Holly (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} several_bees) wrote,@ 2006-08-09 20:31:00 |
|
Lost and found
Last Thursday I dropped my camera.
This was inconvenient, because it meant that instead of taking photos of things, thus:
I had to remember the thing, and then on returning home several hours later to draw a picture of it in paint, thus:
Though my powerful memory and practiced computer art skills render the two images above virtually indistinguishable, recording the world in drawing form does take up to ninety seconds longer per image; and the alternative plan of taking my laptop and a USB-powered scanner everywhere would break down on those rare occasions where the thing I wanted to record wasn't a sign. So yesterday I phoned the police to see if anyone had handed the camera in (note: this is a lie. Actually my mother phoned the police; it hadn't even occured to me that the police might be where you look for lost property. I don't know what else they unexpectedly do — maybe you should try phoning them the next time you run out of clean teatowels or need to convert celsius to fahrenheit).
Someone had! Hoorah! Admittedly, when I actually walked into the police station, the woman behind the counter turned to her colleague: "Tell the sergeant it's the lady with the curlers," she said. It's now time for a FLASHBACK to a couple of weeks ago, when I was wearing bright pink curlers, stage glasses and a laboratory coat, and had taken seven or eight photos of myself on the subsequently lost camera, because I'm easily amused.
The sergeant came out with my camera. "Ah, it's the lady with the curlers," he said. He turned the camera on and flicked through to one of the photos with me in curlers, just to prove it. He showed me the picture, because I might of course have forgotten. He held it up again and looked from me to the photo and back again just to make sure. Then I signed some forms ("yes, I am the lady with the curlers" I think they said), and left, and I have my camera back.
The lesson learnt from all this, anyway, is that curlers these days are made of velcro (velcro!), that putting velcro in your hair is about as good an idea as it sounds, and that curlers make my hair very very straight. As always, the internet provides a wider context, this time with a laughably pointless experiment demonstrating that eating breadcrusts won't help either ("David takes a hair sample from Michael's scalp so that when he comes back in two weeks he'll be able to determine if eating crusts has made Michael's hair go curly"). Yes, this really was the most interesting article on making hair curly I could find.
Last Thursday I dropped my camera.
This was inconvenient, because it meant that instead of taking photos of things, thus:
I had to remember the thing, and then on returning home several hours later to draw a picture of it in paint, thus:
Though my powerful memory and practiced computer art skills render the two images above virtually indistinguishable, recording the world in drawing form does take up to ninety seconds longer per image; and the alternative plan of taking my laptop and a USB-powered scanner everywhere would break down on those rare occasions where the thing I wanted to record wasn't a sign. So yesterday I phoned the police to see if anyone had handed the camera in (note: this is a lie. Actually my mother phoned the police; it hadn't even occured to me that the police might be where you look for lost property. I don't know what else they unexpectedly do — maybe you should try phoning them the next time you run out of clean teatowels or need to convert celsius to fahrenheit).
Someone had! Hoorah! Admittedly, when I actually walked into the police station, the woman behind the counter turned to her colleague: "Tell the sergeant it's the lady with the curlers," she said. It's now time for a FLASHBACK to a couple of weeks ago, when I was wearing bright pink curlers, stage glasses and a laboratory coat, and had taken seven or eight photos of myself on the subsequently lost camera, because I'm easily amused.
The sergeant came out with my camera. "Ah, it's the lady with the curlers," he said. He turned the camera on and flicked through to one of the photos with me in curlers, just to prove it. He showed me the picture, because I might of course have forgotten. He held it up again and looked from me to the photo and back again just to make sure. Then I signed some forms ("yes, I am the lady with the curlers" I think they said), and left, and I have my camera back.
The lesson learnt from all this, anyway, is that curlers these days are made of velcro (velcro!), that putting velcro in your hair is about as good an idea as it sounds, and that curlers make my hair very very straight. As always, the internet provides a wider context, this time with a laughably pointless experiment demonstrating that eating breadcrusts won't help either ("David takes a hair sample from Michael's scalp so that when he comes back in two weeks he'll be able to determine if eating crusts has made Michael's hair go curly"). Yes, this really was the most interesting article on making hair curly I could find.
