Feed a Cold.

It was unreasonably cold last night which is why I've had a runny nose since I got up this morning. And that's why I had a whole foot-long roast beef sub from Subway for lunch.

Oh it feels too good.

Erratum.

5 Danish cookies.

Lean, Mean, Eating Machine.

It is 4:37pm. I have consumed the following list of food items since I got up this morning:

1. A bowl of oats. Approximtely 300ml of.
2. One sardine-filled puff the size of a young child's fist. (Although "puff" is really somewhat of a misnomer, the pastry surrounding the sardine filling is more like the kind that comes with pie rather than profiterole.)
3. One vegetable curry-filled puff the size of the same young child's fist. (Ditto)
4. One spicy tuna-filled bun the size of an average adult fist.
5. One cheese bread "stick" approximately 9" in length and 1.5" in diameter.
6. A large bowl of noodles in chicken soup.
7. One egg paratha with fish curry.
8. Two Danish cookies (a gift from a client).

Nummy num nums...

Stay Away From Me.

I am very very agitated.

Icky Poo.

All my joints are creaking. Even my jaw clicks when I yawn. My clothes smell of food court (totally irrelevant). It's 2006 in 24 days, 8 hours and 44 minutes. I will be 24 in 105 days, 17 hours and 31 minutes. Out of the estimated 100,000 eggs that each female human is typically born with, I have only 99,856 left. Here's a tribute to my fleeting youth and puerile minds everywhere:

RUDE TONGUE TWISTERS

I am not the pheasant plucker,

I'm the pheasant plucker's mate.

I am only plucking pheasants

Because the pheasant plucker's late.

I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit;

and on the slitted sheet I sit.

One smart fellow;

he felt smart.

Two smart fellows;

they felt smart.

Three smart fellows;

they all felt smart.

I'm not the fig plucker,

Nor the fig pluckers' son,

But I'll pluck figs

Till the fig plucker comes.

Fire truck tyres

Mrs Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt.

Not a punt cut square,

Just a square cut punt.

It's round in the stern and blunt in the front.

Mrs Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt.

Six stick shifts stuck shut.

Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers.

(I'm still trying to work out what's rude about the last two...)

Factually correct?

So I submitted the first draft of a paper to my SM last Thursday for her to check if I'm on the right track and make suggestions where necessary.

I just got it back. It's been reformatted, which I think is a waste of time because it isn't complete and I prefer to tidy up the format at the very end instead. But I can deal with that, it's not my time that was wasted anyway.

What I can't deal with is that my SM has added, in blue and couched in parentheses, next to every single factual detail and statistic, the comment: (Factually correct?)

Factually correct?!?

This phrase appears no less than THIRTY times in 16 pages, I shit you not.

I mean, does my SM think that these details and figures randomly pop into my head putting in motion an involuntary chain of events that culminate in the content of the report? Or perhaps she thinks my fingers are just the instruments of an unseen being, like God or the Devil or maybe even Leprechauns, and that I have been completely unaware of the fact that I had actually prepared a report and submitted it for approval...

Oh oh wait ... ouch... there's just something I need to grab out of my arse right now... oh looky here, it's a table of percentages... maybe I should just try to pop that into my next report?

Save me.