White Chocolate is not Chocolate

I've given up chocolate for lent again. I did this a couple of years ago and I'd just about forgotten the torment I went through. So I've done it again.

Fortunately white chocolate (which I am extremely partial to) is not actually chocolate. The chain of reasoning that leads me to this happy conclusion works like this:

White Elephant stalls do not sell elephants. Therefore White Chocolate cannot actually be chocolate.

People have argued with this. They have made the point, forcefully and with passion, that one of the ingredients of white chocolate is "cocoa butter", an ingredient which is also present in real (i.e. non-white) chocolate. I am unmoved by this. Does it mean that butter contains chocolate as well? Of course not. So, let's hear it for the Milky Bar Kid folks.....

Bang I'm Dead

Went to Laserquest today. Me and a buch of finely honed killing machines with hair triggered reflexes and eyes in the back of their heads. It is a neat setup. You get a gun and a backpack and stalk around a maze of ramps and hiding places in the half darkness trying to shoot people with a bright red LED gun. Because they put a bit of smoke in the air you can see the rays from your gun in a most satisfactory manner. If you get hit a counter goes up by one and your gun stops working for five seconds. I got that a lot. I think I make a very good target. At least that is what everyone else said.

The first half was individual. I was nearly last. The second half was team. My team did not win. Probably because of my sitting duck antics. Never mind. It was great fun. You get a printout of who shot who right at the end. They were all going "I shot Rob 8 times". "That's nothing, I got him at least ten". Ho hum. But it was fun.

Madness I Say

We went up town today. In the carpark there was a sign which said "Lost Tickets Five Pounds".

That's mad.

Who wants to buy a lost ticket? I can imagine the dialogue:

Customer: "I'd like to buy a lost ticket"
attendant : "That will be five pounds please"
Customer: "There you are"
Attendant: "Thanks"
Customer: "Can I have it now please"
Attendant: "Sorry. I can't seem to find it"
Customer: "Of course you can't"

Madness I say. Madness.

Secure Transactions

Got a new bank card today. It is one of these new fangled ones where I have to remember a number so that I can buy things.

I'm really waiting for the next generation, where the identification behaviour has to be more specific to the individual. For mine I'd have to tell a really bad joke involving a play on words to draw any money out. I'd call it "Chip and pun".

The Little Brown Ikea Pencil of Doom: Part 4

Lars Swedishname was obviously a man with a mission. The inspector half listened to his tale of gypsy curse, abandoned pet cemetery, lost Indian tribe and Stockholm office supplies company. This was all very well, but how did it explain the four mysterious deaths in MadeupTown? Constable Wilkins on the other hand seemed to find the story fascinating. Standing behind Lars he had his notebook out and was making copious notes. His little brown pencil (was that regulation issue? the inspector wondered) was flying over the paper as he seemed to be writing everything down.

"Well sir" said the inspector, rising to his feet. "Thank-you for your information, you can be sure that we will act appropriately"

"No." the little man seemed even more agitated. "You don't understand. You've got to do something now, before there are any more deaths".

"That's OK sir, we'll do our best" the inspector continued. "Where can we find you if we need any further help?"

"The Regal Hotel" Lars replied. "It is the only one in town with no Swedish furniture".

"Well, thank you for your help sir". The inspector walked round the desk to shake hands with the visitor. As he passed Constable Wilkins the inspector caught a glimpse of what the officer had been writing in his notebook. 'Kill Lars, kill Lars, kill Lars. Kill Lars. And then go and buy a Babord shoe rack (15.95)'
(to be continued)

Snow Drivin'

Went down the motorway to Nottingham today. They have a road called "Maid Marion Way". But no "Sheriff Street" that I could find. Nottingham is nice. They have a shopping centre called "Victoria Shopping Centre". It is now an old friend, because we went past it four times as we tried to escape from the middle of the town.

The driving was enlivened by a couple of snowstorms. I love the way that the snowflakes dive towards the windscreen only to try and peel off at the last moment before they hit the car. I wonder how they know to do that?

Poisoning Your Friends

I just found out that the huge number of Worcester Sauce flavoured crisps that I gave to Rich may contain a tiny amount of this non-deadly chemical that everybody is raving about. I feel terrible about this. I've never particularly liked the taste of the darned things, but I didn't think they were as bad as that.

