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 ...
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
