october book and film review

BOOKS

STRAIT IS THE GATE, BY ANDRE GIDE. On of the great novellas of 19th century French literature, Gide weaves a sad, but beautiful account of unrequited love, a young man's object of desire finding her devotion to God over-riding her feelings for him. Very special.
THE ALCHEMIST, BY PAOLO COELHO. One of the books that, with its mixture of magic and cod philosophy, caught the imagination of the world and sold in its millions. And I admit it does have a certain charm, though don't expect an outstanding piece of writing.
A DOG'S HEART, BY MICHAIL BULGAKOV. An extraordinary tale, a kind of "Animal Farm" written from the other side of the Iron Curtain. Suppressed for decades by the Stalinist leadership and beyond, Bulgakov, teaching us a parable of how Russian-style communism can eat into the soul of a nation, postulates a mad doctor who transplants the genitals and part of the brain of a man onto a dog, with horrifically funny results.
IRON IN THE SOUL, BY JEAN-PAUL SARTRE. Part 3 of the "Roads to Freedom" trilogy, Sartre places his protagonists in the just-defeated France of June 1940, and dissects out the effects on a range of disparate characters. Better than the second book in the series, but still, not for me at least, quite reaching the heights of the first book, "The Age of Reason"
UNFORTUNATELY, IT WAS PARADISE, POEMS BY MAHMOUD DARWISH. Darwish is the unelected "poet laureate of Palestine". Drawing deeply on an Arab poetic heritage that pre-dates Islam, he writes movingly and beautifully about the sights, sounds, fragrances and deep emotions of his homeland. As you read them, you can almost feel the heat and taste the dust of the desert. And, running beneath every line, experience the deep sense of loss. Tremendous stuff.

FILMS

STARDUST (2007) d- MATTHEW VAUGHN. One of those mystical, journey-into-another-reality movies that have done so well since Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings cycle. A strong cast including Bob DeNiro, but to be honest it barely lingers in the memory.
ANGEL EYES (2001)d- LUIS MANDOKI. Jaylo proves she can act as well as sing in this superior offering, where a woman cop falls for a stranger, but both are weighed down by ghosts from their respective pasts. Really rather good.
WOMAN OF STRAW (1964)d- BASIL DEARDEN. Sean Connery at the crest of his 007 success seems oddly miscast as he tries to extract a fortune from the hands of an ailing, but curmudgeonly relative. The ending is ludicrous, by the way.
LACOMBE LUCIEN (1974) d- LOUIS MALLE. A young man fails in his bid to join the wartime French Resistance, so joins the nazis as a collaborator instead. This ruffled a few feathers in France when it was released, but Malle insisted it was a story, not political comment. Notable, but not oustanding.
QUE LA BETE MEURE (The Beast must die) (1969) d- CLAUDE CHABROL. A man's son is killed by a hit-and-run driver and devotes his life to tracking down and killing the man responsible- who then learns of the plot against him. Good stuff from the master of French suspense, sometimes known as "the French Hitchcock"
SPACECHIMPS(2008) d- KIRK DEMICCO. Apes are sent into Space because they're expendable, but do an unexpectedly good job. Really rather charming animation with some refreshingly snappy writing.
TWIN TOWN (1997)d- KEVIN ALLEN. Gritty, realistic tale of life in the raw in pre-millennial Swansea. Very dark, but very funny. And very Welsh.
A SERIOUS MAN ((2009) P-D- THE COEN BROTHERS. Coen bothers films are almost always worth watching, including their latest offering, which is less violent than some, but still arresting. Good performances all round in this satire on American Jewish life.
MADE IN DAGENHAM (2010) d- NIGEL COLE. In 1968, women seamstresses in the giant Ford factory in Dagenham fight for equal pay in what was then still very much a man's world. Another one of those "ordinary folk come together to make a difference" movies that British cinema has cornered the market on lately, what with "The Full Monty" and "Calendar Girls", the latter of which was also made by this director. They're almost formulaic in a way, and clearly the formula works. Expect this to do well.

saturday distractions

I was going to devote a couple of hours to writing today, but somehow it didn't happen. Instead I was led astray by a number of delightful little activities. But I refused to feel any guilt over it. I mustn't be too obsessional about these things. I will have fewer excuses for procrastination next year, however.

I made a card for our friend whose clarinet concerto we are travelling to Manchester to hear next week. Then we both did a bit of ideas sharing about our upcoming open house in support of a Palestinian arts project called the Vision Centre.

Operating out of Al Azaria, a town close to Bethlehem on the West Bank, and which 3 years ago was cut in 2 by the Segregation Wall, adding to the grinding poverty of the people living there. But the people we met were unbowed, still full of enthusiasm and energy in their mission to put something back into the lives of the local youth: a foil against the remorseless culture of hatred in which they grow up.
But they were so strapped for cash they had to show us round their large facility by the light of mobile phones (a common practice, apparently) because they couldn't scrape together last months utility bill.

So at the end of November we'll invite everyone we know (it amounts to around 100)to come along, drink wine and hopefully give us a few quid. Our plan is to raise $1500, with me making up any shortfall. I managed to bring nearly $700 home with me from the Holy Land, which shows that we bought very little there other than taxi rides and meals. So my contribution shouldn't be too hard. I also kind of think my friends will prove to be a generous bunch...

friday's essay in grey

Today has been one of those days I really hate: an uninterrupted blanket of dense cloud the colour of good Welsh slate, persisting throughout all the daylight hours. It must have been incredibly deep as well; it was so murky at one point I thought the street lights would come on. I have a friend who loves gliding: I doubt he would have wanted to be aloft in this stuff.

