(no subject)

I know descriptions of dreams are dull, but, really, after a day of going to the shops and scrubbing a wall, what was there in my subconscious that led to "escaping through South American jungles with a woman who could knit bridges as we went along" and "reluctantly arresting two Elizabethan poets for sodomy"? I mean, not that they weren't intriguing. (I'm a bit cross that I dreamt one of the poets had some MS circulating, but didn't actually get to read any of them.)

Also, Top Gear may be slipping over into self-parody. This is not a complaint. (I love the way that descriptions of bits of it can sound like dreams themselves. It was amusing when the bacon flew up the funnel of the steam train, for example.)

(no subject)

Somebody's put a recipe for SLUG DEATH in our staff room (crush 1 head garlic, boil in 1 pint water 4 mins, strain, dilute 1 tbsp in 1 gal water, spray on affected plants, since you ask). Someone has then written MURDERERS! on it. (Possibly our vegan contingent, who have a sense of humour.)
Anyway, what would the Discworld Death of Slugs look like? A heap of salt? A skeletal blackbird?