Week 330: trapped wind

What a lot of things I saw this week: mist, butterflies, etc.

I bought the expired domain name travelnortheast.co.uk a bit ago. The process was a whole thing – I didn’t take kindly to the seller seeming to accuse me of not having paid the invoice, but then I displayed some bungling incompetence so we were even. Maybe I take a certain pride in not understanding the domain name transfer process, because I’m not a sort of parasite who buys and sells lots of domain names all the time? (I know parasites serve an important role in ecosystems.)

Now I’ve some redirects in place, so I’ve rescued, for example, one link in this Telegraph article to http://www.travelnortheast.co.uk/downloads/bustimetables/arriva/X15-ncl-ber-TBD.pdf which now redirects to the relevant page on bustimes.org. Recall my previous abortive attempt to do such a “good stewardly” thing. It’s not a selfless act – I deludedly think I’ll somehow benefit from the ugh link equity, and that it will have been worth the small to medium-sized effort.

(I used Cloudflare Workers to do the redirects. I know Cloudflare is probably Bad, but it’s also free.)

Last week I had a tyre slashed and a top tube bag stolen off my bicycle, and I must be so inured to crime that I forgot to mention it, even though mending the puncture left my hands unusually calloused. If I was a better person, it wouldn’t have happened, because I’d’ve had time to walk to the train station, instead of having to cycle hurriedly and leave the bike there for a few days where it was set upon by people from broken homes probably. Above all, I’d like to know what sort of blade they used, because it must have been a good one to pierce the Continental Gatorskin tyre with its Duraskin cut-resistant layer.

Had some abdominal pain, and tried all the usual tricks for dealing with trapped wind, but they wouldn’t work. It seemed to be in the wrong place for appendicitis, and it subsided eventually, but not before I’d tidied the place and cleaned the toilet just in case I was about to die.

My shoes have started to squeak like they’re farting as I walk, and I remember some advice to ask oneself “what would John Cleese do?” in this situation. But of course, these days, what Cleese would do is accuse the shoes of being politically correct snowflakes or something.