little.red.boat.
Sunday, March 31, 2002
Of course the best thing about this morning, the prettiest thing, were the little tissue paper things falling from the roof.
I'd been planning it for weeks, just hadn't thought who wouold do it. And everyone I thought might do it was away.
So I did it.
Me, having had no coffee yet.
Me, being highly strung and having worst morning in the world for it.
Me, in the roofspace of a 13th century abbey with one other person for an hour and a half, waiting.
Me, lying over the open hatch 50 feet from the ground.
Me, afraid of heights.
I crawled to the edge of the hatch, and lay, with my face pressed to the dusty floor, and my arm outstretched to drop pretty things from the hatch without having to look out of it.
The one time i did look down, to check that the tissue paper wasn't all blowing back up again, someone waved at me. And I almost vomited.
Oh, It's nice to e sitting in front of the computer again. It's nice to be posting. I've been getting all edgy. Nice computer. Nice blog. Yay.
Shit, but I'm tired. Who decided to take an hour of sleep from me?
Nail them up, I say.
it's done. it's over. i did it. hurrah.
397 paper daisies.
70 paper daffodils.
a triangular mobile, 12 foot wide and 24 foot long, butterflies hanging in a spiral.
hundreds of tissue paper daisy shapes floating from the roof at the end of the morning.
If anyone knows of anyone that needs a freelance liturgical agnostic instillation artist, let me know.
Friday, March 29, 2002
Fucking hell but I'm busy.
Yes, I did just drop by to post that.
Aware that I'm a bad blogger, disappearing and hiding behind daisies.
But I've only two more days til daisy d-day.
Argh. help.
Thursday, March 28, 2002
I realised, half way down to the pub, why I wanted to go to the pub so much.
In my bedroom were bits of daisies, waiting to be made.
In the office were things to type up for tomorrow night.
In the living room were notes to be finished from this morning's workshop.
In the other building, by the friend's house that I was going to pop in at this evening, was my craft room - jam packed full of unfinished projects for the next few days.
There was not a single space that didn't have work in it.
And so I went down to the pub. And stopped for half an hour with b on the bench half way there to cry.
I'm really fucking tired.
And when I got to the pub, we stopped and unwound.
And then all the guests arrived.
And we talked about work.
I do, however, love my job.
I just wish I could find a way of loving myself and my job at the same time.
Baby! You came home!
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
If, on your wanderings, you happen to see a little comments system hiding behind a shrub or verge, pat it on the head and tell it to come home.
Its mummy misses it so.
Anna and Meg have a normal conversation:Anna: Argh. i have nothing to write today. and I'm busy as bollocks.
Anna: if bollocks are busy.
Meg: that's an interesting phrase
Meg: how busy are bollocks, precisely?
Meg: don't they just sort of sit there?
Anna: very busy. busy little bollocks.
Anna: producing sperm, that sort of thing.
Meg: you're thinking of bees
Anna: ah. bollocks.
Meg: except bees produce pollen, not sperm
Anna: i mean, ah, bees.
Meg: otherwise honey would taste a wee bit different
Anna: hahhahahahaha.
Anna: and men's testicles would buzz.
Meg: Sore throat? Have some whisky with man-milk
Meg: Euw. that would be strange
Anna: but good for the complexion.
Anna: or so i've heard.
Meg: that is true
Meg: apparently
Meg: "apparently"
Anna: right. i'm off to type out the gospels.
Anna: because i know how to have fun.
Meg: You wild thing, binnie. Rrraow.
I don't like honey as much as I used to.
Tuesday, March 26, 2002
So I'm trying to set myself up a wishlist, right?
On amazon, and all that. Just because all the other kids on the block seem to have one, and I hate to feel left out.
The same thing happened with rollerskates.
And I'm sitting here in complete turmoil, because I have absolutely No Idea what I want. I've never known what I want.
Put me into a shop full of thigs that I want and I won't be able to decide what I want. Or which I want. Or whether I want anything.
More Often than not I'll walkempty-handed out of a marvellous shop, absolutely stuffed to the gills with stuff that I want, because the decision making process has caused me so much pain that I'd rather leave than buy anything.
When in the shop, I'll pick things up, carry them around for a bit looking nervous (not knowing whether I've made the right decision), and then put them back where I found them. I can be doing this with up to 8 Items at once.
I've been followed around by store detectives so often, that they probably feature me in 'Guess who?' games at Store Detective parties.
The only way I can safely buy stuff is to
a; go into shops with only one item on sale. OR
b; the ram raid effect - go in, grab the first things to hand and race them over to the counter as quickly as possible.
Then take them home and discover that you don't like them or they don't fit. But it doesn't matter. At least something's been bought.
So how am I supposed to make a decision somewhere like amazon?
I'm not sure that this wishlist was a very good idea. And now I can't think about anything else.
What do I want?
Anyone know? Because I don't.
bigbruverdidaydee. Or so me and meg used to call him. I don't know why.
Am a bit confused by that now I think if it. It's a silly name.
But I'm shiny with pride, all the same...
Last night I was too tired to stay at the disco. My eyes were begging me to let them close all though 'The Hustle', and by the time Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting, all I wanted to do was curl up in a small heap in the corner and sleep 'til some place next week.
And luckily I wasn't dj-ing, for once, no DJ Binnie and her Wheels of Steel, not this week, so I wandered up the road to bed.
And the moon was nearly full, and lit the road, and made a strong black shadow of a tired craftworker, stretching out on the road in front of me. And I bimbled, to the strains of 'There she goes' still playing behind me, past the ruined nunnery, up the winding road, along the path of what used to be 'the street of the dead', past the Macleans cross, St Johns Cross, St Martin's Cross, and some rutting sheep, past the graveyard that holds Macbeth and Duncan and John Smith, and then through the abbey grounds, into the cloisters, where a black cat jumped down from a beam and scared the bejesus out of me, and through the through the sleeping abbey where all the eager guests here for Easter were sleeping a heavy sleep, tired after their heavy days of making me really tired. After expecting a whole bunch of workshops and notes typed up inbetween. Sleeping the sleep of the satiated, after having candles sessions and drama sessions and being so bloody eager about everything that I just can't say no. Sleeping the well-earned sleep of the busy and eager guest.
And then I set the fire alarm off.
Not really.
Monday, March 25, 2002
There's nothing like a good Sandra Bullock film on a sunday night to pass the time.
No, that came out wrong.
What I meant was; "A Sandra Bullock film on a sunday night (or any time) is Nothing like a good film."
Nothing whatsoever like one.
If you can think of a film that is like a good film, or even that is a good film, then compare it to a Sandra Bullock film (for example 'The Net'), you will find that there are a whole heap of differences between them.
One of these films will have Sandra Bullock in, for a start.
And the other one will be something like a good film.
