VBA Excel Arrays

Writing  computer programs in VBA Excel I find to be a very soothing and satisfying activity.

Had something of a eureka moment this morning - well, actually, it was last night when about to fall asleep.

Although I understand what "arrays" are in VBA, I have never been able to stretch my mind to apply them to the kind of spreadsheets I work with. However, now I have made the mental leap and this morning I experimented with a few short programs and the potential is huge. Basically, the use of "arrays" seems to cut down on the length of time a program takes to run.

Having an eureka experience is important for me, at my age, because it suggests that there is life in the old cog yet. The usual terms and conditions apply, of course, namely, that at my age, my brain may have deteriorated so much that I'm not capable of telling the difference between a eureka experience and, say, a blinding headache.

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Memoirs of a Dervish:

More on the sensation of personal power:

"Shadowy birds dipped and swooped below me. I sat hunched for hours on that rock looking across the Bay of Tunis and imagined that I was shaping my future, spinning out my destiny. I sensed that this was another of the rare nights of power in which I was able to do this." p 183.

My present position is this: one has a choice.

Either, one takes the following view, as summed up in the words of this Collect from the Anglican Book of  Common Prayer:

"Almighty God,
who seest that we have no power of ourselves to help ourselves;
keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls..........."

Or this view:

"I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."

But, as I wandered down to Lacanau-Ocean, centre ville, for my coffee this morning, I wondered if through a process of dialectics, the two views might eventually, for me, boil down to  the same thing.

Still not finished the book so await with baited breath for Irwin's conclusions - after all, he is about my age.

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Today's music:

Chopin's Nocturnes played by Artur Rubinstein.

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Last night's dinner:

Fricassee of squid:

Renton

Robert Irwin's Memoirs of a Dervish includes lots of little gems - well, as far as I am concerned, it does.

I haven't finished the book so I'm not sure whether all his explorations into the esoteric and the Islamic actually lead to a permanent self-realisation but on p 175 he quotes someone who says:

"I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."

He then describes a methedrine-fuelled non-stop walk across London (sounded as if it lasted all day and that he literally crossed London from top to bottom). His thoughts were crystal clear; he was the master of his fate, the captain of his soul.

All of this reminded me of the closing scene in Trainspotting - yes, at last a train connection to this blog - where Renton is similarly ecstatically marching through London with a certainty of purpose and optimism.

Question: is a sense of certainty what we should all be aiming for?

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Last night's Aperatif:

Lillet:

Billi

Picked Adam and Kellie up from Bordeaux Airport. When looking at the airport website to establish which terminal the plane was coming into, the options were A, B or Billi. This totally confused me. But it turned out that Billi is the newly opened terminal building for low cost airlines. Basically, it's just a big IKEA-style shed.

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Today's lunch:

Pate with foie gras running through it and strawberries.

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Some quirky French photos:

A charming sun-room added to a modest little house in Lacanau-Ocean.

Decorative concrete garden fence.

Tablecloths

Like most married couples, my wife and I have very few interests in common. But one interest we both feel passionate about is the purchasing of  tablecloths: especially, gaudy circular ones with naive figurative decoration.

So far we have bought two on this holiday. Today, for 10 euros, we bought this one in the local market.

Last week we bought this one.

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Laundromats:

A great pleasure for me, which my wife has no interest in, is visiting laundries. I enjoyed such visits hugely in my bedsit days and so jump at the chance when we have to use a laundry when on holiday.

This campsite has an excellent set-up.

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When one opens up Memoirs of a Dervish the heat of North Africa jumps out at one. So it seemed very appropriate to be playing Madlib's Beatkonducta India, an album of hiphop beats and Indian sounds, while eating last night's dinner of dorade (bream), rice and aubergine.

The album

Seem to have deleted the picture of last night's dinner, so here is this morning's cup of cafe au lait consumed in a small off-the-beaten-track cafe in Lacanau-Ocean.

Woody Allen

On p136 of Memoirs of a Dervish, Robert Irwin quotes Woody Allen who, apparently, "once observed that if he could have his life all over again, he would not bother going to see the film version of John Fowles's The Magus."

That remark is almost as funny as Peter Cook's about David Frost. Apparently, Peter Cook actually did save David Frost's life when the latter got into difficulty whilst swimming and years later, when asked by someone whether he had had any regrets, Cook said, "Yes, just one: saving David Frost's life."

