2010 — 31 March: Wednesday

The Vorkosigan saga rolls nicely on,1 accompanied by a pair of fascinating radio programmes on Larry Parnes and Jacques Brel, respectively. It's somewhat past midnight and I'm vaguely wondering whether to choose sleeping or further reading. Either way, let's hope the snow and gales stay well away from our little patch. Horrible weather, particularly while I lack my central heating system. Besides, isn't March supposed to go out like a lamb? Brrr.

Still, humping piles of books around has been keeping me reasonably warm for some of the time. G'night.

There's nothing quite like a...

... warm, sunny, Spring morning to set the pulse pounding. And so there's no danger of that around here. I'm actually admiring the vapour visibly rising from my latest cuppa (it's already 10:40, after all) up here in the sultry (16C) study as I contemplate my next (bookshelf) manoeuvre. And (I've just checked) it's a chilly 3C outside. Brrr, indeed.

Back from a brisk supplies foray to lose myself for a couple of minutes in this absurdist piece. Beautifully written (and/or translated2) and well worth your time. Source and snippet:

The trance-like feeling engendered by the streams of such information is reinforced by the Orwellian oxymorons in the speeches of the higher echelons: "conservative modernisation", "sovereign democracy", "Parliament is not the place for discussions". These oxymorons regularly force their way into our consciousness, increasing the feeling of disorientation and existential weightlessness enabling one to accept without question the most fantastic and contradictory information from on high. Which is why no one is surprised to hear that "United Russia" received 102% of the votes...

Andrei Loshak in oDRussia


The "Barrayar" of Bujold's splendid series is very clearly modelled along these same lines. And none the worse for it. What's that, Mrs Landingham? Tea? I'll get right on it. Now, where's that samovar?

"I'm shocked I tell you, shocked"... to learn that it's taken our alert media national watchdog Ofcom three years to discover that that lovely man Mr Murdoch and his gorgeous "Sky" satellite TV operation hovering somewhere over Europe has allegedly exploited its power to overcharge (by up to 23%) other operators wishing (for some unknown reason) to re-distribute its sports channels. I think I could have done that job in three seconds. Still, Sky now has permission to plop some of its pay-TV rubbish channels on terrestrial Freeview, which is not a good sign. (Can Freesat remain unsullied, I wonder? Not that I watch anything much beyond the BBC.)

Laugh at lunchtime

As I give my intended lunch (smoked salmon and salad) time to ascend a little towards room temperature, I can ponder which of the two items in my snailmail has given me the bigger laugh. The cover of the new Private Eye3 or the news from IBM that my pre-1997 pension is twitching upward by 2.2% reflecting 60% of the rise in inflation as measured in January (viz., 3.7%). The monthly amount that represents is within an inch or two of the cost of the petrol I've just put into the car to be sure of safely getting to and from Nick's retirement lunch tomorrow in the vicinity of the Spinnaker Tower. Swings and roundabouts, indeed.

Enjoyably dusty work though it is, shifting, sorting, and hefting books around is an enormous time eater. It's 17:23 and I certainly appreciate the extra hour of daylight at this end of the day, too. One shelf to go before I tackle the next opportunity to break my neck on the stairs getting the bookcase from the study to the living room. Risk? Danger? Pah!

Rather later than planned...

... it's fair to say I've worked up an appetite. The next wodge of books is relocated, in an approximation of random order, on its relocated set of shelves. After I'd managed to manoeuvre said bookcase down the stairs and round the bottom of the banister (not to mention past the plasma screen without actually smashing it) it suddenly occurred to me that the reason it was a lot more difficult than when I first put them up here wasn't actually only because of my missing lady assistant, but because I'd previously assembled the bloody things in situ. It all rather brought back memories of the summer of 1981 when I was first living here (with Pete Robbins camping in what became Junior's room, actually) and doing virtually nothing but put up shelves for what seemed like several weeks (largely because it was).

Taking a break at 23:03 I find this pretty outbloodyrageous.

  

Footnotes

1  I'm currently immersed in "Brothers in Arms" which, for a change, takes place in a city called London on a planet called Earth.
2  There's a Russian proverb to the effect that a translation is like a mistress: either beautiful (but unfaithful), or plain (but — one presumes — faithful). I typeset this for Christa's office back when I had a decent DTP system on one of my Acorn systems. Can I now find it? Don't be silly!
3  An Easter message for the Pope... In the old days boys wanted to enter the priesthood... rather than the other way round. I wonder if the Vatican has a subscription?