MMMMMmiaow

Here is Sara the Cat enjoying some attention from L this evening. I don't want to anthropomorphise our cat so I have to admit I have no idea how she feels about most things. The almost silent rumble deep in her throat however, according to experience, appears to suggest some pleasure on her part.

Sara spends the most time playing with things we would otherwise throw away - empty boxes, an old wickerwork basket, the insides of toilet rolls, bits of string or old ribbons, and scrunched-up paper on its way to the recycling bin. There's clearly some kind of lesson there, but just now I'd rather be playing with her.

The life of a house-cat is certainly appealing. Food that you like is available whenever you wish. Although you spend a lot of time caring for your personal hygiene, all else is the task of others, including the swift removal of your natural excretions and the equally speedy restocking of your litterbox. You may sleep as much as you wish, and with a couple of cute tricks can easily encourage your flat-mates to play with you. You sit at the window and look out at what is happening in the world. Finally, you are loved and caressed and feel safe in your home. 

Come to think of it, life under lockdown sometimes isn't that far away from what I've just described. Miaow!

The Snorkel Solution

It's been a while since I tried to draw anything. I missed the last #DrawingTogetherGM gathering as it took place during Kol Nidre. And I missed several opportunities to sit down and draw something. But my mind was blank. 

Something came to mind this afternoon, so here it is:

O yes, and please wash your hands and keep your distance and wear a mask and wear it properly.

Thank you.

30 Years of German Unity

 

Was it only five years ago that my mother and I wandered over to Belgrave Square with an invitation to celebrate 25 years of German unity at the embassy? 

What a lovely party it was. Upon entering the building we were greeted with delicious shots of schwarz-rot-gold something. After a couple of drinks I was quite merry and able to enjoy games (I won a 3D jigsaw puzzle of the Neuschwanstein castle in a quiz/raffle), an exhibit including one of the original copies of the signed document of unification, and fantastic food. It was a bit meaty for me, but I found a pretzel as big as my head which kept me going (and helped with all the shots I'd imbibed).

My favourite part, though, was the photo ops corner. You could take a selfie with a life-size Angela Merkel cut-out. And there was a Photo Booth that put you in varied typical German tourist photo situations. As you can see, I liked that best of all.

Today Germany celebrates 30 years of unity. Look back to 1990 here. How different our world seems today. We are celebrating the festival of Succot this week, zeman simchateinu, the season of our joy. I remember German unification as a moment of joy. I hope that people can feel hopeful about the future, and that today will be a joyous day. Chag sameach!

How Can It Be Already a Year?

About 10:30 am last year on the second of October, I was in Bologna Airport, waiting for a flight to London. The doctor had told us the day before that our mother had only a few days left to live. My phone rang as I stood by the gate, and my sister told me that our mother had just died. 

It is now one year later, and we shall recite Kaddish for the first yahrzeit at Shabbat/Succot services this weekend. Apart from that, I have little to say. Lockdown made a mess of our experience of time this year, but even so that moment in the airport seems so recent.

Nu, I have chosen a picture to share that recalls a lovely moment we had together here. Mummy was visiting Modena, and we popped into the forno round the back of the Albinelli market for a bit of a snack, and found this brand of tomato sauce on the shelves. I often called her Mutti, even before we got our German passports, and managed to persuade her to pose for posterity.

Missing making new moments like these, but blessed with many memories. Mi manchi, Mutti.

Preparing for Yom Kippur

My lovely father was quite well known for his sermons. During the year, he thought about them in advance, and made 5 or 6 notes on a scrap of paper as an aide-memoire. When the time came, he stood up and spoke without a written text. Erev Shabbat he would usually speak about what was happening in the world. On Shabbat he discussed the Torah portion. His references were often diverse - they could be anything from Hannah Arendt to Rabbi Akiva, from Homer (both the Greek poet and the cartoon Simpson) to Heinrich Heine, from Freud to Finkielkraut. He had a great sense of humour and, for me most importantly, when he spoke you felt like he was speaking to you, not at you.

