Hi all. 

I've just tried something new to me. I bought an organic califlower and it felt wasteful to throw away the green leaves around the end? So I cut those up and cooked them seperately. I ate them with some butter and black pepper , it was perfectly fine. Not delicious, but certainly edible.  So from now on, I'll be eating those . My son would surely complain if I served them to him though 

Any similar tries ?

The image shows a Galactic dance of three Galaxies captured by old faithful , the Hubble Space telescope , we see a pair of Galaxies known collectively as Arp-Madore 2339-661 , they are individually known as NGC 7734 , the larger one at the top and NGC 7733 at the bottom as it reaches out to its partner with an exchange of Cosmic stuff.
The Galactic dance is happening 500 Million Light Years from Earth.

But where's the third Galaxy I hear you ask , well that is the small red knot like structure on the right side of the bottom Galaxy , originally it was thought to be a part of NGC 7733 but it's different colour gives it away as a separate Galaxy , as they dance all three move ever closer with the three destined at some point to merge and become one , a Cosmic threesome if you like.

Quote:This striking image from the NASA/ESA Hubble Space Telescope captures the interacting galaxy pair known as Arp-Madore 2339-661. The Arp-Madore catalog is a collection of peculiar galaxies, and this group’s particular peculiarity might be odder than first meets the eye, as there are three galaxies interacting here, not just two. 

The two clearly defined galaxies are NGC 7733 (smaller, lower right) and NGC 7734 (larger, upper left). The third galaxy is currently referred to as NGC 7733N and is visible if you look carefully at the upper arm of NGC 7733. There you can spot knot-like structure, glowing with a different color than the arm and obscured by dark dust. This could easily pass as part of NGC 7733, but analysis of the velocities (speed and direction) involved reveals that this knot has a considerable additional redshift. This means it is very likely its own entity and not part of NGC 7733. This galaxy group presents one of the many challenges that observational astronomers face: working out whether an astronomical object really is just one, or multiple objects, one lying in front of another as seen from Earth’s perspective!
https://science.nasa.gov/missions/hubble...c-dance-2/

This happened yesterday 28th October at home.

For those that don't know I live in the bush, hilly,  on a reasonable selection of 109 acres,  We just had a severe fire rip though the area and me and 'true love' did our best to keep the flames away from the house.  As I type, all is good now.  Last time this happened over 80 houses  were lost in 2019.

The fire lasted a couple of days and came at us from two fronts.  'truey' took some days off. but after everything had settled, coupled with some rain, she went off to work early at 0430 yesterday.  I made her lunch and saw her off.  I was home alone (?) .  No comms.  Telecommunication tower was knocked out but I said I would be fine like last time (2019).

So, after she left safely, I lay down on the lounge in the 3rd lower level of the home.  Had my 3 dogs and 2 cats with me.  One dog (Rusty the toy poodle) and 1 cat on the lounge with me. The cat slept on the lounge head above my shoulders. Girlie (dog) on the other lounge and Charlie (dog) lay on the floor.  I pulled a blanket over me and not long after I fell asleep.  It was dark. 

During this sojourn I was constantly woken by my right foot being pulled.  I thought it was the dog and checked but the dog wasn't near my feet.  Being very tired I dismissed it each time and nodded off but it happened again.

I don't remember how many times it happened but I woke at one stage after feeling it.  Twilight (dawning) was showing through the window above my head so I said to myself "Fuck it".   I got up and went and made a coffee.  After that I then turned on the water pump and had a shower.  Cleaned up and dressed for another fire day I made another coffee.  Gave the dogs their respective breakfast cookies where they lay.

Sat down with the coffee, rolled a smoke and was sitting peacefully in the early morning quietness on the lounge with the animals.  This is what spooked me.  Mind you, all communications here had been knocked out by the fire.  So it was silent.

