a note for first-timers

If it's your first time here and you're new to blogs, the first post you'll see is the most recent so that's where you should be ending, rather than starting. Otherwise, carry on...

Please, feel free to comment - you know you want to.

much less lessness

Just when you thought you were rid of me for good, up I pop again, like a rodent that keeps nibbling at your boxes of cornflakes in the cupboard. Or crabs.

I've been absent (from here) for quite some time but, after not really very much prompting at all (someone half-heartedly mentioned I should write something new), I thought I'd spend a few minutes tapping at the keyboard and see what appeared on the screen.

A brief synopsis of the key events that have happened in the last however long:

• I had a birthday. Or two, I'm not sure - I can't be bothered to check when the last post was;


• I nearly died six months ago.

That's about it. See how the thrill-a-minute nature of it all makes you now feel like so much less of a person; makes you wish you got to do such exciting things; makes you positively green with envy?

Can I also ask anyone inviting me to another Christmas party this year to please make it within easy walking distance of where I live. And by "easy", I mean "10 minutes, max." I still haven't warmed up from when the train sat at Slough (pronounced "Sl-oh" now, not "Sl-ow" or "Sluff") with the doors wide open for 25 minutes three nights ago.

a glittering movie career ahead?

Well, I lived up to my own hype at the quiz last week. I do hope the rest of my team appreciated my valiant efforts, though. I mean, I even got up to sing for extra points in the attempt to win... even if they gave me no points for a performance that seemingly bore no resemblance to what I was supposed to be singing. I think it was probably just jealousy - I do look like a rock star after all, even if I don't sound like one. *ahem*

This week I shall mostly be working. However, I'm hoping to squeeze in a bit of script writing, directing, and possibly acting. And, if I'm lucky, I'll get to play with felt tip pens to create "scenery" and props. Alternatively, I could do that graphical stuff on the computer and print it out... but where's the fun in that, eh?

Incidentally, the name given to our quiz team - not by me, I hasten to add - was "Universally Challenged". And - with the notable exception of a 9 out of 10 on the subject of alcohol - the name was perhaps more appropriate than any of us would have liked. Oh, and we lost our Star Trek expert two rounds from the end... and what came up in the final, Television & Film, round? Arse!

still obsessed

Bugger. I thought I'd overcome the obsession with that song... until I read my previous post and felt compelled to play it again.

Anyway, I thought you'd all be extremely interested to know that I'm still a herbivore and have had no overwhelming desire to run across the plains of Africa and tear apart a gazelle with my bare teeth.

I have, however, discovered that vegetarians are even less well regarded than I'd realised. I was never anti-vegetarianism but it seems an awful lot of people are. To be fair, I suppose it's a bit like my fondness for asking religious folk awkward questions about their particular belief system. Still... effers! There's no hypocrisy here; no, siree!

It's playing for the second time in succession, incidentally. Just so you know.

Now, what other news do I have? Oh yes... I'm off to a pub quiz tomorrow evening. I'm sure whichever team I'm on will be cursing their luck when they find I know nothing about anything yet have an answer for everything. And I can sound highly convincing as I declare Stumpy and Sleazy as two of the Seven Dwarfs too.

I shall let you all know what the prize we don't win is.

hide and seek

Speaking of obsessions, actually, I've also found myself listening to Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap far more often than seems sensible. It all began when I saw this amusing YouTube video.

meatlessness

Yes, I'm at it again with the lessnessness - it's an obsession; I freely admit it. But, in my defence, I am a simple-minded fool and, what's more, I may presently have some sort of nutritional deficiency.

In case you haven't worked it out yet, I've recently turned vegetarian. I've not found myself inclined to hug trees, throw out my wardrobe in favour of hemp clothing, or wear open-toed sandals (with or without socks) but I suspect it's only a matter of time. I imagine there's some sort of snowball effect and that I'm still quite high up the mountain.

So why, you might ask, have I turned my back on twenty-even years of eating meat? Because. Does that answer your question? Excellent.

I've been struggling with it, though. Not in the sense that I'm craving meat and have considered picketing the pharmaceutical companies to produce a beef patch (that sounds extremely dodgy, doesn't it?) and lamb chewing gum. No, not that sort of struggle at all...

... the problem is that I'm yet to find a palatable substitute for meat - Quorn sausages should be banned in all enclosed public spaces - which means I've been eating either tasty but probably not very balanced meals or I've been eating cardboard and carrots. I figure it's like taking medicine as a child - if it tastes bad, it's good for you.

Let's see if I ever have the strength to post again...

adsenselessness

Imagine my surprise and horror to find the movie "Jesus Camp" being advertised on this very blog. Come on, Google - sort it out. Surely it should be apparent from my posts that I'm not the sort to fall for the line "God Wants You To Join His Army". What ever happened to contextual advertising?

Deary, deary me.

For anyone offended by the advert, I can only apologise. And for those of you that saw fit to actually click on the damn thing, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You won't get into Heaven that way, you know.

presents

Today, I'm no longer twenty-odd. Now I'm twenty-even again. But it's the last twenty-even I'll ever be, which is a bit of a shame. *sigh*

I did, however, get the bestest birthday gift I've had in, well, probably ever. First off, it arrived in an enormous red box. I mean, this thing was huge. When I was told of its impending arrival, I was warned it would be too big for the letter box but little did I realise it would almost be too big for the door!

So, in the living room sat this enormous red box throughout yesterday. It was delivered at 7:50am and I opened it at about twenty past twelve this morning at the express request of the gift-giver. You'll never believe what it is. I was - thanks to her teasing - half expecting it to be some sort of otter figurine (we've been there before, have we not?) but fortunately not. No, instead, it's a RoboPet. How damn cool is that!

I went out earlier and got a bunch of batteries to switch him on and within minutes he was on guard duty on my bedroom floor. Unfortunately, I've so far been unable to alert him to the fact that neither of my feet are intruders and just moments ago I once again had to rescue my left ankle from his clutches. Actually, thinking about it... he could just be like a normal dog and looking for something to hump. Perhaps I should point him at a table leg and see what he does. His name is Arti. For obvious reasons. I need to buy him a collar now.

Oh, and I should also point out if you're thinking of rushing out and buying one for yourself that you'll need a pair of wire cutters and forty-five minutes spare to remove all the packaging. I swear - there was more wire in there than in one of Jordan's bras. And none of the puppies were getting free in a hurry.

Thank you, Nu-Nu. I think Tilly would be most entertained by her very own Arti.

it's over

Me and Brad are no more. It turns out the photo's not really of him.

I guess I'd best go back to my *spit* hetero ways. I feel almost disgusted with myself for giving up so soon... but what can an otter do? I'm clearly not cut out for life as a glove puppet.

old (and haggard) flames

I had an email arrive today to confirm my registration on GayDate.com.

"Strange," thought I "I don't remember signing up to that. Perhaps I was sleep surfing and my latent homosexuality took over and I signed up."

Now, how many of you clicked on the above link and immediately regretted it? How many of you clicked on it whilst at work because you weren't thinking properly? Ha! More fool you.

Suffice to say, I never actually signed up to the site. And, initially, I thought it was just normal, everyday spam. However, I noticed the address in the "To" field and it got me thinking.

You see, I have a domain or two to my name and therefore all mail for those domains comes direct to me - apart from the one or two other redirects I have set up for certain individuals. Imagine for a moment that my real name is "Bob". And that the domain in question is "domain.com". The email was addressed to bobsuxcock@domain.com. Is it just me or is that a little too much of a coincidence? Yes, I thought so too.

I had a friend of mine log in to the account - I was at work at the time so obviously I couldn't log in myself - using the details that arrived in the aforementioned registration confirmation email. It turns out that the gay version of me speaks fifteen languages. I'm starting to think I should have been gay after all - "Mandarin" and "Urdu" would look great on a CV, don't you think?

Unfortunately, the rest of the profile bears no resemblance to me at all. I was naturally disappointed to find out that no mention was made of my enormous otterhood and equally perturbed that, in gay guise (no pun intended. Okay, so there was really), I live in Essex. Argh! How dare I!

You're still wondering why I've got the title I have for this post, aren't you? Well, let's just say that I can think of only one person with the wit and wisdom to sign me up to a gay dating site. Bless her cotton socks.

I suppose I should thank her really. Otherwise, I'd never have met Brad.

the trouble with peni

Well, there's the very first problem right there: is the plural "peni" or "penises"? God, I just know that damn AdSense thing is going to come up with something for the enhancement of peni (I'm sticking to that for now), isn't it? I fully appreciate that the collective noun is - and rightly so - infrequently used due to each of us (men, anyway) only having one, but the fact remains that, from time to time, there is a need to speak about more than one.

For example - not that I've actually read the packaging on condoms beyond the words "ribbed", "flavoured", and "for her pleasure" - there surely must be some text on there that says something like "Not tested on animals. Or their peni." For, if they were tested on animals (or their peni), I think the animal rights campaigners would have more than a few words to say about it. And so would I. Eurgh!

Anyway, back to the main subject - not that I actually deviated too far from it just there - and on with the beration of man's best (and sometimes worst) friend.

Peni are, frankly, rubbish. And often a nuisance. I remember when I were a lad (imagine that said in a Yorkshire-flat-cap-esque accent) and we'd have P.E. at school. More precisely: swimming. Now, there were one or two rather attractive young ladies in my year at school; young ladies who, in a swimming costume, were even more appealing to a hot-blooded young otter like myself. Wearing a pair of swimming trunks was no protection against the impending threat of an "obvious liking" for one of the aforementioned young ladies in a swimming costume; no protection whatsoever. It's like throwing a blanket over an elephant to hide it from hunters - it simply doesn't work. The only solution was to jump into the water, even if you weren't supposed to... and then face the consequences of not taking pool safety seriously.

