Something to think about.

Overheard today:

"I came into this world with nothing. If I die in debt, I figure I've made a profit."

Fooled.

Plenty has already been said about that show Space Cadets. Many column inches have been wasted on how unfair it is to the contestants, how much of a dodgy character the actor chappie is, or how foolish the victims are for being suckered in.

I don't want to get carried away with the hype, but I do want to say this :-

I actually think the three final contestants are quite brave, and contrary to showing weakness of intellect, I think the show has proven the strength of their character. I therefore hope that this doesn't end in a horrid mess and wish them all the best for the future.

That is all.

Surprise!

Waiting patiently for our new shiny to arrive (a joint Chrimbo prezzie for Ween and myself from each other), I heard a knock at the door.

Spying a man at the doorstep, holding a package (albeit somewhat smaller than I expected) I opened the door and held my hand out expectantly.

Only then did I look at his face. About three seconds later, comprehension struck. No new shiny, but it was el10t returning the game I lent him. Hurrah!

Sorry I was possibly a bit on the rushed side - I was a little surprised! Hope you had a good trip.

Mini.

It occurs to me that my last two posts do not paint the Scouting movement in a particularly favourable light. That's a bit unfair, but I do want to take this opportunity to tell you about the time I almost killed a 13-year old.

Every year Scout groups in our area take part in a night hike race called "Antler". The event is organised by a local Venture Unit, each taking turns, and we had been asked to man one of the checkpoints. It was hidden up a muddy track, and most of the Ventures had reached that point in a 4x4. Not me.

I had recently passed my driving test, and was the proud owner of a D-reg Mini Mayfair. It was and still is the best car that I have ever set foot in, and I had naturally driven it to the event. I took any opportunity to drive it, well, anywhere. Someone wanted a lift? I was the man. Old lady needed to cross the road? Hop in love, I'll take you.

Feeling peckish? Let's go get a Pizza.

So I had driven into town to fetch the aforementioned, with my mate Jon in the passenger seat. On the return journey I was showing off my driving skillz to Jon as I thundered* up the muddy track.

Everything from this point onwards happened both so quickly I couldn't give you all the details, and so slowly I can still remember the how many badges the Scout that was directly in my path was wearing. I saw him in the distance, and put my foot on the brake. Hard.

Being muddy, the car didn't stop, but rather kept on going at almost the exact same velocity. The Scout was getting nearer, and he wasn't moving out of the way. And neither was I.

I tried to steer one way or the other, but the car wouldn't have it. Straight on and bust was the only option. I closed my eyes.

And the car stopped with a thud.

I opened my eyes and the Scout stood in front of the car, just a few feet away. He waved a cheery hello, and walked off. The bugger hadn't even noticed.

I'd hit a breeze block. I'll forever be thankful that Minis are so close to the ground.

*As much as a 980cc Mini can thunder

Bob.

OK, the story of Bob the Totem Pole was what I promised yesterday, so here it is. Find yourself a comfy chair, get yourself a box of tissues and a warm mug of cocoa - this is gonna be a sad 'un.

Well, as sad as bits of wood get, anyway.

To give you a bit of an introduction to my good friend Bob you can read about his conception, the seemingly enless labour, and eventual birth here.

A somewhat more truthful account is that while I was a member of Venture Scouts we once went camping at Gilwell Park. At a loss for something to do one afternoon, we decided to emulate the nearby Cub Scouts and make our own totem pole. Rather than being an afternoon's work, it ended up taking about three days from start to finish, and became something of a Unit mascot that was taken to every event we attended.

Until it got nicked.

It was taken to a Scouting Event called "Trek Cart", which is basically an excuse to chuck the aforementioned (usually very ancient) carts around a wooden course at breakneck speed. Like many such events, there was a friendly competition between teams that continued late into the evening, which deteriorated into outright theft. Bob was in fact stolen not just once, but twice, having been rescued from his trap on the first occasion.

The following year he was spotted by the Unit leader, who made a valiant attempt to rescue him. Alas, the infidels struck back, slightly wounding the esteemed leader in the ear. He reluctantly gave up on the rescue attempt, but the captors agreed to return him after the event...

But he was stolen again! He did send us a letter to let us know he was OK, which sort of made us feel a bit better, but we were determined to bring him home. The whole story of our race to find Bob before he was turned into Hamster bedding can be found here, but to surmise we got lots of letters from around the world from people claiming to have him.

This chase story differs from Hollywood hostage fillums in three significant ways. 1. It didn't star Mel Gibson, 2. It was all for a bit of wood, and 3. We ultimately failed to bring him home.

It's now almost four years since I last had any news about Bob, and truth be told I miss the thing. So if you know of the whereabouts, or his final demise (no doubt a campfire, to be frank) please let me know.

History.

I really should blog more often. Or maybe I shouldn't, who knows. Anyway, here's a story from my childhood.

Many moons ago, and back when I were a lad (about six or seven years ago) I was in the Venture Scouts, having been involved in Scouting since the tender age of six. We had been led to believe that Venture Scouts was mostly doing "proper" stuff. Man stuff (even when the women were there). Climbing things, breaking things, swimming in things, driving things. That kind of stuff.

Actually, it was mostly sitting around drinking tea.

But there are a few events that really stick out. And this is one of them:-

In 1998, we were given the opportunity of camping in Poland. We jumped at the chance, and (truth be told) that whole camp was great, involving midnight hikes in rivers, setting camp in deserted islands, historical lessons in the form of a visit to Majdanek, and accidentally breaking into a castle.

I didn't mean to, honest.

I forget exactly where it was now, but we were visiting some quaint Polish town, and there happened to be a castle type structure there. It looked fairly interesting and so I wandered off to go have a look around it. Except I couldn't find the entrance.

But I did find a random Polish guy who seemed to be heading in that direction, so I followed him. In retrospect, he probably wondered why some malinformed English teenager was stalking him, but since he didn't bring it up, neither did I.

About half way to the castle, he took a detour across a field. It did occur to me that he might not be heading to the castle afterall, but I held my trust in him and my luck bore out. Eventually, he climbed through a hole in the wall, I followed, and we found ourselves in the main street of the inner walls.

Mere moments later, the rest of the Unit came from round a corner, and seemed very unsurprised to see me. "Wasn't it expensive to get in?" mentioned one.

"Not really," said I, having never been particularly good at lying.

So anyway, that is the story about the time I invaded a very small bit of Poland. Maybe that was only interesting to me, so tomorrow's blog may be more exciting. It may even be about Bob the Totem Pole.

Some time, no blog.

Isn't food poisoning horrid?

Stuck in Orange for a week, I decided to enjoy myself at a local seafood bar. With three gert big pots of Mussels. Yum. Oh, and three gert big glasses of wine as well.

Something didn't agree with me, and so I spent my night decorating the hotel bathroom a rather fetching shade of brown (lovely*) followed by a six hour train ride home. I've been out of sorts a bit since, but think I'm getting myself back together now. Sadly, I think my out-of-sortsness might have impaired my judgement vis-a-vis a few social matters, but I hope I can be forgiven for those. You'll never read this, but sorry Matthew, even if you are an idiot.

It's no secret that I'm looking for another means of gainful employment. Actually, that might be a lie: It appears to be common knowledge to everyone except those people that I have applied to, most of which seem to think that I am perfectly happy where I am and that there is no need to even acknowledge my application. I'd love to blame my lack of decent application and covering letter writing skills upon the illness, but some of these stem back to before then.

Just how long do you wait before you understand a non-response to be: "You're a twunt and we don't want to hire you"?


* I would tell you about how much lovelier it was to clean the sink after I blocked it, but you don't want to read about that.

*waves hello* 

Pumpkin.

Well, that was fun... Having just seen Batman Begins I knew exactly what I wanted to do. My first thoughts were orignally Darth Maul, but I knew I would end up bodging it (in fact, I did bodge this one slightly - note the wound in the bottom right).

I must admit I cheated slightly and used a stencil. I'm not artistically minded, but I did want to do more than a face, simply because I've not got the skills of Simon to put more expression into it than a Picasso portrait.

Excuse me for a moment...

...Hmm, I'm slightly worried about that wound now. I'm not sure the shape will survive until tomorrow. Oh, well.

