The Professor!

Today is the Good Professor Tolkien's 128th birthday. I have no idea if the hobbits would say "twelvity-eight" or "one-hundred and twenty-eight", but they would no doubt have been very respectful of his great age. As is usual, I spent the evening being a Tokienist:

Writing out Toasts and Playing with Sealing
Wax -- Please note the Tree of Gondor.

Getting Set Up for the Toast: Whisky, Toast
Picture, Candles, Sealing Wax and Seal.

Toasting the Professor-- Yes, I Have a Giant
Gondorian Flag Hanging Above My Table--
It Was a Gift and I Love It.

In honour of the Hobbits, who valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, I am posting the following Christmas song. I have heard this before, but always sung in a rather slow and stately fashion, or if it is a woman singer, with a tendency towards icy, ethereal tones. This version is both quicker than the average and the tune is slightly different, and it really reminds me of Hobbits. (It also reminds me of my family celebrating Christmas):

And, because it is Tolkien's birthday, and I found it, and I can't resist, here is a video in which an entire decade of the Rosary is said in Quenya. It helpfully provides the Quenya text in both Tengwar and in Latin letters, as well as the English:

Morse Code Day

Today is Morse Code Day, so called because it is the birthday of Samuel Morse, the code's inventor.

Today is also the day  in which I have come far closer than ever I have before, in achieving my lifelong ambition to learn Morse Code... Apparently, all that is necessary for me to learn something I've neglected for years, is to literally have nothing better to do with my time: in this case, it means having to work today 

Now, I did not want to work today. It has been a long and trying week for me, and had it not been for the fact that we were working with a skeleton crew, I might very well have just taken the day off, and given other people and their problems a very wide berth. As it is, I took my dismal self in, feeling mournful, and bleary around the edges, having rather given up on the day before it started.... And thanks be to God and all His little helpers, it was a slow day. Very slow. Time-slowing-until-it-is-meaningless slow. So I, in an effort to avoid a pathetic death from the mind-numbing boredom, snagged one of the business-sized Morse Code cheat-sheets I had made for the general consumption of the public, and began scribbling away... I am now surprisingly close to having the alphabet memorised. Not quite there yet. I have to look up Q, and X and Z. And it is a good idea to double check J and V. However, most of the rest of it is finally lodged in my brain, and I filled uncountable little scraps of paper with  things like this:

 ..    .-.. .. ..-. -    -- .. -. -   . -.-- . ...    ..- .--.    - ---    - .... .    -- --- .-- -. - .- -. ...   
..-. .-. --- --    .-- .... . -. -.-. .    -.-. --- -- . - ...    -- -.-- .... --- .--. .
( I lift mine eyes to the mountains, from whence cometh my hope)

--- .-.. -..    --- .-.. .. .--. .- -. -    .- --    ..  /  .... ..- --. .    --- .-.. -..   .- -. -..    - .- .-.. .-..
(Old oliphant am I / huge, old and tall)

-- .- .. .-. .   .. ....    -... --- .-. . -..
(Maire is bored)

You will observe the degradation of my mind as the long day progressed.

However, the result is that I am close to being able to write in Morse Code from memory. I am not sure if I can read it yet or not-- I am, after all, only re-reading what I have written myself at this point, and not sure if I could do it cold for anyone else. Furthermore, having learned what I learned on the fly at the front desk, between placating the irate woman who was furious that she could not turn the 400+ page PDF of the complete Mueller Report into a word document that she could email to herself, so as to be able to read at her leisure on her internet-less home computer, and chasing the 50 year old guy downloading the latest World of Warcraft game pack, out of the Children's section, I clearly have no had the opportunity to harken to dits and dahs whilst I am writing them, and therefore can neither send nor receive code yet. However, with the exception of hardly used letters, I have done considerably better  with it today, than any other time in these last 40 years.

Probably the first time I ever heard Morse Code was in Disney's rather scary short, Little Toot, where it makes several appearances, the most notable being when Little Toot sends the SOS both visually, through his smoke stack, and audibly, with his horn. (Just a side note: kids these days are soft-- all they get to watch are positive, educational cartoons, full of affirmations. None of them suffer from the sympathetic trauma of watching claw-armed buoys menace Little Toot!) For those as do not want to watch the full thing, skipping to 5:20 will allow you to see and here the SOS as Little Toot steams to the rescue:

Speaking of SOS, once you've heard it... well, golly, you've got it down by heart. Everyone knows what an SOS sounds like, and it shows up a lot. For example, just listen to what the music is doing in this scene from the first episode of I Dream of Genie. Or in the introduction to this song.

