Too Old To Rock And Roll, Too Young To Die

It would seem that all this technology is bad for us after all.

D'dya -- tell me something I don't know..

As our first world economies have made us all into 'knowledge workers' over the last 20 years, we're a generation of RSI sufferers and sedentary borderline diabetics with decidedly gooey front-ends.

And as technology has followed us from the office to the home, and media has become social, we're indulging in new kinds of bad habits, equally as unhealthy as smoking cigarettes or conkering -- it would seem.

Dr Aric Sigman's report published in the journal of the Institute of Biology made headlines recently. In it he postulates that social media is leading to a lack of "real" social networking involving personal interaction, which could have biological effects by altering the way genes work, upsetting immune responses, hormone levels, the function of arteries, and mental performance.

Eeks, I could be in big trouble -- but maybe there's hope..

I can claim to have once been to technology what my old employer terms a fast forward -- or 'early adopter' to those of you better accustomed to more accepted marketing demographic speak.

I first got online in 1993 using Mosaic and doing limited navigation via Bigfoot, AltaVista and Excite and kept up-to-date with news through CompuServe. In 1995 I 'upgraded' to Netscape and even though it took 20 minutes to load a page -- many of which I recall were devoted to The X Files -- I was hooked by this new-fangled Information Super Highway thing.

Check all those extinct brands..

Practically everything I've bought over the last decade has been done online and I eschewed the limitations of a landline phone for mobile in 1999 -- just around the time that I had my first ISDN box installed.

My iPod adoption came at the introduction of Apple's first 40Gb model -- 3rd gen', I think -- back in 2001 and I've been Web 2.0 and blogging this pointlessness since 2006.

All of my physical media is in storage and the 6,000+ albums I own are digitized, backed-up and backed-up again. My TV is totally on-demand and I got my personal email early enough to have it whole name without any appended digits.

I love my iPhone and in equal measure hate my Blackberry. I bought an XBox at launch -- but only to play Halo. The upgrade to a 360 was necessary only to indulge in the last in the Master Chief trilogy. Previously, I was in a monogamous five-year relationship with GoldenEye on Nintendo.

However, in recent years I've fallen behind.

I don't have a Facebook or Bebo presence (well, I kinda-do, but didn't progress beyond initial sign-up), I don't RSS, FriendFeed, Twitter, Scrobble, Wibble or Jigger. (I made-up the latter two). I prefer the implied 'ownership' of iTunes over the free and legal lending libraries of Last.fm and Spotify. And my beautiful designer Danish telly ain't HD-ready and is nearly old enough to sit its GCSEs.

So, have I gone as far as I'm going to with technology?

Hell no, but I'm certainly no longer blazing the trail.

And looking at all this stuff -- music, movies, gaming, communication and information -- it occurs to me that none of it really knits together very well, exposing the long-held promise of the networked home as a sham.

..One day it may one day work together, maybe, but certainly no time soon.

As demonstration of my now confirmed status as technology laggard, I get very confused by Internet and texting shorthand.

I was recently a bit surprised, marginally embarrassed but vaguely complimented when I misread the acronym LOL in an email from a female colleague. I interpreted LOL to mean an inappropriately familiar 'Lots Of Love', instead of the correctly informal 'Laugh Out Loud'.

So, in the spirit of 'don't quit quitting' and for the good of my health, I'm off to dust off those long-forgotten LPs, write a letter -- with a pen and ink -- and pick-up the phone instead of pinging a tweet.

:-p

A Forest

I think I've blogged this before, but I keep forgetting how close we are to Epping Forest -- just a short hop through those jewels of the East End, Clapton, Leyton and Walthamstow and voila -- a wonderful ancient forest on the Essex boarders. On weekend mornings when the roads are quiet it only takes about 30 minutes.

It's doggie heaven too and Ems is very muddy, but now peacefully sleeping after a riotous run.

Counting Crows

...Or rather magpies.

A superstitious auld sod, I am. I blame the rural-born Irish strain for this reliance on an Old Moore's Almanac-stylee belief in tenuous portents.

A family of magpies have set-up home in the tree just outside this rear window. It means that I spy at least one every time I look garden-ward or indeed, when out in the yard.

But this single bird is by no means a sign of 'sorrow'. No siree. In the knowledge that maggies mate for life, there's always the other nearby -- so much 'joy' must be ours.

