A Day In The Life...

Here's some maths for you:

Twenty One.

Do you know what that is?

No?

I'll tell you shall I?

It's the number of hours that the roadworks on the M5 will have cost me by the time they finish. And I begrudge every single one of them!

These roadworks started a few months ago and, for the duration, they have reduced the speed limit from 70mph to 50mph. Not only that, but they're going to continue until spring 2014.  Thats two years of stupid roadworks slowing me down on my way to and from work every day.  Plus every trip into town, every trip to the cinema or the shops, every trip to pick up my anti-sobriety friends.  Bah.

If you'd like that formula above simplified, read on...

So it take 3.4 minutes to travel the four miles of roadworks at the normal speed of 70mph. Because I go in to work early, there's hardly any traffic, so I always manage that speed.  Coming back, I occasionally meet some slow traffic, but not often enough to factor into my calculations (and because it's too hard for me).

At 50 mph, it takes 4.8 minutes.  That's a difference of 1.4 minutes every time I make the trip.

For work that's twice a day, 5 days a week (okay, I sometimes don't make the trip on a Freaky Friday - but if I'm going to do anything Freaky with my Friday, I invariably do, so I'm counting it), 45 weeks a year (allowing for holidays and stuff).

And it's going on for 2 years!

((((((4 miles of stupid roadworks / 50 mph) x 60 mins) - ((4 miles of no roadworks / 70 mph) x 60mins) x 2 trips a day) x 5 days a week) x 45 weeks a year) / 60 mins) x 2 years = 21 damn hours.

Damn you, roadworks.  Damn you for stealing (most of) a day of my life and damn you for making me do maths on my blog!

Here's a list of things I could be doing with that day you stole:

1. Watch Star Wars ten and a half times.

2. Bake a LOT of cakes. Like, shit loads of cakes!

3. Eat a LOT of cakes.

4. Walk to Oxford. With my feet!

5. Drive from Bristol to Aberdeen and back again via York and London.  That's assuming there aren't any roadworks en-route!

6. Perth.  I could fly to Perth.  IN AUSTRALIA!

7. Have a 2.8 minute lie-in every work day!

8. Write about 20 blog posts from scratch!

9. Build my R2-D2 Lego set four times!

Seaking of R2-D2 Lego sets.  If you check back here tomorrow, you may see a new high speed Lego building video.  You know you want it!

Irking - Part Two: Cocknology

You know how you're using your computer to do a task that you've done hundreds of times before, in exactly the same way as you have done hundreds of times before and yet, by some quirk of fate, it doesn't bloody work!

Happens to me all the time.

Part of my day job is to run programs on a data warehouse. Many of them are standard programs that have been around for years and have worked just fine.

And then one day, they just don't work.

You don't get a helpful error message telling you what the problem is and which of the 300 lines of code it's in. Nuh-uh. You get something like this:



Later, at home, I'll be doing a spot of animation, and the lip synching software that usually does a dandy job, decides that it's going to put the mouths at a 45 degree angle and, just for fun, delete the eyes.

And then my phone informs me that i have no playlists despite the fact that they'rebright there, dammit!



Grr...

And there's my Sky box (PVR for my foreign readers). That just behaves like a dick all the time.



I think I may have worked out the common factor in all of this...

Olympricks

I think it's about time I wrote a few words about the Olymprick Games that we're hosting in the UK this year.

I'm very excited about them.  So excited in fact, that I did a little picture of the Olymprick Rings for you!

How cool are they?  All those pretty colours representing all the pricks in the world coming together.

I don't know what my favourite Olymprick event is.  It could be hurdling.  I do like to see lots of pricks trying to jump over little fences in order to beat all the other pricks to the finish line.  I especially like it when they fall over.

Look: here's a hurdling prick.  See how he leaps gracefully over his little fence, his hair streaming out behind him!

I quite like the swimming too.  All those pricks splashing about in the water!  They look like they're having so much fun!

And then there's the cycling. Wow! Look at him go. He's so streamlined with his shiny, purple helmet!

Most of all, I like the little ceremony at the end where the winner stands on the podium all tall and proud and erect with his gold medal gleaming in the sunlight.

You'll note that all of the events depicted in this blog post were men's events.  This is not due to any misogyny on my part.  Just think about it for a moment... ask yourself if you really want to see a vagina throwing the javelin or doing a triple jump into a pit of sand? Well, do ya?

Oh, you sick, filthy bastards!

