Hamlet - The Text Adventure
To be clear: this isn't a text adventure-style script, like certain political satires we know. This is an actual game. So what if you know how it ends? You just
have to play. Don't you?
Paper jams.
Shipment delays.
Sleet.
Bloody rude bus passengers.
Toothpaste marks on my top.
Sudden enormous holes in my tights.
Grrrrrrr.
I've been mildly diverted, of late, by reflecting on the surprising turns my life has taken. Ten years ago I would probably have described myself as a Luddite. Now, while I'm hardly a serious technophile, I'm confident (or foolhardy) enough to be launching a business venture that depends entirely on this mysterious, nebulous thing we like to call The Hypercyberinterweb. That's surprising. For that matter, the idea that I — a financial coward of note — am "launching a business venture" is quite astonishing in itself. And so on.
But what is, frankly, bizarre, is the level of excitement engendered by this.
It is, you will observe, a box. A triangular box. A box vaguely reminiscent of a gi-huge Toblerone, but that completely fails to explain my giddiness, because (a) having ordered 25 of these boxes in each of two sizes, having had them arrive in their flat, pre-assembly state, I am obviously well aware that there is no chocolate anywhere near them, and (b) I don't really like Toblerone. So whence the thrill?
Oh, but this box, Dear Readers, this box will change my life. This box, you see, in its deliciously unexpected form, is the perfect packaging for knitting needles. This box will reduce packaging time to at most a quarter of what it was before; it will better protect the goods, it will look more professional, it will reduce the risk of mixing up orders. Plus, it's pretty darn cute. So this box was delivered to great scroobious fanfare. And I mused idly on how weirdly grown up I was, to take such pleasure in such an objectively dull, useful, business-related item.
Until a friend pointed out that infants, too, are vastly entertained by cardboard boxes.
Were I to tell you that my lovely new eye serum (with horsechestnut and Japanese pagoda* to target puffiness and dark circles! Proven to reduce wrinkles after four weeks!) seems to have a remarkably tingly effect, verging on painful stinging, the appropriate response would be:
a) Beauty is pain.
b) Don't you just love how you can feel the magic ingredients targeting those wrinkles?
c) You scroobious fool, what made you think this eye cream would be any less eye-watering than the last one** (or three) you tried?
For interpretive purposes, should you answer (c), please indicate whether you consider "Because it was more expensive, and I'm about to turn 30" an acceptable defence.
_____
* Bet your cosmetics don't contain Oriental buildings. How they squeeze that whole thing into such a tiny tube, I just don't know.
** I am happy to report that since then, I have, sort of, gotten over myself. The bathroom shelf is somewhat less cluttered. Somewhat.
...more energy using, completely pointless consumerist crap.
Welcome to The Butter Wizard.
Really, I don't know how we've managed so long without a fully temperature controlled butter dish. Keeping butter in the cupboard during winter and in the fridge in summer has worked fine for me all these years, but what a waste that was, when I could have been enjoying "THE must-have kitchen innovation" for the low, low price of £35!
I'm no eco-warrior. I'm not even a responsible eco-citizen. I buy too much stuff and use too much energy, and defend myself with mutterings about renewable and recyclable and maybe if I plant a tree you'll just gloss over my overfamiliarity with easyJet. But this kind of thing — like disposable everything — makes me spit. This world needs a lot of things, but inventing new things for people to buy, plug in and throw out after a couple of years (or sooner) is nowhere on the list.
Rant over. As you were.
Camp Falsehopes: where the talentless get their start.
I read somewhere recently* that one in four American teens believes they are going to be famous. Now, even allowing infamy to fall under the same category as fame; even lowering standards of fame to those embraced by the producers of "Celebrity" Big Brother; even considering the tendency of unreality TV to thrust the hilariously talentless into the limelight for their 15 seconds...
...it surely can't be more than one in five who'll actually make it, right?**
____
* It's so much better being a blogger than a journalist. Can't be arsed to Google this, and luckily, I don't have to! My unsubstantiated factoids can go unchecked! Ahhh... Camp Falsehopes and Blogger united to reassure me that I can be an incisive social commentator without all that tedious research. Yay me!
