Imaginary Professions And No Wonder Boys

Hello to Wedge McFudge!

Bookless confusion again but something has been recommended to me and is available and the wonderful treasure house that is our library. So not the film of the book which I have not read but the book of the film that I have seen.

The text on this screen seems to be varying in size as if seen through imperfectly-flat, medieval glass. Which reminds me that for the first time I have contemplated recording one of the BBC idents, specifically the one for the Medieval Season on BBC4 which, while being contemporary (in the sense of being in the last 100 years) conveys the idea of medievalness in a mind-blowing moving collage. See it here. It starts on Monday with Stephen Fry And The Gutenberg Press which can only be good.

Of course I wouldn't want to live there. Too much of not enough stuff I think. No analgesics - which I suspect might be extremely important over the next few weeks.

Certainly no pictures at eleven to go with that story. Feel my pain. Dave! Don't do that Dave. I can feel my mind going. Well I thought it was my mind.

All my day is now a virtual whirl of contacts via various channels. When I started work (all those years ago doncha know , ahem, ahem) contact was almost always by phone and face-to-face contact only with the occasional trip out for good behaviour. Chiming with my personal view that my mental age is somewhere in my mid-twenties rather than mid-forties, I fell that my productivity is far higher now that it was then. Solutions to technical problems are available instantly thanks to Mr Google, whereas in the dark ages of the late eighties, if it wasn't in the manual (or quite a lot of the time in the manual but written with the grammarian abilities of a two-year-old hamster) it just didn't get done. I can remember getting my first email address and even testing an X400 address regarding some information to an outside company. I can recall the acceleration of the use if communication though for the most part the arrival of the Internet in the office has been a sly, gradual creep rather than a load of gee-whizz jumps. Any dispute can be settled - if you trust the answering source of course - though I have come to the conclusion that loads of supposedly factual books repeat rumour, speculation and urban myths without any real fear of being found out. In which case, the world is fluid in the extreme. The only thing I can be sure of is the existence of my own body and even then I perceive my own shape as something quite different from what it is physically. I have been here before haven't I and strangely I seem to recall that I got a sense of deja-vu when I mentioned the homunculus before. Which is a signal to stop isn't it?