2011 — 7 January: Friday
Little did my mother think1 she'd reach her 94th birthday (but I have her birth certificate to prove it, if necessary). It's 09:55 and raining out there. I have an empty crockpot dish staring at me out in the kitchen, and (for that matter) an empty tum thinking vaguely along breakfast lines. I do have that vital first cuppa, however, so all's right with the world (more or less).
So: crockpot assembly, nibble of breakfast, brunch with Peter, swing by the care-home, that's the rough-hewn shape of my day so far. I was so tired last night I truncated the 1960s documentary I'd chosen as Mike's Xmas present after the first hour and drove carefully home. Sad to say, one third of the audience had also not enjoyed "I am Love" but I stand by my original opinion. Stunning film. De gustibus non est disputandum and all that.
Right! Crockpot is on the starting track, as it were. I've been listening to some fascinating snippets from Professor Paul Robertson about (basically) Mozart and the brain while doing all my dicing and slicing. But now (11:07) I really am ready for that brunch, so I shall dress a bit more appropriately for a biker café and then be on my way.
R.I.P. Wanda
The last of the fish we rehoused over the road in May 2007 just before we turned our pond into a bog garden has succumbed to whatever fish succumb to, and has — as it were — had her chips. But I've been cheered up by Mr Postie. It's 13:52 and nearly time for me to trot over to the care-home. Deep Joy.
I generally find...
... something of interest in the New York Times. But this sad piece took me aback. Maybe I was still recovering from watching "Religulous", maybe I was a little down after my visit to dear Mama (completely oblivious of her birthday — of course — and thus vaguely puzzled by the card and balloons from the staff, let alone their rendition of a well-known song). Mormons strike me as no more enlightened than the poor saps sucked into L Ron Hubbard's cult. Humans seem to me uniquely skilled at constructing mental and moral traps for their own self-incarceration. Truly bizarre.
"Follow the money", say I, and the truth shall set you free. (Actually reading the latest news in "Private Eye" of over-rewarded bankers picking up in a year more than my lifetime earnings while presiding over the collapse of their institutions is also a bit of a downer.) Blagging a cuppa from Roger and Eileen, and delivering a badly-mastered (but watchable) DVD of "Inception" to Brian, both helped raise the serotonin level.
It's 19:06 and my crockpot is yelling "Eat me!"
And now, after watching "World's greatest Dad", my bed is yelling "Sleep!" It's 23:05 and I've run out of "oomph" for the time being. G'night.