Apparently, embedding Morse Code into songs is A Thing.

And you can even learn how to write it into music yourself. Just check out this dandy website.

Perhaps the most remarkable use of the hidden code is in this story, of how the Colombian government communicated with POWs through a pop song.

However, my current favourite use of Morse Code in music-- and the thing that is the current impetus for my renewed interest in the subject-- is how it is woven into this gorgeous theme song, the theme from Inspector Morse as well as a new prequel, Endeavour.... It spells out the name Morse:

I Give You This Toast: "To the Hobbits!"

"May they outlast the Sarumans and see spring again in the trees." (Tolkien's toast at the Hobbit Dinner in Rotterdam, March 28th, 1958.)

Today is the birthday of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and as all good Tolkienists do, I celebrated with right good cheer. I prepared a most satisfactory, and hobbit-like repast of sausage and mushrooms, which I consumed while listening to music inspired by the Professor's subcreation. More to the point, in a couple of hours, I shall join legions of Tolkien admirers around the world by standing up at 9 pm, raising a cup of cheer (in my case, Talisker) and saying with great enthusiasm "To the Professor!"

In honour of the great philologist, philosopher and subcreator, you get the following Christmas song, which I am ridiculously pleased to be posting. Several years ago, when I first discovered Tolkien's poem, Noel, I posted it on my blog with the comment, "it seems the sort of thing that ought be set to melody, and sung by people who are glad to sing and do so heartily." And lo and behold, when I did my daily searching after songs, I found that people who are glad to sing, did indeed set it to song, and here it is:

Yes, yes, it is in Polish, and they use the introductory preamble from Peter Jackson's Fellowship of the Ring to start it out, but it actually sort of works, and it is quite a hearty rendition of the poem. I rather love it..... it rather made me cry. (The disclaimer is that I am inclined to happy tears these days. No reason. I just am. It is rather novel after years of not doing that....me that always cried in deep emotion.)

And for those of you who would prefer a more traditional Christmas tune for the day (sure and I don't blame you) here's The Boar's Head Carol, because it is associated with Oxford, and what could be more hobbit-like than a carol about a procession of food?

A Story for Halloween

I Shall Not Be Afraid of the Terror that Walketh About in the Night

She knew what they would discuss that night at the meeting. Her husband, dead, after so short a marriage, their child, stillborn a month before its time. She thought of the tiny, perfect body she had delivered, so like John in feature. The child haunted her dreams.

There was gossip of course. There was always gossip. Noverton was built in the wilderness, and the forest pressed close against it. During the bright summer months, this gave the village a sense of protection, but once the glory of autumn was spent, the trees turned to skeletons of themselves, they began to feel trapped by the long, bare branches, the dark shadows, and the impenetrable depth of the forest. The terrors of the Old World could be banished to a small wood, easily traversed. Here they crawled out of the dark, cried from a wilderness no man could plumb, tapped like fingers upon doors and windows.  Night fell early, and the minister thundered atonement. The villagers barred their doors, lit fires to banish fear, as well as chill.

And they talked. And talked.

She pulled on the cloak, newly dyed, to befit her widowhood. Black had never suited her, and now that grief had left its mark, it made her look eldritch. The cupped light caught at the harsh planes of her face. The window gave back the reflection of a hollow-eyed creature. She did not blame her neighbours for their whispering.

"The handsomest man in the settlement, to marry a thing like that, and willingly?"

"It was witchcraft, surely. That's how she got him. He'd not have looked at her, else."

"And the child the price of it, like as not."

She took the turnip lantern into her hands, and straightened herself with a shiver.  She knew what they would discuss tonight, and she only prayed God she'd have the strength to bear it, to live up to John’s pride in her.

John....

She did not blame them for gossiping. She did not know why he had loved her any better than they did. But he had. She went out, brokenhearted.

A cold wind chased faded leaves across the stone path.  Daylight was already failing, the dimness made dimmer still by the fog.  Their home-- the home she had helped John to build—lay hard upon the forest. She paused, halfway between her house and the gate. The trees seemed terribly close, the fog walling her off from the world of living things.

