2008 — 31 Jan: Thursday
Just (00:21) home after a brief snack at Mike's following our trip to the theatre.1 Nice, clear, cold night; unbusy motorway — my favourite kind — and compliments on my driving, if not my parking. (Still, at least the Tower Street multi-storey is both relatively empty, and free after 18:00 while being reasonably handy for the Theatre Royal.) As for "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" (staged by the Southampton Musical Society) it was actually very enjoyable, and enthusiastically performed and received by the audience.
My relaxed midnight mood, although helped by Radio 3's Late Junction, is unhelped by the feeble voice on my ansaphone: "This is your Mum. I've been very ill. Click." I mean, WTF am I supposed to do with that information? I realise one day her epitaph (as Spike Milligan wanted on his tombstone) will be "See? I told you I was ill!" but this has been a constant refrain2 of hers for easily twenty years. Although Christa was terminally ill, somehow dear Mama still feels a need to steal the limelight and gain the attention. Well, I'm completely sick of it. If that makes me a lousy son, I plead guilty as charged. Shoot me, and then note the smile on my face.
Recent maternal update: Bro, I've just phoned the denizen of the Bat Cave (18:30). She did manage to leap up and turn down the TV3 sound so she could hear me. She's now claiming to have been "very ill for three weeks" (the ailment must have been in its acutely invisible phase when we saw her just under two weeks ago, I guess). She says she hasn't spoken to anyone, heard from anyone (including you), done anything, except battle an incoming flood of business letters that she says she can no longer understand (or read, I suspect; Christa and I tried several times to persuade her to tolerate a visit from a local optician but she point blank refused). Oh, and this you'll appreciate. Having twice within two minutes asked me about the weather here, she pauses for effect then tells me a) she's been on her own for 30 years, and (this cracks me up every time) b) I sound unhappy and ratty! (Now would there be any reason for that? Let me think!) Plus c) she says she deliberately doesn't phone me (except when she phones me, of course) because she "doesn't want to bother me". So, another 10 minutes of pointless (and rather poisonous) chat. I admit I was waiting to hear the old "When are you coming up?" so, on that score I was mildly disappointed. Anyway, Bro, your turn next time, I think. I'm with Christa — I've had enough.
I'm drooping here, at 00:50, and I've still yet to do the dishes, so I'm again calling it a day for tonight!
Hello, rain!
So much for that clear night. It's now 09:15 and a medley by Offenbach has just been blowing away the cobwebs. Next up: Debussy. Well, according to the host, but not according to the web site's playlist. No matter, I can always fire up iTunes and be my own DJ.
Oops! It seems half of Mumbai has lost Internet connectivity after a cable failure in the Med. And this on a day when my server logs show I've been browsed by a RISC OS user for the first time. But wait! It gets weirder, this planet. Sheep, it appears, may no longer safely graze. And you can bet someone is watching them...
Our stalwart information commissioner, Richard Thomas, has fought a valiant battle to protect what the Germans call, with portentous profundity, the right to informational self-determination. A valiant battle, but a losing one — as the commissioner himself acknowledges. The warning that we are "sleepwalking into a surveillance society" comes from him.
For even as he tries to strengthen the dykes, more powerful arms of government are busy tearing them down: in the name of fighting terrorism, crime, fraud, child molestation, drugs, religious extremism, racial abuse, tax evasion, speeding, illegal parking, fly-tipping, leaving too many garbage bags outside your home, and any other "risk" that any of those nearly 800 public (busy)bodies feels called upon to "protect" us from. Well, thank you, nanny — but kindly eff off to East Germany. I'd4 rather stay a bit more free, even if means being a bit less safe.
"But what" ask I innocently, "do lesbians have to do with this?" Perhaps I've stopped getting the Guardian just in time...
Today's snailmail isn't much better. I note that Christa (to be precise, "Mrs Mounce") has just been asked to contribute to the Eastleigh Area Alzheimer's Research Appeal (though I can't remember why!) They tell her (should I even be reading her mail?) Alzheimer's disease is a progressive brain disorder that gradually destroys a person's memory and ability to learn, reason, make judgments,5 communicate and carry out daily activities. I wonder (vaguely) how long I've had this disease?
Which is more loathsome, I wonder? To know that you have a disease like the one that recently killed Christa? Or not to know that your brain is going out to permanent lunch? And people still talk about Intelligent Design! (Or does God suffer from Alzheimer's disease? Now, there's a scary thought!) Definitely time for brekkie!
Indulgences
The world, as I slowly start to show a bit more interest in it, is truly mad. You've got those gigantic profits reported by Royal Dutch Shell. (Jeroen van der Veer, chief executive, described the performance as "satisfactory" and admitted that overall production for the year had actually dropped 2%.) And then the fantasy world of carbon offsetting:
Here in the West, the so-called 'war on global warming' is reminiscent of medieval madness. You can now buy Indulgences to offset your carbon guilt. If you fly, you give an extra 10 quid to British Airways; BA hands it on to some non-profit carbon-offsetting company which sticks the money in its pocket and goes off for lunch. This kind of behaviour is demented.
Spot the typo... department
Thanks for the link to typophile, Brian! This leapt out and socked me in the eye:
Just call me Mr Picky.
Thanks for the cuppa tea and sympathy as the dusk gathered, Roger and Eileen, and forgive my fleeting use of the naughty word... Good luck with your String Theory studies!
What's that smell?
Well, if my predictions are correct, it's a lump or two of lamb slathered in a balsamic vinegar and lemon breadcrumb coating, with a side order (not yet being thermally agitated) of vegetables that are awfully good for me. The main course is cooking away in the centre of our venerable oven, the side order will be stirred into life by a technological offshoot of Watson-Watt's invention in about — ten seconds, gotta dash!
Hmmm. Actually, not too bad. It perked me up to the point where I bit the bullet and phoned dear Mama (see above) afterwards. I still need to work on my almost non-existent gravy skills, and I'm left wondering how the vegetables (three spuds, a couple of broccoli stems, some leeks, a carrot or two) only totted up to one of my "five a day". But, with the grapefruit, the several plums, the banana, the clementina and the raspberries I figure I've got all my bases covered. Now, how shall I entertain myself for the rest of the evening?