Nerves & Nitty Gritty

Having spent the last three weeks preparing the garden, today I am sitting and waiting for the delivery of my study/summerhouse.  On the one hand I am really excited, my organisation freak side can't wait to get it painted and kitted out with my files, books, new stationary and pictures for the wall -  all in time for the beginning of the course.  My nervous side is developing an increasing sense of fear - the books have all arrived from the OU, the Student Finance is all arranged, my workspace is almost ready...... and then it all comes down to me.  The summer is almost over,  I am due to go back to work - how am I going to work, study, keep reading and writing and look after my family?!  Should they be in that order?  That's how it came out, does this mean something?  I don't know.  What if I can't do it, supposing my assignments aren't up to scratch, or everyone in the group understands a concept apart from me? 

My sensible side is telling me to keep calm - I have the support of my family, I (will) have a quiet working space, with the help from the OU guide I have worked out a study and free time schedule, I am already in contact with other students on the OU forum who virtually all feel just as nervous.  My 'children' are now young men, they are not going to starve (Sainsbury's can testify to that!)  It is going to be hard, it is going to be tiring but the will and intent are there.

Now I've slapped myself around the face, where's that blasted delivery?.....

Foundations and Summerhouses

This year the family summer holiday provided more than an escape from the routine of everyday living.  Aside from the cultural education and relaxation aspects,  I had a chance to formulate the plot for my novel, which up until recently was a 'mishmash' of thoughts and feelings and lacked coherence in my mind.  Whilst I am sure things will change, it now has a spine from which the branches of the story can grow.  I had the idea for a short story which I will pick up when the time is right and wrote the framework of another short story which now needs the 'meat on the bones'.  I also learnt something very important -  that whilst I can read through almost any noise associated with family life, I simply can't write with any distractions.  As I am due to start my OU course in under two months I think this last realisation is fairly crucial.  Unless I sit on my bed, I have nowhere to study or write without being in the throng of things (my chiropractor would have a field day!)

Coincidentally I bought a writers magazine to read on the journey which included an article on writers workspace.  The cover shows a very romantic picture of an author sitting in a summerhouse with hens pecking the dappled sunlit ground.  "Where are you going to study?" asked The Guitarman (husband) as we sat in the shade on the peaceful terrace one afternoon.  "Err, I had thought at the dining room table but now I am beginning to wonder if that will work....  I have no idea!"  I replied with more than a hint of panic.  He picked up the magazine and said, "I think we should build you a summerhouse." 

For the last three days all five members of the 'H' clan have been involved in preparing the ground for the summerhouse.  The sun has shone, we've had laughs - fortunately no tears  - but plenty of mud and stones, railway sleepers, blisters and aching muscles and we did it!  I feel very proud and very lucky that along with The Guitarman my three teenage boys willingly and enthusiastically helped build the foundation.  I am moved and overwhelmed by the poignancy of what is essentially an area of concrete and wood.  I am truly grateful to my supportive family.

The Gem

One of my aims whilst visiting Granada was to take a tour of Lorca's Summerhouse.  The Internet indicated that there were pleasant gardens and a café - an ideal sojourn for my 3 unaffected companions whilst I took the tour.

I studied Lorca at college many years ago; Blood Wedding (Bodas de sangre), The House of Bernarda Alba (La casa de Bernarda Alba) and I vaguely remember the title of Yerma.  As part of our study we had a class trip to a tiny independent cinema in London to see Bodas de sangre performed and choreographed by Antonio Gades - I was mesmerised by Gades and the emotion he portrayed through dance.  The performance reawakened a childhood awe of flamenco and since that day I have seen many shows and even attended flamenco dance classes for a short period.  The dance, the passion and the story have a combined effect on me and the individual aspects can stir me to the core.  My recent involvement with Lorca's work came about this year when I accompanied the year 10 drama class to a local production of Blood Wedding and a few weeks later I had the pleasure of watching their earnest and mature representation.

