Elusive pictures and odd coincidences.

In our Italian class we recently spent some time talking about this painting by Renato Guttuso, a Sicilian artist.


Reactions varied from enthusiasm to repugnance. I love the way it invites us to enter the Vucciria market in Palermo, Sicily. One of my class companions, however, hated it for the portrayal of a great carcass and, as she saw it, the way the woman central to the picture, is similarly a piece of meat. As well as expressing our varied opinions of the picture, we had fun counting people. We started of believing there were about seven and ended up, on closer examination, thinking there were at least a dozen.

We had got onto this because some of us had talked about a programme on the BBC called Sicily Unpacked where art critic Andrew Graham Dixon and celebrity chef Giorgio Locatelli went round the island of Sicily looking at interesting places and eating interesting food. One of the things they looked at was the Guttuso painting.

Andrew Graham Dixon went on to say that his mother had owned a cookery book, Italian Food by Elizabeth David, which contained illustrations by Guttuso. My Phil had tried to find a copy of the book to give me as a birthday present but had only been able to find a more modern copy without the aforementioned illustrations. It's still a book worth having. Elizabeth David was probably responsible for my first attempts at Spanish recipes.

Anyway, today I took the book along to show Adalgisa, our Italian teacher. Great minds clearly think alike because another member of the group, Richard, regularly referred to as Ricardo Cuore di Leone, had also brought the book along. Small world syndrome strikes again. However, the difference was that his was the older edition with the Guttuso illustrations. So I borrowed it so that I could show Phil the illustrations he hadn't managed to obtain. Here are a few of them. Pretty good!
Here’s another little coincidence: Renato Guttuso comes from Bagheria, near Palermo in Sicily, home town of Giuseppe Tornatore, maker of the film "Cinema Paradiso".

Oh, and the town apparently featured in "The Godfather, Part III".

Oh, again, and I am probably among the few English people who have read the book "Bagheria" by Dacia Maraini.

Small world, eh?

Bus pass philosophy.

I popped into town late this morning. I use the term “popped” loosely as it’s at least a twenty minute bus journey, turned into thirtyfive by the roadworks at what used to be the famous Mumps roundabout, famous for a railway bridge built in 1891 at a cost of £20,647 3s 4d. I bet it would cost a lot more now.

The bridge was demolished, amidst flowing tears on the part of many onlookers, around eighteen months ago to make way for the arrival of the Metrolink, the tram service which does such a good job connecting Bury, Eccles and various other places swiftly and efficiently with central Manchester. The area where the roundabout and the bridge used to be are in traffic turmoil as work supposedly goes on. Every time I take the bus that way I overhear conversations about how useless the Metrolink connection is going to be as no-one is really going to want to come to Oldham; everyone will use it to escape. Today’s contribution was that what the town needs is a cinema and bowling alley complex. I wonder! Comments about silk purses and sow’s ears come to mind.

Anyway, I popped into town to visit the bigger supermarket and pick up one or two things I can’t get locally. Amazingly the bus arrived more or less on time. The cynic who accompanied me (my Phil en route to a friend’s house) commented that it was probably the previous bus arriving very late. I did my bit of shopping and made my way to the return bus stop. Buses leave that stop at 24 and 54 minutes past the hour. At 26 minutes past I saw what I suspected was my bus sail past the top of the road. This was confirmed by someone at the stop when I got there. Sod’s Law, you see, insists that buses are only late if you arrive at the stop on time and are never late when you are. This was further proved by the fact that the next bus arrived a good ten minutes late. If the 24 minutes past bus had been equally late, I would have caught it. So it goes!

At the bus stop I fell into conversation with an aged philosopher who assured me that there is no point worrying about buses; the sun was shining (just about), it wasn’t raining and far worse things are happening in the world than buses being late! Our conversation continued on the bus where he bent my ear about the way the English language is changing and how he expects at some time in the future to look down from above and see that people are speaking a wholly different version of English. Well, yes, I would expect that to be the case. After all, it works that way for all languages.

We have friends who have lived in France for a good few years and have been told that their French is excellent except that it’s about forty years out of date. Apparently they are still speaking the French we studied at university instead of moving wih the times. I can’t say I’m surprised as they don’t excatly use a lot of slang when they speak English. Maybe that’s the problem of going to live in a small place in a foreign country: you lose touch with the slang and current expressions of your own language but never learn to speak the argot of the place you’ve moved to. It’s rather like those urban myths of the people who forget their own language but never fully learn that of their adopted country and so end up unable to communicate at all.

So, getting back to my bus journey, the old philosppher and I were both amused by a notice on the window of the bus which read as follows:

This bus has kneeling facilities.

