I had a very early start this morning and so have consequently awarded myself a very early finish. It is fair to say I have earned my 50p for the day. I sat looking at a piece of work that has to be complete by June next year at about 07:30 this morning. By 08:00 I was panic stricken. This thing is massive and massively complicated. Even the legendary St Beardie Weirdie, who left about 12 months ago, would struggle with the magnitude of this in the timescales. The unprincipled ninja that is my semi-boss commented that I under-estimated myself. He is quite wrong: I know the limits. Even throwing money at this one would not help. It is akin to building a house overnight. I managed to shave about 5% of my panic off before I had to meet a PM about other matters. By the time that was done, I was beat and left.

Anyway, you're not interested in that. I wrote it for my own edification on the off chance that I do make alchemy a reality and reflect on it in 13 months time.

Chez Kenny has been awash with football for the last few days so I've been pretty absorbed in the evenings even though I now have my broadband hooked up. After the last few weeks, Tuesday's game between Chelsea and Barcelona was a complete let-down. Talk about dull. Chelski went for a draw and by God did they get one. It was like watching the Arsenal of yesteryear. Awful. Truly, truly tedious. Last night saw United snatch a 1-0 win from the jaws of a 3-0 win so I was not best chuffed with that result either. The Arse were sub-standard. For a team that Wenger insists are on top of their game at the moment, I am a bit bamboozled. Their game was very much in keeping with their league position. After the first legs, you would not put money on any of the remaining four sides being bankers in the final. The results are bad for anyone with a vested interest but will make next week a nail-biter of epic proportions.

Most of you don't come here for football commentary either do you? Although if you are a football fan, you will no doubt agree that I talk more sense than Andy Grey.

What else? Not much really. Work and football appear to be my life at the moment. They are marginally more interesting than how frequently I load the dishwasher or washing machine. I am off down to St Albans next week to meet up with the old BI crowd. My hotel is confirmed, as is the presence of at least Stan and Drummer Dave. Psycho, Freeda and Ray are all maybes. I was miffed that I couldn't find email addresses for Lauren and Sarah from our time at the Horn since Sarah's website vanished and Lauren's Myspace page evaporated. That would have made it ace rather than just brilliant. Maybe one or both will turn up anyway just because there's a gig going on. I've just had a thought as I wrote that -- maybe I have got Sarah's website address wrong. Hmm, job for tonight.

So you can see, life is busy but not thrilling.

I was meant to be having the parental units over tonight for a Chinese takeaway but I think I'm going to cry off. I'm beat and the only thing I am interested in doing is slapping a Singapore noodles ready-meal in the microwave, vegetating and then hitting the sack. Tomorrow holds much the same as today did with the added advantage that I have three days of rest after it. Random bank holidays are just wonderful -- they are that random that I didn't even know next Monday was one until this past Monday -- had the ninja not mentioned it, I would have pitched into work as usual.

Genüg. Time for some nosebag and slobbing. I'm pooped and there is a crossword staring at me.

You can tell where my head is at this morning.

I read "Sister of shot man to make TV plea" as "Sister of shot man to make TV pies".

This does not bode well.

This is sweet. My internet connection has been swapped from the old place to the new. It has taken a total of 25 days because BT are rubbish at providing what they are meant to do as their core business -- phone lines. I'm not sure what the mechanism is for transferring DSL service. I had thought that we owned all the relevant equipment in the exchanges on LLU lines but I could be wrong. Maybe it's a managed service. Who knows? I don't get involved in that side of the business. I did attempt to get my line move expedited by pulling some strings at work but when I was told it would only bring it forward by three working days and would cost the company £100, I did the decent thing and just waited like any other sucker would. It's all academic now.

I am sat in my front room with my bluetooth keyboard and mouse and my Mac Mini nestling next to my Sky\+ box and displaying on a 42\" LCD 1080p TV. Even with glasses, I have had to reduce the resolution to a squalid 1280x1024 to be able to read it (and even then I have upped the font size on everything) but it is worth it.

Tomorrow I have a new passport disk arriving to act as extra storage for the Mac Mini. I already have a 0.5TB passport disk to act as a time machine for it so I think it's safe to say that I'm okay for about 12 months of storage. One of the lads at work was showing me the Windows media server stuff at work today. He has 4TB of virtual storage (numerous disks that are aggregated and presented as one large LUN if you will). I feel like an amateur. That said, I am loath to buy Apple kit and pollute it with the dross that gets kicked out from Redmond. As is well documented, I am an Apple fanboy through and through now. There is no turning back until I see something that really floats my proverbial boat.

I think this is about as good as it gets for now. I can always upgrade the disks as and when needed.

Kenny is a happy bunny. Although he is still not sure who he wants to win in the football tonight. I guess Chelski although his heart tells him Barcelona are the better side. I'd sooner meet Chelski in the final than Barca, but we have the small matter of beating Arsenal to consider before this becomes a reality.

As I have been typing this, I have noticed that the Sky\+ box makes some horrible disk noises everytime the heating kicks in. I think I need to be thinking about surge protection.

Anyway, now I'm hooked up on a decent connection again, you never know, I might start blogging during adverts. Simplez!

I have just twittered/tweeted/tweetified a thought that has been gnawing at me for a few days now. Something has to give in our political system. The current crop of muppets that walk the corridors of power some miles south of here have to go. Of that, there is no question. It's a litany of clueless loons. Gordon Brown leering on youtube just about turned my stomach. Jacqui Smith is about as moonbat as they come. The Milibands are just not of this world. Alistair Darling has no more credentials to predict the economic impact of what we are staring in the face than Mystic Meg. The only one I have a smidgin' of respect for is Peter Mandelson, just because I think he is the spin-doctor to end all spin-doctors.

If we cross the floor, I'm not sure we should get too excited. David Cameron is a bumbling idiot, surrounded by sycophants. Clegg is about as electable as Michael Foot was, but without the charisma. Whoever wants to win the next election needs to start seriously considering their options. It pains me to say this, but there is only one man I would trust to the job of PM at the moment, and he's a liberal. Vince Cable. There I have said it. The nothing party would have my vote were there an election tomorrow were he in charge.

I had a bit of a stilted email conversation with the Waaart last week that went along the lines of the Waaart telling me that the EU was a beautiful thaaang. My response was predictable. Great idea that has manifested itself as an unmitigated disaster but hell, if you're on that gravy train of backdoor communism, you're quids (or Euros) in. I like my communism labeled as such, not sneaking around the periphery. France and Germany are communist, They call it socialism, but it's not. It's communist. France is more communist than China. I have done business in both countries. The difference is that the Chinese, whilst labeled communist, are far from it. France is about as Marxist as it gets.

