(Pre-written long ago - Away taming sharks in Cardiff)
In a severe blow against my remaining geek credibility (here, take it, it's meaningless now anyway), it's rather fun to admit not liking Tolkien very much (if at all). His famous books are undoubtedly classics and unbearably popular, but they're also just the teensiest bit dry and wallowing in the sermons of corrupting power. And where are the girl hobbits, blast it?! No, my experience with fantasy began with CS Lewis's 'The Magician's Nephew', Terry Pratchett's 'The Light Fantastic' and the fellow in the title of the post. In actuality he always co-wrote with his wife and so we should be crediting David and Leigh Eddings, but habits are hard to break.
The first Eddings fantasy novel was 'Pawn of Prophecy', which kicked off his first and best series 'The Belgariad'. I borrowed it from the school library, an awesome place, and immediately fell under its sway. At least I think I read 'Pawn of Prophecy' first, but it might have been the fourth book of the five, 'Castle Of Wizardry'. This was in direct contrast to Sir Walter Scott's 'Ivanhoe' which failed to appeal almost immediately and which is still somewhere here in the house, shamefully never having been returned. You're reading the blog of a book criminal. One day, 'Ivanhoe', one day!
Eddings could really write, encapsulating mystery into a heady set of archetypes in both the 'Belgariad' and his second excellent series the 'Elenium'. A heavy proponent of starting en media res, once you got caught up in the narrative there was no escape. Subsequent series never quite lived up to the high standards of the first, being in certain senses template sequels and forcing retcons to allow for further stories. Hence the 'Belgariad' begat the 'Malloreon', 'Belgarath the Sorceror' and 'Polgara the Sorceress' while the 'Elenium' begat the 'Tamuli'. By the time new stories came out in the forms of 'The Dreamers' and 'The Redemption of Althalus' it was really all over. None of that matters though, because those first two series are spellbinding, and 'The Malloreon' has an almost transcendental ending that makes up for some of the trundling to every country on the map. 'Belgarath the Sorceror' also takes place over about seven thousand years of history, which is no mean feat in one volume!
Returning to the beginning, the 'Belgariad' is a magnificent little series, unpretentious and uncontrived. Starting from humble beginnings, and told from the point of view of the farm boy Garion, we escalate from a bucolic childhood to a death match with a rampaging god against the backdrop of a doomed continental war. And that happens in five fairly short volumes, which also introduce ancient prophecies, epic loves and some tragedies you wouldn't even shake an extremely pointy stick at. It all works. It even works now, twenty years later, and with buckets of further experiences. As a series it is rich, richer than I had thought. Fledgeling romances, millennia-long grudges, a fascinating version of sorcery, huge swathes of unexplored backstory and a world burgeoning with untold history make for a fascinating panoply of subplots, which doesn't even include the split into parallel storylines toward the end, or the fact that Silk is a spy who can never quite shake the habit.
Eddings designed this story, according to an interview in an old issue of Dreamwatch and in 'The Rivan Codex', to be so chock full of archetypes that it would be literally impossible to stop reading. He succeeded, and made it good too. There can be no doubt that starting with the plot already in motion is as powerful a narrative tool as can be found in fiction. There is almost no television series, no film, and no book outside of 'Star Trek' and 'Ghostbusters' that can not be improved by foregoing the introduction for a hefty dose of mystery instead. A great fan of Malory, the original epic literature author, Eddings patterned the protagonist on Sir Perceval of Arthurian legend, an innocent who learns of the greater story and his place in it as the story goes on. Garion's place and to an extent Sparhawk's in the 'Elenium', apart from being surrounded by colourful and well-conceived characters with excellent dialogue, realising his potential as a sorceror and reclaiming the long vacant throne of an island kingdom, revolves around finally killing an immortal god.
The 'Belgariad' is a great series, the 'Malloreon' and prequels very good ones, the 'Elenium' fascinating and 'The Tamuli' pretty good. David (and Leigh) Eddings recreated or even invented a type of fantasy that is accessible to both the juveniles and uncynical adults out there in the world. They were sadly missed even before David died. Their books mean more to me than any other series in existence. Thank you for the words.
Oh, and I noticed you noticing. Don't deny it.
O.