Hot Tubs Are For Sex

Hot tubs are a bit weird.

I know a couple of people who have hot tubs and in the past, I've been invited to go and sit in hot tubs. I've always declined.

Do you know why?

Because as far as I'm concerned, hot tubs are basically foreplay. Frothy, wet, gushy, back-garden foreplay. The sort you have right before frothy, wet, gushy, back-garden fornication.

If you ask me to get in your hot tub with you, I'm going to go right ahead and assume that you're inviting me to to get down to a bit of frothy, wet, gushy back-garden how's your father. Be warned.

 I'll be honest - I've never been asked to sit in a hot tub by anyone that I want to fornicate frothily, wetly, gushily, or indeed in the back-garden with.

If Dr K asked me to sit in a hot tub with her, I'd be there straight away, because she's awesome and has the best kind of jubblies*. Oh yeah, and she's my girlfriend.

 But some people are convinced that hot tubs are a normal social thing that you can invite your mates into and have a jolly good laugh, probably whilst drinking babycham.

I'm sorry. They're wrong. Completely wrong.

Big tubs of hot water are for only two things: for having frothy, wet, gushy, back-garden sex in, or for having a bath in. And you don't really wanna mix the two, do you...

( * the kind I'm allowed to play with. )

Big Big Big

Tall, Grande, Venti. All words that mean 'big'.

So why does my local Starbucks insist on using them to describe the different sizes of drink I can have?

It's difficult, I know, but try to imagine if I was feeling a little bit pedantic...

Dazza's Tier of TV Terribleness

Because I'm a man of taste, people often ask me whether a programme is worth watching. Quite often, the answer is no, because what they're watching is rubbish.

I thought I'd take the opportunity to clear up a few things. Take a look at this chart:

As you can see, I've clearly ranked a bunch of programmes, showing the relative crapness or awesomeness of them.

Now, the programmes on this chart should be seen as representative of a type of show.

You'll see that right at the bottom is cheap, mass produced reality bollocks that's knocked together by idiots for idiots or to fill a gap in the daytime tv schedule. Big Brother, X Factor, endless programmes about buying shit houses or selling junk and so on. This sort of TV is shit and if you watch it, you'll start shedding IQ points until you're so dumb, you'll want to appear in one of them.

Then there's the soaps. They're shit too. The difference is that there has at least been an attempt at creativity, even if it failed horribly. In the main part, these demonstrate terrible, lazy writing, inconsistent characterisation and terrible acting. They, at least, provide a few jobbing actors and TV crews employment, but in the main part, will also rot your brain.

Right on the cusp of acceptability are shows like Masterchef, The Apprentice and Grand Designs, not to mention endless cookery shows. These are still reality TV. Even though they've had bit more money spent on them, they're still utterly shit, but they make aspiring middle class snobs feel better and that means they're doing something other than reading the Daily Mail.

Next there's all those identikit cop/mystery shows. CSI, The Mentalist, Law & Order, House and the like. Yeah, I know House isn't a cop, but his show follows all of the same tropes, just sticks 'em in a hospital. It's okay. It is is perfectly watchable TV. I'm okay with you watching this stuff.

And then there's the really good stuff. The stuff that's really well written, shows strong character and story progression and is just generally awesome. As well as the ones shown in the chart, you can include Mad Men, Sons Of Anarchy, Battlestar Galactica, Breaking Bad and all that excellent stuff.

Scattered amongst all of these are the sit-coms. But as a genre, they're such a mixed bunch, I couldn't really show them properly. There's genuinely funny clever stuff like The Big Bang Theory and How I met Your Mother. There's also awful stuff like Two and a Half Men, which just makes my face hurt when I watch it.

So there you go. My take on TV. If you disagree, you've been watching the wrong sort of TV and your brain has melted. Your opinion can't be trusted. Go away.

The Phraseology Postulation

Here are some phrases that I hear regularly that irk me. Not because they're just a bit different to the way I choose to talk, but because they're stupid:

'Oftentimes'
An Americanism that turns up on my telly all the time. What's the second half of that word for? What does it add to my understanding of your sentence? Oh, that's right - it helps me understand that you're shit at talking!

'Myself'
Commonly used in a sentence to mean 'me', as in 'Please could you show myself that memo'. Also as in 'No, I couldn't, because you're a dick'.

'Yourself'
Similarly, 'I'll send this memo to yourself' is unacceptable.

