Post? But I'm too scared!

I may, or may not, have mentioned this at some stage, but I am...a bedroom DJ. Yes, I confess, I am a closet music producer whose works never reach the public domain! I can feel your damning glares spearing at me over the internet burning little glare-shaped holes in my mind!

So, on Friday, someone made a comment along the lines of '...you should post the music [my own music] onto the net somewhere and let other people enjoy and critique it! Otherwise the whole process is tantamount to [self-gratification] and nothing else!' He used less child-friendly terms but you get the jist of the message.

And now I am completely torn. I do want to release my work onto the vastness of the internet for all of you to partake in, but at the same time, I'm paranoid about copyright infringement and people stealing my work! What do I do? To post or not to post, that is the question...

Photos from The Fridge Incident...

Hi all

Just two pics from the fridge incident. Below you can see a member of staff wisely hiding behind the odour barrier of their face mask. Below that, Leia retreating from the building with Kermit, one of our lab plants, and spreading the pleasant smell of incense.

The problem with the internet is that you can't broadcast smells...

Yesterday was a ridiculous day! It began with the introduction of coconuts to Tas and co. Midway through our munchings, we were interrupted by a student from one of the adjacent labs who had come to announce that the only freezer in our department which can be maintained at -80˚C had been off all weekend because the wall socket it had been plugged into had given up the ghost for no apparent reason. As a result, any material that we had stored in there was more than likely useless as it had probably decayed beyond all recognition.

As one does in our department, we shrugged it off and figured that there would be a few students who would be upset, but the world would continue to turn none-the-less. We were wrong...

As it turned out, the fridge was determined to go out with a bang and that bang was targeted at everyone who worked in our side of the building. The decaying material (which included cat-food - WHY?!) had, as decaying material does, produced the most noxious stench our building has ever smelled. The pong was also really sneaky...it remained out of smell for a good part of the day and then rushed at all of us will full smelly force just after lunch time.

In an effort to overcome the stench, one of the resident academics decided to try and burn some Helichrysum, which she had obtained from a local traditional healers market. The result was a combination of putrification with burning plants and a hint of marijuana (and not in a good way...).

It was around this time that Tas entered my lab and uttered the words, 'What died?!' which pretty much summed things up. We also came to the conclusion that our building has absolutely no fire/smoke alarms at all; a comforting thought...

As much as appreciated the attempt to improve the olfactory conditions of our labs, the smell became too much and we all decided that it was a good idea to go home. So, we all packed ourselves up and began walking out of the building. As we arrived at one of the staircases, we noticed that there was a small cascade of water pouring down the stairs into the passage. As it turned out, one of the pipes had burst on the third floor and the water was using the stairs, as any sensible sentient being would. We gave it some space as the water was slightly yellow and, being that it had come from one of the microbiology labs, you really never know what it could contain...

This morning, when I returned to my lab, the stench still remained and had yet to be exorcised from the building. Some kind soul had replaced the burning plants with incense sticks so instead of the smell of burning grass, we had a building that smelled like an ashram.

And people wonder why I enjoy the work I do...

The hell-hound strikes again...

I am once again house-sitting for my aunt and uncle. It's a fantastic job except for one thing; their dog. I've written to you all about the hell-hound before, and this story follows another of the little *&^%$#'s adventures...

Once, during the house-sitting stint in the post linked to above, I made the mistake of leaving one of the house windows open when I left for university. It is a very low-down window, practically on the floor, but it is part of a wall-like window setup at the main bedroom. The window has bars across it, so I figured, it's safe, nobody will get in through there. So, blissfully ignorant to the peril that awaited me, I left for varsity, confident that all would be well in the world.

Many hours passed, and the day progressed uneventfully...

I returned to the house that evening. I opened the door to find the dog in the main entrance hall. My first thoughts were something along the lines of, 'That's odd...he was locked out earlier...' and immediately graduated to 'Oh no...someone has robbed the house!!'. So, as I frantically ran from room to room searching for evidence of thievery, the true horror of the situation began to dawn on me. Nothing was missing. All the doors were closed. The only possible entrance could have been the window I'd left open!

I sprinted through to the master bedroom and there, glaring at me like a defiant child who has just been refused their demand for sweets in a supermarket, was the open window. A little confused I looked around and again, confirmed that nothing was missing. It was only when I returned to the living room that the true horror of it all sank in. And given how many horror movies I watch, that's pretty bad!

The dog had come in through the window and devoured the entire lounge! Okay, so not the chairs and sofa and stuff, but almost everything else was gone! He had chewed up their grass-weaved basket, a wooden puzzle that they had bought on a previous holiday (it remains unreplaced...) and several garden game tools, including an entire volleyball set...

So, since then I have ALWAYS ensured that the window remains sealed shut. That is, until this time...

So this morning I left the house to head out to my grandmother's for lunch. Once there I suddenly realised that I'd forgotten to close the window!!!

I had too much to do to head back to close it at the house, so I ended up spending all day with the sickening fear in the back of my mind. At the same time, at the end of the day, I was determined not to let the terror get to me and so tried to appreciate the skyscape as I drove along the highway:


When I arrived at the house, I couldn't help but scanning the house from outside for movement. My eyes, darting around furiously, revealed nothing and I breathed a sigh of relief. I soon gave myself a mental slap. The hell-hound could have been somewhere not visible from the outside!

As I opened the door...

...he was there, with the facial expression typical of dogs that says, 'HI! I'M HERE! AREN'T YOU PROUD OF ME?'

My heart sloshed around my ankles...

But, as I moved through the house, surveying the damage, I began to realise that there was...none! The house was intact! Behold, the proof!

Before:

After:

I was SO happy that I gave the dog a MASSIVE sinew-bone-hide-thingy. You can *just* see him in the picture below with the bone in his mouth looking very pleased with himself...

Step aside Indy, this one's alive!

This was a conversation that I had with EEbEE earlier today. The paper that the exerpt came from is at the bottom of the page. Step aside Indiana Jones, this is how REAL monkeys do it!

