Fiona McCann
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First face transplant sparks outcry
Scotsman.com STEPHEN MCGINTY THE world's first face transplant has been carried out in France on a woman whose nose, lips and chin were torn off by a dog. A team of surgeons carried out the highly controversial procedure, which is banned in Britain, in a hospital in Amiens last weekend. The operation, which involved transplanting the skin, fat and some blood vessels from the face of a dead donor, was a success with the patient, a 36-year-old woman,coming through the first 48 hours when the risk of her body rejecting the new tissue was greatest. >>Read on |
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1.12.05 06:10 |
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Tiny Charlie Brown-type tree
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1.12.05 06:31 |
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Angel for you
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2.12.05 02:21 |
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this and that
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2.12.05 02:41 |
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sno globe and glitter tree
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2.12.05 03:13 |
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GREYHOUND RACING EQUALS DEATH AND MUTILATION
greyhoundaction.org.uk BAN GREYHOUND RACINGThose of you who think greyhound racing is a harmless sport where the animals are well cared for and retired to a loving home after their racing days are over need to take a look at this website. The photo links are horrifying, and everyone needs to see them to know what this industry is all about. Here are just two sample stories. PLEASE click on the above link to educate yourself and for contact numbers to help this cause. ~~~~~~~~ "Eva was found one morning by a girl in her back garden in Ballinasloe, County Galway. This girl Rachel already had some rescued Greyhounds and poor Eva (as we named her) was badly injured and infected. She was brought to a Vet who said that the injuries to her ears were caused by Battery Acid or burning, as the hair around her ears was also singed. Her ears were septic , of a texture like charred fabric and one was burned right through with a gaping hole. "  click to view Eva ~~~~~~~~ "A lady in Ireland came home last week to find a dog with his scalp mutilated and both his ears removed. This appeared to be carried out by someone using a crude blade as the skin is hacked and infected. As Greyhounds are tattooed on both ears to identify them for racing and coursing purposes this practice is becoming all too common in Ireland and the UK. Many dogs have been found both alive and dead minus their ears."  click to view Fionn ~~~~~~~~ As you can see, this is an issue that needs urgent action. Please visit greyhoundaction.org.uk to find out what you can do to stop the obscene abuse of these beautiful, good-natured animals.
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3.12.05 22:23 |
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Bono-head and the child killer
 Do you see this shite? What do you think Bono talks about to this child killer? Hey, Bushie, how many kids and their parents have you blown away today? How many people have you tortured into false confessions? How many limbs have you amputated? Just how much skin have you burned off people? How much land have you decimated? How many of your own taxpayers have you fucked? How many lies have you told today? How many of your own soldiers are you responsible for killing and maiming? Yeah, Georgie, let's talk about poverty. You care so much about poverty. Just like I worry about it and can't sleep at night for planning my next PR move over it. Let's fix the poverty situation in the world cus I know your heart - ya got a heart now don't ya George? - lies bleeding for poor people. I could see that when Katrina hit New Orleans, yeah. I'm so glad we had this time together for photo opportunities, Georgie, where I could pontificate to you and you could bullshit back to me and we could feel sooo much like we are accomplishing great things. It makes me feel so special to be seen with you. And don't forget I get to flash this perfectly meaningless, perfectly self-promotional peace sign. Ya know what peace is, don't ya Georgie. Yeah, I'm all for peace - just don't sell any of my old shite on ebay or I'll eat you for dinner. Hey, Georgie, when do I get to come back for lunch?
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4.12.05 20:44 |
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SNIPER KITTY
I am training my cats to watch the house while I am at work. This one here shows great power of concentration: 
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4.12.05 21:28 |
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New kid on the block
Through a comment I received, I have found a great new 20sixer named Lone-Coyote who has a wicked sense of humour and a great writing style, even if he does mix his food and f*cking metaphors together liek! Take a look at his: Sunday in Cacksea
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4.12.05 21:58 |
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CAN SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS TO ME???
