Variety is the clue!

The amount of clear swimming that I have been able to do is now reaching disturbing proportions so that I am beginning to suspect that I am part of a Truman style show where some omniscient director orders less fortunate swimmers out of my lane so that I can swim my twenty minutes in an uncluttered fashion.

Perhaps I am going to be subject to the irony of free lanes during the height of the summer and hordes of people emerging during the autumn.  I sincerely hope not as my resolve to swim on a daily basis is tested in inverse proportion to the quantity of sun, warmth and people that are available to sustain my determination!

Talking of determination I have (at last) opened the handbook to the car and attempted to change the date so that the calendar on the dashboard does not read 2032.  This took me some twenty minutes to rectify because the instructions were almost precise enough to achieve something straight away, but only almost – which is why a certain amount of trial and error was necessary.

In “Look Back in Anger” one of the characters asks, “Do the Sunday newspapers make you feel ignorant?”  With the general dumbing down that there has been over the last fifty years (let’s give it some sort of perspective) it is not newspapers that have a humbling effect but instruction books.  They are written so clearly and with such unambiguous line drawings that not to be instantly successful is to have Failed in Life.

This does not, obviously, refer to IKEA instructions where one often has to build the item that one has purchased before one can understand the directions to construct the thing in the first place.  Any couple who can build an IKEA cupboard together and still be a couple at the end of the endeavour has what I call a strong relationship!

One of the many, many dictionaries that I bought had, rather ostentatiously a series of blank pages at the end of the volume which were for words or phrases that one heard during the time after the book had been bought.  The idea was that the purchaser would listen more assiduously to the radio, television and the people who one moved among and write down any possible neologisms.

I got as far as “ambient food” before I lapsed in my newfound enthusiasm for actually writing down discoveries rather than hearing them, rejoicing in the vitality of the language and then forgetting them.  

Oh yes, "ambient food" is food that is sold which does not have to be heated or chilled - like crisps or peanuts for example.

I was reminded of this shameful lack of application when I heard someone use the phrase “a life intermediary” on the radio and felt that I should write it down.  Where did I hear this?  Radio 4, obviously, on one of my Internet radios.  

My confusion was shared by the interviewer who asked the interviewee who was talking about coffee shops what he meant.  He explained that a life intermediary was anything which made life more enjoyable and fulfilling.  Therefore the provision of over priced “artisanal” coffee in high street shops where one could get a good latte was a "life intermediary."

I must admit I liked both the phrase and the obvious embarrassment of the interviewee when he had to put his words into something we could understand.

I began to think that the mere phrase by itself was a little lonely and I wanted to experiment with the addition of significant adjectives like, indeed, “significant”: “a significant life intermediary” sounds like a close friend given to marriage guidance.

Try adding your own adjectives - as well as considering additions like “essential”, “serendipitous”, “arbitraged”, “real” and “red.”  Hours of innocent fun!  When I should really be getting down to my Summer Tasks.

Some tasks have formed themselves during the summer months and have resolved themselves with a minimum of intellectual and emotional effort.

I have, for example changed the ink cartridges in the new printer.  I have fearlessly ordered various essentials from FDC Albums to a One Cup Water Boiler.  And let me tell you buying things is not as easy as it looks.

Take for instance the replacement freezer drawer.

Firstly to get the damn thing replaced I had to find the instructions for the fridge-freezer which gave me the all important random numbers and letters that made up the model designation. 

We then had to phone the distributor to find out how to get a replacement.  That number gave us another number that in turn directed us to another. 

We then had to find out the serial number that was not on any visible part of the machine. 

Going back to the supplier we were told that the nearest distributor to us was closed for holidays.  If we wanted to purchase the item we had to send all the information via e-mail to the supplier which was still open and they would tell us price and availability. 

Having got the price we then had to go to a bank and pay in the amount via a bank draft to the account of the firm and then fax that we had done it so that they could order the part.  [That bit I still don’t believe]  And now, only four emails later I have been told that I have the opportunity to drive 40 minutes outside Castelldefels and pick it up.  Simple?  Not!

The amazing end to this saga, which necessitated a trip to parts of Sabadell that I have previously not visited, was that the freezer drawer replacement was actually the right one and it fitted!  I just love happy endings.

There is only one problem.

