To continue your education...

I've just had an amazingly enthusiastic Hard Drive Clean Up - files deleted all over the place, hurled towards the Trash Can merrily. Always very satisfying to know there isn't a load of rubbish clogging up the computer; my justification is that I want to get everything sorted in all aspects of my life before 2007 starts, so I can begin afresh. In reality, I was a touch bored and needed something to do... Anyway, I unearthed another poem that I wrote down when I was in Argentina at some point. They're the lyrics that go with a piece of tango music, and I obviously liked them enough to bother sitting and writing them out. Thought I'd throw them on here in a bid to educate at least one reader out there. I've given the weblink at the end so that those of you who read Spanish can see the far superior original.

Nostalgias – 1936, Cobian and Cadicamo

I want to drown my heart with wine
to extinguish a crazy love
that more than love, is pain…
And that's what I'm here for,
to erase those old kisses
with other lips' kisses.
If her love was short lived,
why is this cruel preoccupation
always living in me?
I want to drink for both of us
to forget this obsession,
but I remember her even more.
The nostalgia
for her laughter,
for feeling her fire-like breath
next to my lips…
The anguish
of being abandoned
and of thinking that soon another will
whisper tender words to her…
Brother,
I don't want the humiliation
of begging, crying,
of telling her I can't live without her.
From my sad solitude
I will see the falling of the lifeless roses
of my youth.

Moan, bandoneon, your sad tango
maybe you also are in pain
for a broken love…
Cry my silly, lonely and
sad soul tonight,
dark, starless night.
If drinks bring relief,
here I am with my sorrow
to drown it at once.
I want to drown my heart with wine
to then make a toast
to my defeated love.

'Nostalgias' in Spanish

Because things are not always as they seem

Jose Marti poem that sums up something for me today. I've put the English translation as well as the Spanish original. Not feeling particularly talkative, so this will have to do for now.


Because your eyes were two flames
And your brooch wasn't pinned right,
I thought you had spent the night
In playing forbidden games.

Because you were vile and devious
Such deadly hatred I bore you:
To see you was to abhor you
So lovely and yet so villainous.

Because a note came to light,
I know now where you had been,
And what you had done unseen —
Cried for me all the long night.


POR TUS OJOS ENCENDIDOS... (Verso XIX)

Por tus ojos encendidos
Y lo mal puesto de un broche,
Pensé que estuviste anoche
Jugando a juegos prohibidos.

Te odié por vil y alevosa:
Te odié con odio de muerte:
Náusea me daba de verte
Tan villana y tan hermosa.

Y por la esquela que vi
Sin saber cómo ni cuándo,
Sé que estuviste llorando
Toda la noche por mí.

'O wad some Power the giftie gie us...

to see oursels as ithers see us!'
(To translate for those incapable of understanding Robbie Burns: 'Oh would some Power give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us.')
Thought that was a rather apt way of starting out today's rant - and being a Burns snippet, it comes across as more intellectual than quoting the title of a Ricki Lake show that was the genuine inspiration behind this. Unfortunately, I can't remember exactly what that episode was called, but since it was Ricki it'll have been something about ten lines long, dotted frequently with exclamation marks.
It was yet another 'makeover show' - when you've run out of people willing to embarrass themselves in front of the nation, just set about transforming them instead - and this time it was concerning married women who dressed in what can best be described as men's clothing. Somewhere inside, the show struck a chord with me. You would not believe the number of times miniature old ladies have been on the point of questioning my going into the women's bathrooms, and I had one particularly ghastly experience in an airport where the check-in staff kept referring to me as 'Mr', despite the fact they were holding onto my passport that clearly suggests I am otherwise. After a few of my withering looks, they did manage to giggle out an apology - damn, I should have taken the chance to sue the airline for, well I don't know what but I'm sure there's something. 'Gender assassination'. Someone successfully sued an airline carrier for veterinary bills and 'distress caused' because low-flying aircraft startled their pet parrot, who fell off his perch and promptly broke both his legs. I think I have a pretty strong case in comparison to that.

Oh, how I wish some people had the gift to see themselves as others (or in particular, me) see them! Why do some of the guys in Oxford wear their collars turned up? How did it become the fashion to tuck jeans INSIDE knee high boots? And what is with kids these days having rucsacs so low-slung they bounce against the backs of their knees? And I wish people would learn that a fake laugh is as noticeable as the enormous zit on their face they're trying desperately to pretend doesn't exist.