Wednesday, 30 April 2014
Monday, 28 April 2014
A lull in the action
And so another conference fades away, and with it goes the nausea, the insomnia, the constant hunger, and that sensation of never quite being alone. It can be rough sometimes. Actually any conference at Gregynog is a great thing in many other ways, with the elegant and stately grounds and the hand of the giant buried underneath old drive and the sticky toffee puddings. Some universities don't even have country houses to have conferences in, the poor dears. It would be nice to sleep though.
This post is one of the few that will go out live in the next few weeks, sandwiched as it is between a conference and a day trip, which will be succeeded next week by a long break in Amsterdam. Oh, the joys of not working! Amsterdam... It feels like it's far scarier in prospect than it will be in reality.
So, this is a lull in a hectic schedule, and just for a few moments there is time to prepare for the coming days and fall apart a little in the privacy of a quiet university. Well, that's falling apart while doing work of course. There would be no excuse for being negligent. Foam modelling is fizzing in the background, as well as secret project 23, and some stats reading. Could it be that statistical oceanography is actually a thing? Really?! Oh, and of course there's the usual sit and wait to see how the next draft of the paper might come out.
A life on the ocean wave. If this journey goes well a whole world of sea travel opens up, to here to there and to everywhere. There's something so much more real about going places slowly and meanderingly. The world assumes its true size and the journey becomes as important as the destination. In the frenzied modern world of the sealed and stuffy cabins of all ground and air transport, a boat is perhaps the last vehicle where you can go outside and watch the world pass by and feel it too in the wind on the face and the spray all around. It's romantic. Even on a giant super-ferry it's romantic, if you ignore all the giant superstructure and being a thousand miles up in the air.
Is the romance of travel ever real? Was it ever real? Has it been fun since the days of horses? Well, we'll see.
O.
This post is one of the few that will go out live in the next few weeks, sandwiched as it is between a conference and a day trip, which will be succeeded next week by a long break in Amsterdam. Oh, the joys of not working! Amsterdam... It feels like it's far scarier in prospect than it will be in reality.
So, this is a lull in a hectic schedule, and just for a few moments there is time to prepare for the coming days and fall apart a little in the privacy of a quiet university. Well, that's falling apart while doing work of course. There would be no excuse for being negligent. Foam modelling is fizzing in the background, as well as secret project 23, and some stats reading. Could it be that statistical oceanography is actually a thing? Really?! Oh, and of course there's the usual sit and wait to see how the next draft of the paper might come out.
A life on the ocean wave. If this journey goes well a whole world of sea travel opens up, to here to there and to everywhere. There's something so much more real about going places slowly and meanderingly. The world assumes its true size and the journey becomes as important as the destination. In the frenzied modern world of the sealed and stuffy cabins of all ground and air transport, a boat is perhaps the last vehicle where you can go outside and watch the world pass by and feel it too in the wind on the face and the spray all around. It's romantic. Even on a giant super-ferry it's romantic, if you ignore all the giant superstructure and being a thousand miles up in the air.
Is the romance of travel ever real? Was it ever real? Has it been fun since the days of horses? Well, we'll see.
O.
Saturday, 26 April 2014
Books: James Blish, a.k.a. 'Mr Star Trek'
(Prepared in advance, away at a weekend conference)
In recent times I've probably written a little too much about Star Trek. It's natural as the history of my reading and media consumption is tied absolutely to that franchise, or at least to the original series first and to 'Star Trek' The Next Generation (TNG) second. That is the way of things. Before TNG, and even before the movies the original series lived on in another medium: Prose. Much like its contemporary Doctor Who, 'Star Trek' lived on in words as well as syndication. Original 'Star Trek' novels didn't boom until the movies hit but before then there were anthologies of episode novelisations and they were written (barring the Harry Mudd stories) by a man called James Blish between 1967 and his death in 1977. (JA Lawrence finished off the collection with the Mudd stories in 1978.)
The story of 'Star Trek' and myself starts in a really murky way, since I can't actually remember it. There were the episodes 'For The Earth Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Sky' and 'The Day Of The Dove' that we had on VHS, the James Blish adaptations, the novelisation of 'Star Trek' III, the movies, and finally TNG and then 'Star Trek' itself on BBC2. BBC2 used to show good television at one time, just so you know, and Channel 4 too. They weren't averse to paying money for reruns of scripted series instead of really cheap and horrible reality shows. Gosh, 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea' was good on Sunday mornings!
