Listing to Port

1. Some fragments of faded orange netting, now unravelling in a drift of pebbles and curious anemones. It is apparently an import from the human world.
2. A small patch of golden sand. On closer inspection, it is not sand at all but a mass of tiny machine parts in bright metal, as if a host of tiny clockwork things had been crushed down to their constituents.
3. A great tangle of purple seaweed. It has either grown into elaborate knots or been tied in them. Draped down the beach, it gives the sand the look of an illuminated manuscript grown from the wild and ready to strangle the careless reader.
4. A whole split oak trunk, sea-bleached and sanded smooth apart from a dark ashy flaw at its heart.
5. A triangle, half a metre across, rigid and almost insubstantial; it can scarcely be gripped, seen or smelt. It is more like a disturbance in reality than an object, and is uncomfortable to remain beside for any length of time.
6. Six large coins of a silvery metal, worn almost flat by years of handling. On some of them the smudged outline of a horned face in profile can be seen.
7. A starfish with the vestiges of a human face on its underside. It cannot talk, of course; but there is some sort of light in the eyes. The mouth under the starfish moves constantly, and maybe a talented lip-reader could tell if there is a message there.
8. The stinking, dried-out carcass of something with too many legs. In its open stomach a small pile of rings, trinkets and loose gems lie unclaimed.
9. A great drift of pre-World War I era shell casings, stretching down the beach and into the water. In fact, there is no end in sight of them, and other similar drifts can be seen at intervals further down the shore. When the waves are still and the water is clear, one can see them extending out over the seabed as far as one wishes to sail out, though there cannot have been so many bullets in the whole world. It may be that they are the residue of some distant, endlessly recursive act of violence somewhere in the Perilous Realm.

1. Turner’s Human font. A font in which each letter is made out of people. Owing to the need of people to get up, stretch and pee from time to time, this makes any text written in Turner’s Human necessarily transient. In addition, since each letter in the Latin alphabet requires two or three people, the amount of text that can be set in Turner’s Human is necessarily limited by the population of the Earth. Currently, with a population of around 7 billion, just over half a billion words in English can be set, or enough for about ten copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  

2. Fontstars. A short-lived supergroup formed by Times New Roman (on serifs), Helvetica (on bold) and Arial (on kerning). Comic Sans was briefly a member of the group but contributed little besides excess punctuation marks. In later years Times New Roman and Helvetica left the group after an unspecified altercation, being replaced by Papyrus and, later on, Impact. Currently Arial’s involvement is on hiatus, though Papyrus and Comic Sans have been collaborating recently on some novelty text for Christmas.

3. Warrington’s Doctor Font. A font for expressing ambiguous or difficult-to-read cursive text in the modern age. Are you looking for a character which is half-way between a letter r and a letter n? What about a character that could be e or i? With letters such as ‘up-and-down squiggle’ and 'horizontal line with a dip in the middle’, Warrington’s Doctor is the perfect font for expressing unreadable writing in an electronic medium.

4. Dimensional flip text. Instead of proceeding straightforwardly left to right across the page, each letter in dimensional flip text hangs down into the page: that is, on the uppermost page, the part of each letter that is usually rightmost can be seen, and on each subsequent page below another letter slice is visible. Each piece of text therefore requires several pages. Dimensional flip text is extremely difficult to read unless you shave off the paper bit by bit to get to each letter in its hanging-down form. It is consequently useful for text which is intentionally transient.

5. Brick shithouse. With serifs of 100% pure brick and character weight that can be used to stun a burglar, brick shithouse is the font of choice for angry ransom demands and letters to the Daily Mail.

1. 10. A true classic, ten in base ten is so widespread that it cannot but help be at the top of our list.
2. 101. Ten in ternary. Because you love radix economy, and ternary has radix economy.
3. 14. Because you are interesting and a bit obscure, just like ten in senary.
4. 1010. Where would this list be without ten in binary? Short, that’s where.
5. Fish. The ten of choice for the lazy surrealist.
6. A. Do you like computing? Are you bored of binary? Then ten in hexadecimal may be for you.
7. 12. Ten in octal, perfect for slightly more obscure computing fans.
8. X. For history buffs, Roman numeral ten may be the way to go.
9. 11. The ten of choice for the chronically late.
10. < (well, approximately). For history-buff one-upmanship, why not try ten in Babylonian sexagesimal?

