Elementary, my dear Bucket

I solved a 152-year-old crime last night. And it wasn't any old crime either; it was the famous murder of the infamous Mr Tulkinghorn.

Jen and I have been spellbound by the BBC's excellent adaptation of Charles Dickens's Bleak House over recent weeks. Last night's repeated omnibus episode was the penultimate in the series, and it's building up to quite a climax. In last night's surprise ending, Agent Dana Scully narrowly escaped arrest, when the policeman from out of New Tricks nicked the dodgy maid with the even dodgier French accent instead. "Votre case, eet does not hold ze water, Monsieur Bucket!" she cried, as she was carted away by the rozzers.

And she was right: for, in a dream last night, I cracked the Tulkinghorn case wide open. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I can reveal that I know who the true murderer was. And you don't have to take my word for it: Jen (who was practising wheelies on a mountain bike at the time) agreed with my brilliant deduction.

I won't spoil it for those of you watching the series, but suffice to say that the identity of the murderer will come as a real eye-opener, involving, as it does, a representative of one of the great country families dressed in drag.

Remember, you heard it here first.

Specialist subject

Overheard at the bookshop:

"Have you got anything on sheep?"
"Erm… No."
Published
Filed under: Nonsense

Lost in Cheshire

Talking of lost, I spent a ridiculously long time lost in Cheshire yesterday—which is kind of embarrassing, bearing in mind I was born in the county.

It all started in Runcorn, where I somehow managed to leave the main expressway and head off into the hills. It was at this point that I realised I must have gone wrong somewhere, because I had never noticed any hills in Runcorn before. But rather than be all girly and retrace my steps, I decided to use my innate, masculine sense of direction. After about 20 minutes' driving round in circles, I spotted a landmark which I recognised. This was quite an achievement, as this was the first time I had been off the main drag in Runcorn—but I never forget a pub. Then I realised I only recognised it from the telly: it was the pub from Two Pints of Lager (and a Packet of Crisps). Big help.

So I retraced my steps and eventually picked up the right road to Northwich, where I immediately got lost again. By now, I realised what my problem was: there are absolutely no road signs in Cheshire. It's almost as if Cheshire towns see their neighbouring towns as rivals, and don't want to advertise their existence. So I headed off towards Winsford on the wrong road, then spotted a little country lane with an actual signpost pointing to a village on the road I needed to be on, so I rather stupidly followed it. The little lane passed directly over the road I wanted to be on, and led to a T-junction, which, of course, was somewhat lacking in the signpost department. So I took an educated guess and took a left, in the general direction of Winsford. Which just happened to be totally the wrong thing to do.

Come on, Cheshire County Council, it really shouldn't be that difficult. The Romans signposted the roads in your area. Isn't it about time you updated them?

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Filed under: Nonsense

Lost voice, lost dog

Carolyn has got a stinking cold and has lost her voice. She took the day off work yesterday, so she sent me a text message to cancel our weekly lunchtime coffee appointment. I gave her a call back, and we had a whispered telephone conversation. I don't suppose there was any real need for me to whisper as well, but it was kind of fun, and it all sounded very clandestine.

Carolyn explained how, on returning home after dropping her youngest off at school that morning, she discovered that the family dog had gone missing. She searched the house high and low, but there was no sign of it. So she went out into the garden to call to the dog—but she had lost her voice, so she could only manage a pathetic croak. She tried beeping her car horn (which usually summons the dog, apparently), but to no avail. So, increasingly anxious, she went looking for the dog in the nearby roads and ended up traipsing across several adjacent fields: still no joy.

Then Carolyn, employing her own unique form of logic, came up with a brilliant solution to her not-being-able-to-call-the-dog problem: she phoned her parents to ask them to drive round to her house and call the dog for her. Carolyn's bemused mum then explained that her dad had already called round that morning, as he does every Tuesday morning, to take the dog back to their house to look after while Carolyn was at work.

I reckon Carolyn must have been overdoing it with the Tixylix.

Postscript: Carolyn could probably do with one of these.

The Old Fart at Play

Oh good grief! I knew it had to happen one day, but surely my life can't be passing by quite that quickly: ladies and gentlemen, it is my sad duty to announce that I am older than the leader of the Conservative Party. How the hell did that happen?

On a brighter note, I am still a quarter of a century younger than the average Conservative Party member. Not that I am a member of the Conservative Party, you understand.

Vaguely interesting fact: The new Tory leader, David Cameron's, surname is an anagram of the word romance. Kind of makes you think.

L'oiseau

Conversation with my mum on Tuesday:

Mum's note
Mum's note, en Français.

"Mum, why have you written L'OISEAU on this piece of paper?"
"It's the French word for bird."
"I know it is, but why have you written it on this piece of paper?"
"I was trying to remember how to spell it."
"I thought it would be something like that."

See also: Meadowlark

Doctoring the doctrines

Catholic News Service: Closing the doors of limbo: Theologians say it was hypothesis

An international group of Vatican-appointed theologians is about to recommend that the Catholic Church close the doors of limbo forever.

Many Catholics grew up thinking limbo—the place where babies who have died without baptism spend eternity in a state of "natural happiness" but not in the presence of God—was part of Catholic tradition.

Instead, it was a hypothesis—a theory held out as a possible way to balance the Christian belief in the necessity of baptism with belief in God's mercy.

Like hypotheses in any branch of science, a theological hypothesis can be proven wrong or be set aside when it is clear it does not help explain Catholic faith.

Oh, I had not realised they could change the rules at the drop of a mitre like that. This is very encouraging.

Other dodgy hypotheses the church might care to reconsider: papal infallibilty, virgin birth, transubstantiation, heaven, hell, evil, miracles, god.

Astonishing

Reuters: Japan probe lands on asteroid

A Japanese space probe made history on Saturday when it landed on the surface of an asteroid and then collected rock samples that could give clues to the origin of the solar system…

After analyzing data transmitted from the unmanned probe, the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency (JAXA) said Hayabusa had touched down on the asteroid, nearly 300 million km (190 million miles) from Earth.

The probe then shot a 5-gramme (0.18 oz) metal ball toward the surface at a speed of 1,080 kph (670 mph), collecting into a capsule the debris unleashed as a result of the impact, JAXA officials said.

This is a remarkable achievement. Now there only remains the small problem of bringing the sample home.

Postscript: Looks as if the celebrations might have been a little premature.