And in the coming months there'll be a nest full of nippers to boot..

We have little GFHS safely in belly, so we're covered on the foursome (i.e., we've got the 'boy' bit), and are really looking for a 'gold' six, or at the very least, a 'silver' five.

All we need now is to find tomorrow's lotto numbers in the froth of this evening's first pint in the Shakey or in the runic scatterings of discarded fried chicken bones on Allen Road.

Noise Annoys

My characterisation of this morning's fellow commuters would make a great name for a modern psychobilly band..

iPod Zombies and the Bucolic

A Message to You Rudie --

If you're really sick, stay at home. If you've got a cough, get some linctus. If you've got a runny nose, get some Kleenex. If you have to sneeze, please cover your face with an aforementioned hankie -- or at the very least, your hand.

And if you really want to listen to Ministry of Sound compilations (or whatever ting-ting, boom boom, bang-bang beat floats your proverbial) at full-blast at 07:30 on any given morning, please acknowledge the fact that most of the rest on the bus and tube carriage don't.

This city is overrun with snotty, cretinous and inconsiderate peasants.

And C -- Congratulations on being probably the only person this year to be hired by a multinational bank. I hope your commute is less toxic than mine.

The Wait

Where are we now? Into the 39th week of P's pregnancy and we've both had about enough of this waiting.

The boy's head is fully engaged and deep down in P's pelvis, while his arms are thumping her stomach and his feet are kicking her ribs like a Cantona. And all this mother abuse is internal.

And he's BIG -- an estimated 8.5lbs last week, so potentially over 9lbs now and still growing..

Poor P. She's the size of a small country and going spare having to pee about every two minutes -- which is no surprise given the pressure on her bladder. She's been having light contractions for over a week and is in a constant state of Sarbanes-Oxley (or rather Braxton-Hicks), sort-of 'practice' full-on contractions.

I know we're not quite at due date yet, but please little one, don't wait too much longer.

You're not yet born and already you're driving your parents nuts.

Dad.

Addendum 200209: The NHS can't scan accurately, count, add-up or properly test for simple conditions. Another scan yesterday and midwife consultation tells us that he's actually nearer 7.5lbs, progressing perfectly and P has a 'text book' pregnancy. At this stage, the wee chap could make an appearance today, tomorrow, anytime next week -- or indeed, the week after. The wait continues..

Supper's Ready.. Or SCB 2.5

The event of our small addition's imminent arrival has provided fodder for another entry to my infrequent series observing Stupid Corporate Branding (SCB).

P has been hangin' out with quite an undesirable crowd of late -- the earth mothers of the NCT (National Childbirth Trust). All relaxing massage techniques, water births, yoghurt knitting and primal screaming.

Delightful.

Last Sunday was the NCT's breast-feeding class -- which begs the question, why is boob school necessary? Surely, it's a basic human instinct. Child is hungry, pop nipple into mouth and 'Robert is indeed your father's brother.'

"There was this one time at Boobie Camp..."

I digress. To the SCB.

P was informed that if she ever encountered any problems with the feeding regimen, then she shouldn't hesitate to contact her...

wait for it...

Lactation Consultant.

What tit.

Snow Patrol

With London at a standstill due to a few inches of snow, everyone gets an extra day off. (No, I didn't bring my laptop home with me on Friday -- and even if I had, there's no IT support at work and the London VPN is broken to-boot).

So here are some shots of the park this morning -- which had a carnival-like atmosphere with everyone enjoying the surprise fall.









Memo to self -- must get a new camera as the iPhone is terrible..

Get Rich, Or Die ..Phishing

Today, I was lucky enough to receive this generous offer in my email..

Damn, the scammers have learned English and this nonsense is nearly gramatically correct. They've even made an attempt to make the MSN and Rocketmail addresses vaguely plausible.

Feel free to respond if you really want to give them your house.

From: David Shearer [mailto:davd.sh51@msn.com]
Sent: 20 January 2009 09:19
To: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: Business Deal, Call Me

Dear

I want to make a proposal of business transaction value sum of GBP £30,000,000 (Thirty Million British Pounds Sterling) to you, of which I believe will be of much interest to you and also a mutual beneficial relationship to us.

I need your co-operation to transfer the above mentioned sum out of England to any part of the world. And I am confident that you will give your consideration to this proposal and response positively within a short period of time.

I am available to discuss this proposal with you and to answer any questions you may have in regard to this fund.

