Diversions Manifold

Mountain biking (an all to rare occurrence for me these days) is not a purely physical exercise; the brain is given a real workout, too. I'll concede straight away that it's by no means an intellectual exercise - I'm not necessarily thinking of anything at all (also a rare occurrence, one to be encouraged). But sometimes I become aware of the sheer mass of calculations that the brain is performing whilst I'm on the bike. It's thinking almost as hard as the legs are pumping. Of the many types of calculations buzzing around in my head, the most satisfying for me is the "hit or miss" question. I'm pedalling along a trail, at best upwards, and there's a rock in the way. Now, I can miss the rock with my wheels simply by steering away from it. But if things are tight and there isn't much room for manoeuvre, I start wondering if I'm going to bottom out with my pedals - which is usually a worse situation than hitting a rock with the wheel. Is t

One of the lullabies that I sing to our daughters has, by necessity, developed over the years. When our eldest was old enough to express her thoughts and consternations, it became clear how the original lyrics of Rock-a-bye baby (originally not intended to be a lullaby, I believe) were deeply worrying to her: Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree-top When the wind blows, the cradle will rock And when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall And down will come baby, cradle and all It sounded very much like at least a big "Ouch" for the baby, and L was uncomfortable with that. Now, I know that there will always be howls of protest at how traditional childrens' songs are being softened, made more "correct" and in a way neutered - but English childrens' songs in particular are a strangely brutal bunch with lots of head choppings and smashings to pieces and I'm not totally at ease with that. So, over the years, our version of Rock-a-bye baby changed and gained a

In the spirit of catching up on some drafts , I felt I had to get this one out sooner rather than even later. The impressions left upon me by Bruckner's Eighth Symphony, though very much attenuated by time, still resonate, amplified a little by completing this post - which is, of course, one of the key points of a blog. It was on the 22nd May 2012 that we left our daughters in the capable hands of Oma and Opa and cycled down to the Stadthalle in the warm evening sunshine to (watch? Hear?) experience the symphony played by the Heidelberg Philharmoniker under the baton (and hair) of  Cornelius Meister  in his final series of concerts before leaving for the richer delights of Vienna. The symphony is an enormous, programme-filling late romantic beast of a piece, very much on the cusp of a new era. Written between 1884 and 1887, when Mahler was hitting his stride and starting to redefine symphonic performance, with Stockhausen and his ilk were not far behind, it feels like th