Life, death and holes in the ground.
Not a good day today. Went out this morning with the dogs and put a foot down one of the almost invisible holes that litter our local rec. (Some of them are the result of an over-ethusiastic dog, others of practicing golfers, and some may even be due to rabbits.) I don't think I've broken anything, but a two hour application of ice (during which time I finally got around to watching the anime version of 'Iron Man: Rise of the Technovore' in which the Japanese animators failed to control their obsession with mecha) painkillers and a pressure bandage, I am able to walk, just. At least I own a great walking stick (classic hawthorn cane shod in metal with a polished ram's horn handle.) We have an agility comp on Sunday, and Bren was very good last night. *sigh*
I am indebted to Dave Langford and Ansible for the news that J.T. Edson, the Western-writing postman, died on 17th July, aged 86. He enlivened my teenage years.
Also Ray Lonnen of whom a (female) critic (I believe it might have been Dilys Powell) once remarked that to the effect that "the British Secret service need to send an undercover agent into Londonderry, so they pick a man so handsome that he could not walk along an Irish street without turning every female head."
I am indebted to Dave Langford and Ansible for the news that J.T. Edson, the Western-writing postman, died on 17th July, aged 86. He enlivened my teenage years.
Also Ray Lonnen of whom a (female) critic (I believe it might have been Dilys Powell) once remarked that to the effect that "the British Secret service need to send an undercover agent into Londonderry, so they pick a man so handsome that he could not walk along an Irish street without turning every female head."