On legroom

When I was living in York I went to see a neurologist for one of my semi-regular check-ups. Being a new hospital for me, they lacked all my records, so I had to go through my full medical history and while I was running through my various other collected complaints and conditions I told the consultant that I have essential hypertension. “Essential” here is medical speak for “just very high, but we don’t really know why.” I mentioned that it was clearly genetic, however, because my twin brother has it too.

“Oh,” he piped up, suddenly alert, “you have a twin brother. Are you identical?”

Indeed we are: we have actually had our zygosity tested as we were once used as subjects for narcolepsy research.

“That’s very interesting,” he commented, and paused a little. “So does he have very short upper arms too?”

Genetics is a complex affair. You don’t, really, have a “gene for blue eyes” or a “gene for chiselled good looks”—I certainly don’t. A gene is just a recipe for a protein, and it’s quite common that one single gene can have multiple and phenotypically unconnected effects. So I presumed this was a possible pleiotropic correlation. “Well, yes, he does,” I replied. “Is that often associated with narcolepsy?”

Mr Duffey gazed at me thoughtfully. “Not that I know of,” he mused, “but they are very short.”

Yes, once again we’re back to my stubby appendages. I don’t want to give the impression that I am some kind of a grotesque, a sort of human Dachshund or maybe a two-legged Barquentine, dragging my withered, useless limbs around behind me. And these diminutive appendages come with a few benefits: when necessary, they provide a decent pushing capacity, and I’ve already written about how I think they have granted me a surprising talent for staying on a stand-up board, but they also carry another great advantage.

Trains, planes, the back seats of cars: none of these hold great fear for me. The flight to Brazil is a minimum of a little over ten hours, and though those ten hours are not the most exciting in the world, I never have to contort myself into strange and uncomfortable shapes simply to fit in my allocated space. There are few transport seats in which I cannot fit with reasonable ease which, given a taste for travel, is an undoubted boon. The obvious ability to sleep in pretty much any position means that, all in all, I can get pretty much anywhere I want in if not comfort, at least a notable absence of discomfort.

Elegance and svelteness in personal style may be ruled out for me: I have a great liking for the mod rocker look, but have long since realised that skinny cut suits are not for me. But the truth is, of the quiet little boons that life hands you, I kinda dig my stumps. In an over-populated, crushed-up world, I never want for legroom.

A to Z blogging challenge: L

On kvetching, klutzdom, and kibitzery

There is something wonderfully satisfying about Yiddish loan-words to me. As a mother-tongue monolingual, the consonant conjuncts they offer are meaty and enjoyable, and they seem to have an pleasurable specificity in meaning: providing that satisfying feeling of having found exactly the right term that you required. But the problem with them, as a Brit, is lack of exposure. Whilst these words may be common in American English, they are less frequent in British—I was well over thirty before I actually discovered that the initial sound in chutzpah, which I had only ever seen written, was not “tch.” Consequentially I only use a few of them, and then with care, because for many I am uncertain of precisely those specifics of inference that I so relish. This is a shame, because I would love to have a few Yiddish epithets that I could apply to myself: I was recently described as a mensch, which I had to look up, and was pleasantly surprised to discover it means an honourable or decent person; especially pleasing since the person using the term is in no small way responsible for my continued employment. However, I think that there are three that can almost certainly be applied to me with some level of accuracy.

Professionally, though I am no longer strictly an editor, I cannot stop myself from providing editorial input, which almost certainly makes me a kibitz. But, to be fair, the result is higher-quality books, so it’s also this that makes me a mensch.

I may, also, be a kvetch. I certainly am when ill—of course I am, I have a Y chromosome—and when cold, but it is possible I am also so in my wider life. Not for no reason does this blog have a category entitled “Rants.” But this is where a knowledge of the detail of the semantics is necessary. Can one only kvetch about insignificant or trivial matters? Or can one kvetch about great and important affairs? I fancy to myself that it is these for which my ire is usually reserved: in my personal life, when neither cold nor ill, I like to think I am relatively easily satisfied: as long as you give me good book, somewhere soft to fall over, and plenty of lime in my gin and tonic, I’m quite a happy chap. So I am uncertain whether I’m a kvetch, though I am certainly capable of kvetching.

