2008 — 3 April: Thursday — barometer's still high
I took a long and reasonably thoughtful look at the twilight stars a few hours ago, just after I'd put the car back into the garage. It occurs to me that there are whole galaxies full of stuff going on, (I certainly hope there is) and that makes my head spin more than somewhat. Life is so fleetingly short when viewed from some angles, or in the context of apparently insuperable obstacles like the speed of light. Is that, in fact, any slower than the speed of life?
Down at the more mundane level, I failed to mention the delivery, yesterday of Driving Lessons — a charming1 little movie. Christa would have loved this. Ho bloody hum. Time (01:25) for some serious sleep.
Back tuit
From the Land of Nod, that is. A few minutes ago I caught Mr Postie in the act of trying to stuff Delia through the letter box. As this is her Complete Cookery Course that was never going to work. In slimmer news, Mr ERNIE has indeed re-issued all Christa's post-mortem winnings in my name, so there's a jolly little task for a bit later. Plus (if you're reading this drivel, Tall Thomas) I now have my own copy of the Terry Zwigoff film "Ghost World" soundtrack CD. (It bugged me that I was unable to rip the main theme track from your perfect-looking CD on any combination of my equipment, including a simple analogue replay copy, and that specially-commissioned piece was marred on the actual film soundtrack by dialogue and sound effects.) Here's hoping for a few of the missing bits.
Thinks: Gill also called me a completeist yesterday. Oh dear. Time now is 10:19, various emails2 have been absorbed, responded to, or ignored. First cuppa3 is likewise being absorbed. Time to doff the jim-jams and don the gear more appropriate for getting out and about... This retirement lark is a dynamic business, you know. (But there's Bernstein on Radio 3 to give me a soundtrack.) And now Beethoven.
Relocated WitNit
I have a link to delicious quotations from the TV series "Coupling". The chap who hosts that has reworked the rest of his web site and it's lovely.
Now't so queer as... octopuses? dept.
When all else fails, the Guardian generally pulls me through:
The scientists discovered that octopus mating can take place several times a day once the creatures reach sexual maturity. It usually begins with the male octopus poking the female with his
long, flexible, hectocotylus arm and then slipping it into her mantle cavity.
[Isn't that always the way?]
Once the sperm packet has been deposited, the female retires to her den and lays tens of thousands of eggs, which she weaves into strings and attaches to the roof of her underwater dwelling. She keeps the eggs clean by blowing jets of water on them and is unable to leave her den to forage for food during this time.
I'm reminded of a delicious little cartoon by Burbank in Oui magazine 30 years ago. It depicted two confused octopuses:
And the caption read I hate to say anything, Harvey... but I think we're both masturbating.
The Eternal verities... dept.
Just put the phone down after yet another surreal conversation with dear Mama. Am recovering with the aid of a cuppa, and hope to be back on solids within a week or so. I never did finish the book "Toxic Parents" that I need to return to Paul(ine), and I suspect I could now write my own variant in any case. Lacking the funds for expensive psychotherapy (and being extremely dubious about its efficacy in any case) I shall make do with today's "jotting" for a tiny whinge. Monitus es.
During all the years of our marriage, I estimate Christa and I must have visited Mama in her home at least 250 times.4 While Dad was dying, and then after dear Mama was widowed (but before she moved) we tried to be there every weekend for a while. That was not much fun for a pair of newly-weds, let me tell you. At least it was a mere 18 miles, though it could easily take us an hour each way. She moved back up to the Midlands in September 1975. And at that point, we entered (and were to remain in) the doghouse for months for having had the temerity to take our first-ever fortnight's holiday together — our long-delayed honeymoon, in fact — rather than ferrying her up to her sister's place where she then stayed for about a year before buying the house she now still lives in.
From our flat, or later our house, in Old Windsor, this now meant a 130 mile trip (each way) for us. From our present house, it's a 150 mile trip (each way). We would in later years try to make a point of combining our reluctant trips with, for example, a sideways jaunt into Oxford (for the bookshops) or Bicester (for the LaserDiscs) or, well, anywhere really! That way we felt we got at least a bit of value out of an otherwise lost day each time. Of course, the two of us were together for the day, which was always very pleasant, but I can't pretend these trips, with such a cool reception every time at the destination, were anything over the years but a "duty chore". Junior, who is a lot more sensible than his Dad, has opted out of visiting since he was 16 on the grounds that he didn't like the way his grandmother treated either of his parents. His choice, and Christa and I both respected it. So she now never sees her only grandson. How strange is that?
I can count on the fingers of one kneecap the number of times we left after our visits feeling any emotion other than simple relief. How strange is that? But now, after Christa's death, Mama finally seems to have changed her opinion about her funny foreign daughter-in-law. How strange is that? What's that phrase that means "too bloody late"? And when during each phone call the topic moves (as it invariably does these days) to the question of the timing of my next visit, my state of chirpy gruntledness is not improved each time by her immediate caveat that she cannot "put me up". Yet somehow she equally invariably manages to put Big Bro up on his necessarily far less frequent visits. And send him on his merry way with a full cooked breakfast. (Let alone then ring me up to tell me she's done so!)
To misquote the great Alfred E Neuman: "What, me bitter?"
Elevated blood sugar... dept.
Having dined, rather more than adequately, on Waitrose's easy-to-cook chicken and chipolatas (I drew the line at the hand-wrapped streaky bacon) and my patent mix of casserole vegetation (five a day? Pah!) it's now 19:25 and, as my Internet connection re-appears as mysteriously as it vanished earlier, I see it seems we're to get HD TV on Freeview (though not in this area until 2012). I was once again inspecting the various displays on, erm, display in Comet earlier today while out on supplies shopping — plus replacing the DVI leads I'd stolen from the newest toy for use with the newest-but-one toy. Quite how they manage to sell the benefits of HD TV with such a uniformly badly adjusted array of flat screens is beyond me.
Mind you, the only thing worth watching, I predict mysteriously, will be University Challenge on BBC2 next Tuesday. I've already had to promise a recording for one of my downunder correspondents. Monitus quoque es. However, I also hope to enjoy today's delivery of Pen-ek Ratanaruang's Last life in the universe which takes me back almost full circle to my opening paragraph. I'd better stop while I'm ahead!