There was a clever revisionist piece in, I think, the Guardian before we left the UK reviewing the 30 years since the first appearance of the HGTTG. Way oversimplified but as I remember, it seems that those of us who know, love and understand the jokes are just a bunch of smug yuppies. Ah well! I've been called names before. The sixth book in the trilogy, written by another smug yuppie, Eoin Colfer?, is on the stalls and my copy is now chasing me from Cape Town in the Heart of Gold. Infinitely improbable but it will one day overcome the stretching of spacetime and reach me. Perhaps it already has in another universe.
Dawn just breaking. Yesterday as the cold, drizzly grey front clammily wrapped us, there were Storm Petrels all around the boat. They aren't usually with us in groups and almost never when it's calm enough to look at them closely. Usually, just a spray wreathed glimpse of a tiny apparently fragile dancer in the storm. These were Wilson's Storm Petrels jittering and flopping and bumping the waves and running along the surface, wings stretched to provide just enough lift for a skyhook - and scooping for food. Tried to film them but the camera couldn't cope. Please, whoever designs these things, bring back the viewfinder! Screens are useless especially on video cameras.