So the election results are well and truly in, and now we in Israel wait with bated breath to discover what Macchiavellian schemes Bibi is planning to ensure that he ends up with a workable majority coalition in which none of his coalition partners have any real power and he is able to advance his own private agenda unimpeded. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, Bernice and I wait with bated breath to discover whether Micha’el and family will arrive in Israel safe and sound this week. Watch another bit of this space.

All of which means that I am free this week to write about something of no consequence whatsoever. The only trouble is that my head is full of speculation about the makeup of the coalition and the allocation of the various government ministries. At the same time, it is full of wondering and worrying about the myriad things that could go wrong in Portugal and prevent the family arriving. All of that leaves me with very little mental capacity for thinking about a light and trivial topic for this week’s post. Those of you who have seen me over the last few days may have found me unusually preoccupied, The fact is that in four days of hard thinking I have drawn a complete blank.

Well, not exactly a complete blank: I did toy briefly with the idea of writing about coincidence, which I believe I have touched on before. The fact is that I have encountered two coincidences in the last two days – which you must admit is a bit of a coincidence. Did you know that Richard Owen coined the word ‘dinosaur’ in 1841? It means ‘terrible lizard’, which is a pity, becaue dinosaurs, we now know, were not related to lizards, but there you go. I learnt about Owen in Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, which I was reading over Shabbat.

A couple of hours later, I was reading the latest edition of the Jewish Review of Books.(Technically, this is not the latest edition, but, in fact, the Spring 2022 edition; however, since the magazine takes time to reach my mailbox from the States by snail mail, and since I am habitually one edition behind in my reading, it’s my latest edition.) Anyway, in this, of all unlikely periodicals, I read a reference to the fact that Richard Owen coined the term ‘dinosaur’, which, as you are aware, I knew already.

Then, this afternoon, I was due to call my brother for our weekly chat. So as not to disturtb Bernice, Esther and the sleeping Raphael, and since the weather was a delightful 25^o, I went out into Esther and Maayan’s garden. Finding a hammock in the shade of their treehouse, I eased myself onto it, displaying an agility I was not at all sure I still possessed, and settled down for a relaxing chat. (Unfortunately, when it came to dismounting from the hammock 30 minutes later, much of that agility seemed to have deserted me – but that’s a different story.) Life, at this point, felt pretty good. When I got through to Martin, he told me that his flowerbeds were starting to form pools of water after a night and day of ceaseless rain. At that point, I decided it would be kindest not to mention my precise, almost idyllic, location.

Now, I reckon I lie in a hammock, on average, once every, oooh, seventy years. So I was more than a little surprised when Martin, whose younger son’s birthday it was that day, described the card they had sent him; it apparently featured a man relaxing in a hammock. Not exactly The Twilight Zone, I know, but nevertheless….

However, in the end I decided that I had no idea what to make of these coincidences: what lessons to draw from them; what light they shed on the nature of human existence. So, I’ll leave them to one side and talk instead about nuts naked and dressed.

It seems to me that over the years it has become more difficult to find nuts (both tree-nuts and peanuts) sold in their shells. Before we go any further, let me clarify my terms. I will use the adjective ‘shelled’ to mean ‘having been shelled’, in other words ‘with their shells removed’. I will, similarly (by which of course I mean ‘oppositely’) use the term ‘unshelled’ to mean ‘having not been shelled’ in other words ‘still in their shells’. I do realise that one could make a strong case for the opposite meaning: ‘shelled’ could be used to mean ‘having a shell’ (as in ‘a shelled crab’) and ‘unshelled’ to mean ‘not having a shell’. It has long struck me as one of the minor delights of English that it boasts a number of such terms that lend themselves so delightfully to ambiguity.

As I was saying, it has become more difficult to find unshelled nuts. I suspect this is a question of catering to the perceived preference of the consumer. Well, let me tell you, the producers and retailers have misperceived the preference of this particular consumer. As far as I am concerned, shelling nuts is not only one of life’s hitherto unsung pleasures; it also has health and economic benefits. Anyone who has to crack a walnut, hazelnut or brazil before eating it is guaranteed to end up eating fewer nuts, which both saves money and, since nuts are criminally moreish, guards against over-indulgence.

However, these indirect benefits are not, for me, the main point. The simple fact is that I find shelling nuts an extraordinarily satisfying experience. First, there is the protracted search for the elusive perfect nutcracker. In my callow youth, I was seduced by a variety of gadgets, most notably the wooden straight-sided small bowl, with a threaded wooden bolt running across its centre. You placed a nut between the bolt and side of the bowl, then turned the bolt by means of a wooden handle outside the bowl.

On paper, this device ticks lots of boxes. It is a simple, basic technology, elegantly packaged in natural material, Unfortunately, in too short a time, it proved to be not a device for cracking nuts, but a device to be cracked by nuts. Eventually, the cracker met a nut tougher than itself, and it was the side of the bowl that cracked under the pressure, and not the nut.

Even before then, this nutcracker proved unsatsfactory. The mechanism placed too much machinery beween the operator’s hand and the nutshell. I found that all sensitivity was lost and it was extremely difficult to move beyond the point of the first crack in the shell without reaching the point of rupturing the shell and crushing the nut.

The wisdom of age has taught me that nothing can match the sensitivity, strength and simplicity of the pincer design. With a good nutcracker of this kind, I can control the amount of pressure, and release it in an instant, enabling me to repeatedly crack the shell in several places and allowing me eventually to lift the pieces of shell away, leaving a perfect, whole, unblemished nut.

Such is my love of the pursuit of the perfect shelling that I am happy to spend a couple of hours shelling nuts for the whole family. If you share my enthusiasm for eating nuts, but get no pleasure from shelling them, I am available for small intimate gatherings as a service to friends. (Oranges, pomelos and mangoes also peeled.)

Meanwhile, as of the time of writing, the kids in Portugal have reached Lisbon, where they are staying overnight prior to their flight.

P.S. The kids took off a bit late, and landed a bit early, and arrived at our doorstep, weary but well. The parents, who haven’t slept since Heaven knows when, have both crashed, which means Bernice and I have full unmonitored access. Excuse me while I just turn a cartwheel or two in relief and joy.

P.P.S. Bibi’s machinations have begun, but not ended. Wiser heads than mine have counselled waiting and seeing, and accepting that, part of the social contract when you live in a democracy is that you have to accept that the people decide. I may reflect more on this later…or I may not, if something more urgent comes up, such as a revolutionary new method of shelling nuts, for example.

As Bernice set off for coffee with a friend last week, I found myself marvelling, not for the first time, that she is able to maintain so many friendships, and that she is happy to invest time and effort in nurturing them. I reckon that life is considerably simpler if you can count your friends on the fingers of one hand…and that preferably a hand belonging to a sloth.

When I first thought of a subject for today’s post, I initially rejected it, for the obvious reason, but then realised that I should embrace it, for the same reason: after I publish it, and you read it, I will probably lose a number of friends. Besides, I find that I really cannot bring myself to write about anything else on this of all days, and so, I present… my take on the Israeli general election (for which the polls opened less than two hours before the publication time of this post).

It goes without saying that this is just my personal view: a view, I must add, that is offered with the caveat that I have never taken as much interest in politics, or involved myself in the political life of the country, as a responsible citizen living in a democracy should. Quite apart from any disagreement you may have with my beliefs or conclusions, you may well take issue with my representation of the facts.

Please feel free to respond – although I hope that we can keep any discussion in the Comments way above the gutter level of the Comments usually offered on political issues in the Times of London. Please also bear in mind that by the time you give me the benefit of your political wisdom, I will already have cast my vote, and I may not have another opportunity to exercise that right for, oooh, maybe as much as six months!

Just a very quick background for anyone not overly familiar with the Israeli system. It is a nationwide closed-list proportional representation system, with, this time round, 20 parties submitting lists of candidates to compete for the 120 seats. Any party (or alliance of parties) that gains less than 3.25% of the vote (representing, in effect, 4 members) sends no members to the Knesset.

Percentage turnout remained in the high 70s until 2003. Over the last four elections (held over a period of less than three years!), turnout averaged just under 70%. None of these elections produced a result that allowed a long-term viable coalition government to be formed. Now read on.

How does one (or, rather, how do I) pick a winner from a field of 20 parties? This is a multi-step process. The first three steps are, for me, always the same, regardless of the specific parties running in any given election.

