noideadog: (buttercup)

Nap pod
Originally uploaded by xymb.
Things I like today
- Nap pods. You sit in there and pull over the door, and adjust the height (with a button which makes a pleasing vizzzzzzwhirrrrmrrrr noise), and put on the headphones and sleep for twenty minutes. And even if you don't get completely to sleep, it's lovely. Mm, napping is great.
- California. It's no New York, but it's fun to be here, and a novelty to be able to see the horizon. And the lack of humidity is refreshing. Yum.
- Being in the 'View. (That's the centre of the universe, as far as The Company's concerned). I always get less done here, but it's for good reasons like catching up with people I don't see often enough, going to cool talks, learning things that hurt my brain, and meeting people who I previously just knew as usernames.
- Doing the sums and realising that 43% of my take-home pay goes on rent. It's a relief; I started to think I had a drug habit I was somehow hiding from myself. ("You do spend 9 times the GDP of Peru on comics", suggested Tiarnan)

Things I don't like today
- Sunburn. I sat under an umbrella, but the sun moved. I'm almost convinced I could smell burning, but that might be insane. Hurts like bejesus anyway.
- Fake corporate happiness. "We're thrilled you've decided to make the Residence Inn your home for this week! We're overjoyed to be able to offer you a mediocre breakfast! We're in tears of delight because you used the laundry service!!" Ok. Jesus. Enough is too much.
- Python. I'm still working on liking it, and it's still a slow, slow process. My objective of "write no shell scripts this quarter" is already hurting.
noideadog: (travel)
It's the rainy season in California, which means that it's pleasantly warm with occasional showers. Everything's green and although people are complaining about the weather, it's a good time to be there. I meet [ profile] yellowpigs, [ profile] gerrowadat, [ profile] niallm for a quick pizza dinner before catching the Caltrain. The California rail system is a little nuts: it's comprehensive, but it's a bunch of different systems joined together. You need to take the Caltrain to Millbrae, switch there to the BART for the airport. Different ticket each time.

At the airport I catch the airrail to terminal 3. I'm a little late (only 110 minutes before my flight, instead of the recommended 120), but there's no queue. The automatic checkin machine spits out a card and the baggage guy exchanges it for a baggage label. I stand there for a few minutes waiting for him to come back, then give up and ask someone else about boarding cards. She seems confused and annoyed and marks my boarding card in pink highlighter. Aw no. I know what that means.

I have been selected for entirely random extra screening. Which is random, as far as anyone will admit, and us entirely randomly screened people had just better shut up and get into the explosive detector. And take our shoes off. And indicate which bags are ours, so that our possessions can be strewn across the bench. And sit down on that chair until spoken to.

Plane. Sleep. Three hours later we're in Chicago. Plane. Sleep. An hour and a half later, we're in Toronto. It's 9am on the clock, 6am in my California brain. It's cold. I'm prepared for it to be cold -- hat, scarf and fleece jacket in hand luggage -- but I'm not prepared to be this cold, not while I'm still on the plane. Bleary, sweary, I walk the miles of tunnels necessary to remind us that airports aren't efficient systems, answer terse questions at customs, kick my heels at carousel 12 waiting for my bag to come through. I almost miss it. What I remember as a tightly packed rucksack is now a clear plastic bag filled with belongings I recognise as mine, the empty rucksack haphazardly pushed in on top so that its few remaining contents dangle out. Books, clothes, underwear, toiletries all rattle around the bottom of this clear plastic bag, my untidy life open to the airport world.

My first thought it that my bag has split, that the outcome I've postponed thinking about the last ten times I've overstuffed it has finally come to pass. Poor bag; it's all my own fault. I repack it slowly, waiting to find the tear, but instead I find a note. "For your comfort and safety, we've searched your bag. We do that. Love and kisses, the US government.".

I say some language. I repack my bag. I find the coach to downtown. The driver's telling a funny anecdote about snowploughs. I feel the knots in my shoulders relax.

Canada, fuck yeah. It's good to be here.
noideadog: (california)
Laziest of days. Slept in until eleven, then mooched around the Persian food market, enjoying the unfamiliar food selection and wondering what things were. I came home with mysterious soft cheese and flatbread as well as some interesting tobacco science that will likely make [ profile] mr_wombat die. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Since then, it's been a pleasant afternoon of sprawling on my bed reading RK Narayan, eating green apples and listening to BB King. Poor BB King. Poor bluesmen. Poor blueswomen. It's so tragic that my bluesjoy derives entirely from their bluespain. If only they'd talked to each other and tried to work it out. How much happier they'd be. How much incredible music we wouldn't have. Sorry bluespeople, you have to stay sad.

