Dinosaurs and Marshmellows

Everyone knows that the dinosaurs died out because of a meteor that landed in the Yucatan, right?

Wrong. The dinosaurs died out because of food problems. What food problems? Marshmallows.

The dinosaurs, when they first started out, ate meat, plants, sometimes a bit of both. Then they got clever. They invented technology, buildings. They went environmentally friendly. And therein lie their downfall. For the more advanced a society gets, the less evidence of themselves they leave. This is why the paleontologists haven't figured it out yet: no evidence. None whatsoever.

Anyway, back to the marshmallows- the dinosaurs made a planet-wide treaty to respect one's fellow dinosaur and the environment. So they did. they found a special mind altering substance that, due to their specific physiology, made them think they were eating the thing they loved most. And this drug provided them with all the necessary nutrients and antibiotics and so forth.

This amazing drug is called the marsh-1,3- diol where the marsh had many different functional groups. Because it was derived from the photosynthetic pigments of the Mallow plants, it soon became known as marsh mallow. The photosynthetic pigments by the way, is the reason for the dinosaurs being green (it's not easy being green!) Eventually, use of marshmallow led to dinosaurs being able to photosynthesize.

But they got hooked. Completely addicted. The scientists hadn't realised that it was a pan species trait. So they went and ate more and more marshmallow. Eventually, some dinosaurs modified their genes, leading to their offspring being able to breathe fire (the dragons of myth).

This gave these dragons an evolutionary advantage over the other dinosaurs. Eventually, however,- due to the fact that everything, if it is loved by enough people in one spot - (take tea in England) Something strange happened. The marshmallow achieved sentience.

By this point, The dinosaurs were so hooked they didn't care. So they carried on hunting the marshmallows. And the Marshmallows, as all good underdog species will (read any scifi aliens-invade-tech-inferior-earth to find out) fought back. And eventually they got so good at it that one by one, the dinosaurs died. Except for the dragons. Being able to breathe fire meant that they were able to hold the marshmallow off. and they found, oddly enough, the marshmallows actually taste better lightly toasted. This meant that the dragons were able to survive until people evolved and were able to tell stories about them that turned into the myths we have today.

Eventually though, even the dragons died out.

And it is thought , by those in the know that the marshmallows, deprived of their natural enemy and their OWN food source died out as well. Before this happened however, a dead marshmallow was found by a young lad in ancient Egypt, and he figured out a way to replicate a none- sentient version of them. However, there are other who believe, that on occasion a poor supermarket worker is unpacking a crate of marshmallows and mysteriously disappears...

'pologies and soup

I've realised, I've been rather remiss in posting recently: My last post was over a fortnight ago. And I have also realised that I have missed it a little. So thats the apologies bit of the title. As for the soup bit...

I have come to the realisation that our oven needs replacing. Badly. Most of my flatmates have gone home this weekend, leaving me and one other to cook for two. Yes. Of course. And it is doable. I used to do it all the time when it was just me and my father. Apparently now I can't.

We decided that on Friday night we would do a chicken and lentil hotpot, and that it would be nice. So we did all the prep, put in maybe a FEW more lentils than we were meant to and put it in the oven for the half hour it said to. We took it out and the vegetables weren't cooked. you needed a hard surface under them to even get the fork to consider stabbing it. so we put it in again for another half an hour, looking at each other, nodding and saying yep. defenatly need to precook the veg next time. And the lentils. Even if it doesn't say to. Half an hour later again, and we took it out. the veg was a little more squishy, but the lentils were crunchy, and lentils are not meant to be crunchy.

So we sat down and tried to eat it. The chicken was nice. And cooked as well. the rest got sent back to the pot, and the pot got put on the hob and cooked. And it looked so much like soup that well, it became soup. Unfortunately, we had to keep adding stock to the lentils could cook, so from a meal that was big for two people, we had something big enough for eleven. Literally. Eleven big bowls of soup we had. A few emergency phonecalls later, and we ate most of it. (by the way, thanks for coming round) But there is still some left in the fridge. so yesterday, we invaded the flat next door. The fish came out all right. They have a shiny new oven. Here's hoping one arrives for us.

