whimsy
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jogging in the countryside, and
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being a man of a certain age who needs to pee fairly frequently, and
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it being the height of stinging nettle season
A friend who is a painter and decorator introduced one of his colleagues as a ‘brother of the brush’
I thought that was cool
I hope the blackberry berries are as prolific as the blackberry flowers are this year
From a bit in last week’s Times in which various writer-y types recommend books for the new Prime Minister (I hope)
The last thing the next prime minister should do is to read a book about political history. He’ll draw all the wrong lessons - they always do - then spend the next five years worrying about how he’ll be remembered. Since one of the most important political assets is a sense of humour, he’d be much better off with PG Wodehouse’s The Code of the Woosters, a valuable reminder that behind the stern façade of even the most formidable politician, there lurks the potential proprietor of a lingerie shop.
Dominic Sandbrook historian and columnist
Another proposed entry for the next edition of The Meaning of Liff, this one for people of a certain age
Lydiard Tregoze: the amount of time it takes to realise that you’ve got the wring flipping glasses on
Proposed entry for a future edition of The Meaning of Liff
Lockeridge: the time spent staring into space, wondering what that password that you use every day might possibly be.
I think it’s important, on a Monday morning, to set one’s goals for the working week.
My goal for this week: stop spelling ‘Terraform’ as ‘Terrafrom’
Last night I was reminded that:
…is a bad combination
🏃
Today in the UK we are celebrating Oh-my-god-i’ve-somehow-forgotten-mothers-day-oh-no-i-haven’t-its-just-the-rest-of-the-world Day
It’s all very traumatic
Our AI overlords may be about to take over and enslave us all, but I’m reassured that St Pancras still auto-corrects to St Pancreas
Went through London today, and managed to see the statue of John Betjeman at St Pancras
If I hadn’t gone through London I’d have gone through Dilton Marsh, which he wrote a poem about
“Was it worth keeping the Halt open,
We thought as we looked at the sky
Red through the spread of the cedar-tree,
With the evening train gone by?
Yes, we said, for in summer the anglers use it,
Two and sometimes three
Will bring their catches of rods and poles and perches
To Westbury, home for tea.
There isn’t a porter. The platform is made of sleepers.
The guard of the last train puts out the light
And high over lorries and cattle the Halt unwinking
Waits through the Wiltshire night.
O housewife safe in the comprehensive churning
Of the Warminster launderette!
O husband down at the depot with car in car-park!
The Halt is waiting yet.
And when all the horrible roads are finally done for,
And there’s no more petrol left in the world to burn,
Here to the Halt from Salisbury and from Bristol”
Steam trains will return.""
One man’s proverb is another man’s ‘wtf?’
When someone else is screen-sharing, and I’m trying to point them to the right link or button or drop-down on some over-complicated screen, I’m reminded of The Golden Shot
For younger readers, the Golden Shot was a 1970s UK game show involving blindfolds, crossbows and Bob Monkhouse
I was standing just now next to someone who stank of cigarette smoke
I’ve never been a smoker, and I used to hate the smell, but for me it’s now like the smell of madelaines(?) was to Proust
There are days when the notion that exercise is good for you is totally counter-intuitive. This is one of them. ⚽
#TodayILearned that Richard Whittington really was apprenticed to someone called Sir Ivo FitzWaryn and married his daughter Alice
(For the benefit of people who aren’t the UK and/or aren’t pantomime nerds, Dick Whittington is one of the three or four main pantomime stories. It’s based on a 14th Century Mayor of London…but I didn’t realize the FitzWarrens also really existed)
When I’m the first in a one-to-one Teams meeting, and the other person is late, so there’s nothing to do but stare into space….it’s one of the times when I’m at my most relaxed
#OnThisDay in 1930, which was Good Friday, the BBC News Announcer announced, in the evening bulletin, that ‘There is no news’ and then played some music instead
Todays browser wallpaper is pleasantly familiar - I’ve not seen Pulteney Bridge from that angle
This used to be the shop next door to the house I grew up in
Then it was ‘Spire Models’
And now it’s ‘Pi e Ode’
Offering, perhaps, disjointed poems about pastry products 📷
