7 am
Today I will describe a typical day. It is Monday 19 March, but it could be any day of the last five years or, who knows, of the next five.
Up at 6.05 and wondered if I would do things differently today, because I am, as it were, observing myself. There’s a scientific term for that phenomenon.
The news is about teenage deaths from knife attacks. The press is getting very hot under the collar about it. A headmaster has ordered pupils to wear clip-on ties, because they’re safer in woodwork classes and playground scuffles. And Freddie Flintoff has been described as ‘legless before wicket’. The BBC's done a survey of Iraquis, which seems grossly flawed to me, but that's because I'm not I'm not impressed by Hampstead liberal propaganda.
I've discovered this observer effect is called, as it happens, 'The Observer Effect' and is wrongly associated with the Heisenberger uncertainty principle. So now I know.
I think I’ll wash my hair and have a bath. Or am I going to do that just to make people think I have clean habits? On the other hand, if I don’t have a bath, is that because I am I trying to demonstrate that I’m not susceptible to outside pressure? It’s going to be difficult to make decisions today.
10.30
I drew up a list of pros and cons and decided to wash my hair and have a bath. I’m currently listening to Bob Dylan’s radio show. The theme is ‘Eyes’ this week. He’s just played Jimmy Rodgers, ‘Thee singing bray-ke – man-n’, as Bob described him in his distinctive style. And Brown-eyed handsome man (Chuck Berry) and Brown-eyed girl (Morrison). Good taste, that Dylan.
One of the highlights (and there are many) of Oh, Brother, where art thou? is the rendition by ‘The Soggy Bottom Boys’ of Jimmy Rodgers’ He’s in the jailhouse now. I’m halfway through watching that film again. Excellent.
I must have been doing something for the last two hours, apart from decision-making. Oh yes, I think I’ve discovered that the Maoris were the first settlers in New Zealand. I know everyone knows that but I have a friend who lived there for a long time and claims that the original people were called the Houri-Mouris and were all eaten by the Maoris. I wonder if he was taking the – I mean, I wonder if he was having a joke at my expense.
I listened to Start the Week. There was a lot of argument about GM food. Apparently they have bred featherless chickens in Africa to help them keep cool. Now that doesn’t seem very logical to me, unless they’re Orpington Buffs. There are also rabbits that have been given a jellyfish gene to make glow green in the dark. God knows why. Perhaps to provide material for writers of limericks.
Bob’s playing Sonny Boy Williamson. I saw him perform on TV once. A huge man is how I remember him. His harmonica seemed lost in great hands like bunches of bananas and I was afraid he might swallow it when he played.
19.00
I set off for the library. I have Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote to pick up and The Vanishing of Esme Lennox, by Maggie O’Farrell, to return. Beautifully written book, by the way.
I didn’t get there, of course, because I called in the pub. My son was there, discussing the origins of modern popular music and the state of American cinema – I obviously taught the lad well. Then his mother turned up (I see her occasionally) to transact a little business which I won’t publish. And she had her mother in tow. All I wanted to do was have a quiet drink and do the crossword.
The pub’s heating had broken down; some idiot was yodelling; some woman was laughing hysterically – I would say orgasmically, but I’ve forgotten exactly what it sounds like; and then my usual beer ran out. I left, with a borrowed DVD and instructions to look various things up on the net.
I moved to another pub in the hope of bumping into someone.
I didn't. But I made some progress with a little rhyme I’m working on.
And so I went back to the first pub. More yodelling, more laughing and even less choice of ale, but there was heat now and I could sit and watch with smug complacency the sleet whipping down the street outside.
10.30
Remembered to eat something. Haslet, as a good Lincolnshire lad should. And watched that DVD of Jools Holland’s Later. Excellent contributions by Willie Nelson and Leonard Cohen (Dance Me to the End of Love). Robbie Williams was on as well, a glorified karaoke singer, The Kinks doing their usual tune, and Johnny Cash looking like death warmed up, but brilliant nonetheless.
There we are then. My day. I never did get that limerick written.
