Provisions

The weather has taken another turn for the worse, after the brief summery spell we had last week. The driving showers are particularly unwelcome given the imminent approach of the holiday, seeing that any level-headed person would prefer, if given the choice, a bit of warmth and sunshine if at all possible, rather than be confined indoors by howling gales and torrential storms. There is only so much Monopoly you can play. But perhaps the weather will improve by the weekend. Despite all the current forecasts.

I ought to do more packing. I've started creating little piles of clothes in various bedrooms to pack into a bag at some undefined point in the future. The little piles aren't actually that little, and are maybe more accurately described as ridiculously large, representing all the items I would like to take with me if I were going on holiday for at least 4 months and intended to visit diverse climates ranging from tropical rain forest to polar ice cap. So there will need to be a stage of filtering in the next few days, to reduce the pile to an essential minimum. And given we are going to a self-catering establishment, I tend towards taking a few essential items of kitchen equipment and food items that are unlikely to be obtainable in rural Wales. Again, it is easy to get carried away with this and cram the car with more food than you could realistically eat within a week even if you were unable to leave the house because of interminable howling gales and torrential storms, so that you end up taking it all back home with you, or consider leaving it as a gift for the next occupant of the holiday house. It is all too much stress. Holidays should be carefree and relaxing, but they come at such a hefty price.

Cauldron

So the London Games are now well under way, with Team GB picking up their first couple of medals. There is a long way to go. I've been trying to watch what I can, which is somehow not made any easier by the BBC offering so many simultaneous broadcasts on the red button thing. So I've spent most of today hopping between channels, being strangely drawn to handball (if only to try and work out what the rules are) and beach volleyball; which, being located in the prim and proper setting of Horse Guard's Parade, looked even more surreal than anything Danny Boyle threw at us in the opening ceremony.

Perhaps the highlight of Friday evening's entertainment was the imaginative transformation of 204 copper petals into the mighty Olympic Cauldron, symbolising the coming together of the myriad competing nations into a beacon of hope shining through the darkness. Or something along those lines. If nothing else, it looked pretty spectacular. And hot. And in an unexpected echoing of this event, I found myself in charge of a barbecue on Saturday afternoon. Admittedly, it was not on the same scale as the Olympic Cauldron, and not even particularly hot (hence the sausages took longer than I would have wished), but in its own modest way, it symbolised the coming together of a handful of work colleagues in Ian's back garden. And in a typically British twist of fate, the heavens opened, with peals of thunder and bolts of lightning threatening to sweep away the flimsy gazebo where I was heroically trying to cook. Somehow I pulled through, with nothing worse than a couple of singed eyebrows. 

Pandemonium

I seem to have lost a bit of a tooth. Probably due to not paying enough attention as I took too large a bite out of a French stick while watching the opening ceremony of the London Olympics. The fact that it happened at all and, more importantly, that I didn't particularly mind, is surely testament to the flamboyance and originality of Danny Boyle's engrossing spectacle. I quite liked the jiving Victorians engineers. And the illuminated beds. And the Queen parachuting in. And - goodness, it's all pretty astonishing, in a breath-taking sort of way.

As I write, the parade of athletes has just got under way. It is likely to take some time. But that's fine: good to see representatives of countries I never knew existed waving flags and sporting colourful uniforms. They should be encouraged to do this sort of thing more often. I don't think I've actually sat through an opening ceremony for many years, probably because they tend to be on in the middle of the night or while I'm at work or while I'm out buying French sticks. It takes me back to my childhood - was that the last time I watched one of these parades? There were probably fewer countries back then.

The opening ceremony does help to stoke up a bit more enthusiasm for the Games. It's hard to believe it was seven years ago when London won the bid. So it's understandable if over that time people have lost interest, or were daunted by the escalating cost, or simply forgot, or imagined they dreamt it in the first place. Having torch bearers sprinting through your living room does help to jog the memory. But here we are, seven years on, with the London Olympics about to burst into life (apart from the bits like women's foootball which burst into life a couple of days ago). So hopefully it will be an impressive and inspiring couple of weeks, and the rain will hold off. Especially as I have a holiday coming up.

Nose

After weeks of my complaining about leaden skies and torrential showers, the weather has suddenly turned swelteringly hot. Fortunately my capacity for complaining is not so easily exhausted, and I could entertain you with tales of the stifling working conditions I have to contend with, the impossibility of getting a decent night's sleep, and the annoying insect bites that have appeared on my legs. On the plus side, it has been a pleasure to see the return of long summer evenings, encouraging me to drag myself out of the house and take to the hills. I took a short walk around Teggs Nose this evening, so called because - to tell the truth, I have not the slightest idea, but might hazard a guess that perhaps the hilly bits share some similarity to the facial characteristics of a certain Mr Tegg. But I could so easily be mistaken. However, the important point is that it is quite pleasant to go for a stroll high on a hill as the sun is beginning to set, and to gaze upon the hazy vastness of the Cheshire plain stretching before you, and to contemplate the majesty of Nature and all that; even if annoying insects seize the opportunity to bite you without warning.

