Live the Conrad Nightmare!

Thank God for the verities of life in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland! When your train is leaving Cardiff Central at 08.55 and you are in St Mary Street at 08.55 then only a non-native of these benighted islands would despair. Of course First Great Western were late: they’re trains and they’re British. What else is to know? As an added extra the company even provided an apocalypse-like entry into Reading when day was turned into night with the storm lashing the poor train! At least Clarrie had made it to the shelter of the station before the elements pummelled the earth. So much for England!

I was more than impressed with the fish shop to which I was taken by Clarrie: the range of fish available was astonishing. Clarrie, with her usual understated approach to food limited her choice to a few selected items which are illustrated below. Delicious!

The house is prime for development; it is being brought back to life after a sojourn as student rented accommodation, with the ministrations of Clarrie and Mary. I’m sure that, given time, the blank canvas of the house will be glowing with expensive colours: I know that to be true – I’ve seen the paint pots! From the horizontal living style of Brixton they have now migrated to a more vertical style of existence in Reading: three stories of picture space!

It is always a joy when Clarrie makes my financial management look like something straight jacketed by the IMF; she used my looking for the Motorola L7 Red for Toni as an excuse to purchase a very expensive Blackberry phone with e mail capability, full keyboard and coffee making facilities. We developed an elaborate strategy for telling Mary about this purchase but were hoist with our own petard when the time fell through. Mary also was not impressed when she found out that the state of the art photo printer (which she thought I had brought with me) was actually a ‘present to myself’ from Clarrie! Such larks, Pip Old Chap!

The journey home was the usual late night train horror. The train was late (gosh!) and empty but with selected lewd fellows of a baser sort. The glaring oddities this evening were a couple of drunks; a younger and an older. The younger glasses wearing, bleary eyed, slurred speaking disgrace slumped against the older one caressing his bald head and giving him inexpert kisses from time to time. As they were directly in front of me and facing me, it was difficult to avoid looking at them and, more depressingly, hearing them. Thank God for the ipod and short sightedness: the one blanks out inane speech and the other converts all sights into a soothing blur. Of course, given Sod’s Law, they stayed until Cardiff.

It was depressingly late by the time the taxi finally pulled into Rumney and I had that sort of alert tiredness which luckily converts into somnolence as soon as your head touches the pillow.

Up with the lark (as long as you consider larks sluggish and resentful) and waiting to phone Ceri to go to Phil’s exhibition. The same Sod’s Law (see above) ensured that the exhibition was closed by the time we got there for a three hour lunch break: 12 to 3: what civilization!

To make up for this disappointment we went to the Museum to look at Cedric Morris’s paintings to see if they match my flower painting. I have to say that they did. I wasn’t impressed with the paintings but there is a generic similarity, perhaps I should take this further; not sure how.

One of Cedric’s (Sir Cedric’s) paintings showed an industrial scene with dark satanic mills; they were childishly portrayed and the impasto with which he paints is distasteful to sight. I thought of Lowry’s depictions and looked around for the Museum’s example and neither of us could find it. I asked one of the Museum guards and she said that she would take me there at once and walked purposely towards a large Kyffin canvas and it was only when she got there that she admitted her mistake. I must admit that I was revising my knowledge of Lowry before I saw that she was wrong!

Paella for dinner: Toni’s comments? “Too many things and not enough rice.” I’ll keep trying.

Honesty: the best policy?

Once upon a time there was a sort-of-retired-teacher who went down to the centre of Cardiff to look at an exhibition of paintings.

He liked paintings and he had lots of pretentious things to say to the owner of the gallery about the canvases on the walls. When he had seen his fill of the art he decided to go to have lunch in a posh restaurant.

He went to the Hilton and had a very good starter made up of lots of lovely things and then he had a main course which was calves’ livers with Cumberland sausage and crispy bacon with vegetables cut into geometric shapes. He was very naughty and had a glass of red wine as well!

When he had eaten his main course the waiter asked him if he wanted to have a pudding. He knew that the puddings were very attractive, because he had seen them all laid out when he went to get his starter.

He thought and thought and just as he was about to make a decision the hotel fire alarm went off and everyone had to leave the restaurant by the nearest available exit!

He had finished his meal (really) and he was outside on the street. How easy it would have been for him to just walk off and not pay. He even had his bag with him which he had picked up before he left!

What do you think he did? Did he blend in with the passers by or did he go back and pay for the food he had eaten? What do you think?

Well, it was a bloody good thing I did go back, because I had left my mobile phone on the table in the restaurant.

Never let it be said that honesty didn’t have an immediate pay back.

The exhibition was in the Kooywood Gallery in Museum Place and Phil Parry was exhibiting a series of oils on canvas under the title of ‘Horizons.’

Although better known as a portrait painter, these paintings were devoid of people and were all landscapes, most of them seascapes. He had particularly concentrated on the painting of water and clouds. He had chosen a portrait format for the pictures and, as he wrote in the catalogue, “I often use the portrait format to emphasise the sense of perspective and space by moving the horizon line higher of lower.”

The most successful painting, in my opinion, was a portrait format picture of light on the sea: a remarkable evocation of a small breaking wave and the translucence of the water with the light behind it. The far distant horizon is also particularly effective with a glowing sense of light on water. The painting is also remarkable for its price tag: a thousand pounds more that others of its size!

The portrayal of clouds in many of the paintings is very effective, and the interplay with the water provides a very active canvas. The canvas itself is thick weave and plays an important part in the appearance of the paintings. I feel that the texture is quite intrusive and it detracts from the effective portrayal of the subject matter: they have the look of paintings photographed onto the canvas rather than painted!

Most of the paintings were arresting but one example (just be the entrance door) looked rushed and almost sketch like – though the paintings actually designated as sketches looked much more professional. It looked out of place in the context of the other paintings and, in my opinion, should have been held back.

The painting of water is not uniformly successful: one painting where the water was three quarters of the canvas declined from the interesting ripples to an uninteresting and rather blank block of colour. I’m also not sure that Phil makes the most of the line of meeting of water and sky.

Overall the exhibition was refreshing and stimulating and worth another look.

Tomorrow: Reading and the new house. Who knows, perhaps tomorrow will also bring our first Peter Alan viewing? Deo volente!

Any leads?

In the endless hours of peaceful contemplation, which is life without school (that’s not strictly true, but near enough when compared with teaching!) there is time for the consideration of the more spiritual things in life. No matter how much I vaunt my atheism there is always the nagging attraction of numinous speculation. The belief in an all controlling deity was pushed into the forefront of my thoughts by something seemingly trivial: isn’t it, as they say, always the same?

Modern life, for someone of my persuasion is fraught with difficulties. Try as I might to live an uncluttered existence there are elements which seek to complicate my chosen path. I speak, of course, of electrical leads. When you have as many gadgets as I possess then certain drawers are writhing masses of serpentine lengths knotting and gendering and entwining themselves in an inextricable mass of black, white and grey.

What, you may ask, about God? Where does s/he come into it? Well, as far as I can remember, I place each lead in the drawer carefully and as neatly as I can. I do not have a giant wooden spoon to stir up the leads into a plastic stringy soup. Yet, whenever I need to power up a gadget, the extrication of a specific lead is next to impossible without drawing into daylight about fifty of its near neighbours. When gentle shaking has dissuaded some of the fellow travellers to drop back into obscurity, the remaining two or three are locked together in a fiendish way which reminds you of the intricacy of an impossible three dimensional puzzle devised by a sick tormented mind. Trying to separate the strands defies Newtonian physics and you need a mind which is at home in a universe formed as a Möbius Strip lying on an Escher staircase if you want to stand any chance of success in encouraging the lead you actually want to emerge free and usable.

And this is where God comes in. Scorning to appeal to the theological writings of the Early Fathers of the Church to explain the twisting of electrical leads, I turn instead to The Hitchhikers Guide to the Universe, where the Babel Fish was clear proof of the existence and therefore (as any god worth the name would obviously not need proof) the non existence of God. The Entwined Theory of Leads postulates that inert strips when placed in any sort of conjunction will combine and twist to the negative reciprocal of their root and lead to denial of Humanity, Sanity and Divinity in their attempted unravelling. So there.

All that because I lost my temper in trying to get the earphones separated from the lead of my ipod. (ibid et passim) At least I feel better now, the dispersal of anime by orthography.