In need of filling in some time the other day, I went through one of those endless lists of questions that ask you ridiculous things like, 'Have you ever been caught speeding?' 'What is your favorite [sic] color [sic] for eyes?' (And briefly digressing here, how is it in 'romance novels' - not that I'd ever read such trash, of course, this is all based on hearsay - the heroine invariably has 'violet eyes'. Has anybody ever had violet eyes?? I think it would be more disturbing than appealing). 'What is one thing you'd like others to know about you?' In response to the latter, I put: 'I'm not as miserable as I look.' Thus notifying the world at large that I am aware of how I'm perceived, and frankly I wish more of you would take the trouble to find out something about me before branding me as 'a right misery guts.' If after talking to me for a couple of hours you still reach that conclusion, fair enough. You're probably an exceptionally boring creation who I couldn't be bothered to come out of hibernation for.

I think most people are rushing around desperate to convey one impression of themselves to the world, and not stopping to consider who they really are as a person, as an individual. Even when I was being teased at school for being 'the geeky kid with glasses', I never wanted to change who I am or how others perceive me just to give myself an easier ride. And I wish people would back off, stop trying to transform me into a partygoer with the tightest of tops and the most non-existent of skirts - someone who goes around getting drunk and then accusing any man she unintentionally sleeps with of raping her. (Notably this is usually the case when the male in question is particularly unattractive, in which case he 'undoubtedly' spiked her drink).

Words of wisdom for the day, and paraphrasing someone or other but I really can't think who just now: remember, you are not a sheep.

On Being a Drunk

I think I've found my destiny today - I must work at Being A Drunk. Really, I do the whole thing remarkably well, and courtesy of the ludicrously cheap alcohol prices here in Spain, can afford to. I have access to endless mournful music options thanks to having satellite TV, and furthermore a never-ending supply of tear-jerking movies. In addition to these key components, I am equipped with enough tragedies throughout my life to mull over, and a heart that has been broken frequently enough to justify plunging into the lower reaches of the wine glass.
Moreover, I have the ability to feel everything in my very core. Where someone else would feel sad, I feel tortured; when someone else would be happy, I am ecstatic. Being able to have anything experienced on an emotion-scale that ranges far higher and lower than the average, I am the ideal candidate for the role of Drunk.
I wonder if there are sponsorship programmes available. There are for every other damn thing.

On the Joke that is Journalism

Perhaps sometimes I go out of my way to make my headings have an element of alliteration about them, but I like to do it. Besides, today's is accurate. Journalism these days is a joke - I imagine there are a few newspapers somewhere out there that say things as they really are, but generally speaking everything is influenced by something/someone or other. I have a particular bone to pick with the BBC today, who ran an article in their magazine section entitled, 'Intimate Strangers.' Essentially, some woman or other is wandering around London taking photographs of the people she always sees on the way to work, but never speaks to. The article is written as if she's had some incredible revelation about life in the 21st century, and the comments the BBC has chosen to put up as reactions to the article generally show readers exclaiming, wow! I've always thought this as well! How utterly cool?!
Shoot them all now. What the BBC should have done is run alongside this article another regarding the total lack of education in our country today. Has nobody else noticed that what this woman is basically doing is working on something Walt Whitman came up with over 150yrs ago? ('Crossing Brooklyn Ferry', for all my equally uneducated readers out there). This lack of communication she has noticed is hardly original... and overall, his poem is far more effective than her stream of photographs with 'fascinating' stories attached to each picture. Perhaps she is secretly scheming to turn the UK into America, in the sense that all people will be disturbingly friendly and enthusiastic about their fellow citizens. Americans are an awesome lot to watch; I particularly like the breed that appear as the audience on the likes of the Oprah Winfrey show. But really, keep them in America - the British 'stiff upper lip' should be celebrated, not denegrated.
Oh, I emailed this point into the BBC - the part related to Whitman and originality anyhow - but obviously it hasn't appeared as a 'comment'. Who is moderating these things? I remember attacking some ridiculous article about popular books, with everyone being 'surprised' that their favourite novels were invariably in the Waterstone's '3 for 2' offers. At this point, I cast my eyes heavenwards and shake my head...
While I'm on the subject, I'm absolutely fed up with seeing peoples' 'favourite book lists' that are merely designed to impress others. It is incredible how Dostoyevsky can suddenly become somebody's favourite author because at some point they managed to struggle through, 'Crime and Punishment.' Likewise, these lists invariably include a Dickens, an Austen, a Woolf if the person has any pretensions of feminism, and a J K Rowling if they aim to appear 'childlike'. People who have read, 'The Alchemist' are suddenly leading experts on Paulo Coehlo - had they bothered to read more than about three of his books, they'd have realised that all his ideas are summed up in those and further novels are mere repeats. Yes, they're interesting ideas, but I like a new concept in each book, not repetition of a successful formula.
I suppose the most depressing 'favourite book' lists are those which only incorporate, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', 'The Great Gatsby', and, 'Pride and Prejudice'. These books are the standard GCSE syllabus in the UK, and the fact is the reader hasn't actually gone beyond what the curriculum told them to read by the age of 16.
No wonder the journalists of today apparently don't know about one of the classic American poems. With the likes of 'York Notes' to help students out, who actually needs to KNOW anything these days?