Here's the deal. I typed 'Fiona McCann' into Google as I sometimes do to see what it brings up. There are a whole raft of Fiona McCann's by the way. BUT--I found this link, which is not MY 20six link, but if you click on it, it brings up my site. It's like http:// with a 'notherrealname' on it and then 20six.co.uk/ and then Fiona32. If you knock off the Fiona32 part, you get some chick named JetCat. I can't figure this out. Anyone have a clue? The link logs me in and acts like it is mine. >>WEIRD LINK
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4.12.05 23:08 |
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Animal rights campaigners target Oxford Christmas party
 "Speak urged supporters to tell the pub staff about two macaque monkeys 'imprisoned' for over 15 years. 'Why not point out that this is just the tip of the iceberg and that while the staff of the department of experimental psychology party the night away, countless primates and other animals are huddled in barren cages, lonely, scared and suffering.' added the email message." >>READ ON
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6.12.05 18:27 |
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Today in history: John Lennon shot dead
BBC ON THIS DAY 8 December 1980  Lennon had been at a mid-town studio earlier in the evening Former Beatle John Lennon has been shot dead by an unknown gunman who opened fire outside the musician's New York apartment. The 40-year-old was shot several times as he entered the Dakota, his luxury apartment building on Manhattan's Upper West Side, opposite Central Park, at 2300 local time. He was rushed in a police car to St Luke's Roosevelt Hospital Center, where he died. His wife, Yoko Ono, who is understood to have witnessed the attack, was with him. Shots heard A police spokesman said a suspect was in custody, but he had no other details of the shooting. "This was no robbery," the spokesman said, adding that Mr Lennon was probably shot by a "deranged" person. Witness reports say at least three shots were fired and others have claimed they heard six. There are also reports Mr Lennon staggered up six steps into the vestibule after he was shot, before collapsing. Jack Douglas, Lennon's producer, said he and the Lennons had been at a studio called the Record Plant in mid-town earlier in the evening and Lennon left at 2230. Mr Lennon said he planned to have some dinner and then return home, Mr Douglas said. Fans at scene The Lennons are said to have left their limousine on the street and walked up the driveway when the gunman opened fire. It is unclear whether the man had been lying in wait in the entrance to the building for Mr Lennon, or whether he came up behind him. Witnesses describe the gunman as a "pudgy kind of man", 35 to 40 years old with brown hair. Other former band members, Paul McCartney, guitarist George Harrison and drummer Ringo Starr are thought to have been informed of Lennon's murder. Fans have already begun arriving at the scene, many still unaware Lennon has died. Mr Lennon is survived by his wife, their son Sean, and his son from a previous marriage, Julian. In Context John Lennon was shot four times in the back by Mark Chapman who had asked the former Beatle for his autograph only hours before he laid in wait and killed him. Chapman pleaded guilty to gunning down Mr Lennon and is currently serving life in Attica prison near New York. In October 2004 he failed for the third time to secure his release. He said he had heard voices in his head telling him to kill the world-famous musician. Twenty years after his death millions of fans paid tribute to Mr Lennon in his home town of Liverpool and in New York. His widow launched a campaign against gun violence in the United States to mark the anniversary.
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8.12.05 01:59 |
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Suggestions?
 Click to view I would have been here sooner, but I was having a time with 20six getting it to work for me. It wouldn't. I could see my site, but when I went to log in, nothing happened, and for once it wasn't my old computer being disconnected for the umpteenth time. Then I thought, well, no loss to the blogging community there. But I did want to answer a comment or two. Now I will have to go looking for them. Yesterday was the third Sunday of Advent, and I have to say that I am not feeling the holiday spirit at all. I try, but it illudes me. I think that's the word. I could look it up on Google, but I don't care. That's the trouble, I'm getting to the point where I don't care about much of anything in practice. In theory I do, but practice takes some effort, and I am tired. I think I need some prozac or something. I have a few things I desperately want to get accomplished, but I want them to be perfect, and I know I can't get them to be, so I don't even want to start on it. I think I am just sad. There is just too much suffering and sadness in this life and then you die, and who knows what after that? I'm just not up for it anymore. If anyone has any good ideas on lifting yourself up by your boot straps and soldiering on cheerfully, drop me a comment. I'm open to suggestions. |
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11.12.05 23:45 |
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Self-serving 'justice'
Guardian Father cleared of ill son's murder**Here's an example of people finding for the defendant based on their own selfish feelings. They considered how much trouble, time and money it takes to care for a severely disabled child and they decided it was okay to snuff out the boy's life because in their hearts they know they couldn't handle it either. This was murder pure and simple. He suffocated the child as he slept.
