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November 2002 |
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Sunday 3 November It happens every year, without fail. Term starts in October, and I face a lecture theatre full of students coughing and sneezing in my direction. A few weeks later, I come down with a cold, in the nose at first, then in the throat and finally in the chest, where it lingers for weeks. I don't know why students are so unhealthy. Probably it's just that they're away from home for the first time, and don't have Mummy around to remind them to put on a jacket when they go out as the weather gets colder. Often, I don't realise when I have a cold coming on, because I have various low-level allergies that mean my sinuses are usually blocked in any case. It took me a long time to recognise the difference between an allergic attack and an incipient respiratory infection. The symptoms are very similar. But earlier this week I was pretty certain that the unpleasant itchy feeling at the back of the nose meant that the annual student-induced cold was taking hold, and so it was. It has been a particularly bad one. For a couple of nights my sinuses were completely blocked, and I kept waking up with a dry throat through having to breathe through the mouth. Now, the virus has moved down to the throat and is affecting my voice. So I have had a very quiet weekend at home, doing practically nothing but read the papers and surf the web. I have to give a couple of lectures to large classes tomorrow, and I hope my voice holds out for them. I don't believe in taking time off work for these minor infections, and if I re-infect a few students by coughing right back at them, well that's all they deserve, isn't it? I don't see any point in going to the doctor. There's nothing they can do for a virus infection like this. The only treatment that I know of is to take some paracetamol at bedtime, in the form of a hot glass of LemSip™, and a few glasses of wine during the evening to dull the symptoms. Right now, I am making my way through a particularly good bottle of New Zealand chardonnay. From time to time, Mary comes along to take a sip. She's not supposed to drink alcohol, but apparently it doesn't count if it comes out of my glass. I'd offer her a glass of her own, but that won't do. It has to be "just a sip of yours". Wives are strange like that.
Our remaining cat, Rosie, is still missing her mother. It's three weeks since Lela's death, but Rosie keeps wandering round calling disconsolately for her, wanting to check in every cupboard and every corner of the garden to see if Lela is there. She's loneliest at night, when she's all by herself in the catbed that they used to share. When I come downstairs in the morning, she's desperate for attention. Someone once told us that when a pet dies, you should let your other pets see and smell the body, so that they know what has happened. We took care to do this, but it doesn't seem to have worked. Either Rosie just doesn't understand about death at all, or she is missing her mother so much that she can't stop herself thinking that maybe she'll come back again. This has got me thinking about bereavement and how one handles it. Mary and I are old enough that we can no longer avoid the realisation that neither of us is going to live for ever, and that sooner or later one of us is going to have to live without the other. I have no idea how I would deal with the emotional effects of being the survivor. When I try to imagine it, I can only focus on the practical decisions that I would have to make. Would I want to carry on living in the house that has been our home for so many years? Could I cope with running the big house and garden on my own, and would it be too painful to stay on in the house where everything reminds me of Mary? On the other hand, could I face leaving the home that has so many happy memories of our life together? Maybe it's morbid to be having such thoughts. I don't think so. Of course, I very much hope that neither of us will be in this situation for at least 20, 25, 30 years. But as with everything else in life, it's easier to deal with a situation if you have anticipated it and thought it through to some extent in advance. I somehow had the idea that by writing these things down I would be able to clarify what's going through my mind. But it doesn't actually seem to be achieving that, so I'll abandon the attempt before driving any remaining readers to depression. Thank goodness, Rosie is quiet for the moment. She's curled up on Mary's lap having her chin tickled, and she's purring contentedly.