Half my frustration with Europe is that we pretend we are capitalist but when push comes to shove, a little bit more of that nanny state thing kicks in. Britain is awash with PC nonsense thanks to the ever smothering hug of our ridiculously large number of levels of government, all overseen by the collective joy that is a European treaty that guarantees that the state owns your ass.

What started this was a look at my tax for the last financial year. It is criminal. I pay for multiple tiers of government handsomely. In the private sector, when you get so bloated, any sane company fires a load of middle managers. Why is government any different? When you whack on VAT and council tax, I am taxed at a level that makes your eyes water. Very little of my gross income can ever make it into a retailer's pocket. Hey, but that's okay right? The state will look after me. Yup. I have no idea what the jobseeker's allowance is at the moment but my best guess would be no more than £70 a week. Way to go Whitehall -- I can sleep easy knowing that I will be affluent when not working, not.

I think I always end up resorting to political rants when something that is bothering me cannot be spoken about -- step up the usual suspects to tell me I am wrong about Europe. ;)

ken: perception, view; especially, reach of sight or knowledge.

How true. The logical extrapolation is Ken-ny -- i.e. the adjective describing knowledge.

I know. I'll get mi' coat. It just tickled me on this most miserable of mornings.

Every now and again, I find myself enjoying things a little too much. Today is such a day. I got up quite early and did my usual news watching and then had the mad idea of watching some Bones. I've had to tear myself away to fulfill my obligation to the blog and to physically move myself. In uncharacteristic fashion, I had all my weekend jobs done by about 19:00 on Friday so I have been royally enjoying some me time -- which is not a euphemism. I have a sirloin steak the size of Canada in the fridge for later, enough shii-take mushrooms to buoy Australia and some of those little salad potatoes. It promises to be a top day. The only thing that would improve it is the addition of some asparagus or artichoke bottoms but I am more compelled to carry on my Bones-fest than to hit the grocery store.

Last week my old mucker in MN, Nicole -- @nmfleisch, intimated that I had lost my Minnesotan reserve and was sounding way too damned happy. The same day, the Waaart sent me an email saying that my bloggage was so much without feeling that it is very much akin to watching someone fix a tap. Somewhere within the two lies my comfort zone. I am certainly not going to bleet like I did for the months that are no longer archived. The next thirty or so days are going to be hard from a personal and work perspective but I will try to spare you the stream of consciousness guff that became a trademark for so long.

I have a steak to cook, some Emily Deschanel and Wigan Athletic to watch and a whole boat-load of relaxing to do. That is the kind of to-do list you cannot fault.

Happy Sunday Gerties (which incidentally is © @thomsog ).

To coin a Hannibal Smithism (yes, I've been watching re-runs of The A Team on Bravo, as well as Bones and the football), Bryony is on the jazz today. Surprisingly, I have never even entertained the thought of who I would clone until this morning -- I say surprisingly because that is exactly the kind of thing I would expect me to do. Bryony's list contains the obvious suspects: Clooney, Gerrard, Obama etc.

Who would I clone? Well first up, me but not for the reasons you might think. I would send the clone me to work everyday while I sat at home and pootled. Whenever anything exciting was happening at work (I estimate about once a year), I would give him the day off. I would have to clone Fiona Apple. She could play a nightly gig chez moi. At weekends, she could play at the Stag in Garswood. The Vanquisher would be cloned too, because you just cannot have enough vanquishers -- with "the list" of who will be up against the wall come the revolution growing on a daily basis, it seems prudent to spread the workload. Douglas Adams would be a fair candidate -- my laughter appears to have been reduced considerably since his death. Along similar lines, @stephenfry would be cloned to increase overall entertainment.

After the revolution it will be against the law to clone midgets or anyone with the surnames Oddie, Clarkson, Ross, Paltrow, Minogue or Springsteen. All suggestions for potential cloning should be lodged in the comments below and will be reviewed over Saturday evening. Let the splicing commence.

Well, today was peachy. Actually, it was more like a mouldy damson but we'll ignore that for a moment.

Things that went *really* badly today:

-- bust-up with colleague

-- email from Nski saying she has \"lost\" my grandfather's pocket watch so will not be returning it

-- sudden new problem at work

-- discovered that I cannot expedite my ADSL connection by pulling strings at work

-- 3.5 hours to get home thanks to a 24 mile tailback (in danger of missing football)

-- arrived home to find United are not even on but Chelski are

All that remains is probably the fact that United will lose, just to crown a royal day.

Even with the above, I still feel about 100% better than I did about this time yesterday. I'd like to thank you all for the emails and Twitter DMs I got during the course of the last 24 hours. They are much appreciated. @T3m3r1ty should be singled out for his visit this morning -- I was as close to touched as I get.

T-30 (which is not a project gate thankfully) until you get a dose of Dolly.

As you were, and sincere thanks.

For those of you that missed the tweetage, today I got my long awaited divorce papers from the States. I stared blankly at them for a while and then carried on about my business like they had not arrived. I'm obviously not signing them until they have been under the nose of a lawyer here. International divorces are about the equivalent of holding a conversation with someone when neither of you speak the same language. Even as a layman, I can see things in the wordage that I am not happy with. I think a couple of caveats need to be added before I put my Monica Seles to that one.

Initially I was hurt by the \"irreconcilable differences\" verbiage. I wanted a \"wife is a whore\". But I guess irreconcilable differences covers that. I cannot reconcile the fact that the wife is a whore but obviously she can.

Work is being an arse too -- still, Liverpool dropped points so the day is not all bad.

Hopefully, I'll be in a better frame of mind tomorrow. Güten Nacht mein liebelings.

When I was eight years old the world was a mysterious and magical place.

It was a very happy time, thanks in the main to the shows like the six million dollar man and the tomorrow people. When I wasn't jaunting from one place to another, I was drawing little digital circuits on bits of paper, cellotaping them to my forearm and rolling up my sleeve to impress my friends. For a time I actually believed I was from another planet.

And how does an eight year old jaunt? He closes his eyes, makes a noise like a bizarre ringtone, and runs and full pelt, eyes still closed, to another point in the playground. When he opens his eyes, voila, teleportation.

Magic was everywhere and in everything. Sorcery, science, aliens. I used to collect objects that I believed were enchanted with special powers -- alien technology such as a funny shaped rock, an old rusty bolt with mystical properties.

