New Year Blog

 Dishoom, Covent Garden

Where to begin? Perhaps with a Gelukkig Nieuwjaar to all. I returned two days ago from two festive weeks in England. I slept in five beds, travelled quite a few miles, had such fun and warmth with family in various locations, finishing with the Annual Theatre Trip following The Annual Lunch, normally in Italian restaurants in Soho. Perhaps it is every year that we say 'That was the best ever,' but it was definitely true this year. Grandson Tom, as befits the oldest and wisest of his generation in the family, took over responsibility for finding a restaurant and reserving, this year, 19 places. Dishoom proved to be amazing; an Indian restaurant offering what can only be described as truly and deliciously authentic food. The restaurant seemed enormous but the waiter told us that it is the smallest of the three Dishooms in London. I was bemused and impressed that as we arrived there was a queue outside soon after noon. This was reduced and augmented at intervals and numbered around twenty when we left after 2.00 pm. The weather was Cold and Dishoom served hot drinks to the patient queue!

Kinky Boots in action

 Five year old Genevieve, noticed by the Leading Man
in Kinky Boots!

The musical, [it is Always a musical] was Kinky Boots by popular request. I could not believe how incredibly vital, silly, over-the-top, extravagant and gorgeous it all was. One of my nieces met a woman in the Ladies who was on her sixth visit and I can understand that enthusiasm and devotion. The show imbued the spectators with the most splendid and spontaneous, hard-to-contain and involved joie de vivre. As usual, we had drinks together afterwards in a nearby bar before we all split for home, or hotel in my case. Gathering outside the theatre to marshal the troops, as it were, a little group of us bumped into the leading man, off for a break before the evening repeat performance. After our excited compliments he mentioned that several of them had noticed the pretty little girl in the third row of the stalls and said,  'Aahh' as children feature rarely in the audience. It was Genevieve [5 but nearly 6 as she would have it] over from California on her first family theatre outing to what was deemed probably not quite ideal-for-that-initial purpose but nonetheless desired by the majority's [i.e. everyone else] theatrical choice. She too had loved the noise and the excitement, the dancing, the singing and the glitter without necessarily appreciating the story line or the transgender aspects of the narrative! It is only now that I notice that the publicity advises the show's suitability for the ages of 12+ for viewing.


Bruxelles Midi, scene of my non-Celia Johnson moment.



Next day I caught an early Eurostar and as we approached Brussels, I struggled to take my large heavy bag down from its high perch to which someone had moved it. A youngish rather shabby man, also waiting to arrive, offered to pull it down after which we chatted in pigeon French until arriving in the Bruxelles Midi where he kindly offloaded the luggage. I thought it rather odd that after this brief encounter, he didn't immediately dash off for his train and so instinctively refused his offer to pull my case along saying untruthfully, how easy it was for me. Around ten minutes after arrival, he was still around, despite voluble thanks and hand shakes of farewell and I felt more uneasy. This situation is normal for young and middle-aged women but odd for someone of 82 so antennae were in position. As we ascended on the escalator for my train he said something quickly and in response to my Pardon?, informed me that he was a gigolo. I laughed in disbelief but he repeated himself and I quickly told him I had no need of his services and we parted on Platform 7 with yet another handshake and my thanks! After which, I savoured the moment and wondered if this was my lowest point in ageing, yet or perhaps my highest. Probably the lowest I decided.

 A minutely-observed portrayal of Ostende beach full of
uninhibited people enjoying Life.

While in England I spent a day with a girl friend in London for lunch and a visit to the James Ensor exhibition, curated by the Belgian artist Luc Tuymans at the R.A. Despite being well recognised in Europe, Ensor is almost unknown in Britain; I was introduced to his often strange images by an artist friend about five or six years ago when we visited the James Ensor Museum in Ostende, the seaside town where he was born and lived all his life. I bought a handsome sketch of him [from a flea market] by David Laing, with the inscription in Laing's handwriting, inscribing the portrait to 'Madame la Marquise Massoni avec mon plus grand respect et toute ma reconnaissance.' It is marked 'Bruxelles le 20 Okt 1951.


