pumpkinstrokemarrow

Good that New Labour provided the funds for every library in the land, never mind how small, to provide more or less free access to the internet. But bad that in remoter parts of the land that the connection leaves a lot to be desired. Isle of Wight not up to the standards of metropolitan Epsom. The private sector operation in a Newport backstreet does much better - but then they charge.

Amused this morning to read that the Tories are thinking that maybe we cannot afford a new trident. I remember marching against the bomb more than 40 years ago, in company with various hard lefties, at a time when disarmament by the UK might have meant something. In those days we were still thought of as a great power, even if that was already an illusion. Nowadays, I think the symbolic value of our disarmament is much reduced. We are left with value for money. Ironic that it takes profligacy by the nearest we have to a party of the left, which was very keen on bombs, to prompt the party of the right to ban the bomb. I suppose it is another example of the political truth that a party suspected of being wet about something has to be very dry about it. Whereas a party trusted with the something can wash it down the plug hole.

Yesterday to the beach at Yaverland for the fourth time. Nice summer's day with plenty of sun and enough breeze to stop one overheating. Despite being the only person on the beach to make use of a parasol to keep the sun off me, I still managed glowing shoulders this morning, having forgotten how easy it is to catch the sun while swimming. Probably also the only person on the beach to own a Mount Gay umbrella. We spent part of the day wondering idly where it might of come from. Had some intrepid soul brought it all the way from Barbabos or had a less intrepid soul gathered it up on some well watered promotion in some London hotel? Marching down the beach with it later in the afternoon, noticed that a tear had started at the end of one of the ribs. Luckily, we found a small tangle of rope from which I was able to extract a few threads with which, together with the trusty Laguiole hunting knife, I was able to effect emergency repairs. It holds together but I think we will have to think about replacement on return to the big town. Maybe the next bank holiday car booter at Hook Road Arena will do our business.

Returned home to continue battle with Iris Murdoch, having acquired her first novel - 'Under the net' - from a tea hut at the southern end of Sandown beach and a much later novel - 'The message to the planet' - from a charity shop in East Cowes. I might say that the tea hut offered much better value. Now Iris Murdoch is someone of whom I am aware but whom I have made very little effort to read. I believe my mother did, although the evidence is wanting. Have now read most of the first book and a little of the second, and have decided that I neither like her style nor her subject matter. She is far too keen on dragging philosophy into the story and far too keen on writing about very odd people with very odd preoccupations. With complicated private lives and considerable taste for fags and booze. The chattering classes of her day. Give me the working classes any day.

I think she taught philosophy at Oxford, so she must have been some good at it. Good enough for any learned papers to survive? Or does her PhD moulder unread with all the thousands of others in the depths of the university library?

Closed with a few jars of 'Holy Joe', a rather thick local ale, in the 'Wheatsheaf'. Good pint enlivened by deep conversation about the merits of the various charity shops in the area. It was clearly a subject of some import.