Yesterday [ profile] thaths took us for Indian lunch and a gorgeously shot Bollywood movie that combined interesting moral ambiguity with flamboyant dancing. I liked it a lot at the time and the more I process it, the more I get out of it, because I still can't decide whether the protagonist was also a hero or an asshole. Probably I've been watching too much preachy Aaron Sorkin recently, but it's stimulating not to be told what to think. Also, I love the dancing, which is generally in no way connected to the ongoing plot. (Not that a scene about being in the rain with ducks doesn't add tension to any dramatic moment). Here's another.

What else.. [ profile] gerrowadat and I found an Italian restaurant with great food, great atmosphere and a waiter who broke into loud and exuberant song to serenade the woman at the table next to ours. I dunno what it's called, but it's right at the Caltrain end of Castro, and I recommend it if you're in Mountain View.

I'm content this evening. Everything is very calm in my brain.
noideadog: (california)
Still alive. I've had a suboptimal week so far, with unusual levels of jetlag, distracting illness, the death of my beloved powerbook, random spates of sinusy deafness and such hyper-scheduling that lunch one day was a packet of almonds while walking between meetings. Tasty, they were. I don't know how other people manage to organise their time. Sometimes I think there's a big time-stopping secret that everyone knows and that I've somehow missed.

Ugh, I seem to be complaining about things a lot this week, and I wish I'd stop. I'll try.

Next week will calm down (alternative: mental implosion) and in the meantime, this is a Saturday for sloping around San Francisco with hands in pockets and not doing much of anything. Could be worse.
noideadog: (california)
The Shannon stopover is a pain in the arse. Get over it, Shannon. Nobody likes you. Stop being so needy.

A guy just passing was complaining about it too. "An hour and a half in Shannon! Soon as you go up you come right back down." His friend agreed: "Like riding a duck's back". Fantastic.

You know what? I packed my bag the night before last. You should have seen me, all together and organised and so very pleased with myself for being ready 24 hours in advance. "Bed at 11pm", I decided, "and six hours sleep, and maybe a pleased livejournal post about being a being entirely devoid of chaos. Hurray!". And then I stayed at work until after midnight and couldn't get to sleep at all. You can't win, can you?

If you're ever in Dublin airport and stuck for laptop power, most of the sockets around the C Gates don't work, but the one at the disabled toilets at C44 does.

My next three weeks are kind of chaotic. Like riding a duck's back. Counting stopovers and layovers and sleepovers and hangovers, I go to Dublin, Shannon, Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago, Toronto, New York and Dublin. Check it out! Toronto! The BA strike meant [using reasoning I'm not clear on] that it wasn't prohibitively expensive to fly home from [ profile] cliphsville. Luckiest girl in the school, me. Thanks, BA!

My bag was 9.7kg, but in my defence, a lot of that was hats. It's -11C in Toronto. Crazy shit.

Like riding a duck's back.
noideadog: (california)
So, British Airways are on strike. Whether this will affect my Tuesday morning flight remains to be seen, but it seems very likely. It'll all work out though. These things do.

I'm off to Mountain View for two weeks. I should have 15kg or so free, so if you want anything home (or brought over, America-friends), let me know. Twinkies have minus weight, but will probably get squashed.
noideadog: (california)
Ah, nighttime at last, and a chilly 28C settles over Mountain View, CA. Today's been one of the worst days of my life, no kidding. I would have said I was a pretty heat-tolerant person, but 37C more than wiped me out. Trying to work from a non airconditioned apartment wasn't wise. As it happened, network problems, telephone problems and a failed root disk meant that my day wouldn't have been any fun anyway, but boy.. my fingertips were sweating so much I couldn't type. As for focusing, I had to keep having icy showers and sitting in front of the open fridge just to be able to hold any thought for more than thirty seconds.

It's made me replan my holiday next month. The plan was to start in Seville and then get the ferry to Morocco, but if it's going to be like this, I guess I'll go north instead. It's pissing me off, because I thought I was indestructible. I hate losing to weather.

