Such pretty words

In The Grass Harp, Truman Capote conjures a little girl who calls herself Texaco Gasoline, "because they were such pretty words."

Sometimes, words are pretty. They feel good in the mind, in our ears, on our tongues.

For me, one of those words—on a par, I think, with Texaco Gasoline for mundanity—is telephone.

To think of the thing in my pocket taking the same name as an object that sat in small squadrons on office desks the size of tennis courts, with rotary dials, multi-coloured so you knew which one was for what, is crazy. To call the thing in my pocket by the same word as something with two horns attached to walls in English manor houses, which would connect you to an operator, is equally crazy.

The word telephone is so much more indulgent than the clipped, expedient, modern "phone". Telephone is luxuriant. Telephone takes time to say and to listen to. Three glorious syllables, which I like to draw out, instead of one.

Grown adults snigger when I call my phone a telephone. Friends chuckle. It's just a phone! Right?

Well, shorter isn't always better. And telephone is such a pretty word.

Unintelligible

Today's incredulousness is brought to you by a major web brand:

What's the problem? The dulled out scribble beside the Live Chat alert, friend. Can you read it? I couldn't, and it doesn't get any bigger when you enlarge the text.

Beige on beige tinytext. I'll keep that little gem in mind for the next time I don't want to communicate something.

Resolution

My professional New Year's resolution is pretty simple:

Don't write anything you don't want to read.

This could be rewritten as "Don't write anything you don't want to", but I think the extra word will add validity in the face of crushing, soul-destroying client requests which, though they're few and far between these days, do still come in occasionally.

The precipitate of those final weeks prior to Christmas, this resolution feels useful. While I'm hardly a literary snob, there's a fair bit I don't want to read. Fortunately, most of it is actually dross.

This is writing

These days, the only "me-time" I get is after 1am. Which is saying something, given that I live alone. And that I'm on the bus at 6.30.

The only way I eventually get to sleep is two shots of rum, drunk with determination and in quick succession, straight from the jigger in the dim-lit pantry while the warm breeze teases the Blackwood by the window.

[promised]

[had promised myself something good would happen.

I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.

I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good would happen.
I had promised myself something good]

A book for the bath

I don't know why more people don't own baths, or take them.

Baths are the business. The problem, though, is not which cocktail to take in with you, or even how long to loll about.

The problem is which book to take in.

Bath books need to be a bit like airport novels: easy to read, with plenty of break points, but well written, engaging, entertaining, intriguing.

Recently, I solved this dilemma with a little number I bought earlier in the year, at City Lights.

Ladies of the Field is a delight. Others of my acquaintance were disappointed by the lack of backstory it contains, and the broad brushstroke approach to what could most certainly have been piercing, true-to-life encounters with dead pioneers of the field.

And to be fair, the book most definitely tends more toward feminist yarns than historically accurate biography, and I'd have to describe the chapters as "vignettes" of Victorian lady archaeologists. If you're hungry for facts, dates and times, this isn't the book for you.

If, however, you're more interested in being inspired by ripping tales of women who dug shit up in "olden" times, before motorised transport, Thinsulate or malaria drugs, and you want to read about it all in the bath, then trust me: this is the book for you.

Calling all Hipsters...

I literally couldn't believe the obvious targeting when I saw this on the ABC News homepage, so I thought I'd better document it here for posterity. 

Let me paraphrase this message for you:

Like news? Like Instagram? Like being a dork because it's hot right now? Follow us, first-world slacktivists!*

*If you're thinking, Geez, that's a bit harsh, you wouldn't be the first person to say so. I've heard it before.