As a pronounced and ethical agnostic - we can't really know, so why pretend there's a definite answer? - there are two holidays which really give me problems: Christmas and Easter. Separated from the Godly aspect, and celebrating some man who said nice things and inspired people, Christmas would be quite a nice holiday but somehow it's still troubling. It's probably because it's a national holiday, and is essentially an intertwinement of government and religion. As American constitution writers guessed well so long ago, Church and State are best served as separate entities. We should really be abashed at how mixed up things are. Going out on an unpopular limb, let's make our national holidays secular and universal. Fortunately the Winter Solstice is right next to Christmas so we can appease people by making the shortest day a holiday. And we could do summer solstice too, but what of the other national holidays? We have the fewest bank holidays of the EU countries, or did when last I checked, so when should these holidays be?
Some obvious and un-controversial National Holiday nominations, some of which are in jest:
Shakespeare Day: 23 April (died this day in 1616. Birth date unknown.)
May Day: Remains the same.
Henry VII Day: 28 June (born this day in 1491)
David Lloyd George Day: 17 January (born this day in 1863)
Burns Day: 25 January (born this day in 1759)
Science Day: Placed strategically in an empty period of time.
Faith Day: See Science Day
I'm sure there many other and better ideas, but it seems reasonable to allow people to believe what they believe and holiday when they want without being told they have to. Let's not mix religion and government,
Having said all that, I'm not sure why it all came into mind! Perhaps it's the emptiness of my department here today, everyone having sloped off early for Easter. Also, as Daylight Savings Time looms, I'm very conscious of the fact that we'll be on fake time for the next few interminable months. Daylight Saving Time is one of my least favourite things in life, along with slow transformations in monster movies, and interminable setup sections in movies. If I ever see another origin story in a superhero movie then there will be ructions!
O.
Thursday, 28 March 2013
Tuesday, 26 March 2013
Story: 'Night Trials', XI
As my first serial, 'Night Trials' has been prey to planning problems and narrative blocks. On this occasion there was only one recourse, the ultimate recourse: Doodling on paper. If you're ever in trouble when writing, just doodle and summarise, and write down random things and you will eventually get through!
-----
'Night Trials', Part XI
(Part X, XII)
Lincoln Poon had been a landholder of little ambition but great luck and opportunism. While Stanford Colms was slowly developing the ranching hub and market at Wandering Yip, Poon was swiftly expanding Poon Hill on silver money. Lincoln Poon was long gone now but the lingering, faded opulence of the saloon still lingered on as Sheriff Bob stared intently out of the window at the aliens walking around the planned settlement. Poon had had a short-lived with Vienna so the town was build in circles.
Bob had stared for an hour and it seemed as if the aliens weren't coming for him. They hadn't seen him or were playing it calm. Maybe he was too small a problem to bother with? No, he was sure they hadn't seen him. The plan was set, even if it wasn't a particularly honourable plan. Striding out of the saloon he approached the nearest alien and roundly smashed it to the ground with a roundhouse punch to the head. The alien stayed down on the ground, while five - five! - others came zooming in slowly to take him down. He ran to a house, which he'd selected very carefully as an uninhabited one, and watched again. The alien was lifted up and they looked toward his hideout.
Bob waited.
The aliens slowly approached the house. Now he was no longer in awe so much of the beings he realised that they seemed extraordinarily cautious. Thinking back, he realised that only one alien had actually made any kind of offensive act against him, and the people of this town had been terrorised en masse by the deaths of their strongest people. The six aliens approaching were going very slowly and holding devices of some kind which they waved about. By the time they decided to open fire on the building Bob was long gone. Back doors were such useful things, especially when they were so close to the saloon.
'How do you deal with a bunch of extremely cautious aliens invaders?', pondered Bob, 'And how do you do it before they build up the courage and nerve?'. Those questions and the worry that there might be a firebrand amongst the outsiders jostled around in Bob's head. Looking around the saloon he realised they were in danger because of him, and could even be used as leverage. He had to go. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of soda he made a break out of a side door in the owner's suite and ducked into the first empty building he found. The sun was still above the horizon, but he was distracted by a huge boom and the collapse of the house he'd been in into burnt rubble.
The aliens approached his new dwelling, clearly being guided somehow. Bob could face them or run until night time, seeing house after house collapsed behind him. What to do?