There is nothing in the world like a good Sandra Bullock film. Nothing in the world.
Nothing.
Nada.
nil.
Especially not a 'Sandra Bullock film'. That is one thing that is definitely nothing like a 'good Sandra Bullock film'.
The two are very different entities. One of the concepts exists for a start.
I can't deny that 'Sandra Bullock films' are.
Although I can deny that they are any good.
It's easy.
Try it. You may find you like it.
What was I talking about? MSG? Oh, I'm confused.
I can't be keffed. I'm going to bed. Does anyone have any chow mein on them?
I meant to eat, not weekend stains and spillages.
Oh, it doesn't matter.
I'm going to bed to dream sweet (and sour) dreams...
msg......msg....msg.....msg
Sunday, March 24, 2002
I want MSG.
Why is it, when you announce that a session will be held on a 'drop in, drop through' basis, starting at two o'clock and running gently through the afternoon, everyone turns up at two and leaves five minutes later?
And why is it, when you say that a session will start at two and demand that everyone comes at two, they turn up anywhere between five and thirty minutes late?
And why is it, when you demand that, all though the session is ongoing throughout the afternoon, people should definitely stagger themselves, a few at a time, between those hours, nobody turns up at all at 2 o'clock, and then every bugger comes at three?
I mean, it's not like those instructions are confusing, is it?
No. I've just looked at them. And they are. Very. Very confusing.
wank.
I did it again.
One 'squish', one 'crunch', one shine of the torch, and a life was over.
I killed another toad.
Just when I thought I thought I'd mastered toad navigation, death happens.
Nasty, messy, toad-squish death.
Saturday, March 23, 2002
I still have red on my hands. And red on my arms. And my neck.
I also now have red on my clothes, and scarf, and shoes.
And bag.
And hair.
And slippers.
And, til five minutes ago, red paint on my teeth.
And under my nails.
And red on my work papers and red on the candles that are supposed to go into the shop tomorrow.
Everything is red.
I used to like red.
I don't like red now.
You could say that I was 'seeing red', but I wouldn't advise it, because I'd probably punch you.
I'd like to write a ode to my bed.
But I'm too tired.
I'll sleep on it.
When I was a much littler person, I wanted to be in a band.
I wanted to play the bass guitar in a band and have a glamorous lifestyle and change my surname to a surname like De'Ath.
Actually I wanted to change my name to De'Ath, not 'something like De'Ath. I thought is sounded 'kick-ass', and 'sassy'. (Instead, of course, it sounds 'whack-ass' and 'silly', but I was only 15 at the time, and grrrrl-power was all the rage, what was a grrrl to do?...)
I wanted these things a lot.
Not quite enough to actually learn to play the bass guitar, nor change my surname (thank fuck), nor actually form a band. But for at least three days, possibly months, that was what I wanted to do with my life more than anything else in the whole world.
Then I wanted to be a music journalist. A lot too. But I could never work out quite how. I did two weeks work experience on a computer magazine at that point, which did me no good whatsoever. And did them no good either. As far as I remember, I was rubbish.
So I spent years devouring music magazines. Not literally. I just meant reading them. A lot. I should have just said that, really.
And i wanted to write reviews, still do. And I wanted to inteview bands, and do profiles.
And more than anything, I wanted to go to Glastonbury Festival. And I never did.
I desperately wanted to go to the Glastonury Festival, and was too much of a chicken to jump over a fence.
And I could never afford a ticket.
And you know what I found out today? I can go to the ball.
I can go to the Glastonbury Festival.
I can go - for free.
It must be that wish that I wished upon a star 9 years ago. They're finally starting to come true.
Yay.
Friday, March 22, 2002
Out damned spot. Out, I say.
Shoo! Good dog.
My hands are all red. And I've not been killing people either, although it looks remarkably like I have.
I've been dying lots of cloth red, because apparently it's a religious Bigday on sunday, and the whole place has to be decorated.
Although i did wear gloves, my gloves had holes in, which kept the dye nice and close to my skin, rubbing it in as I worked. And now there's just no shifting it.
So I'm walking round with bright scarlet hands.
I had to change my clothes because my jumber clashed so badly with my skin.
I also have red dots all over my face and neck, where the dye splashed up and hit me.
So I look like I have the plague.
mwah to meg, who has given me a candle-o-meter.
Every girl should have one. At least one.
I'd give you a big kiss, but I have the plague, so I can't.
unclean, unclean....
I, personally, don't think smoking will cause me any harm.
Not while I work here.
Other people, yes, I allow that it causes them harm. Death disease, actually.
And it will me.
If I carry on.
But at the moment, I'm not sure it can touch me.
Not with a coating of wax on all of my organs. It's not the tar that'll do me harm, it can't get through. Nor can anything. Not even oxygen.
There's a thin but inpenetrable layer of wax on each little tube in each little lung. Purple wax, or orange wax, or white wax, or green wax, depending on the vintage and the day.
I was reminded of this as I stood ironing 40 batiks today.
It was a great session, I'd had about 20 people come over five hours making batik (hot wax resisting dye type business) things. It was lovely. But it meant that, at the end of the day, I had to spend two hours ironing wax out of cloth.
Forty pieces of cloth. Wax laden cloth. And breathing the vapors.
Every time I cough I feel like I'm going to produce a candle.
And I was busy. And I love being busy.
I could have done eing busy without two earnest people rubbing feet on the windowsill.
"Hi! What are you doing?" I said, in a freindly manner. Meaning; what are you doing here? Now? In my studio where I'm spending my tenth consecutive hour? Holding a conversation that doesn't involve and doesn't intend to involve, me? Ignoring me, really? What, in that sense, are you doing?"
"Reflexology" she replied.
"Really?" I said. "How interesting! I've always been interested in trying that. What kind of training does that involve?"
"Oh!" Said the space cadet, "I'm not trained at all! I've had it done to me a couple of times though!"
"Right!" I said. Suddenly feeling my buttons being pushed, for no discernable reason I can see, "well, how do you you know you won't squeeze the wrong toe and cause a coronary then? ... Or rub the wrong bit and give her permanent liver damage?..."
"I don't think it works like that...," she said, thinking, audibly, "I'm not diagnosing. I can't tell exactly what's wrong with her."
"right." said me. " that's actually just a foot massage then. Isn't it?"
"yes."
"right".
They left to foot massage in the Quiet room soon after that. And left me to me to my raucous ironing.
I love ironing, I really do.
No, really.
Really.
What was my point?
No idea.
Still. Candles? 67. By the way.
Wednesday, March 20, 2002
I'm hereby issuing a warning to the world.
Don't ever use the word 'mad' around me. Ever again.
Or 'crazy'.
Never.
At least not in the context that you've been doing it around here. It's always pissed me off, but this week i've heard it one too many times. And I never Ever want to hear it again.
