The good, the bad and the filmic!

Sometime, doesn’t it just seem that the world is striving simply to put you in your place?

I have, with total justification, been railing against the obstreperous jollifications of our neighbours with their drinking and smoking on the balcony and talking through their shameless activities at the top of their voices. Their unpardonable sin of having vocal children and yapping rat-dogs and allowing them to display their anti social inclinations has been intolerable.

Their loathsome progeny are old enough to drive and they have parked their car in the space that I use to back into to get out of the garage. The space filled, it is an infinitely more complex manoeuvre to get out of the bloody place. And believe you me parking spaces under Spanish flats make sardine tins look positively spacious.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that were my mother to have lived in such a flat she would have sold her car within a couple of days! We are talking of a woman who, having made a wrong turning in the centre of Cardiff once drove to Penarth before she felt that she had enough room and confidence to turn around and come home to Rumney!

I have composed impromptu ditties (sung with gusto in the shower) about the neighbours' rat-dogs catching all the more popular diseases which would have meant their instant death, and I have thought longingly about that much misunderstood humanitarian Herod.

It was therefore with more than usual delight that I noticed that the noisy neighbours had taken in the seat covers off the balcony chairs. This is an invariable sign that they are quitting the place and returning to their normal habitation. In celebration of their departure I went out to hire a DVD and get some taramasalata.

I get my taramasalata from an Indian run Greek restaurant which serves Turkish food and each time I have bought it my request has created turmoil as they try and understand what it is I want. I have learned to ask for ‘red sauce of the fish’ (in Spanish of course) which works. My first request for ‘taramasalata’ resulted in total chaos!

I returned form my visit to the local shops with the latest Batman movie (of which more anon) my taramasalata and a warm feeling of anticipation of a quiet night with a good film and a bottle of wine. Rioja of course, and part of my Christmas present.

Imagine then my chagrin when returning to the flat after a foray for bread I found two pot plants lurking outside the door. My next door neighbours who were in the process of departing wished me a Happy New Year and the lady (who by this time was at the bottom of the stairs and virtually into the garage) informed me that she had left the two plants there and they did not like direct sunlight!

Through a clenched smile I wished her a Happy New Year and engaged in light chatter about the value of the pound these days.

How bad to do think I felt accepting these gracious gifts after all the bad thoughts that had accompanied their stay?

The answer to that question depends on how well you know me. Few people, with even a passing knowledge of my character, would assume that there would be a heavy weight of guilt. Those who know me better will merely wait to hear the reasons why not every a feather of blame should attach to my ignoble thoughts.

The poinsettia is a Christmas flower and not one associated with the New Year. The two flower pots were decorated with Christmas bows. The woman’s children had been staying with her. From those clues I deduce that she had been given the plants as a guilt offering from her children and she had palmed them off on me because she did not want to take them back to town with her. I was, therefore, nothing more than a convenient dust bin. I might also point out that today is a Sunday and the local florist is not open. Also, the pots are suspiciously light as if they had not been watered since they had been given as a gift and they are also surrounded by gold wrapping paper which has been gathered at the base of the plant stems which makes watering difficult.

A pretty convincing case I feel. And little enough reparation for the damage to my nerves as the communal chatter went on long into the night!

Alternatively I might be entirely wrong and I am theorising about a thoroughly generous, kind thought.

Anyway turning to the latest Batman film, The Dark Knight (2008) directed by Christopher Nolan and written by Christopher Nolan and Jonathan Nolan. Yes, it is too long and yes, there are a few possible endings before the final one and yes, it is self indulgent – but what a superb film!

Let me get my itches of irritation out of the way first. It is impossible to watch the perfectly creditable performance of Sir Michael Caine as Alfred without thinking that all of his lines could have been delivered with more finesse and deeper meaning and style by Michael Gough. The second point was the crassness of the script which had Rachel say wistfully at the departing Harvey Dent something like, “We make our own luck.” This nullified the gentle audience knowledge that Harvey’s coin was double headed, we didn’t need it reinforced.

The most damming flaw in the story line is on the ferries. By now most people who are going to see the film have seen it so my spoiler here is going to have minimal effect. Does anyone seriously believe that having the opportunity to make the final choice between one boat full of decent citizens being saved and the boat full of criminals being saved that the people in both boats wouldn’t have been fighting over the right to blow the other up? Big Brother, Strictly Come Dancing and other game shows have encouraged the population to vote for destruction, we are programmed to push the button!

However, forget all that. This is a wonderful film. Heath Ledger is compulsively watchable; Gary Oldman steals every scene he is in by his sheer professionalism; Christian Bale is content to take second place to the dictates of the narrative and all are bound together by a genuinely stimulating script. The bangs and flashes and gadgets are all as good as one would expect and are subordinated to the necessities of the story line.

There are moments of real emotion, or at least an emotional response from a man whose mother used to cry at Andrex toilet roll commercials!

An evening with a decent bottle of wine, Cune, Rioja, 2004, Crianza; a decent film and the departure of noisy neighbours.

Bliss!

No waves!

The sea was dead calm today.

A rather unsettling effect making the whole scene from the balcony look rather like a colour drained painting. A single pedestrian walking along the unfinished promenade looked out of place, rather like one of those cut out animated figures that Terry Gilliam in Monty Python made come to life as they passed over some sort of static background.

The sand has also changed tone, though trying to tie down a precise designation, let alone stating the refinement of a shade is beyond me, I take refuge in Robert Graves’ poem ‘Welsh Incident’ where they were described as ‘mostly nameless colours’ but ‘colours you would like to see.’ I don’t know how Ceri does it – this matching of colours.

My attempts are spectacular failures, probably because I mix colours like a demented cook forever adding herbs and spices on the basis of a single taste. I start off trying to get a particular shade of green. Green I can do: blue and yellow. It is not the right green so I add more blue. That doesn’t work so I add a bit of black. This is a disaster so I add more yellow. Then a tiny squeeze of white. I now have a vast quantity of paint mixed, but not the right colour. I make the disastrous decision that the green I want has a little bit of brown in it. So I add red. I add too much. The colour is no longer green. So I add a soupcon of blue and yellow to bring it back to life. But the proportions are wrong so I add green from a tube of green and . . . you see where this is leading. Eventually my paint is transformed into that muddy sludge that plasticine becomes when you mix all the separate colours of the stuff together.

I have just checked up on the spelling of plasticine and found a little video on how to make your own! This is at http://www.metacafe.com/watch/802582/home_plasticine/ it looks simple and good fun. Perhaps I could make enough plasticine (Word keeps underlining this spelling but it is the correct one) and construct a three dimensional version of the view of Sitges that I have bound myself to paint. It could hardly be more difficult.

I have decided that Ceri obviously manages to produce his tempera paintings by witchcraft – it is the only logical explanation. And he adds another level of difficulty by painting in tempera which means that he makes his own colours by using pure pigment and then adding egg to them. The egg is absolutely essential, but I reckon that it is some sort of small domestic sacrifice to placate the gods of the muddy colour to which all paint mixing tends and which allows Ceri to produce the glowing and accurate colours which he uses and defy the gods which then take out all their frustrations on my desperate attempts to be artistic!

Today I added a sort of wash of light purple for a distant headland in my painting. It didn’t come out like that when I added it to the canvas but, thank god with acrylic you can always paint over. There are more layers of paint on some parts of my barely started canvas than there are in a Nigerian pyramid selling scam.

My head however is bloody but unbowed and you can get paint out from underneath the fingernails with a plastic collar stiffener which suddenly turned up on the floor of the kitchen looking like a very, very small flat white vacuum flask or tiny name spikes for miniscule plants. One would be forgiven for asking why a plastic collar stiffener needs a simile when it is what it is. But how many people these days have ever seen one of these things?

I can remember that I used to have them in all my school shirts and it was yet another chore remembering to take the things out before they were washed because the heat of the wash did terrible things to them if they were left in. I am not 100% sure where this thing came from and it is a little unsettling. It is as if a portal in the space/time continuum has opened and popped one of those things in front of me as a little recherche du temps perdu!

