Bin Night

When humankind becomes extinct in a game of nuclear chicken between Trump and Jong-un and cockroaches, as the dominant species, evolve enough to wonder at our detritis, one of their real puzzles is going to be bins: why so many colours, why so many shapes, were the wheels a status symbol, what about the concrety built-in ones, are they even the same thing?  Lots of cockroach grad students will write papers giving their theories, cockroach ‘experts’ of various camps will be rude to one another in whatever media they create, and the normal cockroach in the street will commit the cockroach equivalent of rolling their eyes and form a big Blattodean W with their antennae, because really…..bins again?

But for me, off the late-night train after a large glass of wine (more cost-effective) and no dinner, it’s the practicalities of the bin situation right now that matter; the bottom of the street has out the green bin, but up nearer me, quite a few sport the blue at the end of their driveways.  I could put out three; the blue, the brown and the green (because, duh, the brown goes out every week, even I know that – food waste!), but I can be sensitive in non-net life, and my neighbours may scoff.

Well. I thought wine and hard, and I’m going to go with the blue, and here’s why – because that’s what Joe’s* done.  Despite his irascibility, despite the time he took curtailed his evening soap-viewing to berate my Polish plumber for not having the right tool for turning the stopcock under the street (not the best of times Joe*, my pipe, had, it turns out probably been a little bit burst when we bought the house and the water that should’ve been in it was making its way through the wall), you only have to watch him set off for the paper at the same time every day in his wrinkle-free beige slacks and his sensible, rainproof jacket, to realise that he’s the sort of man who has not only kept the twenty page booklet the council issued detailing the bin schedule (I did too, no really, I did), BUT PROBABLY STILL KNOWS WHERE HE PUT IT, and has undoubtedly read it.  I’d suggest that he may have committed the pattern, along with its exceptions, to memory, but he’s old so his memory is probably full of things he’s read in The Daily Mail, and besides, unfounded allegation of that type could lose me the respect of cockroach historians.

Update – I thought it’d be fun to check whether Joe* was right or not but when I got home the next day I’d forgotten, my dad had put the bins away.  And right now I’m sitting in bed doing this, but one day soon I will check whether the blue bin is empty or not………… promise.   (How’s that for narritive tension?)

* not his real name…….. OK it is, my creativity failed, he could never be anything but a Joe.

Image – Albino cockroach from bakamuna, Sri Lanka by Gihan Jayaweera used under CC BY-SA 3.0

Shrimp Floyd

Scientist named a killer shrimp after Pink Floyd their favourite band.  The shrimp Synalpheus pinkfloydi clicks one bright pink claw and makes a 4400ºC bubble (hotter than the surface of Betelgeuse) that collapses creating a 210 Decibel sound wave.

What this tells us:-

  1. Scientific names that try to look like Latin just don’t work and should be discontinued immediately.
  2. Betelgeuse is a crap sun and if you’re going on holiday nearby you can skip packing sun-screen (which will help if you’re only taking hand luggage.) Betelgeuse rises – holiday video……
  3. Scientists are weird, if I was naming a killer shrimp I’d name it after a band I hated.
  4. Shrimps can be louder than whales (188Decibel) – who knew?
  5. One huge pink claw looks strangely arresting……
  6. We need a video of this – to corroborate, natch, not just for vicarious animal thrills.

Image – Synalpheus pinkfloydi 2 (full res) by Arthur Anker used under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License

Reasons why I don’t run (one and two).

  1. I didn’t like any of my PE teachers, and that still matters.  They made it clear that I wasn’t their sort of person (specky, clumsy and shy).  And now I agree.
  2. It never really ends; I’m tough and I’m fit, I eat Bikram four times a week, dying on my mat.  But after an hour and a half I get to lie down and stop sweating.  Running?  It never really ends, there’s always somewhere further to run to.
  3. Why not just walk?  OK, that was three – I got carried away.

Image – Teddy bear in child sneakers 2016 by Pnapora   under CC BY-SA 4.0

Help, I don’t speak Emoji…

I bought an iPhone (I know, psychologically I’m a late adopter), and I’m not surprised that it feels like something corporate in my hands, like a mission statement that lives with me; I don’t much like it, it’s unfriendly, but I do like some of the things I can do on it.  And one of them is sending (and receiving) Emojis.  Who knew?  The simple pleasure of tacking a funny picture in a text – I’m addicted.  I send pictures of the drinks we’re going to drink (or drank, but that goes with a black cloud), I send the sad lion, the pumpkin face, for a while I sent the unicorn because the guy I was seeing told me that, like true love, they really exist if you believe in them; now I send rainbows instead.

So far, so simple.  But like any addict, the Emojis that used to satisfy me completely are no longer enough, I need something stronger.

I’d like to send the skull and crossbones, but I’m not sure if the undertones of piracy promise or threaten

I’m toying with the ghost, I kinda like the little guy, he’s not scary, somehow he’s picked up a black eye like maybe he’s part panda; I send him, but I’ve got to confess, and this is important if you’ve ever received him from me – I don’t know what he means, I’m not even sure what I mean when I send him.  Maybe I mean woooh, scary in an ironic voice, maybe I mean gotcha, maybe I just mean look at me I think I’m cool.