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It's not all been grim, thankfully.

- such hackercamps that I have been to, now I've been paying attention to pride flags which are now 'ours', are gleefully Queer As Fuck. The current winner being CCCamp 23, which had catgirls as far as the eye could see. And. Dear god the lack of the grinding transphobia that's the constant background radiation to one's existence on Terf Island was like breathing clean air for the first time in weeks.

You really do have to go and live somewhere sensible, even for a few days, to realise just how fucked this tiresome little island has become.

- That written, in order to get to .de, I had to refresh my passport because it was old. Now it has an 'F' in the box, even if it is brexiteer coloured.
The GP did their best to fuck the process. Everyone else involved, very much including the passport office themselves, did their best to make it all happen in about a week.

'I'm sorry I can't accept this passport form,' went the woman in the post office. 'You look nothing like your previous photo...' Which, yay but argh.

- Those hackercamps have inspired most of my ink. I still catch sight of one or other of the pieces at least daily and have a quiet grin. Who knew I could be that sort of rock&roll?

- I love, absolutely love, DJing techno and prog house. Like, you know pottery bloke that bursts into tears at the sight of a fine pot? That's me with a good blend.

- I can no longer really read SF and I don't care. Instead I am reading really rather a lot of sapphic romance. Like, a lot. Who knew that representation, women protagonists having fulfilling emotional lives and (mostly) managing to communicate like adults, all of those protagonists making it to the end of the story, and having DNA-altering sex, would be a more interesting read than, oh, I don't know, tedious manliness, gunplay, and a fucking hyperdrive?

- It's kind of weird that my own sexuality actually makes sense for the first time, now it has a different label.

Current Mood: Tweed guitar case
Current Location: Bottom of the garden
Current Music: Sunn O)))

Today is Bongle in the month of Splartgrist in the Kubernetes mines. Our squad has worked many shifts and everything is in accordance with the plan of Leader Qvst.

Actually, things are pretty normal. Third-party c0de and/or doc is incomplete or wrong, stackexchange is wrong and westing by musket and Github bug report is the most reliable way forward.

Which means I'm not thick, past it or missing anything. Computers still work the way I expect them to. Badly.

Current Location: Not Building one
Current Music: Distant hammering from the Ikea therapy rooms

At the tail end of last year, I was idly wondering (and this may well have been idle wondering out loud in the direction of Richard) if there might be a way of sustaining the fun of makevember, only with fewer rules and more explicit provisions for having bad days so as to avoid the sort of shitty self-guilt-trip that tends to turn a regular endeavour into Chemistry Homework that is done in a hurry before Last of the Summer Wine comes on at 7:15 after Songs of Praise.

So I scribbled a set of things that might be fun, or that I gave myself explicit permission to be rubbish at, in the front of a chunky notebook I accidentally bought in Paperchase at least a year ago. Because I am not the sort of person to write things in a brightly coloured notebook from Paperchase with brightly coloured pens ditto. No. That is what Keep for Android is for, or the wall of post-its on the unused monitor next to this screen.

It seemed to go quite well. I did a thing, logged what I thought about it and then got on with emitting snot into a variety of handkerchiefs. I could have left it alone, but since creativity seems to beget further creativity, or wild ideas become lonely and want other wild ideas to play with, I scribed down all the classes/concepts on a set of cards. The vague plan being that I'd pick one randomly and go and do it.

Because that was never going to be enough, there followed a few days later a set of modifiers.

I was explaining this to my braincare specialist during the week, and he got it straight away because he is a fan of Tarot. We jabbered for a bit about using almost context-free words/images to bypass one's internal editor (the part of your head that goes 'no that's silly' or 'you should worry about this gas bill') and speak directly to the Id (for want of a better concept).

"You're hacking your brain," he said. "Tricking your internal systems into running code it doesn't seem to want to seems pretty textbook to me."

Which had not occurred to me and was indeed true.

I'm sure I had more to say/write about it, but this is getting increasingly meta.

Current Mood: Humppa!
Current Location: Irony St, EC1.
Current Music: Gamification is a pox on modern society

It's that time of year when I listen to 'Tour de France Soundtracks' semi-obsessively and wait for the days to get longer and the cycling season to start properly.

