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I went to the hospital yesterday. My previous appointments at that hospital have been on Fridays, when there must be some sort of paediatric clinic as it's always been overrun with small children. Yesterday there was nary a child in sight; instead I think it was knee injury night and the waiting room was full of people with extravagant limps.

While I was waiting for my turn, both Mr Pain and Mr Hurt were called (separately) into consulting rooms. Also Mr Beard, but he doesn't seem to fit the narrative.
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Convalescing in style: I'm sitting on the sofa with post-physio ice packs on my knees, and have just spilled LBV port on my fluffy blanket.

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Things I want to achieve this weekend:

1. Get the rest of the burnt lentils off the cast-iron saucepan. Note to self: do not attempt to debug hastily-written linked-list code late at night while making soup. You will get distracted and forget about the soup.

2. Purchase material and a pattern to make a dress for a one-year-old. Does anyone have any good recommendations for places to purchase sewing patterns in London?

3. Get rid of this cold. Bored now.
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My favourite typo of the day (from RFC 2616):

"This media type UST NOT be used unless the sender knows that the recipient can arse it"

Why yes, thank you, I am really quite juvenile.
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Yesterday, walking round the lake at work, I saw an interesting sight. I tried to take a photo of it, but it was a long way away and I only had a camera phone.

Blurry photo! )

And an unrelated photo from this morning )
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Some time ago, I reached the age where I realised I didn't know my age. If asked (which, let's face it, doesn't happen all that often) I'm forced to remember what year it is, subtract my birth year, and work out whether I've had a birthday or not recently in order to answer.

It seems such a far cry from the days when anyone was able, and even eager, to give their age; when the half-years and the quarter-years were jealously accrued. Six and three-quarters was babyish, but seven? Seven meant being allowed to walk to Pierremont Road shop by yourself[*].

When I was small, I'd be given my apples cored and cut up, sliced into pieces on a plate. And one day, presumably before I went to school, though I don't know exactly when, I was deemed to have the years, dexterity and teeth necessary to be given my apple whole. To just, like, bite into willy-nilly. I remember distinctly that this was a very grown up thing to do, and quite an achievement.

Accordingly, it's taken me over thirty years to admit that actually, I quite like my apples cored and cut up into pieces. And, if I'm dead honest, and if location, situation and cutlery allow, I would rather have them that way. I've been secretly slicing my apples up for some time. Today I boldly borrowed a knife from a colleague and chopped my lunchtime apple up at my desk. I reckon I'm big enough to eat my food like a baby if I choose.

Apples are much nicer like that, you know :)

[*] Actually, I have absolutely no idea at what age I was allowed to walk to Pierremont Road shop by myself, although I remember it was an exciting milestone. The shop isn't even there any more, bought up by a rival shop-owner and converted to a private house years ago.
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Public Service Announcement, in case anyone else has been suffering vague confusion when reading film reviews of late:

The Arthur Kipps who features in The Woman In Black bears absolutely no relation to the Arthur Kipps who features in the HG Wells novel (subsequently adapated as Half a Sixpence).

I did wonder how I'd managed to watch a stage production of The Woman In Black without realising that the protagonist was a character I'd met in a book before. I didn't. He's a completely different character, written by a different author, 80 years later. He just has the same name.
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While idly perusing yesterday's poll answers, I noticed this:

poll results showing twitter login

See that there? That (next to "Martyn") is a twitter icon.

Now, I know some people do Mysterious Magic to make their teeny-tiny LJ icon look like something other than the default but... twitter?

Anyway, it turns out you can log in to LJ with your twitter credentials. And vote in polls! Also with your Facebook credentials, should you have such things. And with the credentials of some other things I've never heard of (mail.ru, vkontakte) for which I'm blaming Russia.

I knew about OpenID, but this is all new to me. When did that arrive?
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Apparently, [livejournal.com profile] marjory tagged me. I almost didn't notice because I nearly wasn't looking. Anyway... apparently these are the rules.

1. People who have been tagged must write the answers on their blog and replace any question they dislike with a new, original question.

2. Tag eight people. Don't refuse to do that. Don't tag who tagged you.

And here are my answers to the questions )

Tagging... er... I dunno. [livejournal.com profile] exspelunca, [livejournal.com profile] ebee, [livejournal.com profile] sushidog, [livejournal.com profile] beckyc, [livejournal.com profile] leathellin, [livejournal.com profile] shrydar, [livejournal.com profile] rabbit1080 and [livejournal.com profile] tigerfort.
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Today seems to be poll day.

[Poll #1706506]

If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's really not that exciting.

In other news, did you know that tarragon was also known as dragon's wort, or the dragon herb? Which is cool. I still don't like it, though.
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Another outbreak of hats in the south-east trains region. But this time the gentlemen are wearing panamas. It must be Henley regatta.
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There has been a serious outbreak of Hats in the Reading station area. I think it must be Ascot time of year.

Real content when I crawl out from under my pile of work. Maybe.
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Funniest thing on the news today: M&S anti-cellulite knicker claims 'misleading'

...contains the wonderful paragraph:

"The £29.50 Anti-Cellulite Firm Control Waist and Thigh Clincher pants contain vitamin E, aloe vera and caffeine."

Caffeinated pants?

I appreciate that cellulite blights some people's lives but really... who thought caffeinated pants would help?
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When I began commuting to work by train last year, I was surprised at how frequently the train stopped in a station in such a way that a person sitting where I was couldn't see the station name board. After three months, I can recognise the ten or so stations on my line, and am much more attuned to the stoppings and startings of my train.

In the initial stages, though, I was frequently to be seen peering out of windows, trying to work out where I was - not that it usually mattered, since I could recognise both the stations at which I might want to alight. One station, however, was always simple: as you pull in, a strident recorded female voice trumpets Slough. This is Slough!

I've never worked out why she sounds so pleased about it.

Trivia fans may also be pleased to hear that Slough is also the only station on my route with a stuffed dog on the platform. He's called Jim.
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This morning, I was made inexplicably happy by my bottle of Boots' facewash. It ran out.

Why would that make you happy? )

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