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12.12.05 16:45 |
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peahead
I had gotten a couple comments from someone named 'peahead' when I finally decided to go investigate who this person is. The first thing I saw was the pic on the sidebar - okay, a cute wee waster it seems. Then I read his post on rugby and had a good laugh! First of the day. Go and have a giggle too! >>peahead
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13.12.05 21:29 |
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Bastard children
 No, I am not talking about my workday. I am thinking of all the bits and blog bobs I have left strewn all over the net from the time I discovered the net and as I progressed through my various metamorphoses. They are still standing, and I go back and visit them from time to time and add a little something, or beget a new one once in awhile. It's really quite degenerate considering I would probably now be as famous as that Rebecca Blood biatch if all my shite were together in one place. But probably not as I am lazy and much prefer to gather together the creme de la creme of other people's talents and then throw in a sarcastic and totally unnecessary comment after it. After all, I certainly cannot make music nor paint nor go out and be the subject of news stories which I copy and paste relentlessly so others can read forever and ever amen. I can write poetry, but you'd have to have therapy after you were forced to read it. I can compose decent pictures, but I'd have to actually fix up the camera and make the cats hold still. I used to be able to write comic crap, but that is only when it's not a full moon and all sharp pointy objects and automatic projectiles are locked away. The absurdity of this life is rather comical really when you stop to think about it after - they have locked you up in the rubber room. By the way, that reminds me that I read recently that Michael McDowell, the Republic's premiere Republican with a capital 'R', is going to invest in a set of padded cells. Completely padded. I hope he is one of the first to use one, but that is asking too much of course. Anyway, as I was yarning, I often wonder what will happen to all my wee blog bastards if I should die? Who would even know they were mine? What would happen to my computers I use everyday that have all my much loved programmes and little pieces of me filed away in all the things I loved enough to save? What would Hotmail and Fastmail and Yahoo and Gmail, etc. do with all those souvenier emails I saved from the one I loved who never even really knew it or cared? Well, I know the answer to that one. They would get dumped is what. The blogs might float aimlessly through cyberspace for awhile like a spaceman on a broken tether, unable to be pulled back into the Mother Ship, but then I'm sure they would eventually fall into a Black Hole too. No one would ever even know they were connected, not that it matters. I just think about it sometimes.
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14.12.05 07:42 |
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Hospital heart treatment unit is 'dramatically' saving lives
Irish Independent **They should have been doing this YEARS ago Eilish O'Regan Health Correspondent LIFESAVING treatment for heart attacks has been dramatically speeded up since the opening of a hospital's new emergency department. The HSE Southern Area said the opening of the unit at Cork University Hospital has made a "dramatic difference". Death rates and complications following a heart attack can be greatly reduced by giving injections of "clot-busting" drugs to suitable patients, a spokesman claimed. However, in order to be fully effective, the drugs need to be administered as soon as possible. Dr Gemma Kelleher, consultant in emergency medicine, said when a patient arrives in the accident and emergency department with a suspected heart attack, an electro-cardiograph is carried out. If this confirms a heart attack, and certain medical criteria are met, then a thrombolytic or "clot busting" drug is given and the patient is admitted for further treatment. The time from when a patient arrives at the department to when the drug is given is known as "door to needle" time. An audit looked at average "door to needle" times for heart attack patients arriving at the the hospital year. She found that, since the new emergency department opened in April 2005, it has more than halved. She pointed out this improvement reflects faster diagnosis and treatment as a result of better resources in the new department, and team work in association with cardiology. "The figures for door to needle time at the emergency department of the hospital are being monitored continuously as part of the quality improvement process. "The aim is not just to maintain this improvement, but also to look at ways of reducing times even further. "We are very grateful to CHAIR (Coronary Heart Attack Ireland Register) for providing us with statistics," she added. She also stressed the role of aspirin in the treatment of heart attacks. "In research studies, aspirin has been shown to reduce deaths following heart attack by up to a quarter, when used in conjunction with other drugs," added Dr Kelleher. She advised anyone who feels they may be having a heart attack to take an aspirin and ring 999 to get to hospital as quickly as possible. |
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14.12.05 12:39 |
