Pleasure achieved

The forthcoming “pleasure” I worried about three weeks ago (Knowing vs. guessing, July 18) was a very expensive, two-week villa rental for eight at Marseillan, a French port on the Mediterranean coast. So many natural disasters (Covid, forest fires, trade union strikes, my illness, political arguments, etc) suggested it wouldn’t happen.

In the end it did happen although the start was hardly propitious. We set out from the other side of England much earlier than usual, as some sort of guarantee, and this led to a frustrating and lengthy delay of several hours  in the Eurotunnel car park waiting for our 35-minute under-the-sea train ride from Folkestone to Calais.

Throughout the fortnight the temperature was continuously in the thirties (Celsius) and although we ate out some half a dozen times, our main activities were limited to the pool. Daniel, granddaughter Ysabelle’s partner, forced the others (VR and I were reckoned too old) to play aquatic volley ball and it was interesting to watch skills develop as time passed by. One thing I’d never noticed when making the reservation was that the villa – an impressive manor-house building – was air-conditioned and this may have saved our two oldsters’ lives.

My French was rusty and it took time to get it up to speed. Tone Deaf was always intended to be a “written” blog but, as a change, here are some captioned photographs.

NOTE: If I seemed coy earlier about this "pleasure" in the previous post it was to deflect the attentions of burglars while we were away.

RR and VR playing Lord of the Manor and his

Ladyship as dusk brought cooler temperatures

A static view of aquatic volley ball

RR (in sun-protecting tee-shirt) floating; VR reading

Daniel (on right) said Smile and so we did

Anne, the villa owner, lived nearby and brought us fresh

vegetables. Converted into ratatouille by expert cooks

The eye was a bit of a turn-off but this daurade (sea

bass) is firm fleshed and delicious. One of my favourites

"Faux amis" (false friends) are one of the hazards of the French language,
words that look familiar to Brits but aren't what they seem. This example
was spotted by daughter Occasional Speeder, whose French is coming on

Loose but transfixed

Not all nightmares are terrifying. As Eliot said, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” The following dream left me woebegone.

I walked somewhere in the southern suburbs of London, intent on getting home (to the west) at a specified time but not for a specified reason. Pressed by a vague urgency.

On reaching an inner suburb I found I’d diverged from the known route. Nothing was familiar.

A large chauffeur-driven car stopped beside me. The chauffeur had silver curled hair resembling that of David Gower, the England cricketer. He opened the rear door to reveal a well-suited man in his forties who asked if I wanted a lift. Without mentioning my destination I said yes.

Immediately we launched into a high-level conversation about current politics. During which my host was even-handed, well informed and dispassionate. Everything seemed entirely normal and I forgot the urgency of my walk.

Time passed. We abandoned the car and walked together, the chauffeur loitering to the rear. Then we switched to the mysteries of bitcoin.

More time passed. Inexplicably I parted from my host though I was still aware of his distant presence and felt guilty about this act of desertion. Convinced he would be setting official wheels in motion to find me. For the friendliest of reasons.

My surroundings were no longer suburban; the pavements crowded with hurrying office workers. Remarkably I met a friend I worked with years ago, He listened attentively but his mind was elsewhere; we drifted apart like two separate clouds.

Suddenly I remembered my need to get home, Knowing I was, by now, very late. I reached for my mobile to explain things to my wife.

My doing so is an anachronism. These events are occurring a quarter of a century ago when mobiles were rare. Yet I accepted the time slippage without question. I do not make the call because I cannot justify my lateness. 

Nighttime bears in on me and this new world is lost.

Dust scattered on a trail of non-sequiturs. But somehow menacing.

Knowing vs. guessing

I’m on tenterhooks. Pleasure lies only days ahead yet in these uncertain times (Heat. Covid. Politics. Warfare.) I can’t be sure it will be achieved. Such worries spoil my anticipation of pleasure which – when you think about it – is the best part. Few delights live up to their expectation if we are honest.

A rare exception for me – recently mentioned – was San Francisco. I paid a visit - half business, half holiday – in 1970 and it really did live up to its pre-publicity. Manoeuvring a Dodge Charger among the redwoods, free tastings at the wineries, abalone at Fisherman’s Wharf, the exhilaration of crossing the Golden Gate bridge. VR’s flight ticket paid for by my employer. A hotel on El Camino Real. Yeah.

But pause for a moment. Can thinking about the future actually outweigh the nature of the event itself? Can thought be more fun than reality? One thing’s for sure; anticipation often differs widely from what actually ensues. Especially if large sums of money are spent. Our potential for being disappointed is just as great as that for being enchanted. Sometimes we expect or, at least, hope for something that doesn’t exist. A meal that’s true magic. Music that reaches into our soul. A view out of this world - literally.

The first kiss I’d yearned for since short pants communicated only inertia. A best-seller read by millions was badly written. An admired politician bollixed his ultimate promotion.

But suppose joy was unexpected, arriving in a flash. Might there be the faintest tint of regret we were unable to enjoy it in advance? Stretching out the experience, in effect?

What we do know is we often have a talent for perversity. Ingratitude without  justification. Selfishness. Greed.

Not you? How about being a poor hand at introspection?

Golden (no, Cardboard) Era draws to a close

Why no celebrations? No bunting atop Maison Robinson? No popping of celebratory champagne corks? No triumphalist songs?

Boris Johnson, our mendacious prime minister, has been publicly rumbled. He sort of resigned outside Number Ten. Not from his prime-ministership, you understand – just the leadership of the Conservative Party. But the rest is mere formality, just a matter of time.

Isn’t it? 

