hirez: (irradiated)
Work, right? Filled with things. Many of them falling into the category of 'another fucking opportunity for personal growth', which, um, right. I'd point at my old post about normality and workloads, but whatevs.

[FX: Looks at LJ posts from this time last year. It was all completely fucked, wasn't it?]

Anyway. If you recall, before Christmas we had some weather. This was the Ballardian Wind from Nowhere, rather than the more recent Ballardian Drowned World, and as a cincequonce the hateful Pyracanthus bush at the bottom of the garden took on the sort of stance usually seen in coastal blackthorn bushes. Since it was also massively topheavy with bright orange berries, the only thing for it was to hack the thing back violently and hope that the stumpy remains returned to life when the growing season returned. (They haven't)

Then there was the other sort of weather. Then when there wasn't any particular weather there were things and/or people to go and visit which was lovely but oh crikey hello the middle of March and the garden's still actually a tip filled with downed bushes and builder's waste.

A few weeks ago I bought an incinerator and stored it in the lee of the house to as to avoid the worst of the weather.

I don't know about you lot, but watching someone play a portable harmonium makes me want to start 'singing' Ivor Cutler songs and/or repeating the parts of 'Life in a scotch sitting room' that I can remember. However, given the specific audience, I had to start from first principles and attempt to explain Ivor Cutler.

An entire pyracanthus bush + Buddliea prunings + random garden gubbins can be fed slowly into an incinerator, but it's hot and smoky work and I was mildly disturbed when the alleged galvanized 'coating' on the 'lid' started coming off on my gloves like mercury.

I also said some jolly rude words when I caught the inside of my forearm on the inside of the incinerator and a wedge of skin just shrivelled up and fell off. However, since the job was only half done, I couldn't run indoors to, I don't know, run it under the tap or something. Anyway we don't have plasters that big. Anyway anyway, it's a burn and you're supposed to leave that in the open air.

Later, we beetled off to the Bristolcon Fringe event where there was beer and food and a set of jolly good readings.

There wasn't anything odd about that. Well, not until I ended up deep in a discussion about characters and then realised that I was having no hint of impostor syndrome.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
That technical thing I was struggling with in the last post? Works. :D

(Well, the test-rig behaves as expected after my usual approach to this sort of problem - do all sorts of other things for most of the day and then bash something out that looks right in five minutes...)

(This message brought to you by the National Technical Standards Board of Elbonia.)
hirez: (Information Hazard)
Odd new niches for not-rubbish computers turn up like unexpected bus-routes to timezones with disturbing physics. Someone might bleat on about it being a first-world problem, but I'd like to think we're just the fools with the money prototyping this stuff that'll be air-dropped on people who'd rather have food and/or guns at the behest of a mob of Hackernews believers.

[Poll #1942308]
hirez: (Aspirational message)
From El-Reg (which is still the spodding equivalent of the DMail):
Then he choked, and didn't turn the experiment on, saying it all looked too easy. Such choking isn't uncommon – Darwin sat on Origin of Species for nearly 20 years after all. "For about three days, I could have done it, but I didn't have the nerve to switch on that button," Oxborrow tells Nature.

Which, um.

I've come across the concept in re. sporting endeavour because of Half-Man Half-Biscuit and 'My baby got the yips'

I'm going to go and have a dig for sensible(-ish) articles about That Sort of Thing.
hirez: (Object)
Urg. Woken at zero-dark due to it being my turn to care about Pagerduty.com (actually a mostly-well-thought-out thing). Failed to get back to sleep. Necked a melatonin. Am now zombified and bumping into solid objects.

I think ifttt is broken for me. (posting public LJ things to FB because FB + black dog == not a cheery time, frankly.)
hirez: (Radiation)
Bad thing: migraine. Stopped in its tracks by imigran, but still.

Good thing: blank playing cards. Guess I'd better fix the printer and then work out how to stuff (a) through (b).
hirez: (Happy cycling)
http://www.cyclingnews.com/news/italian-police-investigate-ricco-for-blood-doping
http://www.cyclingnews.com/news/ricco-to-be-questioned-about-blood-doping-investigation

[It's only of tangential interest that this bloke looks like a former manager, who I failed to get on with in a really rather messy manner.]