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Christmas comes early for our Ryan
Irelandclick.com **Some of you may remember the article >>about Ryan posted last summer. The story has had a happy ending. by Damian McCarney  Seven-year-old Ryan Shannon is thrilled with his best-ever Christmas present – a wheelchair bought for him by the West Belfast community. “This is his big, big Christmas present,” beamed his mother, Teresa Shannon. “Everyone who donated money made a wee boy’s wish come true.” After an appeal to raise £10,000 for a special ‘Permobile Koala’ wheelchair for the Poleglass boy who suffers from brittle bone disease, local residents, clubs and businesses put their hands deep in their pockets. Such was their generosity that they exceeded the target figure by almost £3,000. Ryan is a lively and outgoing child who smiles and chats continuously with his two-year-old sister, Natasha, who seems a little bemused by all the attention he is getting. Spinning around the festively decorated living room in Springbank, Ryan has already mastered the complex controls of the wheelchair in the few days since it was delivered. Suffering from the debilitating brittle bone disease since birth, Ryan has endured 49 fractures to his frail bones, mostly caused by innocuous activities, such as turning around. The first time that he crawled as a baby, he fractured his leg. “He can now move from the chair to the settee, which he couldn’t do in the old chair. I had to lift him down on to the ground first. With the chair he will also be able use the bathroom when it is adapted. He will be able to use the shower, and a new sink so he can wash his hands and brush his teeth on his own,” said Teresa. Due to the nature of Ryan’s condition he will be dependent on wheelchairs for his entire life. “He is learning to walk in school with the use of a standing frame. They think that it may a year or two before he makes progress. He will only be able to walk a couple of feet at a time before he needs to take a rest.” The wheelchair can be adapted to allow for a bigger seat when Ryan requires it, so Teresa is confident that he will not require a new one until he becomes a teenager. In the meantime she has opened a trust fund to ensure that there is adequate money to pay for any repairs that might be necessary. The Andersonstown News campaign has made Ryan something of a celebrity in the locality. “Every shop I went into there was a box with his photo on it. When we are out, we overhear people saying, ‘That’s the wee boy in the Andersonstown News’.” Teresa is bowled over by the community’s response to the appeal. “I was overwhelmed by the response. It has been fantastic, absolutely brilliant. “Uncle Tony [Keenan] arranged a night in the Green Hut social club in Turf Lodge after a charity football match and they raised between £3,000 and £4,000 on that night. The West held a charity night and raised about £4,000. Citybus donated £1,000 and a local man, Paul Magel, ran a marathon and raised about £2,000. Twinbrook Social Club raised £1,400 and the West Belfast Taxi Association raised about £600. “I can’t give all the names but I’d like to thank everyone who donated. I just can’t believe how generous everyone has been. And Ryan wants to say a big thank you too.” Journalist:: Damien McCarney
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15.12.05 13:08 |
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Squinter - a sideways look at the week
Irelandclick.com **There are two entries here from Squinter. Both are great! Be sure not to miss the rendition of Dub speak. Merry fafskg Christmas! So there’s Squinter in Newry on Saturday afternoon – Christmas shopping, if you must know. Or to be more accurate, mooching about with the big guy while the women Christmas-shopped. Total insanity, of course. Dodgems in the car park of the Quays Centre, shoulder-to-shoulder in the mall, stress levels rising faster than the traders’ bank accounts, morale dropping faster than the temperature outside. Relief came briefly in the early afternoon when Squinter managed – by dint of a cock and bull story about the car being wrongly parked – to cross the bridge into the town centre to spend a half-hour in the bookies. Sadly, at racecourses all across these islands they were out with lamps later that evening looking for the horses that Squinter bet, and so he trudged disconsolately back across the canal in the gathering gloom for another few laps of the shopping centre and another dose of Jingle Bell Rock. It’s not just denizens of Newry, of course, who keep two large shopping centres bunged to the gills at Christmas. There are those from the big smoke, like Squinter, who despise Belfast city centre so comprehensively that they’ll travel to provincial towns to get away from it. There are those from hamlets and townlands the length of counties Down and Armagh who venture in from the sticks for a day out gawping at new-fangled innovations like TVs and Super-Sers. And then there are the Dubs. Of course, there are Free Staters from Louth and Monaghan, but overwhelmingly the economic migrants to be seen in Newry at this time of year are Dubs. That much is clear not only from their braying accents, audible at fifty paces, but from the fact that a good third of them are happy to assist visual identification by wearing Dublin GAA jerseys. The irony of the fact that they’re a walking advertisement for Arnott’s but have