The road before us

Wow!

groundbyground — Thu, 30 Jan 2014 04:35:44 GMT

It's been a bit of time after all. I'm not sure I recall how to drive this thing.

And as it so often is...

groundbyground — Tue, 24 May 2011 19:43:17 GMT

Life goes on. Came back here after checking up on old friends. Still feels like a grave. Makes me nostalgic for old times and old lives and fun creations toddling out toward the cliffs.

I have a microphone. I should do something with that.

Anyway, hello hello. Who are you and how are you and damn aren't there a lot of spammers these days on LJ?

groundbyground — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 01:58:01 GMT

Hello World!!

Stress and the economy

groundbyground — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 00:41:55 GMT

Boy, LJ sure feels dusty. Every time I check in, I feel like I'm visiting a grave. I curl my toes in the grass above the head of my old creative self, old posts, old dreams, and old friends who continued on far past the off-ramp I chose to take. I feel nostalgic, and to those creatively making their way in the world, a little envious.

Has enough time passed for all those old wounds to scar?

I've noticed quite a few of y'all are dealing with being unemployed, failing businesses, and the overall crap the country is going through. We're dealing a bit of that ourselves. I've managed to stay driving for IESI, but due to several causes outside of my own control, I'm dealing with a drop of twelve hours a week in drive time. That's about a 400 dollar cut in pay. That pushes us just to the edge of not being able to pay for things. I've gotten a second job of sorts, soldering and building circuit boards for motorcycle electronics, but the pay is sporadic and there's no guarantee of work flow.

And I start school next Thursday with two courses that I think will be based on essays. There's too little time in a day.

So, what are y'all facing down? Taming any of those daemons?

tap tap tap

groundbyground — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 03:10:24 GMT

Is there anyone out there?

Give me a sign if you can here me.

Michael Jackson is dead and...

groundbyground — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 01:44:05 GMT

Well, I'm not really emotionally tied up in it. He kind of killed his idol status when he couldn't stay away from children. He was big in his time and I remember owning more than one of his records, but he was long over. He was addicted to plastic surgery, painkillers, and praise, and his sycophant doctor is MIA now that he's dead from starvation and god only knows what.

Sorry, World. I just can't get into this one. A strange, sick man is dead. Whatever inspiration he was, it was dead a long, long time ago.

Sunrise

groundbyground — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 02:58:02 GMT

I sat on the porch this morning smoking an Olivia G, my first real cigar in many years. At 3.5 inches, it's a stubby little stick that at nearing an hour I was only barely reaching the halfway mark. My son was sleeping with his mother in our bed curled around each other in a human Yin Yang. The sun was rising and it was already 70 degrees. Summer is whispering hello early.

I haven't been around online in any real sense in almost two years. My life changed so drastically with Ethan, really with moving to Michigan, that I haven't been able to put together any real text worth reading about. Most of my daily worries look mundane on paper/screen, and while I find I can write fiction again. It feels like a selfish endeavor. Well, it is, but it feels like I'm crossing the line family-wise. I work 9-12 hours a day. I see my son for only an hour or so before he's being rocked to sleep. Mary and I have weeks where we are ships slipping by each other in the night, touching for moments, then gone.

But, it is a good life.

We are moving back toward the hill country in a few days, which means my daily driving will be cut in half from around 80 miles a day to 40. I'll be near a river for my morning runs and some occasional fishing. We also stand a good chance of getting a roommate in the next week, a refugee from Michigan and an old friend of Mary's. And then Mary's mother will be flying in for Ethan's b-day on the 30th.

Hectic.

And, I may be in the market for a motorcycle soon, so that Mary will have her own vehicle again.

Life goes on.

Computer Geeks Unite!

groundbyground — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 22:46:26 GMT

Okay, so, I have this older computer that seems to have become unstable. She resets randomly, sometimes after hours of problem free operation, sometimes in quick succession. Since some of my tax info is on her and I don't want whatever is going on to ruin anything before tax time, I've moved over to using an old laptop for my web browsing and writing.

Inspired by a plurk by wendiigo, I pulled up a page on Linux. It claims Linux is super stable, never cheats at poker, etc. And it looks very clean. So, some questions.

