Small Wrinkles in Spacetime

Humbug and Twitter

2012-02-09T12:01:00.000+03:00

I have been hideously and irremediably idle in recent times.Seduced by twitterings and sound bite Facebook posts, I have found my thoughtsleaping like a frog on a random succession of lily pads from one vapid thoughtto another. Nothing new there, then. The short sharp interjection isbeguilingly direct but one is in default mode most of the time hence anylogical train of connected thought becomes difficult. How smug we all feel whentweeting a crackling one-liner worthy of a Presidential candidate. Apologies inadvance then for the random unconnectedness of what follows in the form of afew small passing clouds which have stayed together long enough to engage myattention.

Neglecting for a moment trivia like the European Debt Crisis, today,I read an article – surprising how hard it becomes to read when surrounded bypictures – which explored the principle of proximity in the context of lovingmy neighbour. How far, morally as well as geographically, does my neighbourhoodextend and what exactly are my responsibilities towards it? To those withwhom I have meaningful interaction on a regular basis? Mitt Romney? MyFacebook friends and are they really my friends at all? The pizza delivery boy? Those suffering from disease, famine and disaster in Somalia? Or, thepeople who don’t like me very much. This list is the longest and mostextensive.

On a differentnote. For impenetrable reasons, my TV is not giving me what I want. I quitelike the action channel – sex and mindless violence being vastly entertainingusually, but these days a fat man in a dishdasha who commentates jovially onlocal football matches, folding his arms at regular intervals is almost morethan flesh and blood can stand. It’s a toss-up really whether this or the WWFgets turned over first. The Turkish channel has the advantage in that it showsimages of large breasted women, usually suffering some form of domesticviolence in Istanbul, but the highlight of the week was finding the'local' equivalent of the God Channel where jolly people big it up withspecially hip bearded guests discussing the relative merits of tattoos andpiercings.

In truth, I have had little time tochannel hop, since, with fatuous shortsightedness and in a moment of weakness Iagreed to ‘read a few lines of Dickens’ for a celebration of his 200^thbirthday this month. Expecting to be given the odd line or two of Pickwick orNickleby, which I could intone from some kind of lectern like Simon Callow, thewhole monstrous hydra has burgeoned and grown like a smallpox rash, and has nowmetamorphosed into a rather jolly song and dance routine, fully scripted andchoreographed. My bleats of protest were steamrollered, a script was thrustinto my hand by a remarkably persuasive director and there were actual lines tolearn and stage directions to follow. The principle is clear. That which beginssimply, when placed into enthusiastic hands, takes on a life of its own andparticipants, willing or not, arehelplessly carried like rafts on the rapids in ever increasing circles. Itremains to be seen whether we survive the jeering and catcalling as we allslowly hang ourselves on Friday night. I hope there’s a vomitorium.

Rulers and Cake

2012-01-21T12:45:00.001+03:00

What an interesting week it's been. The world and its sadnesses - capsizing cruise ships with pusillanimous captains have not exactly passed me by, but I find myself floating ephemerally on the surface of events these days. Being sixty must have something to do with it. I still want to drive a Ferrari, but slowly.
We have yet another priest - the poor man delegated to serve us over Christmas slipped into a coma and passed away. Another 'father' - how I hate that term - has arrived, who seems to have intelligence, resilience and the kind of churchmanship that will appeal to the more liturgically switched on. This does not, alas, include myself, being a brontosaurus in this respect, slow of thought and response. Nonetheless, there was an efficiency of delivery which I both admired and feared a little. We continue to wallow in a backwater of indecision about what we like to sing - as if God cares - why doesn't somebody simply pull a few people together and just get it right. I play, drifting off to a little private island where I get to ring a doorbell at the the gates of the throne room, for which I am grateful.

The older I get, the more that friends seem important. people who don't just tolerate my noxious and unsettling presence, but those who are warm and unconditionally accepting. It's been an interesting week since I have experienced this in a variety of different contexts. When I was a child, I separated out 'church' friends and everybody else. Everybody else were the martini drinkers and smokers of cigarettes whose lives were racier and more exotic and careless than my own. Church people were less forgiving but more reliable. In reality, their responses are remarkably similar. After lunch on Friday, a tiny child solemnly presented me with a 'musical ruler' plus instruction booklet - I can already play 'She'll be Coming Round the Mountain' quite well, I think - whose resonant properties will probably find their way into my A level teaching. I had several birthday cakes, the first with some awfully good mulligatawny soup - its very familiarity redolent of a taste of childhood which almost brought a tear to my eye, of which the hostess (who knows me alarmingly well) was unaware - the last at a charity event last night.

Friends brought a vast white confection topped with fireworks which almost fused the lights. Its very extravagance was a metaphor for how valued I felt at that moment. I don't much care for heavily sweetened confection, but to decline would have been a bit like the Prodigal Son saying he didn't much care for veal.

All Change

2012-01-11T21:27:00.001+03:00

All change, please.

A palliative nurse gets towitness a lot of earthly departures. Someonesent me a link which made me pause for a moment’s reflection. Its author was a nurse writing about people’s final, often sadly regretful wish-lists as they faced the greatest adventure of all,death, the biggest change of all.

I am currently facing thepossibility of change, a paradigm shift, a genuinely small wrinkle or shrug ofeternity, insignificant to all but me and those whom I know and love. Life isfull of small comings and goings. How we deal with them is determined by how wedeal with ourselves when change, inevitable as it is, knocks on our door. Am Igoing to cower behind the sofa, expecting Freddy Krueger to be on the otherside? Or, do I invite the stranger in.

I’ve been wondering why I stillneed so badly to feel validated, measured by the quality and, above all, thequantity of effort I expend. One ‘deathbed wish’ the nurse heard so tragicallyoften was

“I wish I hadn’t felt the needto work so hard”.

Isometimes look back and recall that for so many who have gone before, life was ‘nasty,brutish and short’. Which particular roll of the dice caused me, this one soulamong so many, to have arrived in the world at this time, where comfort, foodand shelter are so freely available? And,why do I feel so driven to validate myself by working so abominably hard? Foryears, the whispering demon of ambition squeaked and gibbered as it sat on myshoulder, enslaving me. As I grew older, I came to see that a prerequisite of nakedambition is an ego so inflated that one can barely see over the top of it.Slowly, inexorably and hitherto incompletely, the whispers have faded and lessened andthe promised glitter fades like shabby tinsel. The world will not cease to turnbecause people don’t understand Kepler’s Laws. The Universe will not cease toexpand because I failed to explain the concept of space-time accurately. As Iknow myself better, the mists roll away and I know as I am known, which is ultimatelya simple matter of perspective.

Also heard often was “I wishthat I had let myself be happier”

Happiness is, ultimately, achoice. I think. Sticking fast to old habits and patterns, the ‘comfort of familiarity’– can overflow into the emotional life thus I convince myself that I’m happybecause I’m afraid of change when in reality I’m only barely contented. H’m.

Food At Year's End

2011-12-31T18:57:00.002+03:00

New Year’s Eve can be quite a major deal here. People go out to friends, getting invited, dependent on who is doing the cooking. Ah. It would seem we are eight, sorry, nine for dinner tonight, rising to thirteen or more for dessert. Provisional menu herewith, written out by hand by chef for the purpose of instructing various minions, but, things change on a whim. The saucisson brioche has been made from The Porcine Beast of Which We Do Not Speak (no, best not ask...) and tastes rich and muscular. Those who pray might like to offer something powerful to the gods who control whether or not dishwashers malfunction at crucial moments. As the year closes, I find myself asking if the (pseudo)scientific Mayan folklore detailing the end of b'akt'un 13, or, if you like, the final wrap about a year from now will be heralded by voice recognition software (the next big thing - SIRI is light years ahead so far for those with an iPhone 4s) or if we'll all still be eating potatoes in duck fat, just like tonight.

Books At Year's End

2011-12-31T17:17:00.000+03:00

It is almostimpossible to be blasé about Paris, even when skies are patchwork grey and rain threatens. The cityhas a life and breath of its own, tourists notwithstanding. A half hour fromhome is rue de Rivoli where WH Smiths, unebouffée d’Anglais, nestles almost cheek byjowl with one of the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Crillon whose website gives no indication of the cost involved to walk through its hallowed portals. Dressed in Ralph Lauren, I felt like a pauper when taking this photograph. A littleadroit navigation around the tourist traps reveals English books– blessedly uncensored– it seems that people do actually read these days, abundant and hot off thepress. Bespectacled bibliophiles are thumbing languidly, myself among them. Aword or two exchanged speaks volumes. A prize unavailable under burning suns isseized. Rue St Honoré runs parallel and one canfind pairs of socks for only 50 euros. Amongst other things.

Hedgehogs with Buggies

2011-12-24T21:28:00.002+03:00

The Greek poet Archilochus wasone of the first to focus on human emotions and personal experience. He wrote “thefox knows many things but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” Those who writeand think view their world in one of two ways – hedgehogs who look at things interms of one great defining idea, like Plato, Pascal and Nietzsche, or foxeswho draw threads of experience together and for whom the world can’t be reducedto one single idea, people likeAristotle, Shakespeare and James Joyce. The Amish are hedgehogs. A Britishreality show ‘Living with the Amish’ follows six British teenagers from a varietyof backgrounds as they stay at five different Amish settlements fromPennsylvania to Ohio, cataloguing the responses of both their hosts andthemselves when subjected to a regime of Benedictine severity. Clothed separatelyby each denomination – on their arrival they looked about as out of place as astripper at the Eucharist, bereft of iPads, phones and the trappings of modern Westerncivilization, they were made to get up for milking at five, help with a barnraising – yes, the entire structure is assembled by hand - and learn the simpleBiblical structures which underpinned each household they visited. I don’t oftenfind myself caught up by reality shows, but this was a quite engaging experience.

One had no choice but to attempt to measure the purity of one’s own Biblical interpretationsagainst the clarity and straightforwardness of the kindly but firm Amish hosts.One thing plumblined their lives. The Word of God. As written in the King James Bible. Full stop.No clever exegesis, no wriggling out of the awkward bits. There was aclear-eyed innocence about each of the families and their many children whichwas really quite touching. Amish children are homeschooled until fourteen, thenwork in family businesses; the contrasts were stark. Deliberately. The quietEtonian, a rich, spoiled brat, a loud, black Cambridge undergraduate, an ex- fosterkid in need of a father figure – all were received thoughtfully and the Amishgave more that they knew. One sensed clever editing – the British responses werecareful never to offend, perhaps in deference to the Amish habit of weighingwords carefully. Would that we could all learn to do the same, how much simplerdiplomacy might become.

Fictional Morality

2011-12-19T13:24:00.000+03:00

I sometimes find myself in what might be described as a bloggingcycle. On one hand, light, upbeat - even frivolous. On the other, whensomething wrenches guts hard enough, a meatier, sugar-free post, rather liketoday's.

People often admire literary intellect,irrespective of expressed moral view and the notion gains credence thatexcellent facility with prose in some way excuses sins. Christopher Hitchens,the champion of vitriolic atheism has left this world, perhaps to discover thatmost of his tightly reasoned theories about God, the afterlife and thepermanence of the soul have been set at naught. His style was excoriating andpassionate, some might argue grossly offensive, even repellent - in his ownwords he once remarked that he 'ought to carry with him some sort of rectalthermometer', presumably to measure how rapidly he was turning into an oldfart. The influence of such writers on popular culture, the axis of leveragewhich they are able to command over the mind of the reader is almost impossibleto calculate. I was seduced, but not captivated.

I don’t believe that the humanities are necessarily humane - inother words, shape our moral perceptions for good rather than evil. Indeed, Iwould go further: I think it more than conceivable that the focusing ofconsciousness on a written text diminishes the sharpness of our actualmoral response. Because we are trained to give psychological and moral credenceto the imaginary, to the character in a play or a novel, to the condition ofspirit we gather from a poem, we may find it more difficult to identify withthe real world, to take the world of actual experience to heart. The capacityfor imaginative reflex, for moral risk in any human being is not limitless; onthe contrary, it can be rapidly absorbed by fiction, consequently the cry inthe poem may come to sound louder and more urgent than the cry in thestreet outside. The death in the novel may move us more potently than the deathin the next room. Is there, I wonder, a covert, betraying link between thecultivation of aesthetic response and the potential for personal inhumanity? Aswe succumb more and more to the fantasy of aesthetics, we fail to realise thatthe moral plumblines keeping us upright have been twisted into grotesque,unrecognisable shapes. Thus, the more aesthetically refined we imagine that wehave become, the more our internal moral structures decay until we become asatyr, a Dorian Gray.

Carols on Speed

2011-12-19T00:40:00.000+03:00

The last twenty four hours have been catchup. Apart from a Skype call to NZ, (ain't Skype wonderful, especially when it's legal), an old friend from the Friends was in town in transit to San Francisco and we snatched a fast cafe or two together in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower before I headed for Bobino and he for Brussels.

The new churches don't often do Christmas very well. Anglicans - especially Anglo-Catholics can get into the groove of welcoming the annual churchgoer who shows up at Christmastime. They get to sing a few carols while sober and listen to Nine Lessons which is as efficient a way of evangelising the heathen as any, I suppose, since they get the whole panorama of prophecy and fulfilment in a few easily digestible bitesize chunks, accompanied by choirs, candles and christingles. OK then. What about the New Churches? For them, doing stuff out of the book is a bit like asking Herod to babysit. It doesn't sit comfortably with them, since carol singing is quite a traditional art form and that's usually the last item on their agenda. Fetching up at Bobino earlier than usual, the sight of a full orchestra - with a drummer - playing the old faves, came as something of a surprise. The meeting started proper half an hour earlier than normal, miraculously on time and was billed as the Christmas Service. For once, I didn't feel like the Oldest Member - some of the congregation had brought parents with them, I suppose. It was instructive to listen to what a group of creative people can do with some quite traditional music. 'O Come, All Ye Faithful" rebranded as "O Come Let Us Adore Him" was, to be honest, quite breathtaking. Have a listen...Search on the site for the track. Yeah, OK, I bought the album. new this year, called 'Born To Be King". Brendan White was on fire and the crowd loved it. Including me. The place was tricked out with fake snow and big polystyrene snowflakes which surprisingly enough didn't look at all tacky. The final set finished off with a group of clearly professional dancers, topped out by a Billy Elliott type with some spectacular classical ballet moves. As Christmas services go, this one was right up there...Lovely.

Peeping Bosons

2011-12-14T09:47:00.002+03:00

Those who follow this blog know that from time to time I like to think a bit about physics, so it comes as no surprise that I make comment today on that faint aroma, that cloud the size of a man’s fingernail, that shrug of eternity, the Higgs. Few of us, myself included, have an intimate working knowledge of that ultimate racetrack-cum-wrecking-ball , the Large Hadron Collider about which I have written elsewhere, the worker bees who drive it yesterday announced that they “might have found something”. So far, it’s nothing more than a twinkle in the eye of God, but we live, as always, in hope.

Nevertheless, despite such earth-shattering news (pun intended), I am irritated. Those who know me realise that this is merely a façade, concealing a sunny urbane interior, but it is surely not beyond the pronunciation skills of the least literate BBC journalist to pronounce its name correctly. We get ‘ bozen’, ‘bosun’, even more improbably, ‘bozone’. It’s BOH-ZON, people. Do try to get it right.

Fearful and even wonderful

My A level class know about bosons. We talk about them a lot. Not the Higgs, I have to say, it’s a bit exotic even for us. For those unfamiliar, a boson is an exchange particle. Imagine two battleships firing cannon at each other. The guns, hence ships recoil as the guns are fired, representing the repulsive force between two protons, let’s say, in close proximity. As they do so, they exchange gunfire in the form of explosive shells. The shells are the ‘exchange particles’. To see a little animation, have a look here. Not difficult so far and all the other bosons have lost their virginity to the rapacious onslaughts of particle accelerators. Except the Higgs, which might have been peeping out the other day. Unfortunately, if we take it a few steps further we find ourselves enmeshed in labyrinthine gauge field theory and other exotica beyond my limited intelligence. Simply put, however, the Higgs confers mass on the building blocks of matter (quarks and leptons) and the mass of something is a measure of its resistance to being pushed around. Now, there’s something we can all understand.

Tree of Life

2011-12-06T19:28:00.001+03:00

Yggdrasil - the Norse Tree of the World

Someone once remarked that cinema has become the newreligion, with sacraments and doctrines. High-profile hits such as “The King'sSpeech “or “Inception” inspire followings so devoted that disparaging remarksare seen as heresy. To criticise is to cast aspersions on someone's fundamentalbeliefs, the very core of their existence, like a religious war in whichneither side will tolerate the other's gods, or lack the of them. TerrenceMalick [Days of Heaven (1978), The Thin Red Line (1998) and The New World(2005)] collected the Palme d'Or in Cannes with 'The Tree of Life' which peopleeither loved or hated. A few walked out on first screening of this vast,cosmic landscape upon which, if we choose, we can write our own narrative. Tobinarise the film in terms of a Beavis and Butthead 'cool or sucks', 'like ordislike', misses the point. It has been described as emotionally thin, Americanfaux-angst, faux-reflection, taking longer and longer to say less and less.This too misses the point. Saying less is the whole idea. This is not aspectacle, it's an interactive experience on a galactic scale. It evokes deepchildhood resonances and intimate memory echoes – down to Beatrix Potter andhosepipes on summer afternoons, slowly drawing us to the central themes ofinnocence and loss. Brad Pitt is the embittered, tyrannical and unfulfilledfather who once dreamed of becoming a great musician, trying to teach his sonsthat the way to worldly success lies in aggressive pursuit of perfection.Mother, (Jessica Chastain), believably saintly, offers the reverse paradox ofJob, presenting us with a typology of goodness without reward.

