The Coming of the Kings

The crowds started gathering early, so we joined them. Madrileños seem quite happy to queue for everything: lottery tickets, cigarettes, exhibitions, shows, bread, handbags (yup). It's a perfect excuse to stand and chat for half an hour: the whole family can come along, and it doesn't cost a thing. And yesterday, you got to queue with balloons. Who could miss that?

VIPS

Private Boxes

Balcony

Stalls

Should've brought the stepladder.

Wherever you stood, it was such fun - what mattered was being there.







They have a saying here: De Madrid al Cielo. Basically, there's Madrid....... and then there's Heaven...... 'nuff said. I've started wondering about a special relationship between the powers that be and.. the Powers... because we've had some very interesting weather lately. Yes, it's cold - boy is it cold - but after pouring rain in the week before Christmas, it stayed dry and fine right through til about the 30th, rained for a day, then dried up for New Year's Eve, rained a bit more this week, and then stopped on Friday, giving us a fine day all day yesterday: perfect for several thousand families to have a happy day out. I'm English. I know that weather doesn't work like that, not normally, at any rate. Has someone round here got a hot line to the big guy?

Well, after several hoours, and a few vague specks that might have been rain, or might have been confetti, the rain started to - not fall exactly - more - waft, like net curtains in a breeze. We even get special rain here! It goes sideways, gently, in a real effort not to inconvenience anyone while they're busy enjoying themselves. There must be something in that saying.

So the slight haze in this picture is actually rain, and I imagine those acrobats were glad of their festive umbrellas! The rain continued as the parade ended, and three women dressed in white danced barefoot on an outdoor stage. Poor things, they were so graceful, never missed a beat or a step - and they got wetter and wetter. They finished the piece and left the stage with all the dignity you'd expect from professionals, but I don't think they'll forget that performance in a hurry

The rain stopped promptly - about thirty seconds later - for the opening bars of the Halleluiah Chorus, and a fabulous firework display. Right!

Imagine, the music pouring out: King of Kings! (Halleluiah! Halleluiah!) And Lord of Lords! (Halleluiah! Halleluiah!) - and the sky overhead filled with blazing stars and flowers, showers and streamers of gold and green. Wow!

And He shall reign for ever and ever. Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Halle-e-lu-u-iaaaaaaaah!

It's a beautiful day

It is. Another one! January 6th, the feast of the Epiphany, birthday of my godson - and of my grandmother who, my mother used to say, was 'five years older than the year'.



It's 10.30 a.m. so it's possible that every child in Spain has been up for at least four hours, to see what The Kings have brought them. Habibi has just woken up, so I'm going to make us some coffee, and start the day with some roscón de los reyes. We had some last night when we got back from the Cabalgada de los Reyes (The Procession of the Kings), and he assures me that the extremely crunchy thing which he bit down on and swallowed was merely some extremely crunchy sugar, and not a small ceramic toy. I hope so......




Then I'm going to suggest a paseo ..um ..... a walk.... in Retiro in all that gorgeous sunshine, and then I'm going to upload some photos from last night. Gosh, what a busy day ahead! Wheeeeeeeee!

Feliz Navidad, Feliz Año

It’s been a while. I’ve been off for a couple of weeks, and in that time, we've had our darling son and two friends from waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back over to visit.
















Habibibaba was here for ten days, and it was so good to have him around for a decent length of time. We didn’t do anything very imaginative, just took him to places we like and thought he’d enjoy, and sat and talked in cafes, and walked and walked, and talked and talked. Happy.








Our friends came for a long weekend, which was more of the same – though I think we covered as much distance in three days as in the preceding six!


The Christmas Fair in Plaza Mayor.


















To make your own belén (nativity scene) you need cork bark for the stable walls and roof, and live moss for the hillside.
























And you'll want to make a joyful noise for the Lord....

The little girl is reaching for a tambourine: there were also hooters, squeakers, trumpets and drums - it was deafening, and as the days passed the noise spread through the streets.



As did the wigs!


































Something a little different this year?










Madrid has been quite magical, constantly bubbling with energy and imagination. Christmas trees, lights, fireworks – much as any European city, I expect – but it’s been one long Christmas treat, rather than some ho-ho-ho endurance test.

I never pined for an English Christmas when I was in Dubai, or muttered ‘It’s not the same.’ Too right it wasn’t the same, it was fun, and family and silliness and cosiness, not Jingle Bells from September on! Just a month (at least) of Christmas decorations stuck on every possible surface of our flat; a concentrated week or so of ‘secret’ preparations and teasing; and a day of presents, and friends and food…………. and then time and space to relax and enjoy ourselves.


Alcala, and the Puerta Alcala (Thank you Carlos III, bringer of town planning and straight roads.)

Only very special trees grow outside the Prado..... and Atocha Station....

Hot chestnuts, yams, corn - something to keep you going when you're sightseeing at 11 at night, and six degrees.

Here, the traditions are different, with all the fun of Christmas, but none of the pressure, and a steady build-up to the coming of Los Reyes Magos, who will bring presents for the children – tomorrow! (Habibi followed Spanish tradition, roasting a suckling pig on Christmas Eve. He tried looking wistful on the subject of the other Nochebuena tradition, in which the grown-ups exchange presents that night. Yeah right, as if!)















The Cabalgata de los Reyes Magos sets off from Nueveos Ministerios at 6 tomorrow evening, and comes down the Paseo de la Castilleana and Paseo de Recoletos to Plaza de Cibeles ( All roads may start from Puerta del Sol, but they al lead to Nuestra Señora de las Telecomunicaciones!) We’ll be there watching them ride by on their camels!