(Volta ao Algarve / Ruta del Sol / Tour of Murcia / Strade Bianchi / Omloop / etc)

Earlier in the week, I'd beetled off into Bath to get Ma a tin of Silvo. Because Bath is Bath, there's one shop hidden at the back of the Guildhall market where you can buy useful things like slug killer, metal polish, cheap and nasty karabiners, baluns, hoseclips.. The sorts of thing that you could see the sort of people you expect to live in Bath would send out the housekeeper (who cannot afford to live in Bath) to find. Or more likely would not actually understand were things, but would expect them to exist anyway.

I relay this intelligence to Ma, and I start jabbering about the way polishing the silver seemed like a horrible job when I was six or eight. (Yes, we had enough silver for polishing it to be A Thing. See also not having to buy furniture, central heating being an unfathomable modernity, learning to drive in a Range Rover, wanting to destroy the patriarchy)

This led to further speculation about the hatefulness of modern living and how it seems to have driven a generation into industrialised nostalgia with their retro-gaming, she-ra backpacks and eighties/nineties/britpoop nights.

"You know, your grandfather kept a shire horse long after tractors had taken over farm work. She was called Nancy. He just kept her because he'd worked with horses growing up."

Modern life has always been rubbish.

Current Mood: Cleveland
Current Location: Bottom of the garden
Current Music: Fluke

If I have a most recent excuse for not posting a damn, it's because some DW update, although more likely a perfectly sensible fix given the vague bug seems to be that the http transport in logjam can't/won't follow redirects, is that Logjam no longer works. Mind, I don't know what the rules are for that sort of thing.

Another reason (I think) for being quieter than usual is that I have been experiencing what the tabs call A Health Scare.

As opposed to a Heath Scare, which is what used to happen when wandering gay couples would be startled by a mob of cheerfully drunken goths in what they thought of as their corner of the Heath Extension.

Anyway. Blood pressures past 175 seem to make health professionals sit up and pay attention.

The good news is that it's mostly not like that any more. Although a manky database server can put me right back in 'preparing to explode' mode.

The weird news is that watching Hotrod Garage on the Youtubes and/or thinking nice thoughts about Porthcurno in the sunshine drops it to near-normal. Make of that what you will.

Looking back on DW/LJ, I go quite badly wrong every December. I think I was just 'lucky' that someone was looking in the right direction this time.

Current Mood: Rattling
Current Location: Gartly Station
Current Music: The soothing racket of a small-block

I woke up at 3am on Friday, mildly desperate for the bog-block at the other end of our field. The roof of the tent was an odd sort of mottled cream, bellowing back and forth in the wind. The brass chandelier wasn't moving though, which was odd. I tried to recall where I'd left my boots and which pair of trousers were closest to hand, so I could pile on enough clothing not to scare any other shambling campers making for the same destination. There was something still wrong with the tent roof though. It was too far away and too rectilinear.

Then I woke up a little more and remembered I was in a room at the Columbia Hotel and the bog-block was an avocado thing about three metres away from my head.

The unconscious theme of SHA2017 was random electric vehicles.

Current Mood: Humppa!
Current Location: Humppa!
Current Music: Not hummpa.

Part of the way round my fairly regular lunchtime power-amble (It's like a walk, but it's accompanied by skronky music so as to drown out the idling shitboxes, both vehicular and human, that clutter the place up) the scrot-o-pod presented me with FUSE vs LFO, which was jolly nice of it. The sun was out and I had something of a Tyres moment.

If I ever get to write a screenplay with in-atmosphere AG vehicles, the instructions to the set/model designers will be 'All the vehicles should look and sound like Pro-Mod or Nascar.'

Earlier, it had played the German version of 'Neon Lights'.

I first came across that track on a luminous 12" that was sold to me by someone in the upper sixth. He had a haircut and may or may not have been in a punk band, so was treated as some ultra-cool arbiter of taste. That he would sell an oik like me a Kraftwerk record was clear evidence that Kraftwerk were completely over and everyone should buy Pigbag records. Crip Russell, who fancied himself a somewhat temporally-close arbiter of taste (not in a punk band), crowed at some length in the loud, confident and wrong manner that teenage boys of all ages can manage so well (see half of twitter) about it all. He was especially pleased that I had paid like a pound or something for a record that had sellotape on the sleeve and had been thrown down the school bus at some point. Clearly it was a terrible object, I had no idea about music (which at that point was probably true) and was probably a communist who hated fun. (It was the seventies. I was not yet in a punk band.)

