little.red.boat.

Wednesday, June 26, 2002

So I'm going to Glastonbury festival, If you're going, you might find me in a big tent in the 'something' field with "Iona" written all over it.
If not, I'll see you when I get back.
I'll miss my little red boat. And I'll miss you.
In the meantime, here's my guestybooky thing.
Or you can e-mail me...
tell me how your weekend is, all that kind of stuff.

Be well, and happy, within yourselves. I'll see you next week.

Wednesday, June 26, 2002 |

Narcotics. - Mothers, as you value your Infant's life, we beseech you never to drug it to sleep with Syrup of poppies, Laudanum, Paregoric, nor any opiate. Oh! How your hand would tremble if you were aware, that when you give these rain-congesting doses, you are slowly poisoning and destroying your child. Yet such is the fact. Well may they be called quietings. Nothing is so quiet as death.

Well, that's you told. While sick I was given a pamphlet to read. 'Every Mother's Book' or 'The Child's best doctor' 'containing the best means to cure'... by Albert Fennings. (Author of 'Fennings' Everybody's doctor') Published around 1900, or 1900 and something.
So, in between sleeping, I've been learning how best to take care of my (imaginary) turn of the century child.

Milk is the only natural food for an infant; it should therefore have no food but from the breast, until the teeth appear. Nothing else contains nourishment. Therefore to stuff the baby with paps and slops

which is a sentence I'll be trying to use in conversation in the next couple of days

is to deprive it of the most strengthening food; for if its stomach be filled with pap, there cannot be any room for food.

And I'm sure if any of us knew what pap was, exactly, we'd be avoiding it like the plague. Apart from those with dairy-free diets. Who'd be ingesting 'pap'. Like... the...plague...

And then there's the whole worms thing...

Children may be suspected of having worms when they have the following symptoms - a pale face, with hollow sunken eyes; itching of the nose...

'Being some form of supermodel may also be suspected at this point...'

... and fundament; nasty breath; changable appetite;...

see above. It's funny, Dr Fenning recommends, for this particular complaint, several things.
a) A dose of Olive Oil
b) cold boiled milk with a teaspoon of brown sugar
c) a teaspoon of treacle an hour before breakfast, to bring them away with the stools
d) Inject occasionally, with a squirt syringe, a little sweet oil up the fundament.
e) "Fennings' Worm Powders"

Come to think of it, for a fever, Dr Fenning recommends for a fever 'Fennings' fever powders' and for a rash 'Fennings' cooling powders'. I've a notion that this isn't an objective medical periodical at all...

His advice on Infant Exercise, however, fits all the criteria for innuendo-filled pisstake, if you remove the right words...

Exercise. -the only exercise of the .... is the dandling of the handler, and its own lusty cries.
It should however, with the hand, be briskly yet softly rubbed all over its little body twice or three times a day.
After a few weeks have passed, it may, for a short while, be ready for a daily roll on a carpeted floor.
After some months' rolling, the ***** will gain much strength, become ambitious, and with more or less success attempt to stand upright. Do not now interfere and do mischief; all its efforts should be its own - they are natural. When it has proper strength, it will please you....

That sounds to me like a sex manual for beginners. I may be wrong...
But I'm usually not...

Wednesday, June 26, 2002 |

"diagnosing a control freak"
I'm only the 60th option on the search engine request?
only 60th?
I demand a recount.

Wednesday, June 26, 2002 |

Last week, in a meeting, an important point was being made.
These meetings go on. Quite a while, they go on, and there are always a couple of us determined to
a) get out of there and
b) have as much fun in there as possible.

It's not very possible.
But if you don't see some light in these things, how do you get through them at all?...

So the man with the kilt, the serious man, the man with the inpenetrable Scottish accent is making an important agenda point.
The prolem with the point he is making, is that in his accent 'pianist' sounds improbably like 'penis'.
I'm sorry that I have to explain that before we start. God knows that if I could talk you through this blog, a lot of it would be extremely funny. And extremely shorter.
Anyway... the point is, that "before you start" you see "you have to be sure of your pianist", apparently. You have to have "got hold of your pianist well in advance" and "made sure that your pianist is aware of the job in hand..."

