2011 — 19 April: Tuesday
Sadly, I fear even the news1 that Neil Gaiman has written a script for an upcoming episode of "Doctor Who" is unlikely to tempt me to change my policy of no broadcast TV. But then I've not watched it with any regularity since it was both monochrome and 405-line.
My Mensan chum Ian regards it as about the only programme worth watching. What can I say?
The day is off...
... to a nice, sunny start. It's 09:22 and I'm vaguely thinking about garden debris clearance chaps. And a fresh batch of foody supplies. Not to mention some Scotch for dear Mama.
On a similarly sunny day some years ago, you can see Christa (pleased with her painting of the window frames and her floral skills) and also a small sample of my Letrasetting:
The founder...
... of Tesco had a motto: "Pile it high, sell it cheap." But it seems enough is quite simply never enough nowadays:
I have to wonder how much is enough? A whole planet?
Posit a spherical moose
Professor Barash is very reliable infotainment. Source and snippet:
Tension nonetheless persists between theoreticians and empiricists, leading to versions of the following joke: A stranger approaches a shepherd with this wager: "If I can tell you how many sheep are in your flock, I get to take one. If I'm wrong, I'll give you $20." The shepherd agrees and to his amazement, the stranger makes a quick calculation, then announces the correct number: 127. As he is about to depart, the shepherd interrupts with "My turn now. If I can guess your profession, will you give back my animal?" The stranger agrees, whereupon the shepherd announces: a theoretical biologist. And he's right! How did he know? "Because that's my dog you're trying to walk away with."
Dear Mama is...
... currently (until her funds run out) considerably wealthier than I am. On the mat waiting for me after my little hunter/gather expotition were three letters to her. So now I've sorted out refunds (gas and electricity) totalling £368 and she's just had a £125 visit from her Uncle ERNIE, too. Which reminds me: I need to send said Uncle a certified copy of the Power of Attorney document to register a change of address for the ol' dear. Might as well make it here as there's no point trying to pretend she can still read, process, and retain any information.
What was I saying? Something about it being time for lunch? It's 13:08 and gloriously sunny out there. Next door (and next, next door come to that) have the builders in with a vengeance. Skips, vans, banging and sawing sounds. Such a hive of industry. (Actually, I can't help noticing that a lot of time seems to be spent carrying around mugs and staring at mobile phones.)
My lunchtime munching has some fascinating sounds to accompany it.
It's nearly 40 years since I had anything to do with the "Airbus", which probably helps explain why it's still going strong. Whether it will make another 27 years, though, (as implied here) is quite another matter. And will there still be a need for such amounts of fuel, let alone the capability of supplying it?
SF got there first (again)
I was powerfully reminded2 of an excellent novel by Edmund Cooper:
Mind you, there was also an adaptation in 1967 (for the original Star Trek) of Fredric Brown's rather earlier variant ("Arena"). You can't keep a good idea down.
Plans are afoot...
... for an inspection of the flora around Exbury in just over half a day from now. Before that, having stuffed myself silly with the last of a crockpot3 I think I shall take a peek at "Alice Creed". It's already 20:34 and the living room is only slightly less untidy than it was before I started another round of shifting stuff from 'A' to 'B'.
Being a simple chap — one who prefers to sleep without nightmares — I've put "Alice Creed" on hold as it was all getting a bit too gothic / Greek tragedy for my liking. Time (22:46) for some soothing Jacques Loussier while I try to stem the tide of untidiness while fighting off the tide of tiredness.