But seriously, what really took the biscuit was that we put some pease pudding in as well. An hour it should of taken. Lucky we forgot about it. Over four hours later, and it was only just done.

Sorry about the griping. It is actually fairly amusing now I think on it. At least the kitchen is clean.

Remembering Sunday

This last Sunday was Remembrance Sunday. When you were little did you turn on the telly hoping for the cartoons, and catch the parade? All those people, in uniforms. So many in wheelchairs or using sticks and crutches. So many old people in uniform. And they all look proud to be there. Proud, and somehow guilty. And the woman, whose medals were always on the other side of the chest to most of the men.

Now I'm older I realise that parades like that, they are proud to be there. Proud and happy that they are being remembered. And even more that the people who can't be there were being remembered. And thats where the guilty comes in as well. The fact that they are there and their friends weren't. Why were they spared? in some cases, some may well be thinking why wasn't I? And the woman, and the sons, with the medals on the other side of their chest, walking in a dead man's shoes. They shouldn't be there. their husbands, fathers brothers. They should be there.

But they aren't. They are the folk who were buried with all honours. Or those who have a cross because there wasn't enough bits to find to bury "missing presumed dead".

"And their words echo back from the graveyards of Flanders, singing old Jack Judge's song."

And now it has come back into the spotlight. War I mean. Irak, and now Afghanistan. As the adverts say, every day is remembrance day for some families. This has always been the case, but now it is more noticeable perhaps. because now it is our generation who are dying, and being remembered. There are now so many more people who buy a poppy, and actually stop and think about what it means, what it represents.

When we were kids, poppy day, remembrance day was history. part of that rich tapestry that so many people don't understand, and in some cases actively resent. People forget that their grandparents were once twenty, thirty years old. That they served in the war. The males in my father's side of the family have a history of military service. But my grandmother and her sisters - they helped as well. Land girls, Plotters under the hills of Portsmouth, Ambulance drivers. they all did their part for their country, and did it proudly. They wanted desperately to help any way they could. And their parents, they had been through it all once before, in the first world war. Our parents had the troubles. The IRA, Ireland. "In a station, in a city, a British soldier stood" According to my father Harvey Andrews captured Ireland during the troubles in that song. He said that the first time he had made pretty much anyone listen to it the first time, it moved them to tears.

We don't have that. We don't have the experiences of our parents, our grandparents. And we can't imagine what it must be like. And deep inside, whilst I rage against our shallowness sometimes I'm glad that we probably never will. Because I'm not entirely sure how I would cope, how I would stand up to the legacy that that parade has left for all of us. So I will wear my poppy and try to understand what it must really be like for the people who were there.

Sausages

I do apologise. I had meant to post this in national sausage week. Last week in fact. but I managed to click save as draft rather than post. In my defense (is that s? I thought it was C.) I was rather tired at the time. so here it is. A week late but the 10 20 to sausageland has now arrived...

Have you had your sausages today? For today is national sausage week. Yes. show your support for sausages. Go out! Buy some! And eat them!

We have a lot of very strange festivals out there. Like Bonfire night. As was pointed out by a friend from Denmark today, we are basically celebrating a terrorist. although it is more, now I think of it about the fact that he failed at being a terrorist. And cheese rolling. thats odd. fun, but odd. And then there are the truly fringe ones, like international toilet day. And Welly boot week. now that one is odd. If I remember rightly, it's held in summer...

But truly. What a way to show your support for something you like. I like it therefore I shall eat it. What would happen if we approached everything we liked like that? What would life be like? What about if you had a passion for toxicology? And what about Mothering Sunday? Our mothers wouldn't last past our first birthday. We would all, excepting twins and some very fortunate circumstances be single children. And then, well, where would it end? Father's day? Birthdays? Barring the fact there wold be no humans in short order, we would be eligible as a species for a Darwin Award, I recon one of two things would happen:
1. We would all become Jehovah's Witnesses. Why? No birthdays. Therefore we would have more of a chance for survival.
2. The world would be a very different place.

Well, yes. Of course this last is true. But I think that polygamy would become commonplace. Well, that would make the Mormons happy. Except they wouldn't be Mormons. Or at least, a strange mixture of Mormonism and Jehovah's Witnesses would take over.

