Recursive Words

It occurred to me this morning that I’m becoming invisible. As wave after wave of new generations enter the scene from stage left, I’m increasingly the fool on the hill – recounting past adventures, and rolling my eyes at the surrounding cacophony.

It got me thinking – about Midnight in Paris, and the book it’s based upon – and the all too common human condition to chase the way things once were.

Ernest Hemingway famously lived several lives, and perhaps crucially for us, wrote personal journals throughout his adventures. In his later years he re-discovered a collection of old notebooks – long thought lost – which became the basis for “A Moveable Feast” – the book upon which Midnight in Paris is based.

The interesting thing to me – is that Hemingway didn’t recount the stories about the Paris of his youth until his autumn years. In a strange sort of way, his narration of the world inhabited by his younger self, the Fitzgeralds, and the upcoming artists who would change the world is no different than Gil Pender’s yearning for a time long past, or anybody else’s.

I sometimes go back and read my own past journal entries, and wonder how much my views have changed – about the world, and about my place in it. It’s difficult to say.

I think it’s dangerous to look back too much. It seems all too easy to make unfair comparisons – cherry-picking the best of the past against the worst of the present – and of course it’s all subjective.

While the past has shaped who I am, it’s not who I am.

A few months ago I switched from Android to iPhone. In the process of doing so, somebody somewhere sold my phone number to a marketing moron, and before I knew it, I was receiving multiple calls per day from random numbers. Perhaps the most annoying were from a pre-teen telling me to call a random number to avoid being fined for something or other.

This all coincided with the update to iOS that allows you to have a virtual receptionist take calls from anybody not on your contact list. Problem solved. And another problem created.

For some reason known only to Apple, I can now listen to recorded messages taken by my virtual assistant, but if I call those people back via the options while listening to recorded messages, I cannot see those outgoing calls in the call history. Genius move.

This only really takes hold when you’ve just got through passport control at the airport, and you try to call the taxi you booked several weeks ago – that left a message with your virtual assistant, because nobody you don’t know is allowed to call you any more, because some idiot marketer sold your information several months ago and ruined the world for everybody.

Don’t even get me started about the taxi company – that used to meet you at the gate years ago – and now you have to call while they stay somewhere near the airport, because they don’t want to stop, because that will incur hilarious fees at the terminal. You end up having a broken conversation with a non-english-speaking driver as they try to tell you that they will pick you up from departures – not arrivals – for that specific reason, but without telling you that’s why.

And another thing…

Why is it the more expensive the hotel, the more utter garbage their IT infrastructure is? We stayed in a really nice hotel in Copenhagen. To connect to the WiFi I had to remove all protections from my phone, and completely disable VPN. I had to do this every time my other half wanted to watch television, because the TV wouldn’t remember who I was at all. Except it did the day we left, when I got home and found out somebody in our hotel room in Copenhagen was watching TV on my Netflix account. I stopped their fun as soon as I found out.

Why? Why does everything have to be so damn difficult all the time?

I’ll stop ranting now. Deep breaths.

Yesterday morning we set out bright and early for the “Glyptotek” – a vanity project built by Carl Jacobsen – the son of the founder of the Carlsberg breweries – to house his art collection. While wandering around the museum I found myself wondering if art is a really good tax break. It must be – judging by the corridors of sculptures and paintings.

After wandering around for a couple of hours we stopped for a cup of tea and a cookie in the central museum cafe, and conversation turned to the historic portrayal of the human body. Yes – we have the weirdest conversations sometimes. I expressed my curiosity that countless artists have portrayed every angle of the human body over the years – but very rarely particular corners – which is amazing to me, given those areas are pivotal to our continued existence. Thinking back, the only artist I’ve ever seen portray anything between a woman’s legs was Rodin – and then only in his museum in Paris. And why does classical sculpture always portray grown men with children’s reproductive body parts?

I wonder if the last few “taboos” will be dropped soon, and the hoodoo around our bodies normalised entirely for future generations. It’s madness that medieval censorship still controls what is seen as right or proper. It’s always seemed to me that the more you try to control anything, the more it will be sought out.

Anyway.

After the Glyptotek we wandered back to the old harbour and were recognised at the previous days cafe by the pretty blonde girl running tables. We stopped for Smorrebrod and Glogg, and people watched for an hour before wandering back towards the hotel – with plans to visit Tivoli Gardens as soon as darkness fell.

Tivoli was wonderful.

