2008 — 3 November: Monday
Today's picture shows our little family on our very first visit to Chandler's Ford. When I knew I had a firm job offer from IBM in March 1981 (three weeks to the day after my interview, just as had been promised by that lovely chap Ron Stotter) we obviously needed to find a place to live down here near the Hursley Laboratory. So it was out with the map, drive down from Old Windsor for a "look see", visit those ghastly parasites known as "estate agents", find a place within walking distance of a local bus route to the Lab, and pick up some local papers to inform ourselves about this strange place in the deep south1 of the country.
Christa and Peter, Fryern Arcade, spring 1981
Christa actually found our present house by scouring one of the papers after we'd arrived back home after a thoroughly dispiriting day wasted in a series of — frankly — useless estate agents. She spotted a tiny four-line advert printed in the back of one of the papers — its previous purchasers had pulled out, and the builder was having cash flow problems, and needed a quick sale. In fact, they went into receivership just a few months later, without completing all the houses originally planned for our little estate. That's why two of the 28 houses here were eventually "self-build".2
Nail on head... dept.
I'm shocked, I tell you:
The "alt text" tag on the original cartoon shows "What do you want me to do? LEAVE? Then they'll keep being wrong!" — how true.
What little bit of sunshine there was this morning appears to have disappeared along with my breakfast. I shall have to cheer myself up here. Suddenly it's 11:00. When did that happen? Today's new (to me) word: "churnalism" (the art of rewriting a press release and posting it [among other places] on the BBC's web site). Unkind!
Bring me sunshine... dept.
I long ago discussed with my GP the possible consequences for me and my life in the wake of Christa's death. I'm a reasonably intelligent chap but was faced with a situation completely new to me, and completely out of my control. I've mostly resisted the temptation to research the highways and byways of depression, for example, as I have a deep suspicion of tinkering with whatever strange stuff goes on inside my skull. Besides, I don't believe for one minute that I'm actually depressed.
But reading what I'm sorely tempted to characterise as "New Age twaddle" like this can still make me laugh. I was actually "googling" for a distinction (apparently drawn by Freud) between "successful mourning and stalled brooding" which had struck me as potentially interesting. And then I found a most interesting blog entry and, almost before I know it, it's nearly time to feed the inner man.
I don't need to slag off the Daily Mail. That's what Charlie Brooker is for:
To protect readers' sensibilities, all the rude words were sprinkled with asterisks, although since the Mail's definition of "rude" extends to biological terms such as "penis", it was a bit like gazing at an ASCII representation of a snowstorm on a ZX Spectrum circa 1983. Perhaps next week it will produce a free sheet of asterisk stickers for readers to plaster over their own genitals, lest they catch sight of them in a mirror and indignantly vomit themselves into a coma.
Funnily enough, some of the conversation I enjoyed on Saturday evening was germane to this.
You think?
"PM admits data losses may be inevitable". (Unsurprising source.) Can we now give up on the ridiculous idea of ID cards, please?
End of a saga
Our leafy little suburb suffered an armed bank raid (on Christa's bank) mid-way through her final radiation treatment. It seems the bad guys are now off to clink. I've always been amazed at how hard people are willing to work, and the risks they are willing to take, to avoid more conventional work. Now remind me why I need to pay to feed and house them. (Incipient grumpy alert!)
Shopping has been shopped. Junior's kindly offer to be here on the anniversary of Christa's death has been gently rejected (though I was very touched by his offer). Now I've just listened in open-mouthed horror to the calmly-told but utterly appalling story of Gary Mitchell. What a strange world, and what a huge part religious beliefs seem to play in its bigotry.
"A leader of the godless Americans pack..." What a perfect phrase to spew from the mouth of a desperate Republican senator (Mrs Dole).
In later news... dept.
Let's see. Well, I've satisfied the inner man (yet again) and just enjoyed a surreal conversation with dear Mama. She's once again decided she needs to see her two sons together to discuss her affairs and her will. I gently pointed out that a) the two of us saw her just before her sister died, and b) we thoroughly discussed all this at that time. I also (by no means for the first time) reminded her that her elder son (aka Big Bro) not only lives and works in New Zealand, but has done so since the summer of 1970. This information (by no means for the first time) came as a great surprise to her. She's reluctantly concluded she will have to deal with me, therefore. And when am I coming up to see her? (I can stay overnight, it seems.) What a life, heh?
There are (as ever) some delightful snippets in the latest Ansible. One example:
Paul Krugman, winner of this year's Nobel Prize for Economics, is an unashamed sf fan who earlier in the year said of Isaac Asimov's Foundation series: 'It's somewhat embarrassing, but that's how I got into economics: I wanted to be a psychohistorian when I grew up, and economics was as close as I could get.'
Krugman claims, by the way, to have invented currency crises. That's to say, he published the first paper on them, back in 1979. Business has been good ever since, he says!