To be concluded...
-----
'Night Trials', Part XI
(Part X, XII)
Lincoln Poon had been a landholder of little ambition but great luck and opportunism. While Stanford Colms was slowly developing the ranching hub and market at Wandering Yip, Poon was swiftly expanding Poon Hill on silver money. Lincoln Poon was long gone now but the lingering, faded opulence of the saloon still lingered on as Sheriff Bob stared intently out of the window at the aliens walking around the planned settlement. Poon had had a short-lived with Vienna so the town was build in circles.
Bob had stared for an hour and it seemed as if the aliens weren't coming for him. They hadn't seen him or were playing it calm. Maybe he was too small a problem to bother with? No, he was sure they hadn't seen him. The plan was set, even if it wasn't a particularly honourable plan. Striding out of the saloon he approached the nearest alien and roundly smashed it to the ground with a roundhouse punch to the head. The alien stayed down on the ground, while five - five! - others came zooming in slowly to take him down. He ran to a house, which he'd selected very carefully as an uninhabited one, and watched again. The alien was lifted up and they looked toward his hideout.
Bob waited.
The aliens slowly approached the house. Now he was no longer in awe so much of the beings he realised that they seemed extraordinarily cautious. Thinking back, he realised that only one alien had actually made any kind of offensive act against him, and the people of this town had been terrorised en masse by the deaths of their strongest people. The six aliens approaching were going very slowly and holding devices of some kind which they waved about. By the time they decided to open fire on the building Bob was long gone. Back doors were such useful things, especially when they were so close to the saloon.
'How do you deal with a bunch of extremely cautious aliens invaders?', pondered Bob, 'And how do you do it before they build up the courage and nerve?'. Those questions and the worry that there might be a firebrand amongst the outsiders jostled around in Bob's head. Looking around the saloon he realised they were in danger because of him, and could even be used as leverage. He had to go. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of soda he made a break out of a side door in the owner's suite and ducked into the first empty building he found. The sun was still above the horizon, but he was distracted by a huge boom and the collapse of the house he'd been in into burnt rubble.
The aliens approached his new dwelling, clearly being guided somehow. Bob could face them or run until night time, seeing house after house collapsed behind him. What to do?
To be concluded...
Sunday, 24 March 2013
Snow in March
It snowed again yesterday. In late March that's a ridiculous experience. My legend as a snow god will get out of hand at this rate, and I'd rather people forgot about it completely. Soon people will notice the trail of incredibly improbable snowfalls in South Wales, Aberystwyth and Nottingham and the jig will be up and then... no more Quirky Muffin and snow storms conveniently coincident with Secret Service operations. Oh, I shudder at the thought. The snow was light, and didn't stay, but perhaps it is a premonition of things to come in this bleak arctic future that Britain faces. Or maybe it was just snow.
Snow aside, and it is much better left aside since it came to nothing, it's still really cold! Obviously I'm old, old, old but it's normally not this cold in March, is it? If so, then please accept my apologies for making a fuss. Brrrr...
Today was a double Film Bin day, with two parallel recording sessions for the first time. Expect commentaries for 'Due South' and its first regular episode and 'Short Circuit' sometime soon. What do we care though? The Quirky Muffin is not Film Bin, and Film Bin is not the Quirky Muffin. Here at the Muffin no-one knows what will emerge next. Even now dozens of reporters are scavenging throughout the world for appropriate news, something to equal this week's clam sightings or the giant toadstools currently storming Alberta. In other words there's just me making up total nonsense. Huzzah!
Nonsense is my prime defence against loneliness. Expect lots more silly stories and reviews. And talk about chocolate cakes, which I'm currently in an endless cycle of baking. This weekend had an almond chocolate cake. It's scrummy.
scrummy: tasting very nice
vicarious: experienced at secondhand
Oh, the world is full of scrummy things. Crunchy peanut butter. Marmite. Spaghetti bolognese. A nice crispy orange pepper. Energy saving lightbulbs. These things are all scrummy, well apart from the lightbulbs, Lightbulbs are obviously deadly to eat. Of course, the best way to beat being lonely is live vicariously through others where you can and build up hobbies and activities in your spare time.
I am also very vicarious. Nyahahahaha.
O.
