The Jamjar

You *know* you are giving

You *know* you are giving you're client value for money, when you send them an update that is supposed to be the basically completed working version, and you get a list back of 18 items that *still* don't work, and the e-mail starts "Here's a list of problems... there still seems quite a few bugs."

[I know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but it's the one I'm most comfortable with...sue me.]

You know you're in trouble

You know you're in trouble when:

• you read "kick off meeting" as "kick ASS meeting" everytime


• you read Subway's tag line as "eat flesh"


• the most exciting thing that's happened to you in months is the purchase of a new "three-in-one" bathroom sponge


• you have virtually *no* time to do what you *have* to do but you can't even *get* to it for all the other "rats and mice" nibbling at your time


• your fantasies no longer include Colin Farrell but various scenarios ending in you handing in your resignation


• you start thinking the supermarket checkout girl has a satisfying job


• that idea of going to New York for three months actually sounds like a go'er

nothing new here.

from Tailorstoday.com I hate going

Is it procrastination if you

Is it procrastination if you blog? or is it good time management by "getting the little things out of the way"?

On the back end of a brilliant Millers coffee from Serious Expresso with a Lemon Muffin chaser, Apple.com's email arrived in my inbox with the news I never thought I'd hear this side of Christmas. The new iBooks are shipping with G4 processors and Panther! I'm so excited.

I want one. I want one really badly.

I spent time in the weekend stroking the white G3 iBooks at the Big Byte at Botany. I very nearly bought one then - not knowing when or how long I'd have to wait for the iBook upgrade that "of course" was coming. The Storepeople didn't have the answers either, but I forgave them because they let me stroke the iBook for as long as I needed to.

Don't even get me started on the iPods.

I don't understand what the

I don't understand what the problem is, Tranz Metro. We all went to school, and somewhere around our mid teens, a Maths teacher has presented each and every one of us with the problem: "if a train left Station A, travelling x number of miles per hour, a distance of y to the next station, how long would it take to get to Station B?"

It's _not rocket science_.

And we have really short distances! We're not LONDON we're a piddly little one-horse-town with a couple of train tracks."Commuters on the western line refused to pay their fares from Glen Eden after the 7.29am train did not appear and the 7.59 arrived late. " Can we say "communicate with your passengers"?? Phone the station, have an electronic "train status" update screen. Tell them there's a problem so they can seek alternative transportation.. hell.. Tranz Metro you know your train broke down send those passengers a BUS!! People get get their pay docked and sometimes FIRED for that kind of tardiness. "I was at the airport the other day and Qantas cancelled a flight and nobody bothered," Ms Foley said. "But with the trains, everybody seems to go overboard." Christ on a bike - Qantas doesn't *do* that everyday, where as the trains *are* late to some extent almost every_single_day! Ms Foley seems to think that it's tardy passengers who are causing the problem and it's not "fair" to take their frustrations out on the train staff but *hello* they're the face of your company. As for tardy passengers, that's easy fixed - you stop your train at a station, you say "all aboard" and then you say "mind the gap" and then you shut the doors and go to the next stop. Passengers too slow don't go. _it's_not_rocket_science.

Though from the comments by Ms Foley, it seems it may as well be where she's concerned.

Cheesus this topic gets on my last goat. I don't even *take* the train - I'd like to but I can't trust it to be reasonably on time. I am known to take a ferry and a bus from time to time and *they* can manage to keep to their schedule, and being that neither of them are attached to steel railings one might even suggest they have more variables to control than a train.

Science, Optics and You -

Science, Optics and You - Interactive Java Tutorials

Rosie: *laughs* Michelle: *turns* what?

Rosie: *laughs*
Michelle: *turns* what?
Rosie: I never noticed the noise your mouse scroller made before.
Michelle: good, was it?
Rosie: yeh. Good like I'm gonna smash it.

Everyone is talking about Kill

Everyone is talking about Kill Bill, so I'm gonna talk about something different until such time as I see Kill Bill and then I'll talk about it too.

Today, Class, we're going to talk about New Zealand Music - firstly, we're going to talk about Scribe. Yes, his album The Crusader did go platinum on it's day of release (over 10,000 units sold) and now, not even a week later it's past the 20,000 sold mark. That's phenomenal sales for this country. What's really incredible about Scribe is that he's managed to get *me* to listen to hip hop with Not Many [not to mention, Stand Up, Sychronise Thoughts and Remember?] [link takes you to Scribe's website - click on Gallery>videos and select "not many - remix" - have patience, it *is* loading - someone advise their webmaster of loading screens.]

