Democracy dies at a paywall.
If you're using an ad-blocker, good for you!
By continuing to use this site, you are agreeing to continue to use this site.
Current status: "Cometh the hour, cometh the dotty old lady."
Mission: "Do the Best Things, Katy."
You know, the very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common. They don't alter their views to fit the facts. They alter the facts to fit their views, which can be uncomfortable if you happen to be one of the facts that needs altering.
- The Doctor, the Face of Evil.
In many countries which have enjoyed (if that is quite the word) half a century of bipartisan neoliberal politics, nominally conservative political parties are breaking with not only this consensus, but also with conservatism as a guiding set of principles. In the wake of the re-election of Donald Trump, nowhere is this phenomenon so apparent, so obsessively analysed, or so globally consequential as in the US.
Damn it! Every other time I have curry for dinner I end up with a dollop of yoghurt in my lap.
This was a new skirt. Well, not new, but new for me.
I tried paper towel, but the skirt is more absorbent, so I was just working it in, then I tried a damp sponge. Now I'm just cold and damp in the groinal region, and have no idea whether I've done the right thing.
I did woodwork and metalwork at school. I've never needed, in any intensive way, to work either wood or metal. Bless you if you have, but even in the 80s these were not so much preparation for adult life as initiation into a culture.
I popped the button on my nice pinstripe trousers recently and I've not sewed it back on because I'm an old lady with poor eyesight and unsteady hands, but also because I was never initiated into the practical arts and I know I'll make a dreadful mess of it.
Back in a past life, I found myself in the habit of making little video mixtapes to listen to and glance at while doing jigsaw puzzles and overeating at Christmas, or to fill in embarrassing conversational gaps when entertaining visitors. These would run to anywhere up to 70-some videos, which I'd pull from various online video sharing platforms (multiple services are available), and painstakingly sequence them so that they flowed seamlessly from one to the other. I'd even manually pull the audio and adjust the median amplitude to more or less the same level for each track, and re-encode each video so that you could stick them on a USB drive and plug it in the back of an early-2000s semi-smart TV, press play, and you're all set for good few hours background entertainment.
Update, 20/12/2024: I shouldn't leave my audience hanging. A few weeks after writing this, I had a working phone, but there was a snag with transferring my old number over. As this was now at the pointy end of the academic year, I hadn't the time or spoons to deal with this, but I could at least make and receive phone calls. A few weeks later, my assignments all submitted, I finally got that sorted. Numerically, I'm me again!
Granted, I knew this was coming. I'd heard from better informed people than myself that although my phone works on Vodafone's network, which had switched off it's 3G support in January, it would not work on Telstra's network when it came to decommission it's 3G.
Previously: Day 1, Day 2, Day 3 and 4
So here is where the grim regularity kicks in. Leftover pasta is freshened up with some sliced kalamata olive and pan-toasted Turkish bread with garlic butter. These were the top slices whose counterparts were consumed the preceding and following night. (Waste nothing!)
I've long been astonished by a particularly irrational form of loss aversion that I've taken to calling "Zero-sum NIMBYism". Here's how it works:
A lifetime ago, I was living in a little seaside village which had an annual festival day that the local chamber of commerce would put on. Every year, the chamber would arrange to close the main street, invite stallholders, entertainers, and so on, and a lovely time would be had by all. Visitors would come from all over the country (in the off season!), and cars would be parked all along the streets for anywhere up to a kilometre. A day wandering up and down the street in the sunshine, snacking and drinking; what's not to like?
And every year, the owner of the local surf shop, plus one or two similarly entitled misers, would complain bitterly about the cost to the chamber of organising the thing, and the loss of on-street car parking directly outside his shop.
The other day I was on the margins of a conversation about "the refugee problem", biting my tongue as one does. (Deep breath: No, it's not the people who are the problem, it's whatever is making refugees of them. You don't solve anything by shoving people into concentration camps or leaving them to perish from drowning or heat exhaustion.)
I was feeling sorry for the couple of Asian people present, but I'm afraid to say also relieved that for once I wasn't the elephant in the room. The conversation then turned to the specific difficulty of assimilating a large number of people from a different culture in a short period of time.
Again: why should this be a problem? Or more pointedly, why is the difficulty situated wholly within the incoming contingent rather than the resident population? Is building walls and turning back boats any sane sort of cure, or just a symptom of another, more serious, problem?
Breakfast! The most unexpectedly time-consuming meal of the day. Back in a previous life, when I was the size of a house, breakfast was indistinguishable from lunch and/or dinner. The silver lining of posessing only a small fridge is that you can't prepare a huge amount of food, and consume the same unhealthy fare, in excessive quantity, for three meals a day until you run out, and then rinse and repeat. However, what I have since done is work out how to make a bowl of "Wheat Biscuits" (other generic equivalents are available) unnecessarily complicated. My meals expand in complexity to fill the available preparation time.
Previously: Day 1
When I left my last place of paid employment, I put on my sunglasses and lit the fuse of a stick of dynamite with the end of my cigar, before tossing it (the dynamite, not the cigar) over my shoulder with a cry of "See you in hell, boys!" as I stepped nonchalantly into the street.
But before that — actually for some months before that — I had the presence of mind to stockpile a few boxes of non-perishable groceries. I thought of them as a gift for future me, when times got a bit tricky, financially. I'm still working my way through that stockpile. Thanks, past me!
I once vaguely knew the headmistress of a local school who, in the midst of a lively scandal over a run of instances of bullying, declared — privately, of course — that it was all poppycock. There was absolutely no bulling at her school.
The bully never sees themselves as a bully. Nor indeed does their appreciative audience, up to and including, in some cases, the school principal (assuming they are not the individual doing the bullying at the time).
The bully is doing the Lord's work, putting the aberrant and eccentric on the path to self-improvement. Bullying is rarely premeditated; it's most often purely reflexive. "See something, say something." Also shove something, trip something, punch something in the side of the head, pull something's pants down in the middle of the playground, if necessary.