The boys areencouraged to respect the violence of their father and secretly despise theirmother's gentleness, so that fear and love fuse in uneasy and strange paradox.The film contains bizarre symphonic passages of non-narrative spectacle, vastHubble galactic images, impossibly high waterfalls, prehistoric jungles,Kubrick writ large. Most strange was the wounded dinosaur lying prostrate andhelpless beside a river while another dinosaur comes along, plants its greatfoot on the other's neck before moving heedlessly on. Is this the only messageof the universe – pure survival? But then how is it we seem to want somethingother than survival? What do we want to survive for?

Five big stars. Amasterpiece.

Patience...

2011-12-05T12:53:00.001+03:00

Odd, isn't it. I was invited to attend a 'bible study' recently. Ihave to confess, I'm not much of a one for 'study' as people most readilyperceive it since adults should not be admitted to bible studies unlessaccompanied by a child because adults can't be trusted to rightly divide theword of truth. Without my usual banging on about it, the study in question wasaround the lectionary readings, Advent Two Year B yielding Isaiah 40 which always reminds me of the incomparable tenor solo from Messiah - followed by Second Peter with its interminably tedious wranglingabout authorship. No doubt it representsthe faith and the teaching of Peter the apostle, but it probably came to alater generation who were troubled by the delay they had experienced in waitingfor Jesus to return. You see. I'm doing it myself. Forgeddit, argueabout something important - like the central message of patience. TheGospel is from Mark - the Baptist echoing a patient wait for one tocome.

Almost in spite of myself, I was drawn to thistheme. There's an old Bedouin practice where honey is collected by storing thecombs vertically in muslin bags so that the honey can drip with infiniteslowness through the muslin. When tempted to squeeze the bag to increase theflow rate one should be aware that if the honey is forced through the muslin itends up streaked, valueless and lacking in purity. H'm.

Islands in the Sand

2011-12-03T12:01:00.001+03:00

Living here one learns to make allowances. Accommodations, if you will. 'Never attribute to malice that which can adequately be explained by stupidity' is a maxim which if applied reduces choler, leeching and the risk of acute myocardial infarction.

On this, a bright, sunny Saturday morning with a refreshing nip in the air, I left home in bonhomous mood to run an errand or two. Upon my return, I found myself marooned in an island of sand. Since leaving home, a battalion of gigantic earth-moving behemoths had arrived, unbidden, kindly fenced off the approach road to my apartment block for several hundred metres in every direction and were industriously engaged in tearing up vast swathes of desert. I approached with caution, looking for the obvious entrance which had surely been left for residents and which, in a senior moment, I must have overlooked. Locking the four-wheel drive, I circled, my emotional temperature rising. When at length I seriously considered the possibility of ramming one of the flimsy roped off fences and driving through it, it was clear to me that I was becoming homicidal. I got out of my car, wishing I had a weapon. One of the digger drivers with remarkable courage, perhaps, approached me, swathed like a mujaheddin in Ray-Bans and stood on the rope while I drove over it. His reward will be in heaven.
I have yet to discover how exactly other residents are overcoming this problem. When the great detective once wrote that 'the impossible has a kind of integrity to it which the merely improbable lacks', I was sure I knew what he meant. No shit, Sherlock...

Circles and Almonds

2011-11-27T23:48:00.001+03:00

The person on the left once wrote that 'loneliness is the most terrible poverty'.
Some are, like me, perhaps, by accident or design, more comfortable loners than others. Which is not to say that they never feel lonely. Of course they do, sometimes achingly so. When in the company of friends often after an absence, there's a temptation to overreact in a social setting, to re-establish kinship, place and order.
Perhaps we all have some kind of continuum of interaction which those who live together slip into comfortably, a kind of 'vesica piscis', if you will. For those unfamiliar with this - literally a 'fish-bladder,' it's the intersection of two circles with the same radius so that the centre of each circle lies on the circumference of the other. The Italian name is 'mandorla' or 'almond'.

There's a beautiful, almost mystical clarity about this shape with its height to width radius of the square root of 3.

Playing arbitrarily with numbers, 153 happens to be the number of fish apparently caught in the miraculous catch in John 21 and consists of the sum of one squared, one triangular and one circular number (100+28+25) Evagrius of Pontus wrote a treatise on prayer consisting of 153 separate thoughts for this reason. Medieval illuminated scripts enclosed Christ in Majesty within a mandorla, the cover of the Well at Glastonbury is decorated with one, and both freemasonry and the Church of Scotland make use of it in their emblems. For earthier New Age philosophers, the resemblance to the female genitalia is more than coincidental.

Returning to a relational theme, what happens when this balance is disturbed? Both circles become warped. If the diameter is too small, one circle will become isolated with respect to the other - we all know marriages which have drifted so far apart that the central diameter and hence the aperture is almost non-existent. On the other hand, if the circles overlap too much, one circle becomes the other, a personality becomes so subsumed into the other that, like Siamese twins, one must be sacrificed.

No significance whatever is implied. Turbulent thoughts, lacking streamlined logic when captured momentarily, throw up curiously concatenated ideas.

Blither and Rant

2011-11-16T15:48:00.001+03:00

Only someone who doesn’t know thefirst thing about religion imagines that the answer to the question “Do youbelieve in God?” is either informative or interesting.

Enough is enough. Attacking the NewAtheists is like shooting a man who is giving himself a lethal injection.

Reserve Cluster

The discussion on children continuesin the Church of England. Should they or should they not receive something morethan an avuncular pat on the head when accompanying parents to the Table? Some, espousing the 'muddle way', give the kids grapes when they come to the table. Red grapes presumably, and seedless(Health and Safety). Does the vicar eat all the unconsumed grapes, I wonder? In which case they willgive them all wind producing squadrons of flatulent ten-year olds plus thevicar during the quiet bits. Also, is there a Reserved Cluster? Perhaps we could give the kids raisins instead.But why Communion only in one kind? Why not use Raisin Bran - you getboth elements in one mouthful. Hell, why not give the kids a bowl of cerealwith the added eucharistic symbolism of milk and honey? Breakfast on Jesus.And, why not?

“I share your pain” carries aboutthe same weight of sincerity and conviction to a bereaved person as “I know howyou feel: I lost my iPhone last week.”

What’s the difference between acontemporary funeral and a major defeat for a sports team? Public expressionsof grief are acceptable in the latter; the former have to be “celebrations”.

It is as sacrilegious to listen tomusic while you’re running as it is to chew gum while you’re praying. Andvice-versa. No toilet jokes here, please.

Concerning online Bibles. The day issoon coming when preachers will say: “If you have a mobile phone please turn iton. Your text for this morning is …And no games during the sermon, please…” Thenew index of spirituality is not how big and well-thumbed your Bible is,instead it’s whether your iPad boots faster than a Galaxy Tab.

Of course the British governmentwants to hand over schools to the private sector to turn out capableprofessionals and supine consumers. Perish the thought of education as themidwifery of an interrogative citizenry. Whitehall and the City live by deceit;the last thing they want to encourage is bullshit detection. Dumbing-down isnot a tragedy, it’s a strategy.

Patriotism has moved up in thehousing market since the days of DrJohnson: it is now the second refuge of the scoundrel. After Wall Street andthe Bank of England.

With thanks to KF. All theologicalperversions mine.

Le Cochon de Gaza

2011-11-10T00:55:00.000+03:00

Giventhe title, I think it’s rather unlikely that this one will make the Kuwaiticinema screens. When Jafaar, a Palestinian fisherman, finds a live Vietnamesepot bellied pig in his net, one senses trouble from the outset. From thissimple premiss, working on a shoestring budget, debuting director Sylvain Estibal servesup a political parable with a complex yet warm satirical bite. The film is determinedto debunk Arab-Israeli differences with plenty of in-jokes on both sides. Theaction is set on the eve of Israel's voluntary disengagement from Gaza in 2005,although the chronology is deliberately a little vague.

Thepig's arrival complicates life for Jafaar, who is desperate to stay out oftrouble. One is never quite sure whether he fears his wife more than theauthorities and after his early panic – he has, after all, never seen a pig inthe flesh - first attempts to hide it from his wife and then offload it onto acholeric German United Nations official. Subsequently, he is persuaded by hislocal barber to gain some commercial advantage from this unexpected windfall.He proposes to sell it to Yelena, a young Russian-Jewish farm worker with whomhe communicates through a wire fence. She insists that what she needs is notthe pig itself but its sperm for pig-breeding purposes.

Cue a series of sperm-relatedgags, including Miss Piggy pinups and a Palestinian policeman who confiscatesJafaar's flask and quaffs its contents, taking it to be medication when in factit is the results of the pig's pleasuring, with Jafaar’s help, wearing a pairof pink Marigold’s to prevent contamination by the unclean beast. The entiretheatre fell about at this point, along with the gag where Jafaar ashamedlytries to persuade a ten year old boy to buy Viagra for the pig to increase itsoutput. The gloves come off when local Islamist militants,learning of Jafaar's activities, accuse him of siding with the enemy on thegrounds that the pigs Yelena is breeding are used for demeaning purposes. Theyseize Jafaar and the pig, ineffectually disguised as a sheep, who find themselves pencilled in as suicide bombers,both being fitted with dynamite waistcoats. All however ends well and bothJafaar and the pig survive, miraculously.

Both Arab and Israeli sides arerelentlessly skewered, which impartiality makes the film gentle and rollingwith a keen eye for the absurd, both class and racial disparities being equallylampooned. In Arabic, Hebrew and English with French subtitles. Loved it.

The Deserving

2011-11-09T10:10:00.001+03:00

Anagram - 4 Request Armchair

Any prophetic nerve-endings I have resonated in deep foreboding this last week.The “Occupy” protest drones on, many protesters simply crying ‘foul’ with noclear idea of the rules, with ethical fluff from the Church – bishops who arelosing the argument invariably turn to prayer.

The guilds system on which the City wasoriginally based has been hijacked by the buccaneers, the free market thinkers,rogue traders and others whom most consider undeserving of the largesse heapedupon them. Eye-popping bonuses and wealth beyond the dreams of avarice isbrought about by the illusion of skill over and above that possessed byordinary, hence poorer, mortals.

Lead trumps?

If wealth was the inevitable result of hard workand enterprise, every woman in Africa would be a millionaire. The claimsthat the ultra-rich 1% make for themselves – that they are possessed ofunique intelligence or creativity or drive – are examples of theself-attribution fallacy. This means crediting yourself with skills youdon’t have with outcomes for which you weren't responsible. Many of those whoare rich today got there because they found themselves in a position to capturecertain jobs. Without sour grapes, this owes less to talent and intelligencethan to a combination of the ruthless exploitation of others and accidents ofbirth, as such jobs are taken disproportionately by people born in certainplaces and into certain classes.

The findings of the psychologist Daniel Kahneman, winner ofa Nobel economics prize, prick the financial high-fliers' balloons. Hediscovered that their apparent success is a cognitive illusion. For example, hestudied the results achieved by 25 wealth advisers across eight years and foundthat the consistency of their performance was zero. "The results resembledwhat you would expect from a dice-rolling contest, not a game of skill."Those who received the biggest bonuses had simply got lucky.

Such results have been widely replicated. They show that tradersand fund managers throughout Wall Street receive their massive remuneration fordoing no better than would a chimpanzee flipping a coin. So much for thefinancial sector and its super-educated analysts. I have often askedmyself whether my boss is possessed of superior intelligence, judgment and vision or did they get there through a combination of luck, bluff andbullshit.

In a study published by the journal Psychology, Crime andLaw, Belinda Board and Katarina Fritzon tested 39 senior managers and chiefexecutives from leading British businesses. They compared the results tothe same tests on patients at Broadmoor special hospital, where people who havebeen convicted of serious crimes are incarcerated.

From the outside

On certain indicators ofpsychopathy, the bosses' scores either matched or exceeded those ofthe patients. In fact, on these criteria, they beat even the subset ofpatients who had been diagnosed with psychopathic personality disorders. The psychopathic traits on which the bosses scored so highlyclosely resemble the characteristics that companies look for. Those who havethese traits often possess great skill in flattering and manipulating powerfulpeople. Egocentricity, a strong sense of entitlement, a readiness to exploitothers and a lack of empathy and conscience are also unlikely to damage theirprospects. Consistently, team players are deemed less valuable than competitiverisk-takers, hence psychopathic traits are more likely to be selected andrewarded. The conclusion is straightforward. If you have psychopathictendencies and are born to a poor family, you're likely to go to prison. If youhave psychopathic tendencies and are born to a rich family, you're likely to goto business school.

Bishop of London and banker

What, I wonder, should the Church be saying? To my surprise, theVatican has issued via its Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace a documentsuggesting the creation of a new global authority empowered to make economicdecisions for the common good rather than individual national interest. Inkeeping with the principle of subsidiarity, which advocates always dealing withproblems at the lowest, most local level of authority possible, such anauthority should intervene in global matters only when “individual, social orfinancial actors are intrinsically deficient in capacity, or cannot manage bythemselves to do what is required of them.”

Oh, dear. Why are small shivers running downmy spine?

Anniversaries

2011-11-07T23:34:00.001+03:00

Google and I havesomething in common. We are both celebrating an anniversary. I share the day Ilast had a drink with Marie Curie's birthday, although to be honest I did haveother things on my mind on the November day when, with trembling hands, Ifinally waved farewell to Uncle Jack Daniels and all his friends.

Maria Sklodowska toiledher way through the Sorbonne by working as a nanny and tutor. I too find myselfnannying children through examinations, but do not, it has to be admitted,stand any chance of being awarded not one but two Nobels. She won the first for physicsshared with both her husband Pierre and her professor Henri Becquerel in 1903for work on radioactivity, the second eight years later for chemistry fordiscovering radium and polonium and the pioneering work of isolation.

Later,her researches exacted the ultimate price, she died from aplastic anaemia contracted fromexposure to radiation. Its damaging effects were not then known; sheworked in a shed without proper safety measures and carried test tubescontaining radioactive isotopes in her pocket and stored them in her deskdrawer, remarking on the pretty blue-green light that the substances gave offin the dark. When I first began to drink, I too had no idea that its effects wouldcome so close to exacting the ultimate price from me also. Iam grateful that it did not and that Jeremiah 29:11 has held firm forme.
Nevertheless, I myself was awarded a prize which may go some waytowards prolonging my life and increasing cardiac fitness.
The accompanyingcard is too small to see, but like a microgram of radium, carries more weight.

The fatnaked man is not I. Surprisingly.

Unusual Eid

2011-11-07T00:18:00.000+03:00

Newly arrived from the desert, it's quite a change tobe surrounded with culcha again. I had intended to return to Hillsong and made it with squeaking room tospare and almost twenty minutes late. The video link above is a little bit boisterousbut, nonetheless shook a few cobwebs out; you get the idea. People often write a lotof hype about Brendan White's sermons being all over the place and lacking infocus - he's the guy who wanders onstage clutching a Bible half way through"God is Able" on the video - but he leads a young, vibrant,enthusiastic congregation with vision and can be forgiven for afew lapses in theological rigour. Not so this week; the litmus test of goodpreaching is that it tends to stay in one's thoughts and today was quiteexceptional. Author of "The Call of God," Christian Robichaud who hasa Quebecois accent and a worldwide ministry to the poor and dispossessed, wastalking about the gift of faith and the fact that Abraham was considered tohave been perfected in it. I left a little early to rendezvous with Gipsy whohad a few errands to run, then remembered I wanted to get the live DVD, sopopped back in - they do hang about for ever, these Church types - and almosttripped over Brendan and the guest speaker in the foyer. Brendan said"I've seen you before, haven't I?" Since I had not met him before andhadn't set foot in the place for almost three months, I thought this no meanfeat and since we found ourselves in conversation I told him that I hadprobably travelled further than anybody else to be at the meeting and that mypresence probably raised the average age by a couple of months. He laughed andslapped me on the back in a brotherly, Antipodean kind of way. It wasinteresting too, that the guest speaker was quite unaware that it wasEid al Adha, the festival which commemorates the sacrifice of Isaac. I remarkedthat there might have been a stray Muslim or two in the crowd who needed tohear it.

I hadn't exploredsouth-east Paris before so a trip to Bercy Village was a novelty. Bercy wasinhabited over four thousand years ago, according to the many wood and stoneartefacts found locally. More recently, it became a winery and storehouse,barrels arriving by boat were stored in the cellars of Bercy before onwardtransport to the capital. With many original architectural features intact,it's now a chic little shopping mall with New York burger houses amidst moretraditional restaurants.

A wander in the Parc de Bercy was a welcome open space- the grass-walled Omnisports stadium on one side (Paul McCartney is playing there later this month) and the Cinemathèque Français on the other. Same architect (Frank Gehry) as the titanium covered Guggenheim in Bilbao, it's where the intellectuals go.

