Shifting sands

The cost of each trip by my new bike has now come down to about €35! It’s getting cheaper by the ride.

The new promenade has already changed the dynamic of the beach. Previously each entrance to the beach was paved down to the fringe of the sand and then a wooden walkway stretched into the beach for some way and petered out some distance from the waves.

When visitors come to the sea side they tend to concentrate around the area at the end of the wooden walkways with family sites becoming sparser the further from this ‘life line’ until the influence of the next entrance came into play. From the air they must look, during the height of the season, like a dribble of ink going into blotting paper!

People walked the beach at the water’s edge; that has now changed. The modified sand dunes immediately outside our little gate to the beach have been removed and the blocks for a new promenade have been laid. Although this new prom has not been completed and is ‘broken’ by the unfinished links to the street running parallel to the beach the local population has claimed this new paseo as its own and they are parading along as though it has been there for years!

Today, for some reason, has been an occasion for many more people than normal to be out and about and passing our flat.

The whole dynamic of the beach of Castelldefels is being changed; the promenade is opening up the whole of the seafront and linking parts of the town which were previously separated. There are, you have to understand, perfectly good roads along the whole of the front, but they do not encourage the promenading which is such a characteristic of the Spanish – this new walkway will and will also probably encourage people to expand their range of restaurants, cafes and bars.

It will for me when I finally remember to take the bike lock with me when I set out on one of my trips. By the time I get to one end of my route I feel I deserve some little refreshment!

I have finished reading Starkey’s ‘Henry Virtuous Prince’, his account of the early life of Henry VIII and I must admit that I found it strangely insubstantial. I am probably committing a cardinal critical error when I say that its chatty, confiding style makes me yearn for something more academic. To be fair there are full footnotes at the end of the narrative and an exhaustive index as Starkey has deliberately excluded anything which interrupts the flow of his exposition.

I’m not sure that he presents us with anything which is radically new, but his descriptions have the unsettling immediacy of the prose of ¡Hola! magazine with the same intrusive explanation of the intimate life of the rich and famous.

Wolsey only makes his appearance at the end of this volume and whets the appetite for the next one! Perhaps that was the whole point!

Another glorious day today with the sun being particularly hot: I will soon see if I have become acclimatized to something warmer when I return to the UK at the end of the month!

I am hoping for an Indian summer!

Books and more books!

There is much to be said for the copyright law.

Especially when its mercenary grip has been loosened on classic texts; specifically those available as e-books.

My trawling through what I can download onto my Sony e-book reader I came across another volume by Nathanial Hawthorne. My opinion of Hawthorne was negative, based I have to admit on my owning a paperback copy of The Marble Faun which sported a rather unprepossessing front cover and had tiny print on rough paper. It was, I felt, enough to own a copy of a book by an acknowledged but largely unread major nineteenth century American writer who I suspected would be even harder work than Henry James. This remained my firm opinion through university and into real life.

Then I read him.

‘The Scarlet Letter’ was a fantastic read - and for those of you who have no intention of reading it but want to appear clued up for Trivial Pursuit I might offer the information that the ‘letter’ in the title does not refer to any epistle but to an actual letter in red which the heroine of the novel had to wear: the letter ‘A’ for adultery.

Twenty or more years of ignoring the writer and he turns out to be worth reading after all!

The latest work of his I have read is ‘The House of the Seven Gables’ of which I had previously heard but never perused. The story is not told in a conventional way and there is not a great deal of conventional action in the basic story line – but there is more than enough to occupy the reader. This is basically a regenerative love story with its roots reaching back to the Puritan bigotry and corruption of seventeenth century East Coast greed. But for me the character of Clifford was by far the most interesting.

Clifford is the decayed remnant of a once important old family. Earlier in life committed some sort of crime which is not fully revealed until the end of the book. Until the final denouement his crime is only hinted at and his description allows Hawthorne the latitude to develop his character in an extraordinary way. Clifford is depicted as morbidly sensitive, always seeking beauty and refined sensation yet its appreciation only illuminating his vitiated character even more clearly. He appears like a washed out version of the ‘aesthetic’ gentlemen illustrated by the limp lily appreciating caricatures of the time of Wilde and Pater.

The final resolution of the novel is something of an anticlimax and Clifford’s guilt and crime are not as exciting as imagination might have painted them, but nevertheless an extraordinary novel and well worth a read.

I have also been reading a book whose purchase was prompted by the ever excellent The Week magazine, ‘Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes’ by Daniel Everett, subtitled ‘Life and Language in the Amazonian jungle.’

This is the story of a missionary who entered the life of a small group of indigenous people in the heart of the Amazon, the Pirahas, with the intention of learning their language in order to write a translation of the New Testament and bring them to god.

The action of the story is an account of his success in being able to speak the language and participate in the life of the people, but also the story of his failure to bring the people to a Christian god and his own loss of faith.

It is a gripping narrative of almost insuperable difficulties in adapting to a very different life style and the effects that the conditions had on him and his family; from the odd tarantula in the lap and life threatening diseases to the realization that the language and life style of the Pirahas were things which posed questions about an accepted way of living in the so-called civilized societies.

Everett describes a society which would be something beyond a nightmare in which to live for a person devoted to sophisticated pleasures like running water, electricity and proper drains!

The language of the Piraha has one of the smallest set of speech sounds known with just three vowels and only eight consonants! The women of the Piraha have only seven consonants – don’t ask!

From this seemingly limited linguistic palette the grammatical formation of the language has prompted Everett to an act of cultural blasphemy – he has dared to disagree with Noam Chomsky about the link of culture with grammar and questioning the traditional Chomsky assertion that recursive speech is an essential component of any language.

That seemingly trivial paragraph is actually of monumental importance – but you have to read the book to discover the lucid and intensely enjoyable path which will encourage you to share the perceptions of the author! But it and see, or you could listen to Radio 4 where it is the Book of the Week from Monday.

Now that Amazon has refunded the inflated postage charge they tried to charge for getting David Starkey’s ‘Henry – Virtuous Prince’ to me I have decided it is possible to read it. Previously I could not have read it without sulking, consciously as I would have been of the money extorted from me by the cynical encouragement of ‘one click’ purchasing by Amazon!

Starkey’s style is chummy and chatty and he asks casual questions which cannot be based on methodology of any academic stringency – but they do make his description of the young Henry VIII bounce along!

