Robyn has excelled herself (yet again).
Get thee over here now and read her post, then follow her instructions …
Here's mine:
I am from Dansette and Bush Wireless, Parlophone and Sun, from the stack of 78s my Dad brought home from playing nuclear dare with the Soviets, now nestling in their lovingly tended case.
I am from the little "Beatles" guitar Uncle Bernie bought me in '64; from the BBC Home Service and pirate Radio Caroline, beaming sweet rock'n'roll to a small boy hiding under the covers from the ice inside my tiny bedroom window; from the dank back alley; the leaden skies and the dark terror of the outside privy.
I am from Denmark Road; from Providence Place; from grim rows of cold brick terraced housing; from scavenged newspaper sheets rolled into tight sticks for the fire under the copper, to give us hot water.
I am from the tin bath brought down from its nail on the wall once a week and placed on the floor in front of the big black iron range; from the smell of washday permeating the whole world; from the taste of licorice fountains and sherbert lemons, sticky and coated in pocket fluff.
I am from the railway shunting yard at the bottom of the road; from hunting small animals in the long grass and dodging trains; from the detritus scattered in front of the foxes' den.
I am from from the darkness of a cold attic bedroom over an Uncle's shop in Whitstable where I found fabulous books by Victorian explorers and escaped to the Himalayas and the Mato Grosso.
I am from fields of kale and wheat towering over my head as we chased across my grandparents' farm; from acres of flowering clover carpeting the common; from the gnarled trees and hidey-holes of Boney's Island.
I am from my parents' ragtime and boogie-woogie around the piano; from Sunday School in the Mission House at the top of the road with Mum on the organ; from walking miles and miles out to the farm at weekends, Mum pushing her bike with baby brother strapped to the top, Dad carrying the cardboard suitcase; from family trips to the seaside on the last steam trains.
I am from St.Michael's parish church; from the Mission House; from the family bible; from the Word of God beaten into innocent children by angry old men.
I am from Zerafa Street in Malta where a family of printers and a family of farmers came together; from a bookish girl brushing scorpions off her baby and a farmboy playing with nuclear bombers. I am from a young couple coming home to a cold country and a harsh life. From a woman who gave up her career to raise a couple of kids the best she could and a man who worked his family onto the right side of the tracks.
I am from boxes of old photographs of people who have lost their names and will never find them again. I am from the strange corners of my Mother's attic and the tiny pieces of Dad still left at the back of her garage.
I am from the lovingly tended case of 78s my parents danced to in the Mediterranean sunshine.
And here's the farm,
Dad's 78s, the Med and the privy,
Providence Place
and the memory of music.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Scary Blue Stuff Attacks London
Something scary happened to the London sky this morning. It's gone this strange blue colour.
Weird … It's usually the colour of old Tupperware.
Here's another one for Ame:
There's plenty of places in London for you to do your morning runs, but if you want to work on your calf muscles head down here …
This is the Monument (sorry about the wonkyness of the photo). For a small fee, you can climb up (and down) it, and BOY does that wake your calves up!
In case you didn't know it commemorates the Great Fire of London. A couple of hundred feet off to the left is Pudding Lane, where the fire started.
The view from the top is pretty spiffy.
Oh, and don't lick your lips at the mention of pudding; Pudding Lane (and later, Pudding Mill Lane in the East End) were where the night-soil gatherers wheeled their barrows of poo down to the river. Even nastier; there were people who sifted (squelched?) through it all, searching for lost valuables … Eww!
Hennyway … The old Clock Tower was bright and sunny this morning …
And even the St. James's Park pelicans perked up a bit (though the sun was still too low to reach them when I took this).
And in a burst of democratic generosity, the sunshine even lit up the Parasite House.
Mind you, it was still bloody freezing …
Weird … It's usually the colour of old Tupperware.
Here's another one for Ame:
There's plenty of places in London for you to do your morning runs, but if you want to work on your calf muscles head down here …
This is the Monument (sorry about the wonkyness of the photo). For a small fee, you can climb up (and down) it, and BOY does that wake your calves up!In case you didn't know it commemorates the Great Fire of London. A couple of hundred feet off to the left is Pudding Lane, where the fire started.
The view from the top is pretty spiffy.
Oh, and don't lick your lips at the mention of pudding; Pudding Lane (and later, Pudding Mill Lane in the East End) were where the night-soil gatherers wheeled their barrows of poo down to the river. Even nastier; there were people who sifted (squelched?) through it all, searching for lost valuables … Eww!
Hennyway … The old Clock Tower was bright and sunny this morning …
And even the St. James's Park pelicans perked up a bit (though the sun was still too low to reach them when I took this).
And in a burst of democratic generosity, the sunshine even lit up the Parasite House.
Mind you, it was still bloody freezing …
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Kate's Monday Melee On A Tuesday
Okay, so strictly it's "Kate's mate Fracas' Monday Melee on a Tuesday", but I got it from Kate's site so she gets the title.
It's a compact and bijou little assignment-ette, so there's no excuses for not doing it.
Here we go then:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the attitude of the staff in Norwich's guitar shops, but that's too petty so I'll say religion.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
America's "involvement" in the Middle East (in fact their entire foreign policy since the war with Mexico in 1846).
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that I have not had sexual congress since mammoths roamed the earth.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
My boss, CJ, for telling me I can do a trial period working three days a week from home (though the caveat was added that it wouldn't be until IT have sorted out my broadband and given me an even yummier Mac to play with, so don't wait up).
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am a fucking good guitar player (big-headed, too).
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
A nice painless death … and a croissant, please.
So there you go; Kate's Monday Melee on a Tuesday.
Go for it!
It's a compact and bijou little assignment-ette, so there's no excuses for not doing it.
Here we go then:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the attitude of the staff in Norwich's guitar shops, but that's too petty so I'll say religion.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
America's "involvement" in the Middle East (in fact their entire foreign policy since the war with Mexico in 1846).
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that I have not had sexual congress since mammoths roamed the earth.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
My boss, CJ, for telling me I can do a trial period working three days a week from home (though the caveat was added that it wouldn't be until IT have sorted out my broadband and given me an even yummier Mac to play with, so don't wait up).
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am a fucking good guitar player (big-headed, too).
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
A nice painless death … and a croissant, please.
So there you go; Kate's Monday Melee on a Tuesday.
Go for it!
Monday, January 29, 2007
An Agony Aunt Writes
Mister Ranty plays musical agony aunt:
Here's Vic's comment on yesterday's post:
"I agree with your rant about some music shops, and I'll add to it. The attitude from some staff can make a learner feel inferior and unwelcome. That just isn't cool. I don't go into a store to show off, I want to see new things and learn new things. And I think the nicer and more helpful the shop, the nicer the customers it attracts. Nothing I hate more than being in an arrogant shop with a self-absorbed customer showing off on a guitar for what seems like hours. It just puts people off, you feel like you can't pick up an instrument and try it out because your not as good as the guy sitting up the back playing."
… and Lynn's (before she got bored):
"I think even worse is the response a girl gets going into these places. Not every time, but i have experienced it. I don't know much but i'm not a complete novice yet am viewed as if i've arrived to sell sandwiches for their lunch rather than to look at some guitars. Thinking that i may be seriously interested or, more amazingly might be able to play a bit("oh right, well yeah, have a look. If you want to know how they sound, one of us can play it for you. Just ask." groan.) doesn't seem to occur to them."
These points are just too valid and too damned good to answer with just a glib comment, so here's another guitar-related ranty post:
First up:
Yup, it's not just the snotty shop assistants (see yesterday's ranty bit) in guitar shops who are talentless fuckwits; it's all too often the "customers", too.
Or not actual customers. Just "people who hang around in guitar shops because they think it's cool" …
Don't feel intimidated by these imbeciles, Vic. They're just jerking off in a guitar shop because (like the arrogant lame-o shop assistants) they can't get into a band, and nobody in their right mind would let the fuckers near a studio.
If you look closely you'll see the word "Loser" tattooed across their foreheads.
Quick example:
A guy like that tried out for one of my bands once as a second guitar player …
So he turns up and spends a fucking AGE setting up all this rack gear, then switches on a backing tape (a backing tape at a band audition?) and plays admittedly pretty passable versions of Steve Vai's Prayer to God and Satriani's Satch Boogie.
When he's done, I say "Okay, let's warm up. Reelin' In The Years?"
Bam. The band launches into the old Steely Dan chestnut and the guy just stands there.
Turns out he doesn't know that one …
Or just about any other cover from the last forty years …
"Okay then; twelve bar shuffle in 'G' … One … Two … Three … Four …"
And the schmuck is completely lost! Totally unable to play even the SIMPLEST thing with other musicians.
Turns out he's spent the past few months in his bedroom, learning half a dozen widdly-wank instrumentals note for note off instructional DVDs but cannot play ANYTHING ELSE!
I take pity on him because he's so utterly humiliated.
"Okay … Satch Boogie. One … Two … Three …"
And again, he is lost. He can only play it to the backing tape.
So I give up and show him how to play Satch Boogie live, with real musicians …
That's the kind of sad, wanky people you see jerking off in guitar shops.