Paris is quite busy ona Sunday so rather than brave the crowds in le Marais, after having taken in an outdoor art exhibition near Montparnasse, we skipped out of town early anddropped in on friends - not a bad way to finish up the day. Gipsy's fish currywas really rather good, and the fresh pineapple flan would have been had shenot attempted to toast it in the toaster, trying to remove the charred andsmoking remains with the device still plugged in. I found myself having to berather stern since the shock of seeing me hanging about again has clearlyaffected her judgement.

I Don't Like Church

2011-11-03T20:01:00.001+03:00

No protesters are shown. Dean and Chapter might object.

Alltoo often, I find myself trying to think of an excuse for not goingto church. I don’t like church. And I’ve finally figured out why.There are people there.

Theymess up my intimacy with God. They arrive late, leave early, don’tturn off their mobile phones, sing tunelessly, can’t seem to keepthemselves or their kids quiet, talk during the instrumental music,and pretty much ruin the entire worship experience for me.

I’m almost sure I could have a better encounter with God if I stayed athome. I’ve heard that many people – good, solid believers – aregiving church a miss. And I sympathise with them increasingly.

Thereare other reasons I don’t like going to church. They do a lot ofthings there that just don’t float my boat. They are cosily nostalgic, singing appallingsongs that I would have tipped overboard years ago. They might makeannouncements about Mums and Tots activities. Being neither a Mum nora Tot, I’m not quite ready for that. They recruit for people towork in the Sunday School – aka the Children's Ministry (Noooo).They give reports about all kinds of things I've never heard of andthey give updates about activities in parts of the world I reallydon’t care that much about.

Inother words, church doesn’t meet my needs and it doesn’t centrearound me.

Whichis exactly why I need to go.

Morethan almost anything else, I need regular reminders that the worlddoes not revolve around me. The more painful, inconvenient,cringe-making and bothersome the reminder, the more likely it is tounglue me from my oleaginous, self-absorbed adulation of me. All weeklong I can get away with self-concern. Most of the time, I get tomake my own schedule, plan my own priorities, say yes to what I wantand no to what I don’t want, and, aside from some rare moments whengood friends point all this narcissism out to me, I enjoy having mein the centre of my universe.

Butthen, Friday morning. Church counters all that. When I go to church,we start out with a time of praise, which reminds me that God is somuch bigger than I am. We then move to a time of confession, whichshakes me into remembering that I’m not as good as I think I am.And all those other people and announcements about stuff which isnothing to do with me shows me that I am not an island. Rather,whether I like it or not, I am part of a living organism with gifts, strengths, weaknesses, callings, and needs.

The image is of the other St Paul's which is learning hard lessons of its own at the moment.

Physics For Dogs

2011-10-31T21:08:00.000+03:00

Don't interrupt me. I'm thinking...

When I am old I intend gettinga dog. Perhaps a Braque Bleu; they have a thoughtful, theoretical look about them and a well-chosen one will keep me sprightly until well past mysell-by date. Should this become the case, I shall unfailingly buy my dog a newbook which has had me burbling delightedly called "Physics for Dogs". I spent a happy hour checking theaccuracy of the formulae used in the text, which contained remarkably fewerrors.

Canines with only a rudimentarygrasp of statics, dynamics and Newton's Laws of Motion can use some simplephysics to master their corner of the universe. Savvy canines can learn,amongst other things:-

How to bringdown the mailman with the correct ratio of stealth, stored potential energy andimpulse (F_averageDt).

How to poostrategically, indoors and out, by understanding variable-mass systems andmomentum conservation. Calculus required.

How to openany cupboard or bin using Newton's First Law of Motion.

How tosuccessfully drink from the toilet without damage caused by an acceleratingmoment of the toilet seat.

How to play ‘fetch’efficiently by calculating projectile velocity and maximum range - thisrequires a grasp of elementary trigonometry.

How to get out of a bath withor without your bather’s consent byaccurately compensating for friction between the rear paws and the bathtub.

All equations, free bodydiagrams and annotations are available in the text, together with usefulestimates for such things as age-compensated velocity when owner throws aFrisbee and so forth.

More advanced canine students might like tolearn about quantum tunnelling to reach the cat next door, but this will be beyondthe reach of all but the most able.

I’ll try to pick a bright one.

Dollars and Deals

2011-10-30T23:59:00.002+03:00

This captured vulture was accused of spying for Mossad by the Saudi press, but was later exonerated by a Saudi prince.

The AP published yesterday that a Saudi princeling has upped theoffer of $100,000 for the capture of an Israeli soldier by a further $900,000if used for the exchange of Palestinian prisoners currently in Israeli jails.H'm. The Arab presses either print the article in its entirety without comment or tweet ravenously about the Saudi predisposition to play Devil's advocate dependent on who they perceive to be winning the propaganda war. Paying for jihad seems to some to be as repugnant as paying for indulgences, to others, a fair price to pay.

If those on the Eastern fringes of the Gulf do nothing else, theycan make their considerable resources available to the footsoldiers engaged at the front line of the conflict with the hated enemy. As a propagandaexercise, as the vultures gather, it may very wellbackfire.

Would that it were so simple. Here's an alternative.

Some believe that the ties of the House ofSaud to Tel Aviv have in recent years become increasingly visible andpervasive. A much-discussed secret Israeli-Saudi alliance may well exist withinthe context of a broader Khaliji-Israeli alliance formed through strategic cooperationbetween the ruling families of Saudi Arabia and the Arab sheikhdoms in thePersian Gulf. Together Israel and theKhaliji ruling families form a frontline for Washington and NATO against Iranand its regional allies. The alliance also acts on behalf of Washington todestabilise the region, creating ethnic divisions between Arabs and Iranians,religious divisions between Muslims and Christians, and confessional divisionsbetween Sunnis and Shiites relying upon uninformed public opinion to keep thesnowball rolling, bloodstained, down the hill. It is the “politicsof division” or “fitna” that has also served to keep the Khaliji rulingfamilies in power. Israel and the Khaliji ruling families would notsurvive without the regional fitna. Iranophobia may have been used by the Khaliji ruling families,from the U.A.E. to Saudi Arabia and Bahrain, as a pretext for the repression oftheir own people, who are demanding basic freedoms and democratic rights in thesheikhdoms.

All this may very well havea ring of truth about it - the ideas are not new. It remains to be seen whetheror not a few zealots in Gaza will attempt to take the bait, scoop the jackpotand suffer the consequences of their so doing.

Meanwhile, one rocket on average per hour has been fired in the last thirtysix hours from Gaza, in response to the Israelis targeting a 'terrorist squad' in southern Gaza that was preparing to launch long-range rockets. Five Islamic Jihad militantswere killed, including a senior commander of the Al-Quds brigade.

The cost of raw materials for a Qassam IV rocket is about $500.

Theological blather

2011-10-29T22:36:00.001+03:00

Iget like this sometimes. Apart from Kim Fabricius' shortsightedness in his quiteunaccountable affiliation to the United Reformed denomination - it is neither -his take on matters of the Name is occasionally insightful and often howling...

Kim,high five for these and my apologies for adding a twist of citrus ofmy own.

I have often thought thata fitting soteriological image, a symbol for the work of Christ, is thetoilet. Apart from the handle, which is an Arminian attachment.

(Sanctum sanctorum. Nothing wrong with that. Ed)

I see that in the newEnglish translation of the Mass, the blood of Christ is shed not “for all” but“for many”, with the annotation that not everybody chooses to be saved. As ifthe reversion to exclusivity isn’t bad enough, it’s compounded by an Arminiangloss. What a muddle. Perhaps the next translation will go Calvinist with “fora few”. (That's enough. Ed)

Paul’s list of ecclesialvocations in I Corinthians 12 is not, of course, exhaustive. In the UK, forexample, for the church’s common good, there must surely be a charisma forarson.

(Been there, done that, in an imaginary kind of a way. Shame about the frescoes. Ed)

Paul wrote that he wasnot “ashamed” of the gospel (Romans 1:16). Nowadays you’d be hard-pressed tofind someone ashamed of anything. Embarrassed perhaps, butnot ashamed.

(Far too near the knuckle, even for me. The squirm factor of the street preacher in a baggy suit is too, too close to home. Ed)

J.B. Phillips wrote afamous little book called Your God Is Too Small. But isn’t theproblem that many people’s God is too big?

(What is this, Goldilocks? Ed)

If (followingStringfellow and Nouwen), the kingdom of God is like a circus, the kingdom ofthe world is like a zoo. True, a zoo is not “nature red in tooth and claw”, butthat’s only because the animals are either grazing or sleeping. Except for thechimpanzees: they are either grooming or mooning. Yep, that’s the world…

(I'd like it placed on record that this makes no reference to sex. At all. Ed)

The “Zero Intolerance”church is the latest effort in market-ecclesiology of the United Reformed Church. Very counter-culturally, there is a catchy sound-bite advertising offensive.Equally anti-zeitgeist, local congregations are offered the choice of opting inor staying out. And training (a euphemism for disempowerment) is, of course, derigueur. The only thing the campaign is missing is a patron saint. Mysuggestion would be Pelagius.

(Schadenfreude...Ed)

The United ReformedChurch is now receiving applications for the post of Moderator of the Synod ofWales. Unless all applicants are immediately deemed un-called, and thereforeunfit, for this ministry, I’d rather we cast lots.

(Worked fine last time...Ed)

God is on the move. It iscalled “illegal immigration”.

(Unless you're a Mexican. In which case it's called Russian roulette)

Advice to a youngminister: Remember that when you preach, you are speaking to everyone inparticular.

(Caveat orator. Applies to old preachers as well. Ed)

Have you ever thoughtthat the parable of the Prodigal Son might be an autobiographical story aboutliving post-exilically?

(If we wait long enough we'll all find our when the Islamists reconquer Jerusalem. Ed)

My body is finallyturning into a temple. But it’s age, not sanctity: I no longer have the energyto be a brothel.

(I'm tired. Ed)

You married, dearie?

And, since an image is de rigueur otherwise absolutely nobody reads anything one might write, here's the Pope celebrating the arrival of the seven millionth soul on the planet with the secular humanist and philosopher Julia Kristeva at the recent interfaith, er, encounter in Assisi. Peter and the wolf.

Divinity for Dummies

2011-10-22T18:35:00.000+03:00

Genesis 1 1-5 Samaritan Pentateuch

Listened to a real live Cambridge DDyesterday, used to the lecture podium rather than the pulpit thusseemed slightly embarrassed at having to put on the old shepherd garband wave his arms suitably. It was instructive to be reminded ofTheology 101 – the almost painful dumbing down was well-concealedbut palpable. Being stuck in the minor prophets is probably betterthan being stuck with a major liturgical catastrophe thus despite thefact that there's a lot to be said for the use of a lectionary cyclebut it tends to presuppose, rather than to foster, a broadunderstanding of the biblical story. Lectionaries were designed foruse in societies that were already implicitly Christian – societiesin which the rhythms of the liturgical year, and the broad sweep ofthe biblical narrative, could be more or less taken for granted - thetheological subtlety with which the OT and NT readings are oftenconnected - a subtlety that is quite lost on anybody without a goodworking knowledge of scripture and liturgical tradition, which, quitefrankly, is most of us. And preachers only exacerbate the problem whenthey take these subtle liturgico-theological connections asthe theme of their proclamation, instead of preaching from the textsthemselves. Preachers, do try to remember that the content of yourproclamation is not the liturgical calendar or flashy exegesis, but the Word of God. Rhema. Plus Logos.

Stealing Heaven

2011-10-17T00:10:00.000+03:00

I am constantly surprised by the nobility of the human race and also itsdepravity. Some time ago, a very large, old, leatherback sea turtle - an endangered species - had beencaught in a fisherman’s net off the Gazan coast. The creature was hauledashore and surrounded by a large crowd. One of the men in the crowd explainedto a reporter how the turtle meat would feed local children, who weresuffering due to the Israeli occupation, and the blood would help cure variousailments. The turtle was dragged behind a truck, flipped over on its back, and slaughtered. Further up theMediterranean coast, a much younger and smaller sea turtle had been injured bya boat and lost one of its limbs. The turtle was rescued by some Israelis andthen taken to a special turtle sanctuary where it was operated on, restored to health and then released back into the sea.

The papers have been full of the trade-off of over a thousandHamas prisoners, most serving life, for one Staff Sgt. Gilad Shalit, who was seized byHamas militants in a cross-border raid more than five years ago and held inGaza. The campaign for his release has been tireless. In Israel, the list revealed why the country has found the trade sounpalatable, demeaning and gut-wrenchingly unfair: the majority of the inmateswere convicted of manslaughter, attempted murder or intentionally causingdeath. Back on the streets, radicalised by prison, the chances of many of themmending their ways seem slim.

Those being freed include the founders ofHamas’s armed wing and militants who kidnapped and killed Israeli soldiers andcivilians. A co-conspirator in the 2001 bombing of a Jerusalem pizzeria thatkilled fifteen people will walk. Ahlam Tamimi, then only twenty years old, haddisguised herself as a Jewish tourist to accompany the suicide bomber to thecorner of King George Street and Jaffa Road, a busy pedestrian precinct. She later commented that she was not sorry for what she had done and doesnot recognise Israel’s existence. "Despite the fact that I'm sentenced to16 life sentences I know that we will become free from Israeli occupation andthen I will also be free from the prison" she said.

I make no comment here about the right ofthe Palestinian people to have a self-governing homeland but those who seek toobtain it by depraved and godless means deserve the full and unremitting weightof moral law to fall upon their heads. Those who, with Promethean hubris, seekto steal Heaven may find themselves ultimately the worse off in the bargain.

Job's Answer

2011-10-05T17:16:00.002+03:00

Supernova exploding: Large Magellanic Cloud.
The Universe 's expansion is accelerating

Most of my classes this year are pleasant enough, absorbing placidly any small pearlets of what passes for wisdom and attempting to transcribe them industriously with greater or lesser degrees of enthusiasm. As long as I don't actually require them to think about what they are writing, all is serene and everybody thinks that they really are getting their money's worth. Shovelling academic stodge is like coal mining, it's dirty and unrewarding but somebody has to do it, production lines and rapacious exam factories being as they are implacably unforgiving when a B grade is awarded.
It's becoming increasingly clear to me that although dutifully turning out academically well-scrubbed and quite knowledgeable school leavers ( I really cannot bring myself to describe them as 'graduates'), ultimately, I and my kind have become for them an enemy of promise, a bulwark against whatever genuinely original initiatives they once might have possessed. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the last few days when quite quick and able learners had, it appeared not the faintest notion that the subject they had undertaken as a University prerequisite was going to actually demand of them some reflection, consideration, weighing of alternatives and deductive reasoning and seemed quite put out when I mentioned to them that that was supposed to be the reason they had elected to pursue further study in the first place. Furthermore, any hint of non-comprehension has far less to do with the fact that most fifteen and sixteen year olds are intellectually lazy and much more to do with their teacher, who, after only thirty years has learned his craft so very poorly and is clearly incapable of explaining things properly.
The Nobel season is upon us again and once more, those whose religious loyalties lie with the Name scooped some spaghetti this year, in chemistry and also in physics. Recipients join an embarrassingly long line of Jews both home-grown and from the diaspora, who far outstrip every other people group on the face of the earth at collecting Swedish gongs. Asking a Jew to name the greatest period of Jewish learning is problematic and he might be hard put to it to give a singular answer. He could choose 1000 BC and the time of Solomon with the beginning of Israelite historiography and Jewish law. Perhaps during the Babylonian Exile with the completion of redaction of Torah. Or 1135CE and the work of Maimonides, a cornerstone of Jewish thought and study. Even today, it's almost a rarity to look at the Nobels issued in any particular year and not find a Jewish name among them. By contrast, Arabs imported the concept of zero from the Hindus over a thousand years ago and have advanced human knowledge little further since.
There are a multitude of reasons bordering on excuses for this. Learning is the pursuit of a kind or type of perfection and one's attitude to it is often a measure of success. If we only walk the treadmills carved by the luminaries of the past, the tracks get deeper, thought hardens into tunnel-visioned principle which solidifies into doctrine which must be defended. Debate, passion and counterintuitive thinking is the fuel for fresh understanding which Talmudic scholars and their modern secular counterparts were and are rather good at. Stephen Hawking at the end of 'A Brief History of Time' wrote: "...if we discover a complete theory, it should in time be understandable by everyone, not just by a few scientists. Then we shall all, philosophers, scientists and just ordinary people, be able to take part in the discussion of the question of why it is that we and the universe exist. If we find the answer to that, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason - for then we should know the mind of God." A soundbite with a grain of truth. God is, and his universe is there to be discovered, to be known about and known and we, stumbling around in the twilight, are freed from the legalism of being compelled to absorb merely facts, instead mine the data for fresh evidence of His love and work. We are not called to merely obey since blind obedience is driven by fear and the unappetising diet of man-pleasing; instead we are called to search out the mysteries of God in the here, in the now as well as in the hereafter. Job's question has an answer after all.