But some good would come of it: STIs would be a lot less common. Because, lets face it, girls would be a LOT more careful about things. Kids wouldn't be spoilt rotten, no mothers would mean they would have to do a lot more around the house. And, I suspect that there would be a lot more teachers; people who wanted children but didn't want to die. Also, The world wouldn't get overcrowded because cannibalism would be in full force. One born, one dies. More men than girls then.

This all sound like an horrific world. Not entirely sure it is one I would want to live in.

Remember: A sausage is for life. not just for national sausage week.

But don't let them go mouldy. That's just a waste.

generalities

There was going to be a post on apathy before this one. There still might. But I honestly couldn't be bothered to post it. And that is the truth. Not a clever word game. Where is the world coming to?

Anyway, today is a day of bothering about things. And a day of packing. For since I have the next four days off, (thank you timetable god!) I'm headed to Sussex-shire (hmmm. Uni is getting to my head- not every county has a shire in it. Pity. It is a nice word. Sounds nice. Makes a nice sussurus. (sp?) And horses. Shire horses really are the nicest horses going. almost as nice as those shaggy cows with the horns. Now they are lovely!

Back to life now I have sat and thought about cows for a bit. I love listening to conversations. Or hearing people talk about conversations they have with other people. You pick up some real gems. And I don't mean gossip. Some friends of mine were talking about square numbers when I was dozing in between lectures (disaster there. Actually snored IN the lecture. Again. Meh. need more sleep of a Thursday night.) When I heard one friend say to another "Sod square numbers. I like circles!" Well. That gave me a fit of the giggles - as you might imagine (especially if you know me. For those who don't, I have an active sense of humour and I giggle a lot.) Mostly, I must admit, because when people say something like that, it brings to mind some of the more blond things that I have said over the years. And yes. That DOES include the Dorset rainforest episode.

Anyway. Packing. Because, as I said before I got distracted by cows (a legit reason: they were wondering past on tother side of the road) I have the next four days off, I am heading down to Sussex - west, not east - to visit my Nan. So packing. Must remember the computer... Yes indeed. What makes me laugh is that I am having to goto Sussex via London which is normal, and York, which isn't. Leeds being a sight closer and the train from York going through there anyway. Fine. OK. Lets go with it. so far, every time I have gone home or come back up here on the train, something has happened. Like my suitcase falling apart. Literally, and on the underground at that. Cows blocking the line so as my train was cancelled, so I missed my booked connection. Or falling asleep and adding a good hour/ two hours onto my journey time because of it. it will be interesting to see if anything of the like happens between here and Chichester, where Nan lives, and before it has always been between here and Polegate, where I live. I'm starting to get excited now though: I haven't seen any of my family since term started. and didn't think I would be until Christmas. Thank goodness I haven't got an overly heavy workload at this moment in time. Although I will be bringing work with me.

Also. I have just started a very expensive hobby. LARP. Live Action Role-Play. Basically I get to run around on a field with a big sword and hit people with it. A foam sword I hasten to add. Soon to be latexed. I really can't wait for that to really kick off next year when things get a little warmer. It really will be fun.

And as for knitting. Well that really is starting to get on my goat. On my forth pattern for a woolly hat. And this one not going exactly to plan either. rescue remedy: go and talk to Nan about it. She'll know what to do. So that is what I shall do. And on the subject of Circle numbers, does 11 count? because that is a nice number indeed.

NB. Have just noticed: I start an awful lot of sentences with and. That surely isn't good grammar. And don't call me Shirley!

Birthdays

Hya! Sorry about the gap between the posts. I would say I was busy, but to tell the truth, that would be a lie. I haven't been terribly busy at all. (well, not too busy to write a post, at least).
Today is a friend's birthday. And she has come up with the clever idea of adding all the numbers in your age up. So today, she is nine. And all of this year, I am two.

This explains to me why at certain ages, like when people goto university, people's mental ages seem to lower, sometimes dramatically. I know mine did. I came to uni, and I can enjoy far more childish things now than I did. But then I did go from ten to two when I had my twentieth birthday.