At one point, everyone I knew was in some sort of unpopular beat combo. It was a source of regular astonishment in later years to meet people who'd never spent all their money on a drum-machine. What was wrong with them? Didn't they like music enough to want to make some of their own?

(I also like SF and computers, so I made my own. I don't quite understand people who don't have that sort of passion for a thing.)

Crip and haircut-the-sixformer had got their punk-rock semiotics the wrong way up. Which was not unexpected, given words like that weren't allowed in the North Cotswolds then.

The point of the sodding record was that it contained 'Neon Lights' by Kraftwerk, which even through the pops and scratches and poor quality luminous alleged-vinyl, is a transcendent sort of noise. The weird and good music is the stuff that stays in your head for years, even if you only hear a few bars on the Peel programme when you're nodding off.

In 1990, Peelie (although it could have been a pirate or Kiss-FM when they had the two hours of 'acid house' on a Wednesday evening) played a track called 'I believe' by Sensomilla. I wrote down the name in (oh god) my rather new micro-filofax and then life went a bit weird. Much later in the decade, I was at a record fair in Cheltenham town hall, digging through a box of random old techno records. I found that Sensomilla 12", couldn't remember how it went but did remember that it was just a lovely thing, which is why it's in the record box behind me. It only took a few years to find.

A couple of nights ago, the last ever PoI featured something that sounded like a minor-key Boards of Canada. I poked at the phone during an ad-break and found the wiki where people had collated all the music featured in each episode. That track was called 'Bunsen Burner' by some mob or chap called CUTS.

CUTS turns out to be a Bristol mob or chap and I think I am mildly annoyed that I've managed not to find out about them until two days ago.

Current Mood: Sensomilla
Current Location: Hob's Lane
Current Music: Sensomilla

Well, that was all a little disappointing. (Or 'hardly ideal' if we're going to be English about it.)

On Saturday AM, when I was on-call, everything stopped. I should have known I would be on-call because I'd had a couple of days off and a whole pile of changes had been shoved through the system.

In the old days, half of the machines were named after characters from Red Dwarf and the other half were from the Simpsons. Then we bought some more servers, so the third half were named after Spaced characters. That had to stop when a machine was named 'Vulva'. After that it was Dr Who planets, Star Trek planets, Star Wars planets (Expanded Universe), and then villages in Gloucestershire.

Now we are only allowed functional names because ministry of no fucking imagination or fun whatsoever. 'Fun' is provided by third-party contractors at management-approved times and locations. Making up your own entertainment is dangerous subversion.

Anyway. In the old days, one of the admins was called Dave. So when a pile of machines expired because of Reasons (PHP most of the time), we could go through the whole 'Dave, everybody's dead.' 'What, Petersen's dead?' ' Yes, Dave, etc' routine and have it be accurate and funny. (Ops gallows humour versions thereof.)

On Saturday, everything stopped and it was not funny and because there's no fucking team any more, no-one was going to turn up and help.

It was quickly obvious that all the external HAProxies for all the websites had no connections at all. Which is, y'know, totally a thing. Bouncing haproxy did not work, but restarting the box (because fuck it, it's the weekend and I've not had any breakfast yet) made everything happy.

For about half an hour.

Bollix Notionally In Charge hove to shortly thereafter because he'd been reading one of the sites in bed and noticed when it expired again.

After some poking about, BNIC declared that keepalived (A thing which allows you to share an address between a pair of computers, so one can break and the other will take up the slack) was obviously knackered and he was going to the shops now.

While everything was being fucked, I had noticed that I couldn't login to a whole collection of boxes, which did not inspire confidence, but, y'know, one problem at a time.

While describing that fuckery to someone else, it struck me that actually the login problem was a symptom of the IPv6 stack being utterly buggered.

