Last night I put on my
oximeter and went to sleep. It wasn't especially comfortable. The
thing got more uncomfortable as the night went on; by 3am it felt
like my finger was in a vice. I spent the last hour or so in serious
pain before finally pulling it off shortly before 6am.
Family Guy and South Park
kept me entertained over brekkie, then I set off to work where the
radio was less entertaining and more annoying. There was concern
expressed about how nothing is really being done to combat
global warming, and how by the end of the century the planet will
be (on average) four degrees warmer than it is now. That being
an average figure it means there will be whole swathes left
uninhabitable.
No one really seemed
bothered.
Mind you everyone seemed
to be incensed at the
Culture Secretary. From what I could work out she's made the most
of a rather vague system of claiming expenses; and having been told
she'd arguably taken the piss, she apologised about any offence
caused and paid back what others said she'd overclaimed. Boris
Johnson, the Mayor of London, was on the radio refusing to condemn
her as she'd not actually done wrong.
The Communities Secretary
Eric Pickles was launching a scathing
attack on active atheists; claiming and insisting that religious
intolerence is purely something open to Christians.
Nero fiddles whilst Rome
burns...
At work I faced something
of a mystery. One of the apprentices asked me if my banana-guard had
suffered any damage. The thing looked fine, and when I asked him why
he should be wondering, he started giggling. As did others. I suspect
my banana-guard has been used for nefarious purposes.
And the inestimable
Soup-Boy announced that from now on he was going to hang his coat on
the other peg. I assumed this can only be tantamount to "getting
on the other bus", and I have warned him that should he be
"good with colours" or found to be "baking a
moist sponge" I would have no choice but to take him in hand
(!) before he "bowls from the pavilion end".
The rest of the working
day was rather dull after this revelation.
Once home I took "Furry
Face TM" round to Frog's Island to replace
a missing geocache. On the way we terrorised a bus, made friends with
several toddlers, chased a Yorkie, played with a stick, and upset two
skinhead thugs (complete with hand drawn mis-spelt tattoos).
"Thugbert" and "Pratfred" had some
sort of banned and illegal dog on a length of rope. As we came close
we were warned to "keep that F*!* rat away"; the
implication being that their macho dog would attack. Before I could
do anything "Furry Face TM"
started sniffing the murder-hound's bum. The supposedly vicious and
dangerous dog started whimpering and crying and pulling to get away.
I don't think they saw me laughing.
And so to Folkestone for
the Tuesday conglomeration. After insults were bandied we watched
Doctor Who. Or, to be more precise, Doctor Who was the show that was
on the telly, but I for one was watching Nicola Bryant's epic chest.
Anyone who says they don't like classic Doctor Who clearly hangs
their coat on the other peg.
Let's hope that oximeter
is more comfortable tonight...
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