The simplified family tree of The Houses of York, Lancaster and Tudor at the beginning of the book is more complex than anything which I can follow with any degree of equanimity and just when I think I have worked out who is whose aunt and which house they are in I realise that I am on the wrong line – figuratively and literally! But I can also see how addictive it could easily become! Give me another few days and I will have a coherent opinion about who had a better claim to the throne that Henry Tudor – or of course I could get a life!

I’m in Starkey’s hands!

It's only a book

The Health Police are hot on my trail.

After finally admitting defeat and running out of ways in which to ignore the pain in my back I swallowed my paranoia and went to the doctor. My snivelling hobble obviously excited some sort of sympathy with the receptionist who provided me with an appointment with an English speaking doctor in just over an hour from the time of my request!

I was given a through grilling in Spanish (English was only allowed when total incomprehension had been achieved and then only momentarily to allow the Spanish to continue) and eventually provided with yet more pills as the doctor has decided that the pain is muscular and not the grinding of bone on bone at the hip joint as I had thought. The pills have ten days to work and prove him right because I do not think that I can force any more into the little daily sections that I gulp down each day!

I have spent some time (time he could better use, you might think) wondering about the ending of ‘Jane Eyre.’

Why does Bronte choose to end this novel with a description of St. John Rivers?

She does tie up loose ends in a most satisfactory (or irritating, take your choice) way after her final triumphant chapter opening, “Reader I married him.” It is unambiguous in its satisfaction as far as Jane is concerned: her happiness is complete and those around her participate in the general pleasure of comfortable lives - Rochester even gets his sight back so that he is able to see his new child! Jane is rich, secure, loved, admired, happy and has a growing family. So why end the novel with St. John?

Is he the one that got away?

The Reed Family have been dispatched to nunneries, Roman Catholicism, the grave and unsatisfactory marriage. Good servants have found family happiness. Brocklehurst has been contained and his vicious influence mitigated. Jane’s world is placid, ordered and useful with only St. John being a continuing nagging irritation daily nearing his martyr’s crown, a continent away from Jane’s money and impervious to her influence. He is untouchable in his single minded determination and ambition with the sort of terrifying strength that can recognize others only as pale reflections of himself.

To me St. John is a combination of all the traits of the negative and positive characters we have seen throughout the novel. The inflexibility of Mrs Reed; the beauty of Georgiana; the religious inhumanity of Eliza Reed; the cruelty of John Reed; the use of religion as a weapon of Mr Brocklehurst; the passion of Helen Burns; the iconic surety of Miss Temple and so on. None of the parallels are strict, but elements of those characters exist in St. John – Jane’s greatest temptation.

His offer of marriage and the missionary life to Jane is the ultimate presentation of the ‘useful’ – a key concept in Jane’s ethos. St. John offers service to people with devotion to God within a family: surely an irresistible way of life for Jane whose own life has been a search for family, a desire to be useful and a painful working out of her religious motivations. It takes the extraordinary to ‘save’ her – the disembodied voice of Rochester crying out when she is most vulnerable to the inexorable moral blandishments of St. John. Jane refuses St. John’s offer and seeks Rochester.

Jane overcomes everything in her way personally or the problems which hinder her progress are eliminated for her. Death removes Mrs Reed and Mrs Rochester

and perhaps St. John is mentioned last because he is still alive. With his death Jane will finally be living the antithesis of the opening of the novel: in control with no moral or personal threats left.

Finally the deceptive strength ironically mocked by her metaphorically insubstantial surname and the implied dismissal of her identity and personal attraction by her common first name will be both shown to be no indication of Jane’s real character. The novel is called ‘Jane Eyre’ because she dominates the book from the beginning to the end and she can allow St. John the last word because it is an illusion and she will ultimately be the ‘last one standing!’

What a good melodramatic read it is!

Here we go again!

A black president of the United States of America!

Rather like the Conservative Party of Great Britain electing a woman as the first leader of a major political party in the United Kingdom one should rejoice in the way that the world has changed.

Am I being too pessimistic when I point out that the election of That Woman did NOT signify a sea change in the attitude of the political hierarchy in her attitude towards women in politics? Thatcher’s cabinet had significantly fewer women than ‘normal’ Conservative administrations – what hope have we that Obama’s administration will significantly advance the blacks in the USA?

Obama has completed so many right wing u-turns in the approach to the presidential elections that one can have little hope that he is going to be some sort of socialist in the White House. I wish him well and I do welcome his election as a real change in the composition of the United States and, after all, it is much more than we have done in the United Kingdom.

Although I share the hopes of the world in this election, if I am realistic I do not expect much. The Washington administrative constraints on any president will ensure that we actually get to see some sort of emasculated nonentity as the actual incumbent of the mightiest office in the world.

There is only one major advantage to the election of this president that I can see and that is that it will be nigh on impossible for the son of a Kenyan pig farmer to claim the traditional presidential descent from some sort of Irish progenitor. At last we will have a president untainted by the facile link to honorary Oppressed by the British status. Though thinking about it I fear that the British had a great deal to do with the ‘development’ or exploitation of Kenya. I shudder to think what is going to be made out of the link!

I await to see what those more informed than I make of this neo colonial inheritance. The one thing that I am sure of is that we Brits will not come out smelling of violets. The Irish will make sure of that!

It is surely a fault on the part of what ever electronic powers that be that typing the word ‘Obama’ registers as a spelling mistake. I wonder how long it will be before that surname is recognized as one which has been and is going to be splashed over all media for the foreseeable future! As a point of considerable irony the Windows Spell Checker did offer an alternative for ‘Obama’ – that of ‘Osama!’ What can it be trying to tell us?

Friends can assume a certain amount of latitude in the conditions that they prefer. They can also assume a certain degree of co-operation in the establishment of their ideal conditions – which I suppose is another way of saying that I am prepared to be amiably flexible in accommodating the requirements of those who are my friends. Eating out is a test of that flexibility.

Too hot, too cold, too bright, too dark, too expensive, too low, too noisy, too, too much.

Rejection and dissatisfaction necessitated re assessing options and eventually settling for a restaurant I had vowed I would never again shower with my money.

I was greeted by the South American waiter like a long lost rich uncle who had come back to rewrite the erring nephew into the will. I faced a torrent of largely incomprehensible Spanish in which words and hysterical gesticulations seemed (I used the word advisedly) to indicate that he was eager to hear the reasons for my long absence having seen me pass by on the other side and after he had discussed my behaviour with the watch salesman who still owes me a watch. Uncorking the Cava took an age as his volubility demanded answers to which I could only approximate with my debased attempts at Spanish.