The drawer itself was presented to us in a large cardboard box to keep the fragile (obviously) plastic item safe and sound.  What actually kept it safe and sound was a wide range of bubble wrap – both large and also small.  The problem, of course is what to do with it.

The temptation is to keep it on the “you never know when it comes in handy” basis, but this summer is supposed to see me make an effort in downsizing and bubble wrap by its very nature is not (at least not in the quantities in which I now have salvaged it) unobtrusive as it were.  It does take up space.

So, the cardboard box complete with shattered front and useless body of the broken drawer, covered in woefully tempting bubble wrap is now waiting at the top of the stairs for me to decide what to do with it: the bin in keeping with the new minimalist regime or cwtching it away to be used at some unspecified time in the cluttered future.

Always hard decisions.

Be reasonable!

Misanthropic is a much-abused word. 

It is used so often as an adjective which expresses negativity and when applied to a person is usually taken as an unreasonable response to the world.

How absurd.

How can such a life affirming approach to what surrounds us each day ever be seen as anything other than a warmly realistic appreciation of human existence?

People, as Beckett perceptively noted, are “bloody ignorant apes”, they are the Yahoos who Swift deals with in such devastating fashion in the Fifth Voyage of Lemuel Gulliver and which so rarely finds its way in to the children’s version of the story.

We might ask ourselves why the most impressive and realistic part of Gulliver’s experiences are denied to the young and the answer is surely found in Eliot when he averred that “humankind cannot bear too much reality” – it is the rose-tinted glasses of reasonableness that allows the human species redeeming features through the willing suspension of disbelief at how truly awful one’s experience of homo sapiens is day after bloody day.

It therefore follows that an expression of appalled disgust at the actions of our fellow creatures is an intellectual act of liberation and an affirmation of truth.

And truth is in the anecdotal. 

The Iron Duke indicated that statistics were the most abominable form of deception and I agree that personal experience is much more of a guide than the crypto-technical mystifications of higher mathematicians.

Statistics as revelation are more akin to seeing through a glass darkly when compared to the blinding illumination that, say the way drivers park in a supermarket car park gives about the human condition.

Fallen Man is shown nowhere more clearly than in the inconsiderate, bloody-minded, illegal ways in which cars are left while shoppers go about their business.

The pathetic desperation of people to be within spitting distance of the door of the supermarket and therefore ignoring the restrictions of double yellow lines, disabled parking spaces, pedestrian crossings and clearly printed “Do not park” areas is enough to make angels weep.

If Planet Earth were ever to be had up in front of an Inter-Galactic Court of Justice and supermarket car parking were to be proffered for consideration by the prosecution the planet would be vaporised in a heartbeat – or whatever quotidian bodily time measure alien beings use as an equivalent.

Then, when these same parkers get out of the car parks they presumably return to their homes and become part of their local social organizations or communities.  They become neighbours.

Neighbours.

Humankind we are told is a social animal.  Community is a natural part of the species’ makeup.  Pity they do it so badly.

Forget for a moment the number of wars and serious conflicts that afflict the world and bring things down to the individual level of “ordinary” living together.

How do dogs and children fit into a “reasonable” world?  Why do grown-ups allow them?

There are too many twiglet limbed and Feldman-eyed miniaturized grotesqueries that emasculated men are forced to take on thread thin leads to yap and squeak their way through their miserable lives producing nothing but aural and physical pollution and making life just that little bit less attractive. 

The saintly owners who discipline their noisy captive animals and who clear up their filth are as mythical as that notable self-harmer and reputed animal lover Saint Francis.  The only place such a person truly exists is in Giotto’s frescos and not in the neighbourhood of Castelldefels!

And kids - the tyrannical despots of the domestic living space whose antics put the more colourful Roman examples to shame.  After all in Classical times even Caligula was a charming child beloved of the army – the modern versions who are demanding, self-obsessed, materialistic, noisy and anti-social do not even have the brief charm of childhood, they get right into social repulsiveness as soon as their opposable thumbs can work a PlayStation!

And the noise! 

No Spanish child is able to communicate in anything other than a shout.  And when they are not shouting they are screaming.  And when they are not shouting or screaming they are crying.  Or what is worse talking in that irritatingly whiney way that they have when they perceive that they are being treated badly and oppressively i.e. they haven’t been given what they want immediately.

And the parents are just as bad.  You only have to look at a sports programme on the television where all contributors shout at each other simultaneously to realize where the kids get their noisy non-listening from.