Peter Alan, the Estate Agents, are now on the scene: and so far, so good. After a quick check round the house, photos were taken and within an hour of the agent leaving the details of my house were in the shop window with printed details and photographs ready for me to check and OK. The efficiency of the first part of the process has reignited by enthusiasm. Hope is still springing eternal.

Hadyn came for coffee and asked me to phone up the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid which is putting on a Howard Hodgkin exhibition because he was unable to go. I first thought of waiting for Toni to come home and then I thought that I really should do it myself because this will be the way of my future life. So I did and found myself listening to a fast speaking recorded voice which didn’t even give me the option of leaving a message, which I (sort of) did anyway – just in case. My second option was the phone the ordinary reception of the museum. I talked to a receptionist who made no concessions to my halting Spanish, kept me on hold and eventually told me she could no reply from the appropriate person I needed to speak to so I should phone again ‘tomorrow.’ [The only reason I did not put that word is Spanish is that I do not have the correct symbol for the enya.] I eventually got Toni to write an email. Such is life.

Tomorrow visiting an art gallery in Museum Place in town, collecting the tickets for my trip to Reading on Wednesday and perhaps lunch somewhere self indulgent!

Needful things.

Let us imagine a conversation.

“Do you have a job?”
“No.”
“Do you have a regular income?”
“No.”
“Do you own an ipod 60 GB video mp3 player? The most expensive player in the range?
“Yes.”
“Have you just bought another ipod, to be specific an ipod 80GB video mp3 player?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything wrong with the previous ipod?”
“Yes. It was full up.”

There is a wonderful fin de siecle feel, a je ne sait quoi moment, as we say in Kennerleigh Road, about that. In the same league of thoughtlessness, most would say, with the myth of Nero fiddling while Rome burnt.

Many who know me will be shocked by such a wilfully extravagant, financially inept and gloriously unreasonable gesture of purchasing. I have to say that if they think that, then they know me little. I am particularly adept at the sort of logic that would make an extremist Jesuit baulk; especially when it involves an aspect of any form of retail therapy (it is, by the way, most encouraging to see so many people now accept this treatment, placing it firmly in the realm of therapeutic medication.)

One feels that like Louis Armstrong in a different context, if one has to explain any purchase, the questioners would thereby show themselves not be able to appreciate the answer with the correct degree of dignity.

Suffice to say that this purchase (with another more difficult to justify, though just as expensive) exists and, like the early prose works of Evelyn Waugh, must be accepted as a sardonic comment on the prevailing mores of our decadent society, in whose grip, I am, of course, merely a helpless pawn. Ahem.

The concert last night in St David’s Hall more than lived up to my expectations. Having decided enthusiastically to adopt at least some of the precepts of frugality given my present reduced circumstances [for the sake of the logical flow of this and succeeding paragraphs, please ignore any financial inconsistencies in the preceding paragraphs.] I went down town by bus. By the time that I arrived in the centre, the start of the concert was looming.

I rushed into the reception of the hall and gasped out my need for a ticket. The one that I was given was in the rarefied atmosphere of Tier 13. This was well into the area involving the massive indignity of having to go to ‘The Higher Tiers’ an ignominy that, in my previous incarnation as a Full Subscription Concert Goer, I had never previously had to endure. By the time that I got near to my seat, up seemingly endless flights of stairs, I was breathless and slightly juddery. There was a further schlep to my final destination of an actual seat and I slumped down, that in itself almost being the signal for the orchestra to come out to take their places.

The first shock of the night was to discover that there was another piece of music before the ‘Turangalila Symphony.’ This was Florent Schmitt’s ‘Psaume XLVII.’ I had never heard of either the composer or the piece. The fact that there was a full chorus of the BBC National Chorus of Wales sitting behind the orchestra and the further fact that the light for the organist was on, suggested a full blooded piece of music!

It was extraordinary: full of power and a thoroughly engaging musicality. The realization that I was sitting above the level of the elevated Chorus gave an almost mystical sense of separation with mellifluous voices wafting from the regions below. The piece was full of musical invention and the range of percussion used as an integral part of the experience showed why (according to the brief programme notes) Stravinsky admired Schmitt.

The music was so high powered, especially when sung with such gusto by the chorus, that the introduction of Christine Buffle as the soprano element in the piece, was a period of calm and contemplation rather than further excitement. This however did not last as she lustily joined in with everyone else in some rousing music. It was the sort of music that instantly attracted you and made you want to add it to your ipod (see!) and, in the interval chatting with Mike and Lynne a singer from the chorus joined us, enthused about the music and informed us that though it was difficult to find as a recording she was able to get hold of it by going to a web site called something like ‘crotchet.com’ and pay only £6 to possess it. Something to find out and to add to the ipod now that it has new memory for further music.

The Messiaen was fantastic. When listening to the wall of musical excitement which comprises so much of this extraordinary symphony, my mind is drawn back to the BBC Welsh Orchestra that I used to support when I was still in school. My traumatic memories of the exposed (in every sense of the word) horns in Beethoven’s Third symphony still sear the happy times of hearing famous music live for the first time. The idea of the Orchestra from the seventies even thinking about attempting a work as complex and challenging in orchestral terms, as Turangalila would have been unthinkable. How times have changed! When listening to the BBC NOW means never having to make compromises in your critical judgement.

The conductor, Thierry Fischer, conducted with the enthusiastic support of the orchestra and with considerable gymnastic flair: his pelvic gyrations were particularly ‘giving’! This delighted glances that Fischer gave at the superb piano playing of Roger Muraro and his complete ignoring of the Ondes Martinot player, Jacques Tchamkerten, seemed to be an astute artistic judgement.

As usual I was overwhelmed by the physical presence of this music and yet again found myself delighting in the inventive narrative flow of the piece. I can’t say that I wanted to hear it all again at the end because I knew that Paul was waiting for me to whisk me back to Rumney and dinner made by Paul Squared.

Calamari and home made meat balls followed by roulade and cream with the final course being a vast selection of irresistible cheeses. I felt that my refusal to eat German smoked processed cheese made me almost ascetic in my approach!. Who could ask for better at the end of a stimulating evening.

Oh yes, and a few glasses of wine, after all we are only human.

It’s so refreshing to be with someone who does not cringe instinctively when you complain in a restaurant.

After the concert in the Millennium Centre Alison and I went for a meal in Demiro’s. The menu was divided into three basic sections so you could eat Welsh, Italian or Spanish. The Spanish section comprised an uninspiring choice of tapas with even less inspiring main dishes described in an interestingly macaronic form of the language. The Italian was very much what you would expect and the Welsh, stripped of the descriptions, were fairly basic.

However, by a judicious combination of menus we found a satisfactory meal. I had the Welsh cockles and lavabread with bacon in a small tartlet, followed by Turbot thermidor with rosemary potatoes. Very nice too.

Alison’s choice is circumscribed by her needing food cooked without dairy produce, but olives as a starter followed by duck breast in orange and brandy sauce - once the composition of the sauce was declared safe - seemed fine. The waiter assured Alison that the duck would be pink and moist, so it was disconcerting to see her meal with what looked like a well cooked piece of steak on it. The duck was ‘thoroughly’ cooked to the point of inedibility and it was at this point that the ‘complain or not complain’ process started. Given that Alison had had a number of decent meals in Demiro’s, and also given the fact that the meal was not by any stretch of the imagination, cheap, ‘complain’ won.

It is always annoying when complaining about food to have the waiter ask if you want it changed. What are you supposed to reply to that? “No, no, I was just giving you some information that you can add to your archive.” The second annoying thing is when the food has been taken away and another waiter appears defending the food that you had been given, in this case, “There was nothing wrong with the duck, it was well done as requested.” This, of course, would have been fine if that was what Alison had requested. As she hadn’t, it wasn’t.

By the time her meal appeared mine had disappeared – into my stomach, and the wine was running low. The request from the waiter asking if we required more wine and my witty response of ‘Who’s buying?’ elicited a jovial ‘I am!’ to which my instant rejoinder of ‘We’ll have a bottle then,’ seemed to have produced a most satisfactory outcome after the disruption of the food. We were serious, the waiter wasn’t, but the situation did resolve itself into two free (cheap) glasses of red wine. And we did buy another bottle of the Rioja.

So to the concert: ‘Chorus’, with the chorus and orchestra of the Welsh National Opera. I had expected an ordinary presentation of the famous bits of opera for the plebs. The concert was not like that.

