A day for musing

Another milestone passed: I phoned up the telephone company to complain about the lack of intent access. The telephone call was troubled with mutual incomprehension on both sides but the proof of the conversation is clearly indicated by the fact that there is now, irrefutably, internet cover.

It was depressing to see that the highly paid professionals of the telephone company could recommend little more than taking the plug out and putting it back in again. It worked so I shouldn’t even breathe a word against the struggling (if only in a linguistic sense) gentleman who made all things well.

If I had thought about it I would have done the same thing before I phoned him up, but I had dark thoughts about what might have gone wrong and I had no desire to exacerbate the situation.

Yesterday I went in to Barcelona ostensibly to look at the Christmas lights and take a few photographs and perhaps mosey round the shops and sneer at the lack of bargain opportunities which will, in retrospect be even more glaring when I waltz around the January sales in the few hours of spare time that I am going to get when I visit the UK just before the re-start of school.

I shocked myself by the lack of spending that I did and was congratulating myself on my positively unnatural sense of restraint when I just happened to go up six escalators to the electronic department of El Corte Inglés. There, after some intensively desultory searching I happened upon the Apple store.

There is a product made by Mac which is sleek and silver and elegant and ridiculously expensive. It was while I was drooling over the MacBook Air 11 that I was accosted by a young girl who, after admitting that she spoke a little English, spoke none at all and witch like with foreign blandishments urged me to buy the said machine.

And I said “yes” and she said “we don’t have one at the moment” and I took that as the word from god that I should not even think about one. No, not even when she said that she would take my name and phone number and let me know at once when she was able to get one. I resisted. I stood firm. I went down the six escalators feeling undeniably cheated and yet, at the same time, a more moral person.

By the time that I had reached my car which was two floors underground the moral superiority was totally gone and the feeling that I had been “untimely ripped” away from what was rightfully mine had taken over.

It was then that MediaMarkt (think Temptation in the Desert and you get some kind of idea of what kind of role this unprincipled store plays in my life) came whispering into my mind, telling me that they sold the machine and, what is more, they were giving away a disk drive free, gratis and for nothing. As long as you paid a king's ransom for the machine itself.

It was night (seeing the lights remember) when I set off for home and I decided to give god another chance to make his message clear. I would cut off the usual road that I took home from the city and go onto the parallel motorway. From this road it was but a matter a moments to go into the shopping mall in Gava and find out if the store was open and . . .

So I took the road and then, just as I was about to join the motorway I took the wrong turning (something very easy to do given the darkness and the appalling road signing) and found myself going back the way I had come. I therefore took another turning to right myself and found that I had got on to a one way road going in the wrong direction with a low wall down the centre to ensure that mistakes could not be corrected.

With the magnanimity for which I am famous I decided to give god a “best out of five” opportunity to stop me getting to the shop.

Eventually I found myself on a bit of motorway that I knew and, inwardly cringing at the distance that I had manoeuvred myself out of my normal course, I made doggedly for the shop which I knew must, by this time be closed.

It wasn't.

My last chance of salvation was that they did not have the model that I wanted. At first it looked, as two assistants looked, that the specific machine I had insisted on what not there. However, four cupboards later there it was packed in a box as elegant as the contents. Clutching my free disk drive (a sop to a guilty conscience if ever there was one) I staggered my way to the check out.

Where my credit card did not work. This was because the cost of the machine was so astronomical that my card was not authorized to the full amount.

The girl behind the till was not fazed for a moment. She knew what had happened and she knew (dammit!) how to deal with the situation, so that within a few thumping heartbeats she had done what was necessary and I, with faltering feet and slow, was making my way to the poetically just subterranean car park for my journey home.

Where I am sitting at the moment, on the sofa in the living room, I can see two other laptops that I own which, if you think about it, makes this purchase all the more inexplicable.

Except, the others do not have an Apple logo that light up on the lid when the machine is in use; they do not have the metallic gleam that this one has; they do not have a power supply lead where the tiny head that fits into the power socket of the machine is magnetic and they are so, so heavy. So there.

I don’t even have the courage to take it into school. I will wait for next year when I will have a proper case for it. At the moment I am using something which was given away free with the magazine “Muy Interesante” and is bright red and lacks the refined sophisticated aura of expense that this seductive sliver exudes.

Well, it is bought now so the least that I can do is learn to use the thing as it should be used.

Perhaps as expiation I should put the Christmas tree up. Good old fashioned misery as recompense for the gratuitous indulgence in conspicuous expenditure!

Paul continues to be bored in hospital as he waits for a bed to become available for his operation to take place. It seems strange to be sitting here and not visiting him: the practical problems aside it is impossible not to feel a little guilt at not being there. It seems likely that he will be in hospital over Christmas which is not something that you would wish on anyone: but better that than not being taken care of. At least I will see him in January.

Now the tree and the misery of decoration only partially lessened by the thought that there are only three days left in school.

Onwards to the tinsel!

Things to come

On the radio an announcer said that the coming cold snap in Britain could be long lasting and be as severe as that experienced in the early 1960s. If that is true then the UK is in for a considerable amount of disruption.



My sympathy goes out to my fellow countrymen, but that sympathy is tempered by the fear that disruption could extend itself into the New Year and especially when I am supposed to be travelling to the country to meet friends and to have a damn good evening meal and a robust breakfast the next day.


I am only concerned about getting there on the 6th of January; I think that I can cope with being stranded in my native land surrounded by blankets of snow – as long as my friends can accommodate me!


To be fair the weather here is cold too and even the sunshine seems a little more muted today; the skies a little greyer and the weekend looking as though it might (yet again) be something of an anti-climax after the blue autumnal days that we have had during the working week!


I have decided to put up the Christmas tree as I will be in Castelldefels for most of the holiday and so I will get value for the effort that it always takes to set the thing up.


I am disappointed with the range and variety of Christmas tree decorations that are on sale. Usually at this point in the year I will have identified grotesquely expensive decorations in a few shops which might be worth looking out for in the wonderful sales which are not (repeat not) a feature of Spanish and Catalan life after the Day itself.


I am pleased with the three metallic filigree angels that I bought in Zara for more money than I have paid for Christmas decorations for a long time, but they seem very much the exception rather than rule and the cheap shops have decorations whose tacky vulgarity I cannot even pass off as Post Modernist irony were I to buy some. Perhaps I have not been dedicated enough in the way that I have approached the purchase of new decorations.


