So, Chicago. How does that sound?

Certainly, the broadcast could be better; it could be an HD transmission, and if still broadcast on the BBC, I’m sure it would be. It’d also be nice if we could see the race uninterrupted by the plethora of adverts that seem so pop up at the most inconvenient of times, such as right in the middle of pitting. But such is life.

At the end of it all, I still get to watch a race and take a chance to zone out just a little. These are the days I cherish, the days that I wish would last just that little touch longer, a sort of reversal of long dark teatime of the soul. Days like these, the cold, overcast ones, are the kind to share with people you love. And while it’s not always possible to spend it with those special people, when it happens, it’s worth it.

Long cold mornings, fresh coffee, pancakes, and those you care about around you. It’s the perfect start to the day. I hope to have that pleasure again soon.

More as the BBC reports it in the morning. Edit, Auntie just put a small snippet up. No doubt, it’ll be updated as more information comes to light.

The girl shifted in her seat and adjusted her blanket, buckling the belt over it as the captain had said to do before the flight hit the night somewhere over Newfoundland. The remnants of the lackluster in-flight meal, a small pack of grapes, sat half-eaten on the armrest beside her, but for one which had escaped the plastic confines of the cup and rolled off down the aisle to be trodden on by a heavy-set gentleman in his socks on the way to the lavatory. He sighed and shuffled along, glancing over the sleeping occupants of Economy. Somewhere in the middle of the cabin, a man with a now spent video game sprawled, all six-feet-six of him, across five seats. Everything from 38B to 38F, and half an aisle were taken up with his frame and bags, which bumped the front of the brown boot girl’s seat, which had caused the grape to roll into the path of the man in his socks from 24F.

His wife in 24G curled up as best she could in the seat, and pulled down her mask to drown out the blinking of the video game from the man in 38B-F. It wasn’t until an hour later that a steward pulled the batteries and shut the blasted thing up.

From 22A to 45A, all had been looking out their windows on take off. The pounding rain had delayed the flight by almost two hours, and as the rain turned to slush and snow, the show became all the more entrancing. Of course, as they’d fallen asleep, the windows had remained open.

Only the man in 36A had the sense to close it; a seasoned traveler, he’d sat down, pulled out his own pillow, earplugs and blanket, pulled down the window, and dozed off within a matter of minutes. He’d missed the entire show. He’d made the Chicago-London run enough times to know it by now; he didn’t care to watch.

Across and down from him, the man in 38B-F shifted, and woke groggily. He lumbered up, and sat down in 40C, reclining the chair as far as it would go, leaving his bags, and shoes, sprawled over 38B-F. Only the satisfying tinkle of metal and glass gave away the fact that he’d just sat on his own glasses that he’d stuffed into his back pocket before falling asleep across the seats. Of course, he wouldn’t notice until landing the crumbs of glass pouring from the tear in his jeans back pocket, into the shoes of the man in 41C.

The man in 41C tutted, and moved his shoes to the right of the crack in the seat, and turned onto his side, as best to avoid the crushing of the seat of the oaf in-front of him. He sighed heavily, and closed his notebook, stuffing the pencil into the spine of the binding, and putting the whole thing in his bag next to him on 42D.

He buckled his belt, and fished into an inside pocket of his bag, and pulled out a simple wooden bead Rosary. Wrapping the beads around his fingers, he pressed it all to his forehead, and said a silent prayer for the ones he’d left behind in Chicago, and wondered when he’d see them again.

The AA98 flight banked over the Eastern coast of Greenland and made for Reykjavik, though and down towards London. Daylight broke as the plane turned port-side facing the sun, and shafts of light burst through the cabin, illuminating the passengers in red and yellow tones.

The man with the Rosary tucked his legs up under his seat, and turned to face the sun and the windows. He shut his eyes and dreamed of his lover.

The last time I actually baked anything in this kitchen other than bread or pizza, I was no more than twelve years old; a decade ago. For some reason, I’d never felt confident enough in my mother’s kitchen to really experiment. She, The Chef, would watch me working, and while she never once criticized me, I could tell she did not approve of a number of my methods.

At University, I became known as a bit of a cook; I’d be called on by friends, with requests ranging from “how do I make a white sauce? (can I use margarine?)” to “what do I do with romanescu cauliflower?” and “how do I boil eggs properly?” – I was pretty hot shit; easily the most accomplished and confident in the kitchen of all my friends. I remember, too, the very last time I made muffins. I was in Sussex, with my friend Amiee. It was three in the morning, and we made pistachio and white chocoalte muffins, and they were excellent. Perfectly shaped, and a moist little cap on top. The taste was to die for. We’d eaten most of them by the next night.

And that was two years ago. Since then, the muffin tins sat unloved in the back of a counter cupboard. And today, I pulled them out, dusted them off, and found the Mokka. I made muffins for the first time in two years, just throwing what I found into the mix until it all looked right and felt right. And I still coldn’t bring mself to lick the bowl after dishing out the muffin mix into the little greased pots; it’s never felt quite right. Same for cookie dough; I can’t do it. I’ll eat raw fish happily, even undercooked eggs pose no issue, but give me raw dough and I gag. Anyway, in all, it produced 18 healthy sized muffins, of which five have already been eaten by various people. I think they’ve come out okay, but could do with more careful time in the oven.

