Today was a normal day. End.
My journeys to and from work were actually easier than they normally are, no doubt because of schools being closed and the knock on effect of that. I wore my walking boots. I had wondered whether this would be absolutely necessary, whether I would look a prat, indeed whether it would be a bit embarrassing walking round snow-less Central London with robust shoes (and an impressive tread).
They were needed! Just about every pavement I walked along was mainly compact ice. Most people seemed to very sensibly shod. A lot of walking boots, and other sensible shoes. What amazed me, though, was how many people were wearing stupid shoes. I don't mean in the office, where it is likely (highly likely) that people will have changed, but out on the streets. I cannot understand what must be going through the head of someone who sees the weather conditions, knows how it was yesterday, and still makes the decision to wear three inch stilettos, canvas sandals, or wedged-heeled open-toe backless sandals. How insecure must someone be to put fashion before the safe negotiation of pack-ice pavements?
My hairdresser phoned me at about two minutes past nine full of apologies for yesterday (I told him not to apologise). I have an alternative appointment tomorrow evening, and, without prompting, he told me to remind him to give me the 30% Monday discount. Good customer service!
I went swimming this evening. I am really in two minds about my progress. I did twelve lengths, and I really had to push myself to finish the twelfth. Six months ago, I would have been very surprised and inspired at the thought of doing twelve lengths. But that really isn't particularly impressive in absolute terms. Twenty would be good, sixty even better. I don't know what normal reasonably fit people do. Still, on balance I enjoyed my twelve lengths, then I had a long soak in the shower, and then I felt a very warm feeling of satisfaction as I travelled home.
It's always fascinating to watch people's behaviour. Generally the pool is divided into three strict lanes and one area twice the width of a lane. In the general area, there are no specific rules, it is anarchy. Except that, the overwhelming vast majority of adults invent and obey an unspoken set of rules. These will be about courtesy and consideration, not starting a length in the direct trajectory of someone else, giving way to let a faster person set off first, giving priority to back-strokers as steam gives way to sail.
But then you get one bloke who I can only describe as passive-aggressive, without the passive. Ploughing up and down, overtaking people far too close, displacing a lot of water.
I wonder what is going through the minds of men like that. Are they trying to show that they're Master of the Universe? If they're so successful and powerful, what the heck are they doing at a crappy Local Authority Pool? Do they piss up trees as well?
There was another one like that a couple of weeks ago. He barge dinto me twice. Once is accidental, twice is too much. I told him to stop being so aggressive "The fast lane's over there, this is for weak swimmers." As he slunk away cowed, I added "And cut your toenails..." Perhpas I am a bit of a bitch, but I do get sick of these sexist ageist aggressive twenty-somethings with zero emotional intelligence. They are so full of themselves and their physical superiority, but they soon prove that they can dish it out but they can't take it. And I'm not just being a bitch, I am also a crusader. Intimidating grunts like that are a reason why inexperienced or unconfident people avoid sports venues.
It's like on buses. I am now on a one woman campaign to stop people standing on the stairs. Sometimes, it deters people from going upstairs, thinking there are no seats, and eventually people are left standing needlessly at bus stops. Some of them are up to no good - dippers perhaps. I see no reason why I, a lady of un age certain*, should have to push past their smelly unwashed bodies. Sometimes I resort to enquiring sweetly (and loudly) whether they are pickpockets or pervy gropers, at which point they have to move, to get off the bus in shame. Mostly it doesn't come to that!
* ie old enough to be their mother and not a lot younger than their Gran
What I did at lunchtime!
I have published a bundle, more than doubling the size of my 'Winter' Album. Obviously, this album would have been bigger if I had got out my camera when taking a horse-drawn carriage ride round a snow-covered Central Park, NY last winter. But I didn't.
Actually, there are few people in the world less likely to suffer cabin fever. It's not that I'm agoraphobic, just agora-can't-be-arsed. I am ever resourceful in amusing myself and savouring my own company. And it's not like I could ever be bored, with infinite riches of housework to occupy me.
But desperate times call for desperate measures. There is nothing wrong in being a drama queen from time to time. And when there are no buses running and my satellite dish refuses to receive a signal, and cycling seems a less then attractive prospect, I will be as dramatic as I wish!
So Cabin Fever needs to be averted. I have a collection of DVDs which have been somewhat neglected of late. Being that I am half-woman half-anorak, I have a system for playing them which seems to have stalled on 'Figaro'. So I went to the shelf and picked one randomly.
Oh my God! Turn off the lights, cancel the porn!