I shall however continue with the painting. It is an essential part of the general level of excitement in my life that I can sit here and speculate about what small space of the canvas will be covered with the next inappropriate colour tomorrow. Other people have jobs.

Which is where the New Year comes in. In a couple of weeks time I will be off to Barcelona again to have a ‘chat’ with a school to see if I might ‘do’ for any future job that might come up.

One of the chores that I will have to complete before I go is to dig out a copy of my CV the style and literary imagination of which makes Lord of the Rings read like an episode of The Archers. It is therefore pretty important that I refresh my memory of precisely what I dredged up from the vaults of my past to entice unsuspecting managers to aspire to have my lofty accomplishments illuminate their place of learning.

My CV is rather like Oscar’s description of a diary in The Importance of Being Earnest, ‘One should always have something sensational to read on the train!’ My having read it should preclude the start of surprise on hearing some well crafted extract from that document read by a stranger!

Short fiction at its best!

Christmas begone!

There is something about a grey day with gently falling rain with the horizon smudged into the sky which makes the gaudy stridency of a Christmas tree look woefully out of place.

In an instant, for me, Christmas was over - and the sooner the Christmas decorations were consigned to their respective boxes and returned to join the durance vile of my books in their cell in Bluspace the better.

Unpicking the baubles from a Christmas tree has much in common with Spanish officialdom: it’s going to take much longer than you think. Armed with this depressing truth it is possible to numb the active parts of the brain that would begin to convince you that existential despair is Christmas tree shaped!

All the decorations from the tree were collected. And when I say ‘all’ that is exactly what I mean. Never before in my experience have I placed all the balls in the box and started to dismantle the tree without finding the Last Bloody Bauble. This time complete! Even the disentangling of the sets of lights was less nerve jangling than usual.

I would not like to think that being fewer than two years from official retirement that I am finally reaching some sort of contented view of the world which puts ‘lights untangling’ in their ‘proper place’ as something ‘unworthy of regard’ something ‘trivial’ and ‘not worthy of concern.’ I am not sure that I want to live in a world which takes such things with what I regard as criminal levity.

It would only be a step further and such things as wearing baseball caps backwards; rap ‘music’; able bodied people parking in disabled spaces; Conservatives; electronic versions of Beethoven’s 9th as a ring tone on mobile phones; That Woman; tripe; Big Brother and the renaming of Marathon bars – all of these will be regarded with a wry chuckle and a gentle lifting of the shoulders and the eyebrows. That attitude is pernicious. All the things listed are inherently evil and must be extirpated, terminated with extreme prejudice. At least.

That’s better, back to normal now.

The packing up of the decorations did have one mishap. A creature from my Belen fell to the tiled floor and two ears shot in different directions. My damaged stable creature: certainly a quadruped, possibly a ruminant, shaggy coat but uncloven hoofs – goat, donkey, horse – who knows, now had two white patches either side of its head. A deft use of my black CD marker pen and, while certainly earless, it looks whole. And that, after all, is the point.

The most thankless task in de-Christmassing the house is putting the Christmas tree back in the box from which it undoubtedly came. I think most people will agree with me that most Christmas tree boxes shrink over time so the failure to restore the tree to its hibernating space is understandable. However much you squeeze the branches back against the trunk of your (Chinese made) tree it never regains its sveltness that it had lying in its narrow virgin coffin. Once out of the box I seriously believe that the tree imbibes some of the electricity wreathed around it, changes it into a static charge and plumps itself out.

I have to count it a success that I managed to ‘close’ the lid of the Christmas tree box with the aid of only eleven strips of sellotape. I think that you will have to agree: a triumph!

The trip to the imprisoned volumes, coldly stacked in their cardboard boxes in Bluespace is always a frustrating experience only enlivened by my apprehension that I am the only legitimate person in the storage facility. I often wonder what would be found if the police went in there one day and forced open all the little and large storage spaces! Going on the look of the people I have seen there my mind irresistibly wanders back to that scene in the lock up in Silence of the Lambs – but perhaps I merely have an over active imagination. Possibly.

The shops in this area are packed with families buying presents for their kids. We are now in the lead up to Kings when every child will demand more presents and every town of reasonable size will have a grand procession the highlight of which will be each one of the Three Wise Men whose task it is to throw handfuls of sweets from the sacks of the stuff which surround them on their floats to the children who line the route of the procession.

Each child is armed (I used the word advisedly) with a substantial bag to collect the swag. The whole family is pressed into service to ensure that the child’s container is filled. This is not an easy task, as Paul Squared reminded me on the telephone this evening, “Those sweets hurt!” Certainly some of the distribution of candies seems to be more ballistic than beneficent. Rather strained alliteration there, but some of those sweets are aimed rather than distributed!

The free e-book library has now introduced me to Arthur Morrison an author who was famous in the nineteenth century and noted for his detective stories with his rather engaging detective, Martin Hewitt. I must admit that I had heard of (if not read) the novel for which he is best known, A Child of the Jago (1896) and, if the site offers a free copy I will read it.

I am enjoying the detective stories. They all seem to be variations on the ‘locked room’ type presenting the reader with apparantely impossible problems with easy logical solutions which are explained in detail by a very helpful Martin Hewitt. Morrison consciously plays against the prototype of Sherlock Holmes and Watson by making his detective a little more human and allowing the Watson character to point out at one point that he should be asking Hewitt a question to allow him to display his amazing powers of deduction! These stories are facile in the best sense and easy reading for a damp day.

Meanwhile the ‘painting’ awaits its next step. Tomorrow definitely.

Something.

Here we go again!

Driving up to Terrassa for the New Year Meal the entire population of Catalonia seemed to be on the roads. My carefully chosen leaving time which was guaranteed to ensure my arrival in good time seemed to be little optimistic as the traffic began to pile up – but the delay merely meant that my arrival was exact with no lee way!

The meal this year comprised Basque style tapas with my favourite of salmon, mayonnaise, caviar made into mini Swiss rolls – delightful!

The ritual of eating the twelve grapes of luck (las uvas de suerte) one for each chime of the bell at midnight was completed with the barely suppressed panic that eating pieces of food at timed intervals brings! And I did it twice. The first time with the whole family and the second an hour later. This repeat performance was because the Canary Islands (counted as part of Spain) are in the same time zone as Great Britain, so I was able to wish everyone ‘Happy New Year!’ in English and have attempts of varying convincingness returned to me!

The trip back to Castelldefels (after half a glass of red wine and half a glass of Cava) should have been disturbing given the expected behaviour of drivers returning to their homes after New Year celebrations.

In fact the fog that I encountered just outside Terrassa (first time I’ve used my fog lights since I’ve been in this country) was the most worrying aspect of the driving. With a few idiotic exceptions the driving was punctiliously correct - this makes me assume that I was one of the few drivers below the alcohol limits!

Being cynical I assume that the only thing which forces Catalans to drive within the legal speed limit, showing due care and consideration for other road users is fear of being stopped by the police (as if they are ever out of the bars themselves!) and being breathalysed. Perhaps I do them an injustice!

I’ve now had time to think about the production of the opera I saw the day before yesterday.

Latecomers and the coughing codger behind me limited by appreciation of the overture of Simon Boccanegra at the Liceu and the ‘conversational’ opening of the opera did not encourage an emotional involvement.

In this production the scenery (Carl Fillion) was stark with giant hydraulic flats to give a sense of scale and majesty to this tale of power and intrigue in fourteenth century Genoa – though updated to some indeterminate period in the nineteenth century in this production.

For me it took the opening of the first act after the Prologue for the production to come alive musically. The music for the first sight of Amelia Grimaldi (aka Maria Boccanegra) sung by Krassimira Stiyanova is astonishing: urgent, modern and captivating and, in spite of the longing to go to the loo I was carried along by the musical power of the piece thereafter.

