2008 — 5 September: Friday
The rain, it raineth... Tonight's picture of Christa shows her, smiling as ever, in our bedroom fairly soon after we'd moved into our (my!) present house:
Christa and our initial bedroom furniture, 1982?
The plastic-coated steel shelving (which is now relocated to the garage, having followed us from Old Windsor) served as cheap and cheerful storage and wardrobes (of a sort!) until we could afford something a little more traditional.1 In fact, it's the present set of mirror-fronted wardrobes that I have yet to sort through to dispose, one way or another, of Christa's clothing. <Sigh>
Another day, by the way, without shedding any tears. I will defer description of the cushion and the DVD I found in Southampton until, as it were, I've slept on them. G'night, at 00:24 or so.
Raining away
It's 09:35 and I've been awake for about 40 minutes. (Sleeping is one of my core skills, it seems.) As I break my fast I'm listening to a programme "The Reunion" about The Navy Lark of all things. Although I admit I listened to it in the 1960s I can't say it was with great enthusiasm. Leslie Phillips reckons "Left hand down a bit" will follow him to the grave. Or to Davy Jones' locker, perhaps.
Rain or not, I shall have to nip out to grab stuff for my next crockpottery adventure. Nipping will be slightly more awkward in the light of this piece of (I hope, transient) discourtesy:
What recent piece of popular culture was dismissed thus? The authors have the right to fail, said the man from The Independent, but "I'm not sure that it was wise of them to exercise it so vigorously". (Source.)
Still dismal
Economics and weather, both. It's been said that n economists in a room will deliver not less than (n+1) opinions — well demonstrated here. Personally, I rarely know why I do anything or decide anything. Why should economists be any different?
Got a postcard "Dear Uncle D" from Michelle (niece #1) in Perugia and Assisi, though posted back in Firenze, I note. She expresses the hope that I survived her dad's recent visit. Thank you, m'dear; just about, yes.
It's 19:19. Lunch with Len was lunched at The Bridge in Shawford, more or less in between the showers, though they've been getting steadily heavier. I'm now listening to Alex James (of Blur) enthusing about Stevenson's Treasure Island — it's enough to persuade me to re-read it, I think. (I also retain a sentimental fondness for J Meade Falkner's Moonfleet — first encountered in the Junior School section of Cheadle Hulme grammar back in 1960.)
Now it's 20:30 and the 'molehole' server seems to be off the air, not that there's anything much I can do about it from this side of the Atlantic. Fingers crossed. In other technology news, the Pioneer PVR downstairs is busily transferring last Sunday's showing of "Half Nelson" onto a DVD to free up space on its hard drive for tonight's showing of "Just Friends" at 23:40 in the (possibly forlorn) hope that it will prove amusing. And the Panasonic PVR is all set for an evening of Mancunian music.
I've twice snarled at the lady doing the interval chat during "Friday night is music night" because she's twice pronounced Sir Willard White's name as "Williard"! Goodness me, I am a grumpy old man.