Anyway, my friend is having a party this evening. And because it is her ninth birthday, we are having a proper party for her. With Jelly, and ice cream, and cake, and not to mention the trifle. And so, for an evening we shall regress into a childish state and revel in it. Because we all love to be young again, if only for a short while. Why is this? Because it brings back the memories of our childhood. And gives us a chance to be nostalgic.

I writing this and remembering one of my birthdays, I'm not sure which one where I was promised a barbecue by my parents. The day came, and I was all excited about it, and it tipped it down. Absolute buckets it was. So my dad took an umbrella, stood out in the rain, and cooked the meat whilst my friends and I played in the living room. I have often thought that I have an amazing dad, and this pretty much confirms it for me.

I am happy today. Cheerful. Looking forwards to this evening, and I've had a fairly relaxing day. So I sang in the shower. Loudly. I take this opportunity to apologise to my flat mates, should they read this. Why is it that people do this? Why, when a lot of people refuse to sing anywhere else (I am not one of those, by the way.) will they sing in the shower? I personally have no idea. But maybe it is the water. Do I think it makes my voice sound nicer? Maybe it does. Maybe it is the lack of audience. Actually, that last one will probably clench it for a lot of people. But what do people sing? Personally, I've sang quite quite a wide range. from Queen to the Seekers, to Steeleye Span, and on occaision, the odd bit of Bach and Beethoven. Well, hummed. But by far the largest collection of songs that I've sang, both in and out of the shower is WWI and II songs. And I have no idea why. This morning, a friend put the tune for The Quartermaster's Store in my head. been humming it ever since. But yes. I wonder why I sing so much of the war stuff. because I really don't know. This is a mystery. And mysteries are what keep us going as a race. Whats out there? How can we find out?

Reach for the stars! You might just catch the moon.

Weather

I am British. And being British, there are some things that I (stereotypically) like. Like tea. We all have our quirks as a country. One of ours is that we like our tea so much that we are the only country to have to get power from another country - in our case France - at the end and in the breaks of popular television shows, to cope with everyone putting the kettle on. Even that phrase is soothing - putting the kettle on. I also like Morris dancing, and queues. Well, I don't like standing in queues, but I like people to be in a queue if the occasion warrants it. It's more orderly. I also like moaning about the weather.

The weather in Britain is more than a purely physical thing. Here, it has an entity. A personality. We talk and moan about it as if we had gone to school with it, and it had been both our best friend, and our worse enemy. If it is sunny, we moan about the heat and then switch straight to "but isn't it lovely that we have a nice clear day, so rare." to "I hope this doesn't carry on. I can't cope with a drought."

British weather is a changeable as it comes. Look out of the window and it is hoying it down, to borrow a phrase from a friend. So you get all ready to go out in the rain and by the time you get to the door, it is as if the rain had never happened.

If there is nothing else to moan about, people will moan about the weather. But are we really able to cope with it? It is defiantly a regional thing. For example, back home, on the south coast, snow is mostly unheard of. The sea warmth, wet, and I guess, saltiness make sure that doesn't happen. One of my most enduring memories of college is battling my way through the snow on a bike, to get to college, cold wet and shivering to be informed that most of the teachers couldn't get in so college was canceled. The snow melts, we go in after the weekend to be quite calmly informed by our northern Spanish teacher, and Scottish physics teacher that they were disgusted because at home that wouldn't even have been seen as a proper snowfall, let alone cancel the college day and cause all the havoc that it did for us.

And then there are the water companies. Despite having more than sufficient water falling from the sky in it's various forms even during a dry winter we are hit, almost unfailingly every summer with a hosepipe ban. Is this because our scorching hot weather dries out to reservoirs? Usually, no. There are nice big reservoirs with lots of water in them, nicely landscaped, boats and fish and yadda yadda yadda. And they let it escape. If not out of the reservoir itself, then through the maze of leaky pipes and poor fitting that they are constantly repairing. I forget the amount of water lost in greater London alone, but the figure is staggeringly high. It strikes me as shutting the stable door after the horse has escaped.