I felt and feel that the production was notably undersung and few of the singers made me feel totally comfortable with their performances. Pietro (Pavel Kudinov) had no projection at all and should not have been singing. Anthony Michaels-Moore as Boccanegra grew on me as did his nemesis Paolo Albani (Marco Vratogna) but the level of acting was dire and it detracted from the voices. There was, for me, a distinct feeling that this production had been under rehearsed.

The movement of bodies on stage was effective and, in the crowd scenes the director José Luis Gómez showed competence sometimes producing striking stage pictures but there was little in this production to bring it above the level of a far fetched melodrama.

In spite of these substantial objections I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed this production and at times I was genuinely moved. The reconciliation of Simon and Maria was amazingly successful and highly emotional. The cursing scene was effective and for once the cringing overacting seemed appropriate as the flats came together to focus attention on the internal torment of the evil Paolo.

Musically the production was a success and the musical director Paolo Carignani is to be commended for his conducting of the orchestra. As always the quality of the Orquestra Simfónica and the Cor de Gran Teatre Del Liceu were excellent.

The melodramatic nature of the piece does make direction difficult, but this story deals with nature of political power and the compromises that are necessary and the inevitable corruption that attends political and personal mendacity. The music is glorious and could have been used to give credibility to the frankly unlikely narrative. The director lacked the necessary hard edge to point up the politics in this very politically based opera.

The last scene of the opera has the major players contained in a sort of stage box of flats while the machinery which supports the flats is clearly seen (and illuminated) extreme stage left and right. I thought that some attempt at political comment was going to be made using the idea that the power struggles were contained in a glittering artificial box while the real struggle of the people went on outside and supported the indulgence of those who played at power etc. But it seemed just an opportunity for the effective grouping of people for the final big scene.

A production of lost opportunities.

If Verdi’s music achieves a level of unique sublimity surely anyone can write like P G Wodehouse.

All you have to do is have a superior butler; a rich chump as an employer; a circle of feckless, idle friends and a paper thin plot. Liberally sprinkle words and phrases like “don’t you know” and “Rather!” and “what, what, what!” throughout and the job is done.

At least that is the impression that you get when you read his seemingly facile writing.

But try writing something like it yourself and all you get is empty parody – and you discover that that there was substance somewhere in that apparently frothy writing.

Read Wodehouse’s early works (as I now have courtesy of free e-book downloads from ‘Classic’ internet sites) and you will find true apprentice pieces where the iconic solidity of the best ‘Jeeves and Wooster’ stories is seen in its more jellied form – a wobbly try out for the later classics.

The early stuff is mostly style and pose – not a confident voice and certainly containing little of the Sakiesque aphorisms that glitter like very English rhinestones in a narrative so contrived that it makes the miracle of the loaves and fishes look like a Tesco special offer!

But as someone once said, “There are two types of Wodehouse reader: those who adore him and those who haven’t read him yet.”

Who am I to disagree!

Oh yes, and Happy New Year!

Lost in the City

An old technique came into play yesterday when I found myself wandering around the Gothic part of Barcelona and having very little idea of where I was. I am very much a city boy and feel much more affinity for streets and buildings than for the much vaunted grandeur of Nature with a capital N.

Each new capital I visited on holiday would see me at some point happily wandering about with no idea whatsoever where I was. Eventually you would come across something which was familiar from the guide book – or not. At that point the ability to speak English gave access to the locals who were usually able to speak some form of it as the local lingua franca. That includes cities in the United States where, I have to admit that European foreigners’ grasp of spoken English was sometimes rather more understandable than some of the cities in the states that I visited!

Yesterday was my opera day and, given the absurd traffic jams that can be found each day on the Ronda Littoral I left giving myself almost three hours to travel the 18 km to the city. The traffic, though heavy was moving and I found myself in the city with a couple of hours to wait before the start of the performance.

A couple of hours allows you to do a number of things: have a menu del dia; visit gadget shops; pay your respects to El Corte Inglés; watch foreigners walk up and down the Ramblas; have coffee virtually anywhere or sit in the café of the Liceu and read my e-book reader.

I decided to find the small circular battery necessary to run my ipod remote. The first camera shop I entered (usually a safe source of these timid little power sources) elicited a whole string of instructions for finding the ‘right’ shop. Which I foolishly followed. And found no shop at the given address.

I was now well off the Ramblas and into the maze of narrow streets which constitute the Gothic Quarter of the city. And they were filled with small shops of the sort which have usually been driven away from city centres in Britain by the power and ubiquity of the chains which make so many of our cities seem so distressingly similar.

As I walked on I ‘sort of’ knew where I was and (albeit unexpectedly) when I recognized Santa Maria del Mar I went in. This is by far my favourite church in Barcelona. Its stripped interior (courtesy of fully justified iconoclasm as punishment for the Church supporting the Nationalists during the Civil War) and fantastic sense of space with soaring columns and large windows is exhilarating. The gruesome cell-like side chapels which blight so many Roman churches are here little more than spacious niches whose shallow sides soon give way to an open clerestory.

The apse has a colonnade of open columns reaching to the roof through which the ambulatory is clearly visible. To my mind this church looks like something which could have been designed by Peter Brooke – it has his ‘nothing up my sleeve’ approach to dramatic effects. What you see is what you get: a space which impresses because it is so ‘open’ in more than one sense of the word!

Back out into the street and still plenty of time for wandering and straying. An art shop here, a gadget shop there. Yes, I finally did find somewhere to buy the batteries. And then the highlight of my peregrinations.

Book shops always keep me happy, but this one had a selection of art books in the window which virtually forced me to go in. The interior comprises floor to high ceiling bookshelves and piles of books everywhere. The counter gave narrow access to the rest of the shop and sitting at the counter, almost lost behind drifts of books was a kindly looking old man who smiled a welcome. I was encouraged to enquire about books on Catalan art.

A younger man who I had taken to be a customer looking at shelves of books next to the counter turned out to be the owner’s son and both of them set about finding books for me to peruse.

My time there was an absolute delight with fresh books being offered for my inspection while the Old Man kept up an informed discussion about Catalan artists and bringing other books by artists that he simply liked and thought I might be interested by.

His son disappeared and eventually returned with a weighty tome which described Catalan art in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Its price was also hefty at €100 but it was obviously the definitive book for the subject. They made sympathetic sounds about the price and produced other monographs on individual Catalan artists at more moderate prices, including an excellent book reasonably priced on Fortuny which only the inconvenience of dragging it around in the Liceu prevented my purchasing.

Eventually I left the shop, the Llibreria Sant Jordi located at Carrer Ferran, 41, having purchased nothing but having been treated properly by a couple of booksellers who knew and cared about their stock. A delight of a place!

That wallowing in delight had however taken up a considerable amount of time and I had a brisk walk to get to the Liceu on time. A brisk walk made even more brisk by the fact that I resolutely started off in the wrong direction and found myself further away from my destination than was good given the limited minutes available until the start of the performance.

I swallowed my pride and asked for directions and eventually reached the Liceu with minutes to spare. My the time I took my seat I was dripping with sweat in spite of the cold and had to fan myself with the programme to regain my composure.

I am glad to say that as the overture started soon after I took my seat I was able to tut-tut with the others as a few stragglers were even later than I – and the only reason that they were allowed to get to their seats was that they were at the end of rows.

So there I was, sweating gently, beginning to breathe normally and regretting the fact that I had not had time to go to the loo. Behind me an old man started his low level grumbling cough which he kept up throughout the whole of the performance. The man directly in front of me was obviously someone of my height because he partially obstructed my view of the stage. A series of instances guaranteed to lessen the appropriate critical artistic faculties necessary to appreciate fully an opera.

And my review can wait for another time!

Culture all around please!

The last opera of the year beckons.

The last musical offering of the year for me is ‘Simon Boccanegra’ by Verdi. The plot has all the subtlety of a Revenge Tragedy with death off stage to start, mutiny, plotting, poison, lost children, reconciliation and death on stage to end - but with no ghost! The last production that I saw was with Welsh National Opera and of it I remember nothing, nothing at all! I don’t really know the music so this is all going to be new for me - and I haven’t done my homework and listened to a recording. That at least shows how the crisis is biting: last year I bought CDs of most of the operas I wasn’t able to whistle!

