Yes, I took this on 6/6/06. It was written on
the side of a pharmacy, of all places.

So, I got my bluetooth headphones working with my phone, finally, which is neat.

Only, it’s not.

See, the remote controls on the headphones are received by the bluetooth stack and passed on to the media player… as screen taps. Thing is, I’m not using Windows Media Player (no AAC support, seriously), which is what the bluetooth stack uses for its reference as to where it should tap. So no remote control.

Also, this device is kind of underpowered, so streaming music slows everything else right the hell down. Some times it can’t even cope with that, at which point it sort of stutters then catches up with itself. I gather that this can be fixed by ramping up the CPU with a third-party hack, but hey, constant bluetooth streaming is raping my battery hard enough as it is, you know?

I’m totally hanging onto them though, they ought to work very well with my next phone, or my other next phone.

On the bright side, I’m eating some really nice chicken/pepper/hoi sin/rice noodle stir-fry that I just made, it’s gloriously sunny outside, and Derby continues to boast some very bizarre graffiti.

So, I went to Paris and took some photos. It was kind of an out-of-reality experience, you know? Well, maybe you don’t. I suppose I’m trying to say that it kind of feels like maybe it wasn’t real now, looking back on the week, since it was all so far outside my normal realm of operation. Especially that bit where I found myself shaving a mohawk into Hilary’s head…

Also: some ladies in the queue at passport control accused me of being American. We’d nearly reached the end of the queue when one of them said aloud “Oh, I thought you were American, or Canadian or something”. At this point I was yet to utter a single word in the presence of these women. Not one. So this raises two questions.

1. Why exactly did I seem to be American? Perhaps… the way I walked?

2. She thought I was, but did not any longer. What did I do to change her mind, still without opening my mouth?

This has happened before, actually. A cashier at Asda suspected me of being a Cypriot, and a loss-adjuster suggested I was of Californian extraction, though in both cases this was after I spoke. Perhaps I exude some… air of foreign-ness? My mind is addlepated (or possibly addle-plated, which would at least increase its resale value).

I think that about covers it. Any questions?

Good. Now back to reality, with exams and red meat and very little cheese.