What Next?

Earthquake in England? What next?

• An interesting sandwich in Pret A Manger?
• That whole Barack Obama and the honey badger and that missing tequila from the mini bar story ever being really explained fully?
• Bruce Forsyth admitting he is a c*&^?
• Will Self giving it all up and taking a job at the Inland Revenue in Wales?
• Posh Spice, Paris Hilton and Elton John `fessing up that they didn't read the small print on that contract they signed with the devil, and announcing their full retirement from public view after a full disclosure of exactly how much Posh n Elt have spent over the years on air flights and their hair?
• A Canadian person managing to get through an evening without complaining about being mistaken for an American? (You are fundamentally the same thing guys. Brian Adams and ice hockey do not maketh a real nation.)
• An Australian in London not shouting, or complaining about the cold/the lack of beaches/the expense of housing etc?
• mrs hhns saying "Oh just put it anywhere in the fridge darling. There is no real 'proper' place for stuff in fridges, or indeed any real rules or regulations on fridge storage. Just shove it next to the pickles or on top of that loaf of bread there"?
• Madame B managing to drag herself beyond vulgarity? (Although she did say something funny the other day. I've forgotten what it was. But it wasn't vulgar and it was funny. [See also below re blocking her comments.])
• The Waunch being able to hide the fact that a comment to hhn is from him? (Death to anyone who doesn't read books anyone?)
• Ken Livingstone sending out a press release starting `You are all right. I am a twat and I lost the plot a while ago and started thinking that it was you who were lucky to have me as your Mayor rather than me serving you. And re my annoying voice, I sincerely apologise...'
• God finally waking up and saying `What? Whaaaat? What on [my] Earth has happened to pop music? Why is it all so crap now?'
• The Devil doing ditto? (Smirking to himself that no-one has figured out that all those people who write musicals have not read their contracts either, and are gonna burn in Hell tonight, forever.)
• A shrew being asked to turn on the Christmas lights in Oxford Street?
• Steve Martin ever being funny again?
• That hhn movie ever getting the green light?
• Howard Devoto getting to Number One with a reworking of Generation Landslide?
• Me becoming a gerzillionaire with my emailing food contraption?

Who knows?

Incidentally, excellent site find from mrs hhn here. The Waunch, you are going to like this one.

And yes I could block Madame B's comments, but it would mean that I would have to block everyone's and it is a really dull process - involving approx three emails per comment - going through all the ones I want to accept and block. Sorry guys, freedom of speech - however pointless and vulgar - reigns here at hhn HQ.

Gym Laughter

So I was at the gym last night, kinda getting into it although it was quite hard work. And I'm thinking no this is good. My routine is still hard work, but I'm gradually adding a few more reps every week and increasing the weights I use, and my gym kit is fairly normal and...and...and this girl who works at the gym looks at me and starts laughing. (I'm about two thirds of the way through my session by this point, so I know I look a sweaty wreck.) And by way of explanation to her boss the manager of the gym, she just points at me and says "It's him" and laughs again.

Now a few points on this. 1) Isn't there some sort of people who work in gyms code about not laughing at the client? I know they all have pretty perfect bodies etc., but isn't it just a bit, well, rude to laugh at people/me? 2) Okay. I get that we don't need to be too serious at the gym, and it should be fun and friendly. But laughing? And then telling her boss it was me she was laughing at? Bit harsh 3) Obviously, I reacted to it in a really grown up and cool way by finishing my routine and then doing half an hour on the exercise bike as fast as possible to try and impress on this woman that I 'deserved' a place in the gym and was/am - despite appearances - actually rather fit. (The bikes are at the far end of the gym from the men's changing room, and I did the bike a bit too fast, so had to stumble all the way from one end of the gym to the changing rooms looking like someone had just stuffed a pole up my ass. Impressive, huh?)

I retired to the steam room for 10 minutes to recover, only to be questioned about my routine by one of those perfect bodied gym bunnies who's physique just makes you want to go and buy a lazy boy chair and take it home and sit in it eating four fried eggs and a family sized chocolate swiss roll. All rather distressing, especially as I thought I was beginning to be thought of as one of the normal people at the gym, rather than the one they whisper about keeping an eye on in case I break the running machine or something.

Speaking of food, I had a dream last night that I was sitting at my desk trying to work out what to have for lunch and someone emailed me some food. I told you it would work.

