2008 — 31 July: Thursday
July is nearly over. E.T. is over. I confess it did not grip me. Still, I can tick it off my invisible list, as it were.
Tonight's picture of Christa shows her decorating the Christmas tree over in Meisenheim in 1977. She always got a kick out of this. My own feelings about Christmas are a great deal more ambivalent, particularly since her death and since Junior has grown up and moved out. I suspect that's understandable. But anything that made her smile was fine in my book:
Christa and the Meisenheim Christmas tree, 1977
G'night at 00:09 or so.
Once more... with feeling(s), dept.
It's 09:07 and after lying awake (much) earlier with thoughts churning around for quite some time I took Christa's advice and kicked myself. So I've been doing a spot of early morning research on this Interweb thing for Mike. Ironically, he's now proved that (with the help of the HDFury) his G70 projector can be persuaded to thrive on a full 1080p input signal — lucky chap. I face much more mundane matters (like a fresh loaf, for example) after I've done something about breakfast (like making it).
As for my feelings, I note my various books and leaflets on bereavement are all consistent in predicting the pain fades to what they more or less all agree is a "dull ache". While I couldn't define that, I think I know what it feels like. As I remarked last October, death wasn't necessarily sad or bad. Bereavement is certainly hard and horrible, but death is entirely natural. It just takes an amazing time1 to accept this. I must keep in mind Christa's remarks regarding the birds of sorrow and sadness...
Top of the glass
When I was a lad, I simply assumed glass was a solid. In later years, I was persuaded that it was a (very) slow-flowing liquid. Now I'm told solving its mysteries might merit a Nobel prize. What was that about "through a glass, darkly..."?
Now why on earth, do you suppose, the BBC in its unwisdom has replaced Still Game midway through a season by a repeat showing of a series of Buzzcocks? Let alone permitted the noun "staycation" and the verb "deresponsibilitise" onto the airwaves — thank you, Lucy Mangan. Beats me, chief.
Tick tock
Question is: can I face the one o'clock news? When I consider the state of the world, the country, the economy, the political in-fighting,2 the pointless point-scoring, the bigotry, the endless and depressing stupidity and greed almost constantly on display, the random cruelty... you know what? I'm almost glad that Christa, at least, no longer has any worries on any of these scores. She was never one for burying her head in the sand having been, I gather, a bit of a political firebrand during her3 student years.
Now that my lunch has been, well, lunched, I think it's time for some practical activity, like getting some more food in (for random example) — preferably before the forecast of torrential afternoon downpours is demonstrated to have been correct.
Considerabubble later, I notice
A quick trip into Eastleigh, where I sat in the car in the Lidl carpark, listening to the rain and deciding I didn't absolutely have to do any shopping at that instant. Returned home via the more usual foody shop, therefore, closed the skylight, grabbed a quick cuppa, and set off again, this time for Southampton's "shed city". A couple of minor-league acquisitions yet to be revealed. Evening meal. Flying visit from Brian who's returned my original Humax Hi-Def satellite box, and departed with the second-generation variant (he reports that it works perfectly via hdmi and a "proper" HDCP-compliant display, so it does indeed look as if the lazy engineers have applied their horrid HDCP flag to any hi-def output, the rotters).
Now, at 22:45, it's time for some TV methinks. I shall be watching a documentary on (that's to say, "about") one of the acquisitions, and will save a report for later.