The cat jumped off the head of the lounge, I plainly heard laughter from the upper level but it sounded like two people laughing at each other.  Distinct laughter sounds like people laughing in your face.  Dogs jumped as I did.  Dogs low growling looking up the stairs. 'Girlie let out a few muffled barks but I could see the hackles along her spine raised.  She eased off her lounge slowly and hopped on her 3 legs to the base of the stairs looking upwards.  The 2 smaller dogs followed suit.  

Because we had fire brigade trucks (several) dropping though at all hours each previous day I figured it was firemen.  I got up and walked outside followed by the diligent doggy wogs who stood by my side and behind.  (Which is unusual in these circumstances).  Normally they would be running out at full tilt before me. I just said, "C'mon on." and we did a circuit of the house.  The area around the house is cleared for a considerable distance and you can hear approaching vehicles.  Nothing.  Not a sound.  No choppers or planes, no cars or brigade trucks.  The dogs were different in that they stayed by my side instead of their normal running out in front.  They were growling but it was low.  I was getting really spooked.  

Did another circuit of the house, checked the sheds.  (This is daylight now mind you).  Nothing, no one about.  I went back inside.

Thinking that it was my imagination (but he dogs heard it too).  Shook my head and went to the stairs.  Now 'girlie' has only 3 legs and can't mount the polished timber steps.  The 2 smaller ones can easily.  But they would not follow.  All the dogs stood at the base while I walked upstairs, looking back at time thinking what is going on.  Checked the 2 upstairs room.  All was fine.  came back down met by wagging tails.  Checked the other rooms around down further.  Nup!

House was clear.  

Yeah,,Long winded story I know but the laughter was audible to all and lengthy, I kept checking everywhere in the house during the rest of the day.  It might be my imagination but the laughing was also mocking, in your face.  I needed to put this down now while it was fresh in my memory.  I started to relate it soon after it occurred but lost power and connection due to circumstances.  So here it is now.

Anyone had a similar experience?

Kind regards,

Bally

Quote:This video discusses how ancient cultures were capable of moving huge blocks of stone without modern technology, using modern examples and experiments to help visualise how scaling these methods up to 100's or 1000's of people could make moving the large blocks of stone that they did extremely feasible. Logistics and technique make things possible, as well as man power, coordination, and eventually as for us, technological advancement.

During the month of October I like to indulge in horror films. I usually watch one a night during the month. Sort of my own tradition. 
I got really into old black and whites a while back, and sat down and watched this film last year. This became my new favorite horror film of all time, for one simple reason.

The "monster" of the film ended up not being the monster at all.

Frankenstein's monster was actually gentle and kind. Almost childlike, as was depicted in the scene where he stumbles upon a little girl and shows gentleness towards her. The true monsters of the film were the people. Incited by fear they are all driven to violence against a something they didn't understand. 

It seems silly, but I actually identified with that.

I'm about to sit down and watch it, and in the spirit of the season I thought I'd share that thought with you all, and highly recommend you watch this film. Especially if you've never watched it, and are a fan of the horror genre.

Frankenstein (1931) is almostb100 years old now, and is still considered one of the greatest horror movies of all time. 
It's neat to me to see the start of it all in movies like this.

Enjoy

I have been following along with what is going on with Israel and Palestinians, and I started to realize something. 

Are we going through the tribulation the Bible speaks about?

I just read that the USA has now gotten involved in the fight, with an attack of our own. We have sent troops, and are gearing up to put boots on the ground in the fight.

During the presidency of Trump the world was pretty much at peace. It seemed the whole world sort of took a break for a while (about 3 and a half years). Hell, Trump was even buddy-buddy with Kim Jun Un during this time. 
No one was "fighting." The world was pretty much at peace.

Now the last three and a half years have been a shitshow for the entire world. Russia and Ukraine are at war, now Israel and Palestinians are at war, and everyone jumping into the fight. 
The whole world will be involved soon.

Is this war in the Middle East the beginning of the end? Have we just gone through the tribulation? 

