As Harry Hill Would Say -

What Are The Chances Of That Happening?
I presume that Harry is merely asking a rhetorical question here, and doesn't want a detailed lecture about The Law Of Large Numbers, probability and the effects of chance, not to mention determinism, eschatology and where your lap goes when you stand up.
     Well, he's not getting any of that here!

Harry, saddened by Conrad's cruel rejection.

     "What are we getting, then?" I can hear you asking, for you lot are nothing if not curious and skeptical.
     Yesterday's coincidence, dear reader, passed off as today's fresh fare.  Don't quibble too much, there's no expiry date on what the Universe might be trying to tell your humble scribe.  I do wish it would use social media instead.  Less room for misinterpretation.
     Coincidence Number One:  I overheard an employer asking Catherine for a reference for an ex-employee called Julia.  Julia Kopperkettle, let us call her.  No, you baffoon, that's not her real surname!  Catch me using that here.  She used to work alongside Conrad in the Careers Service, when he was younger and thinner, a couple of decades ago.  Given that there are 80,000 staff at my Coyly Anonymous Employer, with probably as many as that again who are ex-employees, the chances are spectacularly low.
     But what's this?  Another coincidence!
     Coincidence Number Two:  walking into the Co-Op shop on Church Street, I bump into Theresa.  Theresa Olleringringshaw, let us call her.  No, you baffoon, that's not her real surname!  Catch me using that.  It must be 10 years since we last worked together in Connexions at Salford, and a good 6 years since I last met her.
     Conrad Clinkerhoffen* is now looking uneasily over his shoulder.  
     What's next?

Coincidence is too hard to illustrate.
Here's Ida Lupino, one of the almost unique female film directors of the 50s

More Sweets
There were sweets provided yesterday, mostly gone by this morning, and more were provided today courtesy of Tom.  Thank you, Tom.  Conrad was especially well-placed, being but an outstretched arm from the "gelees", whilst also being within reach of all the spare cupcakes from our staff event.

     Conrad is not quite sure about the branding and description here, as "Morbide gelatine" sounds - well, a little off-putting.

"Quibble"
As used in the first topic above, of course you know it means to raise a minor objection.  Conrad, as curious as a concatenation of cats, wondered where it came from, and of course the answer is - Latin.  It's apparently a punning take on the Latin words "Quae, quod and qui" for who, where and what, as used extensively in legal documents.  So it's a little gentle mockery of legal terms.
     Conrad is a bit ambivalent** about mocking legals, as they will surely sue you for libel.  Quietly murdering muldering them is probably the safer option.

"Excuse me?"

Bastille Meet Pompeii Meet Bastille
A little confusing, I grant you, so allow me to explain.  Youtube brought up the suggestion "Bastille Pompeii" which pleased Conrad as he'd forgotten both the band and the title of this particular song.  Now, I don't know which name is the band, nor which is the song, and in the spirit of BOOJUM! I'm not going to bother looking, either.
     Rock 'n' roll rebel, eh?

Bastille

     Whilst I like the song, the video to accompany it is a bit naff.  A chap with a silly haircut - picture a scared cat sitting upright - runs away from people because their eye-whites turn black.  Then he cycles away, then he drives away.  Frankly, this is not persuasive.  For one thing, which Conrad can tell you from bitter personal experience, if their eyes are matte black, then you don't need to worry; if their eyes are glowing red, then you're about to get the twin-laser-implant bolts of doom.

Pompeii

     Then again, Our Hero is rather on the weedy side, and looks as if wrestling the lid of a jam-jar would be beyond him, and a rather scary episode of Doctor Who would have him seeking psychiatric help.  The people "threatening" him seem fully as dangerous as the inside of a Walnut Whip.
     Good song, though.

A Rare Political Moment For BOOJUM!
As you ought to know by now, we here - no, I don't mean the royal "we"*** - avoid politics, religion and current affairs, as these are heavy subjects that invariably divide an audience and either raise tempers to fighting pitch or cause instant sleep.  So!  Meet a South Canadian politician!

"Republican Presidential Candidate John Kisch promises to reunite Pink Floyd if elected!

     Conrad is not eligible to vote in South Canada, and his status in the UK is a bit hazy, being a camouflaged alien spy and all, but he looks on at Mister Kisch with some bemusement.  "Pray tell!" I her you ask, as my alien ears are quite acute.
     Okay - Point One:  Sid Barrett, poor old mad Sid, is dead.  He was the original driving force behind the band in their early years.
     Point Two:  Rick Wright, keyboard player, is also dead these many years.
     Point Three:  and this really is the kicker - Dave Gilmour and Roger Waters loathed each other with an actinic passion.  God only knows what silver-tongued blarney Sir Bob Geldoff deployed to get them back performing on Liveaid.  I think Roger is willing to bury the hatchet, but Dave only seems interested in his hatchet being firmly buried in Roger.
     Still, the President Of The United States is a powerful chap.  I imagine that Delta Force and the CIA might one day get a mission brief from President Kisch .....

