Chapter 301
Due to evaporation of the water used to prepare the mixture (which is required to activate its binding strength and to achieve workability) shrinkage cracks will occur. The linear shrinkage ratio is usually between 3% and 12% with wet mixtures (such as those used for mortar and mud bricks), and between 0.4% and 2% with drier mixtures (used for rammed earth, compressed soil blocks). The shrinkage can be reduced by reducing the clay and the water content, by optimising the grain size distribution and with the use of additives.
Source: The Earth Constructin Handbook |
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To explain why I felt compelled to re-assassinate Abraham Lincoln, I must first discuss interpretive dancing.
It was a chilly Wednesday afternoon on what looked to be another uneventful Friday summer’s morning. I approach the stage with a familiar mix of pre-performance apprehension and expired lime cordial. I paused to find my motivation. (It was in my left pocket.) I composed myself. (E flat minor.) It was time.
The music began. From that moment on, there was no self. No me. No you. No them. Not even Richard Wilkins. There was only The Dance.
My left foot leapt into the air in a bold statement on contemporary social class alienation, enhanced by my right elbow’s subtle rotation, representing the collective inner turmoil of a world confined to an archetypal set of capitalist ideals. I soulfully waved my cheerleader pom-poms, each an ironically-juxtaposed eye-catching symbol of isolation, with cheerful pelvic thrusts projecting the reconciliation between bittersweet the acceptance of humanity’s flawed nature and the desire to nonetheless change the unchangeable.
Just before this ray of hope could manifest itself into a triumphant star-jump, the backing tune of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” came to an abrupt halt. My strategically-aimed arm lunge hit not the impenetrable shield of conformity as planned, but the tall, stern-looking mall security officer who had just turned off the stereo.
I hate Mondays.
He asked if I had a busking permit. I said interpretive dance belonged to The People, and he, a representative of The Man, had no right to take it away. He said I was welcome to do as much dancing as I wanted in my own home, but if I wanted to do it in this shopping mall, I needed a permit. I explained that there was no shopping mall; there was only The Dance. Neither of us actually existed, I explained, and so how could I, a nonexistent entity, show another nonexistent entity a piece of paper that, likewise, does not exist? And who were either of us to judge when both our thoughts were clearly only imaginary? He said I was also welcome to do as much dancing as I wanted overnight in a cell. Not a pleasant thought, I imagined myself thinking. With extreme reluctance, I showed him my permit. He fainted.
Curious. This could mean only one thing: my public performance permit was really a magical permit. I decided to express my joy and confusion through dance, but first looked down to find my footing. I couldn’t find it. In fact, I couldn’t see my legs at all. All I could see was another baffling conundrum, and even that looked suspiciously like dull pavement. As I considered the evidence, I decided to scratch my chin thoughtfully, only to find I couldn’t move my hand forward. I looked down again, and discovered I couldn’t see my chin. Or back. Or even my ears. This could only mean one thing: I had lost my body. What was it with Tuesdays and unexpected developments?
Despite my apparent lack of an esophagus, my throat felt hoarse. This reminded me of horses. After Lincoln’s assassination in 1865, the murderer stole the horse of a theatre employee named Joseph "Peanuts" Buroughs. And after the event, the now-ex-president was merely a body… the same thing I had lost! This could only mean one thing: I was the reincarnation of John Wilkes-Booth. Possibly in the form of an invisible cyborg from the future.
My mission was clear: I was to find the reborn Abraham Lincoln (possibly also a cyborg) and, through the power of interpretive dance, finish the job. But to infiltrate human society, I needed my old body back. Perhaps the past had further answers up its sleeve. I thought back along this fateful Thursday’s chain of events…
I showed him my permit.
I thought further back.
…left foot leapt into the air in a bold statement on contemporary social class alienation…
Further.
”Oh Pikachu,” I said, clutching my Game Boy to my heart, “one day you will be min-
Too far!
I paused to find my motivation.
Of course! I had paused whilst approaching my “stage”, mid-step, and therefore must have fallen over. I couldn’t see my body because I was now lying on the street, face first.
But what of the fainting security man…?
Oh yes. That wasn’t my permit, it was my rash. Silly me. Why do I always get the two confused?
I stood up. Cyborg Lincoln, I decided, could wait. First, I had some weekend street theatre to finish. I pressed the play button, and once again immersed myself in movement, emotion, and the haunting vocal tones of Hillary Duff’s less popular sister.
(I later discovered she, too, was a cyborg. From that moment on I dedicated myself to warning the entire free world of this impending doom, but few seem interested, no matter how passionately I do the macarena.)