This afternoon I drowsed on the couch for nearly an hour. I suppose I must have drained my energy cells over the last few days. Perhaps the strain of this coming-up-to-retirement thing is beginning to get to me...

However, I propose to summon the necessary grit to go out to the cinema later to see "Made in Dagenham" while we've still got the chance. Films like this come and go very quickly in the mainstream cinema chains, if at all. We should probably think ourselves fortunate we had it at all in the provincial backwater we call home.

fear of flying, allegedly

This morning a young man comes requesting diazepam to cover him for his upcoming trip to Goa. His reason? "fear of flying"
"Can't be that bad", I put to him.
"How so?", he enquires.
"I mean you take 3 or 4 long haul flights every year, usually to India or Thailand"
Oh, but it is that bad, he protests. He spends half the flight looking out of the windows to check the wings haven't fallen off, the rest of the time just quaking in his seat, apparently. Or does he? Might he not just find the whole process a bit of a drag, like the rest of us? I give him 2mg for the flight out, and the same for the return. Both he and I know that won't be enough, but other partners have expressed the same reservations about doing this for him 3 or 4 times each year, and today I put an entry in his notes suggesting we might perhaps end our practice of helping him out in this way. I did point out to him that if he was so afraid of flying he might want to plan a different sort of holiday, but he didn't seem very enthusiastic about that idea.

GOLDEN NIGHT FOR TELLY

In the old days it seemed there were often nights when there was an embarrassment of riches to be found on the box, and I can go far enough back to remember when hard, sometimes painful decisions had to be made about what would be watched, and what had to be missed. It is true I watch a lot of TV; indeed, I would echo Bart Simpson's reply when asked how much TV he watched:
"Oh, about 6 hours a day. More if there's something good on"
But tonight there are lots of good things on:
1. Modern Family (Sky 1, 8 pm) Really rather good American sitcom which is shot documentary-style, a la the Office.
2. Have I Got News for You (BBC1, 9 pm) The now venerable programme, never quite the same since the demise of Angus Deayton, but remains eminently watchable.
3. An Idiot Abroad (Sky 1, 9 pm) Surprisingly entertaining series where the calculatedly hapless Carl Pilkington is sent round the world taking in the great sights, the pyramids, Petra, Rio etc, (that one's tonight) while Ricky Gervaise lurks ominously in the background to ensure he has a difficult time, booking him into bum hotels, making him ride camels, and so on. Try it.
4.Reggie Perrin (BBC

1, 9.30 pm) Obviously, no one could replace Leonard Rossiter in one of his most celebrated roles, but Martin Clunes has made it his own and brought it into the millennium- rollicking good stuff, well written and very funny.
5. Russell Howard's Good News (BBC3, 10.45 pm) Russell Howard drew enough support from his work on "Mock the Week" to give him his own series, and he has filled the role well, with his amusing, quirky (if not enormously subversive) take on the week's news. Go for it, Russell!

the real thing, unfortunately

Last week I had my own little cancer scare; today a man comes in with the genuine article: cancer of the bladder. He was full of praise for my prompt referral.
"You've saved my life, doc!" he effused.
Of course I have done no such thing; indeed, he is currently in the deepest trouble imaginable. The urological surgeons removed the tumour from his bladder as best they could, and told him it had not extended beyond the bladder wall, but they are not so confident in themselves that they have not ordered a comprehensive array of chemotherapy for him, which currently is rendering him as sick as a dog.

"All this discomfort is guaranteeing you a longer life" I lie. The truth is much more grim. He stands a less than 50% chance of living for the next 5 years, which is code for no chance. But he's still clinging doggedly to life at present, and we'll all do our best to extend it as far as possible. And I will continue to be light on the facts, so as to preserve his morale. Once people lose hope they tend to
die quickly...

emperor dead: not many mourners.

COMMENT

So. The Emperor of Exmoor is dead, shot doubtless by some chinless idiot who now thinks he's a really big man because he gunned down Britain's biggest wild animal, probably from a safe distance with a high-powered rifle with telescopic sight. Well, sir, you're not a big man, you're a disgraceful example of the very worst kind of human being.

I know wild animals need to be culled sometimes- 300,000 deer are "kulled" every year apparently, so presumably they're not endangered; indeed, we saw 3 fallow deer in the woods while getting lost in Symond's Yat over the weekend. But culling should be about removing the weak and elderly members of a group, not the most exquisite example in the whole country. Killing this magnificent beast is a slap in the face for anyone who has the slightest respect for life forms other than that highly disordered and poorly evolved species, homo sapiens.

Oscar Wilde once described fox hunting as the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable. Hunting down a magnificent creature like the Emperor of Exmoor is the crass in pursuit of the sublime. Please God the culprit can be identified and outed for the truly pathetic individual he is.

frost on monday morning

A good crisp frost last night. Excellent. Now it is doubtful the grass will need another cut this year. Leaves are hanging on grimly to the trees, but they will not survive the first proper gales of autumn. The sky has been an uninterrupted blue all day, but the forecast says it will rain heavily overnight. Who knows? They could even be right.

