Bite The Bullet

Only One By Analogy, Though
You see, tomorrow there will be a game of musical desks in the office, where we swap round, moving wholesale to different desks with new computers, tra-la.  Even, at a stretch, tra-la-di-dah.
     The thing is when you move to a new PC, it takes a good 20 minutes for the wretched hamster to get up to speed and integrate effectively and efficiently, to the point that you can do what you used to do on the old machine.  Hamsters: not good with novelty.

Hamster: on strike

     Now, Your Humble Scribe's normal routine of an early shift is to amble onto the Seventeenth floor, loudly declaiming "Fiat Lux!" whilst waving an arm, thus causing the motion-sensitive lighting to come on.*  Then he boots up the PC, shocking the resident hamster into life, before going off to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea and a few slices of toast.
     Tomorrow I shall have to wait, not a mere five minutes for the Darjeeling to brew and the toast to cool (for I am not keen on all the butter melting, then dripping off the toast in a small greasy waterfall), but at least twenty minutes, meaning far less pre-starting bell time to work on BOOJUM!  If I get onto the floor at 07:10 and clock on at 07:50, with 5 minutes for breakfast and 20 for hamster orientation, that leaves only 7 minutes to create words of wit, wisdom and wonder.**

Well, two out of those three

     That bit about biting the bullet is because I'm going to have to bash out brilliance tonight rather than tomorrow morning; a task made considerably easier by the absence of Pub Quiz.  Rosie and Phil are off sojourning at a campsite with their extended family in the south of France, where their weather has probably been mockingly wonderful.
     In celebration of finally getting a morning that actually looks and feels like a summer morning, Your Modest Artisan took a photo from the bus stop this morning, which, if Art will put down his knife, fork and nuclear fuel rod -

     That small, distant dark arc is Oldham Edge, which has been covered by a pall of grey
for weeks, thanks to either rain or humidity.  It has been so damp in the Pond of Eden lately that one can imagine eeeevil alien invaders landing, taking a look around and promptly leaving for drier planets - Mercury and Mars are that way, chaps!

CAUTION!  Warranty invalidated by Dalekanium, Time Lords and British Summer.

     I think all that remains for this Intro is to release the bats into the motley's room.  I did ask for harmless Pipistrelle bats, motley, but all they had down the shops were giant rabid vampire varieties.  Good luck!

Bite The Ballot
If you recall yesterday's blog, and you should as you are human beings with a memory span greater than that of a roast potato, then you will recall the peculiar things going on in the State Senate of Oregon, over in South Canada.  Briefly put, the minority of Republicans in said Senate have run away and hidden themselves, thus rather gumming up the political machinery.
     Here an aside - Portland, Oregon, is home to the world's smallest park, and we have proof.  Art?

Words = useless

     I know what you're thinking - "Those wacky South Canadian wags, what will they get up to next!"
     Okay, I present to you proof that we in Perfidious Albion, whom are the inventors of Parliament mind you, can be quite peculiar politically too (I know we don't usually bother with Politics, so consider this as History).
     Our Members of Parliament are not allowed to resign, for reasons that remain obscure.  Even if you hate the job, if you get returned to Parliament, you have to carry on serving.  Imagine the hardship of expenses and a pension and lots of holidays.
      However, MPs are also supposed to be <ahem!> impartial and unbiased, and cannot hold an Office of the Crown in addition to being an MP.
     Enter the Chiltern Hundreds.  These are three very small electoral districts in Buckinghamshire, whose electorate have gradually vanished over the centuries, until only the position of "Steward to the Chiltern Hundreds" remains, and even this has no duties or responsibilities or even remuneration.  Art?

The bucolic Chilterns

     This is where you see the spirit of Perfidious Albion at work.  No, cannot resign as an MP, but you can get sacked as one - for example, if you compromise your im <coughs> your impartial, unbiased status by taking up another Crown office.  Like the Steward of he Chiltern Hundreds.  This is the legal fiction by which William Pitt managed to wriggle out of being an MP.    Perfidious Albion - perfidious and - er - albion-y.

Enough of real-world gubbadge!  Let us set sail from the shores of sanity and sense and depart on a dolorous despatch of drollery, also know as -

BOOJUM! Reviews Films
It's been a while, so let's revisit the rules.
1)  There aren't any.
2)  If in doubt, see 1)
"Toy Story 4": Conrad does not like or enjoy the Toy Story films.  Frankly, I find them creepy.  The prospect of always being under surveillance, from sentient yet non-human actors, who have their own agenda and network and protocols - Brrr!  No thank you. 

"Hi!  I'm Woody.  I'm going to be spying on you, 24/7.  Aren't I cute?"

     Just substitute weasels for toys.  The whole thing becomes a lot less appealing, doesn't it?  DOESN'T IT!
"Yesterday":  Conrad unsure about this one.  I mean, yesterday was Thursday, but tomorrow yesterday will be Friday.  Or is this just that one specific yesterday that's merely one day out of three-hundred and sixty five?  Is this a film about mathematics and percentages?  It sounds quite stupefyingly dull.  Besides, you should be looking to the future, not the past!

A more interesting iteration, I feel

"M.I.B. International": Hmmm.  "Matrioshka Is Brilliant Intenational", eh?  Art?

NO!

     AWAY WITH YOUR PROPAGANDA, TSAR PUTIN!  AWAY WE SAY!


*  Conrad - easily amused.
**  Conrad - also rubbish at maths <the horrid truth courtesy Mister Hand!>