Luke: A charming little exerpt I had to share with you: 'Most people with first hand experience of primates will be impressed by the animals' tolerance of injuries and their rapid healing. One example, observed in a large group of tufted capuchins (Cebus apella), concerned a young adult male with a head wound exposing several square centimetres of scalp. The wound was frequently groomed by other group members, who also dipped potatoes in it. Although we might expect that this would be a painful experience for the wounded individual, his behaviour appeared quite normal. In fact he appeared to enjoy attention from the others, and actively sought more of this treatment (see also Dittus & Ratnayeke1989). The wound eventually healed without any human intervention.'
It's from a paper I'm reading. It stopped me in my tracks...
Ebrahim: !!!
who'd have thought
didn't expect that at all
Luke: The mental image is very funny though, in a sick sorta way :)
Ebrahim: hehehe. i admit... i laughed when i read it
Luke: I was just so shocked! I actually jumped back and gasped! Lab-mates must think I'm insane...
Ebrahim: lol. i can't wait to attack my next first aid situation with a bit of potatoe
Luke: It's the ultimate first aid tool! Ambulances should be filled with bags of potatos!
Ebrahim: imagine the look on the face of the guy with a missing arm when the ambulance shows up :O "all you brought were some POTATOES!!!"
Luke: ROFL!!! Yes! I was also wondering what ambulance chase scenes in movies would be like if the vehicle kept shedding small tubers as it roared through the streets of downtown New York...

Chips and ketchup, anyone?

There's more than one way to kill a cat...or die trying...

Sunday evening was no different to any other. The weekend was drawing to a close and the heavy blanket of depression that is the realisation that the next day is Monday was slowly settling over all, but trying very hard not to be noticed while at it. I was in my kitchen, preparing my dinner; nothing exciting, just a toasted sandwich.

It was a normal Sunday evening...for all except one. Fate had other plans for that one...

At some point, I heard my cell phone ringing. Like a parent who hears their child cry, I dropped what I was doing and hurtled down the long dark passage of my house to answer the call of my electronic child.

Our house is long and thin, so we have one straight passage that runs the full length of the house, from kitchen to garage. Due to the fact that it is the central backbone of our house, it is very dark, with doors leading off on either side to bedrooms and the like. From the kitchen heading down, the first door on your right is my sisters room. It was at this junction that the incident occurred.

As I sprinted down the warren that is our passage, something large and black shot out of my sisters room, aiming itself directly at my ankles. Instinctively I leaped up, hurdling over my dark assailant. My attacker changed its course of action. It had realised that I was considerably larger than it was and that fleeing might, in fact, be the better option. However, it was the mode of escape that could have used a little forethought.

It was my cat, Lady Amelia Fitzpatrick, who had launched herself from my sisters room. The problem was that, as only a cat can do, she had chose to run by moving into every space that I tried to put my feet down and with the inertia I already had, I was not likely to stop any time soon.

So the two of us performed a bizarre zig-zag hopscotch down my passage, me trying very hard not to stand on my cat, which by this stage looked more like a tiny spruce tree than an animal. We finally ran out of passage and the cat continued her puffy, angry sprint into my parents bedroom. I followed her, by this stage having successfully slowed to a walk, finding it very hard to control my laughter. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

As I fumbled in the dark, looking for my parents light switch, I heard a loud hiss from under their bed. In the dim light coming through their bedroom door, I could just make out her VERY large, angry eyes glaring at me.

In her defence, as traumatic as the experience may have been for her, she will get her own back. As the video below shows (sorry about the poor quality; I used my cell phone to record it) she loses her mind daily and when this happens, anything and anyone is fair game. She bullies the dog and we all live in fear of having our legs adopted as claw-sharpening posts, or our ankles considered to be the most viable alternative to actually eating the food in her bowl. Take special note of the final display where the cat attacks the door frame for no apparent reason...

Europe: Amsterdam and Holland

So, given that it is a beautiful, sunny, typical South African Sunday afternoon and I am recovering from eating WAY too much of my grandmothers awesome cooking, I've decided to take the time to write about my amazing trip to Europe! I apologise about how few photos I'll post with this, but the blogger photo thingy just drives me INSANE...so my patience only can cope with about 5 at the most...

The trip started on Thursday the 13th (not nearly as ominous as if it had been a Friday...) of August. I was on my way to Europe to attend the International Ethology Conference, in Rennes, France. We call what we do Ethology because that just sounds way more cool than just saying, 'We watch animals and try figure out what they are doing...'

For financial reasons (being a student does suck sometimes) I had booked myself onto an Egypt Air flight to Amsterdam, my first port of call. Saving the money on my flight with Egypt Air did however mean that I had to spend 5 hours in Cairo, wafting around the airport. It wasn't all that bad and, honestly, the only thing that really struck me about Cairo, was just how flat and desolate it was! I know what you're thinking...'Luke, don't be such a dumbass! It's in the middle of the desert! What were you expecting?! A tropical paradise?!'

Honestly, I don't know what it was that I'd expected to see when I got there. But somehow, it still came as a surprise when I looked out onto the runways and the airport grounds and saw nothing.

I then flew through to Amsterdam from Cairo. Cairo was like the alps in comparison to Amsterdam! I've never been somewhere so flat in all my life! It's just bizarre! Johannesburg is quite a hilly city. We are built on a range of hills which run east-west through the city, so a little gradient isn't anything strange for us. However, a lack of gradient is...

I arrived in Amsterdam feeling that terrified excitement that can only be understood when one is arriving in a country you've never been to. I'd been very smart about my travelling and had printed out a map of where my hotel was and had gotten a bus number off the hotel web-page so that I would have no trouble getting from the airport to my hotel. Once out of the airport, I found my bus-stop almost immediately, and waited all of a minute for my bus to pull up. I got onto the bus and after having a brief but pleasant chat with the driver, in English, moved to the back of the bus to take a seat.

A word of caution to would-be travelers: if you are attending a conference, don't take your poster with you unless you have one of those nifty architect-drawing-carrier-tube-over-the-shoulder thingys. Otherwise it just gets VERY irritating and cumbersome! But, sitting in the back of the bus, trying not to let my poster tube wallop people as they walked past, I could feel myself beginning to relax. It was a pleasant feeling to think, 'For the next few weeks, you don't have any responsibilities, other than staying awake in talks during the conference'.

After about 45min of riding the bus, we were well into Amsterdam and I began to wonder where my stop was. I got a little more worried when I noticed that the next two stops were the last on the line and neither were my street. So I scuttled to the front of the bus and asked the driver, who in very friendly tones and grinning from ear to ear assured me that I was very much on the right bus and that the next was my stop. I figured, who would know better than the guy who drives the bus every day? As it turned out, I'd probably have been better off getting directions from a pot-plant...

I dismounted the bus and thanked the driver, gleefully ignorant to the true nature of my predicament. He had suggested that I walk a few streets down in order to find my hotel, which I dutifully did. As I walked through the very busy area in which I was again, trying not to injure the local populous with my poster tube, I began to suspect that I wasn't where I needed to be.

Eventually, in a display of behaviour most un-befitting my sex, I asked for directions. In truth, I was a little terrified to ask the locals for directions and so sought out the first hotel with a Union Jack hanging outside it. I managed to find one with ease and, trying not to sound too nervous, asked the woman behind the front desk how I got to my hotel. She was very accommodating and kindly pointed out that my hotel was in fact, on the opposite side of the city.