Two bottles of Cava later and after picking at some tapas we decided not to eat our main meal there but to look elsewhere. Our departure was mystifying to the waiters but they computed the bill and as I was leaving the waiter with whom I had had a long ‘conversation’ pressed a small bottle of liqueur into my hands. It looked disturbingly like a urine sample and had a design of a witch on a broom on it. Some things defy sensible thought.

It had now started to rain so, like true British holidaymakers we scampered and hobbled towards shelter only to reject the nearest other restaurant and then look about wildly for another eating place.

My first choices being rejected, I made a virtue of necessity and accepted a previously rejected venue. This was becoming something of a habit but this choice was very well received by the party and we had a more than acceptable meal served by a willing and cheerful waiter. The only negative aspect was the Tarta Santiago which the unanimous choice of the evening for sweet. It was stodgy and disgusting and we all sent it back. My second choice of lemon sorbet doused with some sort of alcohol was unexpectedly tasty.

So a successful evening based on patronising two previously rejected establishments! God sometimes does go out of his way to frustrate the quality of my judgements!

I bear it with equanimity!

The weather today has that sort of indeterminate quality which gives it the effect of belonging in a climatic waiting room while it decides what to do.

We have had gleams of sunlight but the clouds have settled in while giving glimpses of something more positive in the west – although thinking about it my sense of direction as I look towards the sea is based on my position in Cardiff rather than here in Catalonia – so I’m probably looking south at the signs of the better weather. My sense of direction was ever suspect!

My cycle riding has now come down to just €46 a jaunt and I am determined (if I write it down it seems more real) to make this sum even less.

I have to say that the pressing realities of cycling (even in my domesticated fashion) are to the forefront of my experiences. I do not consider myself to be exactly gaunt, I am, to put it mildly “well fleshed out” but that is not a protection against the exquisite discomfort of the saddle. How, in the name of the living god, to cyclists manage to complete hours in the saddle? Do they administer narcotics to their backsides? And what about their fertility? You cannot persuade me that their reproductive capabilities are not in some ways compromised by the activity of the lower body while cycling. I muse thus as someone forced to these considerations by the physical realities of cycling transportation.

While I have the car and physical capabilities to allow me to continue driving I will only ever regard cycling as a necessary evil. And even this I am prepared to re-examine in the light of any plausible evidence to the contrary!

I intended to cycle to a far distant (i.e. more than 10 minute walking time away) restaurant for lunch, but forgot to take the lockable chain with me. As someone who has had two bikes stolen some time ago I do not intend to chance fate with this one. The fact that there were few people about and the chances of something being taken are small does not convince me that it would be safe so I returned home and made myself one of my famed (at least by me) concoctions (always including beans of some sort) which are (more or less) healthy. And cheaper than even a menu del dia!

Today saw the appearance in my letter box of three new First Day Covers which are sent to me by the Philatelic Bureau to continue my collection started years ago in Britain.

I collect these for the philatelically inept reason that I find them aesthetically pleasing and I often think that the stamps that the Post Office issues are some of the best design to come out of Britain today.

I have simple demands for a successful stamp:
1 It must commemorate something significant. (Not the latest progeny; the tenacious grip on life of; some social incident in the life of some parasitic family which has nothing to do with a democratic state.)
2 It should exhibit artistic integrity.
3 It should have an immediate impact.
4 It should look significant on an envelope.
5 Artistic qualities should override the impact of 1. above.

For me, one of the most successful stamp issues which fulfilled all the conditions above was David Gentleman’s stamps issued in 1976 to commemorate social reformers. I can still remember my shocked admiration when I first saw these stamps which were not only individually exciting but were also interesting when seen on a sheet. A restrained use of colour but a sure touch of imaginative and design genius to choose an iconic image to encapsulate the essential features of the individual reformers. A triumph of a set!

The sets issued over the last year or so have been a mixed bunch from the sinister failure of the set for the Scout Centenary in July and the over fussy and disappointing set of UK Bird Species in Recovery in September to the partial success of Beside the Sea Side in May with some exceptional images.

2008 started with the fun if irrelevant issue of Ian Fleming’s James Bond book covers in January; the effective but aesthetically limited illustrations of the kings and queens of the houses of Lancaster and York in February to the most successful set in my view, the stamps issued to mark the Handover of the Olympic Flag from Beijing to London in August. These stamps are design at its best – striking images beautifully presented with an inspired choice of parallel images from London and Beijing.

My two favourite stamps from this year however were from the Air Displays issue in July: the 1st class stamp and the 56p stamp. The 1st class stamp is reminiscent of one of the Battle of Britain stamps with four planes in monochrome and the jets of trailing colour in bright red and blue. It works as a compelling abstract design as well as a clear pictorial representation.

The 56p stamp shows five Vulcan bombers again in monochrome and looking like alien craft high in the sky. The design has a stark beauty and equilibrium and is a powerful other worldly statement about the whole concept of flying.

The designs for the last few years for Remembrance Day are difficult for me to evaluate because of my fundamental difficulties with the whole concept of the idea of a Remembrance Day itself.

I do not for a moment ignore the horror and suffering that the First World War has come to represent and neither do I underestimate the human qualities of the men who were involved in that conflict. What I find difficult to accept is that Remembrance Day works. I am not sure that it does much more than allow a series of very moving but essentially empty gestures to take place – and then we carry on as if our participation in Remembrance Day itself was an end in itself. Where is the remembering on November 12th when the silence on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month is lost in the normal noise of everyday life?

Artistically though (how hollow that sounds when you measure the dead from the futile battles on the Western Front) how do the stamps work?

2008 is the 90th Anniversary of the end of the First World War and brings to an end a three year series of issues to commemorate Remembrance Day which have used the design concept of the poppy as its basis.

The first stamp in 2006 showed seven poppies whose stems were make from barbed wire: stark stamps in black and red with the queen’s head in silver.

The stamp in 2007 showed a view of the open petals of the poppy taking up most of the stamp with what appeared to be the black seed centre of the flower actually a battlefield with small silhouette figures charging towards the observer. The same colour scheme was retained with red, black and white with a silver head.

This year’s stamp ends the series with a side view of the poppy, this time with a sliver of extra colour for the stem and the face of one of the killed as a faint ghost like suggestion on one of the petals.

These stamps are undoubtedly effective and I find them moving and poignant, but there is a guilt behind my appreciation. The beauty of the stamp images are like the regimented and beautifully kept crosses in the battlefield graveyards they become acceptable images of what was grotesque horror and wicked, wicked waste.

