A cute little game that involves dragging around what seems to be a small Bomberman. I have a soft spot in my head for any game that doesn’t require a “fire” button.
I have lots of soft spots in my head, I think.
My first successful run took 61 seconds. I’m sure that you can do better.
via Gordon
My life has been hurtling on at a hectic pace since I got back from New York, both in terms of things that need doing at work and regular periodic engagements, with one-off social gatherings filling up the remainder of the time. It will be nice when things quieten down and I can sit down with a beer and strum my instrument. Additionally:
1. Our new computer has arrived. We now have more computers than people in the house. What an event.
(1b. All three machines run different operating systems.)
2. Have been helping Kate to delete her old spam comments. It’s a phenomenal undertaking.
What I did at the weekend:
Went to Bristol to see the good Doctor Pockless
Observed a number of urban birds
Watched The Kingdom of Heaven
Ate good food
Lost at Monopoly.
My travel-reading was supposed to consist of The Time-Traveller’s Wife
The reviews that I’ve read all say that the first few pages are a struggle, while getting to grip with this particular concept of time travel; and I would agree that it is well worth the effort. This book is astoundingly original, at least to someone who doesn’t read much sci-fi, like me. Indeed, this is the acceptable face of sci-fi. Even so, the context of a love story makes it different – exploring all the clever little details like the idea that he loses all his fillings every time he dematerialises. I was also pleased with the idea that it had a genetic basis, akin to epilepsy, and was triggered by stress and strobe lights; and the sound philosophical concept that you can’t change the future, but can still exercise free will in the present.
And how nice to read a book where even the bad guys are likeable, and the hero is both tragically flawed and irresistably delicious; this was my first fictional crush in a long, long time. The final quarter of the book is utterly heart-breaking; how can you not cry?
5/5
Small Island started dull, possibly because I was comparing it to the unfinished TTTW, and because I was crammed into an uncomfortable cattle class aircraft seat at the time. I was at least a third of the way through before I started to care about the characters or get interested in the story. The final third compensated – that’s where all the juicy bits are.
The story is told from the different points of view of the four main characters, which keeps it fresh; but on the whole I am surprised that this novel has so many accolades – it just didn’t strike me.
3/5
Saturday 30 April
Tried like mad to finish The Time Traveller’s Wife before leaving, but had to stop 20 pages from the end. Met colleagues at Heathrow and took late evening flight to Newark, NJ. Watched Vera Drake and several episodes of Friends; stayed awake throughout the flight. Arrived at hotel to find no second bed in the room I was sharing; took some time sorting this out, which set me up to be thoroughly jet-lagged throughout the week.
Tuesday 3
Flew out. During the flight I watched Sideways, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, an episode of Father Ted and a few episodes of Spaced. Arrived while it was still light, which helped to keep me awake and stave off jetlag. Krissa met me at Grand Central Station and guided me through the initiation rituals and back to her home, and Stuart. Ordered in Brazilian food, which I recall enjoying. Went to bed around midnight.
One of those rare occasions when I say something sensible. This is from an email that I wrote to my guitarist today:
I don’t write enough songs these days. I think it’s because songs are like water balloons. You need two hands to fill a water balloon, so you can’t fill more than one at once. You then have to tie the neck before you can start filling the next one. In my case, the tying of the neck is the bit where we get together and play the song, because at that point it enters the collective consciousness, and it’s like having an externally stored backup. Emailing lyrics or chords or mp3s doesn’t constitute a sufficient backup, as there’s no engagement there.
He agreed that this made sense, then popped off for a wee.
And I’m not the second.