(On the modern rig, of which this is all a part, we run dual-stack v4 and v6 addresses. When you do that, DNS will give you the v6 address first. Thus broken v6 and working v4 look an awful lot like a very long timeout indeed.)

I poked further. Yes, it wasn't terribly surprising that IPv6 wasn't working, because none of the computers were getting RA messages.

(So. v4 config is pretty static and you have to tell a machine what its address is and where the clock is and where the nameservers are and what the default route and netmask looks like and oh god make it stop. v6 tried to make that less worse with the notion of Router Advertisement messages. This is basically the network hardware going 'Hello! You are on a network with this address! You may send all your packets to me! If you would like another address, please ask this server! Etc!)

Since those messages seemed to have gone missing, the kit was going 'Fuck it. No v6 network here, pal.' and there was an end to it.

It has taken until this afternoon for BNIC (and the network kids) to finally acknowledge that. And it has taken many conversations of the order of 'Why doesn't your DHCP server send RA messages?' (In the same tone of voice as 'Why did your dog shit in the television?')

Because the fucking DHCP server doesn't manage fucking Router Advertisements. The fucking routers do. Clue's in the fucking name.

(Obviously if your router is a BSD or Linux box, then that would be a thing. That is why radvd and rtadvd exist.)

Thus BNIC has decreed that we will now remove any hint of v6 from our systems for the time being.

Which obviously.

No, actually it's not obvious and it's another I-barely-understand-this move which will make everything worse in the long term when we have to put it all back.

[ The phrase you'te likely struggling for is 'JFC, H-R you insufferable bellend. Why not get some work amongst your own foul people and leave those poor nice sorts alone? Haven't you done enough damage?' ]

Current Mood: Banjax
Current Location: Hell. Or Stockton-on-Tees.
Current Music: Underworld

Migraine season has arrived with a bang (the migraines) and some whimpering (me), so the garden's getting more time than usual since that's all I'm fit for.

It's also that time of year when I remember with a start that I should be doing more outside things because there's more daylight to do them in and have a bit of a swear about having been looking the other way for the last few weeks. More or less like every other year for the past several.

The passage of time is a right bastard. The front parlour isn't much better, since it contains a flammable sofa and curtains last seen in 'Oh no it's Selwyn Froggett', and the kitchen is where dreams of escape go to wither and die.

On the other hand, I accidentally a vague sort of 'plot' for a story, so that's good.

You can also see the back wall of the garage for the first time in about a decade.

Current Mood: There's a hole in my vision, etc.
Current Location: Not where I'm supposed to be
Current Music: Young people's scratty bongularion participal

( Already appeared on FB )

The Jovesday people were back in force again this afternoon. Queueing for the bus at the wrong time like they were going to a theatre hidden behind the electric car chargers and city-bike stand on the edge of the car-park where Bath stops. The bumped against me like cows, not expecting me to be quite real. And yet there I was.

I feel vaguely guilty about 'ruining' tools, but I have bought a cheap and nasty screwdriver and filed a slot in the blade, so I can open electrical goods and repair them like the sort of person who has a shed filled with things that will come in handy one day.

There's a house opposite with a couple of pallets in the front garden. I am very strongly tempted to ask the nice people if they have plans for them.

I also found a whole pile of scratty phonecam pics that never made it to any sort of bolog. I should bolog them and then they will have meaning.

Current Mood: 2x4
Current Location: Nitram sack
Current Music: Snuff having it prog

Earlier this evening I posted a picture of a gravestone on the FB because ho ho ho gothics and churchyards, eh? What am I like, etc?

The slightly longer story is probably going to take me a couple of attempts to get out of my head, so I don't know how much of this will survive.

There's another picture in the phone, which would have been of a pair of circling Kestrels (maybe) had the camera optics been a bit better. Instead you can see the house across the valley from Charlton Abbots church. It is called Holt Farm and I lived there until 1976. The set of views possible from those two locations were quite a feature of my growing up. I am really quite familiar with many of them.

Thus it is quite hard to completely convey the absolute weirdness in finding that gravestone, lurking in plain sight in the wall of the churchyard. It really is very Nigel Kneale.