To get back on track, it was the Blish version of the series I experienced first, and those stories were fascinating. Not only were they based on early versions of the scripts, and sometimes quite different from what appeared on screen, but they were and are often the best way to experience the ill-fated final third season of the original series. I would even go so far as to suggest they be compulsory reading for anyone who professes to love the original show. A classic example is 'The Doomsday Machine', which onscreen is so slow, portentous and padded an episode that is at times almost unwatchable. In the Blish form though, it is incredibly straightforward and effective, although losing drama by eliminating much of Decker's obsessiveness. Even if there were no other merits, the novelty of seeing earlier versions of the episodes in print is a valuable one. To put it another way, any guy who can add value and coherence to 'Operation Annihilate!' is a good one! He streamlined out unnecessary complications, introduced better motivations, and made things work far better than ever they should.
While extolling the virtues of the adaptations, it would be remiss of me not to explain how they came about and their historical context. This was an era when there was no home video, no streaming, no 'Star Trek' movies. There were a few Bantam novels (including 'Spock Must Die!' by Blish again), some episodic photo books (odd concept), reruns of the original show and the Blish novelisations. Unlike other shows where the adaptations came and went ('The Man From UNCLE' had quite a few novelisations, for example), all of this conspired to keep an idea alive. 'Star Trek' became richer as writers added to it, and imaginations flared with what the lack of restriction in print meant for Star Trek in comparison to what couldn't be done on screen in the late 1960. It all should have been a glorious blip in history, but somehow it wasn't. Partly, that was down to James Blish. James Blish could write astonishingly well. In coming months 'Cities In Flight' will also be spotlighted here in all its quirky and thematic glory, as well as perhaps 'A Case Of Conscience'. He could take difficult concepts, ideas that we don't always want to accept, and make them acceptable. This will become clearer as we go into those works.
Here endeth this 'Star Trek' monologues.
O.
In recent times I've probably written a little too much about Star Trek. It's natural as the history of my reading and media consumption is tied absolutely to that franchise, or at least to the original series first and to 'Star Trek' The Next Generation (TNG) second. That is the way of things. Before TNG, and even before the movies the original series lived on in another medium: Prose. Much like its contemporary Doctor Who, 'Star Trek' lived on in words as well as syndication. Original 'Star Trek' novels didn't boom until the movies hit but before then there were anthologies of episode novelisations and they were written (barring the Harry Mudd stories) by a man called James Blish between 1967 and his death in 1977. (JA Lawrence finished off the collection with the Mudd stories in 1978.)
The story of 'Star Trek' and myself starts in a really murky way, since I can't actually remember it. There were the episodes 'For The Earth Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Sky' and 'The Day Of The Dove' that we had on VHS, the James Blish adaptations, the novelisation of 'Star Trek' III, the movies, and finally TNG and then 'Star Trek' itself on BBC2. BBC2 used to show good television at one time, just so you know, and Channel 4 too. They weren't averse to paying money for reruns of scripted series instead of really cheap and horrible reality shows. Gosh, 'Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea' was good on Sunday mornings!
To get back on track, it was the Blish version of the series I experienced first, and those stories were fascinating. Not only were they based on early versions of the scripts, and sometimes quite different from what appeared on screen, but they were and are often the best way to experience the ill-fated final third season of the original series. I would even go so far as to suggest they be compulsory reading for anyone who professes to love the original show. A classic example is 'The Doomsday Machine', which onscreen is so slow, portentous and padded an episode that is at times almost unwatchable. In the Blish form though, it is incredibly straightforward and effective, although losing drama by eliminating much of Decker's obsessiveness. Even if there were no other merits, the novelty of seeing earlier versions of the episodes in print is a valuable one. To put it another way, any guy who can add value and coherence to 'Operation Annihilate!' is a good one! He streamlined out unnecessary complications, introduced better motivations, and made things work far better than ever they should.