I'm getting kind of worried about the power of my blog. I write about Ikea and there are riots at the store. I write about Worcester Sauce and it turns out to be deadly.

Whatever next?

Uh

Mondays are when I have to do over three hours of lecturing. First to the .NET crew, then the CP test group and finally the first year C# course. The good news is that they are all great groups. We had some fun in the CP test session unpicking questions and trying to spot the naff answers. But it is quite hard work. When I get home on Mondays number one wife asks how I am and it usually takes me half an hour or so to decode the question and formulate an appropriate response. Which usually comes out "Uh".

And then a slow cooked meal. Number one wife bought a slow cooker and (although initially somewhat sceptical) I've now been won over. The plan was to do a double quantity and then freeze half. Yeah, right.

Crazy Picture for Crazy People

I've been taking silly pictures. I put one on my spoke blog. I don't see why you crazy people should miss out.

Hit by a sniper

Bah. Tried to buy something from ebay and was outbid. By a penny. I think the opposition was using sniping software. I let fly with my bid 4 minutes from the auction close. I think I should have waited until 30 seconds or so before unleashing my bidding powers. Never mind. There will always be another lot.

Oh, and thanks to Will for giving me the best definition of "pear shaped". He (or rather Google) reckons that it was started by pilots in WW1 who were being trained to fly loops. A circular one is what you want, but when it stops being round it ends up pear shaped. I guess the pilots that could do square loops got a special bonus.

Jargon

Just had an admissions day talk. I rattled through my material (sorry I spoke so fast folks, but there are a lot of words to get through) and then paused at the end to get my breath back and answer questions. I was asked what the difference is between a blog and a blag.

Blog: Internet based diary thing which is written by people with an internet connection and too much time on their hands. (I write two, go figure)

Blag: ask for (and hopefully get) something for free from someone richer than you.

Day Of Horror

Just had a horrible day. Don't ask. But since you did, I'll tell you all about it. All my careful arrangements fell apart. My email broke. Found I'd bought the wrong thing. Bought the right thing and it wouldn't work. You reach a point where you are left with an intrigued, detached air as you observe the upcoming situation and wonder how fate is going make this one go pear shaped.

(I wonder why being pear shaped is a bad thing? Are pears evil? - mental note to look into this)

Anyhoo, got home to find that the Tesco home delivery had replaced all the Raspberry Yoghurts (yum) with Black Cherry (arrgh). Why is it always that swap? And why today? And at the moment there is an hour long EastEnders special being inflicted on us (which is why I'm cowering upstairs).

I think I'll go to bed. It is probably safest that way. Oh, and does anyone want any Black Cherry yoghurts?

The Little Brown Ikea Pencil of Doom: Part 3

The inspector looked down at the case files on the desk. Case 1, a man who built himself into a wardrobe. Case 2, a chap who seems to have consumed fifteen sachets of furniture glue. Case 3, the bloke who did that horrible thing with the Allen key. The inspector shuddered at the memory. Case 4, the new guy, the one with the paper tape measure round his neck. There had to be something that linked these deaths. He racked his brains. Perhaps they were linked by being totally unconnected. He imagined the headlines "Police solve the case of the completely unrelated murders". He shook his head. Probably not. Someone was standing at his desk. He looked up. Constable Wilkins did not seem himself. His uniform was disheveled and he had what appeared to be sawdust on his jacket.

"Bad night constable?" asked the inspector.

"Not too bad sir" came the reply "Although those doors with the fitted hinges are a devil to fit, and the handles were the wrong ones..".

"What do you want?" The inspector did not fancy another drawn out description of DIY.

"There's a chap at the front desk who wants to see you. Swedish bloke. Says he knows something about the recent deaths."

"Oh well, send him in."

Lars Swedishname was a small, nervous man with a package under his arm. As he spoke he looked constantly around, as if he expected something to jump out from the shadows at any moment.

"I know what is causing the killings" he said breathlessly as he sat down, clutching the package to his chest. "Something terrible, something evil. And I have in my possession the only thing that can stop it".

"And what would that be sir?" asked the inspector smoothly. He knew from experience that the best thing to do with these types was to humour them.

The little man indicated the package he held and leaned forward towards the inspector.

