2010 — 21 October: Thursday
Salt was being spread on the motorway just a few minutes ago1 as I pootled gently back home. We watched Jonathan Lynn's excellent little comedy thriller "Wild Target", but then descended into the 127-minute weird world of sub-Dan Brown bad writing and acting that was "The Discovery of Heaven". Suffice to say that Stephen Fry can write a helluva lot better than he acts in this turkey, Flora Montgomery (last seen in "Goldfish memory") was very easy on the eyes, and Maureen Lipman was totally wasted as some hard-edged angel. Mr Emma Thompson was OK, though comes to an overheated end when Heaven clobbers him with a meteorite. Don't ask.
As I have to be sitting, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in Dr Fang's chair in a few hours, and will need to allow some ice-scraping time — it was -2C when I got in — I shall scoff half a croissant, sink a cuppa, and call it a night. G'night.
I've never been absolutely...
... sure what a "yardarm" is but, at 07:44, the sun has yet to appear over it. However, the sky is clear, the con-trails brightly lit, the frost cool and the cuppa hot. The singer on BBC Radio 3 warbles on through her bit of Handel regardless.
Speaking of con-trails, I expect there are a few visible in Big Bro's splendiferous book (which has yet to show up on Amazon here in the UK).
Any old rope
It was supposedly Lenin who said something to the effect that a capitalist is a man who will sell you the rope with which to hang himself, though it seems Lenin was not generally regarded as being in the habit of producing quotable quotes. However, this modern variant by a millionaire documentary feature maker was new to me:
One of the most ironic things about capitalism is that the capitalist will sell you the rope to hang himself with. Actually they will give you the money to make a movie that makes them look bad, if they believe they can make money off it.
He should know.
Frabjous day
An un-numbed but untraumatic re-excavation and repacking of the once troublesome root canal, and a return visit set for four weeks time to pop the final2 cement in. My, it was jolly cold out there. It's now 11:05 and I'm vaguely considering options from a long (but happily virtual) "to do" list.
I still recall the disappointment I felt when I read Herman Wouk's "Marjorie Morningstar" — not a patch on the earlier "Caine Mutiny". 55 years? Blimey! (Source.) But then, I felt similarly let down by Joseph Heller's "Something Happened" after "Catch-22". (Though the opening sentences are absolute crackers in both cases.) Meanwhile, of course, everybody else watches TV. (My consumption of broadcast stuff has been essentially zero for over two months though I more than compensate with my addiction to little spinning silver disks.) I b(r)ought my latest home just a few hours ago, in fact...
... since Mike had managed to end up with a spare through mis-remembering a title.
Time I wasn't here, as I now need to be there before ending up somewhere else.
Hunger...
... really is the best appetiser. I'm just back from Soton, replenishing the choccies supply for dear Mama. I also took the opportunity to browse a forlorn-looking copy of the book by Harry Mulisch that last night's strange film was based on. Being a translation3 makes it harder to judge the original literary merit, of course, though it received some extravagant praise at the time. Five minutes was quite enough to deter me, and I settled instead for John Lanchester's UK edition of the book that caught my eye a few weeks ago:
Lucky me! I know where both my next two cups of tea are coming from... not my kitchen. Off I go again.
Later that day
Another parental visit — during which one of my spies on the staff told me dear Mama had actually ventured downstairs to hear some local kids singing at a Harvest Festival event last week, though her memory of this is only fragmentary. Still, it marks some slight progress. That was the venue for cuppa #1. Cuppa #2 was supped afterwards with Roger & Eileen — the former has a cold and sore throat that may correlate with his recent 'flu jab.4 Here's hoping he wasn't at the infectious stage.
One of those silver disks is spinning enticingly for my pleasure. It's 20:10 and I'm warm, well-fed, and ready for some relaxing pixels. What shall we watch, Mrs Landingham? Or, in this case, listen to? How about some Pink Floyd from a mere 16 years ago? Magic! I'd never previously noticed how track one's guitar is very reminiscent in places of some of the excellently moody music in that superb 1985 video, Troy Kennedy Martin's "Edge of Darkness".