Winter Wear

I am wearing jeans – it must be winter.

My sad abandonment of shorts is a reflection of the reality of the falling temperatures and a reaction to some funny looks that I was getting.  Now, much to Toni’s disgust, I am only continuing to wear my sandals as a nod in the direction of hotter weather.

We have had a radiator on for the last few days in the living room and the bed has steadily increased its weighting by having Nana’s embroidered quilt and the winter duvet added to the summer duvet.  No doubt the central heating will be the next thing to go on – though the ancient and rundown system that hasn’t been renewed for umpteen years is hardly the most efficient way of heating a home that is built for the summer.  Which seems unending months of coldness away.

My swim this morning was in a crowded pool, which for swimmers means that all the lanes were taken, though the right hand side of the pool is un-laned and therefore available for general frisking.  This is the first time that the pool has been so ‘full’ since I started swimming.  I have previously had to share an extended lane which means that swimmers have to keep to one side or the other or alternatively adopt a clockwise or anti-clockwise system to keep everyone happy.  I am invariably not happy with this arrangement because it means that there is a greater risk of hitting your hand on the ropes (which are surprisingly unyielding to my lane just for me, and usually that is what I get.

I am certainly swimming for longer and adopting a stronger stroke and of course the moral worth that you get from exercising like that is considerable.  As always the fact that a school in which I have taught being adjacent to the pool and clearly visible at one end while swimming is a constant source of delight for me.  There is nothing quite so stimulating as taking exercise when you can relate the time being thus spent to an old timetable.  It allows one to savour every moment and every bubble.

Having my cup of tea outside after my swim was an act of defiance rather than pleasure.  Whereas dinner this evening, in the pitch black of a night where 8 pm seems like midnight, was delightful.  We had it inside our favourite (soon to lose that appellation) restaurant La Fusta.  The meal was frankly disappointing; every aspect of it can be bettered elsewhere.  Though the Sangria was excellent and will have to be put down to the 20% leeway that my diet can take each week!

And now back to the forums to find out if anyone has responded to my latest piece of writing. 

It’s all go in the OU!

Dampness behind!

I’m not sure where the last four days have gone.  I had thought that I might have completed some cogent words during the Everlasting Rain, but obviously the dampness soaked my soul and dissolved any inclination to share thoughts. It is now sunny.  Cold, but sunny.  I am therefore somewhat reconciled with the world and prepared to overlook my dilatory approach to the course that I am supposed to be following and will promise to make it all up by more application today.

The length of this entry is augmented by what I wrote the day before yesterday or possibly merely yesterday when the full aftermath of Culture finally struck me.  Who knows?  And fewer care.  So, on with the show!

It’s George Frederick Handel not Georg Friedrich Händel.  As any fule kno, Handel is a British composer, though I am not sure that they had naturalization papers in those days, but British undeniably.  And the Liceu should have known better than to apportion some sort of German name to this quintessentially British composer.  Take The Messiah for example, admittedly it was premiered in Dublin, but British god damn it!

‘Agrippina’ by Handel was an unknown opera for me, I have heard of some of his operas but I had seen none.  Performances of The Messiah yes, but a full-blown Handel opera no.  A virgin experience with only a little dabbling on the Internet and listening and watching a few attempts on YouTube to prepare me for the fray. 

It was a first for the Liceu too, a first performance since the piece was written in 1709 – which tells you something.  Maybe about changing tastes and maybe about the essential quality of this piece.

I would be the first to admit that there are some ravishing parts in this opera, some duets and a single chorus that are show stopping.  There is humour and social comment and, by god there is recitative.  A lot of recitative.  In my view far, far too much recitative.

For me the production I saw last night (and part of this morning – we didn’t get out until quarter past midnight!) by David McVicar had some good set pieces, a few excellent ideas and a lot of attempts to make recitative interesting.  Well, it really isn’t – not in the quantities we had to put up with.

The singing: Sarah Connolly as Agrippina was fantastic, she had stage presence and a rich, fluid and spine tingling voice and when she was paired with Danielle de Niese as Poppea the effect was electric.  The blatant scheming of Agrippina contrasted well with the slightly dippy, sex-kittenish but by no means stupid Poppea and their attempts to outdo each other in craft as well as in voice was simply astonishing.  They were a joy to watch, especially when they were given acting to do as they commanded the stage.

Which is more than can be said for an under sung Ottone by David Daniels whose portly form cut a rather sad figure on the stage and was in contrast to the more authoritative figure of Franz-Josef Selig in the character of Claudio the emperor, whose rich tones and enthusiastic acting made him a compelling character.

Nerone, played by Malena Emman overacted shamelessly in her attempts to portray an upper-class brat dabbling in love and cocaine – but her voice was amazing.  I would have preferred a counter-tenor in the role, but with sheer hard work and vocal brilliance she made it her own and by the second act I had come to accept her interpretation.