A dry rattling sounded from the bare branches. An ancient raven stared down at her. Ravens perched in the trees to either side of him. She glanced around. There were, indeed, ravens in every tree. Save for the sound that had drawn her attention, they were silent. And watchful.

The wind had died utterly, and there was no sound, no movement of air. What were ravens, after all? Or fog or dark? She had more to fear from her neighbours than these lesser creatures of God. She walked on, ringed by fog, and ravens flitting from tree to tree, so that she was never free of their circling.

And then he was walking towards her, a man in black. He wore John's face and form. He walked with the jaunty step that set John apart, in a way that even the comeliness of his face did not. He spoke her name, and her heart leapt to hear John's voice. But the feeling coming from him was not the feeling that came from John. She crossed herself as if she were as papist as the Irish, though she knew such a thing would scandalise her neighbours. He stopped and they looked at each other.

"They have not been kind to you."

"No." she answered John's voice.

"And they will name you a witch tonight, in spite of your sorrow."

She fully expected that, and met his eyes without flinching.

"Come."

He held out a hand, and light danced from it. She saw John in his shirt sleeves, smiling down at her, their child bouncing upon her hip, smelled sawdust, the smoke of cooking, felt the warmth of her child, the taste of his mouth on hers.

"No."

The light was gone. The twilight world of fog was all that remained, with black ravens circling restlessly, black, bare trees, and this man who was not John.

He touched her mind, and she saw all that he offered--riches beyond count, honour, ease and pleasures such as no man of earth could ever supply. She was stunned by hunger for so many precious things.

"No."

"They will burn you."

"They may. Or they may not. It will be as God wills. But I would die alone, the woman John loves, rather than go with his counterfeit."

Fire leapt into his face then, and he moved towards her. The great, ancient raven gave a cry and the flock flew up with a noise like thunder. Not-John shredded like smoke, before the storm of their wings. She threw the cloak up over her face, while the world flew to pieces around her.

Then all was still and she looked out on world, emptied of its terrors, with stars were just kindling in the evening sky. She went on her way, the ravens wheeling still around her, and she was comforted.

 They did not, after all, bring a charge of witchcraft against her. There were some, afterwards, who swore to an angel beside her, with a sword of fire in his hand. Others said it was not an angel, but John, with the light of blessedness upon his face. None had the courage to speak, nor to accuse.

The meeting ran short, and when it had ended, they scattered to their homes, ashamed, as men who have been judged, and found wanting.

World Poetry Day

Today is the feast day of St. Benedict-- the holy hermit, who became the founder of Western Monasticism, the man who saved civilisation by running away from it. I ought, in very truth, to be doing a post on himself, especially as I am intrinsically in sympathy with such an approach towards a decadent era. However, I have put it off too long, and cannot write a post worthy of such a saint at this late date. Instead, I draw your attention to the fact that it is World Poetry Day.

Generally speaking, a holiday established by UNESCO would not normally top my list of things to celebrate, however, if you indulge me in a quote from their website, as to why they promote such a thing:

"The observance of World Poetry Day is also meant to encourage a return to the oral tradition of poetry recitals, to promote the teaching of poetry, to restore a dialogue between poetry and the other arts such as theatre, dance, music and painting, and to support small publishers and create an attractive image of poetry in the media, so that the art of poetry will no longer be considered an outdated form of art, but one which enables society as a whole to regain and assert its identity."

That is all very much to the good, and I cannot help but applaud and advocate such an approach to poetry, and publishing. And so, purely in the interest of treating poetry as a not outdated art form, I present the most recent of my efforts:

No storms won through the Door of Storms.

Long we had languished for want of snow,

For want of rain, for touch of wet:

The wetless winter had run too warm.

Too warm the all too golden the sun

On foothills, withered, blanched of green,

And snowless mountains, dried to stone,

while whiteless winter days ran on.

And we whispered, in dread, of drought.

Thirsted for winter, for bright of frost,

For fall of dew, and blessed wet,

While fronts of weather faded out.

We prayed, though foolish hope ran low

Until, in pity for our thirst,

And snowless mountains and withered hills,

God moved His hand, and sent us snow. 