But there can be little doubt that I am a klutz. I spent a significant portion of the first twenty years of my life training my fingers to be really remarkably precise and rapid—nowadays my playing is rusty and awkward, but at the age of twenty-one I could knock a piano about with not unimpressive skill. However all that seems to have been at the expense of any other level of spatial awareness or precision; I suspect that we all have a finite quotient of dexterity available to us, and I squandered all mine on the Waldstein sonata and Schoenberg’s opus 33a. My absurdly underlong limbs seem to crop up with regularity upon this blog and one might presume that, giving me as they do a fairly limited range of contact with the external world, I would be compact in my effect upon my surroundings. Yet this is not the case. My blast radius is vast: I merely need to sit in a chair one side of a room to cause widespread devastation upon the other. To be frank, even if you’re simply reading this, I’d move the family china a safe distance away. I can only suppose that I exude a field that disrupts gravity in my proximity, and there is no reason not to speculate that it may be transmitted electronically.

So there it is: a kvetching, kibitzing klutz I am: confessions which amply satisfy the K requirement of this blogging challenge; though they are, I suppose, nothing to kvell about.

A to Z blogging challenge: K

The short but eventful life of a white tee-shirt

The white tee-shirt was a simple, cheap garment: fairly loose-fitting, V-necked, and probably made of a cotton/polyester mix. It came into my life because I am an idiot, and left it because I am anal. It was almost entirely blameless,[1] and I repaid it with sweat, splashed alcohol, and a watery death.

I spent Christmas in Niterói, Rio de Janeiro with an American friend who lives there, before coming back to Picinguaba for the New Year revelries. It is traditional to wear white for the New Year celebrations in Brazil, and I generally bring only pale-coloured shirts anyway, because the sun here in summer is so intense that I need maximum reflection, and minimum sweat-patch visibility; in order to ensure I was well-prepared for the night I washed all my white clothes at Andrew’s house in Niterói. Arriving at Picinguaba, 325km from Niterói, a couple of days before New Year I opened my luggage to find, in the place of all my white shirts, nothing but a sudden, crystal-clear, and uselessly late mental image of them drying on a clothes-line in Andrew’s yard.

The wearing of white is to placate the sea goddess and, therefore, in order to avoid the risk of an Odyssean return journey to the UK in February—not to mention looking like a foreign dick—there was nothing for it but to buy a new shirt. So the day before New Year’s Eve, I got on a horrendously packed bus for an almost two-hour trip along a packed highway (everyone goes to the beach for New Year) to Ubatuba, where I bought the shirt, along with a couple of its cousins. A friend from Picinguaba was making the same trip—to buy her daughter a bicycle—and so I gratefully took the opportunity to generously offer to get us a taxi back to save Jumara the horror of trying to take a large box on the heaving, stifling bus.

New Year’s Eve itself passed off magnificently, as it always does here. Dancing on a beach until four in the morning is incalculably preferable to standing shivering round braziers, however cosy-looking, in a pub garden. At midnight, many bottles of bubbly were shaken up and popped open to spray the surrounding dancers. Usually I would object to this wanton waste of alcohol, but this is Brazil, where—though the home of many pleasant beers and uncountable fine cachaças—they have yet to master the art of making even barely palatable wine; whereas a cool drenching on a hot summer’s night was wholly welcome. But my poor new shirt’s first visit to the world was in order to be soaked first with dancy sweat and then with cheap Lambrusco.