How many dudes you know roll like this, how many dudes you know flow like this.. not many, if any. Not many, if any. How many dudes you know got the skills to go rock a show like this? I don't know any body.

Secondly, we're going to think about SuperGroove. Click here to hear a few track snippets from three of their most excellent songs. Now, I don't know much about Supergroove. They were a High School band which seemed to have more members than you could poke a stick at. Their debut album Traction went triple platinum while they were still at school. I believe I heard they're releasing a "greatest hits" later this month which I am looking forward to.

You've got to know to understand. Baby take me by the hand. Lead me to the promised land a a and you've got to know to understand.

Thirdly, Haley Westenra. Now don't get all up in my face about her CD being "nana music". That girl has pipes. I saw her sing at Christmas on the Lake Front in Rotorua a few years ago - she was 11 or 12 I believe - and she carried that show. Left all the professional adult singers in the dirt. Never has an album been so aptly named. Pure went gold in the UK, number one in the New Zealand charts for weeks, topped the Classics charts and became the fastest selling debut album on the UK Classical Charts. She's appearing at London's Royal Albert Hall with Jose Carreras in December.

I love the way you

I love the way you look when you're sleeping.
I love the way you can see the funny side of things.
and the way you laugh, and the way you sing. I love that you tell me things. I also hate that you tell me things. I hope you never stop telling me things.
I love the way you can laugh at yourself. The many ways you are smart and the countless ways you are endearingly stupid.
I love that you are hardly ever embarassed, because to laugh at one self is a true talent.
I love the way you are with your friends, they are very lucky to know you and have you in their lives. I love that they are good people.
I love the way you sing to yourself when you're playing. You don't think I can hear you but I can.
I love that you use big words in the right context. I adore the way you giggle. I love that you still wrap your arms around me and tell me you love me. In fact you all do that, like limpets - god knows where you get that from.
I love the way you understand jokes, even when I'm the only other person who does.
and I love that you also understand complex stories with enough compassion to also understand the sadness they sometimes have.
I love and hate the way you won't talk to me about sex, and I can't for the life of me talk you into it.
I think that you're a good man. That you still look after me even though I would never admit I need looking after despite the fact I wear a sandwich-board around my neck saying "hopeless when left alone to fend for self" everyday. That you think I talk sense when it's clear to everyone i don't. I love the way you'll still rub my feet even though the lawyer said you didn't have to anymore.
I love the way you don't care about me at all. The way you make me laugh, and try to help. Especially that you listen to my endless griping.
I love the way you care so much, and can out-google anyone, though you know the answer already, I suspect.
I love the way you put up with all of us, even though parts of your life must be really quite difficult. I love that we dislike almost everything the other person likes - except for the really important stuff like Pulp Fiction and playing pool.
I love the way you wear your combat boots and weave a story about safety around them, lessening your son's fears, as of course a natural father would.
I love your style. Your endless patience and forgiving nature. Your straight-from-the-hip-when-needed ness.
I love the way you love me even when i don't stay in touch. And I love the way you love me when I never leave you alone.
I love the way you're sensible and silly at the same time. That you're smarter than me by 3 miles and you notice my toes.
I love the way you let me bumb your hip and sit close and not say much. Though your Italian seems not to be your first language, it falls from your tongue like it was made expressly for that purpose.
I love that you took me to the ballet, and that you loved the same bit I did, even though I coughed through a big chunk of the quiet bit. I loved drinking with you though I didn't drink nearly enough.
I love the way you let me sleep with you, even though there wasn't much room and I'm not good at sharing.
I love the way you send me postcards, even though I never send you anything. I mean to, but I never do. Does the thought count, because if it does, it's a really big number.
I love the way you show up to tell me you're not staying.
I love the way you smile, especially if it's to see me.
I love that you are in my life.

thankyou.

I am a very lucky woman.

I'm JJ, and so's my

I'm JJ, and so's my wife.

League referee signals here and

League referee signals here and here with pictures. There seem to be a lot. Dare I suggest a laminated card by way of performance support?

Whereas these guys are just being silly.

