There is a special satisfaction when things that have no reason to fit do so. It’s best expressed in Passionless Moments, an early short film by Jane Campion in which a young girl, off sick, idles with a box of tissues while trying to play solo Monopoly:
Now, she discovers how perfectly Monopoly money fixes on to the back of a Scotties box. She wonders how many other paper products would fit on to the back of the Scotties box.
Conversely, some things that we might wish would fit – might even be tempted to imagine that they should fit – never will. Time, say. Despite the best efforts of the bureaucrats who devised it, the French revolutionary calendar could not account for the scant interest in coordination shown by days, months and years – never mind the week. The rational calendar was abolished in XIV, or 1805, as we call it.
So it is with crossword editor updates: the movements of the moon and the concept of the week conspire against us. If I were to stick to our fortnightly schedule, I wouldn’t be able to reveal the secrets of the current Genius and effectively unredact its intriguing document until irritatingly late in August.
If crossword people are in any business, though, it’s the business of finding solutions. So, I will schedule a post for the first Monday of the month that moves along the Geniuses and our cluing conferences, and appear between on an ad hoc basis when there is breaking news at the crossword desk.
On that topic, thank you for your clues for BISHOP BURTON. The audacity award is Rakali’s for a “haiklu” …
see leader ahead
around Lancaster village
in the east riding
… the runners-up are PeterMooreFuller’s plausible “Redeveloping old hotel – new bistro and pub for Yorkshire village” and Harlobarlo’s less plausible “UK village illicitly beginning to produce this bourbon”; the winner is the startling “I’ve got to see Bacharach playing Hamlet”.
Kludos to Falconbridge. Please leave entries for the French revolutionary calendar name for today – Arrosoir, or WATERING CAN – below, along with any favourite clues or puzzles you have spotted. I also recommend Passionless Moments for its moment when a character wonders why anyone would write a song on a certain topic – and how do you “clear up” sleepy jeans anyway?
188 Words for Rain by Alan Connor is published by Ebury (£16.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
