h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The Wash-Tower?

With the vertical clothes-line?

Perhaps that goes a bit beyond Night-hoovering.

Even towers need an hoover, from time to time My hoover really sucks....

This is getting silly.

I like that.

gosh.... if this is only just* getting silly.... We've got worse problems than anyone potentially ever realised. an alternative reality universe we may be occupying, but surely some laws of universal silliness must apply? - Dawson's first law of silliness perhaps... or Dod's silliness constant equasion... I'm not certain... I guess at the end of the day, it all rather depends on one's perspective, or viewpoint... or maybe its just an odd angled hoover-attachment Only nighthoover has the answer... and maybe the Diddy men, of ourse... mathematical geniouses...

At the end of the day, we have the next day's morning.
That's nothing if not silly. So, even though it's dark, it's still a morning, which is considered part of a day.

An island off the southern tip of Italy is where the Sisilliest Italians live. But don't let on that I said this. As they fit my feet for concrete shoes, I will swear that it was all a typo.

Jack and Jill went *up* the hill for their water? That is truly silly! Water doesn't go uphill unless you don't want it to.

Great earwax Charlie Brown!

for, as sure as day follows night, so night follows night.... perpetually night after night.... so many nights.... so much hovering to be done Probably about time to spring clean... only I can't find any springs to clean, unless I dismantle the bed matress of course I think the voodoo mice have a lot to answer for...

I drink springwater in the Spring, and summerwater in the summer.

to each a season, to each season a sensibility so, to each a season a silliness... perhaps or a hoover, of course

It’s only now I realise I’ve never seen Jane Austen and 2legs in the same room.

Jane Austen has been dead for almost 200 years, but Jaine Austen is alive (if fictional) and solving mysteries with her untrusty cat Prozac by her side.

http://www.lauralevinemysteries.com/

We are all but both in our eternal state of being both dead and alive. Our aliveness is, of course, but an aperation created so it is said, by the random electrical impulses generated by the movement of irons. Are the ions alive? is calcium, sodium, magnesium, potassium alive? I fear not... therefore perhaps we are not alive.... Just perceiving that we are alive...... both existing and non-existing, for all eternity; as the generation of our faulse sense of aliveness is but a creation of the ions, atoms, themselves, which are, of course, eternal.

Which, in a roundabout, circular kind of a way, reminds me, in a most circumlocating kind of spatial physical conformation, that, I do, again, appear to have misplaced the particular arrangement of atoms, which my string-winder is appearing to be constructed from.... Mind, now, of course, I realise the string-winder may, itself not exist, for how can it exist, when we ourselves, are all in our continual state of existing and non-existing?

I need stronger coffee. Only nighthoover has the answer, probably....

Nighthoover is 17 years older now than he was when he/she tried to secede from the sovereign state of H2G2. He (or she) may have a doctorate in silliness (PHS), or may be on the wait staff of a restaurant between roles on the Great White Way or the West End. Or working for some evil corporate juggernaut that manufactures hacker software . Or is sitting in the park right now, remembering the few brief but ecstatic moments of being with us in this glorious undertaking.

a lone... but not alone... dark shadowy figure, seated, alone, on a bench in a dim lit park.... reminiscing... remembering.... never forgetting... and... then alighting from the bench, carrying aloft the holiest of hoovery hoovers... starts hovering the park

maybe nighthoover irons during the day...

Or pumps iron.

Or maybe, preferring flat shoes, he irons pumps.

all possibilities are possible. - it is the way of possibilitys

Which reminds me, yet again, of a day, long long ago... by the sea... a pebble... apon the shore.. a single pebble, admist a thousand thousand pebbles. Yet... a lone pebble? Or not? Within the gatherederness of so many pebbles, the pebble is both alone, yet not alone, perpetually moving, yet stationary within its closeness to all the other pebbles; yet, despite the closeness, so distant, apart, not as one, yet not other one with them.
Such is the line of our lives, always as one, yet always within the many. - for who is to say that the pebble is even there..... was it ever thus... I'm no longer sure. Perhaps it was the cold wind, maybe the crashing waves, or, maybe, even, the empty coke cans, scattered on the shore line... somehow the nmoise... and the scilence of the pebble, melding together, creating a singularity of pure existence.... Just like the hoover in the night... I think you'll probably agree

Singularity of pebbleness?

Two possibilities:

1. It's far too profound for me to understand

2. There's nothing inside that thought. It may look nice, sound like something sensible, and even taste interesting (though too hard for my teeth), but the interior, where you should find stuff, is without stuffing. But worry not! Half of the movies I see are like that.

Who is your agent, 2Legs?

Don't you ever wonder what it is about that one special pebble that catches and holds your attention?

The fact that it can't be fired by Trump?