Band Of Gold

I watched and enjoyed Darren Aronofsky’s long-delayed The Fountain today. A thoughtful and moving piece of fantastika (Warren Ellis meme, it’ll be big this year, trust me) – it will therefore vanish from the screens of the nation quicker than that same nations love for Jade Goody (ooh, cross-post contextualisation! Didja see what I did there? Didja? Didja?). Catch it while you can, as it deserves your love and attention.
There is a plot point within the story involving the loss, and eventual replacement of a wedding ring. And it got me to thinking. My wedding ring desperately wants to get shot of me. I’ve lost it twice so far, once in a bed of thyme in the garden, once by the bicycle racks at Reading station. And the girl who found it, posted the found note on the wall by the racks and eventually brought it back to me will forever have a place in that warm spot in my heart where I keep all the nice stuff. But anyway. It’s a chore keeping the darn thing on my finger, which seems to shrink slightly in cold weather. (That’s just my finger that shrinks by the way, you bunch of pervs…) I am led to muse thusly: if marriage is supposed to be so permanent, why is the symbol of that union so easy to lose? Wouldn’t it make more sense to make a mark of your enduring love that won’t fly off your hand in the middle of a gesticulatory argument?
Clare’s already made the suggestion, and I am in the market for some new ink this year. Could it be something like this?

Meanwhile, John at Whatever tells a fine story illustrating the dilemma, as well as making me feel better about my klutziness.

and finally…
just realised. This is my hundredth post. Good grief. I think it’s turned into a habit.