Uncle Disgusting's well-worn security hat. Again. You know the drill.

Dear Facebook types.

One or other of you has managed to catch The Pox on whatever it is you use to connect to FB.

FB messages containing the subject 'All the best' and (in my case, anyway) a link to www.mmilimetr.republika.pl (don't be a clever-bollocks and follow that unless you're running a unix box and some javascript debugger) are well bogus.

As I regularly point out, your Facebook/LJ/whatever accounts are exactly as secure as the weakest password on your friendslist, l33tspeak passwords are as easy to crack as efforts of the order of 'password69', and you can guarantee that as soon as some grotty PHP-fiddler has your email address and a password, they're going to try it on Paypal.

'Noscript' is a jolly nice bolt-on for Firefox.

FB certainly used to have a password-quality meter.

It takes a nation of farmers to hold its back.

Apparently we're mostly descended from farmers. (Picture in the Guardian features what seems to be a rowcrop Nuffield. Oo-aar, etc.)

Thus I guess it's no great surprise that I was more than a little pleased to discover that the stuff coming out of the compost-dalek lurking at the end of the garden actually smells like freshly-turned soil, rather than the festery raw materials we tip into its wormy maw.

Because the thing's full and not consuming said raw materials as quickly as it does in summer, pruning 3/4 of the garden generated five bags of garden waste, one pair of knackered wrists and one somewhat broken but repairable pair of pruning shears. It was nice and warm in the sun, too.

I'm idly considering re-purposing a pair of builder's sand bags (or mumble-tonne fertiliser bags) to grow spuds in. Bugger spending money on things from the back of the Sunday papers. That way lies single tartan slippers, poor-quality pervy underwear and Bicycle-Shaped Objects.