I go away for a month and I get spammed no less than four and a half thousand times. Oh yes, it would seem that I am le place desirable for spambots (that little nonsensical bit of French is for you, Babette. I presume it's the content that draws 'em, as it can't be the colour scheme. Meself and Dave (whose blog you shouldn't bother clicking on as he never updates) went about the tedious business of deleting them and Dave managed to get over 3000 of the bastards all in one go. Without his 733+ 5|< I775 I was forced to click away at them one at a time. I was so irritated I almost spammed them back. Unfortunately, no matter what bile I typed, I found it charming and thus reasoned the spambots would too, only inviting further contact. The crux of this is that some of your comments, beloved readers, have been deleted in the process. Not many but a few I reckon. Don't cry. We can begin rebuilding our lives together. The Great Spam Holocaust of 2007 was a bit like getting chemo - we may have killed the cancer but our hair fell out and our faces got bloated. No, it's more like having had the house burnt down, but now the insurance money will come flooding in and lo! a bounty will enable us to rebuild and re-purchase from scratch. I am feeling quite worn after everything I have been through, but the spam is dead, and that's what counts. I may have used my quota of offensive analogies for the day: I may not have. We'll just have to wait and see.
The Cardboard MansionTM has been pampered and is looking rather dashing. We worked our butts off in early August with painting and sanding and drilling and all kinds of niggly little jobs. The house certainly got the Spa Treatment, ha ha ha! We felt manly indeed with our HAMMERS and what have you. All the physical labour during that time significantly reduced my desire for violent behaviour. I only lash out the odd time now. Only joking! I only direct medium-strength attacks on people who can't defend themselves - as David Brent would say "handicappeds" or old ladies. No, I take that back. To quote the man, "There are limits to my comedy. There are things that I'll never laugh at. The handicapped. Because there's nothing funny about them. Or any deformity. It's like when you see someone look at a little handicapped and go 'ooh, look at him, he's not able-bodied. I am, I'm prejudiced.' Yeah, well, at least the little handicapped fella is able-minded. Unless he's not, it's difficult to tell with the wheelchair ones." Well, somebody had to say it.
I got the one year itch with work. Hey work? If you are reading this, everything I write here is a lie. The jobsearch has begun again. If I can't get better work, I might as well have a better location that doesn't involve a commute. And I might as well get paid a few quid more. I have also begun my research masters. That's good: I recommend it. But don't join my department as there will be less funding for me to go on whimsical trips abroad to look at original texts and what not, you hear? I am liking being back in the library, the musty smell of the other students and eating exclusively beans from a can, topping up my nourishment with Dutch Gold (six for seven) on a Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. I finally get to sleep in all day and watch tv in a hungover haze, but this time I get to pay five grand a year for the privilege, plus life expenses. It's "da bomb" as my old friend Sean would say (in between snorts of cocaine and misogynistic comments).
So finally, to the topic you've all been wondering about: how am I getting on with my bento boxes. Well, where do I begin? It's been a long road. We've had our ups and our downs, like the episode of the spilt orange jelly leaking out into my handbag, and how could we forget the stale cracker incident. But for the most part, like any relationship, we have gotten along well enough. The only problem is the small issue of my fidelity. For at this moment in my bag, next to my shampoo and towel and stripey togs (I had planned to go swimming but the hole is SHUT with no sign on the door indicating when it will reopen) sits one of these bad boys - which I know might be considered a bit, well, vanilla, but every now and then I just get a hankering for the old days, you know? When things were simple and straightforward and morally decent? No compartments, just lash in the old sambo and the apple and the packet of crisps, no fuss? It's good to remember.
But soon, soon I will return to my bentos, some days I even use two of them at a time, and although the guilt regarding their cost has not quite subsided, and the credit card bills continue to pour in as my collection of lunch-boxes and flasks increases by the very day, I can rest easy at night knowing that I no longer have to eat mashed banana sandwiches scraped from the bottom of my bag, and if I want to have orange jelly for my lunch from a nifty container I can damn well do so. Has there ever been a greater pleasure? Frankly, I doubt it.
neuro-praxis -- And people say she's just a big pair of tits.
