Passage graves, accountants, and crab deaths

Leisurely morning. Dealt with some of my "networking" correspondence and now have at least one interesting meeting lined up for next week - plus some with headhunters. Breakfast with Mum and Mase, and then with Mum looking at the excellent book: The Archeology and Early History of the Channel Islands by Heather Sebire, which I bought in Guernsey last month. This is a most excellent book and I am learning enormous amounts from it. Such as the fact there are ancient earthworks protecting Jerberg Point. I can't believe I have only just learned about this.

And I am fascinated with this detail about bodies taken from the passage grave in Le Déhus (see this blog August 1st 2006 for pics) which were placed upright in a kneeling position and packed in with limpet shells and earth. This happened no more recently that 2000 bc, and could be as distant as 3500 bc. The detail about the limpet shells is playing on my mind. Why limpets? As food? As a symbol somehow of holding on?

After some chicken soup I zipped off the Hammersmith where I had a cheeky swim (forgetting yet again the piece of paper that entitles me to a prepaid swim) and then, smelling of chlorine, saw my accountant. I am certain that my accountant Seana is actually the world's sexiest accountant. There is something inherently sexy, of course, about a woman who understands numbers and is organised and can use a spreadsheet, things that are as mysterious as the sphinx to me. Under her Scottish spell I quickly got over my disappointment that she wasn't wearing, as usual, something with a leopard skin print, contenting herself with a eye-catching top. But unbelievably, she manages to make talking to someone about tax a pleasure. And cleavage has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Tearing myself away from this taxing tête à tête, I returned to Brighton and had a quiet night in, some of it spent watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall eat seafood such as pollack and crabs in Scotland. Nasty bit of him killing the crab by poking it between its eyes with a sharp thing and stirring its brains. I remember as a child in Guernsey seeing Little Peggy put one in a pot of hot water and hearing its reedy little scream as the air escaped from its shell as it boiled. Nice.

And so to bed.

Below spectrums cast by my mum's crystal that she hangs by the window.