July 2009
14 posts
“If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just...”
– Rudyard Kipling (from If…)
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The Bottom Billion
Falling Behind And Falling Apart
I’m currently have several books on the go, a rarity for me, and one of those I’m reading is Paul Collier’s The Bottom Billion - a fascinating insight into global poverty. One of my best friends, now working at the Commonwealth Development Corporation, recommended it to me and it has proved so far to be extremely interesting and also very...
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“Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them...”
– Voltaire
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Chester Good Grub Week
One of my company’s biggest projects is based in Chester, and with the roll-on, roll-off nature of consultancy projects, it’s fair to say that a lot of the company know Chester quite well. Towards the end of last year, the team who were working there came up with the Chester Good Grub Week, which looked like so:
Monday: The Faulkner, Hoole
Tuesday: Siam-Thai, City Road
Wednesday:...
“Every tribe and tongue and people and nation”
– The Book of Revelation
Hoppípolla is one of those songs that just makes me happy. Whatever mood I’m in, whatever I’m doing, it always makes me smile. In the same way, I find the same thing happens when I watch YouTube sensation Where the Hell is Matt? (below). It’s a gorgeous song (Praan by Garry Schyman), full of great locations and is really good at helping me recall all my fantastic travelling...
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Why did I call this blog Jumping in Puddles, you might be thinking. The answer is found in this four and half minutes of musical perfection. When you realise it’s about the simple joys of splashing around in puddles, the song becomes even more powerful and glorious. Take a listen.
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Hoppípolla by Sigur Rós
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“It is also a mistake to go to Central Australia to paint the Australian picture....”
– John Brack
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Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
— The Waste Land, T.S....
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