Step 1: Eliminate the parties that are too far out there for me to relate to. (Ed. Note: It’s my process, and I get to decide what constitutes too far out there – for me.) This time round, these include Fiery Youth, a party led by a 20-year-old protest candidate known for TikTok videos.

Step 2: Eliminate the parties that I judge will not reach the electoral threshold. I know that this is a difficult step to defend as set policy:  if everybody who didn’t vote for Party X because they didn’t think it would reach the threshold voted for Party X, it would reach the threshold. This step is made easier for me because I have yet to encounter a party that I do not think will reach the threshold and whose policies I very closely and strongly identify with.

Step 3: Eliminate the parties that I believe represent exclusively a specific consistuency, at the expense of other constituencies, and whose constituency I do not consider myself a core member of.

These three steps, this time round, eliminated 13 of the parties. (You might want to amuse yourself by guessing which parties those are.) The remaining steps address the particular circumstances of this specific election.

For me, the blight over this election, as he was over the previous four, is Bibi. This time around, there are two clear issues around Bibi. The first is that I believe, in the current political, security, social and economic situation, the healthiest way forward for the country would be as broad a coalition of parties as possible. The last year has shown that this is not an impossible dream, although, given the slenderness of the last coalition’s majority, and the size of some MK’s egos, the last government proved unsustainable in the long term.

Unfortunately, there is no chance of a coalition including all of the largest parties because none of the centre-left and left parties will contemplate joining a coalition with a Likud party led by Bibi. Since Bibi has spent his entire time at the helm of Likud stifling any potential successor, the party has no charismatic candidate for successor, and all of those in positions of influence in the party are Bibi yes-men (and yes-women).

If the election results in a government coalition led by right-wing Likud and including (as it would) the extreme right-wing Religious Zionism alliance led by Bezalel Smotrich and Itamar Ben-Gvir, then it seems clear that Bibi will further his personal agenda. The first item on that agenda is to make the criminal case against him go away, by passing legislation outlawing such cases against a sitting Prime Minister. The second, and, in my eyes, even more worrying, item is to increase executive power, by passing legislation such that if the Supreme Court blocks any Government legislation, the Knesset will have the power to ‘reject’ the Supreme Court’s decision by a simple majority of 61 votes. That seems to me a move that would seriously endanger Israel’s democracy, by removing one of the pillars of the principle of checks and balances.

On a personal note, Esther and her wife, Maayan, are currently jumping through the many, many bureaucratic hoops set by the Government to enable Maayan to be formally recognised as the adoptive parent of Raphael, to whom Esther gave birth seven months ago. Last week, they were warned by their lawyer that, if a right-wing coalition is formed, the process is liable to become even more difficult, protracted, unsympathetic and obstuctionist. The religious right-wing parties’ hatred of the LGBTQ community is no secret.

All of which explains why I will not be voting for Likud or Religious Zionism.

For those of you who are still reading, the next step is a bit painful. At one point, I greatly admired centre-right Ayelet Shaked, for her work as Justice Minister. However, she seems to have demonstrated a lack of the political awareness that a leader needs, and to have become very leaden in the last months. She has, I’m afraid, lost my confidence.

This leaves five parties, which can be described broadly as left and centre. As will be clear, if I don’t want a Likud-led coalition, the only alternative is a centrist-Yesh-Atid-led coalition. It is possible to argue long into the night as to where I should place my vote for it to be most effective in ensuring the outcome I want. Until I few days ago, I considered voting for centrist National Unity, believing (or perhaps only hoping) that, if Benny Gantz flipped again and joined a right-wing coalition, he would be a moderating force within that coalition. This belief probably represents the triumph of optimism over experience.

In the end, however, I decided to keep things simple. If I want Yair Lapid to have as strong a coalition as possible, then the best foundation to that is to have a Yesh Atid that is as strong as possible. I honestly believe that, in the Israel of 2022, the most pressing problems that Israel faces, at home and abroad, can best be addressed by a left-leaning, centrist, broad-based Government.

As Sherlock Holmes almost said: ‘When you have eliminated all which is unacceptable, then whatever remains, however unexpected, must be the best solution.’

If, against all odds, that is what I wake up to on Wednesday morning, then perhaps it will be followed fairly soon by the Likud Knesset rank and file finally showing some backbone and forcing Bibi to retire. I do, of course, acknowledge that a far more likely outcome is a right-wing coalition led by Bibi (my personal bet is a coalition bloc of 63 members), and then I do fear for the country’s short-term future. This, I suppose, means that, astonishingly, a hung Knesset and the prospect of another election in a few months doesn’t look like the worst result.

As I pointed out to someone last week, every time we have an indecisive election result, it at least pushes us a little closer to deciding that the electoral system itself needs to be revised, which may be the only long-term path out of this chronic stalemate. The discussion as to what form that revision should take will have to wait for another time.

To the four of you still reading, I thank you for your perseverance, and promise you (God willing) something considerably more upbeat next week!

Meanwhile, we can at least end on a positive note. Raphael can’t decide where to put his cross, but he has at least put down lots of noughts.

And so we leave the frenetic holiday season and settle into the long haul until Chanukah. (Actually, I’ve just checked on the calendar, and that unbelievably long stretch of nothing appears to be just nine weeks! I’m sure it was longer in my youth.)

One of the last flourishes of the festival season on Shmini Atzeret/Simchat Torah is the prayer for rain. Although fairly short, this prayer is charged with significance. As an indication of the seriousness with which we are asking for God’s favourable judgement regarding rain for the coming year, the chazzan leading the prayer wears a kittel, the white cotton or linen robe worn on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur,

In a world where few of us are farmers, it is easy to underestimate the significance of rain, in the appropriate season and in the appropriate quantities, for an agricultural society. However, in 2022, when we are being warned that events in the Ukraine may lead to a world grain shortage, the potential impact of crop failure may soon be brought home to us.

The immediate effect of saying the prayer for rain is that we change the relevant one-line addition to the amida prayer that we say three times daily from ‘He causes the dew to fall’ to ‘He makes the wind blow and the rain fall’. You might expect that a reasonably intelligent human being would be able to make this switch without too much difficulty. However, the cumulative effect of reciting the summer formula three times daily, day in, day out, for the previous six months, embarrassingly often means that people make a mistake.

As the days go on, the mistakes (one hopes) become rarer; there is usually a point where you switch from being fairly sure you used the wrong formula to being completely unsure which formula you used (probably the most humiliating state), and then, some time later, being fairly confident you used the right formula. Of course, if one always recited the Amida with full mindfulness and intent, and if one always read every word from the prayer book, one would be much less likely to slip, but…

(Ed Note: Perceptive readers will have realised that, in the previous paragraphs, ‘people’, ‘you’ and ”one’ are all euphemisms for ‘me’, ‘myself’ and ‘I’.)

The change in our prayers is utterly dependable. However, in Israel, the change in the weather is considerably less so. This year has been, in this sense, immensely satisfying. In the days following Simchat Torah, we have been blessed – even in edge-of-the-desert Maale Adumim – with rain. Those of us who were sufficiently on the ball to take down our sukka (or at least the decorations) soon after the festival managed to beat the rain, at least here, which made me, for one, feel very smug.

This is, incidentally, quite separate from the smugness I feel because I don’t actually have anything much in the way of a sukka to take down. Our sukka is defined by three sturdy and permanent walls and our pergola roof. Decorations are about all I have to put up and take down, apart from a straightforward symbolic removal and immediate replacement of a few pergola slats to represent placing the schach (roof covering.

The initial rain was a drop or two, nothing more. Then, on Thursday evening, just as Bernice and I were finishing supper outside in our backyard, I felt a drop of rain on my arm. This was followed by a long minute when Bernice was not fully convinced that the drop was no more than hallucination on my part – and, to be honest, even I was starting to have my doubts – but then there were a couple more drops. We decided a move inside would be judicious and, not long after we had cleared up, we had several minutes of light rain, even accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder, but no lightning.

It rained on and off through the night, with, this time, thunder and lightning, allowing me to calculate that the centre of the storm was nine miles away. What an excellent investment my copy of the Schoolboy’s Pocket Book was in 1961. Of course some of its information is now out of date: it still lists the Commonwealth’s monarch as Elizabeth, for example.