1. Ocelot and vanilla. A time-honoured classic, enlivened by real Norwegian cream and ocelots.
2. Saucylot. Ocelot, ketchup and forty cloves of garlic, lovingly mixed by our mixologists before being gently chilled in the vacuum of deep space.  
3. Notalotofocelot. From our new homeopathic range, zero-calorie Notalotofocelot contains one or two molecules of pure ocelot ice cream, lovingly mixed with pure Cornish air.
4. Chocolate fudge ocelot. All the fudge in this gently fluffy chocolate icecream has been personally passed through a certified ocelot before packing.
5. Cosmic Ocelot. A truly out-of-this world flavour combination, Cosmic Ocelot contains the lightly spiced essence of one whole ocelot in our super-creamy dark cherry base, seasoned with popping candy and only the finest selection of nano-scale black holes.
6. Oscillateitstitalot. A cheeky combination for a romantic evening in with the icecream spoon: ocelot tongue, wasabi and sun-warmed gravel.
7. Strawberry surprise. The surprise is an ocelot.
8. Chocelot sundae. One freshly strangled ocelot, gently enrobed in a real Belgian. With a cherry on top (optional).

1. There was a creature called an Offaphoffilus, which had fifteen legs and the face of a grumpy sloth. It had never quite found a comfortable home, because these were usually built for creatures with fewer legs. But one day it met an elderly leg collector and managed to negotiate a custom-made beachfront villa in exchange for the bequest of seven legs on the occasion of its death.

2. In later years, the villa served as a guesthouse for the nearby leg museum. It was famous for its cakes, which visitors were best advised to avoid because they always had an aftertaste of chicken and petrol. The cakes arrived every day on a small cart and no-one knew where they came from.

3. The arrival of the cakes was not in fact a mystery but an official classified Secret. As part of a project to bioengineer the ultimate soldier, a secretive Russian laboratory had developed a donkey who shat cake. It eventually graduated from the programme with a D grade and become the lab pet.  However, since it also turned out to have an enormous appetite, they needed an outlet for excess cake. This the guesthouse fortunately provided.

4. For companionship, the lab purchased the Donkey a horse. As it turned out, this horse used to belong to the Queen of Bonk, but was demoted for unhorselike behaviour. It had once eaten a whole grocer and the local fruit community lived in terror of it going back for seconds. Interestingly, it was also the first horse in the world to work in web development, and had once licked Caligula.

5. There was an orchard nearby which felt in need of protection, so they called in an alchemist (all the nearby bouncers being busy). The alchemist did not succeed in keeping out the horse, but he did accidentally grow a tree on which each apple was made of a different element. Sadly, the gold apple was followed in relatively short order by the plutonium apple, and the orchard was evacuated. The irate fruit-growers put the alchemist in a pair of lead boots and dropped him into the Seine.

6. Three years later, a pair of golden boots came up at auction in North Carolina, but failed to sell due to their unattractive design. Eventually, they were melted down and turned into a small gold bar, which served gin to inebriated mice.

7. Seven mice who had escaped from a rather dull zoo fell asleep on a wandering cloud of gin fumes and had a dream. In it, there was a creature called an offaphoffilus, which had fifteen legs and the face of a grumpy warthog. The mice were fired from the story for refusing to behave. Since the story could not hire anyone else at such short notice, it had to stop.

1. On the occasion of the vaporization of Glasgow by the Titanian New Urumqi Front in 3560, following a 24-hour warning: wet stone, ozone, whisky, bins and burning peat.

2. On the slow mummification of the last inhabitant of Rome on the sunlit and cypress-covered ruins of the Palatine Hill in 10251, and the crumbling of her ancient library into warm dust: sun-warmed tree resins, old books, wild thyme and wolf shit.