For those rabbis blessed to have a pulpit position, the High Holydays can require up to 5 sermons in a 10-day period. And since the services tend to have the largest attendance of the year, there is the sense that you kind of need to wow people. In fact, these sermons were the only ones that my father would type up beforehand. Anyway, the time came when I was blessed with a pulpit position, and was required to write some High Holyday sermons.

So, I wrote my sermons and, each year, the night before I was due to preach, I would telephone my father long-distance (in the far-off days when there was no internet chat, only e-mail) and read him what I'd written so he could check I hadn't made any major mistakes. He'd make some suggestions. I'd argue with them all. I'd make some changes and then we both could get some sleep.

In 2003, just before Rosh Hashana, I phoned my father as usual, and asked if I might read what I'd written. "You know what?" he said to me, "I don't think so. You don't need me any more." I was really surprised, but didn't argue. We chatted a little and said goodnight. When I'd finished my final draft, I emailed him a copy. He wrote back that it was the best I'd written so far. And the congregation seemed to agree with him.

That was the last High Holydays of his life, as he died the following summer. And when Rosh Hashana came round again, and I cried because I couldn't phone and ask him to check my sermon, I heard his words - "You don't need me any more" - and realised that, for sermon-writing, he was right. 

I'm thinking of my father tonight, as I prepare for Yom Kippur services. I still worry about my sermons, but I mostly do ok. I'm recalling that the night before my ordination, I asked him if he had any tips he might share with me for my future rabbinate. He told me:  when preaching, remember James Joyce! I was a bit perplexed, and he explained: "the end of the book went right back to the beginning. Wherever you end up, make sure you connect back to where you started. It gives a sense of completion. And, at least be brief. You always get points for that." Now this I can do! 

Ok, time to get back to my prep. Wishing all those who fast a g'mar tov. Shana tova!

Ruth Bader Ginsberg z"l

We awoke this Rosh Hashanah morning here in Europe to the news that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg died last night at the age of 87. She was at home in Washington DC, surrounded by her loved ones. 

If you don't know what she achieved in her lifetime, please take a moment to read about her. To those who know, we had hoped that she might survive just a little longer so she might do just a little more. She fought with all her might, on so many levels. But now her struggle is over, and she rests in peace. 

Jewish tradition teaches that one who dies on Rosh Hashanah is a righteous person, a tsaddik. We already knew that about Ruth Bader Ginsberg. As we wish that her memory will be for a blessing, it will only truly be so if we step up and continue her work. That is the best tribute we may offer as we mourn her loss.

With condolences to the family and dear ones who mourn their loss on a day that is supposed to be full of joy for Shabbat and the New Year.

NY Times (paywall)

The Times obit (paywall)

BBC obit

The Guardian obit

A statement from Barack Obama on the passing of Justice RBG

People magazine

Shana Tova 5781

Am kind of excited that we get to begin a new year tomorrow. Any chance to reboot, to recalibrate, to restart is most welcome!

To all who celebrate Rosh Hashanah, may we wish you a safe, healthy and happy new year.

& Farewell Sir Terence Conran

 

News is coming through that Sir Terence Conran has died. Without Habitat, all the homes I've ever had would have looked very different. In appreciation of his contribution to design in the UK, and with condolences to his family. Thank you, Sir.

BBC report
BBC Obit

Guardian obit

The Times obit (paywall)

Independent obit

Dame Diana Rigg RIP

 

So farewell Dame Enid Diana Elizabeth Rigg. On the one hand, I find it strange that I am sad at the demise of someone I have never met and did not know. Diana Rigg's work will always be available to me through images and recordings, although there will be no additions to the collection. I send my condolences to all who knew and loved her for their loss.

On the other hand, Diana Rigg was an actress whose work I enjoyed often over the years. Her episodes of the Avengers are timeless, as is her wit and charm. And she could do anything, from Mrs Danvers to Mrs Pumphrey, from Agatha Christies to the Oresteia via a bit of Dickens and Doctor Who. She starred in Theatre of Blood, the only horror movie I've ever enjoyed. She was in Genghis Cohn (the film version of a Romain Gary novel that I wish more folk would read) and she married James Bond. 

