Wednesday 17 September 2008

One Week On...

As a man grows older (or indeed a woman) time is supposed to accelerate and start whizzing by at a rate of knots (eheu fugaces etc.), but personally I find the reverse happening. The nearer I draw to my narrow home, the slower are the footsteps of Time. Looking back, a week ago feels like a month, a month like half a year...
Consider this day last week. There we were, congratulating ourselves on having survived those CERN boffins' rash experiment and celebrating Artie Tripp's 64th. Now, one week on, we live in a changed world, it seems, with international finance apparently in meltdown and nobody capable of wresting their gaze from the ghastly spectacle. A week is a long time in... well, in just about anything these days. For myself, I assume a zen-like calm in the face of this particular meltdown, much as I used to do in my youth when in the front seat of a car beside a suicidally, homicidally crazy driver (there were plenty of them in those days). Relax, switch off, what else can you do? Last night the boss of HBOS was on the TV news, dressed in a spectacularly ill-fitting suit and shirt, unkempt, sweating and half-shaven, incompetence coming off him like heat, as he blustered and flustered his way ineffectually through a brief interview. This is worrying, I suppose (I'm a customer) - but it would probably be more worrying if the boss was a supersmooth, suave conman in an immaculate Savile Row suit. Either way - what can you do?
Meanwhile, somewhere under the Swiss-French border, those particles are still gathering speed, all unnoticed by the world... As the man said, not with a bang but a whimper.


  1. Come on now, Nige. I go to Bryan's blog for apocalyptic yearnings and wilderness training. Where's all the eternal optimism and sagely advice I've come to expect from the chief resident of NigeCorp? At least assure me that the butterflies will survive this financial meltdown.

    They will, won't they?

  2. Butterflies are knocked down for £ ms a time at Sotheby’s at this very moment, and all I can say - to mitigate the errors of my prediction - that art appears to be, financially, separated from the rest of the economic culture.

    As for the apparent acceleration of time with age, Nige, there is no universal standard of time. In fact, when every second is packed with feverish activity and economic meltdowns, things register in slow motion because all of your senses are drawn to a new pitch...

    ...hope this helps!

    PS.: women don’t age - women mature!

  3. Nige if ever there was a time to return to our hippy roots it is now, into the understairs cupboard, out with the Mary Quant, the Sgt Pepper jackets, the beads, resurrect the Maharishi, bring on the free loving, Scott Mckenzie, the Stones, let it all hang out man.
    On a more serious note, like you we bank with HBOS, one of the UKs best managed banks, looks like it's about to be swallowed up by the countries biggest septic tank, Lloyds. If this happens our Zloti will take a trip from St Andrews square to an unnamed country between Belgium and Germany and join its sisters and brothers.
    An interesting article in the ST magazine by a lassie who had managed to tunnel her way out of the Jehova's Witnesses said that, prior to the predicted 1975 Armageddon some of the poobah's had taken out big loans, assuming that they would not have to repay them as the banks would be reduced to ashes, sound familiar?

    Selena, women don't age? they might not but their knockers certainly do, Brando summed it up in Last Tango.

  4. Selena, it's my belief that Hurst's art retains its value because it was worthless to begin with.

  5. Succinctly put, Mr Spine. I couldn’t agree more heartily.

    And Malty, my dear, if I may say so, for a man so long and so irreversibly dead it is remarkable how abiding an image of ill-mannered vulgarity Brando still appears to generate...

  6. Let's concentrate on the essentials, shall we - the butterflies. They will be fine, Dick. They will very probably inherit the earth. All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.

  7. One more review to get written and e-ed off today, then suitcases to pack, and at the crack o' dawn tomorrow, we're off to the Caribbean. My mantra after that will be "Don't worry, be happy," 'cause really, what can one do about Wall Street?

    Cupidity and stupidity have managed to topple the stock market, and it's not the first time. The gov. bailout is the only thing I find weird. Considering how little there must be in those coffers after the last four years of war and natural disasters. Oh, I forgot: It's gonna come out of OUR pockets. Citizens fund the gov. with our taxes.

    I can't worry about this now. I've got a book to review and a beach to get to. I advise you folks not to worry too much either. In the end, it won't be the end. It never is. Life wags on....

  8. I miss Alec Guinness. It's a pity he can't be on TV at the moment, playing seven different bosses of seven different banks and every one a crook. He'd bring it off superbly. I never managed the zenlike calm thang, especially when it my youth we were doing 70 mph near Eynsham and the driver announced he was now tripping on LSD, moved to the wrong side of the road and started to open the door. We're all lucky to be alive, and we're all lucky we're still alive. As for the rest, it's only money.

  9. Well said Mark - and have a great holiday, Enviable Susan.