The House -  Huerta de San Vicente  - It was by sheer luck that I took the tour with only four other people, a family who also happened to be English, so the guide was able to address us all at once.  For half an hour we were taken around the home with the original furniture and relevant pieces of artwork and wall hangings.  From the moment we stepped into the entrance hall we were all enchanted, not only by the excellent guide but also by the simplicity of the museum which contained so much history.  Despite or because of the simplicity, the meaning of the chosen exhibits was amplified and profound.  As we were taken from room to room the sense of Federico's being grew, his family, his friends and his work.  The final room was his bedroom which contained a bed, a chair, a picture and his desk.  It was too much to resist running a finger over the beautiful and over large oak desk at which he wrote Bodas de sangre and completed La casa de Bernarda Alba.  Finally we were guided to the exhibition hall (originally 3 upstairs rooms) where the dominant feature was a large poster celebrating the 100th performance of Bodas de sangre in Argentina - significant not only because Lorca attended the performance but more importantly because of the achievement of 100 performances and overseas recognition in the 1930's (without the technology and publicity available today).   The tour was at an end and as we reluctantly made our way down the stairs, the son of the English family asked his father what happened to Federico Garcia Lorca and his father relayed the terrible story of his murder in 1936. 

I normally associate museum tours with feelings of interest and fascination but this was something so much more.  It was the most emotive and affecting museum tour I have ever experienced and I honestly think I will remember it forever.

My family were waiting for me in the shade outside the house.  "Was it good?" 
"It was excellent" I replied, fighting back the tears. 
"How was the café?"
"Closed."

Oops.....

The Case of the Cortijo

"Look at this!" I exclaimed, barely able to contain my excitement, "It has two bedrooms, a terrace and BBQ area, a pool, a secluded location with views, a washing machine AND it's within our price range!"  "Book it" he said.  So I did.

Now anyone else reading the additional information may have been put off by the fact that the solar powered electricity system couldn't cope with a hairdryer, 'I can tie my hair back' I thought.  As for reading, 'when hiring a car please note that super mini's are not suitable for the track leading to the cortijo' many would have become suspicious, particularly when coupled with the well known terrain of the region.  Numpty here just imagined a dirt track surrounded by fields.  'No problem', I thought.

The deposit was paid and more detailed instructions to get to the cortijo would follow upon payment of the balance.  Still no alarm bells.

A few months later the balance was paid and the promised detail took us from the airport to a supermarket in the nearest town with instructions to call the owner when we were half way.  You've got it, still no alarm bells.

'Hi Nick, yes we are about half way, can we have the full address so that I can put it in the SatNav?'  'You won't find this place on any SatNav.  I'll meet you at the supermarket and you can follow me in from there.' 
'Oh', I said after terminating the call, 'it must be really out of the way!'

Now all the while the designated driver has been trying to get used to a left hand drive car AND driving on the 'wrong' side of the road.  Occasionally he has inadvertently roamed too far to the right and has been alerted by the rumbling sound of the white markers on the road.  It's been a long day, we've been on the go for 18 hours.  We eventually meet up with Nick, exchange a few pleasantries and then follow his 4x4 along the outskirts of the town.  We gradually leave behind the shops, houses, buildings and lights.  Soon we are in complete darkness save for the illumination of the headlights.  'Wow, this is a windy road' I said as we spiralled our way up and around some hairpin bends.  'It's OK though', I told myself, 'there are metal barriers at the precarious points'.  We were steadily rising higher and higher and very soon the tarmac road ended as we ascended a new section with a really steep incline.  I watched in horror as Nick's car disappeared into the blackness in front of us.  We surged upwards in pursuit with the car almost vertical, I sucked in my breath trying my best not to frighten the teenagers in the back, one of whom we could occasionally hear murmuring 'Oh My God'.  My fingers are wrapped tightly around my mobile phone and the now redundant SatNav - one in each hand, my knuckles white.  The track was often little more than a cars width, made of dust and rock and loose grit.  Every now and then we came to an indent where chunks of the road had fallen away - I couldn't help myself, I think a few OMG's and WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE's slipped out of my mouth.   It took 20 long minutes of this 'journey of death' to reach the cortijo.  We finally came to a stop, white, wide eyed and shaking (well at least I was).  'We're not leaving the cortijo, we can't go through that every day!'

