I’m looking forward to the release of David Gilmour’s “Live at Pompeii” 45 years on. Even if your toes tend to curl at the mention of Pink Floyd (mine don’t, by the way) you have to give ten out of ten for perseverance. These days, Gilmour reminds me of an old fella who loves to tinker in his shed, emerging from time to time with an all-too-familiar item, lovingly restored and good for a few more circuits of the block. Pompeii might well be a Gdansk in Greek clothing, but I don’t care. Besides, who knows what he may have found lurking in his shed?
I don’t have a faith, as such. “What, no spiritual security?” you ask. Well, in the absence of an invisible friend, I take my comfort from statements like “half our bodies’ atoms were formed beyond the Milky Way.”
I’ve watched more tennis than is healthy for me. Now we’re at the point where the best matches have been played out, and the outcomes of the finales are probably academic.
Rossi admits the death came as a shock.
I didn’t know that Jacob Rees-Mogg was a father to six children, did you? Apparently the most recent arrival, a little lad, has been named Sixtus Dominic Boniface Christopher. There’s a name to send you into a spin!
I’m not really a fan of Springwatch, or any of the other Watches broadcast by the BBC. I am a fan of the turning seasons, and all the magic they bring with them. So it’s probably more to do with the television presentation, or presenters, or a bit of both.