In surgery, a number of people have shown up with typical cold symptoms, added to which is a brief period of alternating constipation and diarrhoea. These are precisely the symptoms I had with my recent cold, so I presume this is the "virus of the season" We will see hundreds of similar cases before the winter is out.

Alternating constipation and diarrhoea, if extended over a period of weeks or months, is extremely suspicious of bowel cancer: a good thing the patients don't know this or they'd ALL be in...

comment: I had this terrible dream

I had this awful dream the other day. America had its first woman president, and it wasn't Hilary Goddamn Clinton, as a friend has dubbed her, but the other one. Yes, the pit bull with lipstick and very little brain, Sarah Palin, swept in on a surge of support for the provisional wing of the Republican party, aka the "Tea Party"

Are dreams divorced from reality? I bloody hope so, because this seemed awfully real. All over America, Tea party activists are lining up against, not the Democratic party candidates, but their own republican people, who they have deemed "wet", wimpish or generally too moderate for the world they long to inhabit. For in their dream world America once again is in charge of the world, kicking butt as and where they see fit in order to secure their oil supply or influence generally.

They would return to the isolationist policies of the 1930s, where the Monroe doctrine rules, and any other country can go hang. Except Iran, which they would sponsor Israel to attack pre-emptively- always get the counter-attack in first, isn't it?. As for Palestine, what's that? Part of Israel isn't it?

At home they would wish to abolish all restrictions on guns, their type and their ownership. They will want to abolish abortion but extend capital punishment. They will repeal all state funded health care, and spend the money saved on boosting the military. They will cancel all projects directed to limit global warming, because that doesn't exist, it being a left wing conspiracy to destroy the mother land. But first and foremost, they will do everything in their power to unseat Obama, architect of all evil, who is un-American, communist and generally a malign influence on the greatest country in the world.

An absurd fantasy? Watch the mid term election results next week in the US, and be afraid. Be very afraid.

lost in the forest

This morning, out on the road to Symond's Yat for one of the more arduous of the walks in our book "Walks in the Wye Valley". 14 kilometres and 400 metres of ascent, it's a good little tester, and the map seems clear enough. We've done several of the more difficult walks in the book already, so we felt quite well equipped.

Donned up in full wet weather gear, secured last year in advance of our holiday in the Lake District (which proved a wise move, as the place should be re-named "The heavy and persistent Rain District"), we set out confidently.

Somewhere around the half way point we must have strayed from the correct path and found ourselves deep inside an area of dense woodland. The Forest of Dean, I think they call it. It was around this time it began to rain, gently at first, but then more heavily. We wandered this way and that for nearly an hour, finally heading for the sound of what we thought was a nearby road, but were confronted instead by a 100 metre precipice, at the base of which was the River Wye itself. Far below we could see the path we had walked over an hour earlier.

We had walked in a great circle, a phenomenon which I believe is quite common in people who are lost. I remember reading in Wilfred Thesiger's "Arabian Sands" that people lost in the desert often describe huge circles, before finally arriving where they started.

In some ways it remains a good experience in the memory: we got lost, but we found our way back. And we did get in a good long walk. Not too bad, then. But the feeling of having failed in our enterprise still rankles a little in the competitive middle-class breast.

clear urine brings relief

I am relieved to report the passing of blood free urine all day, thereby confirming my belief that a distal minor blood vessel must have burst in the system. Bit worrying though. It's often how Ca bladder is initally diagnosed. Well, it's not my turn this time, it would seem.

This evening, out again to the theatre to see a breakdancing spectacular called "Breaking Convention" (good title) Some excellent stuff, especially the headline act of Sebastian and Rafael, who took the medium to a new level with their surrealistic ballet. The lighting was terrible though; much of it was in what the engineer doubtless thought was atmospheric gloom but was in fact nearer complete darkness, making it quite difficult to see some of their intricate moves (I think). Worse though, much worse, was the compere, one Jonzie D, who embarassed himself appallingly at every opportunity, from forgetting one of the act's names, to asking the audience to "make some noise" after they had only just finished bringing the house down quite comprehensively. Idiot.

blood fear

This morning I noticed blood in my urine; a little pink stain which affected only the first few drops. Yesterday I noticed a similar phenomenon in my semen. Perhaps I have been punishing Percy rather too severely in the palm. Perhaps it is cancer. That's right. Doctors are as prone to fear of disease and death as the next person. Calm down. Let's try to be sensible. Blood at the start of micturition: isn't that supposed to indicate a lesion low down in the urinary tract? I think it is, suggesting the problem is probably not too serious. If it stops as quickly as it arrived, that is. If it persists, I'll have to have an ultrasound scan of my urinary system and live in the fear of God until I hear the result. Please let it stop quickly!

Today the forms arrived for my pension (if indeed I live long enough to receive it). I completed it without too much difficulty. Tomorrow I shall take it, along with my and my wife's birth and marriage certificates, to the administrative HQ of our PCT, for it to be processed before sending it to the national HQ in Fleetwood. Part of me is quite excited about the whole thing, but another part of me is fearful: my pension! OLD AGE pension they used to call it. Is that me? Like everyone else, I still feel about 17 inside, and the idea of being of pensionable age fills me with a sense of dread and apprehension, and even disbelief. Perhaps I shouldn't worry too much. I'll have the rest of my life to get used to the idea...

retirement excitement builds

On Monday I wrote to my PCT officially announcing my retirement on my 60th birthday, namely 11th January 2011. Almost immediately I received an acid response: I had not allowed the usual 3 months notice necessary for such a procedure. I apologised profusely for my lack of organisational skill and general idiocy, and they seemed to relent. Soon they will send me a complex form to complete. I will also be asked to attach other essential documents, birth certificate etc. It will be a laborious process, though as I pointed out to my partner this morning, one you only have to do once.

