This morning

I was told, probably in jest, many years ago, that Tokyo and Sydney airports are laid out on very similar lines having been designed by the same architect. I should add that I have no idea whether or not this is true and I have never been bothered enough to try and check up. The point of the story was that if you washed up in one airport or the other and weren’t sure which (presumably because you are an idiot), the behaviour of the people there would tip you off (the preponderance of dominant racial characteristics of the crowd might be a clue, too).

If you were to use Tokyo airport, the theory goes, on the busiest local holiday of then year, when the whole of Japan is trying to get on flights, you could wander through the crowds with more bags than you can easily carry and not even brush shoulders with another person. In Sydney, by contrast, if you arrive at a deserted airport at three in the morning, a drunken Aussie will materialise as if from nowhere and collide with you.

I mention this because this morning I was treated again to a display of agility from The Weasel that just never gets old.

He appeared at Euston station, presumably having decamped from the train after mine, and pelted along the packed platform with Japanese precision, to sweep onto the carriage just as the doors opened, to the evident surprise of many who had been standing patiently waiting for the train for an unspecified length of time. He was in and sitting down in almost the only free seat and looking twitchily comfortable before anyone had really registered his presence. I think that more than this undoubted talent though, the one I admire the most is his ability to thread the crowds at high speed, turning multiple acute angle corners without hitting the brakes. A wiry form and superabundance of nervous energy is essential.

Creepy Swedish Guy on the other hand, seems to have suffered a near catastrophic malfunction in the necktie department. Bad enough that he should wear a maroon shirt under a dark blue-grey suit, but the tie that I initially took to be a very poor paisley pattern turned out on closer inspection to include embroidered pink greyhounds and rabbits prancing through interlaced red and maroon fruit bushes.

At least he was colour-co-ordinated, though.

This morning

I was told, probably in jest, many years ago, that Tokyo and Sydney airports are laid out on very similar lines having been designed by the same architect. I should add that I have no idea whether or not this is true and I have never been bothered enough to try and check up. The point of the story was that if you washed up in one airport or the other and weren’t sure which (presumably because you are an idiot), the behaviour of the people there would tip you off (the preponderance of dominant racial characteristics of the crowd might be a clue, too).

If you were to use Tokyo airport, the theory goes, on the busiest local holiday of then year, when the whole of Japan is trying to get on flights, you could wander through the crowds with more bags than you can easily carry and not even brush shoulders with another person. In Sydney, by contrast, if you arrive at a deserted airport at three in the morning, a drunken Aussie will materialise as if from nowhere and collide with you.

I mention this because this morning I was treated again to a display of agility from The Weasel that just never gets old.

He appeared at Euston station, presumably having decamped from the train after mine, and pelted along the packed platform with Japanese precision, to sweep onto the carriage just as the doors opened, to the evident surprise of many who had been standing patiently waiting for the train for an unspecified length of time. He was in and sitting down in almost the only free seat and looking twitchily comfortable before anyone had really registered his presence. I think that more than this undoubted talent though, the one I admire the most is his ability to thread the crowds at high speed, turning multiple acute angle corners without hitting the brakes. A wiry form and superabundance of nervous energy is essential.

Creepy Swedish Guy on the other hand, seems to have suffered a near catastrophic malfunction in the necktie department. Bad enough that he should wear a maroon shirt under a dark blue-grey suit, but the tie that I initially took to be a very poor paisley pattern turned out on closer inspection to include embroidered pink greyhounds and rabbits prancing through interlaced red and maroon fruit bushes.

At least he was colour-co-ordinated, though.

short circuited meme

This book meme that's going around.

Summary: I have read 13 of them and given up, either permanently or temporarily on a further 5. Of the 5 I've given up on, the one I am certain to revisit is The Count of Monte Cristo as in general, I love Dumas' books, but found that particularly hard going for some reason.

That's enough of that.

short circuited meme

This book meme that's going around.

Summary: I have read 13 of them and given up, either permanently or temporarily on a further 5. Of the 5 I've given up on, the one I am certain to revisit is The Count of Monte Cristo as in general, I love Dumas' books, but found that particularly hard going for some reason.

That's enough of that.