I have a habit (sometimes good sometimes bad) of multi-tasking. Hey, I'm a woman, I'm can! (insert big smiley)
So during the overture and opening chorus I was drafting an email and not actually looking at the TV. Then I heard this extraordinarily gorgeous voice singing Esultate! and desire shimmered through my body. I looked up and, if anything, my desire increased.
I finished off my email during the drinking and fighting chorus and again, was drawn by Abbasso le spade! Be still, my pounding heart! A prime example of why it's not advisable to meet one's hero! The reason I say this is because meeting Plácido face-to-face as a fan, he is very sweet, kind, patient, humorous, courteous. Seeing him on this DVD, with his gorgeous eyes flashing with anger and authority and looking somewhat frightening, it can seem a bit strange. Not that I am unable to separate the off-stage persona from the character on stage.
This is, of course, followed by Già nella notte densa.
Seeing and hearing him sing Già nella notte densa has a much more marked effect on me that any erotica or porn. It's like having the arousal with someting more added. I suppose like the difference between different sorts of sex.
This is, anyway, one of the most erotic duets in music, and of course, much of that can be attributed to Verdi, Boito and Shakespeare, but I have heard lesser tenors sing it with less thrill. It can be enjoyed on several levels: music and words, the foreshadowing of what is to come, the delicate but profound love between Otello and Desdemona, including the 'Ancora un baccio' and the leitmotif which both occur at the end of Act IV, and for me, the way that Plácido performs this. Live, it can take me right to the edge. I don't imagine I am alone in finding this fantasy-provoking. I don't fantasise that I'm Desdemona, nor do I fantasise that I'm Kiri Te Kanawa (or whoever is the supporting soprano). He has this wonderful way of acting these love duets which has me convinced. Tenderness, desire, and staying just this side of a line. I think if I were to list my favourite Domingo scenes, a disproportionate number of them would be duets, which may seem strange - some woman (or, indeed, later, in Sì, pel ciel marmoreo giuro, a man) sharing the limelight. But maybe it just demonstrates how well he reacts to the other person. There is one particular phrase, where she sings Tarda è la notte just before he sings Vien. . .Venere splende - the look on his face. OMG.
Sometimes I go through phases when I don't listen to a lot of music. Sometimes I go through phases when I don't listen to Plácido's voice every day. And it's been a while since I actually sat down to watch an entire opera DVD. So, sometimes I think 'Am I going off him?'. 'Going off' is a relative concept. Sometimes I go off football, or photography, or chocolate. Nevertheless, I occasionally question the ardency of my fervour, the totality of my obsession.
But it only takes one act of this DVD to remind me that I will never go off him. Just superb.
And there are three acts to go yet!
Jimmy and I went swimming yesterday. It was very strange. We rounded the corner from Brixton Road to Brixton Station Approach and were met by flurries of snow.
Afterwards we caught the bus to Clapham. I cannot remember at what stage I became aware of the snow as being a settled thing. Perhaps there wasn't any when we initially got there. We ate in Gastro which is quirky and worthwhile. Then it began to snow. Enough for me to write my initials on the table outside. As I was putting my coat on the woman on the table next to me said something about the snow being heavy, which I replied something like, it's not too bad, it will get worse, before turning round to see a veritable snowstorm outside the window.
On the way to the Tube photos were taken, but only with my crappy phone camera
Further photos were taken when we got off the bus. Then when I got home I changed to my proper camera.
We settled down for a night's TV viewing; when we went to bed I noticed that my footsteps in the garden had been covered over.
I was awoken by the alarm, and then by being brought a cup of tea, and finally by a scraping noise outside. My father used to get annoyed by pensioners who misguidedly scrape away the snow thinking it will clear it, only to create a surface that will freeze over and be even more treacherous. Dear Reader, I married one...(well, not married, but you know what I mean). I was not happy, not least because it reduced the aesthetic appeal of the garden.
I realised that this is the heaviest snowfall ever since I've lived in Gert Cottage. It might have been heavier in 2003 when we were in Sharm, sitting round the pool in our swimwear laughing bout the TV pictures from back home.
I read subsequently that this is the worst in London since 1991. I remember it well. I was living in Westcliff but had been on audit to the Isle of Man. Weather conditions were perfect at Ronaldsway. sunny, dry, and mild, but we were delayed a long time because of snow at Heathrow. Eventually we were flown to Southampton - being very short haul we were given low priority in favour of long haul. I could not get a train back to Essex that night - it was, famously, 'the wrong kind of snow'.