Before that, I must get un pequeño Roscon de los Reyes, just for two. I’ve only seen big ones, often filled with cream or confectioner’s cream, but I have been assured that you can get little ones: if all else fails, I’ll decorate a doughnut with glace fruits, though the tiny toy (for luck) will have to be very tiny.

Now, there's just time to leave your Christmas wish under the Árbol de los Deseos (The Wishing Tree) in Retiro. If you can't quite make it, try this!
And see how Christmas has come to Madrid. Llega la Navidad a MADRID. Y es lo mejor que puede pasarle a un deseo. That big wedding cake building at the end, with all the lights, that's Nstra. Sra. de Telecomunicaciones. Gorgeous, hmm. I don't know how a building can become
part of the family, but she has!














And finally, this is one man's belén.


And here's part of a shop window display.

If you want any more, you'd better take a look at the website of the Associación de Belenistas de Madrid.
This takes you to the work of all sorts of people - just delightful!
And here, you can see details of the belén at the Ayuntamiento (town hall) in Puerta del Sol. Do take a look at the 'Anunciación Pastores (Annunciation to the Shepherds) the Cabalgada (Caravan), and the Poblado with the archway - See the storks?!
If you live in the Middle East, you will love this. I'm going back tomorrow: Mary hadn't had her baby when I visited before - I see from the Natividad picture, that it's time to go again!

More? Here are some prize-winning pieces of extraordinary accuracy and charm.


P.S. Back on the downside, I got robbed - AGAIN - that's three times! This time they took my new birthday camera and Christmas mini-tripod (attached to each other, and buried in a deep pocket, under a glove, on the side between me and the friend I was walking almost arm-in-arm with - I mean - good grief!). So, no more photos for the foreseeable future, and may I say, in this season of giving:

Though I don’t think I look like a victim.
I get robbed with a frequency most sick’nin’.
Relieved of possessions
three times in succession,
I’m coating what I still have with strichnin’.


Let's hear it for that little guy!


















I expect that the spacing is all over the place on this, but you get the general idea.

Happy New Year 2008!

Service suspended

til further notice. TTFN

Christmas is coming

Good day today. Actually, yesterday. I've discovered online Scrabble and we're now into the small hours of Sunday December 2nd - Habibibaba's 20th birthday!

I'm doing a very enjoyable course, with sessions from 10 til 1 on Saturdays. Afterwards, I met Habibi and we went on an expotition to buy some warm clothes. Now we both have fleecy pyjamas, warm hats and scarves, and I've got beautiful blue suede gloves too.

We arranged to meet in Plaza Mayor, and found crowds of people, some very good living statues, and a Christmas market. Habibi took photos, which I hope are good enough to post. I wasn't taking my gloves off for anything!

Here, you don't just buy a little nativity scene for your home. Of course, you can do that, but the alternative is to build your own, and I can imagine that many families assemble their nativity scenes over several years, as we've added to our tree decorations, cherishing the assocations with our growing son and our friends.

In Plaza Mayor today, you could buy stables, cork bark, moss, 'rock' paper and gravel; also windmills, middle-eastern style houses, carpentry workshops, bakeries, cloth shops - even a Roman villa - potentially the whole of Bethlehem and Judaea!

Then, in additon to the Holy Family, shepherds and kings of the traditional nativity scene, there was every figure imaginable, from a Roman governor and soldiers to put in the villa, to potters, washerwomen, fishermen and blacksmiths - some of them battery-operated, and hammering, scrubbing and casting for all they were worth so that every display twitched constantly. You could also buy tiny loaves, fruit, poultry, metal pans and clay pots. Such fun!

We definitely haven't got room for a Christmas tree this year, but we're going to make some shelf space and go back to Plaza Mayor next week. And I'll use my lovely new birthday camera too.

Lightning

On August 30th, some *^%$##@ relieved me of my shoulder bag, which contained my passport, camera, mobile, purse & credit card, brand new textbooks from brand new job, complete favourite make-up kit from interview for brand new job, hairbrush. Distressing and inconvenient.

Tonight, November 30th, they came back for my laptop.

Some people really know how to spoil your day.

I'm glad there are only 29 days in February.

-2°

-2°. -2°.

-2°!

Yikes.

Post

We need to send some documents to Dubai (Still, trying to retrieve deposit from landlord....) so Habibi's been checking out post and courier services.

Public service blog here. Watch the video. Anyone we know? =D

Scrobble

This is doing the rounds again.

I've been looking for it, because it might make some of my students feel better about English spelling!

Fi yuo cna raed tihs, yuo hvae a sgtrane mnid too. Cna yuo raed tihs? Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can. I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, maens taht it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are; the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? Yaeh, and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

If you're a native English speaker, and particularly if Winnie the Pooh figured in your childhood, with helpful spelling lessons from Wol, you may have only a dim awareness of what a foreigner has to deal with when tackling English as a subject instead of absorbing it organically or cognitively.............. i.e. the way you (and I) did.

We started our language course almost as soon as we were born: watching, listening, imitating the faces and voices around us; notifying the world of our personal requirements and registering outcomes: Dry nappy! Full tum! Squishy warm hug! Let's try that again!!!!!

Meanwhile, everyone signed up as our language teacher, pulling out all the stops to communicate with us: watch people talking to babies, and see how close they bring their faces, how they exaggerate expressions and sounds, just to get the little one's attention and get a reaction.

If parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and favourite neighbours spoke half a dozen languages between them - well - we grew up with a working knowledge of the whole circus, and that magic 'ear for languages' that makes school language teachers sigh with delight. I've met several people who speak three or more languages fluently.

I remember a Swiss family, when I had a summer job as a waitress at Heathrow Airport, who batted the conversation back and forth in English, French and German as they discussed whether they wanted a Danish pastry or a croissant with their coffee or Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice.
(Well of course our juice was freshly squeezed... in Heathrow Airport.... in the early 80's.....). Someone else spoke 6 languages, a former colleague speaks Armenian, Turkish, Arabic, English - and there's a fifth, but I can't remember what it is.
Rudi - in international sales - spoke 12 languages. TWELVE!
They all acquired their gift of tongues through being born into bilingual or multi-lingual families, and proceeded to expand on what they had.

Buuuutttttttt..... if, by an unkind accident of fate, you didn't happen to be born at 23 Babel Towers, and were therefore denied the delights of Japanese, Croatian and Uzbek nursery rhymes with Auntie Polyglot, never had the chance to try Lingo Dancing or make a Blue Peter Thesaurus Rex glove puppet on rainy afternoons................... then you need A Course of Evening Classes to Unlock your Latent Potential, Liberate you from Linguistic Limbo ....... etc. etc. etc.

Just be grateful that the language you'll be signing up for won't be English, arguably the most complex language in the world when you take into account the wealth of synonyms and homonyms, and the extraordinary elasticity of its spelling and pronunciation rules, based as they are on successive linguistic invasions, transplants, grafts, modifications, fashions and developments. In English, the exception doesn't prove the rule - it is the rule! (More or less....)

Here's a website that takes a stab at rationalising things, with its Introduction to Absolutely Ridiculous English Spelling. Admirable.

Of course, this is American English, so the pronunciation guide doesn't quite work for British English, and isn't so hot on Strine or Saaf Efrican either. Actually, neither does the spelling guide....

Ah well, it didn't bother Wm. Shaksper, so why should it bother us?

Santa Barbara

This is the church of Santa Barbara, and I love it.



It's on Calle de Barbara de Braganza, just off Recoletos, but these are two different Barbaras.


One was a Portuguese princess, married to Fernando VI of Spain (His street continues from hers, cos he loved her!), and the other was her patron saint.









I'd only ever heard of Catherine of Braganza, Queen Consort to Charles II of England (I just looked that up: I knew the name but had no idea who she was. It turns out that as a Catholic in post-Civil War Protestant England, she could not be named Queen. And Barbara was her great-great-niece.)
After reading her Wikipedia entry, I have to feel for poor Catherine, despatched to England at the age of 24 (Today is her birthday.) to be married off to the new king, and having to cope with the language barrier, deep hostility to her religion, suspicions and accusations about her loyalty, a philandering husband, and several miscarriages. The marriage sealed a political alliance between Portugal and England, and Catherine's 'large dowry brought the port cities of Tangier and Bombay to British control.'

How remarkable that 'her quiet decorum, loyalty and genuine affection for Charles changed the public's perception of her'.

How touching (!) that Charles, though he 'continued to have children by his many mistresses, ....... insisted that she be treated with respect, and sided with her over his mistresses in those cases where he felt she was not receiving the respect she was due.' OK........... One can hardly paint Charles as a bad husband, though. These were the ways of the times, and it was, after all, a marriage of political convenience.

Notably, though, 'Throughout his reign, [Charles] firmly dismissed the idea of divorcing Catherine, even when Parliament exerted pressure on him to beget or declare a Protestant successor'.

Did she ever have any peace? No doubt, Catherine led a privileged and physically comfortable existence, but I'd say she earned it. Imagine.

S0 - Barbara - a much happier life, I would say. Asthmatic. No oil painting. (See oil painting.) But educated, gifted and loved, and free of the political and religious conflicts that dominated her great-great-aunt's existence.

As for Santa Barbara, officially & divinely sanctioned protector against lightning; and patron saint of 'artillery gunners, masons, mathematicians (I am not making this up!), miners, military engineers, stonecutters [and] anyone who works at risk of sudden and violent death: apparently, there are doubts as to whether she actually existed. No..... really? Certainly, her life story reads like the product of a drunken pub conversation between Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, Terry Gilliam and Lord Longford after a seminar on The Folk Tale Heritage of Europe and Asia Minor. It must be true.

There are two images of Saint Barbara in the Wikipedia entry. The first is a typical medieval Christian image of a saint (and it's in thePrado!). The second is a Russian icon: and this is no meditation on Christian suffering and patience; check out the determined, rosy cheeked, Christian warrior maiden. She rather resembles her namesake.

OK. Pictures of handsome church against the blue, blue sky. Yes, folks, it's 3°C here in Madrid. The sun is shining, and the air as clear, cold and sparkling as polished crystal.

Miss Havisham awaits.....









I love this angel!

Sunday in the JigZone

For me, part of the appeal of jigsaws - especially online - is the detail. As I find and place pieces, I see things that I would otherwise miss. Today, I did Van Gogh's View of Arles with Irises.


It doesn't look much like this, but as I was going along, I saw how he'd mixed green into the blue of the sky, how the lower blue/green/purple band of irises is a mass of splayed spikes, and how the red roof detail smacks you in the eye but still feels distant, back there among the dark trees.