1)Assuming the resetting issue with my puter is from viruses (which I had a month or so ago) or the like, or general system instability due to errors in some line of code, would Linux fix my problem?

2)Would it wipe my harddrive when switching over?

3)Why are you pro or anti-Linux?

Writers' Meme: Where are you now?

groundbyground — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 23:38:45 GMT

Pro-writer career path meme via theferrett

Current Status as of this morning:

Short Stories:
* Nothing in the active pipeline in submission, but 3 shorts published (years ago).
* Halo in 3rd draft. I need to dig it out and beta it with a few readers
* Coffee Kisses: first draft, possibly part of the Mosaic project.

Novels:
* Sinner in the Big City: Unpublishable, manuscript lost.
* Sydney Carter and The Case Of the Black Whip: Dead and buried. Unpublishable.
* The Baker's Daughter: Still in first draft.

Age when I decided I wanted to be a writer: 6

Age when I wrote my first story: 8

Age when I got my hands on a typewriter: 11. An electronic typewriter, but with no memory. No clue to the brand.

Age when I first submitted a short story to a magazine: 16

Thickness of file of rejection slips prior to first story sale: A few centimeters? I have a very slow submission cycle, only sending out a few at a time.

Age when I sold my first short story: 20? Geez, that's been a while.

Age when I killed my first market: N/A

Approximate number of short stories/novelettes/novellas sold for copies (small press): 2

Approximate number of short stories/novelettes/novellas sold for cash money: 1

Age when I first sold a poem: 16. I wanted to be a professional poet. My parents were... displeased.

Age when I wrote my first novel/book: "Sinner" written at age 25. Yeah, this was my first Nano novel, and it was horrid. A Catholic Mafia battling a lesbian mafia for territory in a fictional Chicago. This later turned into "Sydney Carter and The Case of the Black Whip" which I had in contract as an erotica e-book but missed a deadline and was dropped from. I should probably blog about that one day.

Age when I sold a first novel: So close, but nope.

Novels written: 2. I'd like to get a few short stories in the pipeline before devoting more time to Baker's daughter.

Awards won: N/A.

Age when a work was first shortlisted for a Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy or Stoker award: N/a

Age when I became a full-time writer: A ways from that. One day I hope.

Age now: 30

Consider this a journal meme: if you write professionally, feel free to post your own equivalent of this list. (Obviously you'll need to customize it to track your career path -- but you get the idea.)

types away

groundbyground — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:47:30 GMT

You heard me.

*goes back to typing.*

Damn Nano.

Nano 2008

groundbyground — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 14:18:53 GMT

I failed this year. I know I have a day left, but it would be about 47k in 24 four hours. I just can't see grinding out garbage for a silly icon on my only day off. Still, I want to share what I did write. So please enjoy...

Chapter 1

The Bloom Balm

When I was dumped for the first time, at that tender age of thirteen when crushes falter and fail like the sinking of the Titanic, I sought out the greatest oracle of my day in an effort to soothe my broken heart. And I found him, standing in the doorway to the kitchen of our family bakery, my father. And what made him king? He didn’t call me a silly girl for passing notes to Pete Federman, the cutest boy in class, for asking him to finally meet me after school by the bus. He didn’t chide me for kissing him instead of telling him I liked him, for letting all that nervous energy travel straight out of my stomach and through my lips. For crying when he shoved me and laughed at me and got on the bus, pointing me out to his friends.

My father kissed my head and told me to sit at the bar. And then he brought me a slice of his classic apple pie. Customers just saw this as a staple pie, a pie every baker should offer, but in the Bloom family it was balm for the soul. It’s not complicated, because in the end, most problems aren’t. It’s nice, warm, sweet, and like most real gifts should, it makes you feel like someone cares for you, silliness and all.

Dad’s Classic Apple Pie:

9 inch pie pan
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup all purpose flower
1/2 tsp of nutmeg
1/2 tsp of cinnimon
1 dash of salt
6 cups thinly sliced peared tart apples.

Combine all dry ingridients and place in a gallon size zip bag. Shake to mix, then add apple slices and shake coat fully. Fill pie crust. Make sure you cover the edges of the pie crust with a strip of foil to reduce browning. Place in preheated oven at 425 degrees for 40-50 minutes. Remove the foil edge protection during the last 15 minutes.

