Thieving Bikers And Squill Dislikers

Don't Worry, It Will All Make Sense
Although the word does have a rather, er, elastic meaning round here.
     Allow me to announce that, although still near-deathly ill, I have recovered my appetite somewhat.  Ill and greedy, a winning combination!  It means I can eat what I like, as much as I like and not get told off due to my Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.
     Let me start by getting straight down to business: nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.  SIT BACK DOWN!  This is fascinating stuff, honest.
     After going on about mechanically-transmorphing aircraft, I felt compelled to try and find a Youtube video of the Regulus II being given flight trials.  Art?

Lookit, plainly bursting with patriotic pride at their missile ...

     That above is the Regulus II on it's way to give someone a really, really bad day.  Note the ventral RATO that has impelled it from the launch submarine.  Given the air-intake I think it was a ramjet design that needed to get up to cruise velocity by external means.
     Anyway, this isn't the version I was trying to track down. What I wanted featured one of these.  Art!

Then again, maybe a normal engine

     This puppy was a test prototype with an undercarriage, which was retracted on take-off, before being redeployed for landing.  I've seen the rather eerie YT video of one of these doing the whole thing with no visible human interaction, kind of "When The Machines Rock", and cutting you Hom. Sap. out of the command chain.
     I wanted it as a precursor to transmorphing aircraft, except I cannot find it now, which might be a merciful release for all involved.
     But I won't stop looking!

The End Of Angel Meadows
In both senses.  I have finished this grimly interesting book and care only to offer a couple of observations.  The German denizens of the Meadows were scrupulously clean and houseproud, the sinister Teuton rascals!  The Italian ones were blameless and low profile, unless they got into a jealous argument, in which case, especially if 'in drink', they were very dangerous indeed thanks to their first resort of knives.
     The area underwent renovation and clearances repeatedly, until practically nothing of the seething human cesspit remains.  There are areas bordering the original Meadow that remain - the Co-Operative Tobacco Warehouse is now a collection of trendy apartments - 

- whose issues might include nicotine-poisoining?

 The Old Burying Ground is now Angel Meadows park, where, to be honest, you can still find the odd vagrant dossing down overnight.  There has been recent building work at the entrance which doesn't seem to have disturbed any of the 40,000 bodies down there. 

The park

 Charter Street Ragged School still stands, and you can tell because the name is built into the brickwork.

The school

     As I said, proof that the Good Old Days were nothing like, and that the Industrial Revolution had a very human cost.

Less Sordid Reality!  More Silly Nonsense!
Well okay.  Your wish is mine, too.  You can't take any credit, it's all my influence.  Very well, let us now have a couple of clerihews:

Sir Winston Churchill

Hated Essence of Squill

As a result when his voice got hoarse,

It got worse and worse.

That cyclist Bradley Wiggins

Loves going on archaeological diggings.

He's assigned a special scrutineer,

So he can't nick all their uncovered gear.

     To those hordes of lawyers out there with champing teeth and quivering hands - oh, are you feeling unwell, too? - I hasten to add that a clerihew is a piece of nonsense verse, and in neither of the above cases does it bear any resemblance to reality*.
     Now you know where the title comes from!

Silent Cyborg Sentry Cat Speculates
I did my duty today and dogsat Edna whilst the rest of the clan were out buying things.  I say "dogsat" when she mostly slept on the Big Chair, but the moral intent was there your honour -
     Of course she leapt into frantic action when the travellers returned, as did I - well, as frantic as I get, which admittedly is not that much. Once in the kitchen I politely ooohed and ahhhhed at the various bits and - people would pay £15 for a painted colander?!  - and a silver-plated cake-tong arrangement for 50p?
     At which point I became aware of a muted purring behind me.  Art?

"Yes, puny human?"

     Jenny had decided to inspect the day's takings, too, and - I really don't know why she was purring, she's not getting any food out of this and she can't play with anything.  
     Hidden agenda, obviously.

Oh dear, here we are at count, and I had so much more to say.  Maybe tomorrow!


*  You have to lay it on with a shovel to get it across to these bloodsucking lawyer types.