3. On the unexpected reclaimation of Lagos by the sea in 2520, following a meteor strike aimed so precisely at the intersection of the prime meridian and the equator that for many years it was taken as evidence that humanity was living in a buggy simulation: Petrol, sweat, mud and the overwhelming sea.

4. On the final desertion of Isfahan in 6640 at the start of autumn, in response to the fourth wave of the Maltese Plague: over-ripe pomegranates, black pepper, and the lurking hint of something dead.

5. On the death of the last human in Hyderabad in 55801, and the sealing of the city into a tomb by the Followers before their great journey: A thousand marigolds blooming in the dust, ewers of clear water, and something like metal and pears.

6. On the destruction of Nova Cuzco by the eruption of Maat Mons in Venusian year 20881: burning wood, tomato vines, green mango, butter and sulphur.

7. On the occasion of the last unlocking of London’s new gates, some time after the arrival of the ice, but before the long dark: grease, ambergris, leather and sharp cold air with the promise of snow.

8. On the last stand at Archangelsk, 19555: Seaweed, dirt, sewage, king crabs, vodka and fear.

9. On the night that the remaining survivors realised that there was no longer any way out of Los Angeles, 3994: fine wine, cherry syrup, spilt blood, weed, tar and gunpowder.

gnimmelshouseofmaps:

The First Feast
The feast is held in a nautically-themed basement, somewhere in a distant and unedifying part of town. A reproduction of the last feast on the Titanic is served by a host of waiters in Pierre et Gilles sailor-boy costumes. As soon as the doors are closed, the noise of a tremendous rainstorm can be heard. A drip develops in the centre of the table. The first few courses are accompanied by the sounds of water trickling under the door.
By the third course, the floor is covered with a thin skim of water. The guests splash their way to the toilet, then back to their seats. The outside door is locked. By the fifth course, the waiters are wading through a foot of water, their sailor costumes damp and see-through. For the eighth course, the table is winched clear of the rising waters. The guests stand to eat their asparagus vinaigrette. By the tenth course, the guests must swim to recieve their peach and chartreuse jelly, delivered through a hatch in the ceiling.
The jelly is spiked with a powerful sleeping draught. The guests awake the next morning, alone, on a bare raft somewhere in the North Sea.

The Second Feast
The invitation states, wear masks. To avoid confusion, you are informed beforehand in a splendidly-typeset letter as to who of the others will be wearing which mask. The room has black, glassy-smooth reflective walls. Once the meal is served, it becomes apparent that nothing is what you expected it to be. The water is vodka. Eggs are served which have the white centrally, surrounded by a layer of yolk. A cake is brought in that is made entirely from meat; a game course sewed inside the skin of chicken legs; chocolates that are made from cheese. The final course is the facsimile of a full roast dinner in cake, marzipan and fondant.

At the end of the meal, the masks are removed. No-one is who you were told they were.

When you get home, the door of your house will be curiously ajar and small items will have been moved from their usual places.

The Third Feast
The third feast is held in a library. You are familiar with this library, but you were never aware of the room the feast is held in. It is behind a curiously nondescript door, which seems as though it might lead to a broom cupboard but in fact leads to a high-ceilinged gallery filled with all manner of obscure volumes. The head librarian meets you there, carrying a tray of magnetic letters. The letter you choose determines the meal that is served to you.
One might choose P and be led to a purple parlour, where peacock pate, partridge with pickled pear and pomegranates would be served; or A, and be led to an alcove in which waiters dressed as angels would offer asparagus, artichokes, andouillettes and amaretto. Those who choose X are strapped to a cruciform frame and spoon-fed a limp cross of xanthan gum. The unlucky few who choose Z are fed zebra steaks laced with opium, and sleep for the majority of the meal. 
The next morning, the guests find a letter tattooed, discreetly, in the crook of their arm; but it is not always the letter they chose.

