2008 — 21 Mar: Friday — where's my Easter egg, Christa?

Come to that, where are you, Christa?

It's 00:28 so I suppose Easter has begun. Time for bed, in any case. To the accompaniment of Genesis and "Firth of Fifth". Merciful heavens! It's gone rather cold — or there's a window open that I've overlooked. I shall reveal my haul of seven goodies (from Mr Postie yesterday now) when consciousness returns in a few hours.

Well I never... dept.

According to a horribly bright young lady telling me all about the weather, Easter is calculated as the first Sunday after the first full moon either after the 20th March or the equinox. How very arcane. Talk about moveable feast. Anyway, it's 09:50, the sun is shining, the wind is blowing, clouds are scudding, and I've been sent links to a couple of good (albeit political) jokes pages, here and here. "Share and enjoy". Thank you, Geoff. And there's me thinking "Brazilian" had an entirely different meaning, says he, waxing lyrical for a moment. (Ouch)

In the time it's taken me to catch up on the latest news on the Humax forum that deals with my Hi-Def satellite box we've gone from sunshine, through a quick blast of hail, a flurry of snow, and back to sunshine. I've put the heating back on, Christa, though there's now blue sky visible out there. You're missing that, and I'm missing you, my love! Oh well, down with the brekkie and the second cuppa. On with the show. This may yet (interrupted here by the delivery of a leaflet inviting me to a special Bible talk entitled "Who1 is Qualified to Rule Mankind?") turn into a nice day for a little pootle, though the traffic report is not encouraging...

The pootle has taken place and (at 13:52) the microwave is performing its thermal magic on the last of the pork casserole thingy while I grapple with the result2 of said pootle, which took me no further than the Comet store in Millbrook. (By the way, if you're reading this Mike I'm now a whole lot better at navigating around in that area; quite a lot of driving instruction took place there as I made various attempts, with varying degress of success, to merge confidently into all that nasty traffic flowing into Southampton.) The washing machine is doing its thing, too. I must say, it's getting a lot less work to do in this new, single-occupant, household. But why does singing along with Bowie's "Space Oddity" suddenly reduce me to tears, briefly? — I suppose the lyric about tell my wife I love her very much I guess. Never mind: time to eat!

Snoopy-ing around... dept.

My good friends Gill and Chris are just back this week from the Charles M. Schulz museum in Santa Rosa. They discovered there the work of an artist I confess is also new to me: one Tom Everhart. The essay on Tom's web site is well worth reading, by the way. Anyway, with Christopher's kind permission, here's a wonderful shot he took of "a wooden mural called 'The morphing of Snoopy'. It's maybe 20 feet long," says Chris, "and worth the trip on its own." Click the pic:

The morphing of Snoopy

Flipping heck! How can it be 17:50 already? So much yet to do. So much for my nascent3 time management skills. Now I suppose I've got to go downstairs and feed myself all over again. What a nuisance! It's a good job I've given up TV, I guess.



1  I'm guessing the answer is a Jehovah's witless. Their PR arm is registered as a charity in England. How does one do that, I wonder. Do they accept agnostic pensioners as eligible for charity status?
2  Report to follow, if I ever get the thing installed, up, and running (preferably in that order, too).
3  A word that, in my case, is synonymous with "nugatory" I fear.