The trouble with all these videos putting funny subtitles to Hitler's rant in Downfall is that every time I watch one (and how could I resist a fonts one?), I understand a little bit more of what he says. If this keeps up, I'll understand the lot, and it will be less funny.

Yesterday was the big Pride march in London. The plan was to go to one of the Sisters' flats at 10am to get ready, and we'd all go en masse to the start, which was allegedly at 1pm. I had a couple of bits and pieces to buy, so I was slightly late, getting to the flat at about 10.15. She lives four floors up, which I'd normally walk, but with the chest trouble I decided to take the lift.

The lift has two doors - an outer one that opens like an ordinary door, and an inner one which was two folding doors on a track. The inner door failed to close properly, but the lift still went up about a foot, then stopped. Bugger.

I contacted Sister D whose number I had to let them know, and Sister B, whose flat it was, came down an instructed me on how to dislodge the door, which had a habit of being a little bit cantankerous. It didn't work

I used to phone in the lift to contact the emergency number they gave, and spoke to the chap there, who seemed to want us to try harder before he'd come all the way over from south of the river. Sister B went to get the security key, which would apparently override the lock on the outer door and enable me to climb out. For some reason this didn't pan out, and Sister B rang the lift company herself.

It was hot in there, and I was beginning to feel a little panicky. I can get mildly claustrophobic at times, though it usually takes being unable to see out of something which is moving (this is why I have no problem with lifts on the sides of buildings with panoramic views, but treat more conventional ones with suspicion). The problem here, was that the lift wasn't moving. Fortunately, because I have the wherewithal for the Pride march with me, I had a bottle of Japanese green tea, and my iPhone has Bejeweled 2 on it.

Sister B asked me to try one more time to get the inner door back in its track, which I did, then she pressed the call button and the door came out of its track again, but this time the problematic door folded itself the wrong way, so if the door is normally \/\/, this time it was \//\. To make matters worse, rather than the door motor cutting out after a few seconds, it kept going, loudly. The noise was so great that I couldn't hear instructions from outside any more, something I explained to Sister D in a text message.

At one point I got a text message saying that Sister B's partner was at the foot of the stairs keeping an eye on things. I think this is probably the time when the Sisters popped out for a few minutes to pop a white veil on a Postulant they were raising to Novice.

Anyway, the noise was terrible, and I'd been told the lift engineer was on their way, so I sat down and settled into a few games of Bejeweled to stop my imagination running away with me. I believe it's traditional in these circumstances to be beset with visions of the lift falling from a great height, the passengers plunging to their doom. As I was about 30cm off the ground, this didn't really apply here. Instead, my brain concocted a doomsday scenario whereby the door motors eventually burnt out and caught fire, which spread and immolated me in a fiery coffin. Thank you brain - I love you too.

The tea ran out pretty quickly. Time passed, and the engineer did not arrive. I received instructions to ring them again from the lift to get an ETA. He was stuck in traffic, but hoped to be there in 10 minutes. This, I suspect, is when the Sisters (knowing that useful routes through central London were closed to traffic for Pride), rang the fire brigade.

They were quick, and my spirits rose as soon as I heard they were on their way. The next SMS to Sister D. said something like "Would that banging I hear be caused by firefighters, she said lustingly?". The reply was similarly lascivious. They soon stopped the noise, got the doors open and helped me out of the lift. The other Sisters were stood around, in habit, watching the proceedings, or, more likely, the firefighters. It was 11.52 at this point - I'd been in there an hour-and-a-half.

The Sisters got me upstairs, and made sure I was hydrated, and assured me there was plenty of time for us to get to the march. I quickly put on a simplified face, and my habit, which is why photos of Brother Bimbo on the march are less glamourous than usual.

Yes, I made it to the march after all of that!

Bugger.

The other day, I got to drive this interesting old vehicle - I think it's an Austin A30.



It was an odd experience, but to get to reverse gear involved a trick whereby you move the stick to the right then lift it. I got it right the first time, before I'd been told of the trick, but never again.

I wish the car was in better shape, but it's good that it's still running, I suppose.

I've just set up a filter for Sisters, henchpeople/guards and those who've expressed an interest in the Order. I know, for sure, I've left people out. If you did not see a previous post [Nuns], and think you ought to have, shout here.

There has been some sort of minor fire in the flat opposite ours: ( Pictures... )

The firefighters appeared to leave when it was still going, but a few minutes later, a filthy guy with a hammer was seen at the kitchen window - presumably a contractor who was doing some work that set it off.

Update: I've just been to look again, and it looks the same. Maybe it's dust from whatever the contractor is doing, and someone else was confused by this and called the fire brigade?

It's nearly 10 years since I joined the Order of Perpetual Indulgence as a novice. Way back then, my joining bribe was a firkin full of a pink ginger beer to which I gave a distinctive name, and a pump clip which was a parody of a well-know beer. My beer was a standard bitter from the brewery I was working in at the time, with added ginger and pink food colouring.