In other news, World of Warcraft really is addictive, and my well be listed as a favourite thing shortly... but you have to give it time (my word, does it take up a lot of it). When you find yourself teaming up with others to defeat an otherwise impossible goal, and the satisfaction of working with complete unkowns afterwards... great. Just great.

WoW Stats: Level 9 Tauren Hunter

War.

I'm not a big fan of modern games - it's not that I dislike them as such, but I grew up playing Dizzy on the Spectrum, and a part of me still prefers that bygone age.

That said, over the past few months, I keep on reading about World of Warcraft, and I keep thinking: "that looks like fun." It's a pity, then, that I run an ancient PIII with only 256mb RAM and no video card - there's no chance I'd be able to play it... until I upgraded.

Ebay is an evil, evil thing.

So I have just installed the aforementioned game, and watched the pre-play credits, and now I'm waiting for the 200mb of updates to download before I can really do the dirty deed but yet I'm already in love. If nothing else, Blizzard know how to set a scene.

I'm really looking forward to this. You may not see me for some time.

Unless it's crap. In which case I'll be in chat.

Away.

In the week I had off, a colleague and good friend has been promoted at work. Yippee!

She's now my direct boss. Eek!

For entirely other reasons (honest guv) I really need to step up searching for another job. It doesn't help when you hit that wall of not knowing exactly what you want to do. I know what I want for myself, just not how to achieve it.

News.

Bullying isn't an easy subject. It's not an easy subject to deal with as an outsider, and even less so when you are part of it (either as a victim, or the perpetrator).

We've probably all now seen the news story above. It's taken over from Saddam's trial as the front pager of the moment. The girl that was attacked was amazingly brave in what she did, standing up for another child who was being bullied. I know that I couldn't have done that when I was 12. I probably wouldn't do it now.

The scars that she got from the event will no doubt be with her for the rest of her life, and I hope that they will not cause her the slightest of hardships. I almost want to say that she should wear them with pride, but that doesn't do justice to the thought process. She shouldn't be proud to have ended up being caught in that situation - that was not her doing..

She should be proud of what she did, and what she is evidently capable of.



The story of the leaf? The title was a little misleading - it wasn't free falling at all, though it had been. It had got caught in a strand of spider web, and was in a perpetual loop-the-loop. I couldn't close or open the window without breaking the strand, hence the funny angle.

In other news, we went to see Serenity at the flicks last night. It was rather good - we hadn't seen the series it follows on from (Firefly) but it was such a rollercoaster ride it didn't seem to matter, and we definately didn't feel left out. If you have two hours to spare, go see.

Free fallin'.

*Sigh.*

Overheard: "Do you have mozzarella on your computer?"

Arrived by post today (the DVD the label was attached to was ordered). I do not know what to make of this.

Wasted.

Yesterday in chat, Henry Not The Thirst made me promise not to waste my weekend. "Go make a boat and sail it on a river, or climb a tree" he said.

So far, I've been shopping, got my hair cut, played Ur Quan Masters, had some wine and ate a pizza. Oh, and I went to B&Q and bought some bits to fix a sliding door.

Today I need to cut the grass, fix the sliding door and wash my car. I'm not sure if I'll have time to make a boat, but I might go fly the kite, and I'll definately play Ur Quan again.

I'm not entirely sure if I've met my promise or not. Congrats to Hen on his Good Thing though. He has succeeded admirably in not wasting his weekend.

Wreck.

This evening I have been mostly watching Star Wreck: In the Pirkinning.

No doubt it's even funnier if you understand Finnish.

On telly!

Fish.

Well, it's been a few weeks since I last updated, and a fair amount has happened since then. I went to play with Simong and Loisintheforest, and had a jolly time. We even went to the pub (after a fashion*) and met up with Stu and Sarah.

I think I may have drunk too much on an empty stomach (not having eaten all day) and felt somewhat queer** the following morning. This was OK as it wasn't as if we were spending our day at Alton Towers or anything. Oh no. Needless to say I bottled most of the rides but thoroughly enjoyed Rita. Most pleasing.

What else? Oh yes, I've since spent a week or so in Orange, and decided that my current job really is an absolute waste of time and I need to find something more productive. So I did.

Whassat? Well, I've applied for a few things, but the one I'm most keen on involves checking fish stocks. The most interesting parts of my current job involve fish stocks in some way (normally telling people which stock are covered by the fish) and I even went to a show in Brum to talk to people for three days about such matters. It was fun.

This new position involves a drop in salary, but I'm happy with that. I could now cycle to work (it's only five miles away) which would make up for most of the deficit, and Ween and I have decided that it's much better to be happy and skint than sad and wasteful.

I don't know if I'll get it - it's all yet to come and no doubt I've jinxed it by talking about it, but it does highlight how fed up I am at the moment. Even if I don't get this job, I need to move on. It's now been two and a half years since I left University, and I don't feel that I have achieved half of what I did in just one year there.

I need air. Pity I didn't ride it the other week.


* If by fashion you mean attempt to kill an already disabled cyclist by use of vehicular transport.

** Not felt a, but somewhat.

Clueless.

1. I've blogged before about Microsoft's Great Plains and how useless it is. Well, apparently a horse under the same name was running at Yarmouth today at four o'clock. It was even the Radio4 tip of the day. As it happens, "Great Plains" came in seventh.
2. I will be resetting the Fast Food counter to 0 as I had a relapse today. Meh.
3. In other news, I'm sorry.

Actually, I'm feeling rather bad, specifically about the bottom one. There's no excuse for it, and if anyone on Saturday or Sunday wishes to claim the bug in question, please let me know.

This is sort of a trend for me, I must admit. I feel as if I'm moving away from Caching - in fact, I haven't been for far too long... but I don't miss it. I don't think I get the enjoyment from it I once did. I always enjoyed signing the log, and I always enjoyed playing with the technology.

But I guess something never clicked that should have done.

And now I don't have the same amount of free time I once did, I find it harder and harder to make the effort. I'd rather go cycling, or kite flying. Or writing. I feel like Jamie Cullum in his song, "Twenty Something." I guess I'll find my something.

By the way, the horse that won was called Clueless. Says it all, really.

Sorry to be so self-deprecating. I'll be more upbeat soon, promise.

Terragen 2

Ok, that's it. I think I'm pretty happy with the outcome. Not too keen on the water still, but better than it was.



Now that I've seen what some people have done with Terragen, though, I feel suitably humbled.

Terragen

This morning I have mostly been playing with Terragen.



I'm not completely happy with it, so am going to tweak and post again later on. Consider it a work in progress...

In other news, I intend to redo my website at somepoint, to give it some sort of point other than just a blog which is hosted elsewhere anyway. Expect some exciting new features*. This may occur this afternoon, but probably not. I will be in Orange for a couple of weeks shortly, so I imagine I will do it then.

*Exciting as defined by my good self, not you. Do not expect a refund.

Wedding.

Hopefully H & G won't mind me sharing this snap from their wedding reception on Thursday. It was very dark in the room, so sadly the picture quality is a bit grainy. Even still, I quite like this picture - I find the best man's pose at the back quite sad, even if he does look a bit like the mayor from Spin City.

Lamb.

I spoke to the butcher today about trying a different cut of lamb, mostly in an ongoing attempt to find happiness at mealtimes. Turns out the new cut of lamb would be very similar to the old cut, but with less bread sauce.

Oh well.

The Prioress's Tale

I wrote this many moons ago for a BBC Competition that required entrants to adapt The Canterbury Tales for a modern age. I found it while rooting through some old files, and thought I would share. Hope you enjoy!

EDIT: Hm, the apostrophies appear to have borked. Sorry about that.

With all his heart, the boy sang to her, and with all her heart she wept with joy. Masum was the gift that her husband had left to her when he died, and this gift was special in so many ways. Sadia never stopped smiling when she was with him.

Since before he could talk, it seemed, Masum liked to sing. His every word that flowed from his mouth had a rhythmic quality that sailed through the air like a feather floating to the floor, and when he read passages from the Koran to his mother, Masum brought the words of Mohammad alive. Though as much as she enjoyed listening to him speak, she loved to hear him sing, and as he sang to her now, tears of joy rolled down her cheeks.

Even at seven years of age, Masum did not know any tunes, let alone the lyrics that may go with them. Instead, he sang whatever felt right to him, and to Sadia, her son’s songs were better than any which had been recited in the past thousand years. Masum sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace. He sang of birds that flew, and fish that swam, but mostly he sang the praises of Allah, and all the while his mother cried at the beautiful music. She was forever proud of his gift, of her gift, of her son.

