She whispered, "they're right behind you."

A cargo ship with links to Russia packed with explosive fertiliser is floating off the Kent coast after being denied entry at other ports over safety fears.

Ruby, a Maltese-flagged cargo ship carrying 20,000 tonnes of ammonium nitrate fertiliser from a port in Russia, was ordered out of Tromso in Norway and turned away from Danish waters.

More alleged shenanigans with this craft drifting around the North Sea, ostensibly enroute to the Canaries.

Now that I think about it, it was probably before the pandemic. 🤔

ethical edit: For a toss-off gag that even I thought was a bit sketch, I'm learning a lot about this situation and I appreciate it

Fartology is an up and coming science.

I missed it in the release notes, but there's a breaking change in the ota component in ESPHome 2024.6.0. I figured I'd save folks some time and share the fix here.

If your OTA config looks like this;

...

ota:
  password: "*************"
  num_tries: 3
  safe_mode: on

...

Now you'll need to add a platform key to start a list, and either comment out the other option or move them to a new component.

...

ota:
  - platform: esphome
    password: "*************"
  #num_tries: 3
  #safe_mode: on

...

edit: Here's the PR introducing this change https://github.com/esphome/esphome/pull/6459

Hear me out...

I was raised, as my family does, to fearfully respect our kitchen knives. Respect their productivity, respect their sharpness, but overall respect their ruthlessness. Even the mildest of disrespect for my family's knives would earn you a nick of you were merely neglectful, and grievous harm if you spoke ill of their aptness.

Of course, when I moved out and set up my own kitchens I acquired my own knives and tried to teach them better. How I was the master, and I was the steel wright. I lavished them with hand baths and fresh oils. I used only the gentlest of hardwoods on their blades and protected them from the hrllscape of the dishwasher. We lived in serene peace, an harmonic existence of a mealwright and his band of merry Riveners.

And then one day, the Inheritance came. Grand Father had died, and his boning knives were my bequest. I was elated, but I would learn.

My friends, that old knife had a soul. Not an evil soul, but a soul that had goals. It was hard steel that took a keen, harsh edge. Bright and tense, like a silver bell on a crisp winter morning. Not Solingen steel, so pliable and yielding as it is fickle in use. Grandfather's knives told you where to cut and if you hesitated, they would cut you instead in frustration. Impertinent things. Not evil, I would say. More, businesslike.

My mistake was to lay them with my other knives. Did you know knives talk? They do! They whisper to each other in their blocks at night when you are asleep. They whisper and they.learn from each other. A good papa hopes they learn the Art of their chef, but when you have a Bad Knife in the block? They learn that too.

Now, all of my knives are angry knives. Not angry at me, necessarily, but angry at their lot in my kitchen, to suffer my children's abusive cooking lessons, my in-laws' insistent prep work degradations, and (occasionally) my neglect.

They bit my wife tonight. Its a Message....