Today I gave my last tutorial of the year and brought home a heavy box of 3,000-word essays, which I have already begun to mark. This is one of the hinges of my year, as I move from a largely sedentary existence to an almost immobile one, and have to invent reasons to get up from my desk. If I'm not careful, a diet of marking, writing papers and applications, and similar opiates will seep by capillary action along all my neural pathways, leaving my mind dull and soggy to the touch. I begin to wish I'd booked to go to Eastercon (where half my friends list is evidently bound), but it was impossible for various practical reasons. I look forward to hearing all about it, anyway.
In this state of demi-torpor I watched television over dinner. On Just a Minute someone claimed that Mary Shelley was Percy's sister (surely that's deviation?). Then came Eggheads, in which Gertrude Stein was described as a travel writer. What was mass entertainment coming to? I was in danger of writing on the screen in red pen. But it was all made up for later, by a programme with wonderful shots of a recently-discovered young mammoth, resplendent with long strawberry-blond hair and orange highlights. Ah, there's a picture of it here.
And here, while I'm at it, is a portrait of Rudy Vallee by the infant Andy Warhol.