Masum stopped singing when the noisy-smelly man from next door clapped and grinned at him, then showed his dirty toothy smile to Sadia. The noisy-smelly man was poking his crooked face over at them from the other side of the fence. Sadia didn’t know that he had been listening; she had wanted to keep Masum’s gift all to herself – Masum was, after all, her gift given to her by Miraj before he left to lay so very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. She knew that others didn’t always like his songs – sometimes they didn’t understand them, and sometimes they didn’t want to listen.

Masum, on the other hand, was happy that someone else wanted to listen to him – he liked to sing for anyone, for everyone. He too, knew that not everyone wanted to hear him though, and was glad when anyone appeared to show such enthusiasm.

The noisy-smelly man beckoned the boy over to him, and asked him to hold out his hand, and close his eyes. The noisy-smelly man loved to hear Masum’s songs. He didn’t pretend to always understand them, but they always warmed his heart. For years, it seemed to him, he had been covertly listening through walls and fences at the wonderful words, and was happy at last to see the boy sing them up close.

Masum felt something cold in his hand, and then heard the noisy-smelly man clap again. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was now holding a small collection of shiny coins – more money than he had ever held in his life. He looked up at the noisy-smelly man, who was giving him his dirty-toothed grin.

The noisy-smelly man whispered in Masum’s ear – he told him to waste the money on sweets and toys. The boy was to spend it all, he said, to spend it all on drinks that went ‘fizz’ and chocolate that melted in the hand.

Masum looked to his mother, who was smiling nervously. For a moment, he thought that she was going to take his present away. He was relieved when she nodded her acceptance.

Without squandering any precious chocolate moments, he ran from his mother and the noisy-smelly man towards the shops. He ran down the dark path between the old houses, the path with rubbish of every sort which littered its sides; the path with the barking dogs; the path with the bigger boys that sat on the wall.

The path his mother told him to never follow.

Just this once wouldn’t hurt, he thought to himself. It was much quicker this way, and at the end of the path, Masum could see the tiny corner store.

At the end of the path between Masum and the shop was the dirty grey wall, on which the bigger boys sometimes sat. They were there now, drinking from gold and silver cans, and they smiled as he passed them, but said nothing.

He cheerfully crossed the road, and went into the shop, immediately eyeing up everything he fancied, from ice cream to sherbet lemons and fizzy drinks. He had more than enough money for everything he desired. But every time he reached for something he wanted, a pain inside him told him his mother would like to share his present from the noisy-smelly man. Eventually, Masum compromised with his conscience, leaving with only the bare necessities: a chocolate bar that was so large it would last him a week, and a can of orange fizzy drink. He hoped that he wouldn’t upset the noisy-smelly man by not wasting it all like he promised.

He began to sing to himself as he walked home, and as he turned towards the path between the houses, he felt happier than he ever had.

Then somebody else laughed behind him, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. Masum fell quiet as soon as he heard it - it was a mean laugh, a sort of guttural groan that made his heart sink. It was a laugh meant to mock him.

Masum turned to see that five of the bigger boys stood just a few feet away – he hadn’t seen them on the wall as he had walked back, and wasn’t sure if they had been following him the whole time. They smiled wide smiles as they begged him to sing for them, but for the first time he could remember, Masum didn’t want to. Then they walked towards him, calling him strange names he didn’t understand, or names he knew were not his. They said they knew what his father did, and that they didn’t like it.

Masum also knew what his father did, and he didn’t like it either – his father laid very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. He wondered where these other boys’ fathers were.

Once more, they asked him to sing for them, poking him in the ribs. Another walked behind him, and before he knew, his filthy hand was deep in Masum’s pockets, and out again: he had taken all his mothers money. He tried to snatch it back, but yet another boy pushed him away. They started calling him horrid names, laughing at him, joking about the songs they did not understand. They pushed him to the floor, saying untruths about his mother, and lies about his father. The chocolate in his hand was sticky, and he dropped it to the floor as one by one the boys began to circle him. One of them kicked him, and he cried out a little as he fell down. He was surprised when almost immediately the boys stopped, apparently surprised that what they were doing hurt him.

It was the last he would see of his money, he knew, and Masum kept as quiet as his mother had always told him to be with others. He no longer wanted the drinks that went ‘fizz’ – all he wanted was to be safe, to be with his mother again. He slowly stood up and kept walking toward his home. They called out after him, each cry a thousand horrible lies of things they did not understand. Under his breath, he began to sing to himself again. He found that the song gave him a little more happiness, and a little more hope.

But then the boys began to walk toward him again. Masum knew that he could not run to the end of the path before they caught him. It was too far home, and he had too few friends that were too far away.

And as time passed, the sun sailed across the sky.

It had been several hours since Masum had left for the shop, and he had never been this late before. Sadia knew that she should have gone with him, but now as she paced the hall of their home, she also knew he would be back soon, and that everything would be fine again. The noisy-smelly man from next door was out looking for Masum, and within a few minutes, perhaps less, he would knock on the door and bring her son home to her.

But as if out of her mind, she countered every one of these rational thoughts with the irrational and began to panic, looking through every place in her home where Masum could be hidden. He had to be playing a game - she knew she would find him, if only she kept looking.

Her ears ringing with worry, Sadia barely heard the knocking at the front door. But within moments she was downstairs, and fumbling with the locks to open it up and greet her son home. At the doorway stood the noisy-smelly neighbour, carrying Masum in his arms. The neighbour looked worse than usual, Sadia thought. His hair was greasy, as if he had been running for miles and even his dirty, toothy grin had vanished.

Sadia didn’t look at the lifeless body of Masum. She already knew. Instead, she simply cried as she fell against the wall, and the noisy-smelly man laid the child on the floor.

The police came, and made plenty of notes as they looked around her house, around Masum’s things, asking her questions. Eventually, they left, but she never knew at what time – the whole day was beginning to flow from one moment the next with such rapid succession that she wasn’t even sure if it was the same day anymore. They left her with promises she barely believed would be fulfilled, and with an aching heart.

The funeral came quickly – far too quickly for Sadia. It still felt like only minutes had passed since she had been sat in the garden, listening to her son sing to her. But the funeral came, speeches were made, and sympathies were offered. Men that Sadia didn’t know came to her, and made genuine offers of help and support, but she turned them all away. Today she wanted little more than to be with Masum again, though she knew she never would.

The noisy-smelly man from next door walked to her, and whispered in her ear to go home, and get some rest. As he did, she felt him slip something in her pocket.

As the sun set in the sky, Sadia went home alone while the men took Masum away to lay him very still six feet under English mud, not so far away, but yet somehow a hundred thousand miles from home. Just before she closed her front door behind her, she heard a police siren as a car sped into the estate. Tomorrow she would hope that they had come to find those who were responsible; that they had come to punish the guilty. But right now, Sadia was tired, so very tired.

She sat on her favourite chair, and put her hands in her pockets to keep them warm. To her surprise, she felt something cool and round in one of them, and took it out: she was holding a gleaming white pearl. But as she examined its beauty, she realised she could stay awake no longer, and began to drift away where she sat. As she closed her eyes she fell away to another world, a world where the boy was singing to her again with all his heart. He sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace, though mostly he sang the praises of Allah. And with all her heart she wept.

Alarmed. Again.

Those of you that have been blessed with the good fortune to have visited Kourosington Manor will know that there is a village store across the road, within a stones throw of the bathroom window in fact*.

Turns out the alarm in the shop decided to set itself off this morning. The alarm sounds somewhat similar to a vacuum cleaner and so it was quite a while before anyone decided to investigate. About half an hour, in fact.

At half past four in the morning I was fed up and went to look if there was a number I could call to let the manager know, coincidentally just as she turned up. Worried that this would make me look suspicious, I hid in my porch. Not that that would make me look even more suspicious or anything if she saw me, which I think she did. Bugger.

And now I'm wide awake. Bugger again. If anyone needs me, I'll be in chat.



* May or may not have tried this.

The Calm After the Storm.

Inbetween this post and my last one, there exists another. You can't read it, at least not yet. I think if anyone at w**k found it I would be liable to be sacked.