Please ask the driver if this is required.

Judging by the images accompanying the notice, this meant that the bus could lower itself to allow wheelchairs, baby buggies or old folk with wonky legs to get on and off easily. However, both the aged philosopher and I had immediately visualised the bus driver distributing prayer mats or cushions on demand to passengers of whatever faith who felt the need to pray. Or possibly, as the buses on that particular route are usually the oldest and most decrepit available, the bus itself would be able to kneel down and say a quick prayer before tackling difficult slopes and bends or maybe just saying, “Please let me arrive on schedule!”

It turns out that the aged philosopher lives in our village although he still has traces of the Falkirk accent from his place of birth. I thought he looked vaguely familiar and now I shall have to look out for him as I run around the village. I already stop and greet an old chap called Jack who walks his ancient dog. I had better stop before this collection gets out of hand.

Creatures of habit.

As I ran past one of the local ponds this morning in the rain (running on the rain is something I try to avoid but it wasn’t raining when I set out) I was rather surprised to hear a lot of very loud croaking. Looking down at the water I saw that it was already pretty full of frogspawn and that the local frogs were very busy producing some more. I don’t know where they go the rest of the year but somehow they always know where to return to in the spring.

As children we once hatched - is that the right word? - some frogspawn in an old kitchen sink at the bottom of the back garden. It was murder when the tadpoles grew into little froglings and got out of the sink and went exploring. You had to be really careful not to tread on them. Not nice at all. The following year we had some very confused frogs looking for their place of birth; the garden had been tidied up and the sink had gone to the tip. Poor confused amphibians!!

This year’s local frogs are also somewhat confused if you ask me. They were probably lulled into a false sense of spring-security by the mild weather in the second half of last week and decided it was time to procreate. Unfortunately, today seems to have returned to more wintry conditions with a bit of sleet mixed in with the rain. Alternatively, they may have heard that the official start of spring has been brought forward. This is what our daughter tells us. We overheard her telling the smallest grandchild that today is only the fourth day of spring and, in the belief that spring began on March 21st, we tried to put her right. But, of course, she knows best and assures us that the meteorological office has declared that March, April and May are officially Spring. There you go.

It does disturb us though when things are changed around. Lucy Mangan, writing in the Guardian’s Weekend magazine, was bemoaning the fact that her father had experimented with the apple crumble he makes for dessert. He had tried putting raisins in, to see what it would be like apparently, but Ms Mangan and her sister had protested bitterly. Traditional desserts should not be messed with. It rather reminded me of when my father took over the bulk of the cooking after my mother had been ill. Having spent a few holidays in Spain he had discovered the delights of garlic. My mother told me on the quiet, “I don’t mind a bit of garlic. It’s all very well in its place but not in Shepherd’s Pie and Lancashire Hotpot!!!” We know what we like and we like what we know!

One thing that the British don’t know, according to recent reports is, how to do maths. It seems that many British adults don’t even have the maths skills of nine year olds. So there’s a lot of mumbling and muttering in high places about how to improve the situation. Having taught in sixth form colleges and seen some of the students who go off to do primary teacher training, I would suggest first of all making sure that those recruits have higher than a grade C in GCSE Maths for a start. One radio commentator said that he felt it was quite understandable as all the people who have really good maths skills don’t want to get teachers’ salaries but go off to work as bankers where they can get big bonuses. Another valid point!

Possibly the most worrying aspect of this problem is that most people are almost proud of being no good at maths. Those who have real problems with literacy often go to great lengths to hide the fact that they can’t read but nobody minds declaring themselves innumerate. This has also led to a whole lot of media debate. “Why do people feel this way?” “What can we do to change attitudes?” So the questions go but, as for me, I think the problem goes deeper than just maths.

Many people I meet hold their hands up in amazement when they discover I speak several languages fluently and then go on to say, again quite proudly, that they are useless at learning foreign languages. In other situations people also declare a proud ignorance of opera, music, art, history, geography and almost anything you care to name. Studious kids or even those who just like to have their nose in a good book are labelled geeks and seen as a bit odd.

So, what’s the answer? Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything at all.

On the road.

My daughter was driving me home from somewhere – probably some childcare duty or other – the other day when she noticed a Fiat 500 ahead of us. “That’s the car Tasmin wants to be driving in three years time”, she commented. I replied that I hoped she had already started some kind of investment plan to pay for the insurance. That put a stop to the conversation for a while.

