Grotesques and Gargoyles

The Duomo cathedral in Milan is putting its 135 gargoyles up for adoption.  The scheme hopes to raise the 25m euros needed to restore them and stop them falling off the building onto a passing tourist's unsuspecting head. If you've got 100,000 euros stashed in the right foot of your winter boots and are prepared to donate them  you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your name will be engraved under a gargoyle. 

Alternatively, you could dish out some cash for the preservation of ancient buildings in Rome. Recently, pieces of stone fell off the Trevi fountain. Now, a nice little thank you plaque with your name on it where it  can be seen by all and sundry and caught on camera any time the Trevi fountain is used as background would be just the thing to gob-smack your family and friends. That's much safer than trying to explain away a gargoyle with your name underneath it. And it's much more intriguing than donating to some local charity.  You might even be invited to Rome and given a special public thank you by whoever happens to be prime minister of Italy at the time.  The Colosseum is also in trouble, I believe, and would be equally suitable for having your name held forever in gratitude in the Eternal City. It's something to think about as you leaf through that pile of bank-notes.

 But to get back to adopting gargoyles:  the most important distinction to be made, apparently, is that gargoyles are figures used to drain off rainwater and are not to be confused with grotesques, which although every bit as ugly as gargoyles are in fact meant to protect buildings from evil spirits.  This distinction could be important.  There are almost as many grotesques as gargoyles to be seen on churches and cathedrals all over Europe and it might make all the difference staying dry or getting drenched with rainwater depending on which figure you stand under in a rain shower. 

Here's a thought: if you are visiting Milan and the Duomo cathedral with friends or family in years to come, there is a distinct possibility that when admiring the gargoyles, they might get the idea that one of them is a likeness of you, seeing as how your name is engraved underneath it.  Do you really want to be associated with an ugly water spout?   

Better than a play

Well, it's all over and the shouting (in the US senate) is about to start.  I don't think anyone, anywhere, on this planet could have evaded the hype on the US election this week. As King Charles II said in 1610 of the House of Lords' debate on the Divorce Bill "better than a play".  I know I happily switched to CNN to watch the whole thing unfold, drinking endless cups of tea to stay awake.  And I was a teeny bit surprised, after all that had been said on the subject of jobs and the economy, that Obama won fairly comfortably.  I felt sorry for Mitt Romney - tears were forming in my eyes at his speech - and I rejoiced with Obama (more tears).  There was a tremendous buzz about the whole thing and I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

The thing that impressed me was the determination of so many people in New York and New Jersey to get out and vote amid the devastation of Hurricane Sandy.  Maybe we don't appreciate our civil liberties until something happens to prevent us exercising them.  If we were told we couldn't vote in a general election any more, that the government would re-elect itself and demonstrations were not allowed, I bet we'd have a fit.  We'd be out there marching and social media-ing all over the place.  That's why I really admire those civil rights people who put their lives at risk for things they believe in - people like Aung San of Myanmar who was under house arrest for most of her life and who is still fighting for democracy in Myanmar. 

Well, it's back to grey reality and I need to catch up on the soaps which I happily put on the back burner during the last week of the election.   At least Christmas is coming and the stores will keep our stress levels well oiled by telling us just how few shopping days are left.  Won't have the same buzz as the US election, though, not even if I still believed in Santa Claus.

Home Again

I can't believe that I wrote my last post on 29th September!  It doesn't seem that long ago since I was struggling with my virus and getting all excited about my trip to Spain. The weather was still warm enough to go out with only a light jacket. Now I am back almost a week and find myself reaching for my winter coat.  Quite a change after temperatures of around 25C or higher.

I really enjoyed my time in Spain with my friend Eileen.  My virus plagued me for the first five days (it probably thrived in those temperatures! but then finally left me.  It was so hot that it took a few days to acclimatize.  In fact, we didn't do anything madly exciting, we just chilled out - or warmed up would be more appropriate.   We did go on a day trip to Cartagena and visited the Roman museum there.  The amphitheatre was discovered in the late 19th century when some of the old fishermen's houses were being renovated.  It is in excellent condition and well worth a visit.  What an industrious lot the Romans were!  Cartagena itself is a very old Spanish city with wide streets and lovely buildings.  We also visited Mar Menor, the largest inland salt lake in Europe if I understood our guide correctly.  People with arthritis, rheumatism and various skin ailments come here for the mud baths which are reputed to give a lot of relief.
I didn't take many photos but I have put a few under the "Photos" tab if you care to see them.