** I learned my statistical skills at Camp Falsehopes, too.
My favourite thing yet from the Guardian archives: job vacancies from 1865. Such as:
"A Youth, as Billiard Marker, and to make himself useful: good character required."
"A steady person, to attend a small engine."
And of course, "Common Puddlers, Shinglers, Forge rollers, Hammermen for Tyrebars, Rollers of Tyres and Bar-iron, Furnacemen and others."
Update: a "clicker", it transpires, could be one of three things: "salesman's assistant who would drum up custom; print worker who would set up the press for the compositor; one who makes eyelet holes in boots using a machine which clicked". (They really should have been more specific.)
I found this out on a delightful site that also tells me that while I am a nettir, and have sometimes dreamed of being a colporteur, my career choices in days of yore* might have included ankle beater, avenator, piscator, quister, or even vaginarius (how rude!).
Bankers, it seems, did not work in offices. Waiters didn't (legally) collect tips. Chiffoniers and dressers were not, to their presumed relief, items of furniture. Flashers, hookers and hackers were perfectly respectable occupations.
A savant might not have been particularly smart, and a spinster could well have been married. A vulcan probably didn't have any special mental powers.
And a Puddler, in case you were wondering, is a wrought iron worker.
_____
* Leaving aside, for the nonce, all questions of what might have been considered proper occupation for a woman.
While I'm very tempted to let you stew a bit longer (come on people, you're not even trying!), the time has come to reveal the ordinary (far less poetic) versions of these popular songs.
1. Cars, Gary Numan
"Here in my car I feel safest of all, I can lock all my doors, it’s the only way to live..."
2. The tide is high, Blondie
"The tide is high but I'm holding on, I'm gonna be your number one"
3. And no more shall we part, Nick Cave
"And no more shall we part, it will no longer be necessary"
4. Venus as a boy, Bjork
"His wicked sense of humour suggests exciting sex"
5. You spin me round, Dead or Alive
"If I, I get your name, well I could trace your private number baby"
(I admit, I forgot the "baby" part. That's your excuse, right?)
6. Famous blue raincoat, Leonard Cohen
"It's four in the morning, the end of December. I'm writing you now just to see if you're better."
7. Children of the revolution, T-Rex
"Well you can bump and grind, if it's good for your mind"
8. Lullaby, The Cure
"On candystripe legs the spiderman comes, softly through the shadow of the evening sun"
(And really, if the arachnoid hominid didn't give it away, there's just no hope for you. None.)
9. Poisoning pigeons in the park, Tom Lehrer
"Spring is here, spring is here, life is skittles and life is beer!"
(As Cate pointed out. Bit of a special interest one, this.)
And the bonus round:
10. Weeping, Bright Blue.
"I knew a man who lived in fear; it was huge, it was angry, it was drawing near."
Which is a truly great song that you only know if you're a South African child of the 80s. Your loss, otherwise.
They're not going about it very well, though. First, he was one of their own. Second, the dude is 78 years old; have a heart! Third, well, he's not dead, is he?
Just another snafu from the Bush administration, then. But you have to feel sorry for the press officer:
"Mr McClellan, who is usually treated with more respect, pleaded with reporters not to yell at him."
CJ would have at least had a snappy comeback.
Right, following Cliff's salutary example, I bring you posh lyrics. Here's one to give you the idea:
"We tripped an illuminescent dance figure, traversed the boards acrobatically."
Whiter shade of pale, see?
Time to get started. They're too easy, I'm afraid, but we can always dial it up a bit next time. There's one in here just for Patroclus, one for Vivaldifan and one for Cate, by the way. I think always only of my readers.
1. "In this automobile is where I feel least threatened. It is possible for me to secure all the entrances, there is no better form of existence."
2. "The flux is rising, yet I maintain my grip. I will be the first on your list."
3. "And we will never again be separated, there is no more need for it."
4. "His salacious badinage hints at erotic stimulation."
5. "Were I to become acquainted with your moniker, it would be possible for me to discover your digits."
6. "It is past three AM shortly after Christmas. I am corresponding with you in order to determine whether your condition has improved."
7. "Well it is possible to move in a rough and rhythmic manner, provided that it has a beneficial effect on your mental state."
8. "The arachnoid hominid arrives on limbs sporting confectionary-styled patterns, quietly under the umbra of late afternoon sunlight."