It is a lengthy diatribe about my w**k and the pointlessness thereof. I was (and am) sick of being put upon, and, well, it's time to move on. It's time that I found myself some purpose in life, and did something I am proud of.

It's time I grew up.

I'm going to start looking for something to make me fulfilled, not just a "I think I can do that" type of job, but something I really want to do. More than that though I need to decide what I want to do first. I need to decide who I am.

So I looked down my list on 43Things and made a few choices.

• Do I really want to be an editor? I don't know... so off the list it comes (for now at least).



• Do I really want to make a kite camera? Hell yes! It won't give me an annual wage, but it'll be cool! I left that one on there.



• Do I really want to watch the Lord of the Rings extended versions in one sitting? I wouldn't mind, but it's not something to aspire to. Off that one came too.

And then I added a few. Things I really want to see myself doing over the course of my lifetime, and perhaps more importantly, things I would like to do now. I'm going to take each goal in babysteps, and see where it takes me. These aren't career-making decisions, but steps towards being me.

First off is Never Eating at Macdonalds Again. Chosen because it seems simple enough, it's really a biggie. I'm not a huge MaccieD fan, but every once in a while I get a hankering for it, and then feel sick after I've eaten it. It goes against everything I believe in regarding food - badly sourced, badly prepared, badly served, bad food.

It represents everything that is wrong with my life at the moment - petty things that I carry on doing even though I hate them usually because it's the easy way out in the short term.

I haven't had a MacDonalds for some weeks now, and I've not really thought about it in the interim. Now I write this though, I really want a Cheeseburger. Or perhaps two.

Can I go without for the rest of my life? Because that's what this challenge means: Never eating there again. I half want to say probably not, but that's being overly pessimistic. I half want to say Yes! but I know that if I do have one I'll feel that I have failed. And if I fail at this effectively basic task that reflects a feeling I hold true anyway, how can I succeed at turning my life around?

I guess all I can go with is We'll See. This is a baby step decision that I can make from the comfort of my study, but the real challenges are going to come about when I step out into the real world... if I can face a little challenge each week maybe I can make it add up to something amazing.

Just maybe.

Morons.

I hate to blog just to post a funny link, but if you don't care, skip to the bottom, otherwise here follows a brief whinge about w**k. If you'ce had no experience of Microsoft's Great Plains, skip to the end. This will be dull.

Microsoft Great Plains is the biggest piece of monkey that I have ever had the misfortune to use. Normally I am willing to forgive software for various failings - software is software and I don't think anything is infallible. Least of all me.

BUT...

A (hypothetical) O with the "OK" button indicates that by pressing alt+O in a screen will automatically select the same said OK button. All well and groovy. An equally hypothetical N given with the "Next" button means that a new document will be opened. The whole program gies priority to all alt functions to the menu bar - fair enough. But it still hands out the same alt functions willy nilly to other windows, seemingly at random.

You cannot look at more than one order at a time. This is really useful when you are editing a very large order and your boss phones wanting to know how the order for XYZ is doing...

You can't close an order, although no information has been entered. You can't delete the order because you don't have enough privileges. You can void the order, but it won't let you as you haven't entered the order type, the order ID and created a master number.

You cannot close an enquiry window if the item enquired about does not exist. You must first delete the line and then close it. Similarly if an item in an order does not exist, you cannot void the order.

There is no such thing as "Fuzzy" searches. You have to type in exactly what you are looking for, from left to right. No wildcards either. This is really useful when customer do not know what they are looking for, only the author, part of an ISBN or part of a title.

Anyway... this made me chuckle.

Conversation.

In response to Stu's Blog, I had the (mis)fortune of having a brief discussion with a spammer the other day, and I felt I should share. I don't really know why, but it does give an insight into the mindset.

The original email arrived on my work server. It was your standard pyramid spam affair about sending a nominal amount (£3) to the person at the top of the list, removing their name and adding yourself to the bottom before forwarding on to everyone you know and any random emails you can come up with. I had been having a bad day and decided to respond - I know the vast majority of the time spammers use fake addresses and ID but just this once it seemed to be a genuine soul.

If you don't like bad language, stop reading now, otherwise the rest of the conversation went as follows:

To: pb1971@ntlworld.com

Don't be a cock.

I like to keep things to the point. As I suggested above, I was pissed off (not least at having my time wasted) and so vented my anger. I was somewhat surprised when he responded...

pb1971@ntlworld.com Tue, Jul 12, 2005 at 2:39 PM

Peter,

Tried this 3 times £6,400 first time, £8,800 second time and £6,900 last time!!!!!

Don't mind been a cock if I can earn £22,000+ in 2 months for doing nothing!!!!!

Anyway must get back to watching the cricket with a few beers in my back garden.

Enjoy your day in the office.

Kindest Regards!

This really annoyed me, not least because he was treating scamming people out of their money as a good thing (regardless of the individual value). But the fact that he truly felt he was on to a good thing yet causing annoyance to others somehow irked me - was this jealousy? Maybe, but I replied...

To: "pb1971@ntlworld.com"

Ok, I'm going to be blunt here... in the UK, pyramid schemes are illegal. Your email promoted a pyramid scheme which you are evidently a part of. You already know this, so I'll move on.

Have you thought about the person at the bottom of the pyramid? The one paying out the £3 (however "low-risk") but still losing out? I bet you haven't.

Do you stop to consider the impact that the mass daily deluge of spam (of which your original email was a part) has on mail servers? If you think I'm joking, read this link.

But I'll bet you don't care about that either.

Have you considered that the scheme you are promoting is against Paypals Terms and Conditions? I quote: "You may not use PayPal to send or receive payments for any form of multi-level marketing programs (including online payment randomizers), as well as matrix, pyramid and Ponzi schemes, "get rich quick" scheme, or other similar ventures."

No? No care about that? Have you earned that money, or have you stolen it through fraud and deception? Can you 100% guarantee that everything you promise in that email will come to fruition?

As I said before, you are a cock. But I will clarify: You are a selfish, self indulgent, mal-informed piece of filth. I quite seriously, and without a quiver in my heart hope that someone pissed in your beer.

I will, and do enjoy my day in the office. A long term investment, which I know is within the ethics of the norms of society.

Yours,
Peter Bancroft

OK, so I lied about enjoying my work, but even still I eagerly await his next reply, though I fear I may be left hanging.

Bones.

I don't hide the fact that I'm quite the fan of M. Night Shyamalan.

Tonight I finally got around to watching The Village. I don't know why it has taken me so long - I have seen his previous three films at the cinema, but for some reason skipped this one, although I was heartily looking forward to it.

I still managed to avoid the obligatory "twist" being spoiled for me by so-called friends (Sixth Sense, anyone?).

Watch it. I'll lend you the DVD if I must, but watch it. It's thoroughly great, from Joaquin Phoenix's performance, to the frankly beautiful music and dialogue.

OK, so I still prefer Signs, but that has Mel Gibson and aliens in it... what do you want from me?

Maybe Orange isn't so bad after all... except all the work stuff. 

Cheesecake.

Today I have mostly been making cheesecake. And playing Nethack.

Interesting...

"USB host controller bandwidth exceeded."

So said a helpful yellow balloon in the corner of my screen. Apparently one of my USB devices wouldn't work because of this dilemma, but not to worry as it can be fixed by clicking on the aforementioned balloon.

Pity that the USB device which wasn't working happened to be the mouse.

Old.

While rooting around in an old box, I came across a video I made some years back. It's by no means great (and the image quality is shocking as I wanted to keep it as low as possible for those on dialup), but it still made me chuckle.

Completely improvised by my mate Simon (you can tell) it was my first foray into attempting to edit a video - I hope I improved by the time of the Jelly incident. And I apologise for the cigarette stuff.

Anyway - enjoy! It's about ten minutes long, so get yourself a cuppa. Extra kudos to those who stay to the end.

If the link above doesn't work, try here.

Half Empty.

An open letter to those who wish to make us afraid:

I do not know who you are. I don't know if you are a member of AlQaeda, the IRA, or someone with a thorough hatred of the G8. I do not know if you are white, black, Christian or Jew. I do not know if you even speak English.

I do not know your aims, I do not know your desires, I do not know why you slaughtered innocent people. I do not know why you wish for us to fear you.

I do know that you will fail.

I do know that people will not forget what has happened, they will not forget what you did. Those caught up in todays events will take to their graves the memories of what you did. But they will not fear you.

