March 2007
→ Wag
(22nd March 2007)
Seen on a dirty white van, middle lane, M1, written in dirt: "This was cleaned by the NHS."
(21st March 2007)
I have always liked to read what Ian Rankin writes. I like thrillers/procedurals/crime fiction in general, because it (the good stuff) pays attention to plot and character and narrative without numbing the soul and exhausting the patience with all the pretentious worthiness eg found in most Booker Prizewinners. Kiran Desai? I tried. I did. Please give me Fred Vargas instead. Anyway, Rankin, despite concentrating too ...
(17th March 2007)
Given where I live and where my parents live, it is inevitable that I am familiar with the M1. I can almost recite all the service stations from London Gateway to Tibshelf in order (up and down), though Donington Park and Newport Pagnell always throw me. However, it took me about 36 years to bother to look on a map to discover why Watford Gap ...
(15th March 2007)
These days and weeks, I spend my days and most evenings typing like a typist on speed, belatedly transcribing all my notes and interviews from the past three months. My fingers hurt. Particularly the third one on the left hand. Perhaps there are too many s's in the English language. I have transcribed two-thirds of my Indian notebooks and typed 31, 568 words. Excellent. That's ...
→ Frothy
(6th March 2007)
A letter in a copy of the Observer found in an overpriced sandwich shop in Piccadilly, referring to a debate on northern-ness which I missed. It made me laugh (short 'a'):
"Even ten years ago when I had a weekend job in my local tea shop in the Yorkshire Dales, the odd misguided day tripper would ask for a cappuccino. The tea shop owner, weary from ...