The context in which it was offered today?Extremely sensible looking student walks into my workroom, pokes about, looking at candles. And pencils. Eventually, I ask her how her day was. "Oh, fine. Crazy things happened though. We just went out walking, and on the way back, we decided that we didn't feel like we'd been walking properly, because we weren't all covered in mud. So we found a mudhole, and we jumped in it! It was Mad, it really was. Really really Crazy. I'm always doing mad things like that. My friends say to me 'You're mad you are!' And I say 'I know!'. Because I'm Mad! I'm just Crazy!"Is that really Mad?
Or is it Desperately Sensible just pretending. I mean, jumping in a mudhole because you feel you should certainly isn't the action of a rational being, but I don't know if it's certifiably insane.
I think if she'd used the word 'bonkers', I would actually have tried to kill her.
Now that's something that could be called insane. Criminally so. Or at least, that's what the plea would be. Still, I think I'd probably get let off. If someone uses the word 'bonkers', they almost certainly deserve to die.
I'm sorry. I may be a little stressed. It's entirely possible.
Right. I've got candles to finish.
argh!
Thankyou. I needed that.
Candles = 66.
Almost the number of the beast, which would have been quite an amusing outcome of the afternoon.
That's right, it was candles, easy-on-the-ears BBC Radio Two, and a rant from an 18-year-old fundamentalist on the evils of homosexuality.
Which was great fun.
Usually I encourage people to sit around and talk while the make candles. Otherwise it gets dull.
A little duller than this afternoon, though, I could have coped with.
So we had one view from the fundamentalist.
One view from me, also trying to keep very calm and mediate the whole situation.
And 9 other views from every other person in the room.
I teased, reasoned and argued.
And nothing got through. Not a single word. I don't think I've ever met someone so pig-headed.
I left the room five times to breathe.
When I returned the third time, she'd fetched herself a Bible, and was reading loudly from Leviticus on the subject of same-sex relationships.
She was still doing so 20 minutes later. Luckily, at this point, someone older and more responsible than me walkeed in.
Which was a good thing. I was, after all, in charge of a rather large amount of hot wax at the time.
After listening to her for a few seconds he interrupted."Excuse me." He said, "I don't suppose by any chance you're wearing polyester/cotton mix socks."It was a lovely moment.
"Yes" she said.
"Well, in that case" he calmly replied, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to accompany me outside.
Where I shall kill you."
She looked blankly.
"If you turn to Leviticus [something, something], you'll find that a much greater sin than loving someone of the same sex, is wearing an item of clothing made of two materials. Are you coming? Because by your rules, I'm allowed to stone you to death."
It reminded me of this thing. (thanks for reminding me seester)
And on we went, making candles and polite conversation.
I may have spilled some wax on her later. But that was an accident.
Honestly.
Will you look at that.
My knee's feeling loads better.
I'm so into the 'whinging' therapy at the moment.
You whinge aout it one day, the next day it gets better.
It works meteorlogically, physiologically, I'm very intrigued.
Today I shall be whinging about everything (so what's new?...) and see what changes by tommorow.
I shall send my whining up to the god of sulks and tantrums, and see what happens.
Here goes.
Meh! I've got no money!
Meh! And I'm single!
Meh! The pound is too stong against the Euro and is affecting British Export business!
Meh! There's a hole in my slippers!
Meh! I belong to a directionless generation!
Meh!...
Incidentally, I don't know why whiging has to start with a bleat. It just works better this way. I say so. This is my new religion, and I'll bleat if I want to.
Tuesday, March 19, 2002
I was just standing in the cloisters feeling sorry for my knee,
just on the edge of dusk, just as the moon was rising over slate roof of the west range of the Abbey.
As I was standing, enjoying the hush, thinking about calm things and daisies, and rolling a cigarette, a blackbird came hopping down the cloisters.
He looked at me, quizzically, and then flew over my head and came to rest on a rafter just nearby.
And he started to sing. Or whistle, or whatever it is that blackbirds do. I don't even know if it was 'A Blackbird', it may just have been a black bird. I'm not good with birds.
But it looked at me. And it sang the most beautiful Black Bird song. Little trills and whistles and peeps.
And then it stopped, and looked at me quizzically.
So I whistled a little tune back to it.
And it whistled a little tune back to me.
And this went on for about 10 minutes.
And then it brought me my hairbrush and sat on my shoulder teasing my long brown hair.
No, it didn't really. But that would have been spectacularly disney.
Then it crapped on my head.
No, it didn't really. But that would have been a great punchline.
Are these compression bandages supposed to cut off the circulation in your lower leg?
Is everything below the knee supposed to go grey?
Is that smell supposed to happen?
Just wondering.
Hypothetically.
I've jiggered my knee, by the way - no, please, no sympathy - and it really hurts.
Oh alright then, sympathy is fine.
I'm hobbling like a toothless hag.
If anyone knows someone that takes body parts for cash, I'd certainly not mind getting rid of a few of mine.
Actually, does anyone know anyone that takes cellulite for cash?
That would be fabulous.
Ta.
Bloody CD player.
Bloody CD's.
Bloody Electricity.
Been looking forward to this Bloody disco all Bloody winter.
Bloody students. Not wanting to dance to anything but Bloody ABBA and Bloody Steps. Bloody Christian students Bloody worse. Won't dance to anything with a Bloody swearword in it.
Bloody hell.
You know when you type a word over and over and you start to wonder whether it exists? I have that.
So, I decided on four first songs, right? I decided I would turn up and see what the mood was, and choose from those accordingly.
So, I turn up, discover the vibe, line up the first song, grin, slide the slidey thing that makes the other CD play and....
nothing happens.
It's dead. So, I quickly scramble around for the second of my songs, and discover the CD is missing.
I'm sure it was in my bag ten minutes before.
So I find the third of my songs, and put it on, and it's scratched to buggery, and skips all the way through.
I find the fourth of my songs, the last choice, the one that I'd decided when I came in that no-one would dance to.
And I put it on, because I'm panicking and it's all I can think of.
And no-one dances, and they look at me blankly.
And I grab the first CD I can find, and put it on.
And they love it.
And it's Steps. That terrible line-dancing one.
And they're happy. And dance.
And I therefore have to play happy cheesy Christian-student-friendly-pop. For most of the bloody evening.
The best bit came at the end. We played the last song, and they all left.
Suddenly, the things that had gone wrong earlier righted themselves. In cleaning up, four desperately sought-for CDs re-appeared, and we turned the lights back off and the volume up, and danced for half an hour more.
The three of us.
Why did I like these Bloody discos?
Bloody hell.
It doesn't matter. I've a day and a half off. And I'm going to sleep.
For almost all of it.
Well, the bits where I'm not making daisies, anyway...