 The R.A. exhibition, entitled Intrigue, takes its title from the major painting by the same name which depicts a carnival of eerie, somewhat menacing, figures jostling for a place in the foreground and emitting a sense of unease and theatricality. It is strangely disturbing as are many of the paintings and drawings on view. Ensor remained an odd, eccentric outsider all his life, ignored in his self-chosen isolation during WW1 but enjoying a burgeoning of his reputation during the Twenties. He became feted as Belgium's national artist and famous people courted him in his unfashionable seaside citadel with the King ennobling him as a Baron in 1929. Before he developed his penchant for the macabre and grotesque, Ensor painted conventional, if dull, interiors and still lifes but during the 1880s and 1890s, he freed himself of the bourgeois shackles and embraced the strange, the political satire and blasphemy, the menacing and unsettling, the naughty and irreligious studies of what became his typical oeuvre.

There were several canvasses in the exhibition of crowded scenes and one in particular caught our eye. It was of Ostende beach full of joyful uninhibited people enjoying their moments in the sun [see above] though the Ensor self-portrait in his gorgeous hat remains No 1 in my wish list!

 Possibly my favourite Ensor painting.
Self portrait with Flowered Hat 1883

Pompelut and Flax

 

Pompelut Restaurant

Time has seemed a little short so a corresponding diminutive post. SO enjoying my post-fall conviviality; coffee with friend yesterday; long, long lunch with friends today AND at a restaurant new to me. Pompelut on Schaarstraat is stylish and interesting in the interior and with delicious food and wine. Inside high up there is a row of mushroom-shaped lights to underline the
meaning of the name which is old Flemish for mushroom. Both yesterday in the twilight and again this late afternoon, walking around the centre and admiring the sights and lights, I was especially struck with the huge volume of tourists this year, no doubt for the Christmas Market, but many, many more than in December last year. Earlier this year tourists numbers dropped precipitously after the Brussels airport atrocity and the terrorism in Paris. Today I heard the rumour that tourists are choosing Brugge now as another attack in Paris is expected. Whatever, it is good to

 Part of the Markt

see so many visitors here; I remark that wryly as, during  my first year here, I frequently silently cursed the crowds as they sauntered, dithered, stopped to gaze, not heeding pedestrians behind them trying to pass, waved ice creams recklessly around, threw cigarette butts carelessly around. This year smiles and warm looks are conferred on these contributors to Brugge's prosperity!

Yesterday, Dec 13^th, to the Texture Museum in Kortrijk, commonly referred to as the Flax Museum. I had no idea of the huge importance of flax in West Flanders till yesterday; astonishingly it was the principal economic activity in the area around Kortrijk centred on the River Leie from the Middle Ages until it collapsed in the late 1950s, and the full story was told in this splendid modern museum. Much of it was interactive [always a switch-off for me] and the whole endeavour is more a teaching classroom except for the third floor which contains beautiful examples of fine linen bonnets and shawls and christening gowns from the past three centuries. One member of the group of seven had visited around five years ago and had seen the original museum which

 All parts of the flax process involved back-breaking work. In
the fields well into the twentieth century, horses were vital at
different stages.

h she had preferred with its small tableaux of parts of the flax process, set in small rooms with original furniture and equipment. It had obviously been more of a folk museum than the very modern, spare information centre it now is. There were some marvellous photographs however and an excellent film. Unexpectedly, the adjoining restaurant was very good indeed, pretty full of appreciative locals who used it as a great place to eat rather than as an adjunct to the museum.

A heavy load of flax bundles.

 

