Nothing stays the same

We now have new neighbours, but this time they comprise a full family with kids and dog.  This will be a new experience for us as we are used to silence on one side (as that property is only used during the summer) and limited noise on the other side from two women: a lady and her very elderly mother.  So, our ‘living quality’ is going to be rather different in the immediate future!

In the longer-term future, our contract with the letting agents for our house extends over the next couple of years, and then we will need to look for a new place - one that is on the ground floor of a block of flats - or some detached mansion by the sea if the Euromillions comes through!

We are not living in the cheapest part of this area and one can only wonder (and fear) about what the eventual consequences of Brexit will be in relation to the value of the pound sterling which is what my pension is paid in.  Although the cost of Brexit will be clear in the way that the pound falls when the situation becomes what passes for final in these hectic days, the other costs – social, political, geographic, status, influence, perception – will, insidiously affect the view of the British and the British view of The Other for generations to come.

The Left has paid an enormous price for dismissing the views of those who feel themselves outside the establishment, and who see their lives being dictated by remote movers who have little to do with their view of life.  Or, if not exactly dismissing those views, for failing to take account of them in political terms and failing, disastrously, to take them seriously.

There were lies on both sides of the debate, most egregiously in my view by the Brexiteers, those self-interested members of the establishment who, with breathtakingly Trumpian re-writing of reality now dismiss all their earlier promises and statements and cling to some sort of Little Englander (because let’s face it they couldn’t give a toss for the ‘fringes’ of that country) philosophy to justify a hard-line figment of xenophobic triumphalism to trump concerns about virtually everything that makes me proud to be British.

And, you see, I’ve descended into the wordy opprobrium as befits my perceived status and education!  I still cling to the belief that this whole nightmare will somehow dissipate and we will remain securely within the EU.  But, my country (no matter what the numbers and the percentages say) has voted in a referendum to leave and the government is bound to fulfil the verdict of the electorate.

I know that a ‘wrong’ vote against the EU in Ireland was treated as a hiccup and another vote was taken to ‘remedy’ the result – and part of me wants that to happen in my country too.  In spite of the fact that such an attitude does not sit well with my stated principles of democracy and the will of the people.

I have said elsewhere that I have always been amazed at the variety of theological (if they deserve to be termed thus) views of any congregation listening placidly to a sermon in any church in the country on a Sunday.  If you asked forensic questions concerning belief you would be amazed at what a seemingly united body of people actually stated as their individual beliefs.  But that would be true of any gathering of so-called like-minded people.  No matter if it is a political group, religious group, art appreciation class, or a society of pigeon fanciers – the variety of belief and the depth of ignorance would probably astonish.  That is just how people are.  A test I have often used as an example is to ask people to point out, on a blank map of the world, where Israel is.  The suggestions of where that country might be located will, I can assure you, astonish.

I am not saying that people are stupid, it’s just that people know different things.  What I perceive as being essential to a civilized life might well be something that others dismiss.  The only (or rather one of the many) dangers are when I start making assumptions based on what I think I know are self-evident truths.  What is wrong for me, is disaster in politics when the future government of the country is concerned.  Politicians have failed us and are continuing to fail us.  It is hardly surprising to see mounting dissatisfaction with the way that we have been governed and a desire to see another way, or if not as coherent as that, at least to give the established ways a shock. 

In some ways this is Anarchy, or rather anarchy with a small ‘a’ as it is not a thought-out doctrine, but rather a gut reaction to what is seen as something which is not tolerable.

It is probably a sign of the time that a worried wonder about the changes in the quality of life brought about by the large family that has just moved in next door, has ended in a nihilistic depression about Brexit!   

All thoughts lead to Brexit in my mind and the inescapable (or at least seemingly inescapable) consequences of this wanton act of self-harming by the British electorate – or those who bothered to vote!

Perhaps tomorrow I will be more jocund!

Sunshine!

Cut from the roof/attic space, the third floor terrace is an ideal spot for a little unseasonal sunbathing.

There is a breeze, and if that touches your skin you are aware that it is latish October, but in the tranquil sunshine (and wearing a T-shirt and shorts of course) you can almost believe that summer is still with you.  And I really do want to believe that. 

I hang on to the idea of summer well beyond what is considered reasonable to the good folk of Castelldefels, and the late date wearing of shorts is little short of scandalous to my fellow citizens who wear clothes strictly according to the seasons and the months.  No matter if it is sunny: if it is November it is wintry and clothing should (nay, must) reflect the established winter dress code, even if the thermometer tells a different story.

In Castelldefels, you can tell that the summer has officially ended, because they have locked up the street, car parking ticketing machines.  And, believe you me; in a seaside town as commercially minded as Castelldefels, the only reason to stop reaping the financial benefits from those rapacious machines is money.  Out of season, people need every inducement to visit our beaches and our town and free parking is essential to get the footfall to keep us going.  But over the last few days, yes, we have had torrential rain, but we have also had temperatures in the mid twenties - and those are warm enough (even with the ‘touch of seasonal reality’ breezes) to make a walk along our extensive beaches a true pleasure.  Or, in my case, cycle.  Electrically.