PS:

Kiwis claim vengeful win A

That was an *amazing* game. I am speechless - if you didn't watch it you missed one of the best kiwi wins in ages. Not only that, but.. Cricket.. New Zealand declared 636/5 which is freaking amazing too!

Sonia gave me homework for the off-season - I have to find out and memorise all the League Referee's hand signals so she knows what's going on. I'm not really sure where the heck I get that information. We also talked about going to the 2004 NRL Grand Final regardless of who is playing. Sounds like a plan.

We've also decided to join the Biege Brigade (yes we're talking cricket now, not league) and find out where to buy the 1970s Cricket strip. We'll get to some One Day games for sure - not sure who is touring here in the summer, but if there is anyone half-way-decent I'm gonna take time off work and experience a Test up close and personal.

I thing those are some of the best New Year's resolutions I've ever had. *firm nod*

I'd just like to mention

I'd just like to mention that, while I was lying in my dentists chair, with his suckything and drills and injections and so forth at awkward angles in my mouth, I was thinking of JJ's post about his Spanish dentist, and trying not to laugh. In between signalling pain with my eyelids, and the rest of the routine.

I'd link to it but....you know.

a) JJ Please.. please don't

a) JJ Please.. please don't be anything but yourself, and your posts are fabulous - God knows I'm not adding to the 'Jar much these days, and you know how much I love your writing and your EOFL*s so stop apologising and keep typing, I love you and fall at the bar stool next to you buying you copious pints in gratitude for writing here. (I was going to fall-at-your-feet in gratitude but I'm not as much use there)

and b) I want to talk about Celebrity Treasure Island, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and the Naked Samoans, but I can't get my ducks in a line, my vowels in sequence, the cat has my tongue.

I want to talk about Greer Robson's bossoms, and Nikki Watson's hipbones, and Marc Ellis' cunning and Mathew Ridge's eyebrow. I want to talk about how too many alpha males and too much Estee Lauder makeup make for a fantastic reality show.

I need to share how much fun I had watching the first episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy was last night, how every time I saw Kyan I sighed and melted left the same way we all did when Heath Ledger road over the brow of the hill, freshly trimmed and washed in A Knight's Tale. I want you to realise how funny their comments were even though I can't remember one single one of them correctly.

You need to understand how terrible New Zealand comedians are, on the whole. That despite the fact every second farmer and his pig dog want to be a comedian, most of the people standing on the stage at the Comedy Club are vulgar and not funny. There are some fabulous exceptions to the rule, and a group of five guys of them from the Islands have a show called The Naked Samoans. I laughed last year, their no-props from-life humour was gentle and touching and funny and intelligent. Never mind that Oscar Kightley is hilarious all on his own - and i'm going to say it and you can't stop me but.. ethnic humour is funny.. whether it's Greek or Italian or Jewish or Samoan, it's funny when done with love. Except German, I've never seen anything German AND funny.

*Emails of Frightening Length

Finding Nemo… I thought they

Finding Nemo… I thought they never would.

Breathing is an amazing thing; you do it upwards of twenty thousand times in a day, but you seldom have to think about it. Likewise, running up and down stairs - most people can do that without thinking about the millions of individual commands their brain has to send to their muscles to make them work in the correct sequence to avoid you falling flat on your face.

When you think about these things, they’re incredible and awe-inspiring, but perhaps the most impressive thing about them is that you can do them without thinking about them. You can take them for granted.

Pixar animated movies have become like breathing. You can watch without getting sidetracked by the standard of the animation. This is both good and bad. It’s good because, if you’re me, you get to follow the story at a first viewing rather than get lost in how impressive the detail on the shark’s upper lip is (very). It’s bad because Finding Nemo doesn’t have much of a story to follow.

Before I get all picky, I should point out that I enjoyed it immensely and laughed often. The animation is rich, luxurious and funny, and sometimes dark and scary (really). It’s no Shrek, but it’s a nice film all the same.

And I know it’s a film for kids – I wasn’t expecting Nemo to reveal at the end that he’d been faking his withered fin throughout and that in fact he was Kaiser Sose – but I expected more than the old character-gets-in-trouble-then-gets-out-of-it-again trick repeated over and over throughout. If I’d wanted that, I could have gone to see Harry Potter.

The story rambles on with a series of near-tragedies that become infuriating instead of engaging. Maybe it’s just that now I’m old, and I know that with Disney it will always turn out well in the end, or maybe they just play that “It’s going to be a disaster! Oh no, wait, it’s fine” card too much.

