9.00 am. Son Mk II — ready to ship out and join his elder brother in a prestigious northern university. But he’ll still be joined to us by love, Messenger, and a financial umbilical cord. 9.30 am. I went fresh vegetable hunting at the Food Fayre on Baker Street. There is no baker on this street these days; or, rather, there is/are several, but only today and on the occasion of the Christmas Fayre. I purchased a pastie for my lunch from one and returned home — scholarly journal in hand — …
… to complete the fifth Abstraction lecture, attend to Freshers’ matters, and review an MA Art History writing submission. Freshers bring out the parent/socialist in me:
2.00 pm. Note to self: ‘Don’t forget to watch Dr Who tonight. Just don’t!’. Good to see Capaldi adapting the Tardis interior to his character. (Well, he was once an art student.) Into the sound studio to put the DJ-esque equipment through a series of tests and set ups in readiness for next week’s outing. One must take responsibility for, and ensure the performance of, everything. Oh, for a roady and a sound engineer! In the meantime, I must be them. The problem with electrical equipment is that it can fail without either warning or apparent reason at a crucial moment. Professionalism, then, is not about prevention but, rather, repairs and reaction — knowing how to deal with the situation and having a plan B, when necessary.
Everything is tickety-boo for now. (But this may mean nothing on Thursday and Friday.):
5.15 pm. Press ‘off’. 6.30 pm. A familyless evening. I ignited my limited culinary skills and cooked up a passable fried rice. I don’t follow recipes; it’s all improvisation. Yum!:
7.15 pm. A Palmery sunset: