Yo! A hearty diarytripal welcome to 2002, powered by the Kodaly quartet playing Haydn's random string quartet no 1, with Goldfrapp for dessert.
It has been a wonderful break - enforced by the generous and fortuitous absence of suitable telephone sockets in my mid Wales retreat. If such an absence did not exist, they would have to invent it.
So what of 2002? I know not, except that, as "1066 and all that" might have put it "it will be a good year". I sense it in my bones, and the twitching of my pendulum.
Point of minor interest : I discovered yesterday that Punk comes from the same small village as JK Rowling, Tutshill, Glos. Two literary geniuses (genii?) living within a few doors of each other for some fourteen years. And never meeting. Only in England!
Which, moving associationally along, brings me to Jeremy Paxman's book "The English", a Christmas gift which I read, most appropriately, while surrounding entirely by Welshmen. I heartily recommend it to anyone wishing to better understand this rare and dying breed, to which, for some reason I seem determined to belong.
2002. Yes yes yes. Bring on the dancing girls.
"Everything we are is revealed in our playing."