The Golden Age of Flanders



The Golden Age of  Flanders 1277-1585

Today to AZ Sint Jan, six weeks exactly since I sprawled over an upstanding cobblestone and fell on my chin. Hoping for the best but geared up for the worst, I discovered that the jaw is healing well and the doctor said I can eat and speak immediately. I questioned the speed of re-entry but she said Oh no; eat nuts, meat, anything you like immediately. I was so elated that the threatened operation was not needed that I went immediately from the bus to Sint Paulus, my favourite bakery nearby, to buy bread and cheese. Felt good to ignore the yoghurt which I have been adding to smoothies in industrial quantities and to accept the congratulations of several of the staff who behaved as if I had done something clever! Then to Cafune, possibly the best coffee in town and near my place, to have a celebratory espresso and more good wishes before home. Fell upon the bread and cheese just purchased and about which I have dreamed for weeks, and ate lots, gingerly, as the left broken hinge hurts a lot when I try to eat. I ploughed on, as advised, and sealed the deal with a Leffe Blonde to make me possibly the happiest person in Brugge!! Eventually I made the first three physio appointments for next week, needing up to 18 sessions as my jaw has lost quite a lot of mobility. This news, strangely, adds to the gaiety of my family and indeed, it is not something I ever expected to write! However imperfect the jaw at the moment, it is nevertheless regenerating and with it, renewing my day to day life! For which many thanks.

 Oud Huis Amsterdam, Woensdagmarkt

Was able to go on Thursday evening to my favourite activity of the normal week; to spend time with the English-speaking group of Bruggelingen. Such fun for me to be welcomed warmly with celebratory Cava and lots of kisses. I met a member, new during my absence, who was refreshingly silly and with her Inner Child on prominent display while the usual members were on their usual form. How the jaw hinge hurt when I left, hours later, but it was worth every twinge!

Awoke with a smile and out in the centre have noticed that, unlike last year, when entire cafe terraces disappeared, this year, One Single Line of tables against the wall, is now allowed. So sensible. In the Markt, all the chalets are in place, with some already filled. The skating rink and the ghostly, gorgeous, spiky, silver 'trees' around it, are in position and ready for the Off. The Christmas Market is edging nearer to the last November weekend and hopefully, lots of festive visitors anxious to sample its pleasures. Brugge does love and need its tourists.

Christmas Market, skating rink

[The paragraphs above were written on or around November 23.
Following is written on December 5th.]

Oh dear, a gap forsooth. The above was written perhaps nearly two weeks ago, and not published because it was unfinished. The first week after The Reprieve, seemed in retrospect, to have been spent doing lots of activities I had missed so much since October 12. Then I have just had a lovely grandson and his gorgeous girl friend to stay for the opening weekend of the Christmas Market, been to a Saturday concert of guitar music by Alexander Makay in the Orgelzaal in the Munt followed by a washing and ironing Sunday when a friend called and packed away all my terrace furniture for me. Friendship indeed! The highlight of my first freedom week [after the speaking/eating ban was lifted], I went with four 'girl' friends on a day trip to Ghent which was marvellous. After my long withdrawal from society, it seemed particularly good to be able to go to an art exhibition and was quite the high-spot of the week, crowned as the outing was, with a super lunch in a canal-side bistro where I chose fish waterzooi with which I am becoming fixated!

 

And the concept behind the exhibition, entitled Voor God en Geld, or the Birth of Capitalism, was intriguing. The power behind the idea and the exhibition was Fernand Huts, Antwerp entrepreneur and art lover whose bold claim is that in essence, Flanders invented capitalism. He boasts, 'Our region was the Silicon Valley of the Middle Ages. For five centuries, we were the epicentre of the world. Later on, that position went to Genoa until it went bankrupt, then Amsterdam,, next London and now New York. But it remains an impressive story; we built capitalism, the rest merely copied it

 Fernand Huts & curator Katharina Van Cauteren

and refined it.' He draws the example of sky high prices for art in contemporary New York because the art scene is bolstered by a strong economy.

Thus the important mediaeval art scene in Flanders was a direct product of the economic success of the region's entrepreneurs. As cities developed, citizens too developed from the hierarchical nobility, clergy and commoners, previously farmers and peasants. Many became entrepreneurs and their accumulated wealth enabled them to show their status in acquiring art. He mentions an impressive list of mediaeval master artists like Breugel, Jan Van Eyck who invented oil paint, Memling and the Flemish Primitives, Rubens, Van Dyck, Jordaens, Teniers. The Flemish artists were the first to produce for what became the free market; before that time, everything was produced on client's commission, usually the Church or the aristocracy.
 