Oh come on! I know I'm not the only one that experienced that as an adolescent. And, more than likely, a lot of the guys reading this now have had similar experiences as adults. Admit it; go on!

Next is the level of accuracy they afford us when evacuating our bladders. Now, nine times out of ten there's no problem; straight into urinal / bowl / side of the pub - for most of us, at least. But then there's the odd occasion when, for whatever reason, one misses... or the curvature of the urinal is such that splashback occurs. I've found that it tends to happen only when wearing trousers that will highlight the error - dark jeans or black trousers, no problem; light jeans or trousers, whoops-a-daisy. And it usually happens in a public toilet (a pub, let's say) where there's only a hot air hand drier between you and out-and-out ridicule. Yes, there have been times when I've found myself positioned by the hand-drier on one leg attempting to dry off an area of material on my inner thigh. All you can do is practice saying, "Watch those bloody taps, mate!" and pray no one walks in while you're standing there.

And you ladies thought you had it tough because you lose a bit of blood once a month! Pfft!

[ runs for it ]

a right bunch of cuts

I went climbing at the weekend in the Peak District. It's the first time I've climbed outdoors and, well, frankly, it's nothing like climbing indoors. About the only similarity is that both generally require you to travel in a roughly upward direction.

As a consequence of those activities, I've got cuts, scrapes, grazes, bruises, achey things, scratches - I think you get the picture - all over. Mostly, they're on my arms and hands but the holes in the knees of my cargo pants are testament to their wide-ranging nature.

I'd like to simply blame the sharp, scratchy, heartless nature of the rocks, but I have an uneasy feeling that it's much more to do with me being simply a bit rubbish. Still, it was my first time and, let's face it, we've all had trouble with "first times" in one pursuit or another. *ahem*

I did, however, manage to successfully climb every route I attempted, which was no mean feat when you consider the amount of skin and blood lost during the course of those exertions.

It's a bit like having a hangover, actually - you go out and have fun and start feeling sorry for yourself the next day and half-heartedly regretting it, knowing full-well you'll go out and do it all again at some point.

Oh, and I learned a couple of new things at the weekend too: trying to sleep in a tent doesn't agree with me; and young children wake up far too early. The protagonists on this occasion happened to be part of a family one tent over; the part of the family that likes throwing pots at daddy long legs. I'd have said, "Bless", but it was 6:30 in the morning. Sheer madness!

smileosaur

I was just looking back down the blog... and doesn't that mini-dinosaur look pleased with himself/herself? I suspect there's actually another dinosaur hovering (not literally unless it's a mini-pterodactyl) somewhere in the background having a drag of a post-coital cigarette.

spam, ham, and other assorted cold meats

I'm trying desperately to recall the balmy day a month or so ago when I signed up to hear news of Tesco's latest flower offerings. I'm sure it must have happened, but I just can't remember when it was or what was going on at the time to urge me to do it. It must have happened. Why else would I get emails from them - unperturbed by any spam filter - suggesting I buy cheap flowers (should that be "buy flowers cheap"?) online?

Of course, it could simply be that I have a secret admirer who signed me up to the Tesco Floral Weekly newsletter but I somehow doubt that.

And if I didn't - and, trust me, I definitely didn't - sign up for this "service", why are Tesco sending me emails? And, more importantly, why are they sending me emails about flowers? And, almost as importantly, why isn't the Google mail filter catching it and flagging it as luncheon meat? Hmmm? Perhaps Tesco and Google have a deal or something...

On a similar subject, I had seven emails this morning offering me a quick and easy way to increase the size of my genitalia. I deleted them but, thinking back to Rich's apparent urinary difficulties, he may benefit from some help in that area. Yes, next time I get mail of that nature, I'll forward it to him. Aren't I a kind and thoughtful friend?

mini-blogs

What is it with this phenomenon on MSN of people using their online status as some sort of news ticker or bulletin service? It's odd.

Now, I wouldn't normally be on MSN during the working day (it was rightly banned in my previous job - I think I told you the story about that before) but it was actually requested that I use it during my current assignment as it makes collaboration easier... or something like that.

However, seeing as I am using it, it's come to my attention that people partake in the aforementioned practice - telling their life story to everyone on their contact list. 'Tis odd, is it not?

I mentioned this yesterday to Rich - he of Tenerife infamy - and he said he'd also noticed it and referred to them as "mini-blogs". With that, he set his status to "Must shite forthwith..." And, quite literally as I wrote that, he signed in and promptly changed his status to "Must perform a urination ceremony..."

Rich, I didn't realise being able to pee was a cause for celebration. Or is it that you have to do some sort of ritual sacrifice in order to coax the liquid from your bladder? The death of a chicken by choking? *ahem*

otterus arcticus

I'm sitting here in the London Bridge office (the one with the Tory signs) and, for a reason that continues to escape me, the air conditioning has been set to "North Pole". It's absurd!

I've been wearing a jacket to work of late. Not because it's been remotely cold outside - quite the opposite - but because I have to put the damn thing on when I'm sitting at the desk. Brrr!

Frankly, you should be highly impressed that I'm able to type at all under such extreme atmospheric conditions. No wonder London's had blackouts in recent weeks - they're using all the electricity here to keep us refrigerated. Perhaps they think we'll last beyond our sell by date like that...

the enigma of time

Why is it that time seems to move so slowly when all you want is for it to hurry up so things can be over and done with? Why do we check the clock every half hour, only to find barely a minute has actually passed?

I thought this morning that the week had seemed to drag on and that we should surely already be at Saturday... but this evening has been worse. Much worse.

I've had so many thoughts rushing through my mind - so fleeting I'm barely aware what I'm thinking before it's gone and something else has taken its place; so brief I struggle to distinguish it from a thought I've had before and a new one just off the boat.

Not for the first time, I find myself telling you about a sleepless night that awaits me. I wrote a little something earlier when the flood of thoughts was at its worst but, given my predisposition for being dramatic, I saved it as a draft and went to bed instead. To no avail, of course. I'm up again - no more rested than I was before; no less tired.

It sits there still, as a draft. I haven't read it back since I wrote it - nor did I check its grammar at the time - but my suspicion is that I'll never actually publish it, lest I put the fear of God into you all.

I keep looking at my mobile. No texts. No missed calls. It's definitely working. I think. I'd call it from the landline to check but confirming its unbroken state would probably only cause me to look at it even more - and I'm afraid that might lead to an irreversible squint.

Hurry, the first rays of the new dawn. Hurry, the hour I can concentrate on, God forbid, work. Hurry, the moment the questions keeping me awake are answered. Though I also hope that moment never comes, for I fear what those answers might be.

There's nothing for it but a return to bed in the forlorn hope my alarm will be needed. Good night, all. Pleasant dreams.

hunger

Is it a bad thing, do you think, that the people in Eat are now giving me oversize bags for my lunch? Yesterday, I had a baguette and a sandwich to go with the usual fruit salad, Polyfilla yoghurt, and crisps. Today, I have a baguette, soup, and the usual.

What looks more odd, though, I think, is that I'm the only one with this size of bag and yet I look like I could do with a good meal down me. Hmmm...

confessions

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I've had Polyfilla yoghurts for the last two days. And I enjoyed them."

"I'm sorry, my child, but that is simply unforgivable. But make a donation of a few thousand pounds to the church's wine fund and I'll put in a good word for you with the man upstairs. Oh, and you might as well say a few Hail Marys too."

That, I'm thinking, is what would happen if I went to confess my yoghurty sins to a priest this evening.

The church where yesterday evening's Future Stars of The Premiership were having a kickabout might be a better bet, actually - they seem to tolerate a lot less acceptable behaviour.

Incidentally, it's been decided that the Pope (or, at least, the last one) is (was) a knob. A poll of several thousand people (read "split personalities") was taken and 87% of them agreed that His Holiness talks (used to talk) through his holiness.

the youth of today

On the way home from the gym this evening (yes, I was at the gym), I walked past a group of young children playing football in a fenced-off area beside a church on a mild summer evening. It's the sort of scene seen countless times in American films (albeit the children would be playing basketball or some such thing) as an idylic backdrop to whatever's actually happening in the movie.

One youngster - a particularly small and scrawny fellow - had hold of the ball and was getting in some much-needed keepy-uppy practice. Another lad - obviously older on account of his rather chubby and much taller stature - called for the first boy to pass him the ball. Our young Ronaldinho, rather than passing his round friend the ball, played it over his head and into the goal behind him, much to the amusement of two of the other boys playing with them.

Now, this incensed Bellé and he began screaming obscenities at the child half his size. Not satisified with merely bullying him verbally, he proceeded to project a blob of saliva at him to show his disgust at not being given the ball he'd damn-well asked for!

Clearly, Bellé has developed his spitting skills to a much greater extent than his footballing skills and, loath as I am to admit it, I had to admire the distance he was able to achieve at such a young age - it must have been a good ten feet before landing just short of his terrified target. Were I to attempt such a feat, I have no doubt - and no shortage of shame in admitting - that it would most likely have ended up all over my own chin or down my front. But then I've not put in the hours of practice Bellé clearly has.

But what a thing to do! One can only imagine either his parents spit around the house - somewhat unlikely, but possible - or he's seen it on TV and is copying one of his "idols". Perhaps he didn't feel it appropriate to do a full Zidane and instead opted for a lesser display of aggression.

Positively disgraceful. What is the world coming to?

yoghurt

Never before have I come across a yoghurt with the consistency of polyfilla - today's the first (and, I suspect, the last) time. It looked fine in the little clear plastic tub, although it obviously needed some mixing with the muesli and berries in there... but the plastic spoon Eat gave me with it had significant trouble holding its shape as I set about stirring them together. Had it been one of those little white ones they give you in most places, it would almost certainly have snapped at the neck.