Monday, March 18, 2002
Candles = 52.
And only six people in for the session.
Elvis sat and stared at his for a half an hour, watching it cool.
Not the most thrilling thing in the world. Not as thrilling as being called Elvis, anyway.
I wish I was called Elvis.
And I still don't know what my blinding first disco track should be.
Swing version of "(ooh be doo) I wanna be just like you"?
"Kung fu fighting"?
Elvis?
Sorry, I just wanted to clarify that my Disco tomorrow night will not only be three songs long.
Those are just the three songs I'm thinking about.
Not the only three songs I'm going to play.
That would be rubbish.
So. We've got the first disco of the year tommorow night.
A crowd of students, and me on the decks.
(Decks! Ha! If you could only see these "decks"... It's a glorified CD player. No, sod that, It's a CD player. There's not much glory about it. Well. It's got two draws and a slidy button. But haven't we all?)
(i've no idea what that means. Have we all got two draws and a slidy button? Or is that something I made up. It sounds awfully rude. But Then, anything can sound extremely rude if you put the right emphasis on it.)
Anyway. This is where I have to make decisions.
I need to decide on;
1. My first tune.
2. The one that follows.
3. The last song.
I have a few ideas, some of them better than others, some involving Neil Sedaka, but I don't just want to use the same old standards as last year. I'll think on it. If anyone has any ideas, please, offer. I'd be happy to hear suggestions.
Although you must realise now that I have the same resources for disco as a medium sized Ukranian Prison Disco would.
And have as much chance of 'getting my hands on' some fantastic new record, as they woulld on the Mir Space Station.
But if you have any ideas, bearing those in mind, let me know. Let me know anyway. I have a wide and eclectic (for 'eclectic' read 'non-sensical') music collection.
Right. Toast.
Pate. Pate on toast.
Have I mentioned how much of a thing I have for creamed meat at the moment?
I mean, I know it's mainly chins and arseholes, but living in a mainly vegetarian place, it's nice to get an injection of meat every now and again.
Oh Christ. Sorry.
Sunday, March 17, 2002
A quick overview of my day, just to get things straight in my head.
12 midday, meeting, 'til
1.15, Lunch then
2.15 meeting 'til
3.30 making large paper trees in preparation for
4 pm Introduction session with guests, 'til
6 pm Dinner followed hard on by
7pm Preparation for later session then running down the road in time for
7.30 Leading Singing workshop then running back up the road for
8.30 session, 'til
11.30 I don't know. I'm thinking about stopping at this point.
I'm a bit worried in case I need to go to the toilet at any point during the day, but I think I may have a window for that at about 5.45. Maybe. Unless something over-runs. Oh. Euw. Sorry.
I'm sure I'm supposed to be somewhere right now....
incidentally. candles = 41.
Excuse me talking about religion for a second, but it was funny.
In the service in the Abbey this evening was one of the best mis-read things I have ever heard. During a generally quite light-hearted reflection, one of the characters in the bible – one of the disciples in fact – was described not as ’an anarchist’, which is what it said in the script, and which made sense in context – but instead described as ”the Anti-Christ”. Which is slightly different.
And of course set me on the brink of a tremendous fit of giggles.
Well, If I’m not allowed to laugh, I’m not going.
It reminds me of the Girl last year who insisted on praying for the ‘Indigenous Australians of Australia’ (as opposed to whom? The indigenous Peruvians of Australia?). And many other ‘hilarious’ religious incidences that I’ll remember jujst as soon as I put this computer down and go to bed.
I’ve not been as tired as this in ages. I’m going to go and dribble on my pillow.
Saturday, March 16, 2002
The seagulls are tap dancing outside the window.
It has to be one of my favourite sights, little feathery Micheal Flatleys drumming the ground after the rain.
They always seem to do it in pairs, too, which only increases the chorus-line effect.
Apparently they make a sound, or vibration, like rain falling on the earrth, and the little worms come up to drink, and get eated.
Which is kind of mean, but after all, they're worms, and I can't really say that I care.
So you'll often see them in the mornings, standing, staring into space, with their little tootsies beating some silent synchopated rhythm on the grass. If I could I'd film them, and add the Riverdance music.
Little seagulls doing the Time step. How lucky am I to live here?
And there was no disco.
I got all excited at the thought of a disco.
I'd heard there was a supper in village hall tonight, and a ceilidh. I'd also heard there was a disco. Til the early hours.
We'd already eaten, and didn't feel like the Gay Gordons, so we went to the pub to prepare to disco.
And we drank tequila.
And tequila.
And tequila.
And Beer. And then Tequila.
Which makes me hyperactive.
And then there was no disco. There was nothing. So we had to come home and eat toast and talk.
I so wanted to dance.
Monday, The first big disco's on monday.
And I'm DJing, but I can dance then too.
yay me.
For anyone that actually cares, or pretends to, the candle count is up to 36. And the daisy count is 173. And I've run out of white tissue paper. Which is bad. Daisy-wise...
Friday, March 15, 2002
I plucked my eyebrows this evening. And I'm very pleased with the result.
Not that I never have before. I have. Often. Ish. But somehow it never goes quite right.
But tonight. It went very well. I have perfect eyebrows, thankyouverymuchforasking.
I've come a long way from the first time I plucked. I must have been about 12. Or thirteen. Some age when I felt I felt like I should be doing womanly things. But had no-one to show me how. So I ended up walking around for two weeks with a look on my face like something had just been shoved up my arse.
Why are thirteen year olds not given a tutorial in these kind of things? I've seen too many girls with faces two tones darker than their necks. Too many girls with shaving rash between their eyebrows.
I was sitting on a train once and heard three young teenagers behind me trying to shave their legs. With disposable razors. Dry. On the train. The bumpy bumpy train from my town to Manchester. Obviously, four stops in, they were bleeding uncontrollably. But there was nothing I could say. They weren't my little sister.
We need the government to provide National Health big sisters. Because private big sisters can't be responsible for all their siblings cosmetic mistakes. They have better things to do with their time. But national health Big Sisters, to come into schools and say "Don't do that. You look stupid."
That sort of thing. It's absolutely neccesary. I demand it, in fact.
Not Now, like.
I've got perfect eyebrows now.
thankyouverymuch.
Thursday, March 14, 2002
A year ago I was in Tunisia, and had a massage. Which was lovely.
I don't know why I'm thinking about this. Perhaps we were talking about it at the pub last night (I was very tired, and conversations were all a bit of a blur) (and I was actually tired. Not drunk at all. No matter what any of you may think. I was off the sauce.) (Not any more, like, just last night. But that was pretty commendable in itself, I thought. Being in the pub. With a lemonade. Very commendable. Not very... me.) (Where was I? Oh yes. Tunisian Tit grabbing.)