After she suggested a bus to take, I returned to the bus stop to wait and pray that I was heading in the right direction. Another note to would-be travellers: If you are taking a backpack, ensure that it doesn't protrude too far off your back. Standing on a narrow island in the middle of a busy road waiting for a bus, you'd be amazed how many cars have near-misses with the pack on your back. Obviously the poster-tube hellbent on drawing blood by nightfall didn't help much either...

As it turned out, I was catching the correct bus (Thank you SO much reception-girl from Amsterdam!!) and eventually walked into the reception area of my hotel, grinning the triumphant grin of the moron who took the wrong bus, but everything is okay now. After checking in and learning the room number of the friends I was meeting up with there, I headed off to my room to ditch my stuff. The room, which was not bad at all, was a welcome sight and after unloading my baggage, I went in search of my associates.

I got to their room and knocked on the door. There was no response. So I knocked again. Nothing. Just as I was about to give up I heard the clacking of the door being unlatched from inside. As the door was cracked open, I gazed into an entirely unfamiliar face. After exchanging greetings, I apologised for disturbing her, obviously at the wrong room, and left. A little confused, I returned to reception to check on the room number. The receptionist assured me that I had been at the correct door and suggested that I try again.

I returned to the door and knocked again. This time, the response was almost immediate and again, an unfamiliar face appeared on the other side of the portal. This time I thought to ask if my friends were there. As it turned out, they were and the 'unfamiliar face' was in fact one of the people we were going to be travelling around with for the next two weeks.

A little rosy faced and sheepish, I entered the room to see how the others had fared on their arrivals. As it turned out, not one of us had managed to get to the hotel without getting terribly lost! That might have had something to do with the fact that the map and instructions I had used, I had passed on to all the others to aid their navigation, but I prefer to think that it was just rotten luck...

Amsterdam was amazing though! I don't think I've enjoyed a city quite as much as I did Amsterdam! No...wait...I'm lying. London was awesome, but Amsterdam came very close! We did so much! We went to the Anne Frank house (an amazing, but humbling experience), the 'Our Lord in the Attic' church, the red-light district, several amazing parks, the Van Gogh museum and a Holland-in-a-Day tour with the craziest woman I've ever met as our tour guide (Seriously, she was either severely unstable, or very high and given that it was Amsterdam, it could have gone either way...).

More on the rest of my adventures later! For now, gaze in wonder at the amazing photos...

A house opposite one of the very large parks of Amsterdam. Who wouldn't like to live there...?

A water feature near the Van Gogh museum. The panels in the middle are concertinaed metal sheets with pieces of different images on the side of each fold, meaning that the image changes, depending on which direction you look at it from! Clever! And, in the background, you can see the word 'Amsterdam'; it was another artwork.

I think this is a fantastic store! Whoever came up with the idea to market lies to children is a genius!

What would Holland be without clogs? Eh? I mean, look at the variety! They even had 'Hello Kitty' clogs!

Rotterdam (I think...)! The architecture was amazing! It's a little odd to think that you can go about the city by car...or boat...

I'm so screwed...

Over the last few months I have had to do a great deal of teaching. Specifically, I've been teaching the medic students on the topic of metabolism and digestion. The lecturing went as well as could be expected given the circumstances (having all your work on your laptop stolen a week prior to you starting your lecturing does tend to hamper your teaching somewhat...), and luckily for me, the section has been completed, freeing me from the responsibility of shaping young (albeit empty) minds.

The first of my problems I noticed on Tuesday, when the medics class wrote a test. I started marking the test and was horrified! They have absolutely NO CLUE what is going on in my section! My first instinct was to think, 'Oh no! I'm such a bad teacher!' but I then thought to myself, 'Wait, this is university! They are all adults! If they have a problem they can track me down for help or look it up in a text book! It's not like I'm completely unapproachable (as far as I know...maybe I smell faintly of eggs...?) and I'm on campus ALL THE TIME!!'

I also received confirmation, via Facebook, from one of my students that I had indeed taught them well and that, in his opinion, it is entirely their own fault if they are doing badly in the test. AMEN!!!

As an aside, it's a little weird being contacted, and friended, by one of your students on Facebook. Luckily for me, I'm not closer to 50 yrs old, which would have made the whole thing very awkward...

The other thing that is worrying me is that I have to now supervise the practical that is associated with my section of work. Normally this wouldn't phase me in the least, but the problem is that this practical requires of me that I explain how to do a chemistry procedure that I have not done in at least the last 7 years!! So, understandably, I'm a little freaked out...

I'm going to scan through the memo and hopefully find something that I can use to fool people into believing that I know what I'm talking about...when I don't. Otherwise, there's always google...

Returned

Hi faithful followers of me!

I have returned! And I come bearing presents! For most people anyway...unfortunately, a student budget does limit one's present-buying abilities.

So, I've been away from my blog for AGES now and here comes the barrage of excuses:

1. My life was completely thrown upside down by the robbery incident that happened about two months ago and I am still running to catch up with that. I also have yet to have my emotional breakdown that accompanies most peoples assault/robbery experiences in South Africa, which is a little worrying. I hope it doesn't happen somewhere public...that would be embarrassing...
2. I've had to prepare a poster for the conference in France. This was made extra-difficult because of the above as I had to try and scramble together all the little shreds I could of a project I'd once had.
3. I experienced a serious social upheaval just prior to my leaving for the conference. This, upsetting in its own right, seriously threw me off when it came to getting things ready for the conference as well. I'm one of those unfortunate people who battle to concentrate on work when their personal life is falling apart.
4. I had to attend said conference in France. That's where I've been for the last three weeks. But more on that later...

But, I'm back! And VERY glad to be home! As much fun as scuttling around Europe for three weeks is, the attitude of the Parisians totally ruined it for me, so I ended up being more than happy to leave and come home.

P.S. A certain individual in our department is REALLY ticking me off. He coordinates the exams for the medics and just prior to my leaving for the conference, amid all the stress of preparing for that, he started insisting that I send him all my quesitons for the medic exams at the end of the year. I, somehow, managed to throw a few together and email them to him; not all of the required work, but part of it. So today, having been away for three weeks, I ran into him and immediately appologised for the lack of work-handing-in-ness. He then, very nonchalantly, tells me that he's not worried as he's had other things to do and couldn't be bothered to look at 'that stuff of yours' yet...if murder were not criminal and morally questionable, he would not live to see another day...

Hi! I'm here to have my face cut up...