Kids and dogs and neighbours surround us.  And you begin to realize why flamethrowers were invented.

Misanthropy indeed!

Where do the days go?

The first full day of the Pauls and we are all, with the signal exception of Toni, now in the first stages of recovery after our fairly extensive sampling of the beverages of the area last night.

More importantly Toni’s examination has revealed nothing to worry about and so his 30-hour fast before going to hospital was worth it as no news is indeed good news.

The “doctors” in the house have consulted and we all agree that Toni has some form of allergy and that he should have one of the tests that his sister has to have on a regular basis.  This is a continuing story.

The Family arrived yesterday and set about making a barbecue which was later eaten with relish.

The Two Pauls distinguished themselves by ingratiating themselves with the younger elements of The Family and cemented their high reputation by giving said sprogs an Olympic t-shirt each.  These were received with delight and protestations that these young Catalans were now British!  So much for nationalism!  But at least they are going in the right direction.

Today Irene is going to come for lunch or dinner and the Pauls have committed themselves to in-depth tanning as their goal for the day.  It is truly amazing how productive one can be in the summer when one tries.

Such dedication reminds me of my attitude towards the sun - before I started to live in Castelldefels.  Paul 1 is aiming for an off-beige look to take back to Cardiff, while Paul Squared is rapidly turning an authentic brown.  Both should look a different colour by the time that they return to the land of sullen skies.

I am now conscious that it is the 16^th of August and I have done none (not one) of the major summer tasks that I set myself.  This is a salutary reminder to myself to get on with it.

To be fair I have visited the library in the centre of town; joined the library, and even found out that they are prepared to accept donations of English books to add to their collection. 

It is now a matter of getting myself in gear and actually doing something about it.  Realistically, I will have to reduce my library by at least 25% to facilitate the move to other accommodation.  Although this is not a short-term aim, it is nevertheless a real aim and it must be done.

I have gone through (that is much too grand and exhaustive a term to match reality) some of my books and I have amassed two large supermarket bags of books which I am prepared to let slip from my grasp.  Admittedly most of them are multiple copies of Shakespeare plays which were bought for the notes and introductions rather than the texts themselves.  I did mention that many of the books were loosely “academic” or “classic” but that didn’t seem to faze the librarians at all.  We shall see.  And we shall see this summer.  I promise myself.

Lunch with Irene was a delight and the Maratime did itself proud again – though the price has been increased by 50c; unlike the rest of us who have had swingeing wages cuts those with money seem to want more.  Inflation continues to increase and the government seems purpose bent on making the ordinary working person poorer and poorer.  Come September when the rest of the tax increases come in to effect I think that we are going to see some sort of concerted popular reaction.  Please!

The Pauls have now gone leaving a broken blind and fridge in their wake, but a good time was had by all.

We sampled one of the ”gourmet” meals that restaurants in the area have banded together to offer to customers.  The one that the Pauls chose was in a Best Western Hotel where the food has at least a mention in the Michelin Guide.  It was excellent and a clear step above the ordinary menu del dia.

We did do more than eat and drink and swim, but I am buggered if I can remember what.

Normal service will be resumed in the next few days.  I hope.

Is there life afterwards? (Rhetorical.)

No pressure – but Spain are playing the USA in basketball. 

I do not like the sport and I especially dislike the American ball players who seem to have all of the petty arrogance of football players but without their style.  And yes, I am being ironic.

 

It is difficult to choose any one aspect which irritates me the most: is it the ridiculous matey touchy-feely skin-on-skin rituals before during and after their plays; the absurd secondary sexual characteristics of extraneous tufts of hair that many of them sport; the vulgarity of the body graffiti they display; the ludicrous names they flaunt; the constant stopping of the clock – who knows, but I loathe the thing.

However, Spain are the only country which can stop the Americans in their relentless occupancy of the House of Gold for this sport and so they have my full and unalloyed support.  The score 30-21 is not looking good for Spain but there is still time.  I hope.

Toni has now started the more extreme aspect of his diet before the examination on Monday.  He is now confined for the best part of 30 hours to water and orange juice.  And he has Other Drinks this evening which is why I will be going to pick up the Pauls alone!

My swims continue with my magical luck of empty lanes for my up-and-down approach to the pool.  Today there were two people in My lane, but they left almost as soon as I entered the water: a rare display of consideration – or perhaps it was merely the backwash!

