Bother

Bother, bother, bother. Another 21st-century lesson to learn. I'm in the middle of reading John Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman - completely wrapped up in the book is probably more accurate than saying I'm merely reading it. It's one of those books that convinces you other dimensions in the universe must exist, because you're carrying around a 445-page book of evidence to prove the case. I digress, as I also did when checking my email just now. I succumbed to googling 'John Fowles' to find out more about his life (oh dear, I hear you say), and accidently ruined the ending of the book. Or the two endings, as one article informs me. Bother, bother, bother. Moral of the story: Professor Google often has too many answers. Alternative moral of the story: don't waste time on google.

Christmas post

Mind you, however fast the postman or postwoman walks, if I don't put my Christmas cards in the postbox, it's unlikely - but reasonable- that they won't reach their destination on time. I've been acting as if cards in envelopes are a substitute for email - I blame the 21st century. My excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Signs of the times

Every day I walk to work, probably at less than 4.2mph. Today I was passing the corner of the square, when I happened upon a postwoman, who was standing with her trolley full of letters of all shapes and sizes. Up comes a man, clearly a friend as he addresses her by name, who asks: 'So how fast are you walking then?' I continued, but wondered if the postwoman had then to run to balance out that moment of stillness and meet Royal Mail targets?

Preludes III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed’s edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

From Preludes by TS Eliot

11 December, 2008: a milestone

Happy Birthday to American composer Elliott Carter, who today reaches 100 years of age, and has one of the best smiles in music. Find out about his centenary celebrations; his life; and hear some of his music; or read about what it feels like to have been part of a century of music here.

Crazy Christmas Steps

Preludes: II

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

From Preludes, by TS Eliot