Sinister: keeping a low profile in a tiny swimming pool

[Gordon]

BLOGS

Ok, I promise to put my ramblings at http://www.rouss.blogspot.com/ next
time.

BOOKS

A quiet Sunday afternoon. Autumn is definitely present: mounds of leaves on
the pavement to slosh through, a damp but strangely luxuriant-with-scent
bite to the air. I've been sitting in Exchange Place in Glasgow, sipping an
iced latte amongst the honey coloured sandstone, revealed through arches and
over crenellations, past friezes and amongst other intricacies of eclectic
Victorian devising, reading Mario Vargas Llosa's 'the Notebooks of Don
Rigoberto'. This is, in many ways, a filthy book which I am compelled to
recommend, such is the pleasure it is giving me for, amongst the hints of
deviancy constructed with such sophisticated eloquence they're impossible to
resist (although denial is one of the most refined piquancies on offer) the
book is liberally scattered with hilariously illiberal rants against such
things as sportsmen, the Rotary Club, nature and sexual determinancy. It's
also a handy little primer on the life of artist Egon Schiele. In
conversation last night I happened to mention this book and, when I
confessed that I'd also just finished Michel Houellebecq's 'Platform',
another and now infamously illiberal book of smut and was about to start
work on 'Lolita', one might get the impression that my reading material was
indicative of someone who's interests were confined to, let's say, only
certain areas of life. Far from it. I'm also reading the prison diaries of
no, not that sleazy chancer of a politician, but Albert Speer, Hitler's
architect and, later, his Minister of Armaments and Production. Having read
most of Gitta Sereny's masterpiece 'Albert Speer: His Battle With Truth' I
have approached his own diaries with an impression of a man who isn't so
much evil as blinded by ambition or more accurately, a devotion to Hitler
and his dreams. A man who, initially at least, remained unaware or, more
culpably, willfully esconced from the uglier extents of his idol's vision.
'...God's anger broke through the clouds,
And spilt the cargo for all to see:
The fault of the sailor;
The fault of he who asks
No questions,
About the cargo he is carrying'
as Daniel Lanois sings in 'Fisherman's Daughter'.
There is a certain ghoulish fascination to be had in reading a first hand
and vivid recollection of a picnic with the two of them, rug, hamper from
the trunk of a large Mercedes and all, one afternoon in the vicinity of
Bamberg with Hitler discoursing in admiration on the strategic machinery of
the Catholic Church, having just met the abbot of Banz monastery. We are
also party to the role call, in the early hours of October 16th, 1946, of
the condmned members of the high command. If we are to believe Melanie
McDonagh's reading of Sereny's book, Speer would have been amongst them had
his biographer been one of the Nuremberg judges. However, according to
another commentator it seems that she also developed for him a strong
affection, even a love. Speer clearly remained a man, to the last, of
estimable charm, and not of the sleazy variety.

WINCHESTER

Last night a fair number of the Scottish Sinister crew were out at the
Winchester club. I was too stubbornly shy to dance. Choosing instead to sit
staring smilelessly at the wallpaper was, as I became increasingly aware, a
rather stupid move. However, hopeless company 'though I proved to be, even
*Caitlin* started to dance, which is saying something, and I spied Stacey in
conversation with Stevie Jackson (or which one was it? I can never remember
who's who). Ken, as always, was a source of good cheer and I think all in
all it turned out to be a pretty fine evening and quite busy for the club. I
shalln't mention everyone I know who was there but safe to say one left
their company with a warm feeling, which is the making of such events for
me. I'll also thank Alley, Carey, Gavin, Lucy, Sarah (alphabetic order,
see?) and anyone else who helped organise the event. Someone also gave me a
little kiss... when's the next Winchester? Friday 15th November.

DRAINAGE

Necessity and sufficient dedication to detail can render almost any subject
interesting, I contest. After all, how else is work tolerable? Having spent
weeks designing the superstructure of a small fitness suite which is to be
slotted into what is called 'the beer garden' at a high school in the
farthest western reaches of the Glasgow postal district, I have taken some
pleasure in offloading certain aspects of the design work to other
consultants, namely mechanical, electrical and structural engineers. I also
attempted to tease some free work out of a manufacturer of cold formed steel
joists, but they deemed the project too finicky and trivial to be worth
their attention. Next time I'll append a fictional series of 20 identical
bays to the real, complex bit and see if they remain so snooty. Anyway, it
was a slight shock to realise that I had to design my own drainage system.
However, I'm gradually getting into it or at least figuratively digging
around about it in the vicinity of three manholes. One of them, I know,
connects to the nearest rainwater outlets. I'm taking the gamble that at
least one of the remaining two will take waste of the other sort. Next, I
made a rough calculation of the peak flows in order to size the pipe and
gradient, specified it to be made of cast iron so it won't break and then
drew a little sketch showing said pipe laid in a bed of tamped fill to
ensure it's comfort. Above ground, the pipes are connected by various routes
to vents and valves to ensure the whole hydraulic system doesn't suck
(literally) too much.

PLAYLIST

As Pete Waterman has recently noted, classical music is full of great tunes.
However, classical music has, in turn, been inspired by pop tunes. One such
is 'La Follia', which had the whole of eighteenth century Venice rocking,
which is kind of apt since it started life as an Iberian fertility dance (
'La Follia' means 'wild, empty-headed' evidently). Whilst pop makes things
shorter, classical tends to prefer the other direction and hence the 'theme
and variations' is born. There's a lovely version of this amongst Vivaldi's
trio sonatas, but I forgot my CD of these in the back of a taxi once, so
here's another version by Geminiani.
If it's pure romantic sugariness you're after, look no further than the
second movement of Chopin's first piano concerto. Oh, it's so *yearnsome*. I
think you might even be able to attempt a sort of waltz to it as well and it
has lots of embracing and, if one is in luck, kissing moments in it too. I
should request it at next month's Winchester ;)
At present, however, this stereo's repeat play function is shacked up to
'I've Told Every Little Star', from the soundtrack to Mulholland Drive.

CHEESY SEGUEWAY

I'd have to tell the stars through a thick layer of cloud this evening, but
it's certainly getting dark enough for them to be coming out, which inclines
me to think I've spent longer that that 'fifteen minutes' again. So I'll
stop.

Gordon

KEEPING A LOW PROFILE IN A TINY SWIMMING POOL

The place I was staying last night has a tiny swimming pool reached along an
even tinier, to the point of claustrophobic, windowless, basement corridor.
As I swam up and down my thoughts were on avoiding bumping my head against
it's ends. I didn't get much exercise but I did get a subject line.

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