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Saturday, February 21, 2009

ENEABBA: “Wear the fox hat!” Prince Charles implores Payton L. Inkletter, when asked about suitable apparel for the Midwest bowling club's tournament.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

21st to 25th February 2009:

Saturday: Daylight some hours old, I finished the kitchen clean up, having done it cowboy style earlier. Missus InklemustgetuptotakePapreeout - beforeitgetstoodamnhot (who, it ought be noted, doesn’t mind it cowboy style either) had surfaced and jabbed herself with her Byetta needle, and instead of returning to the cot to sleep off some of her usual nausea, she remained up, and ate after the advisory hour had elapsed. Well, developments developed, for while I was outside watering the bamboos, way out behind two hedges of it, I heard a frantic knocking on the back glass sliding door. It took a moment for me to register that this meant an emergency, for I had to filter out the idea that someone was knocking out front to come in to see us. I then rushed to the laundry and helped poor Missus Inklechunderguts, who was vomiting for the very life of her, bringing up this morning’s food, underneath last night’s, as it landed in the tub. That girl is paying a very significant price for the benefits she has definitely gained from the giant goanna’s goosies that have found their way into the monthly applicator syringe; yes, you knew that the Gila monster’s saliva is the inspiration for the active ingredient, exendin-4, in Byetta, didn’t you?

After applying a constant pressure to her lower back, she continued vomiting until she was empty, poor guinea piglet. She lay down to try to recover, for she still felt she must go driving here there and everywhere to promote external harmony, while I returned to the oven outside and finished my watering front and back, by which time Janny had gone.

I came inside and ate a platter of white comforters, then washed down an embarrassment of pear slices with cheese and crackers, made by Missus InkleI’llkillhimwithkindness - ifit’sthelastthingI’lldo before she had her attack of the chunderguts. NO, I’m kidding with you!: it was some white comforters I washed down! My head and neck were reminding me they can show me pain. It was midday, I kid you not, and hey, it just occurred to me, it’s Sarrerdi! Just another point the astute Foolpie will have noted earlier that I had neglected to acknowledge. Letter bate than vener! (This last twist must be a side effect of the white comforters…)

Time went nowhere as I relaxed back in the darkened lounge, overhead fan on, sipping sarsaparilla, feeling sorry for myself, with my Logitech X-230 speakers at the pooter in the back room blaring at 75% a selection of my favourite old hits, mainly from the fifties and sixties (up until The Civil War – is he joking…?) My mood became a touch inspirational while swimming in the music, feeling that a little corner of the world might be able to become my baby mussell. I was just about to shower when the little people arrived back from their gallivant in the almost forty Celsius heat. Missus InkleIexistonlytopleaseothers - orstrictly,certainothers related to me a tad of the comedy of errors the outing had been, plus the stresses of it all.

After I was clean the dear middle aged biddy helped put me to bed, lathering my feet with sorbolene (she can make even that innocent – to you and me – activity a sexually loaded experience, especially when she works the toes; pity I was so near death and that Pa pree was in the house…) while I plastered fresh aloe on my honk – bless its fat little damaged skin – and sorbolene on my hands. A minute or two to dry in the breeze of the two fans, and she covered my legs with the sheet, and left me to succumb to the charms of Madame Nod, from The Land of.

She woke me rudely (no, really, by placing her hand in a place that would be illegal before marriage, claiming that she had been first speaking my name repeatedly: likely story) about ten o’clock, and I eventually recovered from the shock, and began the long slow process of trying to bring vitality back to the surface of my system.

I ate my din dins while watching some of ‘Stuck on You’ on free to air, and what with that of it I saw before and after din dins, while in and out of the lounge, I must have seen well over half of it, and I had no idea how funny it was. I checked the reviewer’s appraisal in the TV guide, and typically, they can be far off the mark, and represent no more than their own small and distorted view of the world. It was given 2 out of 5 stars, with the comment ‘…neither as funny nor offensive as the plot suggests.’ If you can’t recognise slapstick when it slaps you in the face, and appraise according to the norms of slapstick, get another job! I didn’t know that Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear were such good comedic actors, especially Greg Kinnear, but then I’ve not seen him in much if I recall correctly, having lived such a sheltered life.

