m.r. james got nothin' on this baby

The arrival of child #1 earlier in the year has reduced the vast oupouring of creativity here at TPS to a slow trickle. It has had other effects too. My Better Half has not yet found time to visit her local salon and looks increasingly like some latter-day Rapunzel. As a result of this, she is leaving stray hairs in the bathroom after her fortnightly shower, which brings us to today's post.

At TPS headquarters this morning, I encountered a phenomenon that can only be described as supernatural. On entering the bathroom, I was met with an icy blast that chilled me to the marrow. Then, I pulled back the shower curtain to reveal a matted clump of wet hair that had taken on the appearance of... the late Dennis Hopper circa Easy Rider.

We have all heard stories of the Mexican farmer who found an image of the Virgin Mary in his tortilla or the factory worker from Wigan whose morning toast bore an uncanny likeness to Che Guevara, but these are nothing when compared to the ghostly goings-on in my own bathroom. Admittedly, the otherwordly chill I experienced was simply down to the fact that the missus had left the window open so that steam could get out, but in no way should this lessen the spookiness of the event.

Next time: how I once discovered green ectoplasm by the plughole, only to discover it was a spillage of mint-flavoured Original Source shower gel.

imaginary transaction

[Scene: A small coffee shop on the platform of a busy London train station.]

Me: A small Mocha, please.

Man: Certainly Sir. Whipped cream?

Me: No, thanks. No whipped cream. I don't want anything that would cool down the drink that is shortly to pass my lips. No. My only requirement is that the coffee you're about to serve me should be hot. Very hot. Piping hot. Scaldingly hot. In fact, I would go as so far as to say that the temperature of the beverage I require should be that of a bubbling river of magma straight from the earth's molten core. It should be akin to that of a hissing, steaming torrent of plasma extracted from the surface of the sun. It should be not unlike the burning lava that flows through the fiery rivers of Hell. It should be HOT and nothing – no milk, cream (whipped or otherwise) – should be added to quell the raging, boiling waters within. Please note that I am not a litigious person and providing that the aforementioned drink arrives with a securely fastened lid and a thin protective circlet of cardboard to shield my fingers from the intense nuclear-style forces contained therein, I will take all responsibility for any burns sustained post-transaction.

Man: £2.25, please.

[Postscript: the coffee was tepid.]

(sweary) sketchbook page

I don't know who added such profane language to this sketchbook page (probably the missus) but easily offended readers should probably avoid reading this. And if you are offended then you can fuck off.

(Lots of mistakes in there too. Was I drunk when I – ahem, was the missus drunk when SHE wrote No.3? '... I the trousers and shoes are really rather dreadfully.' Eh?!? It doesn't make sense. It can't possibly have been me who wrote such nonsense. Although I do like the phrase, 'I the trousers'. Like 'We the jury' but for clothes.)

pitt rivers museum