So Cadbury's failure to deal with a salmonella outbreak at one of their factories causes an outbreak of 56 cases of salmonella, and all they can manage is “We're sorry to hear that people have been unwell.”
Pathetic. Someone, somewhere, should take responsibility for the one million contaminated bars of chocolate and the five month delay in reporting the contamination (which was prompted basically because someone else dobbed them in). Someone should resign. When I buy chocolate, I do not expect it to be ridden with harmful bacteria.
Funny how, in the days before a long-needed holiday, the motivation to do any damn thing at all dwindles away to zero.
A tip for cyclists.
You should always look where you are going. Be extra vigilant regarding obstacles in your path, for example, trees. Never let your concentration slip, no matter how big the bosom of the woman that you are staring at is.
If your focus lapses, you may end up colliding with said tree, and that would simply result in much laughter on many observers' parts, and potential pain on yours.
I'm off to San Francisco at the end of August to attend the O'Reilly FooCamp – a weekend camp for geeks. I'm really looking forward to hanging out with some cool people, and getting to see San Francisco again. Due to peculiarities of flights, I'm going to be in town for a week and a half, so if you want to meet up, let me know.
So, having the bejeezus scared out of me as regards the potential catastrophe that would have resulted from me drinking alcohol whilst on my antibiotics, I was keen to observe the suggested 72 hours between last pill and first drink. However, Mr Biddulph was in town, so I ended up at around hour 60 thinking 'Oh… it can't hurt, can it?'.
I don't think I've ever been quite so nervous taking a sip of wine as I was last night. Every few sips, I'd pause and wonder if my stomach would start to cramp up and how far the vomit would go if I suddenly exploded.
Suffice to say that I suffered no ill effects, and had a lovely evening talking to lots of nice, interesting people. I am now officially back to normal.
Right, where's the vodka?
Dw i newydd ddechrau darllen mwy. Mae gen i lyfr gan Mair Evans, o'r enw Pwy Sy'n Cofio Siôn, a dw i wedi darllen hanner y peth yn barod. Rhodd Mair y llyfr imi yn ystod 2002, ond dw i erioed wedi ei orffen fo. Bryd 'ny, o'n i'n arfer darllen yn araf iawn – o'n i'n edrych am airiau yn y geiriadur trwy'r amser. O'n i angen hanner awr i ddarllen un pennod. Nawr, medda i ddarllen un pennod mewn munudau.
Mae hynny'n fy synnu fi, achos dw i ddim yn defnyddio fy Nghymraeg yn aml, felly o'n i'n meddwl fy mod i'n ei cholli hi. Dw i ddim yn darllen llawer; dw i ddim yn sgwennu llawer. Weithiau, dw i'n mynd i Freenode a chael sgwrs yn #cym, ond dw i'n byw yn Saesneg nawr. Ond, mae'n ymddangos fy mod i wedi cadw'r iaith yn dda. (Wel, da-ish.)
Mwy na hynny, dw i wedi gwella. Dw i'n mwynhau darllen Pwy Sy'n Cofio Siôn, achos dw i'n gallu darllen yn gyflym. Ie, rhaid imi ddefnydio'r geiriadur o bryd i'w gilydd, ond nid fel gynt. Os dw i ar y tiŵb, dw i ddim yn poeni am wybod bob gair, dw i'n jyst dyfalu.
Gobeithio, bydd hynny'n meddwl y bydda i'n darllen llawer mwy. Ac os dw i'n darllen mwy, byddda i'n sgwennu mwy hefyd.
Growing up, I used to frequently be mistaken for my Mum when I answered the phone. The women who attended my mum's exercise classes would call and as soon as they heard my voice would launch into long and detailed explanations of precisely what had happened to Doris and why she wouldn't be attending this evening. Usually they would pause for breath at some point and I would get the chance to say “I'll just go and get Mum”.
Since then, things haven't got noticeably better.
Sky are the worst. I haven't had an account with Sky for years, yet somehow they keep stalking me, thinking I am my Mum. They first mixed us up when I was living in Reading. For reasons unclear, they thought I was her, and kept addressing things to her at my address. But then I stopped living in Reading, and stopped using Sky, and for a while my address was my parents' address, and I didn't hear from them again.
Today, however, I had junk mail through the door addressed to my Mum. How the hell do they know I am here? And why do they still think I am her? I've never told them I moved. She's never told them I moved. I stopped having anything to do with them years ago. Yet they are convinced I am her, and somehow their evil little tracking ninja spies have followed me here and now I'm getting her junk mail. Not that I'd wish it on her, mind you, but it does make me wonder.
How do they know that the person they think is my Mum is here? Who sold them the data? I haven't actually moved any of my mail from Dorset to London, for various admin reasons it's better to keep it all going there, so it's got to be one of the utility companies, the scumbags. Although that doesn't make sense either as I'm down as me on all the bills…
Or have they implanted an RFID chip in me and I just don't know it?
I have taken my last antibiotic pill today, which means that in 72 hours, I am free to once again get suitably inebriated, should I wish to. The tooth has calmed right down, with now just a little stiffness in my jaw, and no real significant pain. The side-effects of the antibiotic, metronidazole, included dry mouth and stomach cramps, and they are all gone now too. So I'm back to normal, and no longer feeling sorry for myself.
Bet you're all glad to hear that. It means there's a fighting chance I might post about something else, other than my tooth. Hooray!