So it would seem that yer man here, who has already been banned for using EPO, drained an armful and kept it in the fridge for the thick end of a month. Lord alone knows what the best-before date is on your own blood, but I suspect it's way shorter than that. Even in a serious eco-fridge with a water cooler and a frost-free thingy. I mean, I went and checked our freezer and there's a wee icon of a cow and a chicken and three stars, but nothing that looks like it might be a person-juice symbol.

Of course, the chap's first mistake was not to go on to a Twilight and/or similar Paranormal Romance forum-effort and ask the inmates what fridge they'd recommend for blood storage. After all, every modern vampire type would know that sort of thing.

Second mistake? Not opening the bag and sniffing it before putting it back in. Schoolboy error, there. If he'd been the sort of person who's parents made him eat the bowl of cereal even though there were floaty bits in the milk, he'd not be in charge of one or more somewhat shagged kidneys.
hirez: (dissent)
... And another thing.

I had (emphasis on the past tense there) a working SVN rig betwixt my Winders box what ran TortoiseSVN and the BSD machine what was running SVN in noddy-not-a-server mode.

And then it stopped last week.

The Windows side of the problem is exactly as helpful as one might expect, suggesting voodoo and chicken-waving to make it work again. (It is not explained why setting 'mesg n' might 'fix' it. Nor is it explained why, if that's the problem, it's been working lo these past six years.)

Hm. I should be able to perform a 'svn commit' from Cygwin, shouldn't I?

The unix box isn't spotting a problem. In that ssh logins work, ssh from Cygwin works, ssh from putty works, ssh from plink works, etc.

This would be the second Winders bizarro-failure of the week that's only going to be debuggable with Wireshark.

(Or install Git, I guess.)

Grr, argv[1], /etc: /libexec/ld-elf.so.1: Shared object "libintl.so.8" not found, required by "svnserve"

... aaand fixing that seems to involve refreshing half the packages on the system. Hey ho.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
I was seized by the spirit of being on holiday (though I could do it during a normal week) and went out for a late-night pelt round the aerial. It was glorious out and happily short of cars to spoil the noise of tyres on tarmac and the smell of summer.

I was even capable of pushing it some in the big ring. If I'm wobbly and suicidally depressed in the morning, that'll have been a mistake. However, I'm hopeful that wilful experimentation with L-Glutamine will show otherwise. Mind, it appears that Glucosamine makes sod-all difference to nowt but Holland & Barrett's bottom line, so perhaps the only performance-enhancing white powders are still the ones that come in gramme wraps.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Meme: INTJ. As discovered using a real Myers-Briggs test which, IIRC, involved sticking pins into a workbook. Clearly the white heat of technology had cooled somewhat by the early eighties.

Twitter: Usual username.

Related lolwhut: Queryfail; get it right up ye.
hirez: (posing)
"I was digging my mother's old sewing machine from the cupboard under the stairs when I caused a minor stuff-avalanche. I was hit in the head by a pair of Korean bicycle tyres and a broken VR headset. The tyres went into the shed and the VR-rig into the bin."

... Which could be the start of a rubbish cyberpunk story, were it not true.

Random sort of life and no mistake. Even more so, given that I'm more disappointed in not finding the sewing machine manual than the fact that I was brained by falling retro-tech. (Husqvarna/Viking 6000/Practica III or some combination of those names.)
hirez: (SantaBot)
Perhaps I need less rubbish tyres on the road bike.

And a new pair of winter strides, since there's an extra hole in the existing set.

Blast.

Still, own stupid fault, etc.

Nevertheless: ow.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
Bother. I had some idea or other for a poll that would utterly confuse more or less everyone. I had the entire thing gurgling away in my head while I steamed to work this AM, but then I realised that I couldn't feel my toes and that was the end of that bright idea.

There was extra comedy coming back. At some point before I got to Bitton railway, I lost one of the allen bolts holding the SPD cleats to my footwear. Thus when I attempted to unclip my right foot, the cleat rotated and I remained attached to the bike.

Cue swearing and riding in circles in the car-park.

As it was, bin-cleaning-bloke arrived at the door at about the same time I wobbled up the pavement, through where the gate isn't and leaning against the bin like I meant to do that. He only laughed a bit while I unlaced the attached boot then hopped about like a pillock attempting a bicycle morris dance.

Tomorrow I take the train to the bike-shop and grovel for countersunk allen bolts and some loctite.

I wish I could remember the other stuff I was going to post about. It was good.