In other news, mrs househusbandnot and I worked out last night that if you spend no money at all your debts get smaller. Genius, huh? (Now all I need is some Brian Enoesque lateral thinking equation - it was him after all who suggested that they should use all the power being used on machines in gyms to generate electricity - re exercise and food and money, and everything will be okay. Ah, the stuff of life.)

PS My legs still ache this morning from the cycling. If you see a middle-aged man on the bus looking like he's just been rodgered by a buffalo, give us a seat.

PPS Just discovered Google Image searches. Hence the cracking new quality of the pictures on hhn.

Overheards

This morning I was having a coffee before work, and there was this old bloke sitting next to me in the cafe with some (other) bloke. They were obviously reading a tv or film script, and the first bloke looked up from the script and said "Diss? Why would someone want to diss someone? It's a town in Suffolk."

Some of my other favourites;

Two v posh old blokes on a bus in Chelsea. One to the other "I had the most marvellous kedgeree last night. Best I've had since...since...well India."

Two blokes standing having a fag by a Scottish Loch. One to the other "Everyone said she was really shy, but she took all her clothes off and let me fuck her up the arse."

A genteel old couple in a pub in New Forest. Him to her "Will you have the usual my dear?" She nods. He goes to bar "Two pints of Stella please".

One bloke to another walking down Oxford Street "But they were some sort of hermaphrodite weren't they?"

One bloke to another "I'll tell you what also really really annoys me. Cheese."

My colleague was telling me this morning that he was forced to listen to a couple for 22 minutes on the train home. The woman started the conversation with "So what are we doing tonight darling?" and ended is 22 minutes later with "I never want to see you ever again."

1987 Bitch

Me 'n' mrs househusbandnot were up north this weekend. And I can report that it is still grim. Driving across the edge of Crewe I spied some graffiti '1987 Bitch'.

What does that mean? 1987 was a bitch of a year? 1987 was the year that Bitch really really wants us to think about. A reminder to Bitch that 1987 was when it all happened, or didn't, or should have, or will (if it was written before 1987)? Just a tag? ("Yeah, my graffiti tag, it's 1987 Bitch. Cool, huh?") Bitch in 1987 more than you did in 1986? Just a general hello from Bitch with a mention of when they stopped by with their can of paint? V strange. Or not strange at all.

Anyway, up north was fun. (I was brought up outside Preston, so I feel I am a little bit northern - a fact that mrs hhn, who is genuinely from the north, regularly dismisses as a southerner's whimsy. [Before our first date, she sent me a text telling me she was firstly a woman and secondly a northerner.]) Although the food was relentlessly terrible. Gordon Ramsay (Ramsey? Ramsay? Can't be arsed to Google him.) should be up there on a train this morning seeking out some of the people who fed us while we were up there. We had to stop at a motorway service station on the way home to get something resembling something with fresh ingredients in it.

Best overhear while we were up north was "Yes, but that's owned by Linda Lusardi now isn't it?"

The Correct Use Of Plastic Bags

I was swimming last night (Swimming chum reader btw, 100 lengths in an hour, which I was pleased with - This in the context of swimming 90 lengths the other night and going home where mrs househusbandnot looked up from the sofa, holding out her glass for a g and t refill, and said "You are not taking your swimming seriously enough" which hurt. [Hey lady, those oversized clown's shoes I wear while swimming help me to go faster.]) and this young guy kept on getting in the way and stopping and walking in the lengths lane. And I suggested to him that he maybe swim in a straight line, and he got out of the pool and sulked on a lounger by the pool. This made me feel bad, but it also got me thinking about how much younger than me he was, which got me thinking about how much I knew when I was his age (maybe 20), and when (if?) I had/did get to a stage of actually knowing anything...about anything. I decided around 35 was when I actually started to manage to look at the world with anything other than a completely self-validating/in my own head/vacuum. (mrs hhn may not have agreed with this assessment when she got home last night to find me playing Xbox with an empty packet of biscuits on the sofa next to me.)

I was thinking more about this when I was walking home. And stopping to take a call, I overheard three students from our local art school (it is one of those ones you pay to go to, so it's just full of rich nobbers) talking about having kids. And one of them said "I just don't think that it would be fair on a woman if I was sitting in my studio all day, because that's what I will do, I NEED to paint, and she would be having to look after our children. I know Caravaggio had 15 children, but I just don't think I could do it." Fighting back the urge to force a plastic bag over this loser's head and dropping him in The Thames, I made my way home, validated in my thinking on young people, and my emerging maturity and clarity of vision on this world.