A theme park in the centre of Copenhagen – surrounded by the city on all sides, and lit with a million twinkling lights. We ventured no further than a carousel, and a children’s tour of the world of Hans Christian Andersen in our exploration – but visited countless shops, watched a marching band, had a wonderful traditional Danish roast dinner, and drank far too much Glogg.

While wandering from one thing to the next around Tivoli, we realised that the best memories of our visit had not been planned. We have just happened to be at various places as events have unfolded around us. It’s been kind of wonderful. I’m sure there’s a message there somewhere.

My very clever smartwatch told me this morning that I had my best sleep ever last night. It obviously doesn’t correlate blood alcohol levels with sleep patterns. It doesn’t require a genius to figure that one out.

This morning our bags are packed and we are counting the minutes until checkout from the hotel, and the reversal of the route that brought us here.

Copenhagen has been kind of wonderful. Expensive, yes, but lovely too.

Now to return to our normal. Fingers crossed the kids haven’t wrecked the house.

Today was very much a day of new things. A breakfast of overnight oats, a pilgrimage of sorts, a marching military band, a mermaid, an open sandwich and a glass of glogg.

After filling ourselves with quite wonderful oats first thing we wrapped up against the cold and set out on foot across the city. After threading our way through myriad streets we arrived at the old city harbour – lined with colourful buildings, boats, market stalls, bars and restaurants.

After breaking the bank on two pairs of hand knitted Scandinavian socks (and memories of Forrest Gump’s advice about them), we continued onwards through the city and unwittingly encountered several hundred people congregating in the King’s Square. After a quick google search we heard pipes and drums in the distance, and became accidental front row witnesses to the changing of the guard at the royal palaces.

After admiring the best and brightest of the Danish army marching band, and experiencing the worst of pushy, rude tourists, we escaped first to the Marble Church (where we were once again reminded on the thoughtlessness of SO many tourists) before heading out of the city to the waterfront,and perhaps the most famous tiny lump of bronze in the whole of Denmark – if not Europe.

While walking past tour buses delivering countless travellers on their own pilgrimages, suddenly there she was – the bronze statue of Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid – perched on a rock, looking out over the harbour.

I hadn’t expected it to be so affecting – but it was. There was a strange quiet in the crowd too. A silence as they took turns to approach close and take photographs. A reverence of sorts. I’ve never seen anything like it for a fictional character. It made me realise that an idea – or an ideal – is far more important than any person or thing.

She seemed so sad – and no wonder. I read the story to our children when they were young, and regretted it. There are so few positives to take from it. I guess we have all loved and lost at some point in our lives though – perhaps that’s what connects her to us all.

Afterwards we picked our way back towards the old harbour, found a cosy restaurant, and set down next to their heaters with hot soup, open sandwiches, and glasses of glogg – the famous Scandinavian spiced wine that has fortified sailors for hundreds of year. It was as wonderful as we ever imagined. I imagine being cold, tired and hungry helped.

We spent the remainder of the day window shopping our way through the most commercial part of the city – surrounded by waves of tourists on foot, commuters on bicycle, and endless buses while gazing at the millions of twinkling lights throughout the thoroughfares. We knew we were in trouble when tourist tat shops began to look appealing, so retreated to a cafe near Tivoli gardens before returning to our hotel.

It’s been a good day. A tiring day, but a good day. And an unexpectedly thoughtful day.
I might have to go and look up Mr Andersen’s books later.

After a 5am alarm call, a taxi at 6am, and breakfast at Heathrow airport, we finally took off a little before 9am, and set off towards Copenhagen, Denmark. We thought we were being clever travelling light – only bringing carry-on bags with us- so you can imagine our reaction at the departure gate when we were informed that our bags would need to be checked in.

The flight was mercifully routine. British airways really broke the bank – handing everybody on board a biscuit, and a small bottle of water each.

After a little over an hour in the air we descended through thick cloud and rain towards Copenhagen Kastrup airport – and amused ourselves watching the entirely predictable bun fight to get off the aircraft first. Why do people do that?

Security at Kastrup was equally amusing – with four security officers dealing with an entire airport’s worth of arrivals. After forming four orderly queues, two of the security officers finished their shift – which triggered everybody in the queue over a certain age into predictably hilarious grumbling and bellyaching.

The nice lady that eventually let us set foot in Copenhagen asked us where we were staying, and the nature of our stay – while staring at us with the same smile a Great White shark might flash at its next meal. Thankfully she let us go.

After dropping our bags at the hotel, we set off on foot into the heart of the city with no map and no guide book – because after buying the best Lonely Planet guide that money can buy, we forgot to bring it with us. Genius.

