After all, it was what I was tautology by Mummery and Daddyery.
Those who sit in Downing Street are not actually, it would seem, sitting. It seems more as though they are running about in the manner of cranial-attachment-disadvantaged examples of subspecies galliforme gallus domesticus. It’s really quite embarrassing to watch.
In entirely separate news, those who plonk their ar*ses on chairs provided by the Watery Wellness Trust Ltd remain uncommon silent. For an august body that more ordinarily can’t resist barking orders (reminiscent of a chihuahua in an over-braided uniform and wearing stout leather boots), they don’t seem to be speaking to me. Not a pip, not a squeak, not a corporate raspberry blown in my face in over two weeks now. I am beginning to feel quite unloved.
If only (some) canals had by-passes.
Towns for those who love them, by-passes for those who don’t.
Something nicked an entire gigabyte of my data allowance overnight. The laptop was off but the (password protected) router was on. My monthly allowance of 32 gigabytes renews (no roll-over) overnight on the 22nd/23rd of each month. I ought to have woken this morning to 32 of them but instead there were but 31. No idea what, the nearest micks & brortar dwelling is sixty or seventy yards away, I doubt that my signal would reach them in sufficient strength to be useful. Passwords have been changed though, naturally. Most annoying indeed. Most odd that the theft was one complete, neat gigabyte…
Calm thoughts have been thought. Calm thoughts are necessary both in the face of Bumbledom Abounding, and in the matter of this data-allowance theft. Still, I would recommend that I be temporarily removed from the Rota of Those Holding the Nuclear Codes.
The wind is back today and probably for tomorrow too. It’s not even a proper wind, really, just a contiguous series of violent gusts. The sky is uniformly grey, it’s akin to being sat upon by an enormous pigeon. I live in fear today of the 8/8ths clouds parting to reveal some vast set of pigeon gonads. I should scream, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. The solar panels are snapping at any ergs that pass. I can’t put the candelabra on the roof to help because the candles keep blowing out. Plus, candles would probably set fire to the underside of this enormous pigeon.
This is one of those days that may be accurately summed up with a shrug of the shoulders and a brief curling of the upper lip. Ho et le hum. Ce sera zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The canals and the countryside are not speaking to me today; they’re both too intent on thinking blank thoughts. Oh the water’s there and the hedgerows and trees are there but there’s really nobody home. Father Nature has taken to his bed with a bottle and won’t be seen today or mayhap even tomorrow. On days such as these the infrastructure of the planet seems lifeless and inert.
Well though I remember the early mornings when…
…and, as if that wasn’t enough reason to giggle then this…
and the world seemed worth it somehow.
That’s about it, really. Dull and grey and windy and a thirty-twoth of my mobile data has been spirited away. Thanks be to the gods (Greek and Roman, only) for coffee and cake.
Actually, thanks be to Rosie II for the cake! Most splendid it is too, thank’ee. 🙂
I’ve been out, briefly, to blow away the cobwebs. The rest of the day will be spent in avoiding thinking of what more dimwittery will come my way should I be fool enough to read the “news” or check on my emails. Hopefully the world is not quite so shoulder-shruggy today wherever you may be, and there’s a touch of sunshinery, or birdsongism or something similar.
It would appear from Boris’s latest sandals and toga-clad “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” speech on the balcony at Number Ten that minor cruisery may be permissible from the 29th of next month, March, precisely. Subject of course to the whims and caprices of SAGE & ONION, his scientific side-kicks. Don’t ask me which is which, I think that they’re interchangeable.
How very interesting that I should have lived in The Age of Dimwittery, Buffoonery, and Incompetence, when had I but chosen more carefully when flicking through the brochures in Mr God’s Waiting Room I might have had instead to bluff my way through the Renaissance or the Victorian Era or – heaven forfend – the Era of the Discovery of Fire. There’s no denying though that witnessing the State of the Human Species in this, The Age of Stupid, is a fascinating thing, even if only in the same way as watching the 4:57 from Paddington leave the rails at Little Felching Next the Sea, and scattering carriages and unfortunate passengers right, left and centre.
I can feel a binge-watching evening of some nineteen-seventies series coming on. Coffee, cake, and trigger warnings. Fawlty Towers is a contender. Or Allo Allo.
Splendid. That’s a plan then.
Chin-chin, chaps. Ian H., Scourge of the Canals, and Cardinal W., now of Panamanian registry.