Apparently it's 47C in Phoenix. I don't even want to think about that.
noideadog: (culture)
A thing that is weird here is that you're flicking through tv stations and you hear theme music you like, and you say "The Drew Carey Show! Brilliant!" and then there's 90 seconds of ads between the theme tune and the programme. Isn't that kind of mad?

I ran out of books. I watched tv.


"Veronica Castillo is worried only that her boyfriend has forgotten his oath towards her..
'I can call him and sometimes he's not even at home any more.. sometimes I wonder'"

Yes! Do you "sometimes wonder" about your boyfriend? What can you do? Hey, why not get a trashy tv program to follow him and record what he does? Look, watch how Scumbag Character X Holds Hands with an Unidentified Woman. Let's follow him! Now, some shots of the grieving girlfriend. Oh, she'll forgive him of course. She Just. Needed. To Know. (This is the first 45 seconds of the programme, incidentally).

This is on television. The protagonists choose to televise this! People watch Cheaters! enough that it's worth their while televising it. This is very scary.

I blip-blip-blipped and found

Advertisements for phonelines:

"*plastic lady* I must confess. Something in your voice made me want to connect"
"*plastic man* I'm glad you did. I'm feeling the chemistry."

Advertisements for colleges:

"*sincere wise voice* Nine out of ten graduates get a job in their chosen field within six months. Nine out of ten.. now that's an impressive number!"

Isn't all of this kind of mad? I'll freely admit no longer watching tv at home is a function of my lifestyle as much as it is a choice against insanity, but seriously, this is not good. This is injecting heroin into your eyes. People should not do this.

*blip* *blip*


Ok, that's enough of that for another six months.
noideadog: (bike)
I've lost my key. Not the one for the apartment, thankfully, or the one for my ridiculous looking bike, but the outside one, the one to get entrance into the apartment complex. Of the three of them, it's the least annoying to lose, but it's still pretty annoying. A week of long waits and tailgating is ahead of me. Either that, or I get back here before 6 some evening and petition the admin office to replace mine. I suspect I left it in the door while manouevering my ridiculous bike up the steps. Maybe someone will have handed it in.

The bike. Is. Ridiculous. Did I mention? It's a loaner from The Company, and apparently it's what's called a Beach Cruiser, presumably because it was never meant to go on the road. It has a big fat saddle I keep sliding off, no gears, no handbrakes and handlebars that curve out so far you feel like you're riding a Harley. A light blue girl's-bike Harley, with flowers painted on it. This is my plan to get me to my 8am meeting. You pedal backwards to stop, you know. Combine this and cycling on the right[1] and I'm guaranteed to die tomorrow. So it goes. (I'll try to get a photograph before I die)

[1]..which for me is cycling on the wrong. Haha! ([ profile] ob_v says english is the best language for making jokes in, and I agree. But then I only really speak English, apart from a bit of German. But I don't know any jokes in German. Hey, [ profile] krabbe, tell us a joke in German would you?
noideadog: (meerkat)
Some notion today made me decide to survive entirely on fruit and vegetables and coffee, but then I forgot and had diet coke. I lose.

I'm sitting on the balcony of the apartment in Mountain View. It's really very warm. I know I'm talking about the weather all the time, but it's excetptional and remarkable weather, if you're me. Over thirty all week, [ profile] lonesomepolecat said. It's the sort of weather where an Irish girl in a wifebeater can get a sunburn just moving between buildings. Even out of the direct sunlight, it's still more than cosy. If the air's moving, it's like standing under a hand drier. Sloshy heated air. It's.. it's warm, is what it is. It's very warm. I like it a whole lot most of the time, and other times I thank the gods for airconditioning.

My beanbag chair is very comfortable. I'm sending some email, catching up on my friendslist and listening to Clapton. I hate Tears In Heaven, because it ruins my Clapton buzz every time it randomly shows up. I can't bring myself to delete it from iTunes though. Leaving a hole in an album feels wrong.