When I was eight years old I fell in love for the first time. She arrived as a new girl in class 4. I sharpened every pencil in the class down to a pointy stub, just so I could stand near where she sat by the big pencil sharpener. Class 4 became class 5 and I started to spend time with her. We played together sometimes at break times. In class I couldn't keep my eyes or thoughts off her. It was an innocent, romantic love. Free from responsibility or expectation.

Eventually I contrived a way to tell her how I felt and executed my plan flawlessly. I waited until we were on our way back into class and told her how someone had challenged me about my feelings for another girl. \"'No', I told him. I'm in love with Suzanne.\" Pause. \"Wooops!\".

Several months into class 5 she broke the news she was leaving to go to another school. I don't think it actually hit me until she'd gone. I was distraught. I thought about her constantly for months after. One day I phoned her relatives and managed to get a phone number for where she now lived. I spoke to her on the phone for half an hour or so. It was wonderful, but I never rang again. Even years later I thought about ringing again. Time passed and I got adult emotional baggage. I thought less and less about Suzanne but never forgot her. Fast forward to last week...

Friends Reunited is a truly amazing thing. In theory a great idea, like the office christmas party, but in reality it's responsible for even more marriage breakdowns than, well, the office christmas party. A few years ago I did my thing, joined up, wrote a couple of lines about how it'd be great to hear from anyone, and then promptly ignored most people who actually bothered to mail (my bad). I treated the whole thing with a healthy skepticism. My philosophy was that the past is usually in the past for a damned good reason, and probably best left there. I haven't explored the site in many years now.

Last week I stopped by at FR to pick up a message. There was a link: \"People we think you know\" or something. I was intrigued so I clicked it. Well you could've knocked me down with a feather. The list read like a who's who of people I've known very well and lost touch with, old and new. People from my college days, more recently from work, older friends from school. It was utterly amazing and to be honest freaked me out a bit. I've no idea how they produced the list. There were people on there with no obvious connection to me whatsoever. I can only assume that FR have cross-correlated your hits and searches with those of other people in order to come up with what they think is a high probability match....

As I was reading down the list I found myself transported back to friendships and betrayals.. it was all very intense. Then there it was, half-way down the list.. Suzanne's name. I was flabbergasted. I've never searched for her. I'm probably too cynical for it even to have occurred to me.

How do I feel? Well, I guess I feel elated. But it's a very odd sensation. There's nothing remotely adult or tangible about it. There was no relationship, at least not in a grown-up sense, and you can't exactly hanker after your memories of an eight-year-old girl. That would be a bit pathetic, if not pervy. What is it then? Why do I feel so happy? Thinking about it, I've come to the conclusion it's because, for a few days at least, the magic is back.

I'm off out into the garden now to practice my teleportation skills.

I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been actually earning my money over the past week or so. I know this is entirely not in keeping with modern day work practices. As I said to Grommage as we went for a smoke after our mandatory course on sucking eggs, "when the hell will I have time to surf today?". On the subject of Grom, he does all the bits of my job that I cannot abide -- dealing with vendors, organizing data centers and all that jazz. He deals in watts per BTU square foot per gigaflop or some such meaningless offal. I smile politely. Grom is the archetypal netizen. He has read about 80% of the internet. We abuse him like nothing on earth..."Grom, could you take a moment to google this for me please?". Bless, he takes it in good humor. You should all go see what goes on in his world -- his blog is like an aggregator for every baffling pop-culture/geek-fest combo on the planet. I read it. I understand the words individually. But the combination leaves me sat throwing stuff at him all day. I've now lost every staple gun in the building somewhere in the vicinity of his desk.

On the subject of blogging, I have a guest post that was emailed to me that I quite like. The person who submitted it doesn't want to be named so I need to create a new user, a process that, quite frankly, I cannot be arsed with tonight. It's not the creating of a user -- that takes two minutes. It's the formatting. The author has a horrible habit of hitting return when returns are not necessary. Rather than correct the format and post it, I have a good mind to explain word wrap in words of one syllable or less.

What else? Ah yes. BT are idiots. Not just idiots, but utterly incompetent idiots. I have just received a bill for my whole 6 days of service. £160. Someone please explain to me why they are still in business. As a business partner for legacy reasons, I know they are crap. As a consumer, they are even worse. How anything ever gets done within BT beats me and a small part of me wants the recession to kick them so hard that they fragment into decent good companies rather than survive as a single donkey dropping behemoth pimple on the bottom of the communications industry. God BT, you are woeful.

In keeping with woeful, I watched, with some amusement, the UN meeting to discuss racism. In Southpark style, we all know racism is about as palatable as rickets. Half the world didn't turn up. Regardless of what you may think of my political leanings, the half that were a no-show is still inherently racist. I am looking at you America, and you the UK. I just don't get racism at all. My prejudices are restricted to stupid people and moonbat religion. I suppose I should add midgets. I loathe midgets but that is entirely acceptable. It's that whole rodent association thing -- irrational but understandable at the same time.

What I was going to get to about the UN is that this little episode proves beyond all reasonable doubt that the UN is a waste of space, just like the EU. Their words are worth less than the Zimbabwe dollar. Much like academia, the UN exists to promote itself as being the great fountain of knowledge. It never has to prove its worth, but it will never stop the endless spin to make it so. The UN has failed on every metric it has managed not to duck. Africa remains skint and at war, we are still at war in God knows how many places. It is a culture of talk and no action. A debate on racism is allowed to degenerate into a farce because they invite the leader of Iran to speak and, guess what, he does his party trick and makes the whole thing a laughing stock. What the hell is the point of spending millions to orchestrate an event that it is well-known will be a collosal disaster?

I didn't agree with a lot of George Bush's foreign policy but I think he had the UN pegged as being a facile bunch of jobsworths who, when not bleeding from the heart like Didider Drogba after a manicure, were ready to adopt a position where their backsides faced the heavens. He had them pegged right. It is a waste of everyone's money. The UN should be taken no more seriously than Iran's head of state. Both are out there with the nitrous on full blast.

Finally, just to take it down a notch, I have completed 3/4 of a mission to get the old St Albans data warehouse crowd together again for an evening in early May. We're going watching Nick Harper at the Horn, where my dearly loved barmaid Lauren used to work. Stan, Drummer Dave and I have all booked our hotels. I now need to get hold of Psycho who is proving elusive. We had a pretty good crowd down there and I'm really looking forward to seeing them all again. I might try to get hold of some of the old barstaff there as well.

I think that is about as much bile as I can spill for one sitting. I have some duck to dispense with.

I hope that Gerties and non-Gerties alike have a splendid evening. And if you're in St A's on May 7th, you know where we will all be. I might try to edit this damned guest post later but no guarantees.

Is it Friday yet? Damn.

