The depressingly unimaginative trend of razor-blade manufacturers to develop razors with an ever-greater number of blades. Presumably in response to Gillette's market-leading three-blade, the Mach 3 Turbo (because the plain old Mach 3 just doesn't sound fast enough), I hear that one or two brands are now sporting four-blade models, and one assumes that these will have equally exciting and dynamic monikers, with a tantalising suggestion of increased sexual prowess thrown in, like "Thrust 4" or "Purple Monster Quatro". Well, what bloody difference is that extra blade going to make, I ask you, except to the detriment of our wallets? Is my poor unwillingly-exfoliated face, shorn by this miracle of modern manufacturing of that extra nanometre of remaining fur, going to be noticeably smoother? I sincerely doubt it. And where will this blade-appending madness end? As the inimitable Dave Barry said - who knows what lies ahead? Razors with ten blades? Twenty blades? A thousand blades? Razors that go backward in time and shave your ancestors? Oy vey.

Welcome to the new premises of the Daily Linguini! We've gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that the look of the old place has been recreated in astonishing detail; you'd almost think we've just picked up the old décor and plonked it down here, wouldn't you? We're just that clever. This is not to say that there won't be some design changes at some point; we'll just bed ourselves in here for a bit first. We all like to feel at home.

Recent side-trips to neighbouring blogs have turned up some odd references to non-existent geopolitical entities; for example, Isle Getty-Battler and Molvania. Well, allegedly non-existent, anyway; they may be sharing a chunk of space with Never-Never Land and the Emerald City for all I know. Are there any more such exotic locations out there, and are any of them handing out citizenships? Particularly if they're tax havens.

Who is Carmen Sandiego, anyway? Seriously, tell me.

The inside of my neck feels like it's being gently pinched by several hundred razor blades. The baby has picked up yet another miscellaneous lurgy from nursery, and has dutifully elected to share it with both of her parents. The Missus is currently lying on the couch, gingerly sipping a hot honey-and-lemon concoction and going "aargh" very quietly. I've already downed more than the appropriate number of extra-strength Strepsils and am more than slightly spaced, or at least that's what the paisley-turbanned monkey on the ceiling is telling me.

People who answer questions about why their company won't let me do something (today's example: correct their record of my home address over the phone, rather than in writing) with "that's our company policy". That tells me NOTHING, cretins! I want to know the reasoning behind your policy, although I realise that the fact that you care less about customer satisfaction than you do about whether you might smudge your makeup, or God forbid chip a nail, if you answered the phone too quickly, let's say in less than six hours, probably precludes you from giving me a meaningful answer. I generally end up asking to speak to the manager in under 60 seconds when I run up against emptyheads like this. Aaaargh!!!!!

A lot of things seem to be pissing me off lately.

I hate going to the dentist. I have to go to one in about half an hour. They're going to stick bits of metal in my mouth and rummage around with things that go "bzzz". I hate it. I hate going to the dentist even more since I watched Marathon Man. Eeurrgh. I think I might skive off. Did I mention that I hate it? Well, I do.

Here's an instant messaging session I had with one of my friends yesterday afternoon.

Leon says:
howdy mate....
Leon says:
doing anything interesting?
pastamasta says:
yes, I'm folding proteins
pastamasta says:
would you like some?
Leon says:
are they tasty?
pastamasta says:
they're really flavoursome
pastamasta says:
mmmm, taste those nitrogen bonds
Leon says:
cool
Leon says:
I'm working out a mathematical proof of the Mpemba Effect from basic principles
Leon says:
you thinking about having a coffee today?
Leon says:
let me know
pastamasta says:
well I suppose I could take a break from my philosophical musings on the nature of truth
pastamasta says:
3:30?
Leon says:
ok
Leon says:
in what time frame would be 3:30? my frame of reference or yours?
pastamasta says:
well, that depends on whether you're currently undergoing significant spacetime deformation as a result of travelling at an appreciable fraction of c
pastamasta says:
personally, I am at rest with respect to the Earth's surface, how are you?

It must be nice for my employers to know that their investment in me is well-justified.

A friend of mine is back at work after taking a few days off to run the London Marathon at the weekend. He made the decision on the spur of the moment one day whilst eating a pastrami sandwich in the canteen, and casually remarking upon the girth of his middle parts and his desire to reduce them to belt-manageable proportions. His timing left a little to be desired, as the decision was made a scant six weeks ago - which didn't exactly leave a lot of time for training - but he soldiered on bravely and ran almost every day, braving the cold March sleet, carbo-loading at all the prescribed times, puchasing the grotesquely short shorts, and chanting the obligatory self-motivation mantras like "I know I can I know I can" and "ooofuckmyarsehurts". Unfortunately, despite the exhortations of his coach (well, okay, the howtorunmarathons.com home page) he couldn't manage more than 9 miles in one day prior to the actual event, and therefore we were all expecting him to pull out. No such thing! The British fighting spirit is alive and well and is putting its track shoes on! He phoned up on Monday morning to say that he had actually completed the marathon, in a reasonably respectable time, but would not be in for a day or two as all his muscles had more or less disintegrated and were demanding workman's comp for excessive overtime. He has just wandered into the office wearing very comfortable-looking shoes and wincing every time he sits down, as apparently he has chafing issues.