I have at least read the synopsis so the musical posturing can at least be placed in some sort of context. I have not been able to find a libretto in English on the web so that I will be relying on the little LED screen on the seat in front of me to relay the English version of what is being sung on stage. In the Liceu the only surtitles are in Catalan.

On the other artistic front I have squared up the photo of Sitges which is to be the basis for my next painting and I have produced a pencil version which does not look convincing and therefore bodes ill for the next stage when colour is added.

The great thing about the picturesque view of Sitges is that as long as you have a silhouette of the tower of a church next to a filigree bell tower next to a bent palm tree you have encapsulated the most photographed and most easily recognized part of the town.

I am relying on these iconic pieces of architecture and nature giving a clue to the most obtuse of viewers of my finished work. I shall steel myself to hear, “Oh, is it supposed to be Sitges?” and I will have to take that faint praise as some sort of triumph!

The acrylic paints that I am using are much more watery than I expected: I like impasto and feel denied a tactile pleasure by the thin consistency of the medium. I am sure that there is something you can mix with the colour to make it spikier. I did notice in one of the books that I bought for Christmas for my ‘rival’ that it suggested that you could mix the paint with all sorts of interesting things to give different textures. One example was paint mixed with rice and the other with flour! I don’t know what effect the water content of the paints has on those hydrophilic materials. I wonder if you can use sugar; that would give an interesting look to the paint! This is another example of my running before I have even learned the definition of direction!

The next stage in my masterwork is to block out areas in the main colour and then when the thing is dry begin to work on more precise delineation. The theory is there, it is just the ineptitude which takes over when I hold a brush in my hand. Still, fun is fun and it will all last until the last of the Lidl canvases is used up!

I can always punish my presumption later by visiting MNAC and wandering through galleries with my favourite Catalan art and as a friend of MNAC it will cost me nothing. Nothing that is, if I can resist the lure of the restaurant with the staggering views over Barcelona and the gratifyingly pretentious menu!

Enough of writing there is tidying up and painting to do!

Banking delight!

I always give my victims fair warning.

I ask, “Do you speak English,” and if the answer is in the negative then frankly Jonnie Foreigner only has himself to blame if he is then subjected to the whole force of my enthusiastic Spanish.

The major trouble is that the conversations that I get involved with never seem to be covered by the average phrase book or Spanish lesson. My visit to the bank was a case in point.

As is generally accepted BBVA is the worst and most graspingly unhelpful and avaricious bank in the known universe and it therefore takes a considerable incentive to get me past its hated portals. The recent little domestic difficulty with the pound was such a case.

A Matt cartoon in the Daily Telegraph shows a TV newscaster reporting, “For the first time the pound reached parity with a chocolate coin covered in foil,” which, when you are in the euro zone is not so far from the truth! In effect, the recent troubles have worked out to mean a 40% increase in the cost of living for me when the value of the pound has plummeted to the lower reaches of the Marianas Trench! A visit to the bank manager was called for to ensure the smooth flow of money from the benighted shores of bankrupt Britain to what is now the reassuringly expensive Costas.

As BBVA adopts the world wide courtesy of all banks in providing too few counter clerks I took along my trusty e-book to while away the interminable chunks of time it takes to be seen to in any financial institution. Because of the ever present reality of armed rebellion against BBVA my branch has taken the typically cowardly precaution of installing an electronic cubicle door which only allows one person into the bloody place at a time.

I waited patiently for the inner door to open allowing the person in front of me to enter the bank and for that door to close before the outer door would open for me. I entered the glass prison and an electronic voice told me to get rid of the metal I was carrying. I had to get out of the prison and go to the pathetically few lockers that BBVA provides for any customer stupid enough to attempt to enter their sacred premises by daring to bring guns, flame throwers, bazookas or e-books with them.

Amazingly, and for the first time in my experience, a locker was actually free so my delay was only momentary. I finally entered to find the queue for service stretching the entire length of the bank and surprise, surprise only one bank clerk working.

I however needed to join another queue to see some sort of manager. This was shorter but equally slow moving. And I didn’t have my e-book and so could only join in the rest of the cattle sighing gently and looking with unmixed hatred at everyone around us.

An entire family of what looked like three generations had chosen this particular day to open accounts at this god forsaken bank. When something as momentous as this occurs then the photocopying machines go into overdrive and applicants develop writers cramp by initialling and signing every dun coloured sheet which is put in front of them and then jubilantly stapled together to form the basis of ‘a file’ the most comforting building block of security for any governmental or institutional organization in Spain.

I now watch this tedious process with brain dead eyes because at least I now know what to expect and the active part of my brain tried to work out what I might have to say if the person who was going to deal with me spoke no English.

The person who was going to deal with me spoke no English.

My Spanish is rather like an unimaginative composer from the time of Joseph Haydn – the musical ideas are few but rearranged can give the impression of variety. So with my limited vocabulary; I may not have the precise words but my grasp of round about ways of expression would now make me a shoe-in for a high position in the Circumlocution Office in ‘Bleak House’!

As interviews with bank managers go this went well and there seemed to be no problems and everything would be sorted out. I only hope that what I meant is what she understood! Time, as they say, will certainly tell in this case.

The weather continues thoroughly grey and depressing, apart of course from the waves – which is more than can be said for my representation of the meeting of water and sand courtesy of acrylic paint. I am sure that my attempt at church, beach and bay in Stiges will be more successful. It could hardly be worse.

Leaving aside my almost complete lack of technical skill I thoroughly enjoy the untutored frenzy which characterises my painting style. My choice of brushes is largely governed by their appearance and how nice the bristles feel on the finger. While my application of paint looks towards Bratby - but without his subtlety! My rudimentary knowledge of the colour circle means that my attempts to produce colour matches are restricted by my ineptitude augmented by my slight colour blindness. All in all I think I have the makings of a good all round conceptual modern artist!

Perhaps I should saw the canvases I produce in half and soak them in formaldehyde for that up-to-the-moment look!

Buy now before they get too expensive!

Careless talk costs lives!

Hell is other people.

How true Sartre's words are when you live in a flat.

We have been spoilt by our rich neighbours who are able to own a highly expensive residence by the sea and only use it for a few weeks during high days and holidays. The end result is that our neighbours to the right and left are generally absent. Below is generally quiet and above, apart from some forays in high heels on tile floors is generally quiet too.

It was something approaching total horror that I realised by various grinding sounds that our neighbours on the right had turned up. With family and dogs. In spite of the inclement weather they have packed the balcony which is at right angles to our own with their cigarette smoke and conversation.

That last word has a different meaning in Catalonia than it does in Britain. Discussion programmes on what is laughingly called Spanish Television consist of a group of people all speaking at once at gradually increasing volumes to capture the conversation. This technique is transferred to the home and balcony in what I take to be a gesture of general inclusion – because you sure as hell cannot escape the continuous noise of a family happily shouting together and pretending it is conversation. When you add yappy little rat dogs to the mix the sonic melange is something which makes you wish for a soothing flame thrower.

In an effort to combat the campaign of intrusive conversation from my garrulous neighbours I have started to paint a landscape, put the ipod player on loud and even lowered the metal shutters on the French windows – and still their piercing voices intrude through what W H Auden called ‘the frontier to my person.’

Ah for my dear departed neighbour in Rumney the only sound of whose existence was the rumble of Heavy Metal Music briefly once every two or three years! How different from the home life of flat dwellers in sea side Catalonia.

Having had my little rant, they have now retreated into their flat and left me in relative silence. I will even raise the shutters and snatch the last few minutes of the evening sunset and watch the eerie effect of low flying aircrafts’ searchlights catch the underside of the clouds. And have a cup of tea to settle my chatter torn nerves.

After living in a house, even if it is a semi, it is difficult to get readjusted to the flexibility that has to exist when you live in a flat. In objective terms I know that I am relatively lucky in that some of the flats are so rarely used. But we only children must be allowed our personal space selfishness – and anyway the view of the sea more than compensates for the human bustle of fellow dwellers.

