Tuesday's offering
Tuesday, February 24th, 2009 12:17 pmThere are two things I check online regularly during the day and it is all round woe if either one isn’t working properly. These of course are Live Journal and Gmail. Obviously, LJ is behaving itself, but whilst Google itself seems fine, Gmail appears to be coughing up blood. It won’t load and so my home email and any notifications sent to me by LJ are inaccessible.
Boo.
In other news, I had to break off from games night for a few minutes last night to investigate strange CRUMPrat-tat-tattle noises from upstairs. I just had to know what Furtle was up to: had she lost patience with something and was busily dismantling it with extreme prejudice?
In fact, no. Wandering, with some trepidation into the study, I was confronted with a red-faced Furtle hunched over reams of paper and applying great force to them with a double-hole punch for filing. I managed to ask “What on earth..?” just as I got the full force of another CRUMPrat-tat-tattle unfiltered by the floor. The second, and probably more mysterious, part of the sound appears to have been the fork and spoon on the dinner plate at the other end of her desk dancing each time she used the hole punch.
I have rarely been privileged to see a face of such studied innocence as that presented at that point.
I should mention at this point, before someone else does, that there is a history of room-shaking noises dating back to the early Clapham days, but that time I was the culprit. It had occurred to me that I had a number of empty coke can lying around the police and that they should be removed. It also occurred to me that they would take up less bin space if crushed.
So I crushed them.
On the floor.
With my foot.
All was proceeding rather nicely until a perplexed
colonel_maxim (so long ago now, that it was pre-intarweb) advanced up the stairs to find out what the hideous crunching noises were in the room above his, that made his light swing and plaster dust float down from the ceiling…
Boo.
In other news, I had to break off from games night for a few minutes last night to investigate strange CRUMPrat-tat-tattle noises from upstairs. I just had to know what Furtle was up to: had she lost patience with something and was busily dismantling it with extreme prejudice?
In fact, no. Wandering, with some trepidation into the study, I was confronted with a red-faced Furtle hunched over reams of paper and applying great force to them with a double-hole punch for filing. I managed to ask “What on earth..?” just as I got the full force of another CRUMPrat-tat-tattle unfiltered by the floor. The second, and probably more mysterious, part of the sound appears to have been the fork and spoon on the dinner plate at the other end of her desk dancing each time she used the hole punch.
I have rarely been privileged to see a face of such studied innocence as that presented at that point.
I should mention at this point, before someone else does, that there is a history of room-shaking noises dating back to the early Clapham days, but that time I was the culprit. It had occurred to me that I had a number of empty coke can lying around the police and that they should be removed. It also occurred to me that they would take up less bin space if crushed.
So I crushed them.
On the floor.
With my foot.
All was proceeding rather nicely until a perplexed
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