The way I see it, the world had over 3 years where everyone was pretty chill (as far as fighting battles went). Now it seems we've all been through over 3 years of hell...now the world is about to be at all-out war. 

I'm just going to go ahead and say it.
I think we may have just gone through the tribulation...

Here's a story to warm the cockles of your heart and has that added bonus of being true.
I may have hinted this yarn somewhere before, but since it involves someone who went down in history,
a re-telling shouldn't be too out-of-order.

It was 1968 and I was eight years-old. Living in a small town and having acquired a mentality suitable for
such a slow, out-of-touch environment, the edge of my world ended anywhere over a mile south of where
I lived.

Why south? -you may ask. Well, that was because I lived on the northern edge of a town where miles of
countryside waited to be plundered by a kid my age and anything that could be classed as a street or a
collection of houses, all resided in the direction my mother would call the town centre. South.

The macrocosm of a child is bound in a special type of barb-wire, it snags things that adults fail to hold as
important. For myself at that time, knowing where an owl makes it's nest or finding a dead dog are jewels
that far outshine the knowledge we adhere to in the grown-up world.

Bogged down with societal bonds, adults stop smelling the magic and I honestly believe they also lose that
connection between themselves and a reality that lengthens their time here. Still, 1968 was surely going to
be the same as last year in my little kingdom.

But unknown to me and probably my parents too, the world outside mine was up to all sorts of weirdness.
There was a war in a jungle somewhere between the Americans and someone never truly explained. The
fella who killed Kennedy said he wouldn't be seeking re-election and the black-dude who wanted us all to
look beyond our facia differences was shot dead in Memphis.

Making sure the string around the rim of my jam-jar wouldn't snap and checking that my fishing net didn't
have holes in it, the news that the widow of that Kennedy-guy and was marrying some Greek with lots of
ships and the Zodiac Killer was just testing his wings out on Solano County's Herman Road were something
beyond my appreciation and certainly my interest.
Noisy incidents in another room.

John and Ian were waiting for me at the bottom of my little street. It wasn't called a street, it was called
'Gardens' because... well, all the terraced-houses had gardens, I suppose. Life doesn't have to be complicated,
you know? These two boys were four years older than me and if you can think back to your own youth, that
meant a lot.

Older boys knew about sex, older boys knew lots of good stuff like that and if you're quiet and listen, sometimes
you can learn a thing-or-two. Wisdom is currency in the world of a child, it purchases standing and it strengthens
character.

Where adults talk in a language of the gordian, the kids with the scuffed knees and bubble gum-smelling breath
articulate their opinions with tones of simple dread and the acumen of warning.
It's all about preparing yourself to die and become one of those adults.

As I walked behind the two boys, I listened for the enlightenment. Where we were going to capture red-bellied
newts could wait, there was 'stuff-mining' to be done and in their chatter, I could already hear the sounds that
told me that such a type of gold was nearing the surface.

Stuff like, the contents of golf balls is poisonous and made from crazy-men's semen, whatever that is. What time
was best to clamber over the wall of the alley behind my house and keeping low and quiet, watch through the
frosted-glass of a downstairs bathroom window for one the two young women showering in the house strangely
labelled 'for Students'

Keeping up with John and Ian's brisk pace, I discovered that students are older girls who can think. They can
make you look silly with their brains, but their bodies are fantastic. Scaling that wall at my current height was 
still beyond me and the desire to observe women with pubic hair was even more distant. Still, the ammunition
of data can be carried and used later.

We were heading down the main road that in 1968, could never imagine the amount of traffic that uses it now.
The wisdom being dispatched slowed and accepting that if you look up at the sky when you run, you travel faster,
I trotted behind the pair as they crossed the highway that had never known a traffic jam.

As we passed the school that they used to to attend and the one I still did, John and Ian turned their focus on
what lay ahead. It wasn't whether the recent rains had over-flooded the place we were going to and it wasn't
the concern that we might be trespassing on private property at some point. Even the suggestion that the
creatures we sought didn't actually inhabit the many pools that paralleled the ash and cinder path we were
travelling to, wasn't the main concern.