The exhibition itself is marvellously curated and arranged.  Its art exhibits trace the growth from the early Middle Ages and mediaeval man's strictly limited horizons

Albrecht Durer's terrifying Rhinoceros

to the opening up provided by exploration, shipping, arms technology, textiles, pilgrims, printing, trade and entrepreneurship, the search for luxury. Voor God en Geld provides some wonderful art from artists like Breughel and Memling but for me the greatest surprise and delight came from a totally unexpected appearance by Durer's Rhinoceros which I have always admired but never met in the armour, so to speak.

 Albrecht Durer self portrait 1500

Bruges la Morte

From my sitting room, today.
An antidote to the following first two paragraphs,
which are melancholy and grey.

David Brooks
New York Times journalist

After last week's delightful wander in the garden of illuminated manuscripts while assiduously ignoring American Trumpery, this week after the xenophobic and shoddy election, one just has to wonder aloud at what has happened to cause this tectonic shift in the culture of the U.S. echoing, as it does, the ugliness of the far Right parties in France, Spain, Germany, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe. I have fairly recently discovered the marvel that is the New York International Times and I read it two or three times a week. It has become my political bible on American politics, with its incisive comment pieces in particular. I discover, from a super piece by David Brooks at the weekend that populism [against which I have been ranting since the Brexit campaign] is always a warning sign that there is some deeper dysfunction in a country's economic, social and cultural systems. Globalisation, unfettered capitalism, and weak governments which do not seek to mitigate the worst effects of the first two, contribute. The arrogance of the rich, the bankers, capitalists, in accepting the relatively recent huge increases in their wealth and their apparent disregard of the very real adversity faced by the majority, have become insupportable.  And the disconnected, the powerless, have struck back and to electrifying effect.

So welcome to the prospect of terrible people as Supreme Court judges; States implicitly encouraged to indulge in even more 'voter suppression'; Jim Crow barely concealed. Oh dear, Europe might add, N.A.T.O. David Brooks hopefully suggests that Trump's main problems will be his own attention span, ignorance and incompetence while blithely and cheerfully guessing that the man will probably resign or be impeached within a year. A cheerful, possibly over-optimistic, note on which to end this depressing little soliloquy.

One example of Nov 15th activity in putting away terraces till
next year. Hotel Craenenburg in the Markt, a more
traditional café than most in that area.

And now back to Brugge and the thankfulness of acknowledging that I do not want to know too much about the labyrinthine politics of Belgium. Today, November 15, important things are happening here. Christmas decorations are up in Genthof; the wooden chalets for the Christmas Market were in the Markt this afternoon and everywhere, cafe terraces had disappeared or were disappearing. November 15 is obviously deemed Disappear Day and I remember last year being shocked when I noticed that all the terraces had vanished, virtually overnight. Now I realise it is timed to coincide with the Christmas Market celebrations even if not all the aforementioned terraces are anywhere near the Christmas Market locations. Certainly pavements are roomier and the November weather today, very Bruges La Morte, with misty, moisty, dim greyness, doesn't invite anyone to sit over a coffee at a little table on the cobblestones. I was surprised though this afternoon to see that the spanking new, expensive glass-sided terrace outside Tom Pouce in the Burg came under the heading of temporary [though it did look expensively permanent] because it, too, had disappeared since yesterday almost entirely.

En route through Astrid Park earlier this week.

We have had an abundance of glorious sunny early Autumn weather but this morning's foggy vapour, through which the Belfort was barely visible though it normally almost knocks on my windows, was strangely welcome. As I said, it is very Bruges la Morte; very reminiscent of the Georges Rodenbach 1892 mournful elegy to his dead love and so poetically evocative. I almost love the dim wetness, the slimy, russet leaves dying beneath one's feet, the emerging skeletons of the many trees, dripping moisture,
guarding squares and corners beside grey, silent canals, more than the bright and shining summer days. These late, quiet, hazy days encourage a blessed anonymity; give a melancholy space for recollection and memory and alone-ness in the often crowded streets. This face of Autumn encourages introspection and a public privacy that is as mysterious as it is compelling.

They also serve ....... 

Remarkable Manuscripts

 The Annunciation; Archangel Gabriel greeting Mary.
From the opulent 12th century Copenhagen Psalter in the
Kongelige Bibliotek, Copenhagen.

