Talk about coincidences . . .

What, I ask you, are the chances of two people thinking, "Let's take a relatively obscure Welsh painter who has been dead for a quarter of a century and make a programme about him!"? Don't bet on it. It happened today.

I've spent a most enjoyable day doing light research: that is, sitting at my computer and meandering my way through the Internet, interspersed with light telephoning to curators, librarians, film makers and one amazingly interested and helpful PA. The end of all this electronic gossiping is that I've discovered that MY painter who I was going to use for MY programme (not that it's been commissioned yet) has been purloined by a film company in North Wales.

Archie Rhys Griffiths (1902 - 1971) was born in Aberdare but brought up in Gorseinon on the outskirts of Swansea. He worked in the Mountain Colliery and the tinplate works at Gorseinon

before attending Swansea School of Art (1919 - 1924) and the Royal College of Art (1924 - 1927). Griffiths produced a mural at the Workingmen's College in Camden Town (1932). And I've got an engraving of Old Loughor Bridge of his, given to my grandfather on his retirement. His work is in the Vivian Art Gallery in the Permanent Collection and, I think, in the National Museum in Cardiff. He was described by the artist Ceri Richards as “a grave figure of some dignity … the artist of dreams” but he ended as “depressed, crumpled, monosyllabic” and an alcoholic. I think. That is one of the things about his life; it's not easy to find out about him - hence the light research. I will have to wait until Geraint (the man who had already done his heavy research) gets back to me, so I can find out what, if anything is left for me. I will keep you informed.

Meanwhile my 'unwaged' status is now official and the powers that be are interested and I have had official phone calls (as well as me making some of my own.) It's a long time (first year university vacation) since I have been into Job Centres for myself. It will be an interesting experience. It will be especially interesting to see if they have done anything to make the experience a little more human than it was at the end of the sixties! Dear God, that's 36 years ago.

The hysterical demands of air carriers have now come home to me. It was bad enough returning from Barcelona in the summer with the tail end of a luggage handlers strike combined with the restrictions linked to the prevention of terrorism, but now we are planning to go to Dublin for the weekend and have had a list of demands sent through to the house via the computer. We can take razors as cabin luggage but not the shaving foam to use with them; we can take a nail file, but not hand cream; we can take electronic equipment with bluetooth capability but not a bar of soap. Is this one of those times when you just have to believe that the authorities know what they are doing? Or . . . I know which side my thoughts lie on.

This will be the first time that I have been to Dublin and am much looking forward to it. I will not be following in Bloom's footsteps as I will have three Barbarians with me who will, I trust, keep my propensity for pretension under some sort of Guinness control.

Things to do when not teaching.

When your partner has overtime and has to be in work by half past seven, so you have been up by half past six then the day takes on a different perspective. As long as you don't actually have to do directed work yourself.

I had set myself a list of complicated financial, administrative and occupational tasks to complete. And had completed them by ten o'clock. Why, you may ask. And how? Well, when you are in school you are limited, hemmed in, confined by the constraints of the timetable. Anything you want to do has to be done in the few moments of freedom at breaks when still trying to have some coffee (or tea) or during the lunch time, when M&S is tempting you to spend hard earned cash on food you actually want to eat. In other words, you have no time to wait during the lengthy period that most organizations take to respond to any reasoable telephone request.

Consider. You phone (any) organization and what happens? After a breathtakingly exciting period when old fashioned technology exerts its benign influence and you hear an ordinary ringing tone the real voyage of discovery begins. The ringing tone ceases, a tantalizing moment of silence and then The Voice. Depends on the firm: sometimes The Voice is obviously someone who has drawn the short straw and resents having to do the chore of leaving a message for any member of the public; at other times it is a relative of the original woman who voiced the Marina's of yesteryear. What all of them have in common is that they threaten. That little reminder that all calls are recorded "for training purposes" is of course there to indicated that, if you finally lose your patience and say direct and truthful things to the operator, they have your voice on tape and they will prosecute.

Then the torture by numbers. "If your call is . . . then press . . . " and the exquisite torture of being too thoughtful and thinking that your actual enquiry is not really any of the numbers but is quite near to number 1, though it could also be considered near to number 3, and you know that if you lack decision and go for the "all other enquiries" number, no one is going to pick up.

