Power outage on our side of Keppoch Street. This means no telly tonight, which is a catastrophe because Chris Morris’s Jam would be on. Before you even start to think Oh, how romantic, a chance to relax may I remind you that it also means no hot water, no shower (warm or cold), no radiator, no coffee, no refrigerator and no freezer. The last item will become a huge problem unless this is fixed soon, as most of our six-person household’s food is in there. I’m already looking forwards to the smell of rotten meat.

I’m using the laptop and a maximized xemacs window as a makeshift light source. Hopefully it’ll last long enough for me to do some reading, because the next option is using my cellular’s backlight, and that ain’t too good. Yay.

The laptop lasted for about an hour and a half last night, after which there was nothing to do. We post-post-modern people dread nothing like the lack of sensory stimuli, so I just went to bed at midnight.

It’ll be fixed in two hours, they said last night but of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t working this morning at 5AM when Sonja got up to work and it wasn’t working at 7AM when I woke up for some unexplainable reason. So I just took out my frozen pizza from the silent freezer, added some Danish blue cheese which was dying a quiet death in the warm fridge, cooked up the lot and ate it. And went back to bed.

When the alarm rang at 9.30AM, electricity was back but I was too tired to get up, so I missed the only showing of Rabbit Proof Fence. Shame, the movie seemed interesting enough.

Two things happened in the bathroom this morning. I was almost completely undressed when I realized by the way my bowel kept growling that I was going in for the big one. I started to get redressed to go downstairs to fetch some reading, before I realized that it had all the signs of obsessive compulsory paranoid schizoid whatever mental shortcoming. So in the end I didn’t.

Thing number two is that I’m quite sure I saw the letters HAL scribbled somewhere on our shower, and I swear to God that the bastard was trying to kill me. Boiling hot, then ice cold, then hot again, and I hadn’t even looked at the dial. Diabolical.

Spent the most of Sunday walking around the Bay looking for UCI Cinema. No, I didn’t dare ask anyone local for directions, and yes, I did find the place eventually, thank you very much.

But what was notable about the day was that I finally sampled the food at this Indian restaurant the name of which I can’t remember right now (I’ll ask someone else as soon as they wake up. UPDATE: Okay, the name is Kismet). Anyhow, it’s the one up City Street, number 100 and something. And here’s what’s so great about it: an eat all you can buffet for £2.5. Yes, only £2.5. I doubt there’s a better offer quality- or quantity-wise available around here.

So in I go, tired from several hours of walking. I ask the friendly waiter (for contrast see the slackers at WHSmith; last time one of them was staring into emptiness, while a second tried to chat up a third one) for a portion, was shown to my table and told that it’s self service. Okay, so I went to load up on the goodies and ohmygod, the food was perfect. Some chicken (with sauce), some potatoes (with sauce) and rice. I intentionally skipped the beans, though even they might’ve been edible in this gorgeous place. Having finished, I head back to the avian smorgasbord – twice.

By the time I got home about an hour later, I was bloated and had to spend the rest of the night burping. But what glorious, £2.5 Indian burps they were.

I’ve heard that Cardiff is rainy but this is just absurd. I just witnessed a ten second hail storm. In May. So sub-Magnolia.

There’s a serious usability problem with the doors at the humanities building at Cardiff University. Let me describe them to you. On one side they have a handle, and on the other side a sticker saying something about safe exits or so. So which way do they open? Well, quite naturally, if they have a handle, you have to pull, and if not, push.

Except for one door. After months and months or passing through those doors to get to the computer room (and believe me when I say that not many things motivate me like an Internet connection), I still have to make a mental effort to remember that the first door is to be pushed and not pulled open, even though it has a handle.

Irritating.

At times I wonder if anyone in Britain speaks any other language or has any linguistic intuition at all. (Generalizations rule.) At least it would explain why the movie Intacto had the explanatory tag Intact stamped onto it or why in a profile of Silvio Berlusconi the reporter feels obliged to write the man Italians call Il Cavaliere, ”the Cavalier”. Is that one single letter really so confusing?

Earlier today I saw an elderly (but not old) lady throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons right on the sidewalk. In addition to this she was telling passerbys not to scare them. Remember what I’ve wrote about British cleanliness earlier?

It’s easy for a Finn to get a bit queasy when people start discussing the price of education. After all, we’ve got free compulsory schooling and what’s more, we’ve got free universities. But the poor Britons have to pay for their own (well, more often for their children’s) education.

And oh boy, it can get costly. I’d never even realized that the cost of putting someone through university is quite minimal compared to what has happened before that. An article in today’s Independent puts the total cost of a private education at £188,000. Of that only £15,000 goes into university. Pre-prep costs £24,000 (3 to 7 years), prep school £54,000 (7 to 13 years) and secondary school £95,000 (13 to 18 years).

