I hope this sets off a whole chain of people posting pictures of their truly weird hands.

For what it’s worth my own right hand has bad arthritis, every finger is wonky in its own special way, also the thumb. And I’m old, so it’s all veiny and speckled with liver spots. No, you’re not getting a photo.

I just listened to a podcast on this whole saga - what a wild ride.

Struwwelpeter. We had an English copy handed down by my grandfather. It’s insane.

Example: “Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feuerzeug (“The Very Sad Tale with the Matches”): A girl plays with matches, accidentally ignites herself and burns to death. Only her cats mourn her.”

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Struwwelpeter

– pay for a large residence and security on the outskirts, then stay inside. Use disguises/body doubles when going out.

So … you can everything you want, except sponteneity? Or privacy, with all those staff hanging around. And there’d still be some douche tracking your private jet.

Ha ha, read this wonderful piece through thinking, sounds great but what would I ever make? And then omg, yarn winder. I’m a knitter, and my yarn winder is a plastic monstrosity. I mean I’m never going to do it myself, but there definitely is a market for beautifully machined yarn winders.

Thanks! Will do some more research…

Oh dear. I was planning to visit Japan in the autumn. Guess I will give it a swerve. Maybe Korea then? I haven’t flown anywhere since the Before Times and have a hankering for foreign travel.

It was partly because my parents forced me into a scholarship that was tied to teaching afterwards - I was entirely unsuited to being a teacher, but neither of them even attended high school, and to them being a teacher was the pinnacle of achievement. I was pretty good academically but university overwhelmed me, so between that and no incentive to succeed, I failed miserably, only passing a few courses. I ended up getting a professional qualification (not a degree) in my 30s and had a decent career.

Living in a squat for a few years showed me I would have made a fantastic electrian or plumber, but you had to have a penis for that for some reason.

That sounds like a protection racket.

But but but it saves users from doing “gymnastics with their eyes”!! Jaysus, what a load of bs.

I hate algorithms, they narrow everything down, desperate to squeeze you into a little box. FB knows how old I am, so while I’m stalking my nieces it shows me ads for incontinence pants, tea towels and comfy shoes. It became a complete turn off with Netflix, it’s part of the reason I cancelled. Don’t miss it.

Oh yes, I’d forgotten about Winnie. I have a lot more respect for science and literature prizes than the peace prize though. Harder work, I reckon.

I remember my poor niece saying, “I can’t believe they let us leave the hospital with her! She’s so tiny and fragile! We don’t know what we’re doing!”

Cheese and marmalade, the sharper both are the better. Mmm.

Is this the first Nobel laureate to run a country? How bloody amazing. Well done Mexico!

Where I’m from it’s called “squeezing the lemon”. Mash that pedal! Ha ha. The best bit is when you catch up with them stopped at the next set of lights.

This is the correct answer. It’s how ships avoid running into each other. When whoever is steering the vessel is facing the bow (front, usually the pointy bit), port is their left, starboard their right. Ship’s running lights are red on the port side, green on the left. So if you’re out on the water at night, you can immediately see whether a ship is coming towards you or moving away. The rule for passing an oncoming vessel is “port to port”, thus avoiding confusion and collision.

Sitting up in bed I would consider the headboard the stern, because I have my back to it, and the foot the bow. So the area to starboard is right, and portside is left. Ahoy maties!!!

I found out what was going on from Yahoo! Lol. https://uk.finance.yahoo.com/news/bing-api-down-taking-microsoft-090532873.html

We call them zoodies in our sports club, to differentiate them from hoodies, which have no zip.

For me olives were an acquired taste.

The first time I ate in a restaurant I was about 12 I think. It was a fancy Italian place. When I saw the dishes of (green, pimento-stuffed) olives on the table I was excited to try one. I’d only ever seen pictures of them in American magazines - this was mid-60s New Zealand, Coca Cola was exotic. I put one in my mouth, and almost gagged, the flavour was so completely awful. I spat it into a napkin.

Fast forward to today, and I would gladly hoover up the whole dishful and ask for more. My favourite olive is a big fat juicy Kalamata. I also love tapenade made with black olives. The only olives I dislike are the flavourless cardboardy lumps sometimes passed off as olives.

I know a young man who headed back to India for an arranged marriage. I expressed my extreme surprise that he would agree to marry someone he’d never met, and he said he trusted his parents to choose someone compatible. “After all, they know me better than anyone else.” I remain baffled, honestly. He seems an otherwise savvy, modern person. But there you go, happy to commit to a stranger.

I dread to think what kind of bloke my parents would have picked for me…