I only wish I knew where Amiee was. I’d send her some.

As I type this entry, happily eating what must be said, a very tasty slice of Ham and Pineapple pizza, one thing springs to mind; I have greasy fingers. Usually, I’d be having kittens at this point, but not now. My fingertips dart over the keys, and I have one over-riding thought in my mind. This computer is no longer mine.

It’s happened; two days ago, I was contacted by Executive Relations at Apple UK. My 12″ PowerBook has had it’s warrant signed, by me, and by a Higher Up at Apple. My MacBook has finally been ordered. A Core Duo 2GHz and a Gb of RAM, and a light up keyboard. I’m as happy as anything. They’ve even decided to throw in a new case for me. Really, the speed boost should be the most exciting thing for me, but no. It’s a light-up keyboard. Something I could have had two years ago, in fact, were it available on the 12″ PowerBook range. Never was, and really, never will be. Jacqui has a review up at Ars on the 1.83 Core Duo, and it’s excellent; despite the utter bullshite Slashdot and the News thread generated, it’s well rounded and an actual review of the hardware by a real user, not a regurgitation of the press release.
Either way, I’ve now got to wait until I get a fucking tracking number, and then the agonising weeks until it goes from Pending, Packing, Shipping, Shipped, and then all aboard the Mystery Bus to the middle of the fucking airport, a plane ride to the Netherlands, then to the UK, and handing it over to TNT for lord only knows how long until some under-paid driver hands over my Precious.

I’m in for one fuck of a long wait.

I could murder a cup right now. That and some toast. Hmm.

Anyway- weekends have been a bastion of sleeping in; of course, these days, getting up at 8am means I’ve slept in super-late. I can now sleep in, and still have a whole day to play with! In one such respect, this is quite awesome. As such, I’m going to try to make the most of tomorrow as I’ve stuff to do, photos to take, and art galleries to look at. In particular the Tate Modern has a new exhibition in the Turbine Hall that I’d like to take in.

And, of course, with work, comes the rampant consumerism. I tried. I really did try to not buy stuff. But I went a little mad. I caught up on my DVD acquisitions. And I bought Six Feet Under: The Complete First Series, Second Series, and Third. And then I bought Futurama, Season One. I know, I’m a sucker for DVD sales. And Sin City. And then, my Visa melted, and I was done for the day. And the day after, KT Tunstall, Eye to the Telescope and Takk…

And, of course, various gifts for various people. There were a few birthdays to cater for, and even a Mini Meet last weekend which went off rather well. And then I had a shite week and went shopping again, and chose to expand my wardrobe with a Sigur Rós Metal Sweatshirt. And a pin badge. And I think a new bag is in order tomorrow, too. Not sure what kind yet, however. Maybe some razor blades; it’s clean shaven or beardymat time again. Bah!

I swear, I’ll stop buying stuff soon. Honest.

Well. I also got a new Ericsson T39m in Ice Cap Blue. I really mean it this time; last thing I’m going to get this month. I think. Other than a new iPod because I’ve just sold my 20Gb 4th Gen Clickwheel. Oops.

No more stuff. Honest. But I did discover the joy of Dominos Online ordering earlier this month. I think it’s the best thing on the Internet in a damn long time. Not since I found Feng Sushi did online ordering and the spring rolls at Ned’s Noodle Bar have I been this impressed with anything I could order online with a Visa card. Apart from iTMS. Maybe.

Well, it arrived. A few days ago, in fact- I’ve just been waiting for Melissa to post about the 9500. My initial battle with HM Customs ended with me losing, poorly. To the tune of about $145 in Duty and VAT. But it was quite worth it. I have to say, this is the my most beautiful object I’ve ever seen. There’s something just so utterly simple and yet evocative about it; it’s like a giant black cucumber. But without the sexual innuendo. Almost. The sheer size gives an impression of it weighing about half a pound, but the resin it’s cast from is amazingly light. The filler system is so utterly simple to use but has gears and wheels embedded in the body so that when the back of the filler goes up, the plunger goes down. That means screwing it back down, ready to use is the action that fills the vast ink chamber inside. And the resin it’s cast from; it’s not black. It’s blood red. Hold it up to a strong light, and the edge of filler mechanism, the ink chamber and the cap explode with deep Shiraz tones; you could just drink it in. There’s even a an individual serial number laser-etched into the top of the cap clip.

Downsides, the Fine nib is still too wide for the feed, or the feed is too fast. With the standard Mont Blanc ink, the delivery is just a little too fast. Solution, get a narrower, EF (Extra Fine) nib, get a OM (Oblique Medium) nib, (both free under the initial Mont Blanc Nib Exchange Program) or, find thicker, non MB ink, which would kill my warranty.

But above all, it’s forced me to slow down my life; ditching the 9500 means I now write everything when on the move, not type. And that makes me think about what I take down. That’s not something I’ve done of late when typing, it just goes from sound to letters on the screen. When writing, everything has to be processed before my hand can even begin to manipulate the pen on paper. And on a commute in the morning, that’s awesome. Less time on IRC on the train, less GPRS data getting burned, and taking in more of the stuff around me. There’s so much stuff out in the world to be seen, and this helps me take notice.

And finally, some real pictures.