Poor Missus Inklewearyexhaustedtiredandinhippain - duethechunderingandbadlytimedgallivanting had to go to bed by midnight, so I titivated around her, rubbing spikenard into her trotters to help her cracks, corns, callouses, and flakes – and we’re hopeful her feet will benefit as well! – before my usual hug and caress of her unlimited beauty, as she lay there all gorgeous, alabaster dragon that she is.

I mopped the floor, and then embarked on a very late walk, on this warm night, with only a little breeze around. During this walk I saw possibly the longest and brightest shooting star of my life, ending in a very wide flame. I noticed that the local mosque has had a heavy fancy new black enamelled fence put in around the park side, like the one at Baby Inkletter’s second primary school, and it must have cost a bomb (pun not intended). By the way, Telstra had the two smashed glass panels of its Dewsons’ shopping centre phone booth replaced two days ago, I forgot to mention, and as much as I have come to dislike Telstra over the decades, my hat off to them for how fast they so often get the regular vandalism repaired on this box. But for this regularly vandalised public phone box, Telstra shares would never have dropped anywhere near as low as they did in recent years, and that selfless I’m-only-doing-it-for-my-adopted-nation Sol Trujillo could have doubled his multi-millions annual extortionate take home pay, into the twenty millions range instead.

Back home, I sat at the computer to write this diary and bits and pieces, as well as a comment for Gladys Hobson’s Wrinkly Writers post, ‘What a Difference Promotion Can Make!’ I am always happy when I learn of good news for her writing efforts, for she is so good, so hard working, and so altruistic. And whenever she comments at my sites it’s a bonus, and very often a lot of fun, for she is a tremendous sport with a great sense of humour.

Next came the kitchen clean up, a daily chore of usually monumental non lapidary proportions. For Janny is one of a rare Westerner breed these days, for she makes just about everything we eat, and is not slow to cook for all and sundry as well.

I shot outside in the early morning light and did a cowboy watering of the bamboo, then finally climbed into the crib beside the alabaster dragon, to snatch (pun possibly intended) an hour and a half’s shuteye…


22nd February 2009:

Sunday: Missus Inkleupyougetyoulazyratbaztad - anhourandahalf’senuffforanybody woke me a bit after eleven, and I began to coax some life back into my frame, shaved, showered, but never shatted, and eventually joined Pa pree Inkletter and Umple Dais in the lounge, to spend the afternoon celebrating the senior’s 79th birthday.

The Babies Ink&Peggletter arrived a little after one, and spent the entire afternoon with us all, not leaving till towards seven. We had a delicious meal put on by you guessed it – did you guess me? Well, you’d be ri..wrong! – Missus InkleI’lldieinthekitchen of course. By the way, cooking’s not the only thing she does in the kitchen, but I best leave her to explain what kind of dish she finds me in each room of the house. “What’s that Hun?” “A delish dish, Payty baby!” “Oh, okay, thanks Hun, I’ve let my billions of readers know.” It would be embarrassing I suppose if she carked it in the kitchen due to calling upon, nay, threatening me to deliver with, my purple parsnip, expecting it to do far more than nature intended…

We had a great deal of fun with Baby Peggletter’s Sony Playstation connected to our Sony Trinitron and turning it into a karaoke machine. I’ve never done karaoke before, and having long accepted that I’m tone deaf, I determined to be a fool and have a lot of fun, which is exactly what transpired. I think my team lost.

It was warm outside, so Janny’s Japanese lover, Hiroshi Fujitsu, kept us all cool. Now how’s this for funny, amazingly coincidental, distressing even: Baby Inkletter related how Baby Peggletter bashed her over the head really hard the other day… They were playing some kind of computer tennis game, if I recall correctly, and her bonce was in the wrong place at the right time. But what goes around comes around: On Thursday Baby Peggletter accompanied Baby Inkletter to have blood tests, for she is terrified, seriously almost phobic, of the whole deal, and to make matters worse, her veins play hide and seek from the phlebotomist, necessitating often the painful piercing of a vein in the back of her hand. To his credit, Baby Peggwussletter is highly syncretic with our Baby, and seeing the lengths Madame Draculeesha went to to hurt her, he fainted. Over a six feet drop to the concrete floor, hitting the back of his head hard, knocking him out further. Four days later today he was still unwell with headache and somewhat dazed, (more than usual? Ho ho ho…) As Confucius say…: refer to GLEN INNES: New miniature sheep line ‘Little Aussie Bleater Arcotts’, bred by Payton L. Inkletter, in honour of Garry McDonald’s iconic Norman Gunston.

