That’s me, that is.
Daughter was flabbergasted to discover her old mother was capable of finding a webcast from the conference she’s at, and that I watched her give a talk. Live. (It was worth a try. Beginner’s luck, perhaps, but I found it, and even sent it on to the Resident IT Consultant to watch as well. So we sat in separate rooms watching our child say stuff about stuff we know virtually nothing about.)
But anyway, the webcast. Don’t tell me it exists if I’m not meant to look for it. My evening meal suffered a little. I managed a rush job of slice of bread with cheese and an apple, as the webcast from Baltimore started in what was their early afternoon.
Daughter was pretty impressive too. Obviously.
(But not as much as I was.)
Went to Waterstones a few days ago. Well, I was in town anyway, and I also happened to want a new book. (I’m working on being more in control, by not always asking for free books.)
Children’s books are upstairs and I went straight to the lift, on account of being lazy. And also the stairs are tall-ish, especially when you come down.
The lift was already there. It let me in. I hit the button for up. After some non-action, the doors opened. Pressed the same button again. And this is where it becomes a blur in my memory.
The lady voice thing that says whatever the lift is doing, suggested all manner of things. Going up. Going down. Doors opening. Over and over again. I looked at the closed doors (whatever that lady was saying), decided I didn’t like it and pressed the open doors button.
Luckily they did open, after some thinking about it, and out I stepped.
Marching over to the steep stairs, I heard the lift lady still talking nonsense. I hauled myself up, and after finding the book I was wanting, trekked down again.
I’ll have to consider whether I go back. Don’t want to try the lift again, and I don’t really appreciate those steep stairs. If you like the word user friendly, then they aren’t.
Why is it that even quite modern buildings, in public use, are falling to pieces so soon? This part of the shopping mall was (meant to be) opened on the day of Diana’s funeral.
Did the malfunctioning of the lift have anything to do with the bucket collecting drips of water at the front of the shop? Where was the water even coming from? Upstairs?
Call me fussy, but…
Actually, any colour marzipan would do. I’m not fussy. Even black. Black cake would taste as cake-y as any other, wouldn’t it?
It’s odd how Swedes – almost to a [wo]man – turn to garishly coloured marzipan-covered cake when there is something to celebrate. There are plenty of different cakes, mostly all very yummy. But when it comes down to it, it’s the marzipan we go for. Generally green, but pink for Valentine’s, orange at Halloween, white for end of school celebrations, yellow at Easter.
The Swedish Gender Equality Agency, headed by Lena Ag who’s an old acquaintance of mine, was set up a year ago and was then supposed to be scrapped during the recent period when the country was without a government. Luckily someone saw sense and they are now continuing in business. But the thing is, there was cake to celebrate the future. (I borrowed Lena’s photo of their selection of cakes. All in colourful marzipan.)
Equality is great, but I’m afraid I was more taken with the cakes…
I’m so shallow.
And jealous. Bookwitch is twelve today and would love to encounter even one of those cakes on her kitchen worktop.
I mentioned black marzipan. The Bookwitch dining room is finally turning completely white after two years of being the wrong colour. So I’ll celebrate by enjoying this whiteness instead.
And there isn’t anything fundamentally wrong with jam on wholemeal toast.