Following the last entry, you probably figured that I have taken a couple of weeks to engage in quiet contemplation and reflection on the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of Ian Curtis's death. You would be partially right: it has been on my mind, more so than it has been for a long, long time. I don't quite understand why that is. Maybe it's because I am now almost twice as old as Ian Curtis ever was.
But mostly, I have been staring, mesmerised, at the Flensted mobile I got for my birthday. (It's funny how language has changed. Every time I said to somebody "a mobile" in answer to the question "What did you get for your birthday?", a few moments of confusion ensued as I had to explain that, no, it's not a telephone, and that, no, hanging a telephone from the ceiling would serve no useful purpose.)
