Language conflicts

A moment of true excitement in the Spanish class!

Not a general outcry of spontaneous delight at the rules governing the pronunciation of the letters ‘c’, ‘z’ and ‘q’ in their relation to selected vowels, no. Rather it was the altercation between two of the Russian students (adult ladies) who took ferociously different attitudes towards the general state of their country. In a strange way it was quite touching listening to the stuttering incomprehensibility of one who searched for Spanish words as if she was grasping for tree trunks while going over a particularly dangerous waterfall, while the other lady hissed her imprecations in rather more fluent and deadly Spanish. Such larks!

The confrontation was perhaps an inevitable consequence of indulging in a sharing of phrases which used negative connotations of different nationalities to gain expressive point. I contributed ‘French leave’ as a contribution from English to the general hilarity of the two French ladies sitting behind me.

I then tried to capitalise on my little colloquial triumph and promptly got into almost terminal linguistic problems when I tried to extend this xenophobia to the area of venereal diseases. My attempted explanation of the Shakespearean use of ‘French pox’ much used to denigrate our near neighbours was not what I could call a success. Things went fairly swiftly downhill during my clearly incoherent exposition in hysterical Spanish and I was only saved by the rather more fluent contribution of the Italian lady!

Altogether an exhausting and emotional experience.

And when I got back to the flat another little yellow form waiting in the post box informing me that the post person had made no attempt to deliver another package.

But, as this non attempt to deliver had been made yesterday (when no note was left) I would be able to go and get my package today because a day had been left since they had not tried to deliver it. If you follow the logic you can now see that this approach is actually quite considerate because it cuts out the frustration of actually waiting a day. By the time you find out that they didn’t deliver a day has already passed and you can collect the item from the post office!

This package contained the CD’s of The Complete Operas of Puccini an amazing offer from Sony with great casts even if the recordings are not of the most recent. So as I went to visit Margaret of the Broken Arm I wept gently as I drove as Puccini’s insidious music pushed all the emotional buttons. The first one I chose to listen to was ‘Turandot’ as this opera is part of my season in the Liceu this year. The other operas in the set include ‘Edgar’ and ‘La Rondine’ and ‘Le Villi’ as far as I know my playing of them will be the first time I have ever heard them. Indeed heard of them, might be nearer the truth!

The recording of ‘La Boheme’ has Caballé, Domingo, Milnes, Blegen, Sardinero and Raimondi with the LPO under Solti. Listening to that is going to be self indulgence of a high order!

Coffee and lunch with Margaret and Ian was stimulating and enjoyable with the addition of a past member of a London ballet company on the table next to us!

My return to the flat revealed that the post person had been back and left my copy of the BBC Music Magazine with the information that the concert of the month was to be found in Cardiff at the Opening Festival of the Hoddinott Hall next to the Wales Millennium Centre with the BBC National Orchestra of Wales & Chorus on the 22nd and 23rd of January. The Hoddinott Hall will now become the base for BBC NOW and presumably St David’s Hall will now become even more marginal in its financing as the regular support of BBC NOW is redirected to The Bay. Though looking aqt picutres of the Hall it doesnt seem to have the same seating numbers as St Davids Hall. More investigation is called for. I wonder if parking has been improved!

Whatever.

My best wishes go to an orchestra which I have supported since I was in school and have seen progress from an orchestra that struggled to play Beethoven with confidence in a series of less than perfect venues in Cardiff to a world class group of players with a world class concern hall who provided me with a performance of The Turangalila Symphony which I will never forget!

Meanwhile ‘Turandot’ washes over me and I must give in!

Grave thoughts

Having dispatched a few incomprehensible emails in response to those I sent out yesterday, I settled down to my day’s work.

I have managed to prise from the dead hand of the Spanish post office a book I have been eagerly awaiting, ‘The Book of Dead Philosophers’ by Simon Critchley ISBN 978 1 84708 010 3. It has been published by Granta and that gave me a pang of guilt when I remember that my subscription to that excellent magazine of new writing has been allowed to lapse with my removal to another country.

This book was recommended by The Week and it seemed to appeal to my ragbag approach to knowledge: notes on the deaths of 190 philosophers. This books as been designed to be read either straight through or by dipping. Exactly the sort of thing I like.

I read it straight through and although it is necessarily episodic you begin to see that Critchley is not writing this with the intention of producing philosophical lollipops but rather with substantiating his central thesis that paradoxically reading about death leads to affirmation of life. Philosophy can illuminate this by posing some “irresistible intellectual temptations from which we might finally learn how to live.” For Critchley philosophy is “to learn the habit of having death continually present in one’s mouth. In this way, we can begin to confront the terror of annihilation that enslaves us and leads us into either escape or evasion.” It is not an easy problem with which to wrestle but, “To philosophize is to learn to love that difficulty.”