My usual way of proceeding is to plunder the sales then put away the new decorations so that their rediscovery in late December comes as something of a surprise. Sometimes they come as a total shock as one year I put the things in another place and didn’t discover them again for a few years and I really had forgotten them by the time they saw the light of day again!


But last year (and the year before that) I found nothing at a bargain price to encourage me to part with my money, so I suppose I do have some justification in buying something new.


With the newly rearranged living room where the space is now more open and not so compartmentalized there is still a problem of where to put the tree as a revolving bookcase is where the logical(ish) site should be. A slight to negligible problem in the scale of things. But a problem nonetheless.


The Indian meal this evening in the regular place in Port Ginesta was, at the start of our meal divided into two. In the major part there was scaffolding and Indians painting the superstructure of the interior of the restaurant so that the heavenly scent of the food was mixed with the pungency of paint.


The food was well up to the required standard and the conversation with Caroline just as expansive and before we knew it, it was quarter passed eleven. Caroline returned home with a small doggie bag of boiled rice and curry for her husband: a small gesture of thanks for babysitting!


Tomorrow the Christmas tree!

The long slog of the last days

I really, truly and sincerely did not want to get up this morning. I was warm and comfortable and I had a sneaking suspicion that if I got out of bed then I would find that it was dark and cold.



And it was.


I drove to work in the dark with that simmering resentment that all teachers know so well.


Even the fact that there were only five more days to the holidays did not raise my gloomy thoughts.


Starting work at 8.15 am is no joke and I was still harbouring resentment about the fact that I lost a free period for a head of school to have a meeting yesterday. It would appear that four and a half hours of meetings outside school hours is insufficient for this organization!


The sun, however, did emerge from the gloom and although not hot there was warmth as long as you were in direct contact with the rays.


And, as I was taking over a patio (playground) duty from a colleague I was. I refuse to wander about disturbing the smokers and the pupils up to other nefarious wrong doings but rather take out a chair and sit magisterially and survey the kids from the vantage point of the terrace.


In normal schools a teacher on duty is left severely alone. Not in this one. My chair was soon surrounded by a variety of pupils from a range of years engaging me in conversation. I had been hoping to continue reading a trashy American murder mystery on my phone (I still get a kick from saying that!) but that was impossible with the demands of the kids.


During one conversation a girl reminded me that I had told her two years ago that a gentle tapping on a part of the body would result in bruising if continued for long enough. God alone knows what prompted that little nugget of information to be produced in a lesson; though given her recent marks it would appear that not everything that I tell her actually remains in her brain!


At the end of the interminable day I finally managed to slip out of school a few minutes early during the remains of a period devoted to a departmental meeting (don’t ask) to try and avoid the unholy congestion that snarls up the narrow street around the school.


Making good time I decided to call into our local shopping centre and get some more disposable fountain pens. That was all that I was going to buy: clear, simple and cheap.


When I finally emerged from the centre I had bought a rather fine wide china cup with a yellow interior to go with the green individual cup tea maker; three delicate metallic angel Christmas decorations; a pair of noise reducing earphones; a tray with a mosaic design of using small rectangular black and white retro views of aspects of Barcelona; a selection of food and a boxed set of toiletries.


The after shave purchase was an interesting one as I was accosted by a fearsomely cosmetically challenged lady who offered to help as I picked up a box of stuff. I asked if I could try the after shave and I was promptly taken in hand.


I was given a sample of the fragrance that I had selected on one of those strips of card which, being wafted under my nose gave me the impression of slightly suppressed flowers. I grudgingly allowed her to squirt some on the back of my hand and I was gratified to find that my skin was working with its customary magic.


On me the after shave smelled nothing like the impression from the strip of card. The rather effete flowers had given way to something altogether more musky and not unpleasant.


I was given another squirt of something from a bottle which looked like an exploded and fragmented square which was reduced to sheer vulgarity on contact with my skin.


Her last attempt was something which smelled inoffensive on the card but transmuted to toilet freshener on contact with my epidermis. The lady who had been sniffing my hand as the experimentation proceeded looked frankly shocked by this emanation and mildly panicked until she reverted to the original choice which by then had settled down into quite a good scent. So I bought it. After all her work it was the least I could do!


Having loaded all my booty into the car I finally made it back to the house where I expected to see a gap where the bollard used to be.


I was gratified to find that my worst expectations were not realized and that the metal post was still standing where it should have been!


My innate sense of suspicion immediately told me that the Guilty Party was merely biding her time for me to drop my vigilance to spirit the thing away during a dull hour on the back end of Sunday.


Perhaps I am wrong and, at the third attempt of the local council to establish these metallic defenders of our space she is prepared to concede defeat and abide by the rules.


I have just had a phone call from Paul 1 who told me that Paul Squared has been taken in to hospital where they have ascertained that he has had a “cardiac incident” which could turn out to be a heart attack. This could be a life changing moment if Paul responds to the message that such an “incident” can be.


Such things put grumbling about the stresses of school life into a different sort of perspective.

Crime continues!

Our local council have (bless them!) replaced the bollards which they erected along the pavements during one furious day of frantic construction a couple of months ago. Not all of the bollards, you understand, just the one that our neighbour keeps knocking gently enough to dislodge, so that one of her grown up children can wrench it out of its hole and place it in the rubbish!



This wonton criminal damage is done so that she can park her car on the pavement herself and she is so inept at parking that she needs to take a gentle sweep across our drive to get to her front gate.


I like the bollards as they dissuade visitors from parking on the pavements themselves and thus blocking us in. It is a typical piece of selfishness on her part which is on a par with the collection of mutts that she keeps and which she allows to bark at all hours of the day and night. Allegedly.


I suppose that I have to put in that last world to save myself from the fear of a totally unjustified prosecution. I have, however taken a photograph of the car parked within inches of the post and also a photograph of the gap around the base of the post where it has already been loosened prior to its removal I suspect. Before I go to bed I shall check that the post is still there as we have daily refuse collections and the item will be whisked away in short order.


The pevious post I rescued from the rubbish myself, having worked out how the criminal mind would work in this part of the world. I informed the local council that I had the post and would willingly surrender it to be replaced.


I realize as I type that I am sounding more and more like a retired military man in Cheltenham (or perhaps Hove would be a better example given our proximity to the water) fulminating against the petty irritations of “damned scoundrels” who simply do not “play the game” – but you only have to see the amazing disregard for all civilized standards of reasonable parking in the summer in this area to realize that the bollards are a local government godsend.


