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It is inspiring to see the opening ceremony of the London Paralympic Games this evening. Having become quite a connoisseur of opening and closing ceremonies over the last month, I know what to look out for now. It must be challenging to be given the task of organising one of these things. The parade of athletes is straightforward enough: just a matter of ensuring they turn up in the right order. I think I could manage that, though would possibly need a little help getting the flags right. But the more artistic sections, with performers in outlandish costumes creating enormous synchronised displays: that must be quite taxing, having to think up what to do. I suppose I needn't worry too much about it, as it is unlikely that anyone will ever ask me to act as artistic director. But just in case, I ought to have a few ideas ready.

Balloons are always popular. You could have them in colours related to the national flags. Though they tend to be fragile. There are enough warnings at the start of these broadcasts advising on flashing lights that you feel the possibility of accidental, or worse still deliberate, balloon popping on a massive scale would comprise too great a risk. And if a stiff breeze were to whip through the stadium - it doesn't bear thinking about. Thus you realise that there is quite a lot to take into consideration with all of this.

Not sure what this means, but it may be important.

Giant

I stumbled upon a book fair today. These things happen: you never know when you're going to trip over one that someone has left lying around. This was in Buxton; and I should have known, because it's the sort of thing that can happen to you in Buxton if you're not careful. I'm not really into antique fairs and craft fairs and the like, and tend to avoid them as a rule; but books - particularly old books - have a certain allure that is hard to resist. So I had a quick look around at the various stalls piled haphazardly with volumes ranging from the almost brand new to the really quite old.

Although I have browsed through second-hand bookshops since I was a callow youth (and I was pretty callow in my day), and have a modest collection at home of my favourite out-of-print authors, I must say I am beginning to have mixed feelings about them. Although I like the look and feel and whiff of old books, I don't know if I prefer a nice clean untouched paperback.  (Which will look practically as nice and clean and untouched after I have finished reading it as when I bought it.) And similarly, when I come upon a literary classic which I have always fancied reading but never quite got around to, I stop and think how I might actually prefer to read it in a modern edition, bolstered by contemporary scholarship and with a thick wadge of notes at the back. But maybe what exasperates me, though partly beguiles me at the same time, is the sheer obscurity of so many of the books: volumes on such esoteric subjects that you wonder who will ever want to buy them nowadays, and are they fated to be left on shelves ignored for years to come. Presumably someone has an interest in these things, and I suppose the books I buy would seem similarly obscure, but it makes you feel that it is a world that is slipping quietly away, particularly in a marketplace being re-shaped by e-books and Amazon and the internet. And then it makes you wonder about this modern age we live in, full of its own best-sellers and blogs: is all of that fated to become similarly obscure and irrelevant?

Talking of worlds slipping away, it is sad to note the passing of Neil Armstrong yesterday; an icon from my earliest memories; who, for all his modesty, seems a more significant figure of the 20th century than many.

League

A week into the new football season, and it's still all to play for. To tell the truth, I've not yet seen today's results, so there is always a chance that something dramatic has happened that may irretrievably influence the rest of the season, for instance the entire United and City squads being snapped up at a bargain by Wigan Athletic before the transfer window snaps shut, but this seems unlikely. Particularly for Wigan. Though credit where credit's due, as they say: not many expected them to survive in the Premiership for this long.

I try my best on a Saturday to avoid inadvertantly hearing the football results, in order to add to the excitement of watching Match of the Day in the evening. Perhaps excitement is not quite the right word, but you get my point: it's not the same when you know what's going to happen. Given the way we now live our lives in the metaphorical central reservation of the information superhighway, bombarded constantly by texts and tweets and 24 hour news, it seems hard to believe that you can make it through the whole day without finding out the scores. Perhaps it reveals something about my somewhat isolated and positively antisocial lifestyle that I can manage it with so little effort.

Battlements

The holiday already seems a long time ago. You slip so easily back into the routine of work, and visiting the supermarket, and de-fleaing the cat, and all the other drudgeries that make up daily life. The cat, by the way, seems to have survived the holiday unscathed. She stayed at a cattery, which may have been a welcome break for her, or may have brought back chilling memories of her early days in the rescue centre, before we came along and rescued her for the second time. I say unscathed, but you don't really know what she made of it all. She was certainly very affectionate when she came back home, which I suppose is better than sitting in a corner and sulking.