The other thing that happened is that I stumbled over a 'tweet' by what appears to be 'Tony' 'Parsons'. It reads, for the most part, 'Hande hoch! For you zer war is over!'.

In seventies Winchcombe, which was halfway between home and primary school, there was George Constant the barber, an actual sweet shop called oh god I've forgotten the last time I looked it was an antique clock shop, which means the children of Winchcombe will have to make do with a restored half-hunter rather than a sherbert thing and a packet of ten candy cigarettes. Round the corner and down a bit, almost opposite the narrow lane down to Hayward's (hardware shop) workshop, was the newsagent. There was a sloping counter of general interest magazines (Farmer's Weekly, Woman's Weekly, etc), things I never looked at towards the back of the shop, and a roundy-roundy thing (aka a hurdy-gurdy) that contained JT Edson paperbacks and Commando comics.

What little I knew of people from Europe in those days was informed by those Commando comics, Dad's Army, Colditz (although that was on late so I wasn't allowed to watch it) and The Secret War.

Quite a number of years later, (1993) I (we) beetled off to a campsite just outside Lelystad for a hacker camp (HEU) and discovered really rather quickly that everything I thought I knew was more or less wrong, which was absolutely fine, and most of the things that other people (friends, family, the mainstream media) were keen to tell me was also wrong, and that was absolutely fine too and I could cheerfully ignore them.

It also made it obvious that the people who wrote for the NME had haunted similar shops and also read Commando comics and watched Dad's Army. And had learned nothing of the wider world since then.

'Tony' 'Parsons' has not been to a hacker camp, so can be cheerfully ignored. He is reacting to people from Europe as if they were from a Commando comic.

It is the C21st and that sort of behaviour is really quite stupid. On the other hand he is old and probably had it shot off in the war for the likes of you.

Current Mood: Halfwittering
Current Location: Hob's Lane
Current Music: ARP 2600

Today, being the Sunday before a bank holiday and thus the sort of day where one should be eyeing up a hangover, either departing or lumbering over the horizon, we got up early and went to the shops.

Everyone else in Bristol seemed to have stopped at home for the moment of hangover crystallisation or for the ceremonial calculation of an upcoming hangover's potential.

I have no idea what the SI unit of hangover might be.

The bloke who owns the farm shop (Mike. An actual farmer.) had some theories about Bank Holiday People that he had plenty of time on which to elaborate.

People who pitch up early are steamingly hungover and aren't fit for anything but staring into space and gibbering quietly. They just want breakfast. (Which is why the shop bit was deserted) But buy the time you get into the early afternoon of the actual bank holiday, you get the people who've had to spend an extra day with the rest of the family that they go to work to avoid. If they're turning up at a farm shop that lives where NE Bristol peters out into countryside, then they've not managed to arrange going away for a weekend and are going to be in an extra foul temper with themselves and the people they go to work to avoid, with whom they have had to spend an extra day. So they take it all out on the staff.

Current Mood: It is a nice farm shop, you should visit.
Current Location: Eat y'self fitter
Current Music: Misc.

The thing I was going to write yesterday, but mutated into whining about IP addresses, turned out to be slightly deeper than I expected.

For reasons of retro, or perhaps for reasons of 'These are the things we have lying about' the washing line isn't a collapsible hurdy-gurdy (as Pa named all things that went round and round) like modern people from the seventies have to hang their bri-nylon outside so as to catch all the instant sunshine provided by a WE.177C free-fall thermonuclear device.

(Is is perhaps coincidence that people wore fewer nylon undergarments as CMOS logic became more popular?)

No. We do not have that sort of thing because our back garden is a nuclear-free zone. The front garden is handy for the front door, so is often at home to my Alpha-particle-emitting key fob. Which has been glowing quietly for at least twenty years.

So in our nuclear-free garden we must keep something that is not of the seventies and will not remind people of such things lest they have a march and make a right mess of the strawberries, the careless CND bastards. Thus the washing line is held up by a pair of what I'm fairly sure are scaff poles. They've gone a lot rusty and the hammerite I applied about a decade ago is beginning to flake off as the rust blooms outwards like spaceship fungus.

The one nearest the house has also been leaning at more and more of a drunken angle since the thing that was holding it upright no longer works.