I don't remember any more. I was on my chair. Holding my nose, trying not to laugh, tears coming out of my ears, I couldn't hear anything but;
"If you have to grab your pianist at the last moment, at least let them know the spaces you want them to fill..."

0898...

Wednesday, June 26, 2002 |

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

I have a friend who, whenever he has broken up with a girlfriend, phones me for advice and commiserations.
The only problem I have with this, apart from the fact that he's always dumping women, and god knows that can't be good for your karma, is that he always uses the phrase "I've left her".

He has never, as yet, lived with a woman.
He has been using this phrase since he was sixteen.
You're sixteen. How do you leave your partner?
Where do you leave your partner, more's the point?
Pizza Hut?

Her house?

On the bus? You've left your girlfriend on the bus?
How careless. Have you tried contacting the lost property office?

Tuesday, June 25, 2002 |

No-one has ever, in my life, sent me flowers.
If this cold kills me, which it may, I request that you do not send flowers to my funeral, it is too late.
Whinge. Moan.
Yes, I'm talking to you.

Tuesday, June 25, 2002 |

Have, in fact, fallen over.
Mental stubborness techniques - "Tough on Colds - Tough on the causes of colds" - just havenn't worked at all.
Or, subconciously, I'm not ill at all but taking everyone else being ill as an excuse to get much needed rest.
Who knows.
All I know is that, at the moment, there are five minute periods while I'm not asleep.

And I've now been awake for four and a half minutes.
I should get away frrom this thing before I get key-marks on my forehead.

I'll be back later...
*falls off chair*...

Tuesday, June 25, 2002 |

Monday, June 24, 2002

Effects of tiredness; numbers four and five - A brain in need of incontinence pants and lots and lots of tears.

Yesterday I cried because someone made a loud noise. It was a loud noise I was expecting, at exactly the point I was expecting it. In fact, I was there when the loud noise was ordered, I saw them preparing to make the loud noise. It really, if we're being sensible here, shoul not have been that much of a shock. Not really. But it still jolted me enough to make me cry.

And the result of my leaky brain runny word incontinence problems are all over this page for all to see.
And therefore need no explaining.

The reason they're stuck together is because, I've realised, when I'm tired, I talk a lot. And when I talk a lot, I lose words, names, and threads. And when I do that, being tired, I get all flustery and frustrated. And then I cry.
Which is silly.
That is all.

Monday, June 24, 2002 |

Sunday, June 23, 2002

Effects of tiredness; number three, picking fights with harmless guests. Not they didn't deserve it, like...

On saturday nights we welcome the guests, serve them dinner, and be nice to them after their long days of travelling.
It's the smalltalk capital of the world.
Usually I have patience and am able to be sweet and nice. Usually.
Well, most of the time.
Sometimes, anyway.
No, actually, usually.
But not this week. This week I was spoiling for a fight. I sat at the table exercising the 'three strikes and you're out' policy of conversation, (I'm going to make three reasonable attempts to make conversation with you, and if you're going to be surly and monosyllabic with me, then we shall just give up, alright? Obviously you don't actually say this to someone. That would be rude.), everything was biting at my nerves, every question was annoying, every answer worse.
Pretty much as soon as I sat down, I had this conversation.

lady guest, too much eye-make up, twin-set, pearls; The bell didn't ring.
me; Yes, it did.
lady; Well, I didn't hear it...
me; That may be so, but it did. Look. They're going to ring it again.
bell; DUNK dunkdunkdunkdunkdunkdunkdunkdunk!
lady; Well that's why I didn't hear it. They said a bell would be rung. That bell doesn't make a bell noise.
me; Of course it does.
lady; No it doesn't, it goes 'dunk dunk dunk dunk dunk'. That's not a bell noise.
me; Look. Just because our bell doesn't conform to your fixed, preconcieved notions of the kind of noise a bell should make, it doesn't mean that it "doesn't make a bell noise".
lady; But it doesn't make a bell noise!
me; It's a bell, right?
lady;Well, yes.
me; And it makes a noise, yes?
lady; ... Yes.
me; So that noise, by process of deduction, would be 'A Bell Noise'. Wouldn't it?
lady; .......yes? ...
me; Yes. Well, I'm glad we have that straight. Would you care for some more salad?

