Dancing about architecture

I'm reading a book about Peter Cook and Dudley Moore at pres.  It's a bit verbose, but I'm sufficiently interested in the subject matter to plough on and get through the 500 pages.  What the length of this pot-boiler does illustrate is the shoddy state of the book editor's craft.

Editing is one of those skills that bean-counters mistakenly think is largely superfluous - a nice-to-have, but non-essential.  This is the same kind of flabby thinking that leads newspapers to laying off hacks and employing brand consultants.  A quick perusal of the some of the shite that gets passed off as on-line journalism these days should disabuse anyone of that misconception.  Good editing, like good journalism, is transparent, unostentatious.  You only notice its absence.  Consequently I find myself reading far too many rambling ill-disciplined books these days.  It's doubly annoying as they don't appear to be getting any cheaper to reflect the wretched economies apparently being made.  No.

Hard work never killed...etc

Only time for a couple of lines this evening.  The reason for the brevity is that I've simply been too busy at work.  Yeah, I know.  The work/life balance has gone to shite today.  I promised myself I'd never fall into this trap - not because I disparage modern office (although I do) but because I never want to be mistaken for one of those prize twats who lives for his work.  You know the type - you see them on trains on Friday evenings, battering away at the laptop or pretending to read some brutal PowerPoint printout while the rest of us are flicking through copies of Grazia, shooting the breeze and necking cold white wine like it's about to be outlawed.

Hurrah for us!  And down with the twats.  Message ends.

The race question

I took part in my second 10 of the cycling time trial season last night.  It was no quicker than the first one sadly.  But I did manage to pace myself better this time, so I was able to get to the finish in something approaching a decorous state.  Not like last time, when I looked like I'd be through a mangle.  I also competed on my fixed-wheel bike, which was woefully undergeared.  I'm hoping for better next week.

I've been pondering of late the bullshit that issues from people's mouths.  And in particular, the dissonance between what people say and how they behave.  Parents are especially guilty when it comes to this.  They constantly shite on about how important it is for the progeny to be well-balanced and happy, but then will quite happily set fire to poor wretch's Power Rangers because he or she hasn't mastered the oboe to their satisfaction.

Friends of mine who have kids, and who, like me, were masters of their own ships during childhood, also bleat about lack of freedom kids get these days.  I too find this aspect of modern childhood really dispiriting.  Children are never without adult scrutiny these days.  It's always dressed-up as providing security, but it's oversight and control, make no mistake.  So when one of my friends bemoans this, I ask if their kids are allowed out unchaperoned.  They never are of course, but that is due to their being especially attractive to perverts or something, so it's not the same.  People need to have blander children it seems.

Right, off training after work.  What larks, Pip.

Persistant veg-e-table state

The area I live in, as well as being as expensive as a Kremlin knocking shop, has a very active gardening community.  They're not the wretched coterie of casual-racist UKIP voters that one usually associates with organisations of this kind, but a loose coalition of middle-aged liberals.  In keeping with the vaguely left-leaning sensibilities that people like this (and me) hold dear, they like to use any available common land for rearing plants that add some value to the locale.  They'll put flowers in ugly areas, and fruit and veg in...err...hungry areas.

The missus joined them yesterday to help plants veggies and herbs in a couple of raised beds outside a community centre up the road.  Previously, these beds were a sort of impromptu weed-infested wheelie bin-cum-urinal for confused drunks on their ways home.

Let's hope the pissing stops when they clap eyes on the rainbow chard.  I'm sure it will.  Drunks have standards after all.  Ahem.

Harry Pottering

It's a bank holiday weekend here in Blighty.  A welcome one for yours truly too.  I'm still feeling the effects of having a restful break in Cornwall.  My system is struggling to get back on terms with paid work.  It's like being jet-lagged.

I've been careful not to schedule much this weekend as a result.  I've got a couple of practical bike things to attend to, which should keep me occupied and not wild-eyed with frustration.  Then on Sunday, we're off to our favourite restaurant for a slap-up vegan supper.  Luckily, vegans enjoy a port and lemon as much as the next maniac, so a few sharpeners will join in the good work.

Other than that, it's lie-ins, curries and telly.  The de facto triumvirate of British excellence.

Never go back

Well, well, I'm back in London and back at work after five glorious days in west Cornwall.  It was an especially relaxing sojourn this time.  It was my mother-in-law's birthday, so we entertained at theirs one day and spent the rest of the time gadding about, eating asparagus and drinking gin.  The sun never stopped shining, not neither.  So, all-in-all, it was a real wrench to come home yesterday.

I've mentioned before how well-disposed I am by inclination for retirement.  This trip confirmed the hypothesis.  I could quite happily retire.  All I need is the mortgage paid and modest pension, just enough to keep me in bikes and beer.  The only other possibility would be to become a minor royal, but that's a long-shot, let's face it.  I'm a bit too "below-stairs".  And a Catholic.  Also, there is an undeniably tedious element to royal life.  Opening hospices is not for me.  I'm too shy.  That said, I do have quite a regal bearing - always have had.  And were I ennobled, I'd insist on wearing a fez, just to mix it up a bit.

 - I declare this hospice open.  Just like that.

Westward Ho!

Off to Cornwall later.  Ah, the simple pleasures of rail travel.  We've stumped-up the not inconsiderable extra for first class tickets for this jaunt.  It's worth it though, particularly on a Friday.  The mass exodus from the capital at the weekend makes the D-Day landings look like a walk in the facking park.

As usual too, I've been deputised to provide the nibbles.  It's a tough balancing act, this.  You don't want to be left bereft of snackage 10 minutes west of Reading, not on a 6-hour journey.  But it's important also not to look like a pair of gauche, suburnanite bloaters when you pitch up at Padders.  I think I've got the measure of it this time.  I was slightly nervous that I hadn't purchased enough when it came to the checkout, but that's usually a good sign.

The other concern is losing concentration.  Do this, and you'll find yourself knee-deep in monkey nut shells and self-loathing before you've cleared zone 6.  Not a good start.  No, the way to approach it is as one would a marathon.  Start off slowly, at a comfortable pace you know you can maintain.  As with distance running, you should be breathing hard, but be able to sustain a conversation.  As the journey progresses, you can up the intensity.  And inside the last mile, it's elbows out and full gas.   You can happily go into the red at this point as cracking won't stop you finishing.

That's all there is to it.