September 6, 2010

Major bleeaurgh


I am suffering post-dental-anaesthesia brain failure*, compounded with No Sleep to Speak of generalised constitutional dysfunction plus malevolinternetitis in one of its infinite (and infinitely malevolent) manifestations, so if I suddenly stop making any kind of fringrabbleponk zurlich arumblux naffare sense, that’ll probably be dinzle dwab duggee dorg why.  Also it’s raining.  Hard.**   And my jaw hurts.  And Finale, software music programme from Abaddon, isn’t working.  I think, in this case, however, it’s the laptop—still more joy.  Raphael, Computer Man A, was already booked for tomorrow—the laptop has been whining and hiccupping and falling over a lot lately, and today Peter’s computer decided to get in on the act:  computer performance art.  Not recommended.    So Gabriel, Computer Man B, is going to come along tomorrow and tilt at demons too.***  Maybe we have gremlins, the kind with zapper fingers and UDP-slot eyes and way too many brain pixels.  Or maybe a new hellmouth has opened under New Arcadia. 

            I favour the hellmouth explanation.  Or Borgmouth anyway.   Which would also explain this area’s reputation as the Bermuda Triangle of Hampshire†, which worries me, as I have previously expressed on these virtual pages.  That’s not just rain thumping down out there, it’s grey goo, which, as we know, is neither grey nor gooey.††  Other indications that the world as we know it is coming to an end include that we were chased by a cat this afternoon:  Honeybun, listen to me.  You’re a fine specimen and all but we still outweigh you by about ten to one and these guys run faster than you do. Trust me on this.  —Possibly it didn’t like the weather either.  Chaos was dancing up and down at the end of his lead saying pleeeeease, he wants to play, I can tell he wants to play†††—and making, as I think about it, rather cat-like noises.  The answer was still no.  I am no fun at all.  Especially when there seems to me blood in prospect.

            It’s illegal to go to bed before midnight, isn’t it?  It’s been so long since I tried. . . . ‡ 

* * *

* Highlighted, accentuated and fulsomely embellished by anticipatory dread.  I’m booked in for my first implant in a fortnight.  You’re so much better now, said dentist from R’lyeh brightly, I don’t think we even need to sedate you!

            Thanks, I said, digging the fingernails of the hand I fell down and broke the last time they sedated me into my palm.

** Grumbling noises from dog bed.  We wanted a hurtle this afternoon, not a swim!  We don’t like swimming!  —At least I have the consolation of not watering the garden.  Pity I can only hang hellhound harness over the Aga rail, however, and not the hellhounds themselves.  They tend to crush themselves up against the bottom of it in a very inefficient manner:  you want air circulation for your best drying.

*** And Colin’s away, so I didn’t even get to ring bells tonight.  Although in these particular circumstances this is probably just as well.  Aside from the fact that if I managed to hit myself in the face with a bell rope tonight—a not unheard of event—I would probably burst into tears.

† Why is it that Pooka’s server, to whom I pay vast quantities of money every month^ to keep her in electrons, always seems to manage to get their messages through^^, even when nobody else can? 

^ Why does this already seem to have been going on for a very long time?  It can’t have been going on very long, I’m only barely into level two of Angry Birds.+  Granted I am as talent-free about Angry Birds as I am about so much of our modern world, but clueless obstinacy will drag you along here as it does in, say, bell ringing.  Gods.  As talent-free as I am about our modern and our traditional worlds.  A hellgoddess could get depressed.

+ Most evenings I’m more into roaring and mindless city-stomping than I am in the carefully calculated exploding of green pigs.  But the birds and I had a rather long truculent hiatus while the archons kept failing me even though I’d wiped out their dranglefabbing pigs.  But Raphael did his flaming PCMCIA~ trick and the pigs grinned one last time and began behaving themselves.  And I’ve started signing my emails to Raphael ‘Angry Bird’.  Ha ha ha ha ha.

~ Even archangels have to move with the times

^^ ‘Hi!  Can we interest you in another incredibly shiny service package full of acronyms you don’t recognise but we can assure you are very very cool and really it doesn’t matter if you never understand how to use them, it’s enough that they are cool and that you pay us for them?’

††  But isn’t it interesting that the book that first coined ‘grey goo’ is roughly contemporaneous with our first discovery of the Borg, thinly disguised as it was as fiction in ST:TNG.  I mean, did you ever really believe [deleted by Pollyanna^]?  But the Borg were clearly real.

^ Hey!  I thought it was only books! 

††† Like you could tell that border collie in Old Eden and that cocker spaniel in Ditherington wanted to play till I started keeping you cranked in at heel when we went past because I got tired of watching you get your nose bitten.^

^ And this week’s Idiot Dog Owner Story is:  we were gambolling across the fireworks field+ when a Shadow That Shouldn’t Be There caught my peripheral vision, and I saw a gigantic black Labrador standing at attention, head and tail up, staring at us.  The fireworks field is below the cricket field and there’s a bank and a few bits of shrubbery where things like owners may be concealed.   I had just seen what was clearly a large yellow Labrador and what might possibly have been an accompanying human when the Black Rocket launched itself toward us, its ruff standing out like a lion’s.  *&^%$£”!!!!!  —CALL YOUR DOG! I yelled.  I could see the whites of its eyes and the foam on its lips when . . . it suddenly dropped its head, ears and tail, shrank to about two thirds of its previous size and started making little whimpering noises.  GAAAAH.  Okay, not complaining, we’re all still alive.  And at this point, the two-legged moron on the other side of the field shouts in this nasty, condescending and yet aggressive way, Is there a problem?


+ Where Guy Fawkes is burnt in effigy again every year

‡ And the moral to this story is, don’t take nights off.  Because it’ll be the next night you really need to take off.


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