Spain's
post-civil-war dictator, Franco, is buried in a (Catholic) basilica
in the Valley of the Fallen
in the hills outside Madrid. This is pretty grotesque but doing
anything about it is naturally a sensitive issue, especially among
those for whom Franco is a saint whose qualities are much needed in
these difficult times. The PSOE socialist party naturally disagrees
and believes his remains should be moved and that the huge
monument he built on the back of slave labour should be dedicated
to all who fell in the vicious '36-'39 war. They're right, of course,
and it will happen one day but probably not just yet.
In
search of a book yesterday, I went into a librería
new to me. My first impression was the positive one of the
wonderful smell that I associate with Penguin paperbacks of my youth.
My second was that there was no system whatsoever in the organisation
of the books. And no labels at all on any of the shelves. Finally,
there was the problem possibly unique to Spanish books - some of
the titles on the spines were written one way and some the other.
Meaning constant head shifting as you try to read them. So I gave up
and left for another book shop. Which was closed.
It's
reported - scarcely credibly - in the UK press that the Pope is about
to appoint the first female cardinal. This, it's said, would be the
first woman to sit in the papal conclave since it was formed in the
12th century. Ignoring Pope Joan, of course.
There
are many sentences in Bertrand's autobiography which bring one up
with a start. This is perhaps the best couplet:- I
went out bicycling one afternoon and suddenly, as I was riding along,
I realised that I no longer loved Alys[his wife of 7 years]. I had no
idea until this moment that my love for her was even lessening.
Russel resolves to tell her, adding:
I had no wish to be unkind but I believed in those days (what
experience has taught me to think possibly open to doubt) that in
intimate relations one should speak the truth. Not
surprisingly, poor shocked Alys "retired for a rest-cure for
some months". Presumably what we would term these days "entered
The Priory".
Pontevedra
Parking Practices:
1.
I may be small but I'm still entitled to block the zebra crossing.
2.
It was a tough choice but I finally plumped for parking on the
pavement and not the zebra crossing.
And my flashing hazard lights
mean I'm not really here. Or, if I am, it won't be for long. Just
waiting for my wife to come out of the shop.
Finally
. . . I read this week of something which I'll try to recall whenever
I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself. Somebody prominent in 19th
century British life (a bishop, I think) lost all 5 of his daughters
to illness within one month. He then lost both his son and his wife.
His desolation is almost unimaginable. But he still carried on
performing his duties. Those Victorians were really something.
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