This was a dramatic presentation in a staged form. From the rousing opening chorus from ‘War and Peace’ to the finale from ‘Candide’ there was a very satisfying flow to the evening’s entertainment. I suppose, given time, I could work out some sort of narrative thrust through the very different pieces, but it wasn’t apparent and I don’t think that it would have added much. The important aspect of the staging was that it allowed action to flow, visual interest to be kept up and presented the music to advantage.

The range of music was stimulating, with me receiving a little jolt of pleasure when the surtitles stated that the next piece was to be from ‘Die Tote Stadt’ – though it did not turn out to be the bit with the ghostly procession (or the only bit that I know well!)

The singing was quite presentable, but I felt that there was a surprising moderation in the gusto with which the chorus of WNO usually sing; this was especially apparent in the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves – a piece for which the chorus is particularly famed – but here, there was a distinct lack of ‘singing out’.

The orchestra continues to impress as their sound is well at home in the Millennium Centre. It is a continual revelation to those of us who have had to suffer the appalling acoustics of the New Theatre for so long!

A most enjoyable evening; the National Orchestra of Wales is easily capable of topping this experience with their performance of ‘Turangalila’ in St David’s Hall tonight. We shall see.

America, 'tis of thee!

Someone once called Gore Vidal, “the last living civilized American.” Such a statement is obviously absurd, but in a country that has wilfully elected a man like George Bush as President; refused to accept football as its national sport; has a sizable section of the fundamentalist Christian right propounding the absurd doctrine of ‘Intelligent Design’ and has made a film and its sequel based on a Theme Park ride, it is difficult not to have a certain amount of sympathy with the lonely intelligence of the author of ‘Myra Breckinridge.’

I know that it is fashionable to describe America as an empire which refuses to accept its responsibility; but the stance of America in the world today encourages any thinking observer to want to scream to the Administration that they are an Empire and it would be more truthful for them to behave like one, instead hiding behind the voicing of vacuous platitudes of belief in democracy and freedom to excuse their almost complete lack of true involvement in running the world which they control.

Their mind bogglingly overwhelming insularity, mixed with a healthy dash of sheer ignorance [you try saying you come from Wales when in America and expect any appreciative response!] and their smug belief in their essential cosy rightness makes any ex-colonial power look on in mute disbelief. At least we (the Brits that painted the map pink) had an articulated ethos that accepted and exulted in the fact that colonies were there for the benefit of the mother country. Now America uses the mantra of self-determination for other ‘useful’ (i.e. oil producing) countries as if it actually exists and informs the philanthropic foreign policy of the Administration.

The latest example of this neo colonial arrogance is seen in the demands made by America for the relaying of information (down to the inside leg measurement) of all passengers flying from Europe to the US. The details of what information the Americans require makes ‘Alice in Wonderland’ look like an everyday story of country folk.

Who now, of thinking people, has any real belief in a coherent strategy against the so-called ‘axis of evil’ by any of the western governments, let alone the paranoid amalgam of bigotry that is the Bush vision of America?

So much of the paraphernalia of ‘justified measures’ is for home consumption, a crude political trick to influence, inflame and direct domestic political debate, not to produce authentic, reasonable and effective measures against a culture of violence.

America is rapidly losing friends throughout the world. Its moral basis for existence through the struggle against colonial excesses to the Declaration of Independence is becoming something of a sick joke. Its ham fisted actions to protect its own power base are naked and obvious; its grasping arrogance becomes more and more clear.

Meanwhile back in Cardiff: Monday will see the appearance of yet another estate agent – but this time, we are prepared. God help the poor bugger when he has to listen to our list of ‘suggestions.’

This evening: back to the Millennium Centre for a popular concert called ‘Chorus’ in which the Orchestra and Chorus of Welsh National Opera will provide a programme of all the best bits from a series of operas. As I am going out to dinner afterwards, please do not expect any coherent assessment of the performance!

The Policeman's lot

I am known, universally, as calm, reasoned and sage. I scorn to jump those instant opinions which so limit the arguments of others without that careful balance and weighing of evidence that is, so self evidently, the characteristic of my discourse. But, there again, there is nothing quite so self satisfying as whipping yourself into a deeply comforting rant which is based on knee jerk response.

The news today is full of a Muslim policeman’s request not to guard the embassy of Israel being granted by his superiors. This brings to the forefront all my anxieties about the position of the police in society today and their function and purpose.

One of the more satisfying sights that an old die hard liberal (with a small ‘l’) can see connected with the police force is when they try marching together. Why is it satisfying? Because they do it so badly; and why shouldn’t they? It’s not the be all and end all of their training. They, the police, are not a military force. I resent the use by some senior policemen of the term ‘civilians’ to describe what they used to call ‘the public.’ We are like them, they are like us. They are not soldiers; their relationship with their clients is not that of a military force with civilians. Their function is to defend the public, to ensure that we can carry on our lives in peace and be able to ‘go about our lawful purposes.’

For some people the ideal policeman is that individual who approaches more and more nearly to Sherlock Holmes: the brilliant individual, capable of intuitive leaps of breathtaking intellectual audacity; the person who, with reference to nobody, is able to pursue an eccentric course, scorning procedure, breaking rules, creating his own moral universe and, of course, apprehending the villain in a pyrotechnical blaze of casuistically astonishing logical deductions that leave mere mortals gasping with astonished admiration. Crap!

The Holmesian type of policeman is a dangerously beguiling exemplum; with the emphasis on dangerous. In this country we give our police force a great deal of public support. We automatically assume their probity in a way which is almost unique to these islands. We trust their honesty, their fairness and their methodical approach. We expect a professionalism which is based on proven practice, not on dangerous flashes of uncontrolled genius. PC Plod may seem to be a negative appellation, but, in my view, it is the backbone of the security of this country: honest effort as part of a team.

I am not, in spite of appearances, saying that I want a police force of kind idiots. There is a place for genius within the force, for the unconventional, the inspirational, the thinking-outside-the-box, and the individualistic – for all of these: but the basic policeman should be stolid and calm and follow orders.

Our police force, if it is anything, is a force which ignores differences of race, creed, sexuality, status. It is a police force for the public – all the public. Like doctors they have to treat all equally, whatever their thoughts about the individuals with whom they treat.

This one case has thrown all of this tradition into relief. If this is allowed to be the norm then everything that I have said is in he melting pot, and all the very real forces within our society of politics, religion, caste, status, everything come into play. I am not naïf about what happens now. No policeman has ever been anything than polite to me: they listen to my modulated middle class accents and respond appropriately. I know that they are only human and they do respond to aspects of life which they should ignore. But, and it is a big but, they know that they do not have any official or public sanction for these attitudes. In short, it’s wrong, and they know it’s wrong. They are a force for everyone: everyone is equal before them – like the law, which they embody.

I’m sure that more details will emerge about the particular case of the Muslim (British) policeman. Perhaps they will explain why a man who had obviously volunteered to join a diplomatic unit of the police would not carry out an aspect of his duties. To my mind, if he could not, in conscience carry out an order, then he had only one course of action: resignation.

The publicity given to this case is, in itself, encouraging. It is recognition of the importance of what is at stake here: the whole concept of a force which can police with the support of The Public. As Baldwin said, ‘Wait and see’ there is a whole way of life to preserve. Let’s see if we can do it.

Tax and prizes

Einstein could not do his tax returns. Why should I try to outshine a genius? Especially when the people in the local tax office are so helpful. Why? Well, because the tax office has redesigned itself and you can’t get to the people who used to be so helpful - without an appointment. Tragedy! Then the legendary ‘luck of the Reeses’ (Ha!) started up and an appointment was arranged for the day after tomorrow. We will see if they are still as user friendly as they have been for the last two years when they have guided me, like some sort of emotionally stunted savage who had recently been introduced to the concept of using marks to represent words! They did complete my return though. We will, indeed, see.

Today has been notable for the extraordinary experience that is the Awards Evening of the Cardiff in Bloom Competition. Toni has (again) been awarded (for the third time) second prize in the front garden competition for our electoral district.

During the summer a judge comes along and enthuses about the garden and then later awards us second prize. Blazes of colour in imaginative settings with the sound of astonishing water features – means nothing: second prize. Carefully orchestrated and structured paths through the garden, vistas of engaging vegetative texture: second prize. Bugger it! What do we have to do to win? [Insert your own tasteless, yet amusing answer to that rhetorical question.]