While extolling the virtues of the adaptations, it would be remiss of me not to explain how they came about and their historical context. This was an era when there was no home video, no streaming, no 'Star Trek' movies. There were a few Bantam novels (including 'Spock Must Die!' by Blish again), some episodic photo books (odd concept), reruns of the original show and the Blish novelisations. Unlike other shows where the adaptations came and went ('The Man From UNCLE' had quite a few novelisations, for example), all of this conspired to keep an idea alive. 'Star Trek' became richer as writers added to it, and imaginations flared with what the lack of restriction in print meant for Star Trek in comparison to what couldn't be done on screen in the late 1960. It all should have been a glorious blip in history, but somehow it wasn't. Partly, that was down to James Blish. James Blish could write astonishingly well. In coming months 'Cities In Flight' will also be spotlighted here in all its quirky and thematic glory, as well as perhaps 'A Case Of Conscience'. He could take difficult concepts, ideas that we don't always want to accept, and make them acceptable. This will become clearer as we go into those works.
Here endeth this 'Star Trek' monologues.
O.
Thursday, 24 April 2014
Time at the beach
As mentioned previously and probably copiously, there is a balance to be maintained. The in/out dilemma has to be remembered and experiences absorbed or books read to counterbalance the massive amount of writing that takes place in any given day. Such is the way of things, especially when prewriting swathes of holiday cover material" The following was written next to the beach yesterday evening.
"Let's be descriptive. Around me is the splendour of Aberystwyth prom. The sun is setting behind one of only two cloud banks in the sky, growing more and more golden with each second. The waves rush back and forth on the surf of a nearly low tide. It is serene. A few isolated people wander along the fringe of pebbles and sand.
Upon the prom edge I sit, cross-legged, observing and absorbing and relating the surrounding events. The in/out dilemma is evaded completely in purely relating what goes on around. A boy kicks an orange ball around listlessly, and the prom becomes busier as the sun settles more and more closely to the horizon, busier with more walkers, friends and lovers hand in hand out for constitutionals, and people with cameras looking for sunset photographs. The ball is now in the surf and has been for ages, but is finally retrieved very tentatively, before ridiculously being kicked even further out. Some disturbances now, as seagulls and a loitering man on a phone conspire to break the spell of the deep yellow light. It is all of life in a sudden little microcosm.
Stepping closer to the beach the world becomes quieter, apart from the whoosh of the waves. Everything else becomes more remote and a world or possibilities reopens right there and then.
Thwoosh.
You can stand on one leg. Why not? Or do a twirl, spin until you're dizzy, sing a song, and then unsteadily retreat backwards as the waves rush in to catch you unawares. Remember the sea is always watching. It remembers every rock you've thrown in, after all.
Thwoosh. Reach. Dance out of range.
The sun emerges from cloud cover bathed in orange on the watery horizon and everything slows down for a few moments. ('Horizontal' comes from 'horizon'? Why had I never realized that before?) The orange ball moves further and further out as the wave approach closer and closer. It is lovely, impossible to do in Summer but perfect now. Perfect little moments alone with that great dissolver of worries, the grand old sea.
Sunset. Silvery shimmering waters. Repose."
O.
"Let's be descriptive. Around me is the splendour of Aberystwyth prom. The sun is setting behind one of only two cloud banks in the sky, growing more and more golden with each second. The waves rush back and forth on the surf of a nearly low tide. It is serene. A few isolated people wander along the fringe of pebbles and sand.
Upon the prom edge I sit, cross-legged, observing and absorbing and relating the surrounding events. The in/out dilemma is evaded completely in purely relating what goes on around. A boy kicks an orange ball around listlessly, and the prom becomes busier as the sun settles more and more closely to the horizon, busier with more walkers, friends and lovers hand in hand out for constitutionals, and people with cameras looking for sunset photographs. The ball is now in the surf and has been for ages, but is finally retrieved very tentatively, before ridiculously being kicked even further out. Some disturbances now, as seagulls and a loitering man on a phone conspire to break the spell of the deep yellow light. It is all of life in a sudden little microcosm.
Stepping closer to the beach the world becomes quieter, apart from the whoosh of the waves. Everything else becomes more remote and a world or possibilities reopens right there and then.
Thwoosh.
