Dark Room

The Who?

Ol' 55

A Lot to Think About.

And a fascinating animation. Watch it, as an antidote to all that crap on TV.



via

24 Hours Later

Well, I'm still here.

I tore my bed-sheet. I was dreaming that the bad guys had wrapped me in canvas, and set fire to the warehouse, and I was struggling to get free before I burned up.
I got free, but the sheet's dead. Got another sheet and went back to sleep in the cave but I had to keep the fire roaring because I could hear the wolves. I sweated and shivered and roasted all night.  Slept most of the day.
Didn't go to work, sounds like my boss is coming down with the same symptoms...
I'll be there tomorrow. I think it's over. Might even eat something soon. maybe.

Pathetic Moaning Continues

I ache all over, and I'm shivering. Struggling to  stay awake. No interest in eating anything today. 9 in the evening and I'm going to drag my poor unco-operative body to bed, and hope tomorrow will be a better day.
Argh moan mope.
Moan mope argh.
Writing this is a triumph of the mind over the dumb insolence of the body.

Garghhhh! maybe I've got zombie-itis for halloween.
Not flu, can't be, I've been jabbed by a pointy needle against that.
Sleeping sickness? Malaria?

Wash hands after visiting blog, it might be contagious.
Urk.

A thing that makes no sense.

I was in the supermarket, hungry, which is a bad thing to be when pushing a trolley, because all sorts of things you'd never normally buy suddenly seem like a good idea.
And no, ladies, I'm a man, of course i don't have a list. Nor am I absolutely sure what's already in my kitchen... So I'm going to get amounts of stuff I have already, but hey, I like it, so it'll get eaten... Well, maybe not, maybe it will go mouldy and I'll chuck it out, like the grapes that were such a bargain.....

Anyway, the point of this was... I was looking at frozen pizzas, no, I didn't buy any, I was just ogling them... And- there's a whole genre of "stonebaked" pizzas.
But the damn things are frozen, pasty things with unmelted cheese atop them.  Stonebaked? If I had a stone oven, they might be. Otherwise they're going to be electrically steelbaked pizzas.
Do they make the pizza dough, sling it onto a hot stone for ten seconds, then chuck some toppings on, bag it and freeze it? Because it seems to me that I'd be  the pizza baker, not Goodfellas.

Bang OUCH!

This blogger does not do twitter, but if he did, he would  have tweeted an expletive at approx 15:45 gmt.

I was repairing some outside stairs, ones with timber treads. The wood, despite various anti moss and algae treatments, had become somewhat slippery in wet weather, so after much head-scratching, we decided to put a grip surface of expanded galvanised steel mesh on each tread.

Good idea, it works well. I put my carpentering hat on, repaired and replaced several treads, including a brilliantly scarfed joint that a real carpenter would not be able to fault (I'd be standing there with a hammer and a wrecking bar, so he'd be well advised to keep a straight face and say "Look at that perfect scarf-joint!")...

And then that steel mesh. It's razor-edged when you cut it, but I was careful, and lost almost no blood.
Fixed down with about 250 clout-head galvanised nails.
I got to about 237 without mishap, then THWAP! steel hammer, finger. I'd been doing that tough, manly, two strike routine, none of that girly tap-tap-tapping..  a tap to set the tip into the wood, a thwack! to drive it all the way home.
My phone rang, my mind had been doing zen stuff, floating, leaving the body to get on with the job, but the phone intruded, and conscious brain zipped back into place and OW! OOOOOO! I howled.

I'm tough. Really tough, honest.
Well. Maybe not. Right now, several hours later it's doing that red-flashing throbbing stuff. Like in the cartoons.
My plan now involves a couple of hours of pathetic moaning. Why am I telling you all this?
Because in lieu of having somebody kiss it better, or stick a hello-kitty band-aid on it, I need to garner a large dose of sympathy from the internet.
Sigh. Maybe I should just take an aspirin.
If it needs to be amputated, I'll let you know.  The more cynical of you may realise that as the finger's not even swollen, and the nail's only got a little bit of darkness behind it, that I'll live, and won't need crisply starched nurses to murmur comforting words.... Sigh.

Owoooooooooooooooooo!

(And that, folks, is why twitter will never get my business. How could I moan about hammering my pinky in 140 characters inclusive of spaces? I'm verbose. Twitter? get stuffed.)