These animated movies that work for kids and for adults are a tricky business. Making them sugar-coated enough for the kids makes them not so delicious for the grown-ups, but making them interesting enough for the adults runs the risk of boring the children. It’s a tightrope, and one I’m not sure Finding Nemo doesn’t fall off a couple of times. The darker moments are really quite sinister, and the lighter moments border on puke inspiring.

Admittedly, I have that Spielberg-induced fear of all things water related that I imagine many people my age (who were allowed to watch Jaws far too young) suffer from – but still, it’s a cartoon! I shouldn’t feel the need to pretend to be frightened to cover up the fact that I actually am. I also have an exaggerated cynicism that I find hard to keep in check when baby fish tells daddy fish he loves him in front of his whole school – like the squids wouldn’t kick the shit out of him for that!

I think the film fell between two stools – too scary in parts for the kids, too irritating a plot with too sweet an ending for the adults. Go and see it if you haven’t already – it might not sound that way, but I did enjoy it a lot. It has lots of good bits… and at no point does anyone even vaguely hint at adopting a talking mouse instead of a child.

Sorry these posts keep turning into inch hogging rants, Mish. I’ll work on being more concise.

I had an idea

I had an idea for the finish I wanted, and a thought that dissolving crayon with mineral turpentine was the answer. I was on the right track but it wasn't going as well as I'd hoped. Colouring oil based pastel over the air-dried clay, then brushing it with the turps was sortof going well, but I still had a very light looking creature - watercoloury. It wasn't until I swashed deep ultra blue dye concentrate over it that it worked properly, seeping into the clay and coating the crayon but letting the flecks of colour shine through. Using a silver metallic pen to ink my fingers and smudging it over the detail of my creature, then pouring red and orange ink into it's mouth. Now it's just how I wanted it. It's dangerous though, the teeth are nails and they are pointed sharp. He smells like shoe nugget, feels like leather, and is my addition to the Sea Creatures exhibit at work.

I suppose the silver lining

I suppose the silver lining is that he probably won't have time to make any more films for a while...

When I was young, my

When I was young, my dad tried to teach me a valuable lesson: “DIY stands for Don’t Involve Yourself – never do anything that you could pay someone else to do for you.” I didn’t agree with him at the time, and generally I still don’t, but I’m beginning to see his point. I’m tired now. I’m tired of spending fifteen minutes searching the entire house for the right screwdriver to do a two-minute job. I’m tired of involving myself and I’m tired of DIY stores.

At first I found them fascinating - a wonderful arena for people watching. It tickled me to see them wander from aisle to aisle wearing a very distinctive and instantly recognisable look – a sort of bewilderment mixed with a certain grim determination. I found it funny when I passed the same people ten minutes later; the same expressions still fixed on the their faces in “Plumbing” as they had worn in “Paint”.

Men won’t ask for directions when they’re lost, and the same rule applies in the DIY store. They’d rather stare at the same shelf for half an hour trying to work out if they could change all the other details of their current “project” to match the widget that’s not quite the right size, than just swallow their pride and ask a store assistant where they keep the widgets that are the right size.

Not that there ever are any store assistants on hand to help anyway – the women have them all. Women have some sense; they just walk through the front door and straight up to the information desk. They don’t pretend to know what they’re talking about either. They just state their problem; ask what they need to fix it, and then ask where those things are kept.

The only time women ever waste in DIY stores is the time they spend wandering the aisles looking for their lost husbands.

All of this was mostly funny and enjoyable to observe – as usual, the sense of being on the outside astutely looking in made me feel like I was above it all – until I realised that I’d become a DIY store zombie myself. More shocking was the realisation that perhaps I’d been one all along.

The guy in front of me in the queue last night - we had passed several times in the previous 45 minutes as we both shuffled between “Tools” and “Timber” - had a nicer set of electrical screwdrivers than I had. All shyness cast aside (we were shuffle buddies after all), I asked him where he’d found them. He told me and I left the queue and got myself some. This was a bridge too far.

The jovial chat and exchange of leaking sink stories with the complete stranger last week was OK – that was a Dunkirk-spirit type thing. The knowing nods and eye rolling with another wannabe plumber when we both discovered they’d run out of 22mm valves at the same time was alright too – even though I didn’t need one; nor would I exactly have known what one looked like had there been any there.

