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Flotsam and Jetsam

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Regular followers of these observational obiter dicta (a bit of stretch there but let us not be deterred) will be familiar with my routine reports on various sporting occasions that I (or we) deem to be of import.

I do not – frankly – participate in sports myself these days (though much fitness work is yet done) and those who tried to coach me back in my school days would express a total lack of surprise thereat. The following of various noble sports does, however, play an important part in our lives and I like to enthuse about that wherever appropriate.

My last such report to this forum dates from September last and followed hot on the heels of Emma Radacanu’s splendid victory in the US Tennis Open and – of course – of the Olympic games.

Since then – complete radio silence!

There are good reasons for this sad state of affairs.

Over the past three months England have visited Australia for the most recent episode in that epic cricket contest – the Ashes. Opinions were deeply divided as to their prospects. Those in charge of the England campaign claimed (somewhat unconvincingly) that – pandemic apart – England had spent the last two years preparing for this gladiatorial contest and that the omens were for once propitious. Everyone else declared the the English Cricket Board – by prioritising unnecessary short-form tournaments that blocked out the core of the home season – had effectively prevented any of the potential candidates for the test side from gaining relevant match practice in appropriate conditions.

As it turned out ‘everyone else’ was right and England were accordingly humiliated. At the time of writing several of those responsible for this fiasco (though sadly not the chief culprits!) have duly fallen on their swords and we await further developments.

No cause for reportage there!

In the world of rugby the home nations had surprisingly good Autumn International series, with each side beating one or more of their southern hemisphere counterparts; no mean feat! I would have felt inclined perhaps to have reported thereon where it not for the fact that my attention was distracted by the performance(!) of my long supported Premiership side – Bath. Readers may recall that in 2015 – the year that we left the UK to move to Canada – Bath unexpectedly made it through to the Premiership final, which we eagerly attended at the Cabbage Patch. They were, sadly, well beaten by the beastly Saracens, as duly noted within these pages. Unfortunately their fortunes have since declined and this year they have had a terrible start to the season, losing eleven straight league games before finally winning one against the next club up the table – Worcester. The one piece of good fortune – if such it really be – is that because of COVID there is no relegation from the Premiership for the second year running.

Thank goodness!

So – what moves me to write about sport now?

Well – four things…

Firstly, the Winter Olympics have just begun. No-one in the UK really gives a rat’s arse about these games, because we are pants at most of the sports involved – but here in Canada, of course, it is a different kettle of fish entirely.

Secondly, Canada have suddenly – and to many people’s surprise – become rather good at footie and have just qualified for this year’s World Cup. Who woulda thought it?!

Thirdly, last weekend Bath hosted last year’s champions – Harlequins – at the Rec. To everyone’s surprise, they won! Perhaps their fortunes have finally changed for the better (famous last words!).

The final thing is that this weekend sees the start of this year’s Six Nations championship – and all matches will once again be played in front of (doubtless) full houses. Hooray for that, say I!

This Saturday sees Scotland host the ‘auld enemy’ at Murrayfield for the Calcutta Cup. Whisper it quietly, but it does look as though this might be the closest competition for some years…

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CODA

I am pretty difficult to please when it comes to films – though there are those that I love deeply. Back in the day – when one used to go to a ‘Video Store’ to rent a VHS movie for the night – I would find myself wandering round and round in despair, unable to find anything that appealed. These days, of course, one can achieve the same effect on Netflix without moving from the comfort of one’s sofa. Netflix – incidentally – apparently uses sophisticated Artificial Intelligence to determine what to push as recommendations to eager punters. With me it just gives up and offers any old rubbish!

Hmmm! Where was I?…

Oh yes…

Irregardless (definitely a word – first used in print in 1795!) I do sometimes encounter a film which completely restores my faith in the whole business of movie-making. Such was the case recently with one of last year’s Sundance Festival award-winning movies – ‘CODA’ – the which we discovered on Apple+.

Rotten Tomatoes offers this synopsis of the movie:

“Seventeen-year-old Ruby (Emilia Jones) is the sole hearing member of a deaf family — a CODA, child of deaf adults. Her life revolves around acting as interpreter for her parents (Marlee Matlin, Troy Kotsur) and working on the family’s struggling fishing boat every day before school with her father and older brother (Daniel Durant). But when Ruby joins her high school’s choir club, she discovers a gift for singing and soon finds herself drawn to her duet partner Miles (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo). Encouraged by her enthusiastic, tough-love choirmaster (Eugenio Derbez) to apply to a prestigious music school, Ruby finds herself torn between the obligations she feels to her family and the pursuit of her own dreams”.