It was that we were entering a different land, a realm peopled with kids who may take umbrage at our invasion
and require a payment of kind. Namely a fight. As my cheap sand-shoes slapped along the pavement and my
jam-jar knocked against my bare-thigh, I wondered if this expedition wasn't the exciting and sunny adventure
I'd imagined, but a trek to altercation with strangers holding high dudgeon and the need to deliver a bloody nose.

But you can't turn back and run. You can't show your cowardliness in the shadow of older kids. You just can't.
Changing the position of my fishing net like a soldier re-shouldering his rifle, I kept in the march towards an
unknown enemy that would undoubtedly make me cry and certainly bleed.

It's called -because it's still there, 'The Black Path' and it links a road that once assisted a steel-rolling company
that created shaped metal for the country's needs to a newer breed of manufacturers. Something with the
then-swanky title of an 'Industrial Estate'.

In truth, this set of one-floor buildings comprised of two businesses, a tyre-outlet and a set of offices that typed
something. It was there and the Town Council had funded it, so I suppose it merited calling it something fashionable.

But The Rolling Mills was quite different and held a history of patriotism and the working-class sense of hard-work
-maketh-the-man. Sprawling for as far as a child's mind could comprehend, the smoke-pluming and noisy factory
once produced metal window frames until the Second World War shouted that it needed assistance.

Nissan huts, armour-piercing shells, tanks and Bailey bridges were all manufactured there behind the walls higher
than any kid could scale -naked student or not, but by 1968, their main requirement was construction steel for a
world that knew what 'good steel' really meant. The Rolling Mills was an immoveable object when I was growing
up and nothing but-nothing would ever make it go away.

In later years, I would visit the public house that served the men who toiled in the taming of the molten snakes
that were disgorged from their shaping rollers. It was on the corner of the Black Path and belonged to a time of
we've gladly relinquished. The front Bar was always hot with a raging coal fire and the rear 'Games Room' was
freezing, open to the elements due to the door being useless after a customer was smashed through it.

Saturday nights were for swollen faces and bruise-closed eyes. No pool cue was ever broken over the head of a
reprobate and no pool-ball was ever thrown at a fleeing client. Such equipment was stolen years before. Cigarette
smoke was in the air alongside 'High-Karate' aftershave that was given at Christmas.

During the week, the tavern would see dirt-smudged faces staring into horse-racing results in tabloids, whilst
gulping down their ale to quench their thirsts. A line of thick wooden-soled shoes that protected the Mill's
employees feet could be seen at the pub's front door.

These scuffed and studded Frankenstein boots were to guard from the screaming metal that quietened it's wrath
between the tongs and the legs of those who drank their breaks away. 'On the tongs' was a task where the money
was made and yet, extremely dangerous.

I have a friend who's father sported a galleon tattooed on his chest from his navy days and took on the tongs back
in the seventies. One winter's evening, a stretch of metal came bolting out of the rollers and for some unknown
reason, decided to 'scream'

This is a rare action, it's when the semi-soft metal bar twists and jumps from it's controlled route to the next set of
elongating  metal drums. This particular beam screamed and hunted down my friend's fleeing father and out-doing the
metal's cry, he also screamed as it left it's mark and turned the inked-galleon into a ugly birthmark of remembrance.

That clanging place forged men and metal, and to a child, was an eternal palace of the Gods. It closed in the nineteen
eighties.

Our quest for the miniature dragons took us into a municipal park that I recognised when my older-sister used to take
me out in a push-chair. I'd never realised it was so far away from my home and even though there was some comfort
to be gained by this revelation, I kept it to myself. I might have been only eight, but I knew one did not mention being
even younger when among those who were lighting your way towards the teenage years.