Tasmin is the eldest grandchild, now 14. The conversation suggested that it was a given that she would learn to drive as soon as she hits 17; after all, that is the norm these days. Well, it was pretty much the norm when my daughter was 17 but it didn’t happen in her case. She waited a good few years more and her older brother only passed his test after his thirtieth birthday. I recognise, however, that they were probably the exception to the accepted rule.

Then I read an article saying that many university students are now turning to the bus and other forms of public transport. The cost of buying, running, maintaining and above all insuring a car is just getting to be too much for them. So they are buying a monthly saver for the bus, using student rail cards and, if they have a driving license, hoping that mum and dad will put them as named drivers on their insurance for holiday times. And even that is an expensive business for the parents.

Life was in many ways a whole lot easier when we were students. There was no pressure to own a car. Everyone expected to go around on the bus and train. Even accommodation was more reasonable. Sorting out some papers in the attic last week, I came across an old letter from way back when we were sorting out somewhere to live as married students in the final year of our university course. The gist of the letter was that my Phil had located an attic flat not far from the university; it had plenty of cat-swinging room and cost ... wait for it ... £11 a month. Those were the days!

Back in the present day, I decided it’s just as well that students are realising the benefits of public transport over cars. Bill Ford, great grandson of Henry Ford has been talking about the problems of too many cars. He maintains that by 2050 there could be four billion cars on the road (one billion at the moment apparently) and this could lead to a world gridlock. I don’t think he really wants people to stop buying cars though. What he wants is for car manufacturers to get together with telecommunications people and develop cars that can talk to each other.

Now I’m imagining a big car sending out a message to other, smaller vehicles: “I’m on my way, clear the road”. My bus, which regularly has problems turning a very tight corner because of oncoming traffic, could send an advance warning to all vehicles to let him through. Maybe even cyclists and motorcyclists could send out regular signals: “Don’t forget that we are here!! Please don’t open your car door as we go past!!! Look out for us!””

Hmmm!! I wonder!!! In the meantime, I shall remain carless and try to stave off worldwide gridlock a little longer!

Taking the teenager out.

Yesterday I went into Manchester to collect some books I had ordered for my daughter. (This is really a clever ploy to get me to pay for the books but that is another story and not one to be explored today.) As she declared herself to be far too busy – essays to write for her university course and so on – she volunteered the teenager to go along with me. Not a bad idea as the teenager is quite good company in such circumstances.

So I got up at some ungodly hour for a Saturday so that I could catch a bus, make sure the teenager was actually up – texting her from the bus to tell her I was on my way – and then get on a train to Manchester. So far, so good. The train was already crowded so we stood all the way into Manchester, watching small people who could have sat on parents’ knees occupying seats. So it goes.

Almost the first thing we did on arriving at the city centre was find food for the teenager. I swear 14 year old girls are bottomless pits. I watched her go through a spicy prawn “wrap” (a modern type of food I have totally failed to get into – what is wrong with a sandwich?), a chocolate mousse (spelt moose on the tub), a mango smoothie and a hot chocolate while I had a coffee. I should, of course, say that I had that mysterious thing called a “flat white”, the best thing I’ve found when I don’t feel like a cortado/macchiato or when such things don’t appear on the menu, despite there being a list as long as your arm of different kinds of lattes and cappuccinos on offer. Naturally, even the so-called small cup (for that read, cardboard container) held about 2/3 of a pint!

Having taken on fuel, we collected the books from the bookshop, had a look in various different shops and then went to complete the visit to the Manchester Art Gallery which was cut short last time we did the Manchester trip. On our last visit we set off too late and didn’t really have time to see everything. We found ourselves being hurried out as they shut the doors at 5pm, far too early in my opinion.

So we managed to look at the rest of the paintings, picking up ideas for her art project for her GCSE court as we went. We even had time for the art gallery shop this time. Now, the museum/art gallery shop is an integral part of visits to places with grandchildren, even teenage ones. Apart from picking up a little something for the small brother and sister who did not accompany us, though, we mostly spent our time expressing horror at the price of souvenirs. But on the whole we had a pleasant afternoon. There’s something very tranquil about art galleries as a rule.

And then it was time to find something to eat again. This time a vegetable pasty for her to eat at the station.

It was getting towards the end of the afternoon but far too early, as far as I was concerned, for people to be starting their Saturday night out. However, we saw a surprising large number of young women in dangerously high heels and sporting sleeveless or even halter neck tops and no coat, obviously getting ahead of the crowd on the evening out. It wasn’t just the girls though; the young men were also out and about in short sleeved T shirts and no jackets. Are the British the only people who don’t feel the cold?

