Here are some bits ‘n’ pieces from March 2010, because nothing says ‘tired blogger’ like recycled writing.
On a Broken PS3
Sony, intimidated by my threat to mobilise the world, have fixed the problem. Or, to be strictly accurate, the PS3 has fixed the problem itself. Just what we need: intelligent computers. A few tiny steps from sentience and then we’ll have Arnold Schwarzenneggers all over the place.
Let me terminate this topic by telling you that Spud is at this very moment catching up on last night’s playing; I can hear him muttering parent-approved swear words under his breath (blast/fart/crap).
He reminds me of his father, who would come home from work in the early days of our marriage and play games on his monochrome screened, 20 megabyte hard driven computer, and scream the foulest language at it. When I asked him why he played them when they had such a deleterious effect on his mood, he replied, ‘Because it relaxes me.’
Proving that even back in the Eighties computers were already smarter than some people.
On a Horse
I read this years ago and I have always wanted to share it. It is supposed to be a true story; you’ll have to decide for yourself. I soooo hope it is.
The Queen was entertaining a visiting head of state; they were parading down the Mall in a horse-drawn carriage, chatting nicely, when one of the horses made what can only be described as a rude noise.
QEII: I’m so sorry about that.
HoS: Please don’t apologise; if you hadn’t said anything, I’d have assumed it was the horse.
I was cheered by a report in the Telegraph* that says dog owners get more exercise than non-dog-owning, gym-going folk.
*Yes, I know the report appeared months ago but give me a break; I’m exhausted from all the walking.
This is true (it says so in the papers so it must be). My dog has short legs – shorter even than mine – and it was recommended that he get half-an-hour’s walking a day, which means that I get half-an-hour’s walking a day. He often gets more, of course, but only if it’s not cold, not wet, not dark, not boring and I’m annoyed with the Hub. If I’m being honest, if it was just the last qualification we would have daily three-hour walks.
Toby also runs around a lot in the house – she’s standing up: there must be food! He sneezed; I wonder if there’s any food? The big one’s home; I bet she makes food. He likes to play tug with his gezillion toys, which means that we play tug with his gezillion toys as well. He’s very demanding; maybe we should have had another kid instead; at least they grow up and leave you: we’re stuck with this fella until he departs for that great park in the sky. Hope there’s less poo up there.
I am a little surprised, given this rigorous exercise & diet regime, that I don’t look like Posh Spice**. Next time I am exercising the dog I will put away my Sudoku puzzle as I sit virtuously on my park bench, and exercise the little grey cells instead: I’m sure M. Poirot will be able to help me.
After all, we look so alike.
**I first typed, ’I am a little surprised that I don’t like Posh Spice’.*** Think it was a Freudian slip? I don’t; I rather like her, but why does she never smile with all that she’s got to be happy about? I bet she’s hungry. She should follow my diet then she could look terrific and be cheerful.
***Then I corrected it and accidentally wrote, ‘I am a little surprised that I don’t loo like Posh Spice’. Don’t think we’ll go there.