So, for those of you who are avid readers of my blog (I love you guys!), you will know that I was recently the victim of an assault, during which my nose was broken. Well, yesterday, I went into hospital to have it repaired. Surgically.

This may seem relatively trivial to some. I mean, so what, it's a little surgery. It's not exactly a heart/head transplant. Well actually, it was! Behold, the new me:

On a more serious note, even the most simple surgery which requires me going under complete anaesthesia is potentially life-threatening for me. I have a fantastic little disease called malignant hyperthermia (MH). Just reading that first paragraph on wikipedia makes it sound very fatal. It's genetic and basically means that if I am not given the correct anaesthetics, my body starts to burn off all its possible energy and I end up cooking myself to death. Charming, isn't it?

Apart from being able to instill terror in the hearts of anaesthesiologists everywhere, there's no real perks to having the disorder. The only way that this disorder can be diagnosed is by having a biopsy done on a leg muscle in which the remove a massive chunk of your leg, put it into a special solution of chemicals and watch it twitch and fizzle. They then confirm that you have it. I had the biopsy done when I was 5. I only learned yesterday that in order to avoid giving me anaesthetic, the doctors just doped my little 5 year old body with tons of Valium and then hacked away at my leg. Am I the only one who finds that irresponsible...?

This time round, no Valium was required. But it would have been appreciated. Instead, I was given the safe stuff (I don't actually know what they gave me) and I was the first to be operated on, so as to ensure that the machines were all clean and devoid of normal anaesthetic. The operation (I keep thinking it's spelled with two 'p's...) entailed repositioning my septum (the cartilage that separates your nostrils from one another) and removing part of my turbinates (wafer-like bones in your sinuses that are necessary for heating and cooling air as it enters and leaves the body respectively), which had been damaged when their quiet existence was rudely altered by a firearm. Behold, my x-ray!

Sorry, my scanner can't really cope with the contrast very well, so I had to draw the bits in...Anyway, I awoke in the ICU after the op was over with a mass of memories that I'm still not sure didn't happen. Someone explained to me that apparently with MH, the attacks can take place up to 24 hrs after the surgery is over, so there is still a danger, even if you've made it through already.

But I survived! I then spent the next day drifting in and out of consciousness in the ICU, being attended to by a fantastic male nurse called Presley. After reading his name take I made a mental note not to say 'Hey! Like, Elvis Presley!' as I was sure that he'd probably been hating his parents all his life for giving him that name. Instead, I thought 'Hey! Like Elvis the penguin!'.

Throughout the day the nurses checked my vitals, took my temperature using an ear-gun-thingy (usually, just as I was drifting off to sleep) and occasionally checking my blood sugar just for fun (I'm not kidding. This morning I woke up and the nurse literally said, with great enthusiasm I might add, 'Shall we check your blood sugar? It's not necessary, you're fine, but let's just do it anyway, shall we?'). Every now and then Presley would swing past to make sexist comments like 'These woman...you work so hard and they go and spend all your money...' while looking at me knowingly. I tried to make like I was woozy from all the drugs.

At various times I was also accosted (but in a nice way) by the catering lady, who came around with a menu to ask me what I would like to eat for my next meal. For the record, the Greek salad has no feta and came with a grand total of three olives. But otherwise, hospital food wasn't bad!

I was also visited by my parents, my cousin and my pal Dave! Duncan (cousin) was most unimpressed that nobody had brought me chocolates for him to help himself to. So I sent my mother to buy some, which she did, and he helped himself to. The nurse ended up taking it in the end. I wasn't really in the mood for chocolate anyway.

Eventually, I was permitted to return home. My dad picked me up with some clothes (the underwear they give you in the hospital is amazing! It's so stretchy! But very uncomfortable...) and I was whisked off home after a few goodbyes. Now, I sit at home, wrapped in a blanket, tissues stuffed up my nose and happy to have had a bath. I'll keep you posted on my condition...

Don't read further if you do not want to be scarred.

You were warned! For the record, when you are in ICU, no matter how coherent your speech and how much effort you put into proving that you are quite capable of moving around by yourself without dying, they will NOT let you go to the toilet. Instead they will bring you a little jug-thing into which you must now relieve yourself. Being a male, I'm sure this was easier for me than, say, for a girl. However, peeing at such a funny angle, into a vessel that is filling rapidly and could overflow into your bed at any time is scary! It's even worse when they give you one that doesn't have a lid! It's so much more risky! You could spill at any time!

I laugh in the face of Death! And get a mouthful of feathers...

Today, after going to withdraw R50 from an ATM and hitting the wrong button, resulting in the machine producing R500 instead, I went to the dentist for a filling...If I could have that word dripping with blood, I would. I hate the dentist. It's nothing personal! He's a really nice old man, albeit with bad teeth. It's the profession that I take offense to...

The point of the story was my rather scary experience in the chair. I have malignant hyperthermia which always makes anaesthesia exciting. Now days, most of the anaesthetics used are safe and will not cause me to die, but I still get nervous whenever I have to have any. So, after the dentist gave me my local shot and left my face to numb up for 5 min, I was a little on edge.

Just as the dentist started drilling, what appeared to be a tall black-hooded figure walked past his cubicle. I only saw them out of the corner of my eye and he was mostly obscured by the wall of the cubicle that I was in, so I couldn't be certain but they bore a striking resemblance to the skeletal, black-robed, pointy-hooded fellow commonly known as Death.

Writing this, I realise that I have a seriously overactive imagination but I'm being perfectly honest when I say that my first thoughts were something along the lines of, 'Oh crap! It's Death! But wait...aren't you supposed to see a white light or something, not some dude in a black hoodie? Maybe he'll come past again...' So, while thinking that maybe it actually was my time to go and how inconvenient the timing was if I was to die today, I kept an eye out for the dark figure.

About 5 min later he reappeared! And it was at this point that I mentally kicked myself in the head for having the mind I have. It turned out that what I thought was the pointed tip of the hood of Death, was actually a feather-duster, skirting along the tops of the cubicles. I decided to focus on counting the roof pannels above the room from that point on...

Which is worse...?

Question: Which is worse? People who indicate and proceed to NOT turn/change lanes while driving or people who turn/change lanes WITHOUT indicating?

It's a question which I still can't figure out the answer to. Lately I've been spending a great deal of my time in traffic (which is odd given that there are fewer students around at the moment what with their exams and all...) and there are an alarmingly high number of individuals who do these annoying things. Another thing which I find frustrating about driving is the lack of decisiveness in drivers.

For example, this morning on my way in, I had the misfortune of being stuck behind some girl who appeared to have had her drivers license for approximately the last two minutes. She was supremely un-confident about having to actually use her car and having indicated, refused to change lanes until she had at least 500m of car-free road on all sides.

