March Repeats

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.

On Exercise

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 was also chuffed to notice a related article which claims that playing Sudoku burns off more calories than is contained in a Hobnob.  Me, I am liking this newspaper.  When I spotted that ‘Comfort eating does work’ and that superdiets are ‘based on myths’, I had to roll around in a box of Maltesers to celebrate.

*

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.

I Promised You A Secret

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to read this post. 

Remember last week how I was so busy I ignored you all?  I was busy with this:

The Hub’s father once gave him a set of photo albums with pictures of his life.  Last August I thought that would be a lovely gift for Tory Boy’s birthday, with the addition of the stories of the photos, as much as I could remember.  My idea was to buy a couple of scrapbooks but the Hub thought it should be something special.  He found an old photo album in a charity shop, re-covered it, and bought two plaques: one for the cover with TB’s name and D.O.B., and one inside with a loving message from us all.  Spud chose the font; it was a family project.

By January I had sorted our extensive photo collection into His ‘n’ Ours groups.  I already had them filed by years into boxes, so it was a big job but not as big as it could have been.  All that remained was to stick them into the album and write comments.

Tory Boy’s (should I start calling him Tory Man now, do you think?) birthday was last Monday.  On the Thursday I thought I’d better get a move on, and did.  Ten-thirty Thursday night found me crying in the Hub’s arms that I’dusedtheoursphotosinsteadofthehisphotsnadI’dhavetostartalloveragain.  The Hub sent me to bed with instructions to start afresh the next day.  He was right. 

He would have helped me but he wasn’t allowed because every time he came near to offer guidance and advice I snarled getlostdivorcethiswasmyideayou’vedoneyourbit and he retreated to the safety of Sky Sports watching.  We haven’t stayed married this long by ignoring the danger signs.

Friday and Saturday were busy days but I got about seven hours in; Sunday, I locked myself in the bedroom all day, fortified by mugs of Earl Grey passed through a grill, and my secret chocolate stash.

On Sunday evening around eleven, it was done.  That boy better appreciate how much we love him.  His father and brother had to live with me like that for three days.  Think panic, hormones (my baby was no longer a baby, as every baby photograph reminded me) and blog-withdrawal.

The great day dawned:

That’s the album on the right.

He loved it; it was his best present, and his presents included an antique pocket watch:

a fabulous jellyroll quilt made by Viv (so he wouldn’t steal mine):

a Playstation 1 and Nintendo Gameboy from his brother:

and of course, books, dvds and lots of dosh – the last bit not from us, but from kind family and friends.  We are buying Tory Boy’s air ticket to wherever he wants to go that we can afford, and he will use his birthday cash as spends.  Making memories is more fun than material goods; though they are nice, too.

The PS1 and GB might seem like odd gifts, but TB is into old games.  The Gameboy used to belong to Spud and he sold it to a friend early last year.  TB was upset so Spud persuaded his friend (after a lot of harassing and restraining orders) to sell it back to him.  He happened to spot the PS1 on a boot sale the week before TB’s birthday and bought it because he felt bad that he had not been able to find the particular game TB wanted to go with the GB. 

Do I not have thoughtful, generous children?  I think I do.

We bought Tory Boy the obligatory key, of course:

From the pound shop.  He had a gold charm for his eighteenth and we know from experience that those keys end up packed away, one week after the important birthday, never to be seen again, so we thought our money was better spent on the ingredients for his birthday fridge tart:

It’s a favourite recipe of TB’s but costs a fortune to make.  The key ingredient is Peppermint Crisp (it’s a South African recipe) and TB supplied that himself, having ordered it from an online South African shop and presenting it to me with the words, Make fridge tart.

We couldn’t persuade him to have a party or even a few family and friends round on the day.  He wanted to spend it quietly at home with us, and he did, and declared it perfect.

He’s a man now; I suppose I have to let him do what he wants.  As proud of him as I am, however, I miss my baby.  I could make him get a haircut when he needed one.

PS3d Off

Spud Bud is rather annoyed.  He got in from school last night, overjoyed because he had no homework for the first time in three years and could dedicate the whole of his evening to the Playstation. 

Not. 

There’s a glitch in the system, apparently, rather like the Millennium Bug i.e. something to do with the date, and if you turn it on to use it, it explodes and gives you measles and you die of gangrene.  That was how it sounded when Spud was raging about it, anyway.  How can I live without my PS3?  No aliens to massacre; no World Cup to win without one united player in the squad; no car chases knocking down innocent pensioners who happen to get in the way?  When I suggested he do something radical like read a book, I suddenly knew how scared those aliens must feel when he notices them.

I’m sure the bug is not as life-threatening as he thinks it is; people survived without electricity and modern medicine long enough for somebody to invent them, so I imagine they can get by without their PS3s for a while.  (I had to whisper that last sentence so he didn’t burn me for heresy).   Sony can’t afford to upset millions of players around the world.  If they all react like Spud, and I bet they do because, like my son, they’re all geeks with no life, then there’s going to be a lot of angry gamers gathering and fomenting outside Sony headquarters.  Which is in Japan, by the way.  Here’s the address according to their website, in case you want to protest in person: 1-7-1 Konan, Minato-ku, Tokyo 108-0075, Japan.  I quite like the idea of starting a global riot; I’ve always been interested in Chaos Theory: a housewife flaps her wings in England and a giant corporation Novocaines a generation in Japan.  Or did it happen the other way around?

I wasn’t going to use the phrase ‘PS3 Bug’ because I didn’t want hordes of mega-nerds finding their way to my blog in their quest for Sony answers and becoming enraged that I don’t have it and wiping me off the face of the blogosphere with their uncanny technical super powers.  But if I’m going to start a mass movement, I think I’ll have to.  PS3 Bug.

An interesting aside: a thesaurus.com definition:  a geek is any smart person with an obsessive interest, a nerd is the same but also lacks social grace, and a dweeb is a mega-nerd

An uninteresting aside: it still bugs me that the Millennium was celebrated at the end of 1999.  A millennium is a thousand years and two millenniums are two thousand years, not one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine years.   Buy a calendar, people!

When I told Spud about the Millennium Bug and how everyone was Y2Krazy and that terrified world citizens stockpiled tinned goods and moved to the wilds of Scotland in case aeroplanes fell out of the sky and fridges crashed, he was at first amused but then began to see the attraction.  Once Sony sorts the problem, he’s taking his PS3 and the contents of my larder, and moving to Glasgow.