Once I'd put the last piece in place, I saw how the pell-mell irises give way to the denser green-gold grass verge, and how the edge of the corn grows taller, throwing shadow on the shorter grass. The trees and red roof were revealed as a treelined road between this field and the next, with the outskirts of Arles beyond.

I'm sure I've seen this print umpteen times in art books and print shops; only, this is the first time I've actually seen it.

I clicked the link to Art.com for a better view. The link doesn't actually work, but the URL plus Arles took me here. Some of these prints are too familiar - but others I've never seen before, and get me past the potted biography and unexamined opinion of Van Gogh that I carry in my head, to see - the paintings.

What a treat. Art reveals Life. Jigsaw reveals Art!













Feast your eyes, then close them - on a summer field, the air thick and warm with the buzz of invisible bees and the faint caw of rooks away over there in the trees. The sun is hot on your back, the dry dirt road crunches under your feet, and when you get to Arles, you are going to sit in the cool darkness of a cafe, with a long cold drink.

Not bad for late November, when the wind's throwing itself against the windows and it's 3C outside.................. Thanks, Vincent.

It's Saturday - She's been at the Grauniad again.......

OK. There's this in the Education section:

Hard-pressed parents struggle to help with schoolwork.

Then there's Ann Karpf in the Family section:
"I read David Cameron's pronouncement that all children should be reading by the age of six - and tested to prove that they can - with dismay. Why so late? What's wrong with five, four, or even three? Get the little slackers moving, I say: early reading, early potty training, early dying. It's time to wave goodbye to the preposterous prejudice that people shouldn't be streamlined or time tabled. We're an infinitely malleable species, and tiny minds are sponges: drip phonics into them young enough and they'll swell into expert readers. Nothing controversial about this, surely? The government certainly doesn't think so because its response to Cameron was something along the lines of "we've already thought of that"."

You go, Anne! OK - I believe that a proper education is essential, and enriches us in ways that we may not appreciate until many years after we've left school. We sent our son to a nursery at 3, and we ourselves are both university educated and glad of it. I teach. Education heap big good thing in my opinion.

However, I have severe reservations about the emergence of education as a cult, through which Our Children may be Saved.

Saved from - and for - what, exactly?

Excuse me while I adjust my










I question the humanity and wisdom of putting children into 'school' at 2 (I call it school when parents send their children to nursery, and expect them to start the 'R's and be given homework).

I have serious doubts as to the educational benefits of constant testing in primary/junior schools, apart from the obvious one, of providing each child with early practice in meeting targets and handling academic pressure - useful training for secondary school courses leading to exams at 16 and 18.

I question the philosophy and psychology behind the idea that 14-16 year-olds can and should take 10 exam courses, and that 16-18 year-olds can and should do 4-6 exam courses, plus three hours homework a night.

I am also extremely sceptical about the increasingly popular notion that 'the brightest and best' (Hmm...) should pursue their university education to Masters (An MBA, that is.) or Ph.D level, in order to achieve their goals and fulfil their potential.

There is a strong whiff of a major holding operation: let's get the little ones out of the way while their parents are at work; and keep our teenagers fully occupied and 'out of trouble' for as long as possible. GNP & GCSE .v. ASBO & HMP*. Whose idea was that, then?

(*British stuff: GCSE = General Certificate of Secondary Education, taken at 16. ASBO = Anti-Social Behaviour Order. HMP = Her Majesty's.... Porridge ..... Pleasure ...... Prison)

There's a stronger whiff of acute parental anxiety that the stakes have been raised, and that if children aspire to be more than shelf stackers in the Global Village Shop, they need to be entirely goal-oriented, with a work ethic that makes God look like a slacker for resting on the Seventh Day.

Parents have parenting books, and schools have mission statements: everyone is doing their damnedest to guarantee that children develop into well-rounded adults, ready to take their place in society. It's laudable, and as a parent and a teacher I have given it my best shot. But it's getting out of hand, or so it seems to me.

Micro-management doesn't encourage independence and maturity. Relentless commitment to personal goals does not encourage social awareness, skills or confidence. Relentless academic pressure throughout the formative years may warp or annihilate spirit.

And what price family life - family feeling - when home becomes study hall and parents are cast as monitors and tutors?

So I'm with Anne Karpf on this one: Papa don't teach Forget phonics - that's for teachers. Parents, have fun with your kids.

Mimi Kirchner

The Dollmaker's Journey newsletter popped into my letterbox today. There's a link to Cloth Doll Connection. (So rag dolls are out, then? Victims of political correctness and gentrification?)

Aaaaand a link to Cloth Doll Blogs. (Still here? Good. It'll be worth it, I promise.)

And.

Mimi Kirchner's site. I haven't seen a fraction of it. And then there are all the other blogs listed above. But then again, I have got to get offline and go to sleep sometime soon. So take a look, and when you see a link to her Flickr photos.................... do yourself a favour and follow it. How else will you see her babies, ladies, and tattooed men?

Rant-ette

I've just spent about an hour on Skype with my baby brother (Yes, he's a grown man and father of twins, but I remember taking him for walks in his push chair.). It is so lovely to be able to do that.

In my last place-of-residence, (ExPat Central) the local qango telecom company robed itself in white samite, annointed its corporate forehead with the oil of righteousness, and rode fearlessly forth as self-appointed Guardian of Public Morals; fearlessly blocking Skype, Flickr, Friends Re-united, Hi-5, MySpace, and anything else which threatened its monopoly the integrity of local culture, customs and culture. I understand that capitalism and the free market are utterly amoral, and not to be spoken of in front of young children, pregnant or lactating women, forklift-truck drivers, or other persons of a sensitive disposition - but as none of the above, it irritates me when full-on corporate self-interest is presented as something I should be grateful for.

