JJ Makes a Difference.

I’ve been experiencing a glitch over the past week when accessing my own and other people’s blogs, which was not only irritating but probably explained the substantial drop in visitors. I started a thread on the Help Forum and it got picked up by the top forum watcher who reported it to Google.

Before you could say ‘what’s an Error 503?’ most of the blogger universe was beating a path to the burgeoning thread, all complaining about the same problem and reporting drops in traffic by up to 75%. Eventually it reached forty nine posts (OK, not quite ‘most of the blogger universe,’ but a hero can be allowed a hint of hyperbole, can’t he?) The fiftieth post came from Brett of Mighty Google, who reported that they’d fixed the problem and the world is spinning normally on its axis again.

I reckon that makes me the hero of the hour. In fact, since Mighty Google seems to be largely in control of the world these days, I reckon I might just have saved the world.

So now I’m going to strike myself a medal, and you lot out there can send me lots and lots of nice pressies to express your gratitude. 40%ABV minimum, please.

The Matter of the Dysfunctional Bottle.

I watered the houseplants earlier, using a liquid plant food that comes in a black bottle. Imagine that: a black bottle. Being in a black bottle means that you can’t see the level of the liquid, and so you don’t know how close you are to needing a replacement. Which further means that the packaging is visually appealing, but deficient in a major aspect of functionality.

Large companies pay highly trained designers a lot of money to design their packaging. You’d think they’d make it fully functional, wouldn’t you? Why don’t they pay me a lot of money to tell them where they’re screwing up? I fear the world won’t recognise how much it needs me until after I’ve died of malnutrition in a garret.

I’m going to give the kitchen a bit of a spring clean now. That should stop me ranting for a while.

So What Did They Expect?

It has emerged that some teachers in British schools are manipulating exam results, and even re-writing some of the pupils’ work, because of the huge pressure they’re under to play the numbers game. The head of the Association of Teachers and Lecturers says the educational system has undergone a shift in emphasis, so that ‘results are now more important than learning.’

May I say ‘I told you so’ yet again? When are we going to get politicians with the sense and vision to put a stop to this silly mania?

There could be one unexpected benefit, though. If teachers are now cheating in order to get ‘good’ results, maybe some of the kids can relax a bit and come off their anti-stress medication.

The Case of the Mysterious Smile.

The strangest thing happened yesterday afternoon.

I was in a bad mood most of yesterday, especially after 1450 (see earlier post.) I was still in a bad mood when I went upstairs for something and had the impression I was smiling. I didn’t see how that could be, since I was in no mood to smile. I looked in the bathroom mirror and, sure enough, I was smiling.

What’s going on here? Who is pulling strings? Did one of my hidden personas creep up stealthily and take over my facial muscles without reference to the occupying party? Is it allowed to do that? Can I sue?

Tearing Hair Out.

Hotmail is now carrying an ad for a women’s dating site – you know, that’s one in which men are parading in the ring for a change.

This is getting beyond a joke. It’s bad enough having pictures of women cascading down the side of the screen, but pictures of men!?

Surely their technology can read my e-mail address. It's jeffreybeazley@hotmail.com. It isn't jennybeazley@hotmail.com or jeffrey_ohandbythewayimgay_beazley@hotmail.com, is it?

You Americans control the Internet. Do something!

Being Peculiar.

Anybody who read my earlier post in which I referred to ‘the spring solstice’ might care to note that I wasn’t taking any substances at the time. It was all down to a strange state of mind brought on by circumstances and one of my peculiarities. I do know that spring doesn’t have a solstice.

I like the word ‘peculiarities.’ It was occasionally used by Charlotte Bronte when referring to her sister, Emily. I seem to have a lot in common with Emily.

A Canine Connection.

A large component of my bath time musing tonight consisted of watching Inca (the little princess) trotting up the road. She has a jaunty, bouncy trot which tells the world ‘I might be small, but I’m beautiful, happy and very important.’

And so she is.

A Muse on Fantasy and the New Year.

I wonder how many people go through life floating from one fantasy to another. And how many realise that fantasies are the soap bubbles of life: readily created, beautiful to look at, and easily popped. How many are happy with that, I wonder, and how many slump dejectedly into the gutter every time a bubble bursts?

I have questions about fantasies, such as:

Are they made of the same stuff as dreams?

Are they an essential part of the role playing which makes up a large part of the game of life?

Are they vital to the artistic temperament?

And so on...

I’ve done well with fantasies, having turned many of my own into reality. That’s one of the few things I’ve been good at this time round. Like most things, though, it seems to be a fading skill now. The soap bubbles aren’t as robust as they used to be. Role playing has become redundant, any pretence at an artistic temperament is observed with amusement, and dreams are confined to the hours of sleep.

*  *  *

I’ve decided that January 1^st is a silly time to celebrate New Year. New Year takes its first breath with the vernal equinox and comes of age at Beltane. Now is the time to be sweeping up the old stone floor and bringing in new rushes.

High Noon (well, 1450 to be precise)

So what happened at ten to three this afternoon? It doesn’t matter; what matters are the various possible blog posts it provoked, and I settled on this one.

I want to say something to young women – not by way of advice, but by way of a plea. Here goes, then.

Not all young men are testosterone-charged sexual predators. A small minority are sensitive, caring types who want to treat you with respect and courtesy. They want to be honest and gentle with you. They might even want to venerate you. Such young men are easily hurt. I should know; I used to be one. And the problem is this:

It was always my experience that young women tend to toy with male affections. It seems to be an ingrained trait, so much so that many young women don’t even know they’re doing it. It’s instinctive. It’s one of their principle weapons in the war of the sexes, and it’s a perfectly fair one when dealing with testosterone-charged sexual predators. So mostly it’s OK. But it causes the sensitive type unwarranted distress, and I would ask you to be more careful with that type.

It doesn’t matter with older men. Be a Lolita for all you’re worth with them. Older men have the experience to recognise the signs and switch off before you do too much damage – or at least, they should. So you can leave it to them to know when to walk away.

But be careful with the young ones, eh? Treat them differently; treat them carefully. Give like for like, or leave them alone.

Being a Fool in April.

Here’s a thought for the day:

In Britain, if a man proposes to a woman and then goes back on his word, he can be sued for breach of promise. (I expect it works the other way round, too, thanks to Mrs P.)

But suppose you do it on April 1^st. Could a chap get away with it if he said in court:

‘But it was April Fools Day, m’lud. She should have known I was only joking.’