I saw this aged notice tatooed onto a wall in Westminster, just off Smith Square. That’s the nice thing about living in old cities - there’s a piece of history on every corner.
I wonder if the vaults are still there, or whether they have been turned into luxury, windowless apartments for rich agraphobics.
As previously discussed, I have a new laptop, and feel reincarnated. ‘Tis a lovely MacBook Pro.
I thought I would note down all those programmes and plug-ins that I downloaded and installed immediately. Someone may be interested, and it will save time if I ever get burgled again.
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I’m enjoying this idea for saving the planet while still burning tons of coal:
By capturing the CO2 before it is released into the atmosphere and piping it through natural spring water from Kent’s Kingsnorth hills, we are able to create carbonated drinking water.
More of this sort of thing on the ev-eon website.
Oh, the sadness at the end of a good book! I’ve just finished a 917 page doorstop of a novel, and I am fidgeting with loss.
Reading a good book is tinged with tragedy. Its fantastic, but you know it must end. It is a terminal condition. The melancholy sets in when you pass the halfway point, and the weight of the paper in your right hand becomes lighter than the paper in your left. The book withers away in your palms, and the last chapters are to be savoured. You are torn between the need to know what happens, and the desire to prolong the moment.
Part of you misses the characters, who you have grown to care for over many weeks, as you chaperone them through their adventure. But mainly you miss the fact, the act, of reading. It was a solipstic pleasure, now lost. You close the book, and you’re sitting, empty handed, back in the mundane.
This is the photo of the back of the head of someone taking a photo of the back of the head of someone taking a photo of the back of the head of someone taking a photo of the back of the head of Shah Rukh Khan.
Oh dear, its not going well for me just now. First, my laptop was stolen (yes, that was the bereavement). Now I find some cheeky rapscalion has hacked my WordPress template, co-opting me into the world of comment spamming. Many thanks to Nosemonkey for pointing out the breach.
The familiar post-modern torn paper template that we all know and hate will return in a new form soon. In the meantime, we’re back with the unassailable Kubrick.
At least its not the rather pungent Denial of Service attacks that flummoxed Chicken Yoghurt recently. Or indeed, litigation. Thankfully I’m not important enough to attract anything other than a spammer.
BNP supporters have taken to scrawling the party’s website onto toilet walls, presumably as part of some guerilla-marketing strategy. It has the odd effect of making me think of the BNP every time I take a dump.
Surely, the need to stoop to this rather pathetic level - graffitio on toilet walls next to cottagers’ phone numbers - would make such activists stop and think. Like the throatless smoker who still inhales via his tracheotomy, or the heroin addict who has to inject into his eyeball to get a decent hit, these campaigners seem to lack a certain self-awareness.
Several stations seem to be undergoing some kind of redecoration, which neccessitates the removal of all the adverts. The lack of colour gives the caverns an odd feel. I like to think it harks back to an earlier, more innocent and auster time.
I was in York last month, and when one of their new ftr buses arrived at the stop, I confess to a feeling of genuine, child-like excitement.
Satellite tracking, a space-ship like interior, room for three buggies or wheel-chairs, and (both the cherry and icing on the cake) a friendly conductress who gives you change when you buy your ticket. What’s not to love?
Today I start a new job with these folk. Consider this an entry into the bloggers’ register of declared interests. If I start to opine on housing policy or intellectual property rights, you’ll know why.
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