We spent the afternoon wandering the city – hopping from cafe to cafe – and somehow found our way to the Copenhagen city museum, and then visited the cafe inside the museum – just to complete the journey really.

We’re back at the hotel now – checked in and holed up in the room. We’re eating in the hotel restaurant tonight before venturing out tomorrow towards the city harbour, and perhaps some more cafes. Tuesday will take us to Tivoli Gardens.

p.s. writing this on an iPad. It’s painful.

You know the one where you’ve been promising to yourself to write something for days, but then this interesting thing appears in your peripheral vision, or that total and under disaster unfolds directly in front of you, or an entire universe of washing falls from the sky on your head, or you leave the kitchen for ten minutes and apparently an entire army of borrowers silently trash the place…

That.

At the start of the month I wondered about trying to write a blog post every day – as a replacement of sorts for “NaNoWriMo”. It’s kind of sad that NaNoWriMo is no more as an official thing – but also kind of comforting that it has gone full circle.

I probably need to explain (not that anybody wants to hear an explanation, but I can feel a rant coming and if I don’t write it somewhere it will just boil away inside me, then come out as an over-reaction to something else).

When anything “happens” on the social internet that reaches a peculiar sort of popularity tipping point, enterprising (read: predatory) individuals will try to “own” whatever it is. It happened with NaNoWriMo, and it happened with “NaBloPoMo” too. As soon as anybody tries to own anything, their true intentions typically become apparently – to make bank on whatever it was, and en-shittify it for everybody. There’s no guilt about the en-shittification of whatever was good, because it’s all about making bank and walking away.

Very few people seem to do anything for altruistic reasons any more, and that makes me a little bit sad.

I guess once the en-shittification of anything eventually collapses in on itself, it gives the original idea another chance to happen again – and that’s what I’m hoping will happen with NaNoWriMo.

I should probably explain that too. NaNoWriMo is a contraction of “National Novel Writing Month”. Even the name is short sighted – it should have been IntNoWriMo (because… you know… international).

Perhaps if something is a good idea, it will live on – and re-seed itself in the collective consciousness. NaNoWriMo started as a meme. So did NaBloPoMo. Just people, tagging their content with the hashtag, and making it discoverable. Life found a way.

Of course it used to happen a lot more easily than it does now, because the entire social internet has been en-shittified – with platforms funnelling users into ever more restrictive silos to turn them into solyent green content sausage machines that can be monetised and eventually turned into slop.

Oh my word I sound angry.

I suppose I am actually. I remember the earliest days of the internet – of the web – and the enlightened moment when we all left the previous walled gardens of AOL, Compuserve, CiX, and countless bulletin boards – and had our “Holland Tunnel” moments.

I’ll drop the Holland Tunnel reference in for those that have not seen it:

I started writing this blog post fifteen minutes before the end of my lunch break at work – after losing the rest of my lunch break washing clothes, clearing the kitchen up, and so on. After writing a few words my work computer sang forth a message notification, and like a fool I looked. The fifteen minutes vanished without trace.

I really am my own worst enemy sometimes. If somebody needs me – for whatever reason – I very rarely say no. Perhaps if I went for a run at lunchtime, it would prevent anybody from calling me, then I couldn’t be coerced into anything. I have taken to walking to the supermarket to buy a sandwich sometimes – not because we need the food – more as an excuse to get off my backside.

Anyway. Enough about all of that.

I’ve been struggling to come up with a Christmas list. All of my daughters have been asking me to come up with something, so I sat down with Amazon earlier and started searching for books. You can’t go wrong with books.

Classics.

I’ve always loved reading classics. I guess a huge part of it is curiosity – to find out why some books are revered, or notorious. I think I’ve mentioned on the blog in the past – that years ago I commuted into London every day, and read more during that couple of years than at any other time in my life. Thats when I became interested in both “the classics”, and the most notorious books – the banned books.

I remember sitting on the train reading “Tropic of Cancer”, and “Lolita”, and thinking myself very daring. I felt sure that somebody would notice the book title, and be suitably horrified. If you’ve never heard of, or read them, Tropic of Cancer charts Henry Miller’s life, living in the red light district of Paris, and Lolita tells the story of a man who becomes besotted with an under-age girl – and spends most of the book agonising over his own guilt.

My main memory of the most notorious books is that they were only notorious in their own time. The world is immeasurably more accepting and free than it once was.