 Christopher de Hamel

 As a displacement activity in view of the appalling news re the Presidency in America, I think it is an opportune time to flag up a marvellous book I have just read. 'Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts' by Christopher de Hamel, Fellow Librarian at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge before which he had a long and distinguished career at Sotheby's handling and cataloguing illuminated manuscripts. His scholarship is extraordinary but so is his delightfully modest ability to make his intellectual exploration of twelve mediaeval manuscripts, exciting and accessible to the lay person. It is one of the most thrilling books I have ever read. Neil MacGregor calls it 'the intellectual expedition of a lifetime' as de Hamel explores twelve incomparable mediaeval manuscript codices from the sixth to the sixteenth centuries, all carefully guarded in university and other prestigious libraries in Europe and America, most after amazing journeys of ownership and sanctuary over centuries.



His book is part conversation with the manuscript under study, and part with the reader In fact, I like his preferred title of Interviews with Remarkable Manuscripts; it neatly fits his style. He describes in detail the often gorgeous illustrations, often with a background story of the illuminator, but he

 St Luke, from St Augustine's Gospel kept at
Corpus Christi. A.D. 597
This venerable volume is now used for the swearing of
the oaths of office at the enthronement of each new
Archbishop of Canterbury.

also examines the structure of the book, any erasures, the sewing holes, the over-paintings and the bindings. There is more detective work too as he strives to decide, for example, whether the 1400 year old vellum-paged book of the four Gospels, kept at Corpus Christi, is really the very one which belonged to St Augustine of Canterbury, given to him by Pope Gregory when he came to convert the Anglo-Saxons in 597. He considers various aspects of history and evidence and concludes that it is a 'virtual certainty.'



The modest and talented Hugo Pictor,
Hugh the Painter, 11th century

  



My favourite person [apart from Dear Christopher himself, who is not just in the book, but of it] in this splendid narrative is Hugo Pictor, Hugh the Painter. De Hamel discovers where  Hugo lived, who he worked for and what he did. The normal practice in making mediaeval manuscripts involved a division of labour between the scribe who wrote out the text and the illuminator who painted the pictures and the ornamentation. But this manuscript, de Hamel proves, was written and illustrated in the latter part, by the same man, Hugo Pictor. The manuscript is tenth century, the commentary in Latin, on the Book of Isaiah by Saint Jerome, an honourable commission indeed, but Hugo couldn't resist adding a small and delicate self-portrait on the last page with his name written around his head. Endearing and achingly personal. Can that really have been over a millennium ago?
 

But the most exciting discovery for me was in the twelfth codex, the Spinola Hours, c 1515-20 and now kept in the J. Paul Getty Museum near Los Angeles. De Hamel talks of opening the Spinola and plunging straight into the late Middle Ages and of the 'exceptionally rich' and innovative decoration. The many illustrations in the book are breath-taking miniature masterpieces and, de Hamel marvels,  in exceptional condition. What particularly thrilled me, living as I now do in Brugge, was the discovery that this book is Flemish; the beautifully decorated, incredibly wide margins of the text pages, we learn, are in the Ghent-Bruges' style of Renaissance Flanders.

 A typical wide border in The Spinola Hours,
illustrative of the Ghent/Brugge style
of naturalistic illumination.

 'The 'extraordinary layers of illusion in Ghent-Bruges manuscripts' is praised and De Hamel refers to panels of text being turned into three-dimensional illusions with scrolls fallen on to the page, and text pinned to the page.  He describes the naturalistic flowers and berries scattered across the golden grounds of the wide borders, apparently attracting life-like  snails and insects to settle there.

De Hamel does extensive and amazing detective work on the artists behind the luxurious decoration of the Spinola Hours and also on its relationship to two other first class mediaeval manuscripts but readers of my modest tribute must buy or borrow this book to discover his conclusions. Or put it on your Christmas list if you have someone who really wants to please you!

Another glorious Spinola page 1515-20



Drinkt God Duvel?

The title of this week's blog is absolutely nothing to do with me; it is the title of a performance sometime this week of what I take to be some satirical theatrical event. It is just such a marvellous title that I cannot resist using it though won't be going to see the play as it will be in Dutch of course. In fact, currently, I go nowhere much and certainly not in the evening, in the dark, as confidence is lower than normal in my ability NOT to trip up!! Careful, compulsory daytime walks are sufficient and will help recovery of both health and confidence, I hope! At least that is my self-narrative.

