Apart from Googling 'Lady and the Tramp,' the only constructive thing I did today was read newspapers - and I read that scientists are going to defrost a Colossal Squid. I'm not simply exaggerating its size - that's what it's called. (It's 33ft long, and weighs half a ton - so I'm not going to start calling it names, am I?) I liked this quote from The Telegraph newspaper though:
'At the time that it was hauled up from the depths, it was described by one expert as "a gelatinous blob with seriously evil arms".'
Surely an 'expert' could think of something better than "seriously evil arms" to describe it's tentacles? I bet that bloke wasn't an expert at all - it was someone being nosey, who thought they'd try and get in the paper by pretending to be qualified to give an opinion. They probably waved to their mum when BBC news-crew went down to film it, and had to be removed - so tried to sneak another look by telling reporters he was an expert. The article also states that since it was caught it had been 'kept frozen in a box.' That was the point where I started to think that this article wasn't very well researched.
Anyone for calamari?
Colossal Squid
It reminded me of the strangest (yet most oddly-realistic) dream I ever had. Now I know that other people's dreams are one of the most irritating and tedious wastes of a conversation, so feel free to skip this bit if you have no interest in my attempts to resurrect a frozen chicken.
It started when I saw (again, on the news) that a hunter in America had shot a duck, and then put it in the freezer until he was ready to cook it. A few days later he took it out of storage and found it was still alive. That story ended with the duck's life being spared, and they all lived happily ever after. (Except the duck - they never look happy - and if I'm honest, he probably had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after being riddled with buckshot and then frozen alive.)
Anyway, the night after that story hit the news, I dreamed about a resurrecting a frozen chicken. I was convinced it would come back to life like the duck, once it thawed out. I should point out that it was a headless, supermarket frozen chicken, on a blue plastic tray with its giblets removed. Regardless of little things like that, I thought that if it woke up whilst being defrosted in the oven then it would be frightened (though how a headless chicken with no internal organs displays fear I don't know.) So I decided that the only safe, kind way to warm it would be with a hairdryer. So there I was, defrosting a Tesco frozen chicken with a hairdryer, talking to it and telling it not to be scared. When I felt it had thawed sufficiently enough to be comfortable, I put it out on the balcony - despite the fact that we don't have a balcony - and started throwing bread at it to "coax it into moving about a bit."
I think there's something wrong with my family. I was reluctant to put an oven-ready chicken into the oven, but my ex-step-grandfather (my fathers' second-wife's father, who we will henceforth call John, for your convenience and because I can't be bothered to type all that out any time I mention him,) has a habit of putting unusual things in his. Not too long ago John dropped his mobile phone into the toilet - and after he fished it out it and ran it under the tap to clean it - he thought he'd better put it into the oven to dry it off. Remarkably, it still works. (It's a Nokia.)
That's not normal is it? Defrosting chickens with a hairdryer, putting cell phones in the oven, and putting tea in the microwave? (Yes, that was me too. The kettle was broken, and we'd run out of matches to light the gas, what was I supposed to do?)
The other thing in the news is that they have discovered a new species of shrew in Ireland. The last shrew was discovered in Scotland.
Natural behaviours include terrorising fat people, and lurking near lavatories.
There's also a tiny Island in the Pacific where they all speak with Westcountry accents. The inhabitants of Palmerston Atoll in the Cook Islands all speak with a distinctive rural drawl - because they are all descendants of a man from Gloustershire who settled there in 1863. (It's a bit like that in the actual Westcountry, too.) His name was William Masters, and by the time he died in 1899, Mr Marsters had four wives, 17 children and 54 grandchildren. The place has a landmass of less than one square mile.
The article said, "He grew more than 8,000 coconut trees for shelter and food and exported sea cucumbers from the nearby lagoon to the Chinese market." Missionary William Wyatt Gill told that Mr Marsters had survived "at least one" attempt on his life. Whilst risking a generalisation, I think it is quite fair to say that a man with four wives will have had to endure far more than one attempt on his life. I would imagine that he had to dodge saucepans on a daily basis, and keep a dog to taste all his food for poison. (I have never thought that was fair - what did the dog ever do that was worth being poisoned for? No chewed slippers are that valuable.)
This whole 'Westcountry folks in the Pacific' story is disturbing; as it means that someone is bound to mock up pictures of the Wurzles in bikinis, and eventually I will get sent that picture in a viral email.
As they say on Crimewatch: "Don't have nightmares."
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