Hog on the Run
Saturday, April 30, 2005
The Joy of Spam
I've got a fancy email spam detector program at work, which is pretty good: try it here. The trouble is that I have to check it once in a while to make sure no vital missives from NASA are stuck in there and can't get to me ( they will call, one day, and then yea verily, I shall save the Earth). The layout in this program shows you the subject line thusly:
Subject: cockroach dossier boris
Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.
Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*
What a disappointment.
And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks they work with me, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.
*just kidding about the baby powder
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Quick & Dirty
Deranged hair? Check
Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check
Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check
Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check
Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Regrettable Conversations
I expect to be hit with some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit any day now.
Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?"
Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one."
Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."
And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:
Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day."
Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."
So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?
They'll never get the charges to stick, right?
Friday, April 22, 2005
Writing
While the ire is hot.
To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:
I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.
When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.
Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.
Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!
Thanks. I feel better now.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
In which we dine out
Me and Sidekick went to the local brand name restaurant for food last night, to celebrate the fact that we had nothing to celebrate other than a lack of desire to shop n'cook.
I found this advert kindly left on our table. How nice!
I may have altered it a little... 
Monday, April 18, 2005
Cycle of Gripe
Today, the following exchange took place:
Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.
Sidekick: ........You think?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!
Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*
*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Acceptance
What I wrote:
Dear Mrs Smooze,
Thank you for your invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding.
We will be glad to accept, and look forward to joining you in celebrating the happy event.
Yours sincerely
Okapi
What I wish I wrote:
Dear Mrs Smooze,
Why did you send us an invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding? Thanks though, we'll be there with bells on. Or with nothing but a smile on, which'll make the photos more interesting.
I barely know Cooty, having only spoken to her with regards to cat-sitting, but I'm assuming she is a good soul, and that there will be at least one free drink on offer at the do. This is payback for the aforementioned cat-sitting.
I love you, Mrs Smooze, and cannot live any more without you. By the time you read this I'll be face down in a vat of spicy curry.
Yours sincerely,
Okapi
PS. We'll always have Paris xxx
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Boot Based Erotica
It's not really
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
When the moon's not phat*
Winter. I dread the encroaching nights and foul black mornings and ache for sunshine and light. Nothing makes me as happy as those first few bright mornings, or the pleasure of not having to drive home through murky darkness at 4.30 in the afternoon. But there's something I had forgotten about the glory of spring.
We have an anorexic strip of forest backing onto our house, which is lovely from the point of view of, well, the view.
Sadly, in the forest lurks an evil beast. He is small, sheathed in black and beady of eye. He has a lot of little friends. He is (dramatic pause) a crow (cue eerie violin a la "Psycho"). The little bastards nest out there in cosy family groups of around 400, and what they love above all else** is to discuss the issues of the day. Their argument generally goes along these lines:
RAWK RAWK RAWK RAW-KKKK.
GRACK! (cough cough) ARK!! CRAWCK, GROOOUUUWCK......
KARK! BLARCK BRRCRACK! BLECH! RAWK RAWK etc.
They are like a massed choir of angry bronchitis sufferers.
The dawn, arriving at around 5.30am, encourages them to come forth and make whoopee, dragging me out of sleep until I sit up in bed shouting "WHAT? What do you want from me? Mediation, fer Chrissakes? SHUT IT YOU MOULDY FEATHERED HARBINGERS OF DOOM!" Which has no effect, of course. I'm working on arming the local cats with advanced climbing gear and sniper rifles. Which will be useless until they get the hang of the strap-on opposable thumbs. It's a long term plan of course.
*This title has no relevance to the above post, until you watch this and think about forests
**excepting sheeps eyeballs and rotting entrails
How others see the crow
How I see the crow
Monday, April 11, 2005
Mindless Tedium
You must have experienced that moment of self knowledge, when it becomes clear that all that is exciting, fresh and new is behind you. Never again will you feel the thrill of the new, the pounding heartbeat of life, the frenetic song of existence. Ahead is only drudgery, day melting into day, month into month, year after year, until finally, weak and exhausted by ennui, your life is snuffed out like an inconsequential tea light.
In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early
can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
How to...
Go snowboarding in Scotland. Follow these simple steps for sporting adventure.
- Notice snow falling at a time when you can actually use it, ie during your week off.
- Decide to have one last hurrah before snow is off the menu until December.
- Check status of The Lecht
- Make plans to leave early, carefully pulling out all the necessary kit from it's hibernation space in the cupboard. Don't forget your hat, gloves, snowboard, etc.
- Rise at the ass crack of dawn, or in my case, force someone else to rise by the time honoured method of pulling the duvet off them.
- Discover that the road to the Lecht is closed. Due to snow, naturally.
