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I’ve been thinking for hours how to describe it.

It’sa sort of echoing scraping noise. A sheet of plywood lying on the ground, being kicked down the road. Only it’s quite faint, I can only hear it when the room is quiet or when I’m trying to get to sleep.

I can hear the muscles in my eyes when I look from side to side or up and down.

Vegemite. That first heady whiff of yeast and salt when you open a new jar.

I got my (uncommon but not rare) surname and country code, similar to for example smith.uk, so I can have an email address like (but not exactly) [email protected]. That’s good enough for me.

I hadn’t heard that, thanks, I’ll check it out.

• Cookie Autodelete
• I don’t care about cookies

When I was working at a follow-the-Sun help desk, and had a micromanaging boss, we used this planner to book daily meetings across three different timezones.

There will be a big battery bank in each telephone exchange that supplies power until the generators start up. I always hated the battery room, it smelled and there was always the danger of hydrogen buildup. The telephone exchange can keep running on generators until mains power comes back on, or the fuel runs out. (The longest outage I’ve experienced personally on generators was 3 days). The expectation is always that mains power will be restored “soon”.

None of his business, tell him to fuck off.

Latin, or even better, Klingon

Whoop de fucken doo.