So anyway, we had a long chat such as I could never, in all conscience, have in EPC, and I loved it. Skype should advertise its beneficial potential for families scattered across the 'global village' (Say what?) - but save the white samite for the dividend party - ok guys?

Lift....... occasionally off

I've been reading Habibi's blog. I know we're married, but you know how it is.......

Anyway, now that I've stopped laughing, I just have to make sure everyone knows how to pronounce

ASCENSOR..........

Babel revisited

I have a 'beginner' student. In fact, my 'beginner' has a handful of English words, has previously worked with self-study materials, and, as a Spanish speaker, effectively knows the English alphabet, and finds many English words familiar. (This is a mixed blessing, as the Spanish actual doesn't mean actual, and you can't call a spade an espada... etc!)

There are plenty of other English learners whose languages have completely different roots, and whose systems of writing don't function, or look, like alphabets. In any country, you might expect most classes to be monolingual, whether the students are adults or children. For the teacher, this has advantages and disadvantages when it comes to speaking and listening, but has to be a plus when it comes to teaching reading and writing skills. At least it gives you a common starting point, even if it's how to hold a pen, rather than a brush!

Where do you start in a school where 30 different races speak 28 different languages?

Where you have 'so many different languages being spoken, some children may be the sole speakers of their language'? Good grief!

I am full of admiration for the staff of Drove primary school, who have developed a programme to work with the realities of a transitory immigrant population. We hear plenty about what happens where integration fails. Someone has taken a good look at the needs of a neighborhood where 'Pupils come and go as their families move to Britain, then in and out of the area as they get established in the country', and done some serious work on meeting the essential educational and social needs of a generation. Bravo.

Designs of the times?

In today's Guardian:

Running under cover

Fewer than one in five women do enough exercise, and many Muslim women are among them. But, says Peta Bee, with specially designed sportswear and single-sex classes on the rise, this could soon change.

.....Muslim societies, in general, do allow women to exercise; in fact, Islam positively encourages physical activity for both sexes. But, in some Muslim communities, female participation in sport and fitness is permitted only on the condition that women adhere to their religion's code of modesty. And for many Muslim women, outside of school PE lessons, there is little opportunity to exercise. For some women, swimming in public pools is not an option, and neither is any activity where men will be present......

Rimla Akhtar, chairwoman of the Muslim Women's Sports Foundation (MWSF), based in Harrow, says: "Religiously, there is still concern that sport is wrong but there are definite signs that this is being overturned with the younger generation." Every week, the MWSF runs two-hour training sessions in north London, which attract budding female footballers from as far afield as Leicester and Leeds. And at the East London Mosque, the Hayaa Fitness Centre holds yoga, kickboxing and other similar sessions. Zaynab Shirji, 23, who works out regularly there, says that the difficulties of finding a suitable fitness venue "mean that in the past many Muslim girls ended up doing nothing. There are still relatively few places Muslim women can get fit."

In Birmingham, the Sisters Games initiative, launched last year, provides Muslim women with single-sex sporting opportunities and exercise classes that allow them to adhere to Islamic values. Akhtar says a huge breakthrough was made when Britain became the first non-Muslim country to take part in the Muslim Women's Games, a four-yearly championship run like a mini-Olympics. Many of those who took part in the 2001 and 2004 competitions, including Akhtar, say they were inspired to take up sport by the emergence of elite Muslim women athletes from other countries. High-profile role models include Nawal el Moutawakel of Morocco and Hassiba Boulmerka of Algeria, both Muslims who have won Olympic track golds. Boulmerka was often forced to train outside her country after being criticised there for training in athletic vest and shorts.

.............................

For further evidence that a cultural shift is imminent, look to the £160bn-a-year global sportswear industry, which has started to turn its attention to the spending power of the 650 million women who practise Islam.

...........................

Meanwhile, an Australian designer, Aheda Zanetti, has come up with the so-called burqini - a two-piece bathing suit. Struggling to cope with demand for the outfit, Zanetti says it has been adopted by Australia's new Muslim women lifeguards and some swimmers with Olympic potential.

Zanetti has also developed what she calls a "hijood" - a hijab shaped like a hood. She explains: "As an active young Muslim girl I found it difficult to participate in most sports because of all the excess clothes I had to wear" ·

Stone, Bronze and Gold

This is pretty.

I like the water effect, and the deceptive simplicity of thestyle, and the way the background tiling swirls.
I've always liked the idea of mosaic floors, the artistry and attention to detail. No wonder I like jigsaw puzzles. We saw wonderful mosaics in Jordan, lovingly restored. I always assumed that the tiles were pot, glazed and fired. In Jordan we saw that they were cut stone, using all the colours of the local stone: black, beige, green, plum, pink - such variety.

They have entire mosaic floors laid out at the Museo Arqueológico de Madrid. We spent an hour and a half there on Sunday afternoon. There's a large octagonal or hexagonal one mounted on a wall. There was only time for a first look as we walked through, looking for the Etruscan exhibition, but I look forward to going back again. They have a fine collection of Roman vases and household objects that summon up an idea of daily life back then. And theatre too.

