Clochemerle

Parfois, je suis simplement bête. Je savais pour plus d'une décennie qu'il y a des livres dont on peut trouver et commander sur la site amazon.co.uk, mais pas sur amazon.com. Néanmoins, quand je n'ai pas vu ce roman de Gabriel Chevallier sur la site britannique, il m'a pris plusieurs mois, peut-être même un an ou deux, pour m'apercevoir que j'ai pu le chercher sur amazon.fr. Bien sûr, il a été là - et maintenant il est déjà chez moi.

Back to chess

My grandfather taught me the rules before I was eight; soon after that I began attending the local youth chess club and remained its member till the end of my high school days (by then I was also a member of the adult club). I enjoyed it, although in restrospect I can see I wasn't all that interested in the game itself as in the feeling of belonging to some community, encouraged by the weekly meetings and various tournaments.

After high school I moved town and never had the guts to become a member of any club again; but I'd play, now and then, in pubs as long as I was frequenting them. Meanwhile during my college days a friend introduced me to the game of go, and I began to prefer that one, although I never had nearly as much chance to play it as I did with chess.

Thus when I got online I didn't look for a chess server but for a go one; and I played, if extremely rarely, until quite recently, when I finally accepted what deep down I'd known for ages: fascinating as I find the game, it's not for me. You can't draw there, you must strive to win, otherwise you lose, and that goes against the grain: I was always more concerned about not losing than about winning. So a few weeks ago I found a chess server and began playing the old game once again on a more or less regular basis.

So far it satisfies me, even though it obviously lacks the excitement of those tournaments of long ago, and the tactile pleasure of moving wooden pieces around the chessboard rather than clicking a mouse button.

Mo chuid Ghàidhlig '21

Tron aon mhìos deug den bhliadhna, cha mhòr nach robh mi an sàs sa Ghàidhlig idir. Leugh mi leabhar gu leth, agus uaireannan naidheachd no dhà leis a' BhBC; fìrinn innse, chanainn gun do dhìochuimhnich (no leth-dhìochuimhnich) mi barrachd faclan seana air na dh'ionnsaich mi de fhaclan ùra.

Ach tron Dùbhlachd bha mi gu math dìcheallach a-rithist. Leugh mi leabhar eile; thòisich mi air faclan a dh'ionnsachadh mar bu chòir aon uair eile; bhithinn ag èisteachd ri Radio nan Gàidheal, a' blogachadh gu cunbhalach; rinn mi eadhon grunnan dheasachaidhean beaga san Uicipeid. Agus tha mi a' faireachdainn mar a tha mo chuid Ghàidhlig, a bha a' sìor thuiteam bhuaithe, a' tighinn am feabhas às ùr. Mar a tha am briathrachas agus an gràmar leth-dhìochuimhnte a' tilleadh dhomh.

Agus tha mi ga mhealadh. Mar sin, tha mi 'n dòchas nach bi e ro dhoirbh a' cumail orm mar seo ann an 2022 mar an ceudna.

Nederlands III

Today I've finally removed Dutch from my Duolingo courses. It's a beautiful language and I retain my soft spot for the Dutch, but one can only do so much, and given how little time I'm told I've left I could hardly hope to get to a level that would justify the amount of time spent learning it. In fact I consider discontinuing my Swedish studies too. (Nevertheless, crazy as always, I've recently recommenced Norwegian.)

New city status candidates

There are eight Scottish contenders for officially becoming a city during next year's celebrations of the Queen's Platinum Jubilee; the expectation is that one will succeed. In my opinion, St Andrews deserves it most, although from a purely personal point of view I would be just as happy to see Dumfries or Oban win. Not that I suppose the latest to have a snowball's chance in hell; but what's beyond me is the candidature of South Ayrshire. How can you call a whole area a 'city', unless it's a more or less completely urban one like Glasgow or Dundee? The way people are debasing language is getting worse every year ... (Incidentally from the complete UK leet I also wish success to Colchester.)

Chaochail Desmond Tutu

Tha fhios gum b' aithne dhomh dè cho cudromach agus a bha an t-easbaig Afraganach seo anns an t-strì an aghaidh apartheid. Ach mus do thug mi sùil ghoirid air an aiste Uicipeid Bheurla mu dheidhinn an-diugh, cha b' aithne dhomh gun robh e cuideachd a' bruidhinn gu làidir às leth co-ionnannachd gèidh ann an Afraga a Deas agus anns an Eaglais Anglican. Hmm, chan eil aiste Uicipeid Ghàidhlig mu dheidhinn ann; 's dòcha gum bu chòir dhomh ga sgrìobhadh latha de na làithean.

Unexpected white Christmas

To be honest, I'd grown used to the idea that the probability of my ever seeing a white Christmas again was minimal. When I woke up yesterday and saw a thin layer of snow on the ground, I suspected it might not last until the evening - and it didn't. The forecast for today said light snow during the day; I didn't cherish much hope. But snow it did - not much, but enough to cover the grass and pavements, partially even the roofs - and so far, it stays like that.

There are still unexpected small mercies to experience. (Another was an afternoon call from my sister, who even claimed she'd personally visit me before the end of the year.)

Christopher Boone

When I first read Mark Haddon's novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time two years ago, I was enthralled by it, amazed at how much the narrator, Christopher John Francis Boone, reminded me of myself. Re-reading it last year, the novelty was no longer there, so I was able to notice that there were also many ways in which we were quite different.

I've just finished reading it for a third time. It remains one of my favourite books; I still see quite a lot of similarities and quite a few dissimilarities between Christopher and myself; but there were also two things about him which troubled me. First, his propensity to use violence against people who (physically) touch him: I deplore violence except under very extreme circumstances (I always preferred flighting to fighting, although some might argue that's just my bodily weakness and my cowardice). But then, it may just be an instinctive reaction he has no control of.

More importantly, I was troubled by his obsession with sitting a particular maths exam. When he's told, towards the end of the book, that he'll have to wait for a year before that would be possible, he becomes comletely petulant. And it seems to me that this doesn't stem directly from his being autistic, but from his having been (on account of his autism) pampered all his life by those close to him. In other words, it doesn't feel like an autistic, but like a spoilt-child behaviour. After all, it's nothing vital, just a bloody certificate.

Naturally, that doesn't mean I stopped liking him. My real-life best friends tend to have one or two character traits that I highly disapprove of as well. Come to think of it, so do I.

Thadhail m' athair orm

Abair latha. An toiseach, dh'fhair companaidh lìbhrigidh dhomh dà leabhar Beurla bhon Amazon (eachdraidh na Frainge agus eachdraidh na Nirribhidh). As dèidh sin, thàinig m' athair às a' bhaile aigesan le poca làn bìdh o mo mhàthair airson ama na Nollaige. Agus fhad 's a bha e an-seo, dh'fair posta litir clàraichte dhomh bho Roinn na Tèarainteachd Sòisealta (a' gearan nach d' fhuair iad fhathast pàipearan bhon dotair-teaghlaich agam).

Bha e math m' athair fhaicinn a-rithist, ged nach do mhair an còmhradh eadarainn na b' fhaide na dà uair a thìde, 's nach robh e ro inntinneach a bharrachd (sa mhòr-chuid mu dheidhinn peinnsean ciorramachd a bu chòir dhomh fhaighinn agus rudan co-cheangailte ris), ach bha e taitneach dìreach cuideachd a bhith agam as dèidh nan làithean, agus thuirt e dhomh aon rud inntinneach:

Thuirt e gum b' fheàrr leis caochladh a-nis, dar a tha e ochdad bliadhna a dh'aois ach a' smaointeachadh agus a' gluasad ceart gu leòr, seach as dèidh ceud bliadhna a dh'aois, ach le cràdhan mòra air/no leabaidh-laigheach air/no le seargadh-inntinne. Bha e coltach nach robh eagal a' bhàis aige tuilleadh. Feumaidh mi aideachadh gun robh ('s gu  bheil) farmad agam air - air sgàth an dà chuid cion thrioblaidean cuirp agus cion an eagail.

