Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring

Star-tling

Until now, I've always thought the horoscopes in the TV Times were nothing special - just everyday horoscopes that are entertaining only for their fine brand of silliness. Today, however, Sally Kirkman far surpassed my expectations by offering the best horoscope I have ever read and, I suspect, ever will.

"Taurus: Continue to bang your head against a brick wall and it'll cave in."

I'm only grateful I'm not struggling with anything just now. I don't know what I'd do.

At Least They Pack Efficiently

On the way back from pricing up items for the car boot sale we're going to to raise money for my jaunt to Peru next year, my mum and I stopped off at the Red Brick Mill so she could buy a fancy birthday card. (For those of you not in the know, the Red Brick Mill is a converted mill which is now home to lots of places selling highly fancy and even more highly expensive kitchenware, furniture and other such things.) That task achieved we milled about (ha!) for a while, admiring all the nice things. You can buy special devices for cutting the foil off wine bottles from these people. You can buy pasta hats. But among all this entirely sensible, albeit unnecessary, stuff, there was one item that was not only extremely crazy but also mildly terrifying.

Hidden among the fancy, modern, desirable bathroom fittings was a device that should never have been inflicted upon this world.

A toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet with a £899 price tag.

A toilet... which was square.

I have never before sat upon a display toilet in a furniture and fittings shop, but by God I sat on that one. Looking back, I can only wish that I hadn't. It was deeply, deeply unsettling, and I fear I may be carrying the scars with me for a long time to come.

Just For The Record (And Those Of You Who Don't Read The Comments)

Chrissy thrashed me at boules. 13-3. She was great, and I was rubbish.

Because I Won't Get Away With Not Mentioning It

OK, I do have another story from my last jaunt to Birmingham that I should share. I geniunely forgot to last time, but as if I leave it any longer those who already know it will think I'm trying to get out of it, I'm going to put it up now so you can all laugh at me.

So, on Tuesday, the day I was coming back, I packed up all my stuff, we had a nice barbecue, played boules, and finally set off to Digbeth Coach Station (which has, incidentally, been spruced up, although only in the places where it didn't need sprucing).

We arrived early, so we killed time reading through the menu in the window of Chris's Café of Digbeth (it actually has "of Digbeth" on the sign, in fancy script, in the hope that it will make it look classy) and then sat in the waiting room of the station for twenty minutes. By then it was about time to hang around the coach and see how long it was possible to put off getting on, so we wandered over.

The coach wasn't there. This puzzled us.

There was a coach travelling on the same route, in the opposite direction. There were coaches going to all manner of other places. There was even a double-decker coach, of all things, headed for London. But not mine. So we turned and looked at the monitors.

The coach wasn't there, either. This puzzled us yet more.

After a moment's hard thought and a look at the information point (closed, as always), we decided we'd wait for the delayed coach and see if I could get on that. And, as is my habit when waiting around a station, especially when puzzled, I looked at my ticket again.

There was a good reason why my coach wasn't there, or on the monitors, or anywhere else. And it would have had to be very delayed indeed for me to catch it now.

This was because I had booked it for the day before.

We turned around and went home.

(In other news, I got As in all my AS levels today.)

The Usbourne Guide To Laziness

Well, while I was down at Chrissy's this week, we were sorting out her drawers of junk before she goes off to university, and among many things which I rather suspect you wouldn't enjoy as much as I did (well, I suppose you'd enjoy the stale praline rather more than I did, but that's another matter) we found a wonderful book-and-cassette comination, Welsh For Beginners. Now, this, in itself, is obviously a fine book and one which deserves to be used. But this wasn't a one-off. I used to have another book in the series, French For Beginners, and very nice it was too. It was filled with lovely drawings of French people saying their French things.

Or was it?

Welsh For Beginners, you see, is filled with similarly lovely drawings of people saying their things. In fact, they're so similar they're identical. The only change is the language of the speechbubbles. Now, I don't know how far this extends, but if it's the same throughout the book as it was on the cover it's a scandal indeed. Although on the plus side, it means a lot of people know how to order a croissant from a pleasant little boulangerie in Llanidloes.

(Incidentally, I should mention that this wasn't the most interesting thing we did all week, just the one I chose to write about. I know what you're like. Yes, this means you, unless it doesn't.)

I Had A Dream Where I Was Eating Large, Foot-Shaped Marshmallows

When I woke up, all my socks were gone.

No, really. I came downstairs and the first thing my brother said to me was "All your socks are gone."

This was not a satisfactory explanation.

After a moment's pressing, he explained that my socks, which had been hung on the washing line overnight, had all been mysteriously snatched away, leaving only a garden littered with clothespegs and one lucky sock that had escaped. He also explained that he had taken the liberty of attaching a ransom note to the pole holding the line up, telling us to leave £72550 in a sports bag near the motorway bridge.