(Actually, the one thing is frankly bloody strange and is giving me a bit of a shit time. Ugh. Brains, eh?)
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
'Dargon Taxis' sound like the sort of firm you'd ring up when you got bored with your runequest and wanted to slope off down the pubbe (Three lads wenten to a pubbe/and gleefully their hands began to rub) for a swift flagon.

"Mount Doom at this time of night? Yer 'avin a right larf, etc."

(Well, I laughed)

Most of our bread flour comes from the Wessex Mill in Wantage (there's probably a closer source. I have investigated carelessly) and arrives in nice white bags with string-knitting stitched across the top.

When I was much younger and mater baked large numbers of bread products, the flour came in big sacks with similarly knitted string. If you found the right end to pull, it would un-knit along the top of the sack in a most pleasing manner.

For the last several months I have been failing to find the right end of string, and I've taken it as a sign that I've lost the plot because I can't even operate flour bags anymore.

So I emailed the mill-people. They wrote back this AM. I have not lost the plot. Big sacks are knotted such that the correct pull opens them with one tug. The small flour bags have complicated knitting that requires the use of sharp objects. Which I guess makes sense; a small child could have minutes of fun if left unattended in an organic or farm shop.

I related this tale to mater earlier. It turns out that she's been buying the same flour and making the same assumption of brain-fail as I have.

Which just goes to show, um, something.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
The documentation and route-map for the CTC Wiltshire Challenge turned up today.

I'm bricking it. 100k? What was I thinking?
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Dear minging lardy 'driver' of the sludge coloured five-series: If you want to accelerate wildly round a parked car while re-tuning the wireless and holding up the other hand to block the early morning sunlight, please try it far away from me. There's a good girl. Oh, I might also add that you can get a Variety Club Sunshine Bus up that road while leaving space for parked cars and pushbikes, so you've got no bloody excuse at all. Perhaps the combination of excess lard and pressure from your big eighties secretary glasses has conspired to squeeze all your 'brains' from your ears?

Elsewhere: No, I'm not going to watch this 'completely mad' video you found. Bugger off.
hirez: (Challenger)
Sometimes, a chap could become convinced that the universe was having a bijou laugh-ette.

On one hand, we have the strange spectacle of Rice-Rocketry.

On the other, the computing version of same. (Yes, if you run Gentoo, you are a bit of a nobber)

(You can stretch your own analogies if you want to throw game/windows-ricing and/or Proper Chap's Unix into the mix. I'm not bothered.)

On the third hand, we have a pre-riced family shopper called a Gen-2. You may call it circular. I call it a bit bleedin' previous, pal.
hirez: (Default)
We've got this tree at the bottom of the garden, next to the shed. You can tell it's a bit of a character by the ungrammatical use of the word 'this'. If it had been 'a' tree, then it would have been an undistinguished specimen that told bad jokes or perhaps droned on about SQL Server at otherwise splendid dinner parties.

Hm. 'splendid' and 'dinner party'. Perhaps not.

Anyway. This tree, right? If it had been 'that' tree or even 'your' tree, you would have known that it had just tracked mud in through the house or vomited lager-residue over one of the spider plants. (It's like a spider baby, only in a pot.)

However, the tree in question has done none of these things because it exists in consensus reality, rather than the considerably more interesting version that I prefer to lark around in. In fact, it's done bugger all apart from put up with me hacking back the ivy that surrounded it and bring forth splendid purple spears of flowers that smell excellent and remind me of being tiny because the things used to be everywhere when Cheltenham had more piles of rubble and flattened buildings. That was part of the attraction and why I was so pleased to find it lurking at the bottom of the garden. The breed were/are well known for inhabiting bomb-sites.

And like some dreadful halfwitted human-impersonating muppet I'd forgotten what the poor bloody bush is called.

Buddleia. If I'm going to have a favourite non-native flowering shrub, that'll be the one.
hirez: (muddy)
Much better. It's amazing how well endorphins regulate one's mood.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
So, um, this exercise business, right. Is it just me that gets yea-many weeks in to a reasonably exacting regimen and then has an attack of the Serious Bleak?

What I think's happening is my metabolism waking up and going "Lard-burning, is it? Right then, fuckin' 'ave it, mate." (Gloucestershire metabolism, y'see...) and because I've not changed my face-feeding habits to compensate, I have what the cyclists call a bit of a bonk. I imagine the same thing would happen if I didn't do any more work, but went on some calorie-restricted diet or other.

It's just me, isn't it?

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