For as long as I can remember (and likely before it), Weetabix has been my breakfast. The familiar yellow box has always been a priority item in the shop:
But now it’s gone blue!
How am I supposed to find it now? No other breakfast box had the familiar (and yes, comforting) colour. There is yellow on the box, but it’s different – lighter, less substantial.
If you need me, I’ll be the one in the corner, rocking and emitting small mewling noises.
The Foggy Hogtown Boys play The Brunswick House every Saturday afternoon. They’re good; Chris Quinn might eventually be able to afford a proper banjo one day…
Blue skies, crops growing, grasshoppers hopping, wind turbines turbing, blue-winged swallows over my head.
In short, it’s a beautiful day in Kingsbridge.
There was one thing I hated about Rumo, and that was finishing it. Walter Moers creates such a complex â€” yet never serious â€” fantasy world that leaving it is always hard.
I like the way he’s not afraid to revisit characters from The 13Â½ Lives of Captain Bluebear. Most fantasy authors are slavish in keeping their characters’ lives consistent across the volumes. Since Bluebear was the most celebrated liar in Atlantis, what do you expect?
Guess I’ll have to work on my sensor cleaning game, ‘cos this is what I see (a blue sky, with contrast racked way up, and at 2x scale) on the bottom right of my D70 sensor:
The other troublesome marks are gone, so I guess it kinda works. I used the American Recorder Digital Sensor Swab Kit from Henry’s, and the mirror lock up instructions from brams.dk.
Y’know, that pattern of splodges looks awfully like the indentations on the end of the swab â€¦
It may sound like the first line of a particularly contrived blues song, but I woke up this morning and realised I’ve completely forgotten how to do long division. Guess I’ve used calculators for far too long.
It’s German, it’s funny (no, really), and it has wind turbines in it. Horst Krause is wonderful as the retired and bewildered Schultze, as he makes his quest for musical identity in the Deep South.
I’ve a feeling I might get to like the blueberry fritter almost as much as my canonical donut, the sour cream glazed.
The Decemberists were as great as ever last night. We snagged comfy sofas up on the balcony at The Phoenix, so it made up for the usually dire venue.
I’m definitely showing my age, though. When they played a demento-rock version of ELO’s Mr Blue Sky, I was about the only person who could sing along.
Hope that Derek got his laguiole back; it was confiscated at the door …
standing in a field at the edge of Burlington; standing close enough to be together, but obliquely apart, like a couple who have said all they ever will.