By his gadgets shall ye know him!

 

Do not judge a man by the number of leads he has.  

If you counted up the power supplies, connectors and assorted leads that I have acquired then there should be literally no area in the house in which to live as all available space should be taken up with electrical devices that presumably came with the leads.  And, while there are vast numbers of ‘things’ that need power (I hesitate to count the number of them that I can see from where I am typing) there is still, just, space to live which is not occupied by a shining metallic carapace or something with a keyboard or grille or screen or . . . but I am already beginning to count the machines that I can see and that way lies madness.

Or is it rather a sort of madness that allows you to get rid of (or put away somewhere) defunct machines that are too expensive to throw away, and yet still keep to hand the power cord or connector as a sort of precious souvenir?

I willingly admit that gadgets, especially electronic gadgets, manage to occupy my attention with an ease that astonishes even myself.  All Aldi and Lidl have to do on their Central Aisles of Interesting Stuff is offer a brush or mop or any other sort of domestic appliance with the addition of a battery and a sensor and I’m sold.

I once bought a kitchen washing up brush that looked like a gigantic electric toothbrush and thought to myself, “Now, this is ideal for all that washing up that I do when I don’t place the cups and dishes in the dishwasher.”  And there you have the central paradox of my obsession.  Because I do place the cups and dishes in the dishwasher, and I don’t and will not wash up when I have a dishwasher specifically for that job.  Nevertheless, I bought the thing, and I have used it once.  Ineffectively.  The dishwasher does a better job.  And, frankly, for those burnt in gungy bits, it will take more than a giant’s Oral-b toothbrush to dislodge them.

Does this example of self-knowledge discourage me?  No, it doesn’t even deflect me.  Gadget freaks like myself, live in fear of what we know as “The Passing By” – in other words, not buying something that looks sort-of plausible, and finding out that it was absolutely essential to genteel living when you hadn’t got it.  It all amounts to a variant on the Catch-22 situation where you have to buy things that you don’t want in case they might have turned out to be really very good and an obvious buy.  And yes, I do realize that the verb tenses in that last sentence do not make strict chronological sense, but that, I fear, is part of the point.  The backward blame that gadget freaks are known to indulge in when they have ignored something that Freakdom acclaims as indispensable.

The leads though are a hangover from a different and more distant period in our national psyche before planned obsolescence became the True Path of unfeeling capitalism.

During the Second World War the Ministry of Information (or something equally Orwellian) issued slogans, catchphrases, concentrated wisdom, call them what you will, like “Keep Calm and Carry On!”  A phrase, by the way, that was intended originally for use inside a ministry and not for general consumption, but now the phrase has become more widely known that it ever was at the time of its conception.

“Dig for Victory!” was another one; “Careless talk costs lives”; “Loose lips cost ships”; “We can do it!” and so on.  My personal favourite is one of a voluptuous blond lounging in a chair, sheathed in sex, apparently merely eye-candy, but actually listening to the military men by whom she is surrounded with the tag line, “Keep mum, she’s not so dumb!”  Deconstructing the levels of meaning and social comment in that one must keep students of such things awake at nights, probably with delight!  I’m not sure if “Make do and mend” was a war slogan, but it was a definite piece of ready philosophy during my childhood.

Outside the back door of my grandparent’s house in Maesteg was a sort of shed built into the neighbour’s wall that was referred to as The Morgue.  My grandfather was a retired accountant and was painstaking in everything he did: from gardening to impeccable copperplate handwriting; from fire lighting to dressing; from politics to cigarette rolling.  He did nothing hasty and everything had its place.  And The Morgue was where everything that didn’t fit (in size or use) inside the house was housed.

Used tobacco tins were part of the filing system of The Morgue.  Pins, screws, nails, washers, bits, pieces, things – all found their place inside a neatly labelled box and placed on a shelf.  String was not thrown away, it was kept wound around equally cut sticks for the different types of binding that were recovered.  Nothing that had the possibility of a future use was thrown away, the philosophy was, “That might come in useful some time.”

Although I knew the word ‘morgue’ from an early age, I had no conception that it meant anything other than the shed next to the outside toilet against the neighbour’s wall that contained the things that were (temporarily) not wanted.  It was only much later that I learned of the more gruesome meaning of the word, and by that time I was able to appreciate the use of metaphor.

So, if anyone (other than my good self) is to blame for the writhing masses of cables that snake through the rooms of our house, it is my maternal grandfather.  Cables are, self-evidently, of use.  And, to be frank, their number reflects the galloping use of planned obsolescence that leaves poor consumers floundering in their increasingly desperate attempts to stay abreast of the latest fad of standardization.  It is as if the titanic battle between VHS and Betamax never took place, and certainly little was learnt from that fight to the death for a format!