I know that Johannesburg drivers tend to be particularly aggressive and that we are not particularly tolerant of other driving styles, but I am a firm believer that one should feel comfortable driving one's car and should not live in trepidation of having to encounter another vehicle, even if they are going in the opposite direction to you.

On the other hand, I know that I really should just chill and not let it get to me. But where's the drama in that?! Drama is what makes life fun!

Golly, I need a holiday...

I'm enjoying this WAY too much!

For those of you who have never had the fortune (whether good or bad, depends on your outlook) to teach students at any stage, one of the features of the job which can be rather painful is marking. One's responses to students work can range from blinding rage to hysterical laughter. It is the latter that has brought me to write this post.

Over the last two months, I took on my first lecturing job ever. It's been great! I've really enjoyed it immensely! It's fantastic to be able to teach people about something that they've never done or heard of before, and to see them getting excited about what you tell them makes a world of difference!

However, it is when the marking starts that you begin to wonder, 'Are they really this stupid, or am I just a really bad lecturer...?'. Within the last week, I've had to invigilate two exams and I am now in the course of marking both lots. And, because of all the stuff I've read in their exams, I, along with a couple of friends, have decided to start a sister-blog where I shall publish the best of the stupid stuff students write. It is...

Scary things students *think* they know...

I've been told I enjoy the marking way too much and must learn to appreciate the mundane nature of the job...

I'm not into self-mutilation! It was my cat...!

I have the cutest cat in the world. I realise that that is what every cat owner on the face of our planet says about their pet, but she definitely lies pretty high up on the cuteness scale. Her full name is Lady Amelia Fitzpatrick, but I call her Mia for short, or simply 'kitten' depending on whether she has done something wrong or not.

One of the elements that adds to her charm is the fact that she goes through periods of complete insanity. Early in the morning, she will go tearing around the kitchen, literally leaping off the cupboard doors, spending more time in the air than in contact with any solid surfaces and generally pulling moves that would make the Witkowski bothers exceedingly jealous. but how does this link to self-mutilation, you may ask?

It has more to do with another of her behaviours associated with these spats of lunacy. Considerably less endearing is her tendency to attack almost anything at random during these periods. The victims of her pent-up aggression include anything from a table leg to a human leg, from fingers to fluff. And God forbid you wear anything with tassels or a pull-string! That's fatal!

The other day I made the generous, but foolish decision to engage with my cat during one of her 'fits'. The result is that I now have hands and arms completely covered in scabs and scratches! And they keep coming! This afternoon, I discovered I had a set of kitty-cuts on my right elbow that I never even realised were there! How she managed to slash at my elbows remains a mystery to me (perhaps while she was performing one of her cupboard ricochets...?).

All the same, I love her dearly and to show just how cute (albeit mad) my cat is, I am posting the following video. It's of her sitting in our kitchen sink (a favourite spot for her - she obviously never got the memo about cats hating water...) playing with water as it drips out of the tap. It's my first video upload, so I hope that this works! Ignore the sound...

On music

Ironically, without intending to do so I have chosen the same topic for today's post as Eebee did for his. Actually, it's not the same exactly, but along similar lines. For me it was all brought about by my arriving at my lab to discover that our cleaning lady, Sarah, was working away at polishing our countertops, with her cell-phone blaring gospel music in that tiny-distorted cell-phone kinda way. While I certainly have nothing against gospel music, I was a little taken aback at the fact that she felt that it was okay to play music in my office while I was trying to work. But I digress...

In addition to the above musical incident, I was listening to the latest Dido album today for the first time. It's really not bad! My friend David had listened to it and warned me that the vast majority of the album was rubbish but there were one or two tracks that were worthwhile. While I certainly think that there are no tracks on the album (so far...) that are nearly as catchy as some of her previous stuff, it's really not as bad as he made it out to be!

After reading Eebee's post about his top 5 most annoying music 'artists', I feel I have to put my ten cents worth in and rant a little. I have to agree that Nickleback has to be one of the most annoying bands on the planet! They have produced a grand total of about 2 original songs, figured 'Hey! This works!' and decided to clone them for the following 6 ALBUMS!!!

Now, no offense to fans, but they also exploit something in every teenage girl which drives me nuts! They write their songs as these soppy lyrics, masquerading as a rock band. Someone, please have a child by them so that they can go the way of all musicians who have children; an subsequent album with songs riddled with soppy titles like, 'My little angel', following which their career takes a nose dive, never to recover. The world would be a better place! I promise!

Then, Coldplay. I think that both Nickleback and Coldplay suffer from the same problem. Neither are able to inject a smidgen of originality into their music! But I shan't repeat the above rant for them too...

Next on my hate-list is Jay-Z. This man is about as musical as a jack-hammer. While I certainly consider most rappers with disdain due to the fact that what they do is NOT music, his tracks in particular irritate me because of their shallowness and lack of variability. While the backtracks for many of them are really quite good, and in some rare cases, generate that instant tapping foot thing that happens with a good beat, the fact that he 'sings' about how awesome he is and how much money he has, makes me sick. How insecure can you be as a person to feel confident about 'singing' your own praises?!

Then there is the beloved Akon. While I take pride in the fact that he is a fellow African and thus feel a certain kinship with the man, and apart from his various inappropriate stage cavortings with underage children, I would compare his voice to that of a toddler having a temper-tantrum. What possessed music executives to sign him on, is beyond me. What also amazes me is how many people actually like his music! It's amazing!

And thus, I shall end my rant. Sorry to any of you readers who are fans. These are just my opinions and I am a firm believer that music taste is an individual matter and shouldn't be a measure of a persons character.

Cause of death: Library shelf

Ten points Megs! ;)

Earlier this week I was diligently writing away at my dissertation. I have really been struggling to get myself to even open the file on my computer lately because I'm so terrified about the idea of having to write it all up and finish my masters degree. But somehow, I plucked up the courage to open it and had actually started writing, when I discovered that I needed a reference. So I did what all lazy post-grad students do: I searched the net for one.

I tend to use a site called science-direct, because the papers that it turns up are the best quality in my field and are generally up to date. So while searching through this site, I came across a paper that I thought could be very useful. There was only one problem. The university doesn't subscribe to that journal.

So, being overly dramatic, I threw my arms up in horror and wailed to my lab-mates about how my life was ruined and that I might as well just give up and open a hot-dog stand because that was my only hope of succeeding at anything in life. Or something to that effect...When Megan, being the voice of sanity and in the process totally killing all the fun of wailing about the meaninglessness of my existence, suggested that I just look on Google Scholar.