The futility of environmentalism

Unsurprisingly, COP26 didn't deliver what could really save this planet. Unsurprisingly, because those who have the power to make the necessary changes are not actually willing to do so. They do not truly believe the necessity is there. In the words of Greta Thunberg, they still believe in the fantasy of "eternal growth on a finite planet". And they will continue to do so until it's too late.

Not that they are alone. We are, almost all of us, culprits. Humankind as a whole behaves like me - a patient diagnosed with cancer who nevertheless can't make himself stop smoking. We take some token steps to salve our consciences, but instead of making changes that would actually save us we live in the hope that progress in science and technology will eventually solve the problem for us.

Only it won't, for two complementary reasons: there are more and more of us, and each individual expects his or her standard of life to at least remain the same, preferably to go on improving. Thus lately Thunberg; but as early as 1969 Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his novel Slaughterhouse-Five:

The Population Reference Bureau predicts that the world's total population will double to 7,000,000,000 before the year 2000.
"I suppose they will all want dignity," I said.
"I suppose," said O'Hare.

And of course, our perception of what is necessary for our dignity gradually rises. For the half century since Vonnegut published his book, world's population went on rising, our lives went on growing more comfortable, and environment went on deteriorating.

To sum up, unless we stop breeding like vermin, and accept that our individual standards of living have to be rather drastically lowered, we'll keep driving down the road to perdition. Human mentality being what it is, I can't see us making these changes. We'll just continue living in our cloud cuckoo land until we get past the point of no return.

Unless we're already past it.

Various retirement ages?

An interesting idea by somebody using the nick 'makem' appeared as a comment under an article about a proposal not to raise the state pension age as currently intended: "It should be worked out by job type. Somebody working in an office / shop indoor type job will live longer than somebody working on building site or other manual outdoor job. Also they reckon that working nightshift takes about 5 years off life expectancy."

It would certainly be fairer. On the other hand, I suspect it would be impracticable. For one thing, to make it really fair you would also have to differentiate between grafters and skivers, and how on earth would you achieve that? For another, it would probably lead to more everlasting haggling about which jobs deserve what pension age.

And then, you'd never know beforehand when will you become entitled. Because of course lots of people change the kind of job they do during their working lives, some of them quite frequently, and so their pension age would change all the time as well. Yes, these days it should be easy creating software for making swift adjustments. But would people like never knowing when they can retire until actually able to do so?

Sùil air ais: an ospadal

Aig deireadh na Dàmhair, chuir mi seachad seachdain san ospadal, agus bha droch naidheachd ann cha mhòr gach latha.

Diluain, chaidh innse dhomh nach b' urrainn iad tuilleadh an aillse agam a leigheas, dìreach ga bacadh, ged a bhios daoine ann beò fhathast leis an seòrsa sin airson grunn bhliadhnaichean.

Dimàirt, chaidh innse dhan fhear a bha na laighe air an leabaidh eile nach robh aigesan ach beagan seachdainean no 's dòcha corra mhìos. Sin dar a thuig mi nach eil àm cho fada agamsa a bharrachd. Sin dar a thàinig trom-inntinn dhomhainn is eagal mòr orm.

Diciadain, dh'fhàg am fear, ach thàinig an ceartuair fear eile a bha a' coimhead air an telebhisean fad na h-ùine mar an ceudna. Mar sin, cha mhòr nach robh fois sam bith agam tron sheachdain sin.

Diardaoin, thuit fiacaill eile, clàr-fhiacaill LL1, às mo bheul. Mar nach biodh e doirbh gu leòr ithe leis-san.

Gu fortanach, dh'fhàg mi an ospadal Dihaoine. Ach maireadh e fada mus tòsich mi air a dhol beagan am feabhas a-rithist.

Book-buying spree

In a way it's almost droll. You'd expect that when you're told that at best you only have a few years left, you'd stop buying new books, there being so many you want to read once more before you go. You'd think that in particular you'd buy no 'educative' ones, for what use you'd have for any thus acquired new knowledge? You'd think you'd focus on books in those languages you know best, to get the most satisfaction from what you read.

Yet unable to help myself I ended up yesterday buying three books in French (the one amongst my four 'primary' languages I'm weakest at) and two history books. I guess that if you're an avid, unsatiable bookworm, you're an avid, unsatiable bookworm till the end.

Le wokisme

Je suis britannique, mais dans cette matière, je suis d'accord avec les français. La voie, c'est le daltonisme, pas le wokisme. On n'atteindra jamais l'égalité si l'on souligne des différences entre des races (des sexes, des sexualité et ainsi de suite). On juste fortifie la méfiance mutuelle.

Falt air a bheàrradh

Dar a sgrìobh mi mu dheidhinn cuideachadh mo pheathar an-dè, cha do rinn mi luaidh air aon rud a choilean i air mo shon: aig deireadh na Samhna, bheàrr i m' fhalt. 'S ann glè chuideachail a bha sin, oir (leis na glasaidhean-sluaigh, leis a' gheamhradh, agus an dèidh sin leis na cràdhan-bronn agam) cha robh e air a bheàrradh bhon Iuchar an-uiridh. Bha e na fhaochadh falt den fhad 'àbhaisteach' a bhith agam a-rithist gu dearbh!

Third dose

As I've already hinted, the aftermath of getting my second chemotherapy dose was horrendous: hypotension all day long (even fainting once), lack of appetite and the consequent continuing undernourishment (today the scales showed 47kg - clad and shod) and diarrhoea, general weakness (had to trouble my sister for going my messages for me a few times) and so on.

(The silver lining was seeing my sister and chatting with her; when the post-effects became milder I also agreed to a visit from my old college friend Black.)

After a few weeks this improved during the latter parts of the days, although mornings continue to be hard: I'd had to postpone the hospital visit last week and only managed it today thanks to Black who drove me there. Anyway, now I've got my third dose. The doctor made it 30% less strong, and prescribed some pills; we'll see how I cope this time.

English spelling

The other day I came across an interesting article about the causes of English spelling being so inconsistent. The author argues that this can't be explained by English being a mixture of Germanic, Romance and other influences: the same or similar is true about other European languages, which however have more or less consistent - if sometimes fairly complicated - sets of spelling rules.

Instead, she claims that the timing of the introduction of printing is to blame. According to her, printing came to England after old spelling traditions had been eroded by the literate elite using primarily Latin. With the nascent return of the vernacular new traditions still had to become established, and various people in the meantime used various spellings for the same words depending on which dialect they spoke. Which was exacerbated by the concurrent Great Vowel Shift. Now with printing meaning that many more than before had a reason to learn to read, then write, then pass their own usage on to others (and in the absence of an institution like the Académie Française), the new traditions developed in a rather haphazard way. In other words, before a literate elite could establish new rules, it stopped being exclusive and the rules established themselves - any old how. Too many cooks spoil the broth, so to say.

Of course, I'm no linguist. I have no way of knowing whether printing (rather than, say, the Great Vowel Shift) really was the main factor. But it does seem quite plausible that it played a significant role.

Às-aithris: Dòmhnall Iain MacÌomhair: An Duine

 

Bu toigh leis a bhith a' dèanamh nithean anns an robh ùidh aige fhèin. An robh sin ceàrr seach nach robh ùidh aig càch annta? Cha robh esan a' smaoineachadh gun robh. 