Jimmy went out to get milk only to find that both Tesco and Happy Shopper are shut. He says people are falling down on the pavements (wrong shoes, I opine) and cars are slipping on the roads (shouldn't be in a car of you can't cope with the road conditions, I opine).
I read on the web that the London bus network is suspended (as of 11.30 there are a small number of routes in Central London). I have a hair appointment later. I feel foolish ringing up to ask 'are you open?' yet I have tried several times with no reply - so not so foolish!
Ringing from the landline, obviously because the mobile network won't work! I have to say that I am incredibly pissed off. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not having a go at the individuals who run my hairdressers; they have presumably made a decision based upon facts not apparent to me - like an absence of buses in Streatham - but my hair is seriously in need of being done. I thought maybe I'd go swimming instead. And the website says Brixton Rec is open. But the thought of the walk down there (And even worse, back up hill) doesn't thrill me. I know it sounds ludicrous, but although I quite enjoy walking, I do not like it on the concrete pavements of London, and especially not up Brixton Hill, which is sad because I live at the top of Brixton Hill. I'm pondering whether to cycle down to Tooting Common (purely in the service of blogging).
And I can't get a satellite signal, either, which I assume is weather-related. The pissy thing is that I can't even access the menu of programmes already saved to the Hard Drive. Well, at least I am not being forced to watch the Jeremy Kye show, unlike a friend of mine, who has illness as an excuse.
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Interview with Plácido on the Met's website.
Not actually saying anything I haven't read before, but, still, it's nice.
Whilst on the Met website I also discovered a photo-album
Plácido Domingo’s 40th Anniversary Celebration
I don't go to the cinema very often these days, certainly not for films. It seems quite an expensive way to see them, particularly considering that I go to a fair few live performances and have a fairly extensive/expensive satellite TV package.
I have watched a fair few films of late, but many of them are old, many of those are rehashes for me, and several of them were inconsequential and forgettable.
A week or so ago we settled down to watch Away From Her. A fascinating work and probably not one for young people. The basic plot is that a woman develops early-onset Alzheimers and eventually moves into a residential home.
It's a film that focuses the mind somewhat. I suppose we all prefer not to think about Alzheimers, certainly not about it happening to us, especially not if we have one or more parents alive. I think that the woman was the same age or younger than Jimmy is, which is young, and I suppose seeing it happen to someone who lives a healthy and active life is poignant.
Jimmy reflected that it must be very difficult for the one who is left behind in good mental health. I suppose what made me sad was the early stages when she knew it was happening and was lucid as often as she wasn't. That must be very frightening. It's probably less frightening when the mind goes. I did reassure Jimmy that I'd tell him if he started showing early signs, such as forgetting people's names. He gave me a look (he's spent his entire life forgetting people's names). I then ran the same theory past a friend who is a bit of a Julie Christie fan - and he gave me an identical look, for identical reasons!
A plot spoiler, a bit. I wondered about the part where the husband-left-behind started dating a woman whose husband was also in the home. Jimmy commented that there would be people who would condemn them, but he doesn't see anything wrong in it. I don't see anything wrong and I certainly don't think the malicious outrage of village gossips is ever a reason for not doing something. I think I have always accepted that such a relationship doesn't really count as infidelity - often what keeps people going on caring for incapacitated partners is the emotional release they get from a functioning relationship. I suppose my concern is that when people feel a bond with someone going through the same turmoil, they can confuse that with something more enduring. But I don't think that the risk of one of them getting hurt should ever in itself be a moral argument against two people getting together.
It was a very beautiful film, beautifully filmed and full of light. Julie Christie and Gordon Pinsent both delivered performances that were the more poignant and dramatic because they were sparse and understated.
I suppose what troubled me was that it was too clean. The residential home seemed perfect. Perhaps it's like that in Canada, but it seemed unreal to me. I don't just mean the absence of abuse but although there only seemed to be one nurse, she was able to take a close interest in the life of the patient's husband. And all the residents seemed happy and occupied. And the husband seemed too accepting, too full of equilibrium. He didn't seem to be angry or depressed, a bit lost maybe. I got no sense of chaos or crisis. Made for an enjoyable film, but not particularly realistic.
There is a weird evangelical christian centre across the road from my office. They seem to entertain coachloads of teenagers on day trips and they have twee, down with it signs in the windows. They have various groups meeting regularly, the sort of thing you'd expect from any church, but they have such cool names like 'E-teens' or somesuch.
