2009 — 24 May: Sunday
I'm instructed to wake Junior up before I go go (off on a walk). Time enough yet. It's just gone midnight and instead of parking myself in front of the plasma screen (unlike a certain young someone) I've been fitting a 320GB SATA drive into a rather fiddly external enclosure. Having despaired of me doing it, that same certain young someone has finally promised to do what he can to clean up all my MP3 tag data with a lump of software (Jaikoz) he's actually paid for. So I've swapped out the HDD I've been using to hold my music library on my iMac for him to take it back to London with him, as he can handle OS-X format just as easily as NTFS. (And that saves me copying all my music files this evening.1)
So to tonight's picture of Christa, to be looked at while singing "Oh, she did like to be beside the sea-side":
I'm pretty sure she didn't kick that Coke can. But I wonder where my telephoto was? Let alone which beach, when, and where. I'm guessing Guernsey in 1977.
G'night.
Is there anything finer...
... than to receive, in your overnight email, three precious scanned slides of my little family from the early 1980s? All the way from NZ? No, I didn't think so either. Thanks, Big Bro, and glad to see some evidence that you've successfully plugged in that Nikon scanner. It's been a while.
Breakfast is being quietly guzzled lest I wake the young master from his slumbers. The sunshine looks encouraging for a walk. The cuppa is cooling towards drinkability. It's 08:47 or so. Next task: prepare a packed lunch. It's all go. I'd better get down into the kitchen before it's all gone.
Is there anything unfiner...
... than arriving at the bottom of a mug of strangely strong tea, to find the teabag in your final swig? Yuk. I have just placed Junior on orange juice alert as stage 1 of his long journey back toward some form of consciousness. Kids! I've previously mentioned he and Christa were in a different league from me...
Right! Time for both Mounces to set off on their diverse travels. Tick-tock.
They're back
In Battersea, and from a 7.2 mile ramble along the South Downs Way respectively. It certainly felt like the hottest day of the year so far, and the porch thermometer was showing nearly 24C just a few minutes ago (it's now 15:13). I would have been back half an hour later, mind you, if I'd been parked on the motorway. The next laundry2 load is in the machine, the battered bod will shortly be under the shower, just after the next cuppa has disappeared without touching the sides. Then it will be up, up and away back over to Winchester for wine and nibbles, followed by a meal and a film. Do my chums know how to treat me, or what?
Somehow the thought of Johnny Vegas and Arthur Smith (or do I mean Daphne Fairfax?) in a ten years later version of characters from The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists has failed to engage with me. No matter. It's a very long time since I read the original. Now, where's that shower?
What kind of chap jilts a woman like Ms Pike? (Just curious.) I wonder if Ms Barber has yet disowned her 1973 book "How to improve your man in bed". (Just curious.)