Strange as it may seem to people who who come to my house - I like things clean.
Those piles of dust, the sixteen copies of Watchtower on the foot of the stairs, the red marks on the wall from where I kicked the pommegranate that time, all there because I haven't found the right tool.
It's not through wont of trying. I have so many gadgets for cleaning, all promise to make my life easier, but none have the wow factor to overcome laziness. I have a higher ratio of cleaning devices to dirt than an NHS hospital ward.
Until now.
Because now I finally have my handheld Dyson DC31.
I've wanted one of these babies for a while, always holding off because of the price tag. Can a handheld vacuum that costs over one hundred pounds really be worth it? I still don't know, but before you write me off as having more money than sense...
It looks like a gun.
It comes out of the box and you have to click things together like a sniper rifle. I'm tempted to get it a silver case filled with black foam inserts to fit the sleek form.
It also has a button that transforms it from a mere 38W of suck into a virtual hurricane of 60W. In layman's terms that's enough to take a wig off a bald man at forty paces. I'm also hoping it'll be enough to suck out those three apple cores that have glued themselves to the inside of my car's ash tray.
The DC31 is small and light, great for sneaking into the hospital with you when that guy with the comb over resents your little moment of fun.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Saturday, 4 September 2010
I bet this would totally suck if it was real
He didn't love the girl. How could he love someone after just two dates? That was a sure fire ticket to Loserville. But he did really like her. Then one mistimed comment and boom, all gone.
They had this single perfect date together. The kind of first date you get in movies, when the both of them clicked, right at the same time. They drank Mojitos in the bar at the end of the bay. Somehow they talked about kids. One hour after meeting they were onto children, and neither of them was leaving.
They shared their first kiss before the hour was up, waiting for a table in Demarcos. His impulse, her surprise, but they both kinda liked it. And they both kinda liked the guy who sang like Dean Martin, who held the note, until the guy leaned over the table and kissed the girl again.
In the downstairs bar they drank beer. They held each other close, they kissed some more. The drink was flowing well and with hands clasped this new couple made so many new friends that night.
No one could believe that it was their first date.
They rode the carousel even though it was all tucked in for the night, laughing on the same pony until the man came and shouted at them.
Their second date a film, a movie that she liked but he didn't. That wasn't why it felt flat - who outside of Romeo and Juliet could top that first date?
He still did not know how he fucked things up, only that his sole memory of her - a contact on his phone that said: "Imogen?" - victim of a pissed off number deletion followed by frantic fumbling to get it back. Going months without calling her, and it wasn't until he was back in that downstairs bar for the first time since, on another first date, that he thought to himself, "Fuck".
He was there with this new girl, and she was nice, and he was having fun, but she was no Imogen. He started to think - with a first date like that, it was meant to be.
Perhaps it made him a dick, but he didn't care. Text her, and ask her - "That Imogen? Remember me?".
Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, looking for her name. Slowly, the horror growing, remembering that message, just two nights before:
Warning! Upgrading to the latest version of Android will erase all local data on your phone. Including contact details of your one, true love.
He said fuck once more, out loud. Didn't care that everyone was staring.
They had this single perfect date together. The kind of first date you get in movies, when the both of them clicked, right at the same time. They drank Mojitos in the bar at the end of the bay. Somehow they talked about kids. One hour after meeting they were onto children, and neither of them was leaving.
They shared their first kiss before the hour was up, waiting for a table in Demarcos. His impulse, her surprise, but they both kinda liked it. And they both kinda liked the guy who sang like Dean Martin, who held the note, until the guy leaned over the table and kissed the girl again.
In the downstairs bar they drank beer. They held each other close, they kissed some more. The drink was flowing well and with hands clasped this new couple made so many new friends that night.
No one could believe that it was their first date.
They rode the carousel even though it was all tucked in for the night, laughing on the same pony until the man came and shouted at them.
Their second date a film, a movie that she liked but he didn't. That wasn't why it felt flat - who outside of Romeo and Juliet could top that first date?
He still did not know how he fucked things up, only that his sole memory of her - a contact on his phone that said: "Imogen?" - victim of a pissed off number deletion followed by frantic fumbling to get it back. Going months without calling her, and it wasn't until he was back in that downstairs bar for the first time since, on another first date, that he thought to himself, "Fuck".
He was there with this new girl, and she was nice, and he was having fun, but she was no Imogen. He started to think - with a first date like that, it was meant to be.
Perhaps it made him a dick, but he didn't care. Text her, and ask her - "That Imogen? Remember me?".
Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, looking for her name. Slowly, the horror growing, remembering that message, just two nights before:
Warning! Upgrading to the latest version of Android will erase all local data on your phone. Including contact details of your one, true love.
He said fuck once more, out loud. Didn't care that everyone was staring.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Quentin Tarantino's Inglourius
Well, that's one way to describe it.
Another way is the phrase "total borefest".
It's a war film about a group of Nazi hunters going around killing Nazis, and somehow I was actually rooting for the Germans.
They're Nazi hunters and when they find a Nazi they kill him. Only they don't just kill the evil, nasty Nazis, like the SS, they go find some poor German conscript - a guy only fighting because he's been told to fight -and they bash his head with a baseball bat.
In typical Tarantino style scene after "cool" scene happens. People sit around talking. They discuss German cinema, their favourite directors. There's a curious scene when a British agent who's also an expert on German cinema is briefed by an officer and another man I suspect was Winston Churchill. They meet in a large, almost totally empty room yet for some reason they all choose to stand in opposite corners and shout across the empty space at each other.
This might be the point (fifteen hours in I think) when all three people in the room said together as one: "This is crap."
But we lasted, all the way to the end.
Through the forty seven hours of scenes where people chatted about German cinema.
Through a two hour scene in a bar where a British agent was exposed because he said he grew up in Krimml in a house with Sky Blue window shutters, when in fact any native of Krimml knows that due to local planning laws all window shutters must be painted Topaz Blue. (In fact there's special dispensation for houses built between 1921 and 1926 to allow them to have Mirage Blue shutters, a shade very close to Sky Blue, so it's possible the agent could have been mistaken about the precise shade of blue, but since he was a boy at the start of the Great War, the house he grew up in can't have been built between 1921 and 1926). ***
Lots of people get shot.
Brad Pitt didn't get shot. Perhaps the German soldiers were confused by how American he was looking, or how many times he said, "Mama mia!". (He was disguised as an Italian you see).
Hitler may have got shot, or maybe it was blown up, or burned to death. I missed most of the frantic climax because I was spluttering with incredulity that the Hitler, the leader of the German people, the Fuhrer, the most important man in Nazi Germany, the guy you'd think the Germans would be keen on protecting, they'd given him two guards.
In Paris. The captial of France. A city, filled with Frenchmen. Who hate Germans. With Brad Pitt dressed as an Italian and his crack team of Nazi hunters on the loose.
*** Okay, so the scene didn't quite get to this level of banality, but watch it - it skirts damn close to it
Another way is the phrase "total borefest".
It's a war film about a group of Nazi hunters going around killing Nazis, and somehow I was actually rooting for the Germans.
They're Nazi hunters and when they find a Nazi they kill him. Only they don't just kill the evil, nasty Nazis, like the SS, they go find some poor German conscript - a guy only fighting because he's been told to fight -and they bash his head with a baseball bat.
In typical Tarantino style scene after "cool" scene happens. People sit around talking. They discuss German cinema, their favourite directors. There's a curious scene when a British agent who's also an expert on German cinema is briefed by an officer and another man I suspect was Winston Churchill. They meet in a large, almost totally empty room yet for some reason they all choose to stand in opposite corners and shout across the empty space at each other.
This might be the point (fifteen hours in I think) when all three people in the room said together as one: "This is crap."
But we lasted, all the way to the end.
Through the forty seven hours of scenes where people chatted about German cinema.
Through a two hour scene in a bar where a British agent was exposed because he said he grew up in Krimml in a house with Sky Blue window shutters, when in fact any native of Krimml knows that due to local planning laws all window shutters must be painted Topaz Blue. (In fact there's special dispensation for houses built between 1921 and 1926 to allow them to have Mirage Blue shutters, a shade very close to Sky Blue, so it's possible the agent could have been mistaken about the precise shade of blue, but since he was a boy at the start of the Great War, the house he grew up in can't have been built between 1921 and 1926). ***
Lots of people get shot.
Brad Pitt didn't get shot. Perhaps the German soldiers were confused by how American he was looking, or how many times he said, "Mama mia!". (He was disguised as an Italian you see).
Hitler may have got shot, or maybe it was blown up, or burned to death. I missed most of the frantic climax because I was spluttering with incredulity that the Hitler, the leader of the German people, the Fuhrer, the most important man in Nazi Germany, the guy you'd think the Germans would be keen on protecting, they'd given him two guards.
In Paris. The captial of France. A city, filled with Frenchmen. Who hate Germans. With Brad Pitt dressed as an Italian and his crack team of Nazi hunters on the loose.
