It’s funny how people pooh-pooh native legends. Oh, they say, don’t take any notice of those wacky stories.
And then you discover that they were right all along.
The islanders describe Ebu Gogo as being about one metre tall, hairy and prone to “murmuring” to each other in some form of language. They were also able to repeat what islanders said to them in a parrot-like fashion.
And they might still be there, somewhere. Using tools, living in trees, a separate branch from Homo Erectus. Sadly, if they are still there, we’ll probably wipe ’em out soon enough.
Things that spring to mind: “animal” rights; communication techniques; “prime directive”. It would be like first contact with an alien species, except we’d be the ones with the high technology. Bah, it’ll never happen. And if it happens, it’ll never happen like that. Bah. But anyway, Cor.
A year ago at this very moment, I was under the knife.
I still get twinges and worrying moments — only the other day I cast aside my chair at work and kneeled for half an hour, causing the occasional strange look. I still haven’t started playing badminton again, but I will soon (I keep saying that).
I can’t say things are “back to normal”, as I’ve had to change my habits in lots of ways — proper lifting, no slouching, that sort of thing. I guess that’s the new normal. Much better than the alternative…
While in (where else?) Borders this morning, Avaragado performed his good deed of the day.
Avaragado spotted a small child (ooh, about three years old) making a daring escape down the stairs, unaccompanied. Disregarding his own personal safety, he found a Bordersdroid (the one with the dreadlocks) who summoned Geoff.
Geoff, Avaragado was solemnly informed, was the store detective. So summoned, Geoff and his moustache swiftly located the child, and the world was saved.
Moments later a woman, clearly deficient in the child department to the tune of one, emerged wide-eyed, red-faced and in a hurry from behind a bookshelf and clattered down the stairs to be reunited with her offspring.
Like all good superheroes, Avaragado melted into the crowds.
Pack, eat lunch, speed to the airport, arrive, start dragging cases
Melanie falls off a kerb and badly wrenches her ankle. I think it’s
because she’s Jewish. The airport summons two firemen — what are
they going to do, throw water on it? They’re very helpful anyway. None
of us can tell whether it’s broken or not; Melanie decides to fly home
and get it sorted there, assuming she’s allowed. She gets wheeled
around the place VIP-stylee, Chris in tow. At the gate we blag
reserved seats for all seven of us at the front of the plane.
Back in the UK it’s cold and dark. Chef is the only one happy about
(They didn’t charge us for the dent in the car.)
from where denim did actually originate. The coliseum gets our
collective thumbs up (so nobody gets thrown to the lions). Chris and
Mikey make my feet
Roman wonder: la
Maison Carrée, an intact temple, supposedly with original
finish off: Pont
du Gard, a Roman aqueduct.
More architecture. I seem to have a thing about photographing arches.
Right after I take this
photo inside the church Melanie drops and breaks her camera. I
think it’s because she’s Jewish.
We also see a wonky
arch and an alleged
search of better Roman bits we go to the Oppidum
of Ensérune. Hmm, yes. Bit rubbish really. Except for a
Time Team-tastic piece of Roman
kid-art on some pottery.
and Mikey go climbing. The rest of us go to Pézenas
in the morning, and then to la
Grotte des Demoiselles for a stalagtastic (and stalactastic) taste
of life as an orc. Very impressive. Very big. Underground for about an
hour, following our tour guide through a maze of twisty passages, all
alike. I counted 913 steps in total.
(No I didn’t.)
has an Arc de Triomphe too. And the architecture just keeps on coming.
The architecture of the car park disagrees
with our people carrier.