Pretending the surrounding location meant nothing to me, I dared to walk faster and get alongside John and Ian.
I recall it was summer because of the foliage and there wasn't any snow. The rain I mentioned should also be a good
indicator because no English summer is a real summer without it pissing down somewhere between May and August.

Giant elms surrounded the play-area and along with creaking oaks, shrouded another part of the council-ran property
that wouldn't -or shouldn't be interesting by children wanting to find dizziness on the cast-iron roundabout or enjoy
gathering dog-shit on the back of their clothes by sliding down the towering chute. That 'other' place was a cemetery.
All the play equipment was made by Wicksteed Kettering by the way, a name that will never leave me.

The beginning of the Black Path took us under a railway bridge that serviced the North and South sections of the Mill.
John imparted that bats lived under this shadowed construction and it had been said that they sometimes swoop down
and bite.
Needless to say, my wide eyes scanned the rivet-welded reinforcements for the twinkling of licked fangs and leathery
cloaks in our passing.

The daylight on the other side displayed a field to my left, holding a pond in it's centre that John assured both Ian and
myself, never dried up even in the hottest of summers. It was a said a giant pike patrolled the depths and would watch
from the murk for solitary children gambolling on it's banks. John said so.

To my right, a high metal fence contained a tangle of bramble bushes and the barrier continued to a place I never heard
of until then. It was a Gypsy Camp, a settlement of people that kept themselves to themselves. Ian commented that the
community were known as thieves and rarely bathed. Thinking of the terrible fish in the pond, my young mind could
appreciate why. We followed the path to the left.

The pot-holed tarmac gave way to the ash and cinder, the waste material of the Rolling Mills. It was officially a path now
and the trees and bushes that bordered the route didn't seem to suffer from the dumped clinkers. Every step made a
loud crunching sound and I wondered to myself if the supposed feral-families in the camp behind us would give us a
second thought.

Adjusting my snake-belt and hitching my short pants up, I was changing from a bewildered kid in a foreign land into a
hunter of fiery-bellied amphibians and an explorer with my companions. My older companions.

I say that because I had friends of my own age, but such solidarity is only maintained when parents don't intervene with
the use of holidays. Summer is when the English-made company called 'Butlins' is utilised and families would spend a week
at a holiday-camp with a social structure that held communal spirit as a prerequisite.
Without the need for violins, my family couldn't afford such vacations and so, I was with older boys wandering under
some bushes.

We made our way through the dark tunnel of leaves for around ten minutes without speaking. Occasionally, a large pool
would appear at the edges of path and stunted willows sat in the flooded waters. The hawthorn bushes on our right
stopped and brand-spanking new wooden fence hid whatever there was to be hidden. It could have been ten feet-tall,
but I was eight years-old and proportions were not paramount at that age. Big and little were usually the measurements.

The trees and bushes stopped and before us was lay the narrow path cutting through several pools of dirty water.
John announced that this was where the newts lived and I licked my lips in excitement. I hadn't been beaten up and
the vampire bats had not taken my blood.

Engraving Egyptian gravel-glyphs on my knee as I crouched down to fill my jam-jar with water, I felt the thrill of
anticipation that I'm sure anglers feel as they set up their gear.

I could suggest other light-hearted and positive thoughts a young person may deliberate during the trials of their
age, but this isn't a story read out to a afternoon-drowsy class of school children. When you're the youngest in the
group, you wait for the mood shift of the senior, the sea-change of the elder when what you rightfully own can be
taken by force.

True childhood happiness is built on a base of suspicion that the world isn't what your parents told you, even if
you want it to be. It's real and I reckon it's part of being prospective prey. Anyway, my jar was filled.

If such beasties existed in the smelly standing water, they'd found a grand hiding place. The aroma of the over-rated
puddles contended with the oily stink of recently-applied creosote of the fence and my goodwill began to wane in the
bouquet of malodor.
My salamander-empty jar dangled from the remains of a nail on a post as I scooped and frowned, frowned and scooped.

