"Missing Posts", or "My Scattered Mind"

I used to have myriad posts about a certain author on my blog. I even had a label specifically allowing me to identify and track my varied rantings. Now they're all gone, and I can't remember if I deleted them, or whether they've been removed by some higher power. They weren't all that complimentary.

Part of me loves the fact that I'm so scatterbrained. It allows my mind to wander from fantasy fiction to crime thriller in the space of two Post-It notes. It gives me the freedom to make up stories, and will, in time and with much luck, lead to a career doing what I love - writing books which people want to read, will enjoy, will lend to their friends with glowing recommendations.

It drives my wife crazy, though. She's very down-to-earth, grounded, amazing at organising not only her life, but mine and that of our daughter too. Not that she's lacking imagination, or indeed intelligence, with which she has been blessed in greater abundance than anyone I know. No, she's merely capable of operating without the fear that she might forget to breathe.

I do DIY and feeding the rabbit, and writing stories and staring into space. And half the time she has to remind me to do those things.

JK Rowling Denied Top US Honour

Linky. 

Oh my. I really don't know how to begin here, or where to go after that, or even what conclusion to draw. Let's make a list.

1. Hahahahaaaaaa. She didn't get the award.
   
   
2. Hahahaaahaahaa. Some Americans (usually including, but not limited to, those who thought George Dubya as President was a good idea...) can be so flippin' narrow minded about literary endeavour, yet they're all about their 'free speech' bull. I have to tell you, the books are so realistic that I want to sue my parents for not sending me to Hogwarts and giving me the chance to be a wizard. Oh no, hang on a second, that's not right...
   
   
3. "Past literary recipients of the award include John Steinbeck and Harper Lee." She's in that class, is she? She deserves to rank alongside the authors of Of Mice and Men and To Kill a Mockingbird? Fools.

Those are just some of the myriad thoughts which came to mind when I saw this. It's not even JK's fault (for once) but she's such a raving numpty anyway.

Not bad for a mobile phone...

This little dude won't wake up until the sun gets to him in an hour or two. Those are oregano flowers he's hugging.

The Perils of Turbo Diesel

Coming up to one of my favourite roundabouts this morning, I was flanked by a Skoda Roomster. It'd been bugging me for a little while, following closely on busy roads, and now it had pulled nearly alongside on a short section of dual carriageway. The roundabout, though, is an old friend. We understand each other. I know how it flows.

Determined to teach Mr Skoda a lesson, I looked well ahead and saw that, should I time things just right, I would be away. It would be a brave or foolish man who thought they could keep up with me. Speed wasn't to be my escape, mind. Timing was what it was all about. Finding that gap in the traffic which left him for dead.

I got it spot on. With my engine singing at 3,000rpm in third, I gave a little squeeze of the throttle and nipped out onto the roundabout, having barely slowed. Skoda man, I noted with delight, was left floundering. Victory was mine!

Except that following pride very nearly came a fall. Not everyone was applying such judgement this morning. Ahead of me, lumbering like a whale, an S-type Jag had wandered out into the path of traffic. Its portly incumbent, realising the mistake he had made, quickly raised a hand in apology as I bore down upon him.

For a moment I could see the crash coming. Instinctively I lifted and slotted the car down to second, using engine and wheel braking together to shed speed. For a brief moment it looked like even this would not be enough to save us.

And then something mind-bendingly strange happened. The Jag was no longer there. It didn't so much move out of the way as simply bend space and time to not be in my path. I sailed past the rear of the silver beast, glancing to the right in time to note (as one often does in life and death situations) the small details which told me that this Jag, this lumbering, walnut-dashed beastie, had a heart of solid gold: it was the twin turbo diesel which will happily lap the Nordschleife in 9.

Turbo lag had left us on collision course, but by the same token turbo boost had saved us both.

I have no idea what happened to the Jag. I survived unscathed, as you may be able to guess. The last I saw, the poor unfortunate behind the wheel was experiencing the kind of face-melting acceleration normally reserved for shuttle astronauts on take-off.

What an engine...

Vulcanography

Thanks to my amazing wife, I was able to enjoy a fantastic long weekend celebrating my descent into middle age. One of my personal highlights (apart from being up close and personal with a ring-tailed lemur...) was the chance to see the Vulcan bomber flying again for the first time in far too long. The big delta wing used to fly every year at Biggin Hill, no more than a couple of miles from where I grew up, and each year I thrilled to see, and more importantly hear it.

Perhaps not the best picture (not even the best I took of it during the display), but this is the memory which will stick, the climbing turn with the four Olympus engines screaming, bomb bay open and empty, but never lacking menace.

Sometimes...

... this city throws something so spectacular at you, you'd be a fool to miss it. Shot in full colour. No post-editing, but it has been slightly cropped.