Even on a good day it's going to be outside the time limits of a normal teacher's break and the residue of despair and hatred that a failed call brings will effect the next lesson to the detriment of learning! To say nothing of the human effect on the teacher. Firms never understand the time limitations of teachers during the working day. However many times you explain to 'outsiders' that their window of contact opportunity for a teacher will be exactly 10 minutes at a stated time, they never understand and will phone twenty minutes later and be shocked that they cannot contact the person.

But, if you are at home, with a telephone with a loudspeaker attachment then the switches, delays, swappings, music, recorded voices, indeed anything that an inhuman firm can throw at you are as nothing. You sit back with your cup of tea and with something else to do and stroll your way through the telephone call and, and this is the real delight of it all, you get a result. You follow through (for as long as it takes) and actually get somewhere. I recommend it.

Meanwhile, the house. The house is not selling, and I still have not made up my mind about what to do. I think that any reduction in price will be a short term measure. I do not think that the person who wants an open plan house will buy a traditional semi instead. I think that the sort of people who buy open plan will want something a little less traditional and will be prepared to pay for it. Or, of course, I'm wrong.

I am told by the BBC that this is the time for the consideration of ideas for programmes, so, in the near future, I should find out if any of my ideas make it through to a commission.

When I consider . . .

Where, you might ask, is human nature shown at its most basic? Warfare? Disaster? Triumph? The Christmas Sales? No. After considerable research I have come to the conclusion that, if you are a cynical observer of the human condition, the place which will confirm all of your Swiftian disgust of the Yahoo is . . . the Supermarket Car Park.

I have never (NEVER) been in a supermarket car park which has been entirely full. It follows, therefore, that there has always been, in my experience, a parking space for a customer in a supermarket car park. So, why, oh why do customers have to part in inappropriate places?

Let me give you some examples.


The Disabled Parking spaces are always filled by those who do not have disabled cards which allow them to park. I am very much in favour of what was on the signs for disabled parking in a supermarket in France, "Share my space: share my disability." To my mind this gives a vision of a Gallic parking attendant with a sledgehammer lurking behind a car waiting for able bodied miscreants and then smashing them in the knees so that they would be entitled to park in their chosen place.

Double yellow lines. They have the same meaning in supermarket car parks as they do in real life. Do not park at any time. The lines are usually near the entrance. They are usually linked to a series of bollards to ensure that people do not park, thus allowing easy access and egress for all customers. But, if you want cigarettes or money from the hole-in-the-wall then you must, of course, park as near as possible, ignoring other spaces, no matter how near, and all road markings.

And the supermarket trolley. Why do people leave them next to their cars rather than in the little huts for that purpose? I've actually heard people say that, "There are blokes who are paid to put these away. Not my job!" Now, given the profits of the major supermarkets, I am disinclined to donate them anything (including my time), but to me it just seems to be bloodymindedness not to put away a trolley.

I could go on, but I donate the idea to any sociologist as the basis for a study in depth for a thesis. I wonder if there are major differences in the way that people use car parks in different countries? I understand that the Germans are the worst for queueing in Europe, i.e. the tendency to push in and ignore patient waiters and due order. Is that true? given the way that Turks and Greeks drive, I would have thought that they would have been worse. Any suggestions?

All this from calling into Tesco on my way home from the BBC in Llandaff after participating in "Something Else". A lively programme today with the usual eclectic range of items discussed from the length of fingers being an indication of essential character to the death of the lawn. Never let it be said that we ignore the essential questions of our time! I thoroughly enjoy these broadcasts, I wonder if the listening audience does as well.

Is it just me, or is it possible to 'enjoy' football on TV on an almost continuous basis? Why is there not the same coverage for classical music? (That is a rhetorical question.)

Tomorrow, I have to make some sort of decision about the house. Is it overpriced? Should I cut the price, or is the open plan nature of my home something that is exactly right for the right person and it is irrelevant to compare my home with a traditional three bedroom semi. If you want traditional then you won't want mine etc etc. I'll sleep on it.

When all else fails, turn to Music!

OK, OK, I am fully aware that this is not music that I normally listen to, but these staves are here as an illustration rather than anything else!

The terrible truth is starting to drift into my mind. The people who came to view my house yesterday have not been fighting to get their money into my bank account. It was only some lights left on (bizarrely because the estate agent tried to turn off some lights that I had left on deliberately) that told me that anyone had been viewing the house. I felt vaguely violated, as though a tidy burglar had been in my home and decided against taking anything!