shunned their team’s sponsor in favour of a fifty-mile drive to Newry is apparently lost on them. In small family groups of four or five they negotiate the corridors and corners, clinging to trollies on which vast mounds of brightly bagged and wrapped goods teeter precariously. They should start giving out ‘Dangerous Load’ signs down there. And in separate trollies they have their drink – case after case of Budweiser, shrink-wrapped trays of WKD, spirit bottles in plastic bags clinking like sleigh bells. And more power to them, Squinter says. The only way the Rip-Off Republic is going to end the overpricing madness is when citizens start voting with their feet – or in this case with their people carriers. Just one thing, though. Squinter has written to the NIO asking that they put up a sign at the border that reads ‘Welcome to the North, Please Mind Your Language’. Because – and there’s no way to be subtle or polite about this – Dubs have got some dirty mouths on them. And just in case you think that’s Squinter being judgmental (perish the thought!) it should be pointed out that Squinter can swear along with the best of them. But not when he’s out shopping; not when he’s with the family. You go to any of our local shopping centres and you might hear the odd bit of cursing from young males, but if you heard it from a parent with their children you’d be surprised and disgusted; it might happen, but you’d still be surprised and disgusted. But effing and blinding in front of the children is clearly not the taboo in the capital that it is here – rather, it seems to be obligatory. Because by the time he put the key in the ignition for the 40-minute drive home, Squinter had heard enough “fookin’ jaysus” to last him a lifetime. • Five-year-old inadvertently wanders in front of the trolley: “Fookin’ jaysus Koiley, will ya watch what yer fookin’ doin’?” • Wife veers right without using indicators to enter shop: “Chroist Michelle, ha manny fookin’ shops are ya gonna visi’?” • Husband dawdles and briefly lags behind: “Shane, wouldja get a move on fer fook’s sake ye lazy bastard. You get lost and I’ll fookin’ kill ya.” Not that the swearing is reserved for occasions of increased stress, far from it. • “Oh, Theresa – dem boots are fookin’ bewdeeful on ya.” • “I love dat song. Whaddya call the c**t sings it, Tony?” • “Is dere a poxy Boorger King abou’ here or wha’? I’m fookin’ starvin’.” Yes, it’s true, various events have conspired in recent months and years to cool Squinter on this united Ireland thing. But this is not part of a campaign to denigrate the Heineken-drenched, money-mad, forelock-tugging, pinstriped-fleecing, fly-tipping, farmer-jailing, gurrier-promoting gangland shooting gallery that is the Irish Free State. Not a bit of it. It is simply to report what goes on in Newry on a Christmas shopping Saturday. Squinter can’t say he knows Dublin that well. Matches at Croke Park, spells in the airport or Connolly Station on the way to somewhere else – that’s the sum total of Squinter’s knowledge of the place. Perhaps somebody who lived or worked there for a while can tell Squinter whether this is typical. A big fookin’ £20 note to anyone who can shed a bit of light on the subject. A BLOODY STORY OF AN EVENING GONE WRONG This is what happened. Squinter doesn’t intend to embellish or adorn this story in any way, shape or form. He relates it only in order to illustrate the way silly decisions can see a perfectly ordinary night spiral out of control. Squinter wasn’t having much joy in locating a frame for an awkward size picture. Somebody suggested that Budget DIY have a decent selection, and so at teatime on Saturday night there was Squinter rooting around in the picture frame aisle, comparing the measurements in a scrap of paper in his hand with the dimensions printed on the front of the frames. And, joy of joys, he found one that fitted the bill to a tee. £25 later, Squinter was making his way back to the car with the prize under his arm, confident of delivering the framed picture to its destination and getting home in time for the Spanish football on Sky. Working in the weak yellow triangle of the car’s courtesy light, Squinter used the car keys to prise back the retainers holding the backing in place, but even with the metal fasteners bent back, the thin wooden plate was proving difficult to budge. So Squinter inserted his right index finger, pushing and wiggling until finally he had a bit of a grip. And after a bit more pushing and wiggling the finger had a good grip of the backing and it could only be a matter of time before the backing was off. A bit of Unfortunately, the picture being turned back to front, Squinter forgot that on the other side of the wooden backing was a pane of glass. And while he believed that it was a piece of wood that he was gently but firmly manipulating with his finger, it was in fact the edge of that pane of glass. The first indication that Squinter got that something was wrong was when he heard a light but distinct drip, and when he pulled the picture frame back the gearstick of the car was covered in blood. Even at that stage, Squinter didn’t twig, leaving his finger inside the picture frame and looking around, confused and mildly panicked, for the source of the blood. It was only when he decided to put the picture down to investigate further and couldn’t get the gaping flap at the top of his finger out that the penny began to drop. By this time Squinter had a partial view