A homage to loading screens.
In which research fails
Sometimes, there are little things that bug me. Like: remembering the vague outline of the plot of a book I read 20 years ago, but not being able to remember enough to track it down. Or remembering something I saw on TV,* or read in a library book at some point in the distant past.
In which we finally finish talking about Tudor Parfitt and the Ark of the Covenant
Series of posts, on here, always seem to take me longer to write than I had planned. It’s now, ooh, at least six weeks since I wrote the first post in this series, so I really should tidy it up and finish it off. For people who aren’t regular readers: some time ago, a Jewish Studies professor called Tudor Parfitt made a documentary about the lost Ark of the Covenant, the Biblical artefact which starred in Raiders of the Lost Ark, which in reality has been missing for well over 2 millennia. Professor Parfitt’s theory is that, although the original ark is probably long destroyed, it passed into east Africa, into the possession of a Jewish tribe there called the Lemba, and that its replacement is a war drum now sitting in storage in an Harare museum. Feel free to go back and read what I’ve written so far, if you’re a new reader.
In which we think about flooding and chance
In the summer, we had big floods up here, worse floods than anyone in this village could remember. It was, apparently, a once in fifty years event.
In which we encounter cleanliness
They’re very careful now about MRSA and similar bugs. Each sink has a poster showing the correct, and complex, way to wash one’s hands. Each wall has a poster about the importance of cleanliness procedures. Each bin has a sign on top: use the foot pedal, not your hands. Cleaners stalked the corridor constantly, with gloved hands. The signs, though, don’t do anything about the doctor, who whipped the bin lid open with her hands just as if the sign wasn’t there. And neither the signs or the cleaners did anything about the fresh spots of blood on the floor, under the trolley and around the bin. Signs are very nice, but they don’t do the work for you.
In which we witness a crime
I am not a hero. I had always suspected as much, but now I know it’s true.
In which the waters rise again
Everyone has a flood story at the moment. Lots of people who couldn’t drive home, who had to abandon their cars in the street. People whose houses were cut off, who had to wade home. Phone photos of water, water, everywhere. Some rivers burst their banks last night, and have expended themselves, run out of effort. Other rivers are still rising—our Doncaster branch office was evacuated late this afternoon, and the escaping staff saw rescue officers tying motorboats up in the dry streets, ready for the flood water expected to come.
In which we see something uncomfortable
People kept coming in and alerting the staff, taking one aside for a quiet talk. Not quiet enough not to be overheard, though. “Can’t you call the police or something? Can’t you call 999? She’s obviously disturbed.”
In which we see someone get lost and disappear
As we got back home at half-three in the morning, I noticed a man sitting on the other side of the street, sitting on a front-yard wall. I’m always wary of people loitering in the small hours. We got out of the car, and I could hear him mumbling, his hand to his head. I assume he was talking on the phone. I couldn’t make much of it out.
In which summer breaks through the fog
When I write posts on here, I normally write the title first, then ramble on about it.
In which we're all efficient
We managed to be awfully productive yesterday. We’d gone to bed fairly early on Saturday night,* so got up bright and early on Sunday morning. We were having breakfast in town when the streets were still deserted, and were wandering around shopping in almost-empty shops. We even managed to get all H’s grocery shopping done, get back home, feel like we’d used up a full day’s energy, and it was still only one o’clock. A whole half-a-day left to do productive things, creative things, imaginative things, limited only by our own imaginations.
In which we’re puzzled by origami
The end of another week, and it’s been an enjoyable one for a change. Work: not too stressful. Life: rather nice, in fact.
In which beauty is in the eye of the author
This morning, I was driving to work, slightly earlier than normal, through the dawn. Going down Boothferry Road, I could see the crescent moon large and low in the sky, and I suddenly realised how beautiful the morning sky looked. How beautiful the world can appear all of a sudden.
In which we know what you're looking for
It’s the end of the week, and it feels like it; I definitely haven’t been getting enough sleep in the past few days. In lieu of something that needs thought and consideration, here’s some search requests.
In which we go to Hull
Was over in the Republic of Hull at the weekend, and popped in a pub in the city centre, called Ye Olde White Harte.* It’s a very old pub indeed, full of tiny rooms, alleged ghosts and dark wood panelling, and it’s been on the site for around five hundred years or so. Back in the seventeeth century the Siege Of Hull, one of the opening skirmishes of the Civil War, kicked off in the upstairs room of the pub.**
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