...and now we wait.

I have just watched the season 2 finale of Battlestar Galactica.

Once again, I am stuck because I don't want to drop any spoilers on those of you who are watching it on Sky, and who have most of the season left to go. Suffice it to say that the episode is longer than the usual 45 minutes, and for good reason. The series has a history of throwing up situations and leaving you to wonder how the hell they are going to get out of it this time, how it can possibly get worse.

I was worried for a couple of episodes that the writers had lost their way, but now I am happy to believe that they know what they're doing. But I really, really have no idea how they can possibly get back from this one.

Roll on season 3.

I will make one final observation, which gives nothing away: Bad Gaius. Naughty boy, no biscuit.

...and now we wait.

I have just watched the season 2 finale of Battlestar Galactica.

Once again, I am stuck because I don't want to drop any spoilers on those of you who are watching it on Sky, and who have most of the season left to go. Suffice it to say that the episode is longer than the usual 45 minutes, and for good reason. The series has a history of throwing up situations and leaving you to wonder how the hell they are going to get out of it this time, how it can possibly get worse.

I was worried for a couple of episodes that the writers had lost their way, but now I am happy to believe that they know what they're doing. But I really, really have no idea how they can possibly get back from this one.

Roll on season 3.

I will make one final observation, which gives nothing away: Bad Gaius. Naughty boy, no biscuit.

Nostalgia, music and a creaky undercarriage

You know, it's a funny thing, but when you're a kid, if the notion of mortality even occurs to you, you pretty much reckon that you're immortal.

Today I wandered around the West End and spent some money. This isn't the non sequitur you might believe it to be at first glance.

My main purchases were CDs from FOPP which is rapidly turning into my favourite music shop. It doesn't have the selection that the HMV or Virgin Megastores do, but the range is quite reasonable enough, and the prices are much better. I managed to pick up a copy of the re-mastered Concert for Bangladesh for £15 (not too cheap granted, but the proceeds go to UNICEF), Deadwing by Porcupine Tree and The Soft Bulletin by The Flaming Lips for a fiver each. I also have a copy of the Floyd's Final Cut, which on reflection could have been cheaper. The main purchase, however, was Chris Rea's Blue Guitars, 11 CDs and a DVD in an LP-size book format for £35. I already have the music on my Walkman, courtesy jimfer, but now I can listen to it with a clear conscience (not that I was losing sleep over it, you understand).

It was the Concert for Bangladesh that got me thinking. The concert was organised by George Harrison back in 1971 in aid of the suffering in what was then East Pakistan as it fought for independence and emerged as Bangladesh. The album was released in 1972, I think, in a box with a booklet and either two or three LPs in it - I honestly can't remember if it was a double or triple, now, and my copy is up in Shropshire, so I can't check. I do remember that it cost me three or four weeks' pocket money, and I do remember that it was my first introduction to Eric Clapton, Leon Russell and Billy Preston, plus an extended live set from Bob Dylan. Of course, back in those days I hadn't yet picked up on the fact that I had heard stuff by Clapton and Billy Preston (even if in the case of the latter, it was his playing on some of the later Beatle tracks).

Anyway. Mortality, see. I was 13 when I bought my first copy of that album. Thirty-four years ago; so long ago that I hadn't even met that old grouch telemeister yet, though that delight was only a couple of months around the corner. The time doesn't half fly.

I think at that time, the buggers at school were still trying to get me to play rugby - that's how long ago it was, because they gave up quite early as soon as it became manifest that I hadn't the slightest interest. That reminds me: central London seemed to be awash with Irish rugby fans, which was odd, since I thought the Republic were playing at home, and not in or against England. Still, they all seemed happy enough.

Anyway, I finished my trip around the West End with a wander into Comic Showcase to pick up my standing order, and Forbidden Planet to be astounded at the prices they charge, I was out and about for several hours longer than originally intended, but hey, who cares?

I must have dawdled for part of the time, because after a couple of hours the sciatica kicked in (it was probably the browsing in FOPP and Planet, now I come to think about it), this doesn't happen if I stride around purposefully. What does happen is that I tend to feel the rheumatism in my left hip when I walk a lot, so with magnificent ease, I managed to get the worst of both worlds. These are ailments that do not bother you while you are a young immortal, but they loom large if you're a middle-aged fatty.

I used to think that I would live to be a hundred, and surprise my great grandchildren by showing them my birthday telegram from (presumably by then) the King. I'm not so sure anymore. Quite apart from the not having any kids issue, which rather buggers the timetable, I find the early 21st century really quite baffling enough, and that's while my brain still works as well as it ever did (stop laughing you at the back). Imagine what I'd fail to make of the mid 21st century! It doesn't bare thinking about (won't have to drive so far to get to the seaside, mind).