Worship Zumba

2011-10-02T23:51:00.000+03:00

It's good for me to poke fun at myself from time to time; it saves others the trouble of doing it for me. Eschewingchoir practice on Friday morning, as I customarily do, this timeinstead of hanging about like a broke session man awaiting work, Iwent instead to help out the Chinese congregation, where my modestefforts in support of a single digit pianist were received quitewell, I thought. Nobody threw things, at least. Went to a littlesoiree that same evening where we got to sing a few golden oldies and I pretended I was a cross between Ronnie Wood and NoelRichards. The whole gig was remarkably liberating, and I and myguitar had a solid, energetic workout. Worship Zumba sprang to mind.My cup ran over however, when it was brought to my attention that MrSocSec, St.P's answer to Pooh Bear, had posted a video of me playingguitar at last year's Christmas bash chez Church House, whichsomebody I haven't seen for twenty-five years actually RECOGNISED. Itseemed I have been playing the same old garbage undeviatingly for thelast quarter of a century. He's now a perfectly respectable Baptistminister but, hey, we can't all be God's chosen. I can only hope that same film director doesn't postanother of the events last Friday, since it will do little to supportmy paper - thin veneer of urbanity. wit and languid English charm.(How flawed is one's own self-image)

Andnow, as they say, for something completely different. Christmas isnot far away and we are all bending our creative intellect to new andfresh presentations of the old familiar theme, or those of us not in Paris will be. An interactive online project, perhaps, where all our favourite Facebook friends are recastin a unique interpretation of the Bethlehem story, perhaps asanimated farce. I wonder, which of your friends could play a mysticalBVM, sheep-loving shepherd - no Welsh jokes - (that's enough, Ed) orbling-dripping wise man, or even, woman? Whose lusty lungs will inflate to makeup a cacophonic choir of angels? And who would best fitlove-to-hate, anti-hero Herod (Boo!) and that door-slamming concierge at the Bethlehem Marriott? I canalmost hear the casting director's pencil, scribbling.

Rage

2011-09-21T00:22:00.001+03:00

I am,for the most part, comparatively peace-loving, one might say, evenquite languid, in a gentlemanly sort of way. Over recent days,however, whatever patience I possess has been strained to the limitsof its endurance and the decorous constraints imposed by an excellentpublic school education have been let slip like dogs of war,resulting in an almost homicidal rage.

Awell-known telecoms company, seventy million subscribers worldwide,is the focus of my vengeful thoughts, muttered imprecations, cursingand gnashing of teeth and a wish for homicidal retribution even untothe third and fourth generation of each and any representative of thenest of vipers masquerading as a competent and upright organisation.

Thestory runs thus. In April or May, seduced by cheesy advertising, Ibought into this company's fastest Internet dongle but from theoutset, the device ran very slowly, was clearly overheating and aftera few days failed altogether. Not unreasonable. These devices areassembled by sweatshop labour in some polluted,half-forgotten Chinese city andthe probability of defect is high. I contacted them, who sent anengineer having poor English and halitosis who visited at home andattempted to reconfigure the device to look for a different receiver.The irony of the fact that this company is the largest telecomsservice provider in the country and the device should function, albeit slowly, evenin the middle of the desert seemed to have escaped him. Notunsurprisingly, he failed to make it work, I agreed (I hadthought) with the young man that despite his undoubted skill and inthe absence of his offer of a replacement (he was probably absent theday they taught Customer Relations) I would text him. He would cancelthe contract on my behalf, since the fee for early closure was 14KDwhich I had no intention of paying since I had already paid up frontfor the first month's instalment. I heard nothing more from him orthem, thus I assumed with trusting, spectacular naivete that thematter was closed.

Ichecked in early September on my return to Kuwait and discovered thatthe company had been billing me for the last four months presumablyvia a defunct Internet dongle and the current amount outstanding wasa little in excess of 84KD.

Theircomplaints procedure is inflexible and invariant. On calling 107, Iwas told repeatedly that a Technical Services representative wouldcall me to resolve the matter. I made a total of ten calls, spoke toa variety of different helpful young men who promised me faithfullythat my problem was their problem, soothingly told me 'don't worry',something would be done and someone from Technical Services wouldcall. Do stay with me here. I waited, eager to speak with someone whocould and would solve my problem. How many calls did I receive? None.Not a single call. Nada, as attested by the absence of missed callson my phone. Finally, today, I received a text threatening to cut offmy phone account unless I paid the outstanding amount. On theeleventh attempt, and after a number of return calls, I insisted onspeaking to a call centre supervisor who contacted his oppositenumber in Technical Services in Head Office, Shuwaikh, suggesting Igo to said Head Office and plead my case before this gentleman. Withremarkable presence of mind, the Supervisor did tell me that even ifI did track all the way uptown to the Airport Road, this newparticipant in the drama might actually not have the authority toresolve my problem. No doubt it has occurred to you, as it did to me,that there seemed little point in going at all. I am unable tojustify time spent and indeed am strongly disinclined to make my wayto Shuwaikh and track down this person who may indeed be unable toadvance matters further. Additionally, the man I have been advised tospeak to seems unavailable by phone - a call to Head Office sends oneon yet another merry-go-round of 'pressing 1 for service'.

I havetoday paid 84KD. This is transparent, daylight robbery and Inow intend seeking redress with as much vigour, wasta, desk-thumpingand histrionics as I can. British gentlemen do not enrage easily butwhen injustice is so cavalierly administered, they become bloody,bold and as tenacious as a bulldog. If I do not receive satisfaction,I shall go to the Press and the consequent PR damage which thiscompany will suffer as a result of nothing more than incompetencewill cost them rather more than the money which effectively has beenstolen from me.

I feelso much better now.

Postscript. Please ignore all of the foregoing. I met a man who knows a man who has simply and efficiently sorted everything less than twenty four hours after first contact. Now I really do feel much better. Isaac, my new friend and hero, thanks. A giant amongst pygmies.

Godot's Weight

2011-09-17T23:49:00.000+03:00

I really haven't felt like blogging for a few days. No, that's not strictly true, I simply have nothing to say, no particularly favourable wind to set sail by, no firm opinion to hold, no ground upon which one can stand with confidence. It's as if I'm waiting, like Vladimir and Estragon, for something to happen or someone, but not Godot, to arrive. Plenty, I suppose, of weighty things to think about, whether Abbas' pre-emptive speech in Ramallah on Wednesday will turn the Arab world a notch or two on the wheel of fortune or whether the Israelis have a counterpunch which carries sufficient weight, given the alarmingly rapid deterioration in diplomatic cosiness between them and their southwestern neighbours over the hill. Whether the world will allow an entire country, the birthplace of democracy, to go bankrupt and grown men will be seen weeping on the steps of the Acropolis.

Giving thanks at Eden Park

Whether the Fighting Irish could hold back the Australian behemoth at Eden Park today - against all odds they did - and in some style. Fair play to yis, lads. and no tempers lost. I wonder if the unexpected, the fortuitous, the serendipitous, Lady Luck, the Goddess of Fortune or whoever else cares to masquerade as an oracle of the unexpected will turn a favourable card this week. I do hope so.

Social interaction, Tokyo

In the meantime, I await Haruki Murakami's epic novel 1Q84 which is 'poised to take the West by storm'. On his website one reads this lyric...'In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment.' A Japanese Arthur Koestler, perhaps, a postmodern, post-Marxist voice for a forlorn, connected urban generation without direction.

Ten Years

2011-09-11T20:27:00.000+03:00

We all remember wherewe were and what we were doing the day Kennedy was shot, Diana died, and …9-11.

Ten years on, Al-Qaedais no longer the force to be reckoned with that it once was, although theideologies and motivations that spawned the malevolence continue to be taughtin Waziristani madrassas and elsewhere. Yet, its wayward sons, whoseindiscipline in Cairo the other night came close to catastrophe – the guards inthe Israeli Embassy had been instructed to open fire if their liveswere under threat – was averted at the last moment, with the symbolic loss of aflag.

Psalm 46 comes tomind.

At Ground Zero today,President Obama also read from Psalm 46, which seemed to be something of acurious choice since it not only emphasises the trustworthiness of God in faceof adversity but also His retributive power..

Matthew Henrycomments:

This psalm…encourages(us) to hope and trust in God; in his power and providence, and his graciouspresence with his church in the worst of times. We may apply it to spiritualenemies, and the encouragement we have that, through Christ, we shall beconquerors over them.

Perhaps thespeechwriters were sending a message.

Jonathan Aitken(convicted of perjury, incidentally, former Cabinet Minister and president ofChristian Solidarity Worldwide) comments under the title ‘God in Catastrophe’quoting John Stott.

‘The name of MartinLuther will always be associated with this psalm. His famous hymn "Ein'feste Burg ist unser Gott" is a free paraphrase of it. He and hiscollaborator, Philipp Melanchthon would sing it together in times of darkdiscouragement. Thomas Carlyle has made it familiar to English readers by histranslation "A Safe Stronghold our God is still". It is a sublimeexpression of quiet confidence in God's sovereignty amid the upheavals ofnature and history.’

“God is our refuge and strength, a very presenthelp in trouble.

Therefore, we will not fear, even though the earthbe removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.

Though its waters roar and be troubled, though themountains shake with its swelling, there’s a river whose streams shall makeglad the City of God, the holy place of the Tabernacle of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her. She shall not bemoved. God shall help her just at the break of dawn.

The nations raged, the kingdoms were moved. Heuttered his voice. The earth melted.

The Lord of Hosts is with us. The God of Jacob isour refuge.

Come behold the works of the Lord who has madedesolations in the Earth.

He makes wars cease to the ends of the Earth.

He breaks the bough and cuts the spear in two.

He burns the chariot in fire.

Be still and know that I am God. I will be exaltedamong the nations. I will be exalted in the Earth.

The Lord of Hosts is with us.

The God of Jacob is our refuge.”

Ten years ago, Ariel Sharon declared a national day of mourning. Today, Shimon Peres phoned Obama, telling him:

"The Israeli nation has sharedhappy times with you, but has also shed tears with you a decade ago. TodayIsrael once again bows its head as America mourns the loss."

By contrast, many erupted in celebration asthe Twin Towers burned. In Palestinian Authority held territory it was reported at the time that the safety of journalists reporting on the jubilant response in the streets 'could not be guaranteed'. H’m.

Contrasts

2011-09-04T23:59:00.002+03:00

There's a certain poignancy about spending a final Sunday in Paris. Much as the day itself turned out, weather was changeable - storming hard with great dark droplets, then blue skies breaking up fluffy white cloud. I had promised myself a return visit to Theatre Bobino in Montparnasse to Hillsong Paris, not least because Brian and Bobbie Houston, senior pastors, were in attendance which is a bit like an Archdeacon's Visitation but much less formal.

Things were going well, the place was packed to the rafters - it seats 850 and they're going to need to find something bigger soon - and the worship songs, mostly French translations from the new Hillsong album were obviously well-known. English subtitles were up on the multimedia screen. Within ten minutes of Brian's opening, the smoke alarms went off and the entire placed plunged into silence and darkness, with the exception of emergency lights and instructions over a temporary PA from the firemen in attendance - a legal requirement. They were using some dry ice earlier and I did wonder if the guy working the valve had been a bit over-enthusiastic with it. I watched with interest since the whole outfit is multimedia based, so lighting, computers, sound systems all collapsed and I wondered whether people would stick it out or leave while the organisers figured out what to do. We waited, chatted and sang a bit a capella. Brian has a fine Pentecostal pastor's voice, but didn't attempt to carry on with his message, just suggested that since there might be a few spare minutes, if you had come with your girlfriend, now might be a good time to propose to her. I sat next to a very nervous and rather proper-looking young French girl who looked as if she were probably a Catholic since she sat woodenly most of the time in contrast to most of the rest of the crowd who were letting it all hang out with a good deal of abandon. She told me that she'd been 'invited by a friend to come and have a look' but seemed as out of place as a Muslim at an Irish wake.

After almost half an hour, we were back online. I was impressed with the fact that preacher Brian didn't repeat everything he'd said originally - the word du jour seems to be that when a lot of people recognise and exercise their abilities rather than just a few buttressing the whole structure, the Church gets built - 1 Peter 4:10 being the main text. The meeting did go a bit formulaic after he'd wrapped up with general prayer for healing, prosperity, salvation and so on. I left during the last part of the meeting to find His Own Self standing in the foyer, so, being me, I stuck my hand out and we exchanged a few words. Which was nice.

Lunch in the Marais on a Sunday is always a buzz. The Jewish places are open and the gays hangouts are crowded - a satisfying interlude with good charcuterie and cheese without tourist prices.

Paris itself is surprisingly crowded everywhere on a Sunday, mostly with locals reclaiming their city - not a Japanese camera plus attached tourist in sight. We wandered down to Opéra to catch a movie. Melancholia was on the list. Lars Von Trier (Dogville, Dancer in the Dark, Breaking Waves) is an interesting director and something of an acquired taste. This psychological disaster movie is apparently somewhat autobiographical since his childhood was plagued with fears of nuclear war. Critics seem divided, so you might like to judge for yourself whether it's worth seeing. The movie starts and finishes with a planet crashing into the Earth so since we know how it's going to end it's what happens in between that's interesting. Kirsten Dunst, Kiefer Sutherland, a raffish and exceedingly wrinkled John Hurt and beautifully waspish Charlotte Rampling provided some heavyweight personality. Dunst goes commando, if you like that sort of thing. The score from Tristan and Isolde was quite beautiful, in a regretful kind of way.

Finally quite a good dinner at Brasserie des Capucines, around the corner. Few tourists.Very bobo...

Foodie? Moi?

2011-09-03T13:52:00.003+03:00

Skipjack tuna tartare with salicornia ( Ile d'Oléron), August 2011

The longer I live in France,the fussier I get. No, that's not true. The more aware I become when peopleserve me rubbishy, careless food in restaurants. Having a perfectly cookedchicken, with exactly the right sauce - even with potatoes superbly crisped induck fat - if the poor, impoverished fowl itself was reared in some kind ofDotheboys Hall of a slaughterhouse where, were it human, the Health and Safetypeople would put the owner out of business, you can't expect it to taste betterthan mouldy cardboard. Why in otherwise quite luxurious hotels do people servebreakfast bacon the colour of unhealed wounds, mushrooms swimming slimily inoverheated brine and desiccated tomatoes with blackened skins which masqueradeas 'grilled'? In many parts of the world, people don't ask how your hamburgershould be cooked, they simply char it to blackness for 'health and safetyreasons', which is petty, juvenile and suggests that the meat has not beenminced and prepared on-site and the management can therefore take noresponsibility for its bacterial content. Asking for good steak to be 'well done' isan insult to the animal who gave its life to feed you.

Which brings me to salads. Ungarnished salads are like turning up to dinner at the Archdeacon's stark naked. So, Caesarsalad. A surprisingly easy recipe. This is how to do it properly.

Ingredients

1 large,free-range egg.

1 or 2 large cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed.

Juice from half a lime.

2 tsp Worcestershire sauce.

4-5anchovy fillets, chopped (this is not optional and the anchovies must be salted, not marinated).

3 tbsp good quality olive oil,plus a little extra for frying.

freshly ground black pepper.

25g/1oz parmesan cheese,coarsely grated, not the sawdust from the supermarket

1 cos (aka romaine) lettuce, washed, spunand torn into pieces.

2 thickslices of white bread,crusts removed, cubed.

Preparation

Placethe egg in a pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Boil for 1 minute andthen plunge into cold water to stop the cooking process.

Once theegg is cool enough to handle, crack the egg into a food processor and add the garlic,lime juice, Worcestershire sauce, anchovies and oil. Process well and addpepper to taste.

Placethe lettuce in a bowl.

Fry thebread cubes in a little olive oil until crispy, then drain well on kitchen paper.

Toserve, pour the dressing over the leaves and add the croutons and parmesan.Toss well and serve at once.

Andfinally...

Addingpineapple to pizza and calling it 'Hawaiian' insults the intelligence andshould be punishable by electrodes being attached to sensitive body parts.

Not thatI'm fussy, or anything like that.

Watersheds

2011-09-02T13:41:00.000+03:00

When I was a child, my father wasfriends with a tall, energetic man called John Stott who died just over amonth ago. He was educated at the same school as I was, where he was Head Boy. When I was there, I remember reading some of his work. A good deal has been written about him, almost all of it positiveand affirming. He was not a stage preacher, a rabble-rouser but a quiet,scholarly and methodical preacher of the Gospel, author of over fifty books andwas described as ‘making light shine on the words of Scripture’. Not a badepitaph.

His death is a watershed moment inthe history of modern evangelicalism. He represented a faith which was notneo-fundamentalism but a bold effort to engage and love a rapidly changingworld. He wrote in “The Cross of Christ” :

“GoodSamaritans will always be needed to succour those who are assaulted and robbed;yet it would be even better to rid the Jerusalem-Jericho road of brigands.”

He was the figurehead of a renewal movement in Christianity which wasgenuinely reformational in spirit, inthat a major focus was sharing theology with the men and women in the pews inrecognition that these people with jobs and families were the real priests onthe frontline. In contrast with the pietism of past generations, this infusionof knowledge was intended to spur an outpouring of love; not only was thetraditional evangelical emphasis on the "great commission" ofdisciple-making celebrated, so was the "greatest commandment" ofloving your neighbour.

