Sunday 14 February 2010

Saturday 13th February 2010 - Quiet Day, Noisy Night

          The sun came out, and, again like Tam O'Shanter's moment, in a trice, the snow was gone: from everywhere, even the well-drained shadows; there was a heavy shower under every tree.
 
          Because my motel appears to have no interest in fixing the WiFi link, I get to spend the day in this wonderful library.  I don't really have any hares left to chase about this Glasgow, so I devote a peaceful afternoon to some story research (that really means wandering through the Web, seeing what inspiration it brings).  So nothing repeatable here happened at all.  Although, going home, there were a few snowmen surviving by the roadside, looking quite inexplicable.
 
          Later that night, the rejuvenated Meryl Streep is back, fawning over me.  I allow my imagination to run riot.  It's a good job we can't see inside each other's heads, isn't it?  On the outside, we pass the odd, polite pleasantry, but inside, passions seeth unfettered: she seeks diversion on the lemon -squeezing gym.
          The local joke here is that, not only has Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama frozen over, since the Saints won the Superbowl, it's clear Hell has also frozen over. 
          Strange silences fall from time-to-time in the bar, and I realise that, behind me, they're watching the Luge at the Winter Olympics.  This is a restricted sport, open only to certified lunatics of the first rank.  They stick a large thumb tack up their bottom, and launch themselves down an ice gutter at a hundred miles an hour.  Not all of them survive the experience, which is why there are these breathless silences, like heavyweight boxing or NASCAR racing.  I expect the event organisers are pleased with the audience attraction ratings.
          Towards the end of the evening, I get into an argument with a young(ish) man about the merits (or otherwise) of Joyces' "Ulysses" (the more prejudiced among you should remember where I am).  He has the advantage of me, since he has (or claims to have) read the damned thing.  But I manage a points victory by asserting that I have tried to read it more times than he has.  I make a particularly adventurous point about, this being Alabama, Joyce may have particular attractions to inbred mutants, and ask him if he plays the banjo.  He is generous, and allows age to triumph over knowledge.

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