A day of hollowness; an aching void replaces any kind of fulfillment. A sense of frustration started yesterday when I set up a recording using PDC (possible only with analogue transmissions - no such luxury afforded when digital is the only option), only to discover that the BBC, in it's wisdom, had interposed an additional programme advert into the schedule resulting in the 34 second advert being all that was recorded; a confusion of signals! Today I set off a recording of a classic movie, direct to DVD, only to let the recording overrun by twenty minutes which proved quite irritating. At least I have the recording of the film, albeit rapidly followed by far too many minutes of some Aussie soap.
Any regular reader of my blogs will be well aware of my antipathy to sport but, this morning, I made an exception to that rule to watch Murray vs Federer. I was swiftly hooked on the match even though my mind, or perhaps my soul, was telling me that I was just wasting time. This sense of squandering precious hours was not subject to any probable outcome of the match, it's quite simply that observing grown-up people chasing a ball around is a time-waster, nearly as much so as participating in the sport. Had I been listening to music, watching a film, reading, or even just browsing a reference book, no such thoughts of wasting time would occur. That privilege is apparently reserved for sport alone. This sense of vacancy almost distracts me from the sundry aches, pains and general discomfort my flesh is all too frequently heir to.
Earlier this afternoon, Radio 2 provided background accompaniment to our lunchtime dining experience; on several occasions EP, the programmes presenter, told us that a song was performed by "the late ..." but, I very much doubt it! Adam Faith, Jean Simmons etc. may well have recorded the songs whilst they were alive, prior to attaining the status of "the late", but, I couldn't help being haunted by the vision of a medium channeling the voice of some ectoplasmic projection onto the acetate. The deceased, in my experience, very rarely if ever, perform songs in or out of the studio.
In an attempt to overcome this negativity of absence, encouraged by my beloved, we go out for a walk. As we pass the local pharmacy, my attention is caught by a notice proclaiming "Chlamydia Often Has No Symptoms"; if I was feeling in the best of health that could prove worrying, I have no symptoms therefore I may have got that disease. Truth be told, I have symptoms of all sorts of possible conditions so, I'm hardly likely to have that one. Honestly, I don't know who the message is aimed at but, in small letters the notice says "ask the pharmacist for a confidential test"; I just imagine thousands of people, not knowing what chlamydia is, popping in to the chemist for a confidential test because they have no symptoms. The least they could do is incorporate a few words saying that it could be contracted through unprotected sex!
Any regular reader of my blogs will be well aware of my antipathy to sport but, this morning, I made an exception to that rule to watch Murray vs Federer. I was swiftly hooked on the match even though my mind, or perhaps my soul, was telling me that I was just wasting time. This sense of squandering precious hours was not subject to any probable outcome of the match, it's quite simply that observing grown-up people chasing a ball around is a time-waster, nearly as much so as participating in the sport. Had I been listening to music, watching a film, reading, or even just browsing a reference book, no such thoughts of wasting time would occur. That privilege is apparently reserved for sport alone. This sense of vacancy almost distracts me from the sundry aches, pains and general discomfort my flesh is all too frequently heir to.
Earlier this afternoon, Radio 2 provided background accompaniment to our lunchtime dining experience; on several occasions EP, the programmes presenter, told us that a song was performed by "the late ..." but, I very much doubt it! Adam Faith, Jean Simmons etc. may well have recorded the songs whilst they were alive, prior to attaining the status of "the late", but, I couldn't help being haunted by the vision of a medium channeling the voice of some ectoplasmic projection onto the acetate. The deceased, in my experience, very rarely if ever, perform songs in or out of the studio.
In an attempt to overcome this negativity of absence, encouraged by my beloved, we go out for a walk. As we pass the local pharmacy, my attention is caught by a notice proclaiming "Chlamydia Often Has No Symptoms"; if I was feeling in the best of health that could prove worrying, I have no symptoms therefore I may have got that disease. Truth be told, I have symptoms of all sorts of possible conditions so, I'm hardly likely to have that one. Honestly, I don't know who the message is aimed at but, in small letters the notice says "ask the pharmacist for a confidential test"; I just imagine thousands of people, not knowing what chlamydia is, popping in to the chemist for a confidential test because they have no symptoms. The least they could do is incorporate a few words saying that it could be contracted through unprotected sex!
No comments:
Post a Comment