There is one way that Diana Rigg had a small and direct influence on my family - my father adored her as Mrs Peel, and went to see her in Jumpers. Being rather short-sighted, he got seats in the front of the theatre, and was thus also able to smell her perfume. Somehow (who knows, and who knows if it was correct information), he learned that the scent she wore was Bellodgia

and consequently presented my mother with a vial (that I later inherited. It was indeed a lovely scent). 

As I sit here remembering all the pleasure Diana Rigg's work brought to my life, I now recall that while I never met her, I did once meet her wig, which was a bit of a thrill. I saw a version of Heartbreak House c. 1983 as a guest of our neighbour Rosemary Harris, in which Ms Rigg played Mrs Hesione Hushabye. Afterwards we went backstage to say hello and thank you, and while we were in the dressing-room, the wig-mistress stopped by to collect Rosemary's wig, and we could see that she'd already been for Mrs Hushabye's!

Feeling grateful for the life and work of Diana Rigg. May she rest in peace.

BBC obituary here.

The Guardian obituary

The Times obit (paywall)

The Telegraph obit (paywall)

NY Times obit (paywall)

Evening Standard obit

A Life in Pictures (the Guardian)
a plethora of Peel pics

Tweets on Twitter in memoriam

Wikipedia entry

2019 interview (paywall)

Didn't We Have a Lovely Time the Day We Went to Mantova

The original plan for this birthday was a trip to Venice. A kind friend had offered us the opportunity to stay somewhere, and the city was supposed to be relatively empty for the time of year. However, especially just before the Chagim, and with the numbers creeping up again, it did not seem sensible to travel by public transport, so we decided to wait until a more auspicious moment.

Nu, we needed to find somewhere to go for the day, somewhere reachable in the Pandina. Then L suggested Mantova. I knew sod all about Mantova, and initially wasn't very enthusiastic. How wrong I was!

The weather was lovely - just hot enough for L, but heading for autumn in a way that meant I could wear long trousers and sandals. And this was our first view of the city. With swans. Not the greatest photo, especially because it really cannot convey the WOW factor of suddenly being hit by this view from the car.

We were trying to make it there by 10:30 am so we had a shot at getting into the synagogue before it closed. The lady on the phone said the time was inflexible because of their alarm system. We just made it, and while the docent concluded her previous meeting, Piglet got a chance to pose again:

Our guide began by asking us to prepare a small donation for the work of the synagogue to be given to her at the end of her tour. She then took us straight into the sanctuary. She told us everything, about the past, her past, the current community ... including the incongruent information that the rabbi in Verona had recently divorced his wife. 

It really was a quite lovely conversation in the end. At one point, while I was taking some pictures, she asked L if I was married. L said no, and that we are together, which she took quite well I think as before we left she said next time we come to Mantova we should call her and all go for a coffee together. I do wonder, though, if she had been thinking that I might be a prospective match for the newly-single rabbi!

This visit made our day, and anything else would be icing on the cake. Speaking of which, we then walked to the Centro Storico

and found a cafe with a table partly in the sun & partly in the shade where we could partake of some refreshments and I could receive my birthday bounty.

Maybe when you get to be this old you are a bit tired and don't want to see everything, or maybe you realise that you don't have to tick all the tourist boxes. We wandered for a while. I learned about a local delicacy - Mostarda Mantovana (more fruit than savoury condiment)

We had a lovely picnic lunch in the garden of the Palazzo Ducale. Mantova is quite a meaty place, and porky also, so L had prepared some delicious panini full of ingredients that kosher and veggie folk could enjoy without fear. Then we went to get a map from the tourist info office, which happens to be in Rigoletto's house, so Piglet was able to pose with the statue in the garden, and "Pigoletto" came to be!

I'd been up late the night before trying to make some peach jam, and was beginning to run out of steam. But there was one other place that I definitely had to visit. We bought a postcard for my niece by the Basilica di Sant'Andrea, and then walked through what was once the Jewish Ghetto.

There is so much to see when walking through a city, and on so many levels: up above eye level & down; shapes and colours of buildings & details of windows, walls and doors; people and what they are doing. This was one of my favourite details, from a door somewhere between the synagogue and the Piazza delle Erbe. Is it a tree, or an alien?