However, much of its information is still jolly useful for all sorts of projects: I find it hard to imagine, for example, going through life without knowing that the bending allowance for a metal sheet with an S.W.G. of 22 and a 1/16 inch rad. is 0.115. (Don’t write to ask me – I have no idea. And don’t write to tell me – I have no interest.) Suffice to say that if you ever need to know the frequency in Mc/s at which the BBC broadcast radio from Crystal Palace, or the system used for numbering steam engines on the Southern Region railway, I’m your man! But I digress.

For someone who lives in Manchester (or even Seattle), it is not easy to explain the impact of this first rain of the winter in Israel. It has its own name – yoreh – and, indeed, it seems to have its own ‘green’ smell as it freshens the plants in the garden. It is usually gentle, short-lived, temperate (where our mid-winter rains, even in Maale Adumim, can be skin-tinglingly, bone-chillingly icy, driven almost horizontal by fierce winds, and sometimes falling as stinging sleet or hail). It feels absolutely like the blessing that we pray for, holding, as it does, the promise – albeit not always fulfilled – of rain in its season throughout the winter and a good harvest next summer.

Our only personal skin in this game is a small garden of mostly green plants with an automatic drip-irrigation system and four trees – a loquat, a lemon, and small peach and necatrine (which last two yield only about 25 fruits between them). At a push you can count the synthetic grass, since it also looks considerably perkier after the rain. However, even for us, seeing, hearing and smelling the yoreh is deeply fulfilling.

Here I should pause to apologise to Micha’el and the family in Portugal. When I wrote on our family WhatsApp group on Thursday evening with the exciting news about our first rain, Esther chipped in enthusiastically from Zichron where it had also just started raining. The following morning, Micha’el informed us that Penamacor was on its third day of non-stop rain. As we say in the prayer for rain: ‘For a blessing and not for a curse.’

The rain (in its season) is only one aspect of the natural cycle of the year that is so central to Jewish liturgy and religious practice. This last shabbat we announced the new moon that will be born (as the Hebrew has it) on Tuesday morning, shortly after this post is due to be published. Growing up traditional but not observant in Britain, I admit to having had no idea when the new moon fell. Nor did I ever realise that the moon rose in different parts of the sky and at different hours, at different times of year. I never even noticed that the orientation of the crescent of the moon towards the beginning and end of each lunar month was different at different times of year.

I have just checked, and even my Schoolboy’s Pocket Book completely ignores this topic. (I think I shall ask for my money back.) All I will say in my defence is that, growing up in suburban Ilford, not much of the sky close to the horizon was visible. Of course, in the words of the music-hall song, ‘Wiv a ladder and some glasses, you could see to ‘Ackney Marshes, if it wasn’t for the ‘ouses in-between.’

Now, of course, we live in a city that offers unrestricted views over the Judean desert toward the Dead Sea, and, in the other direction, indeed from the window of the room where I am typing this, a view of the hills between us and Jerusalem, eight miles away. In Maale Adumim, and living a life more in harmony with the rhythms of the natural world, nature seems very much more immediate than it ever did in Ilford.

Meanwhile, in rainswept Penamacor, the brothers are keeping each other’s spirits up, despite being confined indoors with the sniffles.

51 weeks ago, I offered you A Healthy Portion of Salmagundi, being a ragbag of odds and ends. I find myself having to resort to the same cheap trick today. I thought the least I could do is find a different dish this time, and so I offer you a gallimaufry.

What a gallimaufry is is a hash of various kinds of meat, and what this post threatens to be is a hash of a number of stray thoughts that, despite several trawls of a brain addled by 25 hours of Shmini Atzeret/Simchat Torah, are all that I can manage to dredge up. I apologise in advance for the lack of internal cohesion – and possibly interest – but the fact remains that some weeks this blog virtually writes itself, and other times it….doesn’t.

Incidentally, my research suggests that the probable etymology of ‘gallimaufry’ is the Old French ‘galer’, meaning ‘to have fun’ or ‘to enjoy oneself’ and the Old Northern French (or Picard) for ‘to eat gluttonously’. (Presumably, Picard was the language spoken in the region of France where the First World War Battle of the Somme was fought and, more felicitously, where roses are blooming.)

Let’s tuck in, starting with Simchat Torah. I speak here only for myself, of course. The idea that the Torah can make me joyous is one that I can certainly understand. The idea that I would be led to express that joy by dancing with the scrolls is one that I personally find I cannot connect with. The 19^th-Century Anglo-Jewish artist Solomon Alexander Hart portrayed The Feast of the Rejoicing of the Law at the Synagogue in Leghorn, Italy. I present his painting here as evidence that I am not alone in finding it difficult to summon the requisite joy. Perhaps I should find an Italian shul to go to on Simchat Torah.

Clearly the Italian tradition is rather different from the (presumably Spanish-Portuguese) that Samuel Pepys witnessed when he had the (mis)fortune to visit a synagogue on (of all days) Simchat Torah. I quote from his diary entry for Wednesday, 14 October, 1663 (in case you were wondering when Simchat Torah fell outside Israel in that year).

And anon their Laws that they take out of the press are carried by several men, four or five several burthens in all, and they do relieve one another; and whether it is that every one desires to have the carrying of it, I cannot tell, thus they carried it round about the room while such a service is singing. But, Lord! to see the disorder, laughing, sporting, and no attention, but confusion in all their service, more like brutes than people knowing the true God, would make a man forswear ever seeing them more and indeed I never did see so much, or could have imagined there had been any religion in the whole world so absurdly performed as this.

Many would argue that Simchat Torah is a festival primarily for the children. When I was a young father, I certainly played the part. (But it was always conscious and self-conscious; any joy that I felt was in seeing the children’s excitement and in feeling a part of the community; none of it really had much, if anything, to do with the Torah.) These days, I choose to make a very early and, I always hope, discreet, exit from the festivities, and sit upstairs in the (appropriately named) sanctuary, reading one or other of various commentaries on the Torah.

This year I read a number of the refreshingly short chapters in Rabbi Sacks and the Community We Built Together, a tribute collection to Rabbi Sacks z”l in which some one hundred rabbis and other members of the Anglo-Jewish community who knew him professionally and personally share teachings of Rabbi Sacks that speak to them, and record their appreciation of him. The contributors range from dayanim to the publishing manager of Rabbi Sacks’ prayer book for children and one of the Rabbi’s protection officers.

As is almost always the case when I study Rabbi Sacks’ insights into Judaism and Torah, there were one or two moments yesterday when I did indeed feel joy at the truth and resonant clarity of his insights. What also comes through powerfully from this collection is Rabbi Sacks’ extraordinary ability to connect warmly with a very wide range of people. Not for the first time did I find myself wishing that I could take on board not only more of his extraordinary teachings, but also more of his humanity.

Before and after the chag, I have been busy preparing for our shul’s annual general meeting tomorrow night, which I have reluctantly agreed to chair, and which will see us appoint chairman and board for the next year. Reflecting on that, I thought about writing this week about leadership struggles, what with the ongoing fiasco that is the Conservative Government in Britain, and the relentlessly acrimonious and cynical Israeli election campaign, which is entering its final two weeks before the November 1 general election.

However, even in my wildest fantasies I don’t rate myself as a political commentator. Let me simply say that it seems to me that in Britain as in Israel, the standard of national political debate and leadership has shown a steady decline in the last 20 years. It is not easy for me to see a way back from the current abysmally low state of discourse in either country. In comparison, our shul seems a model of functioning democracy.

Moving swiftly on: when I bought a macchinetta in Madrid, it did not occur to me that I would be able to use it on chag. Then, when Esther and Maayan were here on Rosh Hashana, they found that the electric hotplate we use on shabbat and chag was hot enough to boil the water in the macchinetta. So, my Sukkot was enhanced by fresh coffee. All that is required is the foresight to grind a sufficient quantity of beans before the chag, and to remember to put the macchinetta on the hotplate sufficiently early, before it is extinguished by the timeswitch.

That certainly sounds easy as I write it here. In fact, I am very proud to say that so far I have remembered every time to grind the coffee before chag, and have a 50% success rate with timing the actual heating. Now, all I need to do is to find a rabbi who will agree that I can perform the same trick on shabbat.

It appears that not only is this week’s dish a gallimaufry, but it is also one influenced by cuisine minceur, being served in a noticeably smaller portion than usual. I vow to make every effort to offer a full-size helping next week.

I can at least offer you two photos. Raphael reached another milestone this week: he is now seven months old. He has recently mastered sitting up, although he still seems to be even happier lying down.

