’ – indeed the ‘paperless office’ was seriously talked about for some time. The opposite has been the case: the computer has destroyed more forests than a nation of scribes could ever have done. Spain, or at least the bits that I know, is a firm believer in the ‘print it out and then photocopy it’ school of bureaucracy. Think of the cost of the ink!

Once you have bought the machine you are hooked for the limited life of the bit of flimsy plastic that looked good in the shop. Nothing is compatible with anything else, even within the range of machines made by the same company, and everything costs the earth. In all sort of ways!

If we are oppressed and angry about the machinations of bottled water and ink cartridge manufacturers when they are self evidently in the wrong and taking us all for a ride- just imagine what must be going on in the pharmaceutical and oil industries.

Or don’t; and get a good night’s rest instead.

One has to eat!

A sea side town out of season is an ambiguous place.

Everything is the same and different.

Some places have closed and others have opened. There is a feeling of impermanence and transition.

The people you see around the streets near our flat are usually locals – outsiders confined to the weekends.

It is still very tempting to mark the middle of the day with a menu del dia – these meals are still being served for the benefit of workers and residents rather than passing visitor trade.

Some things, however, have changed. It is significant that, all things being equal, it is now an advantage to sit in the autumn sun for your meal rather than search out the more traditional Catalan shade.

My favourite restaurant on the corner of our street now recognizes me as a regular and almost puts my choice of drink on the table before I’ve unfolded the napkin (vino tinto y Casera, since you ask!) I usually eat my meal as the sole non-Catalan in the place and feel both a sense of belonging and of difference.

The whole problem revolves around where to sit.

There are plenty of tables outside the open bar which are protected by an awning, but are still open to most of the elements and the odd cutting breeze. As I still maintain summer wear with increasing defiance, I should sit outside, but as the restaurant is in shade it is too bloody cold and, bearing in mind what my dad always said (“Only a fool or a pauper is cold”) I prefer to seek the more balmy areas inside.

This too is a problem. There are various types of inside. I could sit at the bar, but there I should eat tapas rather than the excellent value afforded by the menu del dia. That leaves the tables. There are two sets of tables inside: those with tablecloths and those without. I tend to go for the napery rather than bare metal because I feel that the basic table is almost a sign of chummy familiarity – a stage I have not yet reached!

If you are eating alone, then it is surely bad manners to sit at a table for four or even worse, at two tables placed together. You sit down and all other places are cleared away. You are in solitary splendour then other people arrive and have nowhere to sit because of your selfishness. It is difficult to digest food when you gullet is constricted with unjustifiable embarrassment as your food turns to dust in your mouth under the relentless glare of exiled diners. Well, to be fair, it’s not quite like that, but decisions have to be made and sat with!

There is also the problem of the television. Catalans live with the TV. In every Catalan house that I have been into the TV is on and remains on whether there people are watching it or not. And that’s the problem. I find TV difficult to ignore. Whether I want to watch or not, my gaze is drawn to the moving pictures. In restaurants too the ubiquitous screen shines its beguiling rubbish while you eat.

So it was quite easy for me to follow the Etiquette necessary to find a seat: a table for two; inside; table cloth; away from the TV; facing towards the street. Success at last!

The only problem was that it was next to the loo.

The Nile Revisited

Grand Opera should not be viewed from the Gods.

There was no higher or further back from my seat last night. The fifth tier of seating was against the back wall and on intimate terms with the busily ornate ceiling. From my vertiginous height all the characters looked foreshortened, and with opera singers this is not a good thing! This was my second visit to the Gran Teatre del Liceu and the opera was ‘Aida.’

A strange backward-looking production with trompe l’oeil perspective painted flats looking as if they had been taken from nineteenth century watercolours of the antiquities of Egypt. As far as I can tell from the programme (in Spanish) the original designs were by Josep Mestres Cabanes (1898-1990) and have been restored and adapted by Jordi Castells. The set gave the appearance of one of those cut-out toy theatres and was an appropriate setting for the melodramatic production. They were atmospheric even if they were archaic.

The singers were a mixed bunch with Aida (Hasmik Papian) easily the most fluid and compelling voice. She produced a riveting performance, easily rising to the demands of her part and clearly taking the audience with her. Her Radamès (Piero Giulliacci) was a very different proposition. Rotund and unprepossessing he looked distinctly uncomfortable in gold lamé and his tucked costume gave him what appeared to be a large sporran! His singing was lacklustre and underpowered. The luke warm reception for Celeste Aida gave a clear indication of what we could expect for the rest of the opera and he did not disappoint low expectations. His notes were forced and he was clearly ill at ease in the upper register. His appearance, especially when wearing a little cloak and a plumed helmet, made him look like a caricature of an archaic opera tenor.

Stefano Palatchi as the King was underpowered and anything but commanding and he was out sung by Giorgio Giueseppini as Ramfis.

The appearance of Alberto Mastromarino as Amonasro lifted the singing and his duet with Hasmik Papian as Aida – father and daughter was professional and thrilling: if only the rest of the cast had been able to match these two!

The great disappointment of the evening was the singing of Larissa Diadkova as Amneris who put me in mind of the worst excesses of Rita Hunter. A thoroughly unpleasant voice; nasal, guttural and adenoidal all at the same time – she used the full resources of the back of her head to produce those harsh, jarring notes. The orchestra (conducted by Daniele Callegari) was authoritative throughout and rose splendidly to the occasion during the Grand March when three musos, looking thoroughly uncomfortable and resentful came on stage in full costume to add the necessary brazen touch full at the audience. The chorus were magnificent with depth and colour in all their singing and showed effortless efficiency in their movement around the stage. This was especially clear in the Grand March when the cast of thousands (well, over a hundred anyway!) were marshalled with great visual effect.

The ballet was provided by Companyia Metros (Choreography by Ramon Olier) who produced a stylized and stylish amalgam of modern dance and representations of traditional bas relief gestures to give a visual equivalent to the music. It reminded me of the Mark Morris approach in ENO’s double bill of ‘Dido’ and ‘Four Saints’ back in June 2000.

It is difficult not to enjoy ‘Aida’ (and even Larissa Diadkova as Amneris came into her own in the last act) and there was much that was good and interesting in this production. But I am still waiting for a production which matches the setting of the Liceu.

Who knows, perhaps ‘La Cenerentola’ in January will be the one!

Barcelona has lit its Christmas lights. La Rambla is done out with a gathered curtain of light; very tasteful - but I don't like 'tasteful' at Christmas. Christmas is a time for vulgarity, the more garish the better. I hate all those 'tasteful' Christmas trees which are done out in two colours (or even worse in black) as if something which is basically and deliciously pagan and dangerous can be made tame and safe.

Christmas today is Pagan Capitalism writ large and shameless; it is surely better to celebrate the truth rather than coyly pretend to have neutered a dark tradition of Jungan complexity with a few well placed ornaments!

My Christmas tree will be vulgar and garish!