And so solved...
The Mystery of the Elongated Egg-Slice
Next Episode: The Mystery of the Weird Pink Mark On The Collar Of My Mario Bros. Shirt That Looks A Bit Like Lipstick, But Isn't, No Really, Please Don't Hurt Me
Chapter 279
Alastair says:
I've lost my remote control.
This isn't the first time I've lost it. It all started three hundred and sixty-four days after a family gathering exactly one year ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. Kids these days have no respect for their remote controls. Back in 'Nam, this very remote control was the only friend I had. The following week the Nambour Hotel rang me up and asked for their remote back. One lengthy court injunction and a large fine later, I was given legal ownership of the remote. Sure, I was forced to sell my house and accept a generous offer to move in with Aussie Ben (and my, was he surprised), but it was a small price to pay for the channel-changing reliability only a remote control could offer. I felt a brisk breeze and wondered what I'd done with my pants.
Not unlike a character in a poorly written story that carelessly jumps between past to present tense, I continued my search. I spotted a nearby telephone and picked it up. After a while, it became obvious this wasn't achieving anything, and it would be much more useful to use it. I picked up the receiver and pressed a random speed-dial button. For reasons unknown to me, was greeted by the Road Manager of the moderately successful Japanese pop group "Glay". I hung up. I did it again, just to be safe. I examined the phone, only to find it wasn't a phone, but a cat. I returned it to the fridge and continued my search. Where oh where could my remote control be?
Oh wait, never mind. I've found it.
...But why is it soaking wet?
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Chapter 280
Ben says:
I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water with a hint of orange juice for my vitamin C at precisely two in the morning, and who should I see but no-one! Conspiracy, or something more?
I blundered my way to the dark to the kitchen to find myself the light switch. On the way there, my heart leapt into my mouth as the floor's surface changed from a cold, tile to a warm, soft fabric. Slowly, but carefully, I turned on the kitchen light, and then I picked up Happybob's pyjama pants, wondering why he'd left them here from the previous week.
After carefully stuffing Happybob's pants down the front of my own pyjama top for a kind of substandard comfort, I made my way to the kitchen tap. I'd already picked up a glass from the table to fill. I was just about to pour some water into the glass, when I realised that there was already something in there! It was a remote control! And someone had already filled my glass with water and just a hint of orange juice - just the way that I liked it! Something highly dubious was occuring, and I'll be damned if I wouldn't find out what it was.
I recalled the past few minutes' events - entering the kitchen, walking across tiles, feeling pants, turning on light, putting said pants down shirt front, walking to tap, pouring water, realising that something was in the glass...oh, damn, I'm back here again, aren't I? Yes, you idiot. Surely you realised the whole point of this backtracking thing? No, what was that? It was to find out why there was a glass of water with a hint of orange juice with a remote in it. Oh? And why is that? Because you got up earlier and made yourself a glass of water with a hint of orange juice and put the remote in it. Then you forgot to drink it. Oh. Righto. Thanks for that. Anytime.
I took out the remote and drank the water. Mmmm, good stuff that. Then I realised there was no-one around and it was now four in the morning. I went off to bed.
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And so solved...
The Mystery of the Unsolved Crime
Next Episode: The Mystery of the Otherwise Intelligent Person Who Thought Adam Sandler Was Funny
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And so solved...
The Mystery of the Delicate Brown Toadstool
Next Episode: The Mystery of the Coffee With Two Extra Sugars In It
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Chapter 227
Another wild night at the Morris Dancing Academy |
I awoke. This in itself was not an uncommon thing. In fact, I had made a habit out of waking up on most days. Call me old-fashioned, but if you don't wake up from time to time, you might as well spend your entire life sleeping. Slightly less common, though, was the experience of being woken up by a blood-curdling scream from down the corridor, which was exactly the manner in which I awoke two seconds previously. I opened the curtains to discover it was still dark outside. It was darker than a LiveJournal filled with suicidal gothic poetry. The night was as devoid of sunlight as Teri Hatcher's mailbox must be of job offers. There was only one logical conclusion: it was night. I contemplated going outside to practice my Morris Dancing. There's nothing like a good bout of Morris Dancing to enlighten the sinuses and unblock the soul, I always say. I scratched my left earlobe thoughtfully, only to find it was covered in maple syrup. A quick examination revealed I was inexplicably covered, from head to toe, and back to the head again, in maple syrup.
