From The Depths -

Again, Conrad Trying Not To Be Clever
It happens, occasionally.  If - and I know that I'm going to commit the crime of being Interlectshul anyway - if I was trying to be clever, I'd have "De Profundis" as the title, as this means "From the depths" in Latin.  Which might beg the question amongst readers, most of whom are not fluent in Latin, about who this character Dee is, and is he in a punk band*?

Nothing to do with the Intro, I just want this to come up on Facebook when  I post

     If you're still with me, in which case your mind must have it's ice-chains on, then I shall explain further.  Half-awake this morning, the phrase "Duns Scotus" popped into Conrad's mind.  What?  Who?  Where?  Why?
     I can answer the last first: I have absolutely no idea.  It came from the depths, your honour, is my only defence.

ART!  You're breaching our "No Politics" and "No Current Affairs" guidelines!
Also, you mis-spelt it.

     He was a "Who" not a "What".  Also known as John Duns, he was Scottish - "Scotus" being Latin for "Scottish" - who lived between 1266 and 1308.  The Middle Ages, I hasten to assure you, not the twenty-four hour clock periods.  He was one of the most important and influential figures in Medieval philosophy and religious study.

John.  Not sure if that's a hat or his hair.

     Now, Conrad must have known about him already or that name wouldn't simply have floated to the scummy surface of his mind.  Or would it?  Only you can decide!

"Silent Night Or Not So Silent Night"
Thus reads the bus poster advertising Smirnoff.  I have two points to make here.
     1)  I think your Cyrillic-to-English transliteration is askew here.  Rather than end in 
"-off", it should end in "-ov".

 - although we will make an exception here

     2)  It had better be a silent night, matey.  Conrad is of an age where he needs all the beauty sleep he can get.  If you make loud sound, you get put underground.  Just so we're clear.  Like that midnight they keep going on about.


"Black Knights" By Oliver Poole
These knights are the opposite of silent.  This is the story of a British journalist who was embedded into an American unit during the invasion of Iraq.  He fondly imagined he'd be safely sequestered in the rear, able to get information readily from the headquarters units he'd be bunking down next to, maybe having to put up with only two hot meals a day and a hot shower only in morning and evening.
     Wrong!  Oliver got assigned, by mistake, to a front-line armoured battalion and at the half-way point has already seen more combat than he ever wanted to.
     He must have survived to write the book, though.  As ever, I'll let you know.

          Sorry but Conrad the grammar Nazi insists that we have two photos so the plural works.

Conrad: A Man Of His Word
I believe I declared at the weekend that I was going to have my tin of "Mixed Grill" upon a Giant Crumpet, which would serve as a plate, and I was going to scoff the lot.

Impedimenta included to give a sense of scale

     As predicted, the "Mixed Grill" turned out to be mostly baked beans, with a sauce that was mostly sugar, together with a Sad Sausage and a couple of pieces of Mysterious Meat, and Petite Potato Pieces.
     I still ate the lot.  Followed by date-expired hummus only 11 days past it's best.
     Food safety!  The challenge of our times!

Conrad As Human-Shaped Cushion
I felt truly honoured tonight:  Edna the Wunderhund will of course pay attention to your gifted author when he has food.  Examine the evidence here:

Conrad clad in awesome socks.  Plus dog.

     No food in sight.  This picture was taken by Wonder Wifey, who is normally Edna's Human Shaped Cushion Of Choice.  Ha!  <snaps fingers, hurts tendon, cries>

I Say ...
Further evidence that the world is not only stranger than you imagine, it is stranger than you can possibly imagine.  Behold that wretched rag The Metro and it's wrap-around:

I still have to pinch myself

     Someone made a television series of one of PKD's award-winning novels.  And it's really really good.  Hang on, let me pinch myself - OW! - yes I'm awake.     
Okay.  Doctor Who has come back.  Not only has it come back, it is a massive international barnstorming** success. With bells on.
     Okay.  Someone made a film of a Thomas Pynchon novel.  Those are nine words I never imagined I'd ever read, let alone write.

Look!  Look!  Her legs make a "V"***

     Okay, Reality, is there any chance that one of Conrad's favourite science-fiction novels might see the light of day?  Please?  Pretty please? Pretty please with acesulfame and fructose on top?

An image I remember from seeing at age 9

     Given that I only have, at most, 50 more years on this mortal coil, could you kindly hurry up, Reality?



* Like The Skreeming Voles?
** Not entirely sure what "barnstorming" is, but it sounds cool enough.
*** Pynchon in-joke.

