liadnan

Ho hum. I've accomplished buggerall today, looking back. I plead in my defence that I've been manically busy for the last few days, and that my hearing for today went off.
My mind is strangely empty, and I'm not even reading anything worth burbling about. Oh, Jilly Cooper's Class I suppose. Not a novel, but a look at the class structure in this country (not in marxist terms I hasten to add). It's actually far and away the funniest thing of hers I've ever read (I'm not particularly a closet fan) and devastatingly accurate, though some bits are dated as it was written in the early years of her Thatchness.
I have to admit that it's basically lavatory reading though, and I'm finding myself gazing at the Wall of Books in some dissatisfaction. Also a certain amount of trepidation, the bloody thing regularly collapses. I really do have to ask my landlord if I can put up shelves, or if he will.
For lack of anything to say, here's a link that amused me, courtesy of Phil on the culture. Link that, link which, another bloody rule I can never remember. Is there some procedure for resignation from the League of Grammar Fascists on grounds of incompetence?
In another embarrassing display, I spent ages last night trying to remember which way up my postcard of Turner's Death on a Pale Horse should be. Well, it isn't easy. even galleries have been known to get these things wrong, and Rob and Steph once had a print of something abstract the wrong way up for ages. (To be fair, I maintained and still maintain it was the right way up and is now the wrong way up...).
A bit of googling and the Tate came to my rescue though: here. Actually, that picture seems somewhat clearer than my postcard.. Honest.