Look at the world today and repeat

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.

Then try and believe it’s true.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

I wonder how many of the slight oddities in life have been weakly explained away by a half hearted appeal to a vague feeling that somewhere along the line there was an attempt at logic and sense to justify action.

Now I think that I have do to very little to present my latest action in a good light.

I have bought a bike. Not only a bike, but a folding bike to boot. That ‘boot’ is well said as I expect to carry the bike in the car so that when I find a suitably flat piece of ground I can footle about with the minimum of exertion, but the maximum of visible apparent exercise potential.

The purchase of this machine has been prompted by the construction of a paseo or promenade of sorts on the margin of the beach just outside our block of flats. It promises to join up with an already existing promenade further up the resort and so provide a walk way at least down to the Club Nautic. Eventually this will provide a flat (!) hard surface for the neophyte bike rider which will stretch for kilometres from Castelldefels down to pseudo Sitges and up towards and indeed into Gava. This will ensure that, with the minimum of effort, I will be able to aver that however little distance I travel I have actually gone to another town on my little journeys.

The actuality of the purchase was fraught.

Buying the bike – at a bargain price thanks to the vicious exploitation of the downtrodden Chinese by heartless capitalists – was the least of the problems that I faced. Not only social guilt, but also the fear of inevitable failure in the construction of the bloody thing.

Folding bikes are an exercise in construction and de-construction. They obviously have to be constructed to enable use, but they also have to be constructively de-constructed to justify their ‘folding’ nature.

Taking an approach which I thought demonstrated intelligence and experience I took the cardboard box which contained the newly bought bike to an unfrequented part of the Carrefour car park and proceeded to put the pieces of the bike together.

Which was impossible.

The instructions (not unreasonably in Spanish) comprised a small folded piece of paper with a picture of the assembled bike and unhelpful vague gestures or suggestionsw which could only have been understood by the makers of the bike to be in any way helpful in the setting up of the machine. They were impossible for someone whose technical skills in three dimensional problem solving are not noted for their high success rate.

Putting the saddle in place was not difficult; even I could manage that part of the puzzle. Opening up the frame of the bike, it being rather obviously hinged was also simple. I managed to work out the spring loaded locating thingy which acted as a sort of lock as well. The handlebars were a little trickier as they were not of the traditional curved type beloved on such bikes as my Raleigh Star Rider of happy memory. These handlebars looked the same from the front and the back and even the location of the brakes was not such a give away as you might think. However they too were eventually in place, at the right height in another hinged part of the bike.

The real problem was that when the handlebars were in place they didn’t actually move the front wheel: they moved, but nothing else did. I couldn’t help feeling that this was going to be a major disadvantage even taking into account that my proposed journeys were only along a fairly straight seafront promenade.

I did try and work out this problem. The instruction leaflet was of no help whatsoever and I eventually gave in and made my (short) way back to the shop – I was, after all only in the car park.

The man in charge of the bike section urged me to return with the bike and he then proceeded to check, change and construct with a complexity and mechanical detail that would have been well beyond me, even if I had known what I was doing.

He used a variety of inexplicable tools to make adjustments of things that I had not even noticed and at one point he used a hammer and chisel to effect essential modifications while he castigated the factory for not doing its job at source.

He also, at my hysterical insistence, demonstrated how to fold and unfold the bike. Again, there were details of how to proceed which were unexplained in the ‘instructions’ and would not have been intuitive to any other brain than the totally bizarre from a different galaxy.

After some forty minutes of simple adjustments (!) I eventually left the shop to go back to my unsequestered part of the car park for part two of my master plan.

It has been a frighteningly large number of years since I owned a bike and, apart from a single horrific experience on a mountain bike in Mexico (in an excursion which was replete with other physically demanding experiences!) I have not ridden a bike in anger for longer than Mozart was alive!

It is however a known fact that riding a bike is like typewriting – you never forget how to do it. I intended to put the theory into practice by giving myself a wide and spacious area to experiment so that the necessity of making sharp turns (or indeed any turns) would be obviated.

Small wheeled bikes are less secure than large wheeled bikes and my wheels were only 20 inches. My first assay into wheeled transport in modern times was a bit like the first breath you take underwater with an aqualung – a bit panicky but almost instantly comfortable in an uneasy way.

I did not fall off and even managed to make a wide (very wide) turn. My confidence grew to the extent that I even wended my twisted way through empty car shelters. I was prepared!

My first trip into the real world was fragmented as I rode along the sections of the promenade that had been completed and then carried the bike over the uncompleted stretches. Once I got to the older section I rode all the way to the end of the cycle track. I will not say what distance that was; I will merely say that my rear end was metaphorically howling with outrage at the indignity of being perched on a bike saddle by the end of my journey!

With expenditure of this sort I have a time honoured way of reducing the initial outlay by dividing use into the purchase price – this ensures that virtually any extravagance can be made palatable and seem reasonable after a time. So far each journey on the bike has cost me €70 – which is even more than the Heathrow Underground Link and arguably even more uncomfortable! I am determined to bring the cost of the bike down to single figures within a reasonably short time.

As long as the sun continues to shine.

I am determined to be a fair weather cyclist!

The past has a false allure

Some towns do not immediately reveal their true character from a casual approach.

We went, en famille, to Súria to visit what was advertised as the VII Fira Medieval d’Oficis, Súria 2008. A medieval fair sounded like a good idea so off we went. We called into Terrassa because Súria is in deepest, darkest Catalonia. Picking up assorted relatives we eventually proceeded in two packed cars.

One of the advantages of approaching Súria from the direction that we did was that I had another and even more astonishing view of Montserrat.

I am used to mountains in various shapes and sizes but usually, as long as you are not in the Pyrenees or the Alps, they are fairly gently rounded with an abundance of tree orientated vegetation. On the road to Súria we were presented with hills and mountains of the regular sort directly in front of us – a perfectly normal vista. But there was something else.

Looming above what I might call the natural landscape was an outline of a range of hills drawn by an untalented child. The silhouette was bizarre with odd promontories, serrated, jagged outcrops and some configurations looking like Gothic cathedrals. What made the whole thing even more other worldly was the skein of diaphanous cloud was lurked just above the conventional hills making the Montserrat range look as though it was floating above the other hills. It was not difficult to imagine an extra-terrestrial race gently lowering an alien set of hills onto the native landscape.