I confidently expect the bollard to be gone by the time that I come home from school tomorrow evening. If it has then I will go to the town hall at once and start making pretty unveiled accusations vaguely hidden behind my appalling Spanish!


School is still resolutely not feeling festive in spite of the fact that there are now only five working days left before the holidays. And yes, I am counting.


I have had a few Christmas cards and I realize that I have sent none, so this weekend will have to see me try and discover where I have hidden the lists that I made some time ago with names and addresses on them.


My attempts to recreate the festive email which I sent last year have so far resulted in no picture being attached to the electronic Christmas card. That is something else that I can work on during the weekend.


I am assuming that Toni will make the requisite purchases to keep the Family at bay and then I can relax with a good book and treat the holiday in the way in which they should be treated.


Not forgetting my resolution to do something about my post modernist library. A little more of the Classical and a little less of the Abstract Expressionist will work wonders for the ordering of the books into some sort of arrangement where I stand an odds on chance of finding a book I know I possess.

Time is dragging

Four and a half hours of after school meetings in two days!



Even the thought that they would never be able to get away with this abomination in the UK is of little comfort when you are actually sitting in the middle of one of the interminable tortures as they (I say nothing unless directly asked a question) pick their way through the tortured lives of our poor little rich kids who are not making the grade.


It is living torture and the participants seem to relish the whole bloody experience, while I gnash my teeth in impotent fury and think of book that I haven’t read because I consider them hard going and think that even they would be preferable to listening to colleague as they vacillate between Spanish and Catalan.


I would rather be reading “The Fairy Queen” – surely I can say no more for the level of desperate boredom that I reach within five minutes of the start of the meeting.


I look back on so-called “Curriculum Meetings” in my last real school with something approaching fondness – and those were meetings where colleagues sometimes watched me rather than listened to what was going on as they hoped that this would be the occasion when I actually burst into tears of hopeless despair rather than merely looking as if I was on the point of so doing.

Never mind, I keep telling myself, there are now only six teaching days to the holidays; and these holidays seem (at this point in the long drawn out term) to be of almost heavenly length and stretch from the evening of the 22nd of December to the morning of the 10th of January! O bliss!


I am still firm in my resolve that this holiday will see some sort of real attempt to bring order to my library: I wonder if this resolution will survive to the 23rd of December!


Although the dining room in school has sprouted a stunted Christmas tree and a few hanging decorations which are at my head level there is almost no sense of it being near the (or in the) festive season.


A few houses in the vicinity have at last put up a few lights and one or two flats have a Christmas tree ostentatiously in the window but it doesn’t even come close to the over-kill on British television and in British shops. Visiting Britain in early December was something of a culture shock: not only the remnants of snow but also shop windows filled with Christmas trash and aisles in supermarkets groaning with Christmas food and gifts (at all prices!)


Catalonia is not like that. Admittedly I am in a small seaside town rather than wandering about in the wonderland that is the centre of Barcelona, but one would still expect shopkeepers to be doing their level best to get the euros out of pockets. Even the weather is unseasonably warm: it was cold coming home (after another bloody meeting, sorry, but they do rankle) but the temperature was 11ºC – which was a considerable number of degrees warmer than the day’s high temperature in my home city! I should count my blessings!


In school our groups have changed. In the first year the class changes at some point in the term so that at the end of the year each first year English teacher will have taught the entire first year intake.


This is so that at the end of the year we will know the names of the whole of the year and we will be able to refer to children for the rest of their time in school by their first names.


Yes. Right. Good idea. But for me. I freely acknowledge that I have a sort of psychological problem with learning names which I have no desire to deal with at this stage of my career. I always feel that as long as I can usually get the names of my immediate colleagues right more often than wrong then I am doing as much as I can reasonably be expected to do. Any greater expectations will I am afraid be not met. The name neutral greeting of “Hello there!” has stood me in good stead for umpteen years and will see out my time in this school. I think.


Only one class has demanded that I know their names and that effort last year is still clear in my memory as a time of almost impossible intellectual effort!


So today I had another tranche of kids for my Media Studies class (last two periods of the day) and some of them I have taught before and some of them I am actually teaching now in their English class. So, some kids I will actually see for three periods a day for one day a week. Which is something to think about!


What changing classes at this stage of the term with only a handful of days to go before a longish holiday is that you start the introduction to your course and then the kids forget everything by the time they come back and you have to start again.


I have designed the course this time to be intentionally fragmented so that each of the “bits” can be taught individually so that there will still be some sort of continuity as we make our way through what I want to teach when you look back at the bits.


The other course I co-teach with Suzanne has also started. This is an introduction to modern art. This course too has been modified as last term a small group of students was taken out of the whole group and given the task of translating a children’s book about the disaster in Haiti from Spanish into English. This is (hopefully) gong to be published and sold in aid of the people of Haiti. So a whole group of kids did not join the main group until well into the course.


We started the course this time will the whole group together and them completing an exercise where they were give small colour reproductions of a whole range of paintings from our period. They had to make a selection of from seven to nine of the paintings for an exhibition, choosing one as a “masterpiece”. They were also allowed to choose five of the paintings and put them in a Salon de refusés on the back wall of their cardboard gallery.

Ceri will be gratified to learn that most of the groups chose one of his paintings to adorn the walls of the galleries, while Warhol, Pollack, Rothko, Cezanne etc all featured in the rejects!


It is very difficult to work up any real enthusiasm at this stage of term where all my colleagues (and the kids) are all jaded and exhausted. God help us all when we start the long slog in January to the promised land of the Easter holidays! With no half term!


Still, this is no time to think about that: six more working days. Ah!

A true Sunday

A day with marking!

Admittedly there was plenty of displacement activity up to and including hoovering! But, nevertheless, marking was done!


As part of the displacement activity a phone call to Dianne “reminded” me that Ceri’s significant birthday was in January and that, given the generous length of the Christmas holidays, I would be able to pop over and celebrate.


It is always envigorating to discover that with a few key strokes on the internet flight and car can be booked and, paid for this far in advance, it will appear that the trip is free by the time I go on it.


The actual celebration will take place in a Michelin Starred Restaurant in Monmouth, The Crown in Whitebrook and is certainly something which gives a warm comfortable light to the dark days of early January.

With any reasonable luck the snows will fall and I will be stranded in the UK unable to take up my duties in the institution on the hill in Barcelona. There must be a personal premium from global warming somewhere along the line!


