The Return Of The Hair-Splitting Pedant!

Not That I Was Gone

I just like to wear different hats.  Mix it up, as I believe the yoofs say.  What am I banging on about this time?  You could phrase it a little more politely in future.  Remember - Remote Nuclear Detonator.

     Okay, Your Humble Scribe often takes Edna for walkies, which earns him brownie points and increases his Fitbit step count.  To the end of Tandle Hill Road and back, and if Art can oblige -

     Doing the straight route takes 1,800 steps, and I know precisely how many because I took a reading on my Fitbit.  Slightly less than I realised.

     Enter Wonder Wifey.  Conrad insists that his alternative route, up the back alley, up Rochdale Road, past the shops, around the back of The Summit and home again, is just as long as the Tandle Hill Road.  Wonder Wifey disagrees, with a sneer of cold command - or what that from "Ozymandias"? - so Conrad, who is a pedantic hair-splitter of the finest sort*, decided that he was going to establish EXACTLY HOW MANY STEPS.

     So I take Edna for a trot, because the hairy little scamp knows when I pick up my coat that a trip is in the offing, and even my flinty fusion-powered pumping unit can be swayed by her eager little face.  Art!

     Here we see The Summit, which is our end-point, after which we're on our way back to The Mansion.  Unsurprisingly there are not many other dog walkers about as it's not bright or sunny and there's a distinct nip in the air.  Edna compensates for not having other Domesticated Wolves to bark at by barking at children playing behind a gate, who completely ignore her**.  

     Right, the much-anticipated revelation is that Conrad's walk began at 1133 steps and finished at 3,111, meaning we walked 1,978 steps so 

     I AM TRIUMPHANTLY CORRECT!!

     Don't anyone go telling Wonder Wifey as she can be a bit of a sore loser.  Next time I must find a way to add in 22 more steps to hit 2,000.  Because - pedantic hair-splitter, remember?

     And for anyone who thought we'd mention that awful manufactured pop group from the Nineties - remember, Remote Nuclear Detonator.

Stairway to Heaven - the only other steps you'll see here.

Allow Me

In reality you don't have a choice, it's my blog and you're going to be shown what I want you so see, so there.  Art!

     That there is Danish smorresbrod, open rye sandwiches.  With pickled red onion, hard-boiled egg, mayonnaise, beetroot, radish and diced gherkin.  They taste rather good, too, even if the floppy rye bread has a tendency to shed it's load when being raised to the mouth.  I had no choice in making these, I'd been gifted a remaindered pack of rye bread which needs eating as soon as possible before it becomes poisonous and explodes.

Conrad - Still Irked

Perhaps 'Irked' does not convey the sheer apocalyptic rage incurred by those boundary-testing bafunes in the Codeword community.  Eleven on a ten scale?  More like fifteen thousand on a ten scale.

"TUTU": Ah, yes, a garment worn by female - gymnasts? ballerinas? welders?  One of the above.  WHAT ARE ALL MEN NOW EXPERTS ON WOMEN'S CLOTHING?

     We had been given the letter "U" so Your Humble Scribe could rule out "GURU" although, yes, that did crop up as well.  Art!

Played in a certain dictatorship when a dictator popped their clogs

"COL":  Don't bother, I've already disintegrated nine people who tried to be funny about me making a typo.  No, it's a geological term that Conrad suspects has been used before as the definition is familiar: "The lowest point on a ridge between two mountain peaks."  Art?

"ATHEISTIC": What!  Come on now, when have you EVER seen this word used?  You wouldn't ever say 'O yes old George, he definitely exhibits atheistic behaviour, and he smokes a pipe, too.'

     NO.  NO!  You'd say: 'O yes old George, he's an atheist, and he smokes pikes.'

I rest my case

Let's Wheel Out The Supernatural Terror, Shall We?

I had to look back at where we'd finished yesteryon.  Memory failing, you see.  Old age and too many ham sandwiches.  

There was more banter in the classroom during the seminar than he had ever allowed before, which he permitted as an expression of intellectual endeavour, before cracking down with criticisms of the varied coursework handed in to him for marking.  Finally he shooed the students out of the room and gathered up his scattered papers, making to leave and coming face-to-face with Laura.

               ‘Hello and how’d it go,’ he asked, referring to the review with Rowell.  Which had been six hours earlier, but hell some people took a while to recover.

               ‘Louis – I’m sorry but I asked Mister Raymond about things – about what you might be worried about.  He told me.  That’s all I’m saying.’

               She scurried off in coltish fashion, leaving a baffled Louis to wonder what “Mister Raymond” whom he knew better as Rowell, might have told the junior staff member.

              

               Later on, back in the boxy little office room, he rang the jewellers.  Their terms were pretty steep: forty five pounds per single item.  For five items, forty pounds each.  For ten items, thirty five pounds each.  Fifty items or more – come round and see them for special reduced rates.

               ‘Give me ten,’ he boldly told them, giving them his credit card number with almost equal boldness.

The instant he’d finished that bit of business, Rowell rang him.

               ‘Louis?  I’m pleased to say that the Bursar released an honorarium I’d recommended to the Board.  You should be getting a cheque for five hundred pounds by your next pay slip.’

               ‘Five hundred pounds!’ repeated Louis, loudly.

               ‘For the mentoring stuff.  Don’t spend it all on ice cream and chocolate.’

               ‘Oh, by the way, did the science faculty have a member called Harry?’

               ‘Did have?  Past tense?  I’m not sure.  Is it important?’

               ‘No, not really, just wondered.’

     They're an investment, Luma, not an expense.  Would you rather be well-off and dead or poorer and alive?  Take your time before answering.

Still Chill

Not me - you ought to know by now that Conrad operates as a default at nothing less than Narrow-Eyed Hatred.  No, I refer to the weather, and another example of the Weather Watchers posting competing photographs on the BBC's webpages.  Art!

Courtesy of Tims Retreat

     He's getting a little too close to the action there, this is the kind of photo that would make Keanu go "Whoah" for certain.  It's at Gosport in Hampshire and is a concrete example of how you never underestimate the power of the sea.

Finally -

I shall now pontificate on the Ukrainian Special Military Operation, so you may wish to skip this if feeling squeamish.  I've also been listening to Lazerpig about two weeks into the SMO, where he focuses on the Ruffians running out of everything and not having things in the first place.  Art!

     This is Explosive Reactive Armour kit as applied to the side of a Ruffian tank.  The idea is that the explosive lining will detonate when hit by an anti-tank missile, preventing the shaped charge from working properly, and stopping the tank from getting knocked out.  It's what you use if you can't afford Chobham armour.

     Of course, it only works if there's explosive in the container. and cardboard boxes used to make it look fully-competent are frankly pretty pathetic.  "Okay, Vanya, we sell the explosive and then stuff egg-boxes into the container to make it look full.  I mean, it's not as if anyone's going to be shooting at us."  Hmmm yeah, what can possibly go wrong.

*   FINEST.  FINEST ALL THE WAY.

**  Much like the neighbour's cats, who sit on their wall and regard her with languid scorn as she barks at them, unable to get anywhere near biting range.