Got on the Nazi Scales first thing this morning before my eyes were properly open or my brain properly booted up.
"Lo," they said.
"Lo?" I asked. "What, are we going all gospel now? Is there a child born to us in the east or something? What the hell are you talking about, Lo?"
I got off, the scales wheezed, getting their breath and eventually their cryptic message disappeared. I kick the them again to get them working.
"Lo," they said again.
"Oh." I said. My Inner Editor itched, and I scratched it. "You mean Low," I told them. "Would one more letter have killed you?"
The Nazi Scales, it seems, in some sort of plea for mercy, have exhausted their battery. I suppose, technically speaking, that's what happens when you weigh a ridiculous number of times a day. Fine. At some point, I need to gut the little bastards and find out what kind of batteries they take to make them all bright and shiny and happy again.
But not today. Today has been a time of day-jobbery and moderate panic that an edit that should be relatively simple appears not to be diminishing, no matter how much of it I do. Right now though, I don't even have time to worry about that - somehow it comes to be later than eight at night, and I have to pick up d from work at 9.45, so I have to stop everything, jump on the bike and pedal.
Pedal, fat boy, pedal! The Nazis can wait for another day to get some mercy shown to them.
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