Hach! The Dilluminati were here at night and all I got is this stupid brand mark

There are moments in life when you wake up and the tattoo you got the day before is no longer a cracking idea. And then there are moments in life when you wake up and you carry the brand mark of the Dilluminati and you don't know where you got it from. 

Today is  Yesterday was such a day.

Over night (I assume), the Dilluminati chaps must have been in to put this (picture) on my arm, very thoughtfully, next to the swallow. I sense some sense of aesthetic proportions. Then there is the latin 'expecta', the singular present imperative of expectare, to wait or to await. Nice. I like well-educated villains. Evil is so much more effective if carried out by someone with a hint of a classical education.
The sign is rather unspecific, that circle-with-triangle-with-cross-with-more-circle-thing: Dilluminati do not seem to be fans of clear messages. Why not just put 'we'll pop in around 5pm'?

On another note, I've been personally informed by the Professor that I should not focus too much on the clues, not at this point anyhow. Now, how the hell does HE know? I have my suspicion that behind this rather pretentious pseudonym hides one of the Dilluminati themselves, waiting to mislead me/us. I should really investigate into the identity of the Professor, there might be more to him (or her) than just the blog and the observations - could it be the enemy? Like in a really badly written Midsumer Murders episode, or in that Wallander episode where Rupert Graves pretends to be a philanthropist but in reality ships human organs from one place to another. WHO is this Professor? WHAT does he do? WHERE could we find him? And DOES he like Marmite?

The end is nigh, chocolate is out and the Dilluminati are coming

Rumours in the wider web of the world are circulating that the Dilluminati, Shadow Lords of the Deepest Darkest Blackest Hole, are planning an invasion. Although I am always a bit sceptical when it comes to world invasions and evil plans etc. etc., I am afraid that this might be the real deal. Partly because they have uploaded a trailer on Youtube, partly because they give us a month's notice. 

I like well organised villains: it's a lot more fun if you don't have to fight them in your knickers because you were surprised to see them on a Sunday morning. Also, they come in August - a good month for an invasion - night falls late and the temperatures are usually high, so you can stay out for a bit longer to fight Evil, whereas in December, you have tea at 4.30pm and that's that. Hooray for Summer invasions.  #sothatisallgood

Furthermore, I haven't seen the Dilluminati for a long time. Like, a very long time. Neither have I seen the Daleks, for that matter. It would be great to get all the folks together again and have some massive reunion fight-do, like in the good old times when your spaceship ran on Alkaseltzer, filmed the other way round. I admit, my current office job is not the most challenging position I have ever held, but the real compromise is my outfit: I was used to wear a long cape, a head piece, make-up, and all that, but at work they require me to wear 'decent' clothing. Mind you, apparently, horns are not decent. And they weren't that happy about my lunch box either (what's wrong with living goats????).

So, hooray for the Dilluminati, looking forward to see them again - I'll keep you posted non-existent reader.

My neighbour's head and other egg-shaped jokes

Where is the fun gone? Jokes used to be funnier, laughing was laughier (yes, autocorrect, I want to write laughier!) and situations not this tense. Tense as in, interviewing strangers to come and live with me (ok, us) and trying not to kill myself for asking about hobbies and interests - under these labels. No, no, no, no. (hitting knee on desk, howling with pain, stumping - sprained foot, howling some more) Now that I have left a rather prestigious (blah) British university behind me, life is so infinitely beige. Beiger than beige, sand-coloured at best, maybe even nude, as in Kate Middleton's nude platform heels that have been much discussed in the Daily Mail and that are even more boring, now that they have been properly exposed.

Mincemeating shoes has never been fun.

Neither has googeling cooker lights. (Yes autocorrect, googeling is a word)

So this is my spare time occupation. Sigh

Somewhere between the last couple of Tschardonnéis (as opposed to Chardonnays served elsewhere) and the mini organic baked potatoes, it went horribly wrong. Life in its beignets (I keep this, it was meant to be 'beigeness' but obviously autocorrect has other things in mind #fatwriter) has no highlights, no chocolate chips, no glazing. It's plain beige. To the extend that I am watching Alan Titchmarch on 'Elizabeth: Queen, Wife, Mohter' (ay autocorrect! you correct me everywhere else, and then leave this?????) while I am writing this to balance out the creative input. To keep me awake too, painkillers for the afore mentioned sprained foot are taking their toll. And no, NHS tyrant, I will NOT keep my foot quiet for the next 6 weeks. I. Have. A. Life. Albeit beige.

