2010 — 8 September: Wednesday
I was actually abed before midnight1 but consciousness appears to be back online. It's cool, very damp out there, and I have my brother's (possible) stay tonight and a front half of the living room rendered somewhat messy with 17 packing cartons whose contents I'm really not sure what to do with. This is a batch from when I was clearing all manner of stuff out of what was Christa's study just as fast as I could so as not to hold up the plumber. But her study is now almost bursting with other stuff displaced from other parts of my house (or "clutter cave") so I'm predicting several trips to the tip.
Mr BBC Radio 3 has just told me about a religious idiot in Florida with book-burning tendencies. And that this part of our green and peasant gland here in the Untied2 (sic) Kingdom will have heavy rain.
It's 08:46 and cuppa #1 has already disappeared. Time to resume my clearing of the Augean stables...
Fungus the Bogeyman is set in a world of tunnels inhabited by Bogeymen: large, green-skinned creatures who live in damp, filthy conditions and would not have it any other way. Cleanliness is anathema to Bogeymen. As such, they believe that Augeas (renamed Baugeas) was a Bogeyman and look upon him as a saint. The filthy conditions of his stables makes him a highly revered figure in Bogeydom, while Heracles is despised for cleaning them.
I missed this reference when I read the Raymond Briggs book. Tut, tut.
Thanks, Mr Postie(s)
For a neat package of six CaseLogic folders (for the initial batch of CDs) and for three DVDs, and the book one of them was based on. Mike and I watched it on Sunday evening:
The sleeve from "Scandal" here is from my original LaserDisc copy. No particular reason, except that it didn't try to improve on the iconic photo of one of the young ladies. Meanwhile, Big Bro has arrived, so he and I will be joining my main co-pilot for a little light lunching somewhere within the next hour. It's already mysteriously become 12:15 and still counting.
A pair of long-lost sheep
Retrieved from dear Mama's eccentric filing system. Both are biographies; one (of "Philip" by Basil Boothroyd) possibly slightly less fictional than the other.
They were my Christmas present to Dad in 1970 and my birthday present to dear Mama a month later. Both are hardback first editions. [Pause] Just back from a brief hop over to the storage warehouse, partly to show Big Bro. 118 cartons still to be re-absorbed... one-third of the journey is now over. Time (16:39) for my next cuppa.
Rather later
If there's a better way of winding down after a long-seeming day than to the music of the PCO (preceded by rewatching Oliver Stone's "W") then I don't know what it would be offhand. Shhh. Big Bro's already in bed. G'night.