(td 80 anns an chruinneachadh Caogad san Fhàsach)

Eadhon dar a bha mi òg, cha robh ùidh agam ann an iomadh nì anns an robh ùidh aig mo chàirdean, mo cho-aoisean: ball-coise, càraichean, caileagan agus mar sin sìos. Aig an aon àm, bha ùidh agam ann an grunnan nì anns nach robh ùidh aig cha mhòr duine sam bi eile air a bha mi eòlach: cànanan, Alba, òganaich agus mar sin air adhart. Agus cha do dh'atharraich sin rè nam bliadhnaichean.

Seadh, cha robh 's chan eil e idir furasta aig amannan. Ach a dh'aindeoin sin, cha chreid mi gum bithinn na bu thoilichte, mar eisimpleir, a' coimhead air geama ball-coise ann an telebhisean le daoine eile 's a' leigeil orm gun robh e inntinneach dhomhsa, seach a bhith ag ionnsachadh Gàidhlig nam aonar. Mar a tha an seanfhacal ag ràdh, 'sòlas an dara duine, dòlas an duine eile'.

 

 

Reading printed books again

When one door closes, another one opens.

For several years I was reading virtually solely Kindle e-books, possessing less than four prints. Moving flat as often as I had to during my life, it made sense to have as few as possible to move each time I did. However, when I moved, at the beginning of summer, to a flat owned by my sister and her husband, the sitution changed: I could suddenly expect not to have to flit again any time soon, if ever. So I resolved to and actually began anew buying printed books.

Kindle has its advantages of course, but for an old fogey like me, when all is said and done, it's just an inadequate substitute. The bliss of holding in my hands and enjoying 'real' books once more!

Unfortunatelly, I soon discovered that post-Brexit Amazon deliveries into the EU are unreliable (more than once I had an order stuck for a month on the French border, only to be then without any explanation returned back to Amazon), and getting them by post makes the delivery rather costly. I also realised that my sick pay would soon come to an end and I would be dependent on a (much lower) disability pension. So I stopped buying more.

And then my sister mentioned that she still had some books I had stored at hers years ago before one of my moves and quite forgotten about. She then sent me photos of that part of her bookcase with books in English, and I saw there several I mean to deprive her of, or at least borrow for some time. She already brought me the first two I chose.

Looks like I'll be able to enjoy reading prints for at least several more months to come.

Merde

Ouais, d'avoir mal au dos ou ma au ventre, c'est mauvais. Mais il y a des médicaments pour ça. Ouais, l'hypotension est aussi mauvais. Mais il y a du café, et j'ai les béquilles pour ça. Mais il est aussi mauvais se réveiller et trouver qu'on a chié un peu dans son sommeil - et on ne peux rien faire contre ça. Il faut juste aborder les effets.

Quote: George Mikes: How to be Decadent

 

If you have to decay, decay with elegance and grace. 

(p 254 in the How to be a Brit omnibus)

Yes, I should accept that I'll probably never again be able to work full time, walk several miles in a oner, leave this country even for a week's trip, will have to think twice each time before spending any money, take conscientious care of my diet and regimen and so on. But maybe, with a bit of luck, I'll be able to go through the rest of my life without feeling, behaving and looking as a victim of some tragedy, preserving instead my mental faculties and my dignity.

Calum Cille aig 1,500 bliadhna

An-dè, theab mi gun a mhothachadh gum b' e 1,500 bliadhna bhon rugadh Calum Cille. Dh'fhàg sin beagan brònach mi.

O, chan ann gur e Crìostaidh a tha annam. Ach b' e samhla eile den astar a dh'fhàs eadar mise is saoghal na Gàidhlig. Saoghal anns an robh ùidh cho mhòr agam grunn bhliadhnaichean air ais, saoghal air a bhiodh mi a' gabhail beachd cho dian - agus a' faighinn tlachd cho mòr bho sin. O chionn ghoirid, cha mhòr nach robh naidheachdan BhBC an aon cheangal agam ris.

Ach mar a tha mi a-nis a' feuchainn dòigh mo bheatha atharrachadh, ga h-ùrachadh, tha mi a' feuchainn tilleadh faisg air an t-saoghal sin cuideachd.

Quote: Malachy Tallack: The Valley at the Centre of the World

He was terrified of losing everything he had, so he’d convinced himself he had nothing to lose.

(about Sandy's father, p 98)

Maybe that's one of the mistakes I did myself after discovering I was probably exiled forever: having had lost so much throughout my life I convinced myself I'd lost everything, and consequently also lost all interest in the future, carrying on merely out of inertia and remnants of defiance.

Storm Arwen

A few days ago I received a notice that on next week's Tuesday there would be no electricity between about 8am and 4pm. My first thought was how would I survive eight winter hours without warm tea or coffee (and little laptop time). Later I realised that in comparison with people who had to wait for several (some as many as nine) days to have their electricity supply restored I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Cion thoiteanan

Obh obh. Dhiùlt mo phiuthar toiteanan a cheannach dhomh tuilleadh, agus am pasgan mu dheireadh agam. Tha mi 'n dòchas gum bi mo bhrùthadh-fala àrd gu leòr a-màireach, 's gum bi an neart agam am flat fhàgail airson a' chiad turais bhon 18 an t-Samhain, 's ri dhol gan ceannach leam fhìn. Tha mi a' faireachdainn an-dràsta gur dòcha gun soirbhich leam, ach chì sinn.

Advices and Queries - 41

"Try to live simply. A simple lifestyle freely chosen is a source of strength. Do not be persuaded into buying what you do not need or cannot afford."

There at least is one precept I've been trying to follow throughout my life, and fairly succesfully. Maybe with the exception of books, but that I'm told is common to Quakers themselves.

Astérix ; des béquilles

Pour la plupart de la journée (quand je ne dormais pas) je lisais La Grande Traversée, un album Astérix que je n'ai connu pas : aussi bon que les autres. Je l'ai commencé et fini ; apparemment mon français n'est pas toujours complètement rouillé (du moins, mon français passif).

Et au soir ma sœur et mon beau-frère sont venus : ils m'ont apportés des béquille. Nous espérons qu'elles m'aideront à marcher avec mon hypotension. J'ai essayé et c'est un peu meilleur ; mais je verrai dans la nuit.

Fainted

Today was another low. Adjusting the Venetian blinds in the morning I noticed the whiteout approaching, but trying to sit down on my bed either tripped or didn't sit well enough. Anyway, a moment later I realised I was sitting on the floor, with the clothes horse fallen (must have knocked it over when falling) and a pain at the back of my head. Strangely, it felt as though I were waking up from a dream.

There was nothing broken except the skin of my skull, which I must have bumped against the open door leaf of the wardrobe, but as this hasn't happened before it's quite disconcerting. I'm even more worried now each time I have to go the few long, long meters to the loo - and I have to do that quite often.

An additional bad aspect was that of course I had nobody to tell and get solace from.

Fuar

Chan eil am brùthadh-fala ìosal agam cho dona an-diugh 's a bha e fad beagan làithean, ach tha a' bhuinneach air ais, agus airson adhbhar air choireigin, tha mi fuar. 'S mathaid oir bha mi fuar tron oidhche. Fear de na rudan as lugha orm sa bhaile seo, 's e an àbhaist an teasachadh-meadhain (no teasachadh air astar) a chur dheth buileach eadar deich uairean feasgar is sia sa mhadainn. Amadain.

St Andrew's Day

On Friday the first snow of this year: it was falling virtually throughout the daylight hours and untypically settled, rather than thawed immediately or before the next morning. In fact it still remains on the grass and some roofs, with the help of a bit more snowfall on Saturday and today. So everything is that wee bit nicer now. Given that the minimum daily temperature had already been falling close to zero for some time, I think I can proclaim winter as begun, whatever astronomers may think about it.