As soon as you give your positive response to this proposal, I will not hesitate in sending you the details and procedures of the transaction.

Please call me on this telephone +44 704 572 3648 for more additional information or send your response to this e-mail: davd.sh61@rocketmail.com.

Look forward to discussing this opportunity further with you in more detail shortly.

Sincerely,

David Shearer (Mr)
Chartered Accountant
Halifax Bank of Scotland Plc
London
Tel: +44 704 572 3648
e-mail: davd.sh61@rocketmail.com.

When Saturday Comes

Yay! Just checked the footie fixtures for the rest of the year and wonderful news -- practically all of our remaining home games are on Saturdays at 3:00pm.

This is when I like to go to the Bridge. It's what I was brought-up on and is the traditional time for fixtures pre-dating the advent of Monday evening and Sunday morning kick-offs dictated by the great God Murdoch and his lucrative broadcast wonga.

The only remaining question is will we be able to win at home in 2009? Something we miserably failed to do in '08.

Either way and for what it's worth, they'll have me cheering on from Shed lower through to mid-May..

Carefree.

Aw, BUG-gger ...Boo!

So with only a short forecasted seven weeks to go, we're in baby planning mode.

At home, we're clearing and preparing the spare bedroom -- transforming from P's 'boudoir' to GF's nursery -- as well as thinking about how grown-ups things can be moved and stored to accommodate the nipper.

But babies also need loads and loads and loads of stuff -- and damn, much of it is expensive.

Thankfully, there's a marvelous man called Mr. John Lewis who'll kindly take care of everything.

You just go online and create a list -- kinda like a wedding list. The difference -- for us, anyway -- is that ours is a personal 'work in progress' and not for friends and family to contribute to. ..Why would they?

The great thing is that you can just browse the Web site and keep adding things, edit as you go and then take said list to one of the nice Mr. Lewis' many national outlets where a munchkin will guide you around, help you 'kick the wheels', refine to the essentials, add and delete and then a few weeks later, a gang of chaps from an assortment of Europe's expansion states rock-up at your door with the haul.

And of course, the biggest -- and in many ways -- the most exciting item (for Pa anyway) is the buggy.

It's a kinda new car substitute -- because, heck, I ain't gonna get a new one myself anytime soon. Indeed, with P off on maternity (read: one income for the next year), she gets to have the 'Drover full time and I get to dust-off the Oyster card. The indignity of it..

So we peruse the wibbly-wobbly for what's on offer. You'd think it simple. After all, it's just a buggy -- baby, for the transportation of. But no, there are hundreds out there, all across the price scale. And the best of the lot is (apparently) a Bugaboo Chameleon -- a snip at a few measly shillings under 600 nicker.

Which is, of course, the one we've chosen. A nice one too in natty 'denim' which is the hip way of saying, ehem, mid-blue.

But if it's not harm enough for me to be robbed blind for 'baby, the transportation of', must the nice people at Bugaboo (I have no idea, but for some reason I'm sure they're Scandies or Cloggies), in cahoots with the ubiquitous Welsh shopkeeper, have to patronise me too?

This is how the grammatically challenged blurb in Mr. Lewis' catalogue sells to me ...the already sold.

Distinctive design, intuitive handling plus mix and match colours. No wonder funky new mums (and dads) love Bugaboo! They make traveling with baby simple and stylish. Whether you're nipping out for a newspaper, strolling on the beach or planning an adventurous walk on rough terrain, Bugaboo won't let you down.

Makes it sound like a cross between a 911, a Defender and a Lear jet ..or something.

Utter cock.

Does it change the nappies too?

I'm sure it's a great thing with lots of adaptability, accessories and add-ons etc., but it seems to be more of a status symbol for the self-consciously smug Observer-reading parents (us), than the wee chap or chapette. Dads get to replace eyeing one another's respective motors at the lights by displaying conspicuous baby-related consumption at the local organic caff or gastro-creche.

Thank God I don't have to deal with breast pumps and maternity bras.

I shudder to think at how the copywriting monsters at Mothercare and the like spin these devices of torture to the poor novice mothers.

Cold Day In The Sun

This was such a magnificent morning, I felt it necessary to take some pics on dog & I's stroll. Frost on the ground, the temperature hovering just above zero and bright blue sky.