It’s no wonder that the class structuress are more rigid here than in Finland.The number of people in private schools is around 7 percent of the population, or more than 500,000 pupils, and after all you would expect to get something substantial in return for spending a whopping 200k on your brat’s education.

On a lighter note, have you read about the cat who inherited a house and £100,000? What a lucky pussy.

Alright, time to get anal on the Army brochure. On the first page (in addition to the oh so cool opening sentence) the following gem can be found: You’ll find us under Army in the phone book. I sure hope they don’t hire the guys who needed to be told that.

Under the heading A force for good, you’re informed that There’ll be opportunity to see new countries and try new sports. Call me simple-minded, but if I wanted to try new sports, the first thing in my mind might not be the recruitment office. Later on those queasy at the prospect of overt learning are told that don’t worry, it won’t be like going back to school.

Then it’s contradiction time. Page 6 boasts the claims You’ll find that the Army is a full-time commitment but that It’s a time when you’ll […] have the freedom […] to make most of them all. And from contradictions to assurances: Once you’ve learned [to scuba dive, ski, parachute or climb] there’ll be nothing to stop you enjoying them whenever you can. So they won’t be brainwashing you on the way out after all. That’s a relief. Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, The world is a very big place.

More tongue twisters are on their way soon enough. On page 9 you’re told that If you want to push yourself to your physical and mental limits – and beyond. Talk about transgression. For some reason, the name ”Muranen” springs to mind. I’m quite sure he passed some limits, both mental and legal.

On to boasting. The Royal Artillery is the largest single regiment in the Army… […] and it’s also the loudest. Also note that We never leave anything to chance. I guess that’s left for the Americans then. Then there’s the mention that recently they’ve [Light Infantry] applied their skills to operations in Northern Ireland. Now there’s a merit to be proud of.

In case your wardrobe is running on empty, consider the fact that Units deployed as mountain infantry will be issued with […] the Army’s special all-white camouflage gear. Or then you could just be a failed med student with a uniform fetish.

From page 18 onwards the brochure boasts some pretty impressive success stories. How about private Chris Wainwright, who says I worked for a fast food chain. I wanted more from life. So naturally he joined the Army. Or what about lance corporal Tony Brocklesby, who’s qualified to lead eight men but still was pleased to be selected to qualify as a sniper. I’m sure sniping asks for a lot of leadership skills in situations that most civilians could never envisage.

Lance bombardier Kenny Brett has gotten some insights into life. I was deployed to Kosovo […] Experiences like that are a real eye-opener and show you just how lucky you are. I must agree. After all, carrying a 105mm gun in a country torn apart by ethnic cleansing, rape and all-around jolly destruction, you really start to feel like a lottery winner.

And the Army isn’t just for boys, no. Exhibit A is gunner Natalie Mehuet who became a Gunner because I can’t stand boredom. Once again, nothing cheers one up like toting an AS90 with a 92lb shell. For she does know that Live firing is the best and controlling a weapon as sophisticated and powerful as the AS90 feels fantastic. I’m sure Mr. Freud might have something poignant to say here.

For all you potential globetrotters out there, take note that since joining up I’ve been to places […] my old friends back in Devon can only dream of. The travel opportunities are unbeatable. So far, I’ve been to Cyprus, Venezuela, Norway and so on, says sergeant Darren Wight.

Maybe you’ve been abusing yourself too much lately and are really in need of some quality lovin’ from the opposite sex? Then look no further. Take it from corporal David Phillips, who knows that FHM magazine listed the top 10 jobs lads pretend to have when they’re trying to impress someone. Tank Commander came second – above professional footballer – and I really am one. Apparently it’s pussy galore in the Army.

The last few pages of the magazine are devoted to Frequently Asked Questions. But first the potential enlistees are told that the Army assessment test can help you find out [your right career]. Don’t worry, it’s not like an exam […] the assessment is designed to give us an idea of your potential. An assessment that still is not like an exam. I think I detect traces of Newspeak here.

Finally, in a rare moment of honesty (or poor copy editing) they say It’s easy to understand why parents don’t want to see their son or daughter marching off to war. As a footnote, I’ve been told that there actually are people who don’t like seeing anyone’s children, siblings or parents marching off to war. Despite the use of the word war here, most of the time it’s adventure, challenge, extreme and learning. Don’t bother looking for such arcane forms as killing or death – there’s no such thing in the New Army.

Why am I writing this 3 AM Saturday morning? Well, I just finished watching Existenz and am now taping Soylent Green. In other words, it’s as good a time as any.

I just realized I probably hadn’t mentioned this here: We’re going to be in Finland on May 29th. We’ll be touching ground at 23.30 at Tampere airport.