If you tell enough stories, perhaps the moral will show up.


Avoiding the Issues

I ought to write about Conficker. The Dear knows I've stuck my neck out on that one, pre-emptively saying that we weren't vulnerable to a large-scale infection. But I already did, and the fear I felt then made me patch then, and that's why I'm moderately sanguine now.
I ought to write about the City, and the limited scope for information security if the information guarded loses its value in an afternoon. But what do I know?
And I ought to write about the more mad son, who is doing such stuff lately.

I'm going to write about the sky.

Yesterday morning, it rained so hard that my coat pockets flooded with rain running down the sleeves I'd tucked into them. If you were waiting in a platform shelter for the Cannon Street service at about ten to seven, and you saw a man hoicking up the skirts of his coat to pour water out of waxed patch pockets, that was me.

By the time I got back, in the dark again, the sky had cleared. I crossed the railway, went down the steps, and found myself stepping into water. I know that path and I know the floods so I walked into the spinney transformed into a river bed. The fields on the other side of the bridge were flooded out -- great smooth sheets shining in starlight. To the right, Venus decorated the old lady's land. On my left, a perfect reflection of Sirius and Orion. In the zenith, I counted six Pleiades.

When the path faded, the wading got deeper for a while, and I was trudging through the broad lay under that glossy, freezing, sky. As I looked up, a big orange meteor tore off Orion's belt and flashed twice as it headed straight down into the SE horizon.

Quite a night.

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