(Additional thought: whoever came up with the headline, 'EU hardens tone on enlargement' should be promoted. Plus, check out this link for proof of wonderful journalism: http://www.thelocal.se/5818/20061215/ )

A passing thought

Continuing on from my previous post, I found a rather good way of, well, putting it. Courtesy of Oscar Wilde. There are a multitude of things around for me to rant about right now, but I'll just finish off the issues broached in my previous post first. In an attempt to show that I have some sense of organisation.

Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.

On the Curse of Mushy Movies

'Love Actually' was on television the other day - one of the ultimate disasters of the movie industry, an almost unwatchable 'triumph' of the Romantic Comedy genre. Every now and then, I'm not averse to indulging in an afternoon of 'Pretty Woman', sniffling along to the, 'it must have been love...' lyrics.
The problem - the curse - of such movies (aside from a regular dose of seriously bad acting and appalling lines gracing our television sets) is that they create impossible expectations. Everything works out: the guy gets the girl, the violins play at appropriate moments, and major character defects can be set aside without a second thought. A film should be made with the reality taking centre stage: the girl will always be too shy to speak to the guy and will not suddenly have an epiphany one hour in and gain boundless confidence; the guy will be incapable of kissing without emulating a vacuum cleaner and the 'moment' will be shattered; the guy who 'knew' and 'bonded' with the very soul of the woman actually did so via a few comments that by chance were the right ones to make, not because of any particular understanding on his part.
And so we wander around the planet, looking for an ideal that cannot be found. Ignoring the parts of people we don't like in a bid to find 'the one' - ignoring a gut feeling that tells us something is wrong, because we don't want it to be wrong. Someone can come so close to what we believe we want and yet not be 'quite right' - and here is the dilemma. Do we believe in the suggestion proposed by countless movies, that it will 'all work out in the end', and thus labour on with a relationship that is ultimately flawed? Or do we cut short the good times, the wonderful moments, because we choose not to ignore the writing on the wall and rather we act on it.
Is it not more true to say that throughout your life, as your ideas and expectations change, so will the person who you want to share it with? All other traditions of social orders have been eradicated in the last decades - women are on a more or less equal footing with men in the work place (please, nobody bother with the statements against that; I read 'women's studies' after all and know all the arguments back to front), borders and boundaries are continually being smashed. Why is the 'nuclear family' still that to which most people aspire? Just because it has been tradition that one male and one female have a group of whippersnappers and all stay together in some merry masquerade or other, does this mean it is the correct - the most appropriate - option?
I don't ascribe to this view of 'children need a stable environment', not in the sense that most people mean when they say it. Children need someone who is prepared to be an adult and teach them how to cope with the world; they don't need the 'best friend' so many parents try to be these days, or to be given the latest gaming machine every Christmas. Children need the security of knowing they can 'try life on', as it were, and if they make a mistake there will be someone to help put them back together again. This stability and security they need can only be found within, not by spending their childhood in the same house and being dressed in the fashionable clothes, liking the right music and knowing the right people.
Because I have learned this lesson - that my security lies only within me - I find it difficult to surrender any part of myself to a relationship. To share a world with somebody else is to take a risk, to have to believe that it is as important to them as it is to you. You are trusting that the other wont shatter your construction - and that means relinquishing a hold on individual security.
But Mushy Movies don't consider all of this.
Mushy Movies especially ignore the problem of a person who is afraid to be himself. How am I supposed to trust someone who doesn't trust himself to BE himself? Who, after years of careful training, has forced himself to be neutral, impartial, and ultimately safe. Am I supposed to wait and hope that he finally cracks and becomes permanently the person I've seen on fleeting occasions when he forgets to employ neutrality? Or do I acknowledge the writing on the wall and walk away?
Why is it I'm so sure about everything else, but can't quite get this issue sorted out. Later tonight, I imagine I'll watch Leona perform in outstanding fashion on the 'X Factor', I'll see her streaking towards a now inevitable stardom. 'Reality TV' - so unreal, such an illusion. Baudrillard is The Guy when it comes to illusion/reality - a review of 'The Vital Illusion' states that:
'Baudrillard considers how human cloning—as well as the "cloning" of ideas and social identities—heralds an end to sex and death and the divagations of living by instituting a realm of the Same, beyond the struggles of individuation. In this day and age when everything can be cloned, simulated, programmed, and genetically and neurologically managed, humanity shows itself unable to brave its own diversity, preferring instead to regress to the pathological eternity of self-replicating cells. By reverting to our viral origins as sexless immortal beings, we are, ironically, fulfilling a death wish, putting an end to our own species as we know it. '
Mushy Movies have caused a potential reality to be an illusion; the attempt to encapsulate a human emotion destroys the possibility of it's existence. The layers of illusion piled on illusion mean that nothing is as it seems - and furthermore that nothing is real. Perhaps the 'studied neutrality' I referred to earlier is at least an acknowledgement that anything else would be unreal, a replica.
I think I've answered my own question. Much as I agree with Baudrillard - I don't want to. I need someone who is fighting the illusion, turning aside the mirror, who believes in the resurrection of a reality. I wrote once that man was inevitably doomed once he created paintings on the walls of caves in an attempt to replicate his world. But it is possible to escape the illusion we have made of this world - I have to believe that. Something nobody has been able to capture, but centuries of poets and artists have attempted to, is the essence of humanity - for argument's sake let us call it 'the soul.' Poetry has touched my soul, has reached out to me, made me feel alive. But nobody has been able to replicate that which we do not fully understand. And therefore I need a guy who is willing to bare his soul to the world, isn't afraid to move beyond the illusion, to feel everything as an extreme, to be wholly alive. Anyone who neutralises their emotions doesn't want this, and is content to be surrounded by the reality of illusions.
Maybe nobody reading will quite follow my points there, but I've sorted something out in my mind at least. Hopefully it will make a reader consider their position - if only in regards to the curse of the mountain of mushy movies.