And interpretation is the rock on which this production flounders.  What was it meant to be?  A comedy, tragedy, social commentary, what?  There were roles played as if they were out of pantomime: Pallante as a tubby general acted and sung with authority by Henry Waddington and Narciso as a sort of mad scientist with madder hair overacted by Dominique Visse in a voice that was frankly weak.  While other roles seemed to be connected with serious power play of life and death, the actual soldiers in this piece were like something out of Monty Python with camp movements more musical hall than military.

The setting was simple monumental with moveable tombs at start and end emphasising that all these people are dead long before we learn about them.  The largest single piece of stage machinery was a steep flight of moveable steps surmounted by a throne and I worried throughout the long evening fearing that one or more characters was going to make a headlong descent!  The lighting was hit and miss and the costumes generally modern.

At its best this production was lively with, for example a brilliant scene set in a nightclub bar with Poppea and Ottone resolving their differences in a far more engaging way than the ‘talking in your sleep’ device of the original.  This must also be the only time that a star harpsichordist has taken the guest spot and accompanied a more than half drunk singer while providing the necessary umph for a couple to do a sexy dance to his music.  He had a well deserved round of applause at the end of his stint!

The band the Orquestra Simfonica del Gran theatre del Liceu under the baton of Harry Bicket was great and their reception at the end was tumultuous – as well it should have been.

In conclusion this was a long, long night in which there were many pleasures but, alas for me, insufficient to justify the length.  There is great music here, but you have to wait a long time in between delights.

And its been raining for three days and we just had a little more after a sullen day which has spent its time threatening to rain.  This is not what I am used to and I have no intention of getting used to it either – though that expression of rejection depends on money or an act of god to get it right.

Rain could not dampen my spirits as I got to Barcelona early enough yesterday afternoon to pay a visit to the glass and marble shop on the corner of Plaza de Cataluña and throw more of my money at the personable youngsters to smile their way around the tables on which the merchandise is tauntingly displayed.  I now possess an iPad Air to go with my MacBook Air and everything else by Apple that I have bought into.  To justify the unjustifiable I have given my old one to Toni who will probably know more about the machine in a couple of days that I will have found out in a few years.  Ah well.  It works and I am happy.  Who can ask for more?

Today has been a day of tiredness – recovering from the opera last night and the expense not only of a new iPad but also of the cost of putting the car in a place where it is safe and reachable at the end of a performance.  I console myself by thinking that were I to put my car in a similar car park in London, which would have to be in Trafalgar Square to be comparable, it would cost a bloody sight more.

As even my Morning Pages were restricted today I should knuckle down and get something more done after dinner.

Which I didn’t do because it is now the same time as the start of this piece.  Ah, what looking at a few episodes of Doctor Who on the New iPad Air does for me – suddenly time is no longer linear and can be twisted like a juvenile design idea expressed via a 3D printer.  One of my more convoluted similes that, I think.

Anyway, the sun is still shining through the clouds are full of sky (and yes, I do mean it that way round) and it promises to dry out at least some of the overwhelming wetness that has been a characteristic of Catalonia for these last three long rainy days.

Sad though it will undoubtedly seem to those who do not share my interest, I am missing my New Watch (returned) and am pining for something exciting in the wristal area.  I have retreated to the default position that I had with the buying of Sci-Fi books of old: specific author; second hand and under 50p.  Using the bones of that idea I am determined that no new watch will be worse that the one that I am wearing at the moment, and by worse I mean having fewer features.

The list of features that I regard as essential is as follows in diminishing order of necessity - and yes, I do recognize that that opening was self-contradictory. 

1               It must tell the time

2               It must be waterproof

3               It must have luminous hands

4               A sweep second hand

5               Day and date

6               Numbers instead of dashes preferred

7               Metal strap preferred

8               Date must change automatically over months

9               Link to atomic clock (this is the last one and               bumps the price up)

It does mean that I can look at most watch shop window and find nothing that meets my requirements.  The ninth point, particularly excludes virtually everything I see.  Which is good.  For the time being – though Amazon is no more than a few clicks away.

Now to get on with my life.

Wet!

Thunder, lightning and lashing rain.  And for the next three days.  The misery of trying to pretend that summer is not done and getting over wet because you are still wearing sandals and shorts.  We Winter Deniers are members of a shrinking group, but we still, doggedly, exist.

Most of the car park in the swimming pool was under water.  ‘Car Park’ is a term that glorifies the area that is roughly covered with chippings and has no visible means of drainage except into Mother Earth, so puddles are not unknown after the most cursory of showers.  I had to park the car and then do a sort of tightrope walk along a curbstone to preserve some decorum so that I could still be dry before I got wet in the pool.  Of such contradictions is life made up.

The pool itself was relatively empty (‘We [Catalans] do not swim in weather like this!’ Toni.) though there were the convulsive steppers engaged in their sad and hysterical rituals in the building opposite, clearly visible but shamelessly continuing their painful gyrations in spite of my censorious (though myopic) gaze.

The swim itself was more strenuous than usual because I paced myself against some innocent but competent swimmer in the next lane.  What I thought would be some relatively easy ‘catch-up’ swim on my part did not turn out to be so, and pride came into play to boost my stroke rate so that by the time that I had driven myself to parity I was exhausted.  Luckily for my heart my unwitting opponent decided to have a little rest that allowed my stroke to return to normal and my heart to become less Alpine in its trajectory.  As this little effort was in the middle of my swim I was more than prepared for the session to come to a close.  Though, as I keep telling myself, I do feel better for it.  And I am sure that one gets bonus points for going for a swim in foul weather.

I called into our local Lidl on my way home and the checkout assistant is a very friendly girl who calls me by some foreign inflected version of my name and who assumes on very little evidence except for my unnatural confidence that I speak fluent Spanish.  While it is pleasant to be recognized it is unnerving to have to guess-respond to questions where an aimlessly vacuous smile will simply not do.  Luckily there is always a queue and so one can gratefully give way to the pushiness of a following customer and that, in itself limits the depth of conversation.

The continuing rain is an irritation not only because it is depressing and wet, but also because it stops me from showing that I (with a little help) have Solved a Problem.

Living in an area which actually uses the name of the trees with which we are surrounded to distinguish itself form other areas of Castelldefels has its problems and well as its aesthetic pleasures.  The name of the problem is resin.  The pine trees drip it constantly and, as there are pine trees everywhere it is impossible to avoid.  At least it is impossible for your car to avoid it unless you have a garage.  We could park the car under the house but that would mean opening the gate and that is far too much trouble.  So my car has been disfigured by unsightly blotches of very sticky resin.

This resin is impervious to all types of car shampoo and it is so adhesive that you would need to scrape it off with a force which would damage the paintwork.  I have tried using my nails and that only works to a certain extent.  It doesn’t take the resin off completely and no mater how much you wash your hands afterwards there is a certain time that you have to spend wandering around smelling like a refreshed toilet.  And your fingers tend to stick together.

Before the damaged door of the car was re-sprayed I went to a local garage (the same one which had helped me out to change the wheel – for nothing) and used the local machine and hand wash (by someone else, of course) at vast cost.  But, and this is the positive thing about having a menial job done by a person rather than a machine, when I asked the lad about the problem of resin he explained that he used acetone and he demonstrated and the stuff came off a treat.  I now have a bottle of the chemical but no dry opportunity to cleanse the car to get it back to its pre-resin, display room pristine state.  I am vaguely worried that the acetone will take off whatever layer there is on the paint to keep it safe as I fear that acetone is used in the paint process itself – but I shall experiment and, if successful it will have been well worth going to a shamelessly expensive car wash.

And still the rain hammers down.  There is something vindictive about it all and for the first time this year I actually put the heating on in the car.  I suppose it says something that I had forgotten how to do it.  But 11 degrees is not what I want to read out from the dashboard at any time of the year.

Down to the last dozen or so of the discs to be loaded into the computer which now has about 150 more albums that it did a couple of weeks ago!  That’s over a week of listening to music 24/7 and it has taken me long enough just to put the stuff on the hard disk.

I have downloaded an Autobiography to my Kindle after reading a Guardian review which not only lauded the literacy of the enterprise but also said how miserable it was and how the subject seemed to hate virtually everybody – that should tell you exactly whose autobiography it is and just why it is irresistible!

Clichés Are Always Right!

The Last Chance Saloon for my missing item has been described and now it is only time that will tell whether the LCS lives up to its name.  Because I am bloody sure that the sodding thing isn’t anywhere else!  All my hopes in one location!  And stop using exclamation marks!  Please!

Cold but fine; this is going to be the last reasonable day until well into next week according to the forecast.  The rain symbol, with no coy sun peeping behind it, is in the ascendant for the foreseeable future.  And my mood will plummet, as I now seem to live by Ruskin’s Pathetic Fallacy.  That is one reason that life in the UK does seem impossible at the moment, or an indeed at any moment in the future unless global warming becomes much more dramatic than it is at the moment.

As I type highlights from Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo are playing in the background conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt with the Concentus musicus Wien and Berberian, Hansmann, Kozma, Van Egmond with other nymphs, shepherds and the Capella antiqua München on a Das Alte Werk disc that would have been beyond my purse before the internet destroyed recording.  I am having the time of my life in indulging my slightest tastes in music as the whole edifice of the music industry comes crashing down in a proliferation of impossible-to-resist box sets of scrumptious harmony.