After all, unless I'm mistaken, meteorologists will proclaim it as begun tomorrow.

Chemo round 2 ... and sister

Back in 2016 and last winter I had hardly any symptoms as a result of chemotherapy. However, I don't bear this FOLFOX one well. It makes me extremely tired and sleepy, and worst of all, a complete loss of appetite meant that during the three days of this round I ate almost nothing at all. But I survived and after having the pump removed yesterday my sister drove me back with three boxes of PEG food, which I began taking today. Hopefully it'll help me gradually put on some weight again, I'm around 47kg right now.

Incidentally I always suspected my symptoms resulting from various diseases were at least 50 per cent psychosomatic. So it's no surprise that after the pump's removal and later a short but pleasant chat with my sister at my place (the first such chat I've had with anybody since August) I felt much better, not just mentally but physically as well, despite the undernourishment and continuing lack of appetite.

I must wangle it so I see her more often. Likewise mail my other friends more often, blog more and become generally more involved on the Web again ...

Bent double

Another major problem is that the combination of belly ache and hypotension forces one into a stooping posture, whether one is standing or sitting. The vicious circle here is that the more time one spends bent double, the more the body gets used to it, seems to need it, so the more time one spends bent double. It's like addiction, in a way.

These days, I can hardly remain with my body straight for more than a few minutes at a time. Apart from the loss of time when walking somewhere or doing something on my laptop, when one stops to 'stoop and rest', this also means I can't have my hair cut or something done about my two incisors which have falled out quite recently (it never rains but it pours), because I couldn't stay in the barber's or dentist's chair for long enough for them to complete their tasks.

Advices and Queries - 29

"Although old age may bring increasing disability and loneliness, it can also bring serenity, detachment and wisdom."

Unfortunately, while the former are now taking an increasingly heavy toll on me, the latter seem hardly to be even beginning to approach.

Wasted mornings

One of my main problems these days is starting them too late. Of course, when I have some appointment, I only get up early enough to be there on time, and after returning and resting after the effort not much of the day is left; that's only to be expected. But even when there is no delay of this sort, I spend so much time lying in bed, whether dozing or reading some book, that by the time I finally find the moral strength to get out of bed and face the day, it's usually already the afternoon. Given how much time I have to spend resting between individual activities, and given that I go to sleep again well before midnight, there is obviously never time enough to eat enough, drink enough, perform all the desirable bodily maintenance and housework, check the news, answer emails, do enough language studies and so on.

As a consequence, despite my being on sick leave, my body continues to deteriorate and my backlog of various things to do is growing, rather than decreasing. Which in turn makes me weaker and more zestless, thus more prone to lie in for too long in the morning, and the vicious circle continues.

Terry Pratchett: Snuff

'My mum always told me money can’t buy you happiness, sir.’

Yes, Vimes thought, so did my ma, but she was glad enough when I gave her my first wages, because it meant we could have a meal with meat in it, even if we didn’t know what kind of meat it was. That’s happiness, isn’t it? Blimey, the lies we tell ourselves …

(Feeney Upshot & Sam Vimes, p 117)

It is refreshing to read a favourite author of yours attacking a cliché which has a grain of truth in it but has by constant repetition been turned into something very remote from it. Because of course there are some sorts of happiness no amount of money can buy, like true friendship or having good luck, but there are likewise many sorts of happiness that you absolutely can buy for money, from good food and drink to a comfortable home to a pleasant trip or book and so on and so forth ...

 

The flit

Amongst the things I failed to blog about was the moving of the flat in mid-July. It went exceptionally well, no doubt partly because the night before I worried so much I could scarcely sleep. I worried that, in my emaciated state, moving the desk with a friend of mine might be beyond my power; in the event we actually managed to move virtually all my possessions at one go.

The following day I handed the old flat over to the landlord, which went smoothly as well; I later even received about a third of the deposit. Considering I had expected something between zero and a half, it could be called a success.

J. D. Salinger: The Catcher in the Rye

 

That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any.  You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose.

(Holden Caulfield)

For me the problem isn't about visual but about auditory pollution, but otherwise I absolutely agree: as soon as you find someplace that feels 'nice and peaceful', pretty soon somebody will start DIY, blethering or even shouting, playing music, whatever to make the place no longer peaceful. The only way to prevent this is simply being somewhere where there are no people.

But that, of course, has problems of its own.

 

Hösten

Well, the hated summer is finally over. It was even harder to get through than usual this year, but it seems that somehow I've managed. I weigh less than 50 kilo, suffer from bellyache and backache on a daily (or rather, nightly) basis, can hardly stand or walk without bending forward for more than a couple of minutes, blurred vision began reoccuring, dozing off during the day is often a must, skitters basically chronic, and so on; most worrying of all, there were recently even some signs of possible old-age incontinence.

But the temperatures are eventually back to normal, and after resting for a week, doing more or less nothing but lying in bed and reading, I've started at last a serious attempt to get back in shape, pull myself together and (re)commence doing all those things I've been, willy-nilly, neglecting for months. Like blogging, for instance.

Terry Pratchett: Going Postal

 

There was work to do. It was dull, but it had to be done. So he did it.

(about Moist von Lipwig, p 440)

One of the few things I pride myself on is this: I'm certainly no friend of doing useless work, but when something has to be done, I'm not in the habit of shirking it or 'delegating' it to somebody else. It has to be done, so it will. Maybe that's why my flaws were often forgiven by my employers: they knew that if I get a dull but reasonable task I'll just go and do it, rather than look for excuses like far too many of the others.

Bannie Day 2021

Many years ago I began calling the anniversary of the Battle of Bannockburn 'Bannie Day' and celebrating it as one of the days which divided the year into its four seasons. It was a bit fanciful even then, and has become completely so by now, with summer beginning in May at the very latest, but old habits die hard (and following weather forecast for back home tells me it often still begins there in June).

Anyway, here's to summer - that is to say, to it being as short as possible. Then again, I'm about to move flat and there are indications that in the new accommodation I may just about be able to keep the indoor temperature well below the 30C which I sometimes can't get rid of here for what seems like eternity.

In the meantime, I'm simply trying to survive.

Paul Greer: Less

 

They might have done, many of them. So many people will do. But once you've actually been in love, you can't live with "will do"; it's worse than living with yourself.

(p 14)

This can be a problem not just with romantic relationships. Of course, like everybody I often do use and even enjoy substitutes for the real thing: e-reader for a printed book, e-cig for a tobacco one, masturbation for sex and so on. But I guess that just as often a substitute is even worse than total absence: an obvious example is the preferability of silence to music one doesn't like, or even music one likes but isn't at the moment in the mood for. And I remember how after my three boon companions in a certain town left it shortly one after another, I began visiting different pubs - on my own, because meeting those left reminded me about the absence of those three more painfully than solitude.

 

Catch Me If You Can

Not bad at all, although nothing outstanding either. Oddly perhaps, I found myself siding not with Leonardo DiCaprio's character but with Tom Hanks's one - not because I wanted the former to fail, but because I wanted the latter to succeed. After all, take away the former's physical attractiveness and there's hardly anything likeable left (although it's maybe not as bad as with his father, who seems to feel genuinely ashamed for having to do some honest work as a 'mere' employee).

Tommy's 30

Incredible. I still remember him as that post-adolescent young man in his early twenties that he was when we were staying close enough to see each other ... Incredible too (but marvellous!) that we still keep up with each other at least by emails after all those years.