What about that Baker’s Dozen of familiar – and loathsome – faces now jostling to sit where BJ sits. Things are going to change… aren’t they? Those baying voices, all – bar one- promising massive tax cuts. Conveniently forgetting that the £400bn cost of the pandemic will somehow have to be paid back. That the fraudulent Brexit agreement depends on an irreconcilable contradiction. That being tough with the UK’s major export market is causing that market to be equally tough in return. That the UK’s pathetic reliance on the “special relationship” with the USA appears to have vapourised.

Of course I’m glad to see the end of the buffoon, but the eight weeks before he actually starts making millions on the lecture circuit are going to seem like purgatory. Thereafter someone who supported him during three years of lying will start restoring order. Or try to. Tax cuts can either be financed by government borrowing or cutting public services. Hey, why not close down the NHS? A big saving there. But please make sure another pandemic isn’t just round the corner.

Cost of living crisis! The poor having to choose between eating and heating! But it’s not just the UK’s economy that’s in pieces. We seem to have disintegrated morally. I’m ashamed to admit my national origins.

We used to sneer at governments (typically South American) as Banana Republics. So what are we? A Fish And Chip Republic? With vinegar in short supply.

Carl takes charge, thank God

Enhanced patio with newly reburbished chiminea

R/h bed, front garden, trimmed for neatness

L/h bed, front garden, now tidied

Paved front garden, still work in progress

Carl is from South Africa. He is imbued with the work ethic. We’ve given him a free hand with our garden.

He doesn’t just do the work we ask of him, he points out tasks which were previously invisible to us but nevertheless necessary. And goes ahead and does them. He’s been toiling for three weeks now, mostly full days, and our garden is slowly becoming a garden and ceasing to be a collection of misplaced greenery.

Take the patio. Instead of bending the horticulture round an arbitrary arrangement of slabs he’s used an angle-grinder (which I willingly bought for him) to cut and shape the patio’s outer edge into a set of congenial curves. Noting that the adjacent chiminea (incinerator) was gently rusting away into oblivion, he’s given it a new shiny coat of black paint. And set the table and chairs at a pleasingly artistic angle.

The beds on the left and right of the back garden – previously simulacra of the Amazon rain forest – have been reduced into separate and identifiable clumps of flowers. The lower branches of the bushes and the upper branches of the bay tree trimmed.

The metal fencing of the front garden has been sanded down and repainted black The newly refurbished garden bench now supports small bowls of succulents and alpines. New terracotta pots have been acquired and planted with tallish flora to give the brick surface “vertical structure”.

There are plans to create a three-step-staircase (with handrail) down to the patio and a low fence at the upper level which may increase the patio’s coefficient of cosiness.

Much, much later an underground swimming pool beneath the patio. But there I jest.

All done with another’s labour which I watch but do not share. Oh, the indolent luxury.

Wanting to be two

Once I’d started taking singing lessons (January 2016) I had this urge to co-operate in duets, especially with a soprano. Why? Perhaps because a second voice might make the role of solo baritone less exposed, less lonely.

V tried me out with We’ll Gather Lilacs from Ivor Novello’s operetta Perchance to Dream. To say the least, operetta, ie, light opera (ugh!), has never been my thing but that wasn’t the problem. V’s powerful voice – even turned down to pianissimo  – pulled my fledgling voice off my singing line. So duets were shelved for a while.

A new dawn broke a year later when V tried the Pappageno/Pamina duet, Bei Männern from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. I did progress but it wasn’t a true test. As a listener I’d known this musical dialogue for ages through regularly hearing the opera. As a result I was less prone to being influenced by the second voice.

More recently still V offered me Purcell’s My Dearest, My Fairest. I really liked this poignant work and worked hard at getting it right. I definitely progressed but – again without explanation – V dropped it. I never question V’s decisions; she has, after all, created my singing voice. But I secretly yearned.

Three weeks ago, humbly, I begged her to resurrect My Dearest. She agreed. And that we should persist for as long it took. Again she agreed. And now I knew why she broke off the first sessions. Then I needed more tuition in musical technicalities, especially subtleties of pitch. Now I’m better equipped. It’s hard, bloody hard but there are moments when our voices fuse. And it’s bloody wonderful

Click HERE to find out what I’m aiming for.

Should I have been allowed to live?

Westland Lysander only has a walk-on role below

I am watching a YouTube video of someone flying a Westland Lysander, an odd WW2 high-level wings plane used for reconnaissance and for night-landing secret agents into France. No Spitfire glamour here, yet this plane is quite complex for its time, supporting very short take-off and landing distances, sometimes on mountain sides.

I have known the Lysander since age eight. Having read material supplied to my father, a member of the Royal Observer Corps during WW2, identifying planes passing near my home town, Bradford.

Some of the video corresponds with what I already know about the Lysander and this pleases me. In the 78 years between then and now my interest in this arcane subject has developed, if only in a minor way. More important, is the general fact of this continuing development.

Very important, in fact. Unsustained by any belief in a supernatural after-life I reflect instead on whether I’ve “improved” on what I was born with. Seeing it as a secular justification for being handed out a life (now nearing its end) in the first place. True I’ve nourished my knowledge of WW2 aviation but what about more serious, more demanding matters?

I’m better at expressing myself, even if – sure as eggs are eggs – what I am saying here will, almost certainly, be misunderstood. I note I didn’t respond well to the transition into parenthood, although this has improved somewhat over the last decade. Learning to sing has – amazingly! – taught me to analyse music. I became a better skier and a better crawl swimmer. I am, I think, less selfish though others would have to confirm this. My views, once grossly nationalistic, are now international. Born shy, I now revel in conversation.

Was it a life worth living? Hmm.