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I was cheered to read that Simon Cowell is planning to harness his tremendous (hmm, now I can’t think of a word) sales machine (?) to help the poor two million and counting earthquake devastated people in Haiti. Until I dove into the article and noticed that this wasn’t necessarily his very own idea. He was, in fact, approached by the PM and asked to so do. And who would say no to that? That would be like saying no to the master. You just wouldn’t.

Luckily for us, we have our very own (but more proactive) Simon Cowell within these very walls. The lovely Claire P is organising a cake sale for tomorrow to raise some money. So do feel free to bake, bring and buy. Alternatively, if you don’t have time for such sugar-infested niceties, go straight to the DEC. Don’t say I didn’t make it easy for you.

It warms the so-called cockles of my heart that IRN-BRU is such a charmingly fundamental part of Christmas up here. In the twixt Christmas lull, I was idling over twitter commentary on BRU yesterday and there’s an astonishing amount. Fuelled by the current Carnival in Glasgow.

And today I was happy to find a reverential post from this incredibly cool looking family. Read and marvel at the tiny part we / they play in making Christmas a tiny bit more Christmassy (maybe).

I’m just looking through some online qual research that the fine guys and girls at face have engineered and moderated for us.

The qual was conducted with the Young. And I’m looking through various blog posts and wondering why now and again, they feature a capital D for no particular reason at the end of a sentence.

And then I look again at one particular cap D and I realise to my ageing horror that it’s a : D

Specifically:

Reminds me of when i was a kid

How to make yourself feel old.

I trust you have downloaded your patriotic twibbon? If not, please find it here. Google have got as close as. So you have no excuse.

Happy St Andrews Day to one and all.

It’s 09/09/09 today. I do like my symmetrical numbers. Perhaps this makes the day auspicious (or devilish if you believe Derren Brown). Anyway, regular (and attentive) readers of this blog will know that it would not be overstating the matter to say that I despise Aberdeen train station. But today, it excelled itself.

I approached the place with caution – after a great conversation with my taxi driver about his one-time speed habit (the drug, not the vehicular kind though I guess the two might go hand in hand). He was worrying that his 12 year old son was going to ask him if he’d ever done drugs. I urged him to be honest about his authority on the subject. He said that was wise advice. I didn’t reply that it was wisdom (more or less) straight from our Know The Score ad - why dilute the glory?

So I step into the station and there’s a sizeable crowd on the forecourt. And there seems to be some kind of music. I had a fleeting thought that T-Mobile might be at hand. But then registered that the crowd surrounding the men’s choir was unusually smartly dressed. My speeding taxi driver led me to believe that the Flying Scotsman is in town so perhaps this was in-station entertainment for the passengers.

So with “who will buy my wonderful roses?” speeding me to my train, I spy it’s a National Express beast. O happy day. My least favourite train station briefly enlivened and a turgid journey cheered by free (albeit erratic) wifi and shortbread. And a rather fine sun starting to set over the sea. Enjoy the rest of your 09/09/09s everybody.

Belatedly, some summer party pics. Not a wallflower or a shrinking violet in sight.

It was our summer party last night. Straw hats and flowery frocks proliferated. Sadly I’m on a train to London now. Sadly because I almost look forward to the morning after the night before in the office as much as the night itself. I think there might be a few weary faces tottering about the Shore this morning.

I’ll hunt down some pics when I’m back in the office. If you’re phoning in, be gentle with them.

It was suitably peaceful in the planning department this morning. The noisy one is on holiday. As is Kenny for that matter. As is the master for that matter.

So we were all sitting peacefully, thinking hard as planners do. When a terrible crash came from the kitchen. Followed by a vulgar word. Michelle had flung open the cupboard and a glass had leapt to the ground. She conscientiously wrapped it in paper, binned it, hoovered up the shards like a well-brought-up girl. The silence was resumed.

To be shattered again twenty minutes later by this time Clare F, visiting the kitchen to prepare her breakfast. Two glasses this time apparently. So the newspaper, terrible doom-laden stories about friends gashed and scarred irreparably by unwrapped glass, Henry the Hoover put to work again.

And now, peace resumed. Except I’ve got to go to the kitchen to get my breakfast. I feel a bit apprehensive.

To the extent that our printer up here on the fourth floor has started making little rips in documents. You know, while it prints them out.

What goes through its head I wonder? Feeling a bit hot and grumpy today so d’you know, to spite them all, I’ll print their stuff but I’ll make sure each document has a series of small holes in usually the final page, just so they know that I’m in control…

Rant over. I’ll go back to studying my little ripped debrief.