hirez: (Bunny Eye)
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.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
Gah. A migraine has given me a craving for raisins, tea and omelettes.

It's also put me at something of a tangent to reality. Well, more so than usual. Mind, the sun's warm, even though it is right parky otherwise.
hirez: (Default)
Migraine half way through the Sherlock programme. I don't think it made it any better.

On the other hand, working DR-110, which is nice.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Because I am at home to a migraine - no particular reason why other than sod's law - I cannot get my words in the right order. Seriously. Trying to format these sentences is just like, ugh, I don't know what word goes here. Wait, that one over there would be right, but then I'd have to fix the, um, thing, word for the view of time in writing. Casement? Punjab? Proprioception? Aha! Tense...

... What was I going to do about the tense? Something. Anyway, as well as words order wrong in the and casement, I am filled with unhelpful thoughts like 'Which Rails CMS should I fiddle with in a desultory fashion?', 'If I'm a recovering goth, why am I so shit at eyeshadow?' and 'Allotments, right? That's a load of hard work and dear god you can't even cope with the things you think you should be doing now are you some kind of mental?'

Weirdly though, I can remember the name 'John Cusack' and have only confused him with John Degenkolb and John Cooper-Clarke a few times in the last hour or so.
hirez: (posing)
Today - migraine. There was a definite 'clank' from my neck last night - probably one of the thrust-washers in the auxiliary Hardy-Spicer linkage needs re-packing with lithium grease, but it's a bugger to get to bits and since this is a pre-'68 model with the non-metric bearings, that'll mean pattern parts from some dodgy mob up round Long Eaton and, oh, just arg.

Which means several hours of lying in bed, trying to find the least-horribly-painful position to whimper quietly in, and Absolutely No Screens At All.

By the time I'd got bored with the cracks in the ceiling, the day had become really jolly pleasant. So I spent the greater part of the afternoon pottering (and indeed potting on, weeding, planting things for a laugh to see what will happen and guzzling the second crop of rasperries) in a garden which, although still mostly concrete and horrible, is now a place I can go and get lost within plant-maintenance. (aka 'leaving them mostly alone to get on with it')

Although that could be the result of a brain filled with broken things.

That said, it all smelled of September and warm soil. Which in turn reminded me of pottering around Ingleside/Fox Lake to the sound of crickets and distant locomotives.
hirez: (Pie!)
Sunday lunchtime - realise that I can't quite read the Obs colour section because of approaching kalideoscope greenhouse. Swear lots, because no more imigran, and jam fingers firmly into right-hand side of neck per instructions from Brian the Massage.

Since reading's going to be off-limits for the next day, haul gramophone from shelf, dig out Dual service manual, find replacement belt in Germany and order same.

Reading still off-limits. Remember that there's a bag of Sevilles in the larder since there was a box at the farm-shop looking somewhat unloved. Hack, simmer, sugar, boil, napalm, bang into jars. Sorted. This lot's got less sugar in, which may or may not be a good idea, but it seems that there's more depth to the taste.

Realise it's five hours later and my head still doesn't hurt. I think we'll call that a result. (Also new spectacles, as expected, at ££. They will arrive next week.)
hirez: (irradiated)
[ I am logging these with at least one specific tag. At least I think I am. Given the state of my brain, it's hard to tell. Thus you are not expected to respond. Although it is jolly nice when people do. ]

Anyway. Woken at 4am from the folded position by my brain exploding. Which was a bit bleedin' previous.

I think I'm back to what-passes-for-normal now. In that it seems to be the C21st and I'm looking forward to watching Meades on the tellybox, rather than staring balefully at things and wondering about a casual vomit. Well, I say 'staring'. I mean 'not using my eyes too hard because their interface to my brain has basically stopped producing useful output.'

(Note for future self which I will ignore/misplace when this happens again: Give up. Go outside and carelessly observe things in the middle distance. Go for a walk and view the things around you, not allowing your head to remain in any one position for too long.)

On the other hand, I have just found a Stylophone (very old) and a DR-110 (less old).
hirez: (irradiated)
Three of the bastards. Like buses. If indeed buses came with flying kaleidoscope visuals and made a chap feel worthless and disconnected.

