2008 — 4 August: Monday
Tonight's picture shows Christa working on the sanding preparation for painting the upstairs window-frames in our Old Windsor house, during the long and very hot summer of 1976. The reason she looks as if she's on the same level as the (worried) photographer is that the front garden sloped down to the house, so I could stand on the pavement in front of our front garden and be on the same "level" as it were. But she was basically unfazed by heights, ladders, and what have you. (Unlike her cautious [cowardly] husband!)
Christa and the Old Windsor window-frames, 1976
The frames had been sadly neglected by the previous owners who had been in the house for the entire 25 years since it was built in 1951. I've now been in this house for the whole 27 years since it was built in 1981 and will sooner or later have to attend to the two remaining wooden window-frames at the front. Those at the back have all been replaced by PVC double glazing, courtesy of the incompetently over-hasty "Anglian" fitters.
No rush! G'night at 00:01 or so.
Into the lists... dept.
Now why is it, do you suppose, that I've read only a third of the books on this list, and yet I've read 40 of the first 50 here? And 126 of the 193 titles altogether. Odd.
And how is it, do you suppose, that "in 2006 at least 32 of the UK's 54 billionaires paid no income tax at all." (Source.) Worthy reading for some positively eye-watering snapshots of greed, arrogance, and pig-ignorance. (I still blame la Thatch personally.)
Goodness me. Here I am listening to Chopin when suddenly there's a two-minute "free thought" from Prof Germaine Greer on the British obsession with houses. She made a lot of sense, touching on the endless tasks of gardening, grass cutting, gutter clearance, decorating (whenever there's a change in the wind direction), and the insanity of what little time is left over being regarded as opportunity for either DIY (probably including window-frame maintenance, of course) or what I'm lambasted for calling "retail therapy". (We're all so brainwashed [except Madame Prof La Greer, that is] as to regard shopping as a nice activity for our leisure.) The trouble is, she's probably right, you know. But (as Yossarian was asked by Doc Daneeka) "suppose we all felt like this?" The economy would collapse1 for starters — no change there then.
It's 08:45 and bright and sunny. The initial cuppa is suppable and it's nice and quiet. I suspect a number of the neighbouring families are away in bucket and spade mode.
Siphonaptera bite again...
Despite the mis-spelling, I found this BBC blog piece by Mark Easton interesting. It draws on the work of Bob George and his recently-published "Atlas of the Fleas of Britain and Ireland":
Says the author: "I took on fleas because no-one else would, but it has certainly provided me with a life time's work which will hopefully go on for many more years. It is a great pleasure to see this edition of the atlas published, though when compared with that of more popular groups, such as butterflies and dragonflies, it is obvious that there is much work still to be done." If you want to scratch more, start here.
Yesterday's imitation...
... of a teapot!
If you think that's bad, you should see the one he snapped as I looked round. I was scoffing my bit of lunch by a signpost labelled "Anton Post" which Mrs Google will tell you about in connection with a Southampton cycling club if you search carefully enough. (Hint: include "Chute" in your search string.)
More expense... dept.
I've just ordered a copy of the forthcoming collection of Dirk Bogarde's letters having been utterly delighted by the excerpts published here. This snippet comes from his time as President of the Cannes Film Festival Jury in 1984 (and after having failed to give prizes as "instructed" to some "important" American products):
When we made the final announcement, before leaving for the theater, to the Organizators, there was hell let loose! They admitted, or one of them did to be fair, that Huston had been promised that he'd win everything... 'You have to award Huston SOMETHING!' they, (he), yelled with a face crimson with rage. A silence fell among us. There was nothing TO award. Then the spokesman said 'After all, be reasonable, he has had to come 7,000 miles for this evening'. To which Stanley Donen, the US member of the jury, said in his high, dry voice: 'You do not get a f---in' Palme d'Or for TRAVELLING!' Which ended the session neatly.
Merciful heavens, when did it become 12:52? Some chicken is doing its oven thing, with a salad ready for the "off". No sign of Mr Postie; indeed, not much evidence of life on the estate generally. No matter. Much to do and be done. I must say, I've not yet been bored as a retiree. Just finished a round of updates on the one Vista machine. One day, I'll work out how its Media Player decides what to play. I'm currently having transient problems with the iPod which is sometimes deciding not to synchronise (the suggested solution from Apple — restore its software — would have cleaned it out completely had it worked, but it didn't). Next time I powered on, everything worked fine again. This from a device that had claimed to be unreadable.
Happy first birthday, global credit crunch!
Suddenly...
... it's 16:20 and I need to get ready for an evening appointment over in Winchester. Mr Postie did eventually show up just a few minutes ago (scarpering across the front garden and over the wall thinking there was nobody around to see him), but only with a survey from the local council about my use, or potential use, of the Fleming Park sports centre. In earlier years, of course, we all three had season tickets there. <Sigh> I also note that, this month, Christa's beaten me in the ERNIE prizes. I need to start thinking about what to do with her Premium Bonds as they can only stay in the prize draw until November this year. Time just grinds relentlessly on, doesn't it?