Snow aside, and it is much better left aside since it came to nothing, it's still really cold! Obviously I'm old, old, old but it's normally not this cold in March, is it? If so, then please accept my apologies for making a fuss. Brrrr...
Today was a double Film Bin day, with two parallel recording sessions for the first time. Expect commentaries for 'Due South' and its first regular episode and 'Short Circuit' sometime soon. What do we care though? The Quirky Muffin is not Film Bin, and Film Bin is not the Quirky Muffin. Here at the Muffin no-one knows what will emerge next. Even now dozens of reporters are scavenging throughout the world for appropriate news, something to equal this week's clam sightings or the giant toadstools currently storming Alberta. In other words there's just me making up total nonsense. Huzzah!
Nonsense is my prime defence against loneliness. Expect lots more silly stories and reviews. And talk about chocolate cakes, which I'm currently in an endless cycle of baking. This weekend had an almond chocolate cake. It's scrummy.
scrummy: tasting very nice
vicarious: experienced at secondhand
Oh, the world is full of scrummy things. Crunchy peanut butter. Marmite. Spaghetti bolognese. A nice crispy orange pepper. Energy saving lightbulbs. These things are all scrummy, well apart from the lightbulbs, Lightbulbs are obviously deadly to eat. Of course, the best way to beat being lonely is live vicariously through others where you can and build up hobbies and activities in your spare time.
I am also very vicarious. Nyahahahaha.
O.
Friday, 22 March 2013
Story: 'Triangles', II
(Part I , III )
Can you imagine being swung through the fifth dimension like a feather through an ice cube? Or swimming through a sea of yellow alphabets? Or the queasiness of seeing yourself stretch away into infinity like a rubber band at breaking point? All of these sensations, and none of them, smashed into Delores Grey's brain as she traversed the triangular rift and got sucked elsewhere. Finally, as reality became so tenuous that it hardly existed for her at all, everything condensed into one blue triangle of nothing, a microcosm of a world before she blacked out entirely.
Many hours passed. Many minutes then also passed. Then a few seconds trickled away too, like cheese on toast slowly melting.
Finally Delores began to rouse herself and looked around at the landscape she had suddenly found herself in. It was a twisted, savage version of Aberystwyth. The promenade was still there but deformed and twisted slightly askew. There was still a beach, and it was still as rocky as ever, but the water was a mass of overlapping whirlpools, spreading apparently chaotic patterns and waves. With so many drains for the water it made no sense that there was any left. No sense at all. A great red blazing triangle of a sun was low in the sky. A triangular sun.
Turning from the prom to look back at the town, she was barely impressed by the changes at all. So much strangeness had left her dazed. While the layout of buildings and streets was the same, the structures themselves were different, and there were no people out. The roads zigged and zagged and the buildings barely seemed to obey physics. Some where inverted pyramids while others curved where they should have pointed. The most apparent difference, though, was that there were many more triangular surfaces. Triangles were everywhere! In Delores's world there had been squares, or more properly 'quadrilaterals' everywhere; four-sided shapes dominated, but here there were triangular and even fairly common hexagonal designs.
It was overwhelmingly strange. Delores almost fainted again and swayed but pulled herself together. She couldn't understand what had happened at all. Nothing happened when you touched the triangles, everyone knew that. Why would she suddenly be transported to this strange place? Or had she been transported? Maybe the world had... changed... somehow. Suddenly troubling thoughts cascaded in on her and she gripped her rucksack straps tightly until her fingers went white. At least her fingers were normal, even if nothing else was. Her clothes looked normal too, as did the rest of her that she could see. She was still Delores.
No triangles were in sight, and no floating apertures of any kind could be seen in fact. Something was wrong. Her stomach made its presence felt and suddenly her path became clear. Food. There must be food soon, and water, or this experience would end before she made it home to that distinctly less pointed world she knew. To that world without ridiculous triangles everywhere, except the floating ones, and people and that bizarre murk that some people still hadn't been trained to not see.
She had to get home. Because somehow she knew that things were going to happen in this strange place. Dangerous things.
To be continued... indefinitely...
Can you imagine being swung through the fifth dimension like a feather through an ice cube? Or swimming through a sea of yellow alphabets? Or the queasiness of seeing yourself stretch away into infinity like a rubber band at breaking point? All of these sensations, and none of them, smashed into Delores Grey's brain as she traversed the triangular rift and got sucked elsewhere. Finally, as reality became so tenuous that it hardly existed for her at all, everything condensed into one blue triangle of nothing, a microcosm of a world before she blacked out entirely.