The bamboo cane bent at times, but I knew it was only an indication that either the fishing net had caught the
edge of a discarded car tyre or a willow root finding it's blackened drink. Melville's Ahab, I was not.
Curses were muttered, eyes met in doubt and the sun shone down on all of us.

When the suggestion came from John that the newts may be using pools hidden on the other side of the fence,
Ian and and I agreed it was worth taking a look at. Like Musketeers, we examined the height of the fence and it's
pointed top. Each unplaned board had been cut to hold a sharp apex and if I was to garnish the situation with
hyperbole, I could say the clouds touched the tips.

John went first with a fair run-up. Grabbing the diagonal edge of a board, he began to make his feet imagine
they were still running and scrambled his body upwards. Pushing with his arms, a leg cleared the 'V' and
without sitting on the top, he dropped into the unknown on the other side.
John's shaven-head appeared after a moment and asked for the containers and the nets to be handed over.
Emptying my jar of only thing I'd captured this day, the taller Ian serviced the request.

Up he went and after dangling against the warm wood for a second on two, began his ascent to the jagged top.
Ian's baseball boots scraped for purchase and with sinews contracting, he too slipped over the fence.
Although, I secretly believed a rib was grazed by one of those spikes in his journey.

I didn't make it. I could say my attempt was thwarted by the cut I acquired when I grabbed one of the spikes,
but the reality was that I was too small and too weak. My rubber soles burned in their haste to propel me into
the realms of my peers, but my spirit didn't hold the same verve.
Looking forlorn and looking up at the mocking barrier, I awaited the verdict from those who were winners.

John's head loomed over between the wooden skewers and said if they would take a look around and if the
newts were found, he'd drop a couple in my jar. I nodded and showed his my greased-stained wound.
The palm wasn't really bleeding, but any injury can be used to explain a failing.
John's eyes told me that it was my problem and without a word, disappeared from view.

There was no internet, no mobile phone to pass one's time away with on a slow-moving summer's day.
But before that ever-changing invention came along, kids still had the ability to get through a waiting period.
For me, I inspected the terrible damage to my hand and wondered if there was an older kid's anecdote that
said creosote was a deadly poison.

That was when the priest came by.
A man of around the late-twenties, but to an eight year-old, he was just an adult. Sporting the usual all-black
garb with the white dog-collar, he carried a slight smile that increased as he saw me sitting beside the post
that had once held my newt-container. Sans newt.

He was dark-haired and I'd guess women would say he wasn't ugly, but I cannot vouch for what students
would think, of course.

There are words to inflate the actual reason for this story and considering what he said -and if I was a religious
person, I could nail some colloquy to the mast of taking theological credenda serious to enhance society's values.
But my jar was empty and my hand hurt.

"Hello" the priest said as he passed me. I was sitting like one of them old Cherokee Chiefs that John Wayne looks
down at in the Saturday morning matinees I'd been to. The smile never faded as all I offered back were distrustful
eyes.

Priests and Vicars belonged in the world of 'do this or you go to Hell' and for a child, the rules of family and schooling
were more than enough to contend with without worrying about laws that concern the afterlife.
I hadn't got the hang of this one yet.

Not being married didn't help. I was still too young to appreciate innuendo of religious celibacy, but when a teenager
implies a weirdness through a clerical axiom to a boy of my age, it's a baton of wisdom that you keep close and use
like a crucifix to ward off the unknown aspersion.
The priest was at my 10 o'clock now and slowly falling away from my interest.

As the sun made my greasy injury look slick, I thought about John and Ian chuckling in merriment among fleeing
splashing basilisks escaping swooping nets. I pondered mangled flesh (come on man, really?!) and yet imagined
wriggling newts.

My absorption dwelled in the possibilities that they would judge a small amount of their catch and my input to
the situation. Would the older boys decide that four newts were two newts each...? Maybe even three of six
divided equally?