We got to the platform in plenty of time for our return journey, practically the first passengers there, but it gradually filled up. By the time the train arrived, there were largish groups waiting at each doorway, barely allowing passengers to alight before surging onto the train. So we stood again for the return journey, this time watching a group of teenagers taking pictures of each other with their mobile phones and then mock-fighting noisily over whether the pictures were to be saved or not. When they got to their stop they had such difficulty getting through the press to the door that some of them did not manage to do so and had to stay on until the next station.

We, who had had to stand all the way, were mildly amused and got some minor satisfaction from this.

Odd traditions

As I listened to the news late last night, at the point when the news presenter chats with a pundit about the headlines in the next morning’s paper, I heard a little something that made my ears prick up. The presenter referred to a pancake race between Members of Parliament and journalists, won this year by the MPs apparently. So this morning I went and had a look on Google.

This is the 15th year that this race between MPs, Lords and journalists has taken place, raising money for the charity Rehab. And yes, the MPs won thanks, seemingly, to the athletic performance of the only female MP to take part, Tracey Crouch – a Tory, I’m afraid but we can’t have everything. There was a little controversy, however, as the journalists claimed that the MPs and Lords had only done nine laps of the gardens instead of the required ten. Shocking!! Is this an example of government corruption in action?

So they had to have another run-round to check and the female representative proved stronger once again. It was very odd to see BBC’s Nick Robinson, usually quite a serious person, wielding a pancake pan!

Of course, with the North-South weather divide this event would not have been viable up here because the pancakes would have got too soggy to toss.

Then, this morning I came across a report about a Shrove Tuesday ball game. This takes place in Atherstone in Warwickshire. A heavy leather ball – made specially every year, filled with water and draped in red white and blue ribbons – is dropped from the window of the Barclays bank branch in the town. Then a few hundred people try to get possession of it. No rules, no teams, no goals: it sounds like total, and probably rather dangerous, mayhem. Eventually, after a bout two hours, a klaxon sounds and whoever has the ball at that point is the winner. Here’s a link to some photos of this strange event.

And there I was thinking that it was only other countries that had these odd traditions. When I looked online for some more oddities, though, there was very little to see. However, I did find this:

‘Shroving’ was a custom in which children sang or recited poetry in exchange for food or money. ‘Lent Crocking’ was one of the many customs of the day when children would pass from house to house asking for pancakes. If they weren't given any broken crockery would be thrown at the door!

Now that sounds like a pre-cursor for “trick or treat”, if you ask me!

The North-South Divide.

I went on a bit yesterday about stereotypical differences between the north and the south, differences which seem to exist in all countries. Well, the news has given me a different angle on the north-south divide.

First of all, at the northern end there’s the chap who was found alive in his snowbound car somewhere in Sweden after spending two months there. It seems that the snow covering the car turned it into a kind of igloo and because he had decent clothes and a good sleeping bag he was able to stay alive, eating next to nothing except snow. There is some speculation about whether he was a actually trapped for two months. Some people seem to think he may have been living in the car anyway before the notional date in December when he claims he got stuck. Either way, he has been found by off-duty policemen on snowmobiles. Quite a lucky chap by all accounts, if rather skinny now. That’s quite a drastic way to lose weight, if you ask me.

At the other end in Ivrea, in Northwestern Italy, an area that has probably also had some pretty cold weather recently, they appear to have got over the cold snap and have been throwing oranges at each other. This coincides with carnavale in other parts of Italy but, I understand, also serves to commemorate a medieval uprising against a domineering landlord. The peasants fought against the ruling families and won. Now they re-enact the uprising with teams from different parts of the town acting as peasants or nobles but they use oranges as weapons. Fortunately, as well as their fancy costumes, they also wear helmets with cages to protect their faces from serious orange damage.

What is it with these southern countries and their obsession with throwing food at each other?

In Spain in August you have the tomatina in Buñol. As the name suggests, they all throw tomatoes at each other. However, they make no claims to be re-enacting any historic occasion. It all began way back in 1944 but there is no known religious or political basis for it. Some people guess it began as a food fight among children or that local townspeople chucked tomatoes to show their dislike of a local politician. Whatever the case, the event caught on and has happened every year until the dictator Francisco Franco banned the festival for "having no religious significance." However, the town resumed the event after Franco died in the '70s. Maybe they also realised that there was a certain money-making potential as people flock there from all over the world to throw tomatoes.

Meanwhile, back in the present day, carnaval , aka entroido, has also been going on in Vigo, despite our absence and today, instead of eating pancakes – a very English tradition - they will be burying the sardine.

And this year, in the Puerta del Sol, they are also burning an effigy of Angela Merkel, shown as a puppeteer jerking the strings of Mariano Rajoy. The country may be in crisis but satirical comment is not yet dead.