2008 — 16 June: Monday
Another midnight slips smoothly by, to the music of Bob Dylan's theme time radio hour. Tonight's picture is from not too long before March 1980. Christa was heavily pregnant and decided it was time to study this baby birth business. She always was a superb auto-didact:
Christa teaching herself about babies, and smiling as usual
Must get some more milk later. It's surprising how quickly even a four-pint plastic bottle of the stuff disappears around here. Oh well, g'night, at 00:36.
Begun This Clone Tool Has
This one's as new to me as the clone tool in Photoshop. A site called PsD (Photoshop disasters). Amusing and appalling in about equal measure. Time (09:37) for some brekkie, I suspect. And, to my far-flung correspondent newly-introduced to the word "auto-didact", may I recommend the Isaac Asimov short story "The Holmes-Ginsbook device"?
Now here's another snippet of new information1 (or is that "reality"?): In 1908 Karl Kupelwieser, Ludwig Wittgenstein's uncle, donated the money to construct this building [at Boltzmanngasse 3 in Vienna] and turn Austria-Hungary into the principal destination for the study of radium. There's an interesting article here. Stumbled across courtesy of the infallibly useful newsletter from the "Butterflies and Wheels" people.
I note the BBC Radio 4 item "If you're reading this" (letters to be opened in the event of death of soldiers through the years) chose to end on precisely the same evocative piece of music ("An ending (ascent)") by Brian Eno that I chose for the end of Christa's funeral. Great minds, and all that. Well, at least I didn't burst into tears — progress of a sort, I suppose... Time to hit the supplies trail, ahead of what looks increasingly likely to be a burst of rain.
Afternoon already... dept.
Foody shop has been hit (and promptly hit back by demanding a rescan of my twelve goodies). Bank has had Christa's latest set of ERNIEs deposited — where are mine,
I wonder? Fixed up an afternoon tea expedition date. I'm also testing my latest theory: leave the car out on the drive, hope it rains, and whip out for a low-budget car
wash session. I'm told it won't work without a copious downpour. Better think about a bite or two. I picked up a reduced salad and some prawns that should do the trick.
Update: spotting the only-one-day-past "Use by" date on the pack of pork and garlic sausages, and recalling that garlic has strong anti-bacterial
properties, while the pot of soured cream was exactly on its own "Use by" date, the prawns got the raw end of the deal, as it were. "If Christa could see
me now" (as the saying goes!) I think she'd be impressed.
Good gracious, it's 13:08 already. Time may be an illusion, or an artefact of human perception, but it seems to grind relentlessly on. Indeed, scanning the various slides from (so far) the late 1970s and very early 1980s simply adds to that enigma — where (when?) and how does it dash past at such a breakneck pace? I was married for just over 33 years, and it seems like the merest blink of an eye. Very strange.2 And in another week it's midsummer. "Good God!" says Christa.
Tut, tut, BBC radio news. "I've been told by several senior people that..." is extremely dubious news reporting, don't you think? Un-named senior sources. I don't think so. (Recall this — first quotation.)
"House" room needed for "Duckface"... dept.
I've mentioned most of these, I think:
I missed both the Hugh Laurie "vehicles" but I can still remember being utterly gripped by the Alan Garner book, though I was never in a place with a TV the three times the adaptation3 has been broadcast since it was filmed in 1969. Watching Dear Wendy recently awoke a latent interest in the music of the Zombies, and getting the Evita concept album was a no-brainer once I realised it was available.
It's now 17:36 — my main co-pilot and I hit the Italian ice-cream place again, avoiding the turquoise variety this time. The occasional gentle 36-mile pootle can be very soul-soothing.
Good to hear (at 20:01) that the spirit of healthy profiteering is alive and well, just outside Exeter, where an enterprising petrol station is charging £1-99 per litre for fuel on the final day of the current fuel delivery strike. (The owner claims to be trying to quell demand, and makes a good case.) Aah, the sweet spell of pure market forces — I blame Attila the Hen, personally. Well, the tum has been pacified, again, and here are the remaining recent dollops of commercial acquisition:
Somewhat quixotic juxtaposition of titles, don't you agree?
Freeman Dyson
Admittedly, one of my heroes. Read these extracts to see why (or not; your mileage may vary I guess). A fascinating take, for example, on the relative persuasiveness of the Hiroshima atomic bomb and the Russian invasion of Manchuria.
The way we live now
Not just a 133-year-old (thick) novel by Anthony Trollope any more. The thoughtful piece here suggests less and less Trollope will be read as Mrs Google changes the way we read and, just maybe, even the way we think. Quite scary, when I reflect that I now consciously balk at the idea of re-reading (for example) the six Palliser novels I devoured with such enjoyment 35 years ago.
Must say I liked the story of the lady sent a £90m electricity bill. The provider's explanation is priceless: "what has happened is our eight digit account number has been inserted in place of the outstanding balance. It was a human error." Made by a not very alert human, I'd say. (Source.)