The Season Of Slutch

Way Back In The Nineties -
 - your humble scribe was writing letters to Eileen, who had decamped from Oldham to Australia.  I realise that the terms "writing" and "letters" are only familiar to dinosaurs like Conrad, so perhaps a little explanation is in order.  "Writing" consists of moving an instrument called a "pen" across pulped processed trees, which are usually known as "paper"*.  The finished product is known as a "letter", although it actually contains many multiples of a single letter.  This "letter" is then enclosed in an envelope, also made of paper, an address is written upon it, and it is consigned to the Infernal Regions, or Royal Mail, whichever gets there first.

This annoys me.  This annoys me A LOT!
Why the silly disguise-across-the-eyes?
HOW MANY SNAILS DELIVERING MAIL ARE THERE!

     I mention this lengthy prologue, not because I want to bump up my word count**, but because one of the things I bemoaned to Eileen was the English climate.  "We have two seasons here," I complained.  "Summer - two weeks of good weather split up over three months, and Slutch, which is grey, wet and cold and which lasts the other eleven months and two weeks of the year."
     Eileen, wisely, never replied.  Instead she moved back to England.  Once she had confirmed by first-hand experience that Conrad was right, she moved out again, to Spain.  You may see a theme developing here. 
     "All this is fine and dandy, Conrad," I hear you quibbling, querulously, "Yet what does it have to do with - well, anything, really?"
     TAKE A LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW!

NO!

     Not that window, the other one -    

Ah yes, right planet

 It is disgustingly cold, yet not cold enough for cool and interesting things like snow or ice to happen.  It is dismally wet, yet not sufficiently damp for things like flash floods.  It is horribly windy, yet not so much so that there are Tornado Warnings abroad.
     I believe Tacitus, the Roman historian, had much the same to say about Britain, which is kind of ironic: the Romans, coming from Rome, with a nice hot sunny climate, invading a country with None Of The Above.
     Then again.  Without British Slutch to drive us, would we ever have gained an international empire constituted mostly of hot sunny climes***?

Wow.  I spent a lot longer than intended banging on about our climate.  Quick!  Add something funny with pictures!

Breakfast At The Mansion
You can take the litre of tea as read. Here is Conrad's breakfast as per Sunday morning, although I had hoped to have a Giant Crumpet.

Ice Cream Breakfast!

     This is a "Peanut Butter and Salted Caramel Stick", which was kindly provided by the Taste Team at work.  Not normally a combination your humble scribe would choose, except that it is free, which goes a long way to assuage the taste buds, I can tell you.
     Forced - FORCED I tell you! - to eat ice cream for breakfast.  O the humanity!

Despondent Dog
On occasions, when Wonder Wifey is upstairs parcelling up bundles of things that cannot be contaminated by cat hair, I have to babysit the dog.  Today I had a few crunchy dog treats in my right hand trouser pocket, which Edna - obviously! - sniffed out.  After we changed seats I reached for my phone, hidden in my left hand trouser pocket.  Edna contorted herself to see if any treats were forthcoming.

They were not

     So here she is, sulking a bit.
     I did take her for a walk shortly afterwards, so don't feel too sorry for her.

Explosions In The Sky
"Do you like explosions in the sky?" asked Katie during overtime at the office yesterday, a leading question if ever there was one.

Reason for Conrad to fear

     "Not if they get too close," replied your gifted author^, who is both honest and a massive coward.
     Katie explained that she meant the band, not an array of creeping thermonuclear detonations, which is reassuring since I have to work with her daily.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ziw4yd5R0QI

     I've listened to a couple of their albums on Youtube and quite like them, though as an instrumental band they do risk the criticism of Too Samey.
     That above is the link to their album "The Earth Is Not A Cold, Dead Place".  Well, not yet it's not, but only because my starship invasion fleet hasn't arrived yet.

At least it's not raining!

"Salute Of Guns"  By Donald Boyd
An autobiography of a gunnery officer during the First Unpleasantness, once again this work demonstrates that the world of 100 years ago was quite different to the current.  Doubtless Boyd would have made heavy weather of an account written by a Royal Artillery officer about the battle of Waterloo!  Here I can offer evidence via this quote:

" ... the drag-washers beginning their endless scuddering on the axles ..."

     Your humble scribe knows what an axle is, but - drag-washers?  When I Googled "Scuddering" it brought up a "Scudder: a beamer who scrapes skins by hand".  
     Great.  An explanation more confusing than the question.

Scully and Mulder.  Sculderring  Close enough.

* From the Egyptian: "papyrus"
** " - not solely because I want to bump up my word count -"
*** The Falklands, I admit, are an exception.
^ A change from "Your humble scribe"