Something I Like

Maybe that title is being slightly too optimistic, but I thought I'd raise a few eyebrows at least. The post regards something I like - but that needs a heck of a lot of changes to make it into something I love. This morning, after the doctor had finished prodding and probing and regaling me with stories about her depressingly successful son (I was at school with him), I ambled into Plymouth to investigate the snazzy new shopping centre that has been causing road traffic chaos for most of the last two years. I believe architecture students from around the globe are being brought to come and mock the 'modern' design that is indescribably hideous - a peculiar mix of stone, brick, wood, glass, metal, and there's probably every other 'resistant material' in there somewhere.
The shops are no different to those that previously graced Plymouth's streets, but are just relocated within the sparkly new centre. I have to confess, however, that I like it. Dammit, I do. I feel like an alcoholic announcing that I have a drink problem: 'Hi, I'm Jane, and I like shopping malls.' Seriously, what a concept. Shopping all under one roof, so I don't have to get cold and wet and mess about with nasty umbrellas, and a range of eating facilities scattered throughout to keep energy levels up. I could even park my car and go from car to mall without a drop of rain touching on me. Genius. In hotter climes, they of course have the advantage that you can go shopping without the very real possibility of dehydrating and fainting, equipped as they are with air conditioning.
(Plus they always have bathrooms, clean ones, although those in Plymouth's new facility are rather odd: the wash basins are all joined together, thus creating one long trough to wash in. Peculiar).
Changes that need to be made? Well, obviously, I would appreciate if at least two of the shops within the mall were ones I actually wanted to go to. I want a selection of extensive and varied bookshops, clothes that I might feasibly wear (and moreover are priced at a rate that I might feasibly consider), perhaps a discount flight centre would be nice, and if they could have installed a WIFI system that would certainly upgrade it. A shop that sells shoes that are large enough, trousers that are long enough, and - ooh - affordable glasses.
And I'm going to cheat now by putting a link to a BBC article that is one of the best I've read in a long time: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6199716.stm
Strongly recommend a quick squiz in that direction. I was intending to offer my viewpoints in relation to the article, but I seem to have gone on about malls for a while so will instead amble off and do something useful. Like test-run the chocolates I bought this morning. My stomach is probably suffering from lack of chocolate substances, and this is the sole reason it remains unwell.

On Cramps and Comments

I could send one of those tiresome 'travel experience' updates out to the world at large here, but will restrain myself. There is nothing more tedious than reading that someone got from A to B via train or bus, why they made that decision, and whether or not they regretted it.

Furthermore, as a frequent recipient of such emails from globetrotting friends, I would like to state here that in future I have no desire to read someone's opinion on the comfort of a bed in Vietnam that I am never likely to stay in; an individual's bargaining skills, nor indeed an apparently endless analysis of the merits of one tour operator over another.

Thus my comments regarding Morocco will be limited: if you have a weak stomach (and mine is indisputably one of the more pathetic roaming this planet) be prepared to starve yourself for the duration of your stay in the country. The hygiene standards are impossible to compete with when your digestive system turns it's nose up at mere lemonade at the best of times. I am now in my eleventh day of extreme stomach-illness, that necessitated an early return from Morocco, a quick diversion to a hospital in Gibraltar, and indeed a week's respite care in Plymouth. (If my optionally returning for a seven day stint from the glories of sunny Spain to the misery of a distinctly moist and windy England isn't proof enough of my state of health, I don't know what is). Tomorrow, I go in pursuit of antibiotics. I can't stand to eat another forkful of rice while looking despondently along the table towards my mother settling down to her Marks n Sparks treats.