Today, London stands still. But tomorrow the trains will still run. The buses will still roll. The planes will still fly.

And we will not fear you.

Half Full.

Henners gets his negative whinge, so I get to play the other side (yes, I know Mermers beat us both, but sod it, I'm on a roll).

Frankly, I couldn't give a shit whether we won or lost the Olympics. I really couldn't care less. The odd thing is I should, because much of my job relies upon the tourist market.

But I can't help but feel that for the next seven years the media is going to be full of how the Olympic effort is going to pot. And once it's on, it'll be full of one "scandal" after another.

I'm fed up with them.

Things aren't that bad. OK, they're not perfect, but they're not that bad.

In seven years we're going to have our media looking upon the events ready to pounce upon every mistake, every mishap. Even if everything goes smoothly, they'll be something to highlight.

The Sun will call it the biggest shame we've ever endured. The Mirror will call it our greatest pride.

Everyone else will just call it the Olympics.

Bubby!

Now that's what I call a strawberry!

Contentment.

For as much as it is tempting to complain about my lot in life, for though it is easy to complain about work, about money, about politics, about culture... how can I complain about this?

Small it may be, and perfectly formed it may not be, but this is it, and happy we be with it. 'Twill do (just don't look at the lettuce, I need to plant some more).

Job.

Everyone has bad weeks at work, I don't think I'm naive enough not to realise that, but I seem to be having more of them recently. It's not so much the job is bad, but my word is it dull, and petty arguments about pointless crap wears you down after a time.

Today's "discussion" revolved around my decision to use ISBN's (which are printed on all the books, natch, and across all of our sales literature) as opposed to making up a new code for them. The sad fact is that in retrospect I don't care but I still get swept away with it all. I'll add this to the other "discussions" about them not printing the Customer Services telephone number in the brochure (!), and moving to a new computer system that can't even keep accurate stock figures.

Maybe I'm not cut out for office work - in fact, I'm fairly confident that I'm not. There's too much backstabbing from people trying to claw their way to the top of the ladder, whilst forgetting that we're trying to be a business. Those people are in the minority, and present in every company, but boy do they make a lot of noise.

But where do I go from here? Have I become one of those people that lets it all wash over me, and gets on with the grind, or am I still the person that can change things, when I so desire?

But what do I do? I have spent my life thus far aiming for an office job - I'm sure most people my age do, and just this morning I hear that English heritage are warning that there are not enough skilled workers. I don't want to be a Stonemason, but it sure sounds more interesting than explaining for the umpteenth time how to copy and paste.

There's an alternative waiting for me, I just don't know what it is yet.

Twunts.

My BT bill is currently available to me online. Wanting to double check the details, I found I was locked out (five incorrect login attempts - how queer!).

So I email BT and ask what to do. Chappie who responds is quite helpful, but advises me that he needs to know my account number. "Fine", says I. "Where do I find that?"

"Your account number can be found on your telephone bill."

As I said. Twunts.

Doom.

Actually, this is pretty cool.

Imagine a slow, lingering death as you watch the video I am aout to present you. What happens occurs over the course of many months, but you cannot escape it - it will catch you. And there may be some linen in the background too. Sorry about that.

The video is here.

Breaking News.

It's a big old world, and horrible things happen all the time for reasons well out of anyone's control.

But seriously, why?

Hairy Palms.

I'm in the minority in my family in that I don't wear glasses. In fact, I'm the only person in my immediate family who doesn't. My right eye is messed up (it has a broken muscle, so effectively can't move much) but I can see out of it just fine.

Or at least I used to be able to.

Over the past few days or so, I've noticed that I'm finding it harder to focus with that eye than I could before. In fact, there is now a mrked difference between the sight in both eyes (I tested this by trying to focus on those nubby bits in the ceiling by closing one eye, and then the other).

Hm... a trip to the optician's may be in order...

Firestarter.

I seem to have inadvertently started a bit of a flame war over on the B3ta Qotw board.

You can read my post here, but in case you can't be bothered I'll summarise...

After stating that (when I worked in a shop) I used to be a bit of a jobsworth with customers who acted the arse and then tried to pay with Scottish notes. I used make them walk the reasonable distance of 100 yards to the nearest bank to exchange the notes for the Bank of England equivalents. As I noted at the end of the post, any customers who were polite and courteous and wanted to pay the same way I was more than happy to oblige.

Unfortunately that appears to have been interpreted as "I hate all Scottish people and laugh in their faces when they flash their poncy monopoly money around".

Oh, well.

What is interesting, however, is the number of people who think they know what they are and aren't allowed to do during a transaction (on both sides of the counter) yet end up getting it so painfully wrong. I can't pretend to know it all, but some of it is surely common sense?

I remember a chappie who bought a pair of workboots and after wearing them on a worksite, he decided to clean them overnight wedged in a bucket of water. He later came in expecting a full refund because they had "worn out" (or rather, gone mouldy and fallen apart becuase he hadn't dried them). And I don't believe he was just trying his luck either, judging by the redness of his face and the amount of spittle he covered me in.

This time the chappie in question paid in neither English or Scottish currency, but was instead promptly shown the nearest alternative shop where he could possibly buy something more robust. Like bricks, perhaps.

Bike.

Isn't it odd how when you dispose of something you don't particularly need or want, that you still feel a little sadness for it?

Today I took Ween's old bike to the dump. To be honest, I was lazy, and couldn't be bothered to dig out the bike rack, mount it to the car, and drive it the whole couple of miles up there, only to return and pack the rack away again, so I rode it to it's final resting place.

Within a few minutes both tyres were flat (I didn't take a pump with me) and only one gear was working. The front brake cable was no longer attached to, well, pretty much anything and the saddle felt like it was made out of alabaster. Various trucks carrying skips trundled past, and I contemplated flagging one down and asking to chuck the godforsaken thing in the back, but instead I carried on.

The thing was a deathtrap, that was for certain, and I have no idea how Ween has managed to put up with it for so long.

By the final hill, I was knackered and I got off to push it the rest of the way. When I finally reached the dump, I wandered past the sign that said no entry - lorry changing bins but I knew she was having an interview so figured I would be OK. I left the monstrocity on the pile of other discarded bikes, and started the walk home.

Like I say, it's odd when you feel sadness for something you don't particularly want or need. It's so much better when you feel joy instead.


In other news, I've started reading some cycling blogs, partially down to Jack Jenkins who posted a comment on this blog the other day. So many are so inspiring that they have me itching to get back in the saddle again. I'm trying to challenge myself to ride at least once a day - I dont know how I will fare when the rain comes, so I make no promises.

But so many of these people are so in love with their bikes (and for good reason) that they seem to live for the thrill of riding. I'm not there, and I don't think I will be, but what great reading it makes!

Best blog I've read today: Through The Wall from Saturday, May 7th.

Tagged!

I've been Tagged!

1. Total number of films I own on DVD/video: 74 (counting titles in box sets as individuals)

2. The last film I bought: Star Wars Trilogy Box Set

3. The last film I watched: Saw

4. Five films that I watch a lot:

K-Pax
Dogma
Signs
The Princess Bride
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

Tag five people to put this in their journal:

el10t, Miss Sixty, MMM, Mort, Andy

In other news, we slept muchly last night (about 11 hours) and now feel much better. Weather has improved in Orange... but we're not going back! Nyah nyah!

Hollibobs Pt. 2

Arrived yesterday, psent pleasant evening with sister. Got cold as wind picked up, and drank champagne to celebrate purchase of sister's new house.

Got colder as wind picked up more, slept for about an hour fue to wind noise, temperature, and sound of pidgeon emptying entire contents of bladder and nearby sewerage plant upon car.

Announced intention to come home, causing minor family fracas.

Came home. Am going to bed now. Toodle.

Hollibobs.

Stu and Sarah are back safe and sound, now it's my turn. We're off camping, meeting up with my sisters and hopefully having a jolly good time, regardless of the weather.

I'm taking the new bike (which I failed to mention is a GT Avalanche 2.0, a reasonable entry level machine, or so I am reliably informed) and plenty of beer, food and jelly. Nothing will spoil this holiday.

So where are we going, I hear you ask? Why, Orange, of course!

Fucksocks. I might as well pop into the office while I'm there.

Oops.

