At last a bit of peace and quiet, sometime to knock together the final chart for my true love's thesis for identifying the best way to measure the effectiveness of neurological restoration for the people who are sadly afflicted with the condition named multiple sclerosis. Maybe her work is not currently as well known as, say, Ramachandran, with his bold claim of having only two selves, but evident lack of knowledge about the pantheon of Hindu gods, or even Dawkins, who is thoroughly enlightened, but at the same time is fighting the paradox that he has described the way that evolution began, but he has no prophecy for its eventual end.
Of course with my background in IT I find it easy to pit two scientists, one against the other, but someone with a lot more skill than I would be looking to answer the eternal central theological paradoxes: like was Christ really such an exhibitionist, addicted to pain and from where did Hilter learn the skill to choose the exact moment of his death? Maybe little maddie does live on, in the memories we take forward into our next re-incarnation?
Half mythical freedom-loving mystical bloody gay time-travelling eco-political liberal illiberal humanist scientists, who has ever heard of such a bunch of scaredy cats? This is the sort of thing people fight wars over! I was reminded of a joke I once heard:
"Knock, knock?By way of a diversion, does anyone know if the placebo effect wears off? It is a widely held belief, but search as I can, the author of the thesis cannot be located. Sometimes I think you are all nothing but a bunch of time-junkies, with your continuous questioning of whether now is discrete or continuous. I know that everyone is a fan of Dr Who, Obama and Iron Man these days, but I am the sort of two-sides of the back of an envelope guy, who just sorts everything out with string and pencils (I know they exist, at least).
Who's there?
Nobody! Answer the bloody door yourself, you lazy fool!"
Here's a new qualia, as a gift to your brain. Don't send me one back, I'm never hungry until someone has made me very, very, cross.
Bats
Sound of one hand clapping? Don't make me laugh!
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's ma's a giraffe.
Because the Bishop was pissed,
And most other evidence finally de-glissed,
Our local Virgin service was chopped right in half!
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