Although unsettling the view of the two sets of hills was grotesquely picturesque. It had that absurd, almost tasteless beauty which depicted as a painting would be kitsch in the extreme, but which, when provided by the environment can be enjoyed with an almost guilty pleasure. That view made the whole trip worthwhile. Which, as you will see, is just as well!

The road into the town is horizontal; everything else is virtually vertical. The whole place seems to be built on a one in one slope. The streets might be atmospheric and cobbled and small and windy, but they are certainly not ideal for hobbling! Crowds pushed their way along constricted pathways and blocked access to stalls and sights.

The actual ‘fair’ or ‘fayre’ of ‘fira’ was not as impressive as I had envisaged and put me in mind of a slightly higher class Splott Market in Cardiff rather than an exotic, archaic re-enactment of aspects of Catalan cultural heritage.

Continuing the Cardiff comparisons, it was nothing as impressive as an ‘Open’ day in St Fagans – but I should imagine that St Fagans must be well on its way towards becoming a World Heritage Site these days given the quality and range of buildings now housed (ha!) there.

There were trades people there: I saw a potter; a stone mason; a glass worker and a very unconvincing weaver. The latter was sown up by the companion worker, a very convincing spinster who made the production of yarn look deceptively easy.

Here I know of what I speak: during a short but traumatic period I was instructed how to spin wool into thread. Not only did I not manage this, but I couldn’t even get the bloody wheel to spin in the right direction. There is nothing like being condescended to by a matronly woman dressed as a Welsh peasant smiling in an encouraging sort of way to the inept idiot who cannot work out which way is forward. At least I was not alone in my ineptitude!

With a child of three and another of three months you do not have a lot of opportunity to stand and stare. So we didn’t. Which rather spoiled the point of going to the fair in the first place.

The town is actually a mining community and for the first time for a long time I actually saw some winding gear.

Not coal here through, but salt. The spoil heaps are a little more aesthetically pleasing than coal, but they look unsightly and artificial.

A river (a real river with water) runs through the place and almost gives some picturesque views; but not quite.

And our lunch was very average there as well.

After struggling up to the top of the town to look at a nondescript ‘castle’ and an uninspiring church with a central idol of Mary our way down was via a vast number of painful, hip jarring steps.

On the via dolorosa of endless steps we passed a landing on which was pitched a Moroccan tent serving green tea with herbs; an archery range; various exhausted people making the upward journey and, most disturbingly a statue of what looked like the flayed outline of a man in some sort of metal.

By the time we passed this horror I was prepared to experience anything which would bring me nearer to a level road to the car.

When, eventually I reached the bottom I was beyond caring about medieval fairs in salt mines and I was ready for home.

Not an altogether successful jaunt and certainly one that I would not recommend. The next jolly foreign fair I go to will be on a surface on which the bubble of the spirit level will be dead in the centre of the little tube.

Or I will not be there!

Through the smoke darkly

When a colleague evinces a desire to eat a steak, it is surely not a bad idea to go to an Argentinean restaurant.

Wrong!

Right about the steak, wrong about the ambience. Everyone one seemed hell bent on smoking. I had forgotten just how disgusting cigarette smoke in a place where people are eating actually is. There were also children there and it is illegal to smoke when there are children present but, like so much else which is against the law in Spain, it is all in the enforcement.

Which in their case they have not got.

Not only did I feel nauseated in the restaurant, but also when I got home I put all my clothes which were stinking of cigarette smoke into the wash and I myself had a bath.

The law about smoking in public places is simply a joke in Spain. Places can choose whether or not to allow smoking; so it’s against the law to smoke in restaurants and bars unless you don’t want it to be. Ridiculous and insulting. I will never go back to that restaurant while this contemptible law does not protect the rights of the non smoker, or normal human being! And before anyone asks about the so called ‘rights’ of the smoker, we should remember that they have chosen to do something which is unsanitary, dangerous to themselves and others and offensive. It is their selfish choice and I do not feel that I should be called on to make space for them in my normal activity!

This also raises a point which I find difficult to explain. While I loath cigarette smoking in general, I find women smoking particularly offensive. I have tried to work out why this should be so and I wonder if it is an element of latent sexism in my outlook which is rising to the surface. Why women rather than men? Surely it is equally disgusting. Perhaps there is a stereotypical picture of a ‘caring female’ in my mind which is adversely affected by the sight of a cigarette in the hands of a woman. Perhaps it is a sort of latent resentment of women aping the habits of men where cigarette smoking as been seen (vide. The Marlboro Man etc.) as quintessentially masculine. Perhaps it is a disturbing blurring of the social boundaries of the sexes which is unsettling. Whatever actually explains my detestation of women smoking it is certainly something which disturbs and rattles me. There were women smoking this evening next to and opposite and around children. Disgusting.

It could also be that as I don’t smoke myself it is easy to adopt the high moral tone of a non addict and safely and witheringly denounce a habit which is safely beyond one’s present weaknesses! My self analysis goes no further in the interest of my own peace of mind!

The food (as far as one could tell through the miasmic smoke of filth being breathed out by the other inconsiderate patrons) was very good. But certainly not exceptional enough to risk a second visit.

I have to say, to be fair, that the service which we had from our rather camp waiter was entertainment in itself. The way he illustrated the location of the cut of meat we were interested in by hitching up his leg and giving his thigh a glancing blow worthy of any pantomime principal boy was little sort of theatrical magic! His giggling commendation of our choices from the menu seemed oddly at variance with the resolutely macho atmosphere by which we were surrounded. Good for him!

Going up to Terrassa and being rather pushed for time as I had left the flat late, I worked out where I would be by 1.00pm as a sort of median point to give me a rough guide to how long it would take me to get there and when I arrived at my guide point I was within less than a minute of my target time. I think I am getting too professional on this route!

The day ended with a useful discussion about our next moves to set up our school. Our theoretical talk has been engaging but produced no practical results. Slowly we do, however, seem to be getting a little nearer to finding out the practical elements which have to be considered before we can produce some sort of document which we can sow to prospective investors, parents and officials. It’s slow, but it does seem to be making some sort of progress. I would have to compare our ‘progress’ with the growth of the dead cactus brought from the School That Sacked Me and placed optimistically in the earth. Although apparently dead it did, eventually fill out and produce reasonable and visible growth. As I planted the cactus as a sort of visual metaphor for my progress I can only hope that the metaphor becomes a very real symbol for the progress we hope to make with the school.

Hope springs eternal!

Man or machine?