The second step is selling the surgery premises, currently owned solely by me, to the other 2 partners. We have agreed to obtain separate valuations and split the difference. I was a little dismayed by my own: it came in at £276,000, an increase of barely 10% since the building last changed hands in 2003- damn that pesky world financial recession. If it hadn't been for that it would be worth closer to 400K today. But there it is. I want above all to maintain friendly relations with my people, and must stick to our original agreement, even though I'm almost certain their estimate will be well below mine. I can't see it being LESS than 250K though, so I will make a modest nest egg- enough to buy a cashmere dressing gown and a couple of really nice holidays at least.

After a symbolic leave of absence, which I believe now can be as brief as 24 hours, I can go back to work, at 2 sessions per week and every third baby clinic, which I shall work as a salaried partner at a rate of around £18,000 pa. Should be useful pocket money to augment my pension (around 35K) and also keep my brain sharp. I have agreed to do both sessions on Monday (I already work all day Monday) in order to leave the rest of the week free to write, juggle, learn to play the piano and whatever else takes my fancy...

experience not a bad thing

The new partner in our practice is less than half my age; indeed I was practising medicine some years before he was born. He has the missionary zeal of youth, but a lack of subtlety in his operations that betrays his immaturity. A man came while I was away on holiday asking for viagra. Now the government has viewed viagra, perhaps understandably, as being somewhat different from other prescribable preparations and restricts its use on an FP10, or the NHS prescription, for patients with a range of nasty conditions such as diabetes or multiple sclerosis. So the young doctor said no. But severe depression is also on the list, and I had always felt hitherto that his various problems (he has hereditary blindness, for instance), which, in my view at least, easily qualified him for NHS funding.

But my partner has a good heart. Presumably feeling some misgivings about his decision, he decided to refer the patient to the local sexual disorders clinic for their opinion on the subject.

I remain confident he will come through as a really fine doctor one day- though this will take years. It certainly did with me...

a bundle of anxiety

I did nearly 2 years of psychiatry before starting my life in general practice, and boy, does it ever come in handy sometimes. Some surgeries resemble psychiatric out patient clinics more than anything else sometimes, and such was the case today.

The first one was a chap who has been in to see the doctors no less than 7 times in the last 2 months, which I'd like to tell you is a record, though it isn't. After about the third time I gave up and referred him to the local psychiatric clinic- the CMHT, not that they will help him much. They'll decide he has "one of the spectrum of anxiety disorders" and probably give him anti-depressants. What they won't do is give him what he wants, namely CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) because that is very difficult, if not impossible, to get on the NHS. And still he comes in with his insomnia, abdo pains and continual nausea. As he is seeing the CMHT on Thursday I decided (to his consternation) not to intervene ahead of them.

Later, out of 39 patients seen today, about 11 others had specific neurotic-type symptomatology, Hey ho...

miraculous cure

Out to the coast this afternoon to see my mum. The conditions are bright and fresh, but everywhere, from the autumnal colours down to the little chill when the sun goes in, announces that summer is well and truly over. I cut the lawn at 1 pm; despite the fact that the sun had been out all morning it was still damp from the heavy overnight dew. Perhaps this will be the last cut it needs until next March.

On our arrival at my mum's house, it was clear she had staged a quite extraordinary rally. She is up and about, flower arranging in the local church, playing bridge with her friends and even getting in a half-round of golf earlier in the week. She looks a better colour and is eating more regularly. Her memory is still a cause for concern, but something amazing has happened to her morale and we can only celebrate it while it lasts.

big, big day

Apologies for late posting, see below for how I got distracted.

Up early this morning to work on my new short story. I put about 2 hours of straight, uninterrupted concentration into it, and found I had completed the first draft, which comes in at 2495 words: perfect for length if nothing else. The real work lies ahead, in reworking and recrafting it until I am satisfied with it. But today is a little landmark.

This afternoon into City Hall, to attend the wedding of 2 of our young friends. Much waiting about, also the female sax player they hired had her sound system up way too loud. The bride looked lovely though.

This evening I attend a "class of '69" high school reunion- my first. I'm not even sure why I came this time, but I in the event I did show up, and it was one of those fascinating, horrific, Proustian moments. I barely recognised anyone; when someone was pointed out to me I would slowly reconstruct his youthful visage from the crumbling edifice, the archaic ruins, if you like, that remained standing, so to speak, to this day. 40 years on. Hardly surprising then, given the huge flow of time, that people should have transformed thus. But she shock was enormous. Have I changed this much? I kept thinking. I am usually thought of as being quite well preserved for my age, but 40 years must have battered me too.