Sometimes cultural differences are apparent too. When the kids were young, I read the Chronicles of Narnia to them – and remember being surprised by the language used in “The Magician’s Nephew” (the movie is in production, in case you are interested). Let’s just say time has not been kind to it – it’s very much the product of it’s era.

I have found myself searching out Hemingway. He’s become something of a weakness in recent years. A Moveable Feast has become one of my favourite books. There’s just something about the way he writes – the way he describes a person, or a scene. It’s so straightforward – and so unlike anything else I’ve ever read.

Oh crikey – look at the time – I had promised to go to bed about half an hour ago.

After an early night last night, I have been up since 3:45 this morning. I got up to watch the Grand Prix in Las Vegas – which turned out to be not worth watching at all. Oh well.

Several hours have now passed. It’s still ridiculously early. I’m the only person up and about. I’m wondering how long I should leave it until I have a shower – the sound of the hot water pipes throughout the house will probably wake people up.

I caved.

Freshly showered, shaved, bacon sandwich made and eaten, cooker cleaned, dishwasher emptied, and two loads through the washing machine already – all before 8am on a Sunday. I must be mad.

Sabrina Carpenter is singing about her ex-boyfriend on a playlist. I do hope younger people aren’t as completely filled with spite and vitriol as her songs suggest. In a strange sort of ways her songs remind me of a review I once read about “Twilight” – I think it might have been Mark Kermode that wrote that the underlying message throughout the books and movies is how important it is to have a boyfriend.

I remember the furore years ago when it turned out parents had been letting their teen and pre-teen children read Twilight – before they realised it had numerous passages filled with sexual tension and desire. I’m guessing most parents forget what they were like at that age? I wonder how many kids grew up with Twilight and remembered the page numbers of “favourite scenes” ?

I guess with the modern internet, children are probably more worldly wise now than they have ever been – particularly as most parents (certainly true when our kids were young) don’t enforce the age restrictions of the major social networks.

It always amazed me – when the kids were young – that you could clearly see the learned behaviours that some of their friends exhibited – particularly among the girls. Being popular seemed to be the most important thing in the world, and some of them were master manipulators in that regard.

(Ten minutes pass while I empty the air dryer and re-fill it with the next load from the washing machine)

We don’t have a tumble dryer any more. For the most part we get by with an air-dryer in the kitchen – a glorified combination of a towel rail, and a tent that stands in the middle of the kitchen most-days. It takes all day to dry clothes in it, but it’s still much cheaper to run than a tumble dryer. Of course if the weather wasn’t so horrific we could hang clothes outside.

Anyway.

Sunday is rapidly vanishing in front of my eyes. Somehow the clock is ticking past 9am already. How has this blog post taken over two hours to write, and yet not really covered anything at all?

I’m fine. We’re all fine. Well… mostly. That’s not too bad, is it?

We made our way into London yesterday evening to watch Stephen Fry starring as Lady Bracknell in “The Importance of Being Earnest”. It didn’t quite work out as planned, but I’ll get to that.

The Elizabeth line delivered us into the depths of the city during the late afternoon, and we had planned on nosing around Covent Garden for a little while – but the weather was so bitterly cold we dived into a cosy little Italian restaurant near the theatre, ordered a bottle of wine, and had a wonderful meal. It was interesting – we almost chose a huge chain cafe/restaurant across the way, but took a chance on the little family restaurant – and were glad we did.

After dinner we walked around the corner to the theatre – the Noel Coward theatre – booked our coats into the cloakroom, and then found our way through to “Lionel’s Bar” (named after Lionel Bart – the writer of Oliver!).

Along the way my other half spotted a paper notice pinned to the wall – “Stephen Fry will not be appearing in tonight’s performance”. She deflated like a party balloon. I felt so sorry for her – but then I suppose that’s the risk you take with live productions – there’s a reason for understudies.

While nursing our drinks in the bar, we people-watched the great and good of London theatre society. I recognised at least one journalist, and thought I might have recognised a well known actor too. I didn’t tell my other half because she goes nuts when I point out actors in shows she’s watching – “oh he was in this”, or “she was in that!”.

There were quite a lot of people in the bar that were there to be seen. One couple in particular made me smile – he was about fifty five with very expensive leather jacket, perfectly turned up jeans, and a floppy “Peaky Blinders” hat. She had a long cashmere coat, and a Stella McCartney handbag – carefully positioned so nobody could miss that it was a Stella McCartney handbag.

It’s worth noting that I knew nothing about “The Importance of Being Earnest” on the way in. I kept it that way on purpose. I knew my other half loved it – and loves most Oscar Wilde plays – but I hadn’t even thought about it before we sat down.