This book is easy to read, but not necessarily easy to understand fully. There is an open invitation in the style of writing to be accompanied on an exploration of a frankly bewildering array of philosophers, some of who merit no more than a name and dates in bold print and a few lines. Others have more substantial space, but this is no balanced introduction to a few thousand years of philosophical thought it is a book with a thesis which is illuminated by anecdote, comment and even poems by Rowan Williams snatched from Wales to be Archbishop of Canterbury! The stories and lives are mundane, astonishing, bizarre and frankly unbelievable – but always fascinating.

Critchley wears his considerable erudition lightly enough for it not to repel but consciously enough for a reader to feel that he is in a safe pair of hands.

He is not afraid to let his own prejudices and experiences colour his prose. Who cannot warm to a man who, when talking of Elizabeth of Bohemia says, “whose uncle was Charles I of England, rudely but rightly beheaded in 1649.” Or when confronted by an apparent about face by the atheist Sartre in 1974 when Sartre refers to “this idea of a creating hand refers to God” Critchley adds “as a student of mine one said to me during a class I was teaching on Hegel, people say all sorts of things when they are drunk!”

There are names famous and names obscure for the neophyte philosopher in this book and it assumes a background of some historical and literary knowledge to set the characters in place. There are subtle and not so subtle references embedded in the text which, as in a good episode of The Simpson, you will either use to enhance your enjoyment or simply be unaware of as part of the narrative.

This is a satisfying book which will repay rereading. Perhaps it needs to be promoted to join the Sacred Texts of The Bathroom where philosophic contemplation is a sine qua non!

Lofty ambitions!

I’ve been to visit money today.

The non job interview was in a private school high on the hill overlooking Barcelona in a ghetto of private school institutions nestling among other moneyed establishments perched on some of the one-in-one slopes of this rich mount.

I found a parking space which threw me a little. My previous experience in the rarefied car packed narrow streets of this area was akin to a motorised nightmare with my eventually parking space for a school being in a not so adjacent underground car park of a hospital.

My entrance to the school was questioned by the teacher on duty at the gate but she accepted that I was arriving for an interview on my say so and allowed me to wander off into the school buildings unsupervised.

I eventually found a very helpful teacher who tried to find the person I had come to see and when that didn’t work she directed me towards an older part of the school which housed the administration.

The school is a mixture of ferro-concrete and plate glass at one end and elegant town house at the other. I stepped across artificial grass surfaces on which the children were playing to ascend the short flight of steps to the old glass doors which gave access to the secretaries and their reception area.

I was early, having left an hour to travel the twenty kilometres to my destination and settled down in the reception area on a Sheraton style chair to wait for my interviewer and to study my surroundings.

The reception area was small but solidly comfortable. A small but nevertheless impressive flight of steps curved upwards to the first floor; the walls had above average artworks by past pupils including a heavily worked scene in mosaic. Most impressive was the dark wood pair of heavily panelled doors in a dark wood alcove which housed the Director and the Library. They looked like something from one of the more pretentious banks when the Manager was able to lurk in opulence hidden from common view by a carved door of imposing magnificence. This was of course in the days when bankers were regarded with some degree of awe and not seen as the criminally irresponsible charlatans that we know of today.

It must cow the pupils if they are sent to the Director and have to wait outside such exclusive pieces of woodwork.

When I eventually got inside I was ushered to a low sofa in an elegantly furnished room and I half expected to be offered tea in exquisite porcelain cups with miniscule handles. But I wasn’t.

The interview was reasonably informal and hardly searching. They were courteous and informative, but the job that might be there would not appear until next year. As I am not working in The School That Sacked Me they offered the expectation that there could be some supply work which could be used as a way of getting to know each other.

I will have to get my qualifications ‘recognized’ by the Spanish government. This means dreaded paperwork and, as one of the interviewers explained, “The government is not helpful.”

I have downloaded the simple looking form which is necessary for the process to be completed but as the interviewer explained that was just part of their diabolic cunning. What they actually want and what they say they want are two different things and, when you don’t give them what they haven’t asked for they remain quiet waiting for you to provide what you don’t know that they haven’t told you they need to see.

To someone newly arrived in Spain the previous paragraph would seem to be a paraphrase of a trickier part of ‘Catch-22’, but we natives who have been here for over a year know as ‘real life.’

The authorities apparently want a full description of the courses that I have taken at University and in my training year. They want full Spanish translations of documents that I send. My degree certificate is written in Latin and my threshold certificate in English and Welsh. The original of my post-grad teaching certificate looks like an amateur attempt at a photocopied fake and my DES teacher number is on an ancient yellowing postcard. I can foresee months of frustration as the powers that be look askance at my ‘documents.’

This is where my every trusty e-book reader comes into its anaesthetising own! Delay merely sees me sitting serenely reading. Out of the 350 books that I have in my slim gadget companion there is something there to ameliorate the pernicious effects of pernicious Spanish bureaucracy in all its manifestations!

I have fired off another batch of e-mails to possible sources of employment and I now sit back and wait for responses. In one of my e-mails I quoted part of Malcolm’s speech at the end of Macbeth’ that should give them something to think about!

And when no responses come, I will turn to plan B.

Plan B will be unveiled in all its glory when I have finished my latest ‘medicinal’ extract from the gadget.

Perhaps.

