The Warsaw Concerto

In this time of heightened temperatures, life has a tendency to become unbearable indoors - and, indeed, outdoors.

We here at the Athenaeum Club have acquired two new, but seriously cheap fans for the living room. My older and sturdier (and, it has to be said, grimier) electric punkah wallah is now in my bedroom, disturbing the dust and scaring the odd moth.

House-mate and fellow member of the Athenaeum Club, DT sans LJ has I believe, something similar. This though, is but rumour, since it does not behoove a right thinking man to wander in to his sanctum without first taking the sacrament and ensuring that one is properly shriven. Even then, the prayer books are like to char and the holy water boil, so best all round to pass by the door and merely ponder.

We put the two new acquisitions through their proving trials this evening, during the weekly gaming session, and they seemed to perform well enough. Admittedly we were light of the usual number by two, holidays taking their toll of our weekly entertainment regime. An adequate performance was recorded for a total outlay of no more than £16. With one fan at either end of the room, we were able to redistribute the heat and armpittage to previously unexplored parts of the building, whilst maintaining a comparatively cool demeanour. A more sturdy test awaits once the group is back up to full strength in a couple of weeks' time. After that we should know whether or not it will be safe to hold the grand plot meeting of the NWO referee-writers over the weekend of 9-10 July.

As I write from The Tower, I am beginning to think a further acquisition may be needed for this room, too. As stated before, there seems to be no air movement at all. I fondly recall the wind tunnel I created here but a month ago, despite the fact that I nearly crippled myself on my Union Jack and and the Stars and Stripes which I have covering the shelves in my bedroom. They look deceptively docile most of the time, but when the wind is in the right direction, the damned things unfurl in all their glory and swipe anything and everything within reach to the floor. The only way to cope when that happens is to turn the lights down and play the Warsaw Concerto at full blast on the hifi.

How I long to hear the Warsaw Concerto again.

The Warsaw Concerto

In this time of heightened temperatures, life has a tendency to become unbearable indoors - and, indeed, outdoors.

We here at the Athenaeum Club have acquired two new, but seriously cheap fans for the living room. My older and sturdier (and, it has to be said, grimier) electric punkah wallah is now in my bedroom, disturbing the dust and scaring the odd moth.

House-mate and fellow member of the Athenaeum Club, DT sans LJ has I believe, something similar. This though, is but rumour, since it does not behoove a right thinking man to wander in to his sanctum without first taking the sacrament and ensuring that one is properly shriven. Even then, the prayer books are like to char and the holy water boil, so best all round to pass by the door and merely ponder.

We put the two new acquisitions through their proving trials this evening, during the weekly gaming session, and they seemed to perform well enough. Admittedly we were light of the usual number by two, holidays taking their toll of our weekly entertainment regime. An adequate performance was recorded for a total outlay of no more than £16. With one fan at either end of the room, we were able to redistribute the heat and armpittage to previously unexplored parts of the building, whilst maintaining a comparatively cool demeanour. A more sturdy test awaits once the group is back up to full strength in a couple of weeks' time. After that we should know whether or not it will be safe to hold the grand plot meeting of the NWO referee-writers over the weekend of 9-10 July.

As I write from The Tower, I am beginning to think a further acquisition may be needed for this room, too. As stated before, there seems to be no air movement at all. I fondly recall the wind tunnel I created here but a month ago, despite the fact that I nearly crippled myself on my Union Jack and and the Stars and Stripes which I have covering the shelves in my bedroom. They look deceptively docile most of the time, but when the wind is in the right direction, the damned things unfurl in all their glory and swipe anything and everything within reach to the floor. The only way to cope when that happens is to turn the lights down and play the Warsaw Concerto at full blast on the hifi.

How I long to hear the Warsaw Concerto again.

Murder, mystery and cheese

I have to buy cheese at lunchtime. Stilton probably, and then something else, Brie most likely and maybe a small selection of others.

This weekend, I am in the sleepy hamlet of Foxton for a Murder Mystery evening. I am not entirely sure how it came about, but I am to play one Seamus O'Hack, dissolute Irish writer who would rather drink than write. I can't do an Irish accent¹. Still, I guess that doesn't matter, just go along, play along and have a good time.