The date on which I am leaving is the celebration of The Kings in Catalonia which allows children to get a sort of second Christmas as present giving is an essential part of the festivities after the kids have been pelted with sweets from the street processions which are also part of the spectacle.


I must admit that the possibility of taking part in the consumerism rush known as the British January Sales is more likely to engage my interest rather than an assault by boiled sweets!


The History of the World in 100 Objects continues to bemuse and stimulate as I strip, what are for me, shreds of fascinating knowledge from the pages. It also makes me want to revisit the British Museum and find some of the objects described in the book. I wonder if there is a “100 Objects Pathway” through the museum now, or if some of the cases have a sticker pointing out the individual article’s inclusion! I do hope so; virtually anything short of armed kidnapping is worth trying to get people through the intimidating portals of our museums.


In Spain all museums have an admission charge, although there is a cultural identity card that teachers can get which gives free admission to some, though not all, of the collections that are held by the state.


I think that the idea behind the “100 Objects” is something which should be taken up by other institutions and they could tailor the title to the strengths of the individual collections. As one of the foremost institutions of its type in the world the British Museum can easily accommodate the grandiose “History of the World” designation, but something more domestic in terms of Barcelona would be a great way to get people into the galleries of the city and it would encourage us to look more closely at what they contain.


There are ten days left in this term (eight, if you take out the next weekend) and then we are supposed to get our pay for December and also the “extra pay” that is an odd feature of the way the salary is considered in this country.


At Christmas and in the Summer you are paid an extra month`s money with your normal salary.


Disturbingly, I have heard from other people that the amount of this extra pay has been cut (The Crisis! The Crisis!) by up to 30% for some teachers. Nothing has been said in our school and so I am assuming that the pay will be as normal.


You have to understand that the Generalitat has cut the salaries of governmental employees by 5% as part of their “brave” approach to compensate for the criminally reckless activity of some callously selfish bankers. Part of our salary is paid by the Generalitat and was therefore cut by 5%. Our type of grant-aided school has taken the government to court saying that such action is not justified in our particular case, but, in the mean time (while we wait forthe equivalent of a Daniel come to justice!) our school has made up the salary to its normal amount. I hope that they will do the same for the “extra pay”.


Please note that even factoring in the so-called “extra” pays (surely just a way of delaying proper payment throughout the year) I have to go back a number of years in the UK to find a salary as low as the one that I am now paid! In terms of Unions and professional pay Spain has a considerable way to go before it reaches parity with the most mean of the more northern countries!


I do most solemnly swear that I will do something (leaving that word carefully undefined) about the chaos of my books this holiday.


I have attempted to find a few books over the last few weeks that I know that I have and they are mislaid as surely as the books from the 1970s that the British Museum Reading Room used to say were lost and unable to be produced “due to enemy bombing during the war.”


A library, if it is to be anything more than a random collection of vaguely interesting artefacts, has to be organized so that the aspiring librarian at least has a reasonable chance of finding a volume that he knows he possesses. “Froth on the Day Dream” still has not surfaced and that is an ongoing irritation which is a prod in the direction of order!


However before any books are “sorted” I am presented with two decisions that will have to be made: shall I put up the Christmas tree this year, and if so, where can I put it?


These are weighty considerations and something to think about before I drift off into oblivion.

Comestibles

I may have been wearing a jumper and a vest but I did have lunch on the outside balcony of our local restaurant on the beach. There was a brisk, blustery wind and the paper place mat had to be held down with the wine bottle and the knife and fork but the sun was in my face and it was acceptable.



I was, of course, the only person not wearing a coat and the only person not looking as though they were very much braving the elements sitting in the open air!


While the meal was perfectly acceptable the view over the sea looking towards the headland in the distance at the end of the sweep of the beach with the sun slowly sinking was breathtaking.


The incentive to leave the restaurant and go home was what had arrived early in the morning.


Having been brought up on Radio 4, I am a true disciple of the “unconsidered trifle” approach towards human knowledge. I delight in the squirreling away of unrelated facts, opinions and assertions like some sort of bookish magpie - and what arrived this morning feeds this need.


Having heard a few of the broadcasts I was eagerly awaiting the book which simply had to be produced to go with the series and Amazon (god bless it) afforded me the opportunity to get the book at cut price so that even with the postage and package I still managed to save almost ten quid.


“A History of the World in 100 Objects” by Neil MacGregor is published by an impressive trinity of The British Museum, the BBC and Allen Lane. It is a delight.


Where else, in one set of hardback covers, could I have found out that the blue colour in the Hokusai woodcut of The Great Wave is actually Prussian Blue and not a native Japanese pigment and therefore the print is a reflection of the opening up of Japanese society rather than a stylized statement of its otherness; that Lothair (he of the Crystal showing the story of Suzanna and the naughty elders and a descendant of Charlemagne) was King of Lotharingia a country squashed between the greater possessions of Charles the Bald in the west and Louis the German in the east. This country was devoured by his neighbours after his death but, and this is what I didn’t know, the name of Lotharingia survives in the name of Lorraine!


If things like that don’t interest you then I can only echo with Mr T and say, “I pity the fool!”


The book is a treasure trove, both literally and in a descriptive sense as MacGreggor’s writing is short and to the point and aimed quite clearly at the general reader.


The range, as you would expect if you could draw on the resources of an institution like the British Museum is astonishing ranging from the pebble looking stone sculpture of the Ain Sakhri Lovers Figurine of 9000BC to the much more detailed lovers in the rather surprisingly explicit Warren Cup from Roman times from some 9000 years later.


From The Rosetta Stone to a gold VISA card the objects defy expectation and the urge to read is akin to that I feel when I inadvertently open The Guinness Book of Records and lose myself inside. I fear that this book is going to make my everyday conversation even more unbearable than it is at the moment. After all Radio 4 listeners are few and far between in this part of the world so I have the field clear to drop interesting pieces of information into any conversations in which I happen to find myself!


Back to the book!

Seems is what is real!

We have all agreed that only teaching Thursday and Friday this week has not meant that the teaching week has seemed dramatically shorter. This is a well attested phenomenon that is a function of teaching late in the term and any teacher with more than a few days experience will assert the truth of the observation.



This is especially daunting as next week (a full week) starts off with one of our legendary and interminable meetings after school when ever single class is commented on and every teacher has to make some sort of fatuous comment.


Of course as we are taking about individual students and classes and not educational theory or curriculum everyone has something to say – apart from my good self when I only speak when I am forced to; and only then through gritted teeth.


