The Writer And The World Around Her

(A celebrated novelist, yes. Nevertheless, the work of Jane Austen is universally acknowledged to be grossly insular. As Europe rages on in war, Miss Austen writes of love affairs, of pride, prejudice, sense, sensibilities and abbeys in the country, as if the ambitions of one Napoloen Bonaparte in his quest to take over the continent was occuring somewhere in the upper reaches of Northern Sumatra. Except for the peppering of a few Generals and of course, parties held by the local regiment, Miss Austen's novels are of a pretty county existing in insolation from the rest of the world. I shall not fall into the same fate with this blog and will therefore attempt to make mention of what some argue to be the most celebrated event of every four years. I thought it was the crowning of a non-South American Miss Universe, but I guess I am outnumbered in so thinking.)

I'm sitting at work. There is World Cup talk all around me. Maxis SMSes me a coded message of abbreviated lettering and numbers every morning.

Er...I just dun geddit lor...