Sun bathing ought to be so last century: we know that it is linked to skin cancer and to disreputable medallion wearing criminals in the more luxurious parts of southern Spain – but I am hooked on our nearest star.
My aim of course (ignoring the Shakespearean predilection for white skin as a sign that the person does not do outside labouring work) is for the perfect tan. A recent visitor to our swimming pool divested himself of his upper garments and revealed a torso of the sort of flawless even brown that is my goal. I hated him at first sight and then, as if to show that my opprobrium was justified he took out a cigarette showing himself to be lewd fellow of a baser sort.
My skin has its own progression through the spectrum when exposed to the sun and, in spite of my best efforts and the lavish application of salves and unguents the best I can do is a sort of rugged russet: the creamy khaki eludes me!
I do not, however, intend to give up trying and with the aid of a new transparent spray from good old Lidl. I may not be brown but I do gleam!
My total domination of the Third Floor is now being threatened by other sun-worshippers, but I utilize the office swivel chair using its lowest back declination to produce a sort of dentist’s chair effect. As the back is a sort of mesh it might almost be purpose made for the sun as it allows the back to breathe – if that actually means anything!
Lazing about on the Third Floor has the advantage over the beach that I have easy access to all my gadgets. Including my iPod.
Why is it that listening to Tchaikovsky is almost like a guilty pleasure? I remember buying a (bargain) boxed set of all of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and orchestral suites when I was in university to the general contempt of my musical friends. Didn’t stop me of course, and it was a revelation listening to the ones which were not as famous as the later ones.
It was the second symphony that I listened to on my iPod and, although I have not listened to it for some time, it is not the sort of music that you ever forget.
It is also dangerous music. As the narrative of the music developed and as my hands become more and more expressive as if an orchestra were in front of me, the illusion that I could conduct a real performance of the symphony became almost an accepted fact in my mind. I feel the same way about Schubert’s Great C Major Symphony. And then I think about the score in front of me and my fingers frantically searching for some arrangement of notes that look even remotely like what is happening musically and the dream begins to fade.
Plenty of others to take its place.
My aim of course (ignoring the Shakespearean predilection for white skin as a sign that the person does not do outside labouring work) is for the perfect tan. A recent visitor to our swimming pool divested himself of his upper garments and revealed a torso of the sort of flawless even brown that is my goal. I hated him at first sight and then, as if to show that my opprobrium was justified he took out a cigarette showing himself to be lewd fellow of a baser sort.
My skin has its own progression through the spectrum when exposed to the sun and, in spite of my best efforts and the lavish application of salves and unguents the best I can do is a sort of rugged russet: the creamy khaki eludes me!
I do not, however, intend to give up trying and with the aid of a new transparent spray from good old Lidl. I may not be brown but I do gleam!
My total domination of the Third Floor is now being threatened by other sun-worshippers, but I utilize the office swivel chair using its lowest back declination to produce a sort of dentist’s chair effect. As the back is a sort of mesh it might almost be purpose made for the sun as it allows the back to breathe – if that actually means anything!
Lazing about on the Third Floor has the advantage over the beach that I have easy access to all my gadgets. Including my iPod.
Why is it that listening to Tchaikovsky is almost like a guilty pleasure? I remember buying a (bargain) boxed set of all of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and orchestral suites when I was in university to the general contempt of my musical friends. Didn’t stop me of course, and it was a revelation listening to the ones which were not as famous as the later ones.
It was the second symphony that I listened to on my iPod and, although I have not listened to it for some time, it is not the sort of music that you ever forget.
It is also dangerous music. As the narrative of the music developed and as my hands become more and more expressive as if an orchestra were in front of me, the illusion that I could conduct a real performance of the symphony became almost an accepted fact in my mind. I feel the same way about Schubert’s Great C Major Symphony. And then I think about the score in front of me and my fingers frantically searching for some arrangement of notes that look even remotely like what is happening musically and the dream begins to fade.
Plenty of others to take its place.
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