I am strongly of the opinion that poems should stand on their own two feet, nor require explanation. However, given that the majority of the country-- and, indeed, a good deal of the Western Hemisphere-- has suffered a long and bitter winter season, this praise of late snow might seem odd. However, here on the West Coast, and most particularly in California, there was mostly no winter to speak of. The weather was appallingly warm. Storm after storm hit the ridge off the coast, and shot north or south, leaving us high and dry. We had suffered through five years of severe drought, thankfully ended by a good, wet winter last year, so the extended perioud of warm, dry weather reawakened the fear of its return.

And then, March came. And so, at long last, did rain and snow. We have had several large storms, and a surprising amount of snow for so late in the year. It might not quite be a miracle March, but it is close enough that people are trotting the phrase out. I flatly refuse to call the poem Miracle March, but I was hoping to get a sense of reprieve that.

Long time readers of this blog (bless you for your tenacity) will not be surprised to see that I am once again marking a somewhat esoteric observance on this blog. They will also remember (those of them who are blessed with long memories, unlike your humble servant here) that I have a fondness for fountain pens, which makes this particular bit of esoteria even better a fit than usual.

 I write predominantly with a fountain pen - this pen here, to be exact:

A Shaeffer Tuckaway, shown with a bottle of my ink of choice, Hero blue-black ink. 

But while that is my go-to pen, I have a small collection of fountain pens going for me:

So there you see the Tucky at the bottom. Then there's a black disposable fountain pen, which can actually be reused if you gently pull the nib part off and fill the barrel with ink. Behind them are a couple of modern pens which use cartridges rather than bottled ink. They are handy for travelling. Lastly, there is the steady and reliable calligraphy pen. When I was learning calligraphy, I used these sorts of cartridge pens, with their interchangeable nib sizes. They're a great learning tool, and I still use them to play around with and learn new styles. (Most of my calligraphy these days, however, is mostly done using a dip pen.) At present, I own two different bottles of ink. There is the blue-black ink, which is grand for daily work, laying down as it does, a fine, dark line, with just enough blue in it to give it personality. The other is a German ink. The label reads: Türkisgrüne Tinte, Waltraüd Bethge Papiere, Hamburg. It is a cool bottle. It even has a place for you to lay the pen after you've soaked up ink into it:

Green - even if it goes by the impressive sobriquet of "Turkish Green", is not a very versatile colour, so I use that mostly for playing around with, and even that is not frequent. 

So. What, exactly does one do with the totally fancy fountain pen? Well, I don't know what other people do, but I use mine for the same sort of every-day tasks one would use a regular pen for. I take it to work. I write notes with it. I write letters with it. I doodle with it.... I doodle a lot with it. Because, use see, there is something wonderfully tactile in the using of wet ink in metal nibs. It goes on with a deep, mysterious gleam, pooling for just a moment, a living wet line, full of magic, before it allows the fibers of the paper to draw it in. Even the fines points (and I prefer a fine tip on my pen) will lay down a much wetter line than any other pen, even fine, inky drawing pens. It gives personality to the writing, and particularly to the drawing. So when I've a moment or two, and have nothing else to do (even, mea culpa when I am at work) I doodle.

Sometimes it is just goofy things, featuring anything from demure birds to bowling skeletons:

Sometimes, it is get well doodles for a friend who is fond of Halloween, when that friend is feeling somewhat under the weather:

Sometimes, I decide to do quotes. I get all fancy and calligraphy-ee about my quotes:

(Sometimes, when I get all fancy and calligrahy-ee, my camera refuses to take a decent picture. This is disheartening.)

Sometimes, I have delusions of grandeur and attempt something splendid, such as this picture of Sir Gawain and a hawk, which I proudly named, "The Two Hawks" (Gawain's name meaning 'hawk', you see.)

(Sometimes I remember that there are filters on my cheap little camera phone, and I use them to take sepia colours of my art. This is a fountain pen and pencil sketch.)

Occasionally, my ambitious ideas actually work rather better than I expected:

(That is fountain pen for the most part, with a bit of gold gel pen for accent. I am contemplating making business card out of that one.)

I also have an odd habit of sticking fountain pens in my hair - an unhappy side effect of the fact that women's clothing so seldomly is designed with pockets. This is unfortunate, as I am often distracted, and tend to leave things lying about - I have lost fountain pens that way in the past. As a result, I just ended up sticking the thing into my hair, to keep from mislaying it:

There. I have laid my nerdiness bare before you. Judge not too harshly. Nor mind the rather grainy quality of the pictures. It is not always so easy to take photographs with a flip-phone camera as one could wish. 