The Daisy Ashford book of ‘The Young Visiters’ having been chuckled through courtesy of http://manybooks.net/authors.php a site I recommend for similarly mean e-book readers as containing a positive cornucopia of books for free download. There are lots of them there, but not always the ones you want.

For example, I had decided that I would like to re-read two books by Ruskin: ‘The Seven Lamps of Architecture’ and ‘Unto This Last’ – both are well out of copyright and I would have thought readily available for free download. Wrong. Although there is an impressive selection of Ruskin’s works available on the site, it only scratches the surface of the quantity of books and monographs that Ruskin churned out in his extremely productive career. So it turns out that while free site will offer you seeming riches, the actual nuggets of gold are often frustratingly out of reach. I am sure that a more confident and competent user of the internet than I will aver that the books I need are out there, and for nothing, it’s just that I haven’t framed my enquiry in the most effective way.

I shall take that as a challenge and I hereby vow to find the two elusive Ruskin volumes somewhere in the computers of the English speaking world. And for nothing.

Meanwhile, what I am actually reading at the moment is some distance away from the social and artistic philosophy of Ruskin. I am reading (with pleasure I might add) ‘The Chessmen of Mars’ by Edgar Rice Burroughs – the author better known for his ‘Tarzan’ books.

These books are either camp and irresistible or gauche and contemptible – or, more likely, all of those at the same time! It has incomparable passages like,
“Yes, Tara of Helium, the come,” replied the slave. “I have seen Kantos Kan, Overlord of the Navy, and Prince Soran of Ptarth, and Djor Kantos, son of Kantos Kan,” she shot a roguish glance at her mistress as she mentioned Djor Kantos’ name.

The inhabitants of Mars are indeed red skinned (apart from the baddies who are green) and their muscular and beautiful bodies “otherwise naked trapped with a jewel-encrusted harness’ seem to cater to a popular need for low level porn!

The language is faux archaic littered with phrases like, “while thus profitably employed’ and ‘thus always is royalty announced’ and ‘thus it is’ and so on. Personally I find it delightful and am totally enchanted by obtrusive narrative devices which give exotic information like, “Your ancient history has doubtless told that that Gathol was built upon an island in Throxeus, mightiest of the five oceans of old Barsoom.” This is pulp fiction at its best!

But not quite enthralling enough to drive into silence other people’s noise!

Tomorrow a time to reassess the financial implications of the fall of the pound and an essential trip to the most hated bank in Europe: BBVA.

Needs must when the Devil drives!

The Undergrowth of Books

I think that I am the only person I know who has read ‘The Red House Mystery’ by A A Milne. A detective story by the author of 'Winnie-the-Pooh.'

When you are as mean as I am when it comes to paying for e-books then you must be satisfied with the less frequented pathways of out of copyright literature. Some of the books which I have now read in electronic form by P G Wodehouse I have never heard of. ‘The Politeness of Princes’ and ‘The Pothunters’ read like hack works by an author who had been impressed by ‘Stalky and Co’ by Kipling – but they remain interesting as forerunners of Wodehouse’s mature style. At least that is what I am telling myself as I read through more obscure examples of Great Writers’ work!

I now have over three hundred books (varying in length from single short stories to the entire Bible) lurking in the memory of my e-book and I still haven’t got over the sheer magic of the thing: a single slim book containing an entire library!

If only the grasping publishers would moderate their extortionate prices for copyright books I would be truly satisfied. I find it astonishing to think that there are some instances where the electronic form of the book is MORE expensive than the paper copy! The economics behind that sort of greed has more in keeping with the grasping avariciousness of the venomous Sheriff of Nottingham than the Venerable Bede.

Whatever the effectiveness (or indeed the appropriateness) of that bitter comparison, it is perhaps significant that my e-book probably holds roughly the same number of volumes that Bede had in the library in the Monastery at Wearmouth-Jarrow when he produced his books. It is also worth pointing out that the library at Wearmouth-Jarrow was probably one of the biggest in England at the time. If I push the historical point even more then I could say that all the books that Bede was able to consult are probably available free from websites around the globe as electronic downloads. Never has the literary knowledge of the world been so freely available to so many people . . . and I’m not sure of where I am going in this digression. Though it is noticeable that the number of Ecclesiastical Histories of the English Peoples (or equivalent) coming out of Northumbria has been a little thin on the ground during the last millennium despite the availability of books and the access to them!

Talking of Northumbria we actually had a mild hailstorm today. We also had sunshine and rain and cloud. Taken together it could be said to be more reminiscent of a British day during which you get a selection of the seasons rather than the steady expectation of consistent weather that we generally get in Catalonia.

As always with slightly rougher weather, the appearance of the sea becomes much more interesting with our stunted domestic waves actually acquiring some height and the wind whipping off the foam to make the curving waves beautiful to look at but devilishly difficult to photograph.

Ian, the professional photographer living diagonally above us, showed me a fine photo of a breaking wave taken from our very own seashore and in reply to my plaintive moan that I have never managed to take a picture like that, he patiently explained that what I was looking at was a cunningly composed composite of five separate photographs including one photo reversed to form the end of the beautifully curling wave! I have now sent off for a truncated version of the program that he used to produce such results and I hope soon to start dabbling in the forbidden arts of twisting photographic reality to my own dark ends.

I will end with my invaluable e-book and recommend (for those who have not yet read it) a delight of a book called ‘The Young Visiters’ by Daisy Ashford. This is a book written by a nine year old which lay undiscovered for years and then was published with Daisy Ashford’s own punctuation and spelling. It is an artlessly cunning construction which uses the authentic naivety of Daisy with what now reads as a clever illumination and critique of society in the late nineteenth century. It is very funny. I was first given a copy of this wonderful book by Aunt Betty and read it with delight and disbelief. It is the story of a Mr Salteena and his attempts to become a gentleman. When the book was first published with a foreword by J M Barrie it was an astonishing success and was later alleged to have been a sort of literary joke produced by an adult author pretending to write down to a child’s level. Indeed some of the observations in the book seem a little arch and knowing to be those of a young girl, but the authenticity of Daisy Ashford’s work has never been in doubt.

If you have read and enjoyed ‘The Diary of a Nobody’ or ‘Three Men on a Boat’ then you will appreciate ‘The Young Visiters’ although it is nothing like the first two books mentioned. Everyone has their own favourite quotations from the book, starting with the opening, “Mr Salteena was an elderly man of 42 and was fond of asking people to stay with him.” This opening leads to more piquant extracts like, “Then he sat down and eat the egg which Ethel had so kindly laid for him” and this revealing extract from Mr Salteena’s letter to Bernard Clark (“a rarther presumshious man”), “I am fond of digging in the garden and I am parshial to ladies if they are nice I suppose it is in my nature.” Or perhaps Ethel’s conversational observation to her host, “I shall put some red ruge on my face said Ethel because I am very pale owing to the drains in this house.” Each of Daisy’s chapters was written in one continuous paragraph and there were no speech marks, but every page has gems of expression and delights in spelling.

And you can download it for free. It is worth doing so for no other reason than it drives Microsoft Word wild trying to make sense of it all!

Ah joy!

Give and Take

Christmas is a time for counting the cost.

I don’t mean in purely mercenary terms in the sort of ‘double entry’ accounting that some people adopt at this time of Christian cheer, as presents are weighed in the balance with what you have given and found wanting. Either way is an embarrassment. No, what I am talking about is the appropriateness of the gifts.

A disturbing number of people gave me booze – though let me assure all of my generous givers that every precious drop is dear to me and will be savoured with absolute relish. I suppose that it is easier to give a bottle of something than double guess what my voracious reading will have left for the unwary buyer to choose.