Well“! – you may think – “that sounds like pretty much every coming-of-age movie that I have ever seen”… and you would be right. I don’t have to worry too much about spoilers because you could probably write the movie yourself without having seen it. In this instance – however – narrative suspense and unforeseen plot-twists are not the point.

What is the point is that CODA is beautifully written, hitting all the right notes – beautifully characterised and acted, particularly by Brit (you’d never know!) Emilia Jones and deaf actors Marlee Matlin, Troy Kotspur and Daniel Durant – beautifully shot, in the fishing village of Gloucester, Massachusetts – and beautifully judged, making you laugh, long and out loud, as well as blubbing like a baby!

The film brought home to me once again (not that I really needed it to) the vital importance of music – and, of course, of family!

Don’t take my word for it, however. I strongly urge you to seek CODA out and to watch it for yourself.

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It is, arguably, a little bit sad that if I look back over the years that I have been churning out entries for this journal, a regular subject of the December offerings has been just how busy everything has been, how tired we are and how much we are looking forward to some quiet downtime over the Christmas break.

I didn’t actually look back to the archive of any previous December’s postings before making that statement. I didn’t have to. I just know that it is true!

The reason that it is a little bit sad is because The Girl and I are notionally retired and should thus probably have time on our hands rather than finding things a bit of a grind. Let’s face it – we are clearly not tuckered out because of our wild round of pre-Christmas socialising. The pandemic has seen to that!

Oh well!

For me the term at College has just finished, the final exam has been sat and marked, term projects have been submitted and assessed and I am just in the process of wrapping things up and recording grades and suchlike. At the point at which in days of yore I might have been enjoying a little post-term social relaxation I am instead contemplating the next term (what here in Canada is pessimistically – if realistically – called the Winter term). The course that I was scheduled to teach has – for the second year running – been heavily under-subscribed (wonderful to be so popular… not!). My Chair has offered me a different course; one which I have not taught before and which would – once again – require that I mug up afresh on another curriculum and set of practices.

Am I getting too old for this sort of thing? Feels as though I might be.

The Girl (who is of course but a youngster) is also finding work something of a grind and – though she has been able these past two years to work almost exclusively from home – there are threats from her volunteer  service that everyone might be dragged back into the office for the New Year.

The Omicron variant may, of course, have a considerable say in how things actually pan out for either or for both of us. How will it all end up? In truth – nobody knows!

So my message to good and gentle readers out there is this: Take good care of yourselves, stay safe and don’t take any foolish risks (in particular not for misguided ideological reasons)…

As Bette Davis didn’t quite say in ‘All About Eve’ – “Buckle up – it’s going to be a bumpy ride“…

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Ever since arriving in Canada (more than six years ago now) I have – twice a week – taken part in a fitness class for those over 55 years of age. I do not do so because I enjoy this particular form of exercise but because I am determined to keep everything going for as long as possible. If that means doing some work – so be it.

The majority of of the group are ladies, with whom – naturally – I now have reasonably good relationships. We often go for a coffee after the class, to the delightfully named “Fickle Fig” farm shop on the outskirts of Sidney. We sit outside around a huge table – for the (by now) usual COVID protection reasons.

Sometimes we are not alone. Sometimes the wildlife wants to join in – as with this cheeky chappie!

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidHe – or she – doesn’t seem to care for coffee but does quite like the pastries (which, of course, I can’t eat).

He – or she – cared not a jot that I was taking pictures of him/her!

 

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Antony Sher

1949 – 2021

RIP

It is, sadly, that time of year when those who are elderly or infirm – or who have been fighting against illness or disease – are perhaps at their most vulnerable. It should come as no surprise that amongst the number of those who pass at this time there will inevitably be found great men and women whose loss – though no more profound than those less known – may touch a greater number of those of us who remain.