The Fourth Feast
The fourth feast is held in the room at the top of a tower, in a circular room with chequerboard windows of red and white stained glass. When the guests have taken their places at the round table, the ladder is drawn away and they are shut in.
After some time waiting, it becomes apparent that the cutlery is only a crude facsimile, and is in fact silver-painted biscuit and quite edible. The table decorations are inflatable and pressurised by soup. Shortly after this, the guests realise that the plates are fake, too; they form the second course. A valve is found whereby the windows can be drained of their central layers of red and white wine to reveal clear glass and the surrounding forest. A layer peels off the table to reveal the third course, and by deconstructing their chairs they are able to extract the fourth, which is hidden in the legs like marrow in bones.
By now it is well past midnight, and still no-one comes. Inspecting the walls, the guests find that some bricks can be removed. These bricks are chocolate-framed replicas, containing splendid puddings. The holes left by their absence form a ladder, by which they can descend the tower and go home.

The Fifth Feast
The first course is a food course. The second course is a sex course. They alternate in quick succession, until no-one can quite remember what they are supposed to be doing with their hands and mouths.

The Sixth Feast
The sixth feast is a replica of the funeral feast of King Midas. It is held in a remote country house, lit by dim lamps and perfumed with incense; a greek orthodox choir can be heard at times throughout the proceedings, although they are never seen. The black-clad waiters are hired magicians, sleight-of-hand artists and illusionists. Throughout the meal, they stealthily replace the items in the hall by exact replicas in pure gold, beginning subtly (table decorations, door handles, strolling peacocks) and ending with the cutlery as the guests are using it to eat dessert. As a finale, the waiters line up to pull the tablecloth out from under its contents. The guests laugh drunkenly over their honey wine, expecting a golden table; but instead the house disappears, and they are left, bereft of riches, on a low hill in the dim light of early sunrise.

The Seventh Feast
Jaded and tired, the guests meet on a ship in international waters. After making certain preparations, they secretly draw straws and then retire to their cabins. Later that evening, avatars of each guest meet at a virtual-reality table, where they share their thoughts on the splendid meal that is being served to each, individually, in separate parts of the ship. The guests know that one of their number is not real, but is instead an AI which has been supplied with certain knowledge about that person. The missing person forms the prime ingredient in the banquet they are eating.

Nostalgic for their first feast, they later sink the boat.

On the road at the moment, so here is an old list-like thing from t'other blog.

1. On this day, 10 years ago: you said something to a friend that you’ve suddenly realised accidentally came out as kind of insulting. You do realise that your friends probably haven’t had any respect for you since then, don’t you? You should apologise. Only it’s been a really long time, so you’d need a really big apology and they’re still going to think you’re a bit off.
2. Did you know? One of the first symptoms of throat cancer can be a sore throat!
3. You also have one new invitation to something you won’t enjoy by someone who’s taking pity on your social ineptness.
4. Fun fact! A gamma ray burst in the Milky Way could lead to a mass extinction event on Earth!
5. Don’t forget! 12:40 a.m., tomorrow, you’re scheduled to have that dream about the exam hall. Should I notify you 10 minutes beforehand so you can get there in time for everyone to see you have no clothes on, or shall I skip the reminder so that you arrive late and naked?

1. Cutlass Fogarty’s hoard of pony charms. This is a completely legit hoard, they’re made of gold and everything. In fact, Cutlass Fogarty was an unusually successful pirate within the bounds of his niche idiom, and by 1672 he had pretty much gathered up the global supply of pony charms. The only problem is, he was a bit too good at hiding them. It is said that he was finally persuaded to make a map with an ‘X’ on it on his deathbed, but owing to scaling issues the 'X’ covered most of Western Australia.

2. The Holy Omelette of Pope Valentine. Nearly all trace of this relic has been erased from history by some kind of sinister cabal, but it definitely passed into pirate hands in 1890 following the sinking of the Marlborough. For some years there was a rumour that it had been accidentally served up in a restaurant in Punta Arenas in 1922, but was returned to the kitchen due to its unacceptably damp and stale state. Its current location is unknown.