I would like to concentrate on two. The first is a pair of wi-fi headphones which allow me to wander through the flat and out onto the balcony cosily protected from the foreign environment by the domestic comfort of Radio 4 where ere I go. It gives me pleasure and allows me to forget doctor’s appointments as a sink deeper and deeper into the afternoon play. The headphones also allow me to peregrinate with the appropriate volume of a Bruckner symphony playing inside my head. To those who opine that this could also be done with an ipod I would reply that there is a distinct difference in the quality of sound and for meaty orchestral works the expansiveness of ear covering phones and somehow more appropriate than a small insert in the ear!

The second present was not one that I was given for Christmas but one on my Name Day, the Day of my Saint which is, of course, today! Catalonia takes such things with a great deal more seriousness than we do in the protestant north.

Some presents have that ‘I wouldn’t have thought of it for myself but now that you’ve given it to me it is just right’ quality. This was one of those.

The festively wrapped box that I was handed was too flat to contain a 75cl bottle of anything and when I held it I found it to be too heavy to contain a book. There were ‘bits’ I could feel bumping around, but they did not have the quality of miniature bottles of anything and they certainly were not chocolates.

It was therefore with a certain amount of interested trepidation (as I was unwrapping this in the face of the whole family) that I started ripping the paper away.

It was a chess set.

Not on the face of it something to raise more than a polite 'thank you.' Bear in mind that in the fairly recent past I have been humiliated at this game by eight year olds. It wasn’t the game that provoked my unstinted expressions of gratitude it was rather the figures themselves.

They were all modelled on The Simpsons™ It only seems fair to include the ™ mark as sign of my breathless admiration for the ruthless marketing campaign which has seen this yellow family appear on everything that has a space large enough for the logo and the reproduction of a member of the family. The figures are lovingly crafted from machine moulded plastic but the set is worth it for seeing Marge and Homer and Queen and King. Bart as the Bishop and Lisa as the Castle provoke metaphorical speculation which is as satisfying as it is futile. The whole set is a delight and I even won my first game!

For the first time in three years I was well enough to eat my Christmas meal. The last two years have been sorry stories of wasted culinary opportunities while I lay languishing on a figurative bed of pain. It was actually a bed of oblivion as I waited for the obnoxious bugs to begone. It is now obvious that I have met and assimilated the germs that are native to the region and they now accept me as one of their own.

The restaurant meal was, needless to say, delicious – though it did pass through my mind that the thirty five quid that I would have paid for the meal in the old days when one euro was worth 70p had now risen to a more substantial fifty quid. The parity of euro and pound sterling is a financial disaster for those of us who have all their savings locked in a worthless currency in the Old Country! I know that what I should be doing is taking a deep breath and be telling myself to think of the long term.

Unfortunately the short term is here and now and the juggernaut of expense goes on rolling. The only thing that I resent is that the grease for the wheels of that massive cart are not being oiled by the crushed bodies of the wastrel bankers who precipitated the crisis!

There is one more opera left before the end of the year and so I am going to take every opportunity to listen again to the work so that I can take a more appreciative approach when I sit in my expensive seat working out just how much each minute of my entertainment is costing with the currency parity.

It will give extra spice to my critique!

Never give up!

Fiat lux!

At long last, having exhausted all likely shops in Castelldefels, Stiges came up semi trumps and has provided me with a replacement bulb so the top part of the Christmas tree can shine out like the rest of the of the synthetic vegetation.

Ironically, while the replacement bulb brought life to the rest of the links, it didn’t actually light itself. I can’t help feeling that there is a meaningful metaphor lurking around somewhere, but it is far too near to Christmas to be worrying about things like that.

Talking of the Yule I managed to be too tardy to get a ticket for El Gordo – the Fat One, the largest lottery in the world. Ironically again, many winners came from Barcelona. I must not think about such things or that winning anything in euros would now be equivalent to a 30% increase in the money compared with the pound!

To compensate for missing El Gordo I have bought a ticket for El Niño (The Child) another whopping lottery to be drawn in January during Los Reyes (The Kings). In a gesture which even I regard as cynically blasphemous I have placed the ticket under the crib in my Belen or Nativity Scene. I like to feel that I thereby combine a pagan belief in luck with a positively Roman belief in the intercessionary quality of iconic artefacts!

I have had my Silhouette™ (frameless and light as a feather!) glasses returned with a new arm put in and over fifty quid taken out of my account. Getting a replacement bulb in a shop nearby is not really compensation enough for paying so much for something which is virtually not there! I content myself with being able to retire the clunky replacements that I have been wearing and allow my soft weeping to have a soothing effect. That and a cup of tea. You can take the man out of Britain but you cannot take the tea out of the man – as Bertrand Russell might have said.

Castelldefels still remains sunk in unnatural gloom in the evenings as no further festive lights have appeared in our part. The centre of town has at least some attempt at illumination but our bit by the sea is only lit up by the lights from restaurants, shops and the enthusiasm of an occasional hotel owner. I assume that all available funds are being expended on the new promenade which is being constructed piecemeal on the beach. The municipality has adopted the same technique which built the Great Wall of China and has laid down odd stretches of the slab pathway which will eventually be joined up to form a continuous promenade from Castelldefels to Gava.

As the project continues it is interesting to speculate on what the finished result is going to be. At the moment it is only possible to make guesses about the finishing touches like edging and lighting. Every so often, rather like the interruption caused by the towers you get on the great wall, we have intersection points on the promenade which lead to the road parallel to the beach. These areas have been marked out by the sudden planting of half a dozen severely repressed palm trees set in a lake or concrete.

Whatever obstacles are placed in their way, pedestrians have claimed the quarter build promenade for their own and, as is the way with Mediterranean people, have begun to promenade as if their national identity depended upon it. People watching is a characteristic compulsion in this part of the world and it is therefore only fair that if you are not watching you should be providing the raw material for the watchers – and walk to be seen.

I assume (though on what evidence ask me not!) that the promenade will be ready for the influx of tourists in the spring and summer. It will be fascinating to sit out on the balcony with the ever present glass of Rioja and consider the changes to the dynamic of the beach which will be caused by this new source of access. Already the beach hawkers are using this new super highway to facilitate their saturation selling – and I imagine that it will also give them a quicker way of getting to another part of the beach away from the prying eyes of our two (count them) police persons who emerge from the bars of winter to take the sun in the season!

I will perhaps hire out part of my balcony to desperate sociologists eager to amass new material for a thesis on ‘Promenade Production and Social Dispersion on the Littoral’ which, having thought about it for a few seconds, I would indeed read!

Apart from Faulkner, what wouldn’t I read?

A pre Christmas adventure!

It wasn’t my fault. It was because my wallet was black.

Or I could blame Ceri. I was wearing the wireless headphones with the Afternoon Play on Radio 4 soothing my ears. It was a twee version of ‘The Borrowers’. I have to admit that when it comes to the afternoon play I prefer something with someone like Janet Suzman in it (a voice made for radio) and themes touching on all the major horrors of humankind. You know the sort of play: one that suddenly stops just after one of the major characters makes a portentous statement which leaves you wondering what the hell is going on and then there is the continuity announcer dragging you back to ‘reality.’ Whatever.

The point was that I was listening to a radio play when I should have been elsewhere.

Why I should have been elsewhere relates back to a small oblong of printed paper which had details of my appointment with the medical person who is giving me stern looks and sharp words about my weight. I should have gone to see Pablo (sic.) on the 15th of December in Room 18 of our Medical Centre.

It does not take the sharpest mind to look at that “should have” in the previous sentence to work out that I may, inadvertently have transposed those two numbers. Which I did, realizing on the 17th of December that it was two days after the date at which I should have been in the centre.

As Pablo (who is a mere child and therefore lacks the decency and tact to restrain him from nagging his elders) would undoubtedly have used this mistake to add vigour to his admonishes I was somewhat reluctant to shuffle into the centre and admit my guilt.

However, as my medication has recently been changed as an experiment I had only been given enough to take me up to round about the date of my next appointment. On the 15th. I was therefore getting perilously low on the pills and had to get more.

