2013 — 30 May: Thursday
Panic Stations!1 Peter and Peter's g/f will be arriving on Friday and there's more than a tiny bit of stuff-shuffling needed before then if they're to be able to reach, let alone sleep on, their bed. Mole had better start that spring cleaning. And some unanticipated supplies shopping.
And I've already arranged an afternoon of data hobnobbing with a chap who's foolishly admitted to possession of an unopened pack of dark chocolate Hob Nobs, too. Tick, tock.
I forget...
... who it was who first remarked that it was discourteous to engage in a battle of wits against an unarmed opponent, but I can happily report that I've just given at least as good as I got following an unprovoked skirmish with my sibling in NZ.
ROFL :-)
Well I never!
I've enjoyed two of Richardson's books — The Sorcerer's Apprentice (his memoir of life with Douglas Cooper) and Sacred Monsters, Sacred Masters (well-written portraits of a lifetime of interesting encounters in and around the art world) — though without feeling any great need to tackle his ongoing gigantic biography of Picasso...
... a trip to Oxford follows — to give the inaugural lecture at Ertegun House, the new humanities centre launched by the widow of Richardson's old friend Ahmet Ertegun, founder of
Atlantic Records. "Ahmet was a great character, very intelligent and well-read, you'd have loved him. He was the son of the Turkish ambassador in Washington. He noticed that the
ballroom in the embassy wasn't being used so he got these jazz musicians, working as taxi drivers, to come and play. He went into the record business and made a hell of a lot of money."
"Mrs Ertegun flew us over in a private plane. We're being spoilt rotten, put up in this enormous suite with fantastic views and hideous grey walls that make one feel one is on the
outskirts of Frankfurt or maybe" — pause — "in Sweden."
... but I was completely unaware of this delightful anecdote as the chap in question doesn't get a mention in either of those books.
I'm in no way...
... a petrol-head, but even I can see the appeal of both these unusual vehicles. (Link.)
R.I.P. Jack Vance
Oh, bugger. (Obituary.)
Re: Panic Stations (above)
Their room (my room, technically, as I have to keep reminding myself) is now (technically) once again vaguely habitable. But I won't be fit for company without some major abluting. Why do most things get more difficult, and/or slower, with the creeping onset of the beginnings of the approach of almost middle age?
I have to say, the BBC Radio 3 concert isn't helping, either, as a bunch of kids seem to be running around banging pots and pans. I know Frank Zappa was a great fan of Varese, but I am not. But only 20 minutes now before the 100th anniversary performance of some sublime Stravinsky.