I’ve just been to the library and taken out “His Monkey Wife”, a novel by John Collier, which I am looking forward to reading during my forthcoming sojourn in central Newfoundland.
The rain is that itty-spitty, wheedly-needly kind of rain which I increasingly abhor.
The sky is a torn old polythene bag.
You crash your friend's car because you're driving too fast in bad weather. Everyone's okay, but the car has to go into the shop. Who pays the deductible?
Fuck off, Vox!
Two workmen had disembowelled the escalator this morning and were doing something monstrous to its insides which made it ululate and belch and berk. I said to a woman who was descending the stairs near me, “sounds like a dinosaur”. From her reaction I couldn’t tell if she agreed with me and found the idea alarming, or disagreed to the point of finding the analogy contemptible. After a second she said something like “it’s awful” or “this waffle”. Her words were muffled by the agonized wailing noise coming from the innards of the escalator. A dinosaur having an appendectomy, I thought, without anaesthetic. But we had reached the bottom of the steps and the woman had gone off into the food court to buy her awful waffles.
I’ve been invited to enter a draw to win the right to purchase two tickets to a Celine Dion concert for $211 each.
Update: a better offer. Free draw to win the right to purchase two rickets to a Rush concert for only $98.25 each (plus service charges).
*Emotional feedback / On a timeless wavelength...*
The byline photos in Accountancy magazine
are a spectacle of spectacles,
oval faces, soft hair graying and thinning,
foreheads with a glossy sheen,
anything but aesthetical.
Accountants have looked like this since the beginning:
look at the portrait of Pacioli,
eyes like tiny chips of opal, face jowly, doughy,
pale as a plucked fowl,
divining something secret and wholly
cogent in the weft of commerce. Why be showy?
he seems to say. Keep it under your cowl.