Pink Floyd -
AT POMPEII!^

*  No, you baffoon!  Not my real surname.  Catch me using that.
** Which is doubtless derived from Latin as well.
*** There's Conrad, Oscar, Art, Mister Hand as well as the Guard Hog and Hard Hog, who are still around, just not mentioned that much.
^ You see?  How everything is connected?  Aren't I clever! Aren't I?

WARNING: Lunch Picture Enclosed

Just So We're Clear
 - about the food issue here.  Conrad, being rather well-versed in the ways of social media (even if he does pretend to be a total baffoon about them), knows that there has been a recent trend amongst the judgemental on those same social media about posting pictures of what you had, or are having, or intend to have, for lunch.

Conrad, desperate with hunger, gnaws on the jawbone of an ass.

     "NO THANK YOU" is the verdict.  After all, they argue, did people back in the Sixties take photographs of their dinner, send them off to Boots, get them developed, have them collected two weeks later and - actually I think I've shot myself in the foot with that analogy*.  Okay, okay, did people in the Eighties take self-developing photographs of what they were eating and then run round to the neighbours to show them? 
     Actually I think I've shot myself in both feet and hands with that one.  If they're your neighbours, it would be quicker and simpler to just invite them in to witness the Sheer Awesome of your roast chicken and mash dinner, wouldn't it?
     Okay, okay.  Did people in the Eighties take self-developing photographs of what they were eating and then take a bus to visit their distant third cousins who lived at Pitlochry in the wilds of the Highlands, to show them?
     Actually I think I've shot myself in all hands and feet and worked up to torso and head, as I've forgotten the original point I was making.
     <goes back and reads beginning>
     Yes!  That was it.  My lunch for tomorrow is actually relevant and vital to the blog, to you the readers and the eavesdroppers from MI5, the CIA, UNIT and those Czech blokes with the ridiculously difficult name.

The lunch in question

      "Why is that, Conrad?" I hear you call, as my artificially-enhanced hearing is pretty damn acute.  Well, because I've been doing overtime tonight, meaning a 18:00 finish.  Predictably, the 24 bus didn't turn up, meaning I got home 10 minutes later than usual  (it would have been 30 but the 409, irony of ironies, was itself late and thus I was able to catch it).  Then I have to prepare a lunch for tomorrow, which is where the remaindered sushi above comes in - no need to bag gherkins, carrot batons, dip, chocolate biscuits, a roll and a small jar of sushi ginger, I merely hurl the cartons depicted above into the lunchbox and Hay Pesto! the lunch problem is solved.

A Bookish Balance On The Blog
As you may be aware, Conrad is quite widely-read, which is perhaps better interpreted as "Conrad has read lots of science-fiction, including odd and rare stuff from behind the Iron Curtain when it was still up."  Although this is not quite correct, as I also read murder mysteries and the odd detective novel.
     So!  My book haul from the weekend was rather slim, being only one book.  Art?

Just look at that sign!
I mean, fancy being called "Lava"!

     Ah yes, Damon Runyon.  An acquaintance going back 40 years.  Not sure how to describe his style - idiosyncratic, argot-ridden and pretty unique.  Also created the noun "Runyonesque", which is a bit like Kafka, except with more comedy.  The musical "Guys and Dolls" may be based on some of Runyon's work, but since it's a musical your gifted author ain't ever going to see it.

Talk Of Tattoos
This came up in conversation this afternoon.  Don't panic, the phone lines were quiet so it's not like we were shirking or anything.
     I did get in my barbed observation about Darling Daughter's tattoo, which she had been thirsting to get since aged 8.  Okay, okay, I exaggerate.  Aged 9.  Done once, at age 18, and never followed up since then, three years ago, possibly due to the PAIN involved, which is one reason your humble scribe doesn't bother.  

Plus it would possibly mean covering up this handsome visage.

     Personally I find socks are a whole lot cheaper, easier to remove and don't normally involve fainting due to the hideous level of PAIN involved (unless they shrank whilst being worn).  Not only that,  what if you and "Vulnavia" split up after you got the elaborately-scrolled namework done?  It would take a lot of ingenuity to camouflage a name like that.  That's quite beside the idiots who get a spiderweb on their face and then wonder why employers are wary of them.  I suppose they could get it lasered off, which would probably involve massive PAIN, and deservedly so.
     "I know it seemed like a good idea at the time, Mister Smighth**, when you were nineteen and howling drunk.  At forty-eight it looks like an aberration of nature.***"

These beat a tattoo hands-down.
Or perhaps feet-down.