We are not talking about the football.

The drive in this morning was an absolute joy. It's a beautiful spring morning and the mist hung over the fields like it had been glued there. Some days, I really wish you could just pull over and take some pictures. The Pennines are an amazing site in extreme weather -- by that I mean extremely good or extremely bad. It is only about a month ago that they were covered in snow. Now they're a picture of (dare I say it) summer.

What to report? Well, a conversation on Saturday night led to some hilarity. The Vanquisher and I were discussing Mossad (the Israeli equivalent to MI6 or the CIA). Our companion thought we were talking about Moss Side. He could not understand why NCIS would recruit someone from Moss Side. You can guess how labored the ensuing rip-taking was.

My Mac Mini is now installed and all media has been copied over from the Macbook. Unfortunately I cannot watch or listen to any Apple DRM'd stuff because my internet connection has not been transferred from the old phone line yet. I have one last trip to pick up my remaining worldly goods and then I can officially declare myself completely moved. I think we can class that as a productive weekend.

Genüg. I have a mandatory driving course this morning which is a royal pain in the arse since I have much better things to be doing. Before that though, there is the small matter of a bacon buttie.

Is it Friday yet? Damn.

In bold and vociferous tones -- \"I vow to thee my country...\"

Nah, perhaps not. I'm sneaking around Evil Albert's house while he and Mrs Albert sleep. I'm raiding their tea supplies and stealing their broadband connection while I wake myself up enough to hit the road for Leyland where TNT are storing a golden goose for me to collect. Okay, it's not golden and it's not a goose. It's a Mac Mini. Woot.

I avoided a Russian lesson last night by doing a bait and switch. First off, I set about getting Albert to help me with a not insignificant piece of design that I need to have finished by next Friday. Thankfully he is au fait with the varying layers of horror that entail networking VMWare on virtual connect modules in a blade environment. Secondly, I brought a copy of the Telegraph with me to distract Mrs Albert. For someone who claims English as a third language, she's pretty damned wily when it comes to the mental gymnastics that are required to complete a crossword. She got a couple that I would have struggled with.

Alors, I must abuse the kettle once more and depart for the correct side of the Pennines. The next time you hear from me, it will probably be from the Mac Mini installed as a media server.

Quickly, afore I leave, this from an IM conversation with the Vanquisher's father just now:

Yozzer says: (08:26:45) I'm struggling with a nagging problem on these chess sites, ask Albert if he knows the best response to 6,Bc4 in the Sicilian Najdorf..that move causes me endless headaches LOL

Hornswoggler says: (08:27:14) Bloody hell. Isn't that best mapped into Hilbert space and then processed with 8-point Gaussian quadrature?

I think we can safely see where the Vanquisher gets his sound tactical revolutionary tendencies.

Got to run...Albert is up and about.

Bryony was on the Jeremy Vine show yesterday. If you go to about 1 hour and 40 minutes into it (not that she told me how far into the show it was because she had listened to it -- she was at great pains to point that out), you'll get her views on horror films and all the spin-off paraphernalia that they create. For a London lass, she's remarkably non-nauseatingly Southern in speech.

I was up at silly o'clock (05:00) this morning and have stopped only for coffee since -- once at 08:15 and once at 14:30. The \"stop\" was to walk the three minutes to Starbucks and back. Other than that, there has been no stopping. I have been a picture of dynamism on two very dodgy legs. After work it was more moving. What time is it now? God. 19:30 and I feel like I should chugging Horlicks and heading up the steep stairs to spend a long weekend in bed.

Which brings me on to a birthday present that I got from my brother and the Flip-Flop today. Someone remind me to thank them for the French Maid they so kindly bought for me. It will make the long weekend all that more special. Wait a minute, that is not what they got me. They bought me a TV cricket game that involves you actually physically bowling and batting. It is top. I can see the broken furniture now. I guess it uses similar technology to the Wii. Apparently you can play one day games or full five-day test matches. I'm liking this -- \"Hello, Mr Cheese? This is Kenny McUnderling here. I'm afraid I won't be in work this week because I have been called up to play for England in a test match. Yup full five-dayer. I'm hoping the weather will be okay because I hate the thought of drawing against the Aussies. Yup. Me and KP are tight now. I'll get him to sign a bat for you. See you soon. Yes, yes, I'll mention you in the post-match interview. Yup. I'll wave.\" -- so top pressie. Oh, and a giant mint aero. I sense a FlippenFloppen has been lurking here, have we not meine kleine scousemoiselle?

Damn, I'm talking in tongues.

I have to repeat today's marathon stamina-fest tomorrow except at the end of it, I shall be heading North to the relative sanity of Albert Towers. Saturday morning I have to be up with the larks to get to Leyland (of all places -- I have only ever passed Leyland on the motorway) to a TNT depot to pick up my Mac Mini. Woot. So that is the rest of Saturday written off once I get home although I may switch off long enough to point fingers at the world with the Vanquisher in the evening over a good root-beer float. Sunday *has* to be unpacking more stuff and carting even more. Oh, and some cleaning. Monday will see the whole damned thing repeated.

I'm goosed already. Where will I find time to blog? Who knows? But I will. Promise.

I'm liking the long weekend with the French maid a lot more than the reality (no offence Alberts).

Toodlez.

More: It's Thursday and I haven't even opened the paper or logged on to read Bryony's column. I ask you? What kind of a day is it when I forget my journo dotage?

I first posted this in March 2003 but that definitely was a different life so I feel fully vindicated in reposting. It crossed my mind this morning.

I don't know why, but I have carried a small cut-out from the Guardian around in my wallet for probably 15 years. It still kills me after all these years. It reads:

CAB CONFESSIONALS: TRUE CONVERSATIONS WITH REAL-LIFE TAXI DRIVERS, HANDSWORTH TO BIRMINGHAM BR: "...and he opens the door and his face is about five times its normal size the way mine was once when I took these anti-acne antibiotics and ended up looking like Frankenstein. And I said, "what's up?" and he said, "I think I'm allergic to this shirt, I slept in it all night and when I woke up I couldn't move my lips"; and he was holding up this yellow shirt with ducks on it. The doctor told him that he could have snuffed it. Killed by a yellow shirt with ducks on it. Makes you realise how fragile life is, right?"

If you follow me on Twitter, you will know that I have spent the day reacquainting myself with what I do for a living after days of house-things and general domestic tedium. I sat for half an hour staring at my PC as it told me I had entered my password wrong and only had two more attempts left before I would be locked out for all eternity (well, until I could get the password reset). Once I had ploughed through my carefully encoded notebook, I had an idea and went for it -- woot. Just hang on though -- it was expired so I was forced into changing it, which is a tedious process that doesn't allow you to recycle passwords within about two elephant lifetimes -- so here we have an unwoot. So woot + unwoot = net gain of zero, net loss of half an hour. Joy.

