Will never cease, apparently. I have documented my recent travails with an attempted upgrade to full-fat (phat?) fibre internet.

Today:

This equates to approximately 6 months of internet connection monies.

In other news:

I managed to stab myself in the finger with some bamboo the other day, and I am not totally convinced I have got all of the wood out of my finger, despite repeatedly flushing with antiseptic spray and judicious use of scalpels.

Work continues to be insane, but I feel I might have been rumbled when it comes to tactical days off to avoid the office; I may also have lost one of my flock.

My elder brother turns 50 in twelve days; I have no idea what to get him as a gift, but I still haven't got him a 21st gift (the same year I turned 18).

My car is starting to behave peculiarly, which I suspect is largely due to it a) being a diesel and b) my limited mileage.

Yesterday evening, I indulged in a spot of hair-on-fire driving from Ainsdale to Skelmersdale, over old and well worn stomping paths; from WN8 to PR2 via M6 and assorted A roads; while a longer and much more mixed drive, the car actually seemed to appreciate having its neck wrung, and used the same amount of fuel as during a 25 mile mince, despite the longer and more varied route (and with not a little amount of leaden right foot):

Not that my car has, or ever would, inspire the joie de vivre when it comes to piloting it, but I rather enjoyed driving like a complete bellend over familiar turf. Simple things like remembering where the best lines through bends were, clattering grids where the apex is, that kind of jive.

My car is 11 (?12) years old now, and whilst never quick, seems to be getting more feeble. This is good for tyres, keeping Peter out of prison / hospital, but not a great deal of fun. Its days with me are numbered, along with its habit of burning out the glowplug in cylinder 2. Something more modern is appropriate.

I am, therefore, seriously considering a Toyota Corolla. Estate.

I know.

I will (totally not) be drowning in women's underwear as they see me cutting about the place in a hybrid, and their inability to contain themselves in re throwing said underwear my direction, such will their lust be for a fat bloke driving the automotive equivalent of a Which? recommended fridge/freezer.

However, the 2L version should be substantially quicker than my insignia, better for biffing around town (?Preston claims to be a city), gets more MPG, and is cheaper to fuel.

But, if there is one experience in life I can do without, it is the pantomime of buying a car, and the dickery that comes with negotiating over the finance, "bonus" extras, etc.

Truth be told, I would much rather stab myself in the finger with a bamboo toothpick.

Again.

Or punch myself in the face.

However, in modern life, car salespeople and estate agents are a bit like essential cockroaches: even if you wanted them to completely disappear, they wouldn't, and for some societal reason, shouldn't.

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