(And the thing with Satriani and Vai and other twee widdlers is that while those songs are great fun to play, the only person you would want to go see play them is Satriani or Vai; not some spotty teenager who can't get laid).
So, Vic: You play with other musicians; you teach; you play lots of instruments … You are a MUSICIAN. They are soooo not.
You know that if you're in a guitar shop to try out a guitar, you don't plug the sucker in and start wailing, you check the feel and the tone unplugged first, then the intonation and the set up. Then, IF you are happy that this is an instrument you want to buy, you plug it in (to an amp identical to your own) and see how it sounds.
The sound test should only take a minute or two (a few notes and chords on each setting) and should NOT involve playing some widdly-wank instrumental.
Then you either buy it or reject it.
NEVER STRIKE A POSE!
That's what a musician does in a guitar shop.
That's how we bought Phil's tele on Saturday. We walked out of the snotty guitar shop and up to the nice music shop and gave them lots of money.
Result.
And Lynn: You are so totally right.
We have a guitarist in Norfolk, Nicky Spinks, who is breathtakingly good, but happens to be a girl. Even some of her fellow musicians treat her patronisingly, as if being brilliant AND being a girl is somehow freakish and even hilarious.
You'll never change the pathetic attitude of the no-life shop assistants in guitar shops, so try to find a music shop like the one I talked about yesterday.
Just to reiterate yesterday's main point about the snotty and arrogant attitude of the losers who work in guitar shops and are such appallingly bad shop assistants:
"That's right, you jerks; you're fucking shop assistants, not rock stars. Get over it!"
This has been a public service announcement on behalf of musicians.
Mister Ranty, signing off …
Here's Vic's comment on yesterday's post:
"I agree with your rant about some music shops, and I'll add to it. The attitude from some staff can make a learner feel inferior and unwelcome. That just isn't cool. I don't go into a store to show off, I want to see new things and learn new things. And I think the nicer and more helpful the shop, the nicer the customers it attracts. Nothing I hate more than being in an arrogant shop with a self-absorbed customer showing off on a guitar for what seems like hours. It just puts people off, you feel like you can't pick up an instrument and try it out because your not as good as the guy sitting up the back playing."
… and Lynn's (before she got bored):
"I think even worse is the response a girl gets going into these places. Not every time, but i have experienced it. I don't know much but i'm not a complete novice yet am viewed as if i've arrived to sell sandwiches for their lunch rather than to look at some guitars. Thinking that i may be seriously interested or, more amazingly might be able to play a bit("oh right, well yeah, have a look. If you want to know how they sound, one of us can play it for you. Just ask." groan.) doesn't seem to occur to them."
These points are just too valid and too damned good to answer with just a glib comment, so here's another guitar-related ranty post:
First up:
Yup, it's not just the snotty shop assistants (see yesterday's ranty bit) in guitar shops who are talentless fuckwits; it's all too often the "customers", too.
Or not actual customers. Just "people who hang around in guitar shops because they think it's cool" …
Don't feel intimidated by these imbeciles, Vic. They're just jerking off in a guitar shop because (like the arrogant lame-o shop assistants) they can't get into a band, and nobody in their right mind would let the fuckers near a studio.
If you look closely you'll see the word "Loser" tattooed across their foreheads.
Quick example:
A guy like that tried out for one of my bands once as a second guitar player …
So he turns up and spends a fucking AGE setting up all this rack gear, then switches on a backing tape (a backing tape at a band audition?) and plays admittedly pretty passable versions of Steve Vai's Prayer to God and Satriani's Satch Boogie.
When he's done, I say "Okay, let's warm up. Reelin' In The Years?"
Bam. The band launches into the old Steely Dan chestnut and the guy just stands there.
Turns out he doesn't know that one …
Or just about any other cover from the last forty years …
"Okay then; twelve bar shuffle in 'G' … One … Two … Three … Four …"
And the schmuck is completely lost! Totally unable to play even the SIMPLEST thing with other musicians.
Turns out he's spent the past few months in his bedroom, learning half a dozen widdly-wank instrumentals note for note off instructional DVDs but cannot play ANYTHING ELSE!
I take pity on him because he's so utterly humiliated.
"Okay … Satch Boogie. One … Two … Three …"
And again, he is lost. He can only play it to the backing tape.
So I give up and show him how to play Satch Boogie live, with real musicians …
That's the kind of sad, wanky people you see jerking off in guitar shops.
(And the thing with Satriani and Vai and other twee widdlers is that while those songs are great fun to play, the only person you would want to go see play them is Satriani or Vai; not some spotty teenager who can't get laid).
So, Vic: You play with other musicians; you teach; you play lots of instruments … You are a MUSICIAN. They are soooo not.
You know that if you're in a guitar shop to try out a guitar, you don't plug the sucker in and start wailing, you check the feel and the tone unplugged first, then the intonation and the set up. Then, IF you are happy that this is an instrument you want to buy, you plug it in (to an amp identical to your own) and see how it sounds.
The sound test should only take a minute or two (a few notes and chords on each setting) and should NOT involve playing some widdly-wank instrumental.
Then you either buy it or reject it.
NEVER STRIKE A POSE!
That's what a musician does in a guitar shop.
That's how we bought Phil's tele on Saturday. We walked out of the snotty guitar shop and up to the nice music shop and gave them lots of money.
Result.
And Lynn: You are so totally right.
We have a guitarist in Norfolk, Nicky Spinks, who is breathtakingly good, but happens to be a girl. Even some of her fellow musicians treat her patronisingly, as if being brilliant AND being a girl is somehow freakish and even hilarious.
You'll never change the pathetic attitude of the no-life shop assistants in guitar shops, so try to find a music shop like the one I talked about yesterday.
Just to reiterate yesterday's main point about the snotty and arrogant attitude of the losers who work in guitar shops and are such appallingly bad shop assistants:
"That's right, you jerks; you're fucking shop assistants, not rock stars. Get over it!"
This has been a public service announcement on behalf of musicians.
Mister Ranty, signing off …
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Shut Up About Guitars Already
So anyway; yesterday morning, after my usual coffee shop / bookshop interface situation cum non-date event, Phil tells me we need to go down to Cookes Band Instruments to buy him a guitar stand.
About eighteen months ago I lent him a couple of my beloved guitars and he's got back into playing (after his drum frenzy). Last month he bought a new amp and now he's after a stand. My little mind was whirring … "Am I ever going to get my sodding guitars back?"
So I let him buy his guitar stand while I went over the road to see Dean and Lisa in the comic shop (hey, I'm a single, forty-eight year old guy … it's what we do).
When I got back Phil was ogling some PRS's, Gibsons and Fenders.
Now allow Mister Ranty to step in here for a moment:
I HATE the surly staff in music shops.
If you can play well enough to make a living, you play; if you can't you adopt a snotty attitude toward those that can and you get a job in a music shop.
A bunch of pathetic, whingeing failures who frankly can't play their way out of a paper bag and are probably the world's worst shop assistants (that's right, you jerks; you're fucking shop assistants, not rock stars. Get over it).
I personally don't have an issue with them (other than some nauseating fawning … you know who you are, Scott) as they know who I am and I generally spend way too much money, but they're so fucking rude to parents and kids who are just starting out. Talentless tossers.
Anyhoo … That out of the way, I decide to take Phil up the road to a PROPER music shop to see the "Hello Kitty" Strat I've been eyeing up.
This music shop sells to schools and real people and has brass instruments and tambourines and stuff.
Quick example of why I like it:
When we went in, a girl was patiently explaining stuff about acoustic guitars to a customer who didn't have much of a clue, but unlike "Band music shops", she was telling him the truth, POLITELY and patiently. And all this over a £50 guitar.
While at the same time, the guy behind the counter was playing with a customer's kid and they were having a great time together while the customer browsed.
Nice.
What's wrong with nice?
So we check out the 'Hello Kitty" and in the same rack there's this candy-apple red telecaster that makes me go "OOOOH! LOOKY!"
Two minutes later I'm playing it and I can see this big, shit-eating grin spread over Phil's face.
The guitar plays like a dream, is beautifully set up and looks gorgeous.
Sold to the man with the grin!
Chalk one up for "nice" shop assistants …
And here is Mister Candy Apple in Phil's music room, where I've just been playing it again.
Click the photo for bigger porn, Utsav.
So now he's got his own guitar again, I can at last take my missing children home.
And here they are …
Here's my old custom strat. Pearl body, birdseye maple fingerboard with abalone markers on a flame maple neck. Fender Lace Golds with a Bartolini active. Graphite nut with Sperzel Trim-Loks. Vintage Tele knobs and a Kahler Flyer cam trem.
This guitar FUCKING ROCKS on stage!
And my old brown Fender Flame from the mid-eighties. Gorgeous and oh so slick to play.
So there you go. Another boring post about guitars, which will only be of remote interest to Utsav and maybe Vic.
Sorry 'bout that, but I'm a guitar player, so that's the way it is.
About eighteen months ago I lent him a couple of my beloved guitars and he's got back into playing (after his drum frenzy). Last month he bought a new amp and now he's after a stand. My little mind was whirring … "Am I ever going to get my sodding guitars back?"
So I let him buy his guitar stand while I went over the road to see Dean and Lisa in the comic shop (hey, I'm a single, forty-eight year old guy … it's what we do).
