Do you know that you can’t play football on the beach over the weekend any more, not even on Fridays? There’s no problem with frisbees, cricket or volleyball, but football is simply not allowed – and I suppose neither is rugby. You know, the beach used to be like the golden age of Man: written law was needless where none oppressed, the law of Man written in our breasts. The one last bastion of freedom, where you could do almost anything you want. Now, it’s like any other place, encumbered by meaningless laws, unwritten and enforced by megaphone and wooden stick.
I would be incensed if it weren’t for the fact that now I have to drive just a further 3km. While on driving, my attempts to emulate hypermilers has led to partial results – I think I get something like a kilometre or more per litre out of the car. Must work on the gear shifting, but this old vehicle jumps even when you’re in the same gear. It’s embarrassing.
There are funny films. I like them. I saw one today: Death at a Funeral. Worth the rent.