I’m in a taxi on my way to Fanhams Hall, which seems to be deep in the country. This should be interesting.
Flying Ryanair is the aesthetic equivalent of having an overdose on bad branding. Never before have I felt Cayce Pollard’s allergy to logos and advertising. And I have two more flights on them in the next week. Gaaak.
Worked on my polishing my talk on the plane– I was able to fall effortlessly into Airplane Thinking Mode (well, with the help of two cappucinos, served to me by a bemused Ukrainian barista), and work out the transitions and turns of phrase. For me, it often feels like 80 percent of the work of writing a talk is at one of two levels: the structural, where you focus on the big ideas and logical construction of your argument, and the fine details, the rhetorical joinery that make the pieces snap tight in the mind of the listener.
We’re really out in the middle of nowhere: we’ve driven through two picturesque villages so far, and when the GPS sys “continue on this road for six miles,” you know you’re into some serious Country. I’ll have to get enough sleep to get up early and explore before breakfast.
Third tiny village. We’re getting into a Wicker Man level of remoteness.
Follow the course of the road for four miles. Oh my. Wait, we just turned onto a freeway, All is not lost.