Or there is much, much more to read!

It's a conspiracy!

Never in the annals of human duplicity have I seen such a blatant example of disregard for a fellow human being.

It Catalonia it is regarded as perfectly acceptable to denigrate the postal service (Correos) because it is Spanish not Catalan. The same goes for the Spanish Rail Network and the Spanish Government.

If you have been reading these daily screeds you will know that I am no great fan of the postal services as I have spent substantial periods of my life sitting on a low window still waiting for my number to be pinged onto the electronic board to indicate that I will at last be seen to.

Most, no, all of the time that I have spent in post offices in this country has been getting packages which have been undelivered.

No matter that I had been sitting at home waiting patiently like Hope on a monument, knitting or embroidering, tatting or working away at my petit point (bit of atmospheric artistic licence there) waiting for the post person to exert enough intelligence to direct a bleary glance at the appropriate bell and gather together enough energy to push it to let me know that he was below with my package: no sound, no package.

Alas, I must have been so engrossed in my domestic occupations that the raucous sound of the buzzer failed to make any impression on my eager expectation – or there might just be another explanation.

Until today, when a vast amount of mail was delivered, I assume that the post people have been amassing all the correspondence since Christmas because they have been signally loath to give any to the denizens of our block of flats.

Significantly among the welter of letters and information from my banks (Ah! That plural sounds more like desperation these days than any sign of material prosperity) was a little yellow sheet. This was the official indication from the post person that they had tried to deliver a parcel on the 8th of January. This indication (written by the post person on the spot and at the time of the delivery and posted into the box before leaving) was not there on the 8th, 9th, 10th or 11th of January. I checked. It arrived, as did all the rest of the post today, the 12th.

It is rather like the person who put his money into a coffee machine and watched helplessly as amid whirrings and clunks the apparatus went through its normal activities, but did not provide a plastic cup. So, as the twin spouts of coffee and milk gushed onto the metal drain where the cup should have been he remarked, “Look, the bloody machine is even drinking the stuff now as well as making it!”

I assume that the post office in a rare burst of honesty is now not even pretending that the post person goes through the farce of trying to find out if anyone is in to deliver a parcel. They merely send out the ‘we called but where were you’ notifications in the post, so cutting out the delay that writing out a lie would force on the consciences of hard working motor scooter driving post people.

The post office when I got there was heaving with people most of whom, surprisingly, were clutching little yellow forms which indicated that they too, all of them, had missed the post person when he didn’t attempt to hand over the parcel that the post office had no intention of attempting to deliver. Talk about coincidences!

I however, came ready armed and as my number was twenty away from the number being served and as only one person was actually dealing with collections and as there was, inevitably, one ‘difficult’ person who held up the whole process, I settled down with my e-book reader and tried to compose myself in patience and literature.

The wait was worth it because now I have my Photoshop Elements 7 and a 400 page book, ‘Photoshop Elements 7 for Dummies’ to go with it.

With the barely concealed impatience of a non delivering post person I leaped into the ruthless manipulation of my digital photos and managed to eliminate a pot plant from the centre of the table in one photo and replace it by table alone from another.

The fact that I had taken two photos specially to achieve this and that one of them was of the table with a flower and the other was without the flower made the objective of the exercise a little redundant, but I felt that I was getting nearer to my stated objective of creating a photograph of an impressive wave from the stunted variety of moving water features that we get rolling onto the beach in Castelldefels.

The next step is ‘layers’ which I think means plonking various photographs on top of each other and electronically scratching away until you get the bits that you want from the various shots to create a composite. At least I hope that it what it all means because I got a bad case of ‘Instruction Manual Aversion’ when I opened up the ‘friendly’ and ‘chatty’ book which is supposed to take me painlessly though the technical processes to ensure that the full artistry of my inner photographer can be released. I was merely left breathless and terrified at the complexity of the program I had just loaded.

On the other hand there is the painting!

One brick on top of another

Another little literary brick falls into place.

One of the few triumphs I achieved as a pupil in Gladstone Primary and Infants School, Cathays, Cardiff was in building.

I do not pretend, unlike so many who seem to have photographic recall about their early days, to remember which class I was in at the time, but I do remember that at some stage or other we were allowed constructive play. In my case I remember putting a great deal of effort into making a house.

It was a fiddly affair. You started with a green plastic base which was pierced with rows of holes. Into these holes you placed a series of very thin metal poles and, if they were the right space apart you could begin to slot in specially grooved bricks which made the walls and there were windows and doors all of which could be fitted into the structure. Eventually the whole thing could be finished off by an all in one roof.

In retrospect virtually everything in the kit to make the house was unsuitable for very young pupils, but in the Wild West days of education in the 1950s we kids were allowed to do things and use things which would probably be regarded as child abuse today!

In the way of children, houses were often started but never finished. You would run out of bricks, patience or a coherent sense of what a house was. But I came as near to finishing a house as anyone had done and I was promptly sent to the headteacher with my plastic dwelling to receive my due amount of praise. I can remember the praise and also the fact that the headteacher used the occasion to test my knowledge of my times tables and spelling!