It makes one wonder whether they use the spoons they do simply because of the huge number of complaints they had about broken spoons in their yoghurts.

Actually, I might have it again - despite its texture, it's quite tasty. It doesn't just taste "healthy".

sleeplessness

Have I used that one before? I don't think so, but, given how often I seem to use the "lessness" suffix, I wouldn't be surprised.

So, I can't sleep. Again. Part of it, I'm sure, is the fact I'm attempting to fall asleep in a sauna, but there's a whole lot going on in my head these days and, well, I find myself really rather restless and unable to clear my mind enough to get twenty - let alone forty! - winks.

This evening I thought I might as well take advantage of the extra hours I knew would be available to me so I started writing. And when I say "writing", I mean with ink and parchment and all that jazz. Well, a biro and a pad of lined A4 paper anyway. And it was going so well too! Until the bloody biro stopped working. I've never understood how those things work - or, more accurately, how they don't work. You look at that bit of plastic that runs down the length of the pen and it looks pretty much full... and yet, try as you might, the damn thing won't do any more than leave an indent - an etching, if you will - in the paper.

So I came on here to type it instead, so disheartened was I with the biro situation. The romance has gone out of it these days, I think. I remember being at school and thinking how exciting it must have been to have lived the life of an author or playwright. They always seemed - in my imagination at least - to wear flouncy clothes and strode (minced, perhaps, considering their clothes) about the place with a quill in one hand and a leather-bound book in the other. Quite where they kept the inkwell is anyone's guess - and I'll thank you not to put forth ideas and suggestions about that in any comments on here. *ahem*

I currently have a couple of pages of, very probably, utter rubbish. No doubt I'll clear the page and start again when I resume. If I resume. No, I will. I've decided that I really should have a crack at this fiction writing lark. When you encounter a book that was a Richard and Judy recommendation and find yourself wondering how anyone could want to read such drivel, you get these thoughts in your head of the "I could do better than that!" variety. And I could. It might not be great either, but surely better than that!

And with that declaration of self-love, I bid you all a good night. If you need me, I'll be awake and thinking about absolutely everything.

taking things a bit too far

"And last action does not equal d."

Good Lord, how many times does one person need to repeat that phrase before the person they're telling gets the message? Someone in this office - potentially either a Tory person or the thief of a Tory person's seat - just said that a good twenty times in succession with merely a smattering of other words thrown in there.

It's just as well he wasn't actually talking to me or I'd have had to stop him after the first two or three out of principle. Madness!

reservations

There's a sign right beside where I'm working today that reads:

RESERVED FOR THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY


(FREE FOR OTHER USE IF NOT TAKEN BY 9AM)

I'd like to be able to tell you I'm working in the Houses of Parliament and that various members of the public and Liberal Democrats have nabbed the seats beside which there was a sign like that. I'd like to, but I can't. Because I'm not in the Palace of Westminster at all - I'm fairly close to London Bridge.

Still, it amused me nonetheless and I'd like to think it's something the Tories have brought with them from Conservative HQ; something they usually use to reserve their seats for Prime Minister's Questions.

mini-dinosaurs emerge from quarry

"I know you can be overwhelmed. And you can be underwhelmed. But can you ever just be whelmed?"

At the time, like the lad out of Third Rock From The Sun, I found that a highly amusing and silly thing for Bianca to have said. For some reason, however, I had that very same question pop into my head today - actually, yesterday evening but BlogSpot was offline for some sort of database maintenance* so I'm presently writing this as an email to myself for tomorrow, lest I forget all about my random thoughts.

Yes, the asterisk was meant to be there, for it leads me onto a thought I had whilst writing it. Why is it spelt "maintenance"? It's correct, I know... but why? It's the act of maintaining something... so what happened to the second "ai"? Hmmm? Who decided to replace it with an "e"? Personally, I suspect it was the Americans - not content with substituting "ou" with simply "u", they've started sneaking in other misspellings.

On the subject of random thoughts, actually, I had a random dream the other night. In it, I made up two whole songs. I swear they were completely original and actually really very good - I was aware at the time (whilst dreaming, I mean) that they were songs I'd never heard before and so I must have been making them up as I went along. But that's the problem more often than not with dreams - you wake up and forget what it was you'd just dreamt. I can't for the life of me recall my really-very-good-completely-original songs now, which is a shame.
Otherwise I'd probably set myself up with a MySpace space and stick them on there... and, in the process, make out I was actually in some way musically gifted. I'm not. At all. Except in my dreams, it seems...
though that now seems to have taken on a different meaning. Hmmm...

Incidentally, it's bloody warm this evening. I'm sitting here just out of the shower and feeling like I probably need another one, such is the clamminess of the air. Don't get me wrong - I love the summer and hot weather... but I just wish it would confine itself to the daytime when I'm out and about getting myself something of a tan. And, of course, wearing shades to conceal my line of sight, which generally just so happens to be in the direction of attractive ladies also out and about getting themselves something of a tan. Yes, the summer is indeed a good thing... except for when it's hot and clammy of an evening.

Well, it's now the aforementioned "tomorrow". I'm at work. And I find myself with only online learning to keep me occupied. That and, of course, this. I managed to stave off the boredom until after lunch, though, so I think I should be commended for that. C'mon then... commend me, dammit!

Anyway, you were wondering where on Earth the title of this post came from, weren't you? The answer: The BBC News website. Imagine my intrigue upon seeing that headline and how it was even further heightened when I saw the photo at the top of the Science/Nature section:





Unfortunately, it turns out that the photo is simply of a model created by some randoms on the strength of some bones they'd dug up. For a fleeting moment, I had visions of a Jurassic Park-esque Zoo being opened up to house these strange, presumed extinct, yet alive and diddy beasts. But, alas, it was not to be. Bloody journalists and their misleading headlines. Hmph.

almost there

Just thought I'd let you know... only "5 minutes" until Windows Server 2003 finishes installing. Apparently. One can only assume it's female and is struggling to find shoes to match the rest of its outfit. Or something. *ahem*

a quick update

Windows Server 2003 has only 45 minutes remaining! Yay!

Oh... wait... that can't be right. Surely.

a special day

Why, you may ask, is today a special day? What's different about today? Yes, why today - of all days - am I "blogging"? Well, frankly, I'm bored. I'm waiting for Windows Server 2003 to install on a Virtual PC instance I've created (please excuse anything remotely geeky or techno-speak about that sentence) and it's taking ages. It claims it'll take another 39 minutes to complete the installation but I could've sworn it said it'd take 37 minutes about half an hour ago. Stupid bloody thing.

So... news. Hmmm... what can I tell you about? Or, perhaps more accurately, what inane thing happened that I can exaggerate and elaborate on to make it sound like I lead an exciting life; the sort of life you wish you led? I don't think my trip to Suffolk a month ago and my upcoming return trip is quite going to cut it. Nor, I fear, is my telling you how close I came to winning an XBOX 360 earlier this week. Mind you, that would be a perfect example of an exaggeration - my team came eighth out of eight.

I think I'm left with shamelessly making something up or claiming credit for something someone else did. Did you know I was selected in England's World Cup squad and look set to be the youngest ever player to represent them at the age of 17? Well, I was and I am. Did you also know that I was in the Big Brother house and that I hid everyone's food before walking out like a big girl's blouse because people in there were bullying me? Not to mention the fact I was on a flight that crashed on what appeared to be a deserted island, only to find there were some icky people living there already who started stealing the other survivors in the middle of the night? No? Well, I was the bad-boy, heroine addict doctor of the bunch with floppy hair and lottery winnings of roughly $156 million back home. And I saved everyone's life. And they all loved me.

There, I think that just about covers everything I've been up to recently. I must confess, though, that the Big Brother thing never happened - I just thought it sounded better than saying I saw it happen... because watching Big Brother is really rather sad. Shame on you all. Yes, all of you - I know you do.

joblessnesslessness

"Where on Earth is Dr Otter?", you've probably all been asking yourself for the last few weeks. The most straightforward answer would be something like "London" and, at any stage during the course of writing this post, I may well just stop and leave you no better informed. So there.

I started a new job a couple of weeks ago and, considering there's every chance that at least a few of the people I'm now working with will read this at some point, everyone I've thus far encountered at work is reeeeeeeally cool. Especially you if you're one of them and reading this right now. Honest. Yes, you. Congratulations. *ahem*

I went climbing for the first time yesterday evening and discovered I'm a natural. At talking rubbish, I mean - certainly not at climbing. Christ, I was knackered after the first climb. I was under the mistaken impression that I could basically do chin-ups the whole way up the wall. This, I discovered, is inadvisable and tougher to do than you might imagine.

Still, I shall be returning to the scene of my Cliffhanging exploits (assuming I get invited again) for another tilt at becoming the first Mountain Otter in existence. The rest of my species, unsurprisingly, tend to stay at sea/river level. Cowards.

And, before you say it; yes, I'm well aware that the title of this post is a rip-off of my "treelessnesslessness" post from December '04. But it was my invention in the first place so I'm allowed to recycle it.

why didn't I think of that!

Thanks, Caye, for pointing out that Men - and, as a direct consequence, Noah - are from Mars and that Women are from Venus.

The New York Times obviously didn't go far enough with their claims after all. What a shame. They really ought to have slipped that in somewhere, I think. I would've. Actually, I probably wouldn't - but only because I wouldn't have remembered the bloody thing. Obviously. Dammit!

I feel all deflated now. *sigh*

and on the eighth day, God created His paranoid followers

Oh good God, what is the world coming to? Other than an end, I mean - assuming Mr Cole Coker is correct.