Three weeks ago, I invited you to accompany me on the first three days of our stay in Madrid. You left us recovering on the coach after a half-day trip to Toledo on the Wednesday. I know that some of you have hardly been able to sleep, waiting for the other shoe to drop. So today, as a public service, I bring you another day and a half in the Spanish capital.

Having reached the tranquillity of our hotel room, there was just time to shower and change, and coo over some photos Micha’el had sent of the new baby (who, it now seems almost inconceivable, had, at this stage, no name that we were aware of) before walking again to the kosher hoomusiya (which is actually a level or two above a plain and simple hoomusiya). We arrived a couple of minutes before the restaurant opened and struck up a conversation with an Israeli woman in her thirties who was also waiting for opening time.

She was, at that stage, two months into a trimester in Spain, in connection with her post-doctoral research into the relationship between the Jewish communities of Iberia and the authorities in the period before the Expulsion. She was very much enjoying the wealth of archive material that she was able to study first-hand, while at the same time she was clearly missing speaking Hebrew, being in Israel, and, she had been amazed to discover, cooking. We invited her to eat with us, and spent an enjoyable evening gaining insight into such topics as the Spanish academic work ethic (‘Come in to the office at 9’ is apparently Spanish for ‘Someone else may possibly arrive before 10’) and the local Jewish community (very warm and welcoming).

Having checked how far our hotel was from the synagogue, and having decided that a walk of that length in Shabbat clothes in 43^o heat was out of the question, we had already decided that we would spend Shabbat in the hotel. In fact, since the hotel corridor featured motion-sensitive lighting, we had realised by this stage that we would be trapped in our hotel room for the whole of Shabbat.

To put that into context: we would be confined to a spacious air-conditioned apartment with a kitchen, a sofa and armchair, and a view of the city, and would be completely deprived of walking around in the searing heat, unable to carry with us a bottle of water or to buy one. Since we had by this stage (in the 3 days since landing in Madrid) walked 50,000 steps, we reckoned we would be ready for a relaxing Shabbat by Friday evening.

So, before settling our bill at the end of another delicious meal, we ordered some hummus, felafel and pitot ‘to go’. Armed with these contributions to our Shabbat table, we parted from our unplanned dining companion and set off at a gentle pace for our hotel room, air conditioning, and a comfortable bed.

The following morning (Thursday), after breakfast we walked to the Prado Museum, for which we had booked tickets online. We had actually tried to visit on Tuesday afternoon, after I had discovered that there is free admission for the last two hours of visiting every day. This seemed like a good idea at the time. However, when we arrived at the museum two hours before closing time, we discovered that we were, astonishingly, in the height of summer, at the 13^th most visited museum in the world, not the only cheapskates in town. It took us five minutes to walk to the back of the queue, which snaked round two sides of the museum and around the adjacent park.

After a few minutes waiting in the still fierce sunshine, and having calculated that, since only a limited number of queuers were let in every 15 minutes, we would probably not reach the front of the queue before closing time, we decided to bite the bullet and book a mid-morning timeslot as paying customers. Incidentally, as senior citizens, we enjoyed a healthy discount.

This gave me the time to do my homework online on Tuesday evening, which involved as a first step locating a map of the Prado, which I asked the clerk at reception to print out. (This has long been one of my measures of the quality of a hotel’s service. Over the years, reactions have ranged from ‘Yes, of course!’, through ‘I’m really not sure. I’ll have to check’ to ‘I’m afraid that we have no facility to do that’ to ‘No’.) On this occasion, I was delighted to get a ‘Yes, of course’.

Further online research involved a comparison of a few sites listing the 8/12/15/20 ‘must see’ paintings in the Prado, and the selection of the 12 most frequently cited ones. All I then needed to do was mark on my map the locations of the 12 paintings, plan a route through the museum (taking note, of course, of the location of public toilets) and read up enough about each painting to be able to amaze Bernice with my erudition.

In the event, we hired excellent audio guides, and enjoyed a wonderful and uplifting two-and-a-half hours in the museum. From the moment you begin the ascent of the grand staircase that leads to the entrance, the building’s scale and classical architecture help to put you in the right frame of mind for a stroll past some of the greatest artworks ever created. The measured admissions every 15 minutes ensure that there is never too much of a crowd around any one painting, and walking through the high-ceilinged colonnaded galleries is a pleasure in itself.

As for the artworks, they are for the most part the Royal Spanish collection. Not only does the museum boast, unsurprisingly, the most comprehensive and finest single collection of Spanish art in the world; it also, largely because of Velasquez’ stature and influence among his contemporaries, boasts the finest collection of Italian classical art outside Italy. For me, it was an experience like reading the King James Bible or watching Shakespeare: as we made our way from one of our featured paintings to the next one, we would find ourselves time and again passing at least one masterpiece that we immediately recognised. Like the National Gallery in London, the Prado is full of the pictorial equivalent of famous quotes.

None of the paintings that I had selected disappointed either of us, and several of them were thrilling. The brilliantly intriguing composition of Velazquez’ Las Meninas I found magnificent, especially since, I am ashamed to say, it was not a painting I had previously known other than very sketchily. Here, the audio guide was particularly enlightening. Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights and Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son, on the other hand, felt like old friends, although, as always, seeing the real thing after so many reproductions and interpretations was a slightly surreal experience.

If you ever visit the Prado, I recommend taking the lift to Gallery 11B. Once you are in the lift, make sure you are standing facing the lift doors, since, as they open, you will be overwhelmed by the painting on the opposite wall: the huge, sumptuous expanse (almost three metres tall and over nine metres(!) wide) of The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist and Herod’s Banquet by the Silesian artist Bartholomeus Strobel. This glorious feast of composition, with its richness of detail, is a painting whose every mini-grouping vies for your attention.

Your eye is probably drawn first to the dazzlingly lit female figure left of centre near the end of the table, with her elaborately pouffed hairstyle. You may then notice the partly mirroring female figure of Salome right of centre, carrying the tray with the grey head of John the Baptist. From there you may be drawn to the turbaned Herod at the head of the table, shying away from the disembodied head. It will probably be some time before you look to the right of the column that isolates the right-hand edge of the painting; in that corner, the executioner poses, with an ugly grin, over the blood-drained headless corpse.

Wherever you look, there are tiny points of interest: a few of the 80 or so figures portrayed stare straight at you, some in unabashed innocence, others in curiosity, a few in sneering disdain; a lapdog poses on its hind legs; a richly-bearded figure reaches forward to remove a cloth covering the platters of fruit on a side-table. On almost every figure there is an embarrassment of richness of highly-decorated cloth. It is indeed a banquet, not only for Herod, but also for our eyes.

Feeling suitably sated, we left the Prado, and, just outside, caught a tour bus, which took us on a 90-minute circular route with an audio commentary that was clearly controlled by GPS, so that the correct piece of commentary started playing whenever the bus approached a site. Unfortunately, the traffic was, presumably, not quite as heavy as expected, with the unfortunate result that repeatedly a commentary would be cut short and the recording would jump to the next segment. Despite this rather disorientating and disconcerting fact, the tour was informative and enjoyable. (By this stage, anything that involved a seat was automatically enjoyable.)

We then walked back to the hotel. When we had walked this route previously, we had passed the Madrid City Council Debating Chamber, where a television outside broadcast unit was setting up, and a few police vans were parked. On this occasion, we had to make our way through the dispersing crowds from a demonstration outside the chamber.

I snapped a couple of pictures of the ubiquitous tee-shirts and banners of the demonstrators, and, when we were back in our hotel room, a couple of minutes with Google and Google Translate were enough to establish that the CCOO, the Spanish communist trade union federation, was demonstrating against what it called the plan to destroy the viability of the public mail service. (The slogan sounds punchier in Spanish, I’m sure.)

This was a timely reminder that, however relaxed, fun-loving and 21^st Century Madrid is, it was only in 1977 or 8, a couple of years after Franco’s death, that Spain fully transitioned from a dictatorship to a democracy. The CCOO was, unsurprisingly, banned under Franco, and only relegalised after his death. From a brief conversation with our walking-tour guide, I gained the impression that the political activism of madrileños (the citizens of Madrid) is still coloured by the fact that their parents lived their lives under the repression of Franco, and that Madrid is, not far below the surface, a city that likes to confront authority.

On that note, let’s take a rest, and save our last couple of days in Madrid for another time.

Meanwhile, in Penamacor, it’s good to see that Tao was paying attention to all those nursery rhymes we never tired of reciting, and is putting his knowledge to good use.

