Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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Like my brownhouse:
   big snow that wasn't
Tuesday, February 13 2024
A big snow was predicted for today. Six to eight inches were expected to fall, so much that Gretchen had reached out on NextDoor.com to secure a snow plow in case the Downs Street house was buried by too much for our renter (the one who gets a rent discount to do chores) to keep it shoveled. It was also enough for local schools to be canceled, something Gretchen discovered when she arranged with our neighbor A for them to walk dogs together, only to discover her kid would be coming along. (It was such an exciting dog walk that even Neville went on it.) But the only precipitation that managed to fall from the sky was about a quarter inch of snow. After that, the sky cleared and all hope for further snow had to be abandoned. Unexpectedly, Gretchen ended up having to drive up to Coxsackie for her usual Tuesday evening prison poetry class. It wasn't even that we got rain instead of snow; almost no precipitation fell. Normally weather predictions, now aided by enormous amounts of sensor data and massive computational power, are pretty close to correct even for weather coming as much as a week in the future. But this was an major miss.

Today was the second day in a row that I had gut issues that had me not exactly firing on a cylinders. I desperately needed a bath, though we'd hadn't had sun in a few days and there wasn't warm water in the tank. So I ran the boiler for a little over an hour, taking he opportunity to confirm that my recent valve work on the solar hot water collection system was now keeping the boiler for circulating hot water through the otherwise-cold solar panels (it was).


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?240213

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