In related overhear news, I overheard some bloke at the Steve Earle gig the other night saying "I even had breakfast with Nancy Sinatra once". In related music news, the Brits was terribly MOR wasn't it? And I'm sorry, but watching Macca whistle and play the mandolin is neither music nor entertainment. Good duck noises from the Arctic Monkeys though.

Incidentally, re the tumbleweed comments, to quote Howard Devoto "It is harder than it looks". And I'm kinda busy - in a very unhousehusbandnot manner - at the moment. I even have a meeting on a Friday tomorrow, which is usually unheard of. After all this industry, you will be glad to hear that I am having lunch with Styx tomorrow afternoon. If you see two old gits in a restaurant tomorrow laughing at young people, and whistling Magazine tunes, you will have chanced upon entirely paintable scene of Styx and hhn at play.

My Space

I was talking to a lawyer the other day (Get me. A mathematician yesterday, a lawyer today. Me and the Candle Stick Maker are out on the lash this evening.) about that nuts Old Etonian in Kenya who has finally not got away with shooting locals who stray onto his vast estate. And the lawyer was saying that this old school fool had no real perception of anything other than the space six yards around him. Which reminded me about someone in Kenya talking about the Masai Mara and how all the animals there basically live in - and breathe and see and perceive and worry about - a six foot square existence around them.

Which is a nice way of carving up the world, and indeed trying to make some sort of sense of huge spaces like the Masai Mara, and how all the animals and people and bugs and dust work together, around each other, and with each other.

It's the same in London. The same arena. We can text someone in Nairobi, and download something from Washington, and email someone sitting in a hotel lobby in Sydney, and check a website that is promoting an ice cream stall on the beach in San Diego, and drop a zombie or whatever on someone living on the moon via Facebook. But it ends up being about that six square foot parameter.

All that really affects us is that Big Issue seller who is there in our face trying to sell their magazine, and the looney on the bus, and person in the queue in front of us, and the crush by the deli counter in Waitrose, and that walk from our seats to the bar, and the two losers who would not stop talking right in front of me at the Steve Earle gig last night, and...just small stuff (which can get big I know, if the looney kicks off or the person in the queue pulls out a gun). But it's all carved out for us to respond to. Seems both reassuring and also rather dull.

In related news, we are having amazing Maybethereisagod sunrises and sunsets here in London at the moment. Good reminder about looking beyond our six foot square. [On which note, hhn posted his blog, and went and sat on a mountain with his thumb up his ass.]

Maths And Dwarfs

I was talking to a mathematician turned banker yesterday who told me he has created a matrix for meetings at his bank. Something along the lines of length of meeting times decisions made divided by actual money made as a result of those decisions.

I guess we are creating and using these sorts of equations/indexes all the time...

• Number of things to say divided by need to share them with six other people equals likelihood of an hhn post
• Level of boredom times access to internet equals likelihood of posting a comment on hhn
• Need to get to work times warmth of bed divided by protestant work ethic equals likely time of departure from beneath duvet
• Styx plus hhn in a restaurant equals generous bar bill
• Level of interest in a meeting times number of good looking women/men in that meeting equals life
• Number of socks times likelihood of finding a matching pair equals what I spend too much of my life doing
• Daniel Day Lewis plus award acceptance speech equals one first class ticket up his own butt
• Importance of meeting times likelihood of pen running out of ink divided by picking up the wrong notebook before the meeting - so you sit down and feel all ready and open the notebook and it is the one that you have been doing big doodles of spiders and sharks holding revolvers in and the big old other people in the meetings see the doodles - equals v likely
• Distance of sisters from place they have agreed to meet you at the time they agreed to meet you equals approx three miles
• etc.

In other news, off to see Steve Earle in concert this evening. Ironiccowboytastic.

In other other news, this from Vinderama on how he managed to insult a dwarf in California last week: "I genuinely didn't see him. He was shorter than the car door, and when the dog walked by and I nearly hit it, I apologised to the 'little fella' meaning the dog, not the three foot owner."

hhn Events Anyone?

