God, what bloody miserable weather. I spent the morning staring out of the window of the jury waiting room, reading bloody Leech and the Guardian, completing the various puzzles within, and speculating on the curious similarity between Gordon Brown and the Emporer Claudius. Something to do with the ears. As for good old Geoffrey Leech, I had to admire his tenacious categorizing, which is certainly thorough, but the number of exceptions he has to his various verb rules makes me suspicious. Besides, I've been working on an idea to help my students understand the whys and wherefores of the English tense system and why any giver speaker chooses the tense and aspect they do, and I seem to have stumbled on a major and easy-to-explain theory of how we see them. I won't say more right now, as it will comprise a Major EFL Geek Moment in a later log. Suffice to say I've been scouring the literature at the moment and no-one seems to have ever described what I think I've discovered before. Whether this is because my basic proposition is deeply stupid, or because it's one of those things that make people slap their heads after hearing of it and exclaim 'Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that!', I don't know. Anyway, I will come back to this.
We entered the courtroom just before lunch to be sworn in, and the case itself started at two. Obviously, I cannot comment on it. However, it was again booze-related, and it struck me how the people involved were those who had in some way fallen without noticing. My good friend Marcus has left a comment on the previous post, querying what I meant by 'law', and whether it was, in other terms, a way that the middle classes seek to impose a certain set of behaviours that are deemed acceptable by 'civilised' (viz: the middle classes) society. What I meant when I talked about its courtesy and slow regal nature was perhaps its exactitude, in seeking to ascertain the exact position and the truth, whatever that may be. Certainly in terms of criminal law rather than the morass of civil law; as an example of what I mean by civil (ha) law, treating fathers who perhaps through no fault of their own have been marginalised and, indeed, criminalised because they do not fit into the Daily Mail version of a family, or because they have been pushed into the pigeonhole of Absent Parent, even though this is not what they either wanted or intended. The ability to actually be involved in the legal process, whether it is to defend oneself, or to give evidence, or to be part of the jury, is both an important freedom and a duty. Unfortunately, it only applies only to the criminal justice system and only at crown court level and above. For the rest, we are required to depend upon the 'service' of the politicians we choose (or not, as the case may be), and invest our trust in those who may not necessarily have our interests at heart, or who do not or cannot understand them.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Bah! What a Swizz!
After being sent out early from the trial and having lunch, we, the jury, trooped into court at 2.00. We sat down. The defendant, I noticed, had been moved back to the dock, and had a huge grin adorning their face.
the judge faced us and told us that the trial, 'for reasons that have taken us all by surprise' had had to be called off, and would be sent for retrial. as such, we were discharged from our duty, and promptly thanked and told to leave. The atmosphere among the jurors was one of feeling cheated; we hadn't been able to hear the last witness or the summings-up of the case, or have the satisfaction of closure by delivering our verdict. It's also deeply frustrating because I can't discuss the case whatsoever. I will say this though: what kept me most entertained was the defendant's evasions and inventions in the face of overwhelming evidence that he was guilty as charged.
It was also fascinating seeeing the exactitude and courtesy of the judge and the lawyers, the slowly regal process of law, seeking to dig out the veracity or not of each witness' statement.
the judge faced us and told us that the trial, 'for reasons that have taken us all by surprise' had had to be called off, and would be sent for retrial. as such, we were discharged from our duty, and promptly thanked and told to leave. The atmosphere among the jurors was one of feeling cheated; we hadn't been able to hear the last witness or the summings-up of the case, or have the satisfaction of closure by delivering our verdict. It's also deeply frustrating because I can't discuss the case whatsoever. I will say this though: what kept me most entertained was the defendant's evasions and inventions in the face of overwhelming evidence that he was guilty as charged.
It was also fascinating seeeing the exactitude and courtesy of the judge and the lawyers, the slowly regal process of law, seeking to dig out the veracity or not of each witness' statement.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
more jury service, more time..
the case drones on. The air-conditioned atmosphere of court cannot hide the dull mildew fug of legal books, the soporific exactitude of legal argument, the sense of a drama played out underwater: so far, I've almost fallen asleep three times. The case is not the most exciting in the world, and will, I daresay, warrant no more than a paragraph in the pages of the local newspaper. I've been playing a variation of Bullshit Bingo to try and keep myself focused. For those who don't know it, Bullshit Bingo is a way to enliven the dullest of meetings. Make a grid of nine squares, and fill each square with a set of buzzwords appropriate to the situation; For example, a management meeting may consist of phrases such as 'cascade down', 'imagineering', 'downsize' etc etc. When you hear the phrase being used, you cross it off the list. It's much more fun when you're competing with someone else, espaecially if the someone else beats you, forgets where they are, and stands up, yelling 'house!'
