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.