2012 — 8 June: Friday
Yet more grey but not so much drizzle this morning. Still remarkably unsummery, in summary.
I'm just a little bit too late to have caught the 8 a.m. headlines though I'm pretty sure they would be as unappealing as ever. As is the state of my throat. You have to admire the tenacity of our virulent little microbial and viral friends, even if it's hard to enjoy their effects. (I trotted downstairs at 04:30 or so to treat myself to another aspirin in hopes of damping down the flames — I keep being recommended a red-hot extra-strength curry from Asda as [my informant assures me] the endorphin rush of the afterburn will do much1 to clear out the nasal passages.)
Ever onward. Tea helps.
The reported reaction...
... of the Police Federation to the prospect of being run by Tom Winsor — the chap who reviewed them (if "135,000 raised eyebrows" is any guide, they're not enthusiastic, allegedly) — merely confirms that old rogue Machiavelli:
It must be remembered that there is nothing more difficult to plan, more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to manage than a new system. For the initiator has the enmity of all who would profit by the preservation of the old institution and merely lukewarm defenders in those who gain by the new ones.
Definitely time for breakfast.
Glowing, with the...
... inner virtue only given to those who have just wasted ten minutes filing away three years' worth2 of three different sets of monthly credit card statements, in order (too), while gazing bemusedly at my first-ever annual statement from one of them (that suggests about 20% of my net income is being consumed by the food that goes on to fuel the rest of my enjoyably aimless pursuits in retirement) and listening (from the system downstairs) to Mr Postie's delivery an hour or so ago...
... of that 1998 Kirsty Hawkshaw CD I discovered among the music files I rescued for Gill'n'Chris, I'm quite surprised to discover that it's already the afternoon. And, indeed, rapidly approaching time for lunch. Could that be something to do with the caffeine rush from a single cup of 'real' coffee earlier, I wonder? A dangerous drug, evidently.
Pity I didn't hang on to Christa's morphine!
Having over-supplied...
... myself with fresh fruit and meringue nests for yesterday afternoon's little bean feast, I've arranged for the surplus to go to an appreciative home, and will be on my way there with it within the hour.
As my Dad...
... was a little over-fond of saying "Everything comes to he who waits" — I mentioned Alison Bechdel's wonderful memoir "Fun Home" a while back. This evening's email newsletter from "Last Gasp" Publishing over in San Francisco alerted me to her follow-up (this time, I gather, concentrating on her mother rather than her father). The title "Are you my mother?" is a bit of a clue. My order for it went into Amazon just a few minutes ago.