I did that and discovered, to partial relief that there was no such article on the web. So I turned to the solution of the non-lazy post-grad: The library.

Our university has a library web site that allows one to search for items based with relative ease. Occasionally you wonder whether the site was actually designed by a pot-plant, given the ridiculous answers it can produce to your queries, but overall, it's really not bad. I searched for the article and discovered that it was located in one of the universities 7 libraries. Which one? I had no idea. It was in a journal called 'The Journal of Comparative and Physiological Psychology', which as it turned out was discontinued. The reason being that the journal had actually split into several other journals.

Now, the way the library system works here, you are directed through the all-knowing site to a particular library and given the shelf number for what you are looking for. In this case, neither the library, nor the shelf number were evident. So, I assumed that it would most likely be located at the same library where all the psychology journals live and headed there.

I arrived at the library and asked one of the librarians at the front desk if they could help me. After explaining my woes, the librarian looked up at me and, in a sweet but obviously couldn't-give-a-rats-ass tone, asked 'Have you tried looking on the Internet?'. A little annoyed at the patronisation, I told them that I had and had found nothing. They smiled and proceeded to look on the Internet and then tell me all about how they had found nothing.

Defeated, the librarian passed me onto another of her kind. This one repeated the condescending procedure, complete with couldn't-give-a-rats-ass tone and the Internet search. Eventually, having given up, and leaving me feeling a little frustrated, he suggested I go speak to the woman upstairs who was in charge of journals.

We climbed the stairs and approached her desk. After making a half-hearted attempt to explain my saga to her (I'm not kidding! He started speaking to her in another language and, with apparent frustration turned to me and said, 'Tell her your problem...'), she began to try and help me. Her first response: 'Have you looked on the Internet?'

In all fairness, she was much more helpful than the last two had been. She managed to decipher the search results on the library site and discovered that the journal was indeed held in that library. She also managed to find the shelf number for me. So, having found the info we needed, this unlikely couple, a skinny white boy and a rather rotund black librarian, plodded off to the basement of the library where the journals reside.

Once in the basement, a sanctuary for the socially inept and dust mites, we began to check the shelf numbers on the rolling shelves for the section that I sought. For those who have never encountered rolling shelves, they are a fantastic invention, essentially a set of normal library shelves set on railway-like tracks which can be pushed back and forth on the tracks. This allows the library to have many more shelves and books for the same amount of space. The only real down side is that if you move the shelves, you can only really access one section of books at a time. And, any normal person who uses them cannot help but imagine that some unsuspecting student may move the shelves when you are in one of the temporary aisles, crushing you in the process.

The pair of us eventually found the section we were looking for and started to push the shelves back so that we could access the books held within. As we were doing this, we discovered that one of the shelves was stuck! This meant that the maximum space that was available for me to access the journals was an aisle about 40cm wide. Immediately, the librarian decided that she would go seek help and left me at the mercy of the dust mites (the socially inept aren't all that likely to attack, you know, the whole 'they're more afraid of you than you are of them' saga, so you're fairly safe around them...)

Up until then, the whole book-hunting ordeal had taken up about 30min of my time and so I decided to risk becoming human paper and entered the 40cm chasm that we had created in the wall of books. I frantically scanned the book spines on the shelves before me, all the while images of some mildly surprised individual 40 years down the line opening up the shelf as a crispy, paper-thin Luke floated down from the recently separated shelves. To my horror, I realised that the book I sought was located on the very bottom shelf at the end of the aisle. I could never get to it in this scenario as that would require that I be able to kneel down, a feat impossible with only 40cm of space in which to move. Reluctantly I retreated to the outside, resolved to wait for help to arrive.

As I exited the aisle, both the librarian and I, completely unaware of one another's presence there gasped as the two of us nearly collided. She had returned with one of the other librarians and was looking to see if I'd been foolish enough to enter the aisle just as I had been exiting. After some embarrassed apologies, we turned to the second librarian for an education in moving rolling shelves. As it turned out, all we had to do was pull the shelf along with the shelf before it. So we did this and it worked! Thanking the man sheepishly, I returned to the now decently sized space that had been created in search of my book. I managed to grab it and with my librarian assistant, headed back up to the main checkout desk to take the book out.

We arrived at the desk and we discovered, to my horror, that I was actually the first person, since the libraries on campus had gone digital to even look for the book, never mind take it out. So this meant that it wasn't even catalogued in the library system. Screaming on the inside, I graciously passed the book over to my assistant librarian who, with a jolly looking smile, waddled over to the lift to take the book up for cataloguing on the forth floor.

She returned about 10 min later, after I had been asked several times by clueless undergraduates whether I would let them print documents from the computer at the desk behind me, with the tome in tow. She had managed to get it catalogued and it was ready for me to take out! Jumping for joy on the inside I thanked her profusely and had the book checked out. The whole thing had taken 45 min but I finally had what I was looking for!

I got back to my lab and scanned the article, using our school's Bizhub (I am in love with a machine...). Once I was at the safety of my desk, I read through the paper. It was only then that I realised, as I read, that the article was almost completely useless to me...

We’re better than you – and we know it!

So, I recently wrote a guest-post for Helen's blog about child-birth. Following the raving success of my musings, I requested a guest-post from Helen, and here it is...

We’re better than you – and we know it!

I started going to gym about 6 months ago, took a break while I ran up and down mountains chasing lizards and then started again after I went scuba-diving and realised that my arm muscles have almost completely atrophied to a point where I was unable to pull myself up and into the boat. To my credit, it’s a pretty high boat…

I like gym. Maybe it’s just my masochistic side that loves being exhausted to a point where I can barely climb the stairs to the exit (whoever designed the place was a moron), and maybe it’s that I love turning in my ipod and ignoring the world around me as I run until I just can’t anymore. But as the weeks go by, I can’t help but notice the different people who go to the gym. And while it was fun to invent back-stories for them at first, now I find myself allocating them to groups:

Soccer-mom gym bunnies: these are most common if you go to gym midmorning. They are the type to have perfect manicures, matching gym outfits and running shoes and hair that is blow-dried into perfect pouffyness after every session. They tend to travel in packs and between dropping Soleil off at violin and picking Kyle up from karate class (in a gigantic SUV that is never going to go more off-road than parking at the local mall) they are seen running side-by-side on treadmills chatting about their personal lives in rather strident tones. I’m never sure which annoys me more: that they are so loud about what should be private; that their private lives aren’t interesting enough to warrant eavesdropping or that they never seem to sweat. Either way the unspoken competitive streak is there: they are always best friends as long as whoever their gym-buddy is doesn’t lose more weight than them.