I have a really strong urge to drop my laptop over the edge of the balcony. Seriously strong. It's a little scary actually. I've swapped livejournal addresses with quite a few work people over the last few days (Hello!), so I should stop admitting to such mental aberrations.
noideadog: (black books)
[ profile] krabbe and I happened to be in the same Mountain View bookshop at the same time, digging through the same science fiction section. Here are some conclusions we made:

  • If there's only one bit of recommendation, and it's by someone you've never heard of, that's bad.
  • If there are dragons, that's probably bad.
  • If it's published by Tor, that's probably good.
  • If the crew is half human, half dolphin, that's very bad.
  • If it has a blurb by Diane Duane, that's probably good.
  • If all of the character names start with Z or Q that's very very bad.

The book I bought is by Guy Gavriel Kay and is pretty good, despite not being something I'd have ever touched if a passer-by in a Dilbert t-shirt hadn't evangelised it at me. Just goes to show.

Do other people have rules for judging scifi by its cover? Share your wisdom!
noideadog: (weirdofreak)
Here's a coinkidink for you.

A woman in the downtown Berkeley BART station last night sat down beside me and admired my dress. This happened twice in Berkeley[1], and the first time I carefully adjusted my bag to make sure it wasn't a diversion (such cynicism!), but by this stage it was something people said, so I thanked her and kept reading.

She had pants to match the dress, she said. Same fabric, same pattern. They'd go great with the dress, she said, and I could see what she meant, imagining myself playing jazz saxophone in such an ensemble and being very pleased with the image. Did I want to buy them? Of course! She started writing down her address. Oh, I see.. no, I didn't, but thanks. She wasn't being weirdy-freaky, by the way; she was just genuinely interested in selling trousers she didn't wear often to someone who'd genuinely like to have them.

I wanted to read, and she wanted to talk, so we had the sort of conversation that comes out of that scenario for twenty minutes until the BART came. When it did, I happened to get in a different carriage. I mean, she was pretty nice, but I wasn't in the right mood for random strangers, and besides, I wanted to read.

Forty minutes later or something, I got off the BART back at 24th and Mission. Since there's Chinatown and Japantown (and Little Italy, I guess), I don't know why Mission isn't called Mexicotown. Maybe there are very many Mexicotowns? It looks a lot like Talbot Street in Dublin actually, if Talbot Street had more Taquerias and slightly fewer mobile phone cover shops. It seems like an ok area, though you're not supposed to go more North than 16th street after dusk, because of heavy gang activity. Gangs! (Isn't it great how criminals stick to neatly defined street boundaries?)

I walked a block in the wrong direction (Hurray for numbered streets making it obvious when you're going the wrong way), and turned back, and was almost at my hostel on 21st and Mission when I noticed a restaurant that sounded good. Foreign Cinema, it was called. Dinner while watching an outdoor movie. There should be more of that.

I went to the bar while waiting for my name to be called, and (if you've kindly read this far, you can guess what happens), there was my friend from earlier, deep in conversation with three (remarkably posh looking) companions. I nearly dropped my $10 wine.[2] I didn't say hello though; It was statistically impossible that I could have turned up in the same place without being a stalker. What would I even say to her without her being freaked out? (Besides, I still wanted to read.)

[1] It's a good dress, but seriously. I must send a letter to Marks and Spencer.
[2] The fact that I hadn't dropped it when I realised the price is testament only to the fact that it was still sitting on the bar at the time. I ordered all the cheapest stuff on the menu, and still felt extravagant (and ate all of the bread). And the table I got was indoors so I couldn't see the movie. Cheated!
noideadog: (travel)
Friday evening. I called into the apartment briefly to dump my laptop before heading to SF, but I've been sitting for forty minutes now, and it's hard to get up again. I'm almost considering not going until tomorrow. I have such nice plans for tomorrow though: breakfast pancakes, touristing and BSD fangirling at Berkeley, shopping for dancing shoes, North Beach Italian food for dinner, saxophone-worship at a jazz club.. it'll be a lot easier if I'm actually in SF before lunchtime. But.. tired. Sleeeepy.

This week has been quite hard work. Productive, and a lot of fun, but there is a great deal to do, and many long meetings. It's so warm too. It's sticky. I love the sun, but by the end of the day I feel like I've been wearing the same clothes for a week, and not slept at all. It was pretty stupid not to catch up on the sleep I missed while flying, but if I had, I would have missed two excellent evenings of beer and silly conversation with [ profile] ob_v and work people. Complaints about being tired just stop being valid once you admit you were in the pub, don't they?