Neglecting denominational prejudice,the ‘evangelical wing’ of the church is a behemoth, a vast network. Millions ofChinese converts, South Korean missionaries, South American Pentecostals, Congoleseimmigrants to Dublin – the world is suddenly a village. Personally I have notime for neo-Calvinist claptrap which emphasizes predestination and which hasoften so easily been confused with “evangelicalism’ the sniggering of theAnglo-Catholics notwithstanding. Neither am I impressed with the Romans Road soterianswho build an entire church culture around their view of salvation since this is nothing more than growth without depth.

These are troubling thoughts – since I‘know’ how to share Christ, which is really tantamount to nothing more thangiving testimony, but discipleship isquite another matter, since those who are influenced by what we say aresometimes often rebranded versions of our own poorly thought out and frequentlymisinformed theology. Opinion most prevalent is that we are all too often leftto ‘work out’ our own salvation with a good deal of bewilderment as well asfear and trembling but this isn’t discipleship and I’m comforted by the factthat this isn’t what the church is for. As for loving my neighbour, the more Ithink about it the less I really understand what it means. This is of course no bad thing.Wearisome as the phrase is, the Holy Spirit does not just comfort the afflictedbut afflicts the comfortable.

Treasure Hidden

2011-09-01T00:27:00.013+03:00

A short TV clip caught my attention today. A few kilometers from St Julien is Vallon Pont-D’Arc, the gateway to the Ardèche. I visited it last year, along with thousands of other tourists. Hidden away, within earshot of the chattering, lay the Grotte Chauvet-Pont d'Arc with its cave paintings dating back 32,000 years. France has many such sites, all of which have been more or less spoiled by the tramp of tourist feet, the bacteria in their breath and the exposure to the twenty-first century that they brought with them. So far, the Chauvet grotto, home to the oldest jewel of Paleolithic cave art yet discovered, is unique in the world and considered to be the birthplace of the art, the cradle of artistic creation. Mammoth, bison, lions, hyenas and other exotic, long-extinct wildlife are depicted. The only thing missing are portraits of the artists themselves; perhaps they considered themselves as mere observers and recorders of creation, too insignificant for their own inclusion. The cavity was discovered in South Ardèche as recently as December 1994 and this treasure is to be handled differently. It will never be revealed to mass tourism; a replica will be made instead. I shall be leaving France in a few days and I was thinking about how much I have seen superficially and know a little about and yet how very little I really understand or have simply not been aware of. Just as the speleologists who first came upon it marveled at the fact that it had been there all the time - under their noses - and anthropologists studied the sophistication of the representations; better than the two dimensional Egyptian and Babylonian remains of so much later when culture was supposed to be higher and men lived in great cities like Nineveh and Thebes. This little movie tells the story.

The older we get, the less we really know, it would seem.

The Rich and the Righteous

2011-08-31T12:47:00.003+03:00

A friend posted recently about abuse of wealth and privilege, which started a train of thought about the appropriately moral use of both and I found myself in something of a dilemma, since I have always had a problem with both giving and receiving. If I give more, does that make me more ‘spiritual’ than he who gives less? How should I calculate what I need, righteously separated from what I want and should I subtract it first so that I know how much I have to give away? Is giving just money? Can I quantify what I have received against some arbitrary yardstick? Questions such as these, deceptively simple, occasionally trouble my thinking like burrs on a sweater. We are creatures of precedent, after all, so to whom should we look for guidance and do the role models we select genuinely fit with a postmodern, materially fuelled lifestyle?

This from Basil of Caesarea…

“If you have been blessed with more money and goods than others, it is so you can meet the needs of those others. It takes wealth to care for the needy; a little paid out for the needs of each person, and all at once there is sharing. Whoever loves his neighbour as himself [as Christ taught], will not hold on to more than his neighbour has.” (Sermon: To the Rich)

Basil's contemporary, John Chrysostom, bishop of Antioch, echoed this.

"Wealth is like a snake; it will twist around the hand and bite unless one knows how to use it properly."

The huge injustices that wealth creates are intolerable to him. But Chrysostom is no proto-Marxist.

"Should we require soldiers to come and seize the rich person’s gold and distribute it among his destitute neighbors? Should we beg the emperor to impose a tax on the rich so great that it reduces them to the level of the poor and then to share the proceeds of that tax among everyone?"
"Equality imposed by force would achieve nothing, and do much harm. The rich whose gold was taken away would feel bitter and resentful; while the poor who received the gold form the hands of soldiers would feel no gratitude, because no generosity would have prompted the gift. Far from bringing moral benefit to society, it would actually do moral harm. Material justice cannot be accomplished by compulsion; a change of heart will not follow. The only way to achieve true justice is to change people’s hearts first — and then they will joyfully share their wealth." (On Living Simply)

How very revolutionary of him and how hopelessly far I have strayed. The poor are not slaves to the rich in the Kingdom of Heaven.

A few desert-dwellers who think they can treat people like cattle because of their wealth and influence might do well to bear it in mind.

Hopeful Travel

2011-08-29T00:19:00.007+03:00

Travelling on bucket shop airlines can hardly be in the category of grand luxe where one is offered lottery tickets by wide-eyed and enthusiastic cabin staff and you have to pay for the drinks. Fetching up in foreign airports when the bus ride to one’s destination take longer than the flight is hardly business class. It must be admitted, however, that there are one or two hidden advantages.

Arriving in Beauvais is a delight, not least because one can pick one’s luggage off the arrival carousel within seconds of disembarkation and also because the old town, largely ignored by the travellers being shovelled into buses for Paris, is quiet and its cathedral, optimistically named St Peter's, has the tallest Gothic interior in Europe. They built a spire once, but it fell down, being over a hundred and fifty metres in height, which would have made it the second highest structure in the world in the mid sixteenth century, but its absence takes nothing from the grandeur of a sexpartite vaulted ceiling almost fifty metres high.

I liked it particularly because, just like the Church, it's not finished. Various builders had tried to develop the structure over the centuries in order to allow maximum light inside and the consequent collapses, trial and error is a masterpiece of hopeful travel, the incomplete nave, originally Roman, a paradigm of the journey of faith we all undertake.

Seeking Vikings

2011-08-27T22:35:00.017+03:00

A very bored moose. Or, possibly, elk.

If you want to know all about Stockholm, plus pictures, forget it. Look on the internet; that's what it's for. If you want to know what the Vikings were up to, you can buy a T shirt with all the venues and gigs on it from 793 to 1066. If I were to tell you that the city is beautiful, relaxed and full of confident, happy people with blonde hair, blue eyes and remarkably good teeth, you probably wouldn't believe me. Should I venture to suggest that a large proportion were outdoorsy, fit, and walk around wearing backpacks - with full access for the disabled - this too might not be believed, especially in the light of the fact that tattoo and piercing parlours flourish and quite a number of persons engrave themselves, often inappropriately. If I were to also suggest that the city was unpolluted, traffic by Parisian standards was light and well-behaved and people obeyed the 'don't walk' signs, I can almost hear a lightly mocking laugh. I could also make a guess that it is possible to travel in outstandingly clean relative comfort, without snarling or crowd control, to reach from one side of the archipelago to the other in less than an hour by bus, tram, tunnelbahn or boat.

One such boat does a hop-on-hop-off circuit and one stop houses the rather impressive Nordic Museum and also the Vasa.

A very expensive mistake

In 1626, King Gustav II Adolf ordered his finest shipbuilders to build a vessel fit for a king. With an extra tier of gunports. Nobody could quite summon the political will to tell His Majesty that this was a really, really bad idea, which was a shame, because the customer isn't always right. Workers toiled night and day for two years to assemble a beautifully carved warship which sank within one nautical mile of her launching dock on her maiden voyage in Stockholm harbour, blown over by a light squall. The extra gunports meant that there wasn't enough room for the ballast so the great beast simply toppled over like a pot-bellied pig, where she lay in embarrassed silence for the next three hundred and some years. Gustav was, understandably, a mite ticked, but since the extra gunports were his idea in the first place he agreed to let bygones be bygones and nobody was flogged or executed for carelessness. He had the idea of decorating his masterpiece with brightly coloured, intricate carvings of Roman Caesars, with the exception of Augustine, who was replaced by himself. King David also features in the lineup, since His Majesty was something of an admirer and regarded his Lutheran inspired warfare against his Catholic cousin Sigismund, King of Poland in much the same way as he had read that David attacked the Philistines. Oh, dear, not again...

Rather better engineering raised the entire boat intact in 1961 and over 95% of the original structure has been recovered, the brackish waters of the Baltic having prevented extensive damage from seaborne worms.

A very nice little house

The next stop on the boat tour was Djurgården on which is housed Skansen, or Sweden in miniature, houses assembled in a living museum of mostly Swedish history amidst pleasant woodland. Apple-cheeked, flaxen-haired and pigtailed maidens in traditional clothing give history lessons in the buildings while doing a little crochet. There's also a small zoo housing mostly Scandinavian animals. I have always wanted to see an elk, although the psychology of wanting to see a very large deer wearing a pair of oven gloves on its head is probably labyrinthine and obscure. After the brown bears, wolves and grey seals, we were finally introduced. The female and its fawn looked at me disinterestedly and I can tick it off on the bucket list. The photograph is of the creature in the next enclosure who gets in because it has antlers. I thought it was a male elk, but my so-called 'friends' from Canada tell me it's a moose. It looked quite stupidly at me so perhaps they're right.

Mediaeval Detours

2011-08-25T23:50:00.005+03:00

Humans have lived in Eymet, a small town south of Bergerac in the Dordogne for thousands of years. Tools dating from all the prehistoric periods have been found and jewellery and domestic utensils indicate Bronze Age habitation. The dolmen of Eylias and the sites of standing stones, the "Peyrelevades", suggest the existence of a Gallic cult, a "nemet", which is probably the origin of the town's name. These days, it’s the Brits who have taken over, forty per cent of the population, perhaps in response to Sidoine Apollinaire, the Latin poet who wrote: “This entire valley is so full of vineyards flowered meadows, cultivated fields, fruit tree plantations deliciously shaded by hedges, watered by springs crossed by streams, rich in harvests, that their owners seem to have had a vision of paradise.” Fourteen out of sixteen B and B’s I am reliably informed, are owned and run by the old enemy, the English, one of whom I had a drink with the other day in his half-finished farmhouse a few kilometers out of town. Pensions don’t go quite as far in the Dordogne as they once did, however, and those planning a retirement servicing the British community with marmalade and Marmite had better think again. I did however find a book or two in the Thursday market, where the English sellers are outclassed by the natives in terms of goods and salesmanship by the locals; nevertheless I ended up paying less than a third of the cost of a new copy in W H Smith in rue de Rivoli.

On the way westward, a small hilltop village caught our eye. Flanked by pristinely kept vineyards and surprisingly large châteaux, a short detour was rewarded by an hour or two in St Emilion, which every wine drinker knows is world-famous for its reds in particular.

For the serious buffs, Château Ausone and Château Cheval Blanc are the only two wines currently classified as ‘premiers grands crus classes A’, but there are over fifty grands crus in the region. Apparently. The original owner of the Ausone lands was the Latin poet Ausonius, a late and perhaps not very enthusiastic convert to Christianity, who died about 395 CE. The modern town, only seven hundred years old, was founded by a monk, Emilion, who decided to live in a cave and around whom a cult grew based on the fruit of the vine and, presumably, of the Spirit. Mediaeval streets and monuments are remarkably well-preserved and there are old churches, ramparts and underground monuments – even a monolithic church plus catacombs - to explore.

Parts of it reminded me of the Old City in Jerusalem, or even small Tuscan villages, probably because of the narrow, cobbled escalettes and the pervasive remnants of monasticism in the cloisters. Ah, Rome again…

Joe and Mary

2011-08-20T15:53:00.004+03:00

It seemed a good idea at the time. Leaving Bordeaux - grey, uninspiring and rather too linear for my ragamuffin taste, for a visit to Arcachon on the Atlantic coast. We were rather hoping to pick up a boat at Thiers jetty and see the houses on stilts,admire the architecture - very New Orleans and chill suitably in a harbour café. But, no. The traffic into town was worse than Fahaheel on a Friday night. Customarily, we find pallets on which to lay a weary head very much along the lines of banging on the door and demanding entrance. I stopped the car outside a quite chic three star establishment. A concierge self-importantly informed me with a thin smile that there was nothing available in Arcachon. I made the mistake of not believing him and spent the next hour pleading importunately at hotel desks. "On a rien, monsieur" - the litany turned into a mantra. It seemed that the entire tourist population had descended on the town for purposes unspecified, traffic was choking and my temper was shortening by the minute. Short of stuffing a cushion up Gipsy's front and asking if they might have a garage to spare, I was rapidly running out of ideas, and perhaps for the first time in my life felt a little like another weary traveller who got into town a bit late one night with nowhere to sleep. Eventually, even stables being unavailable I headed back towards Bordeaux and spotted a construction of glass and steel which turned out to be a four star spa resort hotel.

OK. The hell with the cost. King size beds, a thingy to plug your iPhone into and some very impressive facilities. Nine separate shower heads and a pool with aquabiking and jacuzzi. Nice...

We were close enough to town to see The Dune du Pilat, the largest sand dune in Europe, formed during the eighteenth century from sand accumulated by west winds off the Atlantic. Feeling a little like taking coals to Newcastle, we climbed it, fortunately on a sunless morning; in the heat it would have felt like the Sahara. Surrounded by forest, nearly three kilometres long and five hundred metres wide, it’s an impressive slice of silicon dioxide, I have to say. Stairs take you to the summit, over a hundred metres in height. The view over Arcachon Bay would perhaps have been pleasanter at sunset, but, much like Joe and Mary, beggars could not be choosers.

Old Money

2011-08-14T21:39:00.001+03:00

Ernest Hemingway is responsible for a famous misquotation of F Scott Fitzgerald's. According to Hemingway, a conversation between him and Fitzgerald went:

Fitzgerald: 'The rich are different than you and me.'

Hemingway: 'Yes, they have more money.'

This never actually happened; it is a retelling of an actual encounter between Hemingway and a female acquaintance. This was brought to mind by a visit made yesterday to Old Money. We were invited to stay overnight on our way south at a Burgundy farmhouse, some of which dated from the seventeenth century and had been in the family for generations, complete with lake and gigantic sequoia. The place stood in its own grounds, had survived the ravages of the Revolution and had been added to tastefully over the years. What was somewhat ironic was that wealth wasn’t paraded like a trophy – no gold Rolexes or Aston Martins in the driveways – but instead was present in antique furniture and works of art on the walls – several examples of an early and quite obscure Impressionist bought because the owner simply liked them. The art world is secretive about auction prices but a fairly cursory search revealed a number of recent oeuvres had been on the market – I happen to know where at least one of them ended up.

Dinner was for fourteen, presided over by la maîtresse with sons, daughters and their spouses in attendance. I felt I had to be on best behaviour since she had drawn up a written seating plan and placed me next to her. One son is a world authority on Egyptian philosophy, another is an impossibly senior antiquarian at Versailles and an authority on the Napoleonic period, and the ‘girlie’ of the family became an artist and landscaper. I felt intellectually outclassed since everyone but me seemed to speak at least three languages. I should like to say that I enjoyed myself. I did not. The old house, beautiful as it undoubtedly was, had a melancholy resonance about it, its secrets held close, small islands of truth and honesty poked their heads up like lonely icebergs in an ocean of stiff formalism but the unspoken narratives were deep and voluminous. A child, autistic perhaps and lacking compassion, eyed me guilelessly, a paradigm for the emotionally shuttered adults surrounding her.

Customer Service

2011-08-10T13:11:00.007+03:00

The other day, I had occasion to make a phone call to a financial institution. Spending time on the phone with a customer service agent is an interesting exercise in the art of developing patience, eliciting wistful thoughts about converting to Buddhism. In addition, calls are recorded “for quality assurance purposes” but only the company has access to the tape, so there’s no meaningful record of the conversation - at least from the customer’s perspective. How very convenient.

I dialed and went through the usual labyrinth of “ for pension advice, press four”. "If you wish to speak to a service representative, press ‘hash’ then ‘the last four digits of your Social Security number, followed by ‘hash’". Waiting to listen to all the options means that you’ve forgotten what option two was for and end up pressing the first convenient button in the hope that somewhere in the cowshed of a building where such calls are handled there’s actually someone there, someone who preferably speaks a little English and isn’t a minimum wage leprous Romanian who’s hired by the day. Hoop-jumping completed. I waited, trying not to listen to not very soothing music. Female voice “Your call is important to us….blah..” No it isn’t, you mindless, patronising hussy. If it were, I would now be speaking to a real person, not an inflatable like you. More vapid (and identical) soothing music plus additional reassurance of the vital importance of my call. My fingers tightened imperceptibly on the phone as I entertained myself by thinking how nice it would be to bang someone's head against the wall. Finally, a youngish male voice who “needs to run through a few security checks with me”. My mother’s maiden name? Haven’t a clue but best guess what I might have said thirty years ago when first asked gets me past. There is such a sense of relief that one is actually communicating with a human being that one bonds with the youth, gormless as he undoubtedly is, as one might bond with a kidnapper.

Business concluded. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” Unless he’s offering to wash my car or buy me dinner he can get the hell off the line. “Thank you for calling”. I can hear the gratitude in his voice.

Bicycles. Amongst Other Things.

