Things to do
I've got a little list.
1) Clear away these empty boxes of Japanese candy. Nada sent me a massive supply of them, possibly in hopes of transforming me into a bilious monstrosity of a man. She evidently despises the fact that I am a limpid ganglion. But I tricked her by having a sister, and Anna has eaten most everything - even the seaweed. Now there are boxes - hurrah. Boxes which, if left unwatched, or even if left watched, will attract the tender attention of ants! Avaunt.
2) Sign my name in a book. Yes, muscular strength is required for such a feat. I bought a book today. Mmmm. Was up at the Field Museum to see the exhibit - "Pompeii: Stories from an Eruption." Terribly impressive - as usual it took me two hours to get through because I paused at every object and stared at it in contemplative awe, while the rest of my unfortunate family ploughed ahead relentless. But I bought the exhibition catalogue! Now all that remains to be done is grab a pen and write "HART" on the endpaper, so that nobody will steal the thing. At least, I think that's the reason I do it. Or perhaps I'm just a proud pelican of a man who is only satisfied when he has scrawled his cognomen all over whatever books he finds in his possession.
3) Find whatever git Kathleen will be going to the prom with (supposing such a thing is to occur), and kill him. Quietly. Mostly out of caprice.
4) Buy Nada her birthday present. The trouble, naturally, is that I don't know what to get her. I'd buy her a book about Oriental philosophy, but she's probably got everything she needs. She wants to be a lawyer after all. A bleedin' lawyer, for heaven's sake. She's not going to be spouting esoteric Tantric doctrine during a labour arbitration. Does she want Gilbert & Sullivan? I'm sure she does. But what of Gilbert & Sullivan does she want, and does she mind if the dialogue is not included? Does it really matter in the end? And what about objective reality - how objective is it, really?
5) Do my work. Yes, that's the simplest bit. An essay there, a test here. Oh yes. I am patient and productive and prosaic.
6) Get my license. To drive. Oh yes. Now that will be an experience, oh aye. An experience, an experience, a right down royal experience that will be. Ah! *dances a cacucha, fandago, bolero; drinks old xeres, mazanilla, montero*
7) Play Mahjongg. This should actually be my top priority, seeing as it is so deucedly time consuming. I managed to win in five minutes, but I'm sure I can do better, you know. It's all a matter of not fluttering away too fast at the start. In my country, we have saying: man who walk too fast may step in bear-trap. You know how it is.
8) Mock Seton. Excessively. The blighters closed down another debate simply due to my contribution to it - I had the gall to defend Elizabeth I, whom I confess to love like the little ex-Anglican that I am. Surely that's not unforgivable.
9) Mock Ian Paisley. Perhaps for his accent.
10) Get Linda Hill to record Doctor Who on March the 17th. Hurrah!
11) Now a gavotte perform sedately, offer my hand with conscious pride; take an attitude not too stately, still sufficiently dignified.
12) Think of a way to humourously mimic French deconstructionist poetry for a short story. Act like a martyr when nobody finds it amusing.
13) Work on my bass. This bright y'ung thing wot is our choir piano organist, Nathaniel of the Temporarily-Forgotten-Last-Name, is leaving, and he's written a piece - with words - for us to sing as a touching farewell, oh yes. Now, of course, he has written it for himself, really, seeing as the piano is the only thing allowed to sound decent throughout. The sopranos must sing extra high; the altos must sing extra low. Our tenors (even small but sinister Dennis) must sing as though they have ice in their trousers. We basses must hit our notes as though we were something between Buddhist monks in the midst of a rapturous om and a discontented cow in the midst of a mindless moo. I am not a bass - I am a light baritone. A fetid light baritone. My lung will be amputated after performance. Needless to say, we are going to kill Nathaniel. Quietly. Mostly out of caprice.
That's all.
1) Clear away these empty boxes of Japanese candy. Nada sent me a massive supply of them, possibly in hopes of transforming me into a bilious monstrosity of a man. She evidently despises the fact that I am a limpid ganglion. But I tricked her by having a sister, and Anna has eaten most everything - even the seaweed. Now there are boxes - hurrah. Boxes which, if left unwatched, or even if left watched, will attract the tender attention of ants! Avaunt.
2) Sign my name in a book. Yes, muscular strength is required for such a feat. I bought a book today. Mmmm. Was up at the Field Museum to see the exhibit - "Pompeii: Stories from an Eruption." Terribly impressive - as usual it took me two hours to get through because I paused at every object and stared at it in contemplative awe, while the rest of my unfortunate family ploughed ahead relentless. But I bought the exhibition catalogue! Now all that remains to be done is grab a pen and write "HART" on the endpaper, so that nobody will steal the thing. At least, I think that's the reason I do it. Or perhaps I'm just a proud pelican of a man who is only satisfied when he has scrawled his cognomen all over whatever books he finds in his possession.
3) Find whatever git Kathleen will be going to the prom with (supposing such a thing is to occur), and kill him. Quietly. Mostly out of caprice.
4) Buy Nada her birthday present. The trouble, naturally, is that I don't know what to get her. I'd buy her a book about Oriental philosophy, but she's probably got everything she needs. She wants to be a lawyer after all. A bleedin' lawyer, for heaven's sake. She's not going to be spouting esoteric Tantric doctrine during a labour arbitration. Does she want Gilbert & Sullivan? I'm sure she does. But what of Gilbert & Sullivan does she want, and does she mind if the dialogue is not included? Does it really matter in the end? And what about objective reality - how objective is it, really?
5) Do my work. Yes, that's the simplest bit. An essay there, a test here. Oh yes. I am patient and productive and prosaic.
6) Get my license. To drive. Oh yes. Now that will be an experience, oh aye. An experience, an experience, a right down royal experience that will be. Ah! *dances a cacucha, fandago, bolero; drinks old xeres, mazanilla, montero*
7) Play Mahjongg. This should actually be my top priority, seeing as it is so deucedly time consuming. I managed to win in five minutes, but I'm sure I can do better, you know. It's all a matter of not fluttering away too fast at the start. In my country, we have saying: man who walk too fast may step in bear-trap. You know how it is.
8) Mock Seton. Excessively. The blighters closed down another debate simply due to my contribution to it - I had the gall to defend Elizabeth I, whom I confess to love like the little ex-Anglican that I am. Surely that's not unforgivable.
9) Mock Ian Paisley. Perhaps for his accent.
10) Get Linda Hill to record Doctor Who on March the 17th. Hurrah!
11) Now a gavotte perform sedately, offer my hand with conscious pride; take an attitude not too stately, still sufficiently dignified.
12) Think of a way to humourously mimic French deconstructionist poetry for a short story. Act like a martyr when nobody finds it amusing.
13) Work on my bass. This bright y'ung thing wot is our choir piano organist, Nathaniel of the Temporarily-Forgotten-Last-Name, is leaving, and he's written a piece - with words - for us to sing as a touching farewell, oh yes. Now, of course, he has written it for himself, really, seeing as the piano is the only thing allowed to sound decent throughout. The sopranos must sing extra high; the altos must sing extra low. Our tenors (even small but sinister Dennis) must sing as though they have ice in their trousers. We basses must hit our notes as though we were something between Buddhist monks in the midst of a rapturous om and a discontented cow in the midst of a mindless moo. I am not a bass - I am a light baritone. A fetid light baritone. My lung will be amputated after performance. Needless to say, we are going to kill Nathaniel. Quietly. Mostly out of caprice.
That's all.