Death From Above

Spent most of today waiting for argon. And why exactly were we waiting for argon? Because the man who delivers it DROVE DOWN FROM DUBLIN WITH AN EMPTY TANK.

...

How?!!!! How do you even do that? I don't even.

I did however make lovely standards. Lovely precise standards. And some samples. I am on a ROLL with my analytical chemistry this week.

So, eventually the argon arrived. The man with the truck having driven all the way back up to Dublin and then back down, avoiding all the roads closed for the Queen [unhelpful your Maj, a little more consideration of my sample next time you visit would be appreciated, k?].

Argon. Huzzah! There was much cheerfulness. And then. And then. >.< There was an oh dear.

The blasted machine can't keep pressure. Can't keep a flame.

Enough.

I was going to go home (check). I was going to drink a glass of wine (check). I was going to watch some Firefly (Waking the Dead actually, Boyd's flailing rage echoes my own perfectly). I was going to drink another glass of wine, yea even the whole bottle (getting there). And then I was going to curse the ICP, even unto the fourteenth generation.

I went home.

Fact: PMT and the making of travel arrangements do not go together at all well.

TH requires booze. In the shape of a very very large hammer. QUICKLY!!! (also a flight back from Pisa at a decent time to an airport in the north of England - oh and a website that let her look for that enquiry)

YES IT'S VAGUE. I KNOW THAT. BUT YOU WON'T TELL ME WHERE YOU FLY TO SO I CAN'T FILL IT IN CAN I?!!! MANCHESTER? Oh. No flights. Ok. Liverpool? No? *hunts for a list of airports in the north of England*

Dammit. I'm going to have to go to a travel agent. Let them do all this bloody crawling about through databases that require PRECISE INFORMATION THAT I DON'T HAVE!