There is an unknown length of RSJ (I-beam to everyone else) concreted into the garden, and it would be at an ideal height to bark one or other shin upon, were it not set in line with a low wall that holds up the alleged rockery. There is (or was) a very rusty V-bolt more-or-less pinning the bottom of the scaff pole to that RSJ, with the rotten remains of a lump of wood that was originally providing some squidge to tighten the V-bolt against.

It had all rotted out. A week or so ago, I poked at the thing with a stick, worked out how big the V-bolt was, and realised with something of a sinking feeling that I was setting a chain of events in motion when I toddled upstairs to order replacement bolts off the internets. I had also decided to buy myself an angle-grinder as a present, because, well, angle-grinder. Also because the existing V-bolt was single rusty lump and there wasn't enough WD-40 in the known universe to free off its nuts. (ooer, etc.)

The replacement V-bolts arrived on Saturday morning. The sun was bright and the air was clear and I peered at the things as they sat on the table, wishing for an excuse. I thought that I might as well inspect the old V-bolt again, since I would need to find a lump of wood in the shed to replace the rotten section. I waggled the pole back and forth, experimentally. Then thought 'Oh fucking bollocks to everything' and hauled at it. It lifted right out, which was tiresome. I scraped out the weeds, earth and rotten wood. The bottom end of the scaff pole came out next. It had completely rusted out, which is why I was able to move it at all.

I was committed now.

I dug out a junior hacksaw (I have several, but can only ever find one at a time) and cut away the rusty bolt. At some point, silly-sod the previous owner had performed some more concreting and made it impossible to replace the V-bolt, so I attacked that with a bolster until there was enough elbow room. In the shed, where I have been clearing space, I found the right lump of wood to squidge between RSJ and scaff pole.

I had the thing back in place and bolted firmly upright before I really knew what I was doing.

If there's a take-away from any of this, it's that I have some difficulty diving into projects that I'm not entirely sure about. 'Some difficulty' in this case probably also parses as 'sinking feeling and nameless dread, why not go and waste the afternoon on social media instead?' which is no real way to run a railroad.

The upside to some of this is that I obviously have collected enough random bits of wood that they're starting to come in very handy indeed. And also that there's the start of enough space in the shed/garage to be able to think small thoughts without having to go outside to change your mind.

Current Mood: Parkinised
Current Location: I'm in the furniture trade
Current Music: People asking me about prog rock

Well, would you look at that:

Comment successfully posted. IP Address: (2001:0470:1f15:0097:76d4:35ff:fe81:4dcd)

Yay for DW doing IPv6!

As detailed on FB, and probably just below this if the sodding algorithms even work, which I'm fairly sure they do, just not in a way that is useful to Carbon Units (or 'Flesh Liabilities' as the Commerce AI systems have it).

But, y'know, FriendFace isn't actually for you and me, is it? In much the same way that Twitter works best for authoritarians and 'GNU' 'social' is best for people with boundary and personal hygiene issues. Also PHP. Really?

Anyway. The garage is less full, the garden is less manky, the house LAN is less slow and I still can't find the blasted set of screwdrivers I wanted. This much achievement is actually somewhat disturbing.

Current Mood: You bring light in.
Current Location: Don't know when but you're doing it again
Current Music: eth0: negotiated 1000baseT-HD flow-control, link ok.

From mail:

Thank you for creating a customer account at Blake UK Ltd. Here are your login details: E-mail address: me@my-domain.com Password: [ plain text password goes here ] Important Security Tips: Always keep your account details safe. Never disclose your login details to anyone. Change your password regularly. Should you suspect someone is using your account illegally, please notify us immediately.

[FX: Golf clap]

Well done, chaps. Well done.

I'm sure that if I did change my p/w regularly, they'd be pleased to send me a plain text reminder each time...

Current Mood: Oh FFS
Current Location: Irony Street, EC1
Current Music: Q5 Piano Theme

Tidying the outside (or at least the bit of outside that the bank considers I mostly own) continues. If not apace, then at least awalk or apotter.

After the excitement of Fire! yesterday, there was putting the remains of the fire in the composter, putting some other stuff in the composter, weeding round the bottom of the near end of the clothes line and then realising that that the near end of the clothes line was only upright through rust and rotten wood holding hands.

