I've been sorting through old University notes, those dating from the period 1995-1998. I've never been able to bear throwing the physical reminder of all that work away, so they were packed into boxes and have been following me around for the last ten years. I still can't bear to throw them away, but I'd like to squeeze them down to one box so I've been flicking through the files pulling out ephemera - exam papers, assignments, scratch notes, that sort of thing and putting them aside to be recycled. In the process I'm not only glancing at old material and remembering (or not) studying it, but finding old pieces of music, stories I've written, stories other people have written (1), letters, cards and all the bits and pieces you collect.
It's interesting looking back at the person I was then. While there've been some big events between then and now, I think that most of the changes in me as a person were so gradual I didn't really notice them at the time, and I need to look back over a large space of time to see growing up in perspective.
(1) Cat, if by any chance you're missing the originals of your Etherfee Omn stories I have photocopies that you sent me an age ago.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Brrr.
I went down to the Cenotaph for the Dawn Service today. It was quite cold, with a raise of very cold on the bike ride there which is mostly downhill, and I'm glad I went. I was feeling sad for my Grandad and various Great-Uncles, although it's hard to be solemn and melancholy when the person in the crowd next to you is talking loudly about his landlord problems and high rent. [looks quizzical] Now, I'm in the hyper-awake state you get when you've gotten up rather earlier than you're used to, along with rebound warmth from being out in the cold and now inside with the blood rushing back into your hands.
A short piece from the Laurence Binyon poem "For the Fallen" that always gets quoted:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
A short piece from the Laurence Binyon poem "For the Fallen" that always gets quoted:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
On Cabbage
I'm moving on the weekend. (Into Repton's and HouseMonkey's house, for them that know where that is, and people that don't can leave a comment here if they'd like my new address.)
In the process I'm trying to do a sort out of all the gear I've accumulated and, out of both tidiness and necessity, getting rid of the things I don't need. Last night was working through my fabric bin taking out the pieces that are too small to work with, or uninteresting and unlikely to strike my fancy for, I dunno, doll-making or whatever. A friend of mine once referred to these kinds of scraps as 'cabbage,' and since that makes me think of the raggedy strips of sliced up cabbage prior to making coleslaw, I think that's a good term. Right now, my whole house is full of cabbage - left over bits and pieces that get left behind after the essential stuff has been packed, like the natural decomposition process of kipple. It's a bit disconcerting, although the cat is treating the whole affair as An Adventure. I'm not sure how she'll feel when the move hits and she's confined to a room to adjust in. Oh well.
But back to the cabbage. My current plan is to load the bag of scraps into one of those clothing bins that cuts old clothes up for rags. If anyone thinks they might use it, instead, like for patchworking, let me know and it's yours.
In the process I'm trying to do a sort out of all the gear I've accumulated and, out of both tidiness and necessity, getting rid of the things I don't need. Last night was working through my fabric bin taking out the pieces that are too small to work with, or uninteresting and unlikely to strike my fancy for, I dunno, doll-making or whatever. A friend of mine once referred to these kinds of scraps as 'cabbage,' and since that makes me think of the raggedy strips of sliced up cabbage prior to making coleslaw, I think that's a good term. Right now, my whole house is full of cabbage - left over bits and pieces that get left behind after the essential stuff has been packed, like the natural decomposition process of kipple. It's a bit disconcerting, although the cat is treating the whole affair as An Adventure. I'm not sure how she'll feel when the move hits and she's confined to a room to adjust in. Oh well.
But back to the cabbage. My current plan is to load the bag of scraps into one of those clothing bins that cuts old clothes up for rags. If anyone thinks they might use it, instead, like for patchworking, let me know and it's yours.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Looking for work again...
My employer has just announced some major rearrangements in their staffing, and I think that the end result will be me being shuffled out of the picture. Any leads greatly appreciated.
I think their timing could have been a lot better, but oh well.
I think their timing could have been a lot better, but oh well.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Dear Diary, This Morning My Cat Went Crazy.
Well, crazy is very likely too harsh a term - I'm pretty sure she was acting logically by her lights.
Sometime in the wee small hours a neighbouring cat tried to get in the cat door which at night is locked. I woke up to hear cats screaming and found Macca planted on the inside of the door staunchly protecting us against all comers, her tail doing an excellent imitation of a bottle brush. Then the outside cat went away and I thought I'd go back to sleep.
Not...really. Macca spent the rest of the morning wanting to go out, wanting to come in, dashing around the house, wanting me to go outside with her, using the litter box over and over again, not going through the cat door but batting at it very loudly, and in other fashions thoroughly marking her territory. So, logical in her way, but very tiring from my point of view.
[yawns]
Sometime in the wee small hours a neighbouring cat tried to get in the cat door which at night is locked. I woke up to hear cats screaming and found Macca planted on the inside of the door staunchly protecting us against all comers, her tail doing an excellent imitation of a bottle brush. Then the outside cat went away and I thought I'd go back to sleep.
Not...really. Macca spent the rest of the morning wanting to go out, wanting to come in, dashing around the house, wanting me to go outside with her, using the litter box over and over again, not going through the cat door but batting at it very loudly, and in other fashions thoroughly marking her territory. So, logical in her way, but very tiring from my point of view.
[yawns]
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