To relate its second, fatal visit to the world, I need to rewind a little to the daytime of the 31st. After many years of visiting Picinguaba, which lies on a large, calm natural harbour and where one can thus do a variety of watersport type activities, I decided the time had come for me to attempt one. I’ve been fairly cautious about this, because I’m not a strong swimmer, and there is, of course, the risk of a sudden event causing a cataplectic collapse. But I decided to pay the R$80 to have a hour’s lesson in stand-up boarding—a more sedate, gentler cousin of surfing performed standing up (duh) on an oversized surfboard, guiding yourself with a long paddle.

Let me stress that I was not optimistic. There are naturally sporty people in the world, who can pick up any new physical skill with ease, and I am not one of them. True, I played rugby for most of my secondary school, but my involvement in that largely started because, due to the precocious maturation previously mentioned, I was so much larger than my compatriots in the early years that it was simply a matter of picking up the ball and wandering over to the other side of the pitch. I must have developed some ability, because I remained in the squad as my peers caught up with (and, annoyingly, largely overtook) me in size. But other than that, I have no sporting trophies to exhibit. I played squash for a number of years with a pleasure and an enthusiasm in almost exactly inverse proportion to my ability to actually hit the ball, and I suppose I can hold my own fairly well on a pool table.

Astonishingly, then, I turned out to be really surprisingly good at stand-up. So much so that, after only about ten minutes of tuition, Fausto said to me that I had it sorted, there was nothing more to learn, he’d only charge me for the rent of the board not the lesson, and off I was to go. I was to keep fairly close to the shore, and he’d keep an eye on me from there. I came in, after a thoroughly enjoyable hour’s boarding, with not a wet hair on my head. “Nem caiu?”—you didn’t fall off? Nenhuma vez, my friends, nenhuma vez. Jumara subsequently told me that she’d talked to Fausto and he admitted to her that I’d been so obviously in control he forgot to keep an eye out for me, and was very relieved when he saw me coming back in from praia da fazenda. Quite the natural, it would seem. My laughably underlong legs have cropped up regularly on this blog, and this time I think they have done me a favour, as a lot of the technique lies in being able to stabilize the board with your legs whilst separating out the paddling movement from the shoulders and arms.

So the day after New Year’s Day, when the pain had abated, I decided to have another go, and the white tee-shirt came with me. There was a good reason for this—Brazil is currently in a severe drought, and Picinguaba’s water supply is entirely from a system of water towers in the surrounding hills, which are almost empty. Serious economy of water is required, and washing clothes is at a premium (indeed, this is why the original washing was done in Niterói, rather than here). As the shirt was only taken to put on if I was out longer than my sun-block would handle, it made sense to use the New Year’s shirt—now stinking of dried sweat and booze, and so unwearable at any other time. Out I went for stand-up session the second, my white tee-shirt tucked into the waistband of my shorts. And passed me by, not ten minutes into my boarding, a motorboat going far too fast for the harbour, a rippling wake expanding out in nested V-shapes behind it.

You may have come to the conclusion from reading this blog that I am a somewhat chaotic individual, and this is a largely reasonable supposition. But somewhere in me, rarely disturbed, lies a secret core of anality. It’s why I’m a good editor, but its major manifestation lies not in lexical neatness, but in an obsessive worship of symmetry. I have to chew clementine pieces exactly the same number of times on each side of my mouth. Should my loyalty card in a Caffè Nero have a misplaced stamp on the first row of it, heaven help the barista who does not misplace the equivalent stamp in the other direction on the final row (rotational trumps reflective, of course). My HTML is always XHTML.

And so it was that, rather than turning the board so that its prow was perpendicular to the approaching wake, I turned it broadside, creating a pleasant symmetry between the oncoming parallel waves and the side of my board. And the price for this symmetry was to be pitched unceremoniously into the ocean. (By serendipity, my New Year’s reading was Kurt Vonnegut’s fantastically bleak Galápagos, the basic premise of which is that evolution gave us big, big brains, and yet the things those big, big brains cause us to do are precisely those that are likely to bring individuals and the species to an abrupt termination. This is exactly the kind of thing he was talking about.) I spluttered to the surface, suddenly reminded of quite how salty seawater is, and followed that part of the lesson that I had yet to implement: how to recover yourself when you fall off.

