Being Mr. Kenny

Well… today, a lovely brand new washing machine arrived at our house. This is a replacement for the one that finally gave up the ghost, after a long battle with being rubbish, over two weeks ago.

Oh yes, the old one was absolutely hopeless. Half way through our first year (December-time, back in 2002) it started leaking all over the kitchen floor, and after a number of unsuccessful attempts at having it fixed (it invariably broke again every time) we gave up. We used to stuff tea towels under it to soak up the worst of the lake, but tea towels can only hold so much water before becoming saturated (read: sopping wet). Tea towels would regularly remain on the floor wet (or at least damp), for weeks before being washed and, uh… used to dry our dishes. It was a vicious cycle, but not so much vicious as unhygenic. It was an unhygenic cycle.

Anyway, after living like that for a year and a bit, at some stage near the beginning of this year (September) it started sounding like a train whenever it went into its spin cycle. Finally, it completely broke and no longer spun. It made the noise of spinning though, so at least it made a pretense.

So now we have a new one, and currently being boil-washed are the poor, faithful tea towels that have been serving king and country under the washing machine for this past month. Or even these past few months, I really can’t remember. Some of them have gone a bit green at the edges (with algae), and my housemate said he saw a dead slug (also green) wrapped up in one of them. About ten woodlice came out of the pile when we started washing them just now, as well.

There is lots of moss on our kitchen roof. I actually think it is amazing. My crappy fallapart digital camera doesn’t really do it justice, but here is a photo.

It’s always fun to stand on my bed and look out my window (I invite you to do it sometime), and the moss on the roof provides a good talking point. Sometimes I just want to climb out and roll about on the moss and bite into it — it looks like it would be really good to bite into.

Or rather not wearing glasses. I was walking home tonight, not wearing my glasses, when I looked up and saw, in the middle of the road, some kind of small animal walking across the road, pausing a while, then continuing. There was a car approaching, and I wondered if I should warn it about the animal it was about to squash.

However, as I approached, I could see that it wasn’t a small animal at all, but a plastic bag being blown along by the wind.

Porridge is absolutely amazing, and should be eaten by everyone, all the time. Constant porridge eatination is what I’m advocating, here. I’m eating some right now, and it is simply fantastic.

Particularly exquisite is porridge mixed with sugar, and even more particularly exquisite is porridge mixed with sugar, with milk, or even (if you’re feeling fattylicious) cream. Porridge in cream is what is known as ‘An Island of Loveliness’ because it literally floats and sticks together to make something so divine that for a few fleeting moments the bowl and spoon become conscious. It’s all true, I’ve seen it for myself.

F1 the office assistant

Well, I’ve written 35% of my 2000 word essay. I must say I don’t think it’s very good. As I write I have F1 the office assistant up. He’s supposed to help me work with Office, but I’ve typed in “Write my essay for me” hundreds of times now, and still he hasn’t done it! You know, it’s not very good is it? All this modern technology, and one little tiny piece of programming can’t even write a fully-referenced and properly written 2000 word scientific report… What is the world coming to?

Anyway, I don’t like the way he’s mistreated by the funny floating ball. Every time I save the document he’s anally violated by it, and when I exit the programme it causes him to explode! I really don’t understand what he did to deserve such hateful treatment. I might start a petition to Microsoft to try to get them to stop this nastiness, but then again I might not.

I have to be up in the morning, and I think I’m going to die. [There’s those exclamations again!] I’ve had about 5 cups of coffee as well, so it should be interesting. Anyway, I missed my target of 1000 words tonight (that would have taken us nicely up to 50%). I don’t know, I think I need to learn how to waffle and hold attention without really saying anything.

I think I’ve managed it with this entry, though, so all is not lost.

7:55 pm

Snicker bars are quite marvellous, are they not?

10:23 pm

I think the essay has been officially pronounced dead. We’re all going to die and the world is about to end. I actually have run out of things to waffle about and I’ve just noticed that I have exactly 0 references. This essay is proper killer! I can sense another 5:00 am session coming up. And lectures start again tomorrow. Well, at least it’ll be a different module. And besides, the assessment for this module is weighted 60:40 in favour of an exam (over this bloody stupid essay) so I should be able to do well in the exam and rescue this module from the jaws of death, terrible misery and abject pain.

I’m up to 930, now, which is 47% !

This is really bad, I need to get on with my essay. It’s terrible. Although, I am now 20% through my essay, which is a full 5% closer than last time. The house is full of housemates’ music and it’s really hard to concentrate!

I’ve been a little disturbed at my exclamations of late. For those that don’t live with me, I’m prone to shout things out at random intervals. They express mild annoyance (i.e. TV being crap) or frustration (i.e. essays being crap).

Recently my exclamations have been centred around predicting death. For instance; “Oh, we’re all going to die!”. Technically, these exclamations are true. At some point, we will, all of us, die. At least that’s the justification. But anyway. They’re not meant to be maudlin or depressing, and as long as I don’t do it in front of strangers or anything I think it’ll be OK.

I bought Belleville Rendez Vous on DVD the other day. I’m so looking forward to it! It’s a French animated film (by Sylvain Chomet) and it’s about a cycling champion who is kidnapped by gangsters. It’s deliciously surreal and slightly dark in places, and I can’t wait to see it again! (I saw it a few months ago on TV, late at night, and really enjoyed it then).

Over here, in Britain, we’ve just had “bonfire night”. Also called “Guy Fawkes’” or simply “fireworks night” (or even just “the fifth of November”). This is when we celebrate the ruthless and bloodthirsty torture, subsequent confession by, and execution of our best-loved scapegoat traitor, Guy Fawkes. There’s even a song!

Remember, remember
the Fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
Remember, remember
the Fifth of November,
Something that rhymes with ‘and plot’*.

(Apologies, I have forgotten the last line…)

Families gather round bonfires and burn effigies of said traitor, and fireworks are lit all over the nation. This gives the most wondrous impression of being in a warzone with the city all around you being mortared (or shelled, whichever you prefer) by terrorists. You do get to see some lovely fireworks, though.

The history behind this event is this: In 1705, Guy Fawkes and some other (Catholic) conspirators made a plan to blow up the (Protestant) king, James I, on November 5th. They laid a store of gunpowder under the houses of Westminster but were stopped when someone received what we would call today an ‘anonymous tip-off’. The conspirators were then tortured until they signed a confession, and exectuted.

Isn’t it quaint, British culture.

I think I’ve found a new meaning for the word ‘shaving’. I discovered it this morning, and I will be submitting my findings to the Oxford Concise English Dictionary people.

Shaving

v. to re-open old wounds