Well, that was the 'cramps' part - incase you missed that. Now onto the 'comments' part. I was informed today by a fellow blogger that he'd left a comment for me, so I eagerly scampered to my website to check it out. A few hours later, still no comment. Hmm. After much investigation, I have just found comments left to me over approximately the last eight months. Ah. It seems I had some peculiar setting going on which meant they didn't show up. Therefore, this is addressed to all those who have responded with questions to some of my rants, demanding further justification for my apparently outrageous viewpoints, and indeed on occasion daring to argue with me. I apologise profusely for not following up complaints/observations and even allegations. I believe settings are now changed, and people can comment away in peace. If, that is, I have any readers left to comment.

One I do remember in particular from a few months ago came from someone accusing me of being the 'gap year traveller' I ranted about in a particular posting. Short of issuing forth a frothy mass of expletives, I am unable to respond as I wish. And since I never intended this blog to be x-rated, I'd best shut up and go be lethargic elsewhere.

(Picture from last post: Saadian tombs, Marrakech. By the by).

Morocco

I am not yet ready to relate the tragic tale of my near-death experience in Morocco that has resulted in my somewhat reluctant temporary return to the shores of England, but I thought I'd throw out a few photographs for willing observers to peruse. If anyone has any space available on their prayer cards, please set it aside for referencing myself - and in particular my stomach - when you are conversing with Him Upstairs. Right now, I need all the help I can get.

Knobbly Knees

I thought I was fairly effective at being female but there are whole areas of female-ness that it seems I know nothing about. I'm obviously forever amazed by the volumes of make-up women are prepared to plaster onto themselves in a bid to appear 'attractive', and nail varnish and I are absolute strangers. I remember a post a few months back that talked about a woman ironing her hair - something I've now learned is relatively common practice. Incredible. However, in the last two days a few more things for me to potentially be neurotic about have presented themselves.
The first was an entire photo-spread in something like 'Heat' magazine, with pictures of the typical glamorous stars who are normally paraded in front of their readers as the 'ideal'. There were endless captions, though, regarding the knobbliness of the various celebs' knees. I looked and looked and looked, but could find nothing of the hilarity the reporter clearly found in the images. What the heck constitutes a sexy knee? And moreover, are there actually women out there who wake up miserable because their knees are 'unattractive'? Incredible.
And I saw a snippet of a documentary regarding women with small breasts. Now, I'm not exactly well endowed but hey, you get over it. You think, 'at least they wont be around my knees when I hit forty'. Actually, you don't even think that - you just go, er, right, that's me. I've just watched some insane woman put these enormous plastic suction cups on her breasts at night in order to enlarge them for all of twelve hours. This obviously interrupts wildly with bedroom activities, which frankly is the least of the disturbing thoughts that came to mind. Why are women so obsessed with the way they look?
A final one. This one really took the biscuit - unfortunate expression perhaps, in light of what it is. I discovered that women actually take laxatives in order to lose weight - as in, high dosages of laxatives. Are they insane? Heck, if you want to be slimmer, eat less and go to the gym. Don't pump your body with drugs.
I just cannot envisage doing anything so extreme to my body. Supposedly for 'myself'. My 'self worth'. Dear Lord, how do parents get it so wrong? I've just looked at my knees again and I have no idea if they are knobbly or not, attractive or not. And frankly, I'm much better off not caring.

Just a Rant

No particular focus to this - at least, I'm not starting out with one. Perhaps I'll find a peg on which to hang my ranting feelings.
Like, for example, the message board on Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook (as I do, perhaps, with most things and people on this planet), and at the moment am in Hate mode. For those of you not in the know, it is essentially a MySpace for university students - and for those who don't know what MySpace is, well, I'm afraid you'll just have to go and find out. I can't do all the legwork for you. To get in touch with somebody else via the website, you can either send them a message - delivered to what is basically an email inbox only the recipient can access - or leave a post on their 'wall', as it is referred to. I can understand leaving a message on somebody's 'wall' if you have a particularly witty remark to make, for example, that is relevant to the world at large. But there are whole swathes of people who like to leave what can only be referred to as highly personal messages on this wall, for all the world to see. Why can't people conduct relationships in private? Don't people want to create their own world apart from the rest of humanity, that is for them and them only?
And another thing. I am fed up with people who make the dramatic statement, 'Oh, you MUST meet so and so, you'll really like them!' For one, don't bother to presume to know who or what I'll like. For two - oh, I can't even be bothered to explain the 'for two'. Its all too depressing.
Now I shall retreat into my world, and urge everyone else to get back into theirs. In our joyful capitalist society our need for other people has been diminished to merely offering services for payment; why do we need to pretend otherwise.

