culture vultures
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was on television trying to measure a chicken's happiness. Apparently, it is not enough just to eat chickens, you have to keep their spirits up before slaughtering them. You can taste all that juicy happiness, apparently. Ross couldn't see the point of all this concern over mere chickens. After all, as he pointed out, 'we're at the top of the food chain'. I looked around the room. Only Ross and I were present. Did he mean us? Just the two of us? When Dave got back from the kitchen, would he suggest eating him?
Dave does seem to be happy at the moment. When I got in from work he was uncharacteristically washing up, then uncharacteristically wiping surfaces clean, before uncharacteristically making tea. And smiling. Eventually, I asked him if he was having some kind of breakdown. He denied it. The next day he was back to normal, except for laughing hysterically at something a work colleague had said. This guy had described a woman at the checkout in Somerfield as having a face like 'a bag of spaniels'.
A possible explanation for any personality change presented itself later in the week, as Dave's attempt to put the BT account in his name rather than Mat's gave rise to a communication the next day addressed to the composite creature 'D. Sadler'. It is as though they have been spliced together, as in The Fly.
I will monitor the situation.
On Saturday I finally went to the Rothko exhibition at Tate Modern, just before it closed. While never pretending to be anything other than paint on canvas, Rothko's works are capable of a profound, visceral effect. It's weirdly appropriate that many of the works on display were commissioned to decorate a restaurant: they look like they might consume you, given the opportunity. One of the canvasses looked blood-soaked, and the larger ones seemed to demand, at the very least, human sacrifice. So I was pleased in a way that the place was busy. At one point I walked into a room which contained only one large painting and a group of spectators ranged against the wall, looking as though they were backing away from a live and unpredictable beast. Like so many hypnotized chickens, I thought. I hadn't eaten in a while.
Dave does seem to be happy at the moment. When I got in from work he was uncharacteristically washing up, then uncharacteristically wiping surfaces clean, before uncharacteristically making tea. And smiling. Eventually, I asked him if he was having some kind of breakdown. He denied it. The next day he was back to normal, except for laughing hysterically at something a work colleague had said. This guy had described a woman at the checkout in Somerfield as having a face like 'a bag of spaniels'.
A possible explanation for any personality change presented itself later in the week, as Dave's attempt to put the BT account in his name rather than Mat's gave rise to a communication the next day addressed to the composite creature 'D. Sadler'. It is as though they have been spliced together, as in The Fly.
I will monitor the situation.
On Saturday I finally went to the Rothko exhibition at Tate Modern, just before it closed. While never pretending to be anything other than paint on canvas, Rothko's works are capable of a profound, visceral effect. It's weirdly appropriate that many of the works on display were commissioned to decorate a restaurant: they look like they might consume you, given the opportunity. One of the canvasses looked blood-soaked, and the larger ones seemed to demand, at the very least, human sacrifice. So I was pleased in a way that the place was busy. At one point I walked into a room which contained only one large painting and a group of spectators ranged against the wall, looking as though they were backing away from a live and unpredictable beast. Like so many hypnotized chickens, I thought. I hadn't eaten in a while.
posted by martin at 1:14 PM
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