Thunder boomed through the night sky. Lightning momentarily lit up the outside world to reveal rain. If there was any higher being controlling the storm, it almost certainly wasn't having a good evening, and my midnight Morris Dancing could wait, damn it. Thunder struck again. It almost hid the sound of a gunshot from the next room. Silence followed, then I heard a dull thud. Thanks to the unwanted maple syrup, my hand was still stuck to the curtain. As I peeled it free, I examined the drapes' patterns. It showed a variety of Sesame Street characters smiling and waving. Funny, I could have sworn it was a nice, conservative beige floral arrangement yesterday. How could Bert and Ernie appear on it overnight? Could this be the work of aliens?
I glanced at the room's other window to see, just as I suspected, a flying, saucer-shaped object settle on the ground. They would be coming for me soon. This made me wonder if I should call the milkman and ask him to cancel my deliveries for the week. Claire from down the road said Frank, the local deliverer, was retiring at the end of the week. I contemplated making a collection around the neighbourhood to buy him a small farewell present. Maybe an alarm clock. Or perhaps a hilarious novelty mug. I looked out the second window and saw a middle-aged woman with an unnatural smile trying to sell me a set of steak knives.
Then the solution struck me. After I got over the shock of being assaulted by a metaphysical concept, I realised the second window was, in fact, a TV. It was screening the National Plate Throwing Championships, and had now cut to an infomercial. The curtains had changed because I bought a new set yesterday, and I was covered in syrup because I accidentally fell asleep in a vat of maple syrup instead of my bed. I hate it when that happens.
Lightning struck again to briefly reveal a human-shaped silhouette burying something equally human-shaped lying still in a large sack. I returned to bed, comfortable in the knowledge that I had learned the true meaning of Christmas.
And so solved...
The Mystery of the Dyslexic Doorbell
Next Episode: The Mystery of the Toilet Paper Dispenser that Keeps Running Out of Bog Rolls Too Quickly
Chapter 189
Since the dawn of humanity, drums have been a source of rhythm, energy, and occasional comfort on those cold, lonely nights. |
The night was misleadingly bright and sunny. I stepped out of my house, and into destiny. It apologised and moved on. I looked ahead to observe the bustling city metropolis. This proved more difficult than expected, as it was behind me. Luckily I had a very good imagination, and the general point remained. Somewhere out there, somebody was doing something. But whom, what and whenceforth? I vowed then and there to discover the answer, and perhaps also the question. The only limit was my imagination. And public nudity laws.
First, though, I needed breakfast.
After composing my mental checklist of edible components and gathering said ingredients accordingly, the eating ritual could commence. The kitchen table was a harsh mistress - I couldn't afford real furniture - so I sat on the couch (a pile of empty potato sacks) and watched my makeshift television (former TV presenter Cameron Daddo, who was desperate for employment, and more than happy to hang around and perform the occasional amateur poetry recital for food scraps). As I admired a poignant gothic interpretation of Kylie Minogue's The Locomotion, I chewed on my toast.
My eyes widened in mild surprise and I screamed in indifference. Where was the marmalade?
My mission was now clear: find the missing orange spread and bring the perpetrator to justice. And nothing, nothing, could stand between me and my objective. Unfortunately my first objective was to look outside, and the wall stood challengingly in the way. But not rain, nor shine, nor physical impossibility could stop me. I vowed not to rest until I was tired.
My lack of marmalade taunted me like an annoying kid poking me in the shoulder. Think, man, think! What would Arthur Conan Doyle say, were he alive today? Probably "wow, I'm a zombie! How about that, eh?" Of course! The graveyard would hold all the answers. I leapt onto the nearest bus and instructed the driver to take me there. He said he'd take me wherever his designated route instructed, so sit down or get off. Luckily for him, I was not an easily angered man. (It's a nasty story involving hormone mutations, but that story shall wait for another time.) I noted the colour of his hair: orange. Fate, or conspiracy? Only time would tell. I took a seat, then sat down.
An annoying kid began poking me in the shoulder, taunting me like a lack of marmalade. I did my best to ignore him as my thoughts raced like a streaker through a funeral. I was on the right track, but had clearly overlooked a vital fact. The possibilities floated around me like human corpses in the unforgiving vacuum of space. Space... of course! My answers lied not on Earth, but in the cosmos. After all, wasn't marmalade only a metaphor for the even greater spreadable substance that was the Known Universe?
Like an irrelevant simile, I exited the bus. My adventure had only just begun.
It turned out the marmalade was in the kitchen pantry, where it always was. I decided I'd rather not have toast and went to McDonalds instead.
And so solved...
The Mystery of the Blood-Encrusted Gazebo
Next Episode: The Mystery of the Haunted House Somehow Involving Mirrors
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