I'm not sure what's happened to the hair. Perhaps it's not magnetic enough.
On a more sensible note, it's a rare privilege to be offered such an unsual perspective without having to endure the worry of a suspected illness. I thought I'd be repulsed by the physicality of seeing the ghost in the machine, but my brain seems to like looking at itself. It's a funny thing.
I've been thinking a lot about the brain recently, as I have started playing the piano again after a break of 30 years and it's extraordinary how many pieces of music have come back to me - not just the notes, but also the fingering. All of that information, lying dormant in a cluster of neurons.
The pieces I enjoy playing most are some arrangements by Bartok based on Slovakian folksongs. They're relatively simple pieces, written for children, but are a pleasure to play because they're quirky and unpredictable, with exotic harmonies.
Here's a 51-second clip of one of them. Needless to say, this isn't me playing. My version would be lento:
When not playing Bartok, I've been trying to get out as much as possible and make the most of what's left of the summer. Last week, I took my wife and sons out after dark to a remote car park in Ashdown Forest where, after checking that it wasn't full of people dogging, we watched the Perseid meteors light up the sky.
The first two meteors were tiny little flashes and we ooohed and ahhhed politely, feeling slightly disappointed, then suddenly a bright ball of fire streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake, followed by a faint smell of gunpowder. At this point, my younger son buried his head in my lap and said that he was worried about being blinded.
I knew it was a mistake to let him watch The Day of the Triffids.
Later in the week we drove to Beachy Head, to watch the Eastbourne Airshow.
After half an hour, I went off to some bushes near the cliff edge to answer the call of nature and quickly looked around to check that the coast was clear. Suddenly, I heard a roar and a Vulcan bomber appeared right in front of me, emerging from underneath the cliffs. Sadly, I wasn't holding my camera at the time:
In other news, my book shed has a new addition to its menagerie of animals:
A man at a Finnish academic library recently returned an order to me because of a "possible microbial infection". He'd bought the 70-year-old book, which had been advertised as being in fair to good condition, for £6. To me, it just looked like a book that had been read a few times, but was still in pretty good shape.
What was he expecting for £6? Perhaps I should throw in a toad next time.