Bless Microsoft Geeks

Well, wandering around attempting to fix internet issues this evening (I was steered, I might add, by English computer guru courtesy of this Skype business I've finally gotten connected to - people who know me, add me, I do enjoy bellowing into the corner of my laptop where the microphone is buried, and having a good ol' natter). Anyhoo, an error message came up at one point, clearly something that some Microsoft geek enjoyed creating in a bored hour, and I really rather liked it so thought would share with the globe at large:

Through a series of highly sophisticated and complex algorithms, this system has determined that you are not presently authorized to use this system function. It could be that you simply mistyped a password, or, it could be that you are some sort of interplanetary alien-being that has no hands and, thus, cannot type. If I were a gambler, I would bet that a cat (an orange tabby named Sierra or Harley) somehow jumped onto your keyboard and forgot some of the more important pointers from those typing lessons you paid for. Based on the actual error encountered, I would guess that the feline in question simply forgot to place one or both paws on the appropriate home keys before starting. Then again, I suppose it could have been a keyboard error caused by some form of cosmic radiation; this would fit nicely with my interplanetary alien-being theory. If you think this might be the cause, perhaps you could create some sort of underground bunker to help shield yourself from it. I don't know that it will work, but, you will probably feel better if you try something.

On Spaniards and Spaniels

Technically, I have very little to say on the subject of Spaniels, but sure I can produce something in order that the nice-sounding title is justified.
My absence has been due to ambling down through France and Spain, finally being deposited in a remote hideaway an hour's drive from Malaga. (A ghastly city if ever there was - claims that the historic centre is 'beautiful' are made somewhat redundant, I feel, by the miniature size of this historic centre in comparison to the rest of the tower-block hell). Courtesy of a few bargains at the local Carrefour (about three hours away), I have enough food to feed a small country for a good few years, and having unpacked my clothes also have tshirts and jumpers enough to dress most of Asia. In addition to this excess, I have God knows how many TV channels (despite the endless possibilities of satellite, I'm still just watching good ol' ITV, providing me with the inevitably grim final grand prix of the season), three terraces, and a substantial (and varied) selection of my books. In other words, I don't need to leave this spot for the forseeable future: just as well, as the roads are frankly terrifying and I'm not wild about driving along them.
Oh - to drag spaniels into it, I'm living next door to eight dogs, five cats, three horses, and their lovely English owners who are also my landlords and creators of the nest in which I find myself. I find in the few emails I've sent I have resorted overwhelmingly to the term 'lovely' to describe everything, but there is no word more apt, I'm afraid. It just is.
In my limited experience of Spaniards so far, they are a fairly miserable bunch who talk with outlandish accents (very different to those of Argentines and Peruvians anyway) and have an endless capacity to loathe the English. Well, can hardly blame them for that, but I wish they'd understand I loathe most of the English too.
Being an efficient sort of soul, I've tracked down the 'local' (hour away) rowing club - after discovering that they row on the sea and have a tendency to be out and about at 9am, my thoughts ambled along different lines and I'm thinking of launching myself firmly in the sailing direction. Many happy memories of charging about in boats as a whippersnapper, and feel I should get back into that. Particularly since my brother is currently intent on building his own boat (we're talking 28ft beast here, not the next Bootle Bumtrinket). (If you haven't read/watched, 'My Family and Other Animals', you should first feel ashamed and then dash off for a copy).
Well, expect more regular postings - I know I keep promising this and never manage to maintain posts, but honestly, I've remarkably little else to do here so may as well update you all, if only on the weather forecast (sunny and bikini hot).

(There is meant to be a photo of me on here illustrating the suitably idle life I have planned for myself. If it hasn't appeared, ah well, next time).