These days I am quite happy to realise that I shan't make a hundred, largely because I'm a fatty who smokes and takes no exercise. If I emulate my dad, who is still alive and kicking at nearly 86, I shall be happy enough. The twinges that I get at age 47 are enough to make me wonder what the twinges will be like when I get to 80. Less fun, I'll bet.

No I'll be happy if I hit my mid 80s.

And lest you think I'm in a maudlin poor mood or some such, think again; I'm not, I am actually quite cheerful. See, based upon my thoughts and recollections of thirty-odd years ago, and the way things disappear just to come around again, I have made some calculations. The main reason I shall be happy to go at somewhere between 84-87 years of age, is simply that I don't think I could live through flares for a third time.

Nostalgia, music and a creaky undercarriage

You know, it's a funny thing, but when you're a kid, if the notion of mortality even occurs to you, you pretty much reckon that you're immortal.

Today I wandered around the West End and spent some money. This isn't the non sequitur you might believe it to be at first glance.

My main purchases were CDs from FOPP which is rapidly turning into my favourite music shop. It doesn't have the selection that the HMV or Virgin Megastores do, but the range is quite reasonable enough, and the prices are much better. I managed to pick up a copy of the re-mastered Concert for Bangladesh for £15 (not too cheap granted, but the proceeds go to UNICEF), Deadwing by Porcupine Tree and The Soft Bulletin by The Flaming Lips for a fiver each. I also have a copy of the Floyd's Final Cut, which on reflection could have been cheaper. The main purchase, however, was Chris Rea's Blue Guitars, 11 CDs and a DVD in an LP-size book format for £35. I already have the music on my Walkman, courtesy jimfer, but now I can listen to it with a clear conscience (not that I was losing sleep over it, you understand).

It was the Concert for Bangladesh that got me thinking. The concert was organised by George Harrison back in 1971 in aid of the suffering in what was then East Pakistan as it fought for independence and emerged as Bangladesh. The album was released in 1972, I think, in a box with a booklet and either two or three LPs in it - I honestly can't remember if it was a double or triple, now, and my copy is up in Shropshire, so I can't check. I do remember that it cost me three or four weeks' pocket money, and I do remember that it was my first introduction to Eric Clapton, Leon Russell and Billy Preston, plus an extended live set from Bob Dylan. Of course, back in those days I hadn't yet picked up on the fact that I had heard stuff by Clapton and Billy Preston (even if in the case of the latter, it was his playing on some of the later Beatle tracks).

Anyway. Mortality, see. I was 13 when I bought my first copy of that album. Thirty-four years ago; so long ago that I hadn't even met that old grouch telemeister yet, though that delight was only a couple of months around the corner. The time doesn't half fly.

I think at that time, the buggers at school were still trying to get me to play rugby - that's how long ago it was, because they gave up quite early as soon as it became manifest that I hadn't the slightest interest. That reminds me: central London seemed to be awash with Irish rugby fans, which was odd, since I thought the Republic were playing at home, and not in or against England. Still, they all seemed happy enough.

Anyway, I finished my trip around the West End with a wander into Comic Showcase to pick up my standing order, and Forbidden Planet to be astounded at the prices they charge, I was out and about for several hours longer than originally intended, but hey, who cares?

I must have dawdled for part of the time, because after a couple of hours the sciatica kicked in (it was probably the browsing in FOPP and Planet, now I come to think about it), this doesn't happen if I stride around purposefully. What does happen is that I tend to feel the rheumatism in my left hip when I walk a lot, so with magnificent ease, I managed to get the worst of both worlds. These are ailments that do not bother you while you are a young immortal, but they loom large if you're a middle-aged fatty.

I used to think that I would live to be a hundred, and surprise my great grandchildren by showing them my birthday telegram from (presumably by then) the King. I'm not so sure anymore. Quite apart from the not having any kids issue, which rather buggers the timetable, I find the early 21st century really quite baffling enough, and that's while my brain still works as well as it ever did (stop laughing you at the back). Imagine what I'd fail to make of the mid 21st century! It doesn't bare thinking about (won't have to drive so far to get to the seaside, mind).

These days I am quite happy to realise that I shan't make a hundred, largely because I'm a fatty who smokes and takes no exercise. If I emulate my dad, who is still alive and kicking at nearly 86, I shall be happy enough. The twinges that I get at age 47 are enough to make me wonder what the twinges will be like when I get to 80. Less fun, I'll bet.

No I'll be happy if I hit my mid 80s.

And lest you think I'm in a maudlin poor mood or some such, think again; I'm not, I am actually quite cheerful. See, based upon my thoughts and recollections of thirty-odd years ago, and the way things disappear just to come around again, I have made some calculations. The main reason I shall be happy to go at somewhere between 84-87 years of age, is simply that I don't think I could live through flares for a third time.