I got worse later in the meal. Or better. Depending on who you are.
I'm me, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. So better, then.
There was also the argument with the lady 'from Berlin'... but I'll come back to that later.

Sunday, June 23, 2002 |

Effects of tiredness; number two, 'being completely ineffectual'.

Nothing's getting done. Not effectively. Cleaning, the main thing. Not being done well at all.
Packing, for my holiday, again, a dead loss. Planning, for my session on tuesday. That's not going anywhere, let alone efficiently.
Sentences, well, spoken sentences, (that's as in 'sentences that are spoken', not 'well-spoken sentences', although, having said that, it amounts to the same thing) they're not being done effectively either. Sentences, I mean. Oh, I said that.

And it's because I'm tired (or sick, or whatever), and my brain is refusing to play. I seem to be working on 12% capacity.
I have the attention span of a 4-year-old. I have the mental agility of a beanbag.

I spent 4 hours yesterday basically wandering around the craftroom in circles. Trying to clean.
Every time I picked something up to put it away I would get halfway across the room before I noticed something else that needed putting away and put the first thing down in order to put away the second. And then I would do the same thing from the second to the third. And then I would find that the place I needed to actually put away the third thing was being occupied by the first. So I would pick the first thing up and move it toward the place it needed to go, leaving the third thing in an interim place in the meantime.
I was doing laps.
For four hours.
And although after those four hours everything had been handled, carried and put down six times at least, the room was only marginally cleaner.

So I sat down and talked about scars for the rest of the day and drank tea.
It was, in the circumstances, the most effective thing to do. And it made me feel a lot better.
It also reminded me of lots of stories I've not told yet...

Sunday, June 23, 2002 |

Effects of tiredness; number one, strenuous denial.
Actually, it might be illness. The nice thing about lots of people living close together is that you experience life as a social animal, the need to communicate properly, and the importance sharing things - like, for example, diarrhea.
Once one person gets a nasty infectious sick-bug, everyone gets it, one by one by one.
(This happened also at Christmas.) (Happy Christmas.)
This week it has happened again.
Somebody brought it.
Somebody caught it, and like a true Christian soul, they shared it with their brethren.

I haven't got it yet. I can only assume this is one of the perks of agnosticism.

At least, I don't think I've got it. I have, you see, as I think I've mentioned before, my mother's attitude to sickness.
I refuse to get things. I haven't got the time. Illness is weakness and I will not be weak.
Don't get me started on colds. I sound, and I realise this, like the would-be dictator of a small hot country.
A small hot country with no viruses allowed. None.

It's a stupid attitude to being ill. I know that fine.
And I know that my body is fighting desperately with sickness.
I know this because I keep being a bit sick. And because I'm sleeping and sleeping and sleeping, any opportunity I get.

The other thing that I know that being in denial is all well and good; I'll be able to work for the next couple of days, do sessions, sing, take the kids to the beach, etc, but as soon as I let my guard down, as soon as my official holiday starts, it's quite likely that I'll fall over. And fall sick.

I really would prefer that *not* to happen.
I wouldn't mind, but I'm spending the weekend somewhere where you have to shit in a bucket. I was hoping to spend as little time as possible with the buckets. Don't make me spend my holiday with poo buckets.

