After a bad couple of days (a case of Winston Churchill's 'Black Dog' I'd like to think) and entirely predictable too, I surface to engage once more with our 'culture'. I sway with the knocks- kids are now authorities, the food prescribed on 'This Morning' by Scofield and The Bimbo is unspeakable mounds of crappola, served up by smarmy smiling git model chefs. I realize TV is like a disease, I realize the the news is fiction, I subscribe to the London Review of Books and it doesn't arrive, perhaps it's been banned . Within this morass, I find some gems, a 1954 copy of Raymond Chandler's 'The Long Goodbye' is delivered, and the power of language is restored like an ancient find. No matter that the plot is nonsense, it doesn't matter.