The Chills

Since I last wrote, I have again introduced a little bit of mirth into the lives of complete strangers, and a little bit of bruising into my own. On the first commute after my bike was re-incarnated, it decided (it definitely has a mind of its own, think of it more as an aluminium horse) that the deep hollow in the sloped drive up to my block had far too close a resemblance to a luge course to just roll down, on wheels. Oh no. It was a short, but close race, and I feel had I been wearing my water-proof over pants that the reduction in friction might have made all the difference, but in the end, it won by a length.

I don't know if you've ever tried, but I'm becoming quite experienced, and I've decided it's just not possible to regain your dignity after something like this. Sometimes it take a couple of kilometers just to regain any feeling in your ass. Not something that is helped by the temperatures it has to be said. It's been cold here for a while now, and when I say cold, we are subzero on the Fahrenheit scale. It's been at least ten days since the temperature has been above minus 5, and at the minute it's plunging towards minus twenty at an appreciable rate (which makes me feel like I should start pedaling homewards post haste).

In other news, I think I've been infected. There's been a flu bug circulating for the last few weeks, and it's finally mutated into a form that allows it to slip insidiously past my defenses. I'm hoping I can fight it off - at the minute my arsenal consists mostly of oranges, which have proved ineffectual in conflicts in the past, (having little or no effect on the zombie hordes that invaded our flats a while back for example, even when peeled and segmented for greater shrapnel effect) but I'm reliably told that they are "the bomb". I've tried setting fire to one, but apart from a little sparking I can't confirm this.

Apart from all that silliness, I was delighted to find the Swearasaurus recently. Great stuff, but I was a little surprised that the rather innocuous "Is dócha nach bhfuil seans ar bith?" (~= So there isn't any chance at all?) seems to mean "I suppose a ride is out of the question" to real gaelgóirs (Irish speakers). I could see people stumbling into this one by accident:
Doctor: I don't want to sound negative sir, but you're hemorrhoids surgery didn't go so well, you probably won't be out this weekend.
Man (coaxingly): Ah go on doctor - isn't there any chance at all?!
*Camera pans to the hospital grounds, where a piercing scream frightens the resident ravens*

Meanwhile, contrary to fairy tales and TV, my presentation for tomorrow has not written itself like it was supposed to...