'I could care less'
Americans use this on TV when they mean 'I couldn't care less'. I think it's because Americans on TV are a bit stupid, as it means exactly the opposite.

'Imma'
As in: 'Imma kick ur ass' or 'Imma do my chores'. It seems to be used to replace the phrase 'I am going to' or 'I will', with a collection of letters that basically 'I am a retard'.

'At this moment in time'
Now. For god's sake... NOW!

'Regular'
As far as I'm concerned, regularity is a measure of frequency, not size. If you offer me a 'regular' coffee, I'm going to assume that you're entering into an agreement to supply another one in an hour. And another one an hour after that and so-on.

'Off of'
See 'Oftentimes'. Then get off my blog.

'Do do'
As in 'We do do that'. There may be an obscure instance when the English language requires you to say the word 'do' twice in a row, but I really can't think of one. There's 'doo doo' though. And if you say 'do do', I'll probably just assume that you meant 'doo doo*'.

*which means 'poo'. Obviously.

The Poofish Conundrum

I think we need some clarification on a matter of etiquette.

You see, sometimes when I mention poo in mixed company, whether that be in the office, in a restaurant or just driving in my car, certain people have quite an extreme reaction.

See?

I don't really get it. I mean pooing is something that we all do. Okay, it's a bit smelly and bit gross, but not so much so that the mere mention of it should provoke this sort of reaction. Perhaps a simple 'Yuck' would be more appropriate.

As far as I can tell, the reaction is because these people don't like poo.

And if it's appropriate etiquette to go off the deep end when someone mentions something that you dislike, then I reserve the right to have a similarly over the top reaction if someone mentions fish or cauliflower!

How dare you!

A Less Than Epic Quest

So, yesterday, Dr K and I were expecting a visit from my parents for dinner when we realised that we had nothing in to make the cottage pie that I had promised them.

So we had to pop to the supermaket and, in our infinite wisdom, decided to visit the enormous new Tesco in Yate.

Big mistake.

As soon as we entered the outskirts of Yate, we were confronted by idiot drivers who seemed to want nothing more than  to delay our arrival, or even bar it completely.  And the closer we got to the supermarket car-park, which is huge and underground, the slower and more obstructive they became.

Once parked, we had to join the thronged mass of chavs riding the conveyor belt up to the entrance.  Honestly, it was just like queuing to get into the supermarket.

And then we had to fight our way round the supermarket for the armful of groceries we needed, before being confronted by an idiot cashier who barely knew his arse from his elbow.

Eventually, we managed to pay and leave, which got us home just in time to cook dinner before the parents arrived.

Woohoo.

Fascination

My aunt sent me a video about moustaches today because I have a 'fascination with facial hair'. I have facial hair. I'm not sure this necessarily translates to a 'fascination' with it.

Ever since Dr K got herself a cat, about half of her birthday and Christmas cards have featured cats. Also she now owns a lovely selection of cat themed tea towels and nick-nacks because now she has a cat, she is apparently obsessed with them. Same thing happened to me when I first got Rochester and Elliot 16 yeas ago!

It seems that because you have a thing, you must also have an obsession or fascination with it.

To be on the safe side, I will therefore be assuming that anyone in possession of underpants is obsessed with them. And because anyone who has recently had a haircut must be fascinated by the barber trade, I will be sure to point out relevant employment opportunities to them.

And anyone who indulges in the occasional poo, will almost certainly enjoy contributions to the collection that they're obviously building!

What Are You Waiting For?

Are you ever in your car, sitting behind someone at a junction or a roundabout wondering why the hell they're not pulling out even though there's a space the size of the Titanic? And another one! And another one!

Or maybe you've been second in the queue at the post office and the dozy bint in front of you is staring vacantly into space while the free cashier is desperately trying to get her attention.

Maybe you've found yourself holding the door for someone who dawdles down the corridor without a care in the world, while you waste precious seconds of your life.

Whatever it is that someone's failing to get the fuck on with in front of you, perhaps they're waiting for an actual written invitation.

Like this one:

Feel free to print this out and keep it on your person to hand to the next idiot to hold you up!

Snotwatch

You can't help but notice that your Facebook feed is almost always littered with people telling you how awful their minor ailments are.

I wouldn't mind if they were serious or interesting ailments, like a prolapsed spine, but I currently have no less than three people with a cold keeping me updated on how ill they are.  So very ill.  There's also one headache and a possible food poisoning victim.  And someone on there has a poorly child that I have to know all about as well.  

