rARsh!

Bad daddy

I am, I’ve been told, a Bad Dad to Kirsti.

I was recounting an amusing episode to Woman (Kirsti’s “mum”) when the accusation was levelled.

Whenever Kirsti leaves the house it’s her habit to mark/claim the Copen. I have no problem with that - I knew the car would be a pussy magnet, after all - but over the weekend Kirsti failed to take into account the Copen’s smooth curves and the layer of snow which was sitting on the bonnet.

Yep, as she whacked herself against the car (”subtlety” is an unfamiliar concept to this cat), she dislodged a sizeable chunk of snow which slid down and covered the unfortunate feline.

What makes me a Bad Dad, though, is the fact that this made me laugh like a drain.

Trout live in trees

Displaying cigarettes in shops could be banned under government plans being considered in a bid to reduce smoking and discourage children from starting.
- BBC News

Ah yes, I remember all too well how the pretty packs in the newsagent made me start smoking all those years ago.

Public Health Minister Dawn Primarolo said it was “vital” to teach children that “smoking is bad”.

I don’t disagree with that.

“If that means stripping out vending machines or removing cigarettes from behind the counter, I’m willing to do that,” she said.

Ok. Now she’s lost me. What possible logical link is there between those two quotes. I wonder whether she’s familiar with the logician sketch from the Monty Python and the Holy Grail album:

Good evening.

The last scene was interesting from the point of view of a professional logician because it contained a number of logical fallacies; that is, invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms, of the type so often committed by my wife. “All wood burns,” states Sir Bedevere. “Therefore,” he concludes, “all that burns is wood.” This is, of course, pure bullshit. Universal affirmatives can only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the class of dead people are Alma Cogan. “Oh yes,” one would think.

However, my wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a proposition; consequently, she does not understand me. For how can a woman expect to appreciate a professor of logic, if the simplest cloth-eared syllogism causes her to flounder.

For example, given the premise, “all fish live underwater” and “all mackerel are fish”, my wife will conclude, not that “all mackerel live underwater”, but that “if she buys kippers it will not rain”, or that “trout live in trees”, or even that “I do not love her any more.” This she calls “using her intuition”. I call it “crap”, and it gets me very *irritated* because it is not logical.

“There will be no supper tonight,” she will sometimes cry upon my return home. “Why not?” I will ask. “Because I have been screwing the milkman all day,” she will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. “But,” I will wearily point out, “even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely then, supper may, logically, be got.” “You don’t love me any more,” she will now often postulate. “If you did, you would give me one now and again, so that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms.” “I will give you one after you have got me my supper,” I now usually scream, “but not before” — as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of my supper.

“God, you turn me on when you’re angry, you ancient brute!” she now mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat. “Fuck supper!” I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported by animal passion, until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yoghurt.

I’m afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a nutshell:

Sex is more fun than logic — one cannot prove this, but it “is” in the same sense that Mount Everest “is”, or that Alma Cogan “isn’t”.

Goodnight.

The Colour of Magic

I was very much looking forward to seeing Sky’s adaptation of Terry Pratchett’s The Colour of Magic/The Light Fantastic and have just watched the first half.

Very well done it was, too - and nice for Mr Pratchett’s cameo to be at the start rather than right at the end as happened with Hogfather.

But.

You knew there’d be a “but”, didn’t you?

Now, in “Hogfather” we had major parts played by David Jason (Alberto Malich/Albert), Nigel Planer (Mr. Sideney) and Stephen Marcus (Banjo).

In tonight’s adaptation, name three actors who have fairly sizeable parts. Well, ok. Not all that sizeable in the case of Nigel Planer.

Yup.

Now, I know that casting David Jason in anything seems to be a guarantee of success - or treated as such - but I don’t see why they couldn’t have found another actor to play Rincewind or Broadman (and why Nigel Planer had to appear again at all - no offence intended to him).

I’d really hope that Sky continue to adapt Pratchett’s work until they get to my favourites, but not if every adaptation is going to be a series of David-Jason-is-another-Discworld-character production. Jason as Mort (presumably also featuring DJ as Albert again)? as Vimes? as Brutha?

Am I alone in this?

Bloody ow!

It’s been a fun Easter for me so far.

On Thursday morning I found I had no hot water (although this was something I could fix myself). Although I’d fixed it, it meant that my ablutions had to be via a boiled kettle and sink rather than a shower.

That in itself wasn’t a problem. A minor inconvenience but easily overcome.

I then made the mistake of sneezing (the tail end of the cat flu) and my back twinged.

“Ow” I thought, straightened up and carried on.

