It’s vid-EY-oh!

Well, DVD, really.

It shall be mine. Although possibly I should have had it sent to work as I’ve just realised an 8 disc box set probably won’t fit through our letter box.

Thank you for telling me about it, Munky!

The traffic lights really have it in for me at the moment. I haven’t placed any offerings to the traffic light goblins since moving up here, mostly because, well, I forgot.

I know, I know.

I suspect Elgar stayed behind in Exeter, but the Second Cousin Ivans are being contrary and for the last week in particular have apparently been taking great delight in making me stop.

Normally feeding of the goblins is a Winter Solstice event. I’m just wondering if I can do it earlier in the year, and, if so, do I need to adjust the offerings? Do we think Scottish goblins like jelly babies? Would a return to the bread and milk be advisable? Is it the one good use of a vegetarian haggis? Does anyone else want to join in?

I need to do something. I’m starting to sympathise with red light jumpers.

DEADPOOL VS THE MARVEL UNIVERSE

It’s the last one! I’m distraught! Grief-stricken! How will I ever survive?!

Fabian, I don’t care what it takes. Kidnap someone. Hold Stan Lee to ransom. I DON’T CARE. You can’t stop now!

This one‘s for Munky.

This one is for Alan Moore fans.

I’m reading Catcher in the Rye. So far I haven’t turned into a victim of MK Ultra, nor am I enjoying myself.

It’s immensely dull. This is one of the most influential books of the 20th century? For why? I don’t see it.

This morning I was toddling along the Calder Road, enjoying the sunshine. Blackbird was out for sushi and movies last night so I had Shackleton between my thighs and we were spinning at a steady 80 – 85rpm up the slight rise to the roundabout with Saughton Road.

I realised I’d picked up a tail.

As a result of my over-active imagination, I’m always on the lookout for tails. You know, black-ops military types lying in wait to whisk me off to some hidden lab somewhere to prod and poke and generally turn my latent mutant superpowers into a secret weapon. I mostly get trapped in that particular bout of paranoid fantasy on public transport, however I’ve been getting a lot of attention on the street of late and I’m not convinced it’s just because the warmer weather has me dressed in skimpier clothing and my 32DD assets (coupled with a 22″ waist, which makes all the difference) are being noticed more often.

Although you never know.

Boobs aside, this morning I have a tail. After 5 minutes or so I relax my legs and let the natural inclination of a fixed gear to slow down if its rider seems to have lost interest have its way. Eventually my tail takes the hint and pulls in front.

Frabjous day! He has some manners! He gives it half a breath so I can spin up to speed and take his wheel. And then we hit the roundabout. He times his approach for one, not two, and I am forced to squeal to a halt in the face of a fast-moving blue Lexus.

Right. That’s it.

I give chase, catch him before the next roundabout and go past. Now he notices that I’m a girl on a fixed gear. And I’ve overtaken him.

Guys don’t like that very much.

Without boring you with the details of roundabout approach tactics (I’m an outside girl: he was an inside man) and him taking advantage of his gears on the long, slight descent (I refuse to spin up to more than 120rpm at that time of the morning: it’s indecent), suffice to say I won.

Naturally.

I have taken tomorrow off. I have also ordered the Orange Box express delivery (not to mention a pile of Marvel comics — note to self: don’t tell Frood how much it all cost).

Winning a commuter race is hopefully the start of a good long weekend. Certainly takes the sting out of having to work today.

Woah! Dude!

I had to sit through 2 hours of Robert Downey Jr playing action hero (admittedly doing a good job) and the inevitable long big punch-up plus the credits for 5 measley seconds of Samuel L Jackson as Nick Fury?

Nick Fury should have doing his “the man” thing from about 20 minutes in. And no way do they get to retcon SHIELD into being part of the “war on terror”. No. Dude. No way. SHIELD = UN task force. Not part of the Dept of Homeland Security. On that I will not budge.

So now I have to hang on and hope that when the New Avengers finally gets together they make a good job of it.

All that aside, though, Robert Downey Jr managed to make me like Tony Stark. That’s some feat. And the suit was cool.

I wish Jarvis at the League could render and fabricate like that.

Since growing my hair (it’s quite long now) I have discovered that I like riding my bike with my hair loose and unconfined. I like the feel of the wind blowing it about and I like watching the shapes made by its shadows. It’s all whipping tendrils.

Whipping tendrils mean massive tangles.

Thing is, I don’t have proper hair. I have fluff. My hair is incredibly fine. It’s so fine it’s practically weightless. So when it comes to brushing out the tangles…

Ow. Ow ow ow.

Ow.

Prompted by a friend’s realisation that xkcd has something other than banal alt text for its comics (as does Dinosaur Comics, incidentally), I’m wondering how many people ever look at the titles on the avatars I use.

Not that it makes any difference. It has always been for my own amusement anyway.

As if the scenery and the sheer fun were not enough, there are smells.

This is the Burton’s factory (AKA the Edinburgh Bakery), snapped by me the other morning on my new phone from the other side of the road (keeping a safe distance, you see). If it’s a headwind on the Calder Road, which it usually is, then I am tormented by the smell of baking for a couple of miles before being left bereft and starving for the last mile or so to work. If it’s a tailwind then that delicious scent envelopes me in a warm, biscuity hug as soon as I draw level and holds on until I reach the bike shed.

Of course, this always means I am absolutely ravenous when I arrive at the office, and have to make an extra willpower roll to refrain from demolishing every baked good on offer from the various bready comestible purveyors who visit us each morning.

Even worse: they have a shop. So far I have managed to beat back the temptation to stop either on my way in to work (aided and abetted by trying to pass by before they open) or on the way home (spurred on by the siren call of my very expensive gym membership).

One day. One fine summer’s evening I will fall prey to temptation of a bag of broken biscuits. Just so that I can go inside.