Oh, just so you know, I've deliberately avoided using any exclamation marks in today's post.  I like to feel that I can go without them, as with beer.

*  The perfect excuse to mention yesterday's blog:"My Bloody Feet"
** The "gh" is silent.
*** " - and it will involve a lot of PAIN."

My Bloody Feet ...

Hist!  Yes, The Blog Is Still Safe For Work
When I use the word "bloody" it's no mere vulgarism, it refers to a state of hideous gore, splashed liberally around the landscape, dripping off the trees and clotting on your boots.  Real Lady MacBeth stuff.
     "Really, how interesting, oh my is that the time I - " I hear you say.  SIT BACK DOWN!
     I can also use blood in a metaphorical sense, or as an analogy, which is what I am doing tonight.  See?  No need to cower in fear.  Not tonight, anyway.  Tomorrow -
     Anyway, let us now examine socks.
     I realise this might seem faintly pathetic after the gruesome lead up, but bear with me, for these are NO ORDINARY SOCKS!

     You see?  You see where "My Bloody Feet" comes from?  
     Now, these are very obviously a splendid pair of socks, oh yes indeed, although I do tend to forget to notify and/or alarm folks at work about them - not in the eyeline, you understand.  Out of sight, out of mind, to coin a phrase*.
     Conrad is also unsure about that film title.  You could get away with that kind of thing in the Seventies, when you could also order shotguns out of mail-order catalogues, but I rather suspect that the Health and Safety industry would have plenty to say on the subject today.
     Art?  Stop sucking that Landrover sump and get to work!

CAUTION!!  Consumption of vampiric bodily fluids can have harmful side-effects.  If you notice your incisors lengthening, become allergic to sunlight or develop hideously un-natural cravings**, consult your GP.  Seeing a priest might be helpful, too.

Bon appetit!

Today's Cake -
Is actually yesterday's muffins.  The ingredients had been sitting around since last Wednesday, so Conrad's erratic and misguided conscience gave him a belated kick in the nethers to get moving on them.
     Here they are, the rascals -

Another 10 just out of shot

     At over 20, rather more than the recipe instructed.  The difference, one presumes, between a cupcake case and a muffin one.  They required a fair bit of babying, too, thanks to our Wonder Oven Of Unpredictability.  Gluten free.  And being held in reserve for the ganterpies at work this Friday.

This Chap Got A Workout Today
If you have any memory of yesterday - given that it is less than 24 hours ago you really OUGHT to have - you will recall me introducing the Blood Beast, who today got royally terrorised.

Almost turned into puree

     Every time our loathsome phone application froze, Conrad grabbed hold of Blood Beast and SQUEEZED THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF HIM.  He's already looking a bit battered around the stalk and might not survive to the end of this week.
     I'll get back to you on that.

O Carol
I don't know if Carol will be reading the blog tonight, although she has nervously shuffled closer and closer to doing this over the past week.  If you are reading this tonight, Carol, thank you for visiting!  Come back soon!  Tell all your friends!  Tell <Mister Hand intervenes to prevent a disgustingly self-indulgent back-slapping session> Bannister.  Sorry, "bannister".

THIS STAIRWAY IS DANGEROUS!
IT DOES NOT HAVE A BANNISTER!

     Carol, for your information, is a work colleague with the infuriating-yet-amusing habit of not finishing her sentences.  She will start, full of vigour, then become hesitant, and then tail off -
     Conrad, of course, always takes the conversational bait and jumps right in to ask for the anecdote to be finished, the punchline to be delivered and the damsel to be rescued.  Not all simultaneously, you understand.  That would be asking rather too much.
     Now, to show you what I mean, I will give

You What?
Ah, me, there are certain constants in life.  Water remains wet, First Bus are late, and the Twits suggest ridiculous posts that your gifted author has no interest in.  Or - well, take this one:

A lot of blather about solar panels

     Take yesterday as an example.  It was probably the least sunny Sunday of the year and we're only 32 days in.  How, ponders Conrad, do you generate solar power WHEN THERE'S NO DOG BUNS SUN!!
      A minor technical point, perhaps, yet one that bears study.

"The History of the 51st (Highland) Division"
A bit of a non-news story, this.  Conrad has been threshing the pages of this volume back and forth to try and find mention of specific German units, and a singularly unproductive task it has been, too.  Well over half-way through and about six units identified.
     One thing that does emerge is the Scot's thorough respect for their frequent opponents, the Bavarians.  Unlike the Wurtemburgers - a bunch of softies - or the Prussians - liable to play dirty - the Bavarians come over as stout lads indeed, always up for a scrap, but honourable and well-behaved with it.
     Here's a Bavarian picture:

Okay, okay, where are the solar panels?

* That, by wild coincidence, applies also to Conrad himself.
** Like Nutella on crepe suzettes.