Not reading books

Not reading books is a talent I need to cultivate. Especially with non-fiction, I have a tendency to pick up a book that looks as if it might be interesting, and then keep picking it up and reading a bit more, even though I've realized it's not actually that interesting and I could use my time more constructively (or enjoyably) doing something else. I am doing this with "Hating America" at the moment: I guess that, like Winnie-the-Pooh with a jar of honey, I am making quite sure that it is the same all the way to the bottom, and faintly hoping that the last section (on the most modern period) might have a bit more interest. I may find myself doing the same with "Emergence": books about things like complexity and game theory always have that patina of boringness, with the use of small line drawings to illustrate concepts which are either incomprehensible anyway or blindingly obvious. It's partly to do with the nature of the detail: if you're interested in emergence in the evolution of the biosphere, a disquisition on checkers-playing computers is simply an irritation.

Who needs people when you've got books?

The latest plan for the reorganization of the house involves the removal of the guest double bed in favour of a pair of single beds which stack one below the other. One of these is currently under our bed, the other in the study. This will free up the space under our bed for boxes of books, and a whole wall of the study will become available for bookcases full of books. Future guests must reconcile themselves to a slightly less comfortable bed, but a more accessible collection of reading matter. I think that's a fair compromise!

Further Steps

Further steps have been taken by the Squirmle: he is now capable of walking the length of the kitchen by himself. He is also capable of climbing up the stairs (though not down). I discovered this a couple of weeks ago. Having nipped upstairs for something, I watched from the top as he boldly set out from the bottom. I knew he could manage a couple of steps, but he was two thirds of the way up before he stopped and looked up to grin. His next move, I suspected, would be to stand up, and then sit down in mid air. Hoping to avert this catastrophe, I stretched down and took his hand. I then had to keep hold of him while getting down below him, which meant worming down the stairs on my stomach and then turning round, an exercise both inelegant and uncomfortable. He is now barred from the front hall by a gate in the kitchen doorway and a closed door to the living room.

Busy, busy, busy

Too busy to blog for a while, mainly because of trying to do some DIY and sort out a lot of workmen. Had to clear much of a house, which involved about half a dozen trips to the dump in the trusty Morris Traveller.

We spent a week in Bunessan on the Isle of Mull, and had a mainly excellent holiday. The Squirmle did throw up on the Iona ferry, while I was carrying him in a backpack, so that caused a bit of fuss as both of us needed wiping down when we got there. Still made it to the morning service at the Abbey, though. The Squirmle rapidly discovered that abbeys have great acoustics, so I walked around the cloister while K stayed in the service. He passed through a brief period of heptodonty during the week, and finished up a fully toothed octodont.

Reading time

Fitting books into my life has never seemed trickier, but I'm managing to get some reading done. A little parental neglect over the past couple of days has enabled me to get through the pleasant if underwhelming Prelude to Foundation by Asimov, and putting The Small World of Fred Hoyle into the loobry enabled me to get through that in less than a week. The latter is one of those few books in which I have made pencil marks in the margin, finding several short passages worthy of noting, but not intending to hang on to the book in the long term. The plan is to type the notable bits into the laptop and then pass the book on. When I will get time for this I can't imagine...

Upstanding citizen

Standing up has become the Squirmle's favourite amusement. He has now graduated to scaling the sheer sides of pieces of furniture, including the coffee table and the fridge. He can also walk practically the full length of the kitchen when held up by both hands. The vinyl is rather slippery, but his habit of removing his socks at almost every opportunity makes progress possible.

For the first time, he has shown interest in his "Baby Einstein" video. To prevent him from standing up two inches from the screen and trying to touch the pictures, I have wedged a baby walker in front of the TV, so he can stand and watch at a more reasonable distance. (I still don't see the point of much of the video: why, when a voice is heard counting to twenty in some language or other, do we see a hand slowly moving four or five objects?)

We went in the garden this week, as the weather was (at last) just warm enough. When first placed on the lawn several weeks ago, he screamed, apparently at the unfamiliar cold green furry surface: this time, exploring from the safety of the picnic rug, he seemed unconcerned.

Onwards to Summer, Backwards to Winter

Exmoor in April can be a welcoming place, if the sun shines. Last week, fortunately, it did. We raided the bookshop at Dulverton (mostly for Buchan), walked (briefly) on Dunster Beach, and took a more extended walk through the fields and woods between the ancient clapperbridge at Tarr Steps and the pretty hamlet of Hawkridge. This was the first major outing for the Squirmle in his backpack, an unwieldy rucksack-like frame giving him a splendid vantage point from which to pull his parent's hair, or to challenge his bearer's equilibrium by writhing uncontrollably with delight at the approach of a dog.

My cottage pie was a success, though I had not planned to make so much that it could provide meals for five more people when reheated! So thanks to Delia, even if she has since betrayed us by failing to support cruelty-free poultry farming.

I thought I had better take Lorna Doone as my holiday reading, since I have never read it and it is set in Exmoor. I have not yet got halfway through it: the sheer amount of verbiage is stunning, and I am not surprised that publishers have sought to abridge the book. Almost a whole page simply details the effect of the east wind on a fruit tree in the garden!

Our return home was marked with a fall of snow, which produced a winter wonderland on Sunday morning. Having at last planted my much-anticipated quince tree less than a fortnight ago, I thought that I had better tap it gently to reduce the amount of snow on its freshly opening leaf-buds.