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Itās been humid.
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I feel a bit like Iāve not been making enough of all this relative freedom, like it might go away again. Hmm. This week I did travel some distance west, where one of the things that happened was some ostensibly aggressive but actually harmless daytime drinkers complimented my hat. I achieved none of the westerly things Iād hoped to, so Iāll go again.
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š Someone recommended a book by Richard Bertinet, and I second that recommendation. Maybe I donāt agree that bread really ought to be really crusty, but thanks to him Iāve started doing some things differently: using less yeast, and not pummelling the shit out of dough, and shaping dough like I know what Iām doing. (He has some videos, like on YouTube, which are better than a book for learning about what to do with your hands, but books are nice to read too.)
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Cut my hair. Sometimes this is motivated by seeing someone else with unkempt hair, just as seeing a ratty beard can motivate me to bust out a razor. This time I felt vindicated after the fact when I saw Robert Peston looking a bit silly. Thereās nothing inherently wrong with dishevelment, but ol Pestoās barnet looked unusually bad and I was glad mine didnāt.
I thought I made a point of mentioning haircut events here for āquantified selfā purposes, but now I canāt find a record of the last haircut, so that was pointless. Oh well, the hair itself serves as a 3D graph of time.
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ā½ļø Big up the little remote-controlled ball-carrying car.
On Saturday I wandered out and was a bit suprised by the much refreshed men wandering about draped in flags, and the car horns beeping merrily, all over the scoring of a single goal. Nice for them.