Another one of those “get to know your friends” questionnaires arrived in my mail today. Frankly, most of the quesions were dull ones, that I’d seen on other surveys but I thought these ones were sufficently different to post up here and give you lot something to think about.

“Pick one :love, beauty or creativity.”

“If you were another person, would you be friends with you?”

“Who are your second family?”


Two of my favourite things: Dave McKean art and Harry Potter novels. According to this article (about a cartoon adaption of the book “The Day I Swapped My Dad For Two Goldfish” that McKean worked on with Neil Gaiman), Dave McKean has been named as the Art Director for the second Harry Potter film. This should be good…

Now if only the next book would hurry up…


OK, deeply pissed off now. Tonight, I hurried home from work, because we had someone coming to see the flat at 7:30. I made such alarmingly good time that I was able to go to the gym before they were due here, get back, shower and have dinner with 15 minutes to spare to give the place a quick tidy.

Have they showed up? Have they fuckery. Not so much as a “sorry, found somewhere else” phone call. That would be the polite minimum that I’d expect.

They’re not the first to do this, but I find it infuriating that people will make an appointment, and then entirely fail to keep it. I mean, what I wanted to do this evening was to stay late at work and catch up on a few odd jobs for 9A and Electricana, leave the office in time to get to the gym for nine-ish, and then collapse into bed with a Harry Potter novel, but because someone has said that they’d be somewhere at 7:30, and I’d agreed to be there to meet them, I rushed home, and shelved all my plans.

This, kids, is why you should always do what you say you’re going to, and at the very least provide an explanation if you fail to stick to what was agreed. Because otherwise people will want to kill you with a big stick.


Or, of course, it could stop raining ten minutes after I post that. I love the view from my window. It ain’t the Antrim Coast or Richmond Hill, or any of those other places, but as views from an office window go, it’s pretty fucking splendid.


Sometimes, I like my job. Other times (like now), I hate it. I’ve spend the day trying to enable some relatively simple bits with a cookie, and they’re not fucking working. At all. Not even close. I’ve double and triple checked everything, but it’s not fucking working. I really, really hate it when you do everything according to the manual, and it just won’t work. Excuse me while I go and kill something.

Poor Social Skills

Most amusing thing about the weekend: Andrew’s near silence through a large chunk of Saturday, as Marcia and I both rabbited on nineteen to the dozen swapping stories of schooldays and things like that. I feel kind of bad about not letting him get a word in edgeways, but at the same time, it was just amusingly unusual to see him so quiet.