I then spent an hour catching up on ten days worth of email. After I had deleted all the crap, I set about reading emails from people asking me about the gizzards of some stuff that I vaguely remembered being about a lifetime ago. It transpires that the lifetime in question is ten days. After an hour of checking notes and intense thought I remembered what my job was. I cannot say that was the high-point of the day. I then started to think about how to do it and recalled that it involved an awful lot of nodding wisely, passing judgment in a sagacious tone and declaring jihad on small people (internet pixies, midgets, dwarves etc.). I think my job title should be Mujahoudini of Infrastructure, adviser to the stars. Have I ever mentioned how much hardware bores me? It does. I cannot get excited about raw pieces of metal. I get excited about software -- hardware is a necessary evil.

Tomorrow is another day of endless internal confusion while pretending to be a fountain of knowledge. Before then though, there is the small matter of a football match that my beloved Man U must win. I cannot see the game living up to last nights monumentally entertaining game but the result of this one is more important to me than the wow-factor. It would be nice to have both, but the result trumps the journey on this occasion.

Before I sign-off for the evening, let me just mention for those in far flung climes that today is the 20th anniversary of 96 people losing their lives at Hillsborough football ground in Sheffield thanks to some utterly incompetent policing. You don't have to be a red or a blue Liverpool fan to recall the abject horror. I listened to the remembrance service on the radio on the way home and while the style was not one I would have chosen, I'm with them in sentiment. It was truly a dark hour in many different ways but we have come a long way since then.

Is it really Saturday since I last blogged? I can understand not blogging on Sunday because I was busy cooking but I have no excuse for yesterday. I was sat all day, waiting for my Mac Mini to turn up. By the time it hadn't and I realized that it wasn't going to, combined with the thought that it must be arriving today, it was too late to head up to York. As it happens, I could have done as the damned thing still hasn't appeared.

I nipped to Sainsburys very early this morning to buy some food and gubbins, praying that they would not try to deliver at 07:30. When I got back at 07:40, there was no delivery-missed note through the door so I think I am safe in saying that no-one has attempted to bring my toy. What this means is that I am now pinned to the house all day again (as well as the missing Mac, the BT chap should be turning up this afternoon).

What this has done is give me oddles of time to watch some of my Sky channels. Randal and Hopkirk Deceased is one of the greatest TV shows ever made and can be watched on one of the many retro channels.

It's back to work tomorrow -- groan -- and then some more moving in the evening. I might pop back on later this afternoon but this wireless dongle really doesn't cut the mustard in terms of speed.

How are we all?

** Typos edited to appease a certain pedant. ;)

My cards from today...

First up, my favorite from the Gogglebot:

My mother's attempt to drive me even more insane:

Oh how my brother and SIL don't know how many people called Emma have utterly messed with my head, but...

Finally, the birthday cake, courtesy of Pater:

I am one again.

I think that is a bit of a result. Well, something to smile at on a day that hell was due to freeze over. I seriously love the card with Aleksandr and I in matching smoking jackets. Totally inspired -- although I now know where my daft brain gets its daft ideas. My dad would never come up with that. That is exactly what I would do. I think one of you needs to buy me counselling and anti-psychotics -- oops, I get the latter from the NHS. Just some counselling will do although I always end up thinking I am counselling them, such is my over-inflated ego. Shush. I'm allowed to be glib. It's my birthday.

Totally irrelevant post title.

This being 40 malarky does, to quote a very well educated friend of mine, suck mongoose ass. It does however have some merit. For example, I woke up to some highly complimentary comments and some rather asinine observations about the functionality of a particular body part. Nay matter, it was all negated by the fact that I have received an email from Amy Winehouse wishing me happy birthday. I know it is probably a mailshot from somewhere, but the big kid in me would like to think that someone has gone to the trouble of arranging for said email. I'm thinking that the only person I know who would be that thoughtful is Fashionista. I shall be calling her later.

The other reason that being 40 doesn't suck is because I have a new love. Stop your damned yawning. This is Kenny we're talking about. He is, by nature, fickle and you should expect him to fall for someone at least once a week. The latest object of my affections is a journo. Look, I told you to stop yawning. I don't know how I have failed to notice the lass before. Sonia Deol. She has the required look of buggerment about her and a smile that could melt diamonds. She might have a cracking figure on her too but I am above that kind of thing as we all know.

I have tables being delivered today. One is a small one for the front room so I have something to rest the keyboard and mouse on when the Mac Mini arrives. The other is a kitchen table. I need that for \"entertaining\" tomorrow. The behemoth one that can be seen in my earlier photos is a desk. Do not confuse that with a table. They are two vastly different beasts.

I intend spending the day acting my IQ not my age (although they are about at parity now). This will mean loud music, a steak and some mushrooms. I suppose that is no different to any other day really.

I'm feeling pretty at one with the world for a change, so there will inevitably be a random act of kindness at some point in the day.

Forty is a good number. I was going to paraphrase Walker Percy and say: \"what a nice, round, coming-of-age number, slightly perfumed by you, like the street where you live\" -- but the logical conclusion would be that... the number 40 smells of Silk Cut cigarettes!? This paraphrasing business doesn't always work ;^) So, no waxing lyrical. I'll try it in the style of Kurt Vonnegut:

Welcome to the club. It is one of the least selective clubs you can belong to, actually. Some people didn't think you would get to join. I am glad you proved them wrong. Keep doing it.

Most of all, have no fear. The only change you notice upon turning forty is the increasing number of cheerful clichees lobbed at you: \"life begins at 40\", \"40 is the new 30\", and so on. When you hear them, you will first protest, sneer, and mock, but after several months, you secretly start to believe them. Consider yourself warned.

Fortunately, your fear of needles means you won't get any lame Midlife Crisis Piercings. You don't have enough hair for overpaid stylists to coax into scary, gelled-up, bicolour birds' nests. The ebb and flow of your finances will prevent you from raising eyebrows in a working class town with a flashy little red two-seater (which would only get keyed, anyway). You've learned by now that \"you can't hurry love\", and are content to wait for the right Japanese lass/gnome/journalist/barfly to walk into your life.

So, you don't really need cheering up, but I thought it would be fun to compile a list of Top Reasons It's Great To Be Kenny. I'll get the ball rolling in the Comments section, and I'd like to invite all your readers to contribute (as many entries as they want).

Have a great birthday!