HyperNormalisation

A film lasting almost three hours - throughout which I was unable to make out what the author [Mr Adam Curtis, as I then found out] wanted to say, except perhaps that he knew and/or cared nothing about history prior to his adolescence. It begins with the idea that plutocracy was more or less invented in 1975 New York, and it gets no better: apparently, doublethink in the USSR only developed in the 1980s and so on. At times it almost looked as if the film-maker believed that mankind waited for him to be born before politicians began to lie, media began to distort facts for propagandist purposes et cetera. Towards the end I actually began to wonder whether I wasn't watching something put together by a talented 13-year-old, still only discovering the basics of how this world turns round.

There are some faint hints the film was meant to say that politicians find the real world too complex and create a simplified picture of it. But then if that was true, surely the author wouldn't do the very same thing by presenting a world which is all about the US, the Arab countries* and Russia, and competely ignoring China?

 

* But not Afghanistan, which is ignored as well, it seems that after the 9/11 Americans went straight after Saddam Hussein without being bothered with Osama bin Laden.

CCIP retiré

Après presque deux mois, pendant qui je devrais visiter l'hôpital chaque semaine ou deux, juste pour recevoir un nouveau pansement sur mon cathéter central inséré par voie périphérique, une infirmière dans la salle habituelle m'a envoyé aujourd'hui à une autre infirmière, qui l'a retiré. Finalement, je pourrai prendre la douche sans emballer l'arrière-bras avec du film étirable.

Bien sûr, la sonde GPE dans mon ventre va rester plus longtemps ...

Gay lib in the arts

Yesterday I read an article in The Guardian in which film-makers and writers recalled 'gay' film scenes that had a profound effect on them; I also read quite a few of the comments of the article's readers remembering theirs; and it occurred to me that I could hardly recollect my own 'firsts'.

Maybe this is because I had to do without any while still struggling with who I was. As far as I can remember, the first film I saw that had homosexuality as one of the main topics was the 1994 Fresa y chocolate; and unless I'm much mistaken the first gay kiss I saw on the silver screen happened in 1997's The Full Monty (provided it was actually a kiss and not just an embrace) or in Wilde of the same year. But I had come out in 1989, and experienced my own first loving kiss - and more - in 1991.

Not that literature was any better. The first 'gay book' I came across was the 1993 anthology The Faber Book of Gay Short Fiction. Up till then there were just hints (which I often even failed to decipher as such at that time), at best a minor character who was gay but not allowed to do more about it than say so.

In short, I had no 'revelatory' experiences of this kind. For all that, each time I watched or read somebody daring to go further in breaking the taboos surrounding us, it was a source of immesurable pleasure to me.

Rinn mi e

Tha fios gun robh mi caran nearbach, mar as àbhaist dhomh, ach cha do dhàilich mi e: chaidh mi dhan oifis agus thuirt mi dhaibh gum bithinn fàgail an àite. Agus cha robh iad a' coimhead mì-thoilichte idir; gu dearbh, mhol an tè mi airson 's nach robh mi ag iarraidh fàgail roimhe na trì mìosan a-rèir a' chùmhnant. Rud eile a chur iognadh orm 's e nach robh ùidh aca, nach do dh'fhaighnich iad, carson a bha mi ag iarraid falbh, gun luaidh air càit' a rachainn.

In for another flit

I've been staying in this former hotel room for over three years now. It naturally has its disadvantages, but on the whole it's tolerably good. So although I had begun to consider finding something better if the cancer was cured, when my sister and brother-in-law offered me last week renting a studio flat in their ownership, whose previous occupant had died, I was quite hesitant about it. But after the viewing I compared the advantages and disadvantages of the two places and concluded I would accept the offer.

It may be farther away from the city centre (probably more time wasted commuting), and it's in a block of flats within a housing scheme (probably more outdoor noise). On the other hand it has a balcony with a screen door (possibility to air the room regardless of my insectophobia), which doesn't overlook a yard like my window here (probably more natural light through the day); I'd have my own cooker, rather than using a public kitchen (making my meals as I wished); and I'd have internet via cable (presumably faster than my current wi-fi).

Of course, the main thing for me is always noise. There may be some noisy neighbour, kids living upstairs and so on. But the windbag of a neighbour I have here is often a real pain as well, and who can tell he wouldn't leave and somebody even worse move in?

So in the end I decided to follow the 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' rather than 'better the devil you know' advice. What troubles me a bit though is that I feel neither excited nor depressed about it. As if, given I'm not moving back home to Scotland, it didn't actually really matter at all.

Collared dove

When I first heard one calling earlier this year I had to use the RSPB website to identify which bird it was at all. This is actually not such an unusual pattern in my life: (1) Live and learn. (2) Use it or lose it. (3) If you did lose it, go back to point (1).

Last week for three consecutive mornings one was cooing while sitting on the tree just beyond my window (which, incidentally, I've been so far unable to identify, although not for want of trying). I wondered whether it would actually nest there, but I haven't seen it for the last three days, so probably not. Somehow I miss it.

 

Advices and Queries - 17

"Listen patiently and seek the truth which other people’s opinions may contain for you. Avoid hurtful criticism and provocative language. Do not allow the strength of your convictions to betray you into making statements or allegations that are unfair or untrue. Think it possible that you may be mistaken."

Another area where I fail too often. Maybe I'm more likely than most to consider the idea that I may be wrong, but as long as I am convinced about my truth I can easily be outspoken to the point of being rude. Unfortunately I'm no stranger to making acerbic and snide remarks, especially when a debate becomes heated. And while I may be always attempting to be fair, I'm by no means always successful.

Rangers v Slavia

I wasn't there, so I can't know what really happened. Still, there are questions ...

Slavia's Kúdela claims he swore at Rangers' Kamara at the heat of the moment, but nothing racist. Sure, and he covered his mouth like a wee kid behind a teacher's back just out of force of habit. A very mature and trustworthy guy, apparently?

While Kamara was so shocked by the insult that those reports about the pervasiveness of racism in Britain must be exaggerated. Or maybe it's convenient to be shocked when your team is losing a home match while playing so gentlemanly they get two red cards?

And then there's the attack in the tunnel, according to Slavia 'brutal', despite having no obvious effect upon Kúdela's ability to go on training and playing; nevertheless showing that Kamara must have grotesquely misheard the old adage about sticks and stones.

Grotesquely? Well, after all it's just showbiz, innit?

Bàrdachd

Feumaidh mi aideachadh nach eil mi measail air bàrdachd Ghàidhlig. Leis an fhìrinn innse, chan eil mi uamhraidh measail air bàrdachd sa chànan sam bith, ach a-mhàin mar fhaclan òrain. Mar is bitheanta, bidh dàin (seach rosg) a' coimhead ro thoinnte dhomhsa. Agus leis nach eil mo chuid Ghàidhlig cho math agus mo chuid Bheurla (gu h-àraidh am briathrachas), chan eil iongnadh ann gu bheil bàrdach Ghàidhlig fada nas doirbhe dhomh a thuigsinn. Cuideachd, tha a' chuid as motha de bhàrdachd Ghàidhlig air an tàinig mi thairis ro thraidiseanta air mo shonsa - a' dèiligeadh sa mhòr-chuid le cuspairean nach eil glè bhuntainneach ri mo bheatha, mar chathan eadar cinnidhean, gaol iol-sheòrsach, agus mar sin sìos.

There was something civilised about slowing down

This is a quotation from James Robertson's book 365: Stories (specifically, the story Only Disconnect). In it, a woman gets rid of her TV, computer, mobile and so forth, later on explaining to her daughter that she wanted human contact rather than 'connectivity' via gadgets.

Now if I got rid of my laptop I'd just lose the human contact I get through it and gain none instead. But I think I understand her all the same. The point isn't that a talk over a cuppa or a pint is in itself better than one on Skype, a letter written with a pen better in itself than an email and so on. The difference is about making time for that talk, and ensuring that it isn't constantly disrupted by calls, texts, mails, 'notifications' and all that coming form divers sources and directions.

