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Let's face it, that "Back" theme is getting a bit past its prime now. I'll just continue to record the number of entries I've made at home by the unwieldy method that we call Roman numerals.
Richard and I have been watching a couple of films from the pirated collection - what we're in the middle of just now is The Last Samurai. I'm afraid that both of us agree that it's really rather boring, and he and I don't agree often. It went downhill a lot after Billy Connolly was removed from it - all that's happened so far is Tom Cruise being repeatedly beaten up, and while that in itself makes fairly good entertainment, it doesn't really make the best of films. We turned it off after what seemed like three hours to find we were only halfway through it. Still, I've been told that the ending is rather good, so I'll soldier on.
I had a rather weird dream last night, but it didn't even seem weird until I woke up. What happened was this - I walked in to the bathroom in the morning and saw that my head was covered in lumpy growths... it sounds rather hideous so far, but bear with me... I went through to the kitchen where everyone else was having breakfast and pointed it out. A diagnosis was soon reached - I would have to have the strawberry in my head replaced. Yes, quite. And that delicate operation was carried out by my mother, cutting in to my head as I had my breakfast. The whole experience was quite painless, though it felt a little strange when the segment of my head that had been removed to gain access to the faulty strawberry was replaced.
Now, I don't know what that dream could possibly mean, and I'd be grateful for any suggestions.
Meanwhile, back in the real world... on the way to put what I got back from my lab deposit in to my account (£49.52, thank you very much) in the bank, I met Gordon Young again, who I hadn't seen since winter in 2002. He should be off to drama school next year, on his way to becoming a famous comedian, no doubt. While in the bank I was directed to the Express Deposit, which involved filling out absolutely reams of forms and would have taken just as long as queueing in the first place.
Richard and I have been watching a couple of films from the pirated collection - what we're in the middle of just now is The Last Samurai. I'm afraid that both of us agree that it's really rather boring, and he and I don't agree often. It went downhill a lot after Billy Connolly was removed from it - all that's happened so far is Tom Cruise being repeatedly beaten up, and while that in itself makes fairly good entertainment, it doesn't really make the best of films. We turned it off after what seemed like three hours to find we were only halfway through it. Still, I've been told that the ending is rather good, so I'll soldier on.
I had a rather weird dream last night, but it didn't even seem weird until I woke up. What happened was this - I walked in to the bathroom in the morning and saw that my head was covered in lumpy growths... it sounds rather hideous so far, but bear with me... I went through to the kitchen where everyone else was having breakfast and pointed it out. A diagnosis was soon reached - I would have to have the strawberry in my head replaced. Yes, quite. And that delicate operation was carried out by my mother, cutting in to my head as I had my breakfast. The whole experience was quite painless, though it felt a little strange when the segment of my head that had been removed to gain access to the faulty strawberry was replaced.
Now, I don't know what that dream could possibly mean, and I'd be grateful for any suggestions.
Meanwhile, back in the real world... on the way to put what I got back from my lab deposit in to my account (£49.52, thank you very much) in the bank, I met Gordon Young again, who I hadn't seen since winter in 2002. He should be off to drama school next year, on his way to becoming a famous comedian, no doubt. While in the bank I was directed to the Express Deposit, which involved filling out absolutely reams of forms and would have taken just as long as queueing in the first place.