Okay. I know I'm bad. There is something utterly self-indulgently wrong with sitting watching Bones for hours at a time. There should be a health warning on Sky -- seriously addictive programming available from 10:00am onwards. Mrs Albert told me to get out and get some fresh air as we were chatting last night. Never let it be said that I ignore good advice; I took the trash out first thing this morning before 10:00am, for obvious reasons.

I have to arrange a table delivery now. God. I really wish I had not volunteered to cook Sunday lunch. Not only is it Sunday, but it's the morning after a birthday I never thought I would see. The same guy who told the Waaart that he would never see his nemesis birthday (which I cruelly taunted him about) told me pretty much the same thing. I think he also said that we would never achieve anything. Well Mick Cahill, I appear to have contributed many megabytes worth of dross to the internet, a touch of technology and the Waaart is emeritus meerkat general at somewhere a boat load more academic than where we were when you taught us. That sounds nasty; it's not. I'd still have a beer with the guy. In fact I liked him a lot. He saw in the Waaart and I too much of himself and disliked it.

Wow, went off on a Hunter S Thomson moment there. I'm not entirely sure I know why that sprang to mind. I blame birthdays. Back to reality.

I have now had a full week off work. I need to return. Giving me license to watch crap all day is like giving a crack addict an open invitation to Columbia. I know I should be doing other things but...

I think I have a meerkat to draw for one of the Albert Juniors. I should attend to that.

Those of you that know me know that I adore dogs. Dogs are man's best friend for a good reason. They are happy for the most base reasons, just like men.

The house across the road from me hosts a fat guy, his wife and his sheepdog. The dog and the fat guy are the same. When he gets up, he cleans the window where the dog has been monitoring the events outside. Once he has done that, he takes up the position in the window alongside the dog. They watch for about an hour. I watch them for the same amount of time. It is fascinating. The dog and the bloke are inextricably linked. You just know that they have the same personality. The dog is inquisitive. The fat guy is just nosy. I defy you to not be enthralled by the spectacle.

I guess I should try to sneak a picture of one man and his dog doing what comes naturally to them. Is that illegal? Whatever, it's a great insight into other people's lives. He's blogging without blogging. There's a lot to be said for that.

Okay peeps, look at the the timestamp. Yup -- it is barely the crack of sparrow-fart and I am up yet again. The guys who delivered my washing machine/drier sent me an email last night saying they would be here between 07:00 and 11:00. My phone rang at 06:50 to say they were 5 minutes away. I did not even have time to get a brew down me so the conversation was minimal. To their credit, it took less than five minutes to install the thing. Had I done it, it would have taken half a day, numerous phone calls and several floods. I think that is worth £20.

Since I moved here, the latest I have risen is 07:30. I am meant to be on holiday. Where is the vacation in getting up at silly hours? I will make up for it tomorrow.

By the way, I just received an email saying my Mac Mini will be with me in the next couple of days. I shall be lovingly plumbing that one in myself. I really do think my life will be utterly complete when it arrives. Joy.

I have to nip out for some shopping later but I'm sure I will be back soon.

I have been diligent today. I waited in for the Sainsbury's chap and all was good. My problem is now how I cook the damned chicken. I made the mistake of offering to do Sunday lunch for the parental units. I'll need to to buy a roasting pan that will accommodate the beast -- a thousand boiling arses on that score. I should never volunteer to cook. I am hopeless.

I've also been in touch with Stan. We're meeting up to see Nick Harper at one of my favorite haunts, the Horn in St Albans. I've not seen Stan in ages so this should be good. There was an intimation that DrummerDave might turn up too so it should be a top night out. It will be a clique that is constituted of crossword-solving geeks. If we're dead lucky, Lauren will be there. If she is not, the big five crossies will be dispatched with a snort. There isn't a crossword that you can put to us that cannot be slapped. I'm sure Stan can elaborate on that one -- ?.

Haven't a clue. :)

Coolio, I need to get my cooking groove on.

Job's a good one...

1 x Silk Cut King Size Cigarettes, Silver x100 - Total Price GBP 28.14
2 x McVitie's Digestive Biscuits 500g - Total Price GBP 1.68
1 x Gold Top Fresh Milk, Jersey and Guernsey 1L - Total Price GBP 1.05
1 x Sainsbury's Portabella Mushrooms, Large Flat 250g - Total Price GBP 1.69
1 x Sainsbury's Shii-Take Mushrooms, Taste the Difference 120g - Total Price GBP 1.69
1 x Sainsbury's Asparagus, Tips 100g - Total Price GBP 1.59
1 x Sainsbury's Salad Potatoes, Basics 1kg - Total Price GBP 0.79
1 x Sainsbury's Sirloin Steak Small Dual, Taste the Difference (approx. 200g) - Total Price GBP 3.99
1 x Sainsbury's Rib Eye Steak x2 - Total Price GBP 5.21
1 x Sainsbury's Basics Whole Chicken (approx. 2.3kg) - Total Price GBP 4.57
2 x Sainsbury's Wooden Spoons X3 - Total Price GBP 2.98
1 x Pyrex 35x23cm Rectangular Roaster (Bp) - Total Price GBP 6.99
1 x Lotus Thirst Pockets Kitchen Towels White x2 Rolls - Total Price GBP 1.62

Freeda will approve of the mushrooms. Love my Shii-Takes. Shame I forgot some Stilton.

What was I saying about not enjoying food? Yeah -- I'm a hypocrite. I guess I just like what I cook.

Wow. Have I been busy or what? I spent about 30 minutes yesterday placing a Sainsburys order. It is due to arrive this afternoon. The shop is a mile up the road but the quantity of stuff was so great that I figured I would needlessly send myself into a complete panic trying to bag it all so did the decent thing. The delivery is free so all I have lost is, umm, nothing. Result.

I had a call from work this morning asking for a week of my time. I agreed to it and pointed out that I was out until next Wednesday at which point the caller asked why on earth I had answered a call from them. My take on these things is that if it is something that needs doing, it needs doing so I am happy to help where I can. As it happens, having a call about scheduling time is about the least intrusive thing that could happen. It's not like I had been summoned in for something. I took great pleasure in explaining that it was ten o'clock in the morning and I was watching Bones on Sky 2 while my colleague was trying to juggle resources and that by fortuity, they had caught me in a commercial break so it was not a big deal. You could hear the envy in his voice.

As I said, I've been busy.

My lack of bloggage is entirely down to the criminally slow connection I have until I get my broadband transferred. Okay, truth be told, I am glued to the TV. I have no table in the front room yet, so I cannot multitask by lusting after Emily Deschanel and blogging simultaneously. That should be fixed within a week or so. I mean the connectivity and table issues, not the lusting -- I fear that might last longer than the week.

