In the morning the BT engineer came and fitted our new- and costlier- hub. Now I can stream video without worrying about racking up extra fees.
I watched an hour or two of Murdoch's testimony to the Leveson Enquiry. He's a canny old bastard- carefully examining every question for concealed booby-traps before he answers. Every once in a long while there's a flash of the forked tongue.
Mike rang; Sue-Young's book is doing so well she's been commissioned to write another two.
In the afternoon Carl stopped by to show me his new camera; he wants me to teach him how to shoot architecture; I suppose I know a thing or two.
I finished Mary Renault's the Persian Boy. Now I know more than I did about Alexander the Great. Renault's Alexander is one of Kipling's idealized Indian Army subalterns plus hot boy-love. It's a book about Empire- why it seems like a good idea but actually ain't.
I watched the second episode of The Bridge on the BBC i-player. I find socially clueless Saga endearing; I suppose I identify with her.
Before turning in I read three short stories by Ambrose Bierce; they're punchy, but over-dependent on twists and last-minute reveals and technically clumsy. I don't think he wrote them to last.