When I got back Phil was ogling some PRS's, Gibsons and Fenders.
Now allow Mister Ranty to step in here for a moment:
I HATE the surly staff in music shops.
If you can play well enough to make a living, you play; if you can't you adopt a snotty attitude toward those that can and you get a job in a music shop.
A bunch of pathetic, whingeing failures who frankly can't play their way out of a paper bag and are probably the world's worst shop assistants (that's right, you jerks; you're fucking shop assistants, not rock stars. Get over it).
I personally don't have an issue with them (other than some nauseating fawning … you know who you are, Scott) as they know who I am and I generally spend way too much money, but they're so fucking rude to parents and kids who are just starting out. Talentless tossers.
Anyhoo … That out of the way, I decide to take Phil up the road to a PROPER music shop to see the "Hello Kitty" Strat I've been eyeing up.
This music shop sells to schools and real people and has brass instruments and tambourines and stuff.
Quick example of why I like it:
When we went in, a girl was patiently explaining stuff about acoustic guitars to a customer who didn't have much of a clue, but unlike "Band music shops", she was telling him the truth, POLITELY and patiently. And all this over a £50 guitar.
While at the same time, the guy behind the counter was playing with a customer's kid and they were having a great time together while the customer browsed.
Nice.
What's wrong with nice?
So we check out the 'Hello Kitty" and in the same rack there's this candy-apple red telecaster that makes me go "OOOOH! LOOKY!"
Two minutes later I'm playing it and I can see this big, shit-eating grin spread over Phil's face.
The guitar plays like a dream, is beautifully set up and looks gorgeous.
Sold to the man with the grin!
Chalk one up for "nice" shop assistants …And here is Mister Candy Apple in Phil's music room, where I've just been playing it again.
Click the photo for bigger porn, Utsav.
So now he's got his own guitar again, I can at last take my missing children home.
And here they are …
Here's my old custom strat. Pearl body, birdseye maple fingerboard with abalone markers on a flame maple neck. Fender Lace Golds with a Bartolini active. Graphite nut with Sperzel Trim-Loks. Vintage Tele knobs and a Kahler Flyer cam trem.This guitar FUCKING ROCKS on stage!
And my old brown Fender Flame from the mid-eighties. Gorgeous and oh so slick to play.
So there you go. Another boring post about guitars, which will only be of remote interest to Utsav and maybe Vic.
Sorry 'bout that, but I'm a guitar player, so that's the way it is.
We Have a Winner
… And it's MB, from sunny Adelaide.
Congratulations, MB. Your prize is to be able to wear a smug grin all day.
Sassy almost got there (two guesses is kinda cheating), but the rest of you were way off. Shame on you.
Okerly Dokerly.
Let's go through the answers. Swap papers and mark the person's sitting next to you so there's no more cheating.
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
Damned right! For a toddler, it's a logical leap: I like cheese, therefore my toy cars will like it, too.
So I stuffed their little engine compartments full of stinky yellow goodness to make them go faster … or so I've been told.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
I kinda hoped this would throw you, but it didn't (other than Sassy).
Hey, I'm from Norfolk farming stock. It's easy (though sadly, not rude).
Just wet your hand and stick it in a sack of milk powder, then jam it into a cow's mouth.
Said cow will follow you ANYWHERE, and the rest of the herd will tag along to see what the fuss is about. Be warned, though: your hand will receive a serious and yucky slobbering (she won't bite you).
The hard part, once you've got 'em where you want 'em to go, is getting your hand back.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
Meet Stouffer, my blue rubber cat (below, in Dive's rather familiar dining room).
click the pic for a bigger scary blue rubber cat
He's a hand puppet from Harry Hill's stage show and is great for frightening children.
For a bet with Mikey, I once travelled all the way to work wearing him. Right across London in the rush hour and everyone ignored me except one woman on the tube who cracked up when Stouffer gave her the eye.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
Bingo!
I was dicking around with one in a music shop yesterday morning and ALMOST bought it. It's so cool! Bright pink, with a big Hello Kitty right across it, and pink fret markers. I just want to take it on stage and freak the band out.
So, as I was too damned sensible to buy it, this one's the false answer.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
For starters there's a Che mug on the table by Stouffer.
I've got lots of socialist mugs and other crockery knick-knacks. Why Robyn should think there's no such thing as Marxist crockery is something only an American could answer.
I've got Marx and Lenin and Trotsky of course, through China, Nicaragua, Cuba, European Marxists, South and Central American, like Paulo Friere and good old Augusto Sandinho (mad as a chocolate hat and a useless revolutionary, but he kicked Yankee butt, so he gets my vote … The Sandanistas are named after him and Woody Allen used him as an inspiration for "Bananas", as the ultimate crap revolutionary). Shedloads of Cuban stuff; the list goes on …
WHY I should accumulate all this crap is anybody's guess.
So. Congratulations once again to MB.
Bonzer, cobber!
Congratulations, MB. Your prize is to be able to wear a smug grin all day.
Sassy almost got there (two guesses is kinda cheating), but the rest of you were way off. Shame on you.
Okerly Dokerly.
Let's go through the answers. Swap papers and mark the person's sitting next to you so there's no more cheating.
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
Damned right! For a toddler, it's a logical leap: I like cheese, therefore my toy cars will like it, too.
So I stuffed their little engine compartments full of stinky yellow goodness to make them go faster … or so I've been told.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
I kinda hoped this would throw you, but it didn't (other than Sassy).
Hey, I'm from Norfolk farming stock. It's easy (though sadly, not rude).
Just wet your hand and stick it in a sack of milk powder, then jam it into a cow's mouth.
Said cow will follow you ANYWHERE, and the rest of the herd will tag along to see what the fuss is about. Be warned, though: your hand will receive a serious and yucky slobbering (she won't bite you).
The hard part, once you've got 'em where you want 'em to go, is getting your hand back.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
Meet Stouffer, my blue rubber cat (below, in Dive's rather familiar dining room).
click the pic for a bigger scary blue rubber catHe's a hand puppet from Harry Hill's stage show and is great for frightening children.
For a bet with Mikey, I once travelled all the way to work wearing him. Right across London in the rush hour and everyone ignored me except one woman on the tube who cracked up when Stouffer gave her the eye.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
Bingo!
I was dicking around with one in a music shop yesterday morning and ALMOST bought it. It's so cool! Bright pink, with a big Hello Kitty right across it, and pink fret markers. I just want to take it on stage and freak the band out.
So, as I was too damned sensible to buy it, this one's the false answer.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
For starters there's a Che mug on the table by Stouffer.
I've got lots of socialist mugs and other crockery knick-knacks. Why Robyn should think there's no such thing as Marxist crockery is something only an American could answer.
I've got Marx and Lenin and Trotsky of course, through China, Nicaragua, Cuba, European Marxists, South and Central American, like Paulo Friere and good old Augusto Sandinho (mad as a chocolate hat and a useless revolutionary, but he kicked Yankee butt, so he gets my vote … The Sandanistas are named after him and Woody Allen used him as an inspiration for "Bananas", as the ultimate crap revolutionary). Shedloads of Cuban stuff; the list goes on …
WHY I should accumulate all this crap is anybody's guess.
So. Congratulations once again to MB.
Bonzer, cobber!
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Tagged By A Guitar-Playing Dyke
Dammit!
I knew one of the Aussies would wreak revenge for my Australia Day comment on Old Knudsen's site.
Thank you, Vic. I am duly tagged.
It's the classic meme of:
"Five Things You Don't Know About Me (Only Four Of Which are True) … and Which One's Not True?"
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
So: which of the above is NOT true?
And I know that memes are corny, so I'll save Robyn and Sassy the embarrassment (actually, I think Vic has tagged Sassy already), and I shall tag those two overexcitable children, Lynn and Ame. Go for it, girls.
I knew one of the Aussies would wreak revenge for my Australia Day comment on Old Knudsen's site.
Thank you, Vic. I am duly tagged.
It's the classic meme of:
"Five Things You Don't Know About Me (Only Four Of Which are True) … and Which One's Not True?"
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
So: which of the above is NOT true?
And I know that memes are corny, so I'll save Robyn and Sassy the embarrassment (actually, I think Vic has tagged Sassy already), and I shall tag those two overexcitable children, Lynn and Ame. Go for it, girls.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Hi. My Name Is Dive And I Want To Kill You
Oh, bugger!
He's having another one of his turns …
Well, it's been a while since I've been grouchy, so here we go.
Robyn asked us to complete the sentence:
"The World would be much nicer if …"
… to which I replied "there were no people in it."
By which I don't just mean all those pathetic bores shouting into their mobile phones on the train to let me know how worthless their lives are.
I mean all of us.
Even all those cute Japanese girls in bikinis …
"Hi. My name is Dive and I want to kill you."
S'true.
Not just you, but your parents, your children, everyone you know and love, that bloke standing over there, Christina Ricci, Bono (definitely Bono) and everyone else, including (and especially) me.
If someone gave me a button to push that would guarantee the death of every single human being (probably best to take out the higher apes as well, to prevent it all happening again), then I'd jam my finger down on that sucker so hard!