------------------------------------------

The night I took over the reigns of Duet, turning the well worn keys in that brass lock I’d polished every night since I was five, the bakery felt cold and empty. I didn’t turn on the lights in the front of the shop, relying on the streetlights to guide me past the solid mahogony chairs and tables. This was the part of Duet the world knew. Memories were made here. A few of the regulars had been married here. When the Harmony Gazette featured us, they always included a blig spashy pic of the seating area, well lit, with the mouth of the brick oven giving off a comforting glow from the kitchen. And that’s where I headed. The kitchen. Home.

I flipped on the lights and took it all in. The stainless steel prep stations. The mixing bowels on their racks. Clean. Orderly. The way I left it. I had dismissed the staff and did the closing duties myself, taking the time to try to clear my head before heading to the hospital.

I wandered the kitchen aimlessly wondering what could possibly debut the next generation of what Mayor Winthrop himself called “the sweet soul of Harmony”. The public was worried that we would be closing for good after a week of darkened windows and the rumors of how advanced the cancer must have been to lay up Mr. Bloom, my father. Why, Duet hadn’t closed since my grandfather founded it in 1923. It was a staple of the town square, filling the air with the smell of fresh baked bread in the early morning, and cinnimon and apple in the cool October evenings. It was coffee central for Judge Haskill, who would walk over from the courthouse on slow days when no one wanted to waste the gas to speed. And it was the home of Lady of Liberty Bridge Club on Wednesday night. But the ovens were cold, and the chill seemed to leach out onto main street, sucking the color from the oak leaves.

What this town needed was a little comfort. What I needed, I didn’t have the slightest idea. My father was dying, lying in a sterile bed fifty miles from home. At one in the morning I woke to find him gripping my forearm. I had fallen asleep, arms crossed, at his bedside. Now he was staring at me with those hard blue eyes, oblivious to his whispy grey hair damp at his temples from another fever, to the hollows under his eyes.

“Dad?”

“Bakery.”

I shook my head. “We closed up until we could be sure...”

“Cici.”

“Until I knew...”

He tightened his grip. “Cecilia. This is going to take me some time to beat. More than you have to sit on your hands. You need to get to the bakery.”

I shook my head again. “It can wait.”

Dad closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillow. “I’ll be here tonight. Other people are depending on us.”

I started to answer, but a loud tick from a machine at his bedside made me catch my tounge. Morphine. When I looked back, Dad had already begun to snore softly.

I blinked away tears and glanced around the kitchen. Daydreaming, I had already started the oven and began mixing the dry ingrediants for our basic white bread. I checked the clock. There was enough time to get one batch out of the oven around seven in the morning. We probably wouldn’t get flooded with regulars until word got around, and folks began showing up for work out on the square, sniffing the air.

I looked over at the pans and knew at most I would have ten loaves. I wished I had some croissant started, but making croissants by hand requires skill and patience; a batch of croissants can take several days to complete. I did have a box of frozen store bought croissant, my assistant Greg’s little guilty pleasure, but Dad would kill me if I ...

It took me a moment to calm the quaking in my shoulders. My lower lip kept quivering. What the hell was I doing here?! I sighed and glanced out through the window at the wind tossing the trees around, stripping them of their leaves. My whole world was dying.

I finished loading the mixer and started the dough hook spinning and wished I had someone to call. Greg was just the assistant, not even close to being in an inner circle. Dixie, my hairdresser since I was six, was eighty and surely out cold. Even if I did call her, her first question would be “Shouldn’t you have a man for this?” I never knew what to tell her. I mean, what do you say? “Sorry, I would have a man, but this town has swallowed me whole. I’ve lived my whole life here, practically on display to all the nosey old biddies, learning baking from my father when all the other kids were going off to college. Every chance I’ve had at love has headed down Highway 20 and never looked in its rearview mirror.”

I was just a lonely little flour covered girl about to lose the only solid pillar in my life. These was only one thing I knew how to do at this point. Bake. I went to my father’s office and opened the safe, pulling out his rolodex of recipes. I knew Dad’s apple pie by heart, but I always felt better with the card out staring me in the face. We had a few frozen pie crusts in the freezer, and a bag of apples on the shelf.