I've worked hard, all the same. My brain is tired and achy. Actually, I spent a few hours this afternoon in a data centre racking equipment, and although it's the only bit I'd be able to explain to my dad and have him consider it work, it was such a release. It was awesomely relaxing. I never get to do physical work like that.

Complain complain. Shut up Tanya. Ok, I'll stop.

You know, I'm really not going to San Francisco. The longer I stay here, the more comfortable I get. I'll go tomorrow. The decision makes me feel bad and guilty and relieved. Hurray!

Hey, [ profile] mr_wombat, water the plants, would you please? The chillies just need enough to make the soil damp. Talk to the geranium and tell him how well he's growing. He's a little insecure.
noideadog: (california)
29 hours door to door. I am here. Sleeping now.
noideadog: (booze)

Today's been excellent and rubbish so far. The worst part is that I'm still in Heathrow, more than six hours after my SF flight was supposed to take off. A hydraulic leak kept us on the ground for four hours, sweating in inadequate air conditioning, feeling alternately sorry for angry babies, their parents, and the people sitting right behind them (me!), and wishing they'd turn on more of the entertainment system than The Journey Channel. There's only so many times you can watch a Very Focussed lady do circulatory exercises in bright yellow socks before you've had enough. (Once). And the TVs don't turn off! Really!

Eventually "The Engineers" diagnosed the problem and kicked us off the plane, coincidentally turning on the entertainment system as we left, so that I saw 2 minutes of the six minute animated short, Badgered. It's about a badger!

The socks are cool though. Virgin gives you primrose coloued socks and also ear plugs. Still shoddy headphones though, and somehow I forgot my baby-cancelling Sennheisers. I wonder if they could build decent headphones right into the seat. Someone should invent that. I guess I'll live.

The excellent part so far was the flight to Heathrow. My next seat neighbours were a wonderful septegenarian Dubliner-living-in-California called Hetty, and her precocious (in the good way) Californian-visiting-Dublin granddaughter Natasha.

Precocious is from the latin "praecoquere", to ripen fully. That's quite nice.

Hetty lectures part time in Berkeley, teaching Irish of all things. She gets lots of Asian students, she says, which fills me with glee. I can't explain exactly why, but the idea of Asians going to California to do Irish studies fills a void in my life. I'm overly delighted by it. I'll get over it.

In two years she can get her students up to approximately junior cert Irish. I was enthralled and asked too many questions. We discussed Teaching Of Irish In Schools, as one does in this situation. I really want to learn Irish properly now. Honestly, I'm normally not interested in building short-hop friendships, but we exchanged email addresses for next time I'm in SF and want someone to visit in Sacremento (she's on her way to DC today). I've never had a flight pass so pleasantly.

Opposite me right now, a group of five white haired Californians are complaining about things, including (but not limited to):

- the food
- how first class passengers were taken off the plane first
- the departure board
- their friends
- the Euro
- the goddamn hallway
- not being able to find the rest of their group
- how they weren't done with the menu and that guy took their menu when they weren't done with their menu
- hydraulic leaks on planes

Ok, I'm with them on the last one.
noideadog: (california)
Half twelve. Taxi minus 210 minutes. I've almost started packing. Haven't showered. Haven't written down my booking number or apartment address. Almost considering winging it with what I have so far which is a passport, a powerbook charger, some clean socks and a note that I need to go to a hotel miles down the road from the apartment to pick up keys that will include the apartment number. Can't possibly go wrong.

Am almost certainly doomed. Will most likely be eaten by bears. Have mysteriously lost ability to use pronouns.
noideadog: (california)
It's nearly 11 o clock, and I'm flitting around the house trying to find things to put in a bag, and a bag to put things in, and an organised lifestyle to put both the bag and the things inside, because I have to be at the airport in seventeen hours, because California is calling.

If you think about California doing a siren call, does it sound like the Beach Boys?

[ profile] the_antichris should be getting on plane round about now. Be careful in France, Chris! French people are.. oh, hi OB!

We didn't go cycling in the end. We got on the DART to goto Killiney, went to Bray instead, decided to climb Bray Head, got distracted by a road less travelled and walked to Greystones. There were poppies and impossibly beautiful pebbles. Greystones is a good town.

This weekend was mostly at Ciara's place in Clare. Meaigs and I jammed, using her Complete Book Of Beatles Songs For Guitar as reference, and transposing on bits of paper. Norwegian Wood was the best, though Elinor Rigby works nicely too, and I also got to make up the parpy bits in When I'm Sixty Four. Bop! Bop!