Therefore, biting the bullet (which was more than I could do with the pills) I marched into the centre and attempted to explain what had happened. This went relatively well and I was given another appointment with Pablo in January. The pills could, I knew, be supplied by going to the pharmacy in the centre where a few clicks on the computer and a prescription would fall into my hands.

Unfortunately I had forgotten my e-book to make the inevitable waiting bearable but following the tradition of asking ¿Ultimo? To the scattered fragments of humanity littering the seats around the pharmacy I managed to identify the gentleman who was last and take my seat. Once again I marvelled at the complex social and psychological problems which faced each new comer who, after asking who was last, then had to take a seat in the rows of seats down the corridor from the door of the pharmacy at the end of said corridor.

I remember once being shown a very funny (and deeply disturbing) animated cartoon film about the correct etiquette a gentleman should adopt when entering a public convenience and selecting an appropriate urinal. The film adopted the form of a public service announcement and the voice over was delivered in a deadpan manner which increased the humour. Needless to say the logic which determined the selection became more and more extended and the film ended in mayhem and considerable carnage. I feel that such a film could be made based on the complexity of the moves (people do not keep to the same seats throughout their wait) in our medical centre. I sometimes feel that a newspaper should take a photograph of the corridor and the seats then take another photo of a new arrival and ask the readers put an ‘X’ where the person would be most likely to sit. Compared to this the chess problem would be easy.

After my endless wait which I filled by jotting down some responses to the P G Wodehouse stories that I have been reading recently I eventually made my way into the holy of holies. And was told that my new drugs were not on the system and even if they were I would not be entitled to them until January. The only option was to see a ‘Medico.’ As I have now become partially acclimatized to nugatory waiting I returned to the desk where I attempted to explain to the same person who had given me a new appointment for Pablo in January that I needed to see a doctor to get my new pills. She now adopted Pablo’s technique and gave me a good talking to intimating that to run out of pills was patient behaviour of the most pernicious kind. At that moment Pablo appeared on the edge of my vision smiled at me in an pitying manner and passed on.

I was given an appointment for a quarter to four in the afternoon of the same day. Today. I was well pleased. Things seemed to be working out well. I was so complacent that I decided, on my return to the flat, to clean the floors. I am no sloven and I relish cleanliness; but you have to understand that all our floors are tile, so to clean them is no mere running of the hoover around but an altogether more serious affair of brush and pan and mop and pail. So you will appreciate my positive state of mind that I contemplated this Herculean task with something approaching composure and Radio 4 on the headphones.

I had extended the area of operations to the balcony when, with the sun tempting me to a laze with a cup of tea I glanced at my watch and noted that it was a quarter to four. I now know what Saul must have felt like when the scales fell from his eyes – I immediately remembered that I should have been in the medical centre.

In less time than was physically possible (and keeping roughly to the speed limits) I got to the medical centre. In a sort of staggering run from the car I attempted both to rush to my late appointment and also to brush the tell tale signs of cleaning which had besmirched my jeans. Arriving at the door of the centre I felt in my pocket for my wallet which had my medical card and the appointment details.

Nothing. Empty.

Spain is not the sort of country that you can get anything without a number, an official number, on an official card.

With sinking heart I approached the counter for the third time in as many hours. I poured out my sorry tale in at least three languages and maintained that my wallet was lost. They eventually pitied me and directed me to a room and a doctor.

I was flustered and thinking about my wallet and when I had last seen it. Then the doctor appeared and called my name.

He asked me how I was and, as he turned to the computer I poured out my sorry tale again. At the end of it, he said, in Spanish that he had not understood a single word! As I had repeated (roughly) what I had said at the counter downstairs, I realised just how eager the girls must have been to get rid of me. They must have adopted the age old strategy for inexplicable situations and pushed it up to the next level and dismissed it.

I know that this doctor can speak good English but he refuses (quite rightly) to use it unless there is total incomprehension bordering on violence. I therefore revisited my previous multi-lingual explanation and tried to bring it back into the bounds of something approaching Spanish. This I eventually did (with minimal help from the doctor) and all was eventually made well. My blood pressure was lower; my next appointment was confirmed; my next blood test scheduled; my prescription given; my next general prescription date noted.

All I needed to do now was to collect my wallet from the flat and go to the Chemist and get my subsidised prescription.

But my wallet was not in the flat. As the saying goes, the more I looked for it, the more it wasn’t there! All the obvious places were checked. I retraced by steps. I checked everything three times and took everything out of anything that I had put things in. I thus followed Madster’s recipe for finding things. But I didn’t. It resolutely refused to be found.

I now have my wallet. It was not in the flat. It was in the car. It was on the passenger’s side front seat. It was black you see. Like the seat. I had not noticed it. Neither, more to the point had any passing thief.

I poured myself a cup of tea.

It's all downhill now!

Is it possible to be allergic to Christmas?

For the last two successive years I have been hors de combat for the actual day. My pathetic attempts to eat the truly delicious meal which passed me by two years ago remain as wounds in my culinary memory which are still painful to revisit. Last year I had to lapse into blissful unconsciousness in my small bedroom while the whole of the rest of the family ate in the dining room.

Today, the first day in Christmas Week, I felt distinctly unwell. I dragged myself from bed to have a shower and then seriously considered returning to bed to continue the great tradition of festive failure that has characterised my approach to one of the jolliest days in the calendar.

Even with the best will in the world I still think that I would be on shaky ground if I tried to intimate to anyone who knows me that my malaise was in some way linked to a well thought out physical expression to a moral objection to the progressive commercialization of Christmas.

I am a man who made it part of his personal credo never to find himself living more than three miles from a branch of Marks and Spencer. I am also a person who can be deflected from serious purpose in a moment by a well dressed shop window for things that I would never consider buying. It therefore follows that it would be disingenuous to pretend that ‘buying things’ has ever been something inimical to my way of life.

Perhaps it is a rejection of the ‘vulgarization’ of a Christian festival. As Christianity is a bit of a Johnny come lately to claiming the ancient Yuletide and pagan date as its own, it might be said that the festival is returning to its more sybaritic roots. My Christmas tree with five sets of lights, heavy with baubles and topped with a filial (which denies composed description) is hardly understatement. My Belen (the stable scene with 15cm figures) has a cast of thousands and six wise men. It also has a (15cm) figure of the caganer next to the stable whose appearance and function I will leave in the decorous Spanish of our version of the Wikipedia, “Un caganer es una figura de una persona defecando que se suele colocar en los belenes.” So hardly without a certain degree of vulgarity there!

It is a mystery.

There are however a few precious days in which my constitution could be encouraged to sort itself out so that I will be able to participate in the solid and liquid pleasures that the day usually holds. I live in hope!

Although the days continue cold we have been treated to a staggering parade of casually spectacular sunsets. Living in a town or city, too often buildings impede the constantly changing display but looking out to the open sea one is staggered sometimes by the path of liquid gold shimmering across the swells leading to a cloud diffused light show of sunshine which bleeds from the central fire of yellow into a whole palette of glowing colour.

And just when you are thinking that this amazing show is Nature’s gift, free, gratis and for nothing – you remember the rent on the balcony on which you are standing and then think about the laughable horror of wilting pound sterling visibly shrinking from the haughty and contemptuous sneer of the muscular euro.

I always knew, instinctively, that you should spend money as soon as you get it; that saving was full of bad calories and that owning three ipods shows what a heroic determination I have always shown to be a good solider fighting on the front line for reflation and the saving of the world economy.

Where is my medal please!

'Tis the season to be jolly!

The happy chatter of children’s voices.

Where does that happen then? Where precisely can you hear this “happy chatter” as opposed to the raucous shouting which punctuated the afternoon as I attempted to read “A Lust for Window Sills” a lover’s guide to British buildings from portcullis to pebble-dash by Harry Mount published by Little, Brown ISBN 978 1 4087 0900 7.

Admittedly some of those children were almost three or four feet apart so anything less than a yell would be incapable of penetrating the sticky air of a beach open to the sea. Furthermore, as if by a malicious twist of municipal fate one of those open weave wigwam rope climbing frames has been plonked not far from our back wall. This acts as a positive encouragement to the neophyte humans to leap about vertically and horizontally emitting high pitched whoops of noisy triumph as they move from level to level.

