It's not a prayer hat, it's an ironic trilby.

(Thus I was accused of being the post-modern Sid James.)

Today the washing machine had a prolapse and deposited concrete and broken-off bolts on the scullery floor.

Earlier the Consulting Ornithologist had twisted and prodded at my ankle and gone "The damage we could see is from some older injury (that'll be jumping off bridges pissed then), so we've got no real idea what's up. I could open it up and have a poke around or we could send you for a MRI scan."

I now have two Moleskine notebooks. Since I seem to have rediscovered a facility for scribbling copious and random notes in a hand that owes about as much to curious fo(u)nt design as it does to being a hacker and just not bothering to write longhand, I shall fill them both with poorly-annotated drawings and apparently unconnected notes and then secrete them somewhere to be discovered by a future generation. Who will probably then lock up any remote descendants as a safety precaution.