Apropos my wonderful title, 'Does God Drink Duvel?' I should mention to non-aficionados that Duvel is one of the numerous Wonderful Belgian Beers and one of my three current favourites; namely Leffe Blonde, Brugse Zot and the aforementioned Duvel. Part of my self-medication to aid recovery is to prescribe a beer a day and I just hope not to put on weight though think my present entirely liquid diet probably ensures that I won't. I won't bore with the details of my incredibly healthy diet; suffice it to say that I dream of bacon sandwiches! And of salted nuts. Separately.

Because of my temporary isolation I treat myself to a newspaper, more often than the usual one a week as a reward for my suffering! Reading a newspaper [not online] remains a thoroughly delightful and indulgent activity and it is more than usually appreciated at present. Since living in Brugge, I have become a real fan of the International New York Times, thus reversing my poor opinion of most American newspapers. So that, together with a Saturday Daily Telegraph forms my staple current affairs diet.
 This means that I am pretty up to speed on things political in the U.S. and the U.K. and have become slightly obsessed with the ghastly charade in America as E day draws close. It really does look as if American society has a collective death wish. One hoped that the Republican Top Brass could have found a way to de-rail Trump but unnervingly, respectable Republicans like Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House and originally a Refusenik over Trump, now disdainfully endorses him, seeming not to recognise the utter stupidity and self-harm of such an act, stupidly harmful to the fate of the Republican Party that is. And why would he do that when there ARE Republicans who will hold their noses and vote for Hilary? To accommodate Party donors, presumably by helping to provide a conduit for tax reduction for the wealthy. And to be in a position to repeal or privatise Obamacare perhaps, a cause mysteriously dear to the caring, sharing right wing. Cynicism personified even for a politician.

This year, unusually, I have needed health care over two periods and I am SO grateful to be living in Belgium where I pay 8 euros a month to my Mutualiteit for health cover plus, at my age, 52 euros a month to cover all hospital expenses. [voluntary but sensible!] When I visit the G.P. each visit costs 24 euros 50 and I am repaid about three quarters of that by the Mutualiteit,
the insurer. In Britain there are no such charges but the low cost system here has considerable advantages. Little or no waiting; choice of hospital if one feels the need; immediate accessibility to consultant appointments. If people are paying, even a little, to go to the GP, then missed/forgotten appointments are vanishingly rare. The flip side of this health care system is high taxation. The Americans would call this socialism, I believe; whatever the name, it benefits millions of less-than-wealthy, and poor, tax-paying [and non tax-paying] citizens.

Back to the U.S. I was astonished, not to say aghast, at the action of the FBI chief, Comey. Although most public appointments over there seem to be political, I had assumed that the Head of the F.B.I. must be apolitical but not so. Mr Comey is more a Republican and less a public servant, it seems. So almost on the eve of the election, he wrote to Congress about a further cache of emails connected with Hilary, the contents of which he claimed to know little but felt an urgent need to publicise. The background to all of this election hysteria, hype and misinformation, is populism. All populism needs to take a real stranglehold is a person in the public eye willing, nay anxious, to manipulate facts, non-facts, opinion and truth; someone to stoke the flames of resentment and feelings of exclusion. And populism found Trump, a man without integrity, empathy, conscience, morality. A combustible combination indeed. Apparently there is still about 45% of the U.S. population which believes Obama is not American or Christian; that he was born in Africa and is a Muslim. Looks ridiculous when written down. And it rather reassures a person that Europe is a saner place to live.

A post script to the above; F.B.I. chief, James Comey, has indicated that there is nothing criminal in the emails and no action against Hilary Clinton will be undertaken. That's this morning's news. i.e.
on Monday 7th November, the day before the election. I imagine it is a little too late to undo any damage but I hope Hilary wins and sentences him to be hung, drawn and quartered. A public duty, no less!

 I do feel shabby, choosing this photograph of The Donald
but somehow it portrays his ridiculous and self-regarding
personality.