Sitting at out designated table in the Assembly Rooms in the old Cardiff City Hall with those massively extraordinary constructions of metal glass and light bulbs which constitute the chandeliers in that fantasy of marble, stucco, metal and gilding, you look around and think to yourself that this has to be one of the more extraordinary gatherings of civilians that you are likely to be associated with for a long time. The gathering is a mixture of the dedicated (usually very old) gardeners, who actually know what they are growing and are not surprised by what comes up in the spring; those gardeners who are rich enough to ensure that they buy the right plants and the right advice to ensure that their gardens are credits to the money they spend, and us. I am a great exponent of the Don Rees School of gardening. My father had few rules of gardening:
1. If it grows without care, buy it.
2. If it uses Rule 1 and has colour, plant it.
3. If it comes back the next year, encourage it and buy more.
4. Take credit for gardening success with grace.

Don’t knock them: they worked for him and we had a front garden of spectacular colour and interest.

Meanwhile back at City Hall, the evening started with the usual organizational chaos as Margaret Pritchard (she who got me a glass of water when I did my LIVE voice over from the continuity announcer’s kiosk in HTV all those years ago) attempted to announce the winners. As usual the list of winners that she had did not match the bodies waiting to get their plaques and a sense of gentle incompetence continued throughout the evening.

The photo they had taken to put up when Toni went to get his award was not a bad representation of the garden. This year the photographer did not come until we were in Catalonia, so he had to take the picture standing on the wall outside the fence. All things considered we had a much better representation than many, whose gardens looked lacklustre to say the least.

As usual as soon as the buffet had been eaten at half time, half the people left because the only part of the programme left was giving those who had already won prizes yet more prizes as these were the overall winners of the whole of Cardiff.

What, one speculates, will happen next year? Roll on Peter Alan, do your stuff and get me to Catalonia!

Mundane to marvellous

‘Regression.’ That was the word that came to mind when I eventually was treated to the vision that was my signer person when I went to the Job Centre today.

All the personnel that I have come into contact with since the 18th September have been of the new brigade: comfortable with having to explain to ‘clients’ all the ‘user friendly’ facilities packed into the Centre; rejoicing in the ways in which they can facilitate job finding capabilities; delighting in making the client part of the solution, etc, etc. The man today was different.

First of all he was late. Only a few minutes, but during this time I could gaze at the grubby collar of his coat decorating the back of the empty chair. When he finally arrived he ignored me, sat down, fussed with his glasses and started the process of starting his computer. He then failed to find his pen. Changed his glasses. Took the pen found by me. Inserted his card. And punched the keys of the computer. You could tell that he would have been much more at home thumping keys of a manual typewriter and using the return carriage as a weapon, the crank and thump being sonic assaults against the cringing applicant for governmental largess.

He eventually remembered to apologise for his late appearance: ‘took a late break’; ‘we’re well down’; ‘people away’. This did remind me of bygone years. That ‘other worldly’ sense was augmented by the fact that my advisor did not “watch television” and “not much radio” – so much for my broadcasting aura. His explanations were (how shall I put this?) Defeatist. I was glad to get out of there, and only £1-60 for parking. (Ironic.)

After putting the wrong measurements for my living room on the internet, failing to correct the mistake within a day and failing to contact me when they said they would, Halifax have been sacked. Peter Allan tomorrow.

Sigh!

On to more important things: this evening a free concert courtesy of the BBC National Orchestra of Wales in Studio 1 in Broadcasting House in Llandaff. The concert was part of the ‘Discovering Music Live’ series in which a musical work is introduced with live musical illustrations; then in the second part of the programme, a full performance of the work is given. The work today was Nielsen’s Flute Concerto played by Sharon Bezaly with the conductor being Ken Woods.

The presentation was excellent; I especially liked the idea that Danish, as a language is often spoken in thirds, the presenter matched a simplified sequence from the flute concerto with the cadences of a Danish speaker reading an extract from the tales of Andersen.

At the end of the presentation there was an opportunity for questions. Silence, broken by me! I have to admit that the question I asked was irrelevant compared with the fluency, knowledge and perception of the answer – but the question and response ensured that there were no other enquiries! Indeed, the producer had to ask for more responses at the end of the show, one of which was provided by the presenter.

The performance was excellent: just the right length for a concert!

If it's not one thing, it's another.

In this thrusting, immediate world, you have to get your grouse in as soon as possible. Why wait for more topical moments to vent your spleen when you can do it all now.

I don’t often find myself in the same camp with the Repulsive Religionists of the Ridiculous Right but I feel the need for all right (in the right sense) people to come to the aid of the party, so to speak. It is time for us to march against the tide of clichés and do something forthright and, uh, right.

I speak, of course, of the luridly coloured garbage filling the shelves of supermarkets up and down the country; the latest attempt by the shameless followers of Adam Smith to wrench yet more money out of our depleted pockets. The tons of stuff: plastic, cardboard, wood, cloth, more plastic and sugar which is the merchandising construct of the presentation to this benighted country of the absurd Yankee take on Halloween.

I have to admit, as I made my way along the coast road in Cardiff, I couldn’t help admiring the vast, blossoming and burgeoning fields of swelling pumpkins ready to be harvested so that delightful and fun loving hordes of grasping, avaricious Thatcherite throwbacks can weald them as part of their shameless protection racket which masquerades under the deeply sinister title of ‘Trick or Treat.’

What is this all about? We have no bloody fields of pumpkins! I thought that we were an independent country with a great cultural tradition, not a slavish imitator of a country that thinks it is cool to . . . well; insert your own particular piece of American nonsense to make yourself even more indignant.

At least in America you have the guns so that you can shoot the little buggers before they start their extortion.

Every aspect of life is covered by some tatty, overpriced piece of rubbish. I pity parents (often) but they will be assailed constantly by their free roving DNA banks so buy more and more so that their offspring will be able to disport themselves like some sort of Gothic overstatement that even Vincent Price would baulk at joining.

I think that their unthinking portrayal of witches and warlocks and things that go bump in the night is an insensitive mockery of the religion which was old in this country when Christianity was still waiting for Paul to get the spin right so that unsuspecting gentiles would buy into it. I’d love to see the Druids and New Ageists combining forces and declaring jihad on anyone wandering about on All Saints Night dressed as a calculated affront to their fondly held beliefs. It could be like St Bartholomew’s Eve all over again. A Halloween to remember.

I loathe the whole idea of the night in its Pagan, Christian and Capitalist glory. A vile import which should stay in the country that espouses . . . I’m losing my clarity in an excess of hatred. This is not good and it must stop. Now! Take a breath. Better? Better!

Today has not been good. Neither of the people who viewed the house on Saturday has taken the process further. One wanted a house for renting and this one was not the sort of thing that he wanted, while the second was buying a house for herself and her mother and she wanted separate rooms on the ground floor. I fail to see why, after a cursory view of the specifications of the house people come to look at it, when it is quite clearly not what they are wanting.

Talking of specifications: one of the good things which came out of the viewings was that they told us that they were surprised about the size of the living room as the specs gave the size as 12 foot: only 13 foot out! I think this is one mistake too far; perhaps I should change the agents for the third time.

Tomorrow is ‘sign on’ day. I’m not quite sure why I am doing this as there does not seem to be any pay off, as it were. Still, it will be an interesting experience.

Tomorrow evening a concert that is going to centre on the Nielsen Flute Concerto in a live programme which also has a presenter using the orchestra to illustrate aspects of the music, with a full performance at the conclusion. Something to look forward to!

Our little life . . .

As the most exciting things that I have done today are: go to Asda and Aldi; finish reading Bragg’s book and make lunch, I think it would be inappropriate to expound my world view utilizing some simple element of ordinary life to pad out this piece of writing.

So, I will say nothing more, except, of course, to reserve my right to pontificate, digress, explain and meander my written way though my days at a later date.

What will be, will be.

Five past twelve I got up: a lie in. I don’t do lie ins, it just isn’t me. Up with the lark, things to do; places to go etc. etc. But, 12.5 – the afternoon! I now figure proudly in the decline of Western Civilization; roll on the last days of Rome, Caligula Rees is ready to take his place in the apocalypse. Over reaction? Well, with two sets of people arriving to view the house, the first scheduled to push the door bell at 3.30 pm, the time allowable for cleaning was perilously small.