Yesterday Once upon a time that happens to be just yesterday (that is today; tomorrow of course, it will no longer be yesterday #beige #petty) I went to the British Museum (I limped from Holborn and let myself fall down the stairs to the Lecture Theatre) for a bit of culture that I'd almost forgotten about. I booked the tickets in early April, not knowing that I would fancy some Shakespearian drama in June, just sort of hoping I'd not been run over by a bus by that time. And surprise, Henry V The Hollow Crown is a rather good play adaptation with Tom Hiddleston as King Hal. The man himself was there too, for a bit of fan-bathing, as well as some other British film royalty. And there was lots of wine, which was more important than Hiddleston in a suit. Representing our local monarchy, another citizen from the land of the 'I've never met anyone from there' accompanied me to savour the fruits of my early booking. #drunkandgreedy

We both agreed that it was worth not watching ITV's Friday night program in our pjs, to go to the BM.

Today The following day, in the land of the sleeping prince from downstairs, my hunter and gatherer instincts called me to the City Centre. Nature's signs and sounds announced the quarterly shedding of the shop floor-skins with brightly coloured signs ('SALE') and the sound of a new beginning (walking past McDo I heard Peer Gynt, I kid you not). My natural instinct tells me that I need more footwear to get me through the summer into fall, as well as some overpriced carrying devices for the incredible amount of things that I .... carry around with me. Thus I ventured into a tourist-infested centre, where, upon arrival, I regretted with immediate immediacy to ever have set a foot on the pavement outside Oxford Circus Station. #cringe 

However, I had not yet seen the full extend of the situation. When I'd fought my way out of the masses (limping like a shot bambi) I spotted Tom Hiddleston, lurking around - stalking me, no doubt. Again, careful to be careful, I tried to walk past, not letting him spot that I'd spotted him. Dear inexistent reader, stalkers, so I thought, were only stalking people less famous than myself. Never, so I believed, would anybody dare following me, the highest of all higher profiles, to the effect that I made my way, hasting hastily, to the nearest Underground. I had to leave multiple pairs of foot protectors and several carrying devices on the shop floors, returning empty-handed and scared. I have decided not to leave the house again until I know with certain certainty that my stalker has left the country. I may have to put him under surveillance.

Thus I remain here, in the outskirts of E2, with nothing but my books (which, surprisingly, are very beige) and the notes in my books. #smartass

Some books are real gems when it come to the notes. 

Until life is again filled with free wine and fountains of Italian Prosecco.

The hipster holiday: how to spot a German blindfolded

My legs. Not hipster. Jeans intact. Brogues.

The hipster, resident of Shoreditch and Hackney is in a holiday mood. How do I know? Well, recent weather changes have initiated the common hipster to change caramel-coloured suede moccasins and royal blue trousers for a more convenient, air-cooled look of shabby plimsoles or loafers and cut-off 80s denims. Ideally to be paired with white socks or bare feet. Summer is here.

Summer must have seen the bikini-clad Southeners and the topless chavs on Oxford Street and decided that, after all, rain suits England sooo much better. I write this in my winter socks, sipping tea, with a bowl of broth next to me. It's June 5th, Happy Jubilee.

Other signs to recognise summer are of course the usual: people are accessorising themselves with Starbucks' Frappuccinos, it's always everywhere Pimm's o'clock and if you can't see the Shard, it's not the mist, it's the smoke of London's barbecues. In fact, there is something profoundly Victorian about bbqs, in that every single household in my neighbourhood is smoking the hell out of their backyards, to make the best use of rats, mice and Tesco meatballs. Now, while at Pimm's o'clock last Thursday, I must have been three times  over the legal limit, I do not really feel summer yet. Yes, I have gone through a whole bottle of Nivea's finest 50+, but that is about it. Smells are positively autumnal, the clothes very wintery and every intention to make scones and jam turns into chocolate chip cookies. Also, I have been watching Nigella's Christmas Feasts (very vintage on Youtube), The Hairy Bikers on meat, more meat and puddings, as well as Jamie Oliver's Christmas stuff. And I did not skip Mariah Carey 'All I Want for Christmas' yesterday on my iPod - I turned up the volume. And with Her Majesty Gary Barlow staging a massive charity gig, it feels very much like Christmas. Come to think of it, on December 24th, I wore a hoodie (nothing else), whereas today, I was sporting more layers than an onion. Am I complaining? You bet I am!

In Central London (I thought today would be a good day to go, because everybody was celebrating some stuff or another), there was the inevitable crowd of tourists, where my learned eye immediately separated the Germans from the rest. (Italians are quite easy to spot too) But how is it possible that spotting a German is not just easy, but evident. Living with the least German of all Germans is not what has schooled my eye in the recognition of an ethnicity that will never learn how to stealth itself abroad. Living very close to the German boarder or speaking the language is not it, either. I venture to say that what makes me alert to their Germanness is their Germanness. Could it be the moustaches? Maybe. The jeans and Esprit shirt combination? Maybe. Is it the generic haircut, sported by very nearly every German woman and girl? Maybe. Could it be demeanour? I guess there is not any one answer to this, but I suppose that it is the combination of all these factors that makes them so easy to spot. And to avoid. Am I being racist? Yes - I am after all a Middle European, and while I am not patriotic per se, I cultivate a inborn national dislike for all our neighbours. We are the best, let's face it. Which is what every other nation thinks too.