"Do you know who I am...?" the priest said watching me from where the Black Path turned the last of it's length
towards a side entrance to the fabled Industrial Estate. His convivial features had gone and for a second, I wondered
what might happen if I tell him I didn't hear his question.
Quickly checking the spool of my cerebral tape-recorder, I acknowledged the query with a stare, I mean, what do
you say to a guy who wears his shirt-collar backwards?

Maybe I could advised him to seek out the Pope and ask him if he knew the confused cinder-path walker's identity or
even check for a name on the back of his underwear. Can God help...? Is there a prayer that doubles as a finger in
the phone-book?
Only soapy-naked students would know for sure.

But I didn't. I felt I was being trapped somehow and this question was some-sort of controlling ruse.
I wouldn't have been able to word it like that then, but the feeling was tangible and that's all prey needs to ready it's
escape. To the pond behind me...? I could skirt the edge and avoid the snapping maw of he beneath the surface and
maybe the pike would treat the chasing priest to Jonah's mode of travel?

Vaulting the fence was out, wound-or-no wound, my little legs would fail me and the priest could grab me from
behind and dispatch the wailing kid in delphic ways I was too young to think about. The Gyspy Camp may save me
from this questioning and staring man of the cloth. But would it mean a life of the Artful Dodger...?
All light-fingered and eyes of the bandit.

The seconds that I'd like to call 'months' that wavered in the air between us held no noise except for a faint clang
of a metal serpent being tamed in the rolling mills behind me. I assumed the priest was waiting for an answer. The
faint memory of overhearing a conversation about some cabalistic act of buggery within the Church swam past like
a mocking Pleurodelinae, but it was beyond my years and all I knew was it involved choirboys.

Then the priest told me the answer that had presumably alluded him and assumedly -myself. However, the information
didn't resolve my rising panic.
"I'm Jesus, that's who I am..." he said with a tone of haughtiness and for reasons only he knew, repeated that last part.
"...That's who I am" With that, he went on his way.

Watching the retreating messenger of God, I wondered what just happened and whether the danger was over.
I would be fifteen before I thought that I'd should've checked his hands for holes and asked him to fix my own.
A Catholic friend that will always be close to my heart and could fight like a demon, once imparted to me during
those growing years that a Jehovah's witness was a person who believed the man who witnessed Jesus being
burned at the stake.
His name was Jehovah.

The priest didn't look charred.

The end of the story is that there were no newts on the other side of the fence. John, Ian and myself tramped
home without any incident to mention and I never told them of the strange encounter.
Paul met Jesus on the road to Damascus, I got the cinder track to an Industrial Estate.

And God knows what happened to my fishing net.

Quote:Washington Gun Law President, William Kirk, discusses a recent video that has been kicking around in the virtual universe which shows an elderly gentleman get surrounded by an angry mob of pro-Palestinian protestors who decided to start smashing his car. This leads us to one of the most common questions we get here at Washington Gun Law which is what can you do when you find you and your car surrounded by an angry mob? The answer is much more complicated than you might think so learn more and arm yourself with education today.

Quote:On April 7, 2016, the team running NASA’s New Horizons mission were waiting nervously. The spacecraft was about to enter the outermost reaches of our solar system. They'd aimed toward Pluto. Which lives in a region of the solar system called the Kuiper Belt. Just before arriving at the dwarf planet, the team noticed an object nearby. And it was acting very strange. This object, whatever it was, was spinning faster than everything else around it. Too fast. Artificially fast. And the object reflected light in an odd way. New Horizons changed course to do a fly-by. They wanted a better look at this bizarre behavior. But as the spacecraft approached the object, all communications went down. NASA wasn't able to see or hear anything. The New Horizons spacecraft suddenly put itself into safe mode. But nothing was broken. Something or someone was blocking the signal. Whoever it was did *not* want NASA to know they were here. And that they’ve been watching us for a very. long. time.