Status Quo

Still no more work.  This week I've been putting myself forward for jobs on websites, as well as sending my CV to different agencies.  Heard nothing from them yet, but we will see.  So I've been turning the rest of my attention to books.
Alain de Botton writes on philosophy and I've finally gotten around to reading one of his books, The Architecture of Happiness.  It was in fact very interesting and gave great insights on why we can like some buildings or art and dislike others.  It also set off a few ideas in my head for stories.  So maybe I'll get around to writing them...hmm.
Next up was Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys, which seemed to follow on a bit from his American Gods.  It took a while to get into it, and was in some senses predictable, but the pleasure of his books is more the odd mini-stories that are in the middle of the tale.  In a lot of ways his style reminds me of Douglas Adams.
Finally another Henning Mankell book, but not a Wallander story.  It had the same feel of cold and darkness and death as the detective books but was a different type of story entirely.  It was still excellent though and I look forward to reading any more of his books that I can get my hands on.

The weather has been strange this past week.  Very changeable, between sudden showers, and bright sunshine, but usually an odd mix of cold and warmth.  As such it makes it very difficult to know when and for how long to go out.  Right now it looks nice, but there are no guarantees.

Last night I listened to a documentary on Radio 2 about Richard Burton.  If it was not for his voice then I'm not sure how much interest I would have in poetry and literature now.  It was because of that voice that I began reading HG Wells and other science fiction at a young age, and then took an interest in Dylan Thomas and from there other poetry.  I can still remember, at the age of not much more than four or five, sitting in my parents living room on a Saturday morning with a bowl of shreddies that I couldn't finish for being so scared, and hearing Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds for the first time.  The radio programme was excellent, with both Burton's and other fine voices to listen to.  I wrote a poem after it finished.

Listening
To a voice on the radio;
Long dead.
Echoes from the past.
Words spoken,
Lines read.
The voice of the poets,
Of coal dust and rain;
And black bread.
The voice
That sunk a thousand pints
Before bed;
And said:
This is me.