2008 — 15 September: Monday
Yesterday's picture showed Christa and Bryan. The second slide Mike took that evening was of, you might say, the Master (clutching his delicious Margharita1):
I first read, and heartily recommend, Mikhail Bulgakov's satirical masterpiece way back in February 1971 (in the Michael Glenny translation). Now I haven't researched the spelling of Margharita versus Margarita, but my strange memory suggests I can offer you a third variant: Margherita. She was the wife of Giovanni Guareschi (creator of Don Camillo [whose tales I avidly devoured in the early 1960s]) and she features under that name in his delightful 1953 memoir The house that Nino built — also recommended. Her real name was Ennia Pallini, and she was obviously quite a character.
Christa and her brothers were all great fans of Don Camillo, and I'm pretty sure the two lads knew of Bulgakov too... G'night.
Another immodest proposal... dept.
If you remember Swift's idea on a solution to the "Irish problem" you may get a kick out of this sex tax proposal. Mind you, some of the comments are a lot funnier than the original article. Time for some breakfast... how long does it take to boil a baby?
I don't remember Julian Barnes covering this culinary question in his Pedant in the kitchen, but his observation "I ... sometimes find life an overrated way of passing the time" might one day make me smile, I suppose. (Source.)
I am not a number(plate)... dept.
Our trusting government (I jest) is apparently all set to start recording (and keeping on file for five years) details of everywhere I go in my little car, with its BS-compliant numberplate being scanned and decoded. When we used to drop Junior off at the Siemens Roke Manor lab during his university work placement year our car was regularly "greeted" by a display that was obviously working towards this goal. I find it dispiriting. (Source.)
What clock? Such clock!... dept.
It seems like only a couple of weeks ago that I was hopping nimbly up on a stool (while Christa was out) to work on the temperamental bathroom light switch. In fact, it was a mere two weeks after I'd started my pre-retirement leave, back in November 2006. The switch needs, and is about to get, a return bout. I am suitably fortified by a snack lunch at Brambridge and a bout of cost-conscious shopping at Lidl, and I have the all-important fresh cuppa ready to administer suitable post-shock treatment.
Being (I freely admit) a lot more conscious of mortality this time around, I did pull the appropriate fuse out downstairs — I still draw the line at switching off before handling fuses, though; my reasoning (if that's the right term for what passes for ratiocination2 these days) being that if no lights upstairs are on then there should be no current flow through the fuse, should there?
The deed is done. Once again, the switch is good to carry on for a few more years. Let's hope its owner is, too.
White hair works in the Carphone Warehouse
I was sent a pair of text messages, ten days apart, warning me that my mobile phone would be disconnected if I persisted in not using it. I must admit, I have no idea when these arrived as it never occurs to me that anyone would use that particular channel of communication.
Anyway, they asserted that it had been 70, and then 80, days since I'd made a call (I'm almost sure I called Big Bro, but let that pass). So I called Junior yesterday just to "reset" the timeout switch. And today, I popped into the local CW where a terribly nice chap from the Indian subcontinent very kindly checked on the phone's call status, reassuring me that I still have £37 on it, and suggesting I just call the Speaking Clock once a month (cost 10p) in future! I have a "very old SIM" he tells me (it dates back to last November when I bought the phone for Christa to use in the hospice) as "a year is an eternity in the mobile phone market". I refrained from commenting out loud.
Mind you, he did then ask "Are you still paying for your broadband?" (which strikes me as closely akin to the old "How long since you stopped beating your wife?" line of inquiry) before trying to sell me an alternative broadband supplier as I was on the point of leaving. I neatly played the Ace of Trumps card: "I run a Linux-based home network3 and my current ISP seems to understand and support it very nicely, thanks." "Ah. I don't understand Linux," came the reply, with a broad(band) smile.
Sorry, Christa!
Your annual prediction of an Indian Summer seems to be on target at the moment. But 40 minutes tidying up in the garden (in this case, gathering up the remaining débris left by the "tree surgeon") is both long enough to stuff the green garden waste bag to its brim and long enough to deplete my slender reserves of emotional equanimity. The garden was so completely your domain, my love.
By the way, among today's shopping was a Do It Yourself kit on "Power of Attorney" which I propose to sort out for dear Mama. It will perhaps tickle you to know that, since your death, your mother in law has basically completely revised her opinion of you. Why does the phrase "too little, too late" come to mind, I wonder? Never mind. Yet more homework lies ahead. Ideally I'd like things finalised and signed and witnessed during my next visit on the day of Aunty Peg's funeral later this month but there's doubtless many a slip.
I've just exchanged emails with our niece #1 on the subject of Messrs Bulgakov and Guareschi. What have I started?
Meanwhile
Suddenly it's 19:23 and already well into an overcast twilight. Better wheel out the black bin and lug out the green bag while I can still see well enough to dodge the amazing variety of giant cobwebs going up all over the place.
Not only is the inner man placated (yet again) but the dinky little Garmin sat nav (aka Mrs Dominatrix) has also just been fed some new software. Tips of the hat to my main co-pilot and Mrs Google for pointing me in the direction of Version 5 (and the Web Updater program) respectively. Neither of them could tell me where my mini-USB lead was, of course, but as I haven't yet lost the one that came with the latest Logitech Universal Remote Control all was well. I've just plumbed in the location of the crematorium up in Dudley and Aunty Ivy's address, too. Time for tea!
R.I.P. Richard Wright
One by one... <Sigh>
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.