Save the planet at a stroke. The ultimate good deed for Mother Earth.
Give it a few thousand years for things to balance up again and the world would be oh, so much nicer.
Listen up.
A sunset or a waterfall doesn't need some dickwad looking at it to be beautiful.
So let's kill us all! Do the planet a favour.
If anyone out there has a virus or some biological weapon they're afraid to use, just give it to me. As long as it's guaranteed to wipe us all out I'll happily be the first to take it.
Here ends grouchy old Dive's happy message for the day.
He's having another one of his turns …
Well, it's been a while since I've been grouchy, so here we go.
Robyn asked us to complete the sentence:
"The World would be much nicer if …"
… to which I replied "there were no people in it."
By which I don't just mean all those pathetic bores shouting into their mobile phones on the train to let me know how worthless their lives are.
I mean all of us.
Even all those cute Japanese girls in bikinis …
"Hi. My name is Dive and I want to kill you."
S'true.
Not just you, but your parents, your children, everyone you know and love, that bloke standing over there, Christina Ricci, Bono (definitely Bono) and everyone else, including (and especially) me.
If someone gave me a button to push that would guarantee the death of every single human being (probably best to take out the higher apes as well, to prevent it all happening again), then I'd jam my finger down on that sucker so hard!
Save the planet at a stroke. The ultimate good deed for Mother Earth.
Give it a few thousand years for things to balance up again and the world would be oh, so much nicer.
Listen up.
A sunset or a waterfall doesn't need some dickwad looking at it to be beautiful.
So let's kill us all! Do the planet a favour.
If anyone out there has a virus or some biological weapon they're afraid to use, just give it to me. As long as it's guaranteed to wipe us all out I'll happily be the first to take it.
Here ends grouchy old Dive's happy message for the day.
Rainy London Town
Back to normal this morning.
No more snow, just grey and leaden London skies and cold, sleety rain.
Walking under Westminster Palace Clock Tower this morning, humming Donovan's "Sunny Goodge Street", to remind me that London isn't always this colour.
Whatever the weather, a walk in Jt. James's Park is always refreshing on the way to work. The daffodils are full of fat buds, so when Ame arrives next month she should be greeted with carpets of yellow across the parks.
This morning, a gnarly old plane tree caught my eye.
And here, for fans of our somewhat over-optimistic camellia which I posted on Wednesday, burdened with snow and looking doomed …
… Frost-burned and battered, our little pink friend is still there, gamely flowering on through the sleet. I think I'll call it Maryann, after Robyn's heroine.
Below is poor Maryann on wednesday, for those of you too lazy to scroll down to that post.
Roll on spring …
No more snow, just grey and leaden London skies and cold, sleety rain.
Walking under Westminster Palace Clock Tower this morning, humming Donovan's "Sunny Goodge Street", to remind me that London isn't always this colour.
Whatever the weather, a walk in Jt. James's Park is always refreshing on the way to work. The daffodils are full of fat buds, so when Ame arrives next month she should be greeted with carpets of yellow across the parks.This morning, a gnarly old plane tree caught my eye.
And here, for fans of our somewhat over-optimistic camellia which I posted on Wednesday, burdened with snow and looking doomed …
… Frost-burned and battered, our little pink friend is still there, gamely flowering on through the sleet. I think I'll call it Maryann, after Robyn's heroine.
Below is poor Maryann on wednesday, for those of you too lazy to scroll down to that post.
Roll on spring …
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Big Greenhouse
Just a quick update for Ame, as she's been unwisely poking the weather gods with a stick:
I'm working from home today, sitting on the sofa in front of the fire with the Powerbook on my lap because it's fecking cold in the studio.
Outside, my front lawn and drive are still white. The road is still crunchy and white with ice underneath (tha main road is probably clear, but no way am I going to walk up there and leave my cosy room).
But the sky is BLUE! Hoorah!
So to continue our little travelogue for our Californian visitors, here's a teensy taster from last April, when I took Mum down to Kew Gardens for the day. Kew is a great day out, but you do need at least a day just to walk round it and is best visited several times a year at different seasons.
It was cold and rainy that day, but that's often the best time to visit as you can shelter in the huge greenhouses and there are no awful crowds of tourists.
This is the beautiful Japanese Garden.
And I don't know what this is, but it was nice and gnarly and mossy so I took a picture of it.
I might post some more another day if I can be bothered to dick around with the scanner (these were from before I succumbed to the digital age and were taken on my old OM4Ti).
I'm working from home today, sitting on the sofa in front of the fire with the Powerbook on my lap because it's fecking cold in the studio.
Outside, my front lawn and drive are still white. The road is still crunchy and white with ice underneath (tha main road is probably clear, but no way am I going to walk up there and leave my cosy room).
But the sky is BLUE! Hoorah!
So to continue our little travelogue for our Californian visitors, here's a teensy taster from last April, when I took Mum down to Kew Gardens for the day. Kew is a great day out, but you do need at least a day just to walk round it and is best visited several times a year at different seasons.
It was cold and rainy that day, but that's often the best time to visit as you can shelter in the huge greenhouses and there are no awful crowds of tourists.
This is the beautiful Japanese Garden.
And I don't know what this is, but it was nice and gnarly and mossy so I took a picture of it.
I might post some more another day if I can be bothered to dick around with the scanner (these were from before I succumbed to the digital age and were taken on my old OM4Ti).
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A Slither In The Park
Winter is icumen in,
Laude sing oh, Poo …
So, one day after Sassy in New England, Olde England gets a dusting of the white stuff.
Sliding and slithering over the crunchy snow and ice-covered country lanes to reach the main road was a bit of a hair raiser in the early hours of this morning. Boy, do I hate the snow!
This was my car park at Norwich Station at 5:30 this morning.
The train was only twenty minutes late (better than in good weather) getting in to London, but then of course the underground network had ground to a halt and nothing was running, so I did the big walky thing.
This time I went via the south bank, which is not so pretty, but is a bit shorter (it's fecking cold).
Coming over Westminster Bridge, the only sign of winter was the frosty topping to Big Ben.
I know it's only the bell that's called Big Ben, but calling it the Palace of Westminster Clock Tower only draws blank stares, so "Big Ben" it is …
London very rarely gets more than a light dusting of snow, due to its cowardly, sheltered position (hiding behind East Anglia when the north wind blows, so Norfolk gets all the bloody stuff) and its "stupidly hot in the summer" microclimate, so it was worth a quick detour this morning into St. James's Park, to refresh my crabby old soul.
Ahh … Old soul no longer crabby … although I much prefer it when it's all green and sunny.
Compare this morning's photo of Buckingham Palace with yesterday lunchtime's. Brr …
And half way across the park I came across this foolishly optimistic camellia.
So wrap up warm, Ame and hubby, 'cos Santa Clara this ain't …
Laude sing oh, Poo …
So, one day after Sassy in New England, Olde England gets a dusting of the white stuff.
Sliding and slithering over the crunchy snow and ice-covered country lanes to reach the main road was a bit of a hair raiser in the early hours of this morning. Boy, do I hate the snow!
This was my car park at Norwich Station at 5:30 this morning.
The train was only twenty minutes late (better than in good weather) getting in to London, but then of course the underground network had ground to a halt and nothing was running, so I did the big walky thing.This time I went via the south bank, which is not so pretty, but is a bit shorter (it's fecking cold).
Coming over Westminster Bridge, the only sign of winter was the frosty topping to Big Ben.
I know it's only the bell that's called Big Ben, but calling it the Palace of Westminster Clock Tower only draws blank stares, so "Big Ben" it is …
London very rarely gets more than a light dusting of snow, due to its cowardly, sheltered position (hiding behind East Anglia when the north wind blows, so Norfolk gets all the bloody stuff) and its "stupidly hot in the summer" microclimate, so it was worth a quick detour this morning into St. James's Park, to refresh my crabby old soul.
Ahh … Old soul no longer crabby … although I much prefer it when it's all green and sunny.
Compare this morning's photo of Buckingham Palace with yesterday lunchtime's. Brr …
And half way across the park I came across this foolishly optimistic camellia.
So wrap up warm, Ame and hubby, 'cos Santa Clara this ain't …
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
A Walk In The Park
Here's another taster for Ame and her hubby.
It'll probably make Lynn pine for London again, too.
On my way back to the office from Wimbledon, via a very circuitous route, I stopped off at the Japan Centre in Piccadilly for べんと and groceries, picking up some なっとfor Mayuko while I was at it.
As the sun was shining, I took the pretty route back, along Piccadilly to the Ritz, then through Green Park (below) …
… as far as Buck House …
… and then across the road into St.James's Park (yes, Ame; swans! Including a black one) …
… where it was so cold, my face fell off …
… and back to the office, via my outrageously camp barber, Alex, for a winter shearing.
And here I am, washing down my べんと with a green tea and gradually getting the feeling back in my fingers.
Brrr … Winter has arrived!
It'll probably make Lynn pine for London again, too.
On my way back to the office from Wimbledon, via a very circuitous route, I stopped off at the Japan Centre in Piccadilly for べんと and groceries, picking up some なっとfor Mayuko while I was at it.