As I said in my previous post, legal reasons prevent me relating what's going on, but believe me, it is bloody tedious. Not quite as turgid as my first experience of jury service, but still yawnsome.
I did manage to pass some of the day imagining myself on this day ten years ago. I woke up early, then: I had a mild headache and a dry mouth, partly due to what I had drunk the night before, partly out of nervous anticipation of what was to come that day. I made myself a decent breakfast of fresh bread, black olives, feta cheese, large ripe tomatoes, egg, honey and jam, washed down with orange juice and black coffee, and had the lot on the balcony of the tiny flat I'd moved into the day before, completely naked. Then, I carefully laid out my new suit, shirt and cravat on the bed, and went into the bathroom. I looked myself fiercely in the eye and made sure I was certain, then having ascertained I was, I diligently, carefully and leisurely stroked a razor across my face, leaving my skin fresh and smooth beneath the palp. I showered, taking my time; Then, equally leisurely, towelled myself down, enjoying the simple sensual enjoyment of feeling my own body beneath my own hands, and wondering whether it would be any different by the end of the day.
After I got dressed in my finery, I finished off my hair, left the building, and went off to an urgent appointment. I found my urgent appointment in the hairdressers, having her makeup finished off, and looking lovely in her wedding dress.
And how the hell ten years has passed from then to here, I haven't a clue.
Happy anniversary!
As I said in my previous post, legal reasons prevent me relating what's going on, but believe me, it is bloody tedious. Not quite as turgid as my first experience of jury service, but still yawnsome.
I did manage to pass some of the day imagining myself on this day ten years ago. I woke up early, then: I had a mild headache and a dry mouth, partly due to what I had drunk the night before, partly out of nervous anticipation of what was to come that day. I made myself a decent breakfast of fresh bread, black olives, feta cheese, large ripe tomatoes, egg, honey and jam, washed down with orange juice and black coffee, and had the lot on the balcony of the tiny flat I'd moved into the day before, completely naked. Then, I carefully laid out my new suit, shirt and cravat on the bed, and went into the bathroom. I looked myself fiercely in the eye and made sure I was certain, then having ascertained I was, I diligently, carefully and leisurely stroked a razor across my face, leaving my skin fresh and smooth beneath the palp. I showered, taking my time; Then, equally leisurely, towelled myself down, enjoying the simple sensual enjoyment of feeling my own body beneath my own hands, and wondering whether it would be any different by the end of the day.
After I got dressed in my finery, I finished off my hair, left the building, and went off to an urgent appointment. I found my urgent appointment in the hairdressers, having her makeup finished off, and looking lovely in her wedding dress.
And how the hell ten years has passed from then to here, I haven't a clue.
Happy anniversary!
Monday, June 18, 2007
Jury service.
So, fresh from leaving no. 1 son at school, I pedalled downhill in light rain from Emmer Green and into town, and locked my bike up outside the crown court in Reading, opposite the imposing lion sculpture in The Forbury, next to the Abbey Gateway that once housed the school that Jane Austen went to when young and unironic. I grabbed myself a Guardian, then went through the security check.
'Where you park your bike, then?' asked the guard.
'just over there', I said, pointing to the bicycle racks.
'Wouldn't do that,' he said, shaking his head,'Judge got his nicked just the other day. Lock it up here, just outside: I'll keep an eye on it.'
After moving it and being checked again, I walked through the pleasant cool interior and into the jurors' waiting room. After being welcomed, signed in, given a locker key and shown around, I was ushered into the lounge, tricked out in the utilitarian greens and beechwoods of corporate furniture, complete with pissed-off looking canteen staff. Other jurors appeared in dribs and drabs; Some chatted, some riffled through the scruffy magazines piled on the tables, others coughed and moved chairs several times, trying to find a place to be comfortable. Eventually, one of the ushers, a thin, nervous man with combed back long black hair, glasses and a straggly goatee, came in, said 'watch this video, then I'll be back', put on the video, and buggered off. One of those corporate videos, the ones with the crap electronic incidental music and people who tell you in smiling tones what the hell you're doing in the place, whether it be on a plane or in a new company or how to do presentations, told us what the hell we were doing there, while the video crackled and fizzed on the screen.
The usher came back, started speaking into a remote microphone, said ' right, can you hear me?' and the microphone failed. In his strongest voice, he went through various health and safety regulations. I completed my Sudoku puzzle, and started on the cryptic crossword in the paper. He told us we may have a wait.