Upon waking up the next morning and taking in the stunning views we could now see some of the track we had ascended the night before.  'It's beautiful but we've got to get back down to get provisions'. 
'Come on' he said 'We'll be fine as long as you don't start yelping and screaming in my ear'. 

Well we survived, I'm here to tell the tale but needless to say we didn't go out at night and if we were out during the day we were always back before nightfall.  Incidentally, I found out the address.  Hidden deep within the information booklet in the cortijo was a sentence that included the region we were in - the Barranco Callonca.  Barranco is Spanish for ravine......

The Alhambra Files

Last Monday saw the realisation of one of my dreams; a visit to the Alhambra Palace in Granada, Spain.  Our guide for the morning was the exuberant and excitable Francesco.  Unfortunately his talk was accompanied by so much gesticulating and bodily movement that the handheld microphone was rarely in the vicinity of his mouth and a majority of his words were lost on the cooling breeze.  In addition to this minor, if not slightly entertaining hiccup, our earpieces were also picking up the transmissions from his fellow guides.  Not necessarily a problem, the reception was clear and concise, unfortunately one spoke Spanish and the other Italian.

At the end of the tour I bought a guidebook to refer to at my leisure and to fill in the gaps of my recent and somewhat intermittent history lesson.  That evening back at the cortijo I sat on the terrace overlooking the mountains and the Med.  Images of the magnificent architecture and beautiful gardens pervaded my mind as I opened my guidebook and began to read.  Within minutes my romantic reverie was halted as abruptly as if I had been slapped around the face with a wet kipper (OK, I'm in Spain so let's call it a wet swordfish).  There on the page in front of me blatant and glaring is a sentence that includes the words 'rapid ISLAMISATION'!!!  This word crime truly does deserve three exclamation marks (there is another rapidly growing crime to discuss but that's for another time).

I can distinctly remember the first time I came across this literary offence.  Years ago I was working in a branch office of a Yorkshire building society.  I happened to be on my own transcribing the words of the Southern Regional Manager from a Dictaphone - happily typing away at the word processor - (all newfangled equipment then you know).  Abruptly I was slapped across the face by a wet kipper (well we are back in Blighty).  I can't remember the exact wording but it revolved around a deal with a French building society and the subsequent need to secure the contract.  The actual word coming through the headphones was 'SECURITISATION'.  I stopped, looked up, meanwhile Alan continued to waffle.  'He didn't just say that, I've heard it wrong' I thought.  Rewind - play - 'SECURITISATION'.  'That's not even a word, I can't type it in the report, people will laugh.  They'll laugh at him and they'll laugh at me'!  You can't just add 'ISATION' to a word to make it fit, surely you restructure your sentence to make it grammatically correct?  (Which is exactly what I would do today in the same position).  Back then I was young and too timid to question the Southern Regional Manager.  I typed it and sent it to Head Office.  After this day I saw it regularly in correspondence between Alan and Head Office.  To my horror, not only had they not rejected the word, they had thoroughly embraced it! 
 
Since that time I have seen it everywhere,  I can read a magazine article by a seemingly intelligent and articulate author only to be affronted by the dreaded 'ISED, ISATION, ISM' and even 'ISATIONALISM'.  I am no fool, I understand that the development of language is an integral part of cultural and social progression.  I have read the informative and often hilarious Etymologicon by Mark Forsyth and can appreciate that language is a liquid and evolving thing.  Words go out of fashion, some never to return.  Some words that we use today were once made up to fill a gap, to provide a description that no other words at that time could encompass.  However, the wilful degradation in this instance is not in the name of development and evolution but is born of laziness and the current trend to dumb down.  Am I the only one to feel this way?  It's as though everyone in the world has accepted it apart from me.  'Oh dear', I sigh with the weight of the universe on my shoulders. 

My moment of despondency and despair is broken by the instantaneous and loud chorus of the crickets chirruping in the dusk.  I look up again at the fantastic Andalusian view as the sun finally drops behind the mountain.  I ponder wistfully, perhaps I should conform, perhaps my mind has become too conservatised and I need to practise more liberalisationalism.  Maybe the problem is that I am a word snob and I am guilty of word snoberisation.........alism.