An article in last Sunday's Observer by their regular columnist Nick Cohen is an encouraging reminder of how far social attitudes in Britain have improved in the past decade and a half. In 1988, in the darkest days of the Thatcher regime, Parliament enacted one of the most shameful laws to reach the statute book in recent times. The notorious Section 28 of the Local Government Act 1988 contained these words:
As far as I know, no prosecutions have ever been brought under this Act. But its effect was to inhibit teachers in state schools from mentioning homosexuality in class, or from acting to prevent homophobic bullying. Quite apart from its homophobic intention, this law has always struck me as a shamefully unprofessional piece of legislation. It reminds me of the laws passed by some redneck American States in the last century, decreeing that the value of pi is three, or that men are not descended from monkeys. You can't change mathematical truths or scientific theories by passing laws, and in the same way you cannot annul same sex relationships by ordaining that they are only "pretend". Section 28 still has not been repealed in England, despite an election commitment by the Labour government that it would do so. (In Scotland, a more civilised country, they now have their own regional government, which has abolished this law.) In other respects, though, social attitudes have changed beyond recognition in the 14 years since Section 28 was introduced by Margaret Thatcher's Conservative party. The Conservative party is reduced to a squabbling rump in parliament, and the cause of its downfall is that, even there, the homophobes are now just a strident minority. The latest issue to divide them is the law that has been passed to permit same sex couples to adopt children. In his Observer column, under the headline 'Pink power sinks the Tories', Nick Cohen writes:
Maybe that last paragraph is too optimistic. I don't think that the Conservative party will wither away, much as I should like it to. And homophobia is probably something that will always be with us. But it's good to be reminded how dramatically things have already changed for the better (for example, by equalising the age of consent). There have also been hints that Section 28 will at last be scrapped during the coming session of parliament. I can't resist quoting another paragraph from Nick Cohen's fascinating article. Discussing the theory that the most virulent homophobes are usually closet gays, he cites a piece of research that I had not previously heard about:
Interesting! You can read the rest of Nick Cohen's column here.
There are some big decisions to be made. Mary has to decide whether to spend part of the winter in Gran Canaria, as she did this past winter. Then, she really had very little choice. She was having such bad reactions to our damp, cold, polluted environment that she simply had to escape from it for a couple of months. This time round, she is so much better that there isn't the same pressing need for it. We are both going to spend a couple of weeks there in January, as we have done for the past three years. But she enjoyed it so much earlier this year, when she stayed on after I left, that she is tempted to do the same again. But she is feeling a bit guilty about leaving me to fend for myself, when there isn't any longer a genuine need to do so. She needn't worry about that—I was very happy to have a couple of months living on my own. But I have to be a bit careful what I say to her. I don't want to give the impression that I would prefer to be without her. I slipped up slightly when she last raised the topic. She was talking about the financial aspects of it, and saying that she felt guilty about the expense of spending a month or two lazing on a tropical beach while I was struggling to earn a living for us here at home. I said that she really shouldn't worry about that, we can easily afford it. Apparently I said this a bit too enthusiastically, because she replied "Oh I see, you just can't wait to be rid of me." She was only kidding, so I replied in the same vein, and told her how much I was looking forward to it. But it was the sort of kidding that covers an element of genuine concern, and I don't want her to think that I really want to be rid of her, because of course I certainly don't. If she comes home with me in January then the positive side of it is that I do actually like to have her company, and I certainly appreciate not having to do all the household chores myself. On the other hand, if she stays in the Canaries then I get to indulge my tendency to be an antisocial loner for a few weeks, and also it gives me the opportunity to slip away to the Plastic Ivy sauna on a Saturday evening. That's not such a very big deal, and honestly I don't mind too much which way she makes the decision. In fact, I think Mary will just leave the decision until we get to Gran Canaria. If we happen to find a reasonably cheap apartment there for her to stay in for a few weeks then she'll stay on, otherwise she'll come back with me. If I had to make a prediction then I'm guessing she probably won't find anywhere suitable and she'll end up spending the winter months here in Leeds. There's an even bigger decision for me to take, namely whether to apply for early retirement. My contract specifies a retirement age of 65, which I shall reach in 2006. As it happens, the British government is introducing legislation to abolish mandatory retirement ages, and this legislation is due to come into force in 2006. It's not clear to me whether I would just qualify for this, or whether I would just miss the deadline. But that doesn't matter to me, because I don't intend to stay on for that long in any case. I'm looking forward to leaving sooner than that, so that I'll be free to do other things. My employer has a reasonably generous premature retirement scheme under which they would enhance my pension up to the maximum allowed by law, and they also offer the opportunity for part-time re-engagement. That way, I could retire in stages, staying on part time to do a bit of teaching for two or three years without the hassle of any administrative jobs, while drawing my pension at the same time. That seems very attractive to me, and on Friday I went for an interview with our human resources manager to discuss the options. One of the reasons I look forward to retirement is that I loathe working in an environment where they use terminology like "human resources manager". I said that I have a big decision to make, whether or not to go for early retirement, but in fact I have already taken the decision. I haven't committed myself to it yet, and I'll leave the formal decision until the last possible moment just in case circumstances change. But I'm definitely looking forward to going part time as from next summer.