I appear to have just bought myself a new bike, and it looks a little like this and was purchased from a proper Bike Shop. It replaced my old bike which looked a bit more like this and came from Halfords because I was a poor student and needed something to get me to Uni. I'm now a poor proper adult, and ride just for kicks.

Consumer items shouldn't make me happy, but they do.

BIOS

It never occurred to me that you can update your BIOS, but when somebody suggested that it may be the solution I need for my non-CD-bootable laptop problem, I gave it a go.

BIOS updated aboslutely fine, but still won't boot from CD. Hey-ho, you live and learn.

Vote.

Tomorrow is polling day - go out and vote.

If you don't know who for, vote for the good guys (whoever your idea of the good guys might be).

Knoppix

I suppose I better begin this blog by being honest (what I do after the start is open to debate).

I do not know what I am talking about with regards to Linux. I don't know what a kernel is, I don't know how to partition my drive, and I'm annoyed that nobody seems to make any drivers for Linux to make my printer work. But that's part of the reason why I want to do this - I'm no boffin, but I do like the idea of open source software - somehow I trust it more, simply because if I chose to I could in theory open it up and see what was making it tick. I can't do that with XP.

Not that I ever could, but you get my meaning.

Regardless, I did not want to like Knoppix. After my experience with Ubuntu, that was (and most likely is) to be the path my Linux usage was to follow thereafter.

But in the interests of fairness, I decided to give a few other flavours a go. First up (somewhat unsurprisingly since I've mentioned it by name twice already in this post) was Knoppix.

Actually, first up would have been Gnoppix, but that refused to boot, so I'm on to this instead. Knoppix in contrast booted straight away, and (get this) the sound works. I really don't like the KDE default desktop - it's not as intuitive as Gnome, and far more blocky. Unlike Ubuntu, Knoppix isn't a permanent solution - but like the Ubuntu live CD, it does give me a chance to get a feeling for different reeds of Linux before I make the big switch.

Surprisingly enough, though, it all works. All my favourite programs are there. I can happily write letters using OOo, browse the web on FIrefox, or if I could be fussed to set it up, read my mail on Thunderbird. I should be a happy chappie. I should probably point out that I already have the above (and more) on my WIndows desktop.

But I'm not a happy chappie. Call me shallow, but it isn't very pretty, and while it's all competent enough, it doesn't feel professional in the same way Ubuntu did. I don't like the blockiness and, well, it's all a bit meh.

What is interesting, though, is that my main complaint is aesthetic - both Live CD's that I've tried have demonstrated no real reason (at least none that can't be readily overcome) why I shouldn't move to Linux permanently. This, I must reiterate, is me we're talking about, the same me who doesn't really understand how the little man in the computer can draw all those different screens so fast.

My laptop, however, has different ideas. It refuses to boot from CD, despite the prompting of a sepcial disky thing designed to make such processes happen, and thus making Ubuntu installation impossible. I would go the whole hog on the desktop straight away, but I'm scared. I may even go down the path of paying someone to install it for me...

...or maybe I'll just keep playing with Live CD's until I build up the courage to make the leap.

Blue and Yellow.

After sharing my workspace with y'all yesterday, I suppose that it's only fair to show how I spend the drive to and from work. Now admittedly the bluebells aren't eight feet tall and this wasn't taken from my car, but I drive for 25 miles past fields of rapeseed and bluebells. I do love this time of year (though my Asthma doesn't).

Long Weekend?

Hurrah! But let's just remind ourselves of what work looks like, shall we...?

Hm.

There are some days that I find it really hard to blog at all, but there are others when (drunk though I may be) I feel myself compelled to say: "WTF?"

Seriously, read this. There is a war going on, and someone died. Collateral damage, friendly fire (or whatever you want to call it) will happen in a war. That's whats occurs - it's a war. Yet this someone was doing an honorable thing in plain sight, and by all accounts, the Italians did nothing wrong.

And yet someone died... but it's all OK?

It's a war. Fuckups happen, but someone is to blame. Resolved of culpability? Pah!

Tests.

Tests seem to be the "in" thing on Blogs at the moment. My last two posts are testimony to that.

Light hearted as they may be, I am very concerned about the result of this one. Or rather, the Implicit Race test you'll see as an option once you've agreed to the disclaimer.

I'm not one to automatically believe the result of any online questionnaire, but racism has become one of society;s biggest taboos (and justifiably so) that any indication that we may fall foul of this particular misdemeanor is immediately both worrying and fascinating - that's why I took the test, after all.

Am I racist? I might be (though I feel I am not), but that's neither nor there - what concerns me is that racism has become such a hangup that by respecting the ideology that we must not be, we become super-observant of race, and fulfil our own fears that by being a different skin colour we are somehow different.

Hmmm.

Taken from the same resource as the thingummies in these fine people's blogs.

How Old Do You Act?

30 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

I'm 23.

Who Should I Vote For?

Your expected outcome:

Liberal Democrat

Your actual outcome:

Labour -8
Conservative -37
	Liberal Democrat 55
	UK Independence Party 23
	Green 6

You should vote: Liberal Democrat

The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.

Take the test at Should You Vote For

Ubuntu.

Since everyone else has been off gallivanting (my own fault, I should add, that I am not there too) I've had the opportunity to do something I've been meaning to get around to for quite a while, namely give Linux a go.

Everyone seems to have their own favourite Linux distibution. Well, not everyone - I can think of many people who couldn't give two hoots about Linux in any form, but you know what I mean. My favourite, without having tried any variant whatsoever, is Ubuntu for no other reason than I'm a bit compulsive and it looks pretty.

I didn't want to go to the risk of installing it only to find that nothing functions like it should, so I made a Live CD which basically boots the operating system from the CD without actually changing anything. Setup was surprisingly straightforward, although it was somewhat slow, though I'm relatively certain that's because it was running from disc.

I vividly remember the problems I had getting this computer to recognise my Broadband modem the first time round, and was expecting the same this time... but no! Within seconds of getting into the OS I was online (Firefox, of course). Mere moments later, I was playing with my favourite and recognised tools, OOo, Thunderbird, The Gimp... in fact, I can't really see any need to have Windows at all... although no Hello so I have had to revert back to Windows to post this, but that could be easily remedied.

I'm sorely tempted... but do I dare make the jump to installing it permanently? More to the point, do I run the risk of doing some damage that I really don't know how to undo?

Pretty though, isn't it?

After.

Vino deux.

Me: "Say, colleague from Norwich office who I just happen to be speaking to, I bought some great wine from Virgin the other day... and it arrived within two days! How great is that?"

colleague from Norwich office who I just happen to be speaking to: "That's pretty cool. Who did you say you got it from again?"

M: "Uh, Virgin Wines. Why?"

CFNOWIJHTBST: "You know they're on the floor above us, right?"

M: "Uh, no..."

CFNOWIJHTBST: "And you could've had it delivered through the internal mail, receiving it next, or even better, same day if you ordered early on a weekday, don't you?"

M: "No..."

CFNOWIJHTBST: "Well you could."

M: "Fucksocks."

CFNOWIJHTBST: "Two days is not bad, though."

M: "Meh."

Vino.

I am a drunkard.

This is not my confessional - everyone already knows. I enjoy the odd bottle of red wine, and always have. I think I get the habit from my parents - my dad enjoys the taste, while my mum knocks it back like it's Calpol.

While at work the other day, I wa sreading the back of Marketing Magazine. For those of you not familiar with this esteemed journal, on the back pages there is an article entitled Don't Call Us... whereby the author details their experiences with various customer services offices. As I happen to run (in the loosest sense of the word) one such establishment, I happen to find this feature of particular interest.

Virgin Wines, in their encounter with the column the other day scored a reasonably respectable 10/10. In the circumstances, I considered it acceptable to give them a shot. Not one for calling people since I spend half my working day on the phone, I decided to order some plonk online.

Not only was I happily given £20 off my first order (of £70, making the total just £50), but after plcing my order on Sunday, I received it today. Tuesday.

By Amtrak.

How do they make a profit? I don't know, but I don't care - move aside Waitrose, I've found a new supplier for my dirty habit.

Urk.

This evening will be mostly spent plaing the best game ever, The Ur-Quan Masters, a port of an old game called Star Control II.

If you've never heard of it, you can find out about it and download it here.

Terri.

Earlier today I heard the same news as Merman suggested on ScottJ's comments. I was sad, but having said that I honestly don't know how I *should* feel. Sadness is such an expected emotion at times like this, along with condolence.