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Haircut, haircut, haircut:

Many years ago I wandered through the back streets of Florence and passing a small barber's shop, on a whim, went into get my hair cut. On one of the walls a poster had been stuck  of Lorenzo Amuruso wearing a Glasgow Rangers' football strip.

This morning, went for a haircut in Lacanau-Ocean. The men's section was basically out on the pavement, the women's inside. I was told to wait inside and was directed to a small chair.

This turned out to be the most uncomfortable chair I'd ever sat on. It was very small, almost like a child's chair and had inflatable cushions. There were only two positions possible: either legs straight out and head back staring at the ceiling (in other words one was assuming the shape of a surf-board) or, feet curled back around the front legs of the chair and one's torso straight-upright leaving a gap of about 4 inches between one's own back and the back of the chair.

In addition, the chair was positioned so that it faced into the wall in a corner of the salon. Frankly, all that was missing was the dunce's cap.

The haircut itself was a very pleasurable experience.

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Last night's dinner:

Prepared  in the cabin and eaten on the veranda: chicken in tomato, green beans and rice.

View from the cabin. The ocean is actually visible but my phone camera cannot discriminate its blue from the blue of the sky.

Organised Religion

Memoirs of a Dervish plus cafe au lait in Lacanau-Ocean

I would say that the vast majority of my friends, relatives and acquaintances are not atheists but do not like what they would call organised religion and certainly do not attend church or any other kind of religious service.

Robert Irwin recounts an interesting argument in his book, Memoirs of a Dervish, which bears on this issue of believing in some kind of transendental being but not adhering to a particular creed.

I hope that I too can recount it here and do justice to it.

He refers to that attempt to discover a common core to all the great religions;  that attempt to establish a universal set of moral precepts and beliefs eg a sense that there is something bigger than the individual and that 'love' should be the driving force behind an individual's behaviour, ideas that are probably found in all religions.

He then quotes the critique of that universalist project. The critique, as I understand it, is not asserting that the end product is wrong (although it could be). Rather, it is arguing that the end product could just as easily be reached by not examining any of the individual creeds in the first place. That all one is actually doing by looking for these communalities is, a priori, laying down a set of basic criteria (eg a sense that there is something bigger than the individual and that 'love' should be the driving force behind an individual's behaviour) that a belief system has to meet in the first place in order for it to justify the label, 'religion', as opposed to say 'car mechanics manual'.

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Last night's dinner:

One course only at the campsite restaurant, served by a rather sullen waitress with a definite malnourished Glaswegian appearance. Made us feel quite at home.

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Typical little houses in Lacanau-Ocean:

Not sure how you would describe the style: petit-colonial, perhaps?

Memoirs of a Dervish

Today we drive back up the coast to Lacanau-Ocean, where we will stay at a campsite for 7 nights.


Mass last night in St Clement, Vieux Boucau.

Always feel a bit awkward about taking a photo during a church service. However, .......

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Last night's dinner - back to Cote d'Argent:

For a change, had an aperitif beforehand, "Kir d'Aquitaine". Fairly refreshing.

Foie gras to begin with:

Then monk fish and rice.

Finally, chocolate cake in a puddle of decorative custard.

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Memoirs of a Dervish:

Books like this and The Rabbi's Daughter always raise the same issue for me. To what extent should a Christian devote his waking hours to purely devotional activities? More practically speaking, how many hours per day should one spend praying or worshipping? All of them?

Le Choeur du Lu Y de Oeyreluy

Yesterday, drove out to Leon, about 15 miles from Vieux Boucau, to attend a free concert held in the  parish church which sits on top of a hill in the town centre.

The 65 strong mixed choir sung a repertoire which suited my tastes perfectly - well known French composers like Faure and Gounod along with ones I hadn't heard of, and some chanting from the Russian Orthodox liturgy and some traditional French songs from the Landes.

This choir was the real thing - immensely powerful and accomplished.

But what really amused me was that during the interval, half of the members went outside for a smoke. Smoking is still very much a part of everyday life in France - although less so than it used to be - and I approve of their refusal to demonise it.

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Yesterday's lunch:

Prepared and consumed in our apartment.

Terrine du Languedoc, pate au poivre and salad and low alcohol cider.

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Memoirs of a Dervish:

Spent morning in cafe reading Robert Irwin's memoirs of the sixties while waiting for washing to go through its cycle at the launderette. (Where the proprietor insisted on calling me "Tony", as in, "you go away for a couple of hours, Tony, and everything will be ready for you.")

"Can't be bothered."

