I just heard that BBC cast Benedict Cumberbatch as Richard III. This is so wrong. Cumberbatch is a talented actor but it’s clear that the production where he stars as Richard will be very anti-Ricardian. His look doesn’t lend itself to anything else. Imagine, instead, if Colin Firth were cast as Richard. That would be an entirely different interpretation of the story.

I’m experiencing an intense attack of provincialism that manifests itself in a fear of traveling to Montréal in August with N and the six-month-old baby. I used to be such a big city person, and now I’m afraid of traffic, crowds, and sounds. Beware of moving to the provinces, people. They will eat your soul.

In the NYTimes today there is an article by the president of the American Enterprise Institute who argues that we should stop trying to educate people and instead should shuffle them around. This, of course, is entirely disingenuous. Geographical mobility only works to the advantage of highly educated high-earners. Chasing minimum-wage employment around the continent is a waste of time because the psychological, emotional, social, and financial consequences of long-distance moving will never be off-set by whatever paltry sums can potentially be earned as a result of such a move.

I find it hard to believe that the author of the article is so stupid that he doesn’t realize how devastating long-distance moving is to people who don’t have $100K incomes. He is probably very well-aware of it but is simply being a jerk.

The title of the book is actually When the Music’s Over but my title is better because it lets you know straightaway what the book is about. Peter Robinson is the author of a popular mystery series set in the UK but lately his books have been running out of steam. So Robinson decided to compensate for the absence of any kind of mystery or of an interesting plot with a desperate attempt to milk the Rotherham child rape scandal.

The author tries very hard to ensure that not a single prurient detail of sexual abuse of British girls by men of Pakistani origins remains outside of his novel. At the same time, he is careful to hammer the message that the homegrown British pervs are even worse home as often as he can. As a result, the novel has a weird disjointed structure and ends up being quite boring. Or maybe my disillusionment with the genre makes it seem that way.

I didn’t like it, in short. I don’t appreciate people trying to exploit Rotherham to make a quick buck. It feels distasteful to me.