2011 — 10 March: Thursday
There can hardly be a more boring subject1 than writing about the slow improvement as my immune system grapples with the rhinoviral invasion. However, a good night's sleep certainly helps. I hope my web server is in better shape. At least one of my readers was sent a terse "Bad Gateway" message last night. This is not through any action on my part, I hasten to add.
It's already 09:27 and my radio listening was just halted while the Freesat box did one of its periodic retunes. Final score: 71 TV and 39 radio. More than I need. Right. On with the show, in with the tea, and on with the clothes...
This "Grauniad" piece strikes me as pretty accurate. And reminds my why I have (ineffectually) never voted other than liberal. Source and snippet:
In Britain the loyalty to a failed past is most striking in the Tory-led government's resolute refusal to bring to heel the banks that delivered the economic meltdown. Bankers' greed might be the object of public revulsion and ritual political handwringing; and the banks' survival might depend on the greatest public handouts and guarantees in history. But once again, their executives have awarded themselves hundreds of millions of pounds in pay and bonuses, while real wages are being forced down across the workforce...
I realise that money among our business elite is merely their way of keeping score, but — really — what can the newest boss of a basically nationalised bank2 actually do with more money in one year than I would earn in about ten lifetimes? And does he not see how absurd the system is when a couple of upstart? startup? "Facebook lads" in their mid-20s have already crashed into the disgusting annual Forbes rich list far higher above him than he, in turn, is above me? Amazing and more than a little dispiriting.
Breakfast next, methinks.
The noon that is after
When I recently noted my failure to keep on top of incoming entertainment what I didn't say was that the Dutch pressing of "Ten Inch Hero" had had several trailers on it. One of them looked promising, and Mr Postie has popped the title through my letterbox mere minutes ago, alongside dear Mama's latest bank statement:
Lunch lunched. Now I know I've said it before on this crazy, post-industrial non-career of delightful full-time pottering (and, with any luck, I'll live to say it again, too), but how can you believe — how can anyone believe — in the infinite goodness of a Supreme Being who found it necessary to invent phlegm? Talk about a warped sense of humour.
Later
Having decided my continuing risk to public health is more or less back to normal, I'm about to hit the road over to Winchester for a birthday evening meal at the "Chesil". A chap has to eat, after all.