2015 — 22 October: Thursday
Today1 "we have lunching of lunch". For a trio of us. Second, however, I really must top up Mother Hubbard's nearly empty cupboard. The echo from it is too pronounced.
And first?
Tea, of course.
[Pause, for slurping.]
My Blu-ray of "This is where I leave you" showed up — concealed, mostly, under my front door's external mat — yesterday, while Brian and I were disporting ourselves in Jamie's Palace of Discarded Delights down in the Mount Pleasant Industrial Estate. So some of the evening was a pleasant re-watch of that, and a portion of the extras on it that were so annoyingly absent from the UK DVD release. Then I re-acquainted myself with "Notes from Overground" until rather too far into the night...
Now, there's a film I shall re-watch (again) soon. I have still yet to spot every cameo in it.
Except for the "quirkiness"...
... I can relate to this:
The President: But you knew you wanted to read and write.
Robinson: Yes, that's what I wanted to do.
The President: Were your parents into books, or did they just kind of encourage you or tolerate your quirkiness?
Robinson: There was great tolerance in the house for quirkiness.
Apart, that is, from being told, all too often: "put your book down and go out and play in the fresh air..." I must have heard that (when I did actually hear it, that is) nearly as often as the dreadfully-inept-parenting phrase: "Just you wait until your father gets home, young man!"
Oh, the joys of middle-class suburban England in the 1950s!
This rings true...
... though the idea of Raygun endorsing the chap's ideas strikes me as pretty ludicrous.
I live and learn.
Having just refilled...
... the ever-emptying cupboard of La Hubbard, I can turn my focus to the pending change in state of Technology Towers' input hopper. I caught up, last night, with some Annie Lennox and Joni Mitchell material that had somehow escaped my notice, having resisted both Joan Armatrading and Judie Tzuke. Plus I found yet another promising trilogy of "YA" fiction: the "Chaos Walking" books by Patrick Ness. I expect niece #1 could have told me about them already.
I've no intention...
... of dispelling the good mood induced by a pleasant lunch and extended chat by wasting any time filling in a form from our Department of Work and Pensions. They ask me to establish my credentials for running a care-home here at my address (which they get wrong, by the way). I deduce they mis-interpreted the change of address I supplied when the postal redirection from dear Mama's former home in the Midlands expired, and have thus assumed she had been living with me, here2 in Technology Towers.
As opposed to living in the actual care-home in Winchester in which she actually spent3 her last few years of "life".
It's difficult to treat the Department's request with quite the urgency that they feel it has. But who can truly fathom the inner workings of a guvmint bureaucracy? I shall write a polite letter to them.