I loved the open air market in Torrevieja on a Friday morning.  The food stalls stretch at least a kilometre and offer just about any kind of fruit or vegetable you could think of.  You get the powerful smell of spices and herbs as you walk along. If I lived locally I'd definitely do all my fruit and veg shopping here.  The market is huge and there are stalls offering clothes, shoes, watches, leather goods, things you've always wanted and things you've been trying to avoid.  As soon as you stop to look someone pops out of the back regions and tries a hard sell.  You suddenly find that the handbag for 50 euros is being offered to you for 20 and is genuine, yes genuine camel leather, and in fact the eager seller is going to throw in a genuine leather belt just to be nice.  You smile, shrug and move on , avoiding the watch for 5 euros which is being presented to you.  You also refuse to be drawn into the "find the dice" game which is being played by a shifty looking character using three halved and hollowed-out potatoes and two accomplices who are winning 50 euros each time by discovering under which potato the dice is hidden and are insisting that you can be just as successful. It is all good clean fun as long as you keep a tight hold on your purse.

Despite all the fun and sunshine, though, I am glad to be back home.  I prefer the rough Atlantic in all its moods to the sleek sophistication of the Mediterranean.  The Atlantic has more character, I reckon.  And so I was out on the beach today drinking in the bracing salty air and watching the oyster catchers and the gulls parading around the wet sand.  Cold?  Not really, well wrapped up and contented. 

Going Viral

I've come down with a virus.  It happens to us all but I can't help moaning that of all the bodies in all the world why this virus should walk into mine (with apologies to Humphrey Bogart).  And at a time like this.  You see, I am going to Spain for three weeks next weekend.  Hooray.  Sunshine and warmth to give me a boost for the winter.  And now this - sore throat, dry cough, and streaming eyes and nose. Worse still, the doc. says there's nothing much he can do to help, it will have to take its course which is on a scale of ten to fourteen days.  That means I could be viewing the blue Mediterranean through very bloodshot eyes or poking about in my paella with a paper tissue poised near my nose.  I suppose I'll have to sneeze and bear it.

Last night I gave up the unequal battle of breathing through my right nostril while mopping up my left one and fielding the constant flow from my left eye at the same time.  I turned on the radio and found a station which plays music all night.  Relaxing, beautiful music for the most part.  Music to doze off to and wake again thinking "oh, this is nice."  I sent several cyber-telepathic messages to the DJ in the hope he would intercept my request for Andy Williams singing Moon River which would have just about made my extremely long and sleepless night. Alas we were not on the same cyber wave length. Pity but there you go.

My blog will not be updated until the end of October when I hope to tell you all about my time in Spain. 
Until then, here's looking at you!

One size doesn't fit all

A good few years ago I went in for all sorts of training courses, some of them suggested and paid for by my employer at the time. In particular, I recall that two warring departments were frogmarched onto a course on effective communication facilitated by an energetic lady who seemed to think that we were all a menace to society in general. 'Say something positive to the person next to you,' she challenged.  I was first in line and all eyes were upon me.  Now it just so happened that the person sitting next to me was a colleague with whom I'd had rather a nasty spat the week before. Some very bitter words had been exchanged and we were both convinced that a) we were in the right and b) the other person was a thoroughly nasty piece of goods.  What could I say to her that would be acceptable?  I still remember the panic that swamped me, the overwhelming desire to get up and run.  But there was no escape.  In the end I think I admired the blouse she was wearing. The facilitator's chilly eye fell on me and I knew she was classifying me as "not a team player." 
And that's sometimes the trouble with these kind of courses.  Some facilitators, not all I hasten to add, have very definite ideas on how one should behave in certain circumstances.  One size doesn't fit all, though, as I learned to my cost many moons ago.  A friend of mine dragged me to a course on self-assertiveness which she reckoned I badly needed because she said I was inclined to get lumbered with extra work. 'Learn when to say no,' said the lady holding the course. It all sounded easy so I decided to put what I'd learned into practice next time my boss came and asked if I could do something over and above my workload.  I can't remember what he wanted done now, but the details don't matter.  I told him politely and regretfully that I was simply too busy.  He accepted this immediately and I felt the first flush of triumph at having taken a stand.  I should have done this long ago, I told myself.  And then came the downside.  My boss never again asked me to take on any extra work and when a promotion to team leader came up, I was bypassed, being too busy to be given extra duties, no doubt.
Lesson learned for me is that what works in one situation is by no means sure of success in another.  At some stage I decided to use my gut feeling and a bit of commonsense and this has carried me through the rest of my career without too many blips.  Maybe that's the secret, maybe we shouldn't try to be what we are patently not. Recognizing our weaknesses is a major step on the way to coping with them but we shouldn't overdo it. Should I have accepted more work from my boss all those years ago and maybe been promoted to team leader?  I really don't know and when I think about it now, it doesn't really matter, does it?