Early in the afternoon we got a phone call from Murrah Deeler to inform us that Meg has lymphoma, and has been in Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital for six weeks, four of them in ICU. This was an unpleasant shock, but not as complete a surprise as otherwise might have been, for Meg had been assiduously avoiding going to the doctor’s about a terrible swelling in her neck for at least six months as I recall, if not much longer. That is not a very rational thing to do. Especially as cancers most often respond better to treatment when caught early.

After everyone left, the Babies having taken Pa pree Inkletter home as they left, I caught My Beloved’s headlines, and then tried to sleep, for I was highly sleep deprived. However, I got maybe one hour, before I was woken by aches and pains which distracted so much I had to give up trying to sleep. So I watched Compass with Missus InkleImetmypricelessdarlingatBalingup, which was all about The Universal Brotherhood at Balingup, which broke up in the mid to late eighties. An alternative title could have been Stephen Catharsis Carthew. Stephen was the Chief Executive in a manner of speaking, while Mary Robinson was the Chairman for Life, and perhaps Fred became the figurehead President for Life.

Here is not the time, but I’ll whet my billions of readers’ appetites with the teaser that I was a member for about a year back in ’81-’82, and when I resigned, after realising the degree of the dysfunction, egomaniacism, and blatant unjustifiable meddling in we the subjects’ lives, it transpired that I was the first fellow in the history of The Universal Brotherhood Incorporated to formally resign, for I went to the trouble of writing a letter of resignation. And it came to my light many years later that my letter was never revealed to the rank and file; it was kept under wraps by Centre Corps (Core), which in retrospect doesn’t surprise me, for that was the modus operandi of the manipulating freak who ran the show (the core of the Centre Corps, a diminutive yet formidable character, who achieved alarming control over the orbiting solar system that was the remainder of Centre Corps; by this analogy, Stephen (Catharsis) Carthew was Mercury, so held in the grip of her linear gravity his face could barely turn away; she demonstrated the power of that old reliable if knotty truism, ‘the ends never justify the means’ BY ITS BREACH, in company with countless tyrants, despots, maniacs, and brutes through the ages, – and yet, believe it or not, I do have some good, even very good, things to say about the place and people as well, and even the aforementioned person, for I am a lay student of the human condition, with my own fallibilities as the best material to build my knowledge upon; but just not now… Before leaving it alone, I do take issue with Carthew’s quoted intention to write the ‘definitive history’ of The Brotherhood; all he can write is the ‘definitive biased history’, not because he is any worse than any other historian, rather because he is no different to any of us. None of us can write a definitive history of anything we were heavily involved in without our bias flavouring it, if not saturating it. A definitive history would be possible of record by an erudite outsider with adequate access to all the goings on and individuals of consequence. Not to say Carthew’s history would not be valuable, but it will be biased. Anyway, I would have neither Baby Inkletter nor her mother, if I hadn’t visited that magic conjunction of seven valleys in the magic Southwest.

Missus Inkles and I watched the DVD recording I did again later, to try to digest the job that Compass did (for example, they made no mention of the earlier Armadale Shalom days, nor the subsequent Coorow days far north of Perth, before ever the community relocated to Balingup), and then chatted about it all. I was going to try to stay up and walk and water outside and clean the kitchen and all that, but a deep tiredness claimed me, and I slept beside the alabaster dragon from about midnight.


23rd February 2009:

Monday: What an oppressive hot mother began brewing from just before mid morning! I couldn’t sleep from about half six, getting up at seven after finally throwing in the towel at trying to re-storm the walls of the City of Nod. I attended to bits and pieces on the computer, being some emails, online banking and transfers, comments, a tailored email of cancer cure information for the Deelers (I spend so much time modifiying communications, be they written, phone, face to face, to better suit the sensitivities of the receiver, especially according to the doctrinal beliefs I know they have), before attending to the kitchen clean up I couldn’t do last night, and finally getting outside to water and fertilize the bamboos and sundry plants, which are going gang busters in this heat.

I left for Bob’s at Guildford at about half two, and the heat was peaking. I took Bob to Swan Aquatic for his first of three consecutive weekly swims, and while he frolicked in the walking lane, I kept my eye on him from the sidelines, at a table, and got a fair bit of Clive Hamilton’sThe Freedom Paradox’ read, finally hitting the home stretch of Part Five. I do have issues with his metaphysical attempt to establish an absolute moral basis for human motivation, but I really admire the behaviour he promotes. It matters not that his metaphysics is flawed (although more would agree with Hamilton than with me), so long as his prescriptions for living converge upon those based on a sound ontology; and they do!

