2010 — 2 January: Saturday
Suddenly, having been pottering gently around, and listening to Bruce Dickinson's Friday evening rock show on BBC 6Music, it's tick-tocked its way over the midnight barrier and on into the wee small hours of Saturday morning. So much for an early night, heh?
Yawn. G'night!
Barometer up, thermometer down
As I listen to the first Brian Matthew programme of the shiny new decade (hah!) I can contemplate the sun putting in an appearance, shining through the thoroughly-frozen tree tops. It's not ever going to get all the way round to the front porch thermometer, however, which was showing -5C a few minutes ago. Adam Faith's 1962 "As you like it"? Good grief, that was a very long time ago. Where's that nice, hot cuppa?
How can the amiable John Major make more sense than the glib Tony Blair? (Declaration: I've never voted for either of their parties — a plague on both your houses, as it were.)
Recall the quote from "The West Wing"... I'm thinking of the exchange with White House Chief of Staff "Leo": "You lied to me, Leo." "I'm a politician, Ainsley; it's what I do."
Right. It's 08:57 and I think that means time for breakfast. My word, it's a dangerous job being a cartoonist, isn't it? (Source.)
Why the poor are always with us
Call me an old cynic, but for many years I've observed that if you "follow the money" you're more likely to end up nearer the truth of any typical human situation1 in which there is an exploited party and an exploiting party, regardless of public pronouncements or statements of intent. Well, here's some vaguely academic support for my doubtless malformed point of view. Though to be honest I have no idea whether a "Clark medal winner from MIT" and a "Harvard government professor" between them constitute academia.
Earwiggo
It's 14:54 and with the temperature trembling on the brink of +2C I think I shall briefly hit the supplies trail. Man cannot live by air alone. Back safely, in time to watch the thermometer back on its downward spiral. It's 16:14 and there are a growing number of faintly-ominous clouds around.
I must say, I plumbed a somewhat poignant new kitchen depth earlier today. I was actually looking for some salt since I'm reasonably sure Christa has a container of the stuff somewhere (though I use almost none, day to day). What I did unearth, and chuck out, were a packet of cous-cous, some macaroni, some noodles, and some rice, all supposedly "best by" dates in mid-2007. Then, to cap that, I winkled out another pack of chewing gum from the stash in her desk, only to find a "half-started" stick. I'm still chewing on that one an hour later! Christa would be smiling broadly, and I guess that's actually the only sane response. I tell you, this bereavement skylark is as densely packed with stuff as a Christmas pudding. It's all part (as Dad would say) of Life's rich tapestry, I suppose. Maybe one day I'll find the embedded threepenny bit?
But would she smile at this, I wonder? (She always used to tell me that one of her reasons for leaving Germany was that she much preferred the British sense of humour and generally lighter-hearted approach to Life. I never had the heart to disabuse her.)