Fate failed to resist temptation, again

There was a sad inevitability to the fact that, having wittered on at some length on the topics of rude health and the endless sunshine of February, I would succumb to a beastly cold after several seasonal drenchings received during my daily commute. Not serious enough to tuck myself up in bed full-time; no, instead I must suffer the indignity of paid employment, then retire immediately, only to repeat the process ad infinitum. Hence not much to report.

Having gotten myself very wet very often of late I have toyed with the idea of purchasing a second car. The standard number of cars per family out here equals the number of adults in the household plus one. That makes us rabid environmentalists by US standards. It will probably not happen though, if only because the car I most covet is made by a certain german company whose vehicles are universally driven by tossers. No, I cannot bare to speak its name. That said, I have recently considered the possibility of dispensing with any remaining elements of sham-pained leftism and Islington PC and planting myself wholesale in the me-first wanton adam-smith-free-market-irreligious-unthinking-neo-fascist rightist camp. That's right: it's blasphemy. Call me Ishmael, the problem is that my aging conscience can no longer bear the colour-supplement hypocrisy of preaching equality amongst men whilst simultaneously squandering $12 per pound on imported Taleggio and feeling relatively guiltless as babies in the Congo die faster than lab rats at Pfizer. Rachel and I end up giving a few hundred quid a year to charity (obviously, I don't like to talk about it - you can see that) - a fact brought to my attention by its tax-deductible status in the US - but let's face it, I'm 33 years old and I'm not Che Guevara. If I therefore choose to position myself politically on the right I can feel lifted by any unnecessary random acts of kindness that I perform. If, on the other hand, I stay on the left, I'm just going to wallow in guilt and pointless self-flagellation (metaphorical of course - I'm not Michel Foucault).

Of course with an election on the horizon this is not entirely academic. Don't panic, given that all the options on the ballot are in any case somewhat to the right of Friedrich Nietzsche I might as well vote Lib Dem as ever. There is however a bit of a logistical issue, in that in order to get a postal ballot I first have to request one - by post. Given the expected efficiencies of both the US postal service and East Sussex District Council (no offence, Mr B), the chances of the three-way exchange of mail taking place before 2009 seem slight, let alone May 5th.

I took full advantage of Rachel's week in New York (not that I've mentioned this at all; but she spent Easter with her grandparents, mother, middle-sister and niece on Long Island - some of us have to work meanwhile) to watch all those films that I pick out at Hollywood Video but receive the old uxorial veto twixt shelf and checkout. If you like a bit of righteous violence and can stand two-and-a-half hours of artsy shaky-cam, I can highly recommend Man On Fire. Meanwhile Underworld looked fab but lacked even the vaguest of plots and it didn't help that the supposed arch villian both resembled and sounded rather like Bill Bailey.

I hope to have some more photos for you soon; nothing spectacular, just pics of the house (primarily for burglars so they can better burglarize us) and the neighborhood to give you a feel for the city...