The news and discussion programs were roughly devided between the latest phase in Tony Blair's project to dismantle comprehensive education, a thorny case of child euthenasia, and a shocking and bizarre case of six men severely poisoned by a phase one clinical trial.
I wrote an entry about all three, especially the latter, but decided not to post it. None affect me directly, and there's nothing I can do about any of them, but they're still depressing. Yes I know, I'm too sensitive.
Some people get drunk or stoned to forget what distresses them, some play a sport, go dancing or blast their ears with nostalgic music. I immerse myself in tacky sci-fi from the 70s. So that's what I did.
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If I can't fix Nobby, I'll lend Rincewind for a few weeks till Simon can scrape together the funds for a new computer.
CW texted to reopen communications. I promised to write him an email summarising the 18 months since we last spoke. My god, is it that long?
I could probably do without a cold sitting on my chest at the moment. It means even if I had the time to do some recording instead of learning/teaching powerpoint, I couldn't. Humph.
Today's consumer complaint: A packet of 10 bic razors "for sensitive skin" at 99p sounds good value, even if each blade only lasts for one shave. One face-shave managed to blunt two of them, and give me shaving rash.
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Sometimes songwriting produces a fragment that almost writes itself, followed by weeks of intermittantly bashing your head against a wall, trying vainly to write more lines, before giving up.
Here's a chorus that occupied me for three weeks, failing to find verses. Devoted to the ironies of internet dating and cyberlove.
Sex, lies, and internet
Because I'm not what you wanted and you're not what you said
Sex, drive, and in your head
We got a whole lot of loving and an empty bed
Because I'm not what you wanted and you're not what you said
Sex, drive, and in your head
We got a whole lot of loving and an empty bed
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