Did Terri deserve to live? Absolutely - she lived to begin with. But her body had already started to shut down, refusing to swallow food to aid her survival. Fifty, Forty, Thirty and perhaps even Twenty years ago there wouldn't have been much we could have done to help her - she would have withered away.

Did Terri deserve to die? In the frame of my own question, absolutely not, but left outside of medical science she would have done (and so would many people, including myself). I think a better question would be to ask did Terri deserve to die the way she did?

Absolutely not.

S-Bankingly good.

Blimey, this has to be a first - a bank holiday where God decided he wouldn't have a wee. Must be saving it up for next weekend.

Anyway, I digress... this Easter weekend has been spent mostly in the company of some paintbrushes, as you can see from the piccies below. Actually, what you can see in the piccies below is Ween and her Daidy doing most the work, but pictures lie. The "after" shot will follow next weekend, after we've finished the glossing, and respraying a few cupboard doors after I bodged them up good and proper.

Today and been spent with my good friends Mr. Spade, Mr. Hammer, Mrs. Saw and my voluptuous mistress, Ms. Nails when I decided to enlist their help to tidy up the garden a bit. As it has been so bright it doesn't show up on Veggiecam too well (I must get around to moving that to a better location) here's another piccie.



Yes, I know there's still nothing in the flower beds, and I've seemed to have tipped mud all over the grass for no apparent reason... but trust me, I have a plan*.

* Maybe.

During.

Before.

Reset.

When I was but a little boy, I asked my mother for Nintendo. I wanted gameplay - on the TV. But here's what she said to me...

"No, now go and do your chores or I won't feed you tonight. Que sera, sera."

Needless to say, I didn't speak German and so didn't really get her hidden message - and truth be told I still don't. Anyways, to cut a long story short, I just eBayed myself a SNES and a copy of Super Mario World.

And now I'm a very happy boy. 

For a few dollars more.

Ennio Morricone is fab*.

That is all.




*I realise I may be a little slow on the uptake with this.

Staplegun.

OK, so I was going to show lots of pictures of peas and things today, but now I'm not.

One of the good things about having to journey to Orange is that I get a chance to catch up with a friend of mine who lives and works there (she's a colleague who works in that office). She also just happens to be Greek.

Over the weekend her family were going to a pre-wedding meal of some sort, and were all dressed up. En route, her brother decides to stop off for some cigarettes, and they stop at a little Tesco (spit) Metro. Anna (my friend) and her mum wait in the car while her brother (Harris) nips inside for the fags, merrily chatting away. After a short while, they realise he has been rather a while, and get out to go look for him.

When they enter the shop, it's an absolute mess. Half the shelves have been knocked over, her brother is bleeding from a cut lip, and is covered head to toe in Lenor.

It turns out that some smackhead had come in, spotted Harris, and yelled something along the lines of: "I hate you Iraqis and Kosovans. I'm gonna kill you."

Needless to say, the poor bugger landed one punch and spent the next five minutes severely regretting his decision to go shopping. The security footage (sadly soundless) is testament to that, and apparently the police were heartily amused. Smackhead was well known around those parts, and even tagged. Pity the poor sod got away.

Yes, my friend's family are going to press charges, but the police decided not to arrest Smackhead that evening as they knew he wasn't going anywhere, and would take far too much manpower to do so while he was still high - best let him whimper off home and come down before arresting him the following morning.

What gets me, however, is that this guy is known locally as an absolute and utter (and any minors should probably stop reading now as the rest of this blog involves lots of swearing) cunt. The police know it, the locals know it.

Why the fuck was he not locked away? I am all for tagging - I think it is a fine way to reintegrate people back into society. It offers them a chance to prove themselves, and Big Brother an opportunity to keep an eye on them - but only for those who aren't liable to menace society, and not as the only course of punishment.

And most definately not for wankers who wouldn't recognise an Iraqi (or in this case, a Grecian) if they beat seven shades of shit out of them.

What is the best punishment for them? I don't know - I try to be a liberal, and I guess academically I am, but when it happens to people you know it's different. Right now, I think that Smackhead should be castrated just for what he said, never mind what he did, but that's just my emotions doing my talking for me.

I think if I chose my response carefully, and logically, I'd probably just prefer he had his eyelids staplegunned shut.

VeggieCam.

Well, it's been a while since I've done a VeggieCam update, so here goes.


 

As you'll no doubt see from the piccie, I've purchased myself a fine propagator, and put some seed potatoes in there for chitting (stop sniggering at the back). I have no idea when these are supposed to be planted out, so I've already put one of them outside in a pot under a bellboy to see how it does. Considering that everyday since I planted it it has either frosted over or snowed I'm guessing that even under that exceptional protection the poor spud will have popped its clogs.

The other seedlings you'll recognise from your family albums are (from left to right) Leeks, Onions, Cabbages and Peas (just in case you can't read the labels). And no, I don't know why my onions are doing that - they did the same thing when I planted them straight out last year, and all I ended up with were little pathetic baby onion things that weren't even suitable for pickling. Maybe I'm doing something wrong (more than likely). I'll just leave them be and see how it turns out.

One of the peas has also been sent outside under a bellboy for bad behaviour. I'm fairly confident that it's dead by now, but I'll look into later and report back. If the weather improves I'll treat you all to some closeups of the plants under bellboys tomorrow. But that's only if you're really good. 

Can you tell what it is yet?

 


 


While waiting for my car to be fixed, I went out for a walk and stumbled upon this little curiosity. I daresay that somebody else had stumbled on it previous to me (apart from whoever put it there) as it had been partially dug away.

I cleared the rest of the mud away from it the best I could, and tried to pull it up - no joy. I little further invesitgation revealed that it was attached to a pole or chain of something below the ground. I'd be darned if I were going to dig the whole lot up, but I can't help but be intrigued as to what use it may have once had.

It lay about eight feet away from a small river, though I can't believe that any boats regularly used it (far too shallow, in my humble and ill-informed opinion).

Any guesses? 

France.

On Sunday I will be leaving to go to Caen, not for asome booze crooze, or otherwise palatable endeavor, but rather to do somebody else's stock take for them because they can't count.

Really.

Why be allowed to look after any warehouse (even if it consists of your own garage) if you can't count?

So Sunday, 23:15 I will be on the ferry to Caen (as opposed to the train to Calais which I booked first because I'm stupid), and I will return on Monday sometime around 22:00 ish.

Oh well, at least I've got the weekend beforehand to try my hand at Geographing

Monday.

Pfft. Close enough. Oh, and Andy was right, as always, so I'll stop that.

Pink.

Right... how do you go about enjoying pink?

In my case at least the first thing I did when I arrived at work was change my desktop to the aforementioned colour, and sat back, just taking it all in. I wasn't entirely sure that it was enjoyable at this point, to be honest. It was, well, just pink.

Something else was needed. At lunch time I ran to the shops as fast as my little legs would carry me, straight to Burtons, the menswear* shop. The shop was a fine example of a young male persons ideal store, with plenty of shirts, shoes, trousers, pants, socks and a couple of ties stuffed into the corner somewhere toward the back. Fortunately for me, they were stocking a rather fetching pink number, and I purchased one for immediate usage. Once outside, I replaced my rather dull grey tie for the much more vibrant pink one, preparing my answers for the inevitable "that's not the tie you came in with" comments.

Suddenly I felt a little more cheerful than I had previously - perhaps this pink thing does work afterall.

Being Ween's birthday tomorrow, I decided to share the joy of pink with her. The next shop down the street being Clinton Cards, I entered and hunted out the pinkest birthday card I could find. Sadly, it was titled "to the greatest nan ever" so I had to make do with second best, but even that was pretty pink.

I'm a lazy arse, and so I forewent purchasing pink wrapping paper for her presents, and just got a pink sparkly bag instead. The day isn't quite over yet, but I must say I am rather enjoying this pink lark. It's kinda fun.

Now... onto the important dice matters of the day. Since you've all been bleedin' useless and failed to come up with any suggestions whatsoever, I'll have to make one up meself. I'm expecting some stirling ideas for tomorrow from you lot to make up for this. Seeing as I've got a stinker of a migraine, I'm going to be even more lazy than usual, and just copy the one I did yesterday, since that was so much fun.

