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."