I suspected in retrospect that the auxiliary tests were attempts by the headteacher to discover more of my ability than an imperfectly built model plastic house seemed to indicate. Proud though I was of my house I could not help notice that the walls were not perfect. I knew in my own home that all the walls tended to meet at ninety degrees with no gaps. This was not the case with my model: there were distinct gaps both horizontal and vertical. Gaps waiting to be filled in at a later date.

Those gaps never were. By the time I was older there was Lego as a building material in its pungent rubber manifestation before it lost its character and became rigid plastic with no character. The metal poles and plastic bricks I never met again. I don’t know what the system was called and I’m not sure that it is sold now. The gap house became a powerful memory and a useful metaphor.

The little house became for me an example of something which looked good, got me credit, but could have been better with a few more bricks.

I did not go into building so the metaphor has had to be pushed more into those areas which I found congenial: literature and art history.

When I was very much younger I thought that because I generally could tell the difference between a Monet and a Manet meant that I knew pretty much everything that a reasonable chap could be expected to know about Modern Art.

I often try and retexture the pleasure that wilful delusion gave me for the short period before I discovered just how little I really knew about even the most important painters in the more obvious art movements just in Western Europe. I can still remember the panic that Mary Cassat threw me into when I first saw reproductions of her work and discovered that she was American, and important, and that led me to the Prendergasts, who were also American, and important, and how did they fit into what I knew about modern art. The whole structure of my knowledge of art was turning into some sort of monster and threatening my very being!

It took a while before I was able to look on the growing areas of undiscovered ignorance as opportunities to enjoy new (for me) artists and realise that modern art in a modern world was going to be global and that I could only scratch at the surface of what was and is going on. Enough raw materials for more than a life time!

So, the concept of another brick in the wall (that phrase seems familiar somehow) is one which pleases me. Each time I discover something new I can hear in my brain the sharp little click as another tiny plastic brick slides into place guided by the slim metal poles of the structure.

The ‘brick’ which prompted this Proustian memory was reading a novel called ‘Nocturne’ (1917) by Frank Swinnerton. Swinnerton for most literature students is merely a footnote – a long lived writer and critic, probably more famous for his books on other writers, especially The Georgian Literary Scene (1935) and his autobiography than for his own creative writing. But now I have read his most famous novel ‘Nocturne’ and so the man who knew everybody literary who was worth knowing for his ninety odd years becomes a little bit more real.

I realize now, of course, that those gaps which seemed so difficult to fill in completely on the model are just as difficult when it comes to knowledge. Except here the gaps are vast voids and each little brick makes no perceptible difference in the filling of it up.

But that, surely, is the delight of it all!

Blow storm!

Reading pulp fiction has consequences.

Last night I was completing my reading of the latest part I have found of the Mars sequence of novels by Edgar Rice Burroughs (the author of the Tarzan books). These books concern the adventures of John Carter, the Virginian Gentleman, who manages to get himself transported in some ethereal way to the Red Planet from a skeleton filled cave in Arizona.

As I indulged myself in the fourth or fifth of these novels in my trusty e-book reader the heavens around me opened up and to accompany the swashbuckling, bloody adventures of the hero on Mars I had a thrilling sound track of the most extraordinary lashing hail storm that I have every heard. With a couple of hours of flashing lightening and absurdly melodramatic thunder I continued to follow my hero’s bloody trail across the dusty, dry sea beds of the dying planet. At some points it was almost as if my reading was directing the choreography of the storm!

Within months of his arrival on the dying planet John Carter has killed a vast amount of the indigenous life; evaded being eaten by various multi appendage monsters; united warring factions that had been mutually antagonistic for millennia; fallen in love and won a Princess of Helium; been made a high ranking chief in the horde he first met and learned the language. There is obviously nothing like a nineteenth century Virginian Gentleman for integrating fully into a non human extra terrestrial society!

The stories are dreadful and yet strangely compelling and I can’t really pretend that I was reading them to use their narratives and character portrayals as some sort of comment on the first two decades of the twentieth century when they were first published. They are ‘rattling good yarns’ with clunking plots and audaciously predictable twists. The characters are paper thin and everything seems to be settled by violence. The central character of John Carter is presented to the reader as a sort of modern day Viking, heroic of proportion and subject to a recurring form of blood lust – but with a gentle side which shows itself in the way he trains his monstrous beast companions.

The books were published between 1914 and 1922 and from the evidence on the internet they are still widely read. The turbulent times are certainly reflected in the action of the novels and the constant struggle for equilibrium, the bringing together of nations and the heartfelt plea to live in peace all have clear resonances in the chaos which marked these years. It is perhaps facile to attribute earthly national characteristics to the various green, white and red nations on Mars but it is almost overwhelmingly tempting and not very difficult to do!

Perhaps the most interesting book in the series is ‘The Gods of Mars’ which describes the mythic religion which is established on Mars and demonstrates the falsity of its basis showing how the corrupt priestly caste had used credulity and superstition to establish the religion and then live in spectacular institutionalized hypocrisy. John Carter is, of course, the motivating character who is instrumental in showing up the lies of the religion and destroying its hold on the planet.