Whilst I admire his grit, resolve, determination and chutzpah, it is not the sort of thing which I aspire to have on my CV. This isn't to say that, were I to run a marathon, I wouldn't feel a hefty sense of achievement in having done so; it's just not on my things-to-do list. Skydiving? Absolutely. Owning a jacuzzi? Just show me where to sign. Running until you've lost the will to stay conscious and your internal organs go on strike somehow fails to appeal. Let's not forget, the original Marathon runner died when he got to Athens; I intend to honour his sacrifice by remaining an indolent wretch. Sue me.

People who can't be bothered to work out the correct usage of "you're"/"your" and "they're"/"their"/"there". If you actually don't know, fair enough, insufficient education is hardly your fault. If you've made a typo, so be it, we all make mistakes. If your just too lazy, their's just no excuse. (See? Bloody annoying, isn't it?)

Lord of the Rings aficionados, or those who just want a brief précis and don't mind reading very quickly, should have a peek at this. Spoilers (of sorts) included. Very amusing. (Link via Selkie.)

We are being invaded by ants. The little bastards are everywhere. I found a bunch of them on the kitchen floor yesterday, and immediately went into a frenzy of stamping and squishing which would have been more than enough to satisfy even the most bloodthirsty ant vengeance god. I've bought two kinds of ant powder, four separate baited traps and two enormous bottles of spray, all of which claim, in cheerfully smug yellow capitals, to Kill All Kinds of Ant Stone Dead. So far, all that seems to have achieved is to make the ants avoid every single treated area, and use the ceiling.

Having previously decided to take the plunge and get myself a proper web host, I'm now being told by my prospective symbiotes that I'm unlikely to be able to access any of the admin pages from the office. Why? Because, apparently, my corporate proxy/firewall server has taken it upon itself to start port-scanning the web hosts' system every time I try to log on, and understandably they're rather hacked off about this and are consequently blocking all traffic from that quarter. (Sounds like I know vaguely what I'm talking about, doesn't it? Trust me, it's a fiendishly clever illusion.)

So I may now have to close my shiny new account with this hosting company, and try another. But wait! I hear you cry, surely you shouldn't be working on your private website during company hours anyway? Well, if you're going to be picky about it, I suppose not. But when else am I going to do it? When I'm elbow-deep in baby poo? I don't think so.

Supermarkets which feature baby-changing facilities, bottle-warming and free baby food in the café, but don't have any trolleys with baby seats on them. Anyone tell me what the point of that is, please? Anyone?

Sarah still doesn't approve of wellies. We tried putting them on at least twenty times, eventually resorting to feeding her Cadbury's Chocolate Buttons to distract her. Finally, the damn things went on, and she seemed to have accepted having them on her feet; but no sooner did we relax than they were kicked off with an unnecessarily showy flourish and a smug and defiant grin. We are now resigned to the fact that wellies are bootii non grata and she will have wet feet when splashing in puddles, which she inexplicably enjoys doing despite the inevitable soaking she gets. Kids. Go figure.

Otherwise, the week was fantastic. The weather was passing fair, the lake itself was millpond-flat and perfect for boating, and the local pubs had forgotten us entirely and welcomed us with open barrels. I mean arms. The Missus and I indulged ourselves in much lazing about, a spot of sketching (at which The Missus excels, and the less said about my talents the better), some wood-carving, a lot of table-tennis, several spectacular hill walks, and one very comical attempt to row to Wildcat Island, which involved a lot of going around in circles and pissing ourselves laughing.

The fields by the cottage were full of baby lambs, who frolicked and gambolled and other words generally only used when describing lambs, much to the delight of Sarah who can now say "eep" (which we're pretty sure is an attempt at "sheep") and can make a fair approximation to a baa-ing noise, although she might of course have been laughing at my wellies.

Off to the Lake District for a week (what, more holiday? I hear you cry, and with justifiable indignation) with The Missus, baby and posse of in-laws in tow. Should be a blast. We've been to this particular spot before, so it should be a simple case of re-ingratiating ourselves with the owners of the local pub (assuming of course that they've forgotten why they threw us out last time), floating the boats, sweeping out the mouse droppings in the games room, and persuading Sarah that she does actually want to try on her shiny new wellies, the sight (or possibly smell) of which has so far caused her to squeal dramatically and put on her I'm-not-going-to-do-this-even-if-you-tie-me-up-and-threaten-my-favourite-rubber-duck face. The company laptop is coming along, despite protests, as it has attached itself to a major artery and now cannot survive without me as its host; nevertheless, blog postage will be happening only sporadically, if at all, as I intend to be having bucketloads of fun (blood supply permitting).