I would that I could remember how to apply the Turing Test.

This wish has been prompted by the service that I have recently received from Amazon. I saw, and was intrigued by reviews of David Starkey’s latest book on the youth of Henry VIII, “Henry, Virtuous Prince” and decided to buy.

Amazon has an evil little function that you can turn on when you visit the web site which gives you ‘one touch’ buying capability. To those who have shunned this invention of the Devil Incarnate, I must explain that, having put all your information into the clutches of Amazon, you can sign on and with a mere touch of the mouse purchase what you want. Nothing more to do! All the information is there, bank details, address, so within seconds you get a confirmatory email telling you that what a second before you clicked on is on its way!

The first couple of time you use it there is a sense of exhilaration as you realize that the world of consumerism is only a click away! The need to think about what you are doing is, dangerously, taken away from you and there is a sudden feeling that any purchase is possible and indeed desirable and it’s all so easy. So easy! Thank god that some sort of residual mental financial safety switch cuts in to stop me from indulging as I would wish.

Having bought the book in my ‘one click’ way I was informed that I could be eligible for ‘express’ delivery; I investigated this option and before I knew where I was I found that, somehow or ever, I had purchased an express delivery option for a vast sum of money. The delivery charge was now four pounds more expensive than the bloody book! Hoist by my own eager fingers!

The attempts I made to cancel the purchase were ineffectual. The order was being processed within seconds and therefore unable to be rescinded. Within those same few seconds I also received a confirmation email from Amazon telling me that my order was prepared and on its way!

I felt very sulky and not really in the position to appreciate Starkey’s prose with so much superfluous money expended on getting it to me!

So I wrote a letter. An email from Outraged of Castelldefels! It took me a while to find any email address that actually wanted to receive an email, but I eventually sent it and got a reply within a suspiciously short time.

This is how we get back to the Turing test. Who or what actually answered my email? The response was very positive with the whole of my postage being refunded and a little bit more, but who was there. It was far too quick to have been decided by a human, I suspect that it was a machine – but how can you tell?

I sent a reply email to Amazon to thank them for their prompt and generous reply and got a ‘thank you’ note which was just this side of literate, written (surely) not by a human. But how can you tell?

I am left wondering how far we have gone down the machine/human line of confusion.

Turing should be here to help!

Almost gone!

The tail end of a cough and cold is, in a way, worse than the actual full blown affliction.

You have spent your time sniffling and hacking; drinking strange draughts and sucking suspicious pastilles and leaving a disgusting trail of paper handkerchiefs behind you (though thinking about it, that is probably me, sorry) and generally feeling sorry for yourself.

Then the bright day dawns when you can breath through your nose again, you sound less and less like Elieen Stritch when she burst an office where I was ‘helping’ out in a charity gala and announced to no one in particular in a voice which sounded as though ossified by rust and packed in gravel that there was ‘something wrong with my fucking voice!” When she sang that evening, I did not noticeably register a difference from the voice of the outburst.

Anyway, you regain your voice and sound less like some articulate bear. Life, it would seem, is getting better.

But the malady doesn’t go away completely: mucus still succumbs to gravity; the tonsil fairies continue to wave their feathered wands absentmindedly at sensitive parts of the throat and subterranean lung gremlins occasionally rumble their way along the tubes. You think for a few glorious moments that all these ill omened creatures have been banished only to reappear (usually at the most inopportune moments) with feverish force. But you are conscious that this animosity is of a rear guard nature and not the out and out attack that you are conscious you have survived.

My voice lacks its usual smooth gravitas while certain rough strands of barbed wire have insinuated their way around my vocal chords making my voice sound different (startlingly different on the phone) and, as I stubbornly maintain, sexy.

I shall work steadily to re-enter the human race when friends and family will be able to kiss me rather than treat me like an ambient leper!



The cheaper alternative to the stratospherically priced Brompton Folding Bike is found in Carrefour for about 15% of the price. This is an altogether more basic bike and it doesn’t fold into such a small space but, 15% for goodness sake! To my infinite shame I attempted to wobble a few yards in the supermarket and felt, well, uncomfortable.


Not only uncomfortable but decidedly unsafe. I am now rethinking my idea of placidly cycling down the newly constructed walkway on the beach and returning to walking sedately. I might try and borrow a bike to find out if one of the fundamental credos of the human species that ‘once you can ride a bike you never forget how to’ is true in my case. Perhaps the architecture of my inner ear has changed over the years and my sense of equilibrium is differently balanced.

Or it might be the Rioja.

Days well spent!

The last two days have been reminiscent of the worst excesses of my student days.

Not, I hasten to add, for the consumption of Small Sweet Sherries (for which I was notorious in University) but rather for the multiplicity of experiences packed into a 48 hour period. I well remember the occasion when a group of university friends and I descended on the vulnerable city of London and they urged me, as a habitual London visitor, to take them around. We set off on my punishing cultural hovering up of experiences and, during the day, they all fell by the wayside until I, alone, was still resolutely opening the catalogue for the next exhibition.

Although not quite in that exhausting league I think for sheer variety I do come close to those energy fuelled food denying days.

I started with the Caixa (my new best friend) sponsored exhibition in the Caixa Forum (just down, as you now know, from MNAC) and free, gratis and for nothing.

This exhibition was ‘El Pa Dels Àngels’ (The bread of Angels) was a collection of paintings for the collections of the Uffizi in Florence illustrating the theme of the ‘mystery’ of ‘transubstantiation’ - as a good Anglican atheist you will understand why I feel the need for quotation marks! Such an exhibition does raise expectations given the wealth of masterpieces in the Uffizi’s collections.

I cannot pretend that this exhibition lived up to its poster which boasted a real Botticelli. There were big names here as the subtitle to the exhibition explained, “de Botticelli a Luca Giordano” and there were paintings by Pisano, Parmigianino, Signorelli and Veronese as well – but the feeling from the paintings on view is that the Uffizi has emptied some of its vaults to give an airing to paintings not generally seen. Even the works of the most famous artists do not seem to be important examples of the artists’ brushes.

This is, perhaps, being ungenerous to a most welcome exhibition in Barcelona to complement the meagre holdings of paintings from this period in the city collections.

The overall impression was of second rate art chosen to illustrate a theme rather than paintings which could stand in their own right.

The most interesting picture for me was of a Deposition, a copy of Federico Barocci (1582) which looked as though it could have come fresh from the brush of a Victorian pre-Raphaelite! The details of the painting recall specific British paintings and I am tempted to put this character (of whom I have never heard) into Google to see if any British painters knew him.

