chuzzlewit flats
Waterloo Road: New Term, announces the TV Times. Not for us though, as we are soon to leave Waterloo Road forever. Funny, that series was just starting when we moved here last year (I never watched it). There is no series called Copperfield Gardens in the offing, though perhaps I could try and pitch it to the BBC, since Waterloo Road has obviously been such a success. What would it be about though? Copperfield Gardens sounds classier than Waterloo Road… so I don’t think it’s going to be reality TV. Sounds quite Dickensian actually. Thieves, murderers, poverty: can’t wait.
During the operation to clean out the garden before the real owners move back in here, Chad uncovered a dead magpie. Well, he didn’t actually uncover it, it was lying beak up in a pool of water in one of our garden chairs, only we didn’t notice. Being superstitious about magpies I find myself struggling to interpret this omen. One for sorrow, yes, but does the fact of it being dead mean worse sorrow? Or the end of all sorrow, forever? And what about the weather? Is that an omen? Last night the wind was swooping around the garden like something from an Al Gore movie; further horrible extremes are predicted.
At work, as at home, I am putting books into boxes. Well I wouldn’t have it any other way. But there are times when you almost get a bit bored with putting books into boxes. There’s only so much fun you can have with a tape gun. And there are - at work, at least - so many books. Phoenix, our super-sophisticated computer system, is best likened, I have decided, to one of those machines you play tennis against, only instead of firing balls at you it fires books, so rapidly and relentlessly that you cannot respond to it in any sensible way. You can’t sell them all, can’t return them all: eventually they collapse on top of you. If there is no blog next week, you’ll know why.
It’s because we’ve moved to a place where they’ve yet to discover the internet.
During the operation to clean out the garden before the real owners move back in here, Chad uncovered a dead magpie. Well, he didn’t actually uncover it, it was lying beak up in a pool of water in one of our garden chairs, only we didn’t notice. Being superstitious about magpies I find myself struggling to interpret this omen. One for sorrow, yes, but does the fact of it being dead mean worse sorrow? Or the end of all sorrow, forever? And what about the weather? Is that an omen? Last night the wind was swooping around the garden like something from an Al Gore movie; further horrible extremes are predicted.
At work, as at home, I am putting books into boxes. Well I wouldn’t have it any other way. But there are times when you almost get a bit bored with putting books into boxes. There’s only so much fun you can have with a tape gun. And there are - at work, at least - so many books. Phoenix, our super-sophisticated computer system, is best likened, I have decided, to one of those machines you play tennis against, only instead of firing balls at you it fires books, so rapidly and relentlessly that you cannot respond to it in any sensible way. You can’t sell them all, can’t return them all: eventually they collapse on top of you. If there is no blog next week, you’ll know why.
It’s because we’ve moved to a place where they’ve yet to discover the internet.
posted by martin at 2:05 PM
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