*** Okay, so the scene didn't quite get to this level of banality, but watch it - it skirts damn close to it
Fly me to the moon
"You only get one shot kid. Just one."
As I lined up the target, my finger quite literally on the trigger, and I took that final breath that would serve me through the hit those words came back to me.
Close your eyes. Breathe. And do it.
So I took the shot.
Before I left my last job I spent the summer as the fly killing king. My badminton racquet was my weapon. My panacea the tink of the connection between string and fly, then head going one way, body in the opposite direction. On those hot, sweaty days when the air seems to pool around you and the flies are buzzing, on those days I was a king. Making double figures most days, easy.
My signature move was the lateral aerial bisecting shot (LAB for short). Man, I could pull off a LAB with a flick of my wrist, and boom, seventh heaven. Seeing the body fly, in two directions. And sometimes the added bonus; the cry of a desk mate - "I felt wet splash on me!"
Now that I work from home I don't quite have the room to swing and pull off a LAB any longer. I've had to get more sophisticated. I've had to invest in my armoury.
Introducing....the http://www.amazingflygun.com/
This thing is fabulous. Okay, if you use the string to hold the projectile to the gun then it has a tendency to swing back and whack you in the balls, but it's fab nonetheless! Not for me the random wavings of a piece of sports equipment, instead I hunt, and I go for the kill.
And did I make the hit?
Of course I did.
That fragment of fruit cake, with the current in - never moved a millimetre after I was done.
As I lined up the target, my finger quite literally on the trigger, and I took that final breath that would serve me through the hit those words came back to me.
Close your eyes. Breathe. And do it.
So I took the shot.
Before I left my last job I spent the summer as the fly killing king. My badminton racquet was my weapon. My panacea the tink of the connection between string and fly, then head going one way, body in the opposite direction. On those hot, sweaty days when the air seems to pool around you and the flies are buzzing, on those days I was a king. Making double figures most days, easy.
My signature move was the lateral aerial bisecting shot (LAB for short). Man, I could pull off a LAB with a flick of my wrist, and boom, seventh heaven. Seeing the body fly, in two directions. And sometimes the added bonus; the cry of a desk mate - "I felt wet splash on me!"
Now that I work from home I don't quite have the room to swing and pull off a LAB any longer. I've had to get more sophisticated. I've had to invest in my armoury.
Introducing....the http://www.amazingflygun.com/
This thing is fabulous. Okay, if you use the string to hold the projectile to the gun then it has a tendency to swing back and whack you in the balls, but it's fab nonetheless! Not for me the random wavings of a piece of sports equipment, instead I hunt, and I go for the kill.
And did I make the hit?
Of course I did.
That fragment of fruit cake, with the current in - never moved a millimetre after I was done.
Monday, 8 March 2010
It's the heady world of the IT contractor for me tomorrow. At any moment I could be jetting off to spread my knowledge of .NET and Star Wars quotes to the four corners. Though tomorrow it's Bristol.
I've decided I should try and look the part. So today I bought a new notebook. It has three inbuilt dividers. They are moveable.
Inside the front cover is a map of the world with time zone information and world capitals. Possibly I shopped in the Evil Genius bent on World Domination aisle in Tesco.
I've decided I should try and look the part. So today I bought a new notebook. It has three inbuilt dividers. They are moveable.
Inside the front cover is a map of the world with time zone information and world capitals. Possibly I shopped in the Evil Genius bent on World Domination aisle in Tesco.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
A prize winning limerick
Here follows a prize winning limerick.
There was a Norwegian called Lars
Who'd meet Gary Numan in bars
His life had no meaning
A failure so seeming
Till he helped with the single called Cars
For this charming little ditty, my mate Dave and I recieved a jar of pickled herrings, and a jar of pickled gherkins. I think you can agree they were well deserved.
This is the most well received piece of writing I've been involved in to date.
There was a Norwegian called Lars
Who'd meet Gary Numan in bars
His life had no meaning
A failure so seeming
Till he helped with the single called Cars
For this charming little ditty, my mate Dave and I recieved a jar of pickled herrings, and a jar of pickled gherkins. I think you can agree they were well deserved.
This is the most well received piece of writing I've been involved in to date.
South Wales Fight Club anyone?
Not so much for the fighting, but then at least there might be something positive out my latest bout of insomnia. I think I could even hack the extremely grubby Newport version of Helena Bonham Carter that would be bound to show. Possibly dressed in pyjamas after buying some fags from Somerfield on her way over.
After some research* into insomnia, and how to beat it, I've discovered I've been making a number of mistakes.
Mistake #1 - oversleeping to make up for lack of sleep.