Still in the whole "Secret Message" mind-set, I clicked on a couple of links and came across this absolute beauty asking: Was Noah a Martian?. Didn't I say that a secret message can be found in just about anything? Yes; yes I did. Less than an hour ago, in fact.

Now, according to Ken Ham - who wrote the article - a New York Times article claims that "Noah's Flood actually occurred on Mars". To justify his understanding of the article, he puts forward the truly startling revelation that the New York Times described it as "a 'Noachian' event". Sweet Holy Jesus! That just about it seals the deal, doesn't it?

Well... no. As it happens. For the term "Noachian", you see, has sweet f.a. to do with the chappy from the Bible who apparently rounded up two of every animal and put them on a big boat - sorry "Ark" - he'd built.

In fact, it simply relates to a place on Mars and, following a very quick Google search, this becomes entirely apparent. See for yourself.

Even if the term did - and let us not forget that it doesn't - relate in some way to the Biblical Noah, what a huge jump it is to claim that the New York Times was suggesting that Noah was actually a Martian. Not only has he cottoned on to non-facts, he's also twisted those non-facts into something else entirely. Silly, silly man. *sigh*

I'd write to him and tell him he's being an eejit but I suspect he'd declare me a follower of Lucifer and request that God smite me. So, with that in mind, I shall sit here instead, acting all meek, and hopefully inherit whatever's left of the Earth someday.

La la laaaa...

ohhh kaaayyy

I've been at that thing again, I'm afraid. I know, I know - I should keep well away and not find titillation (for want of a better, but no less interesting, word) in the blogs of others.

In any case, I stumbled upon this effort and, mostly because it was the first one I'd encountered that was in English, decided to have a wee look-see. I was not disappointed. A little perturbed, perhaps, but not disappointed.

Religion's always interesting and amusing to me in equal portions. This, though, is an example of when someone believes they've found the true meaning of The Bible. Oh, what fun! Now, I'm not saying he's wrong or anything (though I'm forced to question it when I view his profile and discover "Gospel Music and Country Classics" as his favourite music), but surely a secret message can be found in just about anything. I'd add "and everything", but we've been over that before.

Most troubling to me, however, is not that he's getting carried away about the end of the world - it's that he's chosen the same basic template as me. Dammit!

transfer complete

At long, long last I've gone through my old blog - no, you can't have the address to that one - and brought across the remainder of the posts.

I left a fair few out - either because they were rubbish or they were about something I'd kinda prefer to forget - but the majority have made it in.

All the new ones are going to appear at their original time of posting, though, so you'll have to have a hunt about to find them. The bulk are around December '04 and January '05.

Eeeeeeeeeeeexcellent.

twaddle

I was just having a look at the BBC News website and noticed a story in the Sports section about the seemingly-soon-to-be-vacant England Football Manager's position.

Now, I wouldn't normally comment on such things, but the following quote from Dave Richards - the Chairman of the Premier League - really stood out for me:

"We are the biggest nation in the world that plays this game and we want someone who can really move us on"

Is that true? Is England really the biggest nation in the world that plays football? Is it buggery! This is a diddy little country with a population of, what, fifty million or so. China have a national football team, do they not? And, if I'm not mistaken, they also have a domestic league set-up. Eejit-boy Richards! Pfft!

Sorry about that. Carry on everyone. I just thought I'd point it out. *ahem*

bobbins

I've discovered I love that word. Someone used it yesterday to describe the quality of a dream I offered her. She seemed to be largely unimpressed by it, which is a shame because it really is a nice wardrobe.

And now I find myself wondering whether I'm going to soon see adverts for sewing and knitting supplies. That's what bobbins are actually to do with, right? Or am I just being silly there? Hmmm...

Anyway, great word. And now I know you're hooked too. I make no apologies for I want you to start using it in each and every conversation you have.

Get going and spread the good word. Amen.

adsense

I signed up to this AdSense thingamy yesterday, here on BlogSpot (excuse any incorrect capitalisation there) and, at the last check, had made the grand total of $1.33. How exciting!

The odd thing, though, is that it seems to want to keep directing people to sites about Tea. There's only one post about it in the whole blog, so AdSense's fascination with Mondomundi for Tea and Finest Fairtrade Teas is puzzling to me.

I thought there'd be a bunch of stuff for otters and products to improve sarcasm and eejiticity. Surely that's what my blog's all about. Isn't it? Or have I missed my own obsession with the caffeine-based beverage?

See, now I'm probably going to find myself trying to avoid even mentioning the hot drink you get in a mug and add milk to directly just to see if I can get them to change to something else.

I could probably list a whole bunch of profane words and body parts in an attempt to have porn websites listed on here... but that might put some of the more timid of you off returning. And who's gonna click on an something for porn when they're illicitly reading a blog at work anyway?

backety backety back

Okay, so I kinda went missing for a while. I admit it. I wasn't about and fulfilling my responsibilities as a conscientious blogger. I've been a bad otter. *sigh*

But, before you go off in search of rocks and things to throw at me, let me just give you a little insight into my reasons for not having been about - and perhaps then you'll spare me the stoning...

I've been immensely bored, naturally, but I've also been suffering from a distinct sense of apathy. 'Tis an affliction, I tell thee; an affliction!

See? And there was you thinking I just couldn't be bothered. Ohhhhh no - it was something else entirely.

And with that, Your Honour, I rest my case.

tea

It has been brought to my attention that some people don't know how to make a good cup of tea. Some people seem to think that the water should be as close to 100°C as possible when it hits the teabag/leaves. Those people are wrong. Some people think that two bags is enough for a pot of tea. Those people are wrong. Some people think that Tesco Super-Saver teabags, which I would imagine are about fourteen pence for a box of one-hundred-and-sixty, are acceptable. Those people are wrong.

I'm not going to tell you how I make tea because that would be cheating; it would be like me telling you that four plus four is eight. No, what I'm going to do instead is more akin to "If you had four apples, and then someone gave you another four apples, how many apples would you have?"

So, if you have about a pound in your pocket and you fancy a cup of tea, which teabags should you buy from the supermarket and how many should be in the box when you buy them? The clue here is "quality". Another clue is "pyramid", but now I'm straying into the territory of just giving you the answer.

Once you've bought the correct teabags, let me know and we can continue with our lessons. Until then, drink coffee. Or water. Actually, just water - you'd probably balls up coffee-making as well. *sigh*

birthday wish-list

I thought you might appreciate getting a list of what I want for my birthday tomorrow so you're not all stuck for inspiration. I am, after all, the one with all the ideas. Yet again, I'm doing all the work (shush!) - you people just need to put your hands in your pockets, take out your wallets/purses, visit Amazon and buy me one of the items from the following list, you lazy buggers.

.: Fish

bor-or-ored.

Sweet Holy Jaysus, I'm bored. So bored, in fact, that I have succumbed to the demands of my audience (of one at the moment - no, not me) to write something in here. That's how bored this otter is!

There's nothing to do by the river today. Okay, so there's stuff to do but it's all boring stuff and all involves work of one description or another. I've done some work, but I'm struggling to find the motivation to do anything more than just mope about and re-read the BBC News headlines. *sigh*

I really ought to get this blog fully transfered at some point but that means having the inclination to do so. And then having the patience to sit there and do a whole load of copying, pasting and editing (of the bits I don't want being brought across), which is something I just don't have at the moment. I know, I know - I'm a lazy, good-for-only-a-few-things, article. But, let's face it; so are you. You just haven't yet admitted to it. (:op)

I'm thinking about having some sort of feature on here; something for me to do each day (or each week to keep the effort down to minimum) that's vaguely interesting to do and vaguely interesting to read. Something like "Letter Of The Day" or "Dear Dr Otter", perhaps.

It's my birthday tomorrow, incidentally. I'm sure that little nugget of information has made your life more bearable. You can thank me with a card and a present. Cheques can be made payable to "Dr Otter" and sent to "Dr Otter. The River Thames, London, England." Now get cracking!

inaccessibility

Is this thing actually working? For the last few days, I've attempted to view my blog but it continues to not let me do so. God only knows what the problem with it is. Perhaps it's the work computer, perhaps it's some issue with the Blogger servers.

Whatever the case, it needs resolving - I need to do some writing!

phones for me

I had a phonecall from The Carphone Warehouse yesterday offering me a new phone free of charge so long as I commit to another year on my contract with T-Mobile. They're also throwing in a Bluetooth handsfree kit for nothing and, considering my current one is falling apart, I figured it was worth a seven-day-trial.

So, I'm sat here waiting on them turning up with that little lot so I can charge it up and use it this evening when I go out. Apparently the camera's got a flash and it can also capture video - that could make for an interesting addition to the Baby Otter arsenal. It's got an FM radio and can play MP3s too, so it seems to have all the bits and bobs you'd expect from any self-respecting phone these days. Oh, and it's Bluetooth-enabled, which will help with the handsfree kit.

Rich and I are off out tonight in London. At the moment it's looking like it'll be Piccadilly but who really knows, eh? Anywhere with a good atmosphere; that's not too crowded; isn't occupied by sleazy, icky people; guarantees service within a minute of being at the bar; offers free drinks all night; allows entry without a collar; holds coats free of charge; provides proper grooming facilities with an on-site, free-of-charge hairdresser and beauty salon for which there is no waiting time; and will order us a cab home will do just fine. Failing that, a dancefloor and some decent music. It's very much an either-or case as far as I'm concerned.

I'm bored again. And now I don't even have anything else to talk about. I might be more inspired when I get my phone, though I doubt it'll be even vaguely useable for a good few hours with a dead battery. Hmmmm... the tedium will continue unabated for a while yet then.