Micky had gone in before me, and come out with a Mona Lisa smile.
"How was it?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Have fun now!..."
So I went in, and stripped off. And lay down, and was covered by nice fluffy strategically placed towels. The lovely lady 'doing' me spoke no English, and I no French, so we communicated with nods and points and smiles and I duly lay down on my front and had my back rubbed and pulled and pummelled. And my legs. And my feet. And then I turned over.
And she massaged my front. My face, my shoulders, breastbone, and, well, breasts.
Which is fine. I'd paid for a full-body massage after all. I just wasn't expecting it to be that full body. I'm terribly English that way, what can I say?
So what did I do? Did I ask her to stop fondling my breasts? Did I tell her that there was no tension whatsoever held in my breasts, and that they didn't therefore need a massage?
Did I?
No, of course I didn't. I'm English. I don't mention breasts in public.
Neither, unfortunately, did I lie there and look entirely unimpressed by the whole thing, as etiquette may have demanded of me in that situation.
The problem was, while the rest of her hands were jiggling my jugs, her thumbs were in my armpits. And it really really tickled. A Lot. The embarrasment of the whole thing made it tickle more. And I didn't want to laugh out loud. I thought it might appear rude.
So I lay there, chortling, quietly, a low, quite rude sounding, chortle.
Not unlike a dirty old man watching schoolgirls run for a bus.
"hehhehehehehhehehhheheheheheheh"
And the more I wanted to stop chortling, the more impossible it became. I managed to subdue it a little, but I was still lying there with a huge grin on my face, every now and again making small, low-pitched noises.
And I stopped as soon as she moved on to my tummy.
God only knows what she thought.
I can't remember the point of this story.
Still, It should boost my search engine hits...
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Escuuf me if'fi soun' a bi' funny.
One off my fiwwings haf fawwen ou' off one off my teef.
I don't when it fell out.
I don't know how it fell out.
I only noticed the big hole in my tooth(y-peg) a couple of hours ago.
I'm sure i had something there yesterday.
And now i don't. And now the more I realise it's not there, the more I run my tongue over it and the more I realise it's not there.
Ow ow.
I hate to be so predictable. But I know full well I am. Every time. Every single time.
Me and the weather. We swing together.
You don't even have to look out of the window for a weather report. Nor turn on the television.
Just ask me how I am.
It's a simple rule;
Weather nice - anna happy.
Weather bad - anna sad.
Or you could just turn on the television. Or look out of the window. It would probably make more sense. And be slightly more accurate. And come to that, more localised to where you are. Which is important in a weather report. I mean, you could ask me how I was, but my answer would probably only reflect the weather in Iona. Which would be no good to you, unless you were doing some kind of Armchair Geography Fieldstudy. In which case it would be. But then again, sometimes I'm grumpy for no reason. Even when the sun shines.
What was my point? I had a point. Otherwise I wouldn't have started typing.
Oh. The weather. Today. It was just amazing. Bright bright bright sunshine, bouncing off the sea and shining on all the hail-battered spring flowers. And not that much wind. Still wind, of course, but not that much. It was beautiful. And I smiled and felt happy.
I truly believe that the weather was nice today for one reason and one reason alone. Not because, in all probability, it had to stop raining sooner or later. Not because of any prayer some nice old dear offered up. Not because of the weather front moving in from the atlantic...
But because I whinged at the sky yesterday. Apparently, whinging does make a difference. A point that I've held for many years. I now feel fully justified about whinging about everything and anything. Hurrah.
I whinged about the rain, and my whinging made the sun shine.
Tomorrow, I shall be whinging for world peace.
Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Today I will be saying Please or thank you at the end of every single sentence.
I want to research that point where polite becomes annoying.
Incidentally, the candle count is up to 31.
And up to this moment, I have made 119 daisies.
Just for the record.
And Happy Birthday beeg sees. I love you very much.
The candle's in the post.
Congratulate me, I think I must register the slowest evacuation time on record.
Our fire alarm goes off at least twice a week, and we have to evacuate every time.
The volunteer fire brigade arrives in approximately 17minutes. I ambled out just before them.
Granted, my evacuation time includes a good 6 minutes of lying in bed thinking
'oh, is that the fire alarm? yes it is. Ah well it'll stop soon. I'm sure it'll stop. Of course it will stop. It doesn't seem to be stopping. What shall I wear?'
Burn to death? Ha! I have no fear of your puny fire!
I've already survived Gas Inhilation and Slow Drowning this week.
Something I'm wearing must be a lucky charm.
Your fire alarm cannot harm me! My new woolly jumper is like a shield of steel!
I shouted at the weather today. I suddenly realised that I don't think I've seen a day of sunshine (without accompanying 40mph winds) for about six months.
I can't take it any more.
I was walking up the hill one more time with the wind trying its best to remove my clothing and the rain taking chunks out of my face, and I suddenly could see no end to it all. I realised that I'm never going to see the sun. Ever, Ever again. It's the end of the world. It must be. It's the rain. And the wind. The rain sometimes stops, but the wind never does. Ever. Ever ever ever.
If anyone has ever wondered "where the wind comes from, and where it goes to", as I used to, before I moved here, I find myself in the unhappy position of being able to answer your questions.
It comes from; the seventh circle of hell - or whichever circle is the very very coldest.
It goes to; here. And it just stays here. Blowing and blowing and blowing in its own, really cold, blowy kind of way. Just blowing. And blowing. With rain. Lots of rain. And lots of blowingness. I don't know if I can take it any more. The sun has gone away. Where is the sun?
And on a positive note, I discovered why I've had a permanent headache for the last week.
My gas heater has been constantly leaking gas (a bad gas at that, not sure which one, but it may explain why I've been dreaming I was Death's pet duck, or married to Jesus, every night for the last week...) in my workroom. So I've been coming home half gassed every evening. Do not light naked flames around Anna. She will explode.
Monday, March 11, 2002
The wind is 35 knots or more, the hail is coming down in skull-crushing showers, we're stormbound, no-one knows when the ferries will be able to run again, and the electricity is on and off like a tarts knickers.
There was a good three hour blackout last night. And in it I discovered;
three things to do in case of electrical failure
When the lights flicker and fail, and the television cuts out, one part of your brain accepts and rationalises it.
And thinks;"Ah! The Television has gone off. The lights have gone off. What does this rationally mean? It means that the electricity has gone off. Righty-ho."Well, your brain might go through the process a bit quicker. I'm talking about my brain. It was very late after all.
Knowing this is a situation to be accepted and worked with, you then move forward into positive action;"What shall I do now? Aha! I shall read my book! Oh. I cannot read my book. It is too dark!Or something like. After a while of bumping into things and heavy thought processes, I decided there were, at the end of the day, only three things to do in a blackout.
