THE CORONACTION

This Is Me Being My Usual Duplicitous Self

Conrad: that person with the moral compass of a rabid weasel.

      I didn't quite lie in this evening's post, just left out a space, because I just know there will be people out there who will read that as "THE CORONATION", an event Conrad has absolutely no interest in.  However, if MI5 are eavesdropping again, GOD SAVE THE KING.  Art!

     There you go, the CORONA ACTION of the title; opening the bottle and wasting a piece of delicious citrus fruit to boot.

     And that's today's Intro, one of the shortest in years.

Serendipity

In case you were wondering, a 'Piupiu' is a skirt made from the leaves of the New Zealand flax, worn by Maoris on ceremonial occasions.  Art!

     I discovered this accidentally whilst looking up PIQUE earlier today, and it rather tickled me, because the way it's pronounced makes it a homonym with -

     One will turn you into a casserole, the other requires sensible underwear.  I will leave it to you to reason which is which.

Windows

Conrad, because he is incorrigibly nosy, wondered who invented glass windows.  It would seem to be the Romans, circa 100 AD, although it's more likely they nicked the idea and process from someone else as they were magpies like that.  Art!

     Originally the panes of glass in a window were very small, as the technology to create large panes didn't exist until the mid-nineteenth century, where the 'float-glass' technique was dev

     ANYWAY this item's title might also refer to one of the less fortunate characters in John Carpenter's terrifying documentary "The Thing", the man 'Windows' himself, presumably named so because he wore glasses.  Art!

IT'S BEHIND YOU!

     Actually sunglasses in Antarctica are not daft, as you may need them during sunny days thanks to all that snow and reflected sunlight.  Wearing them indoors is just being a poseur, though.  Ol' Windy nearly makes it past the blood-test scene, but freezes at an inopportune moment and then it's cookin' time in the hut tonight.  Art!

     Of course, none of this is anything to do with what I really wanted to hang heavy on, which the wretched Windows update process.

     You see, Conrad cannot use his phone to re-post his Blogger posts as it has run out of data, and being tight-fisted (with a hatred of mobile phones to boot) he is not going to spend money to acquire more data.  Just not going to happen.

     Thus I have been getting up ten minutes earlier than usual to re-post the previous day's blog on Facebook and Twitter before I leave for the bus, via my laptop.  For several days I'd been postponing some Dog Buns intrusive alert about needing to update Windows 11 because otherwise it would imperil the pistachio harvest of Novi Pazar.  Or something.  

     Then, when I boot-up the trusty lappy on Friday morning at 06:50, what screen do I get?  Art!

     "O well," I mused (or perhaps pondered, the definitions are quite similar) "It can't take long, can it?"

     YES, CONRAD, IT CAN TAKE LONG.  VERY LONG INDEED.

     I presume the update process started itself because Conrad had rudely rebuffed it a few times, Hey, it's my laptop and I'll decide when to update.

     By the time 07:00 had rolled around the update had been stuck on 9% for a good five minutes and it seemed the whole thing would take perhaps half an hour, meaning I'd be late into work if needing to wait that long for it to re-boot, before doing the re-posting.

     DOG BUNS UPON DOG BUNS!

     Thanks to no phone data I can't post the new blog at lunchtime in the office and had to wait until I got back to The Mansion, about 18:40, which of course - DOG BUNS obviously! - meant my traffic for Friday was pretty dire.

Portrait of Conrad In A Bad Mood

     BAH!

Further To Darth Marmalade

As you are probably aware, DJ Satsuma is being taken to court by E. Jean Carroll, for an alleged sexual assault back in 1995.  There had long been mention of a DNA sample that EJC had from the attack, which in the event turned out to be too degraded over time to be useful, a mixed blessing in that it meant we didn't have to hear how, exactly, it was acquired.  Art!

DJT & EJC

     Trump's lawyers wrapped their case up on Thursday, without calling any defence witnesses, which seems to be a major tactical error on their part as there is thus no testimony to counter that of EJC and the witnesses her legal team called.  A slightly catty prosecutor commenting on CNN said that, normally, the defence would call character witnesses to prove what a splendid upstanding character their chap was.  She opined that nobody would be willing to go on a witness stand and say anything nice or positive about The Donald.  Art!

Agent Orange in Ireland

     - where, incidentally, the Garda and Secret Service greatly outnumbered his loyal local fans, both of them*.

     DJ Tango then said he was going to leave Ireland ahead of time to confront EJC, cutting his holiday short to do so.  He obviously knew that his legal team had ended their case, that the jury was off on Friday, that the court doesn't sit at the weekend and that, come Monday, both teams present their closing arguments.

     What an amazing coincidence!  Just at the moment he cannot get involved in court, he decides to fly back!

     Except not.

     The trial judge, Judge Kaplan, discovered what The Sepia One had asserted.

     He informed Trump's legal team that he was putting the trial process on hold and that Agent Orange had 72 hours to confirm that he was either attending the court or not.  So by 17:00 Sunday DJ 45 has to declare if he's going to be in court or not, his bluff being called.  If he doesn't go he looks like a coward; if he does go he will both perjure himself and be in contempt of court, because he cannot control his flapping pie-hole, ego or temper.

     Better lay in some popcorn tomorrow!

"The Sea Of Sand"

Having begun and sustained a revolution on Homeworld, the Doctor is now left to deal with the last few bio-vores remaining at Makin Al-Jinni.

Twenty Nine: Operations End

Detachment Leader Kaybol’s little domain had contracted within minutes of the Doctor’s emergence from the TARDIS, informing the bio-vores in the Infiltration Complex that they had one last chance to get home.

          Morale amongst the aliens was not good.  They had, it is true, found and drained the life-energies of several hundred humans, and recovered metal artefacts that enabled more robust vehicles to be constructed.  However, they had also been subjected to a bombing raid from the air, first by the frightening but ineffectual Lysander, secondly by the utterly terrifying and most definitely effectual Blenheims.  Nor was that all.  No reinforcements had come through by trans-mat since the rebellion back on Homeworld.  No reinforcements, and no bottled algae, either.  Faced  with the prospect of being stranded on a world where attack from the air was commonplace, where half their detachment were dead, and where bio-morphic energy was in short supply, most of the detachment opted for Homeworld.

          That left the leader-assumptant, Kaybol, and a few other bio-vores, perhaps two dozen in all.  Detachment Leader Kaybol, having discovered his miniature fiefdom shrinking in numbers, had been told “It’s the small alien doing it!” and set out to find and kill the small alien.  That heretic Sorbusa had failed to kill the small alien, likewise Lord Excellency Sur, and several detachment leaders besides.  Enough of that!  Kaybol determined that he would kill the small alien.

     Better bio-vores than you have tried, matey.  The Doctor's still here, and they're not.

*  Okay, okay, there were twelve of them.