Forgive me father, for I have sinned (who ever told the priest everything?)
Finding musical keepers will only stop from death. Not the complete history of recorded music or from undiagnosed ocd completionism, just a few coves dotted around the world panning for gold. Occupies plenty of lives. You could live multiple lifetimes and still not hit the floor. Endless fun. Not always a good move in a relationship where records are seen as a mistress of time (and space)
Work related and a mix of fun, absolute grim Britannia but satisfying is trying to find the purest heroin batch profiles. 2 types mainly, street hauls and more occasionally dealer/network seizures. The counterpoint is identifying which batches are the most fentanyl and benzo heavy and their source distribution hubs, ie where’s it punted. Relatively easy lab chores, cutting agents prove consistent but it’s anomalies and rarer profiles which denote a specific region say, over x number of months etc
What’s perversely fun and stirs wonder are the ranges of colour diamorphine exhibits through analysis. You won’t see more entrancing hues of beige and, because it’s granular, you can backlight and zoom right in through to whiter hues. Certain drugs never cease to amaze and appall, except none have the colour of heroin. Sounds hypocritical but the the time spent admiring its colour spectrum offsets time wasted using (spurious disclaimer)
Formerly? Casual silliness. Dogging. A distilled set of rituals. The adrenaline surge of one supplanted by the slow anticipatory fuck(s) of the latter. None of the 1982 Ford capri shit Craner claimed, although Stan Colleymore genuinely fucked the game for everyone