When Gadgets Fail . . .

Never mind the stuff I know nothing about - the 95% of the iceberg I can't see - the technostuff right here in my home has not ceased to amaze me. My Nano continues to make me salivate, the possibilities of the Interwebthingy keeps me enthralled, dammit there are days when turning on a tap and having clean water pour out is enough to make me go weak at the knees.

So how many different kinds of bugger is it that the new USB turntable is proving the pain it is - and I haven't even used it. It's not the turntable itself, its the software that comes with it. IT'S NOT CLEVER ENOUGH TO RECOGNIZE A TRACK BREAK. I had imagined setting off a record, and coming back half an hour later to flip sides, and then label all the tracks, But No. You have to sit right there, and at the end of every track you have to click a button. Which is kind of OK when its a symphony, and each track is 15 minutes long - you can sensibly pay attention to your book in that time. But practically everything else has tracks of about three minutes long, which is not long enough to do ANYTHING useful - you have to sit there, hoping like heck you remember the music well enough to know when the track has ended (remember Pink Floyd? Where a track actually ends is anyone's guess) and THEN click the button (and cross your fingers AT THE SAME TIME). If you fail to click the button you have to start the track ALL OVER AGAIN.

Well. Now we find out just how keen I am to get re-acquainted with the music of my youth, eh?

The upside this week? Hmm. Oh yes - Sid can now do her own seatbelt up.

Hey! That's a BIG DEAL!

And this is my extraordinarily beautiful new fruit bowl. The last thing I want to do is put fruit into it - I want to leave it where it will catch the light and cast shadows and do the things it is clearly best at.




What a shouty post.

Lipsum

It's not to be Bourne

Bourne Again

It was Bourne upon me

Bourne Free (Bourne Three?)

I dunno - there may be something there, but I can't get it. (Captain Jack, on the other hand (Aubrey, not Harkness! What sort of a girl do you think I am!) would smoke it. I'm just not in his league.) Did Ludlum choose the name for its possibilities? Hmmm . . .

Sorry. Not paying attention there. J and I have just watched all three Bournes on three successive evenings, and we are drained - drained, I tell you. (And while J went to bed I caught up with Torchwood. Sometimes I don't know where I find the strength.)

Actually I wanted to tell you about the eventual (its been years coming. Years.) purchase of a USB turntable. I'm rather hoping that J and I can get together in the library (with the lead pipe. And Colonel Plum. STOP IT.) tomorrow night and set the little beauty up, and finally start translating our lovely lovely vinyl collection into tidy sets of noughts and ones, ready for actually listening to. I can't tell you how much (well I can, obv., but then I really really can't tell you just how bored you'd be) I've missed Jack Buchanan, The Comedian Harmonists, Al Bowlly, the Christopher Hogwood Messiah, and Simon and Garfunkel. To name but a few.

But that news, hold-the-front-page as it is, pales in comparison with an even later addition to the household. Folks, I am in love again. Truly, madly and deeply. I read an SF story once about a sculptor who worked out how to measure beauty. Objectively measure the stuff. The major measurement was weight. Didn't matter what he was sculpting, as long as it was getting lighter than its mass, it was getting more beautiful. Well, by that criterion, my new iPod Nano is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, held, sniffed (and licked. No, just kidding). The docking station arrives on Saturday.(well, it arrived today, in the one hour I was out. Now there's a surprise.) so we get to hear it. (Mind you, at this point in our relationship I don't actually care what it sounds like, as long as I can look at it. Feel it. Excuse me a moment . . .





Phew.

And the picture of my extraordinarily lovely new fruit bowl is going to have to wait until I can find my camera.

Too many birthdays

. . . or should that be too many birthday celebrations. On second thoughts, maybe not. Can't have too many celebrations, even though it seems that birthday season has lasted about three weeks.

Sid's party went very well, but it pains me to say that, on balance, I think boys' toys are better than girls. Not that I have anything against pink sparkles, of course, the more the better, but . . . Geomag? Lego? Brio?

*sigh*

On Friday night Julia bundled me into her car, without telling me where we were going, and to my delight I found myself back in Chiswick dining at one of our favourite indian restaurants, with our ex-next-door-neighbour, who is still, after all these years, stopping traffic. And not only beautiful, but funny and outrageous and mad and kind. Past boyfriends have included Des Lynham and Norman Lamont, and she is currently seeing Anthony Holden, journalist, biographer, classical music critic of the Observer, and professional poker player. Ber-limey.

Saturday night we ate with old friends at our local Thai, and today Julia cooked, so I think I've pretty much done eating for the next week. (After this bowl of Weetos, of course.)

And a birthday present -

On one side, Polish composer and subject of a truly awful pun, and on the other, Rufus Sewell playing Thomas Clarkson in "Amazing Grace". Same passion, same vision, same dreadful hairstyle. But which is which? And are they related?