So. The curtains drew back, the lights came on, and Olly Alexander appeared half-naked playing a piano. Okaaay…

Suddenly it made sense why so many single-sex parties of friends were in the audience. I really am that slow on the uptake sometimes. A play written by Oscar Wilde, being performed the Noel Coward theatre. It adds up, doesn’t it.

It was interesting – watching the play through modern eyes – and recalling what I had read elsewhere about both Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward. Obviously the modern staging of the play ladled on the double meanings with an industrial loading shovel, but it was still fun to see the “unexpected” relationships form throughout.

Perhaps the stand-out actor of the entire performance for me was Kitty Hawthorne as Gwendolen Fairfax – who shone, shocked, and disrupted the show seemingly at will. The set piece cake kiss between Miss Fairfax and Miss Cardew was brilliantly done, and helped put together the final jigsaw pieces in my head about what the play is really about – and why people return to it.

The Importance of Being Earnest isn’t just a play on words. The play – written during the Victorian era – is a scathing satire of the victorian hypocrisy and obsession with social appearances. That every character is living a lie – save for Lady Bagshaw, who seems only too ready to accept lies if they make the right impression – makes for some wonderful moments.

Given the comical aphrodisiac qualities the name “Earnest” has on upon Miss Fairfax throughout the play, the unveiling of the “true Earnest” in the final act, and her resulting explosive orgasm brought the house down.

After retrieving our coats we stepped back out into the cold evening air and began our journey home. My other half asked what I thought of the play, and I didn’t know how to answer her.

“You didn’t like it did you”

“It wasn’t that – it was just… a bit thin”

I know why too. Given the time it was written, authors questioning the status quo, or trying to push society forwards had to be very careful. It’s a paper thin plot, loaded with unwritten meaning, and unsaid sentiment. Experiencing it through modern eyes left me feeling a little bit empty. It could have been so much more – but of course it’s how it was written – through the lens of what could be said then.

Anyway.

A wonderful night out. A wonderful meal. A good play. And back home in time for a cup of hot chocolate, and bed.

I would still regard “Noises Off” as my favourite theatre performance of all time. We saw it with a stellar cast before it went to the West End. I won’t ruin it for you – I’ll leave it for you to find and experience for yourself.

I left Cornwall mid-morning yesterday after a long promised visit to my parents. The journey home felt oddly detached – with no mobile signal and no data connection on the train for several hours. The “free wifi” on the train was marginally funnier than my trains to and from Cornwall running an hour late – and the crew repeatedly informing passengers how they could refund their tickets.

While rumbling across the countryside with no internet connection, I found myself thinking about this whole blogging escapade, and came to the realisation that it doesn’t really matter where your writing lives. I’m kind of done with the idiocy of “platform building” – I just want to write and share. If I can remove friction from that, I’ll do it.

What does this mean? That I’m climbing back under my rock somewhat. Back to a simple Substack account, rather than “playing the game” at WordPress, Tumblr, or wherever else. Substack isn’t perfect, but it’s simple – anybody can read, subscribe by email, and reply if they wish.

I’ll stop writing about writing now.

It was a good break – the weekend. A couple of days with my parents, catching up on their news, and sharing some of ours.

I’m not sure I’ve shared on the blog (or anywhere, actually), but my youngest daughter is (very) pregnant. At some point in January – if the little one arrives on time – I’ll become a grandparent. It feels weird – writing that.

I gave my Mum the URL of the wish-list my other half is curating for our daughter – making sure that only useful things go onto it. My Mum started chanting all sorts of generational hoodoo about not buying anything until the baby is safely here. I kind of agree with her, but there are some things we’ll need immediately on arrival. I guess that’s what “the bank of Dad” is for.

Although my daughter and her boyfriend are trying to get their own place, it’s looking increasingly like we’ll have a baby in the house for at least a few months. Quite how that’s going to impact “life as we know it” is a complete unknown.

We’ll do our best.

Anyway.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m chewing through day two of a week away from work – using up some of the holidays I didn’t use in the summer. Yes, I worked all summer. I have another week off in early December.

I bagged a booth table at Wetherspoons this morning – leaving my other half working from home. She’s taken over the study at home, and has half-taken over the Mac too.

I’m holed up at the dining room table with my laptop, having done chores for much of the day so far. The weather seems to be cooperating with our efforts to wash just about every piece of clothing in the known universe – or at least that’s what it feels like.
Wish us luck!