"The Blessed Electric Pencil Sharpener of Salvation" he whispered.
(to be continued)

Read Your Dreams?

There is a book in the coffee lounge at work. It purports to help you understand the meaning of your dreams. A "dreamologist" (or whatever they are called) has put down an alphabetised list of things you might dream about and written helpful descriptions of what they mean. It is a very thick book. In every sense of the word.

It fell open at "electricity" (apparently this means something to do with power). Well duh. Actually, I've never had a dream about electricity. My fantasies do not usually involve wiring plugs up and measuring voltages. (perhaps this means I'm not a proper engineer, but we will let that pass). Apparently some people do not dream in colour, although this may be because the licence is cheaper.

I looked up a couple of my dreams and they weren't in the 600 page book anywhere. I'm not sure if this is comforting or worrying.

Messenger Wit

Rich: Got a moment?
Rob: Yep, there it goes.

Please Don't Fire Me

People are getting fired for writing blogs which are critical of their employers. I can't see this being part of a life plan really;

1. Find a job you don't like.
2. Moan about it in a recognisable (and un-funny) way in front of a potential audience of millions.
3. Get fired.
4. Be found on street corners drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag and moaning to passers by that you'd like to let them in on how horrible your life was if only you still had an internet connection.

When I count my blessings (which I do surprisingly frequently) I always count the fact that I enjoy the job I have. I feel incredibly lucky in this respect. Of course it could be better, and of course I really should be a millionaire by now. But I'm not. And I'm still mostly happy. (but still up for that rise of course....)

Slow Cooker

My father has aquired a "slow cooker". This apparently ranks with fire and the wheel as one of the greatest inventions of our time. You can chuck some meat into it (after you've fried it first of course) and then, a mere eight hours later, you can tuck into a nourishing and piping hot stew.

We went round to dad's for tea today, and I must admit the slow cooked meal was delicious. But I still remain a bit sceptical about the overall concept. When I get hungry, I want to eat now. Not one working day later. The idea was mooted that we might put all the stuff in the cooker first thing in the morning, and leave it cooking all day. The idea of frying mince at seven thirty in the morning does not have a great appeal to me.

I've also got a concern that a slow cooker might end up going the same way that the bread machine did, although it would be difficult to do this I suppose. A crucial component of the breadmaker was a little metal impeller which spun at different speeds during the bread making process as it mixed, pounded and otherwise worked on the dough. It had a habit of leaving itself impaled in the bread and, of couse, one day we threw out a loaf containing the precious bit of metal and in the process turned our bread maker into a large paperweight. If the bread it made had been nicer we would probably have eaten it rather than chucking it out. Which is kind of natural selection at work I guess.

High Pressure

As well as a new razor, last week I got a blood pressure monitor. It was very cheap and I thought it might be a bit of fun. You press a red button and it inflates a little cuff around your wrist and then slowly lets the air out. At the end you get two numbers which mean something bad if they are too low. And something very bad if they are too high. Mine seem to be about right, according to number one wife. Although I'm not sure why she went off and got out those insurance policies later in the evening.

Note that this does not indicate a new obsession with health. It is more a continuation of the one with gadgets. And it is rather neat, in its own little plastic case. I dropped it and it went off, trying to measure the blood pressure of nothing at all. It was still there, whirring and beeping plaintively five minutes later.

The Little Brown Ikea Pencil of Doom: Part 2

When Jane Wilkins got home from her teaching job at MadeupTown School she was surprised to see her husband's car parked in the drive. "Jim usually goes out with the lads from the station on a Thursday night" she thought to herself as she pushed open the front door. Half way open it stuck. She squeezed around the door and gasped in surprise at the scene in front of her. Blocking the door was a large cardboard package marked "Klodd: 1 of 3" and all around were packages and bags bearing a familiar yellow and blue logo.

"Jim?" she called.

"In here love" came a voice from the living room. She crossed the hall and saw her husband in the middle of the room, surrounded by sections of a large pine bookcase.

"What are you doing?" she asked. Her husband looked up at her, still dressed in his police uniform, screwdriver in hand.

"Well love, when I saw the list that you had left me I thought I'd go out and surprise you. It took a bit longer than I thought, and some of the bits are on order, but, well, here we are". She followed his gaze around the room, taking in the new clock, pelmet, curtains and toothpaste dispenser.