9. "The season of renewal is upon us. Existence is a game of ninepins and lager."
And a bonus round for South Africans:
10. "I was acquainted with someone in a constant state of anxiety. It was large, infuriated and approaching closer."
Okay, so the whole weekend slipped by without me making good on my threat of posh lyrics. I'm sorry. I was a little distracted by housework, work work, Jet Set Willy (yay!) and meeting my dad's new boyfriend. Who turns out to be my dad's new fiance.
Honestly, parents of today. I turn my back on him for one minute...
Posh lyrics to follow.
I've just received a spam mail addressed to "My little pumpkin". Words fail me.
In other news, I appear to be picking up rather a lot of Google hits for "Parcelforce west London depot" and "how to complain to Parcelforce". To my fellow sufferers: first, I feel your pain. Deeply do I feel it. And second, this is probably a more useful site.
I have finally gotten the refund. But I'm not sure the letter advanced my case. On mature reflection, accusing my enemy of being in thrall to the dark lord might not have been the most strategic move.
This is clearly the week — sorry, hebdomad — for calling a space an earth-inverting horticultural implement. Yesterday, there was posh lyrics (and don't think I'm not going to work up some of my own this weekend).
Now, a friend has just emailed me the gobbledygook generator.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get some gobbledygook, and use it in a work email by the end of the week. Report back here, soldiers.
My phrase? "At base level, this just comes down to facilitating monitored paradigm shifts." Going to be hard to get that into my normal subbing routine, but we'll try...
Abu Hamza's conviction "shows why we need laws against the glorifying of terrorism", says Gordon Brown.
Really? I would have thought it showed that existing laws were quite enough to cover that territory. I guess that's why I'm too dumb to be in politics.
In a fit of narcissism extreme even for me, I present to you Four Things: take two. Because the Ninja Polymath asked nicely, and who am I to rudely tell her I already did this one...
Four (more) jobs I have done
Dressed up as a biker chick and handed out free chocolate
Served drinks to fat old men in a golf club
Movie reviewer
Founder of future knitting empire*
Four (more) movies I can watch over and over**
Moulin Rouge!
Army of Darkness
Powaqqatsi
O Brother Where Art Thou?
Four places I've lived
In a school for the deaf
In a children's home
In a reformatory
In a school for the handicapped
Four (more) TV shows I love
Green Wing
Early Charmed (I can't watch it any more, though)
Xena (stop rolling your eyes back there! It has the Sam Raimi factor!)
Um... there was a British sitcom I saw in SA, that no Brit has ever heard of, called Kiss Me Kate. Bill Nighy was a guest star. That rather rocked.
Four (more) places I have been on holiday***
My couch
Bainskloof, every school holiday for years
This fabulous game farm
A charming and luxurious, yet completely unspoilt tropical island, whose name I can't divulge for fear of letting The Secret out
Four (more) of my favourite dishes
Tagliatelle with smoked salmon and vodka cream sauce
A certain someone's chocolate/cappuccino semifreddo that he's never yet quite got around to making me. Don't worry, I can taste it in my mind. I know it's one of my favourites.
The steak sandwich at The Eagle on Farringdon Road. Not normally a big steak sandwich fan (and that was a big steak sandwich), but I just had that last week and was instantly smitten. Dead cow heaven. (I hope the dead cow's in heaven. It died for a very good cause.)
The coffee-flavoured chocolate wafers from the Broad Street Restaurant in Lyme Regis. I can't think of anything else I've ever eaten that literally stopped dinner, and conversation, in its tracks. Luckily the owner is very nice and brought us a whole saucer of them.
Four sites I visit daily
The bathroom
The kitchen
My desk
My bed
Four (more) places I would rather be right now
On the Orient Express to Venice
On the Queen Mary to New York
In the beautiful big house on a lake that is my future home
In AML's kitchen, with a bottle or three of merlot, and Vivaldifan, and Faye Sooth, and the gazillion pets AML is threatening to adopt.
Dammit. Now that's all I can think of.
Four bloggers I am tagging:
Vivaldifan
Purple Owl
Tristan
Extemporanea
Although I can't guarantee they haven't done this, or won't flat-out ignore me anyway...
_____
* It does rather seem as though I'm constantly mentioning it to boost my Google ranking. No, I'm just rather obsessed at the moment.