I need a biscuit or something.

the wanderer returns

Actually, I've not really done much in the way of wandering - not physically anyway. I have, however, found my mind wandering plenty - more often than not to a distant land some fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes away (according to the flight schedules).

Today I'm bored. I mean thoroughly, utterly, entirely, completely bored. If there was a World Championships for boredom I could at least console myself with the fact that I'd be getting in some good training at the moment in preparation for a tilt at a spot on the rostrum - but there's not. So there's not even an interesting aspect to being bored - how disappointing. *sigh*

I've been at work now for two hours and twenty-one minutes today and I've still not taken my coat off. Subconsciously, it's probably because I'm hoping I can casually sneak out when I head off downstairs to make tea or visit the restrooms (today that word will take on a new meaning - I'll be taking enormous care and attention to ensure that my hands are as clean as clean can be, even if it takes an hour before I'm satisfied), but in reality it's because apathy kicked in as soon as I arrived at my desk and I just couldn't be bothered to take the bloody thing off. Okay, I'll do so now... wait there.

That was hard work. I think I probably ought to go downstairs now and make myself a cup of tea for some respite. I'll see if anyone else wants some too - that ought to take up a wee bit more time.

I shall return...

inappropriately titled "the Disney brand"

I'm thinking that, perhaps, I should have been given the nickname "Disney". My emotions these days seem to be a bit like that, if not my moods: A couple of days ago I was miserable; today I'm not - far from it.

But enough about my emotional rollercoaster - I'm here to speak more about LA (the one in Tenerife). I probably shouldn't have mentioned Disney and LA in the same post - you'll all be thinking of the wrong one now. Ah well, concentrate and you should be fine.

I spoke to Rich last night and he approved of the tale about the first night there, even recalling the ickiness of the four free shots. But he wants more. He got a bit of a reminiscent fix from reading of our adventures and now wants another hit. Pretty soon, I think, he'll be a junkie and, when the true stories run out, I'll have to start making stuff up just to keep the poor guy from crashing back down to Earth. Seriously - he'll vividly remember when we scaled Everest on that holiday by the time I'm finished here.

So, let me tell you of the cast of characters we encountered over there:

Emily
The first morning we were there we were supposed to be up at ten (I think) to meet the Reps and other people that were on the same package holiday thing as us. I say "package holiday" but it wasn't really like that - we still had to pay for all the activities they had planned for us, which was nice.

Anyway, in the lift on the way down to this meeting, we met a couple (both in their forties, I guess) and had a wee chat with them, unaware they, too, were going to the meeting. And there was us thinking it was a variation on the 18-30 theme! It turns out that they were there to gain information on behalf of and pay for the future activities of their daughter - Emily.

You know, I don't remember actually seeing Emily with normal hair but I'm sure we did the first time we met her - it's just that her braids became so "Emily" that I've forgotten how she looked without them.

Emily was an addict. She didn't look like your typical addict but she was. She liked to feel out of control, though it was apparent to us that it also scared the shit out of her - not literally, fortunately. I remember one night she, Rich, some others, and I were out and she had us wait for her on a street corner while she went off to buy drugs from a guy who'd done his best to pick a fight with me in a club the night before. The police turned up and yet still she stood there paying for whatever shite it was she was going to smoke/snort. Fortunately for her, the Police in that LA seem not to be the most efficient or observant.

"Not for shit, mate" was her response to most things she didn't agree with. This was both amusing and annoying all at once, though it became much more the former when we got back from LA and Rich started dating a girl from the same part of the country as Emily who also favoured that particular ism. Serves him right for making me do that Gas Chamber, I say!

Remember why Disney was christened Disney? Well, on that basis, she would have been an even stronger candidate for that nickname. She was a sweet girl most of the time... but she could turn at the drop of a hat and then cry about it. Madness. Still, she had braids. And "not for shit" would she change them.

Personally, there's not much I would do or exchange for shit, but perhaps that's just me. Maybe I don't yet understand the true value of the brown gold. Is it to be a future currency, I wonder?

Bugs
Rich, you probably ought to explain about Bugs seeing as you knew her much more intimately than I did, or wanted to. Silly boy. *tut tut*

There's not a whole lot I can really say about Bugs. It's a harsh name for her, I guess, because she didn't have that much of an overbite, but it fitted well enough. And when you see who's up next you'll see better why that is.

Rich and Bugs,
sittin' by the sea,
kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-gee.

Rich and others,
playin' drinking games,
this one's 'bout flu-id ex-change.

Ohhhh yes. And that was how it ended. They got together at a Foam Party - both parts of that sentence turned out to be bad things: the first because... well... because (Rich, help me out here. Explain.) and the second because the pair of us (along with the bulk of the people that were there) ended up getting some sort of chest infection that knocked us all for six - and it all finished when one of the drinking games, which involved ten guys and ten girls in two teams (five of each in each) sitting on a flight of stairs and passing alcohol of some description from the top to the bottom via their mouths, was participated in by a certain young man who answers to "Rich".

You see the blue text a bit further up? Repeat.

Daffy
See? This is why Bugs was really Bugs.

In this instance she actually did look like Daffy Duck. In-so-much-as someone can look like a cartoon character (don't get me started on Roald Dahl here!) anyway. She really did.

And, with a thick Mancunian accent, she almost quacked too. Without meaning to offend anyone from England's second (or is it third? Or fourth?) city, the accent isn't the easiest to understand at the best of times - and this wasn't the best of times.

Both Bugs and Daffy were nice enough but they were the people that tag onto a larger group of people. That, in itself, is perfectly okay - it's just when the tags start moaning about where the luggage is going that things can get a little less... errr... okay.

More to follow... but I've got to go and check out a car. Come on, Wombat - lunch.

the real slim wombat

Guess who's back, back again.
Wombat's back, tell a friend.
Guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back...
[ Na na naa ]

Yes, she has indeed returned. Hurrah! I missed not having her around the office and she never has her bloody phone charged up on so it's not like I can even call her and say, "I'm bored. How's your back?" or something.

Mind you, she's in a meeting at the moment so I can't send her an email and say, "I'm bored. How's your back?" either. Actually, the way we write emails it would be more like "I'mbored.How'syourback?" Clearly, it makes it more difficult to read like that - perfect for when someone's looking at your monitor from their own desk in an attempt to work out what you're saying and whether it's about them.

the perils of "Wankitoff" Vodka

First let me explain the title and set the scene for this little story, being recounted to you at Lee's request:

I was in Tenerife - in Playa de Las Americas to be more precise - for two weeks from the end of September to the beginning of October in 2003. When I'm having to spell out the year instead of saying "last year", it makes it seem like a very long time ago. Anyway, I went there with a friend of mine, Rich, and, ten minutes after getting to the hotel and throwing our suitcases in the room, we were out in the moonlit (and streetlightlit) Tenerife night.

We managed to get beyond the first person touting for business but the second guy was a Scouse scally and there was no escaping him - he followed us for a hundred yards making more and more outlandish promises of free drinks he'd get for us all the while. We succumbed to "Buy one get one free on the first three drinks plus four free shots."

So, we get to the bar and, true to his word, we get three "Buy one get one free" vouchers each and he lines up eight shots on the bar for us. Five are green and three are orange. Shit. I thought we were going to get shots of something palatable, but this looks like a series of urine samples. Are we expected to identify which of the bar staff has Diabetes? We had them anyway. And they tasted pretty much how we expected them to, based on their appearance - they're some sort of schnapps, we're told. "Shit Schnapps.", came my response.

And then we sampled the "delights" of the local Vodka. Generally, when he and I go for a night out we'll have Vodka at some point during the evening and, since Tenerife, we now ask for "Smirnoff and..." just to be on the safe side. In fact, neither of us trust that the words "Red Bull" will actually mean Red Bull to the person behind the bar - it could just as easily mean "cheap substitute that makes the fluid in the glass look and taste like piss". At least Red Bull only looks like piss - it loses that taste after two or three cans. The Tenerife version keeps its taste throughout the night.

I think we christened it Wankitoff Vodka on the second night - I think I need to give him the credit for that name actually - but we knew right from the first taste that there was something very, very wrong with it. I don't think I managed to finish my first drink.

Fortunately, a young Geordie lass walked past us with a tray of Vodka Jellies and off I went to investigate this new phenomenon - I'd not seen them before and they looked a damn sight better than what was in my glass at the time. I found out later that this departure from the table was much to the annoyance of a group of girls who'd been flirting with us (albeit through a window) up to that point - we met them in a club later on when the digital cameras had made their debuts in Las Americas (shall I call it LA from now on to add to the confusion? Yes, I think I will) and I tried to get a photo of them with Rich.

Evidently we'd "Had our chance earlier". "But there were Vodka Jellies!" I protested. She didn't seem to understand the significance of this and off the six of them trooped, so thoroughly disgusted, it seemed, that we'd not made our move earlier - I hadn't recognised the opportunity to practice my glass shattering skills (but that's another story) at the time. Shame.

Vodka Jellies still contained the same Wankitoff stuff but at least the taste was cancelled out by the sweetness of raspberry (I think) jelly. Somehow I managed to get chatting to two Irish guys, who I distinctly recall raised the subject of waste disposal on an industrial scale, and, between the four of us - with a little bit of help from the aforementioned "Geordie lass", whose name escapes me - we managed to get through a couple of trays of the stuff. I guess that was about forty or so.

"We're off to a club... wanna come with us? Our girlfriends are there... and his ex, and some other girls." said one of the Irish guys when the Vodka Jelly supply ran out. "Sure!" we said eagerly, "Where is it?"

