All robots all the time.
So yesterday.
After eating a metric fucktonne of biscuits and chocolate my brain woke me up to talk about maths. "Plot the graph of this equation!" "Brain that's going to be an exponential curve and it's a pointless equation for nothing." "You're right let's work out the equation for a circle -" "It's going to involve π and it's THREE THIRTY IN THE FUCKING MORNING GO TO SLEEP."
But it did not go to sleep. Around 5:20am when I'd run out of internet I issued the shit organ with an ultimatum, namely: go to sleep before 6.30 or I will get up and go to the gym an hour early and I will make you do a work-out like no other.
I was awake at 6.30 so I got up. It actually took me two and a half hours to get my shit together and stop getting distracted but that's still half an hour earlier than usual, and I delivered the promised workout; ie, I did EVERYTHING. E V E R Y T H I N G. Bench, squats, lats, FIVE sets of leg raises, lat raises, chest press, shoulder press, biceps (bit ropy), triceps, the twelve-minute walk/run cycle, rowing, steps, planking, push-ups, cross-trainer and just shy of 25 minutes of cycling and FUCK YOU.
TRIED to go to get my haircut but managed to leave my card and keys at home, which actually worked out fine because it meant I got to pick up a coffee while I was waiting for Lindsay and gave the staff at the station at chance to giggle at my necklace...
And then I went to get a haircut and be deluged in News That Will Necessitate A Change Of Habits (my hair is nice though, let's concentrate on the plus, and the dye job was approved of) then got on a train immediately and headed to South Kensington. Outfit reference because this plus the "hated by the daily mail" badge will become relevant later (also synchronicity: this was also the day Octavian noted that histrionic fascist toilet rag the Heil's scream-raiser laptdog Andrew Pierce decided to call trans people - specifically children - "gender fascists". Which from the Fail is presumably praise...), and already on the way to the station I had one man give me a firm once-over of the "I don't know whether I like this or not" variety.
Waiting for Lindsay at South Ken. I got the much better response from a lumpen Boomer mounting the stairs, who glared with OPEN NAKED DISGUST at my sartorial choices; Linds and I stopped for tea and then went to see the Robots exhibition in a near-totally deserted Science Museum as opposed to the TEEMING HORDES plaguing the place a fortnight ago. I took a phenomenal quantity of photos (multiple photo scrolling set for summary) and videos (start here and work your way forward for individual photos and videos) mostly for the benefit of Douglas. Things from this exhibition will HAUNT MY NIGHTMARES, but very pleasant and so on, if not entirely worth £15 in my head because my internal concept of monetary value hasn't responded to inflation and is still stuck in 1999.
We raided the museum shop for things to give to Doug for his birthday and to amuse ourselves; Linds got a badge of Maria from Metropolis for his mum's birthday, and a set of three robot badges shared between me, Jess (in absentia) and Doug - Doug takes Cygan, a Strong Boy famous for crushing, Jess has George, an early British robot built and improved repeatedly over time by Alan Sale, beginning when he was twelve (!), and I have Eric, "the first British Robot", build in 1928.
Being hungry we stopped into Wasabi (for me) and Pret (for he) and I MASTERFULLY balanced eating a pot of edamame on a rush hour tube in the West-to-East dash from South Kensington to Forest Hill, which also necessitated standing on the constantly-moving join between two carriages on the Overground while reading out loud about various London trivia from Brewer's (I am going to ingest that entire book and then I will be an unstoppable pub quiz champion); also whining constantly about my hip socket which, in addition to WICKED HORRIBLE DOMS (guess what squat-lifting 50kg two days after squat-lifting 40kg on the Smith Machine did for me? IT MADE MY MUSCLES HURT, I can hardly walk today) was trying to murder me.
The Robot Zoo event was pretty much as I expected of it - badly-organised ("stand in the cold for ages in a queue, get pre-stamped, oh these people have rebelled and wandered inside anyway, these people are getting pissy, and ..."), small, but generally good fun if you were with the right person, which I wasn't, because Lindsay hates fun; pictures of the robots are on Instagram too, but I think he preferred the natural history gallery (also on Instagram), and we both enjoyed SUDDEN MICE as they were in their correct spot, ie, a box rather than MY BEDROOM CARPET BEING CHEEKY SHITS. Attempts to interest him in any of the actual EVENT stuff were fruitless; he willingly looked at the musical instrument gallery and the aquarium (who doesn't love an aquarium?), listened to some of the talk on robot and animal rights (it was pretty badly-balanced as a panel, one man doing all the talking over everyone else), had no interested in the band (i liked them, uptempo collection of world music instruments and a style somewhere between folk and jazz) was wishywashy about a drink (despite these being the cheapest cocktails I've seen in London), and flat-out refused to participate in the dress-up photo (which was the biggest bone of contention because his entire FB profile is selfies of him and Alice, and Alice is going down with him to meet his parents this weekend as part of Lindsay "coming out" to his parents about being poly, a terminology choice that he has been shouted at about, by me, repeatedly). "https://www.instagram.com/p/BRJjsCyha88/?taken-by=derekdesanges>"Prove you will even deign to be in a photo with me". *I* still did the photo but was so distracted by how annoying he was being that I didn't remember to get the fur collar for the whole Furry Pimp ensemble and ruined it. Sigh.
ANYWAY. Back to trying to set up this fucking computer.
