Oceanfree ran off with my Winning Notification and Via9rA

Its heading into its third day since Oceanfree mysteriously shut up shop. Rumour on the Internet points to a changeover going on, but, like many of the Internet service providers, free email suppliers, dot-com wonderbreads, absolutely no advance warning of a loss of service was issued. So I like everybody else, have to sit it out and await developments. I'm without email. Uncontactable. It's spookily quiet, in fact.

There are, of course, many alternative email options. I have a G-mail account (but can't remember the settings without having to go fish out an old diary. Yes, you've guessed, any password questions would doubtless be forwarded to my non-working email account!), and one can always get the dreaded Hotmail going. But there's a comfortable familiarity about using one's own accounts on one's own computer in Outlook, complete with the never-ending Rules and Blocked Senders lists that grow and grow with every piece of crappy spam that comes in.

How much do you rate the chance that Oceanfree (or their new incarnation) are working furiously at spam blockers as we read this? Maybe that's the cause of the delays? No. I didn't think so either.

UFO Over Firhouse: Alien on Doorstep Shock!

On Monday morning the local Council arrives in my area and takes away the household refuse at a fee of €8 per binload. As they come quite early (and, because for the past almost three years, I am now a wage slave and leave for my job quite early) the bins tend to be at least wheeled to the front of the house the night before. We affix a tag to the handle which proves we've paid the €8. As this is a valuable little item, we wait until morning to put it on the bin. Some bugger would surely steal it otherwise.

Anyway, I was standing tending to our wheelbin last Sunday evening when I was mildly surprised to see a circular object whirring steadily over my head about sixty feet up. At first, I couldn't make out exactly what the object was as it hovered there. It seemed to have a large, dark nucleus at the centre around which spun a pale coloured aurora. The think buzzed fairly loudly too and kind of wobbled uncertainly in its spinning motion.

A second or two later, the shape stopped spinning and straightened up into the shape of a model helicopter, the kind controlled by radio transmitter. The tail rotor stopped spinning momentarily, then started up again. Then the machine flew onwards for all of forty feet towards the gap between two houses to the rear of us before all power abruptly ceased and it dropped to a death on (by the sound of it) a concrete surface.

"Talk about having to wear a hard hat in your own back yard!" I said to Herself, telling her the tale.

We sat for an hour, watching television and drinking beer. Then the doorbell rang. Herself got up and answered it.

Smirky Greensleeves was standing on the doorstep.

"I got a new model helicopter today," he said, a picture of buck-toothed innocence. "And my Mom and I were flying it in the field and we lost it. You didn't see it did you? I've asked at all the other houses."

We wondered why he'd asked at all the other houses first. Herself was trying to dice him with death rays from her eyeballs as his little bright halo pinged audibly above him.

"It crashed over there," I said, pointing over my shoulder towards the rear of the house.

His little ratty eyes grew rounder.

"You saw it?"

"Yes. It went down..." I walked towards the back window and counted houses. "... After the second house on the next road."

Mock, fawning, incredulity.

"It went all the way over there?"

Okay kid. I can't hold Herself back any longer. If you don't feck off she will be peeling your skin off in about five seconds.

I retold the tale of the buzzing noise and the yoke spinning around and the short onward flight and the crash.

I added:
"You should fly those things close to the ground, you know?"

"My Mom and I were flying it way off over there," he lied, waving his arm back out towards the field. "There's some power in them," he grinned.

Like right. I was a kid too for a while. I know the first thing any kid will do is try to find how high and then how far away a model aircraft will go.

He buggered off. Half-an-hour later he was back again.

"I went around there and there's no sign of it."

"Well, it might have crossed the road to the other houses," I said. "It's difficult to say. I did hear it crash though."

"Well I can't find it."

"You're welcome."

I looked out at the gathering evening gloom.

"You're going to have a hard time finding it in the dark soon anyhow," I said.

"Yes. I might go home and go to bed and get up real early and look again," he replied through his lollypop-stick grin.

I've not been buzzed recently by any more model helicopters. Either he found it and it was damaged beyond repair, or, as I suspect, a neighbour pushing out their Sunday evening / Monday morning wheelbin found a junked toy scattered about a driveway and swept it up as so much litter.

I like the wheelbin idea.

I really like it.

Fairy Builders at it again

The fairies have come into our garden, most unexpectedly, over the past few evenings. We can tell by the host of fairy mushrooms that have sprung up in the long dandelion leaves that should instead be a lawn, and all around the pieces of sawn tree trunks. Don't know why but they seem to prefer the log with the solid butt of cement on it and the offcut tiles.

The picture isn't great, I know. Had to take it with the camera in the mobile phone as the better digital camera is out of juice. But they look like little artificial ones that those type of people who like to will paint on the base of a garden gnome. A new wonder.

No Junior Cert astonishment & indignation here

Nope. I don't subscribe to it. I've been listening to the annual astonishment, indignation, condemnation of the activities of our 15 year olds celebrating their Junior Cert results, and it's the same old annual nonsense trotted out each time. Fact is, we're human beings and humans have dolled themselves up and got hammered to mark all sorts of events from the time we discovered drugs and alcohol. In some Brazilian rainforest a teen is probably painting themselves red and black right now and going on the lash with copious amounts of fermented grandmother spit. The only difference is that our wee lassies paint themselves orange all over and wear more clothes. Barely more.

Same thing next year. Mark it in the calendar.