I did enjoy the Etruscan exhibition. I didn't know that they were from what is now Tuscany, only that they were 'The Etruscans' and that I liked their stonework. Habibi took photos, but I don't know how well they've come out. The funerary urns, carved stone chests, each with a reclining figures on the lid, puzzled me: each stone figure held a carved stone bowl with a lid. What did the bowl signify? I shall try to find out. The other puzzle was all the fibulas. These weren't bones, but decorative pins - brooches named for the bone they resembled? No fibulas in our concise (i.e. big) Spanish dictionary. Hmm.

Blonde stone; matt glazed pots; silver necklaces; bronze pots, and helmets, daggers and jewellery. And gold. I think gold is pretty, but I had always understood that its appeal lay as much in its incorruptibility as in any other quality. No rust, verdigris or tarnish - precious indeed! On Sunday, after an hour of fine stonework, and various metal objects in varying degrees of preservation, all handsome, many of them skilfully decorated, I came to a slim gold necklace, and a tiara fashioned like a hero's laurel, with life-size gold leaves - the bright yellow gold I associate with Asia and the Middle East, not the paler European kind. For elegance, style, artistry - almost everything, in fact - I preferred the stone and bronze. But for sheer knockout Etruscan bling - the gold was astonishing. In a time of oil lamps, braziers and flaming torches, gold must have been as desirable as diamonds today.

Gotta go. Yesterday we had hailstone and rain. Last night was unbelievably cold, compared with a week ago. Right now, it's absolutely throwing it down with rain, so thank goodness I only have to scoot between Metro stations.

HappyHappyHappy

Recent discovery: MyHappyPlanet.

No, I am not experiencing a Helly Kitty meltdown. It's a language exchange site. Perfect for someone who lives in the centre of Spain, but never seems to have opportunity or leisure to work on her Spanish!

MyHappyPlanet has elements of blogging and social networking. You choose a user name and password, fill in an unintrusive language profile, and - that's it really. It's in its Beta version, and a bit fiddly to navigate, but repays the time it takes to work out its little quirks. I signed up as a fluent English speaker wanting to learn conversational Spanish, and did a search for fluent Spanish speakers interested in improving their English. After trawling about 1o% of that particular database, I sent a smile (friend request) to several Spaniards and Latin-Americans based in Spain, and a couple of people in Latin America.

The next day, I spent several hours online, writing to those who had smiled back - basically doing a mailshot. Serious Spanish homework and - I hope - the start of a penfriend network.

It's my goal to be fluent in two years: an arbitrary goal, perhaps, but really no more than an extension of the effort we make whenever we move into a new area and set about making the transition from outsider to part of the neighborhood. One thing I learnt in Dubai is that if you operate in an English enclave, even though it's cultural rather than physical, you do not absorb the language of your host country by osmosis, and you remain an outsider.

I don't know if its possible to become fluent in another language in two years, while holding down the day job, but it's a goal that keeps me focused. For me, fluency - not just the token acquisition of a few phrases - is essential. One can get by - even in Madrid - with English and a few Spanish phrases, but I don't want to merely get by. I want to live here, read the novels and newspapers, go to the theatre and cinema, join in. And that's going to take some effort. Hence the mailshot. After this, as with Facebook, I can pop in and out as I have time. Let's just see what comes of it.

And it's fun. I had some lovely replies in Spanish and English - plus corrections of my letters. There are several communication options, including online chat and Skype, but they're not practical for me while I'm working unsocial hours. However, since several of my contacts are based here in Madrid, there is the appealing option of going for lunch or a coffee sometime, when we're ready. Once I've sifted out the axe murderers, of course!

Here's a sample (without corrections) of this week's deberes:

¡Hola!

Cómo hablar a un desconocido...........? Tenemos un objetivo común. ¡Bueno! ¡Eso es! ¿Qué tal?

¿Has habido un bueno fin de semana? Hoy hace mucho frío en Madrid. ¿Hace igual en Barcelona? He visitado Barcelona hay dos años. ¿Es una ciudad guapa, no? Tengo una amiga querida allí.

Sin embargo, hemos (yo y mi marido) venido a Madrid porque ello es el capital, y porque es mas fácil por nuestros a aprender castellano, que castellano y catalán. ¡Claro!

Es muy posible que, despues de dos años aquí, vamos trasladar cerca de Tarragona, pero ahora, nuestra prioridad es a disfrutarnos de todo que ofrece Madrid, ¡y mejorar nuestro español!

Esta tarde, hemos visitado el Museo Arqueológico. Me interesan las artes de muchas edades y civilisaciones, y el exposición de Los Etruscos es excelente - bronce, piedra, oro - yelmas, joyerias, tumbas - todas tan guapas. Un otro fin de semana, deseamos mirar la reconstrucción de las cuevas de Altamira.

Pues ¡hasta luego!

Gecko

I do like JigZone.

A Big One

I'm going to be 50 this week. Coo! Who'd have thought it? I'm chuffed to bits with myself. Here I am, back in Europe again, living happily ever after with my darling husband, while my darling son is out there making his own life - and coming to see us at Christmas (next month!) - and we're close enough to all my extended family for us all to get to know one another properly again after so many years on opposite sides of the planet. My genuine antique goblet runneth over.

Of course, there's one small wrinkle. Actually, more to the point, there are several. Just like everyone else of Advancing Years, I go merrily along, living this facinating life as I always have, and not really changing, except, one would hope, in greater wisdom, humour and compassion - absolutely darlings! - and then this woman appears, reflected in a shop window or the perspex wall of a bus shelter. She's not remarkable in any way, just a solid, rather pudding-faced middle-aged woman, like all the others I've passed in the street since I was a little girl. And it's me. How strange.