Update plus a little excursion

 Yesterday's view of the terrace

Two weeks later and the situation is a little changed. Wednesday's weekly hospital Xray revealed that the jaw had moved and thus no healing had taken place. Urgent referral to Senior Opinion which was and is, a week's grace will be allowed, then if no change, the consultant will insert three screws in the jaw and tie the teeth together with wire thus keeping the mouth shut. Oh dear, I can already hear the jokes from the wider family about that! As I can get away with a local anaesthetic, not the dreaded full anaesthetic demanded by the bigger operation [exact details, unknown, but consultant and I are united in opposition to that, with the unspoken opinion of Too Old!] I am prepared for the operation some time after next Wednesday. The consultant was stern; you need isolation really so that is what I am now more vigorously embracing. I already didn't answer the phone and have stopped all my activities and refused all visits; now I don't even answer the door buzzer. No swimming either, the man said, just as I was about to resume my daily dip. So I savour what I have and can do; top of that list is my lovely flat and super terrace AND the sunny weather so far to enjoy both. The flat is filled with perpetual sunshine and the terrace is warm and inviting and a little Autumnal. Things could be worse.

 Ken Loach. I Daniel Blake won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes
Film Festival this year and was the only British film selected
to be shown at the New York Film Festival in October 2016

However I am thinking of a Silent Trip, with relevant slip of paper, to the Lumiere to see the newly-released latest Ken Loach film, 'I Daniel Blake'. Ken Loach, celebrated for Cathy Come Home and Kes among many, many other films chronicling the struggles of the poverty and despair of working class life, is my favourite left wing director. I read an interesting interview with him in last week's New Statesman and was delighted to read him dismiss the preponderance of upper-class stories in film and TV, as entertainment while regretting the pigeon-holing of working class narratives as mere social dramas. He finds the British film industry's obsession with the rich and the aristocracy as 'tedious beyond words. And indulgent. It diminishes our self-respect.' The fact that I could only ever stand the first half hour of Downton Abbey because of its predictable plot and stock characters, seemed suddenly right on, instead of my slightly apologetic reaction to the usual disbelief from besotted fans.

I Daniel Blake was splendid and splendidly depressing. My emotions felt deeply stirred as I walked despondently home. It is the story of an ordinary older working class man, a carpenter, honest, likeable, conscientious who loses his job after a severe heart attack. His doctor says he must not return to work yet, and the film chronicles his increasingly bewildered attempts to access the benefits system. Language, computers, systems processes are all used to mystify and obstruct would-be claimants so that, after countless visits, Daniel Blake is no nearer obtaining the temporary financial support he needs. He helps a young woman victim of the system and her two children, sells most of his furniture while desperately lying to people who want to help him like former work mates and his young neighbour. I had no idea of the punitive nature the benefits system; it is consciously cruel as Loach says. Interestingly, also yesterday, there is pious talk in Parliament of simplifying the system to help claimants; let us live in hope. As it presently stands, not only does it punish and obstruct would-be claimants, it puts exquisitely-targeted pressures on staff to conform.





 En route to Damme from Brugge

My teacher daughter, friend and grand-daughter were here for four or five days last week and the 'No speaking' rule was hard to follow. I have discovered how difficult it is to deny oneself this most human of activities. It is almost as essential and normal and spontaneous as breathing. I didn't go out with them at all except for their last day when daughter insisted they take me out somewhere briefly. Never has a short trip to Damme been so enjoyable! I do love that drive along the canal between the dappled trees in the canal-side avenue that seems to continue for miles. We only had time for a coffee, which was a treat indeed, but after we had parked, the girls saw a very inviting shop nearby, with gallery, and they dived in. I hesitated partly because of being tongue-tied and partly through post-Brexit poverty which has induced a wholly atypical reluctance to be tempted to buy anything very much. But the windows looked tempting indeed and eventually I went in to find a marvellous emporium full of signally different and amazing clothes and bags. Suffice it to say, we enjoyed ourselves hugely and I shall certainly go back when I am fully restored to proper speech and buy something to celebrate the return of that wonderful gift. Realistically, that may well be early January

in which case, the sales may well be on. Synchronicity indeed.

 A plain exterior hiding an Aladdin's Cave