So we moan. We moan when it is fine because we turn pink and peal, and our infrastructure can't deal with it. We moan when it isn't fine, well, because it isn't fine. and that is a freak of natural situation. we are stuck halfway between the hot and the cold. And we are an island. Islands usually equal wet. unless you are like Australia, in which case you are wet around the edges because you are so blooming massive.

I like moaning. It is a common factor most people you speak to will have in common. And since I am usually a fairly sunny person, well, at least I like to think so, a little moaning will usually be taken in good regard. Because I am just as likely to be disgustingly cheerful about it. Which I have been told, doesn't bear thinking about in a Monday morning.

Hey?!

Ok. For some reason, the new post turned up underneath the old one. It's below the blond posting!

Life as a blond

I have had a perfect whopper of a week. Happy, grumpy, exhausted, and above all, blond. Very very blond. I have just finished working for the uni. today. And I have been alternatively exhausted and hyper. At work and home. By the way guys. You haven't heard form me? Sorry!

I am a natural blond, and I'm usually fairly bubbly and cheerful to go with it. unfortunately, I can also be as ditsy as they come when I have occasion to be. a couple of nights ago was a case in point.

I realise that the flat has run out of bread. Now, I love baking. Bread, cakes, you name it. I just really enjoy it. However, unless I really concentrate, I make silly mistake, and end up with more of the recipe on me than where ever the recipe was meant to go. I have inherited an ABC of cookery from my father, and I think he got it from his mother. So it is an old and wonderful book. full of knowledge that was accepted wisdom back then. (early fifties if I remember rightly) Like: Chop carrots, and other veg, put in the pan and boil for fifteen minutes or until soft. The thought makes me cringe. Because, talking to my grandmother, soft meant mush. Personally, I LIKE a bit of crunch in my veg. But each to their own. Whatever floats your boat, as my uncle would say always wistfully, looking at the miles of land that surrounds his house without a trace of water in sight.

Anyway. So, the bread recipe in the book needs three and a half pounds of flour. Three and a half. Well, I have maybe two thirds of that. So I weigh out one and three quarters of a pound of flour and then get distracted. By what, I don't know. Maybe it was my friend I bake with telling my flatmates how I have just managed to disconnect my mouth from my brain brake when she told me she was finding grey hairs and how she was pulling them out. I turned around and said: Don't do that! you'll go bald. Meaning, of course, if you keep doing that you'll go bald. Anyway. Distraction happened (as it did just now actually. Tea is a wonderful thing. Especially when a lack of caffeine doesn't keep me up at night.) and I forgot to half the rest of the ingredients. So I turn around again, and half everything. INCLUDING the flour and put it in a separate pot, and all over my skirt. Not to mention that I forgot I only had a salt grinder, not table salt. and in grinding it managed to unscrew the top and spill it everywhere. So, weighing it out I realise what has happened and then correct it, kneed the dough, and put it in the grill to prove, as I don't have an airing cupboard.
However much time it was later, I take the bowl out of the grill and think hmm odd. this is flexible. And then promptly think nothing off it until a flatmate gasps and says, "but! that's a plastic bowl Hanna! What are you doing!" Cue recognition dawning in my eyes and a feeling of oops creeping up my back.

This is a feeling I am well used to. I was so blond that night that I ended up not cooking dinner. most everyone else did it for me. Especially after the sausages nearly caught the oven on fire...

On reflection, being blond is usually fairly harmless. occasionally something lethal happens, but something lethal happens randomly anyway to a whole host of people. But usually it is a cause for mild ribbing and laughter on the part of those observing said blond. Laughter and occasional winces. In my opinion, both as a blond and an observer of blond, I hope the breed never dies out.

Bubbles.

We are an infinite set of bubbles. There is how we feel, and how we pretend we feel. What we say, and what we actually think. How we are when we are stressed, relaxed, or having fun. These bubbles vary in size and consistency. For most people, bubbles mean safety. Protection, a way to hide from the world.

All sorts of people have bubbles; happy people, sad people, sea people, country people, people who use deckchairs...

