2008 — 7 October: Tuesday
Gill rang yesterday, reminding me that it's jolly nearly my birthday (I'm a "twin" with Chris, though he's a whole 365 days older than me, of course). The thought occurs to me that I'm now catching Christa up, too. I guess you stop having birthdays once you've died, don't you my love? Oh well; tonight's picture shows you on another holiday in Guernsey, this time in August1 1987. 21 years ago, and still that gorgeous smile of yours — amazing.
Christa in Guernsey, August 1987
Last night's evening entertainment was to re-watch the excellent 1997 film "Grosse Point Blank". Silly but fun, and a fantastic 1980s musical soundtrack. G'night at 00:21 or so.
Somerset Maugham territory
It's 11:07 and has obviously been raining for quite some time. The banks are having a jolly time — not. Here's a sentence from a BBC page that perfectly encapsulates my difficulty in grasping the "essence" of capitalism: As they have been unable to borrow from each other, the banks have been forced to borrow from the government instead, to the tune of £200bn over the past year. One might conclude that it's money that makes the world go round. (Bacteria and dung beetles might disagree.)
It's good to hear Christopher Matthew recalling the late, great Alan Coren. "When a humourist dies, the only thing to do is find a bar with a piano, and stay until they throw you out." I'd love to have heard Coren's take on "ventilation shutdown" — the euphemism for suffocating hens on a massive scale during disease outbreaks in overcrowded chicken houses.
Don't patronise me... dept.
A nice thoughtful piece by Jacob Epstein reviewing, disagreeing with, and commenting on Marjorie Garber's book "Patronizing the Arts". Snippet:
I conclude that the ideal arts patron is a shy, retired Mafia don without the least interest in art: in other words, a rich man who prefers not to discuss the source of his wealth, would never wish to push himself forward for publicity, could not care less about what an artist does with his money, and is content to walk away quietly with his tax write-off in his suitcoat pocket just above his shoulder holster...
Lovely writing.
The rain appears (at 12:35) to be having a brief rest. Mind you, the prevalent theme of the current local motorway signs is "Spray slow down" with the interesting exception of the ones that say "Animals in road slow" on both directions of the M27 near the airport. What a gloomy bit of weather. It's almost dull enough to need the light on. Still, perhaps it will damp down the nest of wasps in the space above the garage roof? (Big Bro's spraying seemed to re-invigorate them.)
"Good God!" A car thief is starting seven months in jail. He was caught on CCTV and identified by the tattoo of his name and date of birth on his neck. So much for machine-readable number plates. Time to agitate some sausages for lunch, methinks.
That's better... dept.
I must say, I wasn't the world's keenest proponent of salads in earlier times, in contrast to Christa. However, there's not much wrong with a couple of grilled sausages, some ham, cheese, pickled onions, lettuce, tomatoes, spuds, soured cream. Topped with (of course) a cuppa, an apple, and (equally of course) a couple of the items that come in the packet you can see Christa clutching here. That's indeed better! I also note (at 14:30) the clouds are scudding past quite rapidly but without further rain just at the mo'. There are more people living in China called "Chang" than there are people in Germany. Why do I listen to BBC Radio 2?
Yikes! It's 15:56 and I've spotted some blue sky!
In later news... dept.
I don't think I'll bother with Putin's judo video. I've been rediscovering an archive of "Opus" cartoons, having just learned that Berkeley Breathed is finally stopping that wonderful cartoon penguin. And I again realise I've become my father, too; I've just enjoyed everything Desmond Carrington played while I was making, and then eating, my evening meal. Not as portentous, perhaps, as J Robert Oppenheimer's muttered claim "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds" from the Bhagavad Gita (which, perhaps not oddly, was requested in lieu of the Bible by this week's Desert Island Discs castaway).
It's 20:13, pitch dark outside, and my evening awaits. Part of it has now (21:41) been spent in some database maintenance. And, prompted by the irritating discovery that my expensive new edition of Watchmen2 never made it into my books database, I'm now reminded of the fact that I treated myself to the first paperback edition of that fine piece of work on my birthday just a couple of months after that holiday in Guernsey. Time doesn't just fly — it zips.