2015 — 14 July: Tuesday
There's a slightly unsettling "Fin de siècle" feeling1 this morning as I sup my first cup in a newly-empty house. Big Bro has already vanished, this time in the direction of Swindon, leaving behind diesel fumes, a couple of stale Hot Cross buns, a cold kettle, and a time-expired chicken curry ready-meal. Yesterday's final act of the probate process dance — actually disbursing dear Mama's estate between the pair of us — probably stirred up enough subconscious junk for a lifetime's therapy (were I a North American) but I shall settle for an occasional sigh (mostly of relief) and some brekkie in due course.
I can now shred...
... the cubic foot of (waste) paperwork — after that: time for some supplies shopping. What shall I feed him this evening, I wonder? Not the curry; that would be unkind. And probably also unsettling, though not in a good way. Having previously only made it through about 10 minutes of "The Imitation Game", I was pleased to stick with the whole thing last night. It still makes you grind your teeth to contemplate Turing's fate. Cretinous bigots...
Uncovering...
... the Bordereau d'expédition wrapped around this morning's package from Ontario2 (for me) handed over by Mr Postie about three seconds after I'd got back from the supplies run3...
... turned my thoughts back towards last night's film, with its peripheral examination of the possibility of machine thought. My copy of Ronald Lewin's 1998 "Ultra goes to War" has mysteriously absented itself from my little stash of Enigmatic material. Nor could I find Ian McEwan's TV screenplay (also called "The Imitation Game", which was shown as a BBC 'Play for today' many, many moons ago). I wonder which Hut they are lurking in? Still, I did manage to find these six titles:
The Enigma machine was actually displayed for sale as a commercial product in 1923 at the International Postal Union congress. [Pause] And now I think I shall risk that curry for my lunch :-)
I've just enjoyed/endured...
... one of those surreal "Who's on first?" rounds of pitiful telephonic security ping-pong with a lady with a strong Indian accent — at the half-way point of my curry — who failed to identify herself at the outset with any degree of rigour. (Bank officials calling me somehow expect me to ignore precisely the warnings they hand out that I had ample time to read on their own bloody poster yesterday while waiting for the teller and the bank manager between them to finish boning up on the details of how to send my money across the globe.) She was — I deduced from her questions — from Barclays and wanted to confirm that I did indeed wish to make the funds transfer to NZ that I'd rather hoped would already have been on its merry way over 24 hours ago.
As security checks4 go, it was pretty feeble. "Had I made any recent ATM transactions I could tell her?" Well, no, actually. But then the fact that Executors can't have debit cards makes that tricky, doesn't it? As would the fact that it was a savings account, not a current account. And had been opened just days before. With only a cheque book for access. Long pause. Ploughing on, my ability to reel off the precise sum involved turned out to be the clincher. She, in turn, was able to tell me (en passant without my asking) who the transfer was going to. (I think she may have been muttering to herself at that point.)
Still, it all seemed kosher. I supplied just two those pieces of info. We parted friends. [Pause] And now I have my new keyboard. And John has his book from "Air Britain".
The evening...
... entertainment started well enough, with "London Boulevard" but then proceeded rapidly downhill with the rubbish that is "Kingsman". You can't win them all.