I suppose that the hypocrisy of institutionalized religion is a fairly easy target and there are, after all, shocking numbers of flamboyant charlatan religious characters to choose ranging from some of the more rumbustiously worldly and lascivious popes to the sadly human prostitute haunting High Life living tele-evangelists of the present day. ‘The Gods of Mars’ still makes interesting reading even if one does feel that what one is reading in the literary equivalent of the Saturday morning serials which used to run in cinemas when I was a schoolboy.

Not, of course that I went to the cinema on Saturday morning. My school was The Cardiff High School for Boys. This institution should not be confused with the present Cardiff High School which has merely appropriated the name of what used to be a pair of highly selective single sex grammar schools and affixed it to a renamed school in a comfortably middle class catchment area.

The ‘real’ Cardiff High had lessons on a Saturday morning in emulation of the minor public schools which comprised much of our fixture lists. This means that for the whole time that I was in secondary school my family could never go away for a weekend on a Friday evening. On the plus side it did mean that in my first year I had games on a Monday afternoon and then I had Tuesday and Thursday afternoons ‘off.’ From the second year onwards we had games either on a Tuesday or a Thursday afternoon with the other being ‘free.’

It was only when I started teaching that I found that I was expected to go to school five days a week and all day! A salutary experience and something I had not done since the age of eleven.

It is hardly surprising therefore with this signal lack of the staple ‘with a mighty bound he was free’ type of entertainment in my youth that I should turn to it with more studied relish in my ‘maturity.’

I fear that I shall find that I have but scratched the surface of the library of Mars stories of Edgar Rice Burroughs and that a whole shelf of further adventures of John Carter will be lurking somewhere in the electronic universe waiting for me to download.

I hope there aren't too many!

Soup glorious soup!

Soup is such a trying dish.

Don’t misunderstand me, I like soup. True, in a restaurant one always has the vague feeling that the soup is the cheaper choice and the restaurateur laughs all the way to his bank account when he sees patrons happily drinking hot water that he can produce by the bucketful for a few cents. But it does taste good and on a winter’s day what is there better than nourishing, hot soup?

It is perhaps a reflection on the way that I was brought up that, from my experience, soup offers so many opportunities for the solecisms that terrified my mother.

So many things could and usually did go wrong. Soup is a watery, mine strewn plunge pool for the socially inept.

I was always sternly told, with a seriousness that I can still not really understand, that soup was always ‘eaten’ never ‘drunk.’

True, it was rarely offered in a cup when attending a formal meal, but I couldn’t help noticing that my favourite soups were quite clearly liquid with the ostensible eponymous vegetable or meat fibre having been reduced to a silky flowing consistency negating the necessity of chewing. Surely ‘drinking’ was the more obvious activity in its consumption. Such linguistic cavils were regarded as contumacy and were rejected as being merely mischievous.

More adventurous soups like minestrone with interesting bits in them which did necessitate some gentle chewing were seen as reinforcing the ‘eating’ aspect and showing the way for the more namby pamby soups which lacked the muscular viscosity of a true dish of food.

And this philosophical speculation was before you had picked up your spoon and started the socially hazardous process of eating the stuff!

The fact that the menu del dia in my corner restaurant offered soup as the only choice for the first course gave me ample opportunity to revisit my memories of the various prohibitions from my youth.

The restaurant provided baguette already cut into chunky slices. This precluded those lewd fellows of a baser sort from committing the ultimate crime of cutting their bread roll with a knife. I did this as a small child in a restaurant and my mother had the self control to wait until we got home before I was told to Never Do That Again. The knife by my plate I was told was there to allow me to spread butter on the roll which I would have broken in my hands. This was presented to me as one of the unalterable laws to question which would bring about the Fall of Humankind and bring lasting opprobrium on my poor self.

We still, you will note, have not tasted the soup.

The next obstacle was to find the soup spoon. In later years I was told that it was terribly lower middle class to have soup spoons at all (and fish knives and forks and pastry forks) and that dessert spoons were perfectly sufficient for soup – but the finer details of ‘U’ and ‘Non-U’ always left me behind; the jam/conserve controversy confused me and I invariably chose the wrong one in polite society!

Finding the soup spoon (because we were lower middle class) was usually not a problem using the old ‘start from the outside and work in’ principle when it came to cutlery laid out for you.

The real problem with the spoon was how to hold it. Luckily this was not a problem for me as I was told very distinctly how to hold it in a ‘fountain pen’ grip. But not a grip, more of a light balance.

With broken bread and balanced spoon you were now ready to begin the process of eating the soup. Under no circumstances whatsoever and especially if alone, could you blow on the soup to cool it. It might after all be gazpaco or Vichyssoise and the social humiliation of cooling the already cold might well be considered irreparable.

Soup should be taken on to the spoon by drawing the spoon gently away from the diner. At no time should be metal of the spoon touch the sides of the bowl. If you were so inept as to make a scraping sound taking up the soup then you might as well go the whole hog and simply tip the dish into your open mouth!