For several weeks now,they have had a sign in the window which has been irritating me profoundly. In a way I find it a bit offensive. I say 'in a way' because it isn't a visceral sense of being offended, and I'm not sure that an intellectual response is really about being offended.
I have been meaning to take a photo of it and keep forgetting in daylight. So I decided to search the internet, and not at all to my surprise found that it is possible to buy t-shirts and beenie hats with the exact same logo on it.
I understand what message they are trying to get over, and I understand that it is entirely consistent with the corny twee slogans that seem de rigeur throughout christianity.
I think what sticks in my gullet is that using this play on words they are just advertising their brand. For me, and I think probably for most people, the words 'blood donor' mean that voluntary activity where people act as close to altruism as is possible*. Yet there is nothing in this slogan, this poster that I pass most working days, that encourages anybody to go and give blood, or gives information on how to, or in anyway suggests to people that maybe they should consider doing something positive for the benefit of a random stranger. Just a smug claim about how 'I've been saved'.
And I suppose that's one of the things I dislike about particularly evangelical christians. Apart from their general hatred and their sex-obsessions, I really dislike the self-absorption. I don't think this is universal: I have known many people over the years who cite their christianity as the reason for their commitment to humanity and society. But I really despise this self-satisfied form of christianity which is all about demonstrating an imagined superiority and utter disregard to those who haven't been persuaded into their clique.
* I believe that pure altruism is almost non-existent. One could argue that the incentive to give blood is the hope that when one needs a blood transfusion, there will be enough blood available from other people's generosity, but actually, people who have never given blood are not refused transfusions**
** I know that there are many people who can't give blood ever and I am one who hasn't been able to for several years but would like to start doing so again
I went swimming this evening. I have to confess that it is the first time I have been in over two weeks. And I haven't been out on the bike in the interim. I have reasons, well, excuses. Well, pathetic really. Laziness, probably, getting dangerously close to a vicious circle or a spiral of decline.
There is a natural slump at this time of year. It has been unusual locally to have such a sustained period of unbroken cold weather, and I haven't handled it well. I do not regard myself as a Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) sufferer, but, I think, like most people, I do find the disproportionate darkness gets me down. To be honest, for the past few cold weeks, I can't really complain about a lack of light. Many days have been gloriously bright. I had a 5pm meeting in another building this evening, so I left my building at 1640 and my spirits soared that it was still light, just about. By the time of my birthday, it is still light at 5pm, and even though it will still be weeks before the Equinox and the clocks going forward, my mood lifts considerably. I wouldn't want to labour a point, I'm not sure it's even a mood. But there are certain thing I do hate, the most significant being standing at the bus stop in the dark waiting to get the bus home.
With more digressions than a Ronnie Corbett monologue, I was saying how I went swimming. I had been putting it off - took my kit into work last Tuesday, took it home Thursday. Took it in again this Tuesday, remembered to take it out of the cupboard, and so I went swimming.
During the autumn I had built up my muscles quite impressively, especially my thigh muscles and my biceps, and there was a noticeable slimming down of my face. I won't say I have lost all that, and I have said before, it's a bit like a game of snakes and ladders. People of my age and with my excess bulk do not lose fat overnight. My objective was not intended as a short-term fix but a drastic and permanent change in lifestyle, aimed firstly at not gaining any more fat, and secondly at reducing the fat (which ought to go hand-in-hand with better tone and firmer muscles) and thirdly re-establishing a healthy lifestyle which will hold me in good stead as the years progress and I face challenges such as osteoporosis* and Alzheimers, and everything I read persuades me that a sustainable exercise habit is the key to a healthy middle-and old-age. I don't think that angsting or guilt-tripping about winter slacking is particularly productive, but incorporating swimming, cycling and leisure walks into a year-round pattern.
I went swimming this evening. I only did ten lengths. I should have done more. I could have done more. But I am going again tomorrow and Saturday looks possible for cycling, even if only for an hour or so.
* actually with my dairy addiction and my astonishingly healthy teeth I am well low risk for osteoporosis
Last night coming home, I was very nearly witness to a horrendous car crash. I was walking from my bus stop to my road. My road crosses the South Circular at a junction with traffic lights, and pedestrian crossings, and car smashes are commonplace.
From behind me came a bus. It had just started its long journey to Kings Cross. My bus is only the second on its route and strangely, there was no one waiting to board. Even more strangely, I was the only person to have got off my bus at my stop. More strange still was the almost complete lack of other vehicles on the usually busy S. Circular. This was 7 pm. The bus driver put his foot down, determined to get through the lights before they changed. I don't think he was exceeding the 40 mph speed limit, but it seemed fast because it's rarely possible, not at that time.