I decided to get the town fat on my grief. It was a southern tradition. When in unbearable pain, infect as many others as you can. But instead of guilt, I was going to use Granny Smith.

------------------------------------

The bell over the door chimed at seven-fifteen. “Oh my god!”

I peeked around the order window to see Margaret Johanson standing in the doorway. The wind was still wild, and blew leaves inside with a tiny tornado. Margaret stepped inside and closed the door, mouth still agape.

“Oh my god.” she said again. “I can’t believe the smell! Delicious! And you’re open!”

I waved, finished tying a fresh apron over my light blue sundress, the last clean clothes I had had in my travel bags, and gave a cursory glance to the kitchen before stepping out into the dining area. “Hi there, Mrs. Johanson. I should have realized you’d be the first to check in.”

Margaret was one of the leaders of the Lady of Liberty Bridge Club, and if god hadn’t called her to lead them, she would have been working angles with the current administration to let her lead a group of commandos to take out Castro. It wasn’t that she was that intent on the wiping out Communism, she just hated an unfinished job. “The Bay of Pigs!” she once yelled. “How could we just leave it like that? That’s not the American way!” And then she had gone back to criticizing Mayor Jack Hanger for not finishing the road patching on Pecan street while dealing the next hand. All the old woman in attendence simply nodded their heads. Cici’s father had always refered to the group as “The War Council”. It didn’t take Cici long to figure out why.

Margaret smiled. “I checked everyday. Your dad is the guiding light of the early birds!”

“He is.”

She looked around. “ Just you this morning? Where’s your counter person?”

“Oh...” I frowned slightly. “I hadn’t really thought to ask for company. It’s really been a spur of the moment effort. All I have is a few loaves of white bread and about eight fresh baked fruit pies.”

“That’s what that is!”

“Cherry, Blueberry, Apple, and Pear.”

“My word!”

I grinned. “I cleaned us clean out of fruit. Care for a slice?”

She shook her head, but took a seat at the nearest table. “How’s your father?”

The storm that had been threaten all morning finally began to break, dark stains splattering across the blacktop. “ Well, I was at his bedside until he asked me to come in to open up today. He’s... fighting it.”

“Well, if there’s a man who can beat the big C, it’ll be your father.”

I made a noncommital sound as I poured her a cup of coffee and then left her to sort out her cream and sugar. Plating a slice of apple pie, I grabbed the phone from the wall. Greg answered on the first ring.

“We’re open?”

I blinked in surprise. “How did you...?”

“Caller ID, Watson. Elementary.”

“Oh.” I checked the oven. “Want to come in and run the register for a few hours? I figure we’d run until about mid-day and then close up and run prep for tomorrow. It’s raining, so it won’t be swamped.”

“Sure! How’s the bossman?”

“I’ll find out when I visit the hospital tonight.”

Silence. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I thanked him and hung up. Others might have interrpreted Greg’s slow response as a slight, or a hangover, but I knew better. Greg was worried about Dad, too. He’d been working for us since freshman year of highschool, taking care of an alcoholic mother and trying to keep himself on the right track. There’s wasn’t an illusion of both ot us being as close as family. God knows we didn’t act like family. Greg was a quiet man. He took directions, spoke with respect, and he was always on time. But that was it. He never stretched past his understood boundries. Nothing daring about him him. He was here, he worked, and he went home. And while I felt guilty about this deep down, it really was a shame. Four years my junior or not, he was a looker.

I made my way back to Margaret’s table and slid the pie before her while she watched the rain fall in a ragged staccato against the windowpane.

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

I made a cup of coffee for myself. “It’s on the house.”

Margaret wasn’t one to argue with free pie. As slight as she was, she could pack it away at a potluck. I could bare witness that the woman could outright terrorize a pan of cobbler like only a starving animal could. A calm silence fell, punctuated only by the rain, faint clicks of the ovens in the kitchen, and the slight tap of metal against plate. I sipped my coffee, and for the first time in a week, tension began to drain from my shoulders.