Early morning high-achievers: I run into these guys a lot because they tend to go to gym either before work (at around 6am) or after work (around 7pm). I don’t mind these people as they tend to be driven, focused and above all, silent. They arrive early; do their gym routine as quickly as possible before showering, blow-drying hair and applying makeup at lightning speed and then rushing off to work where I presume the PA will have a cup of coffee waiting. I think, on some level, we all want to be like them, as long as it doesn’t come complete with a midlife crisis, stomach ulcer and high blood pressure.

The ex-early morning high-achievers: I feel quite sorry for these guys (they’re always male). These are the people who used to be high-powered yuppies, but years of long hours in the competitive business environment as well as family braais and rugby on the weekend leave them with a lovely beer-gut and the stamina to play 9 holes of golf, but not too much more. Then they hit middle age, realise they are going bald, buy a sports car and try very hard to get their secretaries interested in them. I hate to admit it, but whenever I drive past an oldish man in a sports car I feel the urge to cough ‘Midlife crisis!’ at them and giggle while zooming off. Fortunately I’m not that immature. Anymore anyway. So at the gym these guys still feel as if they are 25. They compete with everyone – not in the macho bodybuilder way where they know they’re better and they show off because they can, but in a rather sad, masochistic way. For instance, they still never ever use any equipment without adding extra weights. Even if they are doing a circuit behind the toughest weightlifter in the country, they will add weights. Of course this means that they usually can’t do anything with any level of control and they end up jerking and dropping weights everywhere. They’re also usually limited to about 2 reps per machine in order to avoid an aneurysm, but they make up for this by glowering at everyone around them and puffing their chest out if they see anyone lifting less than them (although ‘lifting’ is a bit of an overstatement…).

A new generation of stage-mothers: These are the soccer-moms at a whole new level – once the kids get too rebellious for ballet lessons or something they start accompanying their mothers to the gym. I’m not talking about the little kids who go to the play area, or about the bored kids who wander around and poke at anything with buttons (I mean machines, get your minds out the gutter!). Generally these are the pre-teen daughters who are being trained into eating disorders and compulsive exercise regimes at a nice early age. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be more supportive of mothers who teach their kids to be healthy and exercise regularly, but these mothers take it to the extreme, effectively living vicariously through their kids. As long as the little darling can run on the treadmill without being propped up, she will continue and therefore be fitter, thinner and altogether better than everyone else’s kids. Unfortunately most other others get this idea too, and so, if you go to gym in the middle of the afternoon you will see row upon row of bobbing blonde ponytails as the kids exercise while their mothers glare at each other and feel obligated to point out every single flaw in every other child (in a very subtle stage whisper) to their own spawn. After gym they will go and get smoothies and go and have pedicures together, in training for the next generation of overachievers who will probably end up as soccer moms.

The macho-men: much like how girls find it difficult to go to the bathroom alone, men find it difficult to go to gym without an entourage. Of course there is always the slight issue of who is in charge, and who forms the entourage, but that’s all in the friendly spirit of competition! These guys go to the gym in groups of three or four and take turns throwing weights around while making macho grunting noises. These guys range from late teens to late twenties, and as time passes the friendly competition becomes more and more intense. Sometimes the guys are really keen on getting in shape and they work hard and appreciate the accountability of belonging to such a group, but as far as I’ve noticed, there is quite often at least one member of the group who lies to feel macho. I’m not sure if this person goes to gym on his own, secretly, or if he just has a high pain threshold, but he’s always pushing the others way out of their comfort zones. This group has an unspoken rule that whatever one of them can lift/bench-press/leg press or whatever, they can all lift. So the scrawny little guy who invariably made friends with the others over an exciting game of D&D and who gets winded throwing the dice more than twice in a row… well lets just say that it’s not pretty to watch him gritting his teeth and straining… on the plus side, people like me get to watch the mach guys and picture them in twenty years time, with receding hairlines and the onset of a beer gut, trying desperately to regain lost youth… yes, they are well on their way to becoming ex-early morning high achievers!

The normal people: I know this post is coming across as bitter and cynical, but I think a lot of that attitude comes from seeing how uncomfortable the various stereotypes make the regular people. They don’t necessarily try, but the macho groups, or the soccer-moms in their designer gym gear can really make the man on the street a bit unhappy. These are the people who wear an old tracksuit and takkies, who actually sweat while exercising (and not in the tough, projectile-type sweat of the macho men either), who take breaks to catch their breath, who stand with their heads tilted, staring at the newest piece of equipment, tying to figure out if it’s a leg-machine, arm-machine, ATM, or a bench to rest on. These are the folks who occasionally feel so intimidated that they try to break out of their routine, where they invariably end up setting the treadmill at 30km/hr on an incline and go flying backwards (true story, I saw it last week!). So normal people, I salute you! Keep tying, and then, one day, when you bench-press more than the nearest macho-man, I will break out into applause as he tries to beat you and burst a blood vessel!

Zee Old Folks: These guys are the terror of most gym-goers (according to 100% of people surveyed, which was basically the last 5 people I spoke to. Thanks guys!). They aren’t too bad while exercising, they tend to do their own thing, usually involving swimming or walking. They aren’t necessarily ancient, in fact the mental image I have while typing this is of a 50-something woman. The reason that the image is burned into my brain? Because these people are the terror of the change room. Yes, the people who you would probably never want to see naked, are the ones who finish their workouts and then proceed to walk around the change rooms stark naked.

This is the scenario: you finish your workout and go to change or take a shower, but then you realise that there is a middle-aged naked person standing in from of your locker, having a conversation with someone across the room. This makes me very uncomfortable, because I hate to interrupt a conversation, don’t want to stare but am uncomfortable making eye-contact with a naked person. At the same time, tapping a naked person on the shoulder… awwwkward… my response is usually to go and wash my face, maybe go to the bathroom and come back later. This doesn’t usually work though and eventually I mutter “excuse me!” while staring at a point about two feet to the left of their head. Then you grab your stuff and go and shower quickly, avoiding looking at another one of zee old folks, who will be showering with the shower door open. WHY???

Then you get back from the shower, usually walking next to the person who was showering with the door open, to find that they will walk, naked, while CARRYING their towel. Seriously, not only is it a lot kinder to wrap the thing around you, it’s also more efficient ad you can carry your shampoo without dropping it and bending in front of me! You go and get your clean clothes out of your new locker (the talker is still standing in front of the one you used before) and try to change while staring at the floor. In the meantime the talker and the showerer will have started a conversation, and one of them will be standing with one leg up on the bench while rubbing lotion all over themselves. As by then I’m usually trying to tie my shoelaces, this will be at my eye-level. Once you are dressed you do not stop staring at the floor, while gathering everything and escaping.