We all did the things we like to do: drawing and reading and shiatsu massage, debating and cooking and napping and writing code. We completed two Crosaire cryptic crosswords, two simplex crosswords, two and a half sudokus. Ciara heroically battled giant hogweed. Chris and I laughed at Elinor Brent Dyer's little ways. We had meals together, at a table, with conversation. Such contentment!

This isn't helping me get packed. I should go to work.
noideadog: (brain)
So, how was the redbrick thing? How was St Patrick's Day? Tell me things.

A group of us are going to the Exploratorium in San Francisco tomorrow. This'll be my third sci/tech museum in seven days.

Science and technology museums I have been to:
Science Museum, London
Light on Science, Birmingham
Museum of Science and Industry, Chicago
Hong Kong Science Museum
San Jose Museum of Technology
Mountain View Computer History Museum
Museum of Science and Industry, Manchester

Places that aren't really science and techology museums, but sort of are, that I have been to:
Camera Obscura, Edinburgh
Planetarium, London

Science and technology museums I nearly went to, but they were closed that day:
Tallinn Science and Technology Centre

I was going to ask where else there were good ones, but then I asked wikipedia instead:

Wikipedia is the new Internet.

Home on Monday. I check in to SFO at 16:30 on Sunday, and arrive in Dublin at 16:30 on Monday. That's just absurd.

Hey, [ profile] mr_wombat, Benley gave me all of (new) Battlestar Galactica. You might want to clear.. oh, about thirty hours in your calendar :-)

Edit: Photos.
noideadog: (hair)

Originally uploaded by worse than hitler.
Do you know these chat abbreviations? After rocking the "How does routing work?" and "Whack-a-Spam" portions of the San Jose tech museum, Sara, Karl and I were pretty sure that we were Internet Gods. And then we were faced with this. There are at least five there I had to look up. Dam' kids think they're so clever with their HHOKs and LYMYs.

The inventions section had a "name the inventor" game which included a picture of Vint Cerf as a wholesome looking teenager. I forgot to take a photo.

I recommend the tech museum if you're in the San Jose area. It's entertaining and educational and has an IMAX, which is everything you can ask from a good museum I guess. (Well, t-shirts in small or medium would have been nice too.)
noideadog: (hair)
Nyom nyom nyom cookies nyom. Today's a worky sort of day, but I took some time out earlier to go to Safeways so I can stop stealing Amanda's tea. Amanda's my roommate here. She doesn't seem like the sort to engage in tea-related murders, but I reckoned it was better not to risk it.

It's extremely pleasant to walk through Mountain View, listening to the They Might Be Giants podcast and looking out for interesting things. The sun was very shiny today and the things were of particular interest. There's a little green park just to the west of our apartment here, with a flapping American flag, and in it I saw the most interesting thing of all. There was an old man, and he was standing in the park looking into the middle distance in a manner reminiscent of a man waiting for his dog to finish peeing so that they could continue their walk. He had no dog, but quite a large tortoise, and I don't know what he was waiting for it to do, but I can only conclude that it finished, because he scooped it up and got back into his car. I said "God Bless America" out loud and continued through the park grinning like a loon.

The rest of the journey to safeways was a bit uneventful after that, though the podcast was excellent, and then I did some shopping, managing to buy over $100 of stuff including Rockstar and Froot Loops and Advil and Ben and Jerrys and no tea of any kind. I got kind of carried away.

Outside the shop, three little kids in uniform ambushed me, talking excitedly over each other about cookies and customers and other things I couldn't quite follow. It was brilliant. I don't know how people can say that there's no culture here when there are girl scouts selling cookies and old men walking their tortoises, and flapping flags and other amazing things.

The box reckons that an average serving of girl scout cookies is two cookies, which makes me wonder who this average person is and whether they're willing to share their secrets. I've had eight cookies so far (edit: twelve), and I'm starting to think that the thing that would make the remainder of this box taste better would be some nice purloined tea.

You know, I complain about Robert Jordan's characters taking a whole chapter to cross a field or have a bath, and it doesn't stop me writing an entire livejournal entry about the time I went to the shop and then ate biscuits. Good ol' mundanity.


noideadog: (Default)

February 2014

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