We have now been told of the “final” arrangements for the so-called “White Week” or “Ski Week” or “Trip Week” that is going to take place in late February or early March.


We people who are not (emphatically not) going on any trips with any pupils have been told that, thanks to an arcane calculation we will be required to come in to school for three days in the week from 9 to 1 pm. Monday and Friday are both “free” making satisfyingly long weekends at each end of this fiasco.


To be fair the week is not the fault of the school but rather of an idiot of a minister for education in Catalonia making up policy on the hoof and then looking on bemusedly as schools tried to make practical sense of his mindless pronouncements.


The school does actually pay teachers a flat rate for each day that they go on a trip with the pupils, but this does not compensate for the woeful rates of pay for our full time services. This is just of academic interest to me as going on school trips is not something which I would contemplate however much (and it isn’t that much) extra that they pay.


A few Christmas trees have gone up in the school but there is precious little sense of the festive season around. In Castelldefels the main street is bedecked with furry coloured discs suspended across the street and our part of the town has sprouted a single forlorn Christmas greeting across one of the side streets. There is no evidence of Christmas trees blazing away behind net curtains and the number of external lights on houses is summed up in the single word “paucity.”


The single clearest indication that Christmas is imminent is the supermarket shelves groaning with the weight of solid slabs of calories in the shape of turron. This confection comes in all shapes sizes and consistencies and represents the total sugar output of half a dozen Caribbean islands. No festive home is complete without it and an unwary visitor is presented with a bewildering array of tooth rotting delight to eat.


One gets much more of a sense of Christmas from watching (as I now can) British television through the magical assistance of the internet and the Pauls’ “switchbox”. I don’t really understand the details but my birthday present of a complex program on my laptop means that I can infiltrate my televisual way into a house in Rumney and Cardiff and using their aerial in some sort of undefined way piggyback my way onto the airwaves.


I watched an episode of “Grand Designs” and realized how much I had missed intelligent, well presented, interesting television!


Time for a little more!

What next!

The trauma of going back to work after the too short/too long holiday of three days added to the weekend was made even worse by the fact that it rained as well!



In a comic re-run of our “self inflicted injury” approach to deadlines, no sooner were we back on the treadmill of lessons than we were worrying about the collation of examination results and the termly grades that are the be-all and end-all of the educational life of our school. Suddenly everything has to be done and dusted by midday tomorrow. A self imposed deadline which, as far as I can see has no real relevance to anything in the so-called “real” world as opposed to dictates of the fervid atmosphere of our institute on the hill!


I didn’t get out of school until 6 pm this evening after marking part of the sixth form’s mock exam which should have been marked by a computer but had to be done by hand as we do not have the optical reader which would have allowed me to leave way before darkness fell!


The fun and games continue on Monday when we have one of our periodic monster meetings of the entire teaching staff talking about pupils way into the same darkness that engulphed me this evening.


The stories of what happened today in the demonstrations against the imposition of increased tuition fees for university students is a disturbing indication of what is to come.


Even in my days in university all demonstrations were places where, mixed with the “normal” students making a shamefaced manifestation of their wishy-washy liberal sentiments, there were always members of the hard left or the SWP or Communists (in the days when it was still intellectually acceptable to feel something approaching toleration for that much abused system) or hangers on from some sort of more politically involved group than the overwhelmingly white, middle class and slightly diffident students making polite demonstrations that I was involved with.


Smashing shop windows in Oxford Street and splashing paint on the Roller of the Prince of Wales seems to be a taste of what is yet to come.


The cuts have not yet really begun to be felt by the general population and, it has to be admitted that student tuition fees is something of a side issue from what is going to affect the pockets of the people in Britain in the next couple of years.


The Lib-Dems, after swigging deeply from the poisoned chalice should not be particularly surprised that the party is now imploding to a chorus of vituperation from people who feel that they have been betrayed by the vacillating approach which is an integral part of the realities of being part of a government which is largely made up of people with whom you don’t agree. I am not sure what the Lib-Dems should have done, but I am blood sure that I will never forgive them for joining the government of Conservatives and I look forward to their being cast into the everlasting darkness (with burning sulphur ever unconsumed) there to gnash their organic, macramé brushed teeth in impotent agony. God rot them. And the Conservatives too. Don’t think that I failed to notice that the so-called Prime Minister of my country invited That Woman to come and have tea with him in Downing Street. God rot the lot of them!


Much as I despise those in the political ascendency at the moment in my country, I am equally disgusted by the violence which opportunistic demonstrators use which devalues the reasoned opposition of those with a valid case against the present shifting of the weight of payment for the present financial crisis away from those who are mostly to blame and onto those who lack the power to force the government to protect their privileged positions in the financial system.


I think that last paragraph has to be said all in one breath and with innocent eyed exasperation so that the cathartic effect takes away the reason that you might have said it in the first place.


What I should do is go back to my telephone and read another sci-fi story from the 1950s; start reading my book on evolution and make myself a nice cup of tea.


Ahhh!

The fun way to misery!

At the last second I switched my choice of book from the Dawkins’ hit on evolution and chose “Whoops – Why everyone owes everyone and no one can pay” by John Lanchester.

This is a brilliant book. Lanchester, with a novelist’s sure touch in the writing, makes this a compulsive read. [If you haven't read it already then I thoroughly recommend his first novel "The Debt to Plasure" a very funny, very nasty and unforgetable story.] He doesn’t talk down to the reader but he acknowledges that what he is writing about is going to affect all of us for some time to come and therefore he feels that he has a mission to help us understand what he thinks has gone on and what needs to be done.

He writes, “The credit crunch was based on a climate (the post-Cold War victory party of free-market capitalism), a problem (the sub-prime mortgages), a mistake (the mathematical models of risk) and a failure, that of the regulators. It was their job to prevent both the collapse of individual companies and systemic risks which ensured they failed. But that failure wasn’t so much the absence of attention to individual details as it was an entire culture to do with the primacy of business, of money, of deregulation, of putting the interest of the financial sector first.”

This sort of clarity is a key element in the narrative which he tells. His explanations are clear and easily understood and he links anecdote and allusion to illuminate his perceptions. He is very much a participant in this story and it is difficult not to be drawn into his world when he starts off chapter one with, “As a child I was frightened of cashpoint machines.”


Essentially this is a depressing book with his descriptions of (some) bankers and the activity of banks guaranteed to test the limits of the reader’s credulity while we the taxpayers fork out money to keep them in business.


This book should be required reading for anyone who feels short changed by what has gone on and wants a clear explanation of what has happened, is happening and what is likely to come.


