2008 — 9 June: Monday
It's just gone midnight, and I'm drooping fast — it was quite a full day yesterday — so just a placeholder for now, I guess.1 And (of course) another picture of Christa:
Christa and her tulips. July 1979
I expect I've mentioned she was very fond of the colour red? By July 1979 she'd had three years to tame the garden of our Old Windsor house. And she was still smiling every time she saw me, too. Oh well. It's time for some sleep to rest the pollen-filled eyes. I shall have to give Bob Dylan's theme time radio hour a miss, I fear. G'night.
Who's that knockin'...? dept.
Blimey. 07:45 and a hammering on the door. 'Twas my doctor neighbour, hand-delivering a wodge of Amazonian goodness "as they're going to be out all day". I wonder when this lot first showed up in the Gardens? No matter. It's just gone 09:12 and I've listened in (initially tearful) delight to the first half of the magnificent 1976 recording of Evita. What a show! But now I'd better get some brekkie on board.
Yesterday's BEM (blue-eyed monster) wasn't the only alien, if you kept your eyes peeled (horrible phrase). Click the pic to see him at about twice life size:
Caterpillar underfoot, June 2008
Which inevitably reminds me of a note I sent to my dear friend Carol back in August 1986. I had been catching up on the backlog (two items in my mail slot and many discardable files in my reader) and came across a collection of papers that were to have been presented at the (cancelled) 2nd ID Technical Symposium earlier that year. (I went to the first such event in Tarpon Springs in September 1984.)
One of the papers considered the use of metaphor in technical writing: "An occasional brilliant metaphor will illuminate the exposition and at the same time offer the reader a chance to relax" and the cited authors offered this wonderful explanation of the phenomenon of group velocity:
Consider ... a hurrying caterpillar. Little waves (transverse or compressional, depending on the species) ripple along its back from tail to head. These waves progress at phase velocity, while the caterpillar himself travels at group velocity.
Isn't that beautiful? Yesterday's specimen exhibited compressional waves, by the way. Share and enjoy!
The hurrieder I go... dept.
... the behinder I get. Being a retired chap, I have — generally speaking — no fixed agenda or structure to my day. This morning (having been roused so brutally early [after a lousy night's sleep, actually, so it didn't really matter]) I popped over to see if my main co-pilot was up for a seaside adventure, for example, but found he was already off out somewhere. So I packed myself another sandwich lunch and drink, my camera, and set off. I must say I've discovered the perfect cure for hayfever: barrelling up and down to Bournemouth, windows closed, "Evita" blaring, and pollen-filtered air-con on! And the fact that there's a more than adequate bookshop at the halfway point of the 76.1 mile round trip2 is just so much extra gravy on the cake (or something).
Back for all of three minutes before dear Mama rang,3 basically to complain repetitively about Big Bro's newly-arrived letter to her and its blatant attempt to "manipulate" her into any form of financial contribution to my upcoming NZ air fare.4 (No real surprise there, then.) She says I shouldn't go. Mind you, she also says I should make up my own mind. When I gently, and patiently, reminded her that I'm 56 and an adult citizen ("Are you really?" "Yes, and I won't say how old that makes you, Mater!") and do indeed tend to make up my own mind, she went a bit quiet. Parents, heh?
Totting up... dept.
As I contemplate switching on yet further direct debits to keep me sweet with credit card payments while away from home, I've just worked out that my first eight months of motoring (minus six days) has cost (in petrol alone) £782-45 or 10.23 pence per mile. The true cost (which would have to factor in insurance, depreciation, Mrs Sat Nav, car park charges, driving lessons, replacement back light cluster, and precisely one car wash so far) is obviously rather higher.
I am not a fan...
... of Nigel Lawson (or whatever His Lordship is called these days). Indeed, I took a gentle pop at him back here. But there is a more balanced examination of his climate change book, and the assumptions it contains, on "Spiked":
Lawson undoubtedly has a point when he argues that 'there is something inherently absurd about the conceit that we can have any useful idea of what the world will be like in a hundred years time'. As Lawson points out: 'We have only to ask ourselves whether the Edwardians, even if equipped with the most powerful modern computers, would have been able to foresee the massive economic, political and technological changes that have occurred in the past hundred years'.
Time Passages
Not just the title of a fine album by Al Stewart, but also the mysterious state wherein — having got back from the seaside seemingly just a few minutes ago — it's suddenly after 22:05 and I'm listening to a John Peel session from 1992 (on BBC 6Music). Not quite as disorienting as "Evita" was, earlier, but in a similar ball park. And now, post dishes, it's still too damned hot at nearly 23:00 — I hate this sort of weather.