2010 — 30 September: Thursday
I got back from a meal and a video evening in Winchester1 a few minutes ago. It's now 02:26 and time for sleep. There's a brilliant half moon and loads of stars visible out there now that the rain has stopped.
G'night.
Twinkle, twinkle...
If the star is a red dwarf and the planet is "Earth-like" how accurate do you suppose (say) the relative size of the two objects depicted here is? Compare and contrast with the representations here from Big Bro.)
"Gliese 581g" is a mere 120 trillion miles away. Closer to home is this interesting article (and associated comments) about depression and brain chemistry. Or, as I like to think, unIntelligent Design. (Source.)
Time (09:34) for some undepressing breakfast on this cool and misty morning.
Now here's a neatly-expressed "sort of" paradox:
Over the next 40 years, according to the UN, world population will grow from 6.9 billion to 9.1 billion, which may sound like more of the same robust growth that we saw throughout the 20th century... The rate of growth is perpetually diminishing toward zero, and more than half of the remaining increase in population (56 percent) will be among people over 60 — among people, that is, who have already been born.
How many space ships do you need to ship (say) 4 billion people to Gliese 581g?! (And recall the equally delicious paradox of "slowboat interstellar travel" — John Walker is always an interesting read.)
My neighbouring webmasters...
... out in the garden have differing strategies. Click either pic for a bigger2 view:
Breakfast over. What's next, Mrs Landingham? Besides Len's lunchtime visit. A brief burst of fresh air, perhaps? It's 10:41 and still rather misty. Perhaps I shall venture virtually overseas to get my own copy of that "Major League" Blu-ray. It was a stunningly good transfer.
I'm a winner!
Having emailed Len a few minutes ago to make sure he had been thinking "today" when he said "Thursday" (he had indeed) I've now been told my prize for his momentary lapse of memory is a free lunch at the venue of my choice on one of three days next week. So I'm now (14:04) tucking into my healthy prawn salad3 with gusto, but without my conversation companion. Then I have it in mind to pop in on Roger and Eileen while either en route to, or returning from, the care-home where I have choccies to deliver. Assuming dear Mama is still prepared to accept sweets from a chap she:
- barely recognises,
- cannot name, and
- clearly cannot begin to grasp is a pensioner / merry widower!
You hafta smile.
After the first 90 minutes...
... my smile was more of a rictus grin as the novelty of trying to convince dear Mama that she was actually being fed properly and regularly, while fending off or deflecting accusations of my being "barmy" was wearing me down. I didn't wish to agitate the ol' dear but there was no line of reason or logic I could use that was accepted. And anything that showed any sign of working (for example, the simple proposition that if she'd had no food for eight weeks she'd be a skeleton by now) was met by a few seconds silence, and then back to square one's "Nobody brings me anything to eat".
We more or less managed to agree that if food or drink arrived while I was there she might then accept my reassurances. Cue the arrival of the tea and cake trolley. I got the lady to back me up — dear Mama always presents a much nicer side of (what's left of) her nasty "poisonality" to people other than me (not one of her more pleasing habits, trust me). But within five minutes of the cake disappearing I was again being harangued about the fact that nobody brings her any food, shopping, gossip, what-have-you. I pointed to the evidence of the still-warm cups of tea, the cake plates, the crumbs. Pointless. I was just being barmy and refusing to understand her, while my simple explanations were just confusing her. Perhaps she will choke on her choccies as she guzzles them this evening?
A later brief conversation with the matron, a nurse, and the receptionist quickly confirmed that half these well-fed old biddies are convinced they never eat anything. Like I say: you hafta smile.
The cuppa I enjoyed with Roger and Eileen was a great deal more soothing. Now (18:58) I shall fix myself my own evening meal. I've managed to wear myself out while doing remarkably little this afternoon. And I pity whoever has the task of interacting with me when I am in dear Mama's shoes, as it were. Christa is very well out of all this rotten sh1t.
If I ever needed...
... yet another reason not to get on a plane ever again, this would be it:
Mind you, my last personal involvement with this aircraft was in Hatfield back in January 1974, some years before it first entered service. I was performing a series of theoretical shear stress calculations around the jet intakes...
I had intended to re-watch the Aaron Sorkin production "Studio 60" this evening to help diminish my withdrawal symptoms after finishing "West Wing". But (because my son currently has my DVDs) I have instead settled for Season #1 of "Boston Legal". In between heating up some blackcurrants for a healthy supper snack and sporadically trying to diminish the state of (book) disorder on all the new shelves dotted around the house. At this stage of the game it seems unlikely I'll ever be able to find anything ever again (or, at least, not where I might have expected it to be). I hate being forced to locate books by physical size rather than by more sensible criteria such as author or subject matter. Recall Anne Fadiman's delicious essay "Marrying Libraries" in Ex Libris.