I discovered some notable candidates for "most illustrious career"; one man made it all the way to Air-Commodore in the Fleet Air Arm, a pretty senior rank for anyone's money; another is a wealthy professional bridge player based in Miami. Interestingly, it was I who taught him to play bridge myself, at the age of 13, having been previously taught it my my parents. One woman is a highly paid financial trouble-shooter working freelance with some of the world's biggest transnational companies.
And Dave Thomas, bless him, already a talented blues guitarist in his teens as well as being an extremely well modulated person, has been a highly respected and even honoured exponent of blues in Cleveland, Ohio.
That year of 69 was quite a group, all right...

shrinky dink

This afternoon I went for my regular bi-monthly meeting with my psychiatrist. I always like to give him some fresh material to work with, so I related the story of a huge dream I had during my stay in Jerusalem last week.
I was in my kitchen at home when suddenly my son appeared in front of me. He appeared to be about 8 years old, and wearing the delightfully innocent, broad grin I remember so well.
"You're back!" I exclaimed, my heart filled to bursting with an inexpressible joy.
"Yep, I'm back" he replied. I rushed over to him and we hugged, a long and glorious hug.
Then I called to my wife, who was in another room:
"Darling, come quick! You've got to see this"
She came in, I turned to her and with a flourish presented this wonderful vision. Then I turned back to him, and at that instant he disappeared into thin air. At this I fell to the ground and began to weep uncontrollably. My wife leant down to comfort me, but I was unable to stop weeping and wailing. Then I was awake, and in actuality my wife was stroking my head, consoling me in reality. My pillow was soaked with tears. The dream was so powerful its images dominated the whole of the next day, and its impact was so great I shall probably never forget it.

My pysch's verdict, and which I could not argue with:
"This is very normal, really, don't you think?"

mister fidget

Last night we attended a performance by Alvin Ailey's American dance theatre at our premier local venue. I should mention that I was nursing a heavy cold at the time, doubtless contracted during my plane flight home from Palestine. That day it had kicked in with full streaming nose, sneezing and general mild discomfort. I did my best to minimise its effect on surrounding theatre goers, but after one sneezing bout a man sitting behind me tapped me quite aggressively on the shoulder and hissed:
"Do you think you could stop fidgeting? You're spoiling my enjoyment of the show"
I whispered back to him:
"I have a severe cold; I'm doing the best I can"
After the interval I noticed that he had swapped his seat with someone else, and I spent the remainder of the (highly satisfying) show wondering when I was going to receive the next tap on my shoulder, but it never came.
After the show I commented to my wife, who for her part was outraged by the incident:
"Well, I guess I finally came across someone who's even more irritable than I am"

Today is (hopefully) the peak day of my cold symptoms, though still not so bad that I felt it necessary to take time off work. A cold, as I frequently explain to my patients, is not an illness or disease, but "an acceptable deviation of health" Most humans get 3-5 "URTIs" (Upper Respiratory Tract Infections) per year and they require no treatment. Indeed, a useful working adage, and one I often trot out to the patients, goes as follows:
"If you treat a cold it lasts a week, if you don't it lasts 7 days"

In my case, however, as a life-long smoker, there is always the tendency for a cold to mature into a true chest infection, which does require intervention with antibiotics. I haven't started them yet, but I must remain watchful for the telltale signs: the production of green sputum along with the extremely unpleasant sensation of the chest "locking up". Usually ABs will solve the problem in not much more than a week, but in the pre-antibiotic era this scenario could easily have transformed into pneumonia, with death as a possibility.

erotic throwback

In my far-off youth I used to be a terrible clocker of women. In the winter I would long for the return of spring and summer, when the young girls would shed their outer clothing and reveal more of their bodies for my lascivious gaze. These days, as I have attained my late middle age, these feelings have waned, though not, it would appear, lapsed altogether.

Today, walking back from town I noticed a tall, slender young woman walking swiftly in front of me. I quickened my pace to keep up with her, drinking in her gorgeous young body as she strode confidently along the pavement. Wearing a little black leather jacket which showed off beautifully her pinched-in waist, while below, every detail of her legs were displayed by skin-tight dark grey leggings. I wondered whether she might be a little too thin even for me, but as I caught her up and drew level with her I could see the voluptuous jut of her buttocks. Dragging my eyes away from this vision of eroticism personified, I took in her face. She was quite beautiful; a generous mouth, small straight nose below large brown eyes, all topped off by a casual little mop of bright red hair. In summary then, a very vision of loveliness.

Oh! If I were 30 years younger, if I were not married, would I have plucked up my courage and tried a line, perhaps along the lines of:
"Excuse me, but if I told you you had nice legs you wouldn't hit me would you?"
And if this had not received an immediate put down, I might then have gone on to invite her for a coffee somewhere.
Our paths coincided for about a quarter of a mile, when at last they diverged and she made her way down a side road, perhaps to go to the local art college which lies in that direction. I could then have asked if if this was indeed her destination, and if she had answered in the affirmative it could have launched a whole conversation on art, art education and so forth. But with an enormous effort of will I let her go and pursued my own route home. A little atavistic moment then, a blast from a temps perdu, never to be regained...

home and back to same old same old

Yesterday We arrived at Bengurion airport nearly 4 hours early, which turned out to be quite a good idea as the various security checks we were subject to took up nearly 3/4 of that time. I can understand the Israelis being careful for obvious reasons, but what struck me was how a determined bomber could easily have evaded the checks. For instance, my bag was chosen for a more detailed search, and we stood in line for nearly 90 minutes waiting for this to take place. I thought they must have spotted my juggling balls on the X ray, but when it finally came to it they were interested only in a ceramic tile we had been given by a friend in the West Bank. Naturally we lied about that and insisted we had bought it on a day trip to Bethlehem. And this was accepted without question and we were allowed to go on our way without them even opening the bag to inspect its contents.

