Prevarication #5

If Will Smith made a movie of my life, set in a desolate, deserted Taunton, it would be called I am Hypocrite.

If Will Smith made a movie of my life, in a dystopian future Yeovil, it would be called I, Hypocrite.

If Mel Gibson made a movie about helicoptering into the Lower Parrett valley, under fire from hoards of disgruntled Somersetians, it would be called We Were Hypocrites.

Or possibly I, Sugar Tits.

Reason? I have been happily dispensing advice left, right, centre and arse-backwards to any number of people. Telling them that to make the trip they've been thinking about, change the thing that's not working, learn the skill they've been craving for years, pursue the dream that has occured to them 30 seconds before, broach the issue holding their attention every waking hour.

And all the time I'm doing the same old ignoring the same old cursing the same old lamenting the same. old. things.

Time to heed myself, I think.

Prevarication #3

I went out for Lunch at 1307. It is now 1401.

I've finished my salad, have skimmed all the broadsheets, have checked my email and have made a cup of tea.

There is nothing to do and nothing to stop me restarting work. Work that has, at pain of severe chastisement, to be finished before I go home.

But I cannot bring myself to get back to it. I would rather, it seems, arse around until exactly 1407 before resuming, even though that means I will end up leaving 6 minutes later than I need to.

This is a puzzle. And it's now 1405.

*edit: And Blogger's clock is 5 minutes slow.

Prevarication #2

Hello. My name is Dive, and I am a recovering Geek.

As such, I have no shame whatsoever that a tiny bit of wee came out when I saw this:

http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2008/08/the_large_hadron_collider.html

Now, I have no idea what it does, but blind me if it ain't just magnificent - huge in scale, shiny in sheen and just a tad scary. Much like an extra-large doner from Hassan's of Broad Street. (More on that at a future date.)

I am a bit worried, though, at some friend's responses. One thought it looked a bit like 'a stargate wormhole membrane'. Now, I don't know anything about Stargate - I think I was in rehab, having Elementary Offside Rule and Talking To Girls 101 hammered into my overly-foreheaded skull at the time it opened - but nonetheless, I seized the opportunity to throw out a testosterone-laden ManRetort. Something about reminding me of an ex, I think.

(The act of retorting was, in itself, quite pleasant. Look at me, I tfelt I had said. I have rejoined society. My sandals have retired. I go outside. I HAVE TAN.)

Unsurprisingly it fell on deaf ears. Being unfunny, and all.

But - in a possibly karmic sense - I may as well have fallen into some sort of wormhole today.* Eight hours on to account for on my timesheet, no lunchbreak, but somehow a grand total of 2 hours billable toil.

I think I might be in some trouble come tomorrow morning.


*I'm referring to it as a VorDesk.