As the soup approached your mouth the only acceptable way of eating the stuff was to sip from the side of the spoon. Sipping did not mean slurping. To slurp was to put yourself beyond the pale of civilized life. Putting the whole spoon in your mouth was the cultural equivalent of spitting and putting your feet on the table.

As the level of soup slowly decreased (assuming you had managed to master all the necessary techniques to allow your continued presence at the table) it was allowable for you gently to tip the dish away from yourself and gently spoon up the soup.

Any soup adhering to the bottom of the dish and refusing to acquiesce to the laws of gravity had to be regarded as lost as only the most sensitively adept diners were capable of making the nice calculations which allowed them to use the spoon to gather the remaining drops of soup without scraping.

Having finished the soup (and resisting the urge to lick the spoon clean) the said implement should be placed neatly on the plate on which the soup bowl had been placed. In the absence of a supporting plate then the spoon should be placed at right angles to the diner and slightly off centre if the soup plate is flat rimmed or parallel to the diner if the soup bowl is without flat rim.

The table napkin (never, ever, ever a ‘serviette’) may be used to dab (not wipe) the lips.

At no point is it acceptable to put your elbows on the table.

It’s all quite simple really.

And none of the diners I observed in my local restaurant adhered to those rules. I include myself.

But, obviously, I kept to the most important rules, the essential ones.

And ‘we’ all know which they are.

Magnum opus?

To say that my mammoth (only in terms of time expended) painting of Sitges is nearing completion does not mean that it is finished.

The damn thing greets me each morning as a mute, yet eloquent expression of my artistic ineptitude. And please, I have heard the oft repeated sigh of artists that what they aim for and what they achieve are far apart. At least their hopes and execution are in the same arena; mine are not even in the same galaxy.

The thinnest brush that I possess does not for me produce a thin line of paint. Whatever expectations I have for the colour mixing in which I indulge the results are always a mystifying surprise. Paint just doesn’t go where I want it to go.

Yesterday at lunch in a local restaurant I ate underneath a painting which depicted a river flowing beneath a rustic bridge. The painting was awful. The subject was clichéd; application of paint amateur; the colour unrealistic and garish; the composition formulaic and the whole conception facile and repulsive. It also showed more technical skill in its atrocious description of water that I can even begin to emulate.

I love the physicality of paint: the actual three dimensional presence on a canvas in the swirls of pigment. The tactile quality of Van Gogh appeals to me strongly in the almost sculpted effect that he achieves not only in his landscapes and flower paintings but also in his portraits. The social comment obvious in a painting like ‘The Potato Eaters’ is made more immediate by the almost child-like application of paint, intensifying the pathos of the scene by a grotesque cartoon-like quality.

I manage to achieve the ‘grotesque’ and ‘cartoon-like’ but miss out on the effect!

Whatever my inability I will soon have to cope with the double edged present of a LARGE canvass for my name day. I have decided to follow the cynical comment of O´Keefe who said that she chose flowers for her subject matter because, “I hate flowers. I paint them because they’re cheaper than models and they don’t move.” There is a wonderful Hockney painting which looks as though it was inspired by a Maplethorpe photograph which I think I might take as my inspiration. As I recall most of the painting is plainish background which I think I could make a case for being of a ‘Japanese simplicity and starkness.’

So I reckon an orchid from Lidl, numerous photographs and a fair dose of audacity and I’m away!

I still await my Christmas present of Photoshop Elements which I hope will allow me to get away with much more in my photography than I ever hope to in painting.

My stated aim is to produce a reasonable photograph of a breaking wave and, having seen what Ian (the professional photographer upstairs) can do with photographs of the tame ripples that we usually get on the shore I am determined to emulate him.

You will notice that the significant word ‘professional’ in the previous sentence has been completely ignored by my good self and that blindness has left me brimming with the shining self confidence that has learned nothing from painful forays into the world of acrylic art.

This morning was the first Spanish lesson of the new term. It took the form of a two hour conversation about the effects of majority and minority languages. Catalan is an ever present bone of linguistic contention for the Spanish and other foreigners (as Catalans would see their fellow citizens and outsiders) and it is worried at on a daily basis. Spanish is much more widely heard in Castelldefels because of the number of immigrants in the area. Many of them are Spanish speakers, but do not speak Catalan.

Employment in certain jobs in Catalonia is restricted to those who speak both Spanish and Catalan fluently and education for the very young is confined to Catalan. Spanish is sometimes given the same, but no greater status in schools as the teaching of English! Which is odd when only one of those languages is ‘Official.’

I am obviously in favour of as many people as possible speaking the tongue of Shakespeare, Conrad, Dylan Thomas and me.

Since I have talked about Van Gogh, O’Keefe, Hockney and Maplethorpe in connection with my ‘art’ it only seems fair to drop a few other names to match my pretension in the world of the written word!

Where is my camera!

The Problem With Pasta

Life, as someone almost remarked, is too short to make ravioli.

