2009 — 20 June: Saturday
Midnight at the oasis, again. My iMac got into the mega-download act. 158MB of Java and 40MB of a refresh to version 4 of Safari. Can we say "software bloat"? And that's without the latest batch of podcasts. Good job it's just weightless bits.
Sad to say, I'm nearly at the end of my photos of Christa. Unless I discover a new cache somewhere, or Big Bro turns up trumps... Here's another one taken by Peter — I have still to tell the death-of-the-waterbed story!
Christa and David on the doomed waterbed
And the consequent redecoration of our bedroom. G'night.
Hah, typed too soon. Yet more downloading and upgrading (of Open Office to 3.1 on two machines) and a minor spot of Powerpoint debugging assistance via email — not that I use the stuff or even know much about it. A chum of Big Bro has lost the ability to open such files from downunder. I bet John has been saving them in the latest format and I wouldn't be too surprised to learn that good ol' MS have forgotten to keep data file compatibility at the forefront of whatever passes for their mind. Never mind! G'night, take 2, at 01:05 — yawn. Good job I'm not a working stiff.
My Koran-ically inspired neighbour...
... tells me (via our skylight channel, as he prepares to drive off to his surely futile tasks in the Southampton General hospital) that our predetermined temperatures will be 24C or 25C today. "What about this drizzle?" say I. That wasn't mentioned, says he blithely.
It occurs to me that predestination is an all-or-nothing thing (given the "butterfly" effect). Perhaps we could persuade El Supremo up there in the clouds to take over the Met Office computers. After all, she must know the whereabouts of every subatomic particle in every raindrop now and forever. Her CPU cycle time must be awesome — I can't help but wonder how it's cooled... Maybe She's a quantum computer with every qubit1 permanently entangled with every other?
Something (other than El Supremo) tells me it's time (08:38) for a cuppa and to get crockpotting or I shall have a predestined lack of a hot supper tonight.
It's 09:35 and I can relax to the sounds of Pink Floyd's "Arnold Layne" in the comforting knowledge of a well-stuffed crockpot. Breakfast will await the return of the missing appetite (as usual). I'm vaguely wondering how long it's going to take for the spectacular nettle stings on my shin to stop itching, or even to stop being bright red. "Urticaria", I believe it's called. Yet another piece of Intelligent Design, no doubt.
Where's Wally?
Who would have thought that the same chap who wrote and chatted so fascinatingly (back in 1981) in the Louis Malle movie "My dinner with Andre" (thinks, my DVD of that is now some 15 months late — I suspect it's a no-show), and who played the unscrupulous Vizzini in the Rob Reiner movie "The Princess Bride" (thinks, that's going to be a no-brainer Blu-ray purchase) now shows up in the Guardian writing well about writing about sex?
"Mumblecore progeny" heh? Lovely phrase.
Satire lives
I did rather wonder why that British Crime Survey I did yesterday asked about bike ownership!
Don't miss the unique take on Ubuntu.
Christa's gift
I'm delighted to have confirmed, as my after (late) lunch treat (and to the accompaniment of some truly foreign music from China), that I have an appreciative reader back in Old Windsor:
I trawled through your back numbers, not only to see what you've been doing but to see more of the lovely pictures of Christa, of Christa with Peter, of Christa with, well, everybody. Her luminous smile was her gift to everyone who ever loved her, right to the end of her life. It was certainly her parting gift to me when I visited her that day at the Hospice. Thank you for the gallery.
Thanks, Val!
Tapping along
I've already very much enjoyed Part 1 of "Crude Britannia". One of dear Mama's more prescient moves, back in the mid-1960s, was to invest in "Oil and Energy" quite some time before any gas or oil had been confirmed under the North Sea. And having mentioned Rob Reiner, who could resist the chance to revisit Mr Jamie Lee Curtis and those other two luminaries of ultra-heavy rock?! Not me — let's hope my minidisc recorder goes all the way up to eleven.