You know what I realised is a mistake this year? Hovering around the Mac make-up counter and telling the approaching, over enthusiastic, bouncy tween that you are stuck in a bit of a make-up rut, would like to try something a little different, and that why yes, of course she’s welcome to “show you something!” Why oh why am I such a sucker for flattery? One little squeal of how I have such a “great eye shape!” with “still plenty of lid space to work with!” (the clear inference being I should count myself bloody lucky what with hailing from the last stone age and all) and I’m sitting on a tall pleather stool being smeared with frosty pink gloop. “I can’t believe you haven’t tried purples!” Except it is pink and I now resemble a teary rabbit, cruelly ravaged by myxomatosis.
Of course the challenge is now on to get all the way home, through town on foot, without seeing anyone I know. I spend the next half an hour dodging behind doorways and pillars like some demented, leporine, Charlies Angel.
I have a pet hacker. I think.
The reason I suspect this is because the other day I looked at my own website for the first time in ages, having neglected it for some time, and it looked… different.
Hm. I thought. I’m sure this isn’t what my blog is supposed to look like. I don’t know what that weird header thingy is doing up there for a start. I mean heh – incongruous much?
I suppose I should be alarmed. I’m not though. Is it weird to feel so ambivalent about having a potential hacker? Because I don’t even mind that much so long as they don’t start really screwing things around. I mean hey, I can roll with the odd dodgily positioned header, it’s really no big deal. In fact earlier I felt compelled to write my new friend a note…
‘Dear Mr Hacker, I’m sorry I didn’t really like the changes you made and have had to change them back. Please don’t let that dampen your creative enthusiasm though! Sometimes you’ve got to just keep on plugging away. You’ll get your recognition in the end. Gappy.’
Yes, alright, it’s weird. Jeez, you know you’ve had your brain rinsed by rehab when your first consideration is the effect any words you write may have on your poor hackers psyche.
A nightly potato
So my name’s Gappy and I’m a sugar addict and blah. Yes, it’s a thing. There is nothing good about this thing however, so yeah. This weeks reading is: The sugar addicts total recovery programme.
Which consists of 7 steps, most of them seemingly sensible enough. Things like eating three regular meals a day, never skipping breakfast, and ensuring you get plenty of protein.
Except that step number 4 is… eat a nightly potato.
Not for dinner either. The nightly potato must be cooked and consumed at least three hours after dinner, just before going to bed. Huh. Practical and seductive.
The author apparently uses a medium Yukon Gold with its skin on for this purpose, but I can, if I wish, have a Maris Piper, a Ratte, or even a little weeny Jersey Royal. Exciting no? Not only that, but if I persist with reading on into chapter 5, she will go on to answer every single potato question I may ever have thought of. Which is great, because I don’t know about you, but every morning I wake up literally burning with potato related questions.
I can’t remember who it was that persuaded me to buy and attempt to eat this horrific pig slime, (mix it with tomato juice and you won’t taste a thing, promise) but when I do there will be some serious alterations to my Christmas list. Apparently it was a food source for the ancient Aztecs, the poor fucking bastards.
A sad faced teenager walked into my kitchen the other day. It can get brutal out there on the battlefields of War Commander. However, no, his base remained in tact, thank goodness for that. The real problem was that his newly acquired, finely haired moustache was “un-symmetric.”
Did he mean non-symmetrical?
Yes he did, although sorry, he kept getting it confused with anti-semitic.
Hmm. Probably a confusion to be avoided if at all possible. Still, at least I can assume he’s finally cracking on with his history revision.