Although there was a brief period between nrs two and three where I could see medium-distance words w/o glasses and I wanted to create some RESTful Sinatra webapp to read the gas meter.
hirez: (irradiated)
Thursday night was a bit a departure, since that would be the first time I've managed to have a migraine while asleep, modulo waking up just enough to realise that something wasn't right at zero-dark o'clock.

I knew I'd had a migraine when I coughed on Friday AM and it felt like my brain was sloshing back and forth in a soup of molten lead.

Since then I've had A Headache, which has been, well, a headache, and tiresomely wonky brain chemistry:

Friday - om nom carbs now bastard hands off that caek it is mine, hello good evening and welcome to Captain Paranoia.
Saturday - hello you seem to be talking at me why is that? No that black shape is nothing to worry about it is Captain Paranoia. Is he your friend, too?
Sunday - is everything shit or is it just me? Nope, just me. Jolly good.
Monday - trousers? What are..? Oh, those. I'm sure I had some when I left the house.


Bob Mould's latest recording is really very fine, though. Says the bloke who was listening to 'Eight miles high' at volume = Jayzus! on Friday.
People who rather liked Copper Blue and/or Nova Mob will be in familiar territory.
hirez: (irradiated)
Since I managed to stave off a proper migraine by head it off at the pass visual stage with Imigran, I also managed to remember the name of John Cusack. However, Bastardos will have his tithe so I have now forgotten which leg to use next while half-way up the stairs some four or five times now.

Yes, I do actually wonder if this time the damage will be permanent. Thanks for asking the obvious question there.

Speaking of, I had to beetle up the chemist for more Imigran because I now only have a supply at work. I should keep some at home and some in the car, but at £8/pair and really only needing the things a couple of times a year, I have been 'willing' to take the risk. The last time I went to the shop for some, they made me fill in a form because actually the bloody things make you feel horrible for an hour if they're working and can do you rather a nasty under quite a wide variety of circumstances. Which is mildly concerning.

Apparently the pharmacist was concerned about the number of headaches I wrote down. I explained that I work in IT in a loud and air-conditioned office, and that was about par for the course.

The other less-than-stellar thing is that all the writing I've done (work mail and the odd reply on various Social Networks) has been missing critical sections. I can read the things back now and almost feel the lurch as two different mental scenes are poorly butted together. (And see second para.)

The week's Lidl haul involved ignoring the pallet of Finkbrau and trying the fruit loaf and bread flower, both of which are allegedly English and 'ye gods is that all? Tesco et al are having a laugh.'

For interest (and because I grew up with concepts like 'Hagberg falling number' and 'intervention') I consulted the estimable Nogger and his weblog, did some counting on my fingers and, yes, Tesco et al are having a laugh. Unless I can't usefully divide by 1k, which would surprise me not at all.

I am still tempted by the big sacks of Manitoba wheat in Costco, mind. If only because they've got the magic knitting across the top.

You flinty-visaged urban types may have grown up popping bubblewrap for relaxation (nb: sarcasm. Anybugger popping bubblewrap near me is going to be pretty much fucking un-relaxed for a good half-hour after. Especially if it's the crisp-packet sized stuff that turns up with expensive computer bits. Nice bass pulse, but fuck you.) but give me an unopened flour, dog-meal or potato sack and I am a gleeful seven-year-old again.

[Wit and wisdom (FB edition)]
Railway preservation societies are basically LARPing for steampunks.
(There was another one about making vampires explode, but since I find the very concept of the things anathema, I'll not write that until feeling particularly savage)
[/Wit and wisdom (FB edition)]
hirez: (irradiated)
Sunday pub outing to the Shakespeare. Jolly nice pub, grub a bit average.

Migraine also a bit average. Hurrah for the Imigan in the car, which I'll probably forget to replace.

Oddly enough, a daft idea that's been in the back of my head (Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Steam Elephant Brigade) has fallen together with being loomed over by the surviving dock cranes on the Bristol harbourside when leaving the pub this evening, and the fact that they were all made in Bath.

Of course if you've made steam elephants that are tramping through the Simla Hills, you're going to apply the same walking gear to your dock cranes and then it's all going to go Horribly Wrong when they go on a rampage through Bradford on Avon and then make for the locomotive works in Swindon.
hirez: (irradiated)
So. Simply Saab, splendid spares suppliers, seem sorted. Sell self second-hand spark-box.

(That's quite enough of that. Although bonus points for commentary in similar vein.)

