Stepford Wives...on holiday

Ahhh... I don't have to go to work for 11 whole days.

The happiness this is causing is immense. Even though I'm not strictly speaking 'going on holiday'.

No. Instead, while temperatures outside have reached 21 degrees, I am inside on the Intermanet, composing a video review of the Chronicles of the Kencyrath and freaking out about wasps.

Also, I read The Stepford Wives. I love how it's short. It seems like nobody is allowed to publish short novels any more. Everything has to be at least 80,000 words or more. Still, it's a pretty good book.

OK, the prose is...spartan, which probably explains the word count, but it's genuinely pretty creepy. Even for someone who has watched the film (the one with Nicole Kidman...yeah. It wasn't awesome, but I did like the twist ending) and figured that the original ending probably wasn't so happy-clappy.

The heroine in the book is also a lot more likeable than Kidman's character, who's a really nasty, grasping career woman (symbolised by wearing *gasp* black clothing; seriously, what's unusual about that?) and generally being an unlikeable jerk. Book!Joanna is a semi-professional photographer, and actually a pretty nice, normal, generally unthreatening soul. She is, in fact, not the sort of person you'd want to replace with a robot, because...

OK, I get that the robot wives are totally perfect and whatever, but...she's great. Kind, a good mother, a hard worker... she's not a Mary Sue or anything, but she's a decent sort. As is her friend Mrs Markowe, who gets turned into a robot and, in the book, is Joanna's murderer.

I know. Downer. But you're allowed Downer Endings in books. And I kind of liked it. And because it's short it doesn't have those random treks into Whateverville that 1984 had. (History of the nations, anyone?)

Anyway, outside is nice, so maybe I'll go out there for a while.

RIP, Malcolm Bird

Today a bunch of things happened. Some that made international headlines: Ivory Coast, Barack Obama announcing he's running for re-election, our house having actual reliable hot water and some radiators. OK, the last one didn't make international headlines, but you know what I mean.

It has not been announced in the broadsheets today, nor will it be tomorrow, that Malcolm Bird has died of a brain tumour. No pundits pontificating on his effects on the economy, no lengthy obituaries describing his Nobel prizes or billions in the bank.

But then, since when have those ever been the mark of a life well lived?

They're great, I'm sure, but... if Steve Jobbs (Jobs?) died tomorrow, I'd feel sad for his family and friends, but it wouldn't really impact my day.

Of course it wouldn't. I don't know him. I did know Malcolm.

And I loved Malcolm.

I think the mark of a life well lived is the love that you trail in your wake. And he had enough to float a battleship. His death is devastating, even though we know where he's gone, and Who is looking after him there. We love him, and he's not here.

And we'll miss him. I'll miss him. I'll miss our shared love of chocolate. I'll miss him nipping through on his way to walk the dog, when I was expounding my latest relationship drama to Paula, his wife and my mentor.

I'll miss his prayers for me, both the ones for which I was present, and the ones he prayed every day on my behalf for pretty much as long as he knew me.

I'll miss his practicality, his can-do attitude, his love of cycling. I'll miss a fellow engineer, and a wise and patient man. I'll miss someone who loved Jesus intensely, who loved others beautifully, and who always laughed at my jokes, even when they weren't really that funny. I'll miss a good and faithful servant.

I'll miss a thousand little things that are almost impossible to put into words. And I'm not alone. My prayers go out for his family, for his friends, people who knew him for decades, who knew him better than I ever could.

I will miss you, Malcolm.

But I will see you again.

I know the secret. The tomb is empty. And He is risen.

Rest in peace and rise in glory, Malcolm Bird.

And I'll see you at the party.