Oh for those halcyon days when the average pub didn't even have a radio, when at most you would read a newspaper until you were joined by your friends ... People tend to talk approvingly about multitasking, but fairly often it is initially a cause of, later an excuse for, a minute attention span.

Overwhelmed by emails

About a month ago I began, almost suddenly, to receive an unusually large number of emails. Some who often make no contact for months mailed in the way in which people usually text. Some who normally never reply my emails did. There was even one old friend I haven't heard from for about five years who not only renewed the contact, but began writing emails so long they resembled good old-fashioned letters. (I'd naturally reply in like manner.)

It almost felt as if I had only a couple of months left before I died, and somehow the word got round so everybody wanted to enjoy communicating with me while they still could, or to make my last days more pleasant. My mind was going into overdrive as I'm not used to this, and I had to neglect, to some degree, just about every other activity of mine.

But as I expected, it only took some patience to get through. This hectic activity only lasted two or three weeks. It's already business as usual by now: a few days may pass without anybody mailing me at all.

Advices and Queries - 13

"When prompted to speak, wait patiently to know that the leading and the time are right, but do not let a sense of your own unworthiness hold you back. [...] Beware of speaking predictably or too often, and of making additions towards the end of a meeting when it was well left before."

This sort of lists exactly the things I tend to get wrong. Either I'm so keen to have my say that I don't make time to think the matter properly through; or I overthink, and by the time I'm ready to speak the conversation has already moved elsewhere; and while I'm probably not known for speaking predictably or too often, I do find it hard to let a closed topic go for good, without attempting again and again to amend it.

Fawlty Towers

Frankly, I'm not impressed. There are some good jokes now and then, but there's too much shouting and slapstick humour for my liking. I prefer sitcoms in which people say funny things, as opposed to yelling them or playing at stuntmen.

But I wonder who actually does like the series. Can those on the political right really enjoy this parody of a small-time Tory Basil Fawlty? Can those on the political left get over the portrayal of Manuel from Barcelona?

Hmm. Maybe they can. Maybe the former see Basil primarily as a henpecked husband, and maybe the latter, for once, see no racism in a humoristic picture of a foreigner - after all, Manuel is European and white.

On cultural traditions

When a character in Terry Pratchett's Thief of Time sees an Igor for the first time, he's naturally somewhat taken aback by all those scars and stitches, but reassured by somebody else telling him this was a 'cultural' thing.

‘Cultural, is it?’ Dr Hopkins looked relieved. He was a man who tried to see the best in everybody, but the city had got rather complicated since he was a boy, with dwarfs and trolls and golems and even zombies. He wasn’t sure he liked everything that was happening, but a lot of it was ‘cultural’, apparently, and you couldn’t object to that, so he didn’t. ‘Cultural’ sort of solved problems by explaining that they weren’t really there.

Now this is beautifully ambivalent. You can interpret it as 'people often see problems in other cultures where there are none and need to be shown they are just prejudiced'. And you can interpret it as 'the easiest way of dealing with a problem is pretending it doesn't exist'. Knowing Pratchett's style I tend towards the latter interpretation: an ironic take on those who could accept even human sacrifice if they were told it was an inseparable part of a particular culture's tradition.

Another spring

The winter hasn't completely given up yet: night temperatures are still usually just a little above zero, and outwith direct sunshine it doesn't get too warm even during the day. There was even new snow in northern Scotland yesterday. But last Thursday I had gone to town in my shirtsleeves, and the day before last I'd noticed the first trees beginning to leaf. It's past the vernal equinox, past the change to summer time and past Easter as well. The winter may not have completely given up yet, but no doubt it's only a matter of a short time before it will.

Advices and Queries - 7

"Are you open to new light, from whatever source it may come? Do you approach new ideas with discernment?"

At first sight this may seem self-contradictory, but it isn't: hard as it may be, it is possible to approach new ideas without prejudice, even when they come from what we consider an unreliable source, while giving due consideration even to those coming from a reliable one before accepting them.

Between winter and spring

The chance of some more snow is almost zero; as far as I'm concerned, this means that winter proper is over. Luckily though, spring hasn't come yet: after dark the temperature still usually falls towards, or even below, the freezing point, so that opening my window I don't risk inviting insects to my bedsit. Inviting the smell from the nearby coal-powered boiler room seems the lesser evil to me, so long may this last.

Knoxplex works

When the doc told me this mornig the tumour was smaller but not yet operable, so we'd wait for another three months before another CT scan and a consequent decision about futher steps, it looked just too good to be true - cancer regressing and three months' holidays before me. So I immediately began worrying what bad luck I was in for.

Turned out the bad luck was all about my sick pay. I haven't got a penny for after 17 December, and I seem unable to find a way of making some administrator do what they're paid to do instead of telling me that it's another administrator's job and can you please call this number sir?

I made some half a dozen calls today, which for me is the equivalent of acting for a few hours as an interpreter between two foreign speakers after just a five-day beginner's course in each of the foreign languages. I was more knackered than after a full shift as a factory operative; and yet I only got to a stage when I could temporarily make no further step, not to actually resolving the matter.

So maybe I have before me three nice months off most duties, maybe three months of arguing with bureaucrats and worrying about ending up hungering on the street - and not because of boozing. Every now and then I have a new reason (new in particularities, the generalities are familiar by now) to hate this country.

Advices and Queries - 5

"While respecting the experiences and opinion of others, do not be afraid to say what you have found and what you value. Appreciate that doubt and questioning can also lead to spiritual growth and to a greater awareness of the Light that is in us all."

 

I suppose this may refer, partly at least, to what Quakers call 'ministry', but it can be understood more broadly: as an advice to strive for balance between paying proper attention to what others are saying, respecting their right for a point of view different from ours, even pondering whether that point of view may not have aspects to accept as our own; and between having our own point of view, based on experience and consideration, one which we are ready to defend before other people, and would only give up or change with a very, very good reason to do so.

Bord och stolar

Nyligen läste jag att många köpte skrivbord och/eller skrivbordsstolar när de började jobba hemifrån.

Jag förstår inte folk som lever utan skrivbord och kontorstol trots att de inte behöver. Faktiskt, det är det första jag köpte varje gång jag flyttade. (Nej, andra - efter en ny vattenkokare. Men ändå.) Skriver de där människor inte ens? Det är så mycket lättare med ett lämpligt bord och stol ...

(Okej, jag förstår inte heller dem som använder mobil när de kan använda bärbar dator. Jag är en gammal stofil.)

Des œufs

J'ai toujours aimé les œufs, mais il y avaint des longues périods quand je n'ai pas pu les manger, pour différentes raisons - soit je n'ai pas eu de temps, soit je n'avais pas de réfrigérateur, et ainsi de suite. Mais je m'en suis ennuyé, et la semaine dernière je les ai achetés. Maintenant, je rapprends à les bouillir.

Religiousness as a form of immaturity

I don't mean this condescendingly. But it occurred to me the other day that one of the reasons why people believe in a god is a certain reluctance to accept that childhood is over. When you are a child, it seems that your parents are omnipotent and however much you mess up, in the end they can mend the shambles, they can - and will - get you out of any problem you might have stumbled into. As you grow up, you gradually realise this is not true. But you are reluctant to admit that some mistakes are final, even fatal, that you can't rely on ultimately getting justice, and so on, up to and including the horror that in the end you will inevitably die. So to keep sane you replace your no longer tenable belief in all-powerful, all-healing parents with a belief in an all-powerful, all-healing god.