Paddle. Still in hand. Good, make sure it stays there. Board. Get to, and grab as quickly as possible. Done. Right, now hang off the board for five minutes spitting out brine and note to yourself that, if you’re going to take this up, you really need to take some swimming lessons to improve your feeble dogpaddle. Haul yourself back on, stand up again, and you’re there, back in control, pretending nothing had happened.

And then look down, and see a white billowing shape gently floating downwards as the poor, abused tee-shirt that you had tucked into your shorts, and which had disconnected itself in your unseemly splashing, descends to the deeps; there to lie until it unravels and rots, pondering upon what it has done to deserve such mistreatment: to be soaked with sweat, then alcohol, and then to be cast aside in a moment of panic to sleep with the fishes and dream of the days when it hung, unmolested, uncreased, and unstained, upon a hanger in a shop in Ubatuba.

[1] Almost entirely because, as a mix of fibres, it had already condemned me to eternal perdition.

In which a phonological and orthographic mismatch grant me a new, but serendipitously apposite, moniker

If you have, somehow, managed to live your life thus far without entering a Starbucks, you may not know that the barista who takes your order will ask your name to write on the cup, so that the barista who makes it may then familiarly call you by name when it is done. I’m a bad man, and in the UK I get my petty revenge on this minor act of corporate cosiness by giving somewhat abstruse names—usually that of a Roman emperor. But this is Brazil, the land that gave us Sócrates, Hércules Florence, and César Camargo Mariano; I have friends called Oseias and Átila, and used to get my hair cut by a guy with the magnificent name of Euripides Mendes. Trajan fazes them not one jot, nor Domitian, nor Vespasian. But Stuart, ah! now there we suddenly have a problem.

Portuguese does not end words in stops—that is, consonants like d or t in which the airflow is entirely halted—and consequentially they have problems pronouncing these and, when they import words such as internet or pub, an epenthetic -i sound is almost universally added. The addition of the -i then, in most dialects, turns the sound of t into tch, because dental stops are palatalized prior to high vowels, giving “intchernetchi,” “pubbi,” and, in my case, the magnificently mangled “Estchuartchi,” which features the terminal epenthetic i, the palatalization of both ts and, for good measure, an extra epenthetic e at the start of the word, because word-initial st is also out. Today I’m in Rio and there, where s is almost universally said seanconneryishly, I shall be treated to “Eshtchuartchi.” So much for pronunciation. But it turns out that they have trouble spelling it, too.

Combine all the above with a traditional cursive r, which looks all the world like an n to me, then you get this:


My name, as transcribed by a Brazilian barista.

Today’s bad excuse for skipping the gym…

… comes to you courtesy of a recent house move and consequent sartorial disorganisation.

A piece of advice: should you not have a pair of clean shorts of your own to hand when you are rushing out of the house in the morning, do not presume that you can simply grab a pair of your twin brother’s shorts. Keep in mind that (a) he is generally thinner than you, and (b) he was for a while very much thinner than you.

I got them about half way up my chubby, shapeless thighs before they ground to a shuddering halt, leaving me waddling around the changing rooms like Dick van Dyke doing his penguin dance in Mary Poppins, but minus the animated entourage, sense of rhythm, or dodgy accent. I feared they’d be stuck there, to be honest, and was left pondering how to get a bus home with legs even more abbreviated than usual.

Fortunately I managed to crowbar them off, and left the gym circa five minutes after going in, but rather redder in the face than I usually leave it.

Note: my legs are actually neither shapeless nor chubby; I have eviscerated the truth for the sake of humour. They are, however, ludicrously truncated. To be honest, were they any shorter I very much doubt my feet would reach the ground.