But last night was too much. It took me three-quarters of an hour to find a setsquare that’s probably too small, some floor underlay that’s probably the wrong thickness, some replacement blades for a junior hacksaw that still has a perfectly good blade in it, and some electrical screwdrivers that turned out to be not as nice as the other guy’s.

I need to revert to my old self. I need to return to my parental roots and plead ignorance or helplessness when I go to these places. That way, by the time I get back to the house, it might still be daylight and I might be able to work on the electrics as I’d planned to without having to use a torch.

"He wanted to haul my

"He wanted to haul my ashes" she said, there was a short silence, "it means he wanted to fuck me." I assured her, I'd figured that out. There are euphemisms for sexual encounters and equipment, that aren't as funny as you'd expect them to be.

Last night, the gale force warnings were so high, they cancelled ferry sailings after 5:30pm but unfortunately, we didn't know until about 5:40pm so that left a lot of people stranded on the MainLand. I went to the Provodor, you know that's where a lot of the Fullers Ferry guys hang out and sure enough, there were a lot of them there. They said they were going to try a later sailing, just waiting for the wind to calm down so we waited too. *thinking* they sure were sucking back the cocktails, I guess those weren't the pilots, or whatever a Ferry driver is called.

There were a few themes explored last night. One of which was my scariness, another was my sexuality.

It seems, two of my three managers find me "scary". The third manager sees the confident/doubtful/paranoid michelle that I thought *everyone* could see. God knows what the other two see but apparantly it's someone to be afraid of. go figure.

The Guy at the bar asked if I was a dyke.
"are you a dyke?"
"do I look like a dyke?"
"just answer the question, are you a dyke?"
"then no, i'm not a dyke"
"why not?"
"I need a reason?"
"yes"
"I don't think I do."
"Just answer the question"
"I did answer the question"
"are you a dyke?"
"no"
"do you like men or women?"
"men"
"so you're not with her?" *points at Mitch*
"yeh I'm having a drink with her, she's my project manager."
"so you a dyke"
"no"
"why not"
"I don't need a reason"
"yes you do, answer my question"
"I did answer your question, it was a 'yes or no' question and I said NO"
"are you a dyke?"
"i hope you're not a lawyer, cos you're kinda crap at this whole questioning thing"
"actually, I am a lawyer, and a bloody good one"
"well, it hardly shows"
"I wouldn't be adverse to you coming over here and having a drink with me"
"well, I would, but I'm a bit busy at the moment trying to get into her *points to Mitch* pants, maybe another time."

I was being sensationalist -

I was being sensationalist - sorry - she's not dead.

For the moment there's nothing

For the moment there's nothing out there to confirm this, but my wife's friend's sister knows some people at the BBC who are talking about the fact that Courtney Love has died from an overdose.

OK. Everybodey ready for this....?

OK. Everybodey ready for this....?

On the subject of clients...isn't interesting how well they know what it takes to put together the presentations and projects they ask us to build. For example, I was putting together an invoice for a client. I asked one of the other guys in the office, who was also working for this client and who we will call....hmm....G (who incidentally was *there* *doing* the work), how much time he had spent on his project. He told me 8.5 days. NOw, using some high process mathematics, I converted this into hours (based on an 8 hour day). I sent the invoice to the client on Monday, and all was well. I get back from lunch today, being Friday, and there is a message from the boss detailing the conversation he had with our client-in-question. The basis of it is as follows.

"He feels we overcharged him for G's work. Recharge him on the basis of 40 hours work. Reissue the invoice with same number..."

Well. I am amazed that this client (who incidentally was *not* there doing the work and in fact wasn't even in the same *city*) can know how long G spent on the project. If he knew so intimately what was involved and how long it would take, why didn't he just do the stupid job himself in the first place, and save everybody all of this aggravation. What is even worse, is the fact that the boss *agreed* to this. I can understand that everyone wants value for money, but sheesh. At least give the contractor a fair days pay for a fair days work. WHAT A CHEAPSKATE! As I have mentioned to Michelle....I must have missed the paragraph in my 'Project Management for Dummies' book where it says "...the client shall only pay for the hours *he* thinks the contractor works...". This is *so* frustrating.

Thanks for listening.

client wants it changed from

client wants it changed from this:

"Although performance support is built into the process, we want to ensure you are 100% confident in using the on-line tool and have all the necessary skills. "

to this:

"Although support is built into the process and the tool, we want to ensure have all the necessary skills to ensure and your team are 100% confident having effective performance discussions.. "

oh yeh baby that's *so* much better.