If you listen carefully, you may notice that Tao, for whom ‘roast beef’ is a meaningless concept, has vegetarianised it. Personally, I prefer my version, but I’m in a minority in this family.

I was about to comment on how rare it is for me to reference contemporary music. Then I decided that, before I did so, I should just check the publication date of the song I nod at in the title of this week’s post. I hope you’re sitting down: July 1968, which, however you count it, is over 54 years ago. As if I needed depressing even more, Revolution is as far back in history now as Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser was in July 1968. (Incidentally, it’s worth reading the lyrics of this 1914 patriotic war song, to wonder at its light-hearted optimism at the start of World War I, a mood that was so far out of step with both reality and, I believe, the British public at large.)

But I digress…and we find ourselves this week at the exact point in this season in the Jewish year when digression is the one thing we don’t want. As we approach the end of the seven days that carry us from Rosh Hashana to Yom Kippur, from the New Year to the Day of Atonement, what we want is to focus on the matters at hand.

At a Q&A session that we held after morning services in our synagogue last Shabbat, the moderator invited us all to share what resolutions we had made for the New Year. My initial reaction was to reflect that New Year resolutions are surely a non-Jewish phenomenon. (Ed. Note: Actually, that’s not true; my initial reaction was: ‘In your dreams! I’m not sharing my resolutions with anyone!’ – and judging by the number of people who passed, I’m guessing I wasn’t the only person who reacted in that way.)

However, as I listened to the ten or twelve people who were happy to share their resolutions, I started wondering about the whole phenomenon, and I have come to the conclusion that, far from it being a non-Jewish thing, there is something in the whole experience of making and striving to keep resolutions that is quintessentially Jewish.

By way of introduction, let me present some of the resolutions that were voiced on Shabbat. There were several that were specifically related to raising the resolver’s level of Jewish observance: to take on more religious learning; to strive to pray more often in a minyan and not alone. Some were more broadly concerned with general behaviour (although these were also very much in harmony with ideas central to Judaism): to perform more acts of simple charity; to be a better neighbour. Still others were even more general: to find a husband who embodies the qualities I am seeking; to lose 10 kilo.

This was the moment at which I started wondering generally about the whole point of resolutions. When that last resolution was shared, half of those present nodded or grunted acknowledgement, and you could almost hear a general murmur of: ‘Been there! Done that! Repeatedly!’ Discussing this with Bernice afterwards, I was not surprised to hear her reject, for herself, the whole concept of resolutions: either you decide to do something and do it, or you don’t…and don’t. Resolving to do something sets up an entire extra unnecessary layer, that adds nothing.

There is a level at which I agree with Bernice. I certainly remember vividly a decade or more of resolving to give up smoking, and either never getting any further than the resolution, or making a half-hearted attempt, which fizzled out within a day or two. Then, one day, with no specific trigger, I woke up and decided not that I was going to stop smoking but that I had stopped smoking, and, lo and behold, I had. Since then, I have always maintained that stopping smoking is the easiest thing in the world; you just have to want to.

And yet…At another level, I believe that there is a genuine significance in making resolutions. A resolution is a declaration that we make to ourselves (and, if we choose to, to others, but that is not the important part) that we are going to change. The act of making that declaration is an affirmation that we have the power and ability to change. That is a profound affirmation.

There is a famous Victorian Christian hymn – All Things Bright and Beautiful – written by the Anglo-Irish Cecil Frances Alexander. She was tireless in her charitable work for the deaf and dumb, the poor and the sick. There is a verse in the hymn that was subsequently rejected by the Church, and omitted from standard hymnbooks. The verse reads:

The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them high and lowly,
And ordered their estate.

This explicit endorsement of the class system, elevating it to the level of Divine will, is certainly alien to Judaism. Blind acceptance of one’s fate is not the Jewish way. The resounding message of this period of the year is that every person’s fate is in his own hands. If we genuinely repent our sins, then God will gladly accept our repentance. Repentance, prayer and charity, we declare in the High Holyday liturgy, avert the evil decree.

On Yom Kippur itself, most people that I know, whether they are traditionally religious or not, to a greater or a lesser degree, step back from their everyday life and make for themselves a space where they can reflect on the place that they are in. Speaking personally, in a ‘good’ year, where I feel I have been able to make that space and experience that reflection, I find myself, at the end of Yom Kippur, feeling that I can indeed work to become a better person in this new year.

For those of us who lack the strength of character of Bernice, or at least for myself, the act of making a resolution can help to sustain that feeling over the coming days, as the pressures of everyday life rush back in, and I feel the spiritual force that I experienced on Yom Kippur dissipating. A resolution translates the general feeling of ‘wanting to do better’ into a specific action item to be carried out. It also, as I stated above, affirms my belief that I can change.

I could make the argument that making a resolution only to fail to carry it out is a waste of time, and is merely an opportunity to make myself aware of my inadequacies. As the congregant said last shabbat: ‘My resolution is the same resolution I make every year – to lose 10 kilo.’ You could see that as just a repeated failure, and even as satisfying what was apparently not Einstein’s definition: ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.’

However, I would argue that if, every year, we reach the point after Yom Kippur where our faith in our ability to change is renewed, where we have shed our cynicism and our despair, and where we genuinely believe that this year we can indeed become a better person, then that is something to be celebrated rather than mocked. Regardless of whether we succeed in converting the resolution into life-changing action, the mere act of faith contained in the resolution is a thing of value. I say we want a resolution!

Raphael, meanwhile, seems untroubled by the awesomeness of the period we are currently going through.

Housekeeping: Because of Rosh Hashana, this post has winged its way to you on Wednesday, not Tuesday. Please adjust your minds accordingly. Thank you.

By the time you read this, Roger Federer will have retired from the world of professional tennis. That marks the official end of two separate eras. The first is, obviously, his own career, which began over 24 years ago on July 6, 1998. The second, equally obviously, and perhaps more momentously, is the era of rivalry between Federer, Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic, which had its origins in 2004, when Rafa first played Roger, but became a three-way contest in 2006, when Novak first played both Roger and Rafa.

Now that we are finally here, the GOAT (Greatest of All Time) discussions over dinner, in the media, or in the pub, have been revived with a vengeance. What characterises these discussions is that they are never resolved to everyone’s satisfaction; indeed, nobody is ever persuaded to change their mind. And I think I know the reason why.

But before we get to that, I need to clarify my position. For a very long time (too long, I now admit), I remained loyal to Rod Laver, who got my vote for several reasons. Here are three of my favourites. One: he changed the game, with his aggression in situations where previous players had chosen defence. For example, he ‘invented’ the backhand top-spin passing shot from a running backwards position, where everyone else threw up a lob. Two: he developed an extraordinary physique – his left wrist was measured at 7 inches in circumference, an inch more than his right, and his left forearm at 12 inches, 1½ inches more than his right. Three: when he was playing his worst, he was still incredibly difficult to beat.

More significantly, he dominated the game, winning 198 singles titles over his career (the Open Era record is held by John McEnroe, with 158), winning 10 or more titles every year for 7 consecutive years, and 11 Grand Slam titles (in a career that saw him ineligible for 20 consecutive Grand Slams in the 5 years after he turned pro and before the Open era). He also won the calendar Grand Slam twice, including being the only man to do so in the Open era.

The one fly in this ointment is that for much of his amateur career he was not competing against the best players in the game, because they had already turned pro. When he first turned pro, he had a season where he was outclassed. It is, of course, impossible to know how many of his amateur titles he would have won if he had been competing against Hoad and Rosewall.

The other immense difficulty in deciding GOAT is, of course, the challenge of comparing men who did not compete in the same era. Racket, ball and shoe technologies, surface developments, advances in sport-science-driven training, monitoring and dietary techniques, all make the task impossible.

And yet: when Andy Murray tried to pressure Djokovic into a GOAT discussion, and Djokovic argued that inter-era comparisons were impossible, Murray’s response was that all three contenders for GOAT played, indeed were still playing, in the same era. If Andy Murray says that, who am I to argue with him, even if I do have one more metal hip than he does.

So, there it is. Which of these three is the greatest player of all time? Let me try to shed some light on the discussion. I am sure that when people debate this, and disagree, they are not usually disagreeing about how they rate the individual players, but rather they are disagreeing about what they mean by ‘the greatest of all time’. I believe that there are three basic, very different interpretations of GOAT.