Clambering into the Copen a few minutes later I felt another twinge and as I drove towards the park and ride I grew increasingly uncomfortable and found myself shuffling off the bus and into work. It got worse and worse as the morning progresses and I gave in before lunchtime, shuffling - even slower - back to the bus and, eventually, home (where it took me 10 minutes to get back out of the Copen - I had to roll myself out in the end!).

It being a Thursday young Kirsti (the chiropractor) was closed so I just applied ice pack after ice pack in an attempt to reduce the inflammation. Didn’t stop the pain, though.

Friday being a bank holiday, young Kirsti (the chiropractor) was again closed. More ice packs and more time spent lying down.

Come yesterday morning and it seemed no better to me and I was on the phone to young Kirsti (the chiropractor) as soon as they opened and was fortunate enough to find a parking space directly outside the practice.

Since then I’ve been alternating ice packs with (ah, bliss) hot water bottles and I do seem a lot more mobile. Still walking around with a stick, just in case, but I am, at least, a lot more mobile as long as I don’t remain still for too long.

As a by-product I have discovered young Kirsti (the cat)’s second fear.

Up to now my attempts to stop her chewing on cables, pull down wallpaper, etc. by yelling “No!” or throwing things at her had been treated with utter contempt. True, she’d stop in mid-chew or mid-claw and would fix a steely stare on me, but would then return to her mischief.

Purely by chance I found, however, that she dislikes the sound of a metal tape measure being extended. Not sure why but it means I’ve taken to keep a tape to hand! The second thing she seems to dislike is the sound of someone walking with a stick! That is weird but again it’s a handy string to my Kirsti (the cat) training regime.

Oh well. I’d love to stay and bore you further but the hot water bottle is now a lukewarm water bottle so it’s time for the next ice pack.

<shiver>

Cat flu!

I’ve hardly been out of the house since Thursday, what with my working hard from home and then the weather being pants over the weekend, so I was surprised to find myself going down with what I thought was a heavy cold yesterday.

Come this morning and it’s progressed into full blown shivers and streaming nose, in spite of my overdosing on Lemsip.

There’s only one possible explanation - Kirsti, although immune herself - has given me cat flu.

Bloody cat!

An ageing population

rARsh Manor has an ageing population and this was brought home to me especially on Wednesday.

A few months ago I realised that while I could see perfectly well at a reasonable distance, up close everything was a blur - unless I took my glasses off. The perceived suddenness of this change was a little disconcerting so (after three months or so) I booked an eye test for myself, just in case there was an underlying problem.

It seems that there isn’t, it’s just a normal result of ageing. What happened three months ago was that my sight crossed a threshold and became obvious to me - at about the same time as my starting to paint miniatures for the wargames.

It’s easily resolved, at least. I just need *gulp* separate reading glasses. This makes me feel very old for some reason.

We (namely the child worker masquerading as an adult and myself) were looking at the cheapest range of frames - after all, it’s not as if I’ll be wearing them out and about.

“Do you have anything in mind?”, asked child labourer.

“Nah. As long I don’t look too Two Ronnies.”

She looked blankly at me. I found a pair that seemed ok, very similar to my existing frames. I felt this might be a problem as I might pick up the wrong pair by mistake.

“Do you have these in another colour to avoid my getting confused?”

She looked and handed me a different pair, “We have these in red.”

“Red?” I wasn’t sure about this. “Isn’t that a bit, well, Christopher Biggins?”

Again with the blank look. Now I felt really old.

Later there was a potentially awkward moment with Kirsti the chiropractor.

“I have a confession.” I started and explained how I had a new cat, didn’t like the “KitKat” name so wanted to change this to another name starting with “K” and how she pushes and prods me around when I’m lying down in bed.

“Go on.”, she said, suspiciously.

“So I’ve called her Kirsti. After you.”

There was a pause while she considered the implications.

“I’ve never had a cat named after me. I’m honoured.”

Phew. If she’d not been happy then the following adjustments could have been rather painful.

Better yet, I left the pix-a-blog URL with them to look at potential replacements for a photo that’s been in the reception area for a while - a pleasant enough image but not particularly local. Apparently Kirsti’d been suggesting getting local artists’ work in on display and I may just have been fortunate to be in the right place at the right time. Fingers crossed, then.

Training

Mandy from next door asked me at the weekend whether I minded her letting Kirsti in and out.

“In and out?” I knew she was letting her in, as I’d leave madam outside when I left for work but she’d be indoors by the time I got home.

“Oh yes. If she’s shouting at the door I let her in, then when I come out I go to see if she wants to come out again. She usually does.”

Bloody hell - she’s building up quite a retinue of tame humans!

In other news, we’ve agreed a leaving date for me of 30th April. 34 working days and counting …

Hehehe

[via those rude chaps at B3Ta]