As the sun was shining, I took the pretty route back, along Piccadilly to the Ritz, then through Green Park (below) …
… as far as Buck House …
… and then across the road into St.James's Park (yes, Ame; swans! Including a black one) …
… where it was so cold, my face fell off …
… and back to the office, via my outrageously camp barber, Alex, for a winter shearing.
And here I am, washing down my べんと with a green tea and gradually getting the feeling back in my fingers.
Brrr … Winter has arrived!
Michael Jackson? Oh, Fuck
Sorry to cop out and post another stupid quiz, but I'm going to be out at Wimbledon shouting at builders for most of today, so I've no time to think of anything postable:
| In 1958 (the year you were born) |
 Dwight Eisenhower is president of the US The first US earth satellite, Explorer I, goes into orbit Rocker Jerry Lee Lewis marries his 13 year old second cousin, Myra Brown The "Quiz Show Scandals" rock the television industry and the nation Vice President Richard Nixon faces hostile anti-American mobs during a visit to South America 14 year old Bobby Fischer wins the United States Chess Championship Ellen DeGeneres, Michael Jackson, Ice-T, and Mark Cuban are born New York Yankees win the World Series Baltimore Colts win the NFL championship Montreal Canadiens win the Stanley Cup Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote is published Elvis Presley enters the U.S. Army |
What Happened the Year You Were Born?
Michael Jackson?
Ice T??
I don't know who Mark Cuban is, but Madonna was also born that year.
All in all a pretty bad year for the planet, then …
Yaay for Truman Capote, anyhoo. I love Breakfast at Tiffany's, and Philip Seymour Hoffman rocked as Capote last year.
Ice T??
I don't know who Mark Cuban is, but Madonna was also born that year.
All in all a pretty bad year for the planet, then …
Yaay for Truman Capote, anyhoo. I love Breakfast at Tiffany's, and Philip Seymour Hoffman rocked as Capote last year.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Merde! Je Suis Français!
Got this from Vic's splendid site:
I know I've been feeling a bit arty and farty and smart and sophisticated just lately, but I'd put it down to the relative stupidity of the rest of the planet.
Mind you, when I come to think about it, I drink sooo much coffee and eat loads of garlic and swear a lot and drive a tiny shiny black zoomy car and I hate America (blogpals and Mr. Obama excepted).
Ergo, I must be French.
Merde!
Exits with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders …
| Your Inner European is French! |
 Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so. |
I know I've been feeling a bit arty and farty and smart and sophisticated just lately, but I'd put it down to the relative stupidity of the rest of the planet.
Mind you, when I come to think about it, I drink sooo much coffee and eat loads of garlic and swear a lot and drive a tiny shiny black zoomy car and I hate America (blogpals and Mr. Obama excepted).
Ergo, I must be French.
Merde!
Exits with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders …
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Knudsen Baiting
I was going to give in to Old Knudsen and do a post on weemen, guns and beer (all three of which have had pieces of my life all their own), but buggrit! I'm going to do an even gayer post than yesterday's.
And what could be gayer than Tiffany Lamps?
This one's in my bedroom (one for the laydees), on top of my sexy sock drawers.
And this one's downstairs beside the fireplace. Peahen made both of them (she's just so talented).
Apologies to Mister Knudsen for totally demolishing his faith in machismo (hee hee).
Will tomorrow see an even greater amount of boobs, weaponry and alcohol on his blog as he tries to save mankind from girliness?
One can only hope.
And what could be gayer than Tiffany Lamps?
This one's in my bedroom (one for the laydees), on top of my sexy sock drawers.
And this one's downstairs beside the fireplace. Peahen made both of them (she's just so talented).
Apologies to Mister Knudsen for totally demolishing his faith in machismo (hee hee).
Will tomorrow see an even greater amount of boobs, weaponry and alcohol on his blog as he tries to save mankind from girliness?
One can only hope.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Boring Photo Assignment
I'm not going to send you into paroxysms of twitching by subjecting you to yet another installment of Dive's Saturday breakfast non-date, so I thought I'd set you a photo assignment instead.
A really boring one …
I'm about to start work on a biryani, and for reasons beyond what rational thought can possibly be bothered to bugger around with, I took a photograph of my spice rack.
Yup. That's the infamous cast iron pestle and mortar I use for my hot, dry-fried curry spices.
The spice rack itself was originally a nineteenth century paper and ink stand from somewhere up around what's now the Pakistan/Afghan border (where Osama's hanging out).
Why I use it as a spice rack, somebody must know, but it's certainly not me …
And yes I know the one on the left is empty; I'm all out of saffron.
So, if any of you can be bothered, let's have photos of your own spice racks.
Extra points for
(a) home made or unusual ones; and
(b) not using bloody supermarket spices.
Go to it.
A really boring one …
I'm about to start work on a biryani, and for reasons beyond what rational thought can possibly be bothered to bugger around with, I took a photograph of my spice rack.
Yup. That's the infamous cast iron pestle and mortar I use for my hot, dry-fried curry spices.
The spice rack itself was originally a nineteenth century paper and ink stand from somewhere up around what's now the Pakistan/Afghan border (where Osama's hanging out).
Why I use it as a spice rack, somebody must know, but it's certainly not me …
And yes I know the one on the left is empty; I'm all out of saffron.
So, if any of you can be bothered, let's have photos of your own spice racks.
Extra points for
(a) home made or unusual ones; and
(b) not using bloody supermarket spices.
Go to it.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Fkng Txt Spk
Well, the wind's dropped and my house is still here (more than I can say for the garden).
It took me an hour and a half to do the twenty minute drive to Japanese class last night, and today I'm working from home because a twig blew on to the rail track yesterday and they're still running around like headless chickens, waving their arms and wailing rather than providing a train service.
I can actually see a patch of blue sky out across the fields and everything looks calm and normal. But it was a particularly nasty storm; eleven people woke up as ghosts this morning. Not good.
Moving on to today's reason to be grumpy; it has come to my attention that a lot of you tend to punctuate your comments with acronyms, such as "lol" or "lmfao". Indeed Lynn (a highly literate woman) yesterday used "rofl".
Pray be more considerate to a pedantic middle-aged man. Whenever one of you uses an acronym, this poor old soul has to look it up on Google.
So would one of you please be so kind as to post a dictionary of these strange acronyms so I know what the hell you are talking about?
I rather suspect that this acronym-frenzy stems from Text Speak, that appalling grunt-language of the illiterate chav.
As you know, I do not and will not have anything to do with mobile phones. I hate telephones with a vengeance and the thought of paying good money to own a telephone that FOLLOWS ME AROUND gives me the vapours (HERE is my definitive statement on the subject).
Consequently, I know nothing of Fkng Txt Spk, other than that the type of "person" who uses it dresses in a hoody, sweatpants and baseball cap, and is a heavily pregnant, binge drinking drug abuser at the age of eleven.
And as for "emoticons" … Please don't get me started …
So a plea to those of my dear (and apparently literate) blogpals who insert acronyms and emoticons into comments: either cease and desist or at the least provide me with a dictionary/glossary of these Neanderthal abominations.
Ooh! Quick change of subject: Pop over to Ame's blog if you want to see something cool and fun! Hee hee …
It took me an hour and a half to do the twenty minute drive to Japanese class last night, and today I'm working from home because a twig blew on to the rail track yesterday and they're still running around like headless chickens, waving their arms and wailing rather than providing a train service.
I can actually see a patch of blue sky out across the fields and everything looks calm and normal. But it was a particularly nasty storm; eleven people woke up as ghosts this morning. Not good.
Moving on to today's reason to be grumpy; it has come to my attention that a lot of you tend to punctuate your comments with acronyms, such as "lol" or "lmfao". Indeed Lynn (a highly literate woman) yesterday used "rofl".
Pray be more considerate to a pedantic middle-aged man. Whenever one of you uses an acronym, this poor old soul has to look it up on Google.
So would one of you please be so kind as to post a dictionary of these strange acronyms so I know what the hell you are talking about?
I rather suspect that this acronym-frenzy stems from Text Speak, that appalling grunt-language of the illiterate chav.
As you know, I do not and will not have anything to do with mobile phones. I hate telephones with a vengeance and the thought of paying good money to own a telephone that FOLLOWS ME AROUND gives me the vapours (HERE is my definitive statement on the subject).
Consequently, I know nothing of Fkng Txt Spk, other than that the type of "person" who uses it dresses in a hoody, sweatpants and baseball cap, and is a heavily pregnant, binge drinking drug abuser at the age of eleven.
And as for "emoticons" … Please don't get me started …
So a plea to those of my dear (and apparently literate) blogpals who insert acronyms and emoticons into comments: either cease and desist or at the least provide me with a dictionary/glossary of these Neanderthal abominations.
Ooh! Quick change of subject: Pop over to Ame's blog if you want to see something cool and fun! Hee hee …
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Yikes!
Just a quickie as the village electricity supply has gone off twice this morning already. I think the wind keeps blowing the donkey over that powers my broadband, too, as it took over twenty minutes and several re-connections to even load my home page.
I was going to title this post "Blow Job" but I don't want the kind of attention that sort of title brings. Actually, "Blowing The Donkey" would have been good, but again, rejected for the same reason.