A phrase that often trips off my tongue or floats across my mind is, "I can't be bothered." I always feel guilty about this because, in my opinion, 'being bothered' is the bedrock of morality. A civilised society depends on people 'being bothered' and not sitting on their backsides doing nothing.

So I was surprised to find Robert Irwin recount the following incident in his memoirs. He was visiting a mosque-come-monastery in Algeria in the 60s seeking enlightenment through Sufism. When sitting at the feet of a noted fakir in some courtyard, he heard another equally noted fakir enter the area. Tradition had it that the first fakir should have got up to greet the second fakir but he said to Irwin that, and I quote, "he couldn't be bothered". Subsequently, as a result of a visitation  by a local bee, (playing a role similar to Robert the Bruce's spider), he did get up and appropriately greeted the newcomer.

But, I was surprised at the banality of this failing. Surely these fakirs after years of self-discipline would have conquered such mundane weaknesses of the will.

A Very French Evening

After a meal on our apartment balcony:

Some kind of white fish, artichokes and pureed carrot:

Washed down with the local wine, Tursan.

We went to see the local and much vaunted music event held in the town square of Vieux Boucau - kicking off at 9pm.

The first part was a typically tedious rendition of mundane popular songs performed by what looked like 50 retired school teachers. Very, very well received by the crowd that had gathered.

But, things immediately picked up when three elderly musicians took to the stage: the woman who had accompanied the choir on her guitar - but now reduced to shaking the maracas; a bloke on the tom-toms and his pal on electric accordion. All this underlain by a backing track from some CDs.

From the first note played by the accordion, the square was filled with couples dancing a la ballroom dancing: waltzes, cha-cha-chas, tangos and anything you felt like doing.

Les old blokes.

And, what's more, despite a totally abysmal track record on the dance floor, we joined them.

This was an exhilarating evening for me. Whereas, and I have to say this, I detest Scottish Country Dancing and, even worse, Ceilidhs, I can say that this kind of dancing which has its roots in an urban setting, I love. I love to watch it and I now can say that I love to do it.

Cafe au lait:

Conclusion: my favoured cafe au lait is one that comes stirred with a swirl of  browns and creams and none of that frothy foam you get with cappuccinos.

Comme ci:

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iTunes:

It's wonderful having iTunes always with me on my laptop.

This morning's listening has been the cooling playing by Maurizio Pollini of Alban Berg's small pieces for piano found on this CD.

La Cote D'Argent, Vieux Boucau

My second favourite restaurant, anywhere: we have eaten here numerous times over the past few years.

The menu

And the following 3 course meal for £16.

Cured meats.

Duck etc

Basically, chocolate cake and custard.

The cafe au lait was black coffee from a cafetiere or similar with a large jug of hot milk.

Then a local brass band marched by:

Stopped outside to play.

And then the heavens opened and for the next hour rain came down like stair rods. So, the band came into the restaurant and played.

And, were served a libation by the restaurant staff

A great evening altogether.

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George Solti:

Have begun reading George Solti's memoirs.

Une Bicyclette

Quirky photos of France:

Took a photograph of this bike - a classic design as far as I'm concerned - whereupon the owner came up and asked me what I was doing. I was about to defend myself, beg her not to call the gendarmerie and generally plead for mercy - in fact, say anything, rather than resort to explaining what the hell this blog was all about - when she smiled and explained that lots of old people stopped to take photos of it because it reminded them of their childhood. I told her about the blog, explained that it was very silly but she still insisted on me telling her how to access it. All in all, a very happy interaction.

One of the joys of being in France is buying anything in a little patisserie. Even a humble slice of apple turnover is packaged in a beautiful box.

An even greater joy is sitting in a cafe with un pain aux raisins and a cafe au lait, reading a book. Today's effort was excellent with hot milk already in it; the coffee that is.

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Last night's dinner:

Too tired to see the shepherds etc last night so had steak frites and low alcohol draught cidre in local brasserie. It was OK but I much prefer eating fish these days: I find chewing meat to be too much like hard work.

And the night before last:

Cold chicken on the hotel room veranda looking out to the ocean.

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French Radio:

There are dozens of French radio stations to listen to.

What amazes me is the sheer number of adverts. I would say possibly 60% of air time is advertising.

What does that say about the economy?

Yesterday, in the car, tuned in to Classique and was midway through a piano concerto. After some minutes thinking, thought that it was possibly Mozart. Then heard a familiar little melody embedded within it and stepped back a few years to Haydn.

Once it was finished I stretched my listening capabilities to hear what the French compere was saying and it was definitely Mozart. Not too bad a guessing process.