Our final planned destination was the Casa del Rabbino. It is a 17th-century building from the ghetto, and doesn't seem to have an actual rabbi connected to it. Thus this rabbina had to have a look. Unfortunately from a visitor's point of view it is a private building, and cannot be visited. So we took a few pictures from the outside

We considered visiting Palazzo Te, especially the Chamber of Giants, but we passed the car park on the way there, and decided to drive there, and then decided to keep driving. We hope to return to Mantova, and to begin the trip at Palazzo Te with our batteries fully charged. We beat the rush hour on the autostrada, and made it home with time to rest before a celebratory dinner with friends.

What a wonderful day! What a great suggestion by L! Grazie mille!

Reprieve for Man Buns?

The Nations League international football tournament began tonight, and football-starved fans were able to follow their national teams, albeit still only from their sofas. Italian TV showed the match between Germany and Spain live from Stuttgart, and I had a pleasant time on my sofa with a stream without commentary. Very nice. As a bona fide citizen, I rooted for my home country, but they were robbed of victory in the 96th minute by a goal that looked suspiciously offside. There seemed to be few complaints, which suggests that either the conceding team was dumbfounded by shock, or their players had a better understanding of the laws of football than I.

After it was all over, I wandered around the sports pages to see if anyone had anything to say about my offside query, and came across some photographs of the Welsh international Gareth Bale. He has sported a man bun for a while now, and I really don't go for that look. And then, I saw this:

What is most shocking to me is that he needs his roots done. Considering the amount of time he has been sitting on the bench at Real Madrid, you'd think he could pop into his local peluquero and get a top-up. Meanwhile, having seen this, I'm even more shocked to realise that I prefer the man bun. Sigh.

(Kudos to the photographer who got this shot. Please let me know their name so I may give them credit.)

 

Siri Cannot Help

The folks at Apple did their best to try and cover all possible questions we might ask Siri. Looks like an occasion for Plan B, and thanks to Margaret Mitchell et al. "After all, tomorrow is another day." Nighty night.

Pigoletto

Larger travel plans may have been delayed, but L's suggestion of a celebratory day trip to Mantova on the anniversary of my birth was an inspired choice. We stopped by the tourist information centre to get a map, and it was based in Rigoletto's House, so we took a couple of photos with the statue in the garden. This was Piglet's contribution to the shoot. Can only label it "Pigoletto"!

L'Ègoiste

 

It is a simple equation:  me wearing a mask can help you, and you wearing a mask can help me. How can that impinge on your freedom? Yet it seems that many people believe that their liberties are threatened by this act of reciprocity. If only all our heads of government would lead by example.

Nu, several weeks ago this idea for a political cartoon came to mind, and I sketched it out. Today I inked over the pencil (I was really anxious about doing that, afraid of messing things up, but finally I did do it), and here it is. My first go, so a bit rough I know. Also needs a particular cultural reference to make any sense:  somewhere around 1990 there was a tv ad that I absolutely adored and have never forgotten (you may remind yourself or introduce it to yourself here *).

* a translation of what the women are screaming may be found at the end of the wiki article here

She's Alive!

 

Thank you to Barry from Leeds for letting us know that the internet rumours of the death of everyone's favourite Egghead are premature (poo poo poo). UK quizzing fans, e.g., yours truly, breathe a sigh of relief. 

Summer's End is Nigh

 

L says once Ferragosto is over, so is the summer. It may still be hot, but summer it is not. It is certainly less than a fortnight until September, but at the orto/allotment this morning, with the bright sun and the tomatoes busting out all over (all you had to do was touch them and they would fall into your basket), it was hard to believe what she said could be true.

And then, as my students started to pack up their books, just about half-past eight this evening, I looked out of the window of the classroom and saw twilight there. It was the first time this year I'd noticed it at this time of day and I realised, hai ragione L, you called it. Summer is almost over.

Pronunciation is the Key

 

Sorting through some ESL folders I came across this lovely quote which the original poster attributed to Alan Bennett. 