The club was fifty yards away around the back of the bar we'd just been in. Somehow during that journey, Rich and I managed to get distracted - I won't tell you who or what caught our respective eyes, but she was clearly strategically positioned to intercept those of us already under the influence of Vodka Jellies - and we had a couple of Gas Chambers before we went to the club. For those of you that don't know what a Gas Chamber is, they set some spirit of some sort alight on the table-top and then cover it with a glass. A straw is then inserted under the glass and you suck through the straw to get a gaseous version of whatever shite they burnt. It's potent and makes you cough. Not a good idea.

We went into the club and, without any effort at all, found the two Irish guys and their girlfriends (and ex girlfriend and other female friends). We were made to feel welcome, despite our wide-eyed Jesus-what-the-fuck-was-that-we-just-inhaled? states and got down on the dancefloor. By that I mean we danced, rather than saw the sticky, beer-soaked linoleum as an appropriate resting place.

The cameras came out and photos were taken. The "incident" with the sulks occured and then I decided I needed to perform an evacuation procedure from the front so I headed outside to the "rest rooms". I have to call them that, these days, after it was pointed out to me that "She's in the toilet." makes it sound like she's clambered in there, presumably for a wash.

What was needed to be done was done and I even remembered to wash my hands in spite of the level of alcohol in my blood and I gave my face a quick plosh (my mum's word, though it seems to be used elsewhere too) and off I headed for the club again. Remember, now, that the rest rooms are outside. There are two heavy doors to encounter on the way in to the club - made from glass and metal with a pole handle running almost the full length of the door.

The first door proves to be no problem and in I go. Somehow, however, I manage to open the second door right into my face; right onto my forehead. Of course it hurt, but my immediate instinct is to have a quick check to see if anyone noticed that little episode and, satisfied that it was witness-free, I open the door more carefully and head for the area of the dancefloor I'd vacated just five minutes previously.

Ten minutes go by and my forehead is inexplicably hurting. By this time, of course, I've put the incident with the door behind me seeing as noone happened to see it so I'm not expecting my forehead to hurt. What the Hell is going on? Did someone hit me?!

I go up to a girl behind the bar and ask her if there's any sort of mark on my forehead that she can see. "Ohhhhhhhhh yes!" she says, in a tone that suggests it's an unmissable mark, "There's a mirror at the end of the bar..." I go and have a look in the mirror and there's a thin trail of blood from just above my right eye, down along the the bridge of my nose (just inside to the right, in fact) and just not quite as far as my lip. Lovely. I could see where the barmaid's tone had come from.

As with all such situations, I sobered up at once and headed off to the rest rooms to clean up. I washed it. And it bled. I washed it again and put some tissues on it to stem the blood. It still bled. In the end I simply got it to a point where the blood was only trickling a tiny wee bit and armed myself with enough tissue to keep it in check but not so much that anyone would see it and think I had a cold or an urgent need for a wad of toilet paper.

So that was my first night in Tenerife. It took me all of three hours to injure myself and I still have a little bit of a scar from it. People were saying I'd need a stitch or two but I'm sure that would only have resulted in a sideways scar too - so I didn't bother. Besides, it's nice to have evidence for what happened. And, Rich, it's better the way I tell it - "He walked into a door!" just doesn't have the same appeal as a tale to be told.

this post has been given a "12" by the Posts Classification Board, meaning you should leave it twelve hours before eating afterwards

Inquisitor:"Why do you have to leave early?"
Me:"To have my ears waxed."

Yes, I did say that. And felt quite the fool. I immediately had this image of driving into a carwash and having a seventeen-year-old lad come at me with a bottle of Turtle Wax and a cloth to give my ears a good buff. Not a nice image, I have to say.

Anyway, I did go and have my ears syringed (rather than waxed) today - well, one of them anyway - and it was, somewhat surprisingly, a really really unpleasant experience. I had them syringed back in November by a beautiful lady, but this time it was a forty-something Irish woman who was rather too keen for me to return should I ever feel the need to have her perform an aural version of a colonic irrigation on me again. I've never had a colonic irrigation, incidentally, and if the syringing of my ear today is anything to go by I'd rather take my chances with a box of prunes and hope for the best.

Still, at least now I can hear the clicking of the keys as I type somewhere in the region of 0.4% better. So that's a good thing. Sort of. Actually, it's a good thing in the sense that it does at least mean there's no shite (of any sort) in there now.

I do hope you weren't sitting at your computer reading this expecting to tuck into that cream cake you've had in the fridge since you got back from the shops and had been saving for just the right moment when you were all relaxed. I think I may have killed that mood, I'm afraid. Apologies.

I shall henceforth refrain from talking about icky stuff. Hmmmm... what's that on the bottom of my shoe...?

it's a trust thing

Am I alone in thinking that buying a sandwich from a newsagent for lunch is a risky business? There are certain ones you can be fairly sure won't come back up within an hour or so - a loaf of bread, for example - and others that you'd only ever pick up if every other shelf (including the one sporting Liquorice Allsorts) was empty and you'd just been told by God that you had to have something to eat in the next three minutes or he'd smite you.

The ones I won't go near are those with any sort of meat whatsoever. I don't know why but I don't generally regard tuna in that same category but anything else is off-limits. I won't touch anything that describes itself as "Spicy" because God and the creator (of the sandwich) alone know what's gone in there - and possibly the doctor who carries out the subsequent autopsy.

Oh, and I'm still wary of ones claiming to contain "Salad" after that "Egg Mayo & Salad" disgrace.

I'm bored now but I did some good work earlier today. When I say "good" I mean that in the sense of solving problems with the code rather than popping down to the local soup kitchen and helping out. Not that good. Okay, I did some work earlier. Fine.

But, as I said, I'm bored now. I guess I should probably do some more work of the evil variety (hey, if it's not good it must be evil, right?) instead of being on here - but the Devil's not going to be able to find too much work for these hands to do seeing as they're typing and, thus, not idle. Not until I finish typing at least, which will be around abooouuut... now.

what a small world

I just hit in the top-right corner a few times and was taken first to a Norwegian blog, then to one that told me I'd need to install the Japanese language pack to see it properly - like that would help me understand it. I guess it'd be posted by someone from Japan then. Next was one in Brazil and, finally, one in The U.S. Virgin Islands.

Good luck with being able to understand any part of any of them - none of them are in English so I was completely lost. Still, it was interesting to see how widespread this blogging community (am I a part of it by virtue of having this?) really is.

the head-bobbing thing

You know when your eyes are really heavy and they keep trying to close? And your head starts to fall forward and, as soon as you realise you're getting close to nodding-off, you suddenly open your eyes and look straight ahead again instead of at your feet? You know that feeling? Well, that's what I call "the head-bobbing thing". It's horrible, isn't it?

I was like that on the way in this morning - it's even worse when you're driving because you know that staying awake and alert is an absolute necessity. Not nice.

It's not the reason for me being so tired because I barely woke for it but I had a phonecall at about one this morning on my mobile. It was on the other side of the room and I only woke at the very last ring so I didn't manage to get to it before the other person hung up. It was from a withheld number (why do people do that?) and it looked like I'd had two such calls. And there was no voicemail. *sigh*

If that was you then let me know and/or call me back. And be quick about it. And don't withhold your number this time... or there'll be repercussions.

"salad"

Wombat now has less than half an hour to turn up - she's been sat in the carpark for long enough now. Surely!

If you go to a shop to buy a sandwich and you find "Egg Mayo & Salad" on one of the labels, you pretty much expect it to be egg mayonnaise and salad between a couple of slices of bread, right? I'd have thought so too. The term "salad", it seems, can now be applied to slices of sausage. Did you know that?

I'll have to be careful the next time I order a Caesar Salad from somewhere. I'll need to just make sure by saying, "Caesar Salad please... and hold the sausage." Or does that sound a bit too suggestive? The waitress might get the wrong idea on that one. Hmmm... I think I'd best just take my chances and fish out any bits of sausage I come across and leave them in the ashtray.

I did, in fact, find an "Egg Mayo & Salad" sandwich that contained, somewhat surprisingly, egg mayonnaise and, what I must now call, "traditional" salad. I bought some cookies too, but I've not started on those yet. I think I might have some now actually...

vindication

At the start of December, shortly after I got back from The States, I was informed at work that there was something very wrong with the software we write here. I had a look at the problem and concluded very quickly that the problem was, in fact, with old data that had been entered before several fixes were made.

Fatkins was adamant that it was the code and I maintained that it was the data and/or configuration but that the code was perfectly okay - I wrote most of it in the first place and it worked fine under all circumstances but this particular instance, where there was old (shitty) data involved.

It turns out that I was entirely correct. Remarkable. I'm wondering whether I should wade in with an "I told you so" and, if so, how best to phrase it for maximum impact; or whether I should just sit back and smile knowingly to myself that I was right all along. For now, it's the latter...

Wombat - she actually said as much just now, though not to me. "We stuck with the same version because it was the data." were, though paraphrased, her words.

Right, I'm off to smirk for a bit.

work without Wombat

I know she's only two and three-quarter hours late now but I'm starting to give up hope of her leaving the carpark and venturing into the office. I guess I have to face up to having lunch on my own today - and not even lunch down the pub. That, at least, would have made the day a little more bearable.

Wombat, when you read this I shall expect you to turn round in your seat, look at me with sorrowful eyes as tears stream down your cheeks, and make a full and public apology for your absence.

At least I got a couple of emails from Sally. Yay! Oh, and the coffee was shite, Sally, really shite. Clenched paws are gonna start flying soon methinks. Or coffee-filled mugs at least.

I'm yet to break the news to Wombat that we need to re-Christen Disney (because he's certainly not reminiscent of "The Happiest Place on Earth"™) so I think I'll have to think of a new name for him before I do so. Would "EuroDisney" work, Sally? I don't think anyone is under the illusion that that's an especially happy place. Oh, the reason for mentioning that here is that it was he that made me the mug of shite coffee.

work is for losers. I lost.

