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Was looking around Newton Flotman on Google Street View, which is a normal thing to do, when I discovered that you can navigate around using the arrow keys on your keyboard. It seems so obvious now, but I don’t remember doing it before, and it’s a game-changer, much nicer than the struggle of clicking and dragging.
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There’s a place where motor-cars and their owners gather to, I don’t know, everything from watching sunsets to dogging. Walking past, I saw a scrote in a glacier white metallic Audi drop a cigarette butt on the ground. I gave the dude a withering stare. Cool story.
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One of my cultural highlights of the week is This Is My House. No, a game show hosted by Stacey Dooley (with whose oeuvre I wasn’t au fait) doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I’d like either, but it’s transcendent. It’s odd that the houses featured are all so vast and presumably expensive, but I suppose someone has to live in all those vast houses you see about the place.
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I replied to an email, and my reply caused disgust. (The disgut– words are a shibboleth for … something.) (It’s interesting how much the level of disgust, as measured by Google Books, has risen since the turn of the century.) Which furthers the case for not replying to emails. Some of my reply was rushedly poorly worded, but the main problem was the disgustee’s poor reading comprehension, understandable in the circumstances of being stressed having missed a bus etc, and which should have been apparent from their sending me the first email in the first place.
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This is a strange country. An old geezer has died, which is sad for his family, but broadcasting the same news over and over again all day, on several TV and radio stations, is a bit odd. A waste of bandwidth apart from anything else. But I wouldn’t say I’m disgusted.
Your treasonous social media postings are making me proud.
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Spraying my feet with spray has made my feet much less fungal. Science! Maybe I will see a podiatrist about my disgusting toe.