I walked outside in the grounds for a while, and the heat was amazing, so close, and it radiated out of the ground as well as from every other direction; this is why I was amazed to learn later from the Weatherzone website that Perth’s maximum today was only 34 and a bit Celsius. It felt like 44. (I missed today’s weather on TV when I got home.) This day was of the type that typically come before a change, before rain, and that is indeed forecast for a couple of days’ time. Anyway, it knocked me about.

We got to Fishmarket Reserve about half six for a cup of tea (too hot really, but Bob won’t countenance not having his cup of tea) and a walk, and I touched his belly and asked him when the baby was due, but I wish I hadn’t, because he didn’t get the joke. I smoothed his ruffled feathers by apologising a few times. I forget occasionally how touchy about certain things he is.

I got money from the ATM at Malaga on my way home, still in some confusion as to where all the last withdrawal had got to, and gratefully sank into my Player recliner at home to watch the rest of (and most of) Kerry O’Brien’s 7.30 Report. He interviewed Australia’s Federal Minister who’s always wong, Climate Change Minister Penny Wong, who has such a gorgeous little face I just want to powder her bottom, put a dry nappy on (her bottom), blow raspberries in her belly button, say ‘coochy coochy coo’, before tucking her up in a cot. All these strange emotions aside, I reckon she has a strong ability to communicate well under pressure, to formulate very coherent sentences. She should have been on George W. Bush’s payroll for giving him remedial English lessons. Also of interest to me was the story on Queensland Premier Anna Bligh’s calling of an election 6 months early. Silly girl. I won’t be the least bit surprised if the electorate turf her Government out, and she’ll have no sympathy from me. Alan Carpenter made the same arrogant move here in Western Australia last September, and was turfed out on his rear, and serve the idiot right. I find it hard to criticise him, because I had long been an admirer of his for a number of principled actions and stands he had taken, as well as his vision and aspirations in public life. Early elections should be a very last resort for overwhelming public good reasons, never to further the chances of a particular political party; whatever the merits or otherwise of Queensland’s current Labor Government, I would be happy for the voters there to turf the bastards out just on the strength of their having the temerity to call an election but two and half years into their three year term. And I extend this view of mine to any state or federal government, until the bastards get the message that treating election dates with such flippant disregard of the point of having won the last one – the point being that they were handed a licence to govern for a set term of known length at the completion of which the electorate will judge them on the merits of their full term’s outcomes, and everyone, especially business, can plan accordingly upon that set length – spells certain dismissal. So if it’s goodbye Anna Bligh, good riddance! Bring in fixed terms, each state as well as the Federal Government, do it at last, and quit messing with the citizens you are meant to be serving.

I left the lounge all animated, and delivered vittles to Pa pree, then returned, collapsed again into the Player recliner, and, eating the vittles Janny gave me, I watched Four Corners, and Matthew Carney's report ‘Pakistan on the Brink’, to be disturbed as intended, for good reason, at the religious fundamentalist madness infecting and conquering that nation with devastating effect, promising to send what of the nation has emerged from primitivity back to, and keep that that hasn’t, the pre-dark ages. Although I’m about to compare chalk with cheese, the UBI core of Centre Corps of my last diary entry, and the religious fundamentalist mindset infecting huge swathes of Pakistan, are evidences of varying intensity of the fact that the human capacity for self delusion has no limits.

I can’t recall whether I did some watering under lights or computer tasks next, but I did return to watch Lateline’s Tony Jones interview, firstly, Andrew Robb, the Federal Member for Goldstein, who surely must be Australian politics’ ‘caricaturial’ answer to former Vice President Dick Chaney, with respect to permanent scowls; secondly, Tasmanian Senator Bob Brown, The Greens’ honcho, who, typically, peddles their broken record line that unless The Greens’ targets in everything are not committed to and achieved in full, ‘we’ll all be rooned’. I stayed on to watch Letterman, and this was Friday night 20th Feb’s show, and while I can’t recall the name of the musical act at the show’s end, she was brilliant – hey! I just got her name off The Lateshow’s webpage (in itself a miracle, for it’s so poorly designed search wise, in fact, if it’s not showing on the page when you load it, you’re hardly likely to find it, if it’s a recent show) – she was Shemekia Copeland. Now wasn’t Alan Kalter’s Celebrity Guest Interview with Barbara Walters a hoot! And a welcome change from his usual gushing stream of profanities, even though it was highly sexually charged, but that seemed to do the dear old girl a world of good. The stand up of Mike Birbiglia made me laugh; if I recall, he uses a diffident manner. I hadn’t seen him before, and while I missed the first half of his routine, I thought the ending was very witty, that bit about how women fall asleep immediately after orgasm, ‘…er, whoops, that’s called a man.’