Well, the holiday is over. Of course. All good things must come to an end, they say, and not being at work is most definitely a good thing. A very good thing.

Wombat (H), it seems, has elected to postpone her torturous return until the last possible moment. In contrast, I thought the traffic would be horrible (are the schools not open today?) so I left early and got in even earlier. Not than I left; just than I needed to be. It took me fifty minutes of being bored, replying to the one new email for today - the others were appearing on this computer for the first time but had appeared on my one at home over the festive period - and generally hearing about everyone else's Christmas before I decided to bail out and climb aboard the boat to Blogsville.

Dinky just turned up. I thought it might have been Wombat but she's still doing the sensible thing and sitting in her car instead of at her desk. It wouldn't surprise me if she was actually in the carpark and contemplating just starting the car up again and driving home. I'm considering it myself. Seriously considering it.

It's been a few days since I wrote on here, has it not? Actually, this is my first entry of 2005. I've spent the last few days sailing the Caribbean (a place name I always struggle to spell - two r's feel right, but look far from it), blowing other vessels out of the water - or boarding them and stealing all their stuff - and pretending to be Captain Jack Sparrow. I've even done the voice on a couple of occasions, though there's unfortunately no option to customise the look of your character. Shame.

Oh, you think I'm talking about playing a game on a computer rather than actually doing it? How mistaken you are, people. How very mistaken. I was really there. I did woo several Governers' daughters. I did marry a Dutch one and then seek for a way to divorce her (or commit bigamy) so I could marry a French one. I did personally see to the demise of nine of the most notorious pirates ever to sail the Caribbean waters, as well as a host of other less (in)famous ones. I did find several lost cities and I did go treasure hunting and find several different X's.

So there. You've been told. Ha!

Wombat's still not in. Perhaps she really has turned the car around and gone home. She could be caught in traffic, I suppose. Or she could be taking today off for some reason - I think she got back from her Christmas in another country yesterday. Or she could still be sat in the carpark considering her options. Either way, she's not here. Not fair.

Much more importantly than not liking being at work today is what it means for my sleeping patterns: since I have to get out of bed at six thirty (or so), I can't really be on the phone to my young lady until much past two - that's even more unfair than Wombat not being in. I'm wondering whether it's better to go to bed earlier (no mean feat) and wake up at about five to speak to S. Whether I continue with my current strategy or adopt the new one, I'll not be getting much more than about four hours of sleep each night - plenty for a twenty-six year old otter, wouldn't you say? I have Saturday and Sunday mornings to replenish my slumber supplies in any case.

Right, I'm supposed to be working. At work. What a strange philosophy that is. It's not my philosophy but I guess it's the one I have to adhere to, at least for the time being, so I'd best finish for now and get a wriggle on. Little doubt I shall return ere the day is out...

all the trimmings

Something just occurred to me about something I said in an earlier post. Guess who used surgical tape to wrap his presents again this year... yes, my dad. I laughed when I saw it and he pointed out that he has an awful lot of it lying around his place (he does) and that it was a shame to let it go to waste (it wouldn't have) so he used it for the presents.

Now, didn't I say I'd be on here for most of the evening? I'm doing well so far, aren't I? All I need now is for a certain someone to send me an email and that'll be the end of any ideas anyone might have about me going through that last box...

supposed to be on holiday

Not only is today a day off work, it's also a Bank Holiday. So why, might I ask, have I spent almost all of it sorting out my bedroom? The answer: a Christmas present.

My mum bought me a bookcase, which is actually more like a multi-purpose shelving unit - or at least that's what I'm using it for, for Christmas. And I chose today to put it together.

But that first meant clearing my room of all the shite I'd amassed. And I've really been hoarding a lot of old tat! There are seven black plastic bags in the hallway at the moment full of useless stuff, as well as a couple of boxes of old magazines - mostly New Scientist from when I was at school, but also a smattering of FHM and Loaded magazines from about six or seven years ago.

God knows why I still have them - they even came with me when I moved five years ago! At least I didn't take them up to University with me, I guess! I think I probably just threw everything I owned in boxes because it was all a bit of a rush-job and had to be done in the space of a weekend (I had lectures (to miss), don't forget). You try packing up for a move in a single weekend - I dare ya.

If God does know why, He hasn't let on about it and He's now missed His chance to convince me that they should stay because there's no way I'm finding space for that little (Ha!) lot.

I now have just one more box of things to work my way through but I thought I'd have a cup of tea and a quick peruse online before I finish the job off. I fully expect to be online for the rest of the evening now and not sort through the rest of it before the end of 2004... but at least I'll be able to come up with an excellent excuse as to why it's not quite done yet on the off-chance that anyone asks.

Oh, and the photo of the otter figurines that I was bought my parents is below. The one on the left is from my dad and the one on the right is from my mum. I've christened the left-most one Jack, and the middle one Sally. I haven't yet decided on a name for the right-hand one - it's a bit too tall for an Annie, but I guess I could be persuaded.

Oh, and Sally's not eyeing up the unnamed otter... it just looks like that in the photo.

beyond Beyond Good & Evil

Yes, I've finished it. Unfortunately it's one of those games that, when you've finished it, there's not much else to do with it. It was good though. I might try trading it or selling it on eBay or something. Or, if someone wants to make me an offer on here then feel free. Let's say £19.99 plus postage.

So what now? Well, I could probably do with some practice at Mario Kart following the debacle against my cousin - I came as low as sixth in one race, you know. Sixth! Perhaps I should cut my losses and sell that one too. Hmmmm...

On a much more positive note: I kept the kinda date I made a couple of days ago (check the comments) and spoke to S today. Yay! I've decided to make a New Year's Resolution too: don't be an eejit and make sure I'm spending next Christmas with her and Annie. If I do anything eejity between now and the 4th of April 2113 (the day the Grim Reaper's pencilled in to pay me a little visit) would you mind giving me a kick? Pass it on. Yes, that means to your children. And their children. And theirs too.

Right, I'm now off to set my alarm (it's actually my stereo) for far too early on the off-chance my vocal skills may be called upon...

Oh, and one final thing: Kerminotter is now kicking fwog-butt! He's won his last two races and four of his last five. Hurrah! I just hired him a sports car to celebrate. The trouble now, though, is that he's just moved up to a new age group so he'll be the baby of the pack. I expect a few lean days while he finds his flippers.

boxed-in day

Isn't it remarkable how little space is actually required in a parking space to get out? When pulled up to the kerb I mean, rather than in a carpark bay. This afternoon I had to drive my dad home and, when I went out to the car, I discovered that I had about eighteen inches in front of me and about six behind me (Get your minds out of the gutter this instant!). Don't ask me how but I managed to squeeze out of there without hitting anything. And it only took me five minutes of toing and froing.

[ Is it just me or does that look more like it should be pronounced "toyng and froyng"? ]

Oh, and I feel like I've done both my parents and injustice by simply mentioning the otter-related things they bought me. I actually got more than that from them. So, to give credit where it's due, here's a complete listing of the Christmas gifts I received:

From my mum:
Otter Figurine. I'll have to get a photo of this at some point but it's about ten inches tall - that's a real ten inches rather than your average man's "ten inches", if you see what I mean. It's very cute.
Bookcase. I've yet to put this up. That was supposed to be my job for today but... well... I didn't get round to it. I was too busy on the Gamecube.

From my dad:
Otter Figurines. Yes, there were two otters in the one piece. One's lying down and the other's on it's hind-legs, looking distinctly like a Meerkat. Actually, they both look really quite different to the otter my mum got me - I suspect her one is of a river otter and these ones are sea otters. Or something.
Leather Coat. This took me completely by surprise, not least because he can't afford to buy things like that for me. You know, it's a strange thing: I can take anything from a Medium to an Extra Large in clothes. The coat was an Extra Large and it's just about right - any smaller and it certainly wouldn't have fitted...

...but one of the gifts from my aunt, uncle and two cousins (including the one that tonked me at Monopoly... and also at Mario Kart later on) was:
A Liverpool Shirt. And it was a Medium. And it fits perfectly. For the first time ever I'll have the up-to-date kit offering for more than half of the season. I'm one of those people that supports from afar, I guess, so I've never gone out to buy the new shirt right at the start of the season. In fact, I'm twenty-six now and I've only ever had three Liverpool shirts, including this new one. Shite, aren't I?
The Simpsons Biscuits. I've not tried them yet but I shall certainly be breaking into the tin in the near future.

From my friend Adrian:
Troy. That's the DVD rather than the place, which is handy because I'm not sure I'd be too good at looking after a whole city just at the moment. I imagine it'd be like taking care of a really, really, really, really big dog that adores going for walks and has a tendancy to chew shoes, newspapers, sofas, fridges televisions, etc.

From my MD:
Champagne. Unopened so far. My dad brought some round for Christmas Day and insisted that we have that one because, he said, "It's really expensive." "It's French.", he added as if to prove it's authenticity and highlight its lavishness. That amused me.
Lindt Chocolate Truffles. Mmmmm... nice.

And I think that just about does it. If Santa gets home and realises he's still got something of mine in his sack - God, that sounds dodgy! Or is that just my filthy mind? - and swings by to drop it off anytime soon, I'll let you know. And if anyone sees Santa would you mind letting him know that there'll be no hard feelings if he has accidentally missed one. Thanks.

Monopoly Schmonopoly

I've decided that Monopoly is a game best played by other people. I was involved in a seven-way game of it today - instigated by me, under the mistaken belief that holding a degree in a scientific-esque subject would give me an "edge" - and my cousin (who's almost four years younger than me into the bargain) kicked all our arses. Mine moreso than the rest since I was the first one to be declared bankrupt.