One highlight of the holiday was a chance to see some Shakespeare: The Tempest, performed al fresco in the grounds of Pembroke Castle. Which was certainly an atmospheric setting, especially in the early evening, sitting out in the open while dusky night slowly settled in around you. Perhaps the castle walls didn't quite convey the ship tossed in a storm scene at the beginning; or look much like an island later on; but I find one has to use a bit of imagination in the theatre. So I imagined a few trees here and there, seeing the designer hadn't thought to supply any. I tried to keep the children abreast of the plot, which wasn't always easy as it's been a while since I last read the play, and the actors did insist on doubling up on parts, which lost me at times. However, it all came off well enough. And the actors all seemed to remember their lines, which is always a good sign.

Canal

I was walking along the canal the other day. There are many canals around here; practically the Venice of the north. Clearly the cotton mills and chimneys give the game away. As do the glowering grey skies and flocks of discontented sheep. Apart from those details - and, now I come to think of it, some subtle differences in cuisine - you could be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere rather more Adriatic.

I've always half fancied the idea of taking a narrowboat down the canal, as being a relaxing way to view the countryside and local wildlife (with the possibility of mowing some of it down if it happens to be swimming along in your way). They seem to be available for hire around these parts, which saves you having to buy your own, using it once and realising it wasn't all you thought it would be and then having to stash it in the back garden. But I am not all that nautically-minded; not sure I can tell my bowsprit from my mainforetopsail.  And knots: never been very good at knots. As for locks, they seem a disaster waiting to happen. So it may be safer for all concerned if I keep to the towpath.

There are pretty houses along the canal. I noticed one with a crocodile outside; or possibly an alligator. I could once tell the difference but no longer feel confident distinguishing one from the other in an emergency. Anyway, this one was possibly not real, although realistically life-size. It wasn't moving much, if at all, but then I don't think they scurry around much at the best of times. I watched as a narrowboat came sidling slowly along the canal, and the crocodile made no attempt to attack. Not sure what I would have done if it had.

Quill

[Mr. Christopher Smart settles himself down to write.]

Time is passing! I must make a start before the day is wasted. Where was it I placed my quill? There—I have it. Quill; ink; paper—all in order. Now, let me see:

For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.

A satisfactory beginning, I have to say. You observe, Jeoffry, you are to be the subject of this verse. I trust you are flattered by the compliment. To continue—

For he is the servant—

What's that? What is the matter, Jeoffry? Your plate is there by the door, as always. See—I place a few more scraps on your plate. Be content now.

For he is the servant of the living God—

You have finished already? Well, you may stretch out by the fire and return to sleep while I resume my work. Where was I? I have lost my train of thought. What was I about to write? Confound it, how am I to make any progress today! Of course, I have it—

                                                    —duly and daily serving him.

That was it! Good. What comes next? Let me see—No, Jeoffry, off the table with you—you will upset the ink again. Off, off! Now there are paw prints all across the page! You are trying my patience today—What now? You wish to go out? This is too much—! I have to get to my feet again! There—out with you! Now perhaps I will get something done!

For—for—

I cannot think straight any longer. Distraction upon distraction.

For—

What is that noise? What is it—scratching? Scratching at the door—! Heaven preserve us!

Grades

In case you are interested, though I don't really expect you will be, as it's hardly the most rivetting of observations, the weather was alright on holiday; with one drizzly day, and a few cloudy days, and a few sweltering days; which is good, given the wildly variable summer we have had. I just mention this for the record. One day you may find the information useful.

The A level results were announced today, which will have come as joyful news for some and traumatic for others, and mildly confusing for those who don't follow these things particularly closely. I'm not sure I can remember much about when I got my own A level results, but it was a long time ago: before all this newfangled electronic mail palaver became popular (or indeed invented) and students could download the results the moment they leap out of bed (or probably access them while still in bed via a smartphone). Perhaps we had to make our way to school, and find an appropriate notice board, and huddle around, worriedly. Or maybe not; who knows? Memory can sometimes play strange tricks. Perhaps I don't actually have any A levels at all.

It was good to hear my son has got the necessary grades and hence will be off to university in the autumn. A significant milestone in his life, as he discovers the delights of higher education and living away from home. And getting massively into debt.

Conch

It is probably a mistake to read Lord of the Flies when on a beach holiday. Admittedly, I was only in southwest Wales, but still the sense of impending evil was unsettling. You never quite know what it will take for social norms to break down and unfettered savagery to be let loose. Luckily the holiday passed uneventfully.

The beach (detail).

But finding myself blogless due to a lack of wifi connection at the bottom of a cliff, I have missed out on writing daily (if not hourly) updates on the Olympic Games. I'm not sure I have the enthusiasm to catch up retrospectively, so my informative commentary will have to wait till the next time they are on. At least Team GB seemed to do well, which was good to see after all the effort of organising things and building things and the like. Granted this is not the most insightful account of the Games, but it's getting late.