First, I'd very much like to thank the estimable dwez, who mentioned my blog on his the other day. It led to a surge of traffic the likes of which I haven't before seen! Thankee, dwez! Second, I'll move to the titular problems. They might well be risible from your point of view, but not from mine! Earlier today I perambulated through town, and into a national chain, which will be unknown, I imagine, to my extra-territorial readership, W. H. Smith's. I fancied buying some synthetic bristles. Now, you fancy folks with your awareness of the highest standards of wargaming painting will know that sable is the very thing to buy. You are the Duchess of Cambridge to my Katie Price, because I'm not buying a darned thing that's been plucked out of an animal.
I was a-listening to Radio 2 earlier today, and Jeremy Vine was chatting to a couple of folk who had recently become vegetarian as a result of the recent exposure of the UK's Food Standards Agency's inability to inspect the standards of food (for anyone abroad the shot story is this: there is horse in the meat Britons eat, and this upsets them). They were remarking on a dread horror of burgers, whereas what alarms me right now is plywood. No, you did read that right. About a week ago I read on t'interweb that plywood (of all things!) might be inimical to me (not to mention the poor wee sods it is made out of!), so I mean to avoid it. I inherited my Dad's desk. He isn't dead, mind, and I am shorter than he, so I rest a "sub-desk" on the main-drawer. Dad's got a new desk downstairs, you nervy types! I had been resting a plywood piece there, but now I find myself resting a solidish lump of plasticard there (3 layers of 2mm plasticard).
In a word, I have knocked up a monstrosity from plasticard because the plywood is too horrifying to retain. Meanwhile, the substance which appals will be the base material for a few approaching projects - none of which will remain near me!