The sock is now sitting in a sealed freezer-bag, labelled "Evidence". We are currently nowhere near solving this mystery. More details as they come.

What A Lot Of Pretty Things

I would write some extensive things about my week in the Lake District with Chrissy, but I rather suspect I'd be indulging myself somewhat. Well, except perhaps for the bits about the Pencil Museum, but then I'd hate to ruin that in case you ever go. So, I won't bore you with a detailed account of the trip, unless of course I run into you face to face. Going on and on in person is much easier because nobody can prove it, and much more fun too.

I Am The Spider

I'm not going to explain Su Doku. I would feel silly. If you don't know what it is, read up on it somewhere else. Pick up a newspaper, perhaps. The possibilities are endless. Just don't bother carrying on until you know what it is. Lovely.

Anyway, the point is that I feel duty-bound to offer up a speedy link to the Su DoKube, a classy 3D version of said number-placing puzzle which allows you not only to view and solve it in a shiny computery manner, but also to print it out and do some fun cutting and sticking so as to solve it on paper. Or on funky card, if you're a rich bugger.

Speaking of rich buggers, it's shareware, so don't expect anything overly awesome without forking over your hard-earned to the mysterious creator, who naturally I have no personal acquaintance with whatsoever. Honest.

(You're quite welcome, Andrew.)

Poetry In Arrest

Let's lay aside, for now, the value of getting a class of A-level English literature to write their own rough facsimille of First World War poetry. For all I know, it may have been shown to be of definite value and to allow us to better the techniques and works of the poets we're studying, though I can't say I'm too confident of it. Anyway, whether or not we actually gained anything from today's hour, I have one little question that I'm hoping someone can answer for me. Well, I say that, in truth I just want to moan and an exasperated question seemed the best way.

What on Earth put the idea in my normally very good literature teacher's head that the best way to write poetry in a small group?

Now, anyone who has ever tried to produce a piece of writing in a group knows how much of a trial it is. Every sentence, if not every word, must be passed individually, everyone is loath to put something forward lest it get shot down in flames, and nobody is every wholly satisfied with the end result. The whole thing just ends up taking longer and producing a poorer result than if it's written by an individual - and that's just with any old knockabout cereal-competition tie-breaker. Try something as complex and niggly as poetry and you've got a recipe for half an hour of awkward silence until a couple of people desperately hammer out a few rubbish lines and roughly stitch them together just so the group has something to show for their time.

In the end, we spent half an hour in awkward silence, at which point a couple of us desperately hammered out a few rubbish lines and roughly stitched them together just so the group had something to show for our time.

Sounds Like An Exciting New Album

Not only does the strange information sheet thing about Christina Aguilera ask its readers "Wanna get the juice facts about Christina?", it also features, by way of telling illustration, a Coke logo, a bowl of soup, a slice of pie, a hot dog, and salt and pepper grinders.

I'm sure there must be some kind of in-joke here, but I can't for the life of me think what it might be.

The Chemistry Of Bruce

In my chemisty textbook today: a small sqaure of what apeared to be low-grade recycled paper, folded neatly into quarters with parallel creases running down it, headed with, in a very neat hand, "Bruce Springsteen".

As if that is't perplexing enough, this doesn't seem like the writing of anyone I know, so presumably this has been here all year and I've never before noticed.

Scary.

The Complete Guide To The Bottle Inversion Game

1. On a player's turn, he or she must invert the bottle.
2. It will become apparent who is the winner.

No, Really, They're Not Trying To Scare You Off

A sign in a Cambridge University college, under a stone arch:

"Visitors are warned that there is a deep pool in the Fellows' Garden and the children must, therefore, be accompanied by a responsible adult at all times."

Apparently this wasn't scary enough, so they'd stuck an extra bit on the bottom:

"Also there are beehives and flying bees."

Last Man Not Standing

I have created a wonderful thing.

Everyone knows that it's tremendous fun to stage an impromptu race, say, to the end of the road, or to the chip shop, or to anywhere that happens to be in the direction that you and your companions are walking in. But sometimes, of course, that isn't possible. Perhaps you're stood still, or you're in a small room, or you have shoes on that would make running dangerous. In these situations, there is one phrase which can be your saviour.

"Race you horizontal!"

The rules, of course, are simple. Once the race is agreed upon, the first person to become horizontal is the winner.

You're quite welcome.

They've Got Timbo Fever

I think that, should Tim Henman ever win Wimbledon, everyone who has ever knocked him out should be awarded a commemorative medal inscribed with the phrase "Maybe next year".

I don't know quite why I think this or how the idea ever entered my head, but it's there now, so merely leaving it there would be something of a waste, really.

Seasonal Variation

It's a beautiful bit of organisation that, just as the time of year for good hearty stews and crumbles gently slips away, the time of year for strawberries rides over the hills on a magnificent steed of loveliness.