I have recently (while looking for something else) revived my Kindle, iPad, Bose speaker and computer: all of which need different leads and connectors, or in the case of my mobile phone, a converter connector!  It is hardly a surprise to see my chair covered in various wires and cables like some sort of unimaginative foliage!  And don’t get me started on Bluetooth, where the cable-less needs of that system necessitate a whole range of unique powering solutions for the various pieces of audio equipment that I use!

It is with something approaching relief that I turn from the electronic zoo of slinky excess to the more stark delights of Catalan where, in the next month or so we might progress from the first, second and third person singular of the limited number of verbs to which we have been introduced to the delights of the plural!

Meanwhile there is vocabulary to be learned.

A day can be too long!

 

‘Taxi’ service, swim, shower & shave, hospital appointment, blood test, Catalan lesson, visit to the framers, a little light shopping.  All starting at 6.00 am.

And yesterday, in spite of my knowledge of myself, I wrote that, “The afternoon can be given up to writing.”  As if!  I am not sure that my weariness was because of having done so much before the morning was out or because of the sheer differences of experience that the six hours between 6.00 am and midday afforded.

Whatever the reason, by the time I had had my lunch and sat in my armchair, I knew that my right hand would search out the remote to recline the seat and drift into that half-waking dreamland that is a function of relaxation and the sound of Radio 4 playing in the background.

The only thing that got me up and doing was the realization that my supplies of tea are getting dangerously low.  Catalonia is not the arid wasteland of tea-lessness that it once was.  I mean, tea has always been available, but not the British tea (with taste!) that I have been brought up with.  However, my tea now has the extra need to be decaffeinated because it is an integral part of the regime laid down by my doctors, by which I am supposed to live - or suffer the fatal consequences!  And decaffeinated tea is not as easily available here.

That should not be problematic in this age of the internet where anything and everything is available at the frenzied pressing of money into the ever-open electronic grasping hands of Amazon.  And, sure enough, there are numerous suppliers who make decaffeinated tea and it can also be sent to be Catalonia.  The only question is that of cost.  One supplier seemed to offer a reasonably priced product, but the price of sending it to Catalonia was almost as much as the product itself!

I have now been to a local supermarket which caters, in some of its product range, to the British residents.  In the reasonably extensive ‘tea’ section there are indeed two or three makes of British tea, but none, alas, that are decaffeinated.  The range includes those fruit and herb teas that sound good in theory but invariably fail to please.  At least fail to please me.

It was at the point that I was almost driven to buy a vegetable tea that I had never seen before, that I finally noticed the unobtrusive boxes that claimed to be decaffeinated black tea – the supermarket’s own make.  I made an executive decision and bought half a dozen boxes and thought that having bought them I would get used to whatever it tasted like – and anyway I also bought some ‘full-strength’ Earl Grey to make it palatable in the mix that I usually drink. 

  

And, having just sampled this new double brew, it is – acceptable.  But that is very much not the adjective that I would use for my blends that are lying unused in myriad containers, where the mere aroma is intoxicating enough without the use of boiling water.  I have limited myself to a cup of ‘real’ tea every few days which is probably a bad idea because it shows up the rather vapid drinks that I try and pretend are reasonable cups of tea!

And now that I am (more) refreshed, I could turn to my writing – but Toni has just appeared after an unsatisfactory day at work and he wants to go out for something to eat for our evening meal, and I am not so churlish as to refuse.  Even if his day of ‘work’ cannot have been as taxing as mine!

-oOo-

There is a positive and a negative to be taken from my activity today. 

 

In hospital my blood test result was exactly in the range where it should be and so, finally, I was given the go-ahead to change the location of future tests from Bellvitge Hospital to our local medical centre.  At least I think that is what is going to happen, I have been given a photocopied standard letter and I will have to take it in to my doctor and take it from there.  If nothing else I will be able to go to our local centre by bike and not have to use the expensive car park in Bellvitge.

The less positive element in the day is connected with the framers.  I knew that my little ‘project’ had elements that might be problematical, but when I was in the framers these were brushed aside with a ‘we can do this’ approach that I found stimulating.  It didn’t last.  This afternoon I was phoned up by the actual framer who said that they simply did not have the equipment to realize my idea.  Pity.  There are other shops in Castelldefels, but I might have similar problems there too.  I have not, however, given up.  It will exist!

Now out for an evening meal.

And who knows, after being fed (no salt, low fat) and watered (0% alcohol) I might feel inclined to, finally, get on with the writing that I thought would be a simple progression from a full morning!

Belief and action are not the same thing.

No time for 'work'!