You can stand on one leg. Why not? Or do a twirl, spin until you're dizzy, sing a song, and then unsteadily retreat backwards as the waves rush in to catch you unawares. Remember the sea is always watching. It remembers every rock you've thrown in, after all.
Thwoosh. Reach. Dance out of range.
The sun emerges from cloud cover bathed in orange on the watery horizon and everything slows down for a few moments. ('Horizontal' comes from 'horizon'? Why had I never realized that before?) The orange ball moves further and further out as the wave approach closer and closer. It is lovely, impossible to do in Summer but perfect now. Perfect little moments alone with that great dissolver of worries, the grand old sea.
Sunset. Silvery shimmering waters. Repose."
O.
Wednesday, 23 April 2014
Messing about in the river
What better to do on an Easter weekend than mess about in the river? What else is there to do on a day when everything is closed but indulge in childish pasttimes? To indulge in messing about 'in' the river and not 'on' it as Kenneth Grahame wrote so eloquently in 'The Wind In The Willows'. One river dammed (the Gwendraeth Fawr) makes for one thoroughly enjoyable childish pasttime along with some general splashing.
Easter is a thoroughly confounding holiday for the non-religious; A long weekend with enough attached religious content to cause squeamishness in the taking advantage of it. It is tricky, especially as so many things close down, just like the equally awkward Christmas. It's also a religious holiday imposed universally, which is a problem all of it's own. But politics can be laid aside, as they're quite redundant next to messing about on rivers.
Oh, to mess about on rivers, splashing merrily away. There are so many ways to just be happy with a river. You can boat, just like in 'Three Men In A Boat' (2015 summer plan), you can walk merrily alongside, build dams, listen to the tinkling sound of the water, race rubber ducks and model boats, or just paddle along barefoot thinking happy thoughts. Rivers are lovely when they're small enough to be credible and not so massive as to be used industrially. The Danube, for example, gave no feeling of fun at all, as it was so massive as to be more a barrier than anything else, and an artery for shipping as well. It wasn't something you could have fun with somehow. Rivers are better small.
It would be far nicer to be mucking about on the river, instead of working stubbornly and trying to generate enough pre-planned Quirky Muffins to keep it going through the upcoming conferences and holidays as close to normal as possible. There are only so many meaningful and influential books and films in anyone's history! If a deluge of story episodes lands, you can rest assured that all else failed, and a massive serialisation session occurred ten minutes before departure. IT will all get back to normal in about a month, so rest assured, theoretical and deranged reader. There will be more stories than anyone can shake a stick at, extending infinitely into the blogging horizon. Perhaps everyone should go and mess about in rivers instead? Or at least canals?
Damming a little river is fun, when you have the rocks around to improvise. It has been done so many times on our little village river that you're always building on the remains of previous attempts in any case. You build and build, and the water rises and overflows at the sides, so you extend sideways and the water rises again to go over the top. It's a neverending process, and lovely. No matter how high you go, there is always more to do, and it will mostly topple at the next surge anyway.
These are the things life is made of,
O.
Easter is a thoroughly confounding holiday for the non-religious; A long weekend with enough attached religious content to cause squeamishness in the taking advantage of it. It is tricky, especially as so many things close down, just like the equally awkward Christmas. It's also a religious holiday imposed universally, which is a problem all of it's own. But politics can be laid aside, as they're quite redundant next to messing about on rivers.
Oh, to mess about on rivers, splashing merrily away. There are so many ways to just be happy with a river. You can boat, just like in 'Three Men In A Boat' (2015 summer plan), you can walk merrily alongside, build dams, listen to the tinkling sound of the water, race rubber ducks and model boats, or just paddle along barefoot thinking happy thoughts. Rivers are lovely when they're small enough to be credible and not so massive as to be used industrially. The Danube, for example, gave no feeling of fun at all, as it was so massive as to be more a barrier than anything else, and an artery for shipping as well. It wasn't something you could have fun with somehow. Rivers are better small.
It would be far nicer to be mucking about on the river, instead of working stubbornly and trying to generate enough pre-planned Quirky Muffins to keep it going through the upcoming conferences and holidays as close to normal as possible. There are only so many meaningful and influential books and films in anyone's history! If a deluge of story episodes lands, you can rest assured that all else failed, and a massive serialisation session occurred ten minutes before departure. IT will all get back to normal in about a month, so rest assured, theoretical and deranged reader. There will be more stories than anyone can shake a stick at, extending infinitely into the blogging horizon. Perhaps everyone should go and mess about in rivers instead? Or at least canals?