Today I will describe a typical day. It is Monday 19 March, but it could be any day of the last five years or, who knows, of the next five.
Up at 6.05 and wondered if I would do things differently today, because I am, as it were, observing myself. There’s a scientific term for that phenomenon.
The news is about teenage deaths from knife attacks. The press is getting very hot under the collar about it. A headmaster has ordered pupils to wear clip-on ties, because they’re safer in woodwork classes and playground scuffles. And Freddie Flintoff has been described as ‘legless before wicket’. The BBC's done a survey of Iraquis, which seems grossly flawed to me, but that's because I'm not I'm not impressed by Hampstead liberal propaganda.
I've discovered this observer effect is called, as it happens, 'The Observer Effect' and is wrongly associated with the Heisenberger uncertainty principle. So now I know.
I think I’ll wash my hair and have a bath. Or am I going to do that just to make people think I have clean habits? On the other hand, if I don’t have a bath, is that because I am I trying to demonstrate that I’m not susceptible to outside pressure? It’s going to be difficult to make decisions today.
10.30
I drew up a list of pros and cons and decided to wash my hair and have a bath. I’m currently listening to Bob Dylan’s radio show. The theme is ‘Eyes’ this week. He’s just played Jimmy Rodgers, ‘Thee singing bray-ke – man-n’, as Bob described him in his distinctive style. And Brown-eyed handsome man (Chuck Berry) and Brown-eyed girl (Morrison). Good taste, that Dylan.
One of the highlights (and there are many) of Oh, Brother, where art thou? is the rendition by ‘The Soggy Bottom Boys’ of Jimmy Rodgers’ He’s in the jailhouse now. I’m halfway through watching that film again. Excellent.
I must have been doing something for the last two hours, apart from decision-making. Oh yes, I think I’ve discovered that the Maoris were the first settlers in New Zealand. I know everyone knows that but I have a friend who lived there for a long time and claims that the original people were called the Houri-Mouris and were all eaten by the Maoris. I wonder if he was taking the – I mean, I wonder if he was having a joke at my expense.
I listened to Start the Week. There was a lot of argument about GM food. Apparently they have bred featherless chickens in Africa to help them keep cool. Now that doesn’t seem very logical to me, unless they’re Orpington Buffs. There are also rabbits that have been given a jellyfish gene to make glow green in the dark. God knows why. Perhaps to provide material for writers of limericks.
Bob’s playing Sonny Boy Williamson. I saw him perform on TV once. A huge man is how I remember him. His harmonica seemed lost in great hands like bunches of bananas and I was afraid he might swallow it when he played.
19.00
I set off for the library. I have Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote to pick up and The Vanishing of Esme Lennox, by Maggie O’Farrell, to return. Beautifully written book, by the way.
I didn’t get there, of course, because I called in the pub. My son was there, discussing the origins of modern popular music and the state of American cinema – I obviously taught the lad well. Then his mother turned up (I see her occasionally) to transact a little business which I won’t publish. And she had her mother in tow. All I wanted to do was have a quiet drink and do the crossword.
The pub’s heating had broken down; some idiot was yodelling; some woman was laughing hysterically – I would say orgasmically, but I’ve forgotten exactly what it sounds like; and then my usual beer ran out. I left, with a borrowed DVD and instructions to look various things up on the net.
I moved to another pub in the hope of bumping into someone.
I didn't. But I made some progress with a little rhyme I’m working on.
And so I went back to the first pub. More yodelling, more laughing and even less choice of ale, but there was heat now and I could sit and watch with smug complacency the sleet whipping down the street outside.
10.30
Remembered to eat something. Haslet, as a good Lincolnshire lad should. And watched that DVD of Jools Holland’s Later. Excellent contributions by Willie Nelson and Leonard Cohen (Dance Me to the End of Love). Robbie Williams was on as well, a glorified karaoke singer, The Kinks doing their usual tune, and Johnny Cash looking like death warmed up, but brilliant nonetheless.
There we are then. My day. I never did get that limerick written.
1 comment:
......oh brother where art thou.......great movie.
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