I won’t waste my time suggesting that this should be compulsory reading for bankers as the ones that were most to blame are the ones still to blame and they are carrying on (with little or no governmental opposition) as though nothing has happened.


It is at times like this that I begin to think that our lack of participation in the radical jollifications that went on throughout Europe in 1848 might be made up for in a crusade against the guilty: we could always import suitable lanterns from the French.


Read it!


Last day of freedom and an 8.15 am start tomorrow: at least it is within a couple of days of the weekend!


I go back to a fury of assessment when all sorts of results have to be loaded into a creaking computer system for use in an after school meeting to discuss (interminably and impertinently) the details of students’ achievement. In Catalan. Sigh.


Lunch today was a deeply unsatisfying experience in a Turkish restaurant. The meat was doggedly tough and the wine tasted as though it had just been made. And not cheap either. To my bewilderment the restaurant filled rapidly and people seemed eager to eat the well displayed by culinary vacuous offerings.


Today was a fiesta and there was much blowing of raucous reeded instruments in the town square in front of the church and town hall. Stretching down our little Ramblas was a snaking line of small stalls staffed by people wearing approximations of peasant clothing to emphasise the home-made qualities of the produce they were selling.


Though they were undoubtedly quaint I was not tempted to buy anything and happily returned to my book. Many of the stalls were of what can only be described as the “frippery” type with ornaments, soap, pottery and highly priced bread. The prices were all encouragingly high and one wonders yet again where the financial crisis is in all this. There is supposed to be 20% unemployed in Spain; the construction boom has come to an abrupt halt; government employment seems set to take another cut both in terms of employment and in terms of the money paid – all should be doom and gloom but the shops are packed and people seem to have plenty of money to throw around. It is most confusing – though as few people seem to have shown any relationship with the reality of the situation I suppose that I will have to go on dancing on the rim of the crater until the ash begins to fall!


The one thing that I did buy in town was a further supply of Red Earl Gray tea – after all it is only sensible to stock up on essentials in times of trouble!

perchance to read . . .

It is a measure of how far I have changed (in certain respects) that, as I was having lunch I noticed a face I recognized on a television screen behind the bar. I knew him as a past Barça player and it was only a moment before I remembered his name – Deco.



I know to those who know anything about football this is hardly something which merits a feather from Big Chief I-Spy but for me is it a breakthrough – the next thing I will be doing is actually using the names of the pupils in my classes.


But seriously, leaving fantasy to one side, this is more than I can do for any British team – apart, of course, for Ryan Giggs and even I know who he plays for, apart from Wales that is.


Well, that’s exhausted my footballing conversation so back to safer topics.


Apart from odd (very odd) short stories on my phone I have read a novel there called, “The International Spy” by Allen Upward and published in 1904. The book is a thriller with the “baddie” being the Kaiser, though even he turn out to be quite a sporting cove when his dastardly plans are frustrated by the elegant and resourceful spy in the title.


I read this because somewhere in my memory is a collection of short stories called “The Railway Accident and Other Stories” by a left wing writer called Upward. The biography of Allen is interesting and sounds totally made up and I can only assume that he wrote other things which were much more intellectually satisfying than this pulp exercise in vague racist xenophobia.

The other book I have read today is a real one and bought from W H Smith in Luton: “13 Things That Don’t Make Sense – The most intriguing scientific mysteries of our times” by Michael Brooks.


Towards the end of the book, after considering the implications of the “horizon problem” and the uniform temperature of the universe, he writes: “The solutions to the other anomalies might have similarly wide-ranging implications: investigating the origin of death and the story of the giant viruses might lead to radical revisions in evolution: understanding the placebo effect could – and probably should – change the face of medicine; coming to grips with the delusion of free will could alter the way we look at human beings and their responsibilities. It is safe to say, I think, that there is more than enough work ahead for the next generation of radical-thinking scientists – and the generation after that.”


This is the sort of book where I know that I have read all the words but I am not sure that I can explain what I have understood. And that is sad because Michael Brooks writes in clear and fairly simple language; but I am never truly happy when people start taking about quanta at one end and billions of galaxies at the other. I am sure that it has been good for my soul to come to terms with concepts and to discover just how fluid definitions are for things like life, free will, death, sex and the missing matter in the universe.


I am now dangerously overloaded with half understood scientific questions which can make science teachers’ lessons just that little bit more trying as pupils regale them with unanswerable questions from casual remarks in mine!


I well remember a furious colleague rounding on me in the staff room after I had “explained” light to a bemused group of sixth formers – my explanations being based totally on my reading of the play “Hapgood” by Tom Stoppard – and the poor science teacher having to repair the scientific damage I had done to his erstwhile students!


My next W H Smith book is on evolution. God help!  So to speak.


And only one day left before the return to school.


Perhaps I would be safer sticking to the phone and pulp!

Aint it great to be blooming well dead

For any holiday to be worthy of that sacred appellation there has to be a period when I lay out in the sun.



Today this essential part of the procedure was completed. I have to admit that I was fully clothed but I was able to lean back in my chair and allow my face to be bathed in the refulgent vitamin D giving rays.


It wasn’t for a particularly long time before the scattered rags of cloud caught up with the sunshine and made even sitting fully clothed outside less than a good idea; but it was for a time and that satisfies me. And there are two more days for the sunshine to do its health giving work!


I have not been able to stay away from my telephone and have therefore read an inordinate number of pulp science fiction short stories. I have also been able, for the sake of my literary credibility, to find much in them which in terms of narrative, social comment and sheer style worthy of recognition.


To be fair I can feel the old tug of the drug-like qualities of sci-fi dragging me under and I have therefore escaped from the electronic thrall of the potency of cheap literature and start looking at the books that I bought in Luton before boarding the flight back to Spain.

The book that I have almost finished is “The Book of the Dead” by John Lloyd and John Mitchinson. I bought this in spite of the quoted recommendation of the ubiquitous Stephen Fry whose comment was “Dead good.”


This is a book about dead people taking in the famous like Florence Nightingale and Genghis Khan to the reasonably obscure like George Psalmanazar and Archibald Belaney.


This is a type of book where the reading is so ridiculously easy and jolly that you feel mildly guilty reading it in the firm solidity of an armchair at home rather than in the plastic discomfort of an viciously uncomfortable aeroplane seat or on the gritty discomfort of a beach.


