After the last two posts collectively regarding strokes, pigs, and sci-fi (Kicking A Dead Pig and Mind Reading), I recalled that I have a short short story of speculative fiction sitting in a metaphorical drawer about a man suffering quadriplegia, pigs, and sci-fi.
Now. You might think that all sounds a bit silly. And you might be right. But read on…
We’re at the fag-end of August, almost six years after the moment that set off the series of events that would change Mrs Stroke Bloke’s and my life forever. But no doubt we’ll get to that in due course.
For now, the Edinburgh Festival has just finished and the smell of sulphur from the massive closing fireworks display that rattled our windows last night is fading.
After chatting about shiftwork last week, I planned to spend this week talking about why we’re working longer and later hours. But then some stuff cropped up, and there’s going to have to be a change to our scheduled programming.
First, here’s LongSufferingReaderOfTheBlogPaul’s favourite track of 2018 [sic], regardless.
Week Three of the World Cup has come to an end. And what a [🚨 CLICHÉ KLAXON!!! 🚨] Feast Of Football it’s been. Notwithstanding that Brazil continue to elicit roughly the same amount of sympathy as their 1994 World Cup-winning edition of vicious bores, rather than 1982’s beautiful losers.
Mrs Stroke Bloke and I finished binge-watching the two original seasons of Twin Peaks last night. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get into the minutiae – you know, spoilers. you’ve either seen it or you haven’t. And if you have, the odds are you probably got as far as we did back in the Nineties. i.e., not very far.