Blog : Posts from September 2006 : Page 1

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YAEOTWP

In which it is Friday


Or, Yet Another End-Of-The-Week Post.

End of a rather strange week, in fact. Another emotional rollercoaster of a week, as regular readers will have gathered.

I’ve always felt that things you anticipate never happen quite as you expect. And, indeed, this week has proved that to be true. The world turns, and things change. Things never stop changing, and the emotional rollercoaster has to be ridden.

Yes, I’m going all emo. Shoot me.

Anyway, right now I’m going to go and get dressed up, head off in the car towards Wooldale, and make sure I have a damn good night out. Because, to be honest, I think I deserve it. See you next week.

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Donkey

In which we go to the cinema


To the cinema, as usual with Mystery Filmgoer, to see Clerks II. We’d both been looking forward to it, but I was slightly apprehensive: would it be a horrid travesty of the original?

Well, no. It helps to have seen the original, especially to understand any of the ending montage, but the main body of the film stands up well on its own, as a parallel to the original. It’s slightly less surreal than the first, and slightly more warm-hearted, but has just as many sick jokes. And there’s definitely a happy ending.

The funniest line in the whole film, though, was partly funny because it is something I tend to say a lot myself:

“Ooh, cake!”

Out of context, it doesn’t look like much. Within context, both me and Mystery Filmgoer were doubled up. To explain the context here, though, would involve unravelling half the plot of the film.* All I can say, really, is that in context it’s very very funny, very very sick, and probably illegal in most countries of the world.

* Although there is a small clue elsewhere in the post – you’re not likely to get it though unless you’ve already seen the film.

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Question

In which we find rules that are a little silly


This is something that Big Dave pointed out to me today:

If you go to the post office, and buy foreign currency, with cash, they’ll happily give you it.

If you go to the post office, and buy foreign currency, with a debit card, they expect to see photo ID first.

But if you go to the post office, and give them your Link card, you can withdraw money over the counter, without ID. Even if you just hand that money straight back over the counter, in exchange for foreign currency. Even if you’re using the same card that you can’t use to buy foreign currency with, unless you’ve got ID on you.

What’s the point of that, then?

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Knife marks

In which FP is single


And, all of a sudden, everything is back to normal again. I knew life was going too well.

I’m back in the Singleness Desert. Every so often, you find what you think might be the edge of the desert, but it turns out to be nothing but a small oasis. I’ve been thrown out of my last oasis, and I’m back in the desert again.

I wish we could turn back our memories of this weekend, so I could have all the happy memories of our time together, without the ones of the way we fell apart.

Next thing to do: remember how to fall asleep again. It’s gone 3, and I need to work out how to switch my head off.

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Arrrrr! (again)

In which we capture pirates!


On International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I said:

I were hopin’ to have a picture of two marauding pirate captains to put up on my cabin’s bulkhead for ye all to see. Sadly, it be stuck on me phone, and I can’t get it over to the ship.

Well, by the miracles of modern technology, here be ye promised two mauraders for ye! Cap’n Taloollah and Cap’n Bronte, fresh from the high seas!

Pirates!

Arrrrrr!

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Cough

In which FP feels ill


This week has mostly consisted of: coughing fits. Coughing until bent double, sometimes. It’s not fun, but it seems to be fading now.

The worst part is, I didn’t even take any time off work. My sinuses and ears were all aching, and due to the earache I was wobbly on my feet, and having trouble moving my jaw. At one point, I even fell down the stairs.* Why the hell I didn’t take any time off work, I don’t know. I might have had plenty of important work to do, but I sure as hell wasn’t up to doing it properly – I’d spend half an hour at a time changing the wrong file, and making Big Dave think I was about to cough up a lung. I’m unlikely to get any respect or kudos from the management for trying to get my work finished despite feeling shit, so why did I bother to do it?

* Why is it that I never lost my balance and fell over on flat ground? The one place I lose my balance has to be at the top of a flight of stairs, so I go thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk on my arse all the way down to the bottom.

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Village idiot

In which we try to escape from the yokels


Off on another kissogram-escorting job last weekend. We had a booking in Marthwaite Hill, a little village overlooking Wooldale.

