I can’t disclose my source, but we’re all getting ponies.
Small typo there - I think you meant 'pennies'
Hungry spies are a dangerous thing. Feed em, I say.
Meat pies and Penthouses all round!
Of all the designs submitted so far, this is the one that most compels me: “Matariki at midnight”.Except for me this is always The Pleiades and don’t feel really New Zealand. But that is probably just me.
But we'll be a shoo-in for sponsorship by Subaru!
Not because they can’t change the result (they know they can) but because a change in the name of the government makes no real difference.To be deeply cynical, they are all baddies, they just wear different coloured T-shirts, red, blue, green, and yellow
It doesn't matter who you vote for, the government always gets in.
IIRC there's a working, cutaway electromechanical pulse exchange at MOTAT where you can dial a number on a phone and watch the workings clunk away selecting the correct line. I could watch that for hours.
For the mainlanders, there's a similar setup at Ferrymead (or was, last time I was there - pre-quake)
It does make one wonder how it might have shaken out if it was a policeman's daughter involved, rather than a son... I'm sure it might have taken a higher priority.
Someone should hit up Don McGlashan about a fundraising single of "There Is No Disruption In New Brighton"
The lyrics just write themselves!
There is no disruption in New Brighton
There are no cracks in our floors...
I was being somewhat flippant. The difference is that prof is highly variable ranging from revered academic to bureaucratic flunky, by contrast Dr is theoretically a bit more standardised. In practice though Dr is highly variable too with value depending very much on the granting university.
Or we could learn from the Germans and, instead of solely using the 'highest' honorific, concatenate them, and have Professor Mister Doctor Easther.
I'm reading City of Falling Angels by John Berendt, its quite fascinating, the tale of the Fenice Opera House in Venice and its death by fire and resurrection. Its striking chords with me as I was in Venice last year, and am yearning to visit again, for longer.
May he wither and die, and his corpse fertilize the brilliant brain it is now plaguing.
My cousin had her unwanted hitchhiker removed this week. A golf-ball sized lump inside the back of her skull slowly putting the squeeze on her foramen magnum. Its now safely removed, and her limp and grip weakness disappeared overnight, along with her tendency to lose words. She's rapt with the result, and gets to take the interloper home in a jar. She's torn between displaying it on the mantel as a warning to future growths, or planting it under something in the yard so it can aid some positive growth itself.
In summary - Die, Adric, Die!