Damming a little river is fun, when you have the rocks around to improvise. It has been done so many times on our little village river that you're always building on the remains of previous attempts in any case. You build and build, and the water rises and overflows at the sides, so you extend sideways and the water rises again to go over the top. It's a neverending process, and lovely. No matter how high you go, there is always more to do, and it will mostly topple at the next surge anyway.
These are the things life is made of,
O.
Monday, 21 April 2014
Story: 'Wordspace', VIII
(Part I , VII , IX)
Cloud, eager and apprehensive, moved ever upwards according to the enigmatic Space's instructions, until the Wordspace below lost all detail except perhaps for the vague outline of the the ancient Frontier surrounding the great mass of curiously patterned nonsense.
After staring down over Cloud's edge for a while, Mystery realised that they must be directly over the site of Sorpresa's surprise landing, assuming that the Point was stationary relative to the point that Space had been talking about. It seemed like a logical assumption since Sorpresa and his predecessor had both landed in nearly identical locations.
"How will we know when we're there?" Mystery wondered aloud from atop their insubstantial perch, and accidentally awoke Club with the wondering. That redoubtable protector shuffled to vertical, and surveyed their current surroundings from the edge next to Mystery. He looked unsteady.
"I had a dream." was what Club eventually said, utterly out of character. "It was the first one in a long time. A dream. We were all laughing and singing, happy to the point of bursting. All around there were happy words, but then our friend the Sky darkened, and Cloud was pushed aside, and something was coming that no-one had seen before." Club looked straight ahead. "Then you woke me up." I thank you.
"Do you think it was meaningful, Club?"
"There is no telling. My dreams have never been predictable in that respect." Cloud made a sudden course alteration and they stumbled briefly. "Simple things are more in my line."
"I've only dreamed once since Dream's departure." admitted Mystery. "It came true, of course, despite all our efforts." Dream had been a close friend, and colleague on the Council of Lesser Abstracts. Now she was one of the few words who had vanished but not without trace. Now all the words dreamed on occasion, just as Dream had. If only they could have kept her around. "I miss her."
Cloud rolled and tumbled to a halt, and Mystery realised that the trip was over. Before he and Club could wonder what to do, Sorpresa surprised them both and reached out to something he along could see. He twisted a particle of air and then the world vanished and was replaced by something entirely new. And the Silly Stone, who was unmistakeable.
There will be more...
Cloud, eager and apprehensive, moved ever upwards according to the enigmatic Space's instructions, until the Wordspace below lost all detail except perhaps for the vague outline of the the ancient Frontier surrounding the great mass of curiously patterned nonsense.
After staring down over Cloud's edge for a while, Mystery realised that they must be directly over the site of Sorpresa's surprise landing, assuming that the Point was stationary relative to the point that Space had been talking about. It seemed like a logical assumption since Sorpresa and his predecessor had both landed in nearly identical locations.
"How will we know when we're there?" Mystery wondered aloud from atop their insubstantial perch, and accidentally awoke Club with the wondering. That redoubtable protector shuffled to vertical, and surveyed their current surroundings from the edge next to Mystery. He looked unsteady.
"I had a dream." was what Club eventually said, utterly out of character. "It was the first one in a long time. A dream. We were all laughing and singing, happy to the point of bursting. All around there were happy words, but then our friend the Sky darkened, and Cloud was pushed aside, and something was coming that no-one had seen before." Club looked straight ahead. "Then you woke me up." I thank you.
"Do you think it was meaningful, Club?"
"There is no telling. My dreams have never been predictable in that respect." Cloud made a sudden course alteration and they stumbled briefly. "Simple things are more in my line."
"I've only dreamed once since Dream's departure." admitted Mystery. "It came true, of course, despite all our efforts." Dream had been a close friend, and colleague on the Council of Lesser Abstracts. Now she was one of the few words who had vanished but not without trace. Now all the words dreamed on occasion, just as Dream had. If only they could have kept her around. "I miss her."
