Today I have been mostly trying to fiddle about with the new commenting system. It is a spectacularly tricky exercise when one's brain is reeling and punch-drunk from being kept awake by a small and noisy child demanding, variously, "milk", "cuddle", "bear", "telly", "no telly", "andypandy", "music", "book", "no that one", "more cuddle" and "octopus" (don't ask) at ungodly hours of the morning, but then that's what I get for choosing to live in a Toddlocracy. Anyway, I've stuck at it using my incredible and world-renowned powers of orneriness, with some limited success. I'm still not looking forward to importing all the comments from the old system, though...

Another great and shining example of the trait of stubbornness was The Missus' insistence last night that she was going to eat the lamb casserole she'd most kindly cooked for us, even though the carrots were apparently made out of sponge and the meat was tougher to chew than an anvil. It was not going in the rubbish bin in favour of a quick cook-from-frozen pizza, oh no. She was going to eat every mouth-watering morsel on the plate, and so was I if I valued my miserable life. I love martyrdom, really I do.

Picture the scene, if you will: it is six o'clock yesterday evening, at the Château de Pasta, as The Missus arrives home mere seconds after I myself have returned from picking up Sarah from nursery.

Missus: [plonks heavy bag of shopping dramatically on floor]

Pastamasta: [plonks heavy toddler dramatically on sofa]

Missus: God, I'm knackered. [sighs dramatically]

Pastamasta: You and me both. [collapses on chair hyper-dramatically]

Missus: I've been working non-bloody-stop all day, and then I had to queue for ages at the supermarket. I'm so tired. [flutters eyelids weakly]

Pastamasta: I know what you mean, I've been lugging bits of server hardware about and my back is really killing me. [sags in chair like bag of jelly]

Missus: I can't even face getting up right now. [puts hand to forehead to wipe away clamminess]

Pastamasta: I'm going to bed early, I'm practically falling asleep right now. [rolls eyes like terminal cholera patient]

Missus: [groans gently]

Pastamasta: [groans gently]

Sarah: Mummy! Daddy! Milk! 'Jamas! Cuddle!

[painfully long, pregnant pause as both protagonists strive silently to convey utter, bone-deep exhaustion without actually saying "I am more knackered than you"]

I am suffering from a terrible curse.

I cooked a small roast chicken last night with a salt-and-peppercorn glaze and some Vichy carrots and baby new potatoes in a dill cream sauce, nothing fancy, but pretty damn delicious even if I do say so myself, which I am doing so it must be true. The curse I'm talking about is what I did to the roasting pan afterwards, because there was a whole smoodgy pile of burnt crunchy bits left over from the chicken, which I proceeded to devour with the help of a nice chunk of white bread. It was tasty and satisfying and I'm not ashamed of myself in any way whatsoever, oh no.

When you just can't help yourself, I suppose it's more like a geas than a curse.

This is sheer genius. I imagine you've probably heard of it already, but I feel the need to post the link anyway:

www.ninjaburger.com

I'll have the French Fries of our Ancestors, please, with Extra Wasabi. Banzai!!

Cute and fluffy, yet somehow, terrifyingly inappropriate.

The parachute jump, due to the annoyingly predictable operation of the local Law of Sod, didn't actually happen. The gaily-gusting winds decided that the airfield was their playground for the day, and spent all of it throwing clouds around the sky like big, fluffy basketballs and making rude gestures at the windsock, which remained resolutely horizontal. In the interests of not being likewise flung about the lower atmosphere, the flyboys finally capitulated to the inevitable and cancelled the flight. My poor sister-in-law was more than mildly pissed off, and made this known to all, including several startled bystanding cows, in no uncertain terms; luckily the organisers agreed to give her a place on another jump in a few weeks' time, so at least she won't miss out altogether.

I've been giving some thought to doing something similar myself, actually - there's usually a worthwhile local charity or two arranging a jump before the winter sets in, so I might take the plunge, haha, and book myself in for some plummeting. Always fancied giving it a go. (Or maybe I am just post-rationalising my indignation at being one-upped in the extreme-sports arena by a girl, shock shock horror horror, which bruises my delicate male ego and requires me to match her exploits. But I don't think so.)

I seem to have got DotComments (our "new sauce") working at last, comment counter included. I'll have to see if I can find a clever way to get all my old Enetation comments into the new system, as I'd really hate to lose everyone's valuable contributions. Any DotComments gurus out there have any ideas?