"It's very nice." she said, "But I don't remember leaving you a list."

"Course you did love." he replied. "I found it on the car seat when I came out of the station at the end of the shift. The store is only on the way home and so I thought I'd pick it all up. You must admit it looks good." And yes, it did look good. And she had been remarking lately that a few new bits and pieces would spruce the place up a bit. But she didn't remember writing anything down about an inflatable chair. Certainly not in that shade of green.

"I'll go and put the kettle on." she said, stepping over the discarded packaging on her way to the kitchen. As she walked past her husband she noticed something on the side of his head.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing.

"Oh that." he smiled, reaching behind his ear. "I'd quite forgotten that was there". He put the little brown pencil down on the mantelpiece.

(to be continued)

And this is just scary.

Not Really Mad

We had an admissions afternoon today. Lots of students and parents turned up to kick our tyres and see what they thought. Great fun. As usual I pointed them at all my web and blog pages. But now I'm getting worried. If all they read is "crazy world" they might form the impression that I am some kind of crazy person. In fact, things might be even worse. I told a couple of my favourite jokes during the afternoon and so these pages may be seen to further confirm their diagnosis.

So I'd like to at this point remind everyone that I am in fact not crazy. Not at all. And teddy agrees with me. So there.

(I'd like to at this juncture point all the readers at something academic and brainy to further underpin my sane credentials. But unfortunately all I can think of is my Smartphones and Cheese articles. Oh well)

Processed Chicken

Had to go to the dentist today. I am one of those lucky few that have a National Health Dentist, which are in this country as rare as hen's teeth. They have a very slick operation. In one door, sign a form, in another, wait ten minutes, in the surgery, say Ahhhhh, then back out, sign another form, make the appointment, and out. Very smooth.

I've been scared of dentists ever since I found out what they do. But today I was cracking jokes and using light hearted banter like "Your're not going to hurt me are you? Are you???" in my usual fashion. I have now reached the time of life where anything health related is probably followed by "..for your age". As in "You've got quite good teeth. For your age". So I have good teeth. For my age. For now.

They were collecting data for their (gulp) computerised surgery system. I hope their process is as smooth next time I go.

You must be Rob

Things have been so busy at work over the last two days I'm wondering if I'm going to meet myself in the department coming the other way on the stairs. I wonder if I'd like myself? I wonder if the other one would claim to be the "real" me, unlike me who is the real me? Would we fight in a "let's get stuntman to do this bit 'cos it looks rather painful to roll down those steps" kind of way? Would the evil me (which is definitely the other me by the way) triumph in a B movie manner and then go on to a more successful lifestyle?

Hmm. Perhaps I've been working too hard.

The Little Brown Ikea Pencil of Doom: Part 1

The inspector looked around the brightly furnished living room.

"He must have liked Swedish design.." he said to himself, taking in the bright red sofa and strangely shaped tables.

"The body's upstairs sir" the uniformed officer told him.

"Found by the cleaner at 8:00 am this morning." he continued. "It looks like he was strangled with one of those paper tape measures that you get at furniture stores".

"What have we got on the victim?" asked the inspector.

"Nothing much sir, it seems that he kept himself to himself. Very interested in décor. Neighbours report lots of flat pack furniture arriving and sounds of hammering and swearing at all hours of the day and night."

The inspector wandered upstairs to investigate the corpse. The uniformed office took out his notebook and pencil. "Darn it", he muttered as the lead broke off the instant it touched the paper. He looked around the room and saw on the mantelpiece above the pine fireplace a little brown pencil. "Nobody will notice", he thought, as he picked it up and started writing....

(to be continued)

Culinary Matters

A word of warning (in fact several words, but I'm in a generous mood). Don't get cheese flavoured crumpets. I bought a pack by mistake this morning. Not good. Whilst I thought I was a lover of cheese in all its forms, cheese flavoured crumpets are a step too far. The smell they make when you open the pack is just a taster for what is produced when you put them in the toaster and they get warm. I can't see them being a success, unless re-directed into crowd clearance duties. Forget your water canon, just lob a few of these and a toaster into the mob and watch them flee for cover.