On Friday I was in London for a day of meetings, followed in the evening by the Math Soc's annual dinner. As last year, this took place in the impressive surroundings of the British Museum's Court Restaurant. Unlike last year, Mary is now well enough that she could travel down to London to join in the dinner. It was a very pleasant evening, because lots of old friends were there. I have decided that I shall give up the work that I do for the Math Soc after one more year, so next year will be the last time that I get to take part in this event in an official capacity. But I expect that we shall keep coming to the dinner in future years so as to meet all the people we have got to know there through the years. We stayed in London overnight and on Saturday morning we went to the Royal Academy to see the Aztecs exhibition. This exhibition, which opened last week, has had rave reviews in all the papers, and it is a truly spectacular event. It is based around the rediscovery in 1978 of the site of the Templo Mayor, the gigantic temple built by the Aztecs in their city of Tenochtitlan (nowadays called Mexico City). For the exhibition, the Academy has assembled artefacts not just from Mexico but from museums all over the world, to show the incredible craftsmanship and artistry of the Aztecs.
The exhibition does not gloss over the brutal side of Aztec culture. There are macabre items like the sculpture showing a priest dressed in the flayed skin of a sacrificial victim. But even the more gruesome items like the sacrificial knives and the death masks have the most amazing craftsmanship. According to Aztec prophesy, one of their gods, who had disappeared hundreds of years previously, was due to return by sea in the year 1519, and would be recognised by his beard. Right on time, in that very year a boat appeared and a distinguished bearded figure stepped ashore. The Aztecs welcomed him with due reverence as their long lost god. This was a Big Mistake. The stranger was the Spanish mercenary Hernán Cortés. Within two years, his conquistadores had completely overcome the Aztecs. The great city of Tenochtitlan (which with a population of a quarter of a million was at that time one of the largest cities on earth) was almost completely ruined, and the stones of the Templo Mayor were used for the foundations of the Spanish colonial capital. The Aztecs were forcibly converted to christianity, and during the following century most of them were wiped out altogether. But their artistry lived on. The saddest room in the exhibition is the last one, showing Aztec craftsmanship suborned to produce christian imagery. The exhibition lasts until 11 April next year. If you find yourself in London any time before then, this really is something that you have to visit. Our friends Susan and Monica belong to the Friends of the Royal Academy. They didn't go round the exhibition with us, because they'll have plenty of other opportunities to see it. But they met us afterwards, and took us for lunch in the Friends' Room, before driving us to Kings Cross station for the journey back to Leeds.
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Many of the carvings depict the gods of the Aztecs, and their religious ceremonies, centred round blood sacrifices, but some of them show the ordinary Aztec people in their everyday life. The thing that struck me most was that they always seem to be depicted with their mouths open. Their faces are serious, even solemn, but the open mouths give an impression of artless openness and even warmth in their characters, and the expressions look as fresh as when they were first carved over 500 years ago. The only example I could find on the internet to illustrate this is not a particularly good one, but maybe it gives some idea of the quality of Aztec sculpture.