Hypersonic.

I know, I know, real, proper string players change their strings, like, every year. Or every morning. Or something.

But it's expensive, and scary. What if the new strings sound horrible and ruin everything and I can't afford newer-new ones and my career is ruined? Etc.

It's kind of like getting new shoes as a runner. You know you should do - or need to do - but you've formed such a bond with the old ones, and their run-down has been gradual, and therefor hardly noticeable and your knee problem is probably more to do with eating cakes or something than those Mizunos. Just leave the Mizunos alone, okay? Okay.

It's the same with strings. So, I do with strings what most runners do with shoes: I spent years (and years and years), more than ten years, in fact, using exactly the same brand; waiting until the absolute last minute and then replacing my dead Helicores with new Helicores, like a clever magician's swap, in hope that all will sound and feel the same.

But not this time. No. No. Not Helicores anymore.

There has been a slow creep of discontent with the Hs. They're maybe just a bit too mellow, the C's maybe just a bit to floppy, and, really, they're kind of studenty. I can afford better now. Maybe I deserve better. Like:

Evah Pirazzi

The 'Evah' stands for: Extra Value Added Hypersonic. Seriously.

So, obviously, I took the NEW-new-strings plunge with these.

Review thus far: like metallic butter. Which kind of sounds like a bad thing, but is actually such a good, good thing. I love them. They're clearer while at the same time softer, while at the same time hinting at this crisp metallic sheen.

So...change can be good? Weird. All I can say is: it's a good thing I like them, as I'm not planning on switching again for at least another decade or so. Phew.

Squirmorama

I guess it's time to tell you about our other 100 pets.

Well, here's the package that came in the post:



These guygirls are brilliant. I love them. We built them a wormery out of two rubbermaid bins and, at first, there was drama, there was initial shock and an obstinate refusal to accept said bins as "home," resulting in dried out streches of dead worm discovered across the kitchen floor each morning, as the deluded things tried to escape...perhaps trying to get to the window or maybe out the front door, down the three flights of stairs and out into the lush worm-paradise of Bennett Street.

But they didn't make it. They never did. They just stretched and stretched across the dry floor for a meter or so and then died.

Then they quit trying, which was best for everyone, really. Because much as I love cereal, scooping up dead worm corpses isn't so good for the breakfast appetite.

And now they're resigned to their fate, and, I'm assuming, very, very happy. They squirm, they eat our banana peels and tea bags, they squirm, the excrete miracle fertilizer, they eat our leek ends, they squirm. And everyone is happy.

I like to open up the bin and just look at them. It's bonding.