At home today I attempted to download the pictures from my new Samsung EX1, but both I and my wife were completely unable to perform this task. There was a lot of heavy breathing and loud sighing on my part, though I did manage to avoid the shouting/screaming/throwing things scenario, determining instead to take camera plus laptop back to Jessops tomorrow for them to explain to idiotic little me how to do it. I hope...
I shall also take in my Panasonic LX3 to get it repaired. Then maybe I shall sell the Samsung on ebay- I have no idea how to do this, of course, but, as they say, I have a friend who does.

GOOD NEWS DEPT

We retrieved my laptop from PC World today after they had sent it back to Sony for it to be repaired under warranty (yes, we, or rather my wife, managed to persuade them that the space bar refusing to co-operate was indeed a real problem) and I am delighted to report it is now working perfectly. Good old Sony, I say!

FOOTNOTE

I have been following the blog on smileofthedecade.co.uk with increasing pleasure of late, and it seems the august fellows at the BBC have also been casting an eye. Could the author be set for media stardom in the near future? Hard to say (I'm sure they look at a lot of blogs, though not mine I fancy), but I do recommend you give it a try if you haven't seen it yet. It's insightful, irreverent, and sometimes hysterically funny. In fact, it's grrreat!

beware the russians

I should probably have reported under "reflections", an issue that a number of people mentioned to me during my stay in the Holy Land: Russian immigration. Since 1990 and the end of the cold war, Russian Jews have been the single biggest ethnic group to have made their home in Israel, nearly 2 million of them. And with them, apparently, they have brought organised crime on an unprecedented scale, along with some of the most racist and intransigent views towards the Palestinian people.

Israel is also a very popular tourist destination for Russian people; the Dead Sea seemed to throng with them almost exclusively, though from my naive perspective I should say they seemed like a pretty friendly bunch: I was photographing one group who had completely covered themselves in the famous black healing mud, when they insisted I join them to be pictured along with them- this group certainly projected a very warm and happy vibe.

reflections of a holy land sojourn

Our last day of holiday. We have travelled 200 km north to the ancient walled city of Acre, home to a civilisation going back nearly 3000 years and infamous for being taken by Richard the Lioneart in 1191, who then proceeded to put almost the entire population of several thousand to the sword- an action that is remembered with bitterness by Arab peoples even to this day. Less well known appears to be the fact that when the Mamelukes regained Acre for Islam exactly 100 years later, they dealt out exactly the same treatment to all the Christians still foolish enough to be living there.

I had wanted to come here mainly for the very well preserved crusader castle that still stands proudly overlooking the eastern Mediterranean. The interiors are certainly very impressive, though recent developments around it have crowded in on it so densely it is actually quite hard to see it from the outside at all. Our hotel, for instance, is partly built into the old city walls.

So, what have I come away with from my trip here? As always, the best insights come from the people one meets, and in my case it was the friends my wife had made in her previous trips over here. The majority of these have turned out to be Christian Arabs, who to my surprise form a substantial minority, about 20%, of all Palestinians in the West Bank. And all of them, somewhat to my dismay, choose as their main target of vitriol, not the Jews, not the segregation wall, not the huge array if other indgnities they have suffered at their hands since they were displaced from their lands in 1948, but their own muslim neighbours. Maybe they are reluctant to voice their hatred of the Jews too openly, but they are certainly not backward in coming forward about the raw deal they get from their majority co-denizens, getting ripped off in land deals, for example, being just a small part of it. They almost seem to display the same "orientalist" attitudes so prevalent in the West eg: you can't trust a muslim, not with your daughter and certainly not with your money. As an outsider this is very strange to me.

For me, the fate of the Palestinians (may they be muslim or christian) is analagous to the fate of the native Americans or Australian aboriginals: seen as a backward, troublesome irritation by a far more powerful invading force, they have been brushed aside, marginalised and forced to live in ghettos or reservations, where their plight is very rapidly forgotten by a world with other things on its mind.

The solution? No one seems optimistic that things will change in a period even as long as the next hundred years (one German volunteer I spoke with said "they've hated each other for 60 years: what can you do about it now?"), but I wonder. The fact is we are seeing the decline of the American Empire, that body which props up Israel in everything it does or wants to do (despite the weasel words of people like Hilary Clinton) and 9/11 saw the beginning of the Barbarian invasions. In much less than 100 years China will be the dominant world power, and I do not believe they are quite so enamoured of the Israelis as the Yanks.

In 1985, with America and Britain firmly behind it, who would have predicted that the apartheid regime of South Africa was in fact on its last legs and would be brought to its knees in less than 10 years? Yet it happened. And now the white fascists of South Africa have gone, the plight of the Palestinian people is the biggest single human rights issue in the world. And I believe the time is coming for a real change in this extraordinary and really rather wonderful land.

dead sea rolls

Today we made our way through a series of checkpoints, finally to arrive on the shores of the Dead Sea- 407 metres below sea level: the deepest exposed gash in the Earth's surface. If you placed the Empire State building here, even the very pinnacle of its radio mast would barely graze sea level.

I had been informed that it would be "impossible" to swim in it because of its extreme buoyancy. I was sceptical, but the keennness of my anticipation to find out for myself was enormous. How buoyant actually would it actually be? I felt it would probably be the difference between fresh water and normal sea water, but I was wrong. The difference was 3 or even 4 orders of magnitude greater than in oceanic water. I waded in with my hat and newspaper for my wife to take the long-awaited picture, but even that was difficult: one must be absolutely stable in one's position; otherwise one simply turns turtle and flips right over. It's a bit like floating on a tire inner tube that is too small: you're constantly fighting against capsizing. The only comfortable way is simply to lie back and float, at which point there is an almost surreal sense of wellbeing.