Considering the amount of costume I have around the house, all I need is my Panama hat, though I may take an ornamental walking cane and a hip flask to add to the colour. Otherwise all I need do is wear my current office clothes of chinos, open-neck shirt, and crumpled (and in need of a dry clean) chino jacket. Maybe I won't shave, just to give me that 'been out all night' look, which combined with the red eyes from lack of recent sleep, will do as much as can be expected to transform a fat, blond, balding Englishman into a wiry, dark-haired Irishman.

I understand that the weather forecast suggests that temperatures will fall by about 10 degrees, and that there will be rain. Luckily we will be in a small marquee masquerading as somewhere in Vichy French Morocco, 1943: - Rick's Café Africaine (don't ask), just before the allied invasion of North Africa².

I see the wind has started blowing with a certain malevolent energy outside. Bet I get rained on while I traipse down to the dairy.

Typical.

Additional: In the end, I did not get to the cheese shop. I shall knock off early and wander off up to Neal's Yard for the first time in many moons.

Additionally additional:Briefly, shit hit fan. Six o'clock still at work. Will be here for a while yet. Sky leaden. Not likely to get to cheese shop.

Bugger, arse and damnation.

¹Not entirely true: I can do something that sounds vaguely like Ian Paisley on steroids, which has appalled the few Northern Irish people I've ever spoken to. But any of the varieties of the softer lilt from south of the border are beyond me.

²Operation Torch for those of you who must have your history.

Murder, mystery and cheese

I have to buy cheese at lunchtime. Stilton probably, and then something else, Brie most likely and maybe a small selection of others.

This weekend, I am in the sleepy hamlet of Foxton for a Murder Mystery evening. I am not entirely sure how it came about, but I am to play one Seamus O'Hack, dissolute Irish writer who would rather drink than write. I can't do an Irish accent¹. Still, I guess that doesn't matter, just go along, play along and have a good time.

Considering the amount of costume I have around the house, all I need is my Panama hat, though I may take an ornamental walking cane and a hip flask to add to the colour. Otherwise all I need do is wear my current office clothes of chinos, open-neck shirt, and crumpled (and in need of a dry clean) chino jacket. Maybe I won't shave, just to give me that 'been out all night' look, which combined with the red eyes from lack of recent sleep, will do as much as can be expected to transform a fat, blond, balding Englishman into a wiry, dark-haired Irishman.

I understand that the weather forecast suggests that temperatures will fall by about 10 degrees, and that there will be rain. Luckily we will be in a small marquee masquerading as somewhere in Vichy French Morocco, 1943: - Rick's Café Africaine (don't ask), just before the allied invasion of North Africa².

I see the wind has started blowing with a certain malevolent energy outside. Bet I get rained on while I traipse down to the dairy.

Typical.

Additional: In the end, I did not get to the cheese shop. I shall knock off early and wander off up to Neal's Yard for the first time in many moons.

Additionally additional:Briefly, shit hit fan. Six o'clock still at work. Will be here for a while yet. Sky leaden. Not likely to get to cheese shop.

Bugger, arse and damnation.

¹Not entirely true: I can do something that sounds vaguely like Ian Paisley on steroids, which has appalled the few Northern Irish people I've ever spoken to. But any of the varieties of the softer lilt from south of the border are beyond me.

²Operation Torch for those of you who must have your history.

What's that all about, then?

The White Stripes. No, really. don't get it; why are they so popular?

The advertising poster for their latest album has the bloke dressed like Willy Wonka, whilst his sister is reminscent of a younger Judy Cornwell (Daisy from "Keeping Up Appearances"). What's the handle, how does it all fit together?

Watching them briefly on TV tonight (from Glastonbury, I think), I realise that I have it wrong. He is actually somewhere between Warner Brothers' Tazmanian Devil and the guy out of the Police Academy movies.

I don't get it, I really don't.

Somebody please to explain.

What's that all about, then?

The White Stripes. No, really. don't get it; why are they so popular?

The advertising poster for their latest album has the bloke dressed like Willy Wonka, whilst his sister is reminscent of a younger Judy Cornwell (Daisy from "Keeping Up Appearances"). What's the handle, how does it all fit together?

Watching them briefly on TV tonight (from Glastonbury, I think), I realise that I have it wrong. He is actually somewhere between Warner Brothers' Tazmanian Devil and the guy out of the Police Academy movies.

I don't get it, I really don't.

Somebody please to explain.