Anonymous, you are probably right that we - few - writers and readers of hhn should not engage in competition. (Too splashy you say? It's about pulling your arms up to high - he says sounding like an expert swimmer rather than the Free Willie monolith in the shallows that he actually is.)

But I like the idea of hhn events:

• hhn spellathon?
• hhn cocktail invention competition?
• hhn animals quizz?
• hhn sponsored swim? (all proceeds to a charity of mrs househusbandnot's choice)
• hhn air guitar comp?
• hhn all six of you stand in a line up and have to guess which of you is which game?
• hhn readers pet parade?
• hhn puppet show (we would win because we have a badger puppet btw)
• hhn sitting around and drinking scotch and talking bollox event?

The opportunities are endless, and probably unlikely, since you all - or most of you anyway - are still hiding as Anonymous. Incidentally, where are Styx and blokewhodoesnotappeartobereadinghhnanymore?

V Day Gifts

So the Valentine's Day gifts to mrs househusbandnot were: a Fortune Pork toy, a photo of a lion from our Kenya trip, and some modelling clay. Someone just suggested that I could have saved some time by just making a model from the clay of a wart hog for mrs hhn.
What did you six get then?

Re the swimming query, I reckon it would take me approx 12 minutes to do 16 lengths. Actually I got that wrong. It would take me approx 9.6 minutes. Maybe we should have a race?

Ahhh...

...as I walked into work today, it was with a sense of deep calm and relaxation (helped I might add by the 150 lengths I swam last night with the news goggles), it was deeply pleasing to see men with THAT look on their face, and women with that OTHER look on their face. For, people, unlike said men and women, I have - for once - actually got it together to get mrs househusbandnot a Valentine's Day present. Not for me those last minute male feelings of `what the fuck should i get i still don't know which restaurant she wants to go to god those roses are a bit bloody expensive bloody valentine's day commercial rip off what did she mean by no need to go to any trouble just get me what you want can i get away with an expensive card i bet all the girls in her office get loads of flowers and stuff and its soooo unfair and and [looks at hot girl in street] she's hot, and and and ...' Or indeed those female feelings of `he'll get it together [contented love sigh]'.

Smug? Moi? Organised? That's me. (As to whether or not mrs househusbandnot will actually like what I bought her remains to be seen. But I hope she will see the time and effort and lurve I put into buying her three small tokens of my deep and sincere love for her. [Not withstanding her telling one of her colleagues that I was pretty happy with what I had bought her, and her colleague saying "So what album does he want at the moment then?"])

And restaurants? I am happy - very happy - to report that I may get my ass whipped pretty much every other day of the year for not ever booking restaurants, but mrs hhn hates going out for supper on Valentine's Day (my wife rocks).

And, I also took the long term punt on asking mrs hhn to marry me on Valentine's Day, so I get added...er lurve points for that every 14 Feb too.

(Somehow, some way, I know I am going to regret having written this. If you thought the laminator was an odd present. Will report back tomorrow. )

In other news re: 'I don't get it - you say that you may have cracked one of the high-stress areas of your life, then limply say that you've bought yet another pair of goggles, which may or may not be OK. If that's cracking something, I'd hate to meet your idea of a lame-ass half-hearted attempt at something. Devo rock!' Bugger off you nobber. And mrs hhn is on your case about unsupportive and nasty comments on hhn too dude. You have been warned. And she knows who you are.

On Swimming Goggles

I think I may have cracked one of the perpetual stress-high agendas in my life: buying new swimming goggles. For those of you who swim suggest you tune out now and go look at huge domestic cats on youtube or something. For those of you who don't, welcome to a whole new deeply stressful world...

...so you need a new pair of goggles, because they do break or wear out or you forget them at the gym. Easy peasey, buying new goggles easy. NOT. Because.... for a start, they never have the ones they had last time in the store - which you came to love and cherish and fondle sometimes, and you are not allowed to try a new pair on without someone trying to arrest you. (My theory on this is that somehow the bridge of the nose has taken on some totemic semblence to the gusset of women's swimwear: once tried on, forever unhygenic. Which sucks. Because you do really need to try on a pair of goggles before you know if they will fit you. But they display them in security-tagged and selotaped plastic cases to stop you doing this. Come on people. Would you expect me to buy a suit without trying it on. Where's the pro-swimmer karma here?) And everyone who works in sports shops is completely uninterested in swimming goggles. They are far more interested in trying to sell you a pair of gold football boots, or a Nike tshirt for fifty squid, or a pair of trainers with a USB port. When you ask where the goggles section is, they point listlessly to a remote and dusty corner of the store, which is manned by the girl who started that morning, and is not allowed to sanction purchases over £2.99 because it is her first day. You can see it on their faces when you ask about goggles. `Obviously a fag. Get him out of store asap. Oh, here comes someone who looks like they might be interested in the limited edition snooker shirts we got in last night.` "Hello sir. Can I interest you in a David Beckham limited edition spunk cloth we've just had delivered from the Castro?" (And hey, I'm not even going to go there with the who is gayer than who in the whole marketing of sports products.)