“So.” Magaret set her fork down. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?”

“Well, you have to know there’s a lot of speculation that with your father so ill, you might just close the shop down.”

I turned half-way to give her a look. “Really.”

Margaret sipped from her coffee cup. “Mmm-hmm. Well, not that I am speculating, you understand. Just some of the girls.”

I barked a short laugh, then tried to smile when she took on offended airs. “Oh, calm down Mrs. Johanson. I’m not laughing at you, just at the thought that we Blooms would ever let such a little thing as potential death slow us down. Why, I’ll have you know Mama sliced up those apples for me this morning.”

She waved off my nonesense with one hand and picked her fork back up. “I was just asking.”

“I know.”

“What, with the Mayor calling off the Harvest Festival and all, it was completely understandable that you closing might be the cause of...

“WHAT?” I nearly dropped my coffee. “He’s what? He can’t!”

The bell rang as Greg walked in, shaking off his slicker. “Hey Cici, Mrs. Johanson.”

“Good Morning, Greg!” Margaret smiled up at him.

I stepped past him. “There’s three loaves in the upper oven. The have about fifteen more minutes.”

“Wait, what?” Greg missed the peg while hanging his jacket, the whole mess landing in a puddle on the floor. “Where are you going?”

“To kill our illustrious Mayor.”

Now, I do have another project in mind. I like Baker's Daughter, but I'm not feeling it at the moment, so I'm thinking of heading back to shorts and working a novel based on vingettes. Something with several dynamic characters tied with a common theme. Maybe a novella? I'm not sure, but I'll start tomorrow.

Giving thanks

groundbyground — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 00:59:33 GMT

So here we are, another Thanksgiving gone by, leaving most of us and our 'fridges stuffed with turkey. Most of us took a moment to thank a higher power that we are so damn lucky, that we still have a job, a friend, our health. As I've been reminded by numerous pieces in the press, we SHOULD feel damn thankful, since the world is such a shitty place that even our new president might not be able to pull us back from. Hell, we just might be too close to the event horizon, and even with our robot servants floating near, the fact is we're going to have to brave the mouth of hell and see what's on the other side.

Instead of bringing you all down with even more reflections on this day in particular, or our national situation, or the difficulties facing the new administration...

I'm thankful for you.

All of you. Each one of you who bothers to read blogs and comment and contribute and remind each other that we are not alone. It's simple, and silly, but it true. Fuck it all, you matter to more people than you know, and the world is better for having you in it.

Except for you. Yeah you.
Fucking pervert.

My next race?

groundbyground — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 11:29:54 GMT

Training Update

groundbyground — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 11:21:57 GMT

Missed a couple of runs this last week due to the WOW expansion release and a flat tire, BUT

I ran a 9 Minute mile!!!!!

For a lark I ran to a cd of Army Infantry Cadence. What a difference! I won't be abandoning my current running program, but on the alternating days I'll probably keep the cadence program loaded. I'm still running around the apartment complex. Really need to find a nice smooth out and back or a track nearby. Also, I need to be aggressive on my dieting. I need to lose around 50 lbs. FAST.

Four Stars.

groundbyground — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:38:17 GMT

The Army announces the first female Four Star General!

Run update!

groundbyground — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 04:38:32 GMT

My latest workouts:

11/7/2008
Run: 2.3 Mi

11/6/2008
Run: 1 Mi

11/5/2008
Run: 2 Mi

15 runs down. Working on getting my min/mile down to about 9 mins.

groundbyground — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 01:43:19 GMT

Sent my first email to an Army recruiter to see about getting a waiver so I can reup. I'm actually excited about this. I'm even wondering if I could go back to Knox for my BCT.

I may be fucked up in da head.

Serious discussions

groundbyground — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 04:18:39 GMT

It looks like there's a real possibility that I may be entering the U.S. Army again in a few months. Mary and I are talking it over, and since we would really like to move up north again, and the only jobs really allowing us the freedom to pick and choose would be going over the road trucking, or spending a few years learning administration or medicine from Uncle Sam... well.

Assuming neither career path results in fatality, I have to ask myself, which leads to a better future? Which will make me feel fulfilled in serving the community? What would I like Ethan to tell his classmates his daddy does?