The house, was, however, after some differences of opinion, pristine (well, clean) by the time the first battalion arrived. The viewing team of husband, wife and daughter seemed frighteningly professional: as soon as they arrived and I casually mentioned that there was a side entrance to the back garden, the whole troop of them were off at a gallop to see if it were true. The experience of the house was, therefore, a bit back to front, not really what I had planned and certainly not was Toni thought was the right way to do it. When they had left I was asked, very pointedly by himself, if I realized my ‘big mistake.’ Yes, you’ve guessed it: the mentioning of the side entrance: the unfinished side entrance; the non-the-best-aspect-of-the-house side entrance.

I felt when they had gone ( having spent all of five minutes looking around the house,) that they would not be proceeding any further with a purchase. I understand from Halifax that the guy is looking for an investment opportunity and has the money, virtually, to hand! That would be a delight. But I didn’t feel that there was the click of ownership about them.

We barely had time to draw breath (well, twenty five minutes actually) before the next onslaught: this time, a divorced woman and her mother. They were altogether a more relaxed contingent to deal with. They went where I wanted them to go, made cooing sounds in all the right places and also had the same colour blue (found in our downstairs cloakroom) in their house too.

Ironically, their departing comments concerned the cleanliness of the house and further comments on the inability that they had to keep their homes clear of clutter! If they only knew!

We now have to wait. It’s worse than waiting for exam results because with exam results you only think that they are life changing because the educational establishment keeps telling you they are so; whereas with real money from the sale of you house – this is life changing, and in my circumstances more than doubly so!

We are now sitting on our respective sofas with our respective laptops like hi-tec characters in a rewrite of a play by Jean Paul Sartre waiting to go to Mike and Angela for a much anticipated meal.

This will be the first time that I will have gone to Mike and Angela's new house and it has been far too long a time since I had a Gray meal. My anticipation is tinged with apprehension: what has she cooked, and will Toni be able to eat it? I will take a few bottles of wine so that the sharp dig of concern will be alcoholically blunted!

I know that the two Pauls and Mod and Tony will be there: any others? Later I’ll add any further participants and allow you to drool over the menu.

I was wrong about the participants in the meal: Mod and Tony were not there, in their place were Babs (one of the Witches) and Con; we were also joined by Olivia. Olivia had been going to be with her father, but she had not been feeling well and that, together with a desire to see her favourite teacher (Babs) meant that she was there when we arrived.

Angela did not disappoint: a meal with an Indian flavour. Rice, chicken with spinach (the spinach flavoured in a way which I have not had before); lamb in a spicy sauce; parokas (?); chicken kebabs, and prawns to die for. They were like small lobsters and had a chilly kick in them which made them irresistible. I had seconds! Well, no news there then. Other people did as well, so you can't point all the greed fingers at me. The postre was pineapple with ice cream. All in all a delicious meal which has left me more than replete.

The revelation of the evening was Olivia's voice: she has a voice of authority and considerable flexibility, if she could read music she would have an immediate career as a session musician singer. She has been accepted in some sort of singing school for next year, so she has a real incentive to learn to read music: this could be the key to the rest of her career.

The snippets of news from my last school (ah, that word 'last' has so many interpretations!) were interesting, but it is also fascinating to find out how little the import of quite important revelations have on me. It seems as if my late career is old news, something seen through a glass darkly. As it should be!

It's very late, but I must admit that I have enjoyed the discipline of having to complete this section of my blog.

Tomorrow I must listen again to the intriguing telephone recording from Jonathan in Grand Canaria. He has now sold Toby's Bar in the Yumbo Centre and has given me his mobile phone number. He has not been in touch for some time, and this sudden contact is interesting. Also, tomorrow, I wonder if there will be any news about the house?

Culture Vulture Strikes!

Halifax has come up trumps and we now have two (count them) two viewings on Saturday. So, perhaps it’s not surprising that the downstairs loo broke this morning. However, with the domestic acumen which has become so much a part of my general behaviour these days, I repaired it. Only £4 for parts and a chunk of my immortal soul (because of the swearing) and the job was done.

One of the many reasons for being retired in Cardiff is that I can go to afternoon concerts given by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales at St David’s Hall. This afternoon was the first: ‘Arcade’ by Tristan Keuris; ‘In time of daffodils’ by John Metcalf (Baritone Jeremy Huw Williams) and Nielsen’s Second symphony ‘The Four Temperaments’; the whole lot conducted by Jac van Steen.

Keuris (of whom I have never heard) is probably a Dutch import from the Dutch conductor and, if this is the quality of the stuff which he is going to introduce to a Welsh audience, I say good luck to him and excellent luck for us! The music was instantly engaging and utilized the virtuosic exuberance of the Orchestra to great effect. The piece, ‘Arcade’ was divided into six small sections which were given generally architectural titles and which presented themselves as forceful vignettes. It is perhaps a strength of the music that I would have like these pieces to have been developed at much greater length: a brilliant start to the concert.

The Metcalf was instantly forgettable. The soloist looked very ill at ease and his nervous, flickering tongue did not inspire confidence in the audience. His voice was pleasant enough but it lacked depth and either he or the music (or both) lacked a sense of progression. It is always a danger when setting such famous verse as Metcalf chose for the six songs, that they unbalance by their very fame any musical setting. This was the case here where Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ was fighting against the lacklustre setting provided by Metcalf.

None of the songs stood out. The music seemed to me to be very English, harking back to Vaughan Williams and Holst, but without their skill. This was modern music which didn’t sound modern; it asked little of the audience and was generally vapid.

The orchestra played with enthusiasm, sometimes leaving the soloist struggling to project beyond, but its termination was a relief.

After the interval my expectations from the Nielsen were high. Nielsen is a famous composer who suffers from benign neglect; perhaps other orchestra assume that his music is being taken care of by others, but it is a rare treat to get a whole symphony from one of our foremost bands.

The first movement was taken at a cracking pace, too fast for my taste, more reminiscent of the late, lamented (by me, if not the orchestra) Mark Wigglesworth. The speed gave excitement but the music lacked precise detail, too often we were presented with slabs of sound in which the music structure was lost. The effect was obvious, though, by the end of the movement the audience was visibly stunned.

The opening of the second movement was languorous, sensual and wonderfully indulgent, and by the middle of this movement van Steen had won me over. The crescendos that were drawn out of the orchestra by a visibly sweating conductor were electrifying. The brass excelled themselves and responded with gusto to the encouragement of van Steen.

van Steen’s reading of this symphony was individualistic, but valid; his authority and collaboration with the orchestra built up to a breathtaking climax, indeed in some parts of this wonderful symphony I actually found myself having to remember to breathe.

This was a glorious experience for the select crowd that was in St David’s Hall and has charged my batteries for the emotional draining which will be the performance of ‘La Boheme’ this evening.

Let’s see how good I am. Will I continue this post with my review of the performance tonight? Wait and see!

The Brazz in the Millennium centre is vastly overpriced: £25 for a two course meal. Mine: mozzarella and Welsh crab with leaves and reduced balsamic vinegar; followed by shank of lamb on mash with chopped veg. Nice, but not nice enough to justify the price.

The opera was good, but it just didn't 'do it' for me. The singers, with the signal exception of Rebecca Evans, seemed underpowered and failed to fill the hall in the way that I was anticipating. The only real excitement for me in the first act was when the pair of lovers sang together just before they left the stage at the end of the act.

The staging was a re-staging of the original production by Goran Jarvefelt by Caroline Chaney. It seemed to me to be a very clear and precise production with clearly delineated sets and intelligent lighting. there didn't seem to be much invention, it was conventional, but satisfying.

The ending produced the desired results: the use of spoken dialogue just before the surge of the orchestra after Rodolfo has discovered that Mimi is dead is something which guarantees tears. If you don't cry in Puccini, you're not fully human in any sense that I understand!

Blood will have blood they say

Forgive me if my typing is a little erratic, but I’ve just been stabbed by a rogue fork in the dishwasher. Talk about Life’s Rich Tapestry!

I’m reading a book by Melvyn Bragg called “12 books that changed the world”; it’s a long time since I’ve read a ‘popular’ book which has been so badly proof read. I bought it in Oxfam in the centre of Dublin not far from the Liffy. I reckon that it was a reviewer’s copy given to Oxfam to sell off. The price was eight euros, but I had only a 50 euro note and a 5. The guy sitting reading by the till said that it was unlikely it would have change and he was more than happy to take the 5 note and a few coins. You feel such a heel when you make a profit out of a charity organization, so I put a few more coins in the Oxfam jug in the kitchen: conscience placated.