On Literature (or how to be pretentious without effort)

It is interesting to see some of the discussions the latest ‘literary meme’ has kicked off. I frankly couldn’t be arsed to do it for two reasons, neither of them deeply thought out: firstly, I get annoyed by memes and usually ignore them. In this case I acknowledged its existence and made a couple of comments, but didn’t give it any more thought than that. Secondly, I was a little embarrassed by how few I had actually read (though relieved that I had read more than six).

Like binidj I find most nineteenth century literature tedious in the extreme – or at least nineteenth century English literature as opposed to English Language literature. Dickens and Hardy, worthy though they may be, were dreadful bores. Mark Twain, however… Equally, with a decent translation, Alexandre Dumas, particularly the d’Artagnan Romances, is fantastic.

I used to think that the problem was the Victorians’ lack of TV and/or radio to entertain themselves on long winter nights that made their novels so dreary and over fussy. After all, I reasoned, there would have been hours to fill between thrashing the servants or forging an Empire, so long descriptive tracts is the way to go. Then I remembered that the same was true of the eighteenth century, and let’s face it Sir Walter Scott could rattle out a fine old page-turner without breaking a sweat and he was hardly diverted by tuning in to the Light Service every evening.

Before anyone says anything, I am fully aware that in the 1700s, for every Scott, there was a Richardson, who could weigh in with such worthy stodge as Pamela, which I seem to recall came in, even in the revised edition, at around a million words.

I think that by and large my tastes betray my proletarian heritage. I like easily read books, preferably with more adventure than soul searching and more fantasy than social comment. Generally too, though not exclusively, I like something with a bit of pace. Many nineteenth century authors do not fill these criteria and it seems, neither have they been exposed to the power of an editor, unless, perhaps it is in later reprint text butchery, which substitutes excision and abridgment for editing.

On Literature (or how to be pretentious without effort)

It is interesting to see some of the discussions the latest ‘literary meme’ has kicked off. I frankly couldn’t be arsed to do it for two reasons, neither of them deeply thought out: firstly, I get annoyed by memes and usually ignore them. In this case I acknowledged its existence and made a couple of comments, but didn’t give it any more thought than that. Secondly, I was a little embarrassed by how few I had actually read (though relieved that I had read more than six).

Like binidj I find most nineteenth century literature tedious in the extreme – or at least nineteenth century English literature as opposed to English Language literature. Dickens and Hardy, worthy though they may be, were dreadful bores. Mark Twain, however… Equally, with a decent translation, Alexandre Dumas, particularly the d’Artagnan Romances, is fantastic.

I used to think that the problem was the Victorians’ lack of TV and/or radio to entertain themselves on long winter nights that made their novels so dreary and over fussy. After all, I reasoned, there would have been hours to fill between thrashing the servants or forging an Empire, so long descriptive tracts is the way to go. Then I remembered that the same was true of the eighteenth century, and let’s face it Sir Walter Scott could rattle out a fine old page-turner without breaking a sweat and he was hardly diverted by tuning in to the Light Service every evening.

Before anyone says anything, I am fully aware that in the 1700s, for every Scott, there was a Richardson, who could weigh in with such worthy stodge as Pamela, which I seem to recall came in, even in the revised edition, at around a million words.

I think that by and large my tastes betray my proletarian heritage. I like easily read books, preferably with more adventure than soul searching and more fantasy than social comment. Generally too, though not exclusively, I like something with a bit of pace. Many nineteenth century authors do not fill these criteria and it seems, neither have they been exposed to the power of an editor, unless, perhaps it is in later reprint text butchery, which substitutes excision and abridgment for editing.

Russians

I don't understand Russian LJ users.

This morning one of them added me to his/her friends list. Their pages had not a word of English, mine not a word of Russian.

This evening I come back to find that he/she/it has defriended me again. Why bother?

This is not the first time that some one from Mother Russia has done this and I doubt it will be the last. I just don't understand why you'd bother.

Russians

I don't understand Russian LJ users.

This morning one of them added me to his/her friends list. Their pages had not a word of English, mine not a word of Russian.

This evening I come back to find that he/she/it has defriended me again. Why bother?

This is not the first time that some one from Mother Russia has done this and I doubt it will be the last. I just don't understand why you'd bother.