James Herriot: If Only They Could Talk

I loved James Herriot's books ever since I've read them (the four taking place before the war) for the first time as an adolescent - in fact, in my late teens I thought that if I could take just one book to a desert island, it would be one of these. Like in real life there was humour and there was sadness; but most of all there was kindness, and it all happened in a landscape I loved without having ever seen it.

In time, other books inevitably replaced them as my favourites, but I kept liking them a lot. Over the years I've read all the eight books, most of them more than once, the first four several times. Eventually I concluded that I liked best the very first one, describing the young vet's first year in Darrowby. So I was completely annoyed when the Kindle edition I bought turned out to miss the last chapter or postscript, making the book feel like a printed one from which some barbarian has torn off the last few pages.

But before discovering this I was enjoying once more the rest of it. Including the following quote I'd meanwhile forgotten, concerning one of the remoter farming families: "They seemed to me to be survivors from another age and their world had a timeless quality. They were never in a hurry; they rose when it was light, went to bed when they were tired, ate when they were hungry and seldom looked at a clock."

I realise this must be a bit idealised (what if there was some emergency? did they all get hungry at the same time? and so on), but that's just the nitpicker in me talking. I believe that families and communities like this did, hopefully still do, exist, and all I can do is envy them, regretting that the only times when I can temporarily live like this are those rare ones when I can safely ignore everything and everybody.

Overly active editors

I perceive editorship as a very responsible job. But it does annoy me when an editor, no doubt with the best of intentions, believes that he can present the author to the reader better than the author himself did.

I'm not talking about such obvious examples as The Picture of Dorian Gray. There, at least, the editor could argue that without his deletions both Oscar Wilde and himself might have ended up in gaol (although even so it would have been decent to consult the changes with the author, instead of simply making them).

There are less conspicuous, but no less irritating approaches. I've recently read What's Wrong with the World by G. K. Chesterton. In my opinion one of his best non-fiction books, but unfortunately the edition I downloaded was an American one - with American spellings. Seeing things like color in a text by Chesterton seemed as inappropriate as colour would be in a text by Mark Twain. Why on earth 'translate English into English'? Did the editor think his audience was stupid enough to mistake the original spellings for typographical errors and blame the publisher for sloppy work?

This particular case is the more ridiculous as, for instance, they kept the expression public school, with the meaning it has in England. Not that I would have it otherwise. Ian Rankin complained in one interview that when his books were published in the US, his Scottish hero, while remaining in Edinburgh, didn't talk about a car's boot, but about its trunk and so on. I get the shivers when I imagine Trainspotting still happening in Leith, but 'translated' into Cockney, lest Londoners found it hard to understand.

Not that today's British editors are guiltless. Take the 21st-century edition of The History of Mr. Polly I bought to replace the one I had given to a friend. In an introductory note the editor admits he made changes like omitting the full stop after titles (so Mr. Polly himself becomes Mr Polly), reducing hyphenation (for instance today for to-day), and so on, the idea being 'to make the text more accessible to the reader'. I find it hard to imagine a reader who can enjoy this particular kind of old tale, yet prefers replacing the endearing quaintness of the old orthography with something 'more accessible'.

In short, I dread the day when Alan Breck asks David Balfour 'And hey, dude, am I not a cool fighter?'

Yoshirō Mori

Alors, le président du comité d'organisation des Jeux olympiques a dû démissioner. Peut-être adéquatement. Il a dit que des femmes en gestion sont plus compétitives et plus loquace que des hommes. Bien sûr, c'est absolument vrai, mais est-ce poli de le dire tout haut ?

Leabhar ùr

Bha mi gu math teabadach, ach aig a cheann thall cheannaich mi leabhar an clò, ged a bha mi air cur orm nach cuireadh mi ris an dà a bha agam a-cheana, agus iad sin an dà leabhar is annsa leam. Ach cha mhòr nach bi leabhraichean sa Ghàidhlig ri fhaotainn ann an cruth digiteach; chan eil agam ach aon (agus chan eil mi buileach cinnteach gur e fileantach a tha san ùghdar), 's mar sin, dh'òrdaich mi clò-bhualadh de Chaogad san Fhàsach le Dòmhnall Iain MacÌomhair an-diugh. As dèidh sin 's na dhèidh, cha robh mi air tiodhlac Nollaige 2020 a cheannach dhomsa fhathast.

Advices and Queries

I've read again after some time Jim Pym's Listening to the Light, which includes in its appendix Advices and Queries (the latest, 1994 revision by the British Yearly Meeting), the "potted guidebook to the Quaker Life" as he describes it.

These 42 paragraphs are not categorical commandments to follow unquestioningly ("for the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life"), but short statements and rhetorical questions meant to make those concerned ponder whether their behaviour is really consistent with the Quaker philosophy and way of life.

Naturally, Quakers being an offshoot of Christianity, their God is sometimes invoked in a way as irritatingly servile as in the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Nevertheless, there is a lot or really good passages and I'll try to gradually write a bit more about some of these in the coming weeks.

Done with WordPress

Today I've finally transferred here my remaining old WordPress blogposts, deleted the blog and closed my account.

I used to like the WP website, but it fell victim to a not uncommon disease: developers continually making major 'improvements', which actually kept making it ever less user-friendly, at least for those of us who are primarily interested in the words we write, with the editing interface remaining by and large what we're used to, not changing every couple of years or so.

So to celebrate I opened a bottle or (red) wine; if I remember correctly, my first one since I went into my self-imposed exile.

Rich entrepreneurs entering politics

Amongst the many things G. K. Chesterton criticised about contemporary England in his What's Wrong with the World (1910) was the notion that a politician should be rich to be incorruptible. He wrote, "Our national claim to political incorruptibility is [...] based on the theory that wealthy men in assured positions will have no temptation to financial trickery. [...] The English statesman is bribed not to be bribed. He is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so that he may never afterwards be found with the silver spoons in his pocket."

In other countries I've noticed this concept too, albeit not necessarily with people born filthy rich, but likewise with people who became so. Every few years or so somebody enters politics with the professed goal of eliminating corruption, claiming that he can be trusted to be impervious to its lure because he's already made his pile. And one hears prospective voters parroting the mantra: "I tell you man, [unlike the rest of them] he's so rich already he doesn't need any more".

I don't say there are none who mean it. But I can't recollect a single case of somebody who, when considering what good to do for his fellow mortals with his wealth, chose politics, rather than donating to a charity, building a school or a museum, funding some medical research, or doing another such thing in which the above-mentioned temptation was scarcely present. And I wonder why those prospective voters forget the old proverb, "the more you get, the more you want".

À nouveau dans la cuisine

Je n'ai pas entrée la cuisine en commun de l'hôtel presque depuis j'ai déménagé ici, bien que l'on ne puisse pas cuisiner dans sa chambre sauf avec une bouilloire électrique.

Mais il y a deux semaine, en revenant de l'hôpital, j'ai désiré des pommes de terre assez pour me faire acheter une boîte de conserve de goulasch de pommes de terre aux saucisses viennoises.

À vrai dire, enfin je n'ai pas osé utilisé la cuisine ce jour-là ; mais j'y suis allé, après deux jours, pour cuisiner une boîte de conserve différente (saucisses fummées aux haricots blancs (mais pas à la sauce tomate)), et hier soir, finalement, pour le goulasch.

Je conjecture que ce n'était pas ma dernière fois dans la cuisine ...

G. K. Chesterton: Alarms and Discursions

Overall I wasn't too impressed with this book, basically all the other collections of Chesterton's essays I'd read were better. Still, there are some good chapters, most notably perhaps The New House. In this one, GKC managed over just a few pages to mention the human tendency to go from one extreme to the opposite one, apply it to people escaping from overcrowded cities to places hardly inhabited at all, and conclude that, like most things in our lives, decent housing is a matter of balance between two extremes - in this case, between having your neighbours too near to and too far from you. (Personally I've always regretted that as an unbeliever I couldn't be a monk, with a cell and thus private space of my own, yet a member of a community of men.)