As the writing is littered with what the authors of “1066 and all that” call real facts it appeals to my rag-bag mind and I greedily sweep up unconsidered trifles like the “fact” that it was Sir Joshua Reynolds looking at the painting through layers of varnish who termed Rembrandt’s painting “The Night Watch” – though I am not convinced that I believe it.


This is a book which makes me wonder if I should have heard of Fernando Pessoa or have known more about Nikola Tesla. Did I know that Oliver Cromwell was abducted by a monkey while a baby or that Frida Kahlo never went to the district in Mexico where those dresses she wore came from?


As always in book like this that have too friendly a writing style I begin think that this is like one of those books by Borges where the more detail and footnotes there are then the less likely it is to be true!


Any book that links together Leonardo da Vinci, Sigmund Freud, Isaac Newton, Oliver Heaviside, Lord Byron, Ada Lovelace, Hans Christian Andersen and Salvador Dalí in one chapter cannot be all bad! Well worth a read!


In the real world today is a bank holiday and, horror of horrors it has brought the scumbag next door neighbours back to their usually vacant house. At the moment there is just much going up and going down staircases with the occasional squawk or some type of rat-like dog; but if they are in residence then the screaming at adolescent girls can only be hours away! On the other side the baying, yapping and dry barking of the canine canaille kept by our bollard wrecking neighbour keeps up its wearisome punctuation day and night.


Tomorrow I assume that the shops will be open again and the menu del dia back to its non fiesta price. Today I had a Japanese meal which, while very good and more than substantial, was almost double the price which one pays on a normal Monday. Well, I suppose that is keeping things going: it is pleasant to think that one is bolstering the European economy and not just being a poor sucker in the profiteering clutches of grasping capitalists.


Back to my reading.

A day to savour!

There is something about a crisp, bright Sunday morning when one is sitting next to the radiator with a strong cup of tea which inspires the soul to expressions of contentment which can only be augmented in felicity by the unprompted remembrance that Monday to Wednesday of next week is a holiday!



The virus infested bedclothes of the past few days have been consigned to the most unrelenting cycle of the washing machine as a sure and certain sign than (a few chesty coughs notwithstanding) my illness has been officially written off.


I consider it positively unprofessional to be unwell during a holiday and these three days will be the last gasp of sanity until the welcome escape of dead time around the end of the year.


For Spanish teachers there is then a truly horrific period of educational slog until the partial relief of Easter which is only a staging post along the via dolorosa which leads to the sunny days of July and August.


Ah, in writing it is but four short paragraphs from a short holiday in December to the glorious months of summer release – in reality it is half a year! Perhaps this is one time when one should adopt the stance of the pessimist and say that the year is “half gone” – though for that to be true one has to “borrow” the months of July and August of 2010 and add them to September to make the maths come out right! Which seems OK to me!


This has been a thoroughly gray day only enlivened by my continued reading of my telephone. I have now completed the Baroness Orczy novel which was, of course, completely forgettable and which displayed a thoroughly reprehensible degree of sympathy for Capet’s Widow or Marie Antoinette as she is more readily known.


I do remember reading the first of the Baroness’s novels when I was an impressionable youth and in those dim and distant days I did have a sneaking sympathy for the Royalists (Wrong but Romantic) and who could not fail to be moved by the figure of The Scarlet Pimpernel!


Them days is long gone and now I feel nothing but repulsion towards that haughty Austrian who thought it would be good fun to dress up in costly silks and brocades to play the part of a milkmaid, taking specially cleaned cows to a parlour fitted out with porcelain by Meissen while the majority of the population of the country she and her like were sucking dry were starving.


And even if she didn’t actually say, “Let them eat cake!” she deserves to be remembered by that startling piece of simple incomprehension and we need to remember that there are plenty more like her in the world today.


Talking of out of touch autocratic, unelected dictators the members of FIFA have come in for the same amount of vituperation that is usually reserved for those making snide remarks about our gallant boys fighting in whatever piece of left over business from our wrecked empire happens to touch the news.


I do think though that the unholy trinity of the luminaries of FIFA, Russia and Qatar together and then having Marie Antoinette join their oligarchic (at best) group would inject simplicity and guilelessness into a thoroughly disreputable group.


I am sure that it would be very revealing to follow the paper chase of expenses that have ensured that the “FIFA” World Cup has gone to two countries where democracy is a hollow concept – but this is sounding more and more like sour grapes and I should merely take the opportunity of wishing Russia and Qatar all the very best of what I am sure will turn out to be a poisoned chalice for the both of them. Salut!


A flattening glass of Cava from lunch is an indication of the reason that I did no academic work today. Tomorrow however, if I can drag myself away from the library on the telephone there is work to be done.


Probably.

Culture Makes You Better

Sometimes the well known, at least to me, syndrome of teaching in front of a class having a sort of rejuvenating and disease defying effect simply doesn’t work.



That happened on Friday when, in spite of feeling generally ok-ish on Thursday, the end of Friday didn’t come at all as soon as I would have liked and my eventual return home was to take to my bed at once!


I put this relapse down to coming in to school a day too soon after the virus that I brought back with me from the UK had worked its evil on my system and kept me away for a day. I am sure that there is a lesson to be learned somewhere in my attitude towards not feeling well and going to school which needs to be drummed into my brain in double quick time!


Today however, apart from the stubborn cough which punctuates my progress, I felt fine and to prove it I took a bus into Barcelona to start our five day “holiday.”


Meeting up with Suzanne was only managed after the frustration by my new phone’s refusal to let me answer a telephone call.


I suppose that I should not be surprised by this inability of the machine to accomplish what it is ostensibly designed to do when all the other functions of the thing are so much more interesting to me.


It is true that my generation of mobile phone users have an almost morbid fear of making a call because we believe that it “costs the earth” and that it is “much cheaper on a land line” – never mind that I am in a foreign country and god alone knows what they are charging me.


I do realize that this is mere paranoia and that I should knuckle down to the realities of life and accept the phone as simply a part of modern life – but I can’t.


I subscribe to enough of the Protestant Work Ethic to believe that mobile phones are, in themselves, little more than an extravagant frippery. We were happy enough with tin cans and stretched string when we were lads and the smooth, gleaming wafers of sleek technology are mere indulgences to high-faluting notions of self importance and nothing more.


But I have started reading out-of-copyright pulp sci-fi stories and I am more than half way through a novel by Baroness Orczy and there is a whole slew of stories by Doctorow that I am about to devour – and all of these are on my phone.


I am slowly discovering the other applications and the quality of the photos that I can take on the phone is substantially better than on my last one – and so on.