First, imagine that you are James Bond, and you have been captured by an evil mastermind who tells you that he plans to kill you. (Bear with me.) However, he is prepared to give you a fighting chance. He shows you a pack of cards: on each card is written a year, from 2006 to 2021. He shows you another pack, with only 4 cards: one representing each of the four grand slams. He shows you his time machine (keep bearing), which will transport the two of you back in time. He explains that you will draw from the two packs, while blindfolded, a year card and a venue card, and the two of you will travel back to the year you drew, where he will pay a huge amount of money to hire the grand slam venue you drew. On that surface, the player you choose – Roger, Rafa or Novak – will play a five-set match against the highest ranked other player that year.

The catch is that you have to choose your player before you draw, blind, a year and a venue. If the player you chose wins, you live; if he loses, you die. This definition of GOAT boils down to: Who would you choose to play for you if your life depended on it? The only point of my elaboration is that it prevents you saying: ‘Well, Rafa on clay, obviously, and Novak in Australia.’

To help you decide which one of the three is this GOAT, it might be useful to know the Big Three’s head-to-head records against each other, which are as follows:
Djokovic-Nadal 30-29
Nadal-Federer 24-16
Djokovic-Federer 27-23

In grand slams, the stats are:
Nadal-Djokovic 11-7
Nadal-Federer 10-4
Djokovic-Federer 11-6

By this measure, it looks as though Nadal has the strongest claim. However, Nadal’s domination in Paris (8-2 against Djokovic, 6-0 against Federer) skews the stats, and, in addition, there is a strong case to be made for Djokovic’s grand slam stats having been weakened by his ‘forced’ absence from some grand slams in these last COVID years. It is perhaps Djokovic who may just edge out Nadal overall, but Federer doesn’t seem to have a claim.

This ‘If my life depended on it’ definition is the one some people clearly have in mind when they debate the issue. However, for others, the question is completely different. In this scenario, the evil mastermind is a more subtle torturer. He appears to you in 2006 and tells you that he will provide you with front-row seats to watch every match played between then and 2021 by whichever of the three you choose. He also assures you that all three players will be playing well for the entire period. The only snag is that you will not be allowed to watch any other matches at all. Here, clearly, the question is: ‘Which player would I rather watch than any other?’

And here, of course, is where Roger gathers most, if not all, of his votes. His easy grace, his gazelle-like athleticism, his playful delight in the game, his extraordinary hand-eye coordination, his elegant footwork: it is a cliché to call him the Mozart of tennis, but we should always remember that clichés become clichés because they are so obviously and thoroughly accurate. Watching Federer play was never less than utter joy. It is a remarkable fact that Roger, throughout his career, never retired from a match. I think that must be because his natural grace meant that he put far less strain on his body than either of the other two. Tennis, for him, never seemed to be a titanic struggle. My delight at watching him play, and my feeling of being privileged to watch a genius performing, seemed always independent of whether he won or lost. I believe there are people who prefer to watch Nadal or Djokovic, but I cannot understand that preference.

I feel there is also a third definition of greatness, which is in a sense the antithesis of what I have just described. How much sweat is a player prepared to exude, how much blood to lose, how much agony to endure, how much damage to self-inflict, in order to stay in a match? Which of the three would you back if they were all having their worst day? I think that in the last few years, we have seen just how much heart and sheer grit Nadal brings to the game.

So, as you can see, I offer you three GOATs. It all depends, in CEM Joad’s immortal phrase, on what you mean by GOAT. My conclusion is that we are all immeasurably fortunate to have lived in an age, in the age, when there were three contenders – the three contenders – for the title of GOAT playing contemporaneously, and that we really do not have to decide between them.

For me personally, ultimately, what matters most is the enjoyment of watching a great match full of beautiful tennis, regardless of the result, which makes me, I confess, a member of the Roger camp – a fact which will, if nothing else, endear me to my brother- and sister-in-law in England, for whom tennis has just lost most of its meaning, with Federer’s retirement.

Whoever gets your vote, what we all might be able to agree on is that we have been privileged, over the last decade and a half, to enjoy the sporting rivalry GOAT – the greatest sporting rivalry of all time, in any sport, where each of the three contenders raised the game of the other two time and again. Unless, of course, you can think of another as finely balanced, as nuanced in its twists and turns, and as extended. Let the pub debates begin!

Meanwhile, in Penamacor, two brothers sit quietly waiting for the next great sporting rivalry to come along. Sorry, boys, but you really have missed the GOAT!

Housekeeping: Rosh Hashana falls on Monday and Tuesday next week. With regard to the blog, Tuesday will fall on Wednesday, as it were. I know this will confuse some of my readers, and indeed me. I also know that telling you (and me) now is no guarantee that you (or I) will remember when we receive (or indeed send out) the post next Wednesday. However, lacking a qualification in psychology or neurosurgery, there’s a very limited amount I can do to help. I’ll try to remember to remind you next blog-day that Shabbat is one day less far away than you probably think. Now that we’ve clarified that…

I’ve spent most of the last week feeling like Prince Philip. (I thought of making this an interactive post, and asking you to submit guesses as to exactly in what way I felt an affinity with a Greek naval officer who married a foreigner and may occasionally have played away from home. However, time constraints make that impractical, so let me explain.)

Last Tuesday, as Bernice and I were about to go upstairs and shower and change into our glad rags to set off for a wedding that we were actually both very much looking forward to, we decided that, since I felt a bit fluey, it would only be prudent to take an antigen test for COVID. Bernice tested negative, but I passed with flying colours. (I was always better at exams than Bernice.) As a consequence, we missed the wedding, and I have spent the last seven days in isolation.

What this meant in practical terms is that Bernice moved out of our bedroom and started sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. Since then, she has been using the kid’s bathroom and I have been using our en suite. This is a fact whose greater significance we shall return to later. But, for now, you’re still waiting for the Duke of Edinburgh connection.

Well, if you watched the first couple of series of The Crown (and, yes, I do know it’s a work of fiction, thank you, and that, likewise, Richard III never offered his kingdom for a horse, and, if it comes to that, no post mortem revealed ‘Calais’ engraved on Queen Mary I’s heart)…if, as I say, you watched the first season of The Crown, you may remember all of those end-of-a-long-day scenes in which the Queen and Prince Philip were preparing for bed in their separate bedrooms at opposite ends of a corridor and engaging in private conversations over a distance of about 15 meters (or yards, as they still were in those halcyon imperial days).

Well, that, mutatis mutandis, was Bernice and myself. (Incidentally, in our case, the mutandes were the absence of a maiden of the bedchamber in one case and a valet in the other to help with disrobing, and the number of robes that we each needed to dis.)

For the next few days, we more or less avoided each other. I spent a day mostly in bed, then a day mostly on a chair in the bedroom, then a couple of days in our backyard, enjoying the thankfully more temperate weather in the morning and again from the late afternoon. By this time, I was feeling more or less back to normal, except for a stuffy nose. I was very lucky that, even at their worst, my symptoms were very mild, and responded to paracetamol.

During this time, Bernice only came near me at various times throughout the night, when she needed to check that I was still breathing. (This led her, incidentally, to reflect on how small the periods of respite have been when she has been able to enjoy an uninterrupted and full night’s sleep. First, she spent years lying awake at night checking that the kids were breathing when they were young. She then graduated to lying awake at night listening for the sound of one or other of them arriving back home after an evening out as teenagers or young adults. Unreasonably soon after they left home, she had to start lying awake at night again, worrying about whether I was breathing, during one or other of my medical adventures.)

Those of you who know me (or indeed knew my father, z”l, or my brother, or his sons, or my son) will not need to be told that I, on the other hand, am the man whose wife was unable to wake him up when she went into labour with our firstborn. While my nights are no longer completely unbroken, when I am asleep, then I am a-s-l-e-e-p.

This brought us to shabbat, by which time I was feeling considerably better. We agreed that we could risk eating our shabbat meals together. On Friday night, we ate in the backyard, but instead of eating opposite each other across the table, as usual, we sat one at each end of our long garden table, and, it is fair to say, felt the absence of liveried footmen to convey the serving dishes from one end of the table to the other.

By the time shabbat lunch came around, Bernice had been to shul services and discovered that most of our friends were amazed that I was even bothering to isolate. We therefore decided that we could repeat the previous evening’s seating arrangement, but this time in the relative cool of inside, at either end of our long dining table. Still no liveried footmen; but then, good help is so hard to find these days.