That reminds of the time that I actually was burgled. We came back from a night out in Cardiff and discovered that the door was locked from the inside. When we went round to the back of the house to try and gain entry we found the door open. Inside there was careful chaos, with some drawers turned out and property scattered around the floor. My partner was much more upset that I was. Perhaps because the only thing taken was a coat - which wasn't mine. Understandable anger!

The one thing about that incident that still irritates me to this day is not that the burglars were never caught, in spite of the imprint of a trainer left clearly on the wall of the downstairs loo (near a tiny window, they must have used kids for entry, just like Bill Sykes!), not, as I say that the miscreants were not caught, no, the real irritation was that they didn't take my dad's camera.

My dad's camera was an expensive SLR which had been camera of the year a years previously. The thieves had taken in out of the drawer, had looked at it, and then not stolen it. How dare they! What the hell do I have to have for them to consider it worthy of theft? Thieves have no class!

Anyway. No sale by the look of it. Not that I am becoming manically depressed or anything. Oh no. Not me. Nor I.

As a way of lifting this non existent depression. I decided to go to a concert at Saint David's Hall in Cardiff.

Ravel - Bolero; Canteloube - Songs of the Auvergne; Poulenc - Concerto for Two Pianos and Saint-Saens - Symphony No 3 (Organ). The Orchestra was the BBC National Orchestra of Wales and the conductor Grant Llewellyn. The soprano in the Canteloube was Patricia Rozario and the two pianists were Frank Braley and Anne Queffelec.

The Bolero was played very much like a concerto for orchestra with the individual instrumentalists showing their abilities, one expert following another until the spell was broken by the messy playing of the trombonist. God knows the piece is vulgar enough without the conducting of Grant Llewellyn, but his capricious approach to the tempi added to the garish obviousness of the whole occasion. The separation of the players meant that there was little sense of ensemble in the playing which was harsh and abrupt, harmony was sacrificed to clarity.

I can only consider the Canteloube from the point of view of the orchestration. My seat, behind the orchestra, gave me a great view of the soprano's back, but the only sound I heard he make was the reflected echo from the front rows of the seats.

This section of songs from the Songs of the Auvergne meant that the concerto for orchestra theme continued. The pieces gave the orchestra another occasion to showcase their skills. I must admit that sitting where I was, liberated from the tyranny of the voice in a series of songs the orchestra effect was lively, engrossing and whimsical.

The Poulenc was an extraordinary piece of music. I kept expecting to see an French black and white film flickering away above the orchestra, becuase the music would have been an excellen accompanyment to the images. Can we be expected to take this confection of a concerto seriously? I think not. It was yet another showcase of musical ability, but I don't think that it amounted to any more than a series of scintillating musical fireworks, episodic and perhaps no more than that.

Sitting within feet of the organ, you cannot fail to become part of the music in a symphony like the third by Saint-Saens. The second entry of the organ in those cheap chords which penetrate you directly was magical. The full power of the orchestra agmented by the mighty organ was unleased on a wallowing audience and we duly were swept away by the power of the music. Grant Llewellyn's interpretation certainly had power and command but it lacked sophistication.

An evening full of interest, but one which left me feeling slightly cheated. I was looking for more personality in the music. Unlike Rodin's statue of Balzac, that mighty figure wrapped in his heroic cloak, I didn't feel that there was a structure underneath the bombastic show of Llewellyn's presentation: a fantastic outside, but a hollow interior.

Today (Saturday) ANOTHER viewing. Different people. Different hopes. I will continue this later after coffee with a colleague (past colleague, remember retirement) who is struggling with the effects of working in a secondary school under 'special measures'.

Now I don't want you to think that I am being morbid, but I've had a response from the visits of people to my home. I am too depressed to find out exactly what they thought of ("your beautiful home, don't get me wrong" [estate agent]) my home, but the fact is that they have not offered me vast sums of cash.

Now I am faced with a decision: panic or not to panic. the first course of action is to listen to the advice of an estate agent (sic.) and lower the price by some £10k; listen to friends and lower it by £5k; listen to my nearest and dearest and think that this is early days and have the courage to stick out for what I think my home is worth or, lastly, go to bed and weep. I have to say that the last alternative sounds good to me.

I have made a resolution to do something each day which will give me the basis for a more interesting post than worrying about mere money. Sob! And that is what I will do.