It is but a few days since Stephen Sondheim was mourned in these jottings – and of course in many other fora. Now comes news of the passing of the great Shakespearean actor – Antony Sher. Sher was born and brought up in South Africa in the 1950s and 60s, before fleeing to London to train to be an actor. His record as a great Shakespearean – with the Royal Shakespeare Company and with other prestigious companies – is detailed splendidly in many other places and one could do worse than to start with Wikipedia.

Sher also wrote a number of books and his memoir of the year in which he played Richard III at the RSC – a role that cemented his reputation – was published in 1985 as “The Year of the King“.

Sher was married to Greg Doran – the Artistic Director of the RSC. I had the very great fortune to meet both men whilst working at my penultimate school. Doran had – as I recall – been invited to judge one of the School’s many competitions and Antony Sher accompanied him. At the dinner that inevitably follows such events I found myself sitting beside the latter for a while. I had just read his autobiography – “Beside Myself” – in which he wrote movingly about his relationship with his late father. At that point (in the early 2000s) my father had also recently died and we had a conversation about the effect that this has on one. He was entirely gracious and thoughtful and I was most grateful that he had been prepared to be so open with someone that he had not previously met.

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Regular patrons of these marginalia will doubtless greet as old friends those posts that recur – in some form or another – on a regular basis. Into this distinguished category fall the annual November reports of our most recent outing on the Cariboo Express, courtesy of the engineer in chief – Barney Bentall.

We enjoy these evenings (in support of the Sidney Lions Foodbank) so much that we are quick to purchase tickets each year as soon as they become available. This we did as per usual last year (2020).

On that occasion, of course, the concert did not take place – for reasons that require no further elucidation. The dates were once postponed – and then postponed again. This was deeply sad but necessary. The run-in to Christmas just wasn’t the same without this jolly evening out, but we were not prepared to take any risks that might endanger our (or other people’s) health and well-being.

The final postponement of the event resulted in us being offered the chance to let the tickets spill over to become valid for this year’s equivalent pageant – and fortunately this time the precautions were deemed to be adequate (vaccine passports and photo IDs thoroughly checked) and we were able once again to gather at the Mary Winspear Centre in Sidney – well be-masked and well-behaved – for a most welcome live performance.

It really was quite moving to suddenly find oneself once again in the proximity of real live musicians and singers – and, of course, in a real audience. An object lesson – I think – in the need that we all (many of us anyway!) have to experience live performance… something else of which we clearly need a regular shot! A good evening was quite clearly had by all!

At this juncture we do not have anything much else of a similar nature in the calendar and – with new COVID variants looming – who knows how things will pan out or when we will next get to sit in a theatre watching a live show.

We are (said he through gritted teeth) determined to remain optimistic…

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Stephen Sondheim

1930 – 2021

RIP

 

Sad news yesterday of the passing of the last of the four iconic creators of what is almost certainly the best musical ever conceived – West Side Story. Jerome Robbins, Leonard Bernstein and Arthur Laurents were all in their late thirties at the point at which the show was created in the late 1950s, whereas Sondheim was the baby of the quartet at just 26 years of age.

I was slightly (though entirely unreasonably) shocked to learn that Sondheim was 91. Time really has flown! West Side Story has been with us for pretty much all of my life and – though I have not myself been involved in a production – I have been close to those who have on numerous occasions.

Sondheim is also, of course, renowned for many other groundbreaking productions in music theatre in addition to West Side Story (Company, Follies, Into the Woods, Sunday in the Park with George, A Little Night Music etc). Others far more qualified will write far better valedictions than can I; and I commend them to you.

Way back in the mid 1980s I saw Sondheim give a most erudite platform at the National Theatre in London, to accompany the National’s production of Sunday in the Park with George. If ever I find myself musing that his work tends to be rather too cerebral (and clever!) and not to carry a sufficiently direct emotional charge I remind myself that he also wrote the immortal ‘Send in the Clowns‘.

‘Nuff said. Respect!

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“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work”

Emile Zola

I am currently reading “The Gift”, by the estimable Lewis Hyde. I shall have more to say about the book once I have finished it, but already all manner of fascinating thoughts and notions have been triggered thereby.