The meal in Laie the CaixaForum café restaurant was excellent as usual and it gave me the opportunity to try and bluff my way through the catalogue which was printed in Spanish and Catalan.

A meal in Vilanova in the evening was extraordinary. We were the only people in the restaurant for the whole of the evening, yet the food that we had for a meal under twenty pounds was exceptional. An appetizer of a selection of French cheeses with a glass of Cava followed by a selection of tapas including salad with anchovies, clams with white beans and a selection of cold meats. The main course was paella, followed by a selection of desserts. And coffee. And useful conversation. Productive even!

Today started with my Spanish lesson, but little did I know that in my absence last week (when entertaining my guests) the rampant collection of foreigners learning Spanish with me combined in an unholy alliance to do down the Brit. Our language school has twisted ideas of representation and asks for ‘student’ reps from the hapless learners. What amounts to a full blown conspiracy was hatched in my absence so that when the ‘voting’ for a representative was held I found myself elected to represent my fellow students. So, they now have a fluent monoglot English speaker to communicate with the Spanish and Catalan speaking management. It must make sense to them, but I’m buggered if it does to me.

Fresh from my election I hied me away and dressed in my finest to go to a school in the heights of Barcelona for a ‘talk’ with the head of English. There was no job in the school but this was an exploratory visit on both sides to see if there was a possibility of a job in the future whether I could (or would want to) fill it.

My GPS got me there, but I couldn’t stop or park. The area is full of schools and universities and hospitals and reeks of money. I eventually parked the car in the hospital underground car park where the cost is reckoned in periods of five minutes!

With my fabled sense of direction I was lost within feet of leaving the hospital car park and by the time my (hand held) GPS had indicated my destination I was hot and tired and angry.

I walked into the school (after walking into what was probably a private house on my first attempt!) stopped by no one. I wandered around until I chose a door at random and found a desk with a man talking into the telephone in Spanish. He completely ignored me and continued talking on the phone and turned his back on me. I did the grown up thing and stalked out and chose another entrance.

This one was more productive and I met up with the voice on the telephone. As there was no job this could not be looked on as an interview, but our conversation was extensive and detailed. We agreed about many things and she painted a picture of the school that was realistic. We will have to see if anything comes of this.

After this professional conversation there was just time for me to re programme the GPS to go to a new part of Barcelona. The journey, leading up to rush hour was horrendous with the usual Catalan distain for the common courtesies of road etiquette together with major roadworks adding to the general joy of driving in the Catalan capital.

However I did find my destination and thereby learned the horrible truth about Brompton folding bikes. At more than 900 euros they are not a casual buy. Or, indeed, any sort of buy! I had visions of riding my sedate way along the new prom which has recently been constructed outside our beach gate. I think that a slow walk is more likely now!

Leaving the over priced bike shop I managed to struggle through fully rush hour traffic to the centre of Barcelona and especially work my way from one side of a five lane road to another for one turn and managed to park to join my union demonstration.

The negotiations for 2008’s pay award has stalled with the employers expecting a wholesale diminution of working conditions in return for a rate of inflation increase in wages. Nothing changes!

The ‘demonstration’ was indeed in the centre of Barcelona in the Plaça de Catalunya but was not something to stop the traffic. Our union and affiliates were restricted to a small side street down one side of The Hard Rock Café. My union rep was there sporting a white tabard with the union name on it and holding a long thin banner (reminiscent of Japanese medieval Samurai films) with a less than convincing air. I was issued with a Catalan flag on a stick with the union initials emblazoned on it and a small plastic whistle. Our demonstration consisted of making a devil of a racket and waving our flags vigorously.

At one point I heard a police siren and looked forward to something interesting happening. I was less than pleased when a man wheeling a pram appeared with a howling machine in it. That incident was the most interesting thing that happened. My photo taking was limited by being one handed – the other one being occupied with waving the flag.

This did not hinder a young lady with a camera sporting a ridiculously elongated lens from taking a series of pictures of me flag waving and blowing my whistle with sublime indifference to her intrusive activities. I feel that my suit and tie might have had something to do with the composition of her photo as I was still dressed from my non interview in the school up the hill.

Eventually the noise subsided; we rolled up the flags and departed with, presumably, a job well done.

Returning home with a take-away was, understandably, something of an anti climax.

I can live with.

Plus ça change!

Committee meetings have a flavour all of their own.

It makes no difference that they are in imposing buildings on one of the most imposing streets in Barcelona, just a stone’s throw from the Cathedral.

The fact that the introduction to the meeting was in a language almost totally incomprehensible and that I was sitting directly opposite the speaker was as nothing. I have developed a particular stance and expression when confronted by conversational speed Catalan which is best expressed as ‘non committal interest’ and has seen me through many difficult situations successfully – as long as they don’t ask questions.

This was a union meeting complete with ‘interesting’ cup of coffee. There, sitting at the front were the world-weary union officials smiling in a pitying way at the evil of the employers as I struggle to make sense of the disconnected words which sometimes emerged from the waves of language which swept over me.

The second part of the meeting was thankfully in English and we were told exactly what the employers had suggested as a suitable settlement for 2008 in the unregulated sector of education. I will not sully the computer screen with the contemptible ‘offer’, I can only assume that they are playing an infantile game of the ‘silly offer so when we give them a little they think they will have succeeded’ type.

There is a demonstration on Thursday in Barcelona to which I have said that I will go. I think I will take my camera as well.

Such larks!

Having OD’d on a deceptively innocuous pink cough mixture with a thoroughly unpleasant itchy aftertaste, I have now graduated to the lemon and honey and hot water to try and re-establish my erstwhile mellow voice to charm the hapless denizens of the school that I am visiting before I go to the demonstration.

Never a dull moment!

Cough, and you cough alone!

Lilian Baylis is credited with the immortal words, “In desperation I turned to Shakespeare.”

Far be it from me to equate my present condition with that of the indomitable founder of the basis for the National Theatre, but I do share her solace in the classics.

My continuing cough-in marathon is debilitating demanding as it does the whole of one’s concentration and precluding normal social intercourse. Conversation is punctuated by plosive outbursts which broadcast germs wholesale which does not encourage talking.