Tomorrow (Sunday): broadcast to the nation. Midday will see me (well hear me) with others taking part in the BBC Wales Radio programme, "Something Else" , surely this will give me a more interesting basis to write. Tomorrow will tell. Keep reading!

The Viewing Approaches!

So, the kitchen is the most significant room in the potential selling experience. I think.

Talking of kitchens, well, of eating, the photo shows the very first restaurant that I went to when I first stayed in Castelldefels. It was opposite the excellent (and expensive) hotel that I stayed in for a couple of days. The meal that I had was the gastronomic offer, which was supposed to be for two people but they made an exception in my case and allowed me to eat it by myself. It consisted of many little courses, like a series of tapas until the main course. I had a bottle of wine and yes, it was expensive. Very expensive. But not as expensive as it would have cost if I had eaten it in UK.

Anyway, I bloody well hope that the kitchen is the most important part of selling a house after spending the better part of today clearing and cleaning my kitchen. Considering that the majority of my 'stuff' is in storage, I still appear to have a vast amount of surplus 'stuff' which still does not fit in the available drawers and cupboards. I think that it must be a version of the Parkinson Law which states that 'Stuff expands to fit all available spaces.' At least it does in my house. And that is how the Law works too.

My home is becoming more and more of a house. The wide open echoing spaces and the empty spaces on surfaces is unnerving to someone who publically espouses the idea of Minimalism, but lives in the comfort of clutter!

I do hope that one of the potential buyers actually makes an offer so that I can then worry at a different level and about more interesting things. The move will then become more real and I can then start talking about more exotic elements in my life than whether Fairy Power Spray is more effective than the generic alternative. I do have an answer for that, by the way.

The Poetentials (as I will call the possible purchasers) are from Bridgewater and they are visiting Cardiff to look at three potential homes - at least from my estate agent. One wonders if their whole day is an horrific sequence of going to house after house from estage agent after estate agent in an intense day which will leave them not knowing which universe they are in let alone the name of the city. I can remember the extended saga of finding this house myself, which ended with my demanding the house from a startled friend with all the money that I could afford. You really have to know the details to understand what I've just said. Another time!

If everything goes according to plan, then at east I will get a more interesting life and, hopefully, a more interesting style of writing!

We can all live in hope

.

You may think that the picture of paella, looking sumptuous and delicious is a fond memory from Catalonia. Wrong. It is, in fact, a fond memory from south London - Brixton, to be precise. Made by my good friend Clarrie (now moved to Reading) eaten outside in the miniscule yard garden space. Well able to hold its own with the Hispanic reality!

Blogging Works!

Each day I remember images of the place that I am determined to go to. The photo is of sunset last December over the sea in Castelldefels in Catalonia. The sea was cold but the walk was bracing and the light fantastic. This is what I am selling my house to get - closer to the photo!

I'm not one to be persuaded by coincidence. Yesterday I was decrying the pressures of unnatural cleaning as the burden of trying to sell my home seemed to devolve on my ability to keep the place spic and span. Today? Well, read on.

Modern electrical equipment is only as useful as the person who uses it. Leaving aside the fact that I am of the generation that reads the instructions that come with each new gadget and, therefore, by modern definition I am not worthy to own any innovation of any complexity, leaving, as I say, that aside: I don't notice little lights. My telephone answering device informs me that a message has been left by an unobtrusive and non-invasive little red light. I don't notice it, so messages can be days old before I feel the urge to check to see if any life form has tried to contact me.

They had, of course. The 'they' in question, being the estate agents. There is a viewing! Praise be! I tell myself not to build too much into a mere looking at what is for sale, but it is impossible for me not to think about what the selling of the house will give me: freedom (of a sort) and a life in Catalonia. Please let the viewers fall in love at once. Think of me as Saturday approaches. By the time the weekend arrives I will 90% bleach and polish and, of course, I musn't forget the fresh flowers and the aroma of fresh coffee.

Talking of gadgets, though some may consider this particular one more of an essential piece of equipment rather than a luxury, brings me to my mobile phone.