You will be thrilled to know that I have a washer/drier turning up tomorrow. I paid the extra £20 to have it installed. The last time I installed a washing machine, I flooded the place. Manual dexterity is not a gift that was bestowed on me. I deal in concepts, not actuality. However, I have managed to get my hands on a new thermostat. The one here is bonkers. I am going to risk life and limb by installing a new one. The worst that can happen is that I electrocute myself which I have done many times before -- you can kind of look at it as being not so shocking anymore. When you know you are going to get zapped, you're ready for it. Mater insists that I should be Corgi registered to perform such a task. Nonsense. How hard can a couple of wires be? She might have a point though; the UK is so over-regulated that you need to apply for a license to urinate, you know, just in case you're not in control.

On that subject, I am impressed by the company I work for. We do e-billing better than anyone I am dealing with at the moment. BT, a telecoms company, have sent me two letters chock full of paper describing nothing. They could have emailed that to me in a second but they insist on printing it out and posting it to me. Sky, for all their excellent customer service, have sent a wadge of paper too. We all know I'm not a moonbat tree-hugger but even I see the sense in e-billing. Why send paper things when we have the ability to do it far more efficiently? <Sigh>.

In other news, I have already developed a deep emotional tie with my local blackbird. I am turning into my dad. He's not as tame as my dad's blackbird who sits vigilantly waiting for Pater to get up and put out some food, but I think over time we can develop a tad'o'trust. My dad's blackbird arrives as soon as the door is opened. My guy is still nervy. I'll win him round.

There you go -- domestic bliss.

I'm sure I have things to do that I should be doing but at the moment, I'm quite happy to just enjoy my own space.

I have been like a kid on Christmas eve/day for the past twelve hours. My Sky chap is due to arrive in under an hour. I started trying to watch Quantum of Solace last night but was interrupted by emails from the thing in Rock Island. I did double my dose of meds and did what any rational Kenny would do and went to bed. Had the Sky man not been coming, I may well have stayed there for the duration. Fortunately I awoke at spot on 06:00 with the sparkling gem of a vision of Sky\+ HD. Shiver. There was no going back to sleep for me. I am bouncing around like Tiggr. I'm that happy, I paid the window cleaner £6 without any argument (apparently he can never catch me in -- I tried to explain that I only moved here on Friday but he is either profoundly or conveniently deaf).

Sky\+ HD. How exciting is that? It's just a shame that the Utd game is on ITV tonight. It looks like I will have the joy of watching the Scousers in HD tomorrow.

I have no doubt that I will be back later, probably having bounced off a few walls in between.

I have undergone the trials of Jobe this morning. The Führer had an appointment for an ultrasound on her heart. Normally my father takes her for all her nefarious medical examinations but in a moment of rare altruism, I volunteered to save him half a day by taking her. For me, hospitals are worse than hell. I go into cold sweats the moment I walk into one. For the Führer, they are the highlight of the social calendar. I have lost count of the number of examinations, scans, Xrays and monitors she has been subject to. Everything always comes back negative so she finds a new angle of approach to getting even more treatment. It is embarrassing. I end up having to whisper apologies at the doctors as she declares herself on the brink of death yet every test they could possibly run comes back with squat-diddly squared. This infuriates her into another excursion to her GP demanding that she is treated for something like lyme disease.

By her standards today was a roaring success because they didn't say there was nothing wrong. They have to wait for the consultant to look at the images so she's bagged another outing on the strength of the results (which will inevitably be negative). She already has a planned illness for before then -- apparently she has MRSA of the bladder. Honest to God.

Anyway, that was my first pet hate. My second is those people who are obsessed with food. Maybe it's because I am a smoker but really, can you distinguish between the same type of mushroom bought from two different shops? I can't. I do not analyze every cooking smell for whether or not it is better than the last time it was done. It is food. I eat to live, period. I very rarely enjoy the process. I cannot tell you tales of a steak that I had in the eighties. In fact, I cannot tell you what I ate for lunch last Friday although a fair bet would be a steak and kidney pie. Did I ever tell you about my doctor asking me how many pies I ate? Well she did. I replied \"One or two\" with a wry smile. She said \"A week?\". \"Hmmm\" -- awkward shuffle -- \"actually, a day\". She cracked up laughing before insisting I had a cholestrol test. I got recalled because my cholesterol levels were high but the sweet part was they were high with the good cholesterol. Round one to Kenny's body.

Anyway, food = disinterest. Only ever really to be enjoyed when in company.

Have I been arsey enough to get it all out of my system? I think so. Good. Onwards.

I am sat about five feet away from my Mac and the TV, using a bluetooth keyboard and mouse. The Mac is hooked up to the TV and I don't think I have ever been more impressed with technology in my life. I mean seriously pinch me. I know these things are possible and probably not cutting edge, but when it's in your hands you have to be amazed. The only thing that stops me being further away is my crappy eyesight.

Mac Mini is on its way. That's my holiday blown out of the water. Nevermind. This is a holiday to end all holidays. Loving it.

First up, thanks to Tasha for an entertaining start to the day. You may ask why I am sending Tasha newspapers when virtually everything in there is on the net. The answer is much the same reason that I buy a paper; there is something comforting about having your news in print. Anyone who has the remotest interest in the press buys their newspaper of choice and reads the others online. The reason for sending the drugs is obvious.

What have I been up to? Well, I'd like to say I have been diligently moving things but in reality, I've not. I did a couple of trips yesterday with a few bags of stuff but other than that, I have been unpacking and setting up utilities. I think I am about 80% moved. I'm treating the remaining 20% as an organic process.

Moving is an excellent opportunity to ditch stuff. I have taken the bold position that if I didn't know I had it, it has been ditched. It has also been an study in customer service. Compare and contrast: It took me eight minutes on the phone with an English call center to set up installation of Sky for this Tuesday. I tried to arrange a BT line on their website without success (20+ minutes). After I gave up on the web angle, I started to search for a number that I could call -- it took traversing *eight* pages to find a phone number. And this is a telecoms company. When I called, it took 15 minutes to organize a line -- and they are charging me £122 for connection (earliest date for connection being Tuesday 14th). Sky installation is free and a week earlier. Tell me which of these two companies deserve to stay in business. The line rental for the minimum package is £12.50 a month -- I only use the fixed line for my broadband access. One of the perks of being employed by a mobile phone company is that your mobile costs you squat (aside -- I wonder how long it will take the treasury to spot that this is a benefit in kind). Even without the benefit of a free mobile, I doubt I would ever use a fixed line for anything other than broadband.