2011-08-09T00:53:00.008+03:00

I’d been wanting to write something about Amsterdam for some time. The Dutch are tolerant, liberal and are so laid back, they are almost horizontal, in contrast to their town houses which are characteristically arranged vertically, with small rooms and several floors. Usually curtainless, one sees people eating or walking around in them in various stages of undress, at least that was the case on the picturesque island where we stayed with friends. Our Mexican hostess said much the same about her home town, adding that houseowners usually left their doors open as well. Only the tourists gawp, rudely. The message is clear, nothing to hide. In France, the situation is precisely reversed. French exteriors are often shuttered and nondescript, rarely as interesting as the inner courtyards and there is often a nightly ritual of closing the shutters. It occurred to me that this might be because Holland has a history of Protestant reform, and France is predominantly Catholic with attendant guilt.

Tourists arriving at Central Station however, invariably do gawp at the sight of the multi-story 'bicycle flat', a parking structure used by thousands daily and unless your ride is pimped in some recognisable way it might be difficult to locate it. One has to bear in mind that bicycles outnumber people in Holland and they are everywhere – car parking being prohibitively expensive. Not for the Dutch the flamboyant, flat-handlebarred multigeared varieties so beloved of the French – these are tall Oxford machines with no gears and curved handlebars, their riders expertly weaving in and out of pedestrians, who are expected to get out of the way, or along specially built cycle lanes. There’s something almost erotic about a tall, willowy Dutch girl with arrow-straight back, skirt billowing, and hair flying, chatting to a friend on a mobile phone while effortlessly negotiating all obstacles around the University. The public transport system just – well – works. Trams and buses get you, hassle-free, wherever you need to go and if you don’t happen to have exactly the right pre-purchased ticket, that’s OK too. We headed south toward Dam Square, flanked by the Royal Palace and the Nieuwe Kerk (New Church, built 1408, newer than the Oude Kerk - there must be a joke there somewhere) to the west and the National Monument, commemorating the victims of World War II, to the east.

Shopping in Kalverstraat, we found the alley that leads to the Begijnhof, a peaceful hidden courtyard edged with charming homes of single women who pledge their time for religious service. There’s also a tiny chapel where a magnificent baritone was rehearsing Vaughan Williams for a concert that evening.

Beyond this lies the rest of Amsterdam: a series of concentric and bisecting canals, known as the Grachtengordel (canal ring). Lined with centuries-old gabled canal houses, the area is beautifully intact, not just a preserved open-air museum; it is still the functional heart of the city, vibrant and energetic.

The canals are punctuated by churches that can be used to navigate the city. With its distinctive blue crown, the tower of Westerkerk (West Church) is the tallest in Amsterdam, dominating the skyline near the Anne Frank House and the Homomonument a testament to Dutch liberalism.

Being gay isn't exactly compulsory but, there's - er - a lot of it about...Following the canals southeast brought us to the quaint shopping and dining quarter called the Negen Straatejs or '9 Streets'. Wandering further crosses humpbacked bridges and through alleys filled with countless café terraces. These often give directly on to a canal – regardless of health and safety. The British or the French would insist the café owners build small retaining walls or chain-link fences – not so the Dutch. It’s not apparently unusual for a customer, full of beery bonhomie, to topple backwards into the canal, to the riotous amusement of all. It’s only about a metre deep, so the chance of fatality is slight. I was given a whistle-stop tour of the red-light district from a friend who used to live there, and who had a disturbingly encyclopaedic knowledge of what kind of attractions were available in any one of a dozen tiny alleyways flanked by full-length windowed doorways where the occupants were displaying their wares quite unashamedly – they pay taxes after all.

Brits, unsurprisingly, head for Oudezijds Voorburgwal, and find the original Bulldog ‘coffee house’. It might be a bit passé now, but this is where it all began back in 1975 and Number 90 is generally recognised as having been the first ‘coffeeshop’ in Amsterdam. Not the best cannabis in town but the orange juice is good and, being in the heart of the red-light district, the views are interesting. The police are, it is said, tolerant towards Brits who wander up and down, stoned off their faces. Did I? What do you think…?
The Dutch are great readers, so I felt quite at home, not least in the iconic Bibliotheek - a seven storey, open plan library with a self-service restaurant offering some of the best food in the city and also the finest views.

Fellow Travellers

2011-08-07T13:02:00.002+03:00

I was in Holland some days ago and it was noticeable that the Dutch are a clear-thinking, organised and rational people. A friend whom I admire very much sent me the following and I reproduce it here in its entirety. In the manner of ‘The Canterbury Tales’, Erasmus of Rotterdam comments - not very flatteringly - on his companions on a pilgrimage to Walsingham. We sometimes require more of our fellow-pilgrims than they are perhaps capable of giving.

Hans Holbein "Erasmus of Rotterdam" 1523 National Gallery, London

Desiderius Erasmus, 1466-1536

Erasmus stands as the supreme type of cultivated common sense applied to human affairs. He rescued theology from the pedantries of the Schoolmen, exposed the abuses of the Church, and did more than any other single person to advance the Revival of Learning.

* * *

From The Praise of Folly (1509)

The merchants are the biggest fools of all. They carry on the most sordid business and by the most corrupt methods. Whenever it is necessary, they will lie, perjure themselves, steal, cheat, and mislead the public. Nevertheless, they are highly respected because of their money. There is no lack of flattering friars to kowtow to them, and call them Right Honourable in public. The motive of the friars is clear: they are after some of the loot. . . .

. . . After the lawyers come the philosophers, who are reverenced for their beards and the fur on their gowns. They announce that they alone are wise and that the rest of men are only passing shadows. . . . The fact that they can never explain why they constantly disagree with each other is sufficient proof that they do not know the truth about anything. They know nothing at all, yet profess to know everything. They are ignorant even of themselves, and are often too absent-minded or near-sighted to see the ditch or stone in front of them. . . .

. . . Perhaps it would be wise to pass over the theologians in silence. That short-tempered and supercilious crew is unpleasant to deal with. . . . They will proclaim me a heretic. With this thunderbolt they terrify the people they don't like. Their opinion of themselves is so great that they behave as if they were already in heaven; they look down pityingly on other men as so many worms. A wall of imposing definitions, conclusions, corollaries, and explicit and implicit propositions protects them. They are full of big words and newly-invented terms. . . .

. . . Next to the theologians in happiness are those who commonly call themselves the religious and monks. Both are complete misnomers, since most of them stay as far away from religion as possible, and no people are seen more often in public. They are so detested that it is considered bad luck if one crosses your path, and yet they are highly pleased with themselves. They cannot read, and so they consider it the height of piety to have no contact with literature.... Most of them capitalise on their dirt and poverty by whining for food from door to door. . . . These smooth fellows simply explain that by their very filth, ignorance, boorishness, and insolence they enact the lives of the apostles for us. It is amusing to see how they do everything by rule, almost mathematically. Any slip is sacrilege, each shoe string must have so many knots and must be of a certain colour. . . . They even condemn each other, these professors of apostolic charity, making an extraordinary stir if a habit is belted incorrectly or if its colour is a shade too dark. . . . The monks of certain orders recoil in horror from money, as if it were poison, but not from wine or women. They take extreme pains, not in order to be like Christ, but to be unlike each other. Most of them consider one heaven an inadequate reward for their devotion to ceremony and traditional details. They forget that Christ will condemn all of this and will call for a reckoning of that which He has prescribed, namely, charity.

Ah, yes. Charity.

From a song I once used to sing…

If I speak with tongues of men and of angels
If I prophesy, and understand all
Though I have all faith for mountains to be removed
Though I feed the poor, and give up my life...

If I have not Charity

If love does not flow from me

I am nothing

Jesus, reduce me to love.

Fungi Au Naturel

2011-08-05T22:23:00.005+03:00

Those who know me - even a little - will be aware of the fact that as outdoorsy types go, I am at the back of the queue. Ce n'est pas mon métier. Not really my glass of tea, as it were. I, let the record show, once drove two hundred miles back home from a camping trip to fetch a mattress because sleeping on hard, unsympathetic ground gave me backache. No sniggering, please.
No-one was more surprised than I at the willingness with which I agreed, or at least, surprisingly failed to make formal protest, when it was suggested to me that a trip to the forest to gather mushrooms was a really good idea. I looked outside. Rain had been falling intermittently all day. The ground was sodden and there was more than a hint of further downpour. I found myself in Caterpillar boots tramping along a narrow lane, climbing through a barbed wire fence and into, not a small spinney, or even a copse, but a fully formed, mature forest, devoid of human habitation, populated with flora and presumably also fauna if the hunting signs were to be believed; a very long way from a Starbuck's. The leaf canopy was close, but not close enough to prevent rain which had again begun to fall vertically and remorselessly since leaving the car gently soaking me to the bone. This was not, I have to say, a quiet stroll along well-manicured paths. We walked. For some time. Secondary forest can be quite impenetrable and its branches young and supple enough to whiplash back quite sharply, catching one unawares, but, silly moi, I had forgotten to pack the machete.

The ground was a uniform kaleidoscope of green and brown. As instructed, I looked in vain for small, white, fungi poking their heads cleanly above the leaf-mould, but competition with local slugs made most a touch more difficult to spot. The one pictured was the cleanest and most presentable I could find. Regular readers will be aware that my companion is an expert botanist, and as such, specimens in a variety of colours in what can only be described as various stages of decay were identified in Latin with squeaks of excitement. One species in particular when cut and the flesh exposed to the air immediately oxidised and turned a cyanotic blue, which brought back a faint memory of the reaction between oxygen and psilocybin - characteristically blue magic mushrooms. The ones in the video are edible. Apparently. I couldn't help but recall that fungi were also the cause of athlete's foot, which will no doubt provoke helpless laughter from those better informed than I.
As an afterword, filet de boeuf with wild mushrooms was on the menu later. Tee hee...

The Importance of Being Earnest, also Truthful

2011-08-03T22:50:00.008+03:00

I was once mistaken for Stephen Fry by a group of excited British schoolchildren. It was midwinter in Austria and it has to be said I was muffled suitably against the inclement weather thus, fortunately, little of my face was visible. [note to myself - see a dermatologist]. Let it be understood, I have been trying by all means possible to make the image smaller and less conspicuously grotesque.

My companion - with spectacular presence of mind - walked over to the adolescent squeakers and gawpers on the other side of the street and entreated them to 'leave him alone, he's here for a bit of peace and quiet' which they were courteous enough to do. I only mention this because I happened to pick up a copy of his latest book - 'The Fry Chronicles' and am two-thirds of the way through it. In times past, people have been kind (or misguided) enough to apportion the sobriquet of 'wordsmith' to my lumbering efforts. If so, I am a blacksmith to Stephen's filigree jeweller. The man uses words as if they were liquid, dripping and coruscating honey on to the page. Comes from three wasted years at Cambridge and a degree in Eng Lit, I suppose.

He is an atheist - probably troubled by guilt - but this interchange between himself and Anne Widdecombe - formerly Conservative MP for Maidstone and a passionate advocate of the Catholic Church is too good to miss. It's part of a now iconic clash of Titans - 'the Intelligence Squared Debate'. Here's an abridged link...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fN3zDtfivc&feature=player_embedded

I'm reminded of Dante's "Inferno" where the ninth and final circle of hell is reserved for the treacherous. Together with Judas in this region of hell are others who, by betraying their masters or benefactors, committed crimes with great historical and societal consequences. Completely encased in ice - like "straw in glass" - the shades are locked in various antagonistic postures with no mobility or sound and, it would appear, can only gnaw and gibber wordlessly at each other. Dante's use of irony is never used better. The greatest punishment would seem to be the inability to express an opinion. Stephen expresses his with considerable deftness here. Again, worth a look, repetition notwithstanding. Anne Widdecombe's strangled tones and unfortunate physiognomy were a source of great material for the satirists of the '90's. Fry and Laurie were the archetypal comedy duo of the late '80's before the angrier and (in my opinion) less talented Rik Mayall and Ben Elton seized the mantle. As a matter of interest, I saw Fry in his final appearance in "Cell Mates" with Mayall before he disappeared with a nervous breakdown and the show closed because nobody could find him. Is it he, or I that reminds you of Quasimodo? Don't respond, but if you must, do so with charity.

Little and Large

2011-07-31T00:14:00.013+03:00

Mournfully collywobblish and feeble, I really haven't had the energy to blog, instead have been downloading freebies on to my iPhone, most of which I suspect I shall never read all the way through, unless I develop a fascination for Spinoza. I began with Moby Dick - the thought of Ishmael sharing sleeping space with a gigantic Maori harpooner, Queequeg, would be like me aged eight trying to make room for Jonah Lomu. I recall a similar dread on first reading almost half a century ago. All this being the result of fevered imagination which will inevitably be made worse as nocturnal whirlings and shriekings must surely follow dinner tonight. Being 'not particularly hungry', sufficient for Gipsy to start thinking wistfully of tumbrils and the attendant mercy of the guillotine so beloved of her peasant ancestors, we had a 'small snack'. This consisted of a tearing pizza the size of a bathmat with Roquefort - the good stuff, since "it's a bit old now"- shallots, ham, capers, small tomatoes...you get the idea. Together with two nine-inch crabs. Shells that is. Minus claws. Fifteen inches when extended. I know. One of them was attempting to extend his in the direction of my own digits moments before he took a very hot bath.
It is, I think, one of the few times at the dinner table when a ball-pein hammer was part of the cutlery; Gipsy scattering bone and claw with enthusiasm. The tarragon mayo dip was exceptionally good, I thought. The pictured dish is large enough to wash one's feet in.

Twenty-four hours later, you'll no doubt be overjoyed to learn that my alimentary health is much improved, so as an afterthought, still with the food motif, Sunday lunch was taken al fresco. Gipsy seems entirely unaware that packaged food exists, thus everything is manufactured from scratch. Should she decide to comment on this, I shall tell the world about the pig last autumn. Olivier, the photographer, brought some bluefin tuna with him for the last day of shooting which kept sufficiently to provide a tartare of breathtaking simplicity and a flavour that cherubim would have fought over. The accompaniment, eggplant à la japonaise is not shown. The spoiled prince of a cat, who occasionally graces our table with his presence; the next door neighbours having gone to Tuscany, had the left-overs which were sliced from the original (vast) fillet and which I myself would have been quite happy with but since they were slightly too dry, they failed to meet the exacting standards of la maîtresse.

My modest contribution was cutting the potato chip and onion garni which I managed without losing a finger. Gaze, then, and be envious, heathens.

Pea Soup

2011-07-29T14:12:00.009+03:00

How many famous Belgians can you think of? Two, perhaps, and one of those is fictional. Belgium sits rather smugly in between France and Holland, saying little, quietly notching up world records, such as the heaviest cheese sculpture in the world or a barman in Oostende who served beer for 102 straight hours to his customers. Things like that. Belgians haven’t had a functional government for over a year but the education system works, garbage is collected and the buses and trams run on time. This is mostly due to the fact that six out of ten of them speak one language, the remainder another and everybody has learned compromise without agreement. It's entirely possible that the country might simply break gently in two like a blueberry muffin since nobody seems to care much either way. The Flemish language and culture is highly prized by its adherents. If Dutch sounds like a goose honking in mild protest, Flemish sounds as if it’s being garrotted as well.

Eighty percent of the world's diamonds pass through Anvers. Showing spectacular ignorance I confessed to not actually knowing that Antwerpen, the second largest port in Europe, is its Flemish name, provoking gales of French laughter. The world’s largest diamond-cutting industry operates behind discreet façades in the Jewish neighbourhood. If the appalling pun can be excused, it’s quite a little gem of a city - imagine Zurich and the Virgin Mary meeting Greenwich Village. Antwerp is also a celebrated fashion hub – style victims have taken over the fashion district, and the well-heeled hang out around Koning Albertpark. The Old Town however seems much as it was in the seventeenth century, built around the impossibly delicate spired Gothic Cathedral of our Lady – Rubens lived here and an exhibition was on show inside.

Long ago, people seemed to like writing their names in large letters on their business premises – above a bar on Groenplatz, a Mr Van Der Wee had advertised himself in letters eight feet high which caught my attention.

Just off the Hoogstraat and converted from a 16th-century building, my travelling companion and I stayed at De Matelote, (do look, it's worth it) a stylish boutique hotel with contemporary interiors and nine minimalist rooms decorated in shades of grey and a Michelin-starred restaurant. I rather wished we had eaten there, but after a truffle hunt around town, time eventually defeated us and we ended up much to Gipsy’s disgust at the Hilton with OK food and appalling service. I had pea soup. Antwerpers pride themselves on being the descendants of the gluttonous Duke of Burgundy, thus I was able to engage and satisfy many sensual tastes – excluding those provided for by the bored women framed behind red lights, much tackier than their entirely legal, often spectacularly good-looking and taxpaying counterparts in Amsterdam. But, more of this anon...

It's illegal to pimp, take photographs or buy hard drugs. So, there you go. I bought street waffles, a pair of shoes and, of course, pea soup.
Why the title? 'Pea' rhymes with 'wee' of course. Do try to keep up...

