liadnan

There are many things in my life that puzzle me. The fact my life is not more of a cross between This Life and Ally McBeal, still more the lack of copious amounts of wine and women therein, has been a cause of much concern for the last year and a half. The fact I am now almost halfway through my 3~~1st~~2nd (idiot or self-deluding,you decide) year, and my 20s become more hazy with each day that passes, simply befuddles and bemuses me.

There is no justice.

But such is my life.

I've just finished Rebecca and Rowena, a forgotten novella of Thackeray's, which brilliantly rips the piss out of the Victorian Gothic tide that so dominated art, architecture, and literature through much of his life (by taking the characters from Ivanhoe and wondering what happened next: Rowena turns out to be a frigid anti-Semite, Robin Hood becomes a fat pillar of the squirearchy, and so on). Absolutely splendid stuff. Strange the odd bits of comedy that still work long after their day, when so much dies. (Although at least all those irritating people who quote bits of Monty Python incessantly are therefore forced to shut up or look puzzled when the next line is a Reginald Maudling joke.) But why is, for instance, Cold Comfort Farm still able to make me crack up?

I have just learned that there is a chance a Very Very Senior Figure in the legal world of this country will turn up to what really ought to be a relatively straightforward hearing I have tomorrow, as they have a tangential personal involvement in related litigation. Oh dear.