He wasn't bloody wrong.
I read my paper back to front, then started reading Geoffrey Leech's Meaning and The English Verb. Not only is this a sodding boring read, I got really annoyed at Geoff because he is so maddeningly vapid when it comes to discussing the exceptions to the rules governing tense usage that he so rigidly and explicitly sets forth.
Eventually, at ten to three, I was finally called to the court, along with eleven other people good and true. We were sworn in.
Then we were told to come back tomorrow morning.
Well woopy-do.
And OF COURSE, I won't discuss the case, a) because it is sub judice and therefore would be a criminal act to discuss it, and actually I believe that this is an important legal principle, and b) They didn't even tell us what the case was.
'Where you park your bike, then?' asked the guard.
'just over there', I said, pointing to the bicycle racks.
'Wouldn't do that,' he said, shaking his head,'Judge got his nicked just the other day. Lock it up here, just outside: I'll keep an eye on it.'
After moving it and being checked again, I walked through the pleasant cool interior and into the jurors' waiting room. After being welcomed, signed in, given a locker key and shown around, I was ushered into the lounge, tricked out in the utilitarian greens and beechwoods of corporate furniture, complete with pissed-off looking canteen staff. Other jurors appeared in dribs and drabs; Some chatted, some riffled through the scruffy magazines piled on the tables, others coughed and moved chairs several times, trying to find a place to be comfortable. Eventually, one of the ushers, a thin, nervous man with combed back long black hair, glasses and a straggly goatee, came in, said 'watch this video, then I'll be back', put on the video, and buggered off. One of those corporate videos, the ones with the crap electronic incidental music and people who tell you in smiling tones what the hell you're doing in the place, whether it be on a plane or in a new company or how to do presentations, told us what the hell we were doing there, while the video crackled and fizzed on the screen.
The usher came back, started speaking into a remote microphone, said ' right, can you hear me?' and the microphone failed. In his strongest voice, he went through various health and safety regulations. I completed my Sudoku puzzle, and started on the cryptic crossword in the paper. He told us we may have a wait.
He wasn't bloody wrong.
I read my paper back to front, then started reading Geoffrey Leech's Meaning and The English Verb. Not only is this a sodding boring read, I got really annoyed at Geoff because he is so maddeningly vapid when it comes to discussing the exceptions to the rules governing tense usage that he so rigidly and explicitly sets forth.
Eventually, at ten to three, I was finally called to the court, along with eleven other people good and true. We were sworn in.
Then we were told to come back tomorrow morning.
Well woopy-do.
And OF COURSE, I won't discuss the case, a) because it is sub judice and therefore would be a criminal act to discuss it, and actually I believe that this is an important legal principle, and b) They didn't even tell us what the case was.
Friday, June 15, 2007
pointless.
It's friday, there aren't many people in at work, so it's time for a blog entry. It's been a week that has seen me slowly unwind from being very stressed out over the whole bloody business of exams. We've almost finished with them now, and got the extra fillip of some extremely good results from the Speaking and Listening exams - out of 129 people, only 4 failed. I have just some oral exams to attend tomorrow, then I'm done, and off for jury service. And then, once all the crap is out of the way, and I've put all the paperwork on my desk to the torch, I can try and get on with doing my Dip. TESOL. again.
One problem I have, and one I've mentioned before on this blog, is my inertia when it comes to starting to do something, or when something I've been working on, for whatever reason, grinds to a halt. And this has been a recurring problem with this. In a way, I need someone, whether it be a supervisory figure or a competitor, to spur me on. At the same time, it really bugs me having someone standing over my shoulder, checking up on what I'm doing. I feel that it stops me expressing what's really in my mind, somehow.
Mobile phone covers: I saw one of our Chinese students shouting into her mobile yesterday. Her phone cover was in the form of some kind of cuddly, furry pink dog. Unfortunately, it gave the impression that she was yelling into its bum.
One problem I have, and one I've mentioned before on this blog, is my inertia when it comes to starting to do something, or when something I've been working on, for whatever reason, grinds to a halt. And this has been a recurring problem with this. In a way, I need someone, whether it be a supervisory figure or a competitor, to spur me on. At the same time, it really bugs me having someone standing over my shoulder, checking up on what I'm doing. I feel that it stops me expressing what's really in my mind, somehow.
Mobile phone covers: I saw one of our Chinese students shouting into her mobile yesterday. Her phone cover was in the form of some kind of cuddly, furry pink dog. Unfortunately, it gave the impression that she was yelling into its bum.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
res ipso loquitur (if that's the right spelling)
just wanted to put this pic of mum and dad, moments after their wedding ceremony, on here.Friday, June 08, 2007
Who am I? Who are you?