Indeed, per the previous entry, the city's so wonderfully quiet at this time of the year. As everyone's retreated their respective Shires, this corner of north London is practically deserted.

Perfect - unlike the quite poor definition of the iPhone's camera :-(

A view into the rising sun across Butterfield Green


Frigid bench on the Green (too cold and too early for the winos to take position)


As above, but a more ornate style


Thawing frost in Clissold Park


A gentle frosty Clissold slope


A duck-type creature on Clissold's icy pond


Mid-morning sun on the icy pond

Silent Night

Heck. Is this Stokie?

It's just past midnight and all I can hear is the twittering of a bird. And what kind of bird sings at night in December in England?
(must Google that one..)

No police/ambulance/fire sirens; no helicopters hovering; no boom-boys in their hot hatches a-boomin'; no drunks a-staggering; no hoodies a-geezering; no domestics a-flaring; no fireworks a-bangin'; no fish wives a-hollerin'.. you get the drift.

London really does slow down and shut-the-funk-up at Christmas and it's wonderful.

And one day, someone in the so-called top four will score a goal and win a match in the Prem..

Peace and good will to all men - tho' not Gooners, of course.

Carefree

Cockney Reject

Rats.

My submission to Popbitch's weirdly apt names section was rejected this week :-(

Ho hum, if I can't get recognition on PB's weekly slander-mail, then I'll just have to publish here.

From this week's news of the QEII running aground in Southampton harbour, the name of Cunard spokesperson was:

....Eric Flounders

Clearly too poetic for the tittle-tattle merchants..

Don't Believe The Hype

However you look at it, Marrakesh, in my humble, is way, way, way overrated. If the truth were told, it's a shithole.

**I must state upfront, that these are all my own opinions and in no way reflect those of my good lady wife -- who is a pioneer, traveller par excellence and woman of exquisite taste. She loves the place BTW.

If you're a consumer of British media - everything from weekend broadsheet supplements, lifestyle, fashion and travel magazines - you can't have missed gushing photo-spread feature after fawning photo-spread feature PR-ing this noxious little outpost in deepest Morocco. For the last four or five years it's been building a reputation as *the* place to go if you crave easy-to-get-to poverty, street hassle, sickness and tourist crap.

We went there last week and it was poo.

It has no architectural merit. It's not picturesque. It's not even quirky. There is seemingly no point to it.

Why would one go? It's dirty. Smelly. Overcrowded. Intimidating. Irritating. Dangerous.

I mean, how many brightly coloured slippers can a person reasonably have? Who needs a tatty carpet, lantern, bowl, necklace, lamp, shawl, drape, belt, bag, photo frame, rug, tagine pot, dervish knife or sword, tribal mask, joss stick, joss stick holder, rucksack, plate, saucer, vial, soap dish, soap, oil, incense…

All this -- and lots of it -- is available for haggle at the infamous souks.

But buyer beware. Souks are narrow, poorly lit, overcrowded hellholes where you're overtaken by the deafening bids of shopkeepers on all sides pimping their shoddy wares. That and all the random people -- milling tourists; just looking tourists; on the trader's line tourists; being reeled-in tourists; and poor, resigned-to-the-rip-off tourists. Not to mention the locals -- flitting hither and thither; pulling carts; leading over laden, broken donkeys; panhandlers; beggars; chancers and thieves. Oh, and scooters. Thousands of then. Toot toot toot. With their collective exhaust, the place smells like a lawnmower convention held in a sewer.

And then there's the food. Tagine. Big wow. It's not a culinary epiphany, it's a pot. Into which, the Moroccans put principally chicken or lamb. That's it -- lamb stew. Intriguing n'est pas? Stand down Heston, it's not the discovery of the century..

I'm being unfair, of course. Very unfair.

But the problem is -- I got food (or water) poisoning mid-way through the visit and have carried it for eight days now. The experience (I'll spare you) does, ehem, colour the experience. I lost half a stone (~3 kilos) as indication of the voracity of the viral or bacterial infection of my guts.

All this is most unfortunate, as I did manage to ape those Conde Nast Traveller-type shutterbugs with some damn fine pics taken on the iPhone's meagre camera, see below.

Anyway, that's me done with the exotic. In future, I'm not straying far from the tried and tested golf resort in southern Spain.

"I'm Caliban-I-Am I-Am,
I'm Caliban-I-Am I-Am."