Sadly, as befits my increasingly elderly status, I cannot now recall exactly how I came to the book in the first place, though I feel certain that it must have been referenced in something else that I was investigating. That is normally the way these things happen – to me in any case. I do know that I was greatly attracted by this quote from the foreword by Canadian icon – Margaret Atwood:

[A] classic… If you want to write, paint, sing, compose, act or make films – read ‘The Gift’”

One motif from the book has already attracted my attention and formed itself into the outline of a song. I certainly did not set out with this in mind, but the muse – as we all surely know – works in wondrous and unexpected ways…

…as became all the more apparent late one night last week.

I find quite frequently that one of more elements of a new song will unfurl themselves relatively rapidly and without my having any real idea as to how this has happened. At this point I might well get stuck – with no idea how the piece will proceed from its temporary conclusion.

My normal procedure – with a view to jump-starting proceedings – is to play/sing repeatedly that which I have already written, in the hope that the next part of the composition will suddenly reveal itself to me by emerging organically from the elements that I already have. This sometimes has the desired effect but as often as not simply results in my straining way too hard for a result and ending up with nothing of any use.

Now I am a night owl. The Girl heads for bed reasonably early but I often get in a couple of hours work before I follow her. This I was doing the other night, in my search for a suitable chorus for the new track. I could feel that my efforts were going nowhere and – having an early start the following morning – I decided to call it a day.

I shut everything down in the studio – doused the lights and tip-toed upstairs in the dark. No sooner than I had emerged onto our main floor than the whole chorus arrived in my head – out of nowhere! Not only did I get the melody and the phrasing but also the harmonic progression and half of the words.

Now – how did that happen!

Of course – to ensure that my flash of inspiration was not lost to posterity I was obliged to scuttle back downstairs, to power everything up again and to rapidly commit this latest gift to my recording software – lest I should forget it again overnight…

What a wondrous thing is the creative process!

Thank you…!

 

 

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“As it is with all stories, fast cars, wild bears, mental illness, and even life, only one truth remains: your mileage may vary”

Jenny Lawson

Last November I posted to these pages a brief item which celebrated (should that be the appropriate expression) the fact that my much loved Lexus GX470 had just passed the 200,000 mile mark (miles rather than kilometres since she is of US origin).

That post went on to muse upon the annual mileage that this now eighteen year old vehicle had clearly done throughout its life to date.

Based on the mileage that was on the clock when we purchased her she had to that point apparently averaged some 14,000 miles per annum. Since coming to us she had enjoyed a considerably less energetic existence, covering only around 6,000 miles each year…

…until last year!

The COVID-19 pandemic has had many side-effects, one of which – as you might expect – is that we have all stayed home a great deal more than we had done previously. Working from home and not being able to travel or to get out on the town as we had been used to doing, meant that our vehicles have only been used for short, essential(ish) trips.

I mention this here because just the other day I noticed the odometer click over 203,000 miles. Now – I know that there is another month before a year will have elapsed since my last post on the subject, but I will be very surprised if I cover more than another few hundred miles in that time.

I can’t be entirely sure – but the last time that I did such a low annual mileage might well have been the year that I started riding motorbikes – back when I was in my very early twenties…

…and a lot of water has flowed under a great many bridges since then!

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“Home is where the anchor drops”

H. Jackson Brown Jr.

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

The good ship Dignity has returned from her sojourn with Seapower Marine in Sidney.

Hoorah – and welcome home!

“Hang on a minute…” – I hear you cry. “Did you not announce that the boat was off for a service back in July?!”

Well done for paying attention at the back there. I did indeed write that – and I did indeed deliver Dignity to Seapower Marine for a service back in July. As is often the way – however – things did not turn out quite as planned. The service was done but other issues were noted and duly dealt with as they unfolded.

I had been concerned that the batteries (of which there are two) might have died as a result of the lack of use – and that indeed turned out to be the case. Also, the original wooden battery enclosures had rotted and smart new vented plastic ones were installed to keep all matters electrical well away from anything with fuel in it.

The marine techs also recoiled in horror when they had a look at some of the wiring around the engine. Clearly a job of the botched variety had been carried out at some point prior to our taking ownership. A necessary rewire was duly carried out.

Then a fault with the starter motor was diagnosed. A new part was sourced from the US but with a lead time of three to five weeks… unless I was prepared to pay a hefty express freight fee. Fearing already the loss of an arm and a leg I declined the offer – and thus Dignity’s sojourn was extended by another goodly period.

No matter – she is back now. Too late for this season of course, but raring to go for next year.

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