Returning to the bathroom arrangements. I have always harboured a low-level rankle about toilet seats. I know that I risk exposing how little like Prince Philip I really am in my lack of chivalry, but it has always seemed to me a little unfair that men are always expected to lower the seat after use, out of consideration for the ladies. What seems to me, in a liberated and feminist world, far more equitable, would be for men to lower the seat after use out of consideration for women, and for women to raise the seat after use out of consideration for men.

I’ve not made an issue of this, and, barring the odd occasion when it slips my mind, I always lower the seat after use. This can niggle a bit through the night, when I end up lowering the seat after use and then, thanks to my prostate, raising it again a short while later, in a pattern that can repeat itself several times through the night, while Bernice sleeps peacefully on (providing I am between periods of medical alert), blissfully unaware of my, ultimately pointless, chivalry.

I really don’t mind this arrangement (you could tell, couldn’t you?), but it has felt wonderfully liberating to be able to leave the seat up for the entirety of the last week with a completely clear conscience.

By the time you read these words, I should be out of isolation and Bernice and I should be reunited, just in time to watch the funeral (sorry, The Funeral) together. Speaking of which, and its ramifications, I found this article by Melanie Phillips about the nature of British constitutional monarchy very interesting. (Author’s Note: If you read the article, please note that while the text of Zadok the Priest has indeed been used at every English coronation since 973 CE, Handel’s setting of the words has only been used since George II’s coronation in 1727.)

And now for someone who’s been around for considerably less time, but who certainly seems to have come a long way in six months. Raphael recently discovered real food – although he has been eyeing his mothers’ plates with fascination and longing for some time – and it’s a resounding hit. This is, I believe, batata, spinach and tehina.

I would like, this week, to invite you to join me in celebrating 120 years of partnership….well, technically, I suppose it’s 120 years of partnerships – two, to be exact. The first accounts for 50 of the years and the second for the other 70.

Last week, Bernice and I finally got around to celebrating with family and friends our golden wedding. We felt the absence of Micha’el, Tslil and the boys, but we hope they will be able to come over later in the year. We hope our guests enjoyed themselves, but we’re not especially bothered if they didn’t, because we both had a wonderful time, and even those of us (no names, no pack drill), who had resisted long and hard the calls to have a public celebration admitted, after the fact, that it had been the right decision.

While not recognising ourselves in all of the lovely things that were said by others at the celebration (but certainly recognising each other), Bernice and I reckon that we do make a pretty good partnership, largely because we complement each other (even if we occasionally omit to compliment each other). For example: one of us ensures that there is a healthy meal on the table every evening, and the other one ensures that The Times crossword is completed every day; one of us never fails to do the laundry every week, and the other one never fails to generate enough dirty clothes to justify the weekly wash. You get the picture, I’m sure. Anyway, as I said at the celebration, when Bernice said ‘Yes’ 51 years ago, she made me the happiest man alive…and nothing in the last 50 years has changed that situation.

What is, from my point of view, most remarkable, is how little I have to do to maintain my side of the bargain. Bernice has always said to me that the day I fail to make her laugh is the day she will leave me. So far, so good, although we have had a couple of close-run things, when I’ve lain awake for hours until finally, at 11:50 at night, I think of a joke, and then I have to wake Bernice up to tell her quickly before the clock strikes midnight.

Now that the celebrations are over, we both feel we can relax a little, and stop tiptoeing around each other, offering to take out the rubbish or cook a favourite meal, in the hope of getting a better review in the other’s speech. The pressure is definitely off, and an air of normality has descended on the Brownstein household.

The other partnership I want to celebrate this week is that between Her late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, and the story of the world over the years of her reign. Like most of us, I cannot remember a time before Elizabeth acceded to the throne; her reign seems to have been a fact of life throughout my entire lifetime.

And now, suddenly, even if entirely expectedly, it is no longer, and she is no longer. The shock of a different version of the royal anthem is palpable. Banknotes and coins portraying King Charles seem unimaginable.

Even the rewording of the prayer for the Royal Family recited in synagogues every shabbat and chag will take some adjusting to, despite the fact that, over my lifetime, there seem to have been tweaks every few years, of which, latterly, we became aware only when we travelled back to England for a family simcha or holiday: after Charles’s investiture as Prince of Wales, after his marriage to Diana, after Diana’s death, after the Queen Mother’s death, after Prince Philip’s death. Throughout all these adjustments, the one constant in this prayer has been: ‘Our sovereign lady, Queen Elizabeth’. And now it is not there.

In the aftermath of the news breaking on Thursday, I have been surprised by the strength of the reaction, not so much at the personal level as at the official level, throughout the world. President Biden ordered that the American flag, on all US public buildings, military bases, warships and embassies, be flown at half-mast until after the Queen’s internment, in a demonstration of good judgement that his forebears showed a sad lack of 250 years ago. Although I suppose that, if the Queen bore no grudge over the slighting of her great-great-great-grandfather George III, I should also try to get over it.  

Nepal and Brazil both declared three days of national mourning. In the case of Nepal this is almost understandable, given the association of the Gurkhas with Britain, and particularly with the British army. But Brazil!  I have trawled the internet in vain for an explanation of this. It is true that Portugal and England enjoy the world’s oldest still-active alliance (dating back to the 14 Century), but it is equally true that last Wednesday marked the 200^th anniversary of Brazil’s independence from Portugal.

Even Cuba announced a period of national mourning (although from 6AM to 12 noon on Friday sounds to me less like a period of national mourning and more like a timeslot for the delivery of a new fridge).

I’m not quite sure how to explain this official expression of identification with what is, quintessentially, a loss that is owned by the British nation and the nations of the Commonwealth. I suspect that it reflects the fact that Elizabeth, more completely than any other individual, encapsulated the ways the world developed throughout her 96 years.

There cannot be any other person who has held meetings with so many prime ministers, presidents and other world leaders: from Churchill to Truss and from Eisenhower to Biden, from Khrushchev to Putin and from Coty to Macron. Past British prime ministers seem unanimous in their appreciation of her wise counsel.  Elizabeth travelled around the world and presided over an era that saw the vestiges of Empire replaced by a growing Commonwealth. During her reign, 48 countries joined the Commonwealth, which was an institution that she always passionately believed in.

She was also, by the time of her death, one of the dwindling number who had served in the Second World War. That service, as a vehicle mechanic in the ATS, both anchored her in the event that more than any other helped shape the second half of the twentieth century and also represented a move by the royal family into a world that promised to be (whether that promise was fulfilled or not) less privileged and less sexist.

While Elizabeth’s passions were more traditional – horses and corgis and country life – Prince Philip was keenly interested in science and technology. With his encouragement, the Queen embraced advances in modern media as new ways of reaching out to and communicating with her people.

Although it was unplanned, Elizabeth’s reign also reflected changes in family life throughout Britain. She grew up in a warm and close family. However, her own marriage, which began as a fairy-tale romance, apparently went through some rocky patches before mellowing into a close relationship of love and mutual respect. When it comes to her children, it seems that they have managed, in their personal lives, to encapsulate many of the malaises of modern society, from infidelity and divorce to sexual offences. In the next generation, we have seen accusations of racism and tension between fathers and their sons, siblings and their partners.

Some of this, particularly the relationship between Princess Diana and the royal family, threatened the monarchy’s standing in Britain. However, curiously, and partly as a result of the Queen’s ‘opening up’ about her annus horribilis, her horrible year, she seemed to emerge from these events ultimately more firmly rooted in the country’s affections.

In more recent years, she allowed her keen sense of humour to emerge a little more, and clearly enjoyed her limited acting career. However, the quality that most clearly characterised her is of course her sense of duty and her dedication to service. These may not seem particularly fashionable qualities, but when they are demonstrated with such clarity and unswerving faithfulness for an entire lifetime, they draw admiration from all who are aware of them.

There are, I believe, some republican rumblings in Britain, although all surveys indicate that this is very much a minority view. When we see the high regard in which Elizabeth was held, it seems to me bizarre for Britain to choose to throw out those centuries of tradition.

Clearly, Charles is not yet held in such universal esteem, but, from all I have seen and read in the last days and weeks, it seems clear to me that he is more than aware of the nature of the task and challenges that face him, and that he is eminently ready – after a 70-year apprenticeship – for his new role. I also have no doubt that his redoubtable queen consort is the perfect partner to support him in all that lies ahead, and all the signs are that William and Kate will, in the fullness of time, be ideally suited to carry this extraordinary institution into another new era.

