Saturday, October 15, 2011

Pit stop

Pit stops

I couldn’t be bothered with those huge queues at MacDonalds so I just sat there in the busy car park and fired up my lap top. I did that by switching it on which sounds a lot less dramatic. The wi-fi was there for a few tantalising seconds, like an incoming wave and then disappeared beyond the reach of Google Chrome or whatever it was. I thought about rolling the window down but that seemed like a waste of valuable energy. Instead I drove over to the petrol station and conversed with the cash machine as an impatient lady and her small child crowded in on my personal space. Seconds later I was transported into the shop itself and dodged around plump assistants moving merchandise from plastic trays into large plastic fridges and display units. I emerged with a prawn sandwich and two lottery tickets and all my change used up. The woman's cowboy boots distracted me for a while, what was that design? Was it a tattoo? Why can't we just ask people about stuff when they display things or characteristics that are confusing or at least likely to be misunderstood? Surely everybody really just needs to stand up there and explain myself.

About then I got in my car having crossed paths with the lorry driver with the lorry loaded with sheep, I'd been in his wake before turning in, now he was turning out. It seemed to take an eternity to get across the junction but I hate that bang and crunch and jolt you experience when your car collides with another so I tend to take my time and exhibit patience. I drove to next town, stopped and ate the sandwich and went into another petrol station to use another cash machine. I withdrew the correct amount of money this time.

Mystic sparkle

Heating up the tiny Scotch eggs on a china plate, heating them up thoroughly mind you, 200 degrees for 25 minutes; then depositing them into another room temperature plate so they can be safely handled, as if radioactive. The hot plate is plunged into the sink, spitting sounds and sizzles and a ripple of mystic sparkles sweeps across the surface water like molten glass and dribbling gold. You had to be there and yes and no the plate did not crack. N.B. the Scotch eggs in question were laid by French hens.

DNA revisited

Scientists in Holland have the sequenced the DNA of a woman who lived to 115, apparently at the time of her death she had the mind of someone decades younger. I wonder who that person was. If this true it does fit in why one or two of my pet theories, particularly the one about Karmic people hopping (aka Barclay's Inner Self Cannibalisation) and the other as yet unnamed one about soul-sneezing. (You will by now have noticed that the Queen, top politicians and captain's of industry and commerce never, ever sneeze.)

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