The book itself, as Paul 1 remarked, “is perfect for you”. I like to think that he meant that it was full of intellectual stimulation to match my questing brain, but I think that he was implying that the ragbag of disparate knowledge appealed to my dilettante mind. Whatever!

Bragg takes twelve ‘books’ from Britain and devotes a chapter to each. So far they have ranged from Magna Carta to the first Rule Book for Association Football. It’s such a good idea and, with the authority of Lord Bragg, you have a series for television as well as the book tie-in. That’s the sort of mind I need for the non career in media!

I’m still reading it; I take a break from it from time to time so that I can be attacked by lurking white goods. I’ve just finished the Abolition section dealing with the speech of William Wilberforce and am now deep into Mary Shelley’s mum and the ‘Vindication.’ The increase in the popularity of this book reminds me of my time in University when the only volume by Dickens that any respectable politically correct student could admit to reading was ‘Hard Times’ revelling in the political background to the work and worrying about your ambivalent response to dear dead old Stephen Blackpool. And ‘Heart of Darkness’ by Conrad. These were the two key texts for timid neophytes in political reading to get their teeth into, with a novel (any novel) by D H Lawrence to make up the literary trinity. And not listening to the music of Tchaikovsky. I remember that as being important. How could you be radical if you were emoting to the symphonies (the early symphonies in my case) of Piotr.

I would look forward to reading the rest of it tomorrow, but I have other things to do. There are people turning up on Saturday to view the house! Hallelujah! So, super cleaning starts again. Tomorrow morning is the only time that I will have as Toni has to be picked up at 1.30 pm, then at 2.00 pm there is a concert in St. David’s Hall with a performance of Nielsen’s Second Symphony and, in the evening a performance of ‘La Boheme’ which I have not seen for a considerable time.

I am going to the opera with Alison who has just had her birthday (she is weeks older than I am!) and I have bought her two badges with messages: ‘I don’t discriminate. I hate everyone’ and ‘You say I’m a bitch like it’s a bad thing!’ I think it says something about me that I like both of them, but thinking about it, they are not quite the things to give someone for their birthday. But, hey, let’s see how it goes.

To push or not to push

Far be it from me to pontificate about family life: my experience is limited in scope, if not in depth. However, (weren’t you just expecting that word?) after my recent extensive involvement in hoovering, cleaning, washing and dusting I have been looking more closely at others as they go about their quotidian existence.

Shopping is the great sexual divide, and the one aspect of life which does give itself to generalisations. The majority of men really do hate it; why, I have never understood. My early training by my mother in the more professional aspects of shopping has never left me, and I regard my liking for shopping as an elegant memorial to the woman who, placed blindfolded in the centre of the warren of linked shops that is Howells in Cardiff, could orientate herself within a nano second and march towards any given destination with a determination that made the Darleks look dithering. Also the importance of Wedgwood was imprinted on my young consciousness by being the area of the store that was always our meeting point when I was allowed a brief foray into other parts of the shop. No wonder glass plays such a large part in my snobbishness!

Anyway, some men obviously reject the domestic and have to find ways to assert their perceived masculinity while still conforming to the dictates of necessary shopping. This is seen at its most poignant when utilizing the supermarket shopping trolley.

I suppose considered dispassionately the shopping trolley is an iconic artefact of the twentieth century; not only for its ostensible utility, stark stripped down beauty and purpose but also as a symbol of urban desolation as exemplified by its appearance, upended and forlorn wallowing in canals, rivers, puddles and standing erect and proud, alone on a promontory in the middle of some waste ground. It is used (and stolen) by tramps and millionaires, by intellectuals and idiots; it is a true example of egalitarianism.

Its use is what distinguishes the users. Let’s face it; there is no real skill in navigating a supermarket trolley: you just push it. The wheels are specially designed to be free and easy, in spite of the stories most supermarket trolleys just glide, effortlessly. I know that this is important so that unsuspecting customers will not be able to tell just how much they have bought by his difficulty of pushing a vast weight around the store; they only realise the extent of their purchases when they have to carry them from the car to the house. But it is this very lack of effort needed to push the trolley which causes problems for men. If anyone (including kids) can push the things, how can a real man show that he is The Man?

The Wonky Wheel syndrome in early models at least allowed Him to show his technical virtuosity by viciously kicking the offending wheel when the machine did not do The Wife’s bidding. But now, now they just glide! The trolley as a symbol of emasculation: imagine.

If the simple effort of pushing is not the key, then it has to be the way that it is pushed, and there is the real invention.

Some men use the trolley as they use the car: an extension, metaphorically, of bodily parts. Pushing the thing as if they are the only customers in the aisles, and everyone has to keep out of their way. There is also the little freewheel push, so that they can claim, not only the space taken up by the trolley, but also a chunk of the space in front. The Road Is Mine Syndrome. That syndrome also accounts for the Transverse Blocking Manoeuvre which means that whenever you are stopped you place the trolley at ninety degrees to the facing shelf, thus effectively stopping any overtaking.

There are those that drag, presumably so that they are not thought to be regressing to the time that they had to take their turns pushing the kids in their prams or ‘buggies’ as they are called today. Pah!

The best technique I’ve seen was demonstrated today by an ageing, athletic, tight jean wearing, bandy little man who obviously resented being in the store and was following the written list of requisites with the stoic resignation of a Holy Week pilgrim on the Via Dolorosa. He was one of those men on whom you look, instinctively, for the medallion; he was, you might say, out of his metier.

He, therefore, had a problem: too many things to carry without help, but using the trolley was an admission of collaboration with the whole concept of shopping. He solved this dilemma by keeping the trolley at his side, his left hand on the right hand side of the trolley, almost as if the trolley was following him like an obedient dog. But it was a naughty mutt, because it kept bumping into his feet and doing its own thing. Bu did he adopt the simple push approach, did he buggery. I met him at various points throughout the store and, with a scowl playing about his features and growing bruises on his feet and legs, he manfully (and that surely is the point) kept to his rugged approach. Bless him.

I feel this is a subject which deserves more study and, there is a nagging thought at the back of my mind, that, were I to put ‘The Supermarket Trolley: a sociological approach’ into Google I would be greeted with a substantial number of hits. So I won’t do it.

Today was the first real autumn day, the end of the day dark and depressing. It does not bode well for the selling of the house and I begin to think that I will be here for the Christmas period. Come on Cardiff, buy my house!

What are we supposed to be remembering?

Have we lost the ability to produce monuments? I ask this having seen the incomprehensible monument to what the taxi driver returning us to the airport described as a ‘junkie’s vision of heaven’; in other words the gigantic metal spike (or as the taxi driver would have it, “the biggest fucking needle in the world”) in Dublin’s O’Connell Street outside the shot riddled historic General Post Office.

Everyone in Dublin must surely make the pilgrimage to the building, the symbol of The Rising, to have the opportunity to stand outside it, look for and at the bullet holes, and muse on what might have been. I’ve been told that when the rebels were led through the streets of Dublin, members of the general public spat at them. It was only when the crass Brits decided to create martyrs and shoot them that the real trouble started. Whatever the hypothetical speculation might be, the reality is that this building, the street and the environs are important in the history of the Irish Free State. So why is there a big spike in the middle of the road?

The taxi driver (fountain of all knowledge) said that the raising of the spike was, as usual, beset with problems and a crane lurked in the main street for months waiting for the right weather conditions. Although a Millennium project, it did not manage to get built on time, but at least it had a better fate than the submerged countdown clock in the Liffy which was supposed to build up interest to the raising of the spike. “They might at least have made sure it was fucking watertight,” commented the taxi driver who also rejoiced in the memory of the slime which obliterated the clock face under the waters, adding that, the fucking thing was out of the water more than in!” And you should have heard him on Irish politicians, especially on one Irish woman minister; his description of her wiped out the whole history of the feminist movement in their attempts to moderate the language of sexist men.

Cardiff’s attempt at a big shiny metal sculpture signifying God knows what is outside the Millennium Centre: not as tall as Dublin’s, but with the added ingredient of being covered with falling water which coats the sides of the monument. This is an excellent addition and makes the object genuinely exciting. When the water is actually switched on. Which is more often than not, not. Having seen the thing with a shimmering film of moving water, when it is not running, the thing looks inert and dead.

