Having already done a Lazarus on one of my dehydrated contact lenses, I thought it timely to show the world what happens when you put a contact lens into hydrogen peroxide solution:

Wow!

Yes, this is a revolution in contact lens technology for those wearers who suffer from “dry or sensitive” eyes: you soak your lenses in an acid bath for 6 hours and all’s well with the world. Or at least you think it is, since you have to rely on commentary from your friends since you can no longer see after burning off your fucking corneas! I’m sorry, but I don’t have much confidence in the product that advertises itself as being for “sensitive eyes” when it does this to the lenses as soon as they break the miniscus.

Apparently, the “six hour” soak is vital – my eyes were comfortable wearing the lenses after a good overnight soak – but a second less than the magic 21600 and you’re blind!

And people say laser eye surgery looks dangerous.

Next up for Sniffy Experimentals: The razor challenge!

Aka: Bored Cakesniffer in macro photo frenzy
Seeing that the passion flower had finally decided to produce some sexual organs after only 3 years of being sat there doing sod all, I decided to capture the moment with my trusty (and soon – if Amazon get their act together – to be superceded) digicam.

These flowers are mad; they’ve got to be the maddest flowers ever. Something to do with Jesus or something, so that probably explains it. Perhaps Michelle can enlighten us further, but it’s something to do with 12 or 13 petals and 12 or 13 stamens and disciples and stuff like that.

Of course, while my camera was to hand, I decided to go stalking trickier subjects.

Some people let the smallest things get to them. It’s amazing how people get so irate just because something isn’t working, or the traffic is bad, or Tesco aren’t stocking minestrone cup-a-soups – A-FUCKING-GAIN! Of all the things in the modern world, folk don’t half get pissed off with technology and specifically computers.

AND WHO CAN BLAME THEM?

Simple things: you turn them on, Windows starts (or Mac OS if you’re stupid), your programs appear and you clicky and tappy away – thus producing lots of work, getting in touch with lots of people, buying things, finding out about stuff, or writing amusing and entertaining blogs that aren’t appreciated nearly as much as they should be!

But there’s always something that’s not quite right, isn’t there? You can’t access Blogger because of ratings checks at work, the optical remote-controlled mouse sometimes loses it and sends the cursor flying about screen, the Microsoft Office Shortcut bar hasn’t been installed so you have to use the programs menu instead. Lots of little things that niggle away.

Having recently installed Norton Internet Security on top of Zone Alarms (and I’m surprised I have any internet access after that), I’m suffering from being constantly plagued by:

Yes, fucking cookies, whatever they are, are doing my bastard head in. For some reason, Norton doesn’t like the Blogger cookies, so I’m forever having to sign in all the time.

And because of the cookie thing, whatever that is, it won’t show the quick edit button on posts. It really is driving this cakesniffer to distraction!

What would a normal person do in these circumstances? What are the options?

1. Read the help menus
2. Ask for some advice
3. If all else fails, just live with it or shut down one of the security packages or the offending features, etc…

My automatic reactions are to:

1. Bash the keyboard really hard and shout a lot
2. Chew fingers till they bleed
3. Delete all cookies and cached internet files
4. Delete Norton
5. Delete Zone Alarms
6. Reinstall Norton
7. Reinstall Zone Alarms
8. Arse about with the settings, rendering the machine unusable
9. Reformat hard disk
10. Buy new computer

I’m currently at the “shut down privacy settings in Norton” stage. We’ll see how I get on.

Fucking waste of time shite. It’d be better served interacting with real people or reading.

This is my little cat. He’s called Otto and he has special needs. I think that if cats are susceptible to attention deficit and hyperactivity disorder, then Otto has got it. When awake, he can’t keep still and he get SO excited about things; even having a lie down is entertainment for him:

Something’s got this little feller excited, but it doesn’t take much.

When he gets VERY excited, he runs around the house, making kitten noises. He was doing this yesterday evening and when I went to investigate what was up, I saw a puddle of pussy pee on the kitchen floor. We have a litter tray for their night time toilets, but he’d got himself so excited that he complete missed and did his wee-wees on the floor instead.

Fucking retard.

At least he wasn’t being chased by the shit monster.

But in a world where so much makes my blood boil, little Otto Tunasniffer is guaranteed to make laugh.

Some people need to get a grip.

I remember stressing this last week when people around the country were holding hands and standing still for a couple of minutes to mark their respects for the victims of the London bomb blasts. Fair enough in London, fair enough in a memorial service, fair enough if you feel strongly about it.

The hoo-har about the attacks had only just subsided here at Base 2. Yes, they were attacks on our society, perpetrated by our own people, but I found it hard to believe that people with no connection could be so affected by something like that. A cynic would say that people enjoy playing the victim and jumping on the grief bandwagon, they enjoy the attention and the sympathy.