Who is there who never says to themselves, 'who amI'? Who is there who hasn't, at some stage in their lives, looked into a mirror and, only recognising themselves partially, behind the tiredness, behind the age beginning to creep into their features, asked, 'who are you?'
And what answers come back? Glib ones, bland ones, tired ones, lies, obfuscations, attempts to dodge some kind of truth, if truth it is, attempts to convince ourselves that we are this type of person and not the other. How often can we absolutely, honestly, say 'I am this and nothing else'?
The problem is, of course, that we are in reality many things, not only to many people, but to ourselves, and often when we don't like what we see in the mirror, we comfort ourselves with fibs about our personalities and physical selves. Advertising is based upon this premise of the self-told lie: 'Because You're Worth It', for example. Not only do we invent a legend, or legends, of the self, our own epic narratives in which we are the scions of ancient, noble clans, or lost princes/princesses or whatever, but we have labels attached to us that in general remain firmly stuck throughout life, once we reach a certain point in that particular journey. So, for example, I am, in various people's minds, and in rough chronological order, a Son, a Brother, the Brainy Relative, the Quiet One In The Corner, The Shy One, The Gambler, The Lover, The Mad Drunk One Who Gets Into All Gigs Free, The Bad-Tempered One, The Teacher, the Husband, the Father, and probably far more, including earthier descriptions, I'm sure.
But is any of this really me? The only time I really, really feel that I am myself is in the midst of quiet, reflective moments, quite like this one now, when all the world is dozing and I try to do what I do best - play with ideas. I don't like labels, I don't like pigeonholes, yet no-one can go through life without having metaphorical post-it notes slapped on them or being bunged into a little slot of some kind.
And what answers come back? Glib ones, bland ones, tired ones, lies, obfuscations, attempts to dodge some kind of truth, if truth it is, attempts to convince ourselves that we are this type of person and not the other. How often can we absolutely, honestly, say 'I am this and nothing else'?
The problem is, of course, that we are in reality many things, not only to many people, but to ourselves, and often when we don't like what we see in the mirror, we comfort ourselves with fibs about our personalities and physical selves. Advertising is based upon this premise of the self-told lie: 'Because You're Worth It', for example. Not only do we invent a legend, or legends, of the self, our own epic narratives in which we are the scions of ancient, noble clans, or lost princes/princesses or whatever, but we have labels attached to us that in general remain firmly stuck throughout life, once we reach a certain point in that particular journey. So, for example, I am, in various people's minds, and in rough chronological order, a Son, a Brother, the Brainy Relative, the Quiet One In The Corner, The Shy One, The Gambler, The Lover, The Mad Drunk One Who Gets Into All Gigs Free, The Bad-Tempered One, The Teacher, the Husband, the Father, and probably far more, including earthier descriptions, I'm sure.
But is any of this really me? The only time I really, really feel that I am myself is in the midst of quiet, reflective moments, quite like this one now, when all the world is dozing and I try to do what I do best - play with ideas. I don't like labels, I don't like pigeonholes, yet no-one can go through life without having metaphorical post-it notes slapped on them or being bunged into a little slot of some kind.
Monday, June 04, 2007
I believe that I have mentioned in previous posts about the idiocy of packaging; well, here is an example. Seeing this, would you ever seriously want it to pass your lips? And the origin of this particular little monstrosity? A plane trip.
This is my sister and me, hanging around outside a holiday villa in...
The seasisde town of Acharavi in Corfu, because...
..we came to surprise our parents, who'd decided to get married again on the sly! I've refrained from writing about it until now, as I didn't want to run the risk that they'd read this blog before we'd turned up. Yes, after a hiatus of nearly twenty years, mum and dad got back together again, after a long and tortuous path. It's a long story, and one that might be dismissed as stretching credibility. Anyway, they have been back together for a while, then moved in together, and 6 weeks ago decided they'd wed while on holiday, a fact that My sister and I only found out about some 4 weeks ago, after which we found cheap plane tickets, contacted the wedding organiser and ensured the ceremony would go ahead only after we'd arrived, and sworn quite a few people to absolute secrecy. It all went to plan: I will cherish the image of my mum literally jumping out of her sun lounger with shock and surprise, as me and Karen sauntered up to her holiday villa, for a very long time. In all, we had a fantastic four days in the sun, and it was good to be with Karen, mum and dad - we haven't been together on holiday since 1984. And guess where that was? Nissaki, just round the coast from where we found ourselves this week.
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