Oh how the mighty fall from grace. Not that I was ever in grace. Or had grace. Or whatever the hell you'd do to/with/near grace. Not a girl called Grace, I hasten to add - let's not even think about what (the hell) you'd do to/with/near one of those. This is a religious festival after all. Besides, I'm innocent and don't even know what an innuendo is. The dictionary definition doesn't help either.

So: Monopoly. That's twice in a row I've been trounced at that game. It's actually probably ten times in a row but I've only played it twice in the last ten years or so (that I can remember anyway) and on both occasions I was battered. Not fair. I'm giving up and concentrating my efforts on something I might actually win at. Something like Snakes & Ladders - you can't be bad at Snakes & Ladders, can you? It's aaaaaall about luck. Actually, so is Monopoly.

[ Quickly hides and peers through the tall grass to watch the fireworks start after that last little throwaway comment. ]

It's almost not Christmas... damn. Ah well, it's still Christmas in other parts of the world... like in California, for example. Hmmmm...

it's Christmas time,and there's no need to be afraid

Yes, it's Christmas Day. Yes, I'm online. But: it's about half eleven and the family have now gone and I'm back to being bored. There's stuff to tidy up but I really can't be bothered just at the moment.

Imagine my surprise today when I got an otter figurine thing from my mother as one of her presents. I knew she knew about the whole baby otter thing but I certainly wasn't expecting to have otter ornaments. Note the plural there. A few hours later - when I'd been to pick my dad up for dinner - I opened one of the presents he'd bought me and found yet another otter figurine! And I really don't remember ever mentioning anything at all about otters to him.

See, you're all probably thinking I have an unhealthy interest in otters or something. Or that I'm a bit of a nerd who goes about taking photos of water-dwelling mammals. Or collects otter-related memorabilia. I'm really not. I've explained the reason for the Baby Otter thing to you all here and I hope that's proof-enough that I'm not an otter-loving freak. If, however, this is not your first visit to this blog I'm not sure the same can be said of you.

Anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas Day and Santa did his business under your trees last night, as it were. If I had a chimney, I suspect he'd have squeezed his rotund form down it to deliver me a porcelain otter. As it was, Santa didn't deliver me the present I really wanted - she's spending Christmas Day with, for some reason that's beyond me (not really but I'm making an effort to be dramatic here so let's just go with it), her family!

And now, before I go, a musical snippet from a film that bears a significance for me. So this is especially for the one I love (though the rest of you can "listen" along too):

[Jack] My dearest friend, if you don't mind I'd like to sit by your side Where we can gaze into the stars [Sally and Jack] And sit together, now and forever For it is plain as anyone can see We're simply meant to be

almost stuffed

I forgot to mention the "issues" we had with the turkey:

My mum, in her infinite wisdom (and allegedly acting on her sister's advice), decided that it would be a good idea to leave the turkey by the front door, thinking it would be cold enough for it to thaw it juuuuuuust fine. It turns out that the best place for it is not the front door after all. Of course, you and I knew this all along... but my mum, it seems, didn't. She does now.

So, last night I went out to get another turkey. "Get a frozen one." she said. "Fresh ones are too expensive" she added. Safeway: shut; Tesco #1: no frozen turkeys; Asda: no frozen turkeys; Tesco #2: closed and surrounded by police. Perhaps a couple of other last-minute-shoppers had found the last frozen turkey in the area, started arguing over who'd got there first, and the fight had spilled over into the fruit and veg - at which point the police were called. Nice thought.

Anyway, expensive or not (I don't actually think £18 is expensive but perhaps that's just me - I'm not a middle-aged woman after all), I bought a fresh one this morning. I decided that a fresh one bought last night wouldn't have been as fresh as one bought today. I was at Safeway at 7.05. Yes, that's five past seven. This morning. That's the best part of three hours before I should have needed to think about getting out of bed on a day when I have no work. Christmas, eh?

If you've never seen it before, go have a look at Get Fuzzy from yesterday and today.

"singing" and everything

Should I be worried, do you think, that I can hit all the same notes as Justin Hawkins (from The Darkness) when singing along to Permission To Land? I have a fairly deep voice when speaking normally, but it concerns one of my friends that I can hit those high notes. I wonder if he thinks I might try to chat him up. I wouldn't. He's not my type.

I had a bedtime story read to me at lunchtime today. Actually TWO bedtime stories. And I even got to see the pictures in the book and everything.

Let me digress for a moment. Isn't it strange how we add "and everything" onto the ends of sentences? And we always seem to place such emphasis on it. I mean, what message is it actually supposed to convey? That I saw the pictures in the book and then I saw everything else? Everything? Really? Jesus, that's a lot to see!

"He was upset - he'd lost his job and everything."
Well of course he was bloody-well upset! On top of losing his job, he's lost everything else as well. That's got to be a bit of a kick in the teeth!

"She told him where to go and everything."
Okay, so she told him where to go. Under normal circumstances that would mean that she didn't especially like him and didn't want him around her anymore. So why on Earth did she then proceed to tell him everything? That must have taken aaaaaaaages!

Right, end of digression. Let me regress. Is that the word? I'm not sure but I'll claim it is. If it's not, shush.

So, bedtime stories at lunchtime. It wasn't my bedtime but it was the bedtime-story-reader's bedtime. So she told me a couple of bedtime stories. How cool is that?! I'm going to see if I can make that a regular thing...

Also, I've wrapped everything all the presents I've bought for people. That's worrying me too: I'm sure such things should be left until the very last minute, by which time it's too late to go and buy some Sellotape when I discover I have none and have to resort to using either masking tape or electrical tape. A couple of years back my father used surgical tape. And it wasn't sticky - probably because there were no hairs to cling to and the tape knew it wouldn't hurt anyone when it got ripped off.

The Christmas spirit has, I think, taken hold.

no missing day

Ha! And you thought I was going to break my run of <some number or other> straight days of blog entries. More fool you, people!

I know this post is rubbish. I know there's not much point in it being here. I know I'm only writing this now so I can continue to claim that I haven't missed a day since I started. I know. But I don't care.

the otterpool illuminations

God, I hate putting lights up for Christmas. I just spent half an hour with this Christmas light net thing trying to work out how best to hang the damn... errr... thing. Eventually I settled on having the end from which the power cable and pattern-changer-control-clicker-thing emerges at the top, which means that the PCCCT is hanging half way down the window and I've had to run an extension lead to the window specifically for them!

I tried it the other way round (upside-down) and it just wasn't working - it looked shite - so I gave up on that as a bad idea and went, instead, for the "looks better but is annoyingly awkward" method. I do believe that's what Christmas is all about, actually.

I can't see me having anything even remotely interesting to write in here for a while but if the situation changes I shall let you know at once. In here. In fact, I won't let you know - you'll see it for yourself. It should be obvious if anything interesting happens because it'll stand out like Rudolph's nose against the bleakness and tedium of the rest of this blog. You can tell I'm filled with the festive spirit, can't you?

Oh... I got my card too. My bank card. No others though. Not today. Poor lonely little otter. *sniffle*

treelessnesslessness

Yes, that means I now have a tree. Hurrah!

I bought one last night on the way home from work. There was a proper Christmas shop in the Bentalls Centre in Kingston so I bought that and also popped into GAME to get myself a new Gamecube adventure. I bought Beyond Good and Evil (God knows but it says it was runner up for Best Adventure Game of 2003 on the back) and also a second controller so I can kick some buttocks on Mario Kart when my cousins are round for Christmas Day.

Sorry, H - I was supposed to post here last night, wasn't I? I apologise. I'm sure your morning's been ruined by not having anything interesting to read. Hmmmm... I guess I'm not really helping too much with this post either.

I tried calling my lady friend last night but she was unfortunately unavailable so I've been suffering from withdrawal symptoms since about midnight - and no amount of Coke seems to be helping. I've run out of Coke now actually. I may have to pop to the shops and get some more. The real stuff, not that Diet shite. But then, if it's not helping, what's the point? *sigh*

I had emails though. Yes, emails. From her. And from others. But from her too! Someone once pointed out to me that this habit I sometimes have of writing short little sentences is reminscent of Hemmingway. I don't know how true that is - because I've not read any Hemmingway - but if anyone has an opinion on that subject, let me know. Thanks. Much appreciated.

Right, time to get on the Gamecube and try out my new game. S - I didn't even go on it yesterday. Not at all. Oh, and I watched The Nightmare Before Christmas this morning when I eventually woke up.

Before I go, I have to make a confession:

The name of the main character in TNBC is actually Jack Skellington and not Jack O'Lantern as I had so adamantly maintained (and been backed up on by a seven-year-old) when S and I were discussing it. She was right. I was wrong. Is compensation due, do you think? And should the seven-year-old be kept back a year at school? All these questions and so little time to find answers and play on the Gamecube. I'll do the latter I think...

interesting conversation

H: "How big is it?"
...
H: "Oh, it's really big!"
...
BO: "You can have a feel of it if you like."
...
H: "It's hard!"

Doesn't that look dodgy?! Yes, it sounded dodgy at the time too - even though the ellipsis actually had further conversation in them.

We were talking about the present I'd bought for H's son for Christmas that was sat on the passenger seat of her car after I'd borrowed her keys this morning to put it there lest I forget and drive off home with it - you've got to do these things, I find, when they're fresh in your mind or you'll never do them!

It kinda spoils it when you discover the context, doesn't it? She'd asked if she could open it, at which point I informed her that she could try to determine the nature of the wrapped object by using her tactile sense, but not by opening it. I have to be careful with my words here because I've already put you in that frame of mind, you filthy people!