My twenty-minute swim is now becoming a necessity, my day does not seem right if I delay or do without.  Which is what it used to be like in the UK.  Which is a good thing isn’t it?

Spain lost (because of the refs according to Toni) and had to be satisfied with the silver medal.  The Games are virtually over with only the Modern Thingie to go with our interest running to shoot, so to speak.  It would be great if someone was able to get a gold to take our total up to 30 – but that is pure and simple greed in my desire to get the greatest number of FDCs for my collection!

Paul has phoned and the plane is allegedly on time so they should be touching down at about 9.30 pm. 

Excellent!

There are things other than the Olympics. True.

I’m not quite sure how to evaluate the film version of The Magic Flute that Suzanne and I saw recently in the Comedia Cinema in Barcelona.  It was a La Scala production directed by William Kentridge which set the action in some nineteenth century milieu with a welter of line drawings projected here there an everywhere.

My overriding impression from the experience was just how uncomfortable the seats were.  Considering how plush they actually looked, deep and high backed they were extraordinarily inefficient in their sole function.

The singing was wonderful with The Aria positively otherworldly in its shining melodic clarity.  All the singers major and minor were much more than acceptable with the sole exception of Sarastro who seemed to me to be woefully under sung.  Somewhere or other I have a scrap of paper with information about the production but that seems to have gone the way of all flesh.

We had tapas afterwards in a dishearteningly touristic place but they turned out to be tasty and fairly good value for money – but as they were eaten some time after one in the morning I do not have any information about the name of the café.  It was a late night and I still had to drive back to Castelldefels after paying an extraordinarily fabulous amount of money to get my car out of an underground car park near the cinema.

Throughout the days since I was told about Stewart’s death, little flashes of anecdotal pleasure have informed my memory of him.  That’s immortality, living in the loving memory of those who care.

My swimming continues apace – to the astonishment of the swimming pool attendants who now seem to regard me as someone who needs to be protected – hence the shooing away of children in My Swimming Lane.  I find it difficult to believe that I am one of a very few people who actually swim in straight lines rather than lounge around lazing about in the water.  Though, come to think of it I have seen precious few actual swimmers in the pool.

In Cardiff there were well-established lane swimmers, and I was never alone (except in terms of speed up and down the pool) when I was swimming.

I want to get back into the habit of having an early morning swim and having another one “at the end of work” time – whatever time I decide that to be!

I enjoy my twenty minutes, though to do more bores me.  I have great respect and not a little wonder at those professional swimmers who only get that good by doing thousands and thousands of lengths in a 50-metre pool at unsocial hours.  How do they keep their sanity!

Meanwhile tomorrow sees the arrival of The Pauls.

Their first meal in Spain is traditionally an indulgently raucous affair but this time it will have to be without the presence of Toni who is having to stick to a rigorously uninteresting diet in advance of his intrusive medical examination on Monday.  He can only drink orange juice and water.  And even the water has to be without the excitement of gas!

The Olympics continue to fascinate with our even getting a gold to start the morning off, though it has to be said that the rest of the day has not been quite so golden – but we do have racing and diving this evening.

Twenty-six golds is surely more than we expected and, in spite of the fact that the Pauls were not able to find the FDC cover albums that I wanted (and special attention must be paid to the amazingly unhelpful 0845 number of the Post Office which is there, ostensibly, to help and which did anything but) but I will get them from the Internet.

Meantime there is some tidying and cleaning to be done!

Stewart

Even after a long illness from which there was no real way back, it is still a profound shock when a friend dies.

Stewart I have known for decades and I am delighted to say that I have no bad memories of him.  I remember his perception, his wit, his knowledge and his waspish sense of humour.  I have relished knowing him and his loss is one that I feel deeply.

The last time that I was in the UK I stayed with Stewart and his partner Andrew and had an excellent time culminating in our visiting an exhibition in Dulwich Gallery where we were able to share our contempt for the childish daubs of Cy Twomby and reveal a hitherto supressed delight in the pictures of Poussin.  Though it might just have been that the comparisons were odious!

It is difficult to select just a few instances from thirty years to sum up a personality - but he was one of the few people in the world who was able to correct my quotations without fear of immediate bodily harm.  He was the one who demanded that I read Kramer and Benson – both good reads in their way!  He was always welcoming and good company.

I shall miss him.  My thoughts go out to Andrew.