- Go back to sleep.
And reeeelaaaax. You have just experienced the best that Scotland has to offer for winter sports!*
*in April, mind.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Proof of Life After Death
Who knew that funerals could be so relaxing? This morning I dozed off while watching the ceremonial dispatch of the perennially behatted one, and had a dream that I was sitting at a table with him. The Popester was making a sculpture (abstract, possibly some sort of human form) out of jelly. It was pink jelly with sparkles in it.
Odd.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Damn you Firefox
You blanked all my bookmarks! Why? Why! Do you hate me? Did I have an inappropriate number of sites on my list? How will I ever find all of that rubbish stuff again? NOoooooooo.
Returning to the point.
I am not entirely convinced that I achieve full consciousness until quite late on in the day. Generally, I stumble around in a fog for several hours before the world around me resolves itself into a comprehensible whole. Mostly this does me little harm, although I have attempted to make coffee by adding fizzy water from the fridge to sugar and coffee granules. The major difficulty is that anyone who talks to me before, say, 10am seems to be uttering prophecies, or speaking in tongues. Things I have misheard this week:
"Fargle, the Binman cometh!"
("Remember, I'm playing badminton tonight.")
"Mixmag, has the cat gone?"
("Did you feed the cat?")
"Give it to Ahab, he'll return the pox forthwith."
("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")
I see two possibilities:
- I am channeling some long dead seer
- I need more coffee/my ears cleaned
Friday, April 01, 2005
The Signs
Please enjoy this useful documentation.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
The Joy of Spam
I've got a fancy email spam detector program at work, which is pretty good: try it here. The trouble is that I have to check it once in a while to make sure no vital missives from NASA are stuck in there and can't get to me ( they will call, one day, and then yea verily, I shall save the Earth). The layout in this program shows you the subject line thusly:
Subject: cockroach dossier boris
Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.
Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*
What a disappointment.
And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks they work with me, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.
*just kidding about the baby powder
Subject: cockroach dossier boris
Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.
Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*
What a disappointment.
And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks they work with me, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.
*just kidding about the baby powder
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Quick & Dirty
Deranged hair? Check
Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check
Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check
Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check
Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.
Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check
Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check
Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check
Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Regrettable Conversations
I expect to be hit with some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit any day now.
Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?"
Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one."
Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."
And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:
Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day."
Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."
So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?
They'll never get the charges to stick, right?
Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?"
Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one."
Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."
And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:
Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day."
Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."
So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?
They'll never get the charges to stick, right?
Friday, April 22, 2005
Writing
While the ire is hot.
To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:
I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.
When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.
Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.
Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!
Thanks. I feel better now.
To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:
I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.
When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.
Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.
Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!
Thanks. I feel better now.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
In which we dine out
Me and Sidekick went to the local brand name restaurant for food last night, to celebrate the fact that we had nothing to celebrate other than a lack of desire to shop n'cook.
I found this advert kindly left on our table. How nice!
I found this advert kindly left on our table. How nice!
I may have altered it a little...
Monday, April 18, 2005
Cycle of Gripe
Today, the following exchange took place:
Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.
Sidekick: ........You think?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!
Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*
*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference
Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.
Sidekick: ........You think?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!
Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*
*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Acceptance
What I wrote:
What I wish I wrote:
Dear Mrs Smooze,
Thank you for your invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding.
We will be glad to accept, and look forward to joining you in celebrating the happy event.
Yours sincerely
Okapi
What I wish I wrote:
Dear Mrs Smooze,
Why did you send us an invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding? Thanks though, we'll be there with bells on. Or with nothing but a smile on, which'll make the photos more interesting.
I barely know Cooty, having only spoken to her with regards to cat-sitting, but I'm assuming she is a good soul, and that there will be at least one free drink on offer at the do. This is payback for the aforementioned cat-sitting.
I love you, Mrs Smooze, and cannot live any more without you. By the time you read this I'll be face down in a vat of spicy curry.
Yours sincerely,
Okapi
PS. We'll always have Paris xxx
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Boot Based Erotica
It's not really
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
When the moon's not phat*
Winter. I dread the encroaching nights and foul black mornings and ache for sunshine and light. Nothing makes me as happy as those first few bright mornings, or the pleasure of not having to drive home through murky darkness at 4.30 in the afternoon. But there's something I had forgotten about the glory of spring.
We have an anorexic strip of forest backing onto our house, which is lovely from the point of view of, well, the view.
Sadly, in the forest lurks an evil beast. He is small, sheathed in black and beady of eye. He has a lot of little friends. He is (dramatic pause) a crow (cue eerie violin a la "Psycho"). The little bastards nest out there in cosy family groups of around 400, and what they love above all else** is to discuss the issues of the day. Their argument generally goes along these lines:
RAWK RAWK RAWK RAW-KKKK.