So you are buying blind, hoping you can accurately guess the size of the bridge of your nose to the size of the bridge of the goggles, through a plastic case which is usually covered in stickers with random demarcations like `Trainer' and `Sprint' and `Silver' and `Triathlon'. (Guys, if I was a triathlete I'd be getting my goggles made and sponsored by Porche or something.)


And the whole tint thing. Normal plain lenses is good, but you worry about looking like something ot of Alice In Wonderland. Blue? Yes, but a bit weird, and it kind of fucks with your head - in a bad and good way I admit - when you are actually swimming. Grey? Too Garry Oldman when he is slinking around London in Dracula. Black? Yeah, but no, but yeah, but...fuck I don't know. Other colours like orange and purple and red? Do I look like I am going to a Devo reunion gig? (I have also considered getting one of those swimming hats with an MP3 player, but that is a whole other story re music and swimming.)

Anyway, I bought a new pair of goggles last night. A quick try on on the bus going home last night does suggest that these new ones may fit. Will report back.

So Munoz

Went to the Juan Munoz retrospective at Tate Modern yesterday. I am embarassed to say that I had never heard of this bloke, but mrs househusbandnot read a review and fancied it. It was: playful, arch, clever, amusing, and craftsmanlike. But check out what the little booklet you got at the show said we should be looking out for:

• "He was fascinated by the tension between the illusory and the real, using tricks of scale and perspective to choreograph the viewer's experience"
• "In Spain, the balcony is a vantage point to look down on the street"
• "The patterned surface simultaneously invites the viewer into the space and elongates the distance between the spectator and the small bronze figure sitting demurely on a shelf"

And

• "Our movements and our relationship to the object are guided, not to direct our interpretation of the work, but to ensure that we appreciate the illusions without being distracted by the mechanism of the trick"

What absolute cock. Simon Bolitho and Kerryn Greenberg - who wrote this bollox - should be forced to sit in a room and listen to Daniel Day Lewis award acceptance speeches for 24 hours solid, so "they can realise that the viewer is forced into a false sense or irony, before accepting that the motif is not just the motif but the reality as seen through the eyes of the bronze figure sitting demurely in Day Lewis's hand."

mrs hhn and I were forced to hurry home and watch two hours of American Idol to remind ourselves that there is life beyond being a pretentious twat (or twats). During American Idol, mrs hhn admitted a secret crush on Randy Jackson, until she saw him standing next to Simon Cowell, and realised he was smaller than Cowell - which, according to those who have met Simon Cowell which includes mrs hhn, is quite an achievement in man as dwarf stakes.

Great show though. (The Munoz, not American Idol. Although I love American Idol. Did anyone seee the So Paula show about Paula Abdul afterwards? Absolutely shocking. Why would she think that that was ever going to work?)

Emailing Food

I had a dream last night that one of my sisters was a big old famous chef and she needed to email the smell of some of her dishes around the place. This got me thinking when I woke up - and if you are wondering about why I had the dream in the first place, being a dream interpreter par excellence, I can tell you: it is because mrs househusbandnot has started using my Xmas gift of a laminator to laminate menus, and this translated in dreamstate into how to move menus, and therefore food, around the place easily - about emailing food.

I ran this concept of emailing food by mrs hhn as she was getting ready for work. Her assessment? "You are insane."