of the other side of the picture frame, and it was like that scene from Pulp Fiction when John Travolta accidentally shoots a guy in the back of a car. Carefully, using the fingers of his left hand, Squinter managed to free the maimed digit, and when he held it aloft, the blood flowed freely past his wrist and disappeared down the sleeve of his jacket. To be honest, and at the risk of sounding wimpish, Squinter felt a little giddy at this point. Looking frantically around, Squinter couldn’t find anything to staunch the flow, except a pile of receipts in the glove compartment. Grabbing a handful and pressing them firmly around the finger, Squinter awkwardly exited the car and made his way to the nearby Kennedy Centre and Boots the Chemist. Cradling his fingertip in the palm of his hand, Squinter watched the receipts quickly become sodden and red, and his discomfort deepened as he saw the security shutter at Boots descend with a low hum. There was nothing else for it but the toiletry department at Curley’s, but with the petrol receipts not up to the job and his hand now a vivid red mess, Squinter wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it without passing out. There was nothing else for Squinter but to resort to his clothing. The nylon jacket was out of the question, but the polo shirt was an obvious choice. Squinter pulled his shirt tail from the waistband of his trousers, wrapped the cotton round the finger, made a fist and hurried towards the supermarket. Gripping a box of Elastoplast in the ten-items-or-less queue, Squinter watched and weakened as three old-timers with 50 items between them tried to remember what section of their purse they’d put their money in, and once they found it, helpfully offered the exact change as well. Ten minutes later, as Squinter handed over the plasters to the till girl, his fist wrapped in his bloody shirt tail, it was clear she thought that he was an armed robber who’d been shot in the abdomen, so Squinter paid quickly (not easy with one hand) and fled up the escalator to the toilets on the first floor. It was a messy clean-up job. Squinter tried to flush away all the bloody tissue, but the cistern wouldn’t fill up quickly enough, so he had to leave it for a while while he went to the sink to examine the wound for the first time, perhaps the most daunting part of the ordeal. It wasn’t pretty. Tracing a crescent across the top of the fingertip was a deep gash which gaped open at every touch and poured more claret down the plughole. And while the wound had been throbbing a bit, the pain was nothing compared to the agony brought about by the running of cold water on the finger. So there’s Squinter crouched over a bloody sink, dripping into the plughole when in walks a bloke with his six- or seven-year-old daughter by the hand. The man obviously thought a murder was being cleaned up. But if he thought he would find refuge in the toilet cubicle that Squinter had just vacated, he was badly mistaken. Spooked beyond endurance by the bloody tissue in the pan, he exited at speed, daughter in tow. If you’re reading this, fella, sorry about that. A few minutes later things were looking up considerably. Two plasters around the fingertip were slowly turning pink, it’s true, but the geyser had been corked and Squinter was able to make his way back to the car (leaving the toilets the way he found them, needless to say). And as he drove home, dried blood all over the coat, shirt, trousers, gearstick and floormats, Squinter ruefully chalked it up as one more scar to talk about when the conversation flags in the pub. And as he opened the door and put a foot on the stairs to go upstairs to wash and change, a cheery voice came from the kitchen, “Any luck, love?”
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15.12.05 18:50 |
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frigging disposal
I've got this frigging garbage disposal attached to my kitchen drain, which is rich considering I never even cook for myself, and the cats certainly don't require gourmet meals. The thing must be a hundred years old anyway, but it gave up the ghost about a month ago. My mother, however, had given me a little metal thingie that you poke into a hole on the bottom of the frigging garbage disposal when it's having a problem, so I was always able to unstick it. But, as I say, the whole unit is totally dead. No recognition of power at all. The metal thingie has also quit having any effect as it won't move anything. And as you might have guessed, now my drain is slow moving. I have put bleach down there and boiling water, and, horror of horrors, have also fished around down there with my fingers. Yechhhh! I cannot feel where the pipe comes out the side of the frigging disposal so I can only assume that the disposal has some frigging complicated way to direct the water and has decided to be a bastard about NOT directing it now. I don't want to use a caustic drain cleaner, and I haven't got a kitchen plunger on me. I have the number of the dipstick who put the frigging bathroom in for 8 months but who never hooked up the bathroom sink properly and painted over duct tape, but if I call him, I have to be ready in case he wants to pop over right then. That means I have to do some heavy cleaning and I wasn't up for it today. I frigging hate modern inconveniences. |
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17.12.05 21:56 |
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