But... Sapristi nuckos! A migraine starts on just as I'm wheeling the bike out the door for the trek (haw! It's not. It's a Giant.) to Brislington.

Run to chemist, neck Imigran, wait in darkened room for nastiness to pass.

It doesn't. Although I can remember John Cusack now, so the worst must be past.

[FX: Swearing]

Some taxi-work, five minutes with a Torx bit and the 9k is running a lot better (ie - at all).

For entertainment value, I pull the ignition box to bits. The insides are somewhat scorched. (You can't quite see where the potting compound's gone carbonised and bubbly.)

Meanwhile, I now suspect that the smell of carbonised components works on electronic kit the same way that the smell of vom works on humans; when I go to wash the smell of circuit-death off my hands, the kettle starts to arc and emit smoke.

I should change my name to Neil.
hirez: (irradiated)
Bad stuff: always nice to wake up with a migraine. On the other hand, I slept the worst of it off, so perhaps I was really quite tired.

Good stuff(i): a splendid letter and photo from the chap who runs the Museum of Victorian Science, which many of you should consider visiting.

Good stuff(ii): I can has holiday cottage in Porthcurno.

Good stuff(iii): The Third Policeman. 3.25 on the lever.
hirez: (irradiated)
Bastardos, angry god of migraines will have his tithe, it seems.

Left-brain ache last night, so I beetled to bed thinking to sleep it out.

[FX: Hollow laughter]

6am. Wake up with the single most virulent headache ever. (Not unlike the last time this happened, I think.) Wished for death and/or brain haemorrhage, but no such luck. Finally able to untwist limbs from bedclothes by about lunchtime. What fun.

Still, I've been free of the things thus far this year, so maybe it all came in one lump.
hirez: (irradiated)

Of the several less-than-wonderful things that happen when a chap has a migraine, one of the non-obvious ones is that you come to think that your life is being led by someone else. I mean, it clearly isn't... Well, semi-clearly anyway.

But that feeling of watching from the wings remains. I was staring into space earlier and thinking 'That fellow needs to pull his socks up'. It took many seconds to realise that I was the fellow in need of some sock-pulling.

Most odd.

hirez: (Hand-staple-forehead)
Coriander, right? Is it me being useless, or is it the Thompson's Gazelle of the herb world? If it's not being attacked by slugs, it's a mob of aphids and/or deciding to grow around corners out of spite.

On the other hand, it could just be that my fingers are too solder-burned to be green these days. While I've coped with being a sad disappointment to my parents over many things, being able to kill plants with a single glance is a little too much to bear.

It's always the stupid things that bite a chap in the arse like that.
hirez: (irradiated)
Bugger.
hirez: (irradiated)
There's some advert or other, presumably for an expensive airline, that's cobbled up a bunch of noises into a tune. The sort of thing people thought was way cool when Emulators and Fairlights were shiny new tech (cf. Singing sheep, 'Just buggin' et al).

It features a 'bong' noise which surely must belong to the Boeing Corporation, because whenever I hear it I feel tired, dehydrated, bad tempered due to queueing and start patting pockets in order to find my passport.

Romance of the international jet-set, my arse.



Eurovision: does anyone really, honestly care? I mean, I shall be rather pleased if a lesbian torch-song manages to effect a change in the repulsively nationalistic, reasonably fascist and unsurprisingly corrupt Balkan nation of Serbia. However, I'm not holding my breath. Neither am I going to pretend surprise at the state of the voting. It's always been like that. It's just that the power-base has shifted east. Jayzus.
hirez: (irradiated)
Next year, I'm going to take the whole month off and do nothing complicated involving screens or thinking.

Meanwhile: cycling home with either shagged vision or an exploding head. Arse!
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
I can't say I'm best keen on feeling like this.

It's as if I'm at the bottom of a pond and way up there in the dangerous atmosphere stuff there are moving shapes and shiny objects that not two days ago I was throwing about with gay abandon. Those would be abstract concepts and descriptions of emotional states. I know I had them once, and I could hold some of them in my head and look at them from underneath or shake them a bit to see how they rattled. Just not right now.

To borrow a line from Buffy, 'Fire average.'

(Or, closer to my reality, 'Linux filthy aggregation of wrongness with twat-magnet licence', 'Mmmm. Tea.' and 'Humppa!')

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