I notice the cat is suffering from the heat, mewing forlornly and stretching out exhausted on the floor. I sympathise (to a point), but then it does seem somewhat short-sighted to have evolved a thick furry coat when summer is expected to come around, however briefly, once a year.

Yellow

It was good to watch the end of the Tour de France yesterday, with a historic win by Bradley Wiggins. One of those feats of human achievement that pretty much beggars belief - at least, it does for me when I get on a bike and realise how out of condition I am, and how much I have to struggle up the inclines of the local country lanes. The cobbles don't help. Nor the potholes. Nor the traffic on the larger A roads. Nor the lack of signposts on the B roads. Nor the refusal of my bike to coast effortlessly down gentle slopes. Nor the inability of my legs to sprint up anything worthy of the name of hill. So it all makes you appreciate the level of perfection achieved by great sportsmen. And that I still have quite a way to go.

Dahlia

The garden is looking quite colourful at the moment. It's not much of a garden, I admit: fairly small and gravelly and shaded more than is good for it; but it is all I have, so I feel it is worth making a fuss over it sometimes just to boost its self-confidence and help avoid emotional problems in later life. When I first got the garden there was a sad lack of colour (other than a lot of green and brown, which begin to wear after a while), so over the years I have assembled various pots and containers and tried to cultivate whatever flowering plants have taken my fancy. There has been no great overarching plan to this; nor, I confess, much in the way of taste.

This year the flowers seem particularly luxuriant: positive swathes of vibrant colour. This is probably a combination of frequent watering (actually, frequent rain) and liberal use of decent potting compost enriched with whatever nutrients plants are particularly keen about. And it seems to have worked. Watering is not something I'm normally very good at remembering to do; although I have heard it said that under-watering plants is helpful to encourage root growth, I fear I have tended to take this to extremes in the past, with unhappy consequences. So although the last few months of near-constant rain have generally made people feel frustrated and miserable and ruined their summer, my flowers are looking quite chirpy. Which must be good.

Laces

To liven up a humdrum day, another of my daughter's thought-provoking photographs. I think words are somehow redundant. Simply gaze on it at your leisure and let your cares disappear.

Self-portrait No.1

Fog

Buxton Festival is on at the moment, which is always a good opportunity to take in a little culture. Particularly so in such genteel surroundings, with the grandeur of the Opera House and the elegance of the Pavilion Gardens, incongruously set amidst the desolate beauty of the Peak District. You rather wonder why they ever bothered to build such a substantial town in what is, you might be forgiven for saying, the middle of nowhere. But the Romans had a mind of their own, what with their curiously straight roads, and under floor heating. And the Victorians clearly relished taking the waters. And that sadly is about the limit of my knowledge of the history of the place.

If you must know, I went to see The Turn of the Screw, in my lifelong quest to get round to seeing all the operas of Benjamin Britten. It's pretty tough going on a first hearing, although full of his characteristically dramatic and inventive vocal writing. And, being based on the Henry James story with its ghosts and possessed children and general sense of impending evil, it's a fairly cheerless affair, not exactly a feelgood experience that leaves you skipping out of the theatre in high spirits. (Hence surprisingly unlike last week's Beauty and the Beast.) I usually look forward to a gentle stroll around Buxton before (and sometimes after) the performance, but it was an irritatingly drizzly evening. And to add to the downbeat and otherworldly mood of the evening, the drive back over the Cat and Fiddle was through thick fog, with visibility measurable in centimetres. Which added to the frisson of what is a hair-raising enough drive at the best of times.

Beast

The last week has been fairly hectic, what with my daughter performing in the school musical every day (and twice on Saturday), necessitating a lot of ferrying to and fro. She did not get to play either Beauty or the Beast, but rather a chirpy villager and a dancing salt cellar. But she played both roles with great feeling and a certain gritty realism (particularly the dancing salt cellar; you have to put a lot into being half of a condiment set to make it look convincing). It was a proud moment to see her on stage, and brought back memories of my own efforts when I was young. I remember spending most of my theatrical career in the chorus (a result of my inability to sing), usually as one of Sir Joseph's sisters, cousins or aunts. (But don't ask me which, specifically; I'm not sure I even knew back then, but presumably did my best to represent a sort of generic female relative. The details don't really matter. Versatility is important on the stage.) But it is a unique experience: the months of rehearsal, seeing the disparate elements slowing coming together; the magic of being backstage, watching the stagehands scurrying around while awaiting your entrance; friendships forged. Ordinary life seems rather grey in comparison.

Exercise

The physiotherapist has given me a series of exercises to do. Which was very kind of him, though I think it is in the nature of his job rather than an act of selfless generosity. Anyway, they are designed to enable old and creaking joints to move more easily. Clearly this is not what I wanted to hear: I should have been applauded as a fine physical specimen at the very peak of my athletic prowess. Whereas instead I am apparently sliding down the slippery slope towards old age and general infirmity. But, looking on the bright side, perhaps a few minutes' exercise a day will keep me supple and sprightly. (Not that I was ever particularly supple and sprightly even in my youth - it was never really my thing.) And if only it was a few casual minutes a day: it took me a good hour to get through all the exercises this evening, even without doing the full number of repeats for some of the more taxing ones. I particularly liked one set of stretches that you were advised to perform every hour. Is this realistic? Am I meant to stop what I am doing every hour during the working day to stretch out over my desk, regardless of the disruption and emotional upset it causes to my colleagues?