Trees, sheep, people, cars and roofs are currently flying past my window at 85mph. and it's going to get a whole lot worse over the next eighteen hours or so.
I think this is why the government is frightened of encouraging wind power. The wind tends to get a little overexcited at this time of year, like a two year old with intraveinous Sunny Delight.
We are also underwater …
Ah, village life …
Power cuts, crap broadband, a pub straight out of American Werewolf In London, inbreeding and invasion by fucking tourists all summer.
The price we pay for living somewhere beautiful. I would say "at least it's picturesque", but it's raining so hard I can't even see across the road.
Ame, take note. You'll be coming over to Olde England during what is traditionally celebrated as the festival of "Fucking Hell!", when hurricane Katrina's unruly children go berserk on this tiny island and we plucky Brits hide in holes with some beer and porn mags.
So if I disappear for the rest of the day, I'll very likely be clinging to what's left of my roof as it disappears over Holland.
I was going to title this post "Blow Job" but I don't want the kind of attention that sort of title brings. Actually, "Blowing The Donkey" would have been good, but again, rejected for the same reason.
Trees, sheep, people, cars and roofs are currently flying past my window at 85mph. and it's going to get a whole lot worse over the next eighteen hours or so.
I think this is why the government is frightened of encouraging wind power. The wind tends to get a little overexcited at this time of year, like a two year old with intraveinous Sunny Delight.
We are also underwater …
Ah, village life …
Power cuts, crap broadband, a pub straight out of American Werewolf In London, inbreeding and invasion by fucking tourists all summer.
The price we pay for living somewhere beautiful. I would say "at least it's picturesque", but it's raining so hard I can't even see across the road.
Ame, take note. You'll be coming over to Olde England during what is traditionally celebrated as the festival of "Fucking Hell!", when hurricane Katrina's unruly children go berserk on this tiny island and we plucky Brits hide in holes with some beer and porn mags.
So if I disappear for the rest of the day, I'll very likely be clinging to what's left of my roof as it disappears over Holland.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
My Dog's Got No Nose
I lost my sense of smell when I was fifteen.
I'd been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a fully functioning pheromonal facility. A couple of weeks of hilarious japes with abdominal drainage tubes later and I left hospital with neither appendix nor sense of smell.
My doctor shrugged his shoulders. Had I been a private patient, he could have made a lot of money from me, but this was the NHS, so his reaction was best summed up by the word "whatever".
Recently, this condition seems to have become fashionable and even has a name (anosmia) and lists of famous anosmics such as William Wordsworth and Michael Hutchens (and somewhat more yummily, Ben Cohen, of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream) have appeared in the papers.
While this condition is classed a disability, we anosmics don't qualify for disability allowance like those scrounging slackers in the blind and deaf communities (smug bastards with their "proper" disabilities, curse their cotton socks).
Apparently, permanent anosmics like old Dive often have a much more developed sense of taste than those sniffy people with real working noses. It's kinda nice for an arty-farty snob like me to have my superior taste officially recognised.
Weirdly, I can still remember smells and that can be a real pain.
I sometimes wake up from a dream (I can still smell in dreams, how freaky is that?) with a smell stuck in my brain that stays there all day. The most annoying "virtual smell" I get stuck with is the smell of washday from when I was a little kid. We had a cold tap and a copper by the range for heating water. The awful smell of damp, soap-powdery clothes in a tiny back room sometimes assails me for days at a time. And oranges … which is a real pisser if I'm hungry.
Some advantages I have over "normally nosed" people:
- I can sit quite happily beside a farting dog and not notice a thing, while the rest of the room runs away, gagging.
- I am a demon at raw chili-eating contests.
- er … that's about it.
Some disadvantages:
- Being unable to smell burning.
- Being unable to smell gas.
- Being shaken awake in the dead of night with a "What's that smell?"
- Having to follow a frantic woman round the house as she tries to locate the "burning smell" or "leaking gas" she is convinced has woken her. And being bawled out for my inability to help.
- Not realising I have a drainage problem until someone visits and reels back, going "What the fuck is that stink?"
- Not realising I've got dogshit on my shoe at work.
- Becoming a fanatically clean person so I don't risk being smelly.
And a couple more:
Having no sense of smell and an enhanced sense of taste, I tend to "taste" smells, but can only pick up on a tiny amount of any smell. And it's usually the wrong part of it …
Ame (and a lot of other people besides) loves Lush products. While I can understand that they might smell very nice to her, all I can pick up on is a horrid taste of washday soap powder and rotting fruit.
And I know a lot of you like perfume …
Well should we ever meet, please, PLEASE don't wear any. It's an effective Dive repellent (maybe I shouldn't have given that away).
Even with the most expensive perfumes, all I can taste is the solvent. Chanel No5 tastes like a petrol/paint-stripper flavour and is the last thing I want to inhale close up.
I'm with the Japanese in finding the neck the most erotic part of a woman. For me, there is nothing nicer than nuzzling into that bit under her ear and inhaling lovely fresh, clean woman. If she's wearing perfume I have to reel away and have (once or twice) been known to involuntarily gag. EWW! That stuff is repellent!
So. That's me and my anosmia.
At least I have better taste than you. Official.
I'd been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a fully functioning pheromonal facility. A couple of weeks of hilarious japes with abdominal drainage tubes later and I left hospital with neither appendix nor sense of smell.
My doctor shrugged his shoulders. Had I been a private patient, he could have made a lot of money from me, but this was the NHS, so his reaction was best summed up by the word "whatever".
Recently, this condition seems to have become fashionable and even has a name (anosmia) and lists of famous anosmics such as William Wordsworth and Michael Hutchens (and somewhat more yummily, Ben Cohen, of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream) have appeared in the papers.
While this condition is classed a disability, we anosmics don't qualify for disability allowance like those scrounging slackers in the blind and deaf communities (smug bastards with their "proper" disabilities, curse their cotton socks).
Apparently, permanent anosmics like old Dive often have a much more developed sense of taste than those sniffy people with real working noses. It's kinda nice for an arty-farty snob like me to have my superior taste officially recognised.
Weirdly, I can still remember smells and that can be a real pain.
I sometimes wake up from a dream (I can still smell in dreams, how freaky is that?) with a smell stuck in my brain that stays there all day. The most annoying "virtual smell" I get stuck with is the smell of washday from when I was a little kid. We had a cold tap and a copper by the range for heating water. The awful smell of damp, soap-powdery clothes in a tiny back room sometimes assails me for days at a time. And oranges … which is a real pisser if I'm hungry.
Some advantages I have over "normally nosed" people:
- I can sit quite happily beside a farting dog and not notice a thing, while the rest of the room runs away, gagging.
- I am a demon at raw chili-eating contests.
- er … that's about it.
Some disadvantages:
- Being unable to smell burning.
- Being unable to smell gas.
- Being shaken awake in the dead of night with a "What's that smell?"
- Having to follow a frantic woman round the house as she tries to locate the "burning smell" or "leaking gas" she is convinced has woken her. And being bawled out for my inability to help.
- Not realising I have a drainage problem until someone visits and reels back, going "What the fuck is that stink?"
- Not realising I've got dogshit on my shoe at work.
- Becoming a fanatically clean person so I don't risk being smelly.
And a couple more:
Having no sense of smell and an enhanced sense of taste, I tend to "taste" smells, but can only pick up on a tiny amount of any smell. And it's usually the wrong part of it …
Ame (and a lot of other people besides) loves Lush products. While I can understand that they might smell very nice to her, all I can pick up on is a horrid taste of washday soap powder and rotting fruit.
And I know a lot of you like perfume …
Well should we ever meet, please, PLEASE don't wear any. It's an effective Dive repellent (maybe I shouldn't have given that away).
Even with the most expensive perfumes, all I can taste is the solvent. Chanel No5 tastes like a petrol/paint-stripper flavour and is the last thing I want to inhale close up.
I'm with the Japanese in finding the neck the most erotic part of a woman. For me, there is nothing nicer than nuzzling into that bit under her ear and inhaling lovely fresh, clean woman. If she's wearing perfume I have to reel away and have (once or twice) been known to involuntarily gag. EWW! That stuff is repellent!
So. That's me and my anosmia.
At least I have better taste than you. Official.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Tacky Kitsch Trash
A couple more things for Ame to think about:
For shows and gigs and stuff, take a look on Visit London's "What's On" page. You can search for stuff coming up over the next thirty days, so give it a week and check it out.
Book online in advance.
And Sassy rightly suggests eating Indian (which is actually Britain's native cuisine these days).
Should you, however, feel slightly more adventurous, try this site. It lists London's more strange restaurants where you can chow down on scorpions and other weird shit.
Or you could of course do a home from home and stick to Starbucks and Mc.D, but where's the fun in that?
And use GoogleMap to plan walks (parks and riverside).
The best bits of London are all in the old parts (City and Westminster), but that's still a huge area, so group your West End activites and your River activites and the rest so you split it up into days.
Oh, if you do the appallingly touristy thing and visit Harrods (ugh), be sure to photograph the world's tackiest statue, while making obscene gestures in front of it.
The disgusting Mohammed Fayed (Harrods' owner) erected a pukably kitsch statue of Diana and his son Dodi yanking on a seagull's penis (that's the ugly fucker standing beside it).