Like today for instance - not getting to sleep till 3 and staying in bed till 11. All this does is reset your body clock so tonight it'll be half three before I drop off.
Mistake #2 - going to bed early to make up for the lack of sleep aka my dad's traditional remedy of "Having an early night".
What this amounts to is lying in bed for six hours getting more and more pissed off at not being able to sleep until you go straight ahead and launch into mistake #3: the relaxation CD.
Mistake #3 - The relaxation/self hypnosis music
These generally take the form of gentle ocean noises or baroque music overlaid with the gentle sounds of someone talking in a soothing voice. This voice pauses from time to time - I guess the guy with the microphone is trying to contain his mirth that people are giving him $20 to listen to him ramble. Or perhaps he has to step away from the tape machine to help his assistant with another barrow load of cash.
I've discovered I'm not all that keen on these sleep tape voice over chappies. I don't think I've ever hated anyone in my life, but they are coming pretty close. Generally it's about fifteen minutes in, and then they utter the words, "By now you have fallen into a deep and relaxing sleep."
Well I have news for you Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man, with the stupid beard:
NO I FUCKING AIN'T.
And you know why I'm not in a deep and relaxing sleep?
It's because I'm lying in bed listening to somebody talking.
He's telling me to lie back and let my scalp go limp. That's right - my scalp. That thin layer of skin over the top of my skull, the one with the very few, and very thin muscles. The body part that I tend not have much in the way of concsious control over.
I don't know how to relax my cheek muscles either, or my lips. And thank you, but no, I'd rather not relax my intestines - pretty sure if I did then a short time later I'd be very far from relaxed.
My new insomnia beating technique
I'm going to try this one tonight. It's going to involve me lying in bed. Perhaps I'll do some deep breathing. Then a little light music, or the gentle sounds of the trilling of waves over a sandy beach. The sun is warm, and beaming down on me. It's filling me with its healing rays. And I am relaxed. And I am calm.
Then the sound of vigorous splashing breaks the calm, and there's a thumping noise, like feet in expensive shoes drumming on wet sand. As I float gently off into a deep sleep, feeling relaxed and calm, I smile at the irony that Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man didn't seem all that relaxed and calm as he went off for the big sleep.
*Research = Google
After some research* into insomnia, and how to beat it, I've discovered I've been making a number of mistakes.
Mistake #1 - oversleeping to make up for lack of sleep.
Like today for instance - not getting to sleep till 3 and staying in bed till 11. All this does is reset your body clock so tonight it'll be half three before I drop off.
Mistake #2 - going to bed early to make up for the lack of sleep aka my dad's traditional remedy of "Having an early night".
What this amounts to is lying in bed for six hours getting more and more pissed off at not being able to sleep until you go straight ahead and launch into mistake #3: the relaxation CD.
Mistake #3 - The relaxation/self hypnosis music
These generally take the form of gentle ocean noises or baroque music overlaid with the gentle sounds of someone talking in a soothing voice. This voice pauses from time to time - I guess the guy with the microphone is trying to contain his mirth that people are giving him $20 to listen to him ramble. Or perhaps he has to step away from the tape machine to help his assistant with another barrow load of cash.
I've discovered I'm not all that keen on these sleep tape voice over chappies. I don't think I've ever hated anyone in my life, but they are coming pretty close. Generally it's about fifteen minutes in, and then they utter the words, "By now you have fallen into a deep and relaxing sleep."
Well I have news for you Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man, with the stupid beard:
NO I FUCKING AIN'T.
And you know why I'm not in a deep and relaxing sleep?
It's because I'm lying in bed listening to somebody talking.
He's telling me to lie back and let my scalp go limp. That's right - my scalp. That thin layer of skin over the top of my skull, the one with the very few, and very thin muscles. The body part that I tend not have much in the way of concsious control over.
I don't know how to relax my cheek muscles either, or my lips. And thank you, but no, I'd rather not relax my intestines - pretty sure if I did then a short time later I'd be very far from relaxed.
My new insomnia beating technique
I'm going to try this one tonight. It's going to involve me lying in bed. Perhaps I'll do some deep breathing. Then a little light music, or the gentle sounds of the trilling of waves over a sandy beach. The sun is warm, and beaming down on me. It's filling me with its healing rays. And I am relaxed. And I am calm.
Then the sound of vigorous splashing breaks the calm, and there's a thumping noise, like feet in expensive shoes drumming on wet sand. As I float gently off into a deep sleep, feeling relaxed and calm, I smile at the irony that Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man didn't seem all that relaxed and calm as he went off for the big sleep.
*Research = Google
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