Simple Things

Honestly, if universities I'm not interested in are going to insist on sending me things about open days about a week before my applications will be going through, they could at least have the decency to put them in proper envelopes so I get the fun and excitement of opening them.

Curse you, Sunderland!

An International Reputation For Quality

Not so very long ago, the worst thing I could tell you about Lancaster University was that its 2006 prospectus has a shiny goldish cover that looks really quite naff, and is a bit ugly and mish-mashy inside. Since those carefree, innocent times, there have been Goings On at Lancaster. You may have read about them.

Their first mistake was to invite a bunch of companies with decidedly dodgy records when it come to human rights to a conference that they might get more involved with university research. Understandably, this riled some of their students and postgraduates who were of the opinion that their education might be better off if it were not driven by and towards companies like Shell, BAE Systems (they make things for killing people) and so on. Which is really fair enough. So, they organised a protest - a peaceful protest, mind - and, reportedly, were assured during it by the police that they were doing nothing wrong and could carry on. Which is really fair enough.

A few months later, they were served with court summonses, accused of "aggravated trespass" and facing a maximum of three months in prison. Which is really not fair enough.

Now, Lancaster seems pretty proud of its history of student activists. They even name colleges after them. And yet here they are, wantonly prosecuting the ones they've got now for an entirely peaceful protest. The only explanation I can think of is that they're trying desparately to make people forget how ugly their prospectus (and, come to think of it, their logo) is, and while that end is easy to sympathise with, their means are simply unacceptable.

There's an online petition yonder, you may very well wish to sign it. Alternatively, you could go and complain in person, but they might have you arrested.

It's Not The Crazy Dance!

The Crazy Dance doesn't live here anymore.

This is because The Crazy Dancer would not otherwise have given me a much-needed lift tonight.

Boo.

And Slowly, The Language Develops

People often invent new words. It's a common thing to do. They are often determined to ensure that these words become widely used. Success, admittedly, is rare. This is largely because the words in question are entirely useless and are foisted upon a population that doesn't want or need them.

Is knunder any different?

That is for everyone to decide.

It's The Loveliest Number Since The Number One

At the daytime Apex Challenge on Saturday, a great big Scout competition which basically involved running around a cold, wet moor up to your armpits in various kinds of moory vegetation and doing foolish things, the team I was in (I'm loath to call it "my team" lest people think I was instrumental in what success we had) scored 555 points... and came 5th.

We might be runners-up, but my, do we run up with style.

We Listen To Our Readers*

Comment received in response to the post "Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring":

Lailah has just suggested that you send that to Innocent. (The photo, not the phone, obviously. Trying to send a banana phone through the post would clearly just be silly, plus you'd lose your funky banana hook. I may be overthinking this.) Fame and honour will be yours! Or something like that.

E-mail sent 2nd September (with attached image, which I'm sure you can work out for yourself):

Dear innocent,

If your current bananaphone is not built from real fruit, I would like
to recommend this approach.

Thankyou for your time.

-- Mark Taylor

Reply received today:

Hello Mark,

Thanks very much for your e-mail. At the moment our bananaphone is only
made from fake bananas, but if we could find bananas which never ripened
and didn't turn to mush, then you could be onto something.

All the best,

Row

The trouble is that it's very difficult to tell whether or not they thought I was serious. Now, any volunteers to draw up a plausible-looking plan for a working real-fruit bananaphone?

*I say "we" because I feel it gives me an air of authority. I have no other team members... yet†.
†Though this might appear to be hinting at the appearance of some in the near future, in fact it isn't. Sorry if anyone saw in it a brief glimmer of hope that I might be diluted a little before long‡.
‡Sorry also for this absurd footnotery. Well, a bit. In all honesty, I rather enjoyed it.

I Would Eat My Words, But My Face Is Still Numb

Well, I got to see a dentist after all, so you can retract the sympathies you haven't given me. In place of the nasty and horrible decay I had, I now have a great big temporary not-quite-a-filling that looks oddly like a great big blob of chewing gum pounded into the hole. Though I'd imagine it has a mite more toughness to it than that. Still, the most important part of this endeavour is that my tooth is no longer painfully knackered.

Yay for dentists!

In Fifteen Minutes This Will Be Highly Appropriate

Ow. Toothache.

I have nasty, nasty toothache and I probably won't be able to see a denstist for a while. Cry cry cry cry cry.

I can't think of anything interesting to add to this. I just wanted to vent.

(The worst part is, it's not even a mystery toothache - my tooth really is quite clearly knackered. I do not like having a knackered tooth. Cry!)

I've finished whining now.

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.