In my view, at least the Cardiff structure is mostly there, because I consider the only monuments worthy of the name to be fountains. Cardiff had an unhappy experience when deciding to place a fountain in front of the City Hall. The City Hall is a fairly exuberant building with statues, a dome, a portico, large windows and dressed Portland stone. Although built in the early twentieth century, its spirit is Baroque and any attempt at a fountain should have had more to do with the Bernini than Bang & Olufsen. But Cardiff, in its wisdom, decided on a thin wall of water behind which a delicate representation of the three feathers in three spumes. The reality was pathetic: the wall of water was never level or convincing; the three feathers were spindly and, to put it mildly, squirts rather than mighty spurts. The only time the feature came into its own was when naughty students filled the thing with soap suds! It looked as though someone had been to the local garden centre and cobbled something together with cut price, second hand, cast off fountain bits. Eventually the ‘wall’ went and beefier fountains were installed and civic pride was restored.

We simply don’t do these things well. I wonder if any other city has done better.

Another thing which has improved is the Job Centre. My last visit (first year of university) was a searing experience: official distain matched with militant unhelpfulness. This time round, polite security men motioning me to comfy chairs and interviewers who took great pains to explain everything and ‘make me part of the process.’ I’m not sure that I actually gained anything, apart from a number of pieces of paper, but I did feel ‘valued’. Or something. I wait to see what will come of the form filling and discussion that I have completed.

Trust the Dublin Taxi Drivers

One of my great discoveries in the past was that you could freeze milk in the waxed cartons (that you could never open, and when you did, the milk sprayed out everywhere and you never quite managed to find all the drips until they began to smell and you have to do a major clean) and use it when you needed it. Fantastic! I don’t know it seemed in ‘those days’ that I was constantly running out of milk and in ‘those days’ shops were not so customer friendly that they actually opened when you needed them to. Of course, you could always look at that another way and say that shops were closed at reasonable times so that shop workers could have a reasonable life and not be forced to work shifts at all hours of the day and night because of the grasping nature of the large supermarket chains who want to rule the world – but let it pass, let it pass.

Anyway. I have a new discovery. You can book in for your flight on the internet and print out your own boarding pass AND go to the head of the queue with all those mothers (with suspiciously old ‘children’) and demand preferential treatment! Getting to the front seats and the seats by the emergency exits so that you can have leg room without the canaille pushing past you to spend ten minutes putting their putrescent bags in a varied selection of over head storage compartments before they finally get their rotting carcases out of the way and allow real human beings to pass. I always think that air travel brings out the best in me.

The look on the faces of those cretins who start queuing at the gate as soon as they arrive in departures as we few, we precious few sailed past them waving our printed boarding passes like bejewelled peacock fans to waft away the miasma from the great unwashed was worth double the price of the seats. Talking of the price of the seats: coffee at Bristol airport. We had four coffees and a small piece of Belgian brownie. The total cost was more than a return ticket to Dublin. Something, surely, is wrong.

What’s really wrong is that my parents and grandparents did not have foresight. My grandparents could have met up with the dealer Vollard and bought Picassos and Cezannes at cost price and bequeathed them to me; my parents could have invested in Habitat and sold out at the right time; and I could have bought that painting that I like the look of in a newspaper some time ago and I would now be the possessor of ‘A Bigger Splash’ by David Hockney. I could have done it. I really could have bought it. I don’t want to talk about how much it is worth now.

So, the start of the journey to Dublin was most satisfactory, and the journey itself (with spacious leg room) meant that I did not have to fracture my legs to get them moving at the end of the flight.

If you travel with Ryanair from Bristol to Dublin you are decanted into a rather makeshift looking terminal at the unfashionable end of the airport. Civilization is reached by trekking through the longest portacabin in the world. Your trek is not made any more encouraging by the look of desperate exhaustion on the faces of the people who are making their way to the unfashionable end of the airport. I never thought that the sight of a stretch of pseudo marble flooring with those vindictively uncomfortable airport chairs would be so welcome. It meant that we were almost at the taxis.

The taxi driver who took us into Dublin (as well as the hysterically funny driver who took us back) lived up to the Irish blarney hype: fluent, funny, welcoming and informative. Who could ask for more?

The courtyard of Trinity (thanks again Hadyn – what a sensible suggestion) was filled with people listening to a crossover concert and the accommodation office didn’t seem fixed up to actually deal with guests, but things were soon sorted out and we went to our cells, sorry, rooms which were at the far end of the campus.

All of Dublin took it in turns to pass our room and make a considerable amount of noise; it reminded me of a student hostel in Madrid which previously had been the most uncongenially noisy place in which I had stayed. Dublin, late on a Friday night makes Madrid appear provincial!

Out for a meal. Friday night: Temple Bar. The whole of the United Nations seemed to have the same idea as our good selves and the place was packed with a cacophony of linguistic vocalizations. Our choice of Gallagers was inspired: good atmosphere, exceptional service and delicious food. The memory of my Atlantic Seafood Chowder will remain with me for some time to come. Guinness is not, and never will be my favourite tipple, but when in Rome, and so . . .

During the night every rubbish cart in the western hemisphere decided to rev the engine, load and empty and process outside our room, thank God I am not used to the ‘dark stuff’ and was able to drift off into a Guinness induced slumber.

Breakfast was in the Buttery Restaurant at the other end of the campus from the halls of residence in which we were staying. One thing and another meant that we were not early for our meal so everything was gone and closed within a minute of the advertised closing time, and with a Proustian memory moment I suddenly remembered the closing of the refectory in Swansea University when I was a student living in Neuadd Lewis Jones where the harridan Nikky wielded a voice of toughened gravel against those benighted profaners of the deadline time of 8.30 am who crept snail like from their pits.

The smell of university refectories is universal: not pleasant. It’s partly the furniture: utilitarian (without Benthamite consideration); functional without comfort, and angular without compunction. But, during the Time of Conferences, the university food managerial mind muses that a single, strategically places jug of cheap flowers on a harsh plastic table will transform the place into a plush hotel to tempt Bono to buy. At the risk of sounding obvious, it doesn’t; indeed it merely emphasises the cheap without the cheer and makes it even more appropriate for a circle of catering hell. All that because I didn’t have the full breakfast (which I had paid for) in spite of being a full minute before curfew. Bastards!

As is usual with our happy little group, any attempt to take a Bus Tour inevitably brings the rains: this excursion was no exception. Cowering from the elements on an open top bus, we fled into the Guinness Experience which, as luck would have it, was the stop which coincided with the rains.

You have to admire the company for making almost something out of definite nothing. You do not do a tour of the Guinness factory; instead you ascend through a series of educational constructs before you get to the promised pint. To be fair, there is a tasting station about half way through where you can imbibe a mouthful to speed you on your way.

The highlight of this visit for me was not the final drink in the glass viewing tower, drinking while chatting to an American couple who had been happily divorced for eighteen years, but who were visiting Dublin together because “he pays,” no, it was the glass bottomed waterfall feature which was exactly the sort of thing that I wanted in the back garden - though I would have settled for something a little smaller. It did have some sort of meaning, the oats or the barley or the grain was being washed or roasted or boiled or something according to the educational panels, but who cares when you could walk beneath a glass roof of swirling water and then look through a curtain of water with various lighting effects. I took many photographs, be thankful you only have to look at one!

Then it was lunchtime and, hugging walls trying vainly to shelter from the stormy blasts we eventually took refuge in a sort of Italian restaurant which will not feature in our ‘Where to eat’ list. But it did, as they say, fill a gap.

Although exhaustion and terminal foot fatigue were taking their toll we did go to the National Gallery of Art (with the usual choir of moaning Philistines) and I did my usual hysterical tour. An extraordinary El Greco with a background which looked like hurried stage painting and an unexpected Chardin. With others. Then off to more delights.

Our second night’s meal was Spanish, in La Paloma. We excitedly chose various tapas until we noticed that they were not served on a Saturday evening. However, the main menu gave plenty of scope for interesting eating: deep fried, breaded Manchego with onion chutney followed by scallops with tomato and brandy. Delicious. And expensive, but not that expensive if you change the euros into pounds and then think about what you could get in Wales – in other words kid yourself.

The night was quieter. Well, it would have had to have been, the only way in which it could have been noisier was to have the bloody rubbish machines in the room with us.

The Book of Kells was the first stop after (a full, proper, and in time) breakfast. I know it’s an important codex but they have had to do a lot of work to make the viewing of two pages significant. Much more impressive was the long library, as I mentioned to Toni, that was the sort of place that I had in mind for Spain. Fond hope.