GRACK! (cough cough) ARK!! CRAWCK, GROOOUUUWCK......
KARK! BLARCK BRRCRACK! BLECH! RAWK RAWK etc.
They are like a massed choir of angry bronchitis sufferers.
The dawn, arriving at around 5.30am, encourages them to come forth and make whoopee, dragging me out of sleep until I sit up in bed shouting "WHAT? What do you want from me? Mediation, fer Chrissakes? SHUT IT YOU MOULDY FEATHERED HARBINGERS OF DOOM!" Which has no effect, of course. I'm working on arming the local cats with advanced climbing gear and sniper rifles. Which will be useless until they get the hang of the strap-on opposable thumbs. It's a long term plan of course.
*This title has no relevance to the above post, until you watch this and think about forests
**excepting sheeps eyeballs and rotting entrails
We have an anorexic strip of forest backing onto our house, which is lovely from the point of view of, well, the view.
Sadly, in the forest lurks an evil beast. He is small, sheathed in black and beady of eye. He has a lot of little friends. He is (dramatic pause) a crow (cue eerie violin a la "Psycho"). The little bastards nest out there in cosy family groups of around 400, and what they love above all else** is to discuss the issues of the day. Their argument generally goes along these lines:
RAWK RAWK RAWK RAW-KKKK.
GRACK! (cough cough) ARK!! CRAWCK, GROOOUUUWCK......
KARK! BLARCK BRRCRACK! BLECH! RAWK RAWK etc.
They are like a massed choir of angry bronchitis sufferers.
The dawn, arriving at around 5.30am, encourages them to come forth and make whoopee, dragging me out of sleep until I sit up in bed shouting "WHAT? What do you want from me? Mediation, fer Chrissakes? SHUT IT YOU MOULDY FEATHERED HARBINGERS OF DOOM!" Which has no effect, of course. I'm working on arming the local cats with advanced climbing gear and sniper rifles. Which will be useless until they get the hang of the strap-on opposable thumbs. It's a long term plan of course.
*This title has no relevance to the above post, until you watch this and think about forests
**excepting sheeps eyeballs and rotting entrails
How others see the crow
How I see the crow
Monday, April 11, 2005
Mindless Tedium
You must have experienced that moment of self knowledge, when it becomes clear that all that is exciting, fresh and new is behind you. Never again will you feel the thrill of the new, the pounding heartbeat of life, the frenetic song of existence. Ahead is only drudgery, day melting into day, month into month, year after year, until finally, weak and exhausted by ennui, your life is snuffed out like an inconsequential tea light.
In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early
can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.
In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early
can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
How to...
Go snowboarding in Scotland. Follow these simple steps for sporting adventure.
- Notice snow falling at a time when you can actually use it, ie during your week off.
- Decide to have one last hurrah before snow is off the menu until December.
- Check status of The Lecht
- Make plans to leave early, carefully pulling out all the necessary kit from it's hibernation space in the cupboard. Don't forget your hat, gloves, snowboard, etc.
- Rise at the ass crack of dawn, or in my case, force someone else to rise by the time honoured method of pulling the duvet off them.
- Discover that the road to the Lecht is closed. Due to snow, naturally.
- Go back to sleep.
*in April, mind.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Proof of Life After Death
Who knew that funerals could be so relaxing? This morning I dozed off while watching the ceremonial dispatch of the perennially behatted one, and had a dream that I was sitting at a table with him. The Popester was making a sculpture (abstract, possibly some sort of human form) out of jelly. It was pink jelly with sparkles in it.
Odd.
Odd.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Damn you Firefox
You blanked all my bookmarks! Why? Why! Do you hate me? Did I have an inappropriate number of sites on my list? How will I ever find all of that rubbish stuff again? NOoooooooo.
Returning to the point.
("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")
I see two possibilities:
Returning to the point.
I am not entirely convinced that I achieve full consciousness until quite late on in the day. Generally, I stumble around in a fog for several hours before the world around me resolves itself into a comprehensible whole. Mostly this does me little harm, although I have attempted to make coffee by adding fizzy water from the fridge to sugar and coffee granules. The major difficulty is that anyone who talks to me before, say, 10am seems to be uttering prophecies, or speaking in tongues. Things I have misheard this week:
"Fargle, the Binman cometh!"
("Remember, I'm playing badminton tonight.")
"Mixmag, has the cat gone?"
("Did you feed the cat?")
("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")
I see two possibilities:
- I am channeling some long dead seer
- I need more coffee/my ears cleaned
Friday, April 01, 2005
The Signs
Please enjoy this useful documentation.