What shall I do? Make toast! Oh. I cannot make toast, there is no toaster.
What shall I do? Phone someone! I cannot phone someone. I cannot find my diary. It is too dark. Where is the phone? Where is my torch? In my bag. Where is my bag? It is in the dark. Where has my bed gone? I left it here a minute ago. Where am I? Boo hoo. It is too dark. Where is the light switch? Oh, bollocks."Of course being mildly Insomniac, clinically Single and sporadically Melancholy, this actually meant lying awake and alone in bed feeling a bit sad.
- Sleep.
- Have sex.
- Think.
(insert violins here)
I finally got off to sleep, and was having a wonderful dream about tidal waves when the lights and television suddenly turned themselves back on.
So that was me awake for another hour or so.
Just one thing I want to know, before I try and sleep again.
Since when did the wind have claws and feets and teeth?
And if it doesn't, what exactly is it, coming down my chimney, scraching and snarling as I lie in bed?
No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.
Now, as someone pointed out, I can't sit still.
But believe me, if I go a bit quiet, I'm still here, it's the electricity that's taking a short holiday.
Or the wind-monsters have got me.
But more likely, the electricity will have gone away.
And left me in the dark. And the cold. With the wind-beast coming down the chimney in the night.
Please. Feel sorry for me.
I have very bad wind problems at the moment.
I mean, we have very bad wind up here.
I mean... oh it doesn't matter. I'm going to bed with my monsters.
Sunday, March 10, 2002
In Adomnan's 'Life of Columba' And in the folklore of the islands, we are told that St Columba, the Irish saint that travelled by coracle to Iona, and thus, apparently, brought Celtic Christianity to Britain, Or Christianity to Britain (Thanks very much, Col!) or something, didn't like women very much.
And so he sent them to a little tiny island on the other side of the Sound. Called, the Isle of Women. Or, that's what it's called now. It probably wasn't called that then. Not before the Women were on it. It was probably called 'That Island over there', or something.
He also sent the Cows. The reasoning was; Where there are Cows, there will be women. Where there are women, there will
be sin.
Obviously.
So he sent them all away. To the Isle of Women (and Cows). And I'm just looking out of the window, across at the Isle of Women.
And the waves are covering it completely. And I don't think Columba was a very nice saint. That would have been the Isle of moist women and very soggy cows.
Bastard.
Can you call a saint a bastard?
Does the pope come and get you?
I'm not scared. I could take His Holiness on.
Anytime...
Having scoped out the space I'm decorating, I now think that I may need around, or above, 700 daisies. At least.
Which is fine. I'm now up to 70.
People are even offering to help. Most of it I prefer to do myself - being a little bit of a control freak that way (which is not a bad thing. It's a good thing. As long as you have it under control. But then - you would, wouldn't you?) - But the one thing I couldn't bear doing was untangling the string that I'd dyed for the purpose.
Actually I have to say, I was extremely clever, and managed to remember to wear rubber gloves for the dying thing. Much as I hate the damn things. However, I didn't realise that there was a hole in one finger of the one glove. So I've been walking around with a rather alarmingly green index finger for the last three days.
Anyway. This huge amount of string was all tanglied-up by the time I was done, and untangling it was winding me up more than anything else has done in a really long time (I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, about winding up, and string and stuff, but I can't be keffed making it.), I was shouting, and swearing, and shouting swearwords and snapping bits, and throwing lumps of string against the wall, and then suddenly, by accident, I discovered that two collegues find untangling knots the most theraputic thing in the world.
So they've been sitting on the floor all day like reverse-kittens, slowly de-knotting 100 yards of string.
Of course, as soon as I get my hands on it, it'll get all kittened up again, but apparently they'll be more than willing to do the whole thing over.
Apparently it makes them happy.
Freaks.
Saturday, March 09, 2002
Daisies. I'm making daisies.
It seemed like such a good idea. I have this big decorating thing to do in a few weeks, and decided that by far the nicest thing would be to have chains and chains and chains of daisies wrapped around the pillars and the candelabra in the Abbey.
That and banners with pretty daffodils and things.
The banners are going fine. They take about 15 minutes per banner, and I need about 50 in all. Which is fine. I have three weeks, after all.
The problem is the daisies.
Made out of green wool, and tissue paper. Very pretty, quite delicate, and quite temporal, which is just how they should be.
They seemed like such a good idea at the time.
I've made 28.
By my calculations, I think I will need somewhere in the region of 400.
Just to be on the safe side.
Do I
a) Say 'bollocks' to the daisies and give up now or
b) Carry on with the daisies, giving up every spare moment I have to stick tapestry needles through bits of tissue paper, puncturing my thumb at least 347 more times in the process?
How much is it possible to stab the thumb before it simply falls off?
Now i'm worried.
Any advice is welcome.
Although I'm quite aware that I'm talking about tissue paper daisy chains, so none can be reasonably expected.
Ach well. I've got two minutes before I have to be somewhere. I can probably squeeze half a daisy in there...
Friday, March 08, 2002
Everything below makes very little sense.
Particularly this, immediately below, stuff. I appear to be experimenting in stream of semi-conciousness.
I'm going to sleep, then the mainland.
But save yourself the bother, my point was this, in four words.
Back in a couple of days.
Six. Six words.
Sorry.
It's starting all over again. The volunteers are now here, the pub's open, the hotels are opening in a couple of weeks.
It's here. The season.
Run. Hide. The candles are coming.
I'm running, although not hiding. Or at least, not hiding well.
I'm going to Oban, the mainland, the bright lights, the big city. For a day, or two. I think that's probably about all I can stand.
There's shopping to be done. And cheap take-away food to be had.
Somewhere in the world, these things will be done successfully.
But not in Oban. Where there's one 'Boot's' (The Chemist) and bookshop that resembles a pornography shop for 60-year-old women. All bodices being ripped and virginities savoured. That's the bookshop. Not the Boots. Although you never know.
I may, if the mood takes me, go to the only nightclub in town and get drunkenly dribbled at (how charming...) by large cross-eyed fishermen.
I may go for dinner and a show at Mactavishes' Kitchen' where the piper aids your indigestion (aid in this context meaning 'nurtures', rather than 'gives aid to' oh, fuck it, to piper makes you poorly), and three spotty teenagers jiggling up and down to jiggy music (otherwise known as highland dancing, which can be quite mesmerising, can be meaning 'not in this case') soon gives way to Sandy and Sarah from the Local hardware shop singing bad cover versions of ABBA b-sides to the accompaniment of a bad yamaha keyboard along with a bad, tinny drum machine, wired up to a bad amplifier that was last used for serving chips and dip at Sandy and Sarah's 25th Wedding Anniversary.
But I need to get away. In order to start again.