Originally, we thought we might transfer with my current company to PA. And that's fine. I don't mind my job. It pays well, and it will keep us comfortably. But it is what it is, namely the same thing every day, the same routes, the same customers calling in to say you missed a pick up because they're remodeling their bathroom and just dumped 80 pounds of tile in their tote. And that doesn't bother me too much, but... I'm a sanitation driver. A garbage man. Sure I get paid better than most teachers, but there's a stigma.

Trucking leads to trucking. Sure, you might go from company driver to owner operator, and the pay can be very good, but you are going to spend at least a month at a time away from home for at least two years or more. And home time constitutes only a couple of days, and then you're off again. On the whole, it's the same thing I do now, except fewer stops, longer load times, and less time at home. And it's at least as dangerous as my current gig playing with hydraulics, putting out chemical fires, and breathing in fumes of god knows what after being splattered with week old food stuffs with liquefied old folk diapers.

The Army. I spent a couple of months in the Army about 6 years ago. I signed up on my 24th birthday at a very bad time in my life. I had just caught my girl-friend of 7 years (engaged a couple of times) cheating on me... again. I was ready to get away. I scored high on the ASVAB and dropped 30 pounds in a month, and the recruiters loved me... and told me to lie on my app. Lying always makes me anxious, and add in the fact the sudden weight loss destroyed my immune system, and we got problems. I spent my whole time at Basic sick with Bronchitis, Anemia, and breathing issues probably just related to being in Kentucky during summer/fall. I made it nearly through the second phase when it all caught up with me. After being pulled out of regular excercise/duty and being reinstated (after sweet-talking a Colonel) I had to face the fact my body needed more recovery time. The Doc wanted to send me home and told me I could reup later, and since being recycled appeared to be a torturous and fun-filled stay with twice a day PT sessions... I relented. But only after my Platoon Sargent pulled me aside and talked it over with me.

It was hell on earth. I was scared, lonely, and frustrated. And not more than a couple months go by when a challenge comes up in daily life and I think back to jumping walls, climbing ropes, diving into sawdust in the pit, sweeping floors, doing drills with rifles. And I scoff at the daily life challenge, because quite frankly... it's easy as hell. People makes their own lives complicated with complaints and thinking they deserve this or that, that they're better than having to stoop low and just deal with a situation, even though if they just dealt with it the drama would have been minimal.

Back here in the present, life is good. No, really, it is. Sure we don't have a ton of money, but we're happy. But, the call is there to be something more. Every time I see a veteran or a service bumper sticker, I think "That could be me. That could be one of my brothers." I think that I would have completed my contract by now and could have been working in a medical facility. And I regret the missed opportunity. And Mary seems to understand that.

We would like to move north. The Army could give us the opportunity, and a rent allowance to pay for our apartment while I'm serving. They would set me on a career path. I would have the opportunity to surpass the challenges that previously delayed me.

Nothings decided yet.

OBAMA WINS!!!!

groundbyground — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 02:13:21 GMT

I expect it'll be confirmed by tomorrow morning. :)

Here.... we..... GO!!!!!

groundbyground — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 09:31:31 GMT

Pull that voting lever! PULL IT!

Done? Okay, what bar should we all meet up at and drink until the results come in or the news anchor inadvertently lights the studio ablaze?

Who should be President?

groundbyground — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 04:16:18 GMT

Whoever it is, he should be able to travel in time and kick the ass of each of these men in order. Then he gets the title.

Anyone starting Nano at midnight?

groundbyground — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 02:33:33 GMT

Just wondering.

----

My latest workouts
10/31/2008
Run: 2.3 Mi
10/29/2008
Run: 2.3 Mi
10/26/2008
Run: 2 Mi

groundbyground — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 03:54:14 GMT

I'm the reason Obama will lose. Start in on me now. Why wait?

Run run run

groundbyground — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 03:39:00 GMT

My latest workouts

10/24/2008
Run: 2 Mi

10/23/2008
Run: 1.5 Mi

10/19/2008
Run: 2.3 Mi

McCain WINS!!!

groundbyground — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 22:36:16 GMT

Seriously, what would you do?