The hoo-har about the attacks had only just subsided when those incidents occurred in London yesterday. It’s not the fact that people think such things are newsworthy to pass on to their colleagues, it’s the way they impart the news as if telling folk that their entire family has been wiped out in a terrible road accident: “I’m afraid I’ve got some shocking and terrible news…” You wait for, “The police have just been in touch and I’m afraid that your entire family has been found dead after an acute attack of stephacockaliticus; a particularly virulent strain apparently”. But instead you’re told about something that you already know because EVERYBODY has the BBC News website open at work– totally disproportionate.

I am quite uncaring and unfeeling about things on a population-sized scale. I find it hard to get extremely upset about this sort of thing and tend to feel shock and inquisitiveness at the early stages after an incident. You feel sympathy for those injured and for the bereaved, of course you do. But grief? Grief is a special emotion that surely can only be truly felt for those who you love and know in person.

Anyway, back to the hoo-har…

You’ll be sat, merrily thinking of things to rant about in a blog when you’ll hear people in the adjacent office being told : “I’m afraid I’ve got some shocking and terrible news: there have been explosions in London”. You quickly switch windows to some document or e-mail you’re pretending to compose, and they appear around your doorway: “I don’t know if you’ve just heard that, but there have been explosions in London”.

“Oh right… and?”

It happened again yesterday and now again this morning, with the full rundown of some bloke being shot by armed police for leaving a bag somewhere and running away. He probably just had an attack of exploding diarrhoea.

Perhaps I’ve got this wrong. Perhaps my lack of distress at this sort of thing is something to be concerned about, but surely it’s much worse to pretend to care just to gain approval from people?

If a colour could cause a person to commit murder, the person would be me and the colour would be pink. I fucking detest it with a passion. It’s not the colour itself that turns my stomach and makes my brain pop, it’s what people do with it:

• Little girls in pink (aged about 4 to 10). Not just a nice pink skirt or jumper or top or something. No. It has to be the whole fucking ensemble: pink shoes, pink socks, pink corduroy dungarees or skirt, pink (frilly) top, pink cardigan, pink fucking hair ribbons, pink fairy wings and a dolly dressed in pink for good fucking measure. I could kill in an instant when I see this.

“Slap me”

“Slap me harder”

Check out so much more at E-fairies. No, I couldn’t believe it either.

• Teenage slags in pink tracksuits. FUCK! NO! Wrestle their bottles of Lambrini from them, bundle the little bitches into the back of a van, take them to the local hospital and STERLILISE THEM!

• Pink babies. Look at this poor little git:

“Please call Social Services, I’m being horribly abused by my mental parents”

• Barbie. What a fucking waste of space. I never did get dolls, no idea what you’re supposed to do with them – they’re completely pointless. And a doll that’s totally pink-clad? Fuck me!

AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

Why do some people walk r e a l l y s l o w l y? Especially alongside each other in narrow corridors where it’s impossible to get past (passed?) them? And they don’t just walk alongside each other, really slowly, thus filling the entire width of the passageway with their combined girth, they leave a tantalising gap between each other that invites you to have a go, only to close up as they hear you approaching.

Is it rude to “tsk” and “huff” really loudly behind them? Or is it better to just shove them out of the way into the path of an oncoming motorised invalid carriage? And who’s the most inconsiderate, you for wanting to get some place at your natural pace, or them for blocking your way by dawdling, oblivious to all but their own selfish needs? Bastards.

Still that’s hospitals for you: poorly people wandering around corridors, trying to get to their appointments.

A variant on this is the “multidirectional toddler”, who wanders around willy-nilly a few metres from its incompetent guardians. Their next steps are totally unpredictable, but they seem to second-guess where you’re about to aim for and wander to that exact spot to try to trip you up. Can you sue their parents if these menaces make you fall over and do yourself an injury?

Toddlers shouldn’t really be allowed out until their about 18 years old I suppose.

The worst of the bunch is similar to “walking really slowly”, only they come at you head-on and you have to negotiate a way through the unbudging, oncoming pack of complete and utter cocks who walk three or four abreast and force you into shop doorways rather than moving in a little bit to form a gap that allows you to pass. I’m going to start being really hard and aiming right at these fuckers, staring straight past them.

I’m sure my route round the shopping centre is about twice as long as it should be because I can’t walk in a straight line since I’m constantly swirving out of the way of inconsiderate and ill-mannered tosspots.

It’d so different if I had a cattle prod.

I can’t take any credit for this whatsoever, apart from the quote of course. Nosy bastards!

(It wasn’t really a visit to the clap clinic, it just sounded like a good title)

After the embarrassment of bumping into people I knew while I was attending my hospital appointment yesterday, I didn’t think things could get any worse. However, while at work today, I had the uncomfortable pleasure of being spotted leaving the GU Medicine clinic by the Outpatients Department Manager. Hay ho.