I think that people who think the world is wired up to annoy because of things like it always raining unless they carry their umbrella just aren't paying enough attention.

And This One Doubles Up As A USB Flash Memory Drive!

Well, I was in my headmaster's office today for a short meeting which turned into a long meeting thanks to his ongoing habit of quickly converting all such discussions into a forum dedicated to the improvement of the school, and, of course, a small amount of revelling in how much better it's got since he showed up. Anyway, all was well for the first fifteen minutes or so, but then I completely lost the ability to concentrate on what was being discussed. My mind was occupied, you see, by a far more important matter. Specifically, that of why on Earth he has a book on his shelf entitled "Novel Diarrhoea Viruses".

Not for him the old, trodden paths of those staid, traditional diarrhoea viruses. No, he is as some bold frontiersman, casting aside any virus he deems too dull and taking note only of the particularly odd ones. No, I just don't see it.

Of course, in truth I'm not too sure what makes such a virus "novel". Possibly they're pink and spotted, or do somersaults, or play the fiddle. Now that would be a virus worth studying.

Crossed Lines

Well, I opened the page for that last post just before replying to an e-mail, and inadvertently typed a small chunk of my reply into Blogger, which was rather silly of me. I feel that I should mention this because if I do this again and don't notice for some reason, it will probably be rather less confusing for you all if you have enough prior knowledge of my foolishness to guess that what you're reading is meant to be an e-mail to my girlfriend and not a blog entry. Let's face it, that could lead to significant befuddlement for all concerned.

I can multitask, honestly. I just can't do anything else while I'm doing it.

Who Gives You Extra?

Not so long ago, I finally decided to get off my arse and apply for a 16-18 bank account, with debit card and so forth for convenience's sake. I then decided that, what with the Internet being so very helpful, I would instead stay on my arse and apply for a 16-18 bank account, because frankly there was no good reason to walk to Morley when I could have a glass of water and a Big Bowl of Fruit and Yoghurt and do it online.

Once I'd worked my merry way through the forms, which were all very simple except for the one on which you had to come up with a security question (a task which I'm certain is actually more difficult than fraudulently accessing someone else's account), I was informed that my application had been accepted and I would now just have to mosey on down to my local branch and provide them with some proof of identity. So, having already got all this to hand, I did.

The more observant among you, and indeed the less observant, will no doubt have noticed that at this point in the proceedings I have had to get on my arse anyway. I should therefore note that in between those last two sentences, a day or so passed. Super.

So, very shortly I had my identity confirmed, my balance transferred and my old account closed, and just had to wait for my card and PIN to arrive. Not long afterwards, I got an envelope from the bank, which I assumed was one of those things, simply because when I registered for online banking I also requested the paper-free banking service, which would get all my statements sent by e-mail. In the envelope was a statement from my old account, containing one withdrawal, my interest, and my balance transfer. So I waited.

After a couple of days, I received a further envelope from the Halifax which, lo and behold, contained my card. I was told to ensure I memorised my PIN and advised on how to change it, which was valuable advice but would have been rather more use in a mailing containing my PIN. So I waited.

A little after this, I got not one, but two envelopes from the bank. The first contained another statement, entirely identical to the last but with the addition of "Account Closed" to the end. The second contained a pleasant letter explaining that they had found me in their records thanks to my previous account and there was no longer any need for me to take my proof of identification in. I was, of course, already aware that there was no longer any need for me to do that because I had already done it. I'd also, by way of the transfer, deposited more than the £10 required to activate my account, so its reminding me of that was also rather unhepul, particularly as they had apparently made a mistake concerning what kind of account I was opening and told me to deposit £50. So I waited.

Today, my PIN arrived. Now, these things used to come in a little paper envelope-within-an-envelope, covered with a mess of numbers so you couldn't read it by holding it up to the light and could tell if it had been tampered with, which was sensible. That's changed somewhat. Now, you get the same classic scrambled mess, but it's covered by a single paper tab, beneath which is a piece of cloudy see-through plastic with your PIN printed through it. You are advised to turn the letter over and put it on a piece of white paper to get your PIN.

This is not necessary.

In fact, you can read your PIN perfectly well without paper. In fact, if you're capable of reading mirrored numbers, which is hardly the most challenging of tasks, you can read it without turning the letter over. In fact, the only thing that this change achieves is to make it so that, once you remove the tab, anyone nearby can not only read your PIN through the conveniently transparent plastic, but, thanks to the fact that it's reversed when viewed from the side with the tab on, can actually do so more easily than you can. Now that's secure.

Since signing up for paper-free banking about a week ago, I have received approximately three times as much paper from my bank as I did in the whole of last year. In fact, their only concession to actually reducing paper was in replacing that tiny scrap of the letter containing my PIN with plastic, that it might be easier for people to steal from me. I should have never strayed from my children's account. At least with that one they sent me birthday cards.