2013 — 23 October: Wednesday
I have to say1 I was not very impressed by PD James' "Death comes to Pemberley" which I finished2 this morning after first checking on the (continuing dry) state of the troublesome bit of real estate up in the corner of the Books Warehouse. The sound of the morning downpour had woken me, but the wind was obviously from a different point of the compass.
Were I a family...
... of four in North America, and earning $44,000 per year or less, the kiddywinks could be fed free lunch while at school. This little snippet (from NPR's "Market Watch") is hard on the heels of an update (via a phone call from a BBC correspondent — NPR is perpetually cash-strapped) six months after the Bangladeshi clothing factory building collapse that still holds the unwelcome world record for death toll in a single industrial 'incident' at over 1,100.
I was struck by the contrast. The minimum wage paid to some of those people (or workers, as the bean counters would doubtless classify them) was $1-50 per day. $550 (max) per year, give or take. I rather doubt they can claim free school meals. Worse: only one of the western companies using the factory has so far paid any form of compensation. Take a bow, Primark.
As we more-than-half suspected...
... it would be after our Monday session, the Power of Attorney set-up for Big Bro has been taken as far as it can be until he now produces proof of his address on a bit of paper — such as a utility bill or bank statement — all the way from NZ. After all, banks and utility companies are known and well-respected for their probity all round the globe, right? This, despite the fact that the registered PoA document that I've already passed all the way through Barclays' procedures over three years ago already bears his address, and snail mails from the Office of the Public Guardian have already been received in NZ and brought back to the UK three years on in the mistaken belief that that would be enough to satisfy Barclays' bureaucratic Head Office needs...
No, he had to go through the rigmarole of name, address, time at address, mother's maiden name, phone number, email... all written on to a hand-written form, too. And he has yet to contend with the blizzard of paperwork that will shortly be descending on him back at the ranch. Still, at least I conned a fresh PIN-generating widget out of them.
I've just treated...
... what one of my chums referred to as my "housepest" to a lunch and waved him on his merry way3 for the rest of his UK travels. It's 13:55 and the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the barometer has twitched up in the last couple of hours.
Ever onward. Just before we set off for the pub, Mr Postie popped "Veep" through the door.
Excellent (I hope). Though the thought of Elaine from "Seinfeld" as Vice President is very nearly as frightening as that of Sarah Palin.
It may well be...
... the duty of the wealthy man to give employment to the artisan, but — as I still have an inch or so of delicious "Jameson" Irish whiskey left in the bottle he gave me last year, (or maybe it was the year before?) and as I didn't approve of him spending £23 (!) on a new bottle in any case, this morning, when I shopped briefly in Waitrose before the Barclays appointment — I decided it isn't actually the duty of the richer brother to subsidise the boozing of the poorer one. Not a big deal, and thanks for offering, Bro.
Although it only now belatedly occurs to me that I could have let him buy dear Mama a top-up :-)