FREE WILL ASTROLOGY - ARIES

FREE WILL ASTROLOGY - ARIES (March 21-April 19): Today and every day, five million lightning bolts will flash between earth and sky somewhere on our planet. At any given moment, two thousand thunderstorms are raging. While you may not be in the literal presence of one of these elemental outbreaks in the coming week, Aries, I believe you will channel a similar kind of energy: You'll be fiercely and tenderly alive with the blended force of primal fire and water. This doesn't necessarily mean you'll careen out of control; you may be able to express the booming power in its most constructive form, cleansing and clarifying everything you touch.

Today it rained, and I

Today it rained, and I fell out of the bus while trying to get in, and it stormed and lightning'd out Waiheke Island all the way in on the ferry, and I walked in the bluster to Serious Espresso for a coffee, and Therase said "hi michelle, is it cold enough for you?" and I told her it was and she laughed, and made me a cup of coffee to take away with me and I did and she called after me asking if I'd be coming back for lunch and I said I might but I never did, and I took my white corrugated takeaway coffee cup full of steaming Millers coffee made perfectly for me to my place of work, and sipped it along the way then drank the rest of it at my desk, where I found the the coffee pot Rosie was letting me borrow to test drive, and then I checked my mail, and then I checked the news, and then I read a funny little job application that was wholey sweet and compact and to-the-point and we laughed, a little more than you'd expect seeing as the applicant's first language was obviously not English, but not in ridicule as much as in joy at the sweet compactness of the letter, and then I did some work - but not as much as you'd expect - and my leg hurt from falling out of the bus and I had a sachet of Uncle Toby's porridge for breakfast at morning tea a few hours later than planned but you can still say it was breakfast, and I did some more work, but again, not as much as you'd expect - and I answered the phone, and I answered it again, and I talked to James, and I made him laugh, and I wrote down the message he gave me but I didn't do as he asked, but I will tomorrow because I'm not as spontaneous as I should be in many regards, and then Rosie ran away at the thought of my lunch, and I had salmon on toast while she was at Downtown, and Chris told me it was hailing in Papatoetoe and I looked outside and it was sunny, but not as sunny as you'd expect, and I read some stuff on company branding and my leg hurt, and I changed the server tapes, and I answered the phone, and made a cup of tea, and Rosie came back after a while, and I talked to Rosie about our website, and I told a little girl selling sweets that we didn't want any, and I talked to Rosie about TUANZ, and we looked at competitor's sites and I became demoralised and saddened at my lack of abilities and berated myself, a lot more than you'd expect I suspect, and I noticed it was stormy outside, and I talked to Rosie outloud, and I confused Chris on MSN, and I talked to Rosie in whispers, and Chris told me it was hailing again, and I looked outside and it was raining, about as much as you'd expect, and I talked to Rosie using MSN, but just as much as you'd expect, and then I talked to Mitch, I had spoken to Mitch earlier in the day when I told her my leg hurt and she laughed at my falling-out-of-the-bus story and after a while, Rosie went home, but not as early as you'd think, and I followed not long afterwards, and the street was windy, and the ferry was overly warm, and the boys sitting by me talked about the cricket and the share price of 42Below, and about sharing potato chips and it made my concentration from my papers I was reading on company branding waiver, then we bumped into the Ferry Landing at Half Moon Bay and everyone queued to get off but not me because I hate queuing for unimportant stuff, and then I walked up to my bus, and it smells of raspberry jelly, more than you'd expect a bus to smell like raspberry jelly and my bus driver brought me home telling me not to slip and hurt myself twice in one day, and laughed, but not as much as you might think, and I had left over chicken casserole for tea, and it was as good as I was hoping it would be, and now my knees are cold and Louis Armstrong is singing on my stereo and Ella Fitzgerald is helping him out and my house is as snug as you might expect a snug house should be, especially as the weather rages outside more than you might expect for this time of the year but who the heck remembers how it was this time *last* year anyway, fewer than you'd expect, I'd expect, and I'm going to take my hurt leg and put it to bed and leave a hastily scribbled note (with haste that is no reflection of the depth of feeling I have for her but more an indication of the temperature of my knees at this point) to Freya saying "Thankyou for the postcard, Darling Girl".