In that last year in Dubai I frequently felt a great deal older than I looked - What am I saying? When you feel like that, that's how you look too! - but these days, I look my chronological age, and feel - not younger exactly - just more...................... me. And 'me' is quite relaxed and optimistic at base, with a great deal of yabadabadoo thrown in.

They say our character shows in our face - cue comforting comments on laughter lines. But it seems to me that as gravity and biology do their work, softening some contours and nudging others into relief, so character - or perhaps, more accurately, our inner life - becomes harder to read: perhaps, as we grow older, we internalise more, and show less.

Certainly, riding on the Metro every day, I see the vivid play of thoughts and feelings on younger faces - especially children with their parents, teenagers with their friends - all eager to share, and be acknowledged - and the more closed faces of older people. Like me. Often, of course, faces are closed to preserve mental space in the physical press of a railway carriage, and the mind is elsewhere, empty, resting - or at work on some responsibility - and the closed look has as much to do with fatigue and the preservation of energy or vision as anything else.

The clues are there in the eyes, the shoulders, and the angle of the head. And in the clothes, too. Even work clothes. Little ones wear what their parents dress them in - even if they've been consulted; their parents' tastes still prevail to some extent. Teenagers often adopt peer uniform: jeans, black, the current fashion - perhaps subconsciously disguising the extraordinary surge of mental and emotional power, the overwhelming sense of 'I' that informs every waking moment as they make that transition from childhood to adult life.

By the time you're 50 - and 60 - and 70 - even if you don't have much - or any - budget for clothes, you know what you like, or what suits you; and 'suits' has a lot more to do with the mental landscape than with the more obvious physical landscape (-slide...?!). And the way you generally feel about life, and handle what comes, is there in the set of your shoulders, the curve of your spine. That's a whopping generalisation of course - completely disregarding genetics, lifestyle and health - but there's a lot of truth in it.

Anyway. We're off to the Archaeology Museum - my choice - to check out some ancient Etruscans. Like gravitating to like.....

But I can't possibly be 50 this week, because my dad is only 49¾. Has been for years.

And you can't argue with your dad, now can you?

Brief Encounter

Eh?

Big Zeds.

Habibi snores. He always has. It's the way he's built. In any position, and without a trace of alcohol in him, he snores gently, or breathes peacefully, occasionally snuffling like a newborn baby. Adorable. But with a late night glass of wine or beer inside him, he snores like a good-un, like a tractor in a field down the road. Anything more, and we get road works, a digger, a combine harvester, an ancient central heating boiler that rattles, roars and shudders with terrible force................... and intermittent silences of almost eerie intensity. Give this man spirits, and I could sell tickets.

When we stay with friends or family, they look at me with sympathy, and him with something approaching awe. Overnight camps are a real community experience.

Over the years, he has tried pillows, throat/nosedrops and snorestrips; while I have tried pillows, muttered requests, sharp commands, nudges, earplugs, cotton wool, headphones (with cotton wool), headphones (soft background music), ear-protectors (yellow ones), separate beds, separate rooms and over-the-counter sleeping pills. Also lie-ins, afternoon naps and early nights. Vitamin B compound. Deep breathing. Visualisation.

Over the years, at 3 and 4 and 5 o'clock in the morning, I have considered divorce, murder and suicide. Made tea. Made sandwiches. Read. Blogged. Written miserable diary entries and farcical rhymes. Gone for walks. Cleaned out the fridge. Ironed.

I have lain next to my darling husband and trembled with cumulative fatigue, distress, self-pity, fury and loathing.

What I want to know is: how the hell does he sleep through it?

I really wish the alarm wasn't set for an hour and a half hence.

Help? Anyone?

P.S. Sorry honey.

A Trip to the Película Souk

We got a little confused on Saturday, when we set off for the Renoir Plaza de España cinema.

We'd checked the online map, and established that this was one of several cinemas in the area, and by the time we got there, late (my fault), and after dark, we were a bit tense. We found the right place, but La Joven Jane Austen was sold out, so we wandered aimlessly on for a hundred yards - if that - and almost fell over another cinema....... and then another (where Elizabeth, La Edad de Oro, was also sold out..) We were in the cinema souk!

Consider Exhibit A: The Golem cinema map. The Golem is situated, as you can see, at the junction of C. Martin de los Heros and C. Ventura Rodriguez, very handy for the VR Metro station.















Exhibit B: location map for the Renoir Plaza de España, at the PdE end of Martin de los Heros, (very handy for the PdE Metro)........and... if it please Your Honour...









Exhibit C, location map for the Renoir Princesa, just up from RPdE, though not as far as the Golem.... and then again, I have a feeling we might have passed a Yelmo on the way.








I rest my maleta.

In the end, we retraced our steps to Renoir PdE, bought tickets for the Sunday afternoon showing, and duly went to see Becoming Jane yesterday. Even then, we missed half of the opening credits: no-one warned us that - oh rapture - there wouldn't be any adverts or trailers. Yeehah! But this also meant that I didn't learn the film's English title til afterwards, because all the posters are for La Joven Jane Austen, in dubbed Spanish (versión doblada al castellano).