Devanagari

Some years ago I had an idea about learning Sanskrit or Hindi one day. Last month I tried Hindi on Duolingo, but pretty soon gave it up. Maybe I could learn the alphabet with the help of a personal tutor; a course beginning with associating particular phonemes with particular letters is for people with much better hearing than mine. If you can only guess which sound you've just heard, how can you pair it with the correct symbol?

Tadhalan mo chàirdean

Chan eil fhios agam an e buaidh a' bhìorais (le uimhir nas lugha de chothroman aig daoine leis an àm aca a chur seachad) no buaidh na h-aillse agam (agus iad ag iarraidh m' fhaicinn mus am biodh e ro fhadalach), ach bha dà thadhal agam bho chàirdean na colaiste san Fhaoilleach: Black sa chiad àite, agus an dèidh sin Jamie is Falcon.

Iongantach. Tro na trì mìosan ar fhichead roimhe 2021 agus a bha mi a' fuireach san fhàrdaich seo, cha do thadhail ach mo phiuthair orm - aon thuras. A-nis, dà thadhal rè mìosa singilte - agus bu chòir do Bhlack a' tighinn a-rithist an ath-sheachdain, leis an dà eile, tha mi an dòchas, mus deireadh a' Ghearrain ...

Chemoradiotherapy over

If going through several examinations (while still attending at work) until getting the diagnose was the first stage, then preparations (like having a catheter and PEG tube inserted) for and the actual therapy was the second. One which is, after the last rays yesterday and the last dripping today, finally over too.

It would be a lie to say it was as hard as the previous stage, or as my previous radiochemotherapy four years ago. In fact, during the first half I could actually feel my state slowly but surely improve. But later I began gradually tiring more easily instead, days when I hardly did anything other than what I thought really necessary becoming more frequent. Going out for a radiation session might only take a few hours, but once back I would as likely as not just have a meal, doze (or not) in bed for a couple of hours, and maybe later do a bit of language studies before going to read in bed again. I would eat significantly less as well, although surprisingly I kept my weight all through.

Well it's over now, and a month-long third phase begins. Except for going the messages I shouldn't have to leave my digs more that once a week - although I think I better take a constitutional now and then, just to get some fresh air. The main thing is getting my strength back, partly at least (I suspect a month is too short to get from 50 kilo back to 60, the more so as for another week the side effects of the therapy are expected to continue), and catch up on all the things I have been neglecting.

And then on 2nd March a CT scan, with results the next day. I hope that till then I'll write here about other things than my health. I naturally want to get these things off my chest, but doing so I feel unpleasantly like one of those old geezers for whom their own health is the only remaining interesting topic of conversation.

James Thurber: The Middle-Aged Man on the Flying Trapeze

 

Two is company, four is a party, three is a crowd. One is a wanderer.

(Mr Kirk in One Is a Wanderer)

Much better than the 'established' version mentioning only two and three - especially if for the best part of your life you've been one / a wanderer yourself.

 

 

 

 

Fatigue

I don't know how much it's a consequence of the chemoradiotherapy I'm undergoing, and how much a result of eating too little (my daily caloric intake hasn't been what it should have been since the Sunday before last), or indeed, how much the former influences the latter. I do know that I tire ever more rapidly. At the moment I seem to need nine hours of sleep a night - and two more hours of dozing throughout the day. Once more I'm unable to walk to the bus stop without (more than once) stopping and squatting for a while along the road to regain the necessary strength. And while there was, so far at least, hardly any loss of weight, my today's chemo session had to be postponed after the blood tests showed too low levels of leucocytes and platelets.

It's the old viscious circle of course: the more you sleep, the less time you have to eat, the less you eat, the weaker you are, the weaker you are, the less you eat and the more you sleep. But I'm through half the therapy already; I'll see this through.

Some snow at least

Although what I wrote in my first post here still largely holds, it did snow on Hogmanay night and yesterday afternoon. Not very much, but enough for a bit more than a mere skiff of snow still covering roofs and even pavements every here and there on New Year's Day (making me have a wee dander) and today - St Mungo's Day, the day of the patron saint of Glasgow. So at least there are some small mercies to be grateful for ...

Glaswegian walk

 In The Papers of Tony Veitch, William McIlvanney mentions "that Glaswegian walk, in which the shoulders don’t move separately but the whole torso is carried as one, as stiff as a shield". Now I would lie if I said I've ever noticed this during my three and a half years there. Still, the words filled me with pleasure, because I probably walk like that: throughout my life, friends would be telling me I walked "as if I swallowed a ruler" and other things to that effect.

Untypical Christmastime

Untypical in more ways than one. To begin with, for some reason I had already had a sort of Christmas feeling in late October, when the company temporarily closed due to lack of orders and we all had a week's holiday.

Then on 3^rd December I was diagnosed with cancer, and getting sick leave and not having to attend at work did feel a wee bit like Christmas coming early too, if solely on this account (and despite spending two half-weeks in hospital instead).

But eventually Christmas proper arrived, and after five spent either in hospital, in rehab or visiting my parents, I could once more spend it according to my own wishes. Watching what I wanted to watch, listening to what I wanted to listen to, eating what I wanted to eat and so on, all these when I wanted to. (It's not easy to have a sort of 'British' Christmas when living on the Continent with no other Brits around you.)

The only fly in the ointment was the disease: the related pain, especially at the beginning, and having no idea whether this wasn't my last Christmas ever. But then, one can't ever know that for sure, can one? Still, I believe that under the circumstances I enjoyed it; the proof being that now it's almost over it feels like it went by incredibly fast.

SM as a substitute

In a sort of afterword to the 2016 edition of his Lanark: A Life in Four Books, Alasdair Gray mentions: "I was terribly stimulated by the highly coloured American comics which first came to Britain in the late 1940s when I was in my early teens. They showed [...] females with figures and faces like glamorous film-stars of that time, but wearing much less clothing, and since the representation of normal sexual practice was forbidden by the USA moral code their adventures involved them in capture and bondage instead." I have a different yet similar experience: coming into my teens at a time when homosexuality was more or less a taboo topic, it simply didn't occur to me to have 'bona fide' sexual fantasies; mine instead involved the other form of male-to-male touch: fights, captures and so on.

2020

I remember that having a New Year's Day stroll twelve months ago I felt it in my bones that this year would be better that the one before. So much for my power of clarvoyance.

Because we all know what happened: Covid-19. Which didn't affect me personally as much as most; instead, I developed a tumour again, oesophageal this time.

Of course, things are rarely all bad. A silver lining of all those lockdowns was that Tommy had much more time to reply my mails. In fact, he began writing comparatively long ones, ones that resemble letters more than social media messages.

And during one of the less restricted months I went again, after several years, on a trip with my friends from college. It wasn't one of the best trips I had with them over the years, yet it was good enough to be a highlight of the year.

And so on. But all in all it was a bad year indeed. Basically I was just going to work, reading books (in a pub when possible - ay, I did enjoy that), struggling to keep up with my language(s) studies, scarcely fulfillling self-imposed tasks faster than adding new ones, and insidiously becoming sicker and sicker.

I don't feel anything in my bones tonight. But mere reason tells me that unless the cancer (or something else) kills me - which unfortunately at the moment doesn't seem at all improbable - the next year can hardly be as bad, let alone worse, than the one which is eventually almost over.*

* it's still not been midnight in my homeland, although it's already past it here in my exile