Ain't that just a kick in the teeth

There's a photography exhibition in Plymouth right now - 'Earth from the Air'. Absolutely captivating pictures from all around the world, plus there are endless interesting (and somewhat depressing) facts. The ones that tell you how many millions of people leave on less than a dollar a day; the number of people who are develop AIDS every hour, and how many die from it. The kind of figures that make you feel guilty for complaining about being stuck in a traffic jam on the way home in your unjustifiably expensive car. And in my case, the kind of figures that make me want to raid the local church every Sunday and yell at the hypocrites inside. (Who furthermore really annoy me by parking along both sides of my road in such a way that it is barely possible to drive along for a good few hours. Oh what selfless individuals they are, really).
Anyhow, given that I had been blasted with these figures (coupled with my present reading of 'IOU' regarding cancelling third world debt) and almost immediately after set to packing up all the stuff in my room on the offchance that the house is sold while I lie around in Spain for the winter, I was more compelled than usual to take vast quantities of stuff to carefully selected charity shops. (Anyone who gives to Oxfam: go check out where your money really goes, you'll soon stop your philanthropic gestures).
The point of my rant is this: I've just realised a whole pile of clothes that were MEANT to go in a box clearly somehow made their way into a charity shop bag. I'm fuming, as this includes a £45 pair of FatFace trousers. (Slight exaggeration - I did get them in the sale for a bargainous £12. But still). I'm now praying that the kind of people who frequent charity shops are not the kind of people who have intelligence enough to realise the quality of said unworn trousers; given that I live in Plymouth, retirement capital of the universe (various Spanish locations and most of Florida aside), chances are they should still be there. I will possibly blow a fuse if they are not.
Now I know what some of you readers are thinking: there is no sacrifice in giving just what you don't need. Personally, I think I do enough for the blasted environment and worldwide misery without having to donate a damn good pair of trousers that I do have a genuine need of. Given that I'm now going to have to replace them, so will thus just spend twice as much in a multinational corporation evil company, thereby perpetuating horrendous work conditions for people around the globe.
Yes, logic dictates they should rightly be returned to me. Cross your fingers.

The Return of Ranting Jane

Yes - I've been absent for ages. But I promise you, I will be returning in full rant-mode in the near future. Possess your souls in patience for a little longer.
(And a photo, just to prove I'm still alive).

Calling my Guardian Angel

I feel a rant within but can't quite locate the epicentre. Something is desperately wanting to escape - I think it is frustration and energy, being annoyed at myself for a multitude of sins. Maybe I should go for a bike ride tomorrow. Some depressingly large hills in the immediate vicinity that will have to be tackled, but it can't be worse than sitting practically rocking back and forth all day.

Have any of you watched English television recently? This evening there has been a typical selection, including 'Driving Mum and Dad Mad', 'Love Island' and the ubiquitous 'Big Brother'. The first on that list was particularly painful to watch - I say watch, I rather mean I had it on in the background as I ambled around the internet seeking inspiration. There is a fine line distinguishing between whether the kids or parents are more ghastly, causing me to return to the thoughts that frequently invade my troubled mind: is it really fair to have children when the world is such a bloody awful place to bring them into? There are enough kids out there going through ghastly existences; why not sort them out first rather than adding more to the problem. There's a scheme over here of fostering children - essentially looking after them for potentially years at a time, but not actually acquiring parental rights as such. Sounds almost like a noble idea, a family taking on an extra child for a few weeks a month to give somebody else a break. That is, until you realise they are being paid extortinate sums - hundreds of pounds a week - to be a Good Samaritan.

And people say my cynicism is misguided.

On another note, I've been half eaten by various bugs and flies and crawling creepies. Last week my foot took on the proportions of a large melon; today, a point on my arm is becoming increasingly prominent, itchy, and generally darn annoying. Not a person who can set something aside and leave it in peace, I intend to give it a darn good scratching. Things have to get worse before they can get better.

Mid-Life Crisis

I lowered myself into my deckchair this morning outside the cottage, with a supply of books to keep me going through the prime tanning time of the day. Barely had I opened the first tome when my neighbours emerged and provided me with considerable more hilarity and interest than Erich Fromm was offering.
The forty-something male appeared and headed towards the garage, from which he emerged clad entirely in leather and pushing a distressingly green motorbike. He then proceeded to do, well, something with it - involved an awful lot of revving followed by an awful lot of cursing - and eventually threw his helmet aside and stormed indoors. The long-suffering wife persuaded him to have another go at whatever it was he was doing; the final conclusion was that the bike was clearly not cooperating and as he charged off in the car, she returned inside, slamming the door, shouting about 'that bloody bike'.
Led me to wondering if the mid-life crisis is a worldwide phenonemon, or just a rite of passage experienced by the priveleged members of the first world. For one, the age of 'mid life' changes significantly in some countries, and at the risk of causing offence I suggest it is improbable that the behaviour of a male in his early twenties is barely distinguishable from crisis-mode anyway. But seriously, do all - for example - American males go through this? Suddenly have a desire to launch themselves at terrifying speeds around the country on a bike they barely know how to handle? Or do they plunge shivering into the sea, armed with nothing more than a board as protection against the elements? What does a hell's angel do at this time - buy a semi and get a job?
It seems to me that these days, a man's entire life is a crisis. If you believe Freud, they spend the first portion of their life wanting to sleep with their mother, and the rest of their life being disappointed by the woman they married who doesn't live up to the standards set by his mother. At 25, they have the realisation that despite having a job that involves them working in London (or similar ghastly collection of buildings), wearing a suit and being transported daily around the bowels of the city by train, they are unattractive to all the women in their office because the 40 year old boss earns considerably more and can thus buy their affections. By 30, they're been convinced by someone to 'settle down and have kids', trapped into weekends of painting pictures with the aid of potatoes and trying to become enthusiastic about planting cucumbers. By 40, they realise that although they now have the money to get those women in the office they'd been gagging after when they were 25, they have no energy left after playing endless games of Monopoly, and having slept in a bed with the same woman for over ten years they've realised there is a finite number of feasible sexual positions and are subsequently bored with such activities. Even if they somehow engineered a situation when they were in bed with the gorgeous blonde secretary, chances of anything functioning as effectively as it did at the age of 25 are close to zero.
Thus they try to prove they are still young enough (they don't even fool themselves, let alone the world around them - particularly the women) and buy fast motorbikes that will either scare the bejesus out of them or, as in the case of my next door neighbour, will have a fault they have no idea how to fix but will never admit it as this would result in taking said bike to some whippersnapper in a garage to repair, thereby admitting they are Old.
Which all leads us to the purpose of Men in the world. In a nutshell: to provide endless entertainment to women, and the tools to keep the world stocked up with more women to pick up the pieces when men, as ever, Get It Wrong. Bless their cotton socks, eh.

