When I die I want to go to tetris heaven

I know it's terminally uncool to love tetris, but I used to be a big fan and this version by Gud magazine is a delight for anyone who's ever dreamed of better 2D spatial co-ords. Back in the day, when I was a trying to be a convincing Computer Science student, wrestling with queuing algorithms while trying to find the "on" switch, I found tetris a fantastic escape. All the cool kids were playing first person shooter or empire building games that called for cunning strategy and more cunning finger contortions, but I was impervious to their scorn of my tetris devotion. Some things are just too enjoyable to give up for coolness sake.

A few days ago, a friend sent me a link to an xkcd cartoon which made me smile in recognition. The perfectly shaped tetris segment falling from the sky. An interventionist god of small things. Whimsical, charming, ironic, what could be better? An actual working version, it seems, inspired by the cartoon, implemented by the clever folks at Gud magazine. If you've ever loved tetris, you have to give it a spin. I couldn't help belly laughing every time the sonorous chord of heavenly favour sounded and a misshapen block floated down.

Long live tetris in all its hallowed forms.

http://www.gudmagazine.com/games/heaven/

Bunny time

Today is Good Friday and it just seemed like making homemade hot cross buns was called for. I found a recipe on deliaonline.com and got to it, hoping that my buns would not be worse for wear for being made with yeast that expired 3 years ago.

I love kneading dough - a simple pleasure I've only recently discovered - so really enjoyed making these little guys. I didn't have any mixed spice so whooshed together some ground cloves, ginger and nutmeg and then crushed some cinnamon sticks in my mortar and pestle and whacked the grounds into the mix. I'm not a natural baker, precision not being my forte, so I daringly added extra fruit and fortunately, this recipe seems robust enough to accommodate my cavalier attitude to candied peel.

After waiting for an hour for the mixture to double in size, sitting on a window ledge outside, out of reach of hairy dog snouts, I joyously pummelled it into submission and divided it up into bunlike portions. The crosses were made with water and flour and a lot more pummelling and rolling. After about 25 minutes for bun rising, I popped them into the oven and drummed my fingers for 15 minutes until I could whip them out. They emerged golden and everything you could want from a bun, which in my case, is quite a lot. Piping hot, with the daintiest slathering of butter. Blissful spiciness!

Vampire drips and plastic skin

I am alive and I have plastic skin. It's true and it's awesome. They spray it on using an aerosol can and you generally need a wound of some sort to warrant this synthetic epidermis. I have two such petite wounds incurred in the name of investigative (all good) surgery and once the doctor mentioned plastic skin as a dressing option I made sure the nurses didn't give me the gauzy plaster ensemble.

The last time I was in hospital for some kind of procedure involving a general anaesthetic was as a teenager when I had my wisdom teeth removed. Staring down the barrel of elective unconsciousness a few (ahem) years down the line, was pretty nerve wracking for a control freak like myself. It was with a sense of fatalistic doom that I checked into Kingsbury, Pat very respectful of my resigned state, by my side, and climbed into the lift with the porter. Normally I would have insisted on the stairs, but why bother entertaining your lesser phobias when you're about to have your lights knocked out and your insides oggled.

After nearly losing it when the sister asked me whether it was alright for them to incinerate any bits that might be removed during the operation or whether I would prefer to take these home and making clear that my religious position on blood transfusions was “Give me the frikkin blood, I believe in Science”, I managed to keep it together enough for the theatre nurse to comment on how calm I seemed without a premed. If I am going to face a life threatening situation, I need to be alert dammit! To hell with common sense.

Arriving in theatre I tried to be as dewy, delightful and charming as is possible in a lurid green theatre gown, so that my anaesthetist and surgeon would be emotionally manipulated into doing their best to keep me alive during this minor procedure. My charm offensive worked and I woke up groggy and disorientated with Noxolu, the angelic recovery nurse, urging me to cough. Nothing beats the cough of the recently unconscious to let you know you're alive.

A few minutes later I was drooling at Pat, feeling like hell, but supremely chuffed to have made it. Someone appeared and asked whether I wanted supper and after toying with the indignant reply of, “Lady, seriously, I have just come round from major surgery, do you think I want to worry about food right now?” I said, “Yes, I'm starving!” A mince pancake, some sloppy ice-cream and a pint of saline later and I was feeling remarkably human.

Later that night, after refusing a sleeping pill (must be alert!) I found myself wandering to the loo at midnight with my trusty squeaky-wheeled drip. As I emerged from the dim ward into the fluorescent corridor, I noticed that coiled on top of my hand and running up to the drip switch which was hanging below a desiccated bag of saline, was a plastic tube filled with my blood. Phew. I'm not a big one for bodily fluid flowing external to my body and had to steady myself against the basin before hightailing it to the nurses station and presenting the night sister with my vampire drip. “Don't worry, lovey (term of endearment a result of the broad based charm offensive), it's just your blood, it will flow right back,” she assured me as she plugged another bag of saline into the suction plug. Somewhat soothed and with the cooling saline pumping into my hand, I went back to bed. Without the sleeping pill, sleep was fitful and I woke up regularly and pinched my skin, like the guy who cut off his arm in 127 hours, to check my dehydration levels.

My vigilance paid off and I made it through the night to be rewarded with a thumbs up from the doc and some plastic skin. Now, that I'm home, I just need to mentally wrestle with the prescribed sleeping pills which come with the helpful warning, “Might cause drowsiness.”