Glissade

[tamaranth]

What a lovely word is glissade. Though, strictly speaking, the progress of the car in front of me this morning was not a glissade, as it was almost certainly not controlled.

I was driving a courtesy car. It has power steering, big buttons on the stereo and does not stall. And it is a prettier colour than my poor beaten-up Saxo. Do I really have to give it back when the accident repairs are done?

Pilbo and I are now the best of friends. I shall be checking out beaches for more Content.

Rothko and I are not friends. Yesterday, Rothko (well, one of his works) fell upon me in the office and left me bruised*. My opinion of him is not thereby improved.

The cats declined to frolic in the snow. In fact, they did a very good impression of a pair of those black fluffy cushions you can buy in Matalan. And no one in their right mind would thrust a cushion out of the French windows onto the verandah.

I am gradually adding all my books to LibraryThing. The order is random, based on daily selection of Next Box to Catalogue. There are 25 boxes to go. And I suspect I will be thinning my collection soon: I own books that I suspect I will never read, and some that I doubt I'll ever reread. And books are heavy.

or does this make me a philistine?

* actually, the bruise may be a leftover from manhandling Pilbo into the car the other night. But Rothko walloped me in the exact same place, and it hurt.

Comments

[pennski.livejournal.com]

I firmly believe that some books are not actually really books and therefore it's quite alright to donate them to charity shops etc. Possibly they are Soap Operas in disguise, or worthy but dull. There may even be books that I'd quite like to keep hold of, without intending to read...like the collection of early women's writing that just isn't exciting me.