We had lunch outside too, today.  A new restaurant with a reasonably priced, at least for the weekend, menu del dia (14.90 Euros) including as they always do, a three-course meal (for me: Lacón - this is dried pork shoulder, cut into slices and served hot with sliced potatoes garnished with pimentón picante; salmon with battered vegetables; fruit) with bread and a drink.  We also had some mini empanadas as an aperitif. 

Because of the positioning of the spaces and the buildings around the restaurant, there was a fairly continuous breeze that was just this side of acceptable to me, and coat-wearingly acceptable for Toni.  All in all a decent meal, with the only exception being the fruit.  Given the medical strictures that surround our eating habits now, fruit is the only reasonable choice.  Toni chose the last mandarins and I had to make do with an orange.  When these arrived they looked wizened and old, and tasted like they looked.  There is no excuse for serving a poor orange in Spain, none at all - but, as Toni pointed out, finding decent tasty fruit is becoming more and more difficult.

And that, always brings me back to the dearth of Cox’s Orange Pippins.  I cannot remember the last date on which I had one of those apples, but I certainly do remember the taste: sweetness in depth with a complexity of flavour that matched a decent glass of wine.  Why are they not widely available?  And why do we, today, have to make do with a variety like Pink Lady?  The relationship between a Pink Lady and a Cox’s Orange Pippin is like that between fat-free milk and Devon clotted cream: they are both from the same family, but galaxies apart!

It does sometimes seem churlish to moan about some things, when I am typing this with the door to the terrace open, the sun is shining and a garish kite-surfing canopy is floating, spectrally, above the trees that block my view of the sea.  There!  A perfect example of unjustified dissatisfaction!  I am so near the sea that I can hear the waves and the clink of the tackle against the masts of the boats dragged up on to the beach, but I cannot see the sea.  At least not from my seat.  Even when I leave my seat it takes a little bit of contortion to get a glimpse of the big blue!  But it is within a couple of minutes walk.  And, quite frankly, that should be enough.  Though it never is.  Satisfaction is stultification.  To progress is to be greedy.  And other ‘thoughts for the day’ that go the way of all flesh!

Talking of progress, I have to create a WhatsApp group for the students in our Catalan class, as I am now one of the two student representatives of our class.  And, no, I did not volunteer, but I will approach the first meeting of the representatives with the clear thought in my head that it cannot possibly be worse than any of the staff meetings in The School on the Hill. 

And, fortified by that consoling thought, I will set about making the new WhatsApp group a reality. 

Never let it be said that my weekends were anything other than creative!

The sweet smell of 'failure'

Sometimes it is an achievement to know that you cannot succeed in your stated aim.  It does save time and emotion to find out that the situation is not resolvable.  An example of this happened this morning.

The present for the Name Day needs to be in hand for the meal this evening.  We did have an idea of the present that would be acceptable: a particular perfume in a gaudy bottle.  We couldn’t find this perfume in our go-to perfume store (I have, for some reason that I do not fully comprehend, a loyalty card for this store!) or in our second and third choice of emporium.

The end result was that it was left to me to ‘sort it out’ by this evening.  My first plan of retail attack was to shop my way along the motorway and call in the various supermarkets enticingly scattered along the margins of the road.  This would have been a very expensive approach as, very much like my mother, I find it very difficult to go to shops and not buy something.  Anything.

Plan B was to go to El Corte Ingles, the shop that I passed on my way to The School on the Hill each day in a display of restraint that still astonishes!  This is a true one-stop store and each time I go there (in whatever location it is found) I feel as if I am back in Cardiff in Howell’s, as it has some of the old-world charm of that august institution.  I also knew that their perfume department was vast and if anywhere would have the elusive bottle then it would be there.

When I got there, relatively early, after my even earlier swim it was relatively empty.  And that applied to the various counters too.  When I eventually found one occupied by a lady of a certain age (my favourite choice of assistant) I had the sort of experience that, if it was general throughout shops in the area would empty my wallet!

The cheerful, chatty, informed help that I got at the Boss/Calvin Klein counter was exemplary. And it also follows that I spent much, much more than I intended, but what the hell, it’s a present and I am sure that it will be appreciated, and that is the main thing.  Isn’t it?  And it looks good in the box too!

It is possibly a sign of the times that I feel the need to praise what is, in effect, an example of competent, professional selling.  This should be the norm and not the notable exception.  It brings to mind the legendary experience I had one Saturday morning in town in Cardiff where every shop I went into provided service of the highest possible standard.  I was so overcome with delight that I started going into shops at random and making spurious enquiries to test whether the magic of the shopping experience could be extended.  And it was, wherever I went I was gifted polite, concerned, attention.  It was wonderful and it left me a little breathless and disbelieving.  I was so shocked that I spent nothing, just revelled in the ‘rightness’ of it all. 

But that shock would have worn off and the serious business of spending would have come upon me like a madness.  Except.  Except, of course, the next week, things were back to normal with morose unhelpfulness the norm, with the only exceptions being in those shops where I personally knew the assistants or owners.

In the course of persuading me to buy more than I thought that I would, the lady assistant’s conversation ranged pretty widely taking in politics, geography, food, foreigners, Brexit, Holland, and the composition of The United Kingdom.  My whining about price must have had some effect as she also game me handfuls of samples to lessen the financial blow!

Now, well, almost now, out to lunch as the start of the weekend!