In Keeping With The Middle Earth Theme

Happy Hobbit Day!

Today is the birthday of that most estimable hobbit, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and of his equally redoubtable nephew, Master Frodo:

It is also Hobbit Day, and - this year at any rate - the first day of Tolkien Week. The actually dates of Tolkien Week vary from year to year, but it is always the week that encompasses the twenty-second. Of course, a great Tolkien fan, such as yours truly, cannot let so auspicious a celebration go by without marking it, so I present to all of you, this recording of J.R.R Tolkien reading aloud Riddles in the Dark from The Hobbit. 

The story behind the recording is rather interesting. In 1952, Tolkien recorded a series of excerpts from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Ring. This was before The Lord of the Rings had even been published, and the poor man was getting quite discouraged about his book. His good friend, George Sayer, came up with the idea, and the amateur recordings were made in George's own study. Tolkien notes in on of his Letters, that he was favourably impress by them, and it went a long way to restoring his confidence in the stories. (All struggling writers should take The Good Professor as an inspiration. He re-wrote The Lord of the Rings at least twice, struggled with his plot, got side-tracked by research on such matters as moon phases, and how to roast rabbit, was confronted with characters he liked, but wanted to go away, as they were holding up the narrative. It took him 10 years to finish the thing, but what a tremendous finish it was!)

Border Tart

Among the things I did over the last couple months which I meant to blog about, but never got around to, was the celebration I had for White Rose Day. I bought white roses for my table, broke my fast on tea and scones, with clotted cream. (The clotted cream was a huge treat. I had only ever eaten it in Scotland, because I could not find it here. But it turned up on the shelves of the local Grocery Outlet, and I pounced on it with glee and jubilation.) For dinner, I cooked up a bit of haggis, neeps, tatties, and a wee bit of steak in case the company I invited (in this case, my brother and several sisters.) did not enjoy the great chieftain o' the puddin' race. Fortunately, most of them like it quite well, and those who were not crazy about it, did not dislike it, and so it was eaten entirely. We finished with the customary toast to the King Over the Water - a neat little ceremony. One simply raises one's glass, says, "To the King!" and passes the glass over a cup of water before taking a sip from it. It was a lovely day.

For dessert, there was a border tart. I got the recipe out of a really beautiful cookbook which I received a couple years back, for Christmas. Scottish Heritage Food and Cooking it is called, a beautiful book, full of pictures. Some of the recipes are a bit hoity-toity (and one calls for avocado which is most emphatically not Scottish.) Still, there are a sufficient number of quite manageable dishes, so I have enjoyed trying my hand at the occasional recipe. It is this book right here:

THE RECIPE:

The Auld Alliance crust is probably the best and easiest pie crust recipe I have ever come across: Cream together 10 tbsp butter and 1/4 cup sugar. Add 2 cups flour and 1 egg. Mix until just combined - do not over-work the dough. Be lazy with it! Chill dough until ready to use. It is light, flaky, and very tasty. I shall never use another pie crust recipe again. 

I did make a few changes to the filling. I could not find currents anywhere. Perhaps I am looking in all the wrong places. Perhaps there just is not a great demand for currants in my neck of the woods. I used raisin instead, and it tasted just dandy. Even the sister who does not like raisin agreed that they are good in this recipe. And, for some reason, I had an excess of almonds when I set out a-baking, so there were almonds as well as walnuts in the tart. 

Here I am, setting the tart out to cool. Yes, I really am wearing an apron that looks like a kilt with a sporran and Prince Charlie Jacket. It was the gift of a cousin who knows me well. The sporran is actually a pocket.

