The Future Is Fantastic and Wonderful and Technology Makes Everything 1000000x Better

The proof: Our car. There is nothing I don’t love about this thing. I get it, start it up, and it detects my phone and start playing my music from Spotify. I brake, and it’s like, “Stupid human with your slow reflexes. Get out the way, I’ll handle this. Stopping NOW.” I press the accelerator and it’s like, “AHOY! YES! WE GO!” Even with all that power, it’s quiet, not smelly, and gets an outrageous number of miles out of a full tank of petrol. Claudia: you are the reason I no longer hate driving. I hope you last at least eight years, and after that, I promise we will replace you with an even more amazingly autonomous version of you.

Me and my girl Claudia )

The Future Is Terrible and We’re All Going To Die Alone Upside Down on the Floor of a Pub Toilet

The proof: Music. I was in the changing room at the gym and they were playing the usual pop du jour. I normally block it out, but today for some reason I started listening to it.

The lyrics went as follows: “I swipe right ‘cause I see just what I like/Baby, I tap twice for you/Cause we're living in a new age/It's called digital”, etc. And because the changing room was empty I shouted, ”Oh my god it’s a song about Tinder and I hate it and that means I’m OLD.”

My only comfort is that that song is not going to age well.
[continued from here: DW/LJ] Since the church was about a thirty second walk away from The Old Grammar School, we stopped by on Saturday morning before heading out and were pleased to find it unlocked.

My perusal of the visitor’s books (which stretched back to 1975, the lengthiest set of log books I’d encountered on our LT holidays) on the previous evening had told us that there were more Thompson mice to be found in the church. We went on a mouse hunt, but could only locate six of the eight that were allegedly hiding there.

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Humuhumu found the first mouse near the altar.

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And the second, behind the pews.

+7 )

Bonus photo: Our local, the Shoulder of Mutton Inn, was just over the road from the church. You know that feeling you get when you walk into a pub that’s been done up just a bit too much? Where you want to shout, like Bernard Black, “Why does everything have to be fancy? I just want sausage, mash and a bit of cake, not twigs fried in honey or a donkey in a coffin!”

This place was exactly the opposite of that. We stopped in on our first evening and every night subsequently. Worried about whether or not they took cards, we scraped together £7.40 in cash.

“That might not get us a round,” he said.
“This is Yorkshire,” I replied. “If they try to charge us a tenner for two pints of booze and two halves of lemonade, I’m leaving, because we’re clearly in the wrong place.”

As it happened, £6.40 got us a pint of very lively cider (crisp, citrusy, refreshing), a pint of tasty ale, the aforementioned lemonades and a packet of peanuts. And lo, we were grateful not to be in London.

20170217_172800
Humuhumu and Keiki enjoy lemonade, while the bloke & I enjoy our pints of ale & cider respectively.

Up next: Egglestone Abbey.
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