Go, go, graphene!

I know little about this new miracle material - graphene - but the more I read, the more excited I become. For too long boring white coated egg heads have beavered away in the lab to give us useless products that have little application outside of an academic environment. Like DNA sequencing. Sure, you can get a good movie out of it, but come on, give me one practical example.

But this graphene stuff. Just wow.

Richard Van Noorden writes in Nature that:
According to the Nobel prize committee, a hypothetical one-metre-square hammock of perfect graphene could support a four-kilogram cat - the hammock would weigh 0.77 milligrams, less than a cat's whisker, and would be virtually invisible.

I think the phrase is along the lines of "hot diggity damn", because I for one have gone on long enough living in a world without invisible cat hammocks. Why, just last week I saw a cat, and it was SITTING ON THE FUCKING GROUND. How boring is that? From now on I want all my cats to be almost shitting themselves with fear at being suspended three to four feet up from the ground.

Thank you Science People.

Early to rest, early to rise. It keeps the mind sharp, the Sashimi knife sharper.

If I knew any wise old Sushi masters I'm sure it's the kind of sentiment they would echo. Doubtless they would frown on my approach involving Jack Daniel's sour mash whisky, involving most of a massive bag of cashews (roasted and salted), and involving copious amounts of Portal 2 till well into the wee small hours.

Oh, and don't forget the one litre bottle of yellow snot my friend brought me as a gift. Perhaps I'm being a touch harsh. We think it's Spanish eggnog, though we're not quite sure. It tastes faintly of banana. It cannot be drunk, it must be poured, much like that last globule of a runny yoghurt that would bring grief from your mother because you lifted the pot to your mouth.

Now the shot glasses of yellow goo stand on the counter top, a monument to my rudeness as a gift recipient. I truly am sorry for my initial knee jerk reaction ("What the hell is that?" I said). But I stand by it.

Anyone fancy some of my 1.0 litre bottle of strangely sweet and gloopy liquid? There's at least 0.99 of it left.

The loneliness of the short distance and moderately puffing runner

Last Friday I went for a run. Three miles, down by the river, no biggie.

Halfway through I did the usual - pause at the kiddie play area to knock out some chins on the monkey bars, and feel that self inflicted sense of discomfort - "what if someone sees me and calls me a paedophile?"

Then just this Tuesday gone - out for a run, same route, only this time I came a cropper. Put my foot on something hidden in the grass and down I went. Obviously I ruptured a whole series of ligaments in my ankle, damn near tore the whole foot off, but that wasn't my first thought.

I wasn't worried that my new nickname might become "hop along Jimbo".

I didn't care that I was now the limping buffalo calf of the Newport herd should Jurassic Park ever come true.

All I could think - I was down on my hands and knees, hidden in the long grass, lurking right next to the kiddie play area.

Now it's three days later, and though the foot has reattached itself I'm still in considerable agony.

People tell me - don't be a hero James.

But damnit, men should be men.

I'm still going on that sushi making course tomorrow.