Many hours passed. Many minutes then also passed. Then a few seconds trickled away too, like cheese on toast slowly melting.
Finally Delores began to rouse herself and looked around at the landscape she had suddenly found herself in. It was a twisted, savage version of Aberystwyth. The promenade was still there but deformed and twisted slightly askew. There was still a beach, and it was still as rocky as ever, but the water was a mass of overlapping whirlpools, spreading apparently chaotic patterns and waves. With so many drains for the water it made no sense that there was any left. No sense at all. A great red blazing triangle of a sun was low in the sky. A triangular sun.
Turning from the prom to look back at the town, she was barely impressed by the changes at all. So much strangeness had left her dazed. While the layout of buildings and streets was the same, the structures themselves were different, and there were no people out. The roads zigged and zagged and the buildings barely seemed to obey physics. Some where inverted pyramids while others curved where they should have pointed. The most apparent difference, though, was that there were many more triangular surfaces. Triangles were everywhere! In Delores's world there had been squares, or more properly 'quadrilaterals' everywhere; four-sided shapes dominated, but here there were triangular and even fairly common hexagonal designs.
It was overwhelmingly strange. Delores almost fainted again and swayed but pulled herself together. She couldn't understand what had happened at all. Nothing happened when you touched the triangles, everyone knew that. Why would she suddenly be transported to this strange place? Or had she been transported? Maybe the world had... changed... somehow. Suddenly troubling thoughts cascaded in on her and she gripped her rucksack straps tightly until her fingers went white. At least her fingers were normal, even if nothing else was. Her clothes looked normal too, as did the rest of her that she could see. She was still Delores.
No triangles were in sight, and no floating apertures of any kind could be seen in fact. Something was wrong. Her stomach made its presence felt and suddenly her path became clear. Food. There must be food soon, and water, or this experience would end before she made it home to that distinctly less pointed world she knew. To that world without ridiculous triangles everywhere, except the floating ones, and people and that bizarre murk that some people still hadn't been trained to not see.
She had to get home. Because somehow she knew that things were going to happen in this strange place. Dangerous things.
To be continued... indefinitely...
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Dead Ends
Write, people, write. Writing will get you to the other side! Once the juices have begun to flow, words will emerge fully developed, much like a cake from a well-heated oven. Once again, to write well you must first write, and I never get tired of saying that. Never let the chocolate monkeys of fate get in the way, but plough on in what you're doing and finish. You can't move on properly and open the next box until the old box is either empty or sealed up for dispatch. Interestingly, the chocolate monkey reference has just given me an idea...
The last few days have been interesting and not just because of the revelation of the Plain Chocolate Digestive Detective, which is my favourite one-off concept so far. Gosh, even if it is really inspired to a great extent by Jasper Fforde and Douglas Adams and even Mitchell and Webb a little, it is still mine. There will be more PCDD, even in the shadow of Night Trials seemingly having written itself into a dead end. There are methods for getting out of dead ends but they're either awkward or explosive. Ultimately, in story terms you can
1) Wait a really long time in-story so that things can build up again or fizzle out completely,
2) Bring an external power to bear, effectively hijacking the narrative and adding energy,
3) Reverse what you've just done and hope no-one minds too much.
Working out what to do with 'Night Trials' will be interesting as it was my first story and is the lease planned and most erratic in quality due to being the first. It will make a good assembled short story, though.
In my limited and small way I have now utmost admiration for the great Wilkie Collins and his serialised fictions. Even though I've only read the stories in their 'adapted to novel' forms, his power of prose and writing to the serialised rhythm is undeniable and outstrips even his friend and contemporary Charles Dickens. Dickens too wrote most of his works originally as serials but he lacks the showmanship of Collins and tries to write more about issues and the world of his time. Collins wrote to hook his reader and bring them back for instalment after instalment and with that method in mind wrote both 'The Moonstone' and 'The Woman In White'. They are both incredible novels to read for the first time, and some of his other novels are almost as good without being quite as natural.