As for swimming, it is possible, but only either by doing a classic doggie-paddle or a sort of on-your-back breast stroke. Attempting proper breast stroke simply results in your legs popping up into the air and your head going under; crawl causes the body to completely flip on each stroke. All in all, an astonishing experience which I recommend to everyone. A marvellous, marvellous apotheosis for me personally, which in itself would have justified the cost of the trip.

And now this indeed has almost come to an end, with us leaving the West Bank tomorrow to spend a single night in the ancient crusader town of Acre, before flying home on Monday.

balls up

It has happened at last! Nearly 3 months after beginning my practice, the show came off today. I can scarcely say without a hitch, because I did drop 2 or 3 times, including once, disastrously, when all 3 balls went down and I had to go chasing across the floor to retrieve them. But my wife informed me that at one point a 6 year-old girl turned to her with a look of wonder in her face and breathed:
"Is beautiful!"

And you know what? That's good enough for me. Plus the wife said it was fine. And she doesn't do bullshit.

Later we celebrated with a bottle of champagne brought over specially for the occasion, and even though it was consumed in the cheapest of plastic cups, it was sweet indeed.

no room at the inn

Yesterday we arrived in Bethlehem, only to be told at our hotel that the reservation made by my wife less than 2 months ago had been mislaid and there was no room for us: something of an irony wouldn't you agree?

Some subtle negotiations were then entered into and satisfactory accommodation eventually secured. Tomorrow is set for my big show- all is ready from my perspective; my practice session this morning went without a single mistake- though later on we discovered that the whole event may be somewhat chaotic, considering nearly a hundred children aged from 6 to 13 will be in the audience, with no knowledge of the proper etiquette of audiences- a good thing then, that jugglers are used to anarchy and chaos. I shall remain completely fluid about whatever happens, which by the way I recommend as a useful approach to life in general and visiting deprived countries in particular: things often, or even usually, fail to go according to plan- after all, we propose, but God doth dispose- irregardless then, wish me luck!

Saturday I hope to realize a dream I have fostered since early childhood: to sit in the Dead Sea while reading a newspaper. This is based on a photograph I saw when I was about 8 years old in a book called something like " Great Wonders of the World" and something I have wanted to reproduce in person ever since. Please God it will work, thus making it one of the great culminating moments of my life. Please follow this blog to see if it does (and forgive me if I am unable to access a computer immediately)

a city under military occupation

Walking the streets of the Old City of Jerusalem, one is confronted by the sight of soldiers everywhere: a very young conscript army; most of them look little more than 16, yet they are to a man tooled up with M16s, each with a spare clip taped to the first. They are trained to fire on anyone they perceive as a threat. Oddly they are also trained to permit photographs: I have taken several without the slightest objection.

This afternoon we travelled by bus to the nearby Palestinian town of Al Azaria. There our friend proudly showed us his "permission", the form issued by the Israeli authorities allowing him a six month extension of his permission (not right, you understand; the permission may be revoked at a moment's notice with no reason given) to visit Jerusalem, the town of his birth, though no other place in Israel.

He gave us a tour of his pet scheme, the "Vision Association", where on a near non-existent budget he and a few highly motivated and extremely smart friends and relatives work with emotionally damaged youths, a sort of healing process through the media of music, dance and art.
If UNESCO or the like had any sense they'd be funding schemes like this with millions of dollars, but I imagine the all powerful American Jewish lobby would have something to say about that...

While there, we were also shown their logo, daubed on the "security fence" (or "apartheid wall" as the locals call it) which cuts the town in two, the road leading up to it disappearing into the breeze-blocks of the 15 metre-high wall. The Israelis say they built the wall to stop the suicide bombers entering Israel, but even after only 2 days here it is obvious that this justification is completely bogus: the Old City of Jerusalem is, with the exception of the tiny Jewish quarter, almost exclusively populated by Arabs, that is, thousands and thousands of Palestinians already live on the ISRAELI side of the wall. No, the labels of "apartheid, or "separation" are much more accurate ways of describing the wall.

fragrant city

Walking the maze of streets of Jerusalem's old city today, I was assailed by an intoxicating array of competing smells: tamarind and thyme mixed with the sweetness of peach and pomegranate, unfamiliar but delightful tobacco from the narghiles,(an activity permitted to women as well as men) all of which are inevitably blended with the characteristic smells of any city: diesel, human sweat and sometimes, sewers. A great day.

Today has been a little cooler: around 28 degrees as opposed to the 32 of yesterday. This morning, rising at 5.30 am, we made the 400 metre ascent to the top of the Mount of Olives, mainly in order to get the unquestoned best view of the old city encased in its imposing walls, built by the Turks, improved by the crusaders and finally manicured by the Israelis. We are only just in time to catch the limestone glowing golden in the early morning light before the sun rises in the sky and bleaches everything a dazzling (and less photogenic) white.

live from jerusalem

We arrived yesterday in the afternoon and, after having settled ourselves into our room at the American Colony hotel (lots of Americans, perhaps understandably, but a very pleasant bolthole nonetheless) we set out for the old city to find the church of the Holy Sepulchre, deep within the great walls of the ancient citadel.