What we saw was the V.O. (Versión Original – in this case, of course, English – con subtítulos en castellano) V.O. is the Renoir/Golem/Yelmo speciality. We had the choice of La Torre de Suso, Qué tan Lejos, La Zona, Caótica Ana, Mataharis, and half a dozen other V.O. Castellano films ; Persepolis or Conversaciones con mi Jardinero (V.O. Francés); and Huella, Once, LJJA, EEdO, Tierra, Promesas del Este, Leones por Corderos and plenty more V.O. Inglés.

I'd like to see Persepolis, and Conversaciones con mi Jardinero (the French ones, in case you're hopelessly confused by now) but I'm not up for a Spanish film just yet, unless it's a shamelessly escapist romp like last year's Bandidas, starring Penélope Cruz and Selma Hayek - that was great fun! Basically, I'm looking for an hour and a half in my comfort zone, which means English, or French, with plenty of visual appeal to compensate for my feeble and tottering Français - so - garden or animation?!

So we went to see 'Jane', and wept through all the sad bits (well, I did, anyway) and came out very sad. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, it was ok, very handsome, with some fine actors doing a good job of what they had: James Cromwell and Julie Walters as Rev. & Mrs Austen; Anne Hathaway and Anna Maxwell Martin as daughters Jane and Cassandra; Laurence Fox as Wisley, Maggie Smith as his aristocratic aunt, and James McAvoy as Tom Lefroy. But, it didn't hit home for me: not as a romance, as a historical drama, a rites of passage story or a 'biopic'.

One problem is that Jane Austen's been 'done' before, with sharper scripts, more breathtaking cinematography, and more sex appeal. I mean the - to my mind - flawless BBC TV adaptation of Pride & Prejudice; and the Columbia Pictures' Sense and Sensibility, with Emma Thompson's deft, warm and hilarious screenplay - and a superb ensemble cast to carry it off. Both came out in 1995, which is a long time in commercial film-making, but only a blink of an eye if we're considering potential classics of any genre.

Film and literature are completely different media, of course, and it takes a talented screenwriter with a powerful appreciation of both to provide the screenplay that glimmers with the promise of box office gold and critical acclaim. Both P&P and S&S owed much of their success to the sensitivity and skill of their screenwriters, and to their good sense and restraint in making the most of the polished structure, superb dialogue and ironic, compassionate insights of the original novels. Those novels, in their turn, were the product of a meticulous craftswoman at the height of her powers. They don't make chick lit like that anymore.....

So it wasn't a 'Jane Austen'. Was it even about Jane Austen? Or about the marketability of Jane Austen, and of Anne Hathaway, with her US chick-flick (uhuh) box office appeal and an English accent to make Gwyneth Paltrow look over her shoulder in the next anglophile casting session?

I was in no hurry to see this film, I'll confess, because I saw Miss Potter earlier this year; and much as I enjoyed Renee Zellweger's performance - and everyone else's, for that matter - and the touches of magical realism that brought back early BBC Narnia, well... well............ Beatrix Potter's life is well-documented, and the sugar-coating of her parents' perception and treatment of their only daughter irked me. Boy meets girl, boy dies, girl finds redemption in work, and subsequently recovers from broken heart to marry childhood friend and live happily ever after, all in 92 minutes: it's as authentic as any other picturesque image. And Miss Potter was very well done, and I shall no doubt watch it again, and enjoy it more whole-heartedly now that I know what it is - and what it isn't.

But I have a similar problem with 'Becoming Jane'. I don't know much about Jane Austen, beyond the fact that she was a writer at a time when women had very few choices, that she never married (which may or may not have been connected to her being a writer) that she wrote about the world she knew - and that there is a portrait of her. I don't know if the portrait is pencil or charcoal, but I've seen enough copies to know what Jane Austen looked like - and it was probably more Renee Zellweger - or Anna Maxwell Martin - than Anne Hathaway.

OK, that's a minor matter, but, as the film progressed, with clumping references to Austen's books, and to Hollywood adaptations, for goodness sake; and an increasingly predictable plot, which duly pressed all the usual buttons, I found myself wondering what - of this 'becoming' film - was actually true. And if it wasn't, what I was supposed to get from it? Later, I felt I'd been taken for a ride: relieved of my ticket money for an exercise in patronising, accountancy-driven sub-standard film-making. As a drama it was shallow and predictable. As a period drama it was formulaic. As a script, it got us from the beginning to the end. As a comedy, it was flat. As a tribute it was entirely fake. And as a source of insight into what made Jane Austen the woman, and writer, she was.......... yeah right........... now I can write my thesis.....

As a creative project - well, I hope the caterers were excellent, the weather perfect, and that all those people who put their talent and craft into this project were well paid for the efforts. And they all get to star in a cult indie before next summer is out. There's a lot to enjoy in Becoming Jane, but not enough to disguise the mediocrity of the original premise. Or the assumption that we'll lap it up.

London St Pancras - Madrid Atocha

Take the 2pm Eurostar from St Pancras and change in Paris on to the trainhotel to Madrid, arriving at 9.15 next morning. Wake up to breakfast in the restaurant as the sun rises over distant snow-capped mountains. Journey time 19 hours, fares from £161 return including sleeper.





or (Click for more.)





The longest journey that can be accomplished in a single day by the new service is London to Madrid. It means catching the 05.27 at St Pancras, reaching the Gare du Nord at 8.50, crossing Paris by Metro, and then taking the 10.10 from the Gare Montparnasse to Irún, changing there and reaching Madrid Atocha at 22.34. That is a long day.





Architect: Alberto de Palacio Elissagne & Gustave Eiffel
Interior Access