2009 — 3 February: Tuesday
Here's my next picture of Christa. It shows her in the "bijou" kitchen in Old Windsor (obviously) just a few months before Peter was born. By the time I'd wheeled the twin-tub Hotpoint into that kitchen for her there was really very little spare room in there. Par for the course, I suppose, for three-bed semis built in 1951.
Christa and the twin-tub, Old Windsor
This, by the way, was one of the few slides I took using Ektachrome rather than Kodachrome; I had great difficulty reviving the colours1 despite the best efforts of Mike's Nikon Coolscan last summer and my Photoshopping at that time.
If molehole seems more moribund than normal...
For future reference (assuming I continue to use the hosting service that has now failed me several times in 2009) its network status is here. And the server that molehole actually runs on has a problems forum here. Mind you, the fact that the SSH service was broken (and thus I couldn't update any part of my web site) failed to raise any alarm bells for some six hours or more despite the minute-by-minute 24x7 monitoring — not impressive.
I was equally unimpressed by the eventual human email response, the naive question asked of me:
By broken SSH what exactly you mean? What is the error message that you receive when you try to login to SSH?
and the lazy reversion to an automated followup.
Battened down hatches... dept.
I must say, I'm jolly glad I got lots of supplies shopping done on Sunday as I really don't relish the idea of driving around on ice and snow. G'night, ahead of yet more promised snow, it seems. Though not necessarily in my neck of the woods. It's 00:23 or so, and a couple of degrees below zero, but no snow at the moment.
Yawn
Heavens! Time to get stuffing the next crockpot. It's already 10:08... The perils of updating my pages from two different machines (aka he really should know better by now!). Earlier this morning I'd updated the iMac's level of Network Magic software and noted that, publishing from the iMac. After the humanoid sleep period I used the more habitual machine, but forgot to fetch the latest diary page from the server (thus breaking my one and only golden rule) before updating it. Tsk, tsk. Well, it's 11:19 and the next batch of crockpottery is starting to simmer nicely. Soon be time for breakfast at this breakneck pace.
Speaking of "breakneck" I even slipped out to top up the black bin as the lads are obviously running slow (or on strike, maybe?). Rumour has it there's a fine snowman in the next door garden, too. What looked earlier like heavy snow clouds seem to be thinning out nicely, too, with some occasional hints of sunshine and a tiny patch of blue sky.
It is said that those who remember the Sixties weren't there. I've just listened to the slightly weird tale of Prince Stash. Though I have several books of his father's paintings, I was blissfully unaware of the son's existence or rôle in Swinging London. I obviously wasn't there!
Meanwhile...
I see that the Washington Times has caught up with one of my preferred gadflies, with a review of Theodore Dalrymple's "Not with a bang but a whimper" (a lovely line, that). I hadn't realised that Dr D had decamped2 to France. Source and snippet:
...many people in contemporary Britain [are left] with very little of importance to decide for themselves... They are educated by the state (at least nominally)... the state provides for them in old age and has made savings unnecessary... they are treated and cured by the state when they are ill; they are housed by the state if they cannot otherwise afford decent housing. Their choices concern only sex and shopping.
Well, it's an opinion, certainly!
At short notice...
... I'm off to see West Side Story tonight. (Or should that be "tonight, tonight"?) Let's hope the Jets have cleared a landing space. Time (15:40) to heat the kettle. The sun is briefly shining again. OK, it's 18:31 and I'm all set...
Wow. It's 23:16 and I've just demolished a late supper, having really only snacked before the theatre. I don't know if this is the new, vulnerable me or what, but I cannot recall the last time I teared up in a theatre (other than with laughter, at least). But how can it be 50 years since a) Buddy Holly died, and b) the London premiere of West Side Story? I remember Dad bought the original Broadway cast recording on vinyl, and I certainly knew all the "tunes". And those lyrics! Poignant and powerful by turns.