It was alarming to actually watch a potential car crash unfold before me. I could see the blue Fiat move away from the gap in the Central Reservation to complete its right turn* into my road. I could see the bus seemingly gathering speed as the noticeable incline plateaus. I was visualising the impact of a speeding bus driving into the side of a flimsy car. I even looked to see if there were passengers were on the bus. I reached into my bag for my phone. The Fiat driver accelerated sharply and the bus managed to pass by with inches to spare. Crash averted!
I then fell to thinking about what I should do? I was the only person on foot - where was everybody? My instinct was already to dial 999. For whom should I ask? By the time I got home I decided that I would ask for police and ambulance. I wouldn't know if an ambulance was actually required. But better to err on the side of caution. It's hardly a crank call - a bus has just ploughed into a car. I don't know the number of casualties. I can give precise location. How calm would I be?
If there were casualties I would not really know what to do. Except, dial 999, make sure no clever clogs tries to move someone who may have a neck or spinal injury, and try and persuade the dazed but otherwise unharmed from fleeing. Do I then have to hang around for the police and ambulance to arrive, particularly important considering that I had an increasingly urgent need to get home? Have I done my duty by calling 999 and giving my details. If I am required to give a witness statement they will know how to contact me.
Inconsequential in the end, but it was an experience that made me question my ability to react correctly. I then read Mr Reynolds account of being cut out from a crashed car Under the Plastic - all in a day's work for him.
And then, while reading a completely unrelated news story I came across Accidents on Long Island. My first reaction was that it is sensationalist or mawkish, but then I decided, it's clever.
There are no bodies, dead or maimed. Just smashed up car after smashed up car. Obviously, many of the recent ones are in snow or ice. Irrespective of the weather conditions, most of the explanations given are 'lost control of vehicle'.
I would imagine that many of those drivers thought they were in control, many probably thought they were good drivers. I would imagine that many misunderestimated the road conditions, which is pretty unforgiveable.
What also struck me, not as a hard-and-fast rule, but as an underlying theme, is that most of the SUV/4x4s etc overturned, whereas most of the normal cars remained upright.
All these tales and pictures of car smashes are common place. Sometimes people leave with no more than trivial injuries and a tale to tell, but so often, lives are destroyed, or changed beyond recognition. We treat it as normal, as an inevitable side-effect of the convenience of being able to go wherever and whenever.
I know many people who justify driving around for personal safety reasons, which I'm not knocking - it's about perceptions - although I think I'd rather be momentarily terrified by a figure emerging from a shadow then be cut out of twisted metal, or worse.
But what does amaze me is the number of people who think I am putting myself at risk by walking around an urban area at night (I am) but seem to have no perception of the risk of driving. I have a friend who has remarked, "I know I'm safe driver but there are so many arseholes out there I drive as if everybody's an arsehole" - which, of course, increases the safety of her driving. (Although no doubt in ten or thirty years time,if not now, the arseholes will cariacature her as timid 'old woman' as they speed on towards their encounter with a telegraph** pole).
* in Britain, Ireland, India, Australia, New Zealand and a few other places we drive on the left, so if you drive on the right, mentally reverse these terms
** why do we call them telegraph poles when they generally carry telephone wires?
It's funny, I was never that much into perfume. Nevertheless a few years ago I was very grateful for a 'travel set' of four perfumes received as a present. Ideal for me, because I just waste big bottles - they evaporate or go off.
Going through Heathrow just over a year ago, I happened to notice that they had some of these travel sets on display, and I bought a Yves St Laurent one; then, again at Heathrow, en route to Barcelona, I spotted a Christian Dior set. Bought. At Valencia, heading home, I found a Givenchy set. Sold to the woman who suddenly has a collection of mini perfumes.
I decided to mess around with my camera. My initial objective was to photograph them as some sort of easy documentary. Then I realised it was silly using a red background - although I didn't grasp the silliness until I put them through the PC.
So I re-shot them again, rigging up a more neutral background and using the (fading) daylight coming through the bedroom window. Then I messed around with the editing software and came up with something...interesting. I am very very poor at capturing tiny images at close distance, so these sorts of things are ideal to practice with.
There are several more that simply haven't photographed well and I might revisit, but below is just a snapshot of "The Collection"
Pages found in the last day
I don't suppose anyone needs another Messiah, but this review serves to create need!
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