So I'm off to Oban. Just the thought that my feet will be touching the same soil as so many other people (well, more than 150 other people. A whole bunch more. A million times that, in fact. Or a million that divided by three, at any rate) intruiges me.
Hell, the thought of a reitirement-age-targeted porn store intruiges me right now.
Actually, I've just had a rather nasty mental image, and it doesn't any more. Sorry about that.
What I mean to say is, I'm off to the mainland for a couple of days in order to maintain maximum sanity.
Hopefully this whole journal thing will make sense when I get back.
In the meantime, the archives are just over there, there are lots of other things we could all be doing with our time, or get in touch. I'd really like to hear from, well, from something that wasn't a sandpiper (small bird outside anna's window. Goes - "Peep! peep! Peep! peep! peep! peeep! Peeep! peep! peeeep! peep! peep! Peeep! Peeep. peeep. peep. peep. Peeep! Peeep! peeep! peep! peeeeep!" - A whole big lot.) or a sheep, (they waddle and growl when pregnant. I never knew that before. One looked as if it were going to charge me today. It didn't. Good thing, I'd hardly any cash on me... No, seriously folks... I can't remember what I was going to say. Oh yes. It did that scratching its front hoof against the ground thing that bulls do. I can tell you, i was terrified for almost a minute - quite possibly a lot less. I'm fine though. Thanks.)
Where was I? Ah yes. Me being away, liking to think people might get in touch. Who, I'm not quite sure.
Although, if Dean Martin is out there anywhere, I'd like to strike up a correspondence.
What do you mean, Dead?
Ach well.
Big weekend, Bright lights, Big city.
But not for me. Me? I'm going to Oban.
I just hope I can remember how to cross a road.
Thursday, March 07, 2002
Good thing that happened today;
I went to the doctor. It was great, really useful.
Bad thing that happened today;
I can't remember a word she said. It all made so much sense at the time.
Good thing;
I chaired a meeting today. Much as I hate attending meetings, I love chairing them. Can one make a career out of chairing meetings? And I did it with a three year old climbing all over me.
Bad thing;
In the process of crawling all over me, I managed to drop her on the floor. Face first. Or she managed to drop herself. With my help. I didn't mean to. She's fine. Just a cut lip. She was grand three minutes later.
Good thing.
The three year old then forgave me. And ran over and hugged me enthusiastically.
Bad thing.
In doing so, she kicked me very hard in the mi... in the... in the... I'm not sure how to say this...
In the 'Lady's Front Bottom'
Ow
Good thing
The Pub reopened full-time for the season
Bad thing.
This is a bad thing.
this made me laugh.
In the pub just now, getting into the familiar and inevitable and dull 'best and/or funniest true name you know' conversation (my claim, incidentally, is that I know someone called Blaze Tap, one of the best non-made-up porn names I've ever heard. And he wasn't even a porn star. At least, I don't think so. At least, I hope not. We were eight when I knew him...).
Two of the best entries I heard were these.
My friend (surname Berger), once considered marrying someone (surname King). And hyphenating the name. What are you going to call the children? Flamer? Whopper?
Wouldn't it be great to be called Whopper? You'd never need a nickname.
Apart from, perhaps, 'unfortunate'.
The other example was a child born of two parents (miraculously enough)
Whose mother had not wanted to take her husband's name, but had wanted to make some mark of their union. So had insisted they hypenate the names. So the poor child, when born, ended up with the name;
'blah' Shappiro-Shappiro.
Yup. two of the same name. Can anyone explain that to me?
Anyone?
Tuesday, March 05, 2002
10 things you can do with cling-film.
- Murder.
- Decoration. Wallpapering and such. Sure, you can still see the old wallpaper underneath, but look! It’s shiny now!
- window replacement. It’s not very good. Not very good in wind. Actually, just not very good in general. Stupid idea. Apparently, it makes for cheap double glazing (there you are – handy tips. Don’t say I never do anything useful
- Waterproofing. For people. “Oh look! It’s raining! Film me up! I’m going in!”
- naked-look wetsuits.
- Putting on burns. Really. Apparently it keeps out infection. You shouldn’t put fluffy things on burns (cotton wool, kittens etc…) but cling-film’s a good idea
- Eat it.
- write cheques on it. Apparently you can write cheques on anything, with anything. So write a cheque on it. In bechamel sauce.
- Christmas decorations. Wrap your tree. Wrap your presents. Wrap your children. It keeps them fresh for longer.
- Bury it. Lots of it. Imagine the fun the archaeologists will have. Well, archaeologist fun. They’ll have a riot. But that’s archeologists for you.
- something to do with food.
- something to do with sex. Apparently. It’s certainly not in my etiquette handbook. But someone found my site searching for it. So good luck to them…
I just washed Bear.
When pip and I broke up, I threw away everything.
Letters. Cards. Photos. Posters. Records. Tapes. CD's. Ornaments. Games. Frames. Videos. Clothes.
Everything but the bear.
Well, the bear was different. Bear wasn't really to do with pip. Bear was just bear. Bear was my bear. Bear was always for sleeping with when I had to be on my own. So when we broke up, it didn't seem unnatural that I should have custody of Bear. So Bear's the only thing I have remaining of that relationship.
And Bear's the only thing I want to have. Which in a way, is healthty.
And in a way, is not.
After all I'm almost a quarter of a century old, and I still have a Toy Bear hanging about. And I'm not even a girlytype girl...
Monday, March 04, 2002
If I ever again enter into a job that includes committee meetings, I give you leave to shoot me.
They're like something out of a bad horror film. Spreading, un-noticed until they cover and suffocate whole days, dividing into sub-committees, and sub-sub-committees, and sub-sub-committee-action-groups, which themseves take on their own mass and consume whole other people, places, days of themselves.
I may scream. But screaming may not help.
All possible lines of escape are buried under the committee beast. I may not see the light of day again.
Goodbye cruel, committee-laden, world.
Sorry, that's a bit over-dramatic, isn't it.
Well, I need to vent. I've been pretending to be Grown-up all day.
I keep waking up in the morning because I'm talking in my sleep so loud that I disturb my own slumber.
Is that at all normal?
Please?
In four days the volunteers will arrive, thirty of them.
In six days, the first guests. And then that's it. A whole 'nother season will begin.
Week after week after week of it.
No Take-away food. Hardly any restaurant food. And nothing exotic at that.
Busy-ness business. Doing, all the time.
A pub like a motorway cafe, that can charge London prices for monopoly reasons...
Not being able to say no. Not having the energy, or opportunity to say 'Yes! yes!' as often as you'd like to.
People, around, constantly.
No street lights, and toads on the roads, waiting to die.
Nothing to do but work and drink and swear.
The nearest cinema three and a half hours away.
And so, Boots, supermarkets, charity shops and, well, anything, really...