Birthday

You understand, I'm having to hold that Weldschmerz at bay with both arms locked. All she did was go and turn four, fer pity's sake. Four! What sort of age is that for a baby, I ask you? She did have a truly exciting day though - the postman, and random visitors, all bearing gifts (Sid opens parcels and envelopes one teeny tiny shred at a time. Who needs snow when Sid has envelopes to open) and school in the afternoon, and our lovely Sarah in the evening. The day punctuated by having to explain the difference between her birthday and her birthday party, AGAIN, and getting nowhere. Maybe I'll just declare that Sid has a birthday that lasts five days.

(Gosh. I finally found a reason to get annoyed with Picasa. I thought 'What the hell' and clicked on 'Blog This!' with the cards photo selected. Up came a nasty little box with a cut-down version of the Create Post box, which let me put a title, that one photo, and some text. I had to log all the way out, then log all the way back in to Blogger properly, and edit the post. And was it worth the effort? DON'T ANSWER THAT!)

Result

Go me. I found it - the one sure-fire way guaranteed to get your children playing happily all together.

Yell at them to tidy up. Give them specific tasks - one tidies the board games, another picks up the jigsaws, and the third PICKS UP HER DOLLS AND PUTS THEM AWAY OTHERWISE I'LL GIVE THEM TO SOMEONE WHO WILL LOVE THEM. NOW!


And bingo - three children, not whining, not fighting, not complaining, but involved in some huge project and up to their elbows in Duplo.




Now who's going to tidy up all this soddin' DUPLO!

Editorial Policy

(I made a typo in the heading, and put an 'e' at the end instead of a 'y'. Verrrry interesting . . .)

I've seen these about in the blogosphere, and every time wondered if I should have one. Instances include

• No blogging about blogging
• Stick to the point
• Wander as far from the point as incredulity will stretch
• No blogging while drunk
• No blogging while sad
• Stay anonymous
• Stay real
• No children or dogs
• Blog while pretending to be a dog

So pretty much anything goes. Some I like, some are irrelevant (I mean, the whole 'dog' thing. C'mon.) I've wandered about the interwebthingy while spannered past belief on margaritas, writing movie reviews (the one I remember was 'Outbreak'. JOM, is there any other way to review that movie? I Don't Think So). And I guess I leave the blog alone if I'm down in the mouth.

Anyway.

Sid had her induction day at nursery yesterday. Uniform, bookbag, the whole nine yards. She was thrilled to bits. It was only the new children of which there seven, most of whom she knew anyway. A lovely, gentle intro into a new regime. (Slightly marred, in my own uninformed view, by not starting properly for another week. I'm sure there are sound teacherly reasons for the delay, but right now she has NOTHING on her agenda for days and DAYS.)

I expected to feel sad, which I did, a bit, but more proud, really, of her, that she is so clearly looking forward to this huge leap, and she will manage really well. (On a side note, she is two weeks older than Kit was when I realised that he could read. Ber-limey.) Also mightily relieved that we have got this far - it's days like this I find myself wishing, for a pico-second, that I could skip to the future, a good long time away, and know that all my children are safely grown, and happy and productive citizens. Days like this when I find myself terrified of what can happen, and knowing how powerless I am to guarantee the future of my children.

Note To Self: Consider not blogging while in the grip of Weltschmerz.

Also spent today buying 11+ practice books for Kit. It's nine months away. His current plan is to study maths or chemistry at Cambridge. Always nice to have a plan. (And Beri, the youngest in his year, is, according to his teacher, the best reader in his class. I am so proud of him I am in danger of imperilling my immortal soul.)

At last, the Fat Lady. . .

. . . has given it her all. She opened her mouth, she sang, and it's ALL OVER. We can go back to being normal again. (Do you need to know I'm typing this practically in the dark? Something is wrong with the fuse for the kitchen lights, and they haven't been on all day. Cooking is chancy, washing up is very sub-standard and blogging is totally out of the question.) We are enjoying the last few days of the Christmas decorations before they go back into the attic. Here's our tree, which the children HATED - Jeremy put me in charge, so we got tasteful gold. The year he puts The Brood in charge of the tree, they can do whatever they like.

Beri spent last night being sick, poor fellow, but he has now got to an age where it will wake him up BEFORE he sicks up over himself, all his bedding, the wall and the carpet. At least twice. So he and I had a very quiet day inside, while Jeremy was at work (poor man) and K and S went off with friends, and we waited for a delivery of firewood that I was finally told was being delivered tomorrow. BORRR-RING!.

And we have been badly infected by the Racing Demon bug. The Landaus spent New Year's Eve with us, and we were up 'til 2:30 playing. Jeremy and I taught Kit, and now we keep him up WAY past his bedtime for 'just one more game'. PLEASE don't tell Social Services.