Resolutions won't keep themselves

The Sage, as you probably know by now, is a pensioner. He refuses to have his state pension paid into the bank as he likes to feel the crisp notes in his hand, having paid for them many times over through the years. He fetches it every fortnight so that there's a decent amount to share - he's a fair man and he splits it with me. Today he came in clutching a larger bundle than usual.

"I was given an extra £50" he said. "What for?" "I don't know." "Maybe Gordon wants you to like him so you'll vote for him?" "Hmm". Anyway, I've an extra £25 to play with. Whoopee!

Today, I was hurrying around getting ready to go out when I realised I had to print out a sheet of names. The paper went in askew and jammed, so I took it out, straightened the rest, tried again, it did the same. I fed in a single sheet and it printed, so I grabbed the paper and left. Later, I had more printing to do. It said there was paper blocking it, but nothing I could see. I peered into the machine, using a torch. I swore, I grumbled, what more can a woman do? Well, turn it upside down and shake. Nothing fell out, but it's worked since then.

I've bought some music (well, sent for it), in line with my Resolutions. Gordie suggested Satie, some of whose music I have, or Part, whose I haven't, and Ad suggested Tallis. They have all been mentally marked and thank you, but on this occasion I have randomly picked Mahler and Shostakovich, as I'm woefully ignorant of much of their music and that's a rather large gap. It's a bit shaming that the only Mahler I know is the background music to Death in Venice and that I've only been to one Shostakovich concert, where I learned that at one time, unpopular with the Soviet authorities, he used to wait on the landing outside his flat every night so that, if he was arrested as he was sure he would be, his children would not be frightened.

The scarf is half the length it will be. And as for poetry, I think I'll start with something shortish.

This, for instance?
The Long-Nosed Fair

Once on a time I fair Dorinda kiss'd,
Whose nose was too distinguish'd to be miss'd;
My dear, says I, I fain would kiss you closer,
But tho' your lips say aye--your nose says, no, Sir.--
The maid was equally to fun inclin'd,
And plac'd her lovely lily-hand behind;
Here, swain, she cry'd, may'st thou securely kiss,
Where there's no nose to interrupt thy bliss.