Sign Language: week 76
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/picturegalleries/signlanguage/6662613/Sign-Language-week-76.html
No joke: Reviewing the best fruitcakes
http://www.consumersearch.com/blog/getting-fruity?sms_ss=email
Paul Reynolds of BBC News Online says that the special relationship between the US and UK might be seen as a historical anomaly.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/2/hi/uk_news/politics/8382384.stm
BBC Radio 4 is reviewing its programming in an attempt to increase its appeal to ethnic minorities following criticism that it is 'too white'.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/6678051/BBC-to-review-too-white-Radio-4.html
FORT POLK, La. — A firefight with heavily armed insurgents near a gold-domed mosque. A helicopter evacuation of bloody car bomb victims. A meeting with tribal elders upset about security.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/us/29training.html?_r=1&hp
Wines, With Notes of M.B.A.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/business/29wine.html?hpw
Over 60, and Proud to Join the Digerati
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/jobs/29pre.html?hpw
Please Mr. Postman
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/books/review/Schiff-t.html?hpw
lagniappe
On Growing Old
John Masefield
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nore share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