First port of call - http://u-bolts-r-us.co.uk (An actual website, m'lud) who didn't keep V-bolts.

Second port of call - Blakes of Sheffield. I was tempted to order seven things because it's Eastercon in the other window.

N-th port of call, sparky fun machine shop because swearing away at a rusty bolt with a Junior hacksaw will be less than no fun. Also, angle-grinder.

Current Mood: Apparently DIY Christmas
Current Location: Bottom of the garden.
Current Music: Not Joy Division

I am really quite tired because sleep appears to be for other people, but I am strangely energised having spent an hour or so slicing up the cardboard box mountain in the garage. Thus far the oldest packing note I have found is from 2008, which isn't really big or clever. It has taken me a while to beard this particular den/lion combination (It is Easter, so you can have a KJV reference and like it.) and it is going to be something of a process since we live in a town and you can't just haul stuff out into a pile and set light to it.

Now to dispose of a stack of flat screens (dead), Dell servers (ditto), hairdryers (again) and kettles. Just the sort of things your average hacker/goth wears out regularly.

This is also a test of IFTTT/DW malarkey.

Current Mood: Blarglefiend
Current Location: Bottom of the garden
Current Music: Lost in a maze of Amazon packaging.

I don't even know that this is a good idea. Which currently seems to be something of a theme.

I imagine later there will be crossposting. What larks!

Current Mood: I'm sure I've used that joke before
Current Location: Haceplolder
Current Music: Not that you'd notice.

I actually finished a short story. And indeed started it. There's a middle, too.

(Wants to mature for a bit before editing, mind)

I believe I shall be really quite pleased with that outcome.

Current Mood: Stumps
Current Location: Phlegm
Current Music: Future Shock.

Oh. Yeah. You recall the other month (thus about three posts back here, what with one thing and another) I was bumbling on about the spod-wing ponging extra worse than usual, and how I had been firmly told that it couldn't possibly be a dead rat in the works?

It was a dead rat in the works, that had to be removed from the relevant pipe with compressed air.

I can only hope there was a fountain of well-rotted rat parts as it exited the guts of the building.

Current Mood: Bonglesplasm
Current Location: Nowhere nice
Current Music: Well, it's one use for a Lamson tube.

Profile

Julia Rez

Remarkably.placid.horse

May 2025

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Page Summary

Stop making sense, start making cake.
Idiot joy Go land
Better living through waving bits of paper at yourself.
Shiny old learnings
In which I don't quite explode
Only another four years until the next one.
The semiotics of punk rock / Dancing in the street to random techno.
Career-limiting opinions. Again.
It's that time of year again
Jovesday meandering / Diamond files for diamond geezers
Lurking in a churchyard (12" mix) / Why I am a Europhile.
English people in indeterminate weather.
Reg Prescott explains your psyche and then has to go to the GP for a Tetanus booster.
Getting back into the swing of something. I'm just not sure what yet.
L33t haxx0r fun with Uncle Disgusting.
Forced by the pressure / The territories marked / I have to buy an angle-grinder
Digging through the cardboard undergrowth.
(Dis)content
Well there's a turn-up for the book(s).
Smellovision. (Slight return)

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Adventure Rocket Ship

(Queen of Eyes)

Recent Entries

Stop making sense, start making cake.

Idiot joy Go land

Better living through waving bits of paper at yourself.

Shiny old learnings

In which I don't quite explode

Only another four years until the next one.

The semiotics of punk rock / Dancing in the street to random techno.

Career-limiting opinions. Again.

It's that time of year again

Jovesday meandering / Diamond files for diamond geezers

Lurking in a churchyard (12" mix) / Why I am a Europhile.

English people in indeterminate weather.

Reg Prescott explains your psyche and then has to go to the GP for a Tetanus booster.

Getting back into the swing of something. I'm just not sure what yet.

L33t haxx0r fun with Uncle Disgusting.

Forced by the pressure / The territories marked / I have to buy an angle-grinder

Digging through the cardboard undergrowth.

(Dis)content

Well there's a turn-up for the book(s).

Smellovision. (Slight return)