2009 — 21 April: Tuesday
It's pretty cold out there right now — I generally sniff the outside air when putting the chain on the front door, which is just about my last task downstairs each night (as it has been for many years here, of course). Nearly time for sleep once again. But first, tonight's picture of Christa, which (like yesterday's) is also from the summer of 1975, in the back garden of the flat we rented in Old Windsor:
The same garden, in fact, that was the scene of the amazing "David! There's a cow loose in the back garden" escapade. (Though what on earth she expected me to do about that, I still have no idea.)
The evening's telly choice, by the way (recently concluded) was "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" which I thoroughly enjoyed, though I admit it's probably better left unviewed by maiden aunts (if such still exist). Funnily enough, the most inventive bit was kept right to the end of the film (and involved the Jim Henson puppet gang). Excellent. Oh well, it's 01:05 or so. G'night.
Brightly shines...
... the new-born day etc. etc. — I have supplies to gather in ahead of my lunchtime rendezvous with a chum over in Winchester who's now been retired for about a year. Should be an interesting catch-up and comparison. Breakfast and a cuppa come first, however. It's 09:24 and counting.
Perfect accompaniment to the cereal: philosopher AC Grayling in this excellent piece. I'll leave you to discover the location of the misplaced "interested"...
Good...
... after noon — literally. Shopping? Done. Laundry? Doing. Route to rendezvous? Found a new, direct (5.9 mile) shortcut which I shall try. Right; time to depart.
Later
Well, Port Lane was delightfully traffic-free on both my traversals of it, leading directly from Hursley to John's road and passing a pig farm en route. We lunched at the "Queen Inn" (in their sunny garden) and I learned a great deal about various Stainforth ancestors, and a Bruges connection. I had jokingly suggested John "rate" himself on his first year post-IBM — he seemed a little surprised at how "little" he'd "achieved" during the year. That's Life, of course.
The sun and a tiny hint of a breeze are (I hope) drying several shirts and a vital fleecy top. We have another bluebell expotition planned for tomorrow, and I shall be down in Bournemouth on Thursday. Meanwhile, I can note two recent arrivals:
Where John has become a genial genealogist, I seem to have become a Janeite.1 Oh well. Time (16:50) for a cuppa while Matthew Parris and chums are rattling on about Sir Thomas Beecham.
Having just scanned the DVD cover artwork for "El otro lado de la cama" and been (as ever) bemused by its UK censorship "score": 15: contains strong language and moderate sex I'm left wondering (since the soundtrack is Castilian Spanish) a) how exactly the prats who control their fellow citizens in this bizarre way assess (foreign) language "strength", and b) what would constitute "immoderate sex".
Later still
As I munch the edible bits of the last two oranges from Lidl (and am, again, forced to conclude that fruit from one of Christa's preferred shops simply doesn't keep long enough to outweigh its lower price) as my pud, the divine "Desmo" is winding to the end of a programme that has featured nepotistic musical acts. I could wish he hadn't finished with Nat 'King' Cole's Unforgettable however. <Sigh>