Same faces. Same place. Same conversations.
So much quiet. Bar sheep making rasping noises frrom both ends all night long.
Kissing gates where nobody kisses you.
Wearing waterproof trousers and thinking them the height of fashion.
Discos with thirty people dancing sometimes. Boys on one side, girls on the other.
Smiling. Miss World smiling, practiced, with empty eyes.
Sheep, and finding yourself talking to them as you wander down the road.
Wind. And rain. clouds, sleet, and greyness. All with its beauty, but, still, come on, sometimes a body needs sunshine.
Goodbyes. At least a thousand goodbyes.
What am I doing? I love it here, and I love my job. But what, what on earth, am I doing?
I must be slightly, lightly, insane.
It's all beautiful, and remote, and different and special, and nothing like city life, but those are all also bad things, aren't they?
Apart from beautiful, which obviously isn't. But the rest can be.
I think.
What was my point?
Oh, I can't remember." -- >
{insert funny punchline here}
Sunday, March 03, 2002
Another day off, so all well and good, I didn't set my alarm clock.
But who needs an alarm clock, when you have the power of nature?
Woken by the rain beating against the window as if there were a madman throwing a whole truckload of alarm clocks at the glass.
Still, at least my mother's not here this weekend.
It's a bit of a strange thing, having my mother as a flatmate again after all this time living else-where. It's nice, in many ways. And I know that years from now I'll look back on it as a privilege, but in one way particularly, it's a complete pain in the nuts.
I've worked out mt own system for mornings, over the last few years. It involves lying in bed thinking for an hour or so, then getting upat the very last minute and running around in a panic before what-ever it is I have to do first thing that morning. And then coffee, as soon as possible. And rational conversation will begin around an hour later.
Suddenly I've been drawn back to my 15-year-old pattern. Lying in Bed thinking until there's a sharp tap on the door, and a kindly voice shouting "Anna! Time to get up!" (Surly answer "Obviously not, or I would be.") or worse, "Anna! It's quarter past eight!" (traditional reply? - "Oh! That's what those little numbers mean, is it?...").
But it's fine.my mother's one of those lovely people you can talk to about stuff like this, and she'll lay off the 'speaking clock' imitations.
For a week or so at least...
On the way out to dinner, i forgot to take a torch. Even after two years here, I forget that you need to provide your own light to walk somewhere.
And on the way there, it was fine. Sure I may have started off-road-ing at several points, but it was absolutely pitch black, so that's excusable. And I thought it was going to be a very grown-up dinner party, so I didn't worry about going back to find my light.
Obviously I'd not realised the full capability of grown-up dinner parties. I've not been grown-up for long - if, indeed, I am now - so how could I know?
Several bottles of wine, some tequila, and a whole lot of Air-Guitar later (did anyone else know that a whole 'air guitar' album existed? because I certainly didn't...) I made my way back down the road. This time with a little help from the moon. And then it happened.
A toad hopped out into the path.
I'll no longer be able to walk anywhere without the fear of unnecessary death.
I was so proud of walking everywhere in such solid darkness. And now I'll be so afraid of hearing that familiar crunch and squish of dying toad that I no longer can. Bloody things. Literally.
Saturday, March 02, 2002
Better now. After something like 17 hours sleep. Turns out I'm not insomniac after all, I'm just a vampire.
A vampire that isn't given sufficient opportunity to sleep during the day.
So that's reassuring to know.
And I woke up, and did all the things that are meant to happen on a Saturday; Playing Premier League Football, Driving Formula one racing cars, appearing on 'blind date' and attending Synagogue.
Not really - I lay in bed, read the paper end to end, had coffee and toast, and caught up on phone calls.
Bliss. And you know what - I'm going to do the same tomorrow. Hurrah.
Having time to read the paper was just wonderful. I ploughed through every section (with the exception of 'Jobs and Money', what's the point? I don't have one and don't need the other.) and even consumed the crappy gadget catalogue that came with.
Where I saw the electric pepper grinder. Now, my father and step-mother have one of these.
It shines a tiny little light onto your food while it buzzes loudly and covers your food in an unpredictable layer of crunchy crackeed black pepper bits.
Which is all fine, and good. But surely not necessary, no matter how busy your executive life.
It's always pissed me off.
But now, more so than any other time.
It's £20. Twenty quid, And looking around on the interwebnet, I found ones that were up to three times that.
£20 to grind pepper.
Sod the 'Jobs and Money' pages, I've found what I want to do for a living.
If anyone wants to pay me Twenty Quid to come round to their house and shine a weak torch on their food while rendering it inedible for two whole meals before my batteries run down and I'm thrown out or relegated to the cupboard, that will be just fine.
I hear prostitutes in the Former Communist Bloc get paid less for a whole night of lovin'.
To be paid twenty quid for just a little bit of Grinding seems more than fair.
Oh dear. I don't think that sounds right.
ahm...
The candle count is up to twenty. 20.
And I have the next two days off. Sheer joy.
After a week of first aid, group 'bonding', endless sessions on how to lead sessions, coutless pointless arguments, two days on Child protection law and signs and indicators of Child abuse, and the existence of 11 more candles successfully facilitated. I fully plan on spending the next two days in bed, with some forays out to the office to smack my head against the keys.
And some cereal. And a very large newspaper.
And a phone nearby, just in case anyone wants to phone and offer me a bacon sandwich, which I can't otherwise be keffed to make.
If anyone wants to drop by and coddle me, that, for once, would be ok.
Not like an egg. I don't need to be cracked and potted and dropped in boiling water. Not really.
Although, I've never really tried it. So I can't be sure. I think I wouldn't like it.
I meant the other kind of coddled.
And maybe, just maybe, I should go to bed.
Hell, I've got a week's worth of quality television just sitting in the video recorder waiting for me.
Whether I fall asleep before the opening credits finish rolling is yet to be seen.
So the Candle count this year is up to twenty. That's 20. 20 candles.
Friday, March 01, 2002
Now, I've just heard a rumour. And if it's true, I think it's the funniest thing in the world. But I need confirmation.
Now, you know that kind of Iced Cream you get. The kind from the van. Not the scoopy kind. the kind where they pull a lever and it goes 'pththththththtththt' onto a cone.
'Mr Whippy', it's called.
Well, apparently Margaret Thatcher invented it.
I need to know if this is true.
Because if it is, I'll be laughing from now until Easter 2007.
Please. Does anyone know?
Best true story heard today, told to me by the teacher themself;
Sitting around, telling a group of five year olds the story of the three little pigs.
The five year olds were, as five year olds will be, completely entranced.
And utterly convinced.
"And the wolf huffed, and he puffed, and he blew down the first little piggy's house" said the teacher.
"Fucking Bastard!" Said one of the five year old children.
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(adrift in a sea of commuters)
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