Well, if nothing else I have done my Catalan homework.  To an outsider, I must have looked like some casually dressed general planning an invasion as I consulted double page spreads of grammatical explanations and examples, thumbed my way through my totally inadequate “easy learning” dictionary, and resorted from time to time to Google Translate on my mobile phone.  

And all of that was for a relatively easy grammatical exercise!  God help us all when we get to the rest of the declensions of the verbs!

 

Still, it gives me a sense of satisfaction to think that I am at least starting from the very depths of ignorance and any accretion of knowledge will be a bonus.  And, I have to say, that the odd words are getting through to me when I watch the Catalan television station.  Bit by bit.

This all sounds very commendable until you realize that there are students in my class who are learning Catalan after being in the country for fewer weeks than I have been here years.  And the most that I could use the language for was to ask for a cup of iced coffee!  That is, at least, in the process of changing.

-oOo-

I have had a letter from yet another hospital summoning me to yet another appointment.  Don’t get me wrong, I am more than appreciative about the way in which my thrombosis, embolisms and dicky heart have been treated – after all, I did manage to produce a chapbook based on my stay in hospital – and I am more than prepared to turn up promptly and wait while another doctor reads my details for the first time and makes a pronouncement.

This time the hospital I have to visit is in the third town away from Castelldefels along the motorway towards Barcelona, in St Boi.  We usually go to St Boi to visit the supermarkets (or ‘Sheds’ as we used to call all those large stores on Rumney Common in Cardiff along the Newport Road) and very little else.  It is, it has to be said, an unlovely place, and it is further hated by motorist commuters who have to go through a bottleneck there to change motorways.

 

For as long as I have lived in Castelldefels there have been roadworks in St Boi as the slowest road construction in the world eventually will (please god) transmogrify itself into a motorway interchange and cut out the need to navigate ever-changing temporary roads whose ineffable structure is presumably there to facilitate the building of the big new quick roads that will make the daily commute just a little less miserable.

But this deliverance is in the unknowable future, like Tantalus’s sustenance, just out of reach.  To be fair, a decade’s worth of roadworks has accomplished the moving of the traffic jams little further along the motorway, so that is something.  Not much, but you really have to experience the bone grinding futility of parts of the network of roads feeding Barcelona to be able to appreciate even the smallest amelioration.

In my darker moments (like, for example, at 6.30 am taking Toni to work because there is no public transport to get him to there for 7.00 am when he starts) I fear that I will see the completion of the Sagrada Familia before this bloody road is opened.  What makes things worse is that you can see pylons stretching emptily towards the skies that should be carrying a road bridge – they have been there so long that they are now covered with graffiti; you can gaze at empty stretches of multi-lane highway running parallel to our inefficiently winding road; you can see machines, lorries, equipment – but no people actually working on the bloody thing.

In my lighter, and therefore far more pretentious, moments, I have assumed that these ‘roadworks’ are nothing of the sort and are actually a vast piece of performance art/installation piece and as such I should be grateful that I have been able to appreciate its developing complexity over the years.

Talking of complexity, tomorrow morning should be an example of the sort of life that can only be lived by the very fortunate - or the retired.  The day starts with my staggering out of bed well before half past six, and having a cursory wash before taking Toni to work.  Returning to Castelldefels, I get to the swimming pool just as it opens at 7.00 am and have my 1,500 m swim.  By the time I am done, having had a shave and completed more thorough ablutions, the café is open so that I can have MY special cup of tea and do a little desultory writing in my ever-present note book.  

I then go directly from the pool café to Bellvitge hospital in Hospitalet de Llobregat for my monthly Control where a single drop of blood, from the tip of the middle finger of my right hand, is tested to see that the viscosity of my blood is within the limits set to encourage the disappearance (the gradual disappearance) of the thrombosis.  I am then given my schedule of rat poison (because that is what I am taking in reality, dress it up with scientific names as they might) for the next month.

Once I am released from the hospital I then make my way back to Castelldefels to go to my first Catalan lesson of the week.  At 12.30, my lesson ended, I make my way into the centre of Castelldefels to go to the framers to discuss how best to bring to concrete fruition a little idea for a ‘picture’ that I have devised.   

Its realization all depends on how much the framer’s bits and pieces that are essential to make it work, cost.  And I should have a price in my mind beyond which I will not go.  There again, ‘should’ is not ‘will’!

The afternoon can be given up to writing.  My publications are lagging behind schedule and I need to get them back on course.

-oOo-

Being up so early, I heard a healthy chunk of the Today programme on Radio 4 and therefore caught the ‘puff’ for Melvyn Bragg and the new book celebrating the twentieth anniversary of ‘In Our Time’.  I made the serious mistake of looking it up in Amazon and bought it at once!  In hardback!  It looks exactly the sort of thing that I like – with pictures!   

 I will review it in a later blog, as soon as it arrives!