NEUSTADT AN DER WEINSTRAßE: Click click click!; Aunty Marion’s Chernobylysed Norwegian cloud berry jam sure did glow in the dark: who needs a counter?

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

30^th September 2009:

Wednesday: No, I had no sleep, to speak of, just bits between the waking stretches, while listening to my last insomniacal resort favourite talking book. I got up before the alabaster dragon left for her spinning group meet at Menora, confusingly called the Dianella Spinning Group or some such much the same.

I forced myself up before nine because I wanted to get the front grass (deliberate choice – equally valid alternative: weeds) mown before cleaning up the kitchen and taking Bob swimming. I even managed to do a dual posting of yesterday’s entry. The sand was still slightly damp, which was helpful, for the electric mower picked up less sand than otherwise, but it would have been better to do it yesterday between showers, for then the sand would have been wet, and that means even less sand sucked up.

All this meant I was running seriously late, and while I was cleaning up the kitchen last thing, I began to be on the receiving end of the testy termagant’s complaints – she was back now from her ‘cacophocryphal’ yarn spinning – to the effect that I’d be back late for delivering vittles to The Dear Leader. This wasn’t helpful, for she quickly forgets that both he and she have reiterated in the past that 7 p.m. is not set in stone, and 8 p.m. is alright when circumstances nudge the timings late. Neither did it help when her iteration of the complaint came when I was nearly ready to go, for she left it hanging in the air, as she is wont to do, leaving it open for me to explain the options her remark beckoned: don’t go; go but cut it short; go and put in the usual hours and be an hour later than usual back – and of course after unwelcomingly hearing my analysis she made out that nothing mattered now; curious, for it mattered enough twice in the last hour to bring it up. So the household vibes lowered at my leaving time. How many husbands find themselves in situations analogous to this?: ‘The sun is higher than helpful!’…; ‘Would you like me to lower it?’’; silence…

Bob was glad I came, late though it was (3.30 p.m.), and so were his social trainers, who I had phoned in advance asking if late was still okay. Swan Aquatic was quiet, and this meant Bob got more duck diving done during his walking laps. He was momentarily nonplussed when I broke the news at leaving time from the pool that we couldn’t go to the river a Guildford to walk and have a hot drink, for I had resolved while he was swimming to get back by 7 p.m. to try to fit in with the commode dragon’s earlier wishes. But to his credit, and as almost always with Bob, he was over the disappointment in a flash, and was talking about our next outing.

When I got home, minutes after 7, through the door what should I hear but the poor powderpuff vomiting into the bathroom basin; I put pressure onto her lower back till it was over; she thinks the flossing she was doing triggered it, and knowing the whoopee guts’ lifelong history, she’ll likely be right; the Byetta she injects twice daily is always still a suspect though, given her history of nausea with it this past year.

I delivered the vittles to The Dear Leader, then with the remonstrating rodomontade safely ensconced in the Ibis, I ate vittles and we watched Kezza the Great’s 7.30 Report, but I didn’t win the battle against sleep during the next three programs on Aunty, catching but snippets between nod offs.

These nod offs must have helped, for I was mainly compos mentis when Lateline came on: The (Leigh) Sales Graph: Ms Sales had gone for a softer couture tonight, and but for one point it looked really tops: a nice hair style very enhancing of her face, subtle make-up, and though her mascara was heavier than usual, the absence of prominent eyeliner made it work, she wore a lovely upper arm covering dark blue top, her skin glowed as usual; that point?: the top had three petal or tear drop shaped cut outs in her décolletage region, which made an appealing pattern, but the central one went deep over her camisole, which was a beige shade, and gave poor contrast against her skin – a lighter blue or other shade that counterpointed and harmonised with both the dark blue of her top and her skin would have been the icing on a nevertheless luscious cake.

The opening for Lateline was the tragedy in the Samoan region with the tsunami deaths, injuries, and damage, followed by an update from ABC correspondent Kerri Ritchie, about the awful happenings there. Later Ms Sales conducted an on-screen interview with Dr Lisa Sanders of Yale University, advisor to TV's HOUSE show. It was a pleasant departure from some of the political and business vermin who hog the Lateline real estate, which I alluded to in yesterday’s posting about poor Tony Jones, having to spend effort trying to get joy from Jim Greenwood. Dr Sanders described the impossible job doctors have, of diagnosing what a patient has, quickly. I wouldn’t like to have to do it, and I’m glad there are those who are prepared to try. I also like an older doctor as a rule, over a fresh pimply faced one; the more experience a doctor has had the better.

It always makes a difference what quality of questions a presenter asks of the guest, and this is one of Ms Sales’ strong points – she has plenty of nous to ask intelligent and applicable questions. The ‘google’ question was a case in point, and Dr Sanders gave an enlightened and lenient answer. A good interview.

I enjoyed Letterman, with his guest Kelsey Grammer, telling about his heart attack. The musical act by Miranda Lambert and her band was a treat; how about the mohawk on the guitarist!

I saw a bit of Louis Theroux on Seven before retreating to my writing sanctuary, but what I saw was enough to put me off: body builder women, looking so much like men it really isn’t funny; I hope and imagine the following for this is very small in percentage of the world population terms. I even think almost the same about male body builders, at least the extreme end of it: an extremely well muscled cow, horse, or gorilla has its appeal, but that’s about where it stops for me.

I also saw five minutes of Sex and the City, for the first time, and I can say on the basis of that five minutes that it has nothing to recommend it for any age: it’s obnoxious, trying to normalise that promiscuous and ugly crude female behaviour; and this opinion is from a fellow who gets a laugh from the crudity in Little Britain: at least those two geniuses – Walliams and Lucas are not in any way trying to pretend that the behaviour they are parodying is in any way a norm, nor a desirable goal – they have simply gotten very skilful at wringing humour out of extremes.

A headache had been playing hide and seek with me all evening, but for some reason it subsided after my daily medicinal huge – I really mean huge – cup/bucket of cocoa while writing. Dawn is not very far away…

+paytontedwithlove+