That battery is from my MiFi unit and being originally slim and of uniform shape it ought to be laying flat. Instead, the bulge on both sides is lifting it off the surface as you can see. It was also on the “ouch” side of warm when found. Justin Time.
Justin tells me it’s also Justout of guarantee, of course.
The back-up unit (Plan B From Outer Space) lacks the connections to the external aerial, and so mun hang like an enormous pooch-poop bag in the well deck, wherein in these non-Midsomer Murders signal-p-poor parts it doth secure me a bar of The 3G.
The window glass, while nicely blue on the outside and one-way under most lighting conditions pertaining, was also chosen for a distinct measure of “not-passery” where radio transmissions are concerned. For this reason I a., cannot use a DAB transistor radio inside and b., have to keep a door open to let the MiFi signal walk in from outside. Close that door and it’s gone.
Everyone tells me that they get a thousand bars of one-millionG simply by tucking their wind-up smart phones or MiFi units near a porthole. Good for them. I do not. Mind you, nor do I receive – whether I want to or not – BBC3 on either my tin-foil shower-cap or my prosthetic metal nipples.
Happy am I that the battery neither moved on to the “impressive conflagration” station nor fried my sim card. Replacement battery ordered, although – sadly – this too will be lathered with what must surely be regarded as a safety warning these days – ‘Made in [unregulated] China’.
It does seem to be incredibly important to The Universe that I be delayed in my any and all efforts to say g’bye to WinDoze and hello to Linux.
Talking of Bill Gates, here’s a gratuitous photograph of the towpath not far from the Cardinal. I call the composition ‘Dead Fish with Goose Poop and a Pile of Something Else Unmentionable’.
Quite why there’s a dead fish on the towpath I could not say. I have insufficient experience of life on this planet.
It is important to look before you leap and rarely more so than when leaping off onto a towpath to moor up. Come Summer because the Cyclists’ & Ramblers’ Trust Ltd has ceased mowing to the edge these sorts of delights will be hidden in the long grasses and weeds. Lovely.
There are reeds opposite where I am moored and at first steam of coffee this morning I noticed a heron popping up among them, looking tousled and sleepy. I suspect that the reeds were where he’d spent the night. Perhaps, having caught this fish yester in the day the heron was then disturbed and, being programmed by Father Nature to catch live fish rather than pick up dead ones, did not return for his catch? Dunno.
I can’t get beyond an image of Mr Heron looking down at his catch, tying a starched white apron around his waist, preparing herbs and butter and heating up his griddle pan only to then be frightened away from his meal by some towpath pillock on a velocipede.
Mind you, I haven’t heard any reports of flustered heron flying about in aprons, so who knows?
Messrs Bargus oiked up…
Once the winds begin to play fairly we’ll be oiking ourselves on once more to pastures fresh. The Nazgûl will be circling soon enough, iddly-piddly iPads dangling.
What ho, Universe. Oh…
…and here it comes, as I type this the laptop slows to a crawl, with each and every key-stroke appearing one by one, more and more slowly…
What joy abounding.
I may ditch the old laptop and go back to my wooden abacus.
It’s all a part of the process of heading back into the trees. From there it’s simply a well-timed walk down the beach and back into the primordial sludge.
How attractive the primordial sludge looks, with the sun glinting off the foaming waves.
IGH., of Little To No Interwebnets (a healthy experience all things considered).