Hillsong Revisited

2011-07-25T00:16:00.004+03:00

It was almost exactly one year ago that I last went to Hillsong Paris. Last time it was two thirds full. This time, standing room only. I was there early, along with pretty much everybody else. Except the two worship leaders who showed up at 10:55 for an 11am start - ha! I wonder where I've come across that before. As a result, we didn't get going till 11:30 - everybody waits in the foyer of the Bobino Theatre and only gets in when the multimedia is rolling and all the soundchecks are done. I think the delay might have been because one of the guitarists was a 'special' - one of the new breed, a rather scruffy-looking Ben Fielding, fresh from the Europe Conference in London, armed with a Gibson that sang like a dove and a songwriter whose songs appear on the new live album "God is Able". And, yes, I bought a copy. I had wondered for some time how they got the particular Hillsong sound - all done with open tunings. I tuned the Guild down to an open D when I got home and played around a little bit - the results were remarkable. But, more of this later. Fresh from the London Conference and en route back home, the main speaker was a Hillsong heavy, Phil Dooley the pastor of Hillsong Capetown and a dead ringer for Owen Wilson out of Starsky and Hutch. I'm not, obviously, the first to notice.

The theme was basically, "I can" and the power of positive testimony. From Numbers 13, the Twelve Spies and the two - Caleb and Joshua - having a positive confession. A bit early for Tisha B'Av - falling as it does on August 8th this year, but the point was well made. There's an overwhelming sense of joyful optimism about the place which is good for an old grump like me, despite my presence raising the average age by a couple of months. As a church experience, a weekly dose of sanctity, it's incomplete; time together being used for praise, thanksgiving, testimony and evangelism. No corporate confession or prayer for the world, no Communion - which I didn't miss because it was contextually unnecessary. I assume the meat and potatoes work is done in small groups and the committed spend a whole lot more time together than a couple of hours on a Sunday morning. As last time, the worship was slick and even with a stranger leading, beautifully executed. Perhaps a touch delirious and over-spiced for my personal taste, but the average punter on the front rows was lapping it all up with much bopping in unison on the spot. I maintained a more restrained presence on the front row of the balcony, trying to imagine a full-on, high-wattage multimedia experience in the Purple Palace...

The 'date for the diary' has to be September 4th, when the Top Banana his own self, plus wife, namely Brian and Bobbie Houston, are visiting. Should be quite a gig...

Sour Grapes

2011-07-23T12:01:00.000+03:00

Someone commented quite recently to me that “I’d been hanging out with psychologists” I wonder if the unspoken ‘too much’ at the end was parenthesised or not. The truth is, I haven’t – or hadn’t, but events in the Church have engaged my attention, searching for meaning from reading about the philosopher Antony Flew’s conversion to more well-known, classical psychologies.

Cognitive dissonance might be described as the uncomfortable feeling caused by holding two conflicting ideas at the same time. Winston Smith for all. The proposal is that people have a motivational drive to reduce dissonance by changing their attitudes, beliefs, and actions.Dissonance is also reduced by justifying, blaming, and denying. H’m. I wonder where I’ve heard that before. Experience can clash with expectations, as, for example, with buyer's remorse following the purchase of an expensive item. In a state of dissonance, people may feel surprise, dread, guilt, anger, or embarrassment. With me, usually embarrassment because the shirt looked better on the peg than it does on me. It’ll be interesting to see if the PCC react similarly to the choices they have made. People are biased to think of their choices as correct, despite any contrary evidence. This bias gives dissonance theory its predictive power, shedding light on otherwise puzzlingly irrational and destructive behaviour.

Wikipedia tells me that: “A classical example of this idea (and the origin of the expression "sour grapes") is expressed in Aesop’s fable The Fox and the Grapes. In the story, a fox sees some high-hanging grapes and wishes to eat them. When the fox is unable to think of a way to reach them, he surmises that the grapes are probably not worth eating, as they must not be ripe or that they are sour. This example follows a pattern: one desires something, finds it unattainable, and reduces one's dissonance by criticising it.”

I am in a state of cognitive dissonance over St Paul’s at the moment. I would like to believe and indeed sometimes do that it is a vibrant, self-sufficient, active and indispensable part of the Body of Christ. On the other hand, in practice it looks more like a small beauty spot – let’s be charitable - whose removal or not will do nothing for the furtherance of the Kingdom of Heaven. When the primary part of the engine has had enough and demands replacement while still new and probably under guarantee, one asks a number of questions – all contributing to a cognitively dissonant mindset. Were the grapes sour in the first place? Probably not. Were they out of reach? Perhaps they were, after all. It will make everyone’s lives so much easier if we choose to believe so.

I’m not convinced.

Behind the Louvre

2011-07-21T00:44:00.006+03:00

The oldest guitar shop in Paris is François CHARLE, located in the Galerie Véro-Dodat, one of the most elegant covered streets remaining in the centre of the city. Dating from 1823, it is one of the only galleries surviving in 'period' condition. Located between rue Croix des Petits Champs and rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, just off rue St Honoré at the back of the Louvre, the gallery is home to numerous other arts-related enterprises. It’s a tiny place and one for serious aficionados. An English speaking salesman who could play like Django Reinhardt took me up a narrow wooden staircase. About forty or so instruments were displayed cheek-by-jowl in a space the size of my bathroom. I looked at the four-figure plus price tags. The guy gave me a 1932 Gibson L Series Custom, sunburst, great original condition down to the tortoiseshell firestripe pickguard - astonishing for something twenty years older than me – a steal at 4,800€. The thing sang like an organ – I counted eleven seconds of sustain on the bass E string. They are an authorised Martin repair shop – about twenty or so Martins were on show, from forty year old 00-18’s to a spectacular double necked open G minor tuned (12+6) D45 made on Martin's Goliath frame. I knew they existed but have never seen one. The pictured highlight was a Martin 3.17, dated 1860. Oh, yeah.

Walking About In Your Socks and Calling Teachers By Their First Names

2011-07-19T16:19:00.005+03:00

I received my last payment from the IB yesterday for marking the Higher Level Physics paper. It was an instructive exercise, particularly in the light of comparing the questions set with the responses. Compared to A levels, IB is more challenging, more thoughtful and more attuned to a critical, thinking-based educational model. I also had occasion to look in a French bookshop at some of the Bac' papers, the results of which have just been released. It struck me that having been an educator for over thirty years, my thinking was almost set in concrete as far as learning was concerned. In Kuwait, 'teaching to the test' is the way things are done and people are supposed to learn from grindingly repetitive, unimaginative tasks which seek to present an intellectually trivial problem in as many different ways as possible. It's hardly surprising that students- and indeed, some of their teachers - lose interest so fast. For some, science is an irrelevance, best left to others and the thinking patterns required to 'do well', in other words, pass the test seem strange and bizarre to them.

In many of Kuwait's best schools there's stunningly mediocre teaching with a vast extracurricular tutoring market. Testing is often primarily factual recall and memorisation which students can pass with determination and effort, but this approach will teach them none of the skills that are necessary in the global knowledge economy. Because the profit motive drives most private systems here, it's risky economically to expend the considerable sums required to properly resource a school with personnel and infrastructure.

This train of thought arose because an article crossed my path about education in Finland, which for the last decade has been recognised as one of the finest systems in the world and people are beginning to wake up to some of the reasons why.

Firstly, teachers are highly qualified, with a Masters degree in their subject - not a silly, education-theorist qualification, but something valuable which drives their intellectual preparation. Secondly, society and hence, one supposes, its children, esteems them highly. Thirdly, curricula have not been devised without the input of educators at the highest level and finally, the professional milieu is such that teachers can and do work together as professionals without feeling under scrutiny all the time.
In addition, students rarely get more than a half-hour of homework a night - I actually approve of this, since doing homework does no more than teach students about retribution. They have short classes and days, no school uniforms, no 'honor societies', no 'valedictorians', no late bells and no classes for the gifted. There is little standardised testing, few parents agonise over college because it's free and and kids don't start school until they are seven. But, Finnish kids are encouraged from early years to read and develop an independent approach to what they think and do. Work is OK, but doesn't necessarily have to have maximal entertainment value. Teaching methods used for the gifted and able are routinely used for all in Finnish schools.

The Finns have defined what is excellent teaching, not just reasonable teaching, and they have a standard for it. Furthermore, they've defined what is most important to learn, and it's not a memorisation-based curriculum, but a thinking-based curriculum. There is no domestic testing except a very quiet auditing program to test demographic samples of kids; not for accountability, not for public consumption, and not for comparison across schools. The fascinating thing is that because they have created such a high level of professionalism; they can trust their teachers. Their motto is "Trust Through Professionalism." What a breath of fresh air. In the US, where an increasing number of peole believe education has lost its way, came the memorable line from a student video “You can’t create my future with the tools of your past.” They’re right. We’re using a 20th-century measuring stick to measure a 21st-century learner. No wonder businesses are yelling that education is getting worse: We’re using the wrong stick. Students should graduate with portfolios of work ready for a world that will value them on their ability to create.

The title of this post came from the CBBC's report on Finnish schools. Kids often ski to school - hence walk around school in their socks - and are expected to get there often in the dark by themselves. No maid to help to do up the bindings…

State of the Nation

2011-07-19T00:57:00.000+03:00

The storm clouds are gathering as the Palestinians - or at least those represented by Mahmoud Abbas - are threatening to go to the UNSC in September and ask for recognition as a state and full membership. If they do and receive UN backing without US veto, future negotiations are likely to become more difficult, protracted and possibly violent.

It might be interesting to speculate what the Jews of the Diaspora are likely to make of this. A walk around Le Marais brings one up against all forms and species. Orthodox Jews, non-orthodox, gays, gay Jews, Jewish gays, black Jewish gays…you get the picture. Love them or hate them, they’re here. Wherever the Jews have gone, they have both insulated themselves theologically and often geographically yet societally they have assimilated and learned from their new cultural homes. I’m no fan of Christopher Hitchens, despite his formidable logical grasp and razor-sharp intellect, but he did write something quite profound which illustrated the nature of anti-Semitism perfectly.

“It’s logically fallacious to suggest this but anti-Semitism has flourished without banking or capitalism (for which Jews were at one time blamed) and without Communism (for which they were also blamed). It has existed without Zionism (of which leading Jews were at one time the only critics) and without the state of Israel. There has even been anti-Semitism without Jews, in states like Malaysia whose political leaders are paranoid demagogues looking for a scapegoat. This is enough to demonstrate that anti-Semitism is not a mere prejudice like any other. The chief impetus of anti-Semitism remains theocratic, and in our epoch anti-Semitism has shifted from Christian to Muslim: a more searching inquiry into its origins and nature might begin by asking if faith is not the problem to begin with.”

The Jews’ chief crime against those who hate them is the book of Genesis, in which they discovered the indelible sense of shame attendant on man’s recognition of the moral universe. That universe takes its inescapable authority from the goodness of its creator. And whether people are calling Jews Christ-killers (as in, “They did it, not us!”), or culture polluters (as in “Without them, we’d be free of religion.”) or the secret rulers of the world (“It’s not God at all - it’s them!”), it’s possible that the people who feel they hate Jews actually hate God. And they hate God because, in the light of his goodness, they hate themselves.

Aux Armes, Citoyens!

2011-07-16T14:58:00.015+03:00

I think intellect, wit and satirical spike must be flickering a bit. Last Juillet Quatorze I wrote something much more erudite about revolutions and my short potted history even mentioned the Marquis de Sade. This year..well. Same old, same old. People don't really want to hear any more about the deep significance of the storming of the grim prison of the Bastille on the morning of July 14th 1789. They don't want to be reminded again that it was more a symbolic than an effective military victory; it had only seven inmates at the time. Instead, every year, however, the French take to themselves a national slapfest and have a day off which is a much more congenial to blog about rather than grim revolutionaries manning the barricades. The day before the 14th - that would be the 13th, I was wandering aimlessly, as one does, over the Pont de la Concorde on my way to have a sniff around the antique shops on the Left Bank. Apart from the obligatory Japanese tourists framing photographs of themselves against the giant Egyptian obelisk, the vast acreage - over twenty, actually, of the Place de la Concorde (where all vehicle insurance is invalidated, by the way. Tap someone there - no road markings on the cobblestones - and you're on your own) was almost deserted. Various large TV vans and seating arrangements were being set up in anticipation for France's Big Day when the great and the good watch the military parade and flypast from the Arc de Triomphe along the arrow straight Champs Elysées. There's a man I know - he's some species of relative belonging to Gipsy, who kindly informed me that the Super Etendards and Hawkeyes pictured below have some relevance to the French Navy. Not a lot of people know that...

Tickets are like gold dust for this event, but since the Island is almost exactly due west, we sat in the garden and watched the entire flypast two minutes before the spectators lining the Avenue saw it.

President Sarkozy didn't have a long trip to work that day. The Elysée Palace is a short stroll -straight down the rue du Faubourg St Honoré, hang a right at the end - but he did look as if his breakfast hadn't agreed with him. Sarkozy doesn't really do being statesmanlike - he always tends to look as if he wishes he were somewhere else. Carla wasn't with him; perhaps that was why, or they'd had a spat about which cartoon to watch in bed last night. He has a number of unfortunate public mannerisms which don't inspire confidence - OK, this is a bit exaggerated - but the downturned mouth, as if something unpleasant passed under his nose, is captured perfectly I think, with a little help from Photoshop. He might have been more than a little intimidated by the Polynesian soldiers' 'Haka' display, but seemed relieved when it was over.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lSj8mdVVm4&feature=player_embedded#at=139

Even the president perked up a bit when the Foreign Legion march past signified the end of the parade - perhaps he was looking forward to the firemen of Paris demonstrating their acrobatic skills - but the Légion Étrangère has to go at the end since they march at only 88 paces per minute instead of the 120 of everyone else and they have to have their own marching musicians with them. Gigantic, bearded men with leather aprons carrying battle axes - enough to make even a president turn his mouth down a bit.

The Glorious Leader then has to give what looks like an impromptu press conference conducted by two carefully chosen Press lackeys who ask him all kinds of questions about the role of the French Armed Forces to which he already knows the answers.
At eleven at night, there's usually a firework display. Getting anywhere near the Champ de Mars is a nightmare since half of Paris wants to go and it's easier to find a vantage point elsewhere. This year, we decided to go to St Germain, which had had its display the night before and the Henri IV ramparts were high enough to see not only the displays in the next village, but another six or seven within a thirty-kilometer western arc, including the gigantic display in Paris itself, created by the world champion Lucien Ruggieri.

Close up, it must have been spectacular.Then it's everybody off to the nearest "Bal des Pompiers" where you get to kiss a fireman. Er. If you like that sort of thing.

Serfs and Poulet en Croûte

2011-07-12T01:05:00.003+03:00

It's all William The Conqueror's fault. Actually, he wasn't called that during his lifetime - he was known as William The Bastard, because, er, well, he was one both metaphorically and literally, since his father had had a brief but exciting fling with a beautiful tanner's daughter out of wedlock. Why this railing against the French? It's because the entire British class system developed as a result of him and his fancy French ways, making us all drink appalling vin rouge instead of decent warm beer at mealtimes. We became serfs, tilling his fields and raising his cattle for him. The Anglo-Saxon words for farm animals as used by those who raised them are 'pig, cow, calf'' but when dressed up in fancy sauces and served for dinner to our betters they become the French 'pork, beef ' and 'veal'. or their tarty French equivalents. You get the idea.
All of this arose because Gipsy is working. By this, I mean that she flies around like a dervish on speed, mixing, braising, adding a soupçon of this and tasting a morsel of that. I on the other hand stand, flat-footed and watch, occasionally moving the straw from one side of my mouth to the other. This evening was a prime example. In the midst of prepping for tomorrow's adventures in the rarefied atmosphere of haute cuisine, there was the small matter of dinner. Having had Moroccan (not Jewish - the Sicilian lemons variant, for those who know) Chicken Tajini for lunch, there were leftovers which transformed themselves into a little number en croûte (I never actually saw any pastry being made, but I did blink once or twice) with wild mushrooms and olives, together with a warm goat cheese salad. I interrupted. Once. "No mayonnaise?" I enquired, politely. "Give me an egg" came the response. She broke the egg into the bowl of an electric beater with large, slow-moving blades. She then slowly poured oil - sunflower - since we didn't want too powerful a flavour and watched as it curdled perfectly, adding a little extra virgin olive oil, some wholegrain mustard and a few other unspecified items that just happened to be to hand. She stopped the machine, poured the perfectly formed mixture into a bowl with a deft sweep of a spoon. "Voilà". The entire operation took less time than it takes my computer to boot up. I meekly put the bowl on the table, and ate my dinner which, I do have to say, was a quite significant improvement on the chicken and mushroom pies I used to buy as a child from the local fish and chip shop. Afterwards, I remembered my place and cleared up, obediently putting things back where I had been told and not muddling the Laguiole knives up with the cheap ones. I was rewarded with ristretto ansd a smile. I suppose I ought to think myself lucky. William the Conqueror chopped his serfs' hands and feet off.

Small Things

2011-07-11T16:39:00.005+03:00

I think it must be Paris. My usual iron-clad, sardonic posts mellow sometimes in the warmth of the sun and strange, delightful small events which are an inevitable consequence of living in one of the most painfully rich and beautiful cities on the planet.

The other day, in Le Marché des Enfants Rouges just off the rue de Bretagne in the Haut Marais, we had lunch with a a pastry chef from Guadeloupe – talented beyond belief, on her way to becoming famous and a warm, affectionate friend.

