So, lifted with some discretion from Blogger, and not necessarily in that order:
|big rose beef|
|if you strangle yourself does your face bloat|
|spanking kids site:blogspot.com|
And for some really strange reason, this seems to have become the blog of reference for threadworms. Why this should be so is totally beyond my admittedly limited comprehension, and I have to say that it doesn't really worry me: anyone who winds up here looking for such things will find only factoids, these being facts which are not, strictly speaking, true.
(This last factoid is, in my experience, particularly good for relating to small children of a nervous disposition. But not at table, please.)
But honestly, who goes googling photos for pictures of "threadworm eggs" or "dead threadworm"? Come to that, who googles "diesel powered nose hair trimmers"?
So on the principle that it can't do too much harm I tell it to go ahead and initialise the sucker, at which point I am informed that it's read-only, so stiff luck there. Tried a couple of data recovery programs, all of which gave me nothing but sector read errors: maybe the thing is cooked after all. A b'stard, although there is not, as the Frogs say, "mort d'homme": it was only TV series, after all. But it still kind of makes me wonder if I shouldn't go back to 9-track tape for my backups.
Truth to tell, I am getting to the point where I firmly believe that once you've managed to get your kids out the door, you should never let them back in. Except on strictly defined occasions, under armed watch, and for pre-arranged periods: three days at Christmas, for instance. Otherwise you're just asking for trouble. It's rather like having worms: an autonomous parasitic life-form that sneaks out at night to empty the fridge. But at least for worms, you can take pills - can do that for kids too, but unfortunately it's not retroactive.
Whatever, it's still thirty years we've been together, with ups and downs, as will happen - but we are still together, which might be just a statistical blip but if so it's a happy one. I for one am not complaining.
Had an unexpected house guest for a couple of days: Stacey rang on Monday night to say that all her heating seemed to have gone off and the house was cold, so we persuaded her to come over on Tuesday. Of course the chauffagiste couldn't come until Wednesday, and when he did turn up it was to suck his teeth reflectively, in the manner of tradesmen everywhere if they're preparing to let you have the bad news, and then say that the circulator pump for the geothermal heating had died, and there seemed to be something broken in the backup gas burner, he'd see what he could do for Thursday but wouldn't hold out much hope, just can't get the wood these days ...
Although it's starting to warm up. Sufficiently so that it snowed on Wednesday - not too heavily which is good, as I had to head off to Monthey at the arse end of lac Léman on the Thursday - and right now, Friday midi, we're luxuriating in a positively balmy 6°. This should continue, if it doesn't I shall be highly annoyed.
Whipped through Carrefour to pick up a few necessities for the chili con carne that's tonight's meal (I know there were plenty of tortilla chips in the pantry, but as Jerry's back with us that sort of thing tends to disappear and does not turn up on the shopping list in a timely manner) and came across something I really should go back and get a photo of: a rather strange-looking electric massage pillow. Unfortunately it resembles nothing more than a pair of fake boobs made by an extremely amateur potter, and seems to have flashy LEDs implanted randomly in it, for what purpose I cannot imagine.
Which leads us to another excerpt from the Beckham Diaries, as once we'd frightened some old ladies away from their table and installed ourselves, Bryan explained to me that the reason we were drinking alone - or at least, bereft of feminine company - was that Ken the rich Australian had sent her a plane ticket for Bristol, which she quite reasonably took as an invitation, and used it.
So we were sitting there glumly reflecting on the perfidy of humanity in general, and more particularly that part of it which happens to be female when Bryan's brand-new smart-phone (with which he's not yet really come to grips, but that's another story) emitted a discreet belch to indicate the arrival of a new text. Which went, more or less, as follows -
"Hi guys, he chucked me out because I wouldn't sleep with him: changed my flight, now arrive at Geneva at 20:10, after the last train for Chambéry. Help? Beckham."
This is of course, as I opined to him, the problem with having pets: you just can't leave them by themselves for any length of time in case they get into trouble, and if ever there's a mess it's you that has to clean it up.