But IF you could email food, it would:

• Make getting a takeaway a whole lot more interesting, although it would put all those sweet pizza delivery guys out of business.
• Eradicate world hunger, assuming the UN or whoever could get it together to email the food to the right food to the right people at the right time. (Having worked for a UN agency, I find this unlikely. They would probably send pork chops to Isreal, shepherds pie to Mogadishu, bubble gum to the Ivory Coast, and fish fingers to Paris - and then try and blame it on a lack of resouces.)
• Create a whole new market for new products, like slinky flat fridges for keeping your emailed food in, and new spam filters (boom boom)*, and pop up plates and bowls, and cool wireless systems that sent the email straight to your microwave etc.
• Generally fuck with people's perceptions of how and why and where and when we eat.
• And give Google and Yahoo and Microsoft a whole new agenda to try and carve up amongst each other.

And if you could email food, you could probably email other stuff like drinks and drugs and swimming goggles (oh the hell of getting to the pool without your goggles) and dogs and people. I'll just keep dreaming...

* While looking for a photo for today's post, I came across this site http://www.spam.com/ And You think my idea about emailing food is a waste of time?

Supper with (*&

Supper with (*& last night. Conversation included:

• Whether or not a comedy sitcom script that (*& has submitted to a film company had been read and considered to be a script for a pantomine
• Whether or not Randy Jackson was in the Jackson five
• Here Come The Warm Jets
• Rick Wakeman's involvement in David Bowie's early career
• Sisters (both (*& and I have three each)
• Air travel
• Denmark, and ita place as possibly one of the most depressing places in the world in winter
• Dogs versus cats
• Whether or not there is ever going to be anything good on TV ever again. (Perhaps (*&'s pantomine?)
• USB record players
• Shelves
• Gin
• Garry Numan (A big favourite of Styx's btw)
• A poem that (*& wrote for a friend's wedding a few weeks ago. (According to (*& it went down well, and made everyone cry - which is the point of wedding speeches [I cried all the way through my speech at my wedding])
• Etc.

All in all, everything and nothing discussed, all to excellent (*& selection of music. And lots of white food too.

FB Fs

Failed to watch the new David Attenborough TV show of reptiles last night. Remiss of me. I could have reminded myself of some of my FACT-BASED facts on animals etc.

In unrelated news - as Yahoo and Google and Microsoft battle their various battles in terms of who should be search giant - I do have to ask why Google would place an add Discover What Self Defense Masters & The Army Don't Want You To Know on hhn yesterday? Donna Summer? Oh, yeah self defence. I don't get it. I probably don't need to.

Crap caps

First sign of madness The Waunch: talking about yourself in the third person. Re your comments, you obviously spent time out over the weekend by googling snakes in Australia, which makes you 1) sad 2) annoying (Because you are right, I could not remember what sort of snake it was at the time of writing. I remember now it was a brown snake. Brown snake fact: they are so venomous that they bite tractors and combine harvesters. And snakes only bite things that they think they have enough venom to kill.)

In other news, excellent misread on a lucozade sports drink at the gym yesterday: "Warning: This crap is not safe for children under the age of three. (It was cap not crap btw.) My mate *&^ collects these misreads if he has any to share with the group?

In other news, so yeah jury service. I was thinking all John Grisham, sultry blonde femme fatales in the witness stand, aged drink defence lawyers up against the might of captains of industry etc. But apparently - according to mrs househusbandnot who has done jury service - it is much waiting around being herded from courtroom to courtroom with not a lot to do. (Thinking about it, I am probably committing some heanous crime by mentioning that I am doing jury service at all. Better not let slip any more details.)

In gym related news, my v gay mate at the gym wants me to download his Donna Summer greatest hits album so that we can go running together on the treadmills together.

Bumps

Futher to Madame B's tales of serendipity:

I was walking along a beach in Dar es Salaam, and about to get mugged, when a girl who had taken over my job in Brussels five years beforehand skidded up in a yellow jeep and whisked me to safety. We went and drank expressos and she showed me a voodoo tree, and then confessed that she often was tempted to jump naked into the gangs of men working on the roads.

I was in a bar in Almaty with a colleague when the best man at her wedding walked in. She had not seen him since the wedding 20 years beforehand. Random fact about her husband: he was bitten by a black mamba in Australia. The venom completely destroyed his immunity to anything, and he would have died if he had been stung by a bee. (He actually died of something else, by which time my friend had divorced him.)

Last time I met up with The Waunch in a pub, we got wasted. Amazing, huh?

In other news, the software that I use to generate hhn is now available in Persian. Cool, huh?

In other other news, v much looking forward to doing absolutely very little this weekend, other than not bumping into people I have not seen for a decade. Lord, give me the anonymity I deserve.