She fits perfectly into this eclectic milieu. Italian coffee, Breton crèpes, a sulky, bewhiskered flower-seller, Moroccan street food - it's all here. The market is the oldest in Paris, on the site of an orphanage established in 1534 by the Diana of her time, Marguerite of Navarre, wife of Henry II, the red dresses signifying the children were in the care of the local charity. It closed at the beginning of the seventeenth century and has been a market ever since.

Her website is here. My apologies for reproducing some of the images.

She gave us delicately flavoured pastries, the whole being more than the sum of their parts. Chocolate from Madagascar and wild raspberries which tugged momentarily at a piercingly vivid childhood memory.

Art and Beauty

2011-07-11T14:01:00.012+03:00

I ran across a powerful truth the other morning. In Native American thought there is no distinction between what is beautiful or functional, and what is sacred or secular.

Design goes far beyond concerns of function, and beauty is much more than simple appearances. For many native peoples, beauty arises from living in harmony with the order of the universe. Oh, yes. Of course, we all said. We knew that. In Jewish myth, an angel whispers the whole of Torah into the ear of the newborn at the instant of its birth and it spends the rest of its life remembering that which it once knew.

Paris is full of art – some good and some, let’s say, not. Art is the striving of mankind to find synthesis with the author and creator, the finisher of the craft work, the perfector of the design process.

An artist visited with his work the other day – two great photographic montages - to spend time on the terrace here and move his work onward. I am not sure he quite knew why he came, except that he found resonance here.

These images are of scenes and objects I walk around and see every day. The one immediately above contains a secret - all art has secrets - the limestone Madonna up against the wall. She is not in as good shape as she once was, having been carved anonymously in the thirteenth century. Inexplicably, she found her way here, to rest quietly against a white wall.

Beauty before me, I walk with.

Beauty behind me, I walk with.

Beauty above me, I walk with.

Beauty below me, I walk with.

Beauty all around me, I walk with.

Navajo Night Chant

Wheels

2011-07-10T12:18:00.002+03:00

Living on The Island, where a pizza isn't a phone call away simply because it's too far and too inconveniently distant for the pizza guy to get to, one has to develop levels of organisational skill which one might not necessarily need to acquire in the sun-baked deserts. Food has to be hauled, pushed in a cart or balanced on handlebars. Over the bridge then five hundred metres beyond. Which isn't a lot, as it happens, unless it's pouring with rain or covered in sheet ice, in which case, it can become something of an ordeal. A bicycle or scooter is the best idea, some have one or the other, many have both. Since my means are modest, self-propulsion is a healthful and practical means of locomotion.

I hadn't ridden a bike seriously since I was sixteen. It does happen to be true, however - 'it's like riding a bike' means the old skills just come flooding back after a few hair-raising moments of unstable equilibrium when the ground , grey and unsympathetic, sometimes rushes up to meet you. Twenty-one gears - however did one manage with three - I think I managed to change up and down across about four of them, with a little squeezy thingy close to my hands. All massively high-tech. It's only a couple of kilometres into town so a ride into civilisation didn't seem like a bad idea. Except for the roads. The French are fortunately quite obsessional about le vélo and generally skirt a cyclist with gentlemanly discretion - just as well, really since I tended to grimly occupy the crown of the road and to hell with the klaxons of disapproval. Being a motorist, I followed the rules of the road, obediently pausing for red traffic lights and following the one way systems, until it occurred to me that I was the only cyclist so doing. Everybody else rode where they chose, over pavements, dodging perambulators and old ladies with walking frames, and parking up against trees. It's surprisingly liberating once you figure it out. The one thing which I hadn't remembered was the - let's say - 'discomfort' of a hard saddle giving what the French delicately call 'les parties nobles' something of a bumpy ride. I think a saddle with proper suspension might be the answer...

A Republic of Insects and Grass

2011-07-06T00:56:00.001+03:00

By 2025, one-third of us will live in cities. By 2050. mega-cities will be commonplace, as compared to 1975 when there were three. What images this conjures depends on the films one sees. Great, howling tower blocks with crawling, seething gutters where the poor and dispossessed scrabble for a living springs to mind. When I arrived in St Julien last week, I supposed myself to be 'in the country'. Put another way, 'in the middle of nowhere'. This is, of course. substantially true; there's twenty seven acres of land and the sound of human habitation is pretty much confined to a train passing in the distance - surprising how loud, intrusive and mechanical it is - and whatever sounds are being made indoors.
And yet, I found myself in the middle of a city, or better, a republic. Not populated by human beings, but by a menagerie of teeming, seething life. I counted at least ten different butterfly species flitting amidst the wild lavender, visiting, revisiting, moving on. Cleverly camouflaged moths waited on lichen-clad tree trunks, bees hummed industriously, their landings like airport arrivals, almost systematic on the pollination factory floor. Worker ants marched like infantry, collecting leaves and discarded peach pits - as if they intended building a pyramid. A cacophony of cicadas would have drowned out the traffic, were there any, ceasing promptly at sunset, as if regulated by an unseen shop steward. Later in the evening, the birdsong communication systems came online and the long wild grasses whispered and shimmered as small mammals went about their business.

I was left with an overwhelming sense of order - as communities are ordered, with rules, traffic regulations, penalties for jaywalking. I had hoped to find an image is of a hornets' nest found abandoned in a high crevice of the house, or pictures of long walkways with bamboo on either side. Instead, to maintain a theme of peace and tranquillity, this - a five minute drive away - was too good not to include.

Provence

2011-07-04T00:00:00.008+03:00

For some, Provence is just too much. Brighter and more primary than Tuscany, the rolling lavender fields, olfactorily and visually delightful, the breadth and variety of the food and impossibly beautiful landscapes dotted with medieval abbeys are sometimes just too rich for thin Northern blood.

Peter Mayle’s classic ‘A Year in Provence’ was captivating, made him a millionaire and attracted squadrons of curious Brits to the hitherto comparatively sleepy, but grand and sweeping, Lubéron.The eyes glaze into the far distance as the sun sets over purple hills and Mt Ventoux. I'd go down well here. Beetling, expressive eyebrows and the frequently heard phrase ..'normalement'...with a characterisic hand-waggle means your plumbing gets fixed a week Tuesday. Normalement. Unless, however.......you can fill in the blanks yourself.
Provence is big, bigger than one imagines. Gipsy and I elected to spend a weekend beginning in brash, glitzy Marseille and meandering wherever the fancy took us.

Le Mistral is a wind so severe and persistent that it is said to ‘blow the horns off a cuckold’. It howls down the Rhone valley and drives through the narrow, picturesque alleyways of the old port and objects take flight. The sun is fierce and a hat is out of the question, so people stay in the shade, but the sea was whipped cold by the wind and will take a month to heat up enough to swim in. Boats leave for Corsica and North Africa, as well as ferrying trippers around the islands which poke their heads up like rebellious dinosaurs in the Golfe du Lion.

The brooding silhouette of the sixteenth century Chateau d’If hovers menacingly over the city. This Mediterranean Alcatraz was the most feared and notorious prison in France, housing thousands of Huguenot dissidents during the nineteenth century - it really wasn't cool to be a Protestant - as well as being immortalized by Alexandre Dumas’ tale of betrayal and revenge in ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. Nobody ever escaped from it, unlike the fictional Edmond Dantès. There's a yearly swim from the mainland which although the distance is comparatively short, treacherous currents and undertows make it an enterprise not for the faint of heart.

Smaller towns like Cassis were more manageable, decked out like a tablecloth in bright Provençal colours.

Tiny, cobbled streets and a harbour – tourists already descending like locusts on this well-behaved little place.

A boat trip to les Calanques exposed us to scenery of breathtaking beauty in this UNESCO heritage site.

Small inlets, virtually inaccessible by road are set amidst towering cliffs...

There is such a thing as being overwhelmed by beauty. But, more of this later...

A Word About Artichokes

2011-06-25T01:06:00.003+03:00

I rather thought I knew about artichokes. Small, rotund and cuddly, found in expensive salads from Lenotre in Marina Mall, smothered in dressing of blandly non-specific origin and (I am most reliably informed as I write) "probably out of a can..."

It came as something of a surprise the other evening when a large, rough-hewn object, the size of a softball having been boiled upside down for exactly nine minutes was placed in front of me with a quite delicate mustard vinaigrette. I was also provided with a knife and fork, the sole purpose of the fork, it would seem, was to prop up the northern edge of the plate so as to drizzle dressing on to the south pole. I watched, cautiously. The leaves form what looks like an anticlockwise Fibonacci in several layers. One places the object upside down, the woody stem like a tree trunk, grasps a leaf, sawing as necessary since it is both tough and inedible, releasing a small quantity of flesh which one sucks out having first flavoured it with a little dressing. This, I gather is not an activity recommended for those who are about to lose their infant teeth, since the suctorial action required may very well dislodge one of them. The leaves become smaller and more fruitful as one proceeds - surely a spiritual lesson there somewhere - and finally the hay, like a perfect Mohican, is revealed. Like a stripper shedding the last item of clothing, a quick deft flourish reveals the prize, the artichoke heart, delicate and succulent. Leaves are recyclable on the compost heap, so I felt virtuous having had no meat and returning the leftovers to the ground from whence they came.

Clawing Viragoes

2011-06-23T11:32:00.005+03:00

with thanks to Biscarotte's Flickr photostream (adapted)

In Kuwait, Mohammed and Abdullah look out of the window and, if it's a nice day, say to one another "I know. Today we will have a sale". So, they break out the orange stickers and drop the prices by 20%. The French have a rather different, more revolutionary approach. On the day after midsummer, the 'soldes' begin - a principle enshrined in the immutability of the law - Medes and Persians meet on Boulevard Haussmann. The result is, of course, chaos. The metro overflows with dentists' wives from Lille clutching huge Galeries Lafayette bags, having clawed, spat and punched their way to the front to grab the Lancel handbag whose price has plummeted from its original, eye-watering eight hundred euros. Even the silk Dolce & Gabbana underwear is reduced. You get the idea.
I am one of the few men I know who quite enjoys a little amble around the temples of retail Mammon. This is not girly. Should anyone wish to debate this with me, I should be more than happy to have a full and frank exchange of views on the matter. Outside. I realised however that I was physiologically ill-equipped for survival in the environment of the Paris sales, not having hips the size of Hampshire and bosoms the size of Bournemouth which could be used as battering rams. As it happens, the above is not strictly true - French women are obsessed with their size so it's more like being battered to death by sapphire-clad claws while running through a densely populated forest of bamboo. It's the only place in the world where it's cool to be anorexic. Gipsy calls herself a really cheap date; "don't worry, darling, they don't carry my size". I therefore waited until evening, drove to Versailles - there's a mall with all the big names (so chic) - and being almost dinner time it was quiet (the French let nothing interfere with gastronomic delight), and collected a few things I liked from Zegna, Ralph Lauren and Hermes. A kindly friend bought me dinner afterwards in a rustic little place in the centre of town. I ordered calves' liver. My dining companion was asked if I would like it well-cooked, being 'un Anglais' thus unable to speak the language and as subtle as a brick when it comes to culinary niceties. I glowered at the waiter as if he had just grabbed the last Ralph Lauren jacket on the rail and invited him outside.

The Tao of Pi

2011-06-22T02:11:00.000+03:00

Mathematics peels back the semblances of perceived realities that most of us are happy with. Even the Egyptians did fractions with hieroglyphs - not something one thinks about on a daily basis. Mathematics has physics as its muse - the old joke about asking a physicist 'why did the chicken cross the road' is met with 'I can tell you, but it only works for spherical chickens and infinitely long straight roads'. Sometimes it's fun to think about a world where e is a Napierian exponent and not a recreational drug, where sliced bread doesn't come in perfectly spherical loaves, and where proverbs become "tautoverbs". If pigs had wings, they still wouldn't be able to fly, because aerodynamics has laws putting a stop to that sort of thing. If this cow was a sphere, would its milk yield increase, I wonder?

All this came about because I came across an article that attempts to depose physics as the concubine of mathematics, where she has resided unchallenged for millennia, in favour of the sassy new kid on the block, biology.

I know a man - I happen to have provided half his genes in fact, who is a mathematician and a biologist, a new guru, knowing lots about 'systems level dynamic analyses of fate change in murine embryonic stem cells' amongst other things. Catchy isn't it..and means about as much to me as an iPad would have to Newton.

Apple Whore

2011-06-21T10:21:00.003+03:00

It has taken thirty five years for me to evolve from the chrysalis of MSDOS into a fully formed Apple whore. No, that isn't strictly true, since I won an Apple computer for the school years ago and loved it. Get a Mac, don't look back. In the day, yeah, I have to shamefacedly admit to being if not a geek, at least a languid anorak, casually tapping shortcut keys which looked almost alchemical at the time and driving friends insane... "how did you DO THAT?"
Ten or so years ago, a mobile phone was an almost essential, but I would not have suffered permanent paralysis without one. Last week, I bought an iPhone, the Vuitton of communication devices. I can subside into a self-contained virtual reality with this thing - reading Heart of Darkness as well as sending banal little notes to people via a chic little message interface - while jolly little gnomes trot glibly across the bottom of my screen. There are thousands of apps to play with - a melancholic's paradise. I now have one more thing to worry about - the cost of the bereavement counselling I shall assuredly need if I leave it on the train.

Apple's first computer arrived when I was twenty-four years old - half a lifetime away for both them and me. It had a massive 4 k bytes of RAM with an ' 8 k byte capacity ON BOARD' . Wow. This, together with a cassette interface, made it a world beater. They have come quite a long way from Steve Jobs' slightly greasy chalk pinstripe Madison Avenue look - nice parting, Steve. The image is from the first edition of MacWorld, 'dealer enquiries invited', and a quite awful first logo of Isaac Newton sitting under an apple tree. The original machine was priced at - wait for it - $666.66. Say no more.

Annual Events

2011-06-21T00:37:00.005+03:00

It's quite nice to be back in Paris. In spite of the fact that it was raining; quite a novelty, there were 137 km of tailbacks in total around peripheral highways and we had to detour as far as Cergy Pontoise to get home. Parisians are mostly philosophical about 'les bouchons' - corks as in bottlenecks - but the extent of a completely unexplained standstill seemed to have taken many by surprise. Rumour had it that the Paris air show was to blame but I doubt it, since the roads seemed clogged by what looked like a million behemoth juggernauts, all crawling remorselessly westward. The show was rather spoiled by an Airbus A380 with a rather careless driver - one hesitates to use the word 'pilot' who sliced a wingtip off in a collision with a building. Oops. It's going to need more than a roll of duct tape, I think.

Suddenly, after doing what appears to have become an annual event, clear-out and move, I felt able to slow down. There's a new Guatemalan hammock in the garden which in less wet weather will doubtless beckon invitingly, but doing nothing is unlikely to be an option for long. Neglecting the fact that I need to become reacquainted with my petrol-driven, Honda 'tondeuse' to clip the encroaching greensward, Paris can be busy in June - Roland Garros being only one busy week of many. Tomorrow is another annual event, the celebration of the summer solstice which unlike dreary British anoraks who head for Stonehenge and start a riot when they can't get near enough to do a bit of stone-hugging, France has a Fete de la Musique, which stops traffic just as efficiently but with a good deal more bonhomie. Paris will be crowded, hopefully just with locals who gather at a favourite arrondissement to listen to ethnic offerings from local residents.

Postscript. Rive Gauche was a bit busy, it has to be said. After half an hour of a truly awful concert from willing but talentless Romanian singers in the crypt of St Sulpice and a street art show, a short but congested meander in the sidestreets off the Boulevard St Germain subjected us to a randomly cacophonous macedoine of performers, from balding Rolling Stones tribute bands to dreadful post-punk wannabes, more decibel than dulcimer, with barely fifty metres separating each. All in all - a good-humoured but determined assault on the tympanic membranes which are still gently quivering some hours later. I must be getting old.

The Hangover

2011-06-14T19:59:00.003+03:00

Part Two. No, it's not me. It's a movie. A sequel. Kind of. The three original characters from the (quite hilarious) 2009 film are transplanted from Vegas to Bangkok where a similar, nightmarish alcoholic blackout causes them all to retrace totally forgotten drunken steps. Three American men with a shared history of misbehaviour travel to Thailand for the wedding of one of them, a dignified and slightly anally retentive dentist who is marrying a beautiful, educated Thai girl from a highly respected family. One little drink on the beach then morphs into an awakening with a drug dealer in a seedy Bangkok hotel room who promptly dies after snorting a line of coke, a missing teenage genius brother of the bride and a bridegroom with a quite fetching, if large, facial tattoo. Imagine the unimaginable and it probably happened. There isn't really a story, more a concatenation of retrospective and highly unfortunate series of events, pieced together painfully and appallingly slowly around the general theme of finding the missing boy. In case it's not obvious, this is not suitable for children It's violent, crass, offensive to every conceivable interest group, and liberally besprinkled with profanity and male nudity - yes, being Bangkok - a transsexual prostitute puts in an appearance with whom, apparently, the bridegroom-to-be had consensual gay carnal relations. Oh, dear. The whole point seemed to be to to make even seen-it-all-done-it-all adults laugh in shock at each dawning, ever more shameful recollection.

It was awful. Why, then? Because it served as an object lesson to remind me why Uncle Jack and I parted company several years ago. But, it never got quite that bad, did it? I really can't remember.