And here we have the finished tart, in all its glory. It tasted as good as it looks, and it is so very easy to make:

As a side note: this is also a very versatile recipe. You may use just about any sort of nut and dried fruit mixture that strikes your fancy, and it still turns out quite nicely. I know. I've been experimenting. It is wonderful when it is still warm from the oven, and it is also very nice the next day, taken cold. It is the ideal dish to take to a dinner or a pot luck, because it looks like farm more work than it is :-)

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is rather a big deal for me. That is partly because I am quite a traditionalist and a proper observance of Memorial Day is rich in solemnity and ceremony, which I find both beautiful and satisfying. It is partly because there is enough history associated with the day, to delight the amateur historian in me. It is partly because I consider myself something of a soldier as well - albeit, a Soldier of Christ, so I find a great deal of inspiration in a day dedicated to honouring courage and sacrifice. But it is mostly because my little band has played for the Memorial Day service here in town, for as long as we have been a band. We get ourselves all brawly kilted out, with shined-up brogues, and (since Memorial Day weekend tends to be the last hurrah of winter here) our green military sweaters. We look very sharp and fine, since my pipey is a former Marine and has definite views on how to conduct one's self at formal occasions like this. It is grand, and I love being a part of the ceremony. It is, hands-down, my favourite gig all year. 

Normally, I would post a video of a bugler playing Taps or The Last Post or something along those lines, to mark Memorial Day. But Mark Knopfler wrote a really great song called Piper to the End which seems very suitable, so I am post that instead.

May the Fourth Be With You

So, I shall be honest. I cannot rightly say that I particularly care about Star Wars. I enjoyed the first one well enough - as in, the very first Star Wars ever produced, not that dreadful prequel thing that is now the first in the series - but my reception to the rest of them was fairly tepid. However, thanks to a smarty co-worker, I discovered that today is Star Wars Day... or, to be more accurate, May the Fourth Be With You Day. Yes, you may all groan with dismay at the level of punning to which we have stooped. I do not intend to do anything particular to celebrate, but it seemed and excellent opportunity to post this clever video by The Piano Guys:

And Now... a Public Service Announcement

This is Yoyo and Skill Toy Weekend! Brownielocks's website says so, and while a quick browse about the World Wide Internet Computer Web (kudos to whoever catches the quote) does not readily turn up verification of the celebration, there do seem to be an awful lot of yoyo competitions occurring this weekend; so, unless yoyoers are over-achievers, who have competitions most weekends, I am going to take it as circumstancial collaboration. Therefore, if you are in possession of one of these:

or one of these:

these:

these:

or these:

Get them out, because now is your chance to impress your friends-and-relations... or at least, provide them with some solid entertainment...What is that you say? You have no skill with skill toys? Fear not, today is also Scrabble Day. And tomorrow is International Moment of Laughter Day - "My dear chap, I never would have dreamt of depriving you of your moment of laughter. Alas, a moment was all I could spare."

And Today Is...

St. Valentine's Day. Yes, we all know that, but fear not. I am not doing a post on the well known holiday. Do I seem the sort to be doing hearts-and-roses posts? No, no. I am presenting the following list of disparate observances also held upon this estimable date:

 - Ferris Wheel Day: Today is the 154th birthday of George Ferris, the inventor of the famous fairground ride - which, incidentally, is not news to anyone who has observed today's Google Doodle. Since I had planned on mentioning this before Google stole my thunder, I am going ahead as planned, and those of you who missed the Doodle now have a brand new bit of trivia to share with your family, friends and co-workers. You're welcome.



image from gifbites.com

 - Pet Theft Awareness Day: Yes, that really is an official observance.  I do not know who thought Valentine's Day a perfect match for this day. If you are lucky enough to have a One True Love with whom to share the day, I can think of few things that would kill the romantic atmosphere quicker than having someone ask you if you were aware of pet theft and send you to the website provided in the link above. And if you are not lucky enough to have a One True Love, and this lack rankles a bit, there is nothing like learning all about pet theft to complete your feeling of loss.



  - World Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day: In case Pet Theft Awareness Day was not enough to cause February 14th to be a day of depression, it is also a day on which to contemplate heart defects. I suppose there is an ironic logic to it, but still, it sort of takes the fun out of champagne and chocolate, doesn't it?

image from iconbug.com



 - League of Women Voters Day: Just because. I cannot think of any reason at all for such a thing to be celebrated today. I consider voting to be an arduous duty at the best of times, so I cannot imagine being part of a league of voters of any sort, unless it was reluctant voters. Still, if chocolate, Ferris wheels, stolen pets, and bad hearts aren't your thing, it is good to know there is another way to spend the day:

 

 - Library Lovers' Day: Hurrah! Finally, a celebration for me! If it were not already Lent, I would have chocolate and champagne and read a good book to mark this auspicious occasion. Since the penitential season is on us, however, I shall just make do with a good book, taken from my personal library, and I shall love it.



image from danielmatsui.com