It's called "Innocent Victims", because he's convinced that the Royal Family and the Secret Service murdered them. He's kind of in denial about sending his own drunk chauffeur to drive them into a concrete pillar at speed.
Hey! Here's a quick assignment:
If anybody knows of anything on the entire planet more tasteless and kitsch and shamelessly tacky than this vom-fest, please post it.
For shows and gigs and stuff, take a look on Visit London's "What's On" page. You can search for stuff coming up over the next thirty days, so give it a week and check it out.
Book online in advance.
And Sassy rightly suggests eating Indian (which is actually Britain's native cuisine these days).
Should you, however, feel slightly more adventurous, try this site. It lists London's more strange restaurants where you can chow down on scorpions and other weird shit.
Or you could of course do a home from home and stick to Starbucks and Mc.D, but where's the fun in that?
And use GoogleMap to plan walks (parks and riverside).
The best bits of London are all in the old parts (City and Westminster), but that's still a huge area, so group your West End activites and your River activites and the rest so you split it up into days.
Oh, if you do the appallingly touristy thing and visit Harrods (ugh), be sure to photograph the world's tackiest statue, while making obscene gestures in front of it.
The disgusting Mohammed Fayed (Harrods' owner) erected a pukably kitsch statue of Diana and his son Dodi yanking on a seagull's penis (that's the ugly fucker standing beside it).
It's called "Innocent Victims", because he's convinced that the Royal Family and the Secret Service murdered them. He's kind of in denial about sending his own drunk chauffeur to drive them into a concrete pillar at speed.Hey! Here's a quick assignment:
If anybody knows of anything on the entire planet more tasteless and kitsch and shamelessly tacky than this vom-fest, please post it.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Wheeee
The slides at the Tate Modern. Ame, you've just GOT to go on these!This from the Tate website:
Tickets for the slides are free, timed and available in the gallery, on the day. For information about obtaining tickets, see visiting information. Height and other restrictions apply.
Please note that the Level 4 slide will be closed from 15 January as a result of the installation of the Gilbert & George exhibition.
Add it to your list.
You can get to Tate Modern over the wibbly wobbly Millennium Bridge (see my walky post for a pic), or from Tate Britain (about 100 yds from my office) via its own riverboat, the cornily monickered "Tate-A-Tate", which is a big glass boat with Damien Hirst spots all over it.
And a big bonus (for me, anyway), is the latest Gilbert and George exhibition.
In the guest bedroom I have two big, sweary posters from their "Dirty Words" exhibition at the Serpentine a couple of years back, signed by Gilbert and George in big, glittery felt pens (with kisses).
Hey, Ame. I'm getting as excited about this as you are!
Waterloo Sunrise
It's Monday, so it must be over-running engineering works.
Sure enough, we roll in to London a little over an hour late (actually "approximately fifty-eight minutes late" is how the announcer always puts it, as they have to pay compensation if it's an hour or more).
I don't mind. I'm having a Rosie Thomas morning on the iPod, so I'm nicely chilled out (Thanks, Robyn; it sure is a beautiful album).
It's actually a clear(ish) morning (we're between storms) so I amble my long walky route, figuring I'm late, so it won't matter if I'm a little later.
Watching the sun come up under Tower Bridge is always a treat, and seeing the sunlight light up the bridges ahead of me has me singing Waterloo Sunset, causing frightened looks on the faces of commuters walking the other way.
So here I am on another yummy monday. No more weekend chores to do; just a nice no-brainer day making stuff in 3D.
Walking across London, the thought comes to me that Ame and her hubby only need to learn one phrase when they come over here next month.
In fact all Americans should learn it as it will cause hostility to fade away in an instant and they will be greeted by helpful smiling Brits.
The phrase is: "Actually, we're Canadian."
I won't recommend lots of things for Ame to do or places to go as there are just too many and a lot of them wiill depend on the weather.
Besides which, Ame's tastes and mine (indeed everybody's tastes and mine) are unlikely to coincide.
For instance, one of my favourite places is the Hunterian Collection (part of the Royal College of Surgeons), a splendid, free and newly revamped cornucopia of medical curiosities, including a whole wall of diseased penises and the Bishop of Durham's anus in a jar (not the present Bishop, I hasten to add).
But two things I would recommend are:
- A go on the slides at the Tate Modern (Wheeee …);
- The London Eye (Spiffy).
Hints for Eye travellers: I'd usually recommend booking well in advance, but in February, the weather is likely to bugger this up.
What I normally do is book the combined Eye trip and river excursion. It's well cheap, and the trip down the Thames to Tower Bridge and back is great (I do love tooling up and down the Thames; it's a lovely way to see London).
The other hint is: The Eye officialy opens at 10:30. If you get there half an hour earlier, they are sometimes starting it up and they let people get on before the queues build up. If you're lucky, you can get a whole gondola to yourselves.
You can see my office from up there, so do wave.
The comments box welcomes suggestions for Ame's trip.
Real ones today, please. Any more silly suggestions can go in yesterday's comments box.
Sure enough, we roll in to London a little over an hour late (actually "approximately fifty-eight minutes late" is how the announcer always puts it, as they have to pay compensation if it's an hour or more).
I don't mind. I'm having a Rosie Thomas morning on the iPod, so I'm nicely chilled out (Thanks, Robyn; it sure is a beautiful album).
It's actually a clear(ish) morning (we're between storms) so I amble my long walky route, figuring I'm late, so it won't matter if I'm a little later.
Watching the sun come up under Tower Bridge is always a treat, and seeing the sunlight light up the bridges ahead of me has me singing Waterloo Sunset, causing frightened looks on the faces of commuters walking the other way.
So here I am on another yummy monday. No more weekend chores to do; just a nice no-brainer day making stuff in 3D.
Walking across London, the thought comes to me that Ame and her hubby only need to learn one phrase when they come over here next month.
In fact all Americans should learn it as it will cause hostility to fade away in an instant and they will be greeted by helpful smiling Brits.
The phrase is: "Actually, we're Canadian."
I won't recommend lots of things for Ame to do or places to go as there are just too many and a lot of them wiill depend on the weather.
Besides which, Ame's tastes and mine (indeed everybody's tastes and mine) are unlikely to coincide.
For instance, one of my favourite places is the Hunterian Collection (part of the Royal College of Surgeons), a splendid, free and newly revamped cornucopia of medical curiosities, including a whole wall of diseased penises and the Bishop of Durham's anus in a jar (not the present Bishop, I hasten to add).
But two things I would recommend are:
- A go on the slides at the Tate Modern (Wheeee …);
- The London Eye (Spiffy).
Hints for Eye travellers: I'd usually recommend booking well in advance, but in February, the weather is likely to bugger this up.
What I normally do is book the combined Eye trip and river excursion. It's well cheap, and the trip down the Thames to Tower Bridge and back is great (I do love tooling up and down the Thames; it's a lovely way to see London).
The other hint is: The Eye officialy opens at 10:30. If you get there half an hour earlier, they are sometimes starting it up and they let people get on before the queues build up. If you're lucky, you can get a whole gondola to yourselves.
You can see my office from up there, so do wave.
The comments box welcomes suggestions for Ame's trip.
Real ones today, please. Any more silly suggestions can go in yesterday's comments box.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Tips For Ame
Ame and her hubby are visiting London in February and she has asked for some tips on language and culture to ease their path.
Here are a few simple "London" rules to start them off:
- Taxi drivers only accept large denomination notes (that box thing in the front is full of change; they get rid of it for the banks).
- Never tip a London taxi driver; they find it offensive.
- When alighting from a crowded bus or train, it is considered polite to stop just outside the doorway for a few seconds and admire the view.
- All ticket machines in London accept US coins.
- In restaurants, braying into a mobile phone is considered a sign of sophistication.
- Smoking is permitted in all museums and galleries.
- Prices given by taxi and bus drivers are open to friendly haggling (you should need to pay between half and two-thirds of the quoted price).
- Given our "special relationship" with the US, American tourists have preference in London. Always proceed to the head of any queue, simply waving your passport and stating clearly "We're Americans".
- In London's many food markets, browsing shoppers are encouraged to take a piece of fruit, free of charge, from any open-air stall or display.
- "No Smoking" signs refer solely to cigarettes. Cigars and pipes are permitted.
- Always stand on the left side of escalators, leaving the right side free for those in a hurry.
- To hail a cab, simply step into the road and raise your middle finger to the driver.
I hope these tips will be of some assistance, Ame.
Should anyone wish to add to this list, the comments box is open and waiting.
Here are a few simple "London" rules to start them off:
- Taxi drivers only accept large denomination notes (that box thing in the front is full of change; they get rid of it for the banks).
- Never tip a London taxi driver; they find it offensive.
- When alighting from a crowded bus or train, it is considered polite to stop just outside the doorway for a few seconds and admire the view.
- All ticket machines in London accept US coins.
- In restaurants, braying into a mobile phone is considered a sign of sophistication.
- Smoking is permitted in all museums and galleries.
- Prices given by taxi and bus drivers are open to friendly haggling (you should need to pay between half and two-thirds of the quoted price).