Goodbye Lady Nicotine

I was a chain smoker.  I'd tried to stop more times than a politician talks about austerity. I remember once doing really well for a week and then a colleague brought me 200 duty frees and I thought what a shame to waste them and hey presto I was back to where I started.

Of course I read all those horror stories about what smoking does to you.  Then I stopped reading about it.  Sure I had a cough, sure I had no control over my smoking and would still do it even when smothered with a cold.  But nothing was going to happen to me.  So I reasoned.

One day at work a colleague gave me the Alan Carr book on how to stop smoking.  I skimmed through it, not really wanting to read it.  I just wasn't ready to give up yet.  So I gave her back the book after ten days and she'd started smoking again by then so I figured it couldn't be that effective.

Eight years ago while prowling round the bookshops on holiday I came across Alan Carr's Easy Way to Stop Smoking again.  It was actually on special offer so I just bought it, thinking I'd have another look at it some time.  Back home I put it in the furthest corner of the bookcase where I wouldn't see it. I already worked in a no-smoking building and had to nip down four flights of stairs in order to have a cigarette and as I had a busy job I sometimes didn't get to smoke more than two or three cigarettes during the day. At home I had long ago taken to smoking outside regardless of the weather.  In all I smoked between ten to fifteen cigarettes a day and I couldn't stop.  Yet Alan Carr's book bothered me.  I was very conscious of it there in the book case.  One day I took it out and skimmed through the first few pages.  Glowing stories of people who stopped smoking with no side effects did not impress me much but then I came to the chapter headed Warning.  I can't remember the exact wording but I know he wrote that maybe the reader was scared to read on in case they had to stop smoking immediately. He said to keep smoking while reading the book. Suddenly I felt that here was someone who knew what smokers were all about, someone who understood that panicky what-am-I-going-to-do-without-a-cigarette feeling.  And I started reading the book.

That was over eight years ago.  I haven't smoked since.  I remember that when I finished the book I still had three cigarettes left and I decided that when I had smoked them, that was it.  I smoked my last cigarette at around one p.m. on a Saturday. I still recall the sense of finality, of being finally free.  My family didn't notice that I'd stopped.  I wasn't bad tempered. I didn't feel any of the usual withdrawal symptoms.  Sure, it felt a bit strange at first.  Something was missing, especially after a meal or when having a coffee with the girls,  but not so badly missing that I wanted to smoke again.  In fact whenever I thought about smoking I remembered what I'd learned in Carr's book.  Nearly everyone would like to stop but they are afraid of that empty feeling. Carr's idea was to take that fear away and he certainly succeeded in my case!

So Goodbye Lady Nicotine. We had a time of it but I sure don't miss you!

Good Hair Days

I've been following the US election conventions and I have a question :  do you have to be blonde and wear a red dress in order to be a politician's wife?  Seems that way sometimes. Take Ann Romney, mother and grandmother, shoulder length blonde hair, no noticeable wrinkles, and wearing a stunning red dress at the Republican convention in Tampa.  Jenna Ryan, long blonde hair, admittedly not wearing a red dress this time but I'm sure it''ll come, and of course there's Jill Biden, wife of the vice president with her shoulder length blonde hair who likes to wear red,too.  Even Michelle Obama's dress was of a red shade when she gave that rousing speech. Right or wrong, a red dress seems to signify power and success.

What does that mean for us non-political mortals who have passed our prime and are in the state of grandmother-hood?  Are we lesser women because we're a teeny bit overweight, fighting the grey hairs and don't own a red dress between us?  I think the answer is we are just as feminine as the Ann Romney's and Jill Biden's of this world.  It's not how you look but how you act that makes you the person you are and thank goodness for that!

In case we are tempted to get discouraged by so much glamour and so many trim waists, let's think about this politician's wife scenario. Ann Romney and Michelle Obama have both been highly praised for their speeches in support of their husbands.  They may even swing the vote in undecided states. Awesome thought, isn't it?  Is there some lesson to be learned here for us non-political mortals?  Should we accompany our husbands to a job interview, insist on going into the interview room first to tell the prospective employers what a great job he's done and how essential he'd be to their company if they take him on? Not a good idea is it? Of course, they might try to hire us instead of him!  Let's be thankful we don't have to champion our better halves and sing their praises to thousands of people. We'll just soldier on, doing the best we can whether we are blonde, brunette or just plain grey. And wearing red whenever we feel like it.