My time well spent reading about people spending time well

Posted on by inkbiotic

You can draw 29,249 smiley faces before a standard ballpoint pen runs out of ink from coolguides

I don’t know how I feel about the above achievement (sadly I don’t know the inspired artist/scientist who did it). I mean obviously I’m impressed, and jealous of that kind of commitment, but what are the practical applications? Could I cover my walls (which are a plain beige colour) with a million smileys? Would that make me happy Or would it be too much pressure to feel cheerful? – like being at a party where you’re the only one not enjoying it. They could make for a more subtle game of Where’s Wally. Presumably they could evolve over time, add a few details some hair. Can you think of any uses for 42 (I think) pages of smileys?

Things that have made me happy:

Next door’s three legged cat came to visit. He’s super fluffy, but kind of touchy since they chopped his leg off.

The toddler from downstairs came with her dad to play in my garden. It wasn’t a break in, I said a few days ago that they’re welcome to use it. It’s nice to do my garden for someone other than just me.

I did some exercise, it was awful, but it’s over now.

 

The dream man gets out

Posted on by inkbiotic

identikit

Word of the day: Bodach – churl; goblin or spectre

Weather: yuk

Mood: well…

 

Got home from work, muddy and soaked. The lounge door was open and I could see Jinjing and Hamoudi hunched over their laptops. Being nosy, I went to try and see what they were doing and they both turned to look at me with haunted eyes.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, I could see composite faces on each of the screens, like something off Crime Watch.

‘Working with an online identikit program,’ said Hamoudi.

‘My dream,’ said Jinjing darkly, ‘the face in my dream, we’re trying to create it.’

‘The man who stands and stares through your window?’ I asked. With all the trouble with the landlady, I’d forgotten about that.

‘I think he was sitting opposite me on the tube this morning,’ said Hamoudi. I tried not to look too confused, but I must have, because he went on. ‘I knew what he looked like from Jinjing. And there he was, the dark haunting eyes, the grey hood, the pointy nose.’

‘And he was going to work?’ I asked.

‘He wasn’t going anywhere, nobody else could see him,’ said Hamoudi. He paused dramatically, then said, ‘He was dead.’

‘Ah,’ I said, I’d forgotten about Hamoudi’s dead people also. I look at the faces they’ve created, Hamoudi’s has a scar, Jinjing’s has a brooding brow and pouty lips.

‘See? They look the same! That proves it!’ says Hamoudi. ‘I saw the man from Jinjing’s dream.’

I don’t point out that they’re sitting right next to each other, looking at what the other one is doing, so it’s not surprising they’re a little bit similar. I also don’t point out that Jinjing’s has no scar and Hamoudi’s doesn’t have a brooding brow or pouty lips. I don’t want to spoil the drama. I creep out the room and make the most of the empty kitchen to cook some pasta.