Nothing to report
Something cracked inside me the other day and I ended up purchasing an imported packet of McVities Ginger Nuts for $2.99. Meanwhile good progress has been made on “The Marmalade Shore” as I’ve decided to title my great unfinished novel. Also have been very busy at work with a forthcoming site redesign, hence have been effectively incommunicado over recent weeks. I would apologise, but frankly you haven’t done any better, what with your superstar lifestyles; save a dreadful mugshot from Mr Simon Bailey, that is: painful evidence of the folly of sporting endeavour if ever there was.
The footie season ended with a whimper rather than a bang and an unlikely, short-lived promotion to centre-forward. No goals but some nice open play and plenty of super strong Portland IPA for afters.
With a mild chill returning to the air of a morning, thought it about time to refill the hot-tub. Just in case the previous sentence wasn’t clear, here’s a salutatory lesson in how increased wealth only diverts a constant amount of internal irritation to a different locus. So, anyway, I open up the lid to find five slugs and several large colonies of mold had taken up summer residence in the aforementioned contraption. Two hours of bleaching and scrubbing later and the thing’s finally returned to near-pristine glory. Then I fill it with lots of lovely tap water, which happens to be green this season. Perhaps I missed something in the style section of The Oregonian over the last few weeks, but as far as I’m concerned, the only in-colour for water is “none whatsoever”. Still, it’s drinking water, so how bad can it be? So I dump in the usual smorgasbord of sanitary chemicals into the mix and switch the thing on… No dice, as they say. Dead as a doornail. Up shot: expect huge bill from hot tub engineer following forthcoming visit at time as yet unspecified.
This is but one of an assortment of big-ticket pointless expenditures which we’ve been forced to make recently, most of which have been expunged from my consciousness by the twin processes of repression and denial. And we still haven’t done anything about the squirrels, who, having returned from vacation in British Columbia, are making good use of the facilities once again.
Finally, I have decided that I was wrong about Timothy Dalton. It really wasn’t his fault that those films were so bad, it was rather the era he lived in. Whereas the 60s and 70s have a cool retro feel about them, most everything 1985-1990 appears as if it hailed from another planet, one with incredibly poor taste at that. After the cockiness of Connery and the loucheness of Moore, Dalton adds a welcome frailty and humanity to the role; like a more capable Alan Partridge, he reminds us of our own insecurities and yet compels us to believe that we too can save the world, even if our license has been revoked.
The footie season ended with a whimper rather than a bang and an unlikely, short-lived promotion to centre-forward. No goals but some nice open play and plenty of super strong Portland IPA for afters.
With a mild chill returning to the air of a morning, thought it about time to refill the hot-tub. Just in case the previous sentence wasn’t clear, here’s a salutatory lesson in how increased wealth only diverts a constant amount of internal irritation to a different locus. So, anyway, I open up the lid to find five slugs and several large colonies of mold had taken up summer residence in the aforementioned contraption. Two hours of bleaching and scrubbing later and the thing’s finally returned to near-pristine glory. Then I fill it with lots of lovely tap water, which happens to be green this season. Perhaps I missed something in the style section of The Oregonian over the last few weeks, but as far as I’m concerned, the only in-colour for water is “none whatsoever”. Still, it’s drinking water, so how bad can it be? So I dump in the usual smorgasbord of sanitary chemicals into the mix and switch the thing on… No dice, as they say. Dead as a doornail. Up shot: expect huge bill from hot tub engineer following forthcoming visit at time as yet unspecified.
This is but one of an assortment of big-ticket pointless expenditures which we’ve been forced to make recently, most of which have been expunged from my consciousness by the twin processes of repression and denial. And we still haven’t done anything about the squirrels, who, having returned from vacation in British Columbia, are making good use of the facilities once again.
Finally, I have decided that I was wrong about Timothy Dalton. It really wasn’t his fault that those films were so bad, it was rather the era he lived in. Whereas the 60s and 70s have a cool retro feel about them, most everything 1985-1990 appears as if it hailed from another planet, one with incredibly poor taste at that. After the cockiness of Connery and the loucheness of Moore, Dalton adds a welcome frailty and humanity to the role; like a more capable Alan Partridge, he reminds us of our own insecurities and yet compels us to believe that we too can save the world, even if our license has been revoked.
posted by Richard Tammar at 5:40 PM
1 Comments:
...Saying ciao from your old stomping ground.
Paolo
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