Turns out I'm covered in last summer
I came home and said, "I hate looking at apartments. It makes me feel too poor and ill and fragile and disabled to be allowed to live independently. If I really cannot survive without such delicate accommodation, I should be wealthy enough to afford it. Since I am not wealthy, I should be institutionalized, or perhaps euthanized. This is terrible." I have not really managed to feel better since, I've just spent more time with cats. In all fairness, the cats are very good.
I remember much less than I would like of the '70's-ish television adaptation of a famous novel from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction which I dreamed in the couple of hours I was asleep this morning. It was delightful. There was a mysteriously deserted train rattling through night-lit tunnels and summer fields and a cat-and-mouse sequence in a greenhouse and a leading man who was almost Iain Cuthbertson, an erudite gentleman of fortune with whom the heroine did not make a romantic match in an understandable but wistful near-miss, leaving him to exit the scene with a hat-tip of mournful, self-mocking irony, calling back to their earlier collaboration on the train as he acknowledged her assessment of their chances as a couple: "The remark of a gambling man . . ." I had not yet read the novel, but it had been reprinted as one of the British Library Crime Classics. Because it was a dream and not really an artifact of ITV discovered on YouTube, my niece was featuring as the heroine's niece. She looked very nice c. 1975's idea of 1935.
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spatch took a picture of me and Autolycus, minus book this time.
I remember much less than I would like of the '70's-ish television adaptation of a famous novel from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction which I dreamed in the couple of hours I was asleep this morning. It was delightful. There was a mysteriously deserted train rattling through night-lit tunnels and summer fields and a cat-and-mouse sequence in a greenhouse and a leading man who was almost Iain Cuthbertson, an erudite gentleman of fortune with whom the heroine did not make a romantic match in an understandable but wistful near-miss, leaving him to exit the scene with a hat-tip of mournful, self-mocking irony, calling back to their earlier collaboration on the train as he acknowledged her assessment of their chances as a couple: "The remark of a gambling man . . ." I had not yet read the novel, but it had been reprinted as one of the British Library Crime Classics. Because it was a dream and not really an artifact of ITV discovered on YouTube, my niece was featuring as the heroine's niece. She looked very nice c. 1975's idea of 1935.
spatch took a picture of me and Autolycus, minus book this time.
no subject
The local housing crisis is so bad that relatives from the other side of the country are sending my parents articles about it. I hate being a statistic!