Let us dispel some of the more egregious fallacies - I say, that sounds very Dickensian, doesn't it? - before explaining what I do mean. That way I can take my intellect for a stroll and up the word count, too.
First of all, no: I have not been arrested. This is one of the occupational hazards of being an alien spy, since those humourless killjoys at UNIT and Spectrum take an unpleasantly close look at your humble scribe on occasion. Not this time, however.
Nor am I reducing the cost of a subscription to BOOJUM! as it's always been free. Of course, if you feel amused enough by this nonsense to make a Comment, then the editorial staff would be very grateful. Apart from Art - he only understands coal and pain.
What I do mean - and because my cybernetic hearing is so acute I can hear you sigh in relief at the meat of the matter being addressed - is that I am currently typing these words in my Sekrit Layr.
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| My Sekrit Layr |
Not this week, no. For whilst I am working at Tameside Council, I dare not log onto Blogger and actually compose this scrivel live. Look at Traffic Stats, yes; write a load of stuff about thermonuclear weapons, zombies, tanks and alien invasion fleets -
probably not a good idea. Doubtless there are ceaselessly vigilant minions who track internet activity, and censor software that flags in red text that includes "decapitation", "multi-megaton ground burst" and even the relatively innocuous "Boiling Vessel".
Since it takes up to an hour and a half to get home from work, and another hour to compose the Words Of Wonder that greet your eyes, Conrad has been arriving at the dinner table rather late. The way round this has been to type out the blog at lunchtime as a Word document and e-mail it to myself. I still have to be careful and avoid the "Z" word, plus I talk of atomic "foofoodillies" - which has the added bonus of keeping UNIT out of the loop.
Today, however, I can type what I like <muted chorus of mildly-interested clapping>!
That fascinating insight into the creative process over, let our trepanned motley begin!
O Wad Sum Power The Giftie Gie Us -
Rabbie Burns again. Dpn't fret if you have no idea what it means, since 95% of those living south of the Scottish border in the Allotment wouldn't know, either. To translate: Oh would some power give us the gift -" and the rest of it means to see yourself as others see you, without the fond haze of self-appreciation -
<excuse me whilst I neck these strawberries. Wonder Wifey likes them, too>
- and flattery.
With that in mind, I present to you Darling Daughter And Partner Tom's Flat, one month later. Art?
Ignore the large South Canadian in the picture, he's not a fixture. Another shot of modern life's most important impedimenta -
DOG BUNS FIRST BUS! That's twice in the past 20 minutes that the 409 has gone past my mancave window, followed a minute later by ANOTHER 409, when they're supposed to be every 9 minutes. Someone is going to pay for this!
- back to the impedimenta. Art?
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| Chairs! Roller chairs. You didn't think I meant computers, did you? |
So you could say they have brought Order From Chaos.
Back To Luddites
Let me introduce you to Bob Shaw, a very droll Ulsterman who wrote science-fiction, sadly long dead. He is probably best known for two things: at the small end of the spectrum, slow glass. At the larger end, Orbitsville. He also created, being a chap with an inventive mind, a weapon known as a "Luddite Special"; an electro-magnetic weapon that destroyed stored data, allowing the wielder to effectively "kill" any computer system it was aimed at.
The thing is, if aimed at a human being, it would erase their 'stored data', too, turning them into a vegetable. Not quite murder, but close to it.
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| Sorry, no Luddite Specials available |
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