Watching My Fair Lady in 4K Dolby Vision.
The pictures are every bit the equal of the sound.
Stanley Holloway’s With A Little Bit Of Luck is poor advice convincingly delivered.
A man was made to help support his children
Which is the right and proper thing to do
A man was made to help support his children
But, with a little bit of luck, with a little bit of luck
They’ll go out and start supporting you
COVID protocols make tipping fun; there’s no guarantees who will actually line up on game day.
Must make coaching and training even more interesting.
AFL is shaking down into shape. Looks as if a couple of teams have slipped, so it’s hard to tell if others have improved or not.
(Draws count as correct)
NRL (last round 5/8; season tally 15/24)
Gold Coast
Cronulla
Penrith
Brisbane
Manly
Easts
Melbourne
Paramatta
AFL (let round 4/9; season tally 11/9)
Sydney
Melbourne
Port Adelaide
Gold Coast
Geelong
Brisbane
Carlton
Richmond
Fremantle
Nearer My God To Thee by Crystal Gayle.
Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone,
Yet in my dreams I’d be
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee!
The dead are always there, but the brightness of life obscures our perception of them. We don’t forget, but they are on the periphery of our consciousness – life takes our focus in so many other directions.
But then darkness comes, and the dead come to mind. Memories arise again and again.
In the darkness we recognise the dead are here, and that our lives are lived until the time we join them.
And until the time when death is abolished.
We are surrounded by death. As we walk through the grasslands of life it lurks everywhere – behind, to the left, to the right, ahead, everywhere in the swaying grass. Before, I saw it only here and there. The light was too bright. Here in this dim light the dead show up: teachers, colleagues, the children of friends, aunts, uncles, mother, father, the composers whose music I hear, the philosophers whose texts I read, the carpenters whose houses I live in. All around me are the traces and memories of the dead. We live among the dead, until we join them.
Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament For A Son, Spire 1989, pg. 79
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