The devilish construction of these contraptions seems purpose built to obviate the only hope of the aspiring reader in the vicinity that as these creatures scuttle higher and higher they will be claimed by Newtonian physics and be dashed to silence on their plummet to earth. It never happens. Cursed be the political correctness that employs three-dimensional geometry to preserve the lusty vocal chords of these obstreperous pests!

The book, however, did manage to draw me in, in spite of the cacophony on the fringes of my irritation.

The book is written in 31 fairly short chapters with some desperately unfunny chapter headings like ‘1666 and All That – Professor Dr Sir Christopher Wren Arrives’ and ‘Strawberry Hill For Ever – An Eighteenth Century Gothick Romance’ or a studied popularism like ‘The Brideshead Revisited School of Baroque Architecture’ and ‘The Empire Strikes Back – India Comes to Gloucestershire.’ These chapter headings give you a flavour of the book: it tries to wear its learning lightly but it merely comes over as crass.

To be fair Harry Mount encourages his readers in the introduction to dip into the book, “this book is a dipper not a read-straight-througher” – though I read it from beginning to end because it is, quite frankly presented in a narrative form. Mount has constructed the book to include anecdotes and autobiographical snippets and facts and (dreadful) black and white illustrations a style which he hopes will be “like being shown round Edwardian public baths in Harrogate by Alan Bennett.” It isn’t. He lacks Bennett’s seemingly unforced easy wit and perception, he is much more like an over earnest pally teacher trying to make a hard subject palatable.

I did enjoy part of this book and I treasure some of the facts that Mount gives. How have I gone through my life with not knowing that in battlements or crenulations the gap is called a ‘crenel’ and the blocks of stone on either side are know as ‘merlons’?

Mount also makes a telling comment that, “It isn’t surprising that the country that has stayed richer longer than any other in history has a greater variety of architecture than anywhere else.” And the equally telling pendent, “But we refuse to acknowledge it.”

This is a book whose impulse, to popularise the appreciation of architecture on a day to day basis, is laudable – but I don’t think that this is necessarily the book to do it. It’s worth a look, even if it isn’t worth a purchase. I should add that my copy of the book in the publisher’s information states, ‘First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Little, Brown. Reprinted 2008 (twice)’ so what do I know about popularity!

I have had my faith in the Tabac shattered as they did not come up with the goods as far as the replacement of my little white bulb for the Christmas tree lights.

I was met with blank incomprehension with just a tinge of contempt about my presumption in asking for a bulb in the first place. The supermarket was a little more accommodating in so far as I was vouchsafed a dismissive wave of the hand from an assistant and a blank denial of possession from another. No suggestion that I might try anywhere else to obtain a bulb – which is par for the course. Nevertheless I will persist. This bulb is exactly the sort of thing that you would be able to find in Woolworths.

I never thought that I would speak nostalgically about a store like Woolworths, but there again when I was a kid I don’t think that I would ever have thought that a store like Woolworth could ever go bust. When I was younger the Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton was regarded as the Holy Grail for anyone wanting to marry for money!

How times change!

Seek and ye shall find!

Defiantly I have kept the balcony doors open.

This far into December it seems worth it, if only to irritate the people back home. I have to admit that it has been one of those days when I considered putting the central heating on as well but that would be cheating in the same way as café culture in northern climates survives with space heaters.

When I finally ventured out into the sun (fully clothed) I was shamed to see a couple of people throwing themselves into the sea – one of them ripping off all his clothes and frolicking naked in the icy waves. As this was done to shrieks of laughter from his companions and much taking of photographs I feel that this was more a statement than a bathe. Much like my reading in the afternoon sun well sheltered from the slightest breeze whose softest touch would remind you of the month!

The rituals of Christmas are beginning to parade themselves before me. The first today was when the top set of lights on the Christmas tree went out. I half heartedly checked the plug and connections; considered checking the fuse but felt that it was far too technical and fiddly and finally looked at the branches and wondered if it was possible to take off the string of lights without stripping the tree.

I then noticed that this set of lights had one of those bulbs with a splash of white paint on the tip. This, I knew was important as some hazy memory returned telling me that this was the outward sign of inward electrical safety. I am now not used to replaceable bulbs so I gingerly pulled on the tip of the glass and low and behold it came out. Microscopic examination revealed (I think) that the filament was broken so it was simply a case of replacing the bulb for the array to burst forth in multicoloured lighting glory.

The first shops that I asked about a replacement bulb looked at me as if I was insane.

Now I am prepared to believe that my Spanish was capable of the most amazing interpretations (in a recent screening of the film ‘Heat’ I translated “this shirt was given to me by my son” as “my son needs an operation” – I take comfort from the fact that at least one noun was common to both versions) but I did take the bulb with me so that I could point at the actual item that I needed. This made no difference at all.

In my experience Spanish people have two responses to their inability to provide you with what you want. The first is pained indignation that you have asked them for anything in the first place, while the second is complete contemptuous dismissal that they could have, would have, or ever will have what you want.

Asking where you might find the item merely produces the vaguest of indication of a location which prompts you to start on a futile soul destroying pilgrimage from shop shrine to wayside street monument all of which do not contain the item you require.

The only reasonable response to a commodity request that I have discovered in my eighteen months in this country is to go to the Tabac.

Whatever you want a simple request to these purveyors of cancer sticks will usually prompt a retirement to the back of the shop and a later reappearance with what you want. I don’t know why it works, but it does. You want a stamp: Tobacconist. You want a walking stick: Tobacconist. You want a small ball point pen to fit in your wallet: Tobacconist. You want an A4 envelope: Tobacconist. You want a pen with a built in laser pointer: Tobacconist. You want open heart surgery: look elsewhere. Most needs though: Tobacconist.

Tomorrow: the test.

The end of the beginning?

Alas! The School That Sacked Me seems to be entering its final degenerative phase in its downfall.

The Owner, driven by her charmingly idiosyncratic view of education, has now shown herself to be mendaciously self-destructive. I can only hope that her dysfunctional implosion finally encourages parents to do the honourable thing.

The Owner’s view of who is important is somewhat exclusive and excludes pupils, staff and parents and suppliers, oh yes and local and governmental authorities. Her astonishing lack of concern makes her a difficult target. When you meet a person who considers a school as her personal dolls’ house with the contents of that ‘dolls’ house’ able to be manipulated, repositioned or discarded at her whim, it is not to be expected that the dolls start fighting back.

There comes a point, however, when even the very stones start to rebel. I know that anticipations of a new headteacher vary, but there is an expectation that the person in post will have some relevant educational qualifications and some experience of the various levels of education that will form the school. The Owner has decided that these basic requirements are not necessary for her dolls’ house!

In the ‘real world’ I would say that The Owner has taken that one step too far and disaster will assuredly follow her ignorantly petulant appointment. But, given the back catalogue of over a decade of impossibly unprofessional behaviour which has gone signally unpunished by the appropriate authorities – who knows?

Meanwhile there is reading.

I am getting back into the stories of Algernon Blackwood one of the true masters of suggestive horror. ‘The Damned’ is a remarkable story of virtually nothing (and yet everything!) describing the visit of two ‘arty’ types to the country house of a friend. This is the setting which gives a vivid personal account of the conflicts destructive bigoted religion enforces on a sense of place all tinged with a whiff of the damned in hell. It is only when the story becomes a little too narrative that it lessens the tension.

It is the sort of story which almost demands a film treatment. There is not that much of a story, but the suggestions in the words could be translated into a very interesting film with a director who uses technique for the narrative. It’s the sort of story which a director like Alejandro Amenábar (‘The Others 2001)could make something of. ‘The Others’ was at least partly based on The Turn of the Screw with its suggestions of horror being far more effective than any deliberate overt physical statement. That sense of suggestiveness is exactly what ‘The Damned’ needs as a cinematic treatment.

I wonder if it has already been done.

Back to the internet.