2010 — 15 August: Sunday
I've had cause to mention before some of the idiocy involved in the redrafting of a vastly-fatter fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Even the chairman of the task force that produced the fourth edition has his doubts about turning grief into a psychiatric problem — with, naturally, a pharmaceutical "cure" / treatment. (Source.)
I'm not a psychiatrist, nor do I greatly admire the "profession". But I've certainly learned a fair amount about grief recently. And I think my preferred treatment will continue to involve friends, and cups of tea, and eating well, sleeping enough, reading, writing, jokes, emails, lots of fine music, films, decent TV (I've just enjoyed another batch of West Wing) and plenty of walks1 in the fresh air. Not to mention all the domestic administrivia I've been discovering of late that seems to be more or less a mandatory part of being an adult in this benighted country.
But not pills. G'night.
Waking up at...
... just after 07:00 certainly gives me enough time to stuff my next crockpot before heading out into what looks currently like grey drizzle for a little stroll. I'm pleased to report that the new heating system kicked in, and is far quieter than the original one — but then it isn't struggling to pump black toxic sludge around the lime-scale-filled old radiators. Now, about that cuppa. And a previously unpublished picture of that lovely lady who used to help with all the ghastly administrivia, or at least make it seem like more fun than it really is:
From the very early 1990s, I'm guessing, by the size of what was then a little bush thing (with occasional red berries).
And here's a quick Q&A with one of my favourite BBC 6Music DJs while I listen to another.
Must remember to set the crockpot to "stun" before heading out for my walk. But it doesn't need to go on just yet. Breakfast, Mrs Landingham? OK. It's 09:08 and slightly less grey out there.
XP hints
It's always worth keeping an eye on the advice given here.
Next item?
Swill myself with some hot water, enjoy a cuppa, and then make a bite to eat. It's 13:02 and was rather humid out there this morning. But it's good for us! I see I shall need a new pair of boots fairly soon.
Lunch has just been demolished while listening to the 1984 David Gilmour album "About Face" and while reading the excellent interview here with one of my favourite film directors (Stephen Frears). He's just made a film out of "Tamara Drewe", a graphic novel by one of my favourite cartoonists (Posy Simmonds). I picked up a copy on my traditional, but first-ever solo, New Year seaside outing to Bournemouth2 in January 2008. What's not to like?
Later
It's now 17:50 and some of the afternoon was spent having a nap. Unusual, but not unprecedented. The crockpot is done (I hope) to perfection. The evening beckons gently. I suspect I'm getting a little bit older than I used to be.
Tom pointed me to a review of what (I must say) sounds an unusually crappy film for its description of the reviewer's subjective passage of time. Source and snippet:
But at least this linguistic lurch provided some interest in a film that is mind-bendingly boring, with an utter lack of narrative drive, an absence of jeopardy or anything at all being at stake, or of interest, in any way whatever. After the first five seconds, it seems as if you have been watching it for around two-and-a-half hours, and that this time has passed in four-and-a-half days.
William ("The Princess Bride") Goldman always used to say that nobody ever set out deliberately to make a bad film... Mind you, I also saw the astonishing assertion just today (in that Frears interview, in fact) that most Hollywood films "except for the odd summer blockbuster" lose money.
SSDs
If you're of a mind to be fascinated by this sort of thing, then this sort of thing will fascinate you! This, too! Not to overlook this, either.
Time (21:07) for another burst of "West Wing". [Pause] Series #1 episode #10 (In Excelsis Deo — the funeral at Christmas of a homeless Korean War veteran) has, as usual, reduced me to a blubbering mess. Where's that tea, Mrs Landingham?