I'm not sure why.

Maybe they think I'll run round to their house to get in on the snotty, headachy, pukey action.

Perhaps it's designed to put my own life in perspective.  After all my problems won't seem so bad if I know that someone in Bournemouth is suffering terribly from a runny nose.

When I have a cold, I just...  well, have my cold.  As a rule, I don't try to advertise it to the world.  I just get on with blowing my nose and 

So since, I started showing the symptoms of a cold this morning, I thought I'd keep you up to date with ongoing reports of how my cold is progressing.  That's right - until I've shaken this terrible man-flu, you are going to get a daily SNOTWATCH alert on this blog.

And here is the first one:

Started the day a little sniffly.  Ran out of tissues, so blew my nose with bog roll.  Bog roll just isn't the same as I blew a hole right through it and got snot all over my hand.  I've got progessively snottier throughout the day and now, just before bed-time, I have a mild ache in my sinuses and I'm making soggy papier mache out of every tissue I blow my nose in.  I'm also starting to get a slightly sore throat.

Snotwatch Threat level is AMBER.

Everything Is Better Than Pop Music

I have decided that everything is better than pop music. Everything.

No really, I mean it. Look, here's a list of nine completely random things, off the top of my head that are better than pop music:

1. Finding out that the milk on my cereal's gone off one mouthful too late!
2. Progress bars that lie.
3. Chuggers.
4. Flies.
5. Filler posts.
6. People that stand right behind you while they're waiting for you to finish at the urinal.
7. 'Sparkling' water.
8. Prejudiced, bigoted people.
9. Foreigners.

You may have got the impression from this post that I have a strong dislike of pop music. That simply isn't true. I bloody hate it. All the way to my bones.

Home Baking

I like cake.

I especially like home made cakes. They're (mostly) delicious. Especially when they have 'lemon' and 'drizzle' in the name and are brought into the office for me on Tuesday. Ahem.

Something I don't really like though, is when people bring me home made cake made by their six-year-old kids.

In my experience, children of that age basically pick their noses and scratch their bums 24/7.  This means that any cakes that they make almost certainly have a couple of extra ingredients: Snot and poo.  

I don't want a cake that has been fitted into a routine that basically goes: bum, nose, bum, nose, bum, nose, bum, cake.  

Unfortunately the mums that offer me the snotty poocake made by their six year old sprogs are so blinded by the pride they have for this great juvenile achievement that any attempt to decline the cake is seen as a personal insult.  Quite often, they stand over me and watch me eat their child's bodily excretions.

Yuck.

With that out of the way, I'm making a cake.  Anyone want some?

427 Months

There's been some discussion in the office of the respective ages of my workmates young children.

One of them declared his sprog to be 12 months old.  Another announced that her kid was 25 months.

I don't get it.  Surely these children are 1 and 2 respectively.  I can understand the months thing when the kid is under a year, but after that, surely we should be referring to them with the standard unit of measurement?

No?

Well in that case, I'm 427 months old. And Dr K is getting dangerously close to 468.  Man, she's old!

LOL

In general I wouldn't type a word or turn of phrase that I wouldn't use aloud.

The major exception to this rule is the word 'negligible' which I can't say aloud properly, no matter how hard I try. It's a ridiculous word. It's also a very useful word, though, so I use it every now and again in written form, but hardly ever in speech.

So, to the eponymous* word: 'LOL'. It's actually a pretty useful word, too. It fills a spot for which there is no other single word in the English language. In normal use, it acknowledges that a humorous statement or event has occurred and indicates approval of said humorous statement or event.

So in general, I have no issues with the word. 'LOL'.

Well... Okay. I do have a teeny tiny, itsy bitsy problem with it.

You see, it's actually an acronym for the phrase 'Laugh Out Loud'. And, more often than not, the humorous statement or event did not actually induce laughter of an 'out loud' type. Most of the time, I would suggest it induces an 'Internal Appreciation Of The Humorous Statement Or Event' (IAOTHSOE) or, at best a 'Small Chuckle' (SC).

My good pal, Mr Berry once told me a short anecdote about a guy ( I don't know his name, so lets call him Eugene) who sat at the next desk in his office, to whom he forwarded an amusing email. Eugene responded with an email that consisted of the word 'LOL' and nothing else.

Mr Berry would not have had a problem with this, except that he was sitting right next to Eugene and knew that he had not laughed out loud. In fact Eugene had shown no physical signs of amusement at all. Which meant that his 'LOL' was a dirty, stinking and outrageous LIE!