(As an aside, this is the one hundredth post you have inflicted upon yourselves as readers. Oh, happy day).

A few observations

Yes, yes, a distinct lack of blogging of late. Been feeling slightly lifeless recently, that's all. A few observations, comments, and things I've seen from the past weeks...

• an eight year old girl wearing bright red lipstick and lighting a cigarette, giving me what I believe is called 'attitude' when I looked at her open mouthed.
• fluorescent green lilos should be given to everyone at birth. The world would be a happier place.
• Antal Szerb should be read in his entirety by all.
• where have the Sebastians of Oxford gone? Despite everyone thinking they are one, nobody is. They aren't even a Charles or an Antony Blanche. When did the soul become an optional extra?
• why are all men incapable of making competent decisions regarding appropriate garments for swimming?
• Facebook and Ferraris are over-rated.
• home-grown tomatoes are the way forwards in the world.
• why would anybody choose to live in a city? To be subjected to the chaos and the noise, the anger and the mad panic for survival?
• it isn't possible to make-over three rooms in sixty minutes, whatever the television tries to convince me each day.
• haircuts are too expensive. Avocadoes are over-priced. Dentists charge indecent prices. Life is rapidly becoming unaffordable.

Which leads me to my new year's ambition (a new year, starting from July. Well, why not - there is the academic year starting in September, this will be the Jane year starting in July). Specifically: win the lottery.

I will return to your screens shortly with a rant to reaffirm my existence as genuinely crabby blogger. Meanwhile - patience, grasshopper.

Bad Parenting...

One of the things that really riles me is annoying kids. The ones who stand screeching in the middle of a supermarket aisle, or sneaking sly punches onto their friend's arm, generally being loud, obnoxious and spiteful. And then you see the person in the role of parent (because these days there is no guarantee that the person playing the fatherly part is remotely related to the child, and furthermore there is no guarantee that they are aware they might not be the real father) shouting and pulling at the child, or swearing and cursing in their face. No wonder such a brat has been created.
And 'bad parenting' does not necessarily mean that sort of behaviour either. In our current world, there are brand new methods of cruelty available - and I don't use the term lightly. A story has recently been related to me, telling of a woman with two young children who left them in the care of a husband she is supposedly in the throes of divorcing, and crossed the United States to have a weekend in bed with a man she'd met on the internet. The immaturity and selfishness of the mother are highlighted by her argument that she needed a 'weekend of fun' and that somehow equated to the above, and above all her lack of care for the kids. If she loathes the man to the extent she has implied, then leaving him in charge of her two babies is surely the most irresponsible thing she could have done.
The role of parent seems to be adapting across the years. Whereas once parents were essential for bringing up a child, it now seems they shirk responsibility at every opportunity - a recent study suggested something crazy like seventy per cent of parents in the UK wanted the child's school to set a bed time. Children have increasingly, in the western world, become prizes, showcases, extensions of a separated life. Unless they play five musical instruments, can tango by the age of six, speak multiple languages - and ideally can operate the DVD player before they can walk - then they are under-achievers. (And thus are automatically assumed to be suffering from ADHD and drugged to the eyeballs).
Whatever came of the old-fashioned ideas of allowing a child to develop into who they really are? Is it just me who thinks that the parent's job is to ensure this development, while providing the safety net in the background for when the child falls in the process. My solution to the problem? Sterilise everyone at the age of 12 (I would usually say 20, but these days it seems there are too many people becoming parents at impossibly young ages) and at a sensible point in their life, possibly at 24 years of age, they take a series of tests. If they prove themselves worthy of parenthood, the sterilisation will be reversed and they are allowed to procreate. The test can be re-taken up to three times, and if still failed on the third time, then neuter them. The world will be a much happier place.