Me

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, 
    My friends forsake me like a memory lost; 
I am the self-consumer of my woes, 
    They rise and vanish in oblivious host, 
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; 
And yet I am, and live with shadows tost 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, 
    Into the living sea of waking dreams, 
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys, 
    But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; 
And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod; 
    A place where woman never smil'd or wept; 
There to abide with my creator, GOD, 
    And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: 
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie; 
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

                                                                     Mr. J. Clare,  Northampton.

Deuce

It is worth saying a few words about young Murray, and his valiant efforts at Wimbledon yesterday. It is a laudable, and certainly rare, achievement for a Briton to reach the final, and he acquitted himself with courage and dignity. I do not hesitate in the least to say that he certainly made a better job of it than I would have. Even on a good day (few and far between as they are), I'm not sure I would have lasted very long. The downside of tennis is that the duration of a match is hard to predict. They can last hours and hours; practically all day sometimes. In my case, however, it would probably all be over a bit quicker. At a rough calculation, it would take my opponent 72 points to win a 3 set match (I think) if I put up little effective opposition. That surely would take at least half an hour, and what with all the sitting and standing and walking around and mopping oneself with towels it might take considerably longer. I don't know if there is a provision in the rules of lawn tennis to throw in the towel if you feel things are seriously going against you. Or if you should stick it out to the bitter end, regardless. Certainly there is no shortage of towels to hand. I am just not sure of the correct etiquette.

Crown

The current season of Shakespeare on the BBC is proving to be a revelation, particularly so for managing to make the history plays intelligible at last. I don't read nearly enough Shakespeare, and never get round to seeing it on stage, which is a pity. And the history plays always seem especially difficult, or certainly did when I was at school, what with my shaky knowledge of which king came after which (although admittedly the numbers are a great help), and the plethora of characters named after towns and counties. It was slightly daunting to meet the present Duke of Gloucester recently; not that he was particularly intimidating, or waved a sword at me, or spouted reams of blank verse, or anything of that sort; but just to realise the historical link going back over the centuries. Mind you, they do say that you don't have to go back many generations before we all start to have one or more ancestors in common; though in my case I don't imagine there is much chance of a direct connection to the present Royal Family. Which is probably a great relief to them.

Bison

Some sort of goat.

No real reason for this, other than to brighten up the page a little. I think it is some sort of goat. I am normally wary of any animal with horns (or claws, or particularly large teeth), so I clearly placed myself in some danger to take this picture. Notice how it is sizing me up.

Boson

We had a lot of weather this evening. Rain, predominantly - buckets of it, coming out of the skies. And, at times, through the roof of Sainsburys where I was doing my shopping. The roads were awash. My car was clean. Always look for positives.

They tell me the discovery of the Higgs boson has been confirmed today (they being people on the news who understand these things better than I). Fifty years or so after it was first postulated, there is now finally enough evidence collected at the Large Hadron Thing to be pretty confident it exists - 5 standard deviations' worth of confidence, which is rather more stringent than most experimental papers I read. This is probably one of the greatest scientific achievements in my lifetime. (I would have liked to have been around when Watson & Crick were doing their DNA model building, but it was not to be.)  It's always impressive when a theoretical prediction is eventually proved to be true. I can only dream of such success.

I have to admit I don't have a strong grasp of this new generation of subatomic particles - quarks and bosons and the like. Which is a shame given that I spend most of my working life thinking about things at an atomic level. It only serves to highlight that I probably don't actually have that good a grasp of the physical meaning even of atoms or molecules - what they really look like, how they behave and interact. All we have to work with is models - analogies and metaphors representing things beyond our understanding, but which serve to describe what is happening at whatever level of detail is necessary. Which is a bit scary in its own way; and only goes to highlight the futility of all knowledge.

Hola

We have somehow landed in July when I was least expecting it. The last week has been something of a blur, having attended a graduation and two confirmations and made several trips up north. These things should be spread out more evenly throughout the year, in order to liven up quieter months. Fortunately I seem to have missed the worst of the extreme weather of recent days, which might have been just too much excitement to cope with.

I did my best to recuperate by watching the Euro2012 final, hoping that a relaxing evening would go some way to healing frayed nerves. But perhaps it wasn't a good idea to support Italy, who got slightly flattened by a rampant Spanish team. It is some consolation that I will have won the office sweepstake, so I shouldn't really complain. I know this isn't one of those foodie blogs, but it seems an appropriate moment to note that I do a reasonable imitation of a paella. Probably not wholly authentic, but close in spirit to the real thing. I would give the recipe, only that would dent the high literary aspirations I have set myself. But I am sure you can guess the sort of ingredients you would put in, and make a fair stab at how to cook them; so a recipe is probably superfluous anyway.