** I'm nothing if not eclectic.
*** One of these might not be entirely factual
I'm just full of linky goodness today, aren't I.
London Oddities is appallingly written (I'm still struggling to work out why a German spy was sent instructions and hair in the post, even if he was a barber) but full of juicy titbits. I love the story about the Southwark miser.
Coram's Fields, by the way, is not still known as Foundlings. It is Coram's Fields. It does have that weird sign, which isn't really so weird, since lone adults aren't generally encouraged to hang around playgrounds, ne c'est pas? It also has sheep, as I've previously mentioned.
There's one other detail about that place. There is a niche in the wall where distressed mothers used to leave their babies, in hopes that they would be taken in (in contrast, one assumes, with the nursery's official, rather strict policy of taking in babies only from mothers of "prior good reputation", etc). This is sad enough when you think of babies abandoned to icy London temperatures. But the numbers are overwhelming — more than a hundred a day at one time.
Three things I love:
Buffy.
Musicals.
Lord of the Rings.
Obviously, therefore, I loved "Once more with feeling".
And just as obviously, I love Once More with Hobbits.
"Now through the smoke it watches me,
The Eye that pierces every shade,
I've thought it through,
I know what I must do,
The Ring must be unmade."
coComment — not a stutter, a new toy — promises to be very nifty: a little bookmarklet that lets you track the comments you leave on other people's blogs. So instead of having to go back to every blog you visit to see if anyone's replied, you can see all conversations on one webpage — or on RSS, or even on a little box on your own blog. Clearly very groovy.
Unfortunately — and I do realise it's early days yet — I've just tried it on three blogs and it didn't work on any of them. Not on Movable Type, not on Squarespace and not even on Blogger, which it does claim to support. But it wasn't able to identify the comment form on this particular blog. I don't think this is going to be much use to me if it only saves the comments for blogs on the right platforms, that are set up in just the right way.
Still, eh, it's a start.
It's not often I get to flag up something that makes me happy. But here is a prime example:
Britain stands up to US bullying on abortion.
That and the marzipan I just bought should get me through the afternoon.
Normally, the lengthening of the days is cause for much joy, over at Chez Scroobious. Normally, my heart lightens with the morning. Normally, it’s a pleasure and a delight to wake to grey skies rather than darkness, to have birdsong slowly filter into my dreams and nudge me out of sleep.
Well, I say “normally”. What I mean is “in the days before cats”.
Harvey, you see, he also wakes up earlier now. And because he’s on a Special New Diet that will make Jemima sick if she eats from his bowl, I have to feed the little darlings at actual mealtimes, rather than just leaving big piles o’ crunchies out for them. So you see where this is going.
My alarm is set for 7.30. Harvey’s stomach is set for 7.00. So instead of waking up gently to melodious birdsong, lightening skies etc, I wake up to:
pounce!
pawpawpawpaw
“miaaaaaau?”
runrunrun
[Hang on. She’s not following me.]
Pounce!
pawpawpawpaw
“miaaAAUu?”
Runrunrun
[Um, no, she hasn’t quite got it yet.]
POUNCE!
PAWPAWPAWPAW!
“don’t you love me at AAALLL?”
While I, of course, am hunkering down defiantly, thinking: Will. Not. Give. In. Because I have thirty minutes left to pretend to sleep, and it’s quite enough that Jemima got me up at 3am to let her out, so if I let Harvey dictate what time I wake up – well, I’ll just be completely pussywhipped, won’t I?
Back when we first adopted Harvey, he was all scrawny and miserable. Hardly moved, just sat around looking put upon. But a few weeks of decent food sorted him right out and suddenly he’s got all this energy. Which he expends in being demanding. Maybe we made a misstep there…
[This one too.]
Everymoment started a meme* that could have us looking deep into our consumerist souls, and weeping tears of shame and naked greed. Or maybe that's just how I feel the day after I inexplicably failed to win the £125m Euro Millions draw.
Aaaaanyway. Here I go.