When I was younger, I had one particular type of recurring dream which I found slightly disturbing. It would involve setting off on a journey but never reaching the destination, because the road would get narrower and I’d get more and more lost as the dream went on. And that’s pretty much what reaching Marthwaite Hill is like. We turned off the main road, onto a country lane which went up into the moors, twisting and forking, until eventually we reached a little cluster of houses lodged on the edge of a high hill,* with half the county spread out below.

We trundled slowly up and down the village street – there is only one – looking for the Working Men’s Club. We passed a reasonable-looking pub, and approached a run-down looking building with a small patch of rocky wasteground for a car park. “I hope that’s not it,” said Kissogram Girl.

That was, of course, it.

We were supposedly there for a stag do – but the lad in question looked to be about fifteen. There was no sort of party going on, as far as you would notice, just a typical crowd of people drinking and playing pool. The lad was a drunken tosser, who wouldn’t do what he was told. The crowd wasn’t impressed by the performance, either. “Can I have a word, mate,” one of them said to me. “Is that all we get? Is that all we get for what we paid? Is that it? We’re expecting a bit more than that, mate.”

“Sorry, mate,” I said, trying to work out how many of them were between us and the door, “we don’t set the price.” He tried to get some more of the crowd interested in arguing with me, but fortunately none of them felt like starting anything. We stalked out of the building as quickly as we could, without trying to make it look obvious, hoping like hell that none of them followed us back to the car. And we didn’t look back, just headed straight back to the A-road and didn’t look back until we’d returned to civilisation.

* I checked on an OS map later – the village is on the 1200ft contour

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Arrrrr!

In which we talk like a pirate


As ye scurvy dogs will already know, today be September 19th, and September 19th be International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Yarr! I be off searchin’ the office for plunder and booty, but so far all I’ve plundered is Biscuits Of Eight, from the desk of Big Cap’n Dave. So I’ve heaved-to on ye plundering, and booty is nowhere to be seen.

I were hopin’ to have a picture of two marauding pirate captains to put up on my cabin’s bulkhead* for ye all to see. Sadly, it be stuck on me phone, and I can’t get it over to the ship computer. I’ve tried shouting “Arrr! Ye mangy telephone! Transfer ye data or I’ll make ye walk me plank!” but it wasn’t having any of it.

* or “on this page”, rather.

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Years and years

In which we remember early days on the Internet


Hello to internet friend Angeldust, who starts at university today as a mature student. How she’ll cope with having to be mature, I really have no idea.

It reminded me, though, that it’s ten years this month since I started at university myself. Ten years, and it feels like no time at all. It certainly doesn’t feel like I’ve grown up at all in that time, although I almost certainly have without realising it. And ten years since starting university also means ten years since I got my first email address, and ten years since I first went on the web,* using university public labs with Apple Macs running Mac OS 7.5. I did even, occasionally in that first year or so, browse the web in black and white, because some of the university Macs only had monochrome screens. It wasn’t very impressive, partly because given the state of the university computer network at the time, the effective download speed in a busy lab was about the same as the 56k home dialup connections which were starting to appear around then too.

I didn’t get my own PC until I was in my second year at university, and didn’t get internet access until late in that year. Even when I did, the university was my ISP – I applied for, and was given, access to one of the university dial-in lines, available to any student who was good enough at navigating the university bureaucracy to find and fill in the right form. Somehow I doubt that universities offer that service now – but, then again, offering full network access to hall bedrooms was unheard of ten years ago too.

It really doesn’t feel like ten years that I’ve been on the net – but then again, I couldn’t imagine life without it now. In the past ten years, it’s gone from being exotic and new, to being an everyday part of life.

* Using Pegasus Mail over a Netware network for email, and Netscape Navigator 2 for the web

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Phone conversation

In which someone discovers Ultimate Crisps


Taloollah: Oh, something happened the other day, and I’ve been waiting for someone to tell.

Me: Yes?

T: I came home from the pub the other night, and I was feeling hungry, so I got a packet of crisps out of the cupboard … and it was full of crisps. You know how most crisp packets have lots of empty space inside? This one was packed full.

Me: Wow.

T: I know! I only realised when I’d been eating crisps for a bit, and I suddenly thought: hang on, this packet of crisps is lasting a long time.

Me: That’s the ultimate packet of crisps ever. The best crisps in history.

T: You should blog about it. Say it happened to you.

Me: No, I can’t do that! I’ll blog this phone call, though.

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