It was about 6.30 in the evening when we arrived; all the coach parties had thankfully receded, leaving us almost alone to wander in its great colonnaded spaces and sacred tombs. We went inside the tiny chapel which sits directly under the great dome, marking the exact spot (allegedly) of Christ's crucifixion. it's so small you can only get a handful of people in at any one time, and I'm told the crush around it on holy days is anything but holy. Finally we went into the underground, innermost sanctum to see the exposed volcanic plug upon which the church rests. All in all I would class it among the most potent emotional experiences I have ever had in a church. Marvellous stuff!

Today we went to the Dome of the Rock. Initially we were forbidden entrance to the mosque itself, the guard explaining slightly apologetically that this was a political, rather than a religious axiom, a form of protest at the Israeli's lack of respect to the holy site back in 2000 which triggered the 2nd intifada.
But a German woman wouldn't let it go and kept at the guy relentlessly. I had already had my attempt, and gone over to a shaded space nearby to watch her efforts, which I was sure would be fruitless, but then I saw I him him wave her in at last. I rushed over and tried my luck once more, protesting my support of the Palestinian people and my wife's work in the west bank. Now, his position somewhat weakened by his earlier concession to the German, which he knew I had witnessed, with a little reluctance, he let me in. But only me. My wife remained on the proscribed list for some reason.
Then I discovered for myself why the mosque receives its name. Directly beneath the great golden dome is indeed a huge rock, unpolished, uncarved, around which the mosque is built. It was a tremendous moment for me to see it. There was just time to get a couple of quick photos before I was spotted as an unbeliever and unceremoniously hustled out. But I still felt I had been privileged (for a tourist, at any rate) to an unusual and highly affecting experience.

Allah Akbar! God is indeed great, and likes, apparently, to put his holy places on the tops of extinct volcanoes. Well, can you think of a better place?

september book and film review

BOOKS

ORIENTALSIM, BY EDWARD SAID. Somehow appropriate as we are off to the Holy Land tomorrow,(and by the way, please be gentle if I find it difficult to post regular blogs over the next 2 weeks), as Said himself hails from the West Bank, before he left for America to launch a highly illustrious career in the halls of Academe. Basically his thesis in coining the term "orientalism" is to highlight the deeply ingrained racism that exists in the west against all non-occidental culture, and has indeed existed at least since the Crusades.
Whether it be Islamic, Hindu, Chinese or whatever, we like to package them, compartmentalise them and generally reduce them: oriental culture is fascinating, colourful but essentially inferior to our own. From this it is logical to exploit it for our own purposes as we see fit. Uncomfortable, but essential reading for anyone who flatters themselves that they have no prejudice.
THE REPRIEVE, BY J-P SARTRE. The second in Sartre's "Roads to Freedom" trilogy, which owes a debt to Proust and also the American writer John dos Passos. In this book a revolutionary new technique emerges, where the stories of a number of different characters are interwoven so tightly that sometimes a sentence begins in one setting and switches to a second or even a third before the full stop comes. The effect is disturbing, and not altogether easy to read, but once one has got used to the style it is as magnetically absorbing as the first book.
LA SYMPHONIE PASTORALE and ISABELLE, BY ANDRE GIDE. 2 famous novellas from the fin de siecle Francais by an arch-wordsmith of the highest quality. Gide is one of those people, like George Orwell or Mikhail Bulgakov, where I find myself thinking: "Boy! I wish I could write like that"

FILMS

DECONSTRUCTING HARRY, W-D WOODY ALLEN.(1997) Allen's films fall into 3 broad categories: great (Manhattan, Crimes and Misdemeanours), outstanding (Annie Hall, Broadway Danny Rose) and, the smallest group, terrible (Match Point, Interiors) This falls very much into category 2, funny, insightful and beautifully crafted.
THE RED BALLOON, W-D ALBERT LAMORISSE (1955) Alfred Hitchcock once said movies should be about evoking an emotional response in the audience, and this superb film, one of the greatest short films ever made: it makes ones FEEL right the way through every one of its all too brief 33 minutes. Wonderful.
LORD OF THE FLIES (William Golding), D PETER BROOK (1963) In his famous style, later emulated by Mike Leigh, Brook shot more than 600 hours of improvised action with his cast of non-actors, before editing down to just 93 minutes. The result does justice to that amazing book, authentically conjuring the atmosphere of heat, fear, threat and murder. Gripping and powerful.
SHERLOCK HOLMES, D GUY RITCHIE (2009) A really quite creditable attempt at creating a new persona for the great detective, admirably realized by Robert Downey Jr, who is a genuinely powerful screen presence. Jude Law, on the other hand, who plays Watson, appears not to know quite what he is doing or even why he is there at all.
BLADE TRINITY, W-D DAVID S GOYER (2004) The Blade series tapped into a deep vein of vampirophilia which exists to this day (Twilight) though I think it is close to being mined out by now. Wesley Snipes is certainly the right man for the job of vampire with a heart, a bit like Angel in Buffy, but a lot more edge.
BLACK CAT, WHITE CAT (1998) D-EMIL KUSTERICA. A cult classic from Yugoslavia, where a wide boy needs the help of a local crime boss to steal a trainload of petrol. The deal: he must marry his son to the crime boss's midget daughter- with hilarious and unforeseen consequences. There are several moments of high farce and genuine hysteria in this highly watchable offering.