How can you trust someone that is prepared to lie outrageously to you, hmm?

Anyway, it's probably society's fault. Either that or Eugene's parents, Bartholomew and Gertude**.

So anyway, although I have my reservations about it, I'm prepared to accept that 'LOL' does not mean that I've induced fits of laughter but that someone has noticed that I made a funny. (Just don't get me started on 'LMAO', 'ROFL' or 'PMSL'.)

I wonder what would happen if I started saying 'LOL' out loud. I suspect I would get some pretty strange looks. Stranger than normal, I mean!

Those excellent gags were supplied by Dr K, by the way!

While writing this post, I began to wonder what people around the world use instead of 'LOL'. I checked with my only properly foreign friend, the Fish Lady, who told me that in Poland, they use 'LOL' as well, although a direct translation of 'Laugh Out Loud' would be 'Umierac Ze Sheichu' which would be 'UZS'. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

In France it might be 'Mort De Rire', which would be 'MDR', which is a little close to 'Murder' for my tastes...

( * 'Eponymous' is much easier to say aloud than 'negligible'. )

( ** I didn't know their names either, so I made them up. )

Butter Up

I have noticed a disturbing trend in the catering industry. Dinner ladies are skimping on butter (or spread).

For example, when I ask for a bacon sarnie in the canteen, it is assumed that I do not require butter (or spread) on my bun.

A bacon sandwich without butter (or spread) is a dry, disappointing travesty.

After five years of frequenting the same canteen, I have just about trained the dinner ladies to butter (or spread) my sarnie. If however, I do not properly supervise the buttering (or spreading), I end up with a stingy micron thick scraping of butter (or spread) on just one side of the sandwich. Not even enough to taste.

I have therefore decided that some sort of formula is needed for the discerning dinner lady so she can calculate of the optimum thickness of butter (or spread) to put on a given slice of bread.

Obviously, any guide should be backed up with complicated mathematics. (I should point out that before I started this process, Dr K declared off hand that the butter (or spread) should be about half a millimetre thick and that all this effort was unnecessary, however in order to support my endeavour she was happy to assist me and, afterward, eat the bread and butter).

With a little bit of help from Dr K, I came up with this formula (you can click on it for a larger version):



Complicated stuff, huh? Who'd have thought algebra would come in handy? Fortunately, quite a lot of this data is available to us.

I started by calculating the weight of the optimum amount of butter (or spread).

Here's the bread before the butter (or spread):



And here it is afterward. It's not perfectly spread, I know. I am not a trained professional!



As you can see, the difference, and therefore the weight of the butter (or spread) is 8 grams.

According to my good friend Wikipedia, the density of butter (or spread) is 0.959 grams per cubic centimetre.

The bread is 13cm long and 12cm wide.

Let's populate that formula, shall we?



So all we have to do is work out the value of X. Easy peasy!

It's just over 0.05cm, by the way. That's half a millimetre.

And let's have it in a more scientific sounding measurement: the butter (or spread) should be 500 microns thick!

So, now we know how to order a bacon butty:




(Dr K whipped the bread and butter (or spread) off the scales the moment I finished weighing them. It was gone in moments!)




UPDATE 14/10/2011: I brought up the formula and the required amount of butter (or spread) with Carol the Dinner Lady in the canteen this morning whilst ordering my bacon bun.


'You'll get what you're given,' she declared, sternly. 'And you'll be grateful.'


I did.  And I was.

Adventures In Updating

Regular readers of my blog will know about my special relationship with Bill Gates and the late Steve Jobs.


Well, today was update day and they seemed determined to continue their campaign against me!

I got home from work eager to go out for the curry that Dr K had promised me.

Knowing that it would take a couple of hours to download, I got ready to connect my iPhone into my laptop ready to get it's shiny new update from Apple. As I was about to plug it in, however, I noticed that Bill was pestering me about urgent updates to windows. He was threatening to restart my computer at any moment.

'Aha,' I thought to myself. 'I don't want to fuck everything up by letting my computer shut down mid-update. I shall let Bill do his thing now, so I don't have to worry about it.'

So I allowed my laptop to restart.

Unfortunately, it appeared to be an important update to the startup functionality on my laptop. Specifically, it added an exciting new error message to the usual routine:


How frustrating. And that is how it remained until it was time to go out.