**Expression of jaundiced views is a raison d'etre here. But editorial wilfulness can sometimes get me in trouble Chez S.

Random alley

Random alley

Door -- down a random alley

The Square

The Square

Donkey looking very forlorn and forlornly, ehem, very sad

A souk -- shudder to think..

Ceiling of our fancy room in the Rihad

Courtyard in Rihad

Pool and private courtyard in suite No.1 in Palmerie

Blossom In pool, suite No.1

Flower at our 2nd suite in the palmerie

The pool, suite No.2 -- a Hockney-esque study, innit

Wall of 2nd suite in the Palmerie -- A shadow play(ish and -esque;-)

Wall in suite No.2 courtyard in Palmerie ..Isn't the blue divine?

Cactus against [magnificently blue] wall of Palmerie suite No.2

Le posh hotel thingie

Graffiti -- Gooners get everywhere ..and probably pissed up the wall too

Airport -- brilliant architecture and a vitally important and welcome route home!

Airport -- another view. Quite magnificent

Ever Feel Like You've Been Cheated?

I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that we havn't been touched too directly by the rampant crime of grimy north Gotham.

We aren't completely untouched, but nothing bad. P had her phone snatched from her hand on the street a couple of years ago. Some dullards pinched three topiary planters from our light well. A moron broken into the car over the first May Bank Holiday, but only caused a broken rear passenger window and nicked the TomTom from the glove box. ..And last night I was scammed at my front door.

At about 20:15, half-way through a (homealone)dinner consumed in-front of a rerun of British Style Genius, I was disturbed by a knock at the door. A very apologetic smartly-dressed (business casual) gent in his late 20s/early 30s introduced himself as our new neighbour (on the right). Not completely implausible as the house next door has been sold and this same chap introduced himself as such to P on Monday evening too.

Him to me (and also on mobile phone to supposed wife): "I'm very sorry, but we're awaiting a delivery and I have no cash and my wife is stuck in traffic. I wouldn't ask, but the delivery will be here in a few minutes and I need £7."

My mind: Tick. Tick. Tick. He seems OK. P did say that she'd met the new neighbour. He looks tidy and is neutrally well-spoken. Does he want me to take his delivery? I'm kinda pissed off as I'm half-way through my food. All I want is for him to go away -- and quick. OK. Here's a tenner.

Him to me ('corrected' via mobile phone by 'wife'): "Oh sorry, that's £27 not £7."

Me: "OK, as your going to be living next door -- heck, I know where you live. Here's £30. Pay me back next week sometime."

And about 15 minutes later, our neighbour (a real one this time, on the left) knocked on the door and asked me about my ...brother.

Me: Eh? I don't have a brother.

Legitimate neighbour: "That's funny, a guy saying he was your brother knocked on the door a few minutes ago asking for money to cover the cost of -- yep, you guessed it -- a delivery."

Thinking back too, a couple of bobbies did come by on Monday evening responding to a call from two doors down regarding a man asking for money at their door..

Ddduuuummmmmm. Eureka moment. I've been done up like a kipper.

And here's me, Meldrew of the North, out of the goodness of my heart and against my better (or worse) nature, being taken for thirty quid on my own doorstep.

So as an additional security precaution and should matey boy be planning to inflict greater injury to my property, the heavy wooden doors in the lower ground floor bay are tightly shut until the pooch returns at the weekend.

And I never thought I'd be actively welcoming the return of the dog's most annoying habit -- loud, incessant barking at the front door. But it's a great deterrent to n'er do wells of all stripes.

And if I ever see that 'neighbour' of mine again ...I'll call the cops, of course.

The Fall

Dobbin the horse accidentally slipped and fell in the exercise yard yesterday.

....


Vets were quickly on the scene and by all accounts, old Dobbin is in a stable condition.

Oh Boy

We had scan #2 this morning and I'm very pleased to report that baby S is fine -- the right size, weight, brain OK, spine good, the right number of fingers and toes and is 'swimming' in the right amount of amniotic fluid, fed from a right sized placenta.

Oh, and he's a BOY! Yay!

And the Easter Island angularity of the first scan seems to have passed to more naturally human features.

..So now we throw away the baby name books (we were undecided on girl's names) as George Frederick Haymer S is alright as he is thank you very much.

(Haymer, btw, is a name given to the males on my wife's side of the family).

While all I wanted was for a healthy baby and its sex was immaterial, I am looking forward to a more evenly balanced gender spread at home.