Well, I've arranged a little shindig to celebrate my Nunniversary, and xanta's birthday. And Iain the Brewer has been busy behind the scenes sorting something out for us. I still have the original artwork for the 1999 pump clip, but the one I was parodying has a new design. So, after a little work, I present the artwork for the beer I will have at the do:

( might be a little NSFW )

I've just been messing with iTunes and got it to list the Ultravox albums in chronological order (with compilations at the end), whilst still keeping all the Ultravox together. I have also taught it that, for this purpose, Ultravox! and Ultravox are the same band.

If I don't get to the pub soon, I fear I'll be doing this for everything else I have.

This old article of mine is probably worth another airing: The Pernicious Influence of Immigrants in the UK.

autopope's sister O is here this weekend and today we went off to North Berwick on a whim. I bought a number of things including two early 20th century vegetarian pamphlets and a few bottles of Leifmans Kriek Frambozen, which is now back with us (hooray!).

I also bought what looks like a very boring silver tea glass holder for a whopping £4.50:



Except, if I turn it round, it isn't that boring at all. ( You know you want to see! )

For those of you on Ravelry (and if you are into knitting and/or crochet, you ought to be because it's an incredble resource), please offer me some encouragement to get this project finished. I've been at it for 10 months and it's 80% done, but I've just stalled completely.

Update: a public picture:



It's from a 1903 pattern, and the photos don't do it justice. I plan to double line it, with black facing out but really fancy purple within.

The weird chest bug that has been plaguing me seems to be getting worse again, though I switched to a different antibiotic yesterday. We'll see if it helps.

So far today, I have been out and voted, then failed to see autopope to the station - my chest was so bad that by the time we got to the Black Bull, he insisted I go home, via John Lewis to get something to non-energetic to do. Of course, wandering round a department store isn't like walking uphill, and I soon felt better. I remembered that I had an errand to complete and headed off to Grays of George Street (by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen suppliers of cleaning supplies etc.) to obtain some of the pheromone moth traps that had been recommended to me. I also got some spray to deal with those areas which aren't in regular use and can be shut up for a bit.

The chest started complaining again on the way home, and the stairs were a bit of an effort. I'm thinking of holing up with some handicrafts. If anyone fancies popping round for a blether, a drink, to do some crafts, to watch bad telly or whatever, you know where I am.

Things you do not want to hear from your (Hungarian) cleaner:

feorag, what is word for insect... er... insect that eat cloth?

There was a odd coincidence when I went to Boston in February. The first I knew about it was when hashbangchris rang me at 7am (admittedly a perfectly reasonable hour for a German). It transpired that he knew I'd be changing planes at Newark (EWR) and one departing from that airport had just fallen out of the sky.

On the way back, we changed planes at Schiphol (AMS). Within a couple of days, this happened at that airport. hashbangchris joked that he wanted to know my travel plans so he could avoid airports where I had recently made a connection.

Anyway, on the way out to the States this time, we changed planes at Paris CDG. Today's news tells me that an A330 on its way to Paris CDG has gone missing over the Atlantic.

Now, sceptics might claim that these are all enormous airports handling an incomprehensively vast number of flights, and that it's all within reasonable chance, but what do they know? After all, there are equally as vast airports which have been a destination, not a transfer, which have not suffered incidents (SEA, ORD - assuming that 24+ hrs between flights and a night on the town does not count as changing planes).

Personally, I blame fluffcthulhu. Oh, and you might want to avoid JFK for a bit.

Update: Exchanging news with Pastor Best, this ad came up in gmail alongside a post containing a link to the BBC News story: Access Spirit Guides
Learn to Jump Into Parallel Dimensions to Access Higher... Again, I think it best to blame fluffcthulhu.

Insomnia - bah!

One would think that a nation so attached to its cars would have really good ones, wouldn't you? Well, after a couple of hundred miles of driving in the US, I have come to understand why their automotive industry is demanding government bail-outs, at least if our rental car is typical of their products.

Those of you who followed my efforts to learn to drive will be aware that I considered the instructor's vehicle to be powered by a model aircraft engine, or maybe the motor from a sewing machine. The Cockring is powered by an enormous great big fuel-devouring engine which, nevertheless, gives out slightly less oomph than the driving school car. It is possible to break the (hilariously low and generally ignored) speed limits, but not without some effort, and definitely not while going uphill.

The scariest thing about it is the blind spot, which is a cracker. Most vehicles have them - those annoying places that the mirrors don't cover - but this one is special, because you cannot see anything in the blind spot even when you do the standard blind spot check over your shoulder. This has only nearly killed me two or three times, even though I'm aware of it and being paranoid.

I've also had an interesting time learning about the joys of automatic transmission. Reverse parking without the benefit of clutch control is rather interesting, especially in something with the turning circle of the QE2 and in which Reverse appears to be the same as Drive, but backwards, and if I make the same degree of movement on the "go" pedal as I would on the clutch, it goes quite quickly (the only time it does), but backwards. Still, I succeeded without hitting anything thanks to parking spaces the size of Liechtenstein.

And now, to pop over to the mall over the road, which due to a lack of sidewalks, is best accessed by car.

[*] Though I hesitate to mock it by calling it after something designed to increase pleasure.