For Proust it was a bit of cake and tea, but for me it is usually music which instantly transports me to a time and place where I first heard it or where I heard it significantly.  L’Orfeo will always be associated with Room 816, Neuadd Lewis Jones, Singleton Park, Swansea when Jim, a bearded, breast stroke swimming, flute playing student asked if he could play a record he needed to listen to for one of his courses.  I complied and then immediately confiscated the record.  Once you listen to the Toccata it is imprinted on your mind.  I loved it and since, I have heard various versions – there is no definitive score to help musicologists, or rather the lack of score is god’s gift to musicologists who can make a career by suggesting various scores of their devising as the ‘authentic’ version that Monteverdi might have had in mind when he wrote this proto-opera.

Since I was in college there has been an explosion of interest in so-called Early Music.  We have seen the rise of the counter-tenor, the development of modern original instruments, the increasing sophistication of musicology associated with Early Music and the truly stunning sound which we now expect when we listen to it.  You listen to some early recordings of Early Music and you will astonished by the roughness of the rendition.  The music may be great but the performance was usually more worthy than polished.

I sometimes wonder if the musical sound that you get in Catalonia when people are building their human castles is more akin to what would have been heard in Britain in the church orchestras that used to accompany the singing.  The sound is raucous, not without a certain uncompromising energy, but you can also see why some members of the clergy would have looked towards the organ as a far more civilized way of providing music rather than the undisciplined gang screeching

away, drowning out the congregation and sometime the clergy as well!

I am just grateful that I can appreciate the advances in recording technique as well as technology that allow me to have an almost unparalleled musical experience.  A far fuller one than the generations of musicians that actually produced most of the music!

I wonder if anyone has done a study about the differences in ‘learning’ music nowadays compared with those brought up with the record player?  My generation of listeners will still probably still know ‘side 1’ of a given piece of music better than the remaining movements.  The inertia of failing to turn the record over to get the rest is something that was real.  Now the whole of the disc plays without your having to do anything except listen!  And listen without clicks, hiss and jumps.  Truly, I live in a very different musical world from the one in which I gleefully accepted my first classical records and got to know The Nutcracker, Peer Gynt, The Planets, The Polovtsian Dances, The Ritual Fire Music and what was contained on Immortal Melodies.  If I try I can even remember some of the record labels: Golden Guinea, Ace of Clubs – and the artwork on the covers even better.  Now all gone and I have multiple versions in much high quality sound, though possibly not in better versions!  My musical memory is nowhere near good enough to remember the personality of the music!

It is now much later in the night.  This writing started in the afternoon when my hopes were all pinned on Toni’s recollection (I gave in and admitted that I had lost something) of where it might be.  It was not a location (at that time) in Castelldefels – and perhaps the phrase in parenthesis gives you some idea of where the actual location might have been.  So, it was well after six before we got there.

Our setting off was fraught.  My TomTom had run out of battery and the other Garmin that I had (come on, you didn’t seriously think that I had only a single GPS did you?) was flat and the bloody lighter socket in the so-called courtesy car did not work.  We relied on memory to get to the garage in a distant town in the dark.  Toni likes to know where he is going, he is not one to relish the unexpected and rely on luck to get himself through.  So two failed GPS and a broken socket did not set, shall we say, a soothing atmosphere for our jaunt.

In a silence broken only by recriminations we finally got to the re-spray place – on a fairly direct route as it turned out and sank with luxurious delight into the palatial, safe comfort of our car.  The SCCC (so-called courtesy car) was relinquished with unseemly haste and we were off back to civilization while riding in civilization.  The smooth silence of the ride was in marked contrast to the opposite of all that we arrived in.

And eventually that which was lost was duly found.  So if anything happens in the UK I will now be able to travel there without the panic of having to find the British Consulate and arrange emergency papers to replace my passport.  You can see why I was a trifle worried; but, as with books, wallets, computers (but not pens) things come back to me.  Generally.

To celebrate the return of decent transport and important papers we went to La Fusta and had our usual tapas and I had a small jug of sangria.  It seemed the least we could do.

I am continuing to load up my computer with my new discs and marvelling at some of the delights I have in store.  Out of sequence, but irresistible, was a piece by Thomas Tomkins (1572-1656) called, ‘A Sad Pavan for these Distracted Times’ played on the virginal.  If he had lived for another decade he would have had even more reason to write such a thing!

Toni might be going to watch his nephew play in a nearby location tomorrow, so I will devote the day, or at least the morning to getting on with the next stage in my writing course.  We have now reached the writing of ‘Setting’ and it was no surprise that the first writer to be mentioned in this chapter of the Big Red Book was Thomas Hardy and his creation of Egdon Heath – though I am glad to say that the monumental of the character-like landscape which Hardy can write is not necessarily held out as a good example to follow for us.  Thank god.

Now to load up another disc to burden the hard drive of this over-worked computer.  Let music un-tune the sky!