And Then The Ceiling Came Down
12 March

Come the end of the week, I was starting to feel much better if not necessarily back to full strength.

I'd managed a few days in the training room leading the customers through some principles of preparing for and making the best of yourself in an interview. Some of them benefitted; some of them make themselves beyond benefit; some of them (and these were probably the ones who needed the input) absented themselves.

So, I was ready for the weekend when it came. And it's been an odd one.

Come Saturday morning the alarm went off at 6am and Ross got out of bed to go to work. He and Sue were trekking off to Bolton to work with gifted children in one of the schools there as part of an ongoing project organised by Creative Partnerships.

So, I was left to get on with things by myself. Partly, this involved finishing off boxing things up in advance of Monday. As I've mentioned previously, we're about to have the ceilings in our bedrooms attended to. Luckily, we started the backing work back in February because I certainly wouldn't have wanted to do much over the past fortnight what with the head cold and all. But there was still work to do.

So, I boxed and bagged and moved things into the back bedroom so that the small box room was clear and the front bedroom was clear apart from the major items of furniture. Then I did food shopping and mooched around Crosby. I sorted out a book order at Pritchard's courtesy of Scott, an exceedingly pleasant young man who reminds me a little of next door neighbour Nathan from Walthamstow days.

Then I had some lunch before meeting up with Roland for a couple of pints of Black Sheep at the Volunteers. This being Lent, I'm doing my usual thing of only drinking alcohol in social circumstances - in other words, I don't drink on my own at home. What with the cold and all, that's not been too much of a trial. Being ill has meant that I have felt very unlike drinking any alcohol. However, a good quaff with an old friend and some good conversation was exceedingly pleasant.

In the evening, Ross and I snuggled down with food and, courtesy of Crosby Library, Batman Begins. I can't say that I either enjoyed or disliked it. It wasn't bad but I couldn't find it in myself to be much engaged either. Part of the problem, felt that there was little organic structure to the plot. The focus kept shifting all the time between who was the villain, what was the main thread of the plot. I think that something more linear and more focussed would have done the business better. I can well understand why it did not find favour with the North Americans.

Sunday I did not go to Quakers. Instead, Ross and I cleared the bedroom of the remaining furniture. We left the mattress on the for overnight sleeping. Tomorrow night, we'll be downstairs - Ross on the settee in the front room; me on the bed settee in the music room. It felt good to get to the end of the job with plenty of time to spare.

Come Sunday afternoon, Ross and I were off to the Philharmonic Hall for a performance by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra. We attended our first of these back in December of last year. Yan Pascal Tortelier was the conductor. He sports a white head of hair. I remember him when he was starting out and was quite dark haired. He got us off to an exhilarating start and fairly danced his way though Berlioz's overture Le Corsaire.

Stephen Hough was the soloist in Rachmaninov's 2nd piano concerto. Ross and I have heard this at the Phil before, just over five years ago. This was a much better performance but I do think that Rachmaninov has all sorts of structural difficulties. I find that the architecture of his pieces tends to the discursive. Despite the big, lavish tunes, moments of high emotion and lush tapestry of orchestration, I'm not sure that I shall hurry to hear this work again.

Monumentally much better was the performance of Sibelius's 2nd Symphony which left me with tears in my eyes. Here was a hard won battle from chill to warmth, from dark to light, from frozen to flowing. And the climax, whilst radiant, did not forget the difficulties overcome but rather embraced them. The brass section was heroic; the woodwind pungent; the strings searing and stirring by turns. I'd go to hear this work again next week if I could.

Of course, it is less than a year, since I stood in Sibelius's house. I have a feeling that my exposure to Finnish, Nordic, Baltic landscapes helped with my appreciation of the music. There is supposed to be a lot of Finland in the music. Having seen the sparse landscapes, the open skies, the thin palette of colour in the land, the rugged, jagged, huddled shape of the land, the soundscape did make more sense. But the emotional impact has always been there.

Evening was a quiet time before bed on the floor. Surprisingly, we both slept well. Once again the alarm went off at 6am. Once again Ross was off to work, this time in Birkdale at another school working with first years infants. I, meanwhile, greeted the builders who spent the morning taking the ceiling down in the front bedroom.

I got on with other stuff. I've done some work in the garden which is coming on apace now. The cyclamen have kept up a barrage of colour throughout the winter months. In quick succession, snowdrops and crocusses arrived late and daffodils arrived slightly early. Now they are joined by the primroses, the primulas and the hellebores. A startling new addition to the repertoire is the camellia which is festooned with large red flowers. Last year this put out just one flower; now it has really gotten into its stride.

The rhibes is leafing and starting to flower. The clematises are sprouting. I've bought some muscari to go under the ceanothus. It's nice to feel that the world is waking up again.

I've certainly noticed that light in the mornings is growing. I can now practice my yoga first thing in something like full twilight. I got quite excited about this and went to my spreadsheet to see when in the autumn dawn was at a comparable time. I got quite a shock. The beginning of March links back to the end of September. In other words, the opening of the morning light in February is the mirror image of the closing of the morning light in October (and then the month is repeated in November thanks to the change in the hour). Last November, I was taken by surprise by the level of darkness in the mornings. Now, I am prepared.

It was very strange, as the day wore on, listening to what sounded like the house being torn apart and the clattering of dropping plaster on bare floorboards.

It was a counterbalancing joy, therefore, to return to Botswana in the company of Alexander McCall Smith and the 8th book in the No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series, The Good Husband of Zebra Drive. The deceptive simplicity of the prose and the narrative mask a deep, deep human wisdom. All I can say is that it is like taking a long bath in simplicity and goodness. Ever since I read the first of this series of novels back in 2003, they have offered me a place of solace and I am deeply grateful for that.