Morning Glory

I'm usually not the type to buy a product just because a celebrity endorses it, but when I found out Celtic songstress Enya had released a moisturizing body wash, how can I keep from singing? Now when I'm experiencing my ensuite's private storms in Africa, I can get myself clean as Caribbean blue. And it's soap free, so it won't leave a watermark.

*Note: most likely not endorsed by Enya

You're It

The part about simulation theory which creeps me out the most is that all my memories might be supplanted. Like, maybe my entire life never happened? I woke up in the simulation today. Everything I believe I've done, the places I've been, none of it happened.

Then I think, if that was true, and personal experiences could simply be injected in the memory, then why did the simulation developers bother with the effort of creating bradism.com on top of that? And if they did see some value in documenting my backstory, surely they didn't need to add tags to it...

Wok's Wrong?

So I definitely should have measured before ordering my wok online and assuming I needed the biggest one....

Second problem is, if I do manage to season it, I'm not sure I could eat that much stir fry.

Ten Weeks 'til Christmas

Better finish off my hot cross buns...

Corpse on the Cob

For me, a lunchtime walk usually develops organically from the moment I leave the office. In late October, when it still feels good to stand in the sun, but the UV Ratings website tells me to avoid it, I’ll stick to shadowy ways. Traffic lights, and the timing of pedestrian crossings, can also send me on tangents.

So it was that I locked my computer on North Terrace and found myself at the Gingko Gate of the Adelaide Botanic Gardens. I’ve been there before, but today was the first time I’ve ever seen a sign advertising the blooming of a corpse flower.

Prior to today I didn’t know much about corpse flowers. I did know they only bloom for short, infrequent periods. And I knew they are stinky, which made me think I should take advantage of the opportunity and smell one in case a certain private investigator who can smell through time could get involved with one.

I headed straight for the Bicentennial Conservatory (following shady paths) and entered the greenhouse. Immediately the smell hit me, though it was not as strong as I’d expected. A TV crew was there, and a smart looking botanist was talking to a small crowd about the flowering process. I came closer, keen to bring my nose as close to the flesh of the towering spadix. I sniffed.