The visit to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was made just that little bit more difficult by our being there on a Sunday morning when a service was in progress. The idea of having a cup of coffee seemed good if impractical as there seemed to be a complete dearth of such establishments in the vicinity. The enthusiastic contribution of a passer by, telling us that all pubs closed at 12.30 spurred us into finding a strange little café staffed by Orientals. Our order (simple and clear) was not fully understood and my asking for milk for my tea produced total bemusement. It appeared that they had adopted the interesting idea of placing little jugs of milk on each table so it would be readily available for customers – in the heat, hour after hour. It takes all sorts.
The search for fridge magnetics for Carme, Laura and ourselves was successful so that was Dublin done and dusted!

The trip back was tiring; it is, after all, quite difficult to manage when you have something like forty Lear Jets to get off the ground after the Ryder Cup. Everything was delayed and even the delight of having our boarding passes clutched in our hands (thank the Lord for internet cafes) didn’t lessen the tedium of waiting for the bloody plane to take off. Even the delay in getting out of the car park in Bristol seemed designed to drain liveliness from all of us. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that Paul would have to get up at five o’clock in the morning to get to a conference in Llandudno by 10 am on Monday!

So, eighteenth century Dublin is behind us: fine buildings mixed with rougher, inclement architecture; fine food and rotten weather. At least we won.

The Journey Begins

I now know what an archaeologist feels like as they unearth artefacts and then, painstakingly, study, record, measure and evaluate each exciting find. I have had the same experience trying to find a bag which will comply with the gnomic restrictions placed on those free, adventurous souls, who would fly the expansive skies with nothing more than mere cabin luggage with them.

I have unearthed backpack after backpack (why have I got so many? It’s not as if my rugged, outdoor lifestyle uses them up like used Hershey bar wrappers. [Image courtesy of Quentin Crisp – used by him in quite another context!] No, the real explanation is, they form a sub set of pseudo gadgets that I like to acquire. Each time a new bag surfaced, it was subjected to an immediate recording, like some sort of exotic sea creature, just before it was photographed with the proud capturer. That simile somehow got away from me in the last sentence, ironically, rather like a slippery fish. Enough.

The measurements 45x35x16 were the limits for egress to the cabin. None of my bags seemed to be comfortable within those limits, until it was pointed out to me that, given that we are only going to Dublin for about 60 hours, the bag would hardly be full to bursting and therefore . . . And so it’s sort of proved. It would be a callous security person indeed who would refuse such an unassertive bag as the one which I have finally chosen to wend its unobtrusive way to overhead storage. Though, come to think about it, security persons seem to attract adjectives of which, ‘callous’ would seem to be one of the more flattering epithets. We will see, as Mr Baldwin almost said.

It will be fascinating to see how they deal with the prohibition on soap, shaving foam, deodorant, after shave, toothpaste etc. Will there be over priced ‘lucky bags’ which can be purchased from money hoovering ‘duty free’ (surely they could be had by the trades descriptions lot for that designation?) shops? Anyone with imagination could make a fortune with the right consumer durables.

Just a phone call to tell me that the last person in our little quartet has arrived home. Quick bath and then off to Bristol.

Probably no blog until I return on Sunday night.

Bon voyage to us!

10/10 vision isn't everything

If you are short sighted then, without glasses, the world is a very different place from the world that the sharp sighted see. You learn to recognise people by their fuzzy shapes and small, characteristic movements you also find out that you have, to use a good, old fashioned term “cut” lots of people too. Not intentionally, but if you can’t see them you can’t be expected to acknowledge them. You have to learn to live with your reputation for arrogance however ill deserved it is.

You also have to learn to live with a certain feeling of inferiority, especially if you swim. Let me explain. Before I had contact lenses, and long before optically corrected swimming goggles were within the price range of ordinary middle class people, I had to swim myopically. This is not really much of a problem if you are an up-and-down swimmer, after all, what’s to see in the millisecond when your face is turned for a gasp of air? But when you stop and start to get out and look around you that is when your lack of definition begins to tell.

For years I never saw with any clarity when I was inside a swimming pool. Everyone was a blur, and, in my mind everyone looked good. I assumed that the indistinct figures wandering, with confidence, around the pool were elegant, handsome and beautiful; that’s why I kept my head down and kept on swimming! My first use of contact lenses (with goggles) was a revelation: a whole crowd of ugly, unfit, overweight people seemed to have body snatched the previous beautiful inhabitants of the pool!

The one thing that myopic swimming does allow you to achieve is a sense of isolation, it’s a time to think, a time to consider things. My telephone conversation with the art historian Peter Lord today, gave me pause for thought and filled the watery metres of my swimming this evening. If you’ve been reading the previous posts, then you know that I had the idea of a radio programme about the Welsh painter Archie Rhys Griffiths. Time for a re-evaluation I thought, this will make good radio I thought. Well, for the last ten or so years Peter Lord has been collecting art by Griffiths has letters, documents and has made a film to be broadcast on S4C in November. He is also writing a book to be published next year and there will be exhibitions: a fairly comprehensive ‘I got there first’ scenario! I only hope that there may be legs in a radio programme which can link in to the rising interest in this neglected artist. If my telephone conversation is anything to go by then Peter Lord has much more material than can be compressed into a 30 minute broadcast. His enthusiasm was infectious and the snippets of the life which he gave me were enough to make me want to hear more. I will keep my fingers crossed that something will come of this.

Meanwhile, the government has decreed that the regulations for what you can take into a cabin on an aircraft will change from tomorrow. We still can’t take toothpaste, shampoo, soap, aftershave, water etc, but we will have more room in which not to take things. Such luxury! I only hope that there is a lake night Boots to stock up with essentials when we get to Dublin. We will see, and so will you, though I think that there will be a three day gap until I can get back to my computer.

In Praise of Swimming

Swimming, I am told, is the best form of exercise there is. It gives complete, well, exercise to more areas of the body than any other and the water offers support so there is no unnatural strain as is found in, say, running. It is The Way. But, in spite of all this, I still enjoy it.

You have to understand what I mean by swimming. Children do not swim. They splash, and shout, and dive, and jump - and not in straight lines. You see, I have become one of those people who, when I was a child, I used to hate: the Straight Line Swimmers. The quick up-and-downers who, ostentatiously, did not care who came in their way, because they just swam though them. I am one of their damned number. And I rejoice in it!

Length swimming is an odd pastime; there is, as with all swimming, that sense of being in another dimension because of the support of the water and yet being in something essential and familiar: there is an odd sense of being at home, it being the Natural Element [note to self: there is too much capitalization in this writing, take care.]

Swimming isn't tranquil, even leaving aside the noisy younger elements; you can always hear your own breathing: the gasp of inhalation and the bubbling exuberance of the exhalation; the splash of arms and the push of water against the head. You can't relax: you'd drown - that is something of an incentive to do it properly.

Where you swim is important. Having thought about what I was going to write next, I have realised that, however I phrased it, it was bound to sound snobbish and elitist. So I won't say it. What I will say is, a pool, for me is more or less desirable depending on whether there are periods given over to the Straight Line Swimmers i.e. sacrosanct roped off swimming lanes or something more 'democratic' and filled with writhing creatures "Yea, slimy things with legs did crawl" etc.

When in doubt go outside. I use the same principle as my experience with parking. People will not park further away from their destination than they can spit. In a similar spirit people will not swim (willingly) in a pool which does not match their blood temperature and, if the weather is inclement then people do not believe in outside heating, then is the time to go outside and swim in glorious isolation. There is much to be said for outside swimming. The shock of cold air entering your lungs is like wine and you really appreciate the quality of breathing when you go back inside and breathe the sickly, oppressive miasma which passes for an atmosphere.

An interest in natural history is also catered for as long as you are wearing goggles. You can glide through and over vegetation and various forms of insect life. A large, hairy, moving, dead spider bumping along on the bottom of the pool, lurking in the eddies of a strong swimming action, is a great disincentive to many to venture into an outside pool and, as you know, the fewer the better. The ideal pool is an empty pool, except for me!

And the water: not all water is the same when you come to swimming pools. The indoor pool is always redolent with the memory of ill fitting pampers blended with the irresistible aroma of the dissolved detritus of adolescent pores, over which hangs the mature perfume of lingering eau de toilet undilutable by mere water. And under the water, if you can’t see more than a few feet ahead of you, surely it’s time to get out.

Swimming is, of course, displacement activity for me, because the house is not selling and I don’t want to have too much time to think about the time that I am not spending in Catalonia. Hey ho! Who knows what the morrow will bring?