We’re at the fag-end of August, almost six years after the moment that set off the series of events that would change Mrs Stroke Bloke’s and my life forever. But no doubt we’ll get to that in due course.
For now, the Edinburgh Festival has just finished and the smell of sulphur from the massive closing fireworks display that rattled our windows last night is fading.
‘What? No, that was just me running my venue.’
[ Check out the Apoplexy Tiny Letter, where the devil always has the best tunes.] Continue reading Where Are We NOW?
I finished that bit on
Le Corbusier, the godfather of Modernist architecture. When I said the bit would be more serious and more absurd than last week’s post, I was half-right.
“Absurd? I’ll take ma open haun off yer face, Sonny Jim.”
Sure, some nuggets of truth are hidden among the 6m 40s of
A Story Is A Machine For Living In, but there are plenty of nuggets of sweet absurdity to keep folks engaged.
This got me to thinking about how, sometimes, the medium is the message.
[ Talking about absurdity, check out the Apoplexy Tiny Letter] Continue reading Gold Strikes
We’re thinking of going to pick up a new desk tomorrow. One of those ones that incorporates the wall into its structure, and folds flat into the wall when it’s not in use.
“Calm down, dear. You’re getting a bit ‘ A Room of My Own‘”
Sorry, Michael. I’m going somewhere with this.
[ Find out if I’m bluffing below. But first, check out the Apoplexy Newsletter.] Continue reading Open Hand