After eating a metric fucktonne of biscuits and chocolate my brain woke me up to talk about maths. "Plot the graph of this equation!" "Brain that's going to be an exponential curve and it's a pointless equation for nothing." "You're right let's work out the equation for a circle -" "It's going to involve π and it's THREE THIRTY IN THE FUCKING MORNING GO TO SLEEP."
But it did not go to sleep. Around 5:20am when I'd run out of internet I issued the shit organ with an ultimatum, namely: go to sleep before 6.30 or I will get up and go to the gym an hour early and I will make you do a work-out like no other.
I was awake at 6.30 so I got up. It actually took me two and a half hours to get my shit together and stop getting distracted but that's still half an hour earlier than usual, and I delivered the promised workout; ie, I did EVERYTHING. E V E R Y T H I N G. Bench, squats, lats, FIVE sets of leg raises, lat raises, chest press, shoulder press, biceps (bit ropy), triceps, the twelve-minute walk/run cycle, rowing, steps, planking, push-ups, cross-trainer and just shy of 25 minutes of cycling and FUCK YOU.
TRIED to go to get my haircut but managed to leave my card and keys at home, which actually worked out fine because it meant I got to pick up a coffee while I was waiting for Lindsay and gave the staff at the station at chance to giggle at my necklace...
And then I went to get a haircut and be deluged in News That Will Necessitate A Change Of Habits (my hair is nice though, let's concentrate on the plus, and the dye job was approved of) then got on a train immediately and headed to South Kensington. Outfit reference because this plus the "hated by the daily mail" badge will become relevant later (also synchronicity: this was also the day Octavian noted that histrionic fascist toilet rag the Heil's scream-raiser laptdog Andrew Pierce decided to call trans people - specifically children - "gender fascists". Which from the Fail is presumably praise...), and already on the way to the station I had one man give me a firm once-over of the "I don't know whether I like this or not" variety.
Waiting for Lindsay at South Ken. I got the much better response from a lumpen Boomer mounting the stairs, who glared with OPEN NAKED DISGUST at my sartorial choices; Linds and I stopped for tea and then went to see the Robots exhibition in a near-totally deserted Science Museum as opposed to the TEEMING HORDES plaguing the place a fortnight ago. I took a phenomenal quantity of photos (multiple photo scrolling set for summary) and videos (start here and work your way forward for individual photos and videos) mostly for the benefit of Douglas. Things from this exhibition will HAUNT MY NIGHTMARES, but very pleasant and so on, if not entirely worth £15 in my head because my internal concept of monetary value hasn't responded to inflation and is still stuck in 1999.
We raided the museum shop for things to give to Doug for his birthday and to amuse ourselves; Linds got a badge of Maria from Metropolis for his mum's birthday, and a set of three robot badges shared between me, Jess (in absentia) and Doug - Doug takes Cygan, a Strong Boy famous for crushing, Jess has George, an early British robot built and improved repeatedly over time by Alan Sale, beginning when he was twelve (!), and I have Eric, "the first British Robot", build in 1928.
Being hungry we stopped into Wasabi (for me) and Pret (for he) and I MASTERFULLY balanced eating a pot of edamame on a rush hour tube in the West-to-East dash from South Kensington to Forest Hill, which also necessitated standing on the constantly-moving join between two carriages on the Overground while reading out loud about various London trivia from Brewer's (I am going to ingest that entire book and then I will be an unstoppable pub quiz champion); also whining constantly about my hip socket which, in addition to WICKED HORRIBLE DOMS (guess what squat-lifting 50kg two days after squat-lifting 40kg on the Smith Machine did for me? IT MADE MY MUSCLES HURT, I can hardly walk today) was trying to murder me.
The Robot Zoo event was pretty much as I expected of it - badly-organised ("stand in the cold for ages in a queue, get pre-stamped, oh these people have rebelled and wandered inside anyway, these people are getting pissy, and ..."), small, but generally good fun if you were with the right person, which I wasn't, because Lindsay hates fun; pictures of the robots are on Instagram too, but I think he preferred the natural history gallery (also on Instagram), and we both enjoyed SUDDEN MICE as they were in their correct spot, ie, a box rather than MY BEDROOM CARPET BEING CHEEKY SHITS. Attempts to interest him in any of the actual EVENT stuff were fruitless; he willingly looked at the musical instrument gallery and the aquarium (who doesn't love an aquarium?), listened to some of the talk on robot and animal rights (it was pretty badly-balanced as a panel, one man doing all the talking over everyone else), had no interested in the band (i liked them, uptempo collection of world music instruments and a style somewhere between folk and jazz) was wishywashy about a drink (despite these being the cheapest cocktails I've seen in London), and flat-out refused to participate in the dress-up photo (which was the biggest bone of contention because his entire FB profile is selfies of him and Alice, and Alice is going down with him to meet his parents this weekend as part of Lindsay "coming out" to his parents about being poly, a terminology choice that he has been shouted at about, by me, repeatedly). "https://www.instagram.com/p/BRJjsCyha88/?taken-by=derekdesanges>"Prove you will even deign to be in a photo with me". *I* still did the photo but was so distracted by how annoying he was being that I didn't remember to get the fur collar for the whole Furry Pimp ensemble and ruined it. Sigh.
ANYWAY. Back to trying to set up this fucking computer.