My t-shirts are good for two days now. Winter is approaching.
[Inspiration][].
[inspiration]: http://fremescent.blogspot.com/2006/09/sniff.html
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The Best Days
I used to think that the best days of my life were behind me. I would look back on carefree times, knowing that I’d never be able to get them back. I’d never again make a nuisance of myself on a University campus, and [Shiny Tight Stuff][] would never again spend an entire summer drinking beer in the afternoons and making music.
[shiny tight stuff]: http://www.last.fm/music/Shiny+Tight+Stuff
Yesterday morning, while lying in bed and listening to Bernard making silly gurgling noises, I realised that these are the best days. Right now. Maybe there will be some more best days in 20 years, when Bernard has left home, and Karen and I can let our hair down at last, but I’m not going to make any assumptions about what the future holds.
The best days can’t be captured and preserved. Photographs can remind you that you were there, but you can’t retrieve the emotions that you felt. Photographs of good times just make me weepy and nostalgic.
Words can remind you what the emotions were, but not how to reconstruct them; just like how the word “skyscraper” doesn’t contain sufficient detail to tell you how to build one.
Wisdom can be very depressing, can’t it? I’m looking forward to spending some time with someone who doesn’t have any of it.
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Wildlife In The Garden
I went out into the garden today and saw a fab-looking spider, so I dashed off to get my camera.
And then a rather large dragonfly, one of the largest that I’ve ever seen, came fluttering past. “Please settle on a leaf somewhere,” I implored. The dragonfly obliged, and stayed there long enough for me to get half a dozen shots.
I’m now the proud owner of a Jerker desk.
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Talk Like A Pirate Day
September 19th always has been, and will continue to be, [Talk Like A Pirate day][]. Which is why (if the [plugin][] is working correctly) this entire site should be appearing in Piratese for the duration of the day.
[plugin]: http://dougal.gunters.org/blog/2004/08/30/text-filter-suite
[talk like a pirate day]: http://talklikeapirate.com/
*Note: this entry was written a week ago, and scheduled for later publishing. It should not be taken as an indicator that [Pipex][] have managed to get round to reconnecting me yet. In fact, if this note is here, you can probably take it as an indicator that they most definitely haven’t.*
[pipex]: http://www.pipex.com/
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Housemove
The house move is imminent. I might be without internet access for a while. I don’t have much confidence in [Pipex][] these days, but maybe they will prove me wrong.
[pipex]: http://www.pipex.com/
**UPDATE:** All in all, I have to admit that Pipex have done a decent job of getting me connected at the new place. My confidence in them is somewhat restored, though I maintain that their telephone support is understaffed.
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A Drama Unfolding
*Continuing from [here][]*
> Here mate tell shaggy tht tht guy he called just called me back. Lol. He wasnt to happy. Dont think its gonna work mate. He didnt know who shaggy was.
I suppose it was inevitable that Charles would text me again. I’m now pondering my next step. I think that it’s time that Adam replied. I reckon this:
> Hi Charles I have a confession to make. I slept with your mum. Lol.
[here]: http://pete.nu/blog/2006/09/wrong-number-perhps-lol/
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Wrong number perhps Lol
> Adam my parents are gonna want to talk to yours Lol. So just tell them tht your rents are out. But say tht its ok with them when you i put you on to my dad. If they ask your mom will be givin us a lift back to your house from the pub. Charles.
It took me a few minutes to decipher this, but it looks like Adam and Charles are planning to go to a big party. I wonder if there will be hookers and gin.
If anyone wants Charles’s number to wind him up, just ask me. Maybe one of us could leave a voicemail that says “Charles, this is Adam’s father. We’re onto your little game.”
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How to obtain a Bankers Draft
1. Walk into the bank at 9:02 in the morning. Walk straight up to the enquiries desk, and tell the lad behind it (who, incidentally, is young enough to be your son) that you want to arrange a bankers draft to buy a house.
2. He will ask for ID. You give him your bank card and driving license. He disappears into the locked-down area, calling back over his shoulder “It will take about 15 minutes.”
3. Loiter.
4. A couple of minutes later, he will reappear with a form. Eventually you will manage to wrap your head round it, and fill it in. He disappears with the form again.
5. Loiter.
6. Twenty minutes later, he will reappear and give you back your ID. He will tell you that the system is just checking your signature, and it will take a couple of minutes. He disappears.
7. Loiter. Wish you had brought a book.
8. Twenty minutes later, he reappears with a slim brown envelope. He asks you to check it.
9. You check the amount carefully.
10. You are distinctly underwhelmed by this thing. It’s basically just a cheque without your signature on it. It appears that you are going to have to deliver this thing yourself. You ask, and lad confirms.
11. 9:45 – Anticlimax.
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Or maybe the gate ran into the car?
The first thing that I saw this morning, upon leaving the house, was a small white French hatchback embedded in a gate, with considerable damage to the front bumper, and two guys tugging furiously to try and free it.
The arse end of the car was poking into the street, so naturally traffic flow was somewhat disrupted. While I idled in this queue, I pondered the possible steps that could have led up to this collision, as I often do. Taking into account the angle at which the car was embedded in this gate, and the nature of the road on which the gate dwells, I could only conclude that the driver had hurtled out of a side road at inappropriate speed and… well… kept going.
Presence or absence of skidmarks on the road (now now, don’t snigger at the word skidmarks) would have given more information: did the driver attempt to turn, but lose front-wheel grip? Did the driver attempt to turn, discover his route blocked, and straighten out, after deciding that a collision with a gate was preferable to a head-on with another vehicle? Did the driver faint at the wheel?
By the time I’d done my pondering, the number of guys tugging on the hatchback had swelled to half a dozen, including a couple of well-built road workers in high-visibility gilets ((Hmmm, that was strangely satisfying. Gilet. Gilet. Gilet.)), so I considered that my skills as a computer programmer were probably surplus to requirements, and I drove on. Somehow, I doubt that the cause of the incident was a software error.