It is invariably disappointing and the contents, whatever they purport to be, taste of nothing. I have glanced at recipe books and considered making ravioli and then dismissed it as being far too fiddly for far too little taste. Doctor Johnson’s sentiments about cucumber (with which I do not agree) could rightly be applied to the doughy disaster that ravioli so often becomes.

Having chosen the fresh pasta starter in my menu Del dia it was therefore with something approaching dismay that I saw the large crinkled envelopes languishing in some sort of orange sauce. They were filled with what I took to be my parents’ purgatory.

It was spinach.

As a child I eschewed all cooked leafy greens with the exception of the one leafy green neither of my parents could abide: spinach. They could have eaten this pasta with relish as it had no taste whatsoever of the fondly remembered vegetable.

I do not want you to get the idea that I was a picky child. All peas and beans (garden, processed, marrow, broad, runner and baked) were eaten by me with gusto. Indeed, those of you familiar with my enthusiastic attempts at culinary inventiveness will realise that this infantile approbation still beats on in the pulses that I will add in an instant to any concoction lacking what I consider a certain je ne sait quoi.

Luckily the addition of parmesan created a more than acceptable sauce when added to the savoury flavoured liquid surrounding the serrated squares so I was able to eat them with something approaching relish. Also they were served with the flair of Tachism as some unidentified form of oleaginous sauce had been artistically thrown on part of the rim of the dish giving the thing the look of a production from an avant garde potter chef from the 1950s.

And if any of you are still with me at this point I will stop writing like that. You see what happens when I read through a single almost perfect story by E F Benson! His style (or a pastiche of it) is very catching!

I am reading a collection of his short stores called, ‘The Countess of Lowndes Square’ and Benson has thoughtfully divided up his stories into categories so that his readers will be spared “a skipping hunt through pages in which they feel no personal interest.” The categories are Blackmailing Stories, General Stories, Spook Stories, Cat Stories and Crank Stories: an interesting exemplification of who Benson thinks his readers might be!

‘The Oriolists’ (one of his General Stories) concerns a group of people who invent a character to frustrate the vulgar ambitions of a society hostess. The concept is simple but the execution through Benson’s wicked prose is a delight, it catches the tone of social nicety that informs so many of Benson’s books. Social striving which oversteps the mark is his constant target but a target for which he shows far too much understanding of nuance to be an objective observer!

The finest expression of this ambiguity is seen in his Mapp and Lucia stories and if you haven’t read them then I urge you to do so. The unbelievable television series (which I still, having seen it, find faintly incredible) with the extraordinary combined acting talents of Nigel Hawthorne as Georgie Pillson; Prunella Scales as Miss Mapp and Geraldine McEwan as Lucia is a triumph of something that ought to be unfilmable. It is, or at least it should be still, available on video or DVD. Watch it. But the books are so much more even that a superlative television adaptation. Enjoy!

And the sun is shining!

Pulses are pests

Although I am getting know the little seasonal quirks of Catalonia, sometimes the details pass me by.

Today was Kings. Yesterday the three of them arrived in all reasonably sized towns and made their way in procession through the streets throwing sweets at the children who lined the route. Today I made my way from the warmth of sea side Castelldefels to the cold of Terrassa for lunch.

The lunch was delicious as usual but the important part was in the sweet. This comprised the traditional Roscón de Rey which is circular bread like cake with a hole in the middle. It is sliced across the centre and cream is spread between the two rings. The outside of the loaf/cake is decorated with crystallized fruit to stand for the jewels in the crowns of the wise men and the centre hole also contains a cardboard crown for the King of the meal.

This is where it gets interesting. Inside the cake are secreted a number of carefully wrapped objects and finding one is either quaint and interesting or expensive. The little objects we found in our Roscón included a tiny china duck, ditto tiger and ditto a disturbing oval faced girl. These are the interesting objects. There are two important ones to find: a king and a broad bean.

Finding the king means that you are king of the table and you are entitled to wear the crown. Though if you have a three year old child the chances of usurpation are 100% - though in this case the legitimate owner did eventually get a chance to wear the thing.

The tiny china broad bean is bad news. This little gift means that you are the person who will have to pay for the Roscón next year. I had not realized this and upon finding the king (a thoroughly repulsive and sinister looking little thing) in my chocolate cream I assumed that the gift would have to be mine. There was a general lightening of the atmosphere as soon as the broad bean was found and people helped themselves to seconds!

The meal was tainted for me by the weather conditions outside: it actually started snowing! The rest of the family were excited and wrapped up to go out and take photos of themselves with snow flakes on dark apparel.

I was thoroughly disgusted: the quid pro quo for my feet touching the earth of Catalonia was that the rest of my body would be bathed in almost continuous sunshine (at least during the daylight hours) and adverse weather conditions would be left behind me in Britain. I graciously allowed that snow could, if need be, virtually obliterate the Pyrenees but Castelldefels and immediate hinterland were to be kept warm.

I drove back through sleet, but my car thermometer rallied my spirits by slowly but positively rising as I neared the sea shore. The temperature in Castelldefels was double that in Terrassa – which sounds good but actually disguises the fact that Terrassa was a snowy, sleeting 2 degrees and Castelldefels was a torrid 4 degrees, but at least it was only raining here!