"Oh My, And A Boo Hoo"

Well, the England football team wasn't entirely convincing against a plucky Kazakhstan, but 5-1 is a comfortable victory in anyone's book. And in football, it's the result that counts. You grind 'em out and take the points, right?

Take a trip to a trip up Stamford Hill to N17 on any grey Wednesday afternoon and ask the residents of that grotty postcode how they'd feel about achieving a few dire victories with a four-goal advantage -- or even for that matter, a paltry one-goal up. I'll wager they'd swap the entertaining but goalless worst start in over a century for a bit of that as quickly as you can say, erm, Danny Blanchflower very quickly..

And that's my point and why I'm so incensed at the cowardly and unsporting booing by the Wembley crowd -- and the equally banal bleating of the tabloid backpages -- of Messrs Cole (A), Lampard and Gerrard whenever they don the lilly white Three Lions.

Yesterday, Ashley Cole was booed at every touch after haphazardly gifting the visitors a sitter. Hey, everyone makes mistakes, and I'm sure Cashley would be the first to admit he's made more than his fair share. Don't get me wrong, I'm no fan of the puking, preening adulterer either, but he is giving it a go on the left.

But frankly, I resent the griping, booing and hissing of 'fans' from Scunthorpe, Market Harborough or Telford -- or whatever God-forsaken parochial hole these morons come from.

In football it's club firmly over country.

The boys, more habitually in Blue or Red, have more important priorities in their obscenely over-paid day jobs. These silly national games are a mere distraction and potential threat of costly injury.

I was pleased -- pleased, I tell you -- when England tumbled out of Euro 2008. No more of this international silliness. For what's the point? If the nation hates Super Frank and Stevo, then why should they bother? What thanks do they get for their efforts?

Zip. Zilch. Nada.

So chaps, let's just throw it all away, again, and get back to what's really important -- the Premiership and Champion's League -- and leave the provincials to their piffling Conference League tedium.

Carefree.

Are You Receiving?

So here I am happily taking advantage of the weekly luxury of working from home on Fridays. Yay. :-)

It gives me an extra couple of hours a day without the commute and affords a bit of a lie-in and a really good long walk avec pooch first thing, while providing a sense of an extended weekend. All this, and I still get started earlier and run a wee bit longer into the evening. All in all, very efficient and most equitable. :-))

However, all this efficiency is rendered merely theoretical as the VPN from my work laptop don't work too well today. Actually, now I think of it, the VPN hasn't worked very well for nearly a month now. And without a VPN I have no email or network connection - therefore the point of efficiency is somewhat compromised and I can't actually do any work. (Well I do have a connection of sorts, but it's very intermittent - 2 minutes on, 10 minutes off, and impossibly slow and narrow-band when on). :-(

Of course, my connection via the pretty iMac is perfect, but then I'm not using this machine to send and receive kilobytes, megabytes and sometimes gigabytes of data..

Lo. Instead of doing anything productive, I'm just getting more and more irate. :-((

So I begin the arduous and frustrating task of locating and fixing the problem. :-[

The IT guys at the office can't see a problem with my equipment. So I determine to check my broadband speed with Virgin, my ISP. :-p

After nearly 15 minutes negotiating the Kafkaesque complexity of Virgin's automated call centre, so-called customer service operation, I finally land in Bangalore or some such place on the Indian subcontinent. And after another 10 minutes of re-treading my 'problem' and listening to muzak, the 'fault' is detected. :-]

Virgin, in its infinite wisdom, decided to upgrade my already 'Large' broadband package to 'Gargantuan' with effect start of September. ..Which is nice. :-)

The only problem is that they didn't think to inform me of this service enhancement. Nor did they think it relevant or necessary to arrange delivery of a new modem capable of handling the monstrous bandwidth hike. :-[[

Doh!

Thanks for nothing, Mr. B. you arse. :-L

..And the Apple bugs reappeared yesterday with the iPhone needing its first re-boot after freezing. Not bad though -- an Apple device that lasted six weeks before its first stall.

Damn, I sometimes hate technology. Or rather my reliance upon it..

I wonder how on earth we managed before the Internet.

I know. I'll Google it.

Aw, Bugger

You've go to feel for the poor [sic] geyser quietly going about his digging business this morning when he haphazardly located the Victorian water pipe..

..And if the weather isn't bad enough.