I had a delicious curry. Murg Jalali, I think it was called. Quite hot and very tasty. Band yes, I did bring home the naan bread.

Anyway, by the time I returned home my laptop had completed it's thrilling journey around cock-upsville and it was time to download my update.

That was two hours ago.

This is now.


See, Bill had his fun with me and then tossed me to Steve like sloppy seconds.


(It's a Star Wars joke. The cool kids will get it!)

The Big Long Post That Dr K Forced Me To Write

Dr K has forced me to write a big long post because she feels that if I just post a few pictures or knock out a foreign sweet review, I'm just cheating.

So, even though I need an early night because I'm getting up at obscenely early o'clock in the morning in order to drive Dr K to the station for a 5am train, I'm having to sit here and write this big long post instead of a quick, concise little post that would allow me to spend a good portion of what little evening I have left to me watching telly, reading a book* or playing video games.

I like doing those things.  Mostly because they involve sitting down.  Sitting down is one of my favourite things.  Tea is another of my favourite things.  I've had 1615 cups of tea so far this year.  I've been counting.

What?  I'm getting off topic?  Tough noogies.  This is what you get when I'm forced to write a big long post against my better judgement.  You get steam of conciousness nonsense that goes on for ages.  Rambling gibberish.

I was having real trouble coming up with a decent topic to write about today.  I'm just not inspired.  I thought about it really hard for nine whole minutes before settling on this passive-aggressive topic.  You can't blame me though.  I voted against it. I knew it would be a bad idea.  It's all Dr K's fault.  I wanted to post a picture of me doing jazz hands and maybe write a few amusing sentences underneath it.  But Dr K wanted a big long post, so this is what you get instead.

I wonder if people actually want to see a picture of me doing jazz hands. I think my jazz hands are pretty good.  Tell you what, if you want to see a picture of me doing jazz hands, post in the comments below.  I could collect a bunch of pictures of me doing jazz hands in a bunch of different places.  It would be awesome.

Enough about the jazz hands.  They're distracting me from my real purpose, which is to write a big long post about absolutely nothing at all to spite Dr K.  The jazz hands are too specific.  If I go on too much about jazz hands, then everyone will remember this as the post in which I went on about jazz hands rather than the big long passive aggressive post that I'm being forced to write by Dr K who specifically doesn't want me to write about (or illustrate) jazz hands.  And that won't do at all.

(Incidentally, whilst typing those last two paragraphs, I accidentally typed 'i' instead of 'a' in the word 'jazz' more than once.  That bring a whole new image to mind.  I probably shouldn't have mentioned that, huh?)

Here's a dull, space filling fact for you.  Up until this point >.<, I have written 487 words.  And I did it with 2572 characters.

It's probably taken you just over two minutes to read this far.  I just read it back while timing myself and it took two minutes and seventeen seconds (although I did correct a typo along the way.  Can you guess which one?)  Anyway the point is that you just wasted a little bit more than two minutes reading this big long post, when you could have spent 10 seconds looking at a picture of me doing jazz hands.  That's two minutes you're never going to get beck.

Imagine the things you could have done with those two minutes.  You could have ordered a pizza, boiled the kettle, read nearly 500 words of a better blog, gone for a wee, washed up a few plates, pleasured a woman or transformed my Optimus Prime toy from a robot into a truck.  Basically, all of those things, even the washing up, would have been a better use of your time.

I'm going to stop soon, because I worry about you getting brain damage from to much exposure to my unfiltered brain excretions.  They're starting to take a bizzare turn for the worse, unless, of course you want to hear about Optimus Prime riding Grimlock like a little pony or which part of my body is itching right now.

No?

Right, I'm off to bed then.  Bye.

...jazz hands...


( * who am I kidding?  I read comics, not books.  Comics with Spiderman or Batman in them.  Because Spiderman and Batman are the best superheroes. )

A Wholemeal Post

Dr K has a thing about wholemeal.

If there's a wholemeal alternative to a product, then she's drawn to it like a moth to a lightbulb. Wholemeal bread, wholemeal pasta, wholemeal muffins. Hell, if there was a wholemeal iPhone available, that's the one she'd pick.

The problem is that 'wholemeal' appears to be a code word for 'horrible'. In fact I think it may be a label that food manufacturers put on food in which they have replaced the nice, tasty ingredients with dust.

Yuck.

I suspect, although I can't be sure, that whenever Dr K guffs, she lets out a little cloud of dust. That would explain the little dusty patches in her spot on the sofa...