Whilst I'm on the subject of food and generousity, I happen to have a large-ish stash of Worcester Sauce Flavoured crisps. These are the ones that get left from the multipack as neither myself or number one daughter can stand them. The economies of scale are such that we can afford to buy and deploy crisps in this manner, but it still irks to have to throw them away. Anybody who wants a Worcester Sauce Flavoured crisp (or even a whole bag full) should get in touch. But do remember, they taste of Worcester Sauce. And I won't pay postage.

Dirty Soap

I think I've just about figured out why they are called "soap operas". It is because after you have watched an episode you feel the need to wash your hands or perhaps have a shower or bath.

Now, I realise that everything on telly which runs for more than two episodes (with the possible exception of the news - and even then I'm not sure) has to go a bit soapy in order to survive. But I've just been forced to endure some EastEnders at lunchtime (awful trick that, put the telly on in the room with the food in it). And I hate that program. There is nothing uplifting about it. The only thing it leaves me with is a feeling of relief that I don't live near there and a desire to wash my hands. And don't get me started on Casualty.

ShapeShifting

When to have a fitting for my new suit today. I seem to have changed shape since the measurements were taken. The cloth is very nice and the lining most impressive in colour. But it doesn't fit quite right. Since I can go into just about any shop and buy badly fitting clothes most every day of the week I have sent it back to have a few changes made to the dimensions. I'm wondering if I could rent myself out to tailor training school as a kind of "walking worst case scenario".

Precision Shaving for Beginners

I found this really funny. It is in the instructions for the razer I just bought: "Get me the setsquare darling, I need to have a shave.."


Still, he seems to be enjoying it.

By the Hair on my Chinny Chin Chin

Some time back (22nd November 2004 actually - isn't the Blogger search wonderful) my razor refused not to raze. I couldn't turn it off. Then it went all dicky. Worst of all it would drop dead in mid shave, leaving itself hanging of my face by the hairs on my chin, which is as painful as it sounds, if not more so.

I've been meaning to take it to bits and fix it. So, having chosen my time carefully, at 11:30 pm last night I took the darned thing to bits. And now it is completely broken. So today I have just nipped out and bought another shaver. This one is very posh, and can be washed under the tap (although the instructions suggest that you don't have it plugged into the mains at the time).

It seems to work fine. I now have a face as smooth as a middle aged babie's bottom.

In Search of Easy Money

There is a five pence piece on our bathroom floor. It has been there for the last couple of days. I think it fell out of my pocket some time back. Nobody has picked it up, which is interesting. It may be because everybody in my house is so rich that they can affort to do without it. Or it may be because they are scared that if they take it I will become angered and demand it back. Perhaps I'd better grab it now. Or I could leave it there as a sign of afluence I suppose. In fact, with inflation being the way it has been, perhaps a floor covered in money is now cheaper than actual carpet. Colder though (unless you used notes - which would be wildly impractical unless you live in certain parts of the world)

Like a God to Four Year Olds

David is a bit cross with me. Apparently his four year old son, having been asked to identify the most important people in his life, drew a picture with "Big Rob" in the middle. I've been trying to work out what, other than my acknowledged personal magnetism, could have brought about such an attitude.

I think it is mainly that we have not met very often and he therefore hardly knows me. And that last time we met I gave him some ice cream and let him play with my four lane car racing set. And I've never told him off, or made him go to bed early. And he didn't have much time to talk to my kids about what I'm really like......

Pub Full of People

Went out the the pub last night. Not that pub, the other one. Our regular was full of folks watching a football match on the big screen. You know you are in trouble when you walk into a place and your glasses steam up instantly (especially if you are not wearing glasses). I have never seen the pub that busy. Whenever you go into something like that you first have to check that your jumper doesn't match any of the teams playing(fortunately it didn't). And cheering when the wrong team scores (or not cheering when the right one does) has been known to decrease the quality (and perhaps the length) of your life so I'm told. Although actually they seemed a friendly enough bunch (some of them might even have been in one or two of my lectures at some point).

Anyhoo, in order to get the peace and quiet we wanted, as well as a place to sit, we relocated the "Preston Foster" meeting to another, less boisterous hostelery just across the road. Fortunately where we live you are never more than a stones throw from at least two pubs, not that I spend my evening throwing stones at pubs. The conversation was as wide ranging as usual, but Ian made the mistake of admitting that he had stopped reading my blog. For shame. I want him to start blogging now, so that I can not read his.