So, as linux continues to plague me in my work computer travails and giant cheese beetles plague the gas giant Veronda, it becomes necessary to negotiate my way out of a dead end and somehow finish the story 'Night Trials' in an entertaining manner. Entertaining, not interesting, or provoking, but entertaining. That is the challenge! Also, the challenge is to get used to a KDE desktop on the work computer as I finally shot my Gnome and put him out of his misery. Oh, that brings to mind an excellent episode of 'Due South', which is a show I think everyone should watch at some point (but not the revival season, as that stunk.) In any case, it is time to hold up my finger, finish the pancakes and say 'I stand corrected'.
O.
PS 'Due South: The Man Who Knew Too Little', season one, excellent.
The last few days have been interesting and not just because of the revelation of the Plain Chocolate Digestive Detective, which is my favourite one-off concept so far. Gosh, even if it is really inspired to a great extent by Jasper Fforde and Douglas Adams and even Mitchell and Webb a little, it is still mine. There will be more PCDD, even in the shadow of Night Trials seemingly having written itself into a dead end. There are methods for getting out of dead ends but they're either awkward or explosive. Ultimately, in story terms you can
1) Wait a really long time in-story so that things can build up again or fizzle out completely,
2) Bring an external power to bear, effectively hijacking the narrative and adding energy,
3) Reverse what you've just done and hope no-one minds too much.
Working out what to do with 'Night Trials' will be interesting as it was my first story and is the lease planned and most erratic in quality due to being the first. It will make a good assembled short story, though.
In my limited and small way I have now utmost admiration for the great Wilkie Collins and his serialised fictions. Even though I've only read the stories in their 'adapted to novel' forms, his power of prose and writing to the serialised rhythm is undeniable and outstrips even his friend and contemporary Charles Dickens. Dickens too wrote most of his works originally as serials but he lacks the showmanship of Collins and tries to write more about issues and the world of his time. Collins wrote to hook his reader and bring them back for instalment after instalment and with that method in mind wrote both 'The Moonstone' and 'The Woman In White'. They are both incredible novels to read for the first time, and some of his other novels are almost as good without being quite as natural.
So, as linux continues to plague me in my work computer travails and giant cheese beetles plague the gas giant Veronda, it becomes necessary to negotiate my way out of a dead end and somehow finish the story 'Night Trials' in an entertaining manner. Entertaining, not interesting, or provoking, but entertaining. That is the challenge! Also, the challenge is to get used to a KDE desktop on the work computer as I finally shot my Gnome and put him out of his misery. Oh, that brings to mind an excellent episode of 'Due South', which is a show I think everyone should watch at some point (but not the revival season, as that stunk.) In any case, it is time to hold up my finger, finish the pancakes and say 'I stand corrected'.
O.
PS 'Due South: The Man Who Knew Too Little', season one, excellent.
Monday, 18 March 2013
Story: The Disappearance (I)
(Part O, II )
It was three in the morning and I had been called out again, from sleep, for the third time this week. My line of work was no piece of cake. In fact my line of work had nothing to do with cake at all.
The call was way on the other side of town, and Agent Carter met me there. Carter was pretty but tried to hide it behind a career demeanour and a cool temper. At three thirty in the morning she was more frayed than usual but still could take a grisly sight and a shocking absence without reaction.
On the pavement there was a blackened patch, a chalk outline without the chalk. Houses loomed beyond the pavements and front gardens in this surburban district and a few silhouettes could be seen looking from lit bedrooms. Carter was waving the sensor and studying her display. I took a peek. Ambient temperature of the pavement shadow was ten to twenty degrees higher than the surrounding surface and cooling rapidly in the night air. I guessed it had been red hot a little while ago. The street was dead silent. No other unusual radiation traces.
Sergeant Mullins of the regular force approached, carrying bags of evidence found nearby. It all looked fairly routine. I asked the question, "Where is it?", and then Mullins produced the inevitable item, the reason we Agents were always called in to the scenes of mysterious incidents, ever since the Dada riots of 1932. Eighty-per-cent of rioteers back then had been injured seriously or killed and we didn't take these things lightly any more. Never again. Occasionally a police constable would joke and be taken to one side, never to be irreverant again.
Mullins handed it over, vacuum wrapped and boxed, and then wrapped again. The instigator of all those problems for more than fifty years and now this new disappearance and probable death. Light shone gently off the brown ridged surface. It was a plain chocolate digestive.