These bubbles can cause us to become closer or can force us apart. But what makes a bubble compatible? Is it like the blood group ABO system, with antibodies and antigens, or is it like a lock and key fit, like enzymes? Because there is something in the way we perceive other people's bubbles that make us think hey. That person is actually pretty cool. I wouldn't mind getting to know them. Usually this happens in the first thirty seconds to a minute.

This means that there must be something quite big in people's bubbles that we recognise, like, I don't know, some people have a hexagon shape in their bubble, and others an octagon. but equally, on top of that, there has to be smaller things, like a fractal, bits getting ever smaller, ever more intricate that we pick up on. If we're really lucky, we can find someone who's bubble meshes with ours perfectly, a soul mate if you will, but equally, that is fairly rare - has to be fairly rare because of all the variety inherent in living things.

And all of this comes from four iddy-bitty little chemicals which come together to form DNA. The fact that all of the diversity from the smallest single celled organism, or bacterium to us, via ants, and elephants and dolphins is frankly amazing. Four little chemicals creates almost the entirety of the world we live in and all those different bubbles we interact with every day of our lives.

I could wax eloquent for hours about how amazing DNA and genetics is. but I won't. Some things you have to find out for yourself. Saying that, I'm sure sooner or later there will be a post about genetics. I think about it a fair bit. It fascinates me, and yet, not the bloke who lives in the flat below. He has a different bubble. Because he has a different upbringing, and also a different genome. See what I mean?

The time gnomes

Ever left something and gone back to it to find it not there? Turned around, looked again and realised it was there? Blame the Time Gnomes. Found it after in a really odd place after losing it? Say, keys in the bathroom cupboard? Blame the Time Gnomes.

The Time Gnomes are our animators. They live in our future, only ten or so frames, and draw and colour in our surroundings. Much like the animators at Disney used to. The only thing they don't draw in is us. Now, recently, things have started getting harder for the Time Gnomes. They had to start dealing with the birds eye view. What was a major triumph for the Wright brothers and a lot of people made them sigh at the extra workload and the new techniques required. When we started to be able to pinpoint things with precision, we took them unawares. And they corrected on the fly. Everything now had to be measured. Things could no longer be put in more or less the same place, everything had to be measured against the previous frame which itself had been measured in turn. They started thinking about moving a little further into the future. One very clever young gnome by the name of Copernicus sorted out the mess that had been the stars by suggesting a seasonal shift, and things started to calm down a little. The gnomes got used to the extra workload.

When the camera was invented, they trembled slightly, but realised it was OK, they could just keep the pictures on file. Well. That in itself is a prodigious undertaking now. And then the ciné camera, and films, and home films and then that spread so fast that now the average mobile phone and digital camera can take short moving pictures. The poor Time Gnomes must have been struck with panic for this. Having to keep every FRAME on file? Ouch. Artists they can deal with. Art takes time. A small hand-held camcorder does as well, in the right hands, but not really. And then there are the security cameras. The poor gnomes. Having to draw it in Realtone™ and at varying degrees from pretty-good-picture to my-word-that's-grainy (pat. pending) at the same time and still have to remember that this tape needs this image...more and more gnomes are having to take time off work for stress, and illnesses related to stress, and is it really any surprise?

In the past, the main scenery would be done by one department, and then each individual had a gnome to watch and put in the fine details. Now more and more gnomes are having to do more than one job. And is it any surprise that they forget something? Just on occasion. I know my gnome is forever losing the little things like my keys and my purse. So I help him/her out. I call for them and usually I find them in pretty short order. Now everybody's gnome can be mischievous at times. And that is why I occasionally find my keys in odd places. Like the bathroom cupboard, or in a box of tissues or somewhere I KNOW I haven't been recently.

So just remember how much pressure the poor gnomes are under and the fact that the latest recruitment drive didn't bring in nearly as many young gnomes as was truly wanted, and stop and say hi on occasion. Who knows - the gnomes might just say hi back.

Stereotypes

Sorry for the wait folks, if, indeed there are any folks reading this. But things have been happening. There was going to be a post before this, but it got lost due to my computatorial ineptitude. Lets see... after the last post, I have had a friend coming down from up north, where I attend university, for the weekend. Luckily for me, he has a car. Unluckily for him, I'm more used to giving directions at push pedal pace. but we got around in one piece, and he got home in one piece so, there is no harm done. I think he even enjoyed it.