I went for a very late walk, and came back drenched in perspiration. I cleaned up the kitchen, I worked at the computer. Where did the time go?


24th February 2009:

Tuesday: I hand watered the bamboo and lawn, thirsty after yesterday’s heat, before Missus Inklelascivious developed her bedroom eyes, and I ran away as slowly as I could, until she caught me in the kitchen, where she ravished me wildly and consummately, before she drove herself to her doctor’s appointment. Without Pa pree as it turned out, for he was at Umple Daffyd’s, waiting for the annual termite inspection on his son’s behalf, who was at work at Bluescope Lysaght.

It was humid today, but much cooler. I don’t know where the time went, but I finally got into the sack at about three o’clock, and Janny had in fact returned from her doctor’s appointment, where Dr Hoffman praised her brilliant progress with many of her health outcomes since starting the Byetta regime (but my word she has paid a difficult price for using the stuff! What with repeated nausea episodes and too often full blown vomiting.) My darling kindly slathered my feet again with sorbolene, and the other day she rasped off all the cracked and cratered dry skin from my heels and periphery of each foot using our imitation foot egg thingy (I’m struggling, and failing, to think of the word for products that copy the original? It isn’t ‘rip-off’, nor ‘spoof’, nor ‘fake’; it’s on the tip of my tongue, you probably have it, but it’s failed me!), which did a great job by the way, at a fraction of the price of the dinki di model I see advertised on telly, called the ‘Ped Egg’. I don’t want to discourage folk buying the Ped Egg, mind you, as it may do an even better job, and with bells and whistles I expect that ours doesn’t have; I don’t recall where Janny got our lookalike from, maybe an op shop, maybe The Reject Shop, maybe off the back of a heavy articulated vehicle.

While I slept, Missus Inklebestdaughterintheworld got Pa pree and brought him back here, feeding him later on, and returning him toward nine. She woke me up, by arrangement, about 9.15, and I watched Foreign Correspondent, tonight’s story by Sally Sara exclusively about the sad trade in stolen Indian children put up for adoption overseas, and the Australian couple, Barry and Julia Rollings, who, when they suspected their adopted children Akil and Sabila were in fact illegally taken from their family (betrayed in fact, by their father, who sold them before deserting their mother), this inspiring couple travelled to India and reunited the children with their mother, and rendered financial assistance to her.

Missus Inkles then joined me to watch Artscape, which featured the highly talented Melbourne couple Ghostpatrol and Miso, and the hit and run applications of their art they do in the dead of night around the city, before I, brave current affairs soul, stayed on for Lateline. (When I write these diary entries a day or more after the event, I often struggle to recall particulars of these current affairs programs, and when I visit their websites to be prompted of the stories and interviews, generally they are so lamely designed that it is near impossible to pull up the previous day’s stories, even just the headings if the transcripts haven’t been completed yet, could you believe? Foreign Correspondent is an exception. Barnaby Joyce did a fairly good imitation of Barnaby Joyce in his interview with Tony Jones, as he usually can be relied upon to do.

Now being somewhat of a current affairs junkie, I watched a recording of The 7.30 Report which Janny did for me while I slept – of course I had to set it all up and tell her just to press ‘that red button’, as no woman yet born can operate a DVD player for their man, but mysteriously they can for themselves – and it was wonderful to see Kerry O’Brien meet his match momentarily in his interview with Malcolm Turnbull – who is reasonably sharp it must be said when under the pump in interviews – when Kerry asked how long the Opposition Leader had left under the low ratings he was suffering, and Turnbull, quick as a flash, shot back the question to the effect of how long did Kezza think he had at the helm of HMS Kezza Report? A moment of theatre, and the momentary look of flusterment on Kezza’s moosh was priceless.

