2008 — 24 Feb: Holy Moly, it's Sunday already!
It's 01:01 and I'm recently back from a delightful meal and film, (thanks, Mike!) preceded by an equally delicious glass of white at a different venue (thanks, Andrew!). "Goldfish memory" lest I forget! I was also delighted that I recognised Marianne Faithfull in a brief clip from "Paris, Je t'aime" by her voice alone but that's another story. Voicewise, whispering Bob Harris is a wonderful accompaniment to late-night motorway driving, and I lingered longer on the drive outside my new adversary (the garage) while the seldom-heard Alan Parsons Experience track "Old and wise" finished. Christa and I both loved this group.
Actually, a) the car seemed none the worse for Friday evening's gentle disruption of some of the garage clutter and b) I got it back in easily tonight without further ado.
Big Bro's sense of humour
He sent me an email yesterday with a timestamp that suggested he's now about five hours to the East of me, whereas he's been stuck in Texas for about a month (or so it seems). Anyway, he sent as a text an item that I've known for many years and once typeset and hosted in the quotes section as a graphic. Here it is in the latter format:
Overnight, he's now sent me a photo showing him astride a bucking (bar) bronco with a backdrop of supposed Texan onlookers. Eminently suitable for a spot of brotherly blackmail (as I've already intimated to him) but I must say I liked his wild-eyed imitation of the one-time governor of the strange state he's been in for the last few weeks:
Never thought of it like that... dept.
Speaking of strange states. My regular reader already knows that I have (after over 30 years) given up my daily printed dose of The Guardian so I turn to their excellent online presence (which includes The Observer of course) whenever I need cheering up or down. Churchill was haunted, from time to time, by what he called his "Black Dog" — intermittent depressions. The author (Dr Paul Keedwell, an expert on mood disorders at the Institute of Psychiatry in London) being reviewed here argues there's an evolutionary benefit:
... but for many it is a short-term painful episode1 that can take you out of a stressful situation for a while. It can help people to find a new way of coping with events or your situation — and give you a new perspective, as well as making you more realistic about your aims... For most, their vitality, their social interaction and their general health actually improved on recovery — and so did their work performance. I know from patients that it can also make you more realistic in your outlook; you develop more empathy to those around you.
Here's hoping. And at least I don't have to worry about my work performance any more! Though I do have to prepare some breakfast and at least a snack for lunch. So I have no time to dig out my copy of Robert Burton's 1750 masterpiece "Anatomy of Melancholy", thank goodness!
Off we go...
Here's the route2 for later today:
Boots, I gather, but no packed lunch. I'm predicting mud, therefore. But first, time for some sleep. I really do screw up the chronological sequence of some of these diary entries, don't I? Well, to unscrew, it's now 09:34 and time for a second cuppa to accompany the cardboard oat bricks. "I'll be seeing you."
Uncharted territory
It's now 10:13 and while I may not be depressed, I'm also still not dressed! But, in mitigation, the crock pot is loaded3 with goodies for tonight and set to "Low", the brekkie is almost all on board, and Nat King Cole is just doing his "When I fall in love" stuff on the radio. I'm hoping I shall return later today to an enticing aroma, but I shall have to give it a while.
A while.
It's now 16:18 and, back here at the homestead there actually is quite an aroma, though the jury is still out on exactly how "enticing" it could be said to be. Gentle bubbling is occurring at somewhat over (I hope!) the half way point. I've also just added to the map (see the freehand red asterisk?) the point we'd reached when Junior called me on my mobile. Good to hear he's fine, of course. Thanks, son. I still find it a little odd4 to be standing on the edge of a newly-ploughed field in the middle of gawd-knows-where5 (the farmer had left intact the "Footpath" sign, at least) chatting away to my offsprung durch technik. Still, on his next visit, he says I will inherit both his previous phone and the Bluetooth hands-off earpiece that will begin my transformation into a fully-fledged Borg. It's also odd to realise that we walked around the site of a Roman villa, and under a section of dismantled railway. I suspect the latter will have left fewer traces in another 2,000 years or so than the former.
Playing with pixels
During our 6.1 mile walk Mike was snapping away like a good 'un with his rather fine new Fuji. Since I also had a hand, or at least a shutter finger, in some of the picture taking, he has very kindly copied all today's captured pixels onto a memory stick for me to play with at home on my PC — feel free to click the thumbnails here. Normal caveats regarding artistic and poetic licence apply. Your mileage may vary, etc etc.
What, at first glance, looks like just a set of tangled roots...
While what, at first glance, looks like just an old bit of tree trunk...
Much-refreshed after consuming about two-thirds of the contents of the surprisingly tasty crock pot (what the heck do I do with the rest?) I can tackle the strange beast to be seen basking under that same incredible tree trunk...
What, you may well ask, was he smoking?
Enough with the pixels, already. Time (20:21) to go downstairs and watch a DVD methinks. If I can find one...