Blame Alasdair

I have just been tangentially reminded of an odd interlude from the other month.

We'd assembled for a post-crem cuppa and a fondle of Cousin Paul's Saab 95, when small brother's pater-in-law goes off on one about how much he can't stand those scruffy buggers in IT departments and what makes them so bloody special that they don't have to wear suits, eh?

I wasn't entirely lost for words, and was about to explain, with the actions, exactly how little of the Internet would work sans scruffy buggers, when one of S-B's offspring did something adorable and we were all saved the consequences.

I dunno. I look at it as my reward for being a hardcore spod long before it was fashionable.