*rolls dice*

A 3! Currently the third favourite thing is The Picture of Dorian Gray which I've previously completed. Sadly, I didn't stipulate this in my challenge doctrine, so I guess I'll have to enjoy it all over again. I'll try and prevent this outcome again in the future.

Oh, and nobody noticed the change of tie. Useless, the lot of them.

The Dice Man will return on Monday

* And we do, especially if you kick us right.

The Dice Man Returneth.

Some time ago, a wise and very, um, wise, young man embarked upon a Grand Experiment to live a portion of his life by the die. Or dice. *

He failed.

I intend ** to pick up where he left off, trusting one decision a day to the will of the dice. It gives me something at least marginally interesting to blog about, y'see.

I'm also going to let the dice pick challenges for me. The first of which will be through the Favourite Things. I threw an 11, and at the time of writing this, the eleventh thing is Pink. An intriguing choice the dice have made, but made it they have, and so tomorrow I will follow up on that decision, and report back promptly.

I'm open to suggestions for challenges to be laid down before the dice - suggest away in the comments. Somewhat not-at-all-equally, I might consider suggestions for which decisions to let the dice take for me. Emphasis on might.

Dilemma One: Enjoy "Pink".


* OK, it was me all along.

** I know I'll fail again, but it's just a laff, innit.

Murder.

Last night was spent in the very fine company of my fiancee, her uncle (Lord Hogg), a fine an upstanding American, his companion (a Nun who had joined him on several Safaris) and a French maid. And a jolly good time would have been had by all, except for one rather pertinent factor.

Lord Hogg's butler was murdered.

We were rather fortunate I suppose, as the most eminent of private detectives, Shylock McClue, was also present. We discussed and debated this, the most shocking of crimes, over a rather luvverly slapup Chinese takeaway.

Throughout the course of the evening it transpired that I had not only some fairly serious gambling debts, but had also been doing a bit of pocket picking as well. The Nun was not what she seemed either, as she had been, um, faking it all along (much to the American's surprise) and the French maid had been having an affair with the deceased (prior to his death, of course). The most shocking of all was the revelation that Lord Hogg had a an absolute hatred for all of his servants, and had so far topped four of them over the years.

Needless to say, it was my dear fiancee who shot the poor butler (at my behest) although it was the goodly non-nun that put him out of his misery. The American had forged a suicide note hoping to claim his insubstantial worldly belongings. The French maid had attempted to kill her former lover with arsenic, while her uncle had attempted to knock him off his lifely pedestal using Rasputin's Revenge - usually a most potent poison, but in the right situation can also act as a rather effective antidote to arsenic.

Shortly after, Shylock escorted us all to Scotland Yard where we were undoubtedly locked up by a careless guard who immediately threw away the key.

And it's all true.

Fool.

Some years ago I had a problem. To me, this was quite a serious problem, but really in the grand scheme of things it was trivial issue, and most definately not life threatening. It involved public spaces, other people, and the consumption of foodstuffs.

More often than not, and with people I didn't know, or knew very well, there was nothing to worry about. I could eat as much as I felt I needed to with no problem whatsoever. But in uncontrollable or new situations I felt pangs of anxiety. In short, I usually had to run to the loo to be sick, and after which I could continue quite happily.

Obviously things could not continue along the same channel, and I set out to purchase a self help book. I came across Dale Carnegie's How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. I recommend it to anyone - I really do. It's sensible, straight forward and doesn't offer any quick fixes.

And it worked. Today I am mostly anxiety free. Of course, I still have the odd pangs, but nowere near as bad as I used to.

But at the same time as buying this book, I also bought How to win friends and influence people by the same author. You've all heard of it. You've all derided it as well.

Buy it. It's great.

But admission time - I've ignored most of the advice, and largely to my peril. Over recent days I've noticed myself being far too self reverential, not caring for others interests beyond the impact that they might have upon my own. Of course, this is human nature - we are all interested in ourselves. Perhaps that's why we each get drawn back to writing these blogs.

How do I counter this failing? I don't know - even as I commit the offence, I know that I'm doing it. I don't leave messages on blogs that I've enjoyed. I don't ask with genuine interest how the colleagues previous evening went. I don't care.

I try to compensate by doing random acts of kindness occasionally, but I guess I don't really make the pot of tea as often as I could. I don't smile as often as I could. I don't laugh as often as I could at others' jokes (even when they're shite).

So as I embark on my next trip to Norwich, and unable to blog for a short while, I take this opportunity to consider my lot in life. I'm not as unlucky as I sometimes think I am. I am not as poor, not as ill, not as stupid. But even though I can feel pretty good about myself, how do those around me feel?

His name is Robert Paulsen.

The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

As you will all no doubt now be aware (if you hadn't been advised beforehand) the previous blog was fiction. I'm not called Ed, my partner hasn't left, and I'm most certainly not about to finish myself off. However, to those of you who left those heartfelt messages when I had so maliciously deceived my loyal readers, bless you.

Just to quickly cover a few of the more important questions raised:-

If it wasn't fiction the author would now be dead (or would possibly have just taken the last of a particularly effective headache cure).

The loo scene is set mid-wipe.

Parts of the story are true, I'll let you figure out what.

"She" did have a name. It was Carla.

And that just about covers that, I think. Now go out and make somebody happy.

Coming Home

Being away from each other for so long (and so often) would put pressure on any relationship, not to mention ours. That said, we had managed to stay together for almost six years and not had any real problems. Not until now, anyway.

She had been threatening to leave for a few months, though I never believed that she would. By the next time that I had to go to Norwich we hadn't held a conversation with each other for almost a week. It seemed as though we were coexisting in within the house, nothing more.

I told her she was welcome to join me. I wanted her to join me, I truly did, but she wouldn't have any of it. Even though she hated being alone, I knew she hated pulling up her roots even more, even if it were only temporarily.

When I came home, I hadn't seen her for nearly a month. The front door was locked, although that didn't really surprise me, as I was early. She wasn't expecting me for at least a few more days. I fumbled through my collection of keys for the right one, unlocked the door and stepped inside the house. I was still expecting forgiveness - she had told me on the phone that she wasn't ready to leave just yet either.

But she wasn't there. All that waited for me was the letter she had written on the kitchen table.

Of all the places to meet my true love, I had met her in a bathroom. We were both at a mutual friend's party, when she barged in unannounced - the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Of course, there was I, with my trousers round my ankles and a wad of toilet paper in my left hand.

I'm fairly confident that she had seen more pleasant things in her time, but the encounter must have worked its magic and within a few days we began to see each other. A few short weeks later, I moved in with her.

Times were not easy though, for either of us. Almost immediately after I settled into our home, she became ill. I knew that I wouldn't care for her as much as I liked, and sometimes it seemed as if she wanted a little more space from me. I took as many breaks from work as I could, but whenever I came home it wasn't long before she insisted that she wanted me to go back to work again. I felt as though I was pulling her down, pushing her further into her depression, and in retrospect I think I was. With time, however, and plenty of attention, she seemed to get better.

The wedding was a quiet affair, and a surprise just as she had always wanted. I stole her away in the middle of the night to a small church village in Derbyshire. There were few witnesses and not even our parents were present. I knew that hers in particular didn't approve of me. It's strange how these things move so quickly - I had barely known her a year, and yet there we were, the happy couple getting hitched.

Life ran smoothly for some time after that. I traveled the country with my job, but never really managed to meet anyone. I suppose that's why I always missed her so much when I was away.

I was away for longer and longer periods, sometimes over several months, but for me that made seeing her even more special. This last time though, was to be one of my shorter trips.

The argument that we had, the one that stopped us from talking seems so silly now - she had locked me out of the house after upgrading the door locks while I had been away.

Half an hour after returning home, I was still standing, staring at the letter on the kitchen table. The name and address had been printed rather than hand written. My full name had been used, rather than Ed, as most people knew me. It all seemed to formal. The only thing missing was a stamp.

She had never called me Ed.

This was her letter.

The realisation that she had left beat around inside my head, the words drilling like a woodpecker's beak on tree bark, while I stood silently reading the page over, and over, and over.

I reached into the cupboard above the tins of tea and sugar, and took out a small plastic pot. My shaking hands found it difficult to open it, but eventually I managed. I washed the entire contents down with a glass of remarkably clear tap water.

I had made my decision. Now it was my turn to leave, just as she had left me.