Well, here we go -- the tour de Kenny:

Front room with new TV (apologies for false prophet on screen -- News 24 sometimes acts heretical):

*large amount of static* Do not change the channel. Do not change the channel. Tasha has control of the airwaves. Do not change the channel.

Tasha is in receipt of the parcel. Package has been secured. Contains:

Evidence of Kenny's puzzle mastery:


Excellent reading material:


Drugs:


Package to be shared and consumed. PG Tips to be steeped. Journalists to gawk at how wide and tall paper is, as newsprint cuts are normal in America.

Regrets to be had that first visit to London is four hours in Heathrow both ways en route to Bangalore. Not enough time to leave airport because of customs. Opportunity noted to stock up on mint Aeroes.

Airwaves returning to normal. This was not a test.

*large amount of static*

I spent yesterday moving big stuff in Pater's bigger car so all the bulky work is complete. Now it's documents, DVDs and books. I was indulgent though. I nipped to Sainsburys and bought a 42" Toshiba 1080p TV. I think I am in love with it. NCIS was even more enjoyable than usual because of it.

The downside is that I am doomed to suffer a slow internet connection until I can get the phone-line sorted out. I'm using a mobile dongle and the speed is not what I am accustomed to. I did try to leech off two insecure wireless networks that I can see but I guess I'm just too far away to hold the connection for any length of time.

Today wil consist of some food shopping, more little stuff movement and badgering Sky into providing me with a service, preferably before the end of the football season. Honestly, you'd think given the fact that they almost certainly know it would take me ten seconds to have the cable service into the house re-activated, that they would be all over me like a bad rash. Not so.

Genüg. I promised myself that I would not blog until I had completely moved. I have failed. I have things to do and should be doing them now, not typing trifles. Laterz.

Early night required. And move will probably spill over to the weekend.

I am so excited. This time tomorrow I will be ensconced in my new home. Okay, probably only partially ensconced because even though I only have one room full of crap (read books, clothes and electronics) to shift, there's a lot and we will be transporting it all in Pater's car. My car carries me and possibly a midget*. We can probably get four or five trips in tomorrow since we're only talking a mile down the road.

I amaze myself with my uncanny ability to do the right thing. I will be a mile down the road, but it is a mile closer to work, so it is only 62.5 miles now. Result.

I had to provide all sorts of financial gubbins -- pay stubs, bank statements, letter from employer. Naturally I did so, but I blacked out all my account numbers and my NI number. I may be dumber than a box of rocks, but that is one that I will never fall for. I guess all was in order. They started off calling me <real first name, which is not what some of you might think it is> but I am now Mr <real last name which most of you know>. It's amazing how people change when they see your salary details. I don't earn anywhere near what I used to earn in the US, but I guess around here, it is more than 80% of people. If they really knew me, they would call me Kenny and have done with it.

I'm thinking I should maybe start packing, however given the amount of time I have to move and my inability to carry heavy things thanks to my b*stard legs, I guess I can pack things between trips up and down. Maybe I'll rest this evening and then hit the ground running tomorrow. There's a whole load of people I need to notify immediately that I need to record in a sensible spreadsheet rather than my patented scribbled list, and I really want to sort things like TV license, Sky etc out so I am set up ASAP. I'll class tonight as admin (and maybe Bones) and hit the hay early.

I did call and get some necessities sorted en-route home. I got four duck feather pillows -- is there anything about a duck that is not utterly divine? I would have loved to have bought a duck feather quilt but I couldn't find one (maybe another job for tonight?) so ended up with some <techie nonsense artificial crap> other kind, involving the wrong type of pol(l)ys. The parental units hit IKEA this afternoon for my birthday presents -- that would be the birthday that I will not be acknowledging. I have trusted Mater on delicate issues -- silverware, duvet cover. Good Lord, I'm tired even typing about this.

I must crash on; time and tide waits for no Kenny, and I've got a hundred things I've got to do. If I'm quiet for the next couple of days, no need to send out the St Bernard's. Someone keep an eye on the clientele; I want yellow and red cards handed out dependent on severity -- I trust (most of) you to do the right thing.

Freeeda -- my place, Saturday at eight. You can babysit the place while I go out.

Smooches.

--

* -- the midget is not the Minogue.

My day to day finances are not the best run on the planet. In fact, there have been times when I have been sorely and sadly broke (not just a place in Bristol). When they are not at nadir status, I very often splash out on some stocks. Being a ditz, I very often buy them and forget about these things, to be revisited when nadirs happen. As it happens I'm not in a nadir at the moment so I was surprised when I got a call from TD Waterhouse this morning asking me about some shares I had bought about 3 years ago. It was a small biotech company in Cambridge who did an IPO back then. I had been tipped the nod by my old CEO who has a PhD in biochemistry and used to run a company that manufactured artificial ligaments and joints. I was a bit reluctant but had a token punt. The company was started by the father of yet another old CEO of mine who has the patent for inventing synthetic plasma. I only met him a couple of times, but he used to amuse me by telling tales of how in some respects smoking was not quite as bad for you as everyone claims; the theory is that smokers kill off vitamins quicker than non-smokers so they had a natural inclination to take in fresh vitamins. He freely admitted that you died earlier from the lung and heart damage but stood by his vitamin assertion.

Anyhoooo when I bought these shares for about £700 three years ago, I never really tracked them because I didn't expect them to come to much. The last time I checked the price (probably about 6 months ago), I think the value had gone up from £700 to about £1100. No great shakes for three years. The call that I got this morning was a tad on the unexpected side. I think we can safely say woot. Due to a patent that they registered in January, they have licensed the technology to some of the big boys in the biotech world. My paltry £700 punt is now worth high five figure amounts. Gulp.

I have not signed my rental contract yet so I'm thinking I am going to belay that. I've not got enough to buy a house outright, but it's enough to make the outstanding balance palatable. If I don't go daft and stay Oop Norf', I should have payments of a modest car loan for about ten years and all is peachy. The avaricious side of me says hold the damned things but greed only ever produced misery and I am damned lucky to get a windfall this size so I should bail while the metaphorical sun is shining.

I'm thinking hold off on the move, take my 10 days holiday wherever the hell I like, return to work and then see what I'm thinking. That is about as rational as I can be at the moment. This needs to be slept upon before I act.

I suppose it counterbalances the losses I made on the banks when I foolishly assumed that they knew what they were doing.

I think we can say best Wednesday ever. I might even participate in the weekly team conference-call later without wanting to top myself.

Happy days.