Hee!

There are soft cat-snores in this room - and no observable cat. I think he must be in the closet. Not going to look: sleeping cats, lying, the letting of - there must be a proverb to be built out of those good bricks. In the meantime, snore on, say I...

This afternoon I am going to a Book View Cafe party, west coast edition: at Kit Kerr's house, with Madeleine Robins and Nancy Jane Moore and Dave Smeds and Dave Trowbridge and Deborah J Ross and Leah Cutter and I know not whom besides. Karen's tired and not up for the drive, so I'm publicly transporting myself; and meeting Leah at SFO as she flies in from Seattle, so that we can BART together. (*sings* We will all BART together when we BART - I blame my father, for introducing me to Tom Lehrer at a tender and difficult age)

Ah Farce, we thought we'd lost you...

Four overs left. 21 runs to win, off 23 balls, a few wickets in hand, the crowd in uproar and both teams having a riot of fun - and the umpires take them off for bad light.

Yes, I know it's the regulation, and I know that regulations are supposed to be applied even-handedly and regardless of the state of the game - and even so. Do umpires have no blind eye any more? The proper response was "It's too dark to read the light-meter, so I've no idea what it says. Play on!"

This one will go down in the annals, as a match-destroying piece of ridiculousness. Hell, I can hear the booing from here, and I'm five thousand miles away.

Professor Branestawm in training

It has just occurred to me that for my afternoon jaunt to a party, I am going to need to take three pairs of spectacles: shades for the walk, reading glasses for the train, regular glasses for the party. Hey-ho. I knew I got old, but when did I get ridiculous?