I have now completed the reading of E F Benson’s novel ‘Michael’. This is an odd little tome which concerns the progress of an unprepossessing member of the aristocracy who defies his father’s wishes and turns to a life in music. It was published in 1916 in the middle of the First World War and the action of the novel takes place before the start of the conflict and ends with a situation of mawkishly sentimental morality when the hero is invalided out after being wounded in the trenches.

The novel has little of the lightness of touch which makes the Mapp and Lucia novels by Benson as absolute delight to read and its seriousness grates because the narrative is so contrived. Two of the essential coincidences of the story are so astonishingly awful that you shudder as you read and as soon as War is declared you know what the second coincidence is going to be!

I know that life is full of the most impossible coincidences; things happen that no writer would have the bare faced gall to dare to put in a novel (unless he was Dickens of course) and hope to get away with it. If you want to hear totally unbelievable coincidence stories I suggest that you ask hard contact lens wearers to tell you tales of losing and finding lenses. I have heard stories about contact lenses that make Dickensian coincidence look as casual as F R Leavis after the gas attack. I have heard a few stories so fantastic that the only reason I have given them any credibility at all is because I have been telling them!

Benson is no Dickens, he isn’t even an F R Levis (though he is funnier) and his novel cannot sustain its intent after his manhandled plot. He does manage a few interesting character sketches and he does articulate a response to Britain’s state of unprepared ness at the start of the war and he illustrates the ethos that Britons liked to think that they were personifying in the struggle. ‘Michael’ is more of an historical curiosity than a literary gem.

One time the writing does come alive in when Benson is trying to express just how life affirming Michael’s use of music is and then Benson’s musical descriptions sound on the page. The other place in the novel which has a sinister effectiveness is when Michael is in the trenches: a hard, unpolished reality for a moment gives this novel gravitas before it slips into mere sentimentality. Still worth a read. But the Mapp and Lucia stories are a must!

I am writing this in a delicious silence, broken only by the sound of the waves - and a passing plane if I have to be strictly honest. The neighbours above, below and sideward have all departed to lead their ‘other’ lives in the city, leaving us seaside folk to our littoral lives.

Even a cup of tea tastes better when the sound of silence is yourself.

So I’ll have one!

Changing times

“I’ll meet you in an hour in the Wedgwood Room in Howells.”

My trips to the centre of Cardiff with my mother with myself either as companion and baggage handler or forced driver and baggage handler were always sweetened by a period of liberty when I could wander from book shop to book shop losing myself in the printed word until nagging guilt brought me back to reality and the rendezvous point.

In those distant days the Wedgwood Room in Howells occupied the ground floor next to the entrance from the Hayes: a prime position whose location, I have been told by a store manager is determined by how much a department makes. Sometimes I would be early and I would wander around picking up plates and cut glass and being deeply shocked by the prices. But I think it was part of my mother’s master plan for my development that I should constantly have the image of decent glass and china in my mind when I made my own purchases in the future.

God knows that training has worked. It is only by a stern effort of will that I am able to ignore the blandishments of a well set out display of crockery in a shop and it takes an equal unnatural concentration not to turn over the plates and look at the makers mark when I go to someone else’s house. I have to content myself by looking at their books on display instead to work out just what they are like!

So my childhood was dominated by Wedgwood – not that we ate off it at home, but it remained a clear pointer for domestic rectitude if funds allowed. I bought my mother Jasper Ware for some of her birthdays and Christmas including, I remember, a tea cup. Drinking tea from that item was a most unpleasant experience and it remained as decoration rather than use. I varied the Jasper Ware with cut glass. My mother developed a taste for Seagers’ Australian sherry (which was, as I remember 7/6d a bottle – a price I have no intention of translating into modern money as it is far too depressing) and she used to drink her tipple from one of my cut glasses. Not that I think of it the cost of the glass could have bought a couple of gallons of the ‘sherry’!

I can see some of the survivors of that era glittering in the afternoon sun adding distinction to a shelf not far from where I am writing.

And now this essential piece of my childhood memory and adulthood snobbery has reached crisis point. Wedgwood and Waterford have called in the receivers!

The company that employed William Blake to produce engravings of pottery outlines for their catalogues; the company which considered the workers as people and whose founders were always motivated by a strong streak of philanthropy; the name that made Etruria famous; a Wedgwood marrying Darwin; the key name in the Potteries; history, culture, ideas and an iconic mark – and now in the hands of the receivers!

I can see now why we were forced to learn Tennyson:

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.”
(from Morte D’Arthur)

Another strut is knocked away supporting the tunnel into the past!

They will be saying next that The Profumo Affair didn’t happen and it was all as innocent as a game of tennis!

But I have a feeling that scandal will remain in my memory as one of the most interesting, confusing, mystifying, exciting and intriguing public displays of mendacity, prurience, unwholesome glee, hypocrisy and good old sex that a twelve year old boy could have wished for in his adolescent development!

Beats crockery anyway!

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!