…and Kim’s relocation continues today:
Actually, just one final load:
…I wish.
Why did the move take three whole days, with a day between Day 1 and Day 2, you may ask?
(Picture is fake, but accurate.)
Also, by Sunday morning I was exhausted, so I took most of the day off.
So I’ll be moving into my new apartment later today, with the kind assistance of friends and family:
That’s not everything, of course; the contents of Ye Olde Ammoe Locquer will require a separate trip:
…and needless to say I’ll be moving the humble remnants of my once-extensive gun collection myself:
Oh, stop it. Remember that in Texas, this is referred to as a “starter” set.
The big stuff — furniture, appliances etc. — will get moved on Monday.
And speaking of assistance: if anyone cares to spare some couch change to help me defray expenses, your generosity will be much appreciated. This “starting afresh” business is expensive.
It seems as though the Carnoustie weather only gave the players a false sense of security on Thursday, setting them up for Friday. And it worked.
The vast crowds were not dodging imaginary lava, of course, but rain. Real rain. The sort of rain that turns course maps into mulch and makes bunkers look like mud. “I’m waiting here,” said one glum spectator, who had joined a swelling mob of clambering fans in watching a big screen from the comfort of the Open’s food tent. “I’ll have to go out later.”
…
By mid-morning, the food hall was part-cafe, part-viewing gallery and part-changing room. Those wise enough to bring waterproofs had found a place to pull them on, while others had been drawn to the smell of bacon butties. One woman, clearly unmoved by the prospect of exchanging her warmth for live golf, was simply reading a book. Another spectator told the Daily Telegraph that this was his first trip to the Open since Royal Troon in 2016, when the rain fell even harder. “At least I got a free course map,” he said.
It should be made clear that this weather is not unusual. This is Scotland. It rains. Get over it, right? But it was still hard to avoid the contrast between this misery and the opening day here, when Carnoustie provided a passable impression of a Mediterranean beach resort. On Thursday, the better-hydrated spectators fell asleep on the oversized, inflatable cushions. On Friday, those cushions drooped mournfully in the dirt like a herd of tired walruses.
…
It could always be worse, as they say, and it has been far worse than this at the Open. The conditions were so bad during the third round of the 2002 tournament in Muirfield that Trevor Immelman, the South African player, said he thought the world was going to end.
That braying sound you hear is Kim laughing uproariously.
(And thanks to Reader Pkudude, who sent me the link.)
So former supermodel Elle McPherson is dating a doctor. Ordinarily, I would not care, and nor should any sentient human being. But this is not just any doctor, oh no — as the Daily Mail breathlessly informs us:
Elle Macpherson, 54, is dating discredited former doctor Andrew Wakefield, 60, a driving force behind the anti-vaxxer movement when his debunked theory linked the childhood MMR jab to autism
…and of course there’s a pic:
…which makes me think: while I certainly do not wish any harm on the Oz bint, wouldn’t be wonderfully ironic if by kissing this charlatan, she contracted a serious yet preventable disease?
(Side note: kissing with eyes open? eewwww)
Your suggestions in Comments.
We’ve all done it, but here are the worst, in ascending order of ridiculousness:
Bonus points for guessing which one was mine.
Your suggestions in Comments.