An Explanation Is In Order

Since I'm Only Going To Publish One Blog Entry Today
And this is it.
     Okay, you ought to know by now that Conrad works in the HR department for A Major National Retailer, and he normally sits and snoozes in the corner of the 18th Floor of the Dark Tower.
     Since Covid-19 entered the scene, I've been working from home, which is great, as it saves £65 a month on bus passes and at least two and a half hours travel time each day.  As I like to put it, I can finish work at 18:00 and be at home by 18:00:01.  Art?

None of this!

     Of course there is a down side to working from home (henceforth "WFH"), which is password expiry.  Our office PCs bleat endlessly about this before it happens, our laptops doing WFH do not.  Your Humble Scribe changed his password at work the week before lockdown started, and IT proactively lengthened it's duration to 3 months instead of 1, which means that it would expire next week.
     Normally - how strange that word sounds now - if it expired during WFH you could simply call the office and one of the managers would re-enable it.  Not possible now.  Nor does the "Reset Password" function work when WFH.
     So!  After getting up at a disgustingly late hour, Conrad had a shower, was ambushed by Wonder Wifey and had his hair trimmed, then set off to the nearest branch of My Still Coyly Anonymous employer, laptop in bag.
     The idea is that, thanks to the wifi in-store, one can log onto one's laptop and reset the password.  It's a viable process, Frances did it a couple of weeks ago, so we know it works.
     Problem The First:  Getting in.  Art?

      They were only letting people in five at a time.  Conrad, OF COURSE, laid in his annual stock of loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, as his supply at home was perilously close to running out.  When at the check out, I explained to Holly (the till operator) that I needed to access my laptop in-store, to reset the password, since the sight of a random grumpy-looking man dithering around on a laptop might raise eyebrows.  All went well.  Art?

Evidentiary photograph

     I tested the laptop at home half an hour ago and the update has worked.  
     The really important thing was the DARJEELING TEA, though.  Art?

     All they had on the shelves.  And no, Your Modest Artisan doesn't feel the least bit guilty about taking them all.  In fact here I am, positively gloating with glee, waiting for the kettle to boil.  Art?

Conrad: in a good mood.  Or constipated.  It's hard to tell the difference.

     If any of you have any detective skills then you have worked out whom I am gainfully employed by, but I shall annoy you by not confirming it.
     By the time I got back home it was already half past two, and I needed to wrap myself around lunch, and brew a pot of tea, so I decided to forego the mid-afternoon blog and limit myself to just one, which you are now reading.
     Motley!  Here, try this, it's delicious.  What?  What do you - don't spit it into the bin!  <sighs> stem ginger.

Whilst Kind Of Moving Onto The Topic Of Hades Again
Okay, I am officially a very sad person.  Whilst in the supermarket and after clutching my tealeaf booty to my chest so that nobody could steal it I decided to look at the bottled beer.  Not because I especially like beers, rather because there might be a bottle there that I can make a pun about.
     And what do I find?  TWO bottles I can make a laboured pun about.  Art!

"Damm it to Hells!"

     I have absolutely no idea what these taste like, so it will be an exciting journey of discovery.  At least neither is "White Beer", which tastes like the dishwater after an especially heavy cleaning session.

Meanwhile, Back At The Burning Mountain ...
Further to that theme of Hades, let us have a look at Mount Wingen in New South Wales, Australia.  Art?

Note lack of careless campers

     You might dismiss this as people not being careful with matches, and you'd be completely wrong.  This is Mount Wingen, which is Aboriginal for "Burning Mountain", because it is.  Art?

Nope,  not fog

     There is a subterranean strata of coal about 30 yards down, which ignited quite a while ago, and which shows no signs of going out any time soon.  When I say "quite a while" I mean "about six thousand years".  It's the oldest current coal fire known, and you might be forgiven for thinking six thousand years sounds like a lot ...
More Ferrous Females
Ha!  I mean Iron Maiden and that timeless classic "Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter".  Actually I've never heard it and have no inclination to amend this omission as IM were never a band I liked, then or now.  Let the lyrical analysis begin!

Honey it's getting close to midnight

Well you ought to be in bed, then, it's a school night.

And all the myths are still in town

Is this a typo?  Should it read "Miss"?  Plus how mobile can a myth be?

True love and lipstick on your linen

Yet another item for the laundry.  You must think money grows on trees!

Bite the pillow, make no sound

You should invest in some proper soundproofing.

If there's some living to be done

With proper soundproofing you can live it as large as you like and the neighbours won't complain.

Before your life becomes your tomb

Is it a soundproofed tomb room?

You'd better know I'm the one

Sorry, Annette Peacock bagged that album title already

Unchain your back door, invite me around

Conrad is unsure but this sounds rather seedy and sketchy.  Couldn't you just lend them a key?

I say, a Mark IX Spitfire!

Finally -

O go on, Art.  Put up a picture of Mara Corday.  Go on!

Mara, looking a little uncertain

     Why yes only from the neck upwards, and not in a bikini, either, you disgustingly dirty-minded wretches.  Just for that I've a good mind to st