Three things I am willing to spend too much on:
1) Yarn. I note that EM puts this way down on her "would if she could". Maybe this aberration can be ascribed to her being a relative latecomer to the craft. Really, a True Knitter cannot possibly resist the lure of colours and softness and deliciousness...**
2) Books. I don't buy all that many, but apparently I'm not doing nearly enough reading, because the to-be-read shelf is only getting fuller. In fact it's overflowing. So I obviously spend more than I should, and plus, being a book snob I only buy pretty hardcover items, which definitely pushes the spend up.
3) Chocolate. Although it's an interesting thing: I hardly ever buy chocolate these days. Not, believe me, out of self-restraint. Rather, because I have been completely and utterly ruined for supermarket chocolate by subscribing for a time to this purveyor of temptation. Now, I occasionally grab a slab of Green & Black's, but as the lovely satiny pralines and truffles I really crave are a bit harder to come by, I'm relatively chocolate free. Still: when I do spend, I spend Too Much. 'Swonderful.
Three things I would spend unlimited amounts on if I had unlimited amounts to spend:
1) Space. How boring and practical, but it's true: after nearly four years on this cramped and crowded little island, simply having large rooms to live in feels like the ultimate indulgence.
2) Boots. Again, to repeat EM, I'd enjoy wardrobe expansion on every front, but it's fun to be specific. And boots are my thing. I don't think I'd want a ridiculously large amount of clothes, shoes and boots (though the definition of "ridiculous" is of course open to interpretation), but I'd definitely enjoy spending obscene amounts on really good ones. In lots of lovely colours. To hell with brown and black.
3) Travel. Just give me half a chance. It'll be five-star hotels all the way... and train or boat to get there.
_____
* Bloggy use of this term has long bothered me. A meme is an idea, not a quiz-style list. But then I realised: it is a totally different word, and should be pronounced to reflect that. Bloggy memes are "me-mes". Because it's all about me. Right? Right.
** Or for that matter the lusciousness of wooden needles and silk needle cases and so on...
[This post brought to you by the kindness of Greg and his RSS.]
Once upon a time, utilities and service companies delivered a single service. Remember? You wanted insurance, you went to an insurer. You wanted money, you went to a bank. You wanted to phone granny, you picked up the receiver and relied on whatever central monopoly you had.
But then some crazed executives dreamt up "convergence" and everyone started muscling in on everyone else's territory. My supermarket wants to sell me life cover, my satellite TV provider is pushing broadband and mobile phones, and please let's not talk about how confusing it is to be offered electricity from British Gas. I mean, it's right there in the name. They provide gas. Not electricity. That comes from Southern Electric. Oh, except they do gas too...
Now, the Post Office is one of the very guiltiest parties. I understand that they got into the banking party early, and I'm sure that's very useful to little old ladies in remote villages across the land. I know that they do forex and travel insurance, and if it weren't for those damn annoying little ants, I could forgive it.
But who had to give the bastards sales targets?
I go to the post office a lot these days. This is how I'd like the experience to unfold:
"Good morning, this is first class signed for, 96p, thanks, bye bye."
This is how it actually goes:
"Good morning, first class signed for, no I don't need another credit card, thanks, 96p, yes, here you go, no I don't need another telephone provider, thanks, yes I know there's a special offer, no thank you, PLEASE TAKE THE DAMN 96P AND MY PACKAGE AND LET ME OUT OF HERE!"
You know some people have signs on their gate saying "no circulars"? Maybe I'll start wearing a badge saying "no sales talk". Bet it'll be just as ineffective.
...has anyone been having trouble with commenting here? Dear Reader Greg emails me to say Blogger won't let him talk to me. So now I want to know if the radio silence is because I'm boring (as previously assumed) or because Blogger has it in for me.
Anyone reading this should please post a comment, just to see if it can be done. And if it can't, please email pobble at gmail dot com.
Not that I expect to be able to fix the problem or anything. I'd just like to know.
Oh, and now that I look at this, I see my actual posts of the past few days seem to have disappeared into the ether. Dammit.
Update: Okay, I'm not cross about comments any more, I'm cross about those missing posts. Honestly, I sacrifice a few minutes of my precious time to serve adn entertain, and what do I get? Grumble, grumble...
No more comments needed, thanks. Until I actually write something. Then, please, comment away.
"All conversations in politics should be conducted at high speed while striding down corridors. This combines legislation with exercise, keeping the leader and his employees telegenic."
The Guardian brings you Ten top political tips from The West Wing.