Thinking about accents, mine is an utter mishmash of place and class, with an American 'R' rolling through every language I try to speak. It usually reflects that of the last person with whom I was speaking, although it strains towards RP when I'm reading or speaking in public (which many Americans find quite impressive. I remember once, after giving a eulogy in a small town in Virginia, a friend of the mourners came up to me and remarked, "I have no idea what you said, but it sounded gorgeous!"). I also have a football accent, a fact I only discovered after being interviewed outside Loftus Road before a match and listening back on the website later that day. It was quite subconscious, but apparently I feel the need to try and sound less posh. Sadly, however many glottal stops I may insert, I don't fool anyone. Sigh.

Julie Welch's Fangirl

I may be horribly gushing and over the top, but I have to post this screenshot because for me, at least, it was an incredibly exciting moment:

I read an interview with Julie Welch today in the Guardian newspaper. For those of you not of a certain age, not UK football fans, not female UK football fans, you may not know her name. When I was a teenager, she was one of my heroines. She was the only woman I knew of then who was a football journalist, and certainly made it possible for me to think that one day I could get my own work onto the back pages of national newspapers.

And Julie Welch wrote "Those Glory Glory Days", which I just found in its entirety on YouTube here (Since I bought it as a videocassette in the olden days, I will not feel like a thief watching it again. I still have the VHS tape, but the machine that used to play it is knackered). When I first saw this film, I realised there were others who felt like I did (only not for QPR. TV mentions of the R's in those days were by characters like "Steptoe & Son" or when discussing crims on "Minder"). It was important to know I wasn't the only one.

To be honest, I hadn't thought about Ms Welch in a few years. Then I saw her name at the top of a webpage, and clicked on the link to find out what she had to say. The occasion for the interview was the publication of her latest book:  "The Fleet Street Girls:  The Women Who Broke Down the Doors of the Gentlemen's Club" (Times review here). In the interview, she speaks well of Brian Clough, godfather to one of her sons. From my days as photographer for the U of Nottingham student paper, and one particular incident at Loftus Road the night the floodlights died, I had developed a pretty low opinion of Mr Clough. So I found @DameJulieWelch on Twitter, and sent a message:

"As a female photographer for QPR I will never forget (c. 1985) Clough in my face screaming 'Get back in the effing kitchen where you belong.' Others were mesmerised by his charm. Umm ..."

And she replied.

Indeed it was. Memories came flooding back:  the foul and abusive language of the fans, dealing with projectiles aimed at my back during the game (everything from apples to small pieces of terracing wrapped in snow to fresh urine), the hostility of stewards and the old guard of Press photographers. But also, the players were lovely, one evening the trainer got the team coach to stop and give me a lift when I'd been stranded in the rain after a European friendly, day and night R's all around Shepherd's Bush would greet me with a cheery "Awright!" and, best of all, my dad got to hear the QPR fans singing his firstborn's name in the away end at Stamford Bridge. But back to Julie Welch ...

(Warning:  here comes the gush)

It wasn't just getting a reply, it was that she also followed me. Wow. Thank you Julie Welch. Proud to have stood on your shoulders for a while (at least one of them).

Drawing Practice - with Snoopygrams

 

There WILL be another #DrawingTogetherGM next week (or is it the week after? Better check before I get too excited), but to keep the plates spinning I've been trying to draw something in that slot each Sunday evening. That hour is quite important for my mental health - while I focus on the drawing, everything else is quiet for a while.

At the moment, I'm following the tutorials on Instagram for how to draw figures from Peanuts.  I know it's not the same as creating my own comic, but it is good practice in getting pen to paper, which I find quite difficult. In this drawing, Schroeder is more Little Richard than Clara Schumann. I was quite nervous about having a go at Schroeder as it is a side view and has a big prop. Indeed, I redid the pencil several times, which I haven't done before. 

Nu, hurrah for having a go, and hurrah for spinning the plates, and I can't wait until the group is together again.

Lost in Modena

 

Usually at this time of year Modena is teeming with tourists. Not so during the time of Coronavirus. On my way home the other day, I noticed a couple who looked a bit lost. She was walking in a wandering style, and he had stopped and was looking at his phone and then around and then back at the phone. As I passed them I heard him say something in English, so I said, "may I help you? Are you lost?" "Yes," replied the woman, "but that is the plan." "Ok, " I said, "enjoy!"