It would just be an advantage if I could work out to receive phone calls.


The exhibition of Artists’ Jewellery was interesting but essentially unsatisfying. The individual pieces were sometimes astonishing but the lack of context and the complete absence of process in the display of the pieces meant that there was a much better exhibition waiting to be staged with the exhibits that the one that we saw.


Far more satisfying was the meal we had a lunch time in the excellently situated restaurant in MNAC. It was the first time that Suzanne had been there and she was much impressed.


Although today was bright it was very cold and there was a warm wintery selection from the menu to combat the weather which Suzanne chose: chestnut cream soup and fillet of dory with a pil-pil sauce. I, on the other hand, went for a defiantly summery choice of salad of caramelized apple with tuna belly followed by carpaccio of cod. My sweet of ice cream seemed more than fitting. At least the coffee was hot.


The real success of our cultural foray was the exhibition in the Miró foundation which was “Let us face the future” British Art 1945 to 1968.


This is a major exhibition with an astonishing range of paintings from Hockney to Sutherland taking in some iconic paintings from the period along the way.


It was one of those exhibitions where one (well, I) emit little squeaks of pleasure and surprise as a new delight comes into view. Delicate drawings by Hepworth and Moore contrast with the impasto of Auerbach and Kossoff while the figurative is pushed into other worldliness by Freud and Bacon.


Delicate landscapes from Pasmore and Nicholson in the 40’s are contrasted with later works including Pasmore’s “The Snowstorm: Spiral motif in Black and White” of 1951. There are a couple of delicately crude Kitajs; wavey Rileys and grotesque Hamiltons – including the wonderfully named, “Portrait of Hugh Gaitskell as a Famous Monster of Filmland” of 1964.


All in all an exhibition to return to and one for which I do not begrudge the cost of the (hardback!) catalogue – especially as I was given a small reduction in its price for sheer unadulterated cheek!


As the catalogue is in Catalan there is even less encouragement for me to let my eye slip from the pictures into the morass of incomprehensible text. But I will make the effort. Especially as it might be the sort of exhibition to which we could take the kids.


Now its time for me to read by phone before bed!

Abroad thoughs from home!

The clearest thing to emerge from my recent visit to my native land is that I have obviously developed some sort of allergy to the place.



I was fine when I set off on Saturday and was a broken coughing wreck by the time that I returned home to Spain!


I have to admit that an unlikely evening out in High Wickham which took in flavoursome pints of real beer and a deliciously wonderful Indian meal (with more alcohol) and (indeed) with yet more alcohol at the end of it was a delightful interlude from health to illness.


As indeed was the equally delicious, heart-warming and bucolic visit to my Aunt Bet to celebrate her ninety second birthday up a bumpy lane to my cousin’s spacious house in rural Buckingham.


I managed to fit in a rushed visit to Tesco with a fit of delirious spending in the ever welcoming aisles – always with the fear of overstuffing the single piece of luggage that I had to take back with me.


Yes, Saturday (after the two hour wait in Barcelona airport) and Sunday (after losing the key to my hotel room) went well. The birthday party for my aunt and her delight at her presents was well worth the trip and it was an experience to be in such a welcoming and rambling house that my cousin inhabits.


It was the gradual arrival of a cough on Sunday evening and its development in the chilly air of Monday morning with the disconcerting flurries of snow as courtesy details that dragged the delight of the trip back to sordid reality.


Finding a petrol station to fill up the tank on the hired car (and finding that every other hired car in the neighbourhood had found it as well at exactly the same time) linked to the hour wait that we had in some sort of holding pit before we were allowed to board the plane, ensure that by the time I took my seat I was no longer eager to start reading one of the books that I had bought (on pure reflex) from the branch of W H Smith which catches me every time I fly.


No, what I wanted to do was lapse into a semi-coma and arrive immediately in Barcelona (or “into Barcelona” as the air flight attendants will have it) and find my bed.


I did manage to find a seat on the wing where the row of three was blocked by a man so enormous that he made me feel svelte and petit. As he was sitting on the outside seat I felt that if only I could get to the window seat no one would ever try and take the “compressed” middle. And I was right. With the arm rest up and me sprawled diagonally I managed to find some sort of comfortable position and hope for oblivion.


This, of course, did not come, and by the time I was ready to find a taxi in Barcelona airport I was prepared to pay almost any amount of money to get home.


However ill I felt, it would not have been human if I had not tried to make the “prepared laptop” work and see if I could get British television programmes as I had been promised as part of my birthday present.


Astonishingly: it worked. It was just cruel fate that the first programme I tuned into was “The Weakest Link” – I will keep the culture for later.


The bed. But no oblivion. Alternately hot and cold, there was not comfortable position I could find and the night was one of searching for the impossible with moments of drug takings so that by the morning my blood stream was mostly ibuprofen.


Tuesday dawned with my realization that (pride aside) there was no way that I was going to trust my coughing, pill pushed, dog tired body behind the wheel with the usual slew of suicidal drivers that I can usually dismiss with casual contempt.


The rest of the day in bed was a continuing search for the elusive “comfort zone” with only my incandescent hatred of the noisy dogs next door to give lashing direction to my maudlin self pity.


My great mistake was to go in to work the next day, with the result that Wednesday was truly horrific with my falling back into bed at the end of the day.


I did do some teaching, though what its quality must have been like defies description. There is a sort of professional adrenalin that keeps you going when you are in pedagogic mode and not really firing on all available cylinders, but using this invaluable substance means that you have a price to pay when the clientele is not there to keep the fix in place!


Bed beckoned, though not before I downloaded books into my telephone. It is very difficult to convey what unutterable delight that the last sentence actually gives me. I am but scratching at the capabilities of my fearsome phone but the fact that I have the whole of Paradise Lost on my telephone is a fact which gives me particular delight.


In spite of wheezing, coughing and bruised ribs I managed to declaim Satan’s brilliant speech beginning “Not too know me argues yourself unknown, the lowest of your throng” before fatigue and a realization of the astonishing pretention of what I was doing got to me and I fell back into bed.


Today (with the mere grace note accompaniment of theatrical coughing) has been much better and I begin to believe that I will be fully recovered so that I can enjoy the latitude of the “bridge” which means that this weekend will be converted into a sort of mini holiday with three days of next week being mine to do with what I will.


Lazing around and recovering seems like a good plan at the moment!


One more day to get through and then the thought of an exhibition of British Art to look forward to!


Culture to the rescue.