- Given our "special relationship" with the US, American tourists have preference in London. Always proceed to the head of any queue, simply waving your passport and stating clearly "We're Americans".
- In London's many food markets, browsing shoppers are encouraged to take a piece of fruit, free of charge, from any open-air stall or display.
- "No Smoking" signs refer solely to cigarettes. Cigars and pipes are permitted.
- Always stand on the left side of escalators, leaving the right side free for those in a hurry.
- To hail a cab, simply step into the road and raise your middle finger to the driver.
I hope these tips will be of some assistance, Ame.
Should anyone wish to add to this list, the comments box is open and waiting.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The Lynn Experiment
Okay, so it didn't work this time, but I've decided to give it a go.
For those who can't be arsed to read the comments (always the best bits of my blog … at least until I post a photo of my bottom), Lynn has been - I hesitate to say "nagging " - but I will anyway; Lynn has been nagging me to go out to our lovely Norfolk country pubs and look for a woman.
Today I finally cracked under the pressure of a particularly powerful nagging spell and headed off to Ranworth, to the Maltsters; one of the loveliest pubs on the broads and right opposite Ranworth broad. Beautiful views, good beer and food, picturesque village. Only about five or six miles away, so no real hassle.
So. Dive's "dating rating" for the Maltsters:
Contents: One barman. Two blokes playing darts.
Potential for Luurve: Er … Didn't really fancy any of 'em.
Outside, admiring the broad: A small bunch of ducks (Bunch? Herd? Flock? Quack? … I'll call them a "niggle" of ducks).
Dating rating: A big fat zilch.
The coffee wasn't that good, either.
I know for a fact the beer and food are excellent but it was the middle of the afternoon and I was driving, so coffee it was.
I suppose to save myself from more of the 'n' word, I shall have to continue this experiment.
If anyone knows of any pubs on the broads where single, attractive, bookish, academic, artsy women (with poor eyesight and low self-esteem) are likely to hang out, please let me know.
Oh … and "slim" … I forgot to mention "slim". Anybody remotely cuddly can breathe a big sigh of relief now.
For those who can't be arsed to read the comments (always the best bits of my blog … at least until I post a photo of my bottom), Lynn has been - I hesitate to say "nagging " - but I will anyway; Lynn has been nagging me to go out to our lovely Norfolk country pubs and look for a woman.
Today I finally cracked under the pressure of a particularly powerful nagging spell and headed off to Ranworth, to the Maltsters; one of the loveliest pubs on the broads and right opposite Ranworth broad. Beautiful views, good beer and food, picturesque village. Only about five or six miles away, so no real hassle.
So. Dive's "dating rating" for the Maltsters:
Contents: One barman. Two blokes playing darts.
Potential for Luurve: Er … Didn't really fancy any of 'em.
Outside, admiring the broad: A small bunch of ducks (Bunch? Herd? Flock? Quack? … I'll call them a "niggle" of ducks).
Dating rating: A big fat zilch.
The coffee wasn't that good, either.
I know for a fact the beer and food are excellent but it was the middle of the afternoon and I was driving, so coffee it was.
I suppose to save myself from more of the 'n' word, I shall have to continue this experiment.
If anyone knows of any pubs on the broads where single, attractive, bookish, academic, artsy women (with poor eyesight and low self-esteem) are likely to hang out, please let me know.
Oh … and "slim" … I forgot to mention "slim". Anybody remotely cuddly can breathe a big sigh of relief now.
Drive In Saturday
Sigh … Why do I go into Norwich every saturday morning?
It's always the same …
"The city is where the women are at!" I hear you cry.
Well, that's as maybe. But other than a smile from a lady in the coffee shop when I gave her my Guardian Review (she had been ogling it covetously, but hey, I've got a great ass; why wasn't she ogling that?), the place was pretty much a date-free zone.
As usual, I met Phil, caffeinated myself, soaked it up with a croissant and hit the bookshops. What a sad fucking excuse for a life.
Two hefty bags of books and a DVD later and I'm coming home, dateless as always, to start the weekend's housework.
I even tried a different coffee shop.
Coffee: Very good indeed.
Croissant: Middling and slightly greasy to the touch.
Free Paper: Today's Guardian already split into parts so I could nick the Review without scattering paper everywhere (Why do they always put that poxy "Family" section inside the Review? Literary Review readers don't have families. Is it just to rub that fact in our faces)?
Seats: Good selection; we chose "comfy" for our old arses.
Air con: too cold for Phil, just right for me.
Women: Mostly couples; one or two frumpy thirty-somethings (including the smiley one). No bookish looking literary/arty types for poor old Dive.
Overall: Probably go there again, but not regularly.
Unusually, the bookshops were totty-free. All the girls must still be frantically buying shoes in the New Year sales.
So … Coloureds in the washing machine; drag the hoover out of the understairs cupboard; here comes my drudgy old weekend.
I think I'll stop using the label: "Dating" and use "Not Dating instead".
Roll on monday.
It's always the same …
"The city is where the women are at!" I hear you cry.
Well, that's as maybe. But other than a smile from a lady in the coffee shop when I gave her my Guardian Review (she had been ogling it covetously, but hey, I've got a great ass; why wasn't she ogling that?), the place was pretty much a date-free zone.
As usual, I met Phil, caffeinated myself, soaked it up with a croissant and hit the bookshops. What a sad fucking excuse for a life.
Two hefty bags of books and a DVD later and I'm coming home, dateless as always, to start the weekend's housework.
I even tried a different coffee shop.
Coffee: Very good indeed.
Croissant: Middling and slightly greasy to the touch.
Free Paper: Today's Guardian already split into parts so I could nick the Review without scattering paper everywhere (Why do they always put that poxy "Family" section inside the Review? Literary Review readers don't have families. Is it just to rub that fact in our faces)?
Seats: Good selection; we chose "comfy" for our old arses.
Air con: too cold for Phil, just right for me.
Women: Mostly couples; one or two frumpy thirty-somethings (including the smiley one). No bookish looking literary/arty types for poor old Dive.
Overall: Probably go there again, but not regularly.
Unusually, the bookshops were totty-free. All the girls must still be frantically buying shoes in the New Year sales.
So … Coloureds in the washing machine; drag the hoover out of the understairs cupboard; here comes my drudgy old weekend.
I think I'll stop using the label: "Dating" and use "Not Dating instead".
Roll on monday.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Keep Fit With Dive
Righto.
Time for a photoblog.
This one's for Ame as she and hubby are coming over to London in February to experience all the rain and misery they can't get in beautiful, sunny California.
And because she used the word "neato" in a comment yesterday.
This is actually a little travelogue I put together for Mum last summer when she wanted to see all the things I see on my walk to work.
This is, of course, after the 4:40 alarm call, the drive from the Norfolk Broads into Norwich and the two and a half hour train drag into London Liverpool Street Station.
We join the journey when I'm at the station and continue it all the way to Westminster.
If it's tipping it down, I'll only walk to Mansion House, then dive onto the tube, but I do this walk at least three days a week (both ways); more in the spring and autumn.
Unfortunately, you'll have to click on the pictures to get the text big enough to read, but it's quite a nice walk so I think it's worth it.
You'll notice there's only one picture actually taken in rush hour. Mainly because stopping to take a picture in rush hour is a monumentally stupid thing to do, unless you wish to learn some colourful new words and possibly have your camera take a photo of the inside of your bottom …
And to keep fit, you must do this journey at breakneck speed, carrying a coat, a brolly, today's Guardian, a bag with all sorts of junk in it and another bag with a stupidly heavy Apple seventeen inch widescreen Powerbook in …
… in ALL weathers.
Enjoy:
Another couple of hundred yards and I reach my office, some pictures of which are in this old post.
Then I put in a full day's work and go all the way back home again.
Every day …
And you wonder why I get tired sometimes.
Time for a photoblog.
This one's for Ame as she and hubby are coming over to London in February to experience all the rain and misery they can't get in beautiful, sunny California.
And because she used the word "neato" in a comment yesterday.
This is actually a little travelogue I put together for Mum last summer when she wanted to see all the things I see on my walk to work.
This is, of course, after the 4:40 alarm call, the drive from the Norfolk Broads into Norwich and the two and a half hour train drag into London Liverpool Street Station.
We join the journey when I'm at the station and continue it all the way to Westminster.
If it's tipping it down, I'll only walk to Mansion House, then dive onto the tube, but I do this walk at least three days a week (both ways); more in the spring and autumn.
Unfortunately, you'll have to click on the pictures to get the text big enough to read, but it's quite a nice walk so I think it's worth it.
You'll notice there's only one picture actually taken in rush hour. Mainly because stopping to take a picture in rush hour is a monumentally stupid thing to do, unless you wish to learn some colourful new words and possibly have your camera take a photo of the inside of your bottom …
And to keep fit, you must do this journey at breakneck speed, carrying a coat, a brolly, today's Guardian, a bag with all sorts of junk in it and another bag with a stupidly heavy Apple seventeen inch widescreen Powerbook in …
… in ALL weathers.
Enjoy:
Another couple of hundred yards and I reach my office, some pictures of which are in this old post.
Then I put in a full day's work and go all the way back home again.
Every day …
And you wonder why I get tired sometimes.
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