3. John Bonham’s Lost Hoard. John Bonham was in reality Jane, the rather bored daughter of a successful Kentish leather merchant. With little else to do, she decided to embark upon a short-lived but briefly notorious career of piracy along the Thames. Although she had a knack for alarming violence, she did not have a very discerning eye for treasure and as a result her hoard is said to be mostly trinkets, knick-knacks, sentimental dog pictures and the like. It may well be, therefore, that it has in fact been found but dismissed as a rubbish heap.

4. The Golden Chest of Jacques Le Dildo. This hoard is notorious amongst hunters of pirate treasure. Its location is in fact quite easily discernible. The chest, however, is entirely full of live and extremely lairy crabs. Jacques Le Dildo was very fond of crabs, and may in fact have set it up as some kind of crab hatchery.

5. The sacred cave of the Sisters of Hellfire. The Sisters of Hellfire were a renegade order of nuns who took an unusually direct approach to the problem of sacred works being sullied by profane, profit-obsessed owners. Over five decades of raiding, they are said to have amassed a huge collection of fine art, sculpture and relics. They are believed at this point to have retired from piracy and reverted to a more normal type of sacred order; the only difference being a hidden cave beneath their new nunnery, accessible only to the more senior orders.

6. Jack of the Split Ear. Jack considered the greatest treasure of all to be freedom, and as a result his famous chest is empty of everything except symbolism.

7. The Cursed Barquentine of Port Harcourt. The curse, as it turns out, is both real and pertinent to the nature of this treasure. Following an unfortunate incident (said by some to be the deliberate ramming of a peaceful sea serpent by a drunken crew), the brigantine was cursed with eternal seasickness. As a result, their adventures in search of treasure were usually unsuccessful. They also needed somewhere below decks to vomit, and their store of large empty chests soon proved useful for this purpose. In addition, the wreck is still cursed. You probably do not want to go there.

1. Daisy’s Automatic Kibble-o-mat. A laser detection system continually scans the central part of the food bowl. If any part of the bowl base becomes visible, an alarm sounds and an order for three hundred tonnes of salmon is made at the nearest online retailer with same-day delivery.

2. Dave Kitler’s PRODBOT. PRODBOT takes on the onerous task of getting up at 5am to prod the owner into opening a can of kitty food. While the cat has a much-needed lie-in, PRODBOT launches itself onto the owner’s bed and extends its patented claw attachment to provide regular face-batting. PRODBOT is programmable with six different miaows, including ‘get up now, I have just been sick’, 'get up now, there’s probably a dead mouse in the hall’, and 'GET UP NOW!!!’. The 2016 update also includes an award-winning solicitation purr.

3. Princess’s Cat Calendar. Does your cat forget when flea or worm treatment is due? Do they have cause to regret trustingly approaching you as you shake a bag of kitty treats, before scooping them up in a towel and forcing a buttered pill down their throat? Then they need Princess’s Cat Calendar! Fully customisable with a range of easily-recognisable sad and angry cat icons, Princess’s Cat Calendar ensures that cats need never be in the house on a regularly scheduled medicine night again.

4. Mr. Tibbles’ Patent Litter Reassurer. Does your cat get anxious that they may not have buried their excretions sufficiently? Place Tibbles’ Patent Reassurer near the litter area, and your cat will recieve a stream of comforting messages as they poo and clean up, including 'it’s OK’, 'no predator is ever going to find that’ and 'really, you can stop scratching the wall now, it doesn’t do anything.’ Perfect for the cat who poos outside the box.

5. Godzilla Fishface Jones II’s Outdoors Reboot Button. A highly successful invention that sadly plays on the credulity and poor memory of many cats, the Reboot Button has been widely distributed despite its complete lack of function. Godzilla Fishface Jones II claims that her invention has the power to change the state of the outdoor world to one more amenable to cats, e.g. not raining, less windy, no snow, fewer enemy cats, etc. The cat should simply come in, discreetly hit the reboot button, and then request to go out again. Although this fairly obviously does not work, most cats have too short an attention span to claim their money back or, indeed, notice that the product is not working.