My refuge has been following the progress of Miss Eyre, governess, as she comes to terms with the new experiences that life is throwing at her. Reading for my own pleasure rather than scanning a text for teaching opportunities means that I can appreciate the fluid structure of the narrative and positively wallow in the complexity of the layered narrative. Always at the back of my mind is the triumphant chapter opening, “Reader, I married him.” But it is easy to forget this ‘happy ending’ as you suffer with Jane as she presents, with painful honesty, the vicissitudes of her far from easy life.

Every reading of this extraordinary novel offers a different perspective for each reading. The present reading encourages me to focus on the moral and religious basis for Jane’s actions and to try and work out what she retains from her upbringing and how she evaluates her experiences to develop her ethics. She is a complex character especially as the reader can only understand her development through the perspective of the older Jane looking back on her early life.

I have now reached the point at which Rochester has hoodwinked the ladies in his party when dressed up as a fortune telling gypsy and when he finishes with Jane we are presented with an emotional outpouring worthy of any romantic melodramatic novel – except that everything which is said will have direct relevance to the action which develops.

Literature for ever!

The world gone mad!

Am I the only person in the world who really and truly doesn’t give a damn about who wins in the Brazilian Grand Prix?

And before anyone accuses me of losing my national identity by not supporting Hamilton, am I the only one to find the whole concept of Formula 1 racing obscene at worst and boringly irrelevant at best?

This ‘sport’ is the best example we have of the ‘bread and circuses’ approach to public entertainment. At a time of national and international crisis the unbelievable amounts of money expended on car and driver seem, at least, insensitive. It was hardly a surprise at a time when we are all supposed to be concerned about our carbon footprints that the gratuitous expenditure of energy that is a grand prix race was held at night time so ensuring an even greater expenditure of pointless energy!

The whole concept of this form of motor racing reeks of conspicuous expenditure: the mind bendingly large sums spent on the development and building of the cars to the equally eye wateringly large amounts spent on ‘entertainment’ for the punters.

It is also a truly inhuman sport. The human element has been progressively encased in the motor car until the only part of the driver readily visible is the helmet with its visor looking like a single eye: man and machine truly at one. As the corporate sponsors sip their Champagne they are able to look benignly at the little insects scurrying their noisy way round and round the track and congratulate themselves such an insanely energy wasting event which still has public support.

Well, not mine!

I am convinced in years to come people will look back on this intensely boring inhumanly mechanical display of wastefulness and display the same shocked approach as we would now reserve for bull baiting, cock fighting and voting for the Conservative Party.

I suppose the thing which sticks in my craw more than anything, as a lover of the bubbly stuff, is what the winners of this farrago of wastefulness do when they have been given their trophies. I regard the waste of even a cheap Cava as little worse than sacrilege therefore the wholesale dumping of quality Champagne on mere racing drivers smacks of the worst excesses of disestablishmentarianism - and we all know what that led to!

My jaundiced attitude towards this event may, in part, be ascribed to the fact that I have spent the greater part of the day ensconced in my bed grumpily trying to get rid of the cough and cold which has assailed me.

The Pathetic Fallacy continues with the weather mirroring my lack of comfort but producing, for the Mediterranean, quite spectacular waves with the wind whipping back the spray in the best traditions of the picturesque.

Alas! I could only gaze out of the window and look rather than venture out and try my continuing best to photograph some of the beauty which is a daily occurrence looking at the every changing sea. The evening sky was astonishing with a band of bright orange looking as though someone had painted it in a most unconvincing manner – but to stunning effect.

I have just listened (thanks to the wonder of my internet radio) to a programme on Radio 4 called ‘Beanz Meanz Rimez’ – a discussion of the use of poetry in advertising. It was almost ‘perfect’ Radio 4 fare exactly attuned to their target audience. By way of illustrating the sort of poetry used they cited various slogans, “some going back fifty years” and I knew them all!

Many of those slogans have been resting quietly in my deep memory for many years. When was the last time that I heard, “This is luxury you can afford with Cyril Lord” or “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent” and heard the music behind them? Spain (and I suspect the rest of the world) has little of offer by way of competition on a daily basis with the quality of product that Radio 4 turns out. The sad thing is that most of the population of the UK do not realise what a treasure they have lurking in the radio waves around them and rarely tune in. A real loss.

My internet radio should allow me easy access to the BBC but it is a sensitive little machine and dislikes being moved from place to place. There are also areas of sulkiness where the radio refuses to work. It has a radio link with the internet and you would suppose that wherever the laptops work then the radio will work too, but this is sadly not the case and it has a quirky coquettish refusal rate which is infuriating, especially when you are just being offered a typically quixotic piece of essential information much beloved by a typical Radio 4 listener.

In spite of self pitying illness, I am not so infirm that I am unable to claim my share of the 'panellets' which are customary for All Saints Day. These are traditional sweets which are composed of marzipan and various other additions to get the taste buds tingling. One of the most delicious is a ball of marzipan covered with glazed pine nuts. They come in a variety of shapes and flavours and for me they actually look better than they taste.

This is another one of the traditions of Catalonia which is at risk because of the progressive Americanization of the world. The vulgarity of ‘trick or treat’ has even penetrated Catalonia much to the disgust of traditionalists who regard such foreign imports as diluting the culture of an already much threatened region.

Talking of culture I have started re-reading ‘Jane Eyre’ – a by product of having my Sony e book reader filled with classic (out of copyright) novels and short stories. I merely wanted to look again at the opening as the weather outside reminded me of the conditions that prevented Jane from taking her walk, but a few paragraphs and I was hooked again.

Jane’s exchanges with her aunt are among my favourite passages in literature. Who is not on her side as she speaks her mind and the only response that Mrs Reed can give is, “What more have you to say?” in a “tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.”

At that point Jane was not a child who needed more encouragement and thrill that a young reader gets from the defiance of her continued condemnation of her aunt is only matched by the adult reader who can perhaps understand her frustration more closely.

“I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will ever come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.”

There is not even an exclamation mark at the end of that statement because, as Jane herself says, “it is the truth.” That at least is in italics and is to be a strength and a cross for Jane for the rest of her life.

It is wonderful stuff and its complexity is, paradoxically, one of its great strengths. What some modern readers find prolix is nothing of the sort; Bronte only uses the words she needs.

Like an early Giles cartoon there is always something new to be found in the books one loves.

Including the ones that one has forgotten!

The truly great thing about loving reading is that your drug is inexhaustible and unlike the other more destructive forms of addition you can reuse your ‘drug’ time and time again – and the purest form of drug does not suffer from that economic concept of ‘eventually diminishing returns’ but almost renews itself with each use transforming itself in accordance with your life experience.

A true delight!