2014 — 17 February: Monday
Yesterday evening's concert ended after five encores. One of which was just repeated this morning to demonstrate the young Chinese pianist's extraordinary stamina. Amazing. The last one was a complex riff on "Tea for Two" that Dad used to have fun with, though not at the same level of "keyboardic virtuosity". There was nothing to do but follow it with (more accurately, try to follow it with) a film1 that Mike had lent me, and then a further sequence of delicious "Californication" episodes. Topped off, if that's the word, by the most recent Graham Norton chat show (Bill Murray made me laugh) and a swift skim through the latest J Woss chat show (Andrew Marr didn't).
That, or the afterburn sugar rush from the four pancakes I over-indulged in for my evening "meal", or even the 01:37 or so at which I climbed the stairs to Bedfordshire, could explain why the eyelids are somewhat glued together this morning.
Meanwhile, I'm forced...
... to conclude that software is strange. Not a profound observation, but it is a Monday morning, and still (quite) early. There are (I've so far discovered) three different ways of opening a file on my web server(s) for editing (with TextPad) from within a WinSCP (SSH) session with them.2
Because, as Eny Fule Kno, the Universe is a system that runs on a setting of maximum perversity, only the most awkward of those ways seems capable of invoking a TextPad process without that process occasionally / unpredictably opening already stuck in a lethal non-responsive sulk from which it can only be banished via Task Manager's heavy-handed "End process" for another attempt.
What would we do without Task Manager, heh? And (by the way) is there one for the Universe? Time for my next cuppa. I also have a crockpot calling out to me for stuffing. Not to mention the small matter of breakfast. I need a system.
I live a life...
... of blissful ignorance. My latest discovery being the Amazon Mechanical Turk. (Link.) Found while I was just innocently reading a piece in Slate about the psycho-pathology of Internet Trolling. My, it's such a fast-paced planet in some ways. (Link.)
Listening...
... in some bewilderment to a discussion of pansexuality on "Woman's Hour" — where else? — while I stuffed the last inch or so of the crockpot, I now have to contend with the news that my hero Garry Trudeau is taking a very well-deserved hiatus from his daily Doonesbury. Give him a break; he worked at that for a decade longer than I worked in the IT industry. Now there's a wry thought.
Watching...
... Jonathan Meades exerting himself on behalf of concrete architecture (I just snaffled last night's first episode) reminded me (near the end) of this Smithsonian "Bizarro World" portrait of Buckminster Fuller:
Click the pic to see why :-)
Impelled...
... (perhaps?) by the last vestiges of control exerted over "me" by the "bicameral" Julian Jaynes-ian portion of the contents of my noggin, I nipped out3 to the Mart that is Wal (in all but name) to sniff out any worthwhile new video arrivals on their, erm, new video arrivals shelf. I was also secondarily keeping a lookout for another of those amazing "microfibre noodle mitts" as Roger had expressed an interest; no such luck today, alas. On either front.
Nil desperandum however, as Mr Postie had already come to my rescue with quite a mixed bag (all crammed into a single Amazonian package). That latest "Californication" is two days early, dagnabbit. And the three seasons of "Game of Thrones" are courtesy of the Midlands cousins' extraordinary generosity at the Xmas recently endured.
Then no less than four Blu-ray replacements...
... for DVDs (in two cases [whisper it quietly, children] DVDs that were themselves replacements for LaserDiscs, that were [quietly! I said] replacements for VHS tapes).
I haven't currently...
... retained anything written by the (possibly over-prolific, and certainly prolix) George RR Martin on my shelves. But I have a son. And he has a well-thumbed copy of "A Game of Thrones" — a book of the sort of thickness (800+ pages) as to rival MM Kayes's "The Far Pavilions", of which the divine Nancy Banks-Smith said (in a put-down I harvested a while back from Nick Holt's collection): "This is one of those big, fat paperbacks, intended to while away a monsoon or two, which, if thrown with a good over-arm action, will bring a water-buffalo to its knees."
I just might take it out for a spin.