Today I am sitting in a corrugated-iron shed in the middle of a windy field in Lancashire, waiting for the more or less horizontal rain to go away so I can watch a short, blonde lunatic leap out of a perfectly serviceable aeroplane at 10,000 feet. My sister-in-law has decided that gravity, at least temporarily, is not for her, and frankly if she wishes to thumb her nose at one of the fundamental forces of the universe, who am I to argue? The whole clan has turned out to watch, woolly raincoats and Thermos flasks at the ready, nervously smiling and talking about the weather and ooo, isn't it shameful about Bobby Robson, rather than fret overtly about the jump. The wee lass herself, by contrast, is a dynamo of barely-contained energy and fizz, bouncing and fidgeting and scanning the skies for that elusive patch of blue which will herald the take-off. At the moment, she's frowning furiously at a particularly ominous cloud which is headed vaguely in our direction, and is swearing at it sotto voce. Aww, bless.

Lest any of ye spawny lubbers forget, tomorrow be International Talk Like A Pirate Day, so I 'spect ye all to wear yer finest pirate gear an' curse fit to frighten small children 'til ye're blue in the gizzards. I personally will be sportin' me captain's tricorn, crocodile leather eyepatch, best stuffed parrot, an' me Swiss Army hook (ye know, the one with the built-in flintlock pistol an' the extra disembowelling tools). Arrrrr!!!

Blokes who don't wash their hands after using the office loos, or for that matter any public conveniences. It's just grim. I mean, Jesus, these chaps have just been handling their own privates, which for all I know may be riddled with ghastly diseases, and then they're plastering the door handle with the same rampant viruses, each one of which is no doubt gibbering in gleeful anticipation of sinking its hooks into my bodily systems as soon as I use the door myself. I don't reckon the AIDS epidemic would've spread nearly as quickly if we all washed our hands after manhandling our manservants, so to speak. And you don't even want to think about the guys who don't wash after, well, you know what I mean. It happens.

Sometimes I am ashamed of my own gender.

The spam comment filter I put in isn't working, apparently; I've had another 31 junk comments today. The sysadmins at Enetation are looking into the problem, so hopefully it should be fixed soon, which will be grand. In the meantime, I'll be taking the filter out, as I put it together in about five minutes and it really is the most awful hacky bit of code imaginable. A bit like trying to staunch a head wound using duct tape (although I'm reliably informed that this is possible by a reputable healthcare professional).

I can't describe to you how much I loathe spam, and seeing it appear by routes other than the traditional pile-2-Mb-of-crap-into-Hotmail-inbox method is more than a bit disconcerting. In my opinion, spam purveyors should be tossed head-first into a vat of cold mucus and forced to listen to the Spice Girls over and over until their brains melt.

Dear Customers,

The Daily Linguini prides itself on providing a secluded and comfortable ambience in which its patrons may dine in peace. The Management therefore notes with alarm several recently-posted comments from apparent spam-mongers. They are typically of the form:

Comment: Please check the sites dedicated to [insert list of traditional spam-friendly site URLs, e.g. steroids, casinos, Viagra, Swedish masseuses etc. here]
- Tons of interesting stuff!!!

Comments of this type have numbered almost 50 in the last week, and have had to be removed individually from the premises, causing a heavy staff overhead in time and effort to expunge the unwelcome guests.

The Management has therefore implemented, with immediate effect, an automated spam-exclusion filter which runs on the commenting server, and which should prevent such intrusions in future. However, this is a new recipe, and some patrons may find that it causes indigestion in their web browsers. If you experience any unpleasant side-effects, please contact the Management using the sidebar link.

We thank you for your understanding and continued custom.

Pastamasta
Head Waiter

If you're interested, I bumped into a smelly reporter from Yorkshire whilst slumming around the bars of Dublin the other day, and the knock-kneed reprobate conned me into an interview by the cunning expedient of buying me lots of drinks. You can read it over at Bluepoppy's place, should the fancy strike you. (If not, fine, but I should warn you that your teeth will probably turn into gherkins. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Okay, enough of the malingering now, I think. I'm putting the panto horse costume back on, as 'Sweaty Palms' put it (good name, good name) in the comments. I will draw inspiration from the inconsequential details of my life, if necessary, such as my daughter's increasingly adept screaming abilities, and The Missus' purchase of a foot spa (I came home the other day to hear "ooooh, aaaaaah" coming from the other side of the bedroom door, which caused a few milliseconds of husbandly uncertainty, I can tell you). Anyway, The Daily Linguini is hopefully back at full steam. The pâté de foie gras must go on.

What I mean is: blogging is not coming naturally to me at the moment, which is probably what any professional writer would recognise at the dreaded Block, and since I'm far from professional I intend to succumb to it and simply lurk for a few days. Nothing personal.

I am being a blog slacker.

Because I just cannot be arsed.