I was way too tired to walk, and I did bits and pieces at the computer, before hitting the low thread count cotton polyester blends about three, and snuggled into the slumbering alabaster dragon.


25th February 2009:

Wednesday: The day began very overcast, and stayed that way almost all day, with a few moments of sunshine breaking through. A few light showers came along early in the afternoon, and of course this brought out the hoon instincts in the local lads who spin their wheels and scream up the wet streets, displaying their extreme lack of maturity to all the world to see, except the police, who are too busy out on the main thoroughfares speed trapping the hapless safe drivers who drift a few kmh above the limits. Janny started her day with a painful leg cramp, not the worst, but bad enough, and I had to get her heat packs, water, the Acuplus zapper dapper, and so on until the pain subsided, poor kitten.

I remained indoors all day working on the computer and doing sundry things until I took the little people before 4 p.m. to Spotlight at Joondalup for a specialled materials binge. Janny had planned to try to drive after Baby Inkletter had to cancel the outing, and her emanations gave me enough of a guilt trip to offer to take the delinquents, to be the taxi driver again. We drove there in light rain and cool conditions. I read ‘The Freedom Paradox’ while waiting in the car. I have to try to finish it within 24 hours, in time for tomorrow night’s lecture by Clive Hamilton at UWA.

Back to the computer until tuck tuck, early tonight, and then I stayed on to watch a mere four and half hours’ television, being Aunty’s big night of comedy and such like. I’ll mention, from The 7.30 Report, the sad news for Pacific Brand’s 1800 plus workers who will be losing their jobs, and the loyalty the company will be bound to lose by sending that work to China, and Obama’s claim that he’ll halve the U.S.A. deficit by the end of his first term: good luck Barack – you’ll need it; Professor Edward Leamer waxed lyrical about Obama’s rhetorical skills showcased in his first speech to Congress, admitting that he was boosted with some optimism, and that’s something good, and in very short supply, and rather priceless; from Lateline, I had to suffer through another Joe Hockey interview by Leigh Sales, wherein the Shadow Treasurer spouted forth the usual litany of criticism of anything and everything the Government does. He and his colleagues seem to believe that there are votes in constant castigation; I’m far from convinced of the wisdom of the policy. His leader, Captain Turnbull, is leading the charge to Chastisementburg; from Lateline Business, the luscious Ali Moore’s interview with Pacific Brand’s CEO Sue Morphett, who had the unenviable job of facing the press everywhere today to explain the disagreeable decision of her company to sack all those workers (and which she may well have been instrumental in pushing for; probably she was). What struck me, which might seem odd due to the apparent unrelatedness of the comparison, was the stark difference in her manner and that of recently ex-Shadow Treasurer Julie Bishop: Ms Morphett had a mature and professional air and carriage about her that dwarfs that of anything I’ve seen out of Ms Bishop, despite the rather biased opinions of her husband and father. I may be wrong, but my impressions of Julie Bishop, a local Federal Member, for Curtin and based in my own fair town of Perth in fact, is that of a person suffering from, and not coping well with, the affliction of the delusion of great self importance and the actuality of relative immaturity. I find it not at all difficult to agree with the critiques of Dr Peter van Onselon, politics and government Associate Professor at Edith Cowan University regarding her fitness for office. I’d rather be wrong, especially as many of the women in our parliaments do sterling jobs and punch above their weight, and given the relative infancy and dearth of women in politics.

I then settled in to enjoy a Letterman, but decided within a minute that it was a repeat. Afterwards, having turned TV off and come to do computing, I began to wonder if I was mistaken, and have missed a current episode. I made my judgment on the guests’ teaser list, ‘Steve Martin’ and a footballer’s name so long it should not be allowed, and I seem to recall both being guests in recent times, but I suppose he could have them back quickly.

I took a late walk, and it almost sprinkled, and the environment was pleasantly damp, only a tad, but damp nevertheless. A dampness which will quickly boil away after a couple of days as the usual summer days return. My hands stung a little from cold, which puzzled me, given that it is February, our month of highest overnight temperatures, and I put it down to simply my acclimatising to the heat these past months. [Back from the future update: a visit to Weatherzone has just put me right: it was 10 Celsius that night, which is an Antarctictine cold snap for us in February, and into the record realms.]

I did some reading of ‘The Freedom Paradox’, and got to bed about five.


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