I like mobile phones. I am old enough to remember GPO technicians turing up to install a phone (after a wait of months) with a small wooden suitcase with a black bakerlite (?) handset on top. This was a mobile phone - and a piece of serious equipment. A sign and symbol that we had truly entered the world of exciting scientific progress! And now . . . Well, suffice to say, I loved mobile phones and took every opportunity to get one (or more) as they became more available and cheaper. What I didn't do was keep it charged and keep it with me. I liked them as objects of desire, but not as practical items which were actually useful.

I have changed. Partially. I now keep it charged. And on me. Sometimes. Yesterday was not one of those days. It was charging so I missed the information that the estate agent was trying to get to me about the possibility of humans with money deciding to indulge in A View to a Sell. All I saw on my mobile when I eventually took it off charge, was an ominous 'missed call' message. When I eventually noted the call, I did not recognize the number. I managed to 'extract' the number (another first) I phoned it and got through to the estate agent. Again. I covered by confusion by asking if the Saturday viewing was the only one on the horizon. Amazingly the lady on the phone responded by saying that another couple had taken details and there might be ANOTHER viewing by ANOTHER couple. Praise be indeed!

Strangely, I feel quite disorientated by the suggestiong that all my plans might, actually, be getting to some point of actuality. I had, I suppose, assumed that I was going to be here until the spring and now there is an outside chance that I could be in Catalonia by Christmas. This is, of course, tempting fate and everything might well collapse like a house of cards. Still, there is nothing wrong with hope and optimism.

The days tick by and the cleaning intensifies. Keep reading for the next clean episode!

New Day Unique Experience!

So, this is it! My first words as a blogger. Let it flow!

As someone once said, "You should try everything once, except for incest and Morris Dancing." Sage advice. And today was one of those times when I was able to add another new and wonderful moment to my life
(Photo not of me, but a statue in Terrassa park)

experience.

Let me explain.

I am waiting to sell my house. Waiting and waiting. Quite apart from the frustration of not getting my paws onto the money that my house has to make to allow me to live some sort of reasonable life in Castelldefels (just outside Barcelona Airport) there is also the horror of having to keep the house presentable for the possible future buyers.

The future buyers are not showing up, but the house has to be kept up to standard (the standard which is far above the usual levels which ordinary life asks for) I have been hoovering, cleaning, polishing and tidying - for no one! It's like some sort of strange religious observance, tidying the shrine of domesticity for the gods who never turn up. But, you can't relax because if you do, that will be the time when the real potential buyer will arrive and notice the specs of dust, the misaligned newspapers and the sale will be off.

So, what I have done which is above and beyond the normal round of house care?

I have ironed the carpet.

Now, before you stop reading, assuming that you are perusing the outpourings of a demented, sad and other worldly being, I should explain.

Before the decision to move to Catalonia was decided upon, my house was a true shrine. Not to false gods, but to my overriding interest: reading. Every available space was filled with bookcases and overflowing volumes. Although (with my possessions in storage) I now live in a conventional three bedroom semi, I used to live in a one bedroom semi with a study and library. As you may have guessed, the semis in both cases are the same, it's just the books and the bookcases that have gone.

Gone, maybe - but the evidence of their previous existence is still to be seen. The outlines of all the bookcases are clear in the grooves in the carpet, which is now clear to see because of the lack of furniture in my house. Clear for the future purchasers as well. So, what to do?

Advice was forthcoming: using a steam iron and a cloth, iron the creases in the carpet, hoover and hey presto! the evidence of bookcases will be gone. Well, not quite, but its getting there. I think.

The one thing which haunts me is that this could be just the start. As my eagle eye roves around my house, trying to see familiar places with a stranger's eye, what else might I decided to 'improve'. Wasn't there a film with Tom Hanks (how in the name of God did he get two {count them, two!} Oscars for acting?) called "The Money Pit" about the renovating of a house? I am not trying to renovate, but even in 'presenting' a house and 'dressing' it for others there is no logical limit to what you can do. The threat is obvious. Someone needs to buy the house soon to save me from myself.

I might add that the Ewbank (name names, confound the guilty) carpet shampooer is one of the most ineptly designed household helps that I have used in many years. Damn it to the pits of hell. And the bottles of shampoo had slightly opened and leaked. And the handle of the machine kept unloosening. And it leaked. And . . . Need I go on.

I really think that my ideas for BBC Radio 4 ideas need to be taken up by the Corporation so that working on them will keep me from obsessing about housework. Please. What will the next days throw in my way? Something more intellectual please!




This is what the outside looks like. The garden is easier to tend than the carpets!