And the game was on.
It was three in the morning and I had been called out again, from sleep, for the third time this week. My line of work was no piece of cake. In fact my line of work had nothing to do with cake at all.
The call was way on the other side of town, and Agent Carter met me there. Carter was pretty but tried to hide it behind a career demeanour and a cool temper. At three thirty in the morning she was more frayed than usual but still could take a grisly sight and a shocking absence without reaction.
On the pavement there was a blackened patch, a chalk outline without the chalk. Houses loomed beyond the pavements and front gardens in this surburban district and a few silhouettes could be seen looking from lit bedrooms. Carter was waving the sensor and studying her display. I took a peek. Ambient temperature of the pavement shadow was ten to twenty degrees higher than the surrounding surface and cooling rapidly in the night air. I guessed it had been red hot a little while ago. The street was dead silent. No other unusual radiation traces.
Sergeant Mullins of the regular force approached, carrying bags of evidence found nearby. It all looked fairly routine. I asked the question, "Where is it?", and then Mullins produced the inevitable item, the reason we Agents were always called in to the scenes of mysterious incidents, ever since the Dada riots of 1932. Eighty-per-cent of rioteers back then had been injured seriously or killed and we didn't take these things lightly any more. Never again. Occasionally a police constable would joke and be taken to one side, never to be irreverant again.
Mullins handed it over, vacuum wrapped and boxed, and then wrapped again. The instigator of all those problems for more than fifty years and now this new disappearance and probable death. Light shone gently off the brown ridged surface. It was a plain chocolate digestive.
And the game was on.
Saturday, 16 March 2013
A long, long Saturday
As Indy wraps his foot in the bridge rope, and the world focusses down to a few crocodiles, the merits of 'Temple of Doom' become apparent. It's actually my favourite of the Indiana Jones movies, if only because all the Indian religious elements are far more interesting to me than the Judaeo-Christian elements of the other two original movies. It's also far more novel. Of course, that may all be my reactionary and counter-culture tendencies coming through.
Saturday has been and gone, and as Aberystwyth relaxes after some rugby game somewhere, I have been cooking and contemplating not only 'Temple of Doom' but also Scrabble. It's fascinating to think that before the year 1938 this game doesn't exist. There was a world without Scrabble only eighty years ago. It's mad isn't it? Boggles the mind! It's a wonderful game, loaded as it is with skill, luck and infinite replayability. I play a lot of Scrabble on the Pixie Pit website with distant friends. It's nice, and well worth the fee.
For every burst of cleaning, and Saturdays always have some cleaning, you can count on Film Bin for some new material. We posted commentaries for both 'Deadly Pursuit' and 'Return to Oz' today and tomorrow we'll record a discussion for 'Super Mario Brothers'. I have deliberately not written a review for SMB simply because it's a legendary bomb and doesn't need more criticism but also because I feel I would defend it on some levels. My deplorable tolerance means I can see good in anything, even the worst of movies, and I can see good things in SMB, although they are buried under ickiness, weirdness, dreadful casting, trashy dresses, and Dennis Hopper. Oh yikes, no more shall be said.
Ah, well done, Indy.
O.
Saturday has been and gone, and as Aberystwyth relaxes after some rugby game somewhere, I have been cooking and contemplating not only 'Temple of Doom' but also Scrabble. It's fascinating to think that before the year 1938 this game doesn't exist. There was a world without Scrabble only eighty years ago. It's mad isn't it? Boggles the mind! It's a wonderful game, loaded as it is with skill, luck and infinite replayability. I play a lot of Scrabble on the Pixie Pit website with distant friends. It's nice, and well worth the fee.
For every burst of cleaning, and Saturdays always have some cleaning, you can count on Film Bin for some new material. We posted commentaries for both 'Deadly Pursuit' and 'Return to Oz' today and tomorrow we'll record a discussion for 'Super Mario Brothers'. I have deliberately not written a review for SMB simply because it's a legendary bomb and doesn't need more criticism but also because I feel I would defend it on some levels. My deplorable tolerance means I can see good in anything, even the worst of movies, and I can see good things in SMB, although they are buried under ickiness, weirdness, dreadful casting, trashy dresses, and Dennis Hopper. Oh yikes, no more shall be said.
Ah, well done, Indy.
O.
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