🦆
Carol Klein in the Guardian Magazine's Gardening section two weeks ago (the butler is a bit behind on his reading):
Carrots are prone to attack from carrot fly, but the flies never reach more than a foot or so above the ground, so you can beat them by gravity in elevated pots or raised beds.
Bloody big flies!
I bought Carol's book Grow Your Own Veg on Friday. Not that I ever will, you understand—but it's a very pretty book.
I have a horse in the office sweepstake for the 4:15 at Aintree this afternoon (otherwise known as The Grand National). Actually, I have two. My first draw, Thisthatandtother, turned out to be a 129–1 rank outsider, so I took another shot and drew Sonevafushi, which was an even worse 219–1.
I don't know how I will eventually make my fortune, but it's a safe bet it won't be through gambling.
See also: System
Hebden Bridge Times: Countdown to dock pudding cook-offs
Strong competition is expected at the World Dock Pudding championship which is being held in Mytholmroyd a week on Sunday.
Entries have already been received from last year's winner Doris Hirst, Joan Whitworth who was a champion three years in a row with her husband Trevor before he died two years ago and former champions 15-year-old twins Clare and Kate Morrison which will ensure the contest is keenly fought.
I fully appreciate this is hardly the right time of year to be worrying about this sort of thing, but you'll be thanking me in December, mark my words.
Have you ever noticed how the year number changes at the end of each year? Damned confusing. Well, I've been doing some reverse-engineering, and I've come up with a handy, little formula for working out what next year's number will be:
(Where yn = next year's number, and y = the current year's number. Works for all years after 1 A.D.)
I await the call of the Nobel Committee.
So, is it striped or spotted?
Soak it in petrol, hold a match to it, and… WOOOOF!
Edge: A History of Violence by Steven Pinker
In sixteenth-century Paris, a popular form of entertainment was cat-burning, in which a cat was hoisted in a sling on a stage and slowly lowered into a fire. According to historian Norman Davies, "[T]he spectators, including kings and queens, shrieked with laughter as the animals, howling with pain, were singed, roasted, and finally carbonized."
And to think they say things have advanced since those days.
See also: Woof!
To allow us to get to Liverpool Derek Hatton Airport in time for our very early flight to Rome the other Sunday, Jen and I spent Saturday night at my parents', where we were required to watch the final of a minor celebrity talent contest called Dancing On Ice. It was on ITV, the channel that does Foyle's War and Inspector Morse. I hadn't realised it also does family entertainment. I use the word entertainment guardedly.
The following conversation took place:
Me: It's very sporting of that Phillip Schofield to dye his hair silver to fit in with the ice theme.
Jen: Is he famous or something?
Me: He used to be a children's television presenter. He's never been the same since he split with Gordon.
Jen: Gordon who?
Me: Gordon the Gopher. He was a glove puppet that squeaked a lot. Phillip Schofield was his straight man.
Mum: I thought you said Jordan.
SMS conversation with Carolyn on Wednesday:
C: What's that bird called that walks up walls?
R: Catwoman.
New Scientist letters, 07-Apr-2007
From Richard Carter
Last night I took Fred Pearce's advice and installed 111 energy-efficient light bulbs to offset the 11.1 tonnes of carbon emissions that I will be responsible for this year. All went well, until a passenger airliner en route to Manchester tried to land in my drive.
There must be easier ways to be green.
Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire, UK
Actually, he sounds rather intelligent.