I guess I will stop there, leaving you folks with that fabulous mental image. Have an awesome day!

Party! I wish not...

So, seeing as every other person I know that has a blog has taken to writing again, I feel compelled to do the same. Gotta keep up with the Jones's and all that...

I recently went to a party to celebrate a 25th wedding anniversary. In this day and age, simply having a 25th wedding anniversary is quite a feat and cause for great celebration. However, in this particular case, I just wish that I didn't have to celebrate it with the couple in question. The problem is that they are a family who I have known for some time and in that time I have grown to like them less and less. They are crass, crude, entirely self-centered and juvenile, all of which I cannot stomach. I realise that I am a snob, but what can I do?

So, on Sunday evening, I was dragged, reluctantly, along with my family to this party. Due to the fact that my one sister is currently in the UK, our party of party-goers consisted of my parents, my sister and I. The party was set to start at 5 (what kind of dinner party starts at 5 in the afternoon?!) and the dress code, according to the invitation anyway, was 'smart'. This in itself caused great consternation as none of us could figure out where on the continuum between naked and meeting the Queen of England 'smart' lay, but we figured it sat around the region of smart-casual and dressed accordingly.

Upon our arrival, we realised that smart actually meant, dress as if you are going clubbing in a really seedy area, or alternatively, as if you were going to a house party.

Starting the evening realising that you are severely over-dressed didn't help to improve my outlook on the festivities. The immediate arrival of a waiter with sparkling wine improved my assessment of the situation and after discovering the snack table, I began to think that perhaps things really weren't going to be all that bad. I was gravely mistaken...

To cut a very long, and painful, story short, things tobogganed downhill from this point on. The sparkling wine ran out within about the first 30 minutes, only to be replaced by a truly vile, dry white wine which put a proverbial cork in my sister's and my plans to get tipsy in an effort to make the experience bearable. The DJ for the evening turned out to be tragically overconfident with regard to the ability to woo the audience with his wit. In addition to this, his ability to cram just about every politically incorrect concept into everything he said, as well as a great number of expletives as punctuation didn't exactly warm my sister or I to him. There are hip movements displayed by a 50-something old man on the dancefloor I witnessed that are now permanently burned into my mind which, really, I could have done without. Not knowing a single person there, apart from the celebrated couple and their family didn't help much, but having a camera eased the boredom slightly.

Luckily, we had been placed at a table with a family that had two small children, thus providing the means for our escape. We kept a close eye on the state of fatigue of the children and with the emergence of the first yawn, we proclaimed that we too had best be on our way.

Much to my relief, my mother has decided that this was to be the final event of the family in question that we would ever attend. I've waited about 5 long years to hear that...

On uncertainty and the future

It's finally here. That stage in your research we have to write everything up, and spend hours and hours in front of the computer typing furiously. It's strange because you never really think that it'll come about. But one of those things that you always imagined will eventually happen in the future but it'll never really happened to you. Sort of like being mugged…

But the worst part of it all is the sudden realization that you will, in fact, have to find a job at some stage in the near future. Now this wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the fact, that I have absolutely no clue what I want to do. Actually, that's not entirely true. I do know what I want to do, it's just not necessarily available or an option.

Over the last few months have been sending out my CV to a whole host of different potential employers, both locally and internationally. I know that doing this is probably a good idea, but it can be incredibly frustrating. The fact that the majority of people that you send your CV to don't actually respond, doesn't really help much.

I did once receive a response from a UK based group that I was applying to work with. I had sent them my CV, along with a very enthusiastic e-mail, detailing exactly what it was that I was looking for, which coincidentally, was pretty much anything. They responded with an e-mail saying that they would love to have me come and work for them and that I must please give them as much information about myself as possible, which I did shortly thereafter.

Now you would think that this would mean that perhaps they were actually interested. However, there distinct lack of response thereafter, led me to think otherwise.

Lesson of the day: if you are an employer, please have the courtesy to respond to potential job applicants! It's most frustrating to be left in the dark...

Hell hounds and sleeping late

'Sup gangsta's?

It's been ages since I last blogged, and, as usual, the reason is that things have been getting a little hectic of late. The latest event-o-hecticness has been house-sitting for my aunt and uncle while they cruised along french canals on a riverboat with their daughters. I always love house-sitting for them because they have a really nice place and I get to be away from my family. Now, don't get me wrong, I love them all very much and I love being with them. It's just that a man (it feels SO wrong to refer to myself as a man...it should say 'boy', or at the worst 'guy') needs to feel independent, even if it's not real independence. And I love the freedom of living on my own, having to cook for myself (I LOVE COOKING!!! The novelty will ware off, I'm sure...) and just generally living at my own, albeit slowish, pace.

Coupled with the glorious fantasticallity of house-sitting, comes the actual job of upkeep of the house and it's inhabitants. My aunt and uncle have a cat (previously two cats...a story for another day for those who don't already know it...), a dog and a whole host of potplants. The first and last on that list are a piece of cake to care for, despite my constant forgetting to water the plants. It's the dog that's the problem.

He's a black labrador retriever. He's not even a year old and he has already wraught more damage on that house than a mob of angry peasants storming a castle. In the first week that I house sat for them, he managed to do the following. I kept a list, for my own amusement and to ensure that I could report the horror to the rest of the world via this, my blog.

10/08 Woke up to find that the dog had, during the night devoured a frisbee, a DVD cover, a pack of Prestik sticky putty and a full pack of 'Happy Birthday' stickers, leaving the kitchen floor coated in small festive birthday wishes and bits of plastic.

11/08 Woke up to find that the dog had left, not one, not two, but THREE steaming brown mountains on the kitchen floor. Coupled with this, the mutt had somehow managed to pee UNDER a couch in the TV room! (How a dog does this, I do not know!)

12/08 Woke up to find another turd on the TV room floor.

13/08 Dog obviously felt that previous days present wasn't sufficient and doubled his efforts: two piles of processed dog food on the floor.

14/08 For some reason the pooch was so excited about the prospect of going outside in the morning that he wet himself...and the floor...

15/08 The dog once again felt that he needed to give more. He pooped on the floor again (Thank God for tiles!!!)

16/08 Awoke to discover the remains of a book of unknown title (apparently something to do with buffalo from what I could make out of the pieces of the cover I could find...), a series of magazines, several unopened letters of my aunt and uncle's.

This is but a taste of the horror that is this dog. Coupled with these little daily extras was constant bringing-in of bits of garden, the removal of several bits of paving and the attempted and (luckily!) failed devouring of a garden hose.