Cloud rolled and tumbled to a halt, and Mystery realised that the trip was over. Before he and Club could wonder what to do, Sorpresa surprised them both and reached out to something he along could see. He twisted a particle of air and then the world vanished and was replaced by something entirely new. And the Silly Stone, who was unmistakeable.
There will be more...
Saturday, 19 April 2014
Disruption Plans
The next few weeks will be patchy for the Quirky Muffin, as conferences and holidays conspire to make it all very difficult. As a result I, the culprit, am making some plans to avoid a total cessation of Muffineering, both as a challenge to myself and as a form of torture for anyone who might actually be reading this nonsense. Go away! Eat a real muffin! Get a turtle!
In any case very very soon you will be faced with a succession of posts labelled 'Pre-planned for holiday cover' or something similar. They will for the most part be reviews and stories and non-typical pieces which don't require continuity or topicality with the ongoing travails of life. The stories won't be fully equipped with the links, sadly, but they will go up. There won't be any shortage of material after the disruption at least, even if it's only moaning about hitting the awful thirty-five years of age and the accompanying panic. (Many many nights now without panicky tremors and little sleep.)
"What holiday?!" you might ask, if you're permanently removed from other more worthwhile distractions and rather out of your mind. "Where could YOU possibly be going?! YOU?!!!!" Well, if we pass over the customary response of a raspberry and a blindfold the answer would be to conferences and to Amsterdam to cycle like a maniac while the parents have their anniversary holiday there. As co-sponsor I have to go and make sure they don't trash the place or hold up too many banks. Also, and note this well, Amsterdam forms part of the 'Beiderbecke Trilogy' sequence of trips begun by Edinburgh, continued by this trip to Amsterdam and ultimately to be concluded by a visit to Leeds. Sadly, when I went to Leeds for a conference previously I did not even consider making the Beiderbecke connections!
The Amsterdam trip is preceded by a mini-conference and a day visit to Cardiff, and succeeded by a theoretical trip to Nottingham so lets hope that the disruption is kept to a minimum. Chaos must not be allowed to dribble into a vacuum left by a lack of Quirky Muffins. The world could shudder to a halt. Film Bin could descend into chaos. Orcas could start wearing bucket hats and whistling. None of this can be allowed to occur, even if the blasted Clomp is smiling at the prospect.
Blasted Clomps. Mutter mutter. I should really do a reminder on who exactly the Clomp is. Hmmm... an idea occurs...
O.
In any case very very soon you will be faced with a succession of posts labelled 'Pre-planned for holiday cover' or something similar. They will for the most part be reviews and stories and non-typical pieces which don't require continuity or topicality with the ongoing travails of life. The stories won't be fully equipped with the links, sadly, but they will go up. There won't be any shortage of material after the disruption at least, even if it's only moaning about hitting the awful thirty-five years of age and the accompanying panic. (Many many nights now without panicky tremors and little sleep.)
"What holiday?!" you might ask, if you're permanently removed from other more worthwhile distractions and rather out of your mind. "Where could YOU possibly be going?! YOU?!!!!" Well, if we pass over the customary response of a raspberry and a blindfold the answer would be to conferences and to Amsterdam to cycle like a maniac while the parents have their anniversary holiday there. As co-sponsor I have to go and make sure they don't trash the place or hold up too many banks. Also, and note this well, Amsterdam forms part of the 'Beiderbecke Trilogy' sequence of trips begun by Edinburgh, continued by this trip to Amsterdam and ultimately to be concluded by a visit to Leeds. Sadly, when I went to Leeds for a conference previously I did not even consider making the Beiderbecke connections!
The Amsterdam trip is preceded by a mini-conference and a day visit to Cardiff, and succeeded by a theoretical trip to Nottingham so lets hope that the disruption is kept to a minimum. Chaos must not be allowed to dribble into a vacuum left by a lack of Quirky Muffins. The world could shudder to a halt. Film Bin could descend into chaos. Orcas could start wearing bucket hats and whistling. None of this can be allowed to occur, even if the blasted Clomp is smiling at the prospect.
Blasted Clomps. Mutter mutter. I should really do a reminder on who exactly the Clomp is. Hmmm... an idea occurs...
O.
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