I also got very daring and ordered some more RAM for my slowly dying computer. I even installed it myself, and noting blew up. This pleased me, and did something for my burgeoning liking of computers and confidence in my skills. The day I got the RAM in place and it worked, I don't mind telling you, I preened. I also moved back up to university. " What?!" I hear people cry. And I do. "That's early!" They say. Well yes it is. But I moved up here for the same reason that people moved out of the dust bowl. Well, ok maybe not because my family couldn't grow any food and we would all have died. But I did go looking for a job. And I have one. A temporary job but a job none the less. So that is good. And I get to meet friends and such I have left behind up here. (it would be typical that I make friends from the extreme north in most cases, when I live in the extreme south.) According to some of the said northerners, so extremely south, I live in France.

France. Now, living on the channel I have been there a few times, and it is a nice place. In some places very nice. In others, a tip. Much like any other country. I can't usually understand all the jokes about the french until I bump into the odd, very odd usually, I might add, french tourist. Suffice to say, those few people would, until the next extremely polite and friendly tourist came along, make me inclined to agree with all of the stereotypes in spades.

Stereotypes are an interesting thing. they give you an image, an idea of a race, a place, a thing. Before you even go there or experience it for yourself. For example. The French. Rude, surly, onions, cheese, bad driving. The English. Tea, bad teeth, imperialistic (ok, not anymore.) Posh, stiff upper lip, rubbish at tennis. (come on Tim!) The thing is, maybe once these things were true. Maybe in some places they still are. Maybe they were true, but not as definite as stereotypes indicate. I mean, Oh the English, well, a few of them have very bad teeth you know. And some are even stoic in that quaint English fashion. It just doesn't come across nearly as well as the English. Oh. Those tea drinking, upper class toffs in their homosexual boarding schools. Now, which one is more likely to stick in your head if, on the spur of the moment, you thought of the English and didn't know anything about them?

Stereotypes serve their place. They give you a preconceived idea that is sometimes pretty good, always providing that you take them with a LARGE pinch of salt. A lot of them are even funny. So, have a laugh, believe them up to a limit, but don't hold to them so tightly that death-grip doesn't even come into it. And don't let it hurt other people whilst you laugh. Send it with them, not at them.

Now, reading this, it has turned out a LOT more serious that I originally anticipated, but that's the fun of writing. Find a start, and see where is takes you. If you feel that I have been giving you a sermon you don't need, then I apologise.

So, this is me, the mad, absentminded scientist signing off. Just think of the stereotypes and grin. You'll know what I'm like then.

Time.

I have a thing about time. I don't like it. It rushes past, and never stops for a cup of tea. (I hold great stock in stopping for a cup of tea.) It is in fact, incredibly rude. It turns up without warning, leaves just as quickly and never so much as a by-your-by. It goes fast when you're having fun, slowly when you aren't, or you're waiting for work to end. That is just sheer cussedness. For some reason time doesn't like us either. Or at least me.
It also makes you a whole lot older, creeping up on you in the night. Now, this is fine the day before your 6th birthday. Even, I've noticed, the day before your 96th birthday. However, in between it isn't much appreciated. By pretty much anyone. I turn 20 in about a week, and quite frankly, I can't be bothered. It's not the fact that I'm another year older, or that fact that, yet again I haven't really done much with my year, although, what I have done this past year I am, on the whole, quite happy with. No. It is that fact that people want to make a fuss, and I just don't have time. And that is what it all boils down to in the end. Time. Time and it's inherent dislike of me. Now, if this sounds like I have a complex, then fine. Maybe I do. I do know that I have a thing about time though.
Now,if time wasn't around quite so often, I'd suggest that a bell was tied around it's neck to stop it creeping up on you, for in my opinion, bells do a lot to make a lot of things better. This may well be, in hindsight, why I became a morris dancer. The lure of bells became too much. That is, however, another story for another time. I'm afraid even I would get annoyed by the constant jingling if someone did manage to tie a bell around the neck of time. So another solution must be made. I will think about this, and I will come back with further ideas.