Toenails

After about two months, maybe even more, I've finally managed today to wash my feet and cut my toenails. Doesn't look like a big deal, but in a sense it is; the mere fact that I've finally forced myself to try is encouraging: maybe there's still hope I'll gradually become able to manage again some more difficult tasks as well.

Vertigo

It seems like no matter the time of day I can no longer stand or walk for more than a couple of seconds before hypotension makes me feel like fainting. For weeks now I haven't even dared to go dowstairs to check my letter box, let alone carry out the rubbish. It's the worst before sunrise though: occasionally when going to the loo (having recurring bouts of skitters as well) in the early morning it feels like I'm on the verge of a heart attack.

I don't know how long I'll be able to go on like this.

Le Parisien

Je reçois le newsletter pendant quelques semaines. Je comprends bien pourquoi il y a toujours plusieurs articles concernant la pandémie de Covid-19. Je comprends aussi pourquoi il y a toujours des articles concernant la présidentielle, même qu'elle ne se déroule qu'en avril. Mais pourquoi il y a chaque jour quelque chose concernant le PSG ... ça me dépasse.

42 cilo

Rè nan ceithir sheachdainean bhon tadhal mu dheireadh agam san ospadal, bha fhios agam nach robh mi ag ithe gu leòr. Ach bha dùil agam gun robh mi a' cumail nan 46 cilo a bha agam aig an àm. Cha robh.

Dar an deach mi ann a-rithist an-dè, cha robh ach 42 chilo agam. Eagalach gu dearbh. (Cuideachd, thathar ag ràdh gur e 42 am freagairt airson a h-uile rud ...) Mar sin, a thuilleadh air an stad a chuir sin air a' cheimeo-theiripe, chuir mi romham gum b' fheudar dhomh ithe fada nas motha. Agus ithe pròtainean, beòthamanan agus mar sin sìos, seach dìreach gualuisgeachan.

Tha fhios gu bheil seo a' ciallachadh àm nas lugha airson leughaidh agus a bhith nam shuidhe aig a' choimpiutair-uchd, ga chur seachad ag ithe an àite sin, ach tha sin do-sheachnadh. So an-diugh, air 'St Mungo's Eve', thòisich mi air. Chan eil e furasta, bha eadhon pian ann (gu follaiseach, tha mo stamac fìor bheag an-dràsta), ach feumaidh mi cumail orm. Chan eil dòigh eile ann ma tha mi ag iarraidh maireann beò.

 

Quote from Thomas à Kempis

 

In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro. 

(quoted in Umberto Eco: Il nome della rosa)

Which translates as "Everywhere I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book."

I usually only note down quotations I've come across in their original context, rather than quoted by a 'third party', but this is one of those rare exceptions that I like so much I can't just let them go. Because this truthfully describes most parts of my life, including my childhood: not finding the real world calm enough for my liking no matter where I went, unless escaping somewhere secluded, and there into the virtual world of literature.

Hogmanay '21

If the truth be told, it scarcely felt like a Hogmanay at all. True, between the continental and insular midnights I emailed New Year's greetings to my friends, and I did stay at my laptop until the latter one; but otherwise it was just an ordinary Friday like any other recently.

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.