Sunday, June 23, 2002 |

apologies.
head full of posts pending, but the world is full of sleep and work and tiredness and ill.
as soon as I have ten minutes not filled with sleeping or ill or work, I'll get around to feeding my boat.
now I need to go and be sick.
bad anna. bad.

Sunday, June 23, 2002 |

Saturday, June 22, 2002

Rain stops play at the summer solstice bonfire.
Or rather, rain stops bonfire.

We sat on the beach to wait for the dawn and then an hour before the dawn the rain started coming.
We thought it would stop.
rain coming.
rain coming.
rain.
rain.
We were wrong.
It wouldn't stop.
And so we walked home, as it got gradually lighter and the solstice dawn happened behind a bunch of clouds.
And I'm all wet. (0898...)

That was my friend's way of indicating an innuendo.
He would quietly add "0898", like it was the beginning of an advert for a sexline.

"And I'm all wet" "0898..."
"I need to lie down" "0898..."
"My Bag's rattling." "0898..."

Whatever it was, whatever it was, the simpler the better, it was suddenly innuendo.
Of course. Because we're British, and that's what we do. That's what we do best.
Instead of football. Not football. Certainly not football, unfortunately. Instead, we do innuendo.
We do that. We should make that a sport.

A woman walks into a bar and asks for a double Entendre.
So the barman gives her one.

funny? no? funnier to british people?
does it matter? do I care? do i need my bed? mm.

I have all sorts of lovely things to write about the light tonight, and the dancing, and the fact that I got chatted up twice, but at the moment, I'm all floppy ("0898...") and I want desperately to sleep.

it's 4.25.

Saturday, June 22, 2002 |

Friday, June 21, 2002

I'm having a problem with shoes.
Right shoes. Not shoes which are 'right' or 'correct'. Just right shoes. For your right foot.
I'm running low. I'm running out. I'm running dry on the whole 'right shoe' side of things.

I have my left-foot-for Camouflage Converse sneaker. The right-foot-for one is somewhere in my studio. Somewhere. I don't know where. It's hiding. And I can't find it. And it's camouflage.

I have my left-foot-for walking boot. The right-foot-for one, however, I do not have. A loud American stole it, and has put it somewhere 'comedy'. I do not not know where, in this instance, is funny. I do not know where my walking boot is.

I have my left-foot-for sandal. The right-foot-for one, on the other hand, (on the other foot) I do not have. It is in a large and hairy patch of nettles. And thistles. Nettles and thistles. In a sandal-kicking contest, my aim went awry and my sandal flew off the designated playing area (road) and into the rough (patch of large nettles and thistles). I could not go in after it, as I was half barefoot. I have to go back when I have two shoes. One for each foot.

I have my left-foot-for wellington boot. There are daffodils plated in my right-foot-for one. I do not know why I still have the left-foot-for boot. I should probably wang it.

I have two slippers.
Both slippers have holes. I cannot wear them in public. The hole in the right-foot-for slipper flaps like an angry hippo everytime I move. There is more comedy than covering in my slippers.

It's times like this when I wish I had two left feet.
(baboom).

Seriously though, I am considering chopping one of my legs off.

Friday, June 21, 2002 |

When I was little, very little, and angelic, with my blonde hair in bunches and little chubby cheeks (one dimple), I would, as sometimes little children do, even angelic ones, get into trouble.
And so would get told off. Which is fair enough. How else do we learn?
My response to being told off, though, was quite often the same, no matter what it was the telling off was about; head on one side, eyes all wide

"Don't shout at Anna, Anna loves you."

Bucket, anyone?
Oh come now. It is reasonably cute, if a little nauseating. Especially with the dimple. You have to imagine the dimple.

Anyway. What was my point? Ah yes. It works when you're four.
At twenty-five it doesn't.
Shame.

Friday, June 21, 2002 |

Three hours sleep, too much Lagavulin last night, a bad meeting, a fire alarm and a menu full of lentils lead to a teary Anna.
Want to shout at me, grumpy person? I'll cry.
Want to explode, electