alexist

Today was singularly uninteresting. I got 2 books for the flight. London Transport fucked with me again: I waited for the Charing Cross train, only for it to terminate at Euston. Bank branch no less. Mrph. On the way home, it was Edgware, Edgware, Mill Hill East. I changed at Camden. (I dislike doing this on the southbound service for 2 reasons: 1, the southbound change involves going up and down stairs, and two, it generally guarantees that I will stand from Camden on.)

Ironically they were giving out customer surveys at the station today. Shame they didn't have any questions about the quality of the service--they were just surveying the types of journeys made and when.

I've done some book tidying and put away the piles that seem to accumulate (particularly next to the bed).

This week's New Yorker is excellent. There's a very engrossing, and very long (23 pages, no ads, some cartoons) on a trip to the Amazon to discover the fate of Percy Fawcett, an explorer who disappeared in 1925 while trying to find a mythical city.

I love the New Yorker; shame about the price here (£3.95), which is why I don't always buy it. (That, and it involves going into central London to find a bookshop/newsagent selling foreign magazines, such as Borders.) I could get a year's subscription for $112, but it's international surface mail; I'd never get it in time to vote in the cartoon caption contest. Mind you, I never think of good captions to send in. (There's 2 parts, one where everyone sends in their captions, and the 2nd, where you get to vote on the top 3 as chosen by the staff.)