2010 — 22 March: Monday
Suddenly, it's 00:47 and I'm rather sleepy. It's off to Novatech with me in a few hours. G'night.
But second...
... I must attend to the demands of the emptying larder. I'm running low on some food (again). First was the inevitable thirst quencha, of course. It's 08:17 and looks rather grey out there.
I would comment on the internal troubles of our Catholic chums' fine and noble church of child abuse, but I think I'll just pray that the Flying Spaghetti Monster1 drops in on them for a quiet word. (I did see a blog comment to the effect that Gary Glitter must now wish he'd been a priest rather than a rock star — the detection rate being lower and the punishment a lot less certain.)
Browsing around...
In its purest form, a newspaper consists of a collection of facts which, in controlled circumstances, can actively improve knowledge. Unfortunately, facts are expensive, so to save costs and drive up sales, unscrupulous dealers often "cut" the basic contents with cheaper material, such as wild opinion, bullshit, empty hysteria, reheated press releases, advertorial padding and photographs of Lady Gaga with her bum hanging out. The hapless user has little or no concept of the toxicity of the end product: they digest the contents in good faith, only to pay the price later when they find themselves raging incoherently in pubs, or — increasingly — on internet messageboards.
Hah!
Fudge and the OS
The chap who wrote the amiable book about his maply obsessions I mentioned here is featuring in a 10-part BBC Radio 4 series starting today.
When I'm not either:
- gallivanting (galumphing?) around bits of the Hampshire countryside with Mike, or
- haring up and down the motorway to Mr Novatech2 with my main co-pilot to pick up Shelagh's new(est) all-in-one device (before being treated to lunch by him at Brambridge)...
... I can't help noting the house feels distinctly on the cool side in the absence of its central heating (just as it did when number #3 pump packed up a day or so after I started this post-IBM phase of my life). I have therefore fired up the plasma (fire, not screen) and await the effect of convection up here. Meanwhile, there's always the thermal effect of another cuppa to be enjoyed. (Today, I had my first-ever cappuccino with cinnamon sprinkled on top. And my last-ever, I suspect.)
Convection...
... takes its own sweet time to work, I note sourly. It's 17:26, and at this rate I shall clamber up into the loft and bring down one of Peter's old ski-suits. Or decamp into the living room and huddle round my hi-tech Bunsen burner. The rain's effect, I'm sure, is purely psychological.
Suddenly it's hammering on midnight's door once again. Amazing.