All of this, on rereading, sounds rather fulsome, and I have no doubt that some of my readers will be scornful of what they will see as sycophancy. However, it really does seem to me that Britain’s constitutional monarchy represents a standing in the world, and a continuity that can ride the storm of any individual aberration, that no other system can match. I therefore have no difficulty declaring: God Save the King!

Meanwhile, our own dynasty, in Portugal, continues to thrive.

Seven weeks ago, I mentioned in passing that Bernice and I spent a week in Madrid before driving to Penamacor, and blithely wrote: ‘I may tell you more about that next week’. Well, ‘next week’ has stretched into ‘next month but one’; nevertheless, let me try to remember how we spent that week.

First impressions: Madrid airport is vast, efficient and very stylish. The terminal buildings boast beautiful slatted ceilings, with the slats, in a very pleasing light wood, forming huge flowing birds’ wings spanning the space. An efficient shuttle train carries you from the arrivals terminal to the main concourse.

Our aparthotel booking through booking.com qualified us for a free transfer to the hotel, which was very smooth, from the SMS on arrival with a link to track our driver’s progress to the airport, via the smooth and fast drive along the motorway that brought us almost to the heart of the city, all the way to the driver unloading our luggage at the hotel. In fifteen years of travelling on business, I grew very familiar with taxi rides from airports through some of the seedier parts of capital cities – be it Athens, Sofia or London – and this was a pleasant contrast, more reminiscent of the drive from Singapore airport.

Our check in was fairly quick and efficient, and we were soon settling into a room that looked even better than the online photos. Knowing that we would be catering our own breakfast in the room, and anticipating that we would be spending most if not all of shabbat trapped inside, I had chosen a room that included a salon area with sofa and armchair, and what turned out to be an extraordinarily well-equipped kitchen, almost all of which was off-limits to us because of kashrut issues. The kitchen featured an oven with integral microwave (which we didn’t use – to be honest, we didn’t realise it contained a microwave until I mentioned at checkout that our only disappointment with the hotel was not having a microwave), a dishwasher (which we didn’t use), a washing machine (which we didn’t use – no kashrut issues, but we really didn’t feel laundry qualifies as a holiday activity), an induction hob (which we didn’t use – we really were on holiday), plus an excellent range of crockery, cutlery, pots and pans (which we didn’t use).

What we did use were the worksurface, peninsula and stools, nespresso machine (one of us), kettle (both of us) and family-size fridge-freezer.

Having unpacked and showered, we fell into bed and slept the sleep of, if not the innocent, then at least the exhausted but relieved to have arrived without incident.

The following day (Monday) was dedicated to shopping for essential supplies. We were delighted to discover that, as promised online, our hotel was right in the bustling heart of the city, which meant that we could embark on our expedition on foot. This started with a short foray to the mini-Carrefour round the corner from the hotel, for salad and fruits, and other essential food supplies.

Having returned to the hotel to drop off the shopping and eat the last of our rolls and some fruit for breakfast, we ventured half a kilometre further afield, easily locating Primark. This was, to be honest, a huge disappointment. I don’t know whether the selection in the store (which ranged over 5 vast floors) reflected Madrid’s youthful character, or a global rebranding decision by the retailer, or simply the season, but we could find very little for pensioners, or, indeed, for anyone who didn’t want to look like a Hawaiian surfer.

Rather disappointed, we then went in search of the kosher choomus and felafel café-restaurant that we had found online, and that friends, who passed through Madrid a couple of weeks before us, warmly recommended. We were certainly not disappointed and, suitably refreshed, we finished off by walking to a downtown mini-IKEA, where we just about managed to find all of our kitchen and dining requirements for a week of breakfasts and snacks: two modest table settings, chopping board and knives, and so forth.

Thus laden, and in 43 degrees of heat, we felt justified in taking a cab back to the hotel to dump that stuff and to attempt (successfully, in the end) to sort out by WhatsApp with our mobile provider why my roaming package had not yet been activated. A quiet evening in our hotel room was certainly livened up by the news that Tslil had gone into labour, and then, much later, by the news that she had given birth. Bernice and I celebrated quietly in our air-conditioned room.

Having got most of the serious stuff out of the way in one day, we felt ready to start our holiday properly on Tuesday. We began with a two-hour free guided walking tour of the city, which was excellent, taking us to places we would never have found on our own, and giving us an opportunity to properly orientate ourselves. There is a particular quality of tasteful solidity to European cities that once governed a wealthy empire, and Madrid is no exception. Add to that the city’s emphasis on wide-open green spaces, and the prevalence of underground parking, and you have an expansive and comfortable urban environment that is a pleasure to walk around, even when the temperature is 43 degrees, as it was again that day, and, indeed, every day of our stay.

On the way back to the hotel, we popped into El Corte Inglés, a big department store that boasts a rooftop bar with an excellent (and free) panoramic view of the city. The store also boasted a fine selection of genuine Bialetti macchinettas. I have been humming and hawing over buying one of these coffee makers for months. Esther and Maayan won’t leave the house without their macchinetta, and I must admit that it makes a gloriously flavourful brew. However, the coffee comes at a price: it requires the ritual of grinding the beans, then filling, assembling and heating the macchinetta, pouring the coffee, then waiting for the macchinetta to cool before disassembling, rinsing and drying it. It is also, of course, yet another piece of equipment to store away in the kitchen.

Those of you who know me well will realise that the whole rigmarole of the ritual is not only a tremendous drawback but also, simultaneously, and paradoxically, a large part of the attraction. In the end, of course, I couldn’t resist, and I bought a three-cup model that I couldn’t wait to try out in Portugal. (Update: The macchinetta makes great coffee, although I can’t wait to finish the beans I already have at home and order from Esther some of their special blend. To be honest, I can’t always face the rigmarole of the ritual, but when the moon and Venus are correctly aligned, both the ritual and the flavour are well worth savouring.)

Back in the hotel, Bernice received a lovely voice message from Tslil, sounding very good, and saying how much they were all looking forward to seeing us: all of which meant that we were able to enjoy another very good night’s sleep.

We were up early on Wednesday for a coach trip to, guided tour of, and free time in, Toledo. The journey was fine, although I was a little disappointed that our route took us through the long tunnel under the southern part of Madrid, so that we did not see anything of that part of the city or the river. It’s also fair to say that the plains of La Mancha do not make for the most striking scenery. Having said that, sitting down on a comfortable, air-conditioned coach can be a pleasure in itself.

In Toledo, we were first taken to a workshop that specialises in damascene work (ornamental engraving with gold and silver work on black enamel).

T

This stop had, of course, not been mentioned in the online description of the trip, but I recognise that it is part of the price that one always pays on such trips. I filed it away with the Ice Wine outlet near Niagara Falls, the pearl workshop in Majorca and the filigree workshop in Cyprus. Looking around the damascene workshop, which included a lot of the knives and swords that Toledo is renowned for, I kept recalling from my youth, somewhat sacrilegiously, the Airfix kit of the Black Knight of Nurnberg.

However, the workshop did have one wonderful feature: clean toilets, which fact alone made it ‘worth the detour’. This allowed me to enjoy without distractions the next stop, which was the view over the river to the old city of Toledo perched on, and cascading down, the opposite side of the valley.

Our guide for the  walking tour of Toledo was less impressive than our Madrid guide had been, but she warmed up as the tour progressed, and the old city is certainly well worth visiting. After an hour and a half, we were let loose for four hours.

In that time, Bernice and I managed to visit the surviving synagogue (magnificently ornate, as you can see, and with a glorious vaulted ceiling) and adjacent Jewish museum (modest and not particularly noteworthy), to eat our lunch under the shade of an oak tree and then to explore the El Greco Museum.

This smallish but very atmospheric museum is housed in El Greco’s old home and studio, which has been partly restored and furnished to reflect its appearance when he lived there. The collection of paintings, focussing on the years he spent in Toledo, was outstanding; the overview of his entire career and life (in projected slides and a narrated film), in English and Portuguese, was excellent, and the building itself was an oasis of tranquility. It was the perfect way to spend 90 minutes out of the midday sun.

Feeling fairly exhausted, after several hours climbing up and down the streets of Toledo, we retired to a bar and enjoyed a cold beer before climbing back onto the coach for another blissful hour of air-conditioned comfort back to Madrid.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling quite exhausted after all that, so I think I’ll stop there and plan to resume next week.

Esther managed to catch Raphael between teething pains last week. He really is a sunny little boy when he has no good reason not to be.