2009 — 24 January: Saturday

Tonight's (non-clickable) picture of Christa, in the Old Windsor kitchen, is blurred but nonetheless clearly shows her smile lighting up the room, don't you think?

Smile

Another day of digital problems1 of one sort or another, but it's grinding towards the end. Just the last set of meds for the day and then I shall do my best to leap into the arms of Morpheus. Like last Sunday, if I'm actually admitted to hospital later today I'm not sure when the diary will resume normal service. Not that I've ever published a service level agreement, of course!

G'night at 00:55 or so.

Earwiggo again

Having downed the first meds at 07:30 I've been lazily dozing (rather than dosing) but as it's now 10:08 it's time to get up and at 'em. Breakfast beckons. It's sunny, but there is still frost on the roof.

David got fingered

And now, courtesy of my main co-pilot, the finger has been taken down into town, fingered by a young Registrar, and the verdict is — literally — "keep taking the tablets" with another inspection in a week, this time at the other2 main hospital. I'm to watch out for signs of "general unwellness" (such as fever) in the meantime, and haul myself in to see my GP if things start getting worse rather than better. There'll be an appointment letter in the post. I must say, the General was very, very quiet. Its main carpark was virtually empty. Vastly different from when I was driving down there (as a learner) to see Christa every day in October 2007.

Thanks for the lifts, Peter!

Procrastination rules... OK?

My cuppas (not mea culpas) are at least partially vindicated.

To some there is nothing so urgent that it cannot be postponed in favour of a cup of tea. Such procrastination is a mystery to psychologists, who wonder why people would sabotage themselves in this way... Those seeking to cajole a colleague, friend or spouse into action might ponder the finding, though perhaps not for too long. It might be better to offer a procrastinator a concrete choice — Lapsang Souchong or Darjeeling? — rather than asking him just what sort of a person it is who would drink tea when time is of the essence.

Journalist in The Economist


As a retired chap, though, is time of the essence? I'm still a world-class potterer, even without Christa's gentle cajoling. Besides, I can't eat lunch yet 'cos the pills have to go to work on an empty tum. It's 13:52 and there's some lovely old music on BBC Radio 3. But I guess I can at least put the kettle on, while I carry on burrowing:

From out of the variety of fauna employed in the figuring of the mind and its activity we might choose the blind and burrowing mole as an especially curious specimen. The lowly mole may be thought an unlikely candidate for the mind's mascot, but I've encountered eight instances of the Mole metaphor of the mind in eighteenth-century literature.

Brad Pasanek in Of Minds and Moles


As to how I unearthed this (and its associated metaphor database)? Well I was browsing a lovely essay about the modern loss of solitude here. Which also reminded me of that JT McIntosh 1952 SF short story "The bliss of solitude", but that's another story. (You'll find it in Edmund Crispin's Best SF 4 though, as even that dates back to 1961, the odds are probably against you.)

Bliss

As I recently discovered, my (corrected) eyesight remains acute, but it is a mere nothing compared to the protagonist Ord's powers of optical resolution! Right, definitely time for a bite to eat. It's 14:48 and I seem to be hungry.

That's better. As I digest lunch and finish off with some slices of fresh pineapple I'm listening, completely fascinated, to a programme about music from Svaneti in Georgia. Including a song reckoned to be over 2,000 years old. Amazing. Totally amazing.

My email server is still under the weather, it seems. So far, the web server is doing a bit better, though it does still come and go without warning. It's 15:37 and there is still sunshine and blue sky, though not much warmth in the sun. No wind, unlike the south of France and the Atlantic coast.

Springsteen the philosopher

My respect for Bruce Springsteen, which was already high, has notched even higher having just heard some of his thoughts on Life, music and songwriting. Amazing.

  

Footnotes

1  It seems a disk on my Texan server first went partly bad (that is, read-only!), got partly fixed, and then had to be replaced a few hours later in any case. Worse things happen at sea. I was one of many users affected, of course. I would cross my fingers, but that's not without pain at the moment.
2  The RSH, where Christa had her five days of radiation from a caesium needle implant just over quarter of a century ago. When I visited her I had to stay behind a lead shield (and I wasn't allowed to take Peter in with me at all, of course).