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Friday, August 11, 2006
O yeaz, I have been in a frantic mode this last day or two looking for my metro pass. Around these parts, it's possible to buy a pass for the Metro (think light railway/underground) for a whole year. Every year they do a sale in October where they knock two hundred quid off the price. That's when I get mine. Only if you lose it, that's a lot of money down the drain. Guess what I did. Yes, lost it. So I turn my bedroom and my clothes out about 300 times in a vain attempt to find it over the weekend, finally giving up on Monday morning, and asking about a replacement. I need to pay 15 quid and find an insurance slip I'm sure I don't have. Pants. Rather pissed off with myself now, I decide to stomp off to Intermezzo for a coffee. As soon as I'm there, the lovely Rhea (and she is lovely) descends from the cappucino machine to wave some small blue object in my face that transforms my mood. No, it isn't a cache of Viagara, it's my missing pass. Sometimes life gives you a repreive from execution. Not often, just sometimes. 0 Comments: |
The Journal
A miscellany of topics that intersest me: deaf culture, game design, politics as soap opera, the cyborg condition and the experience of learning to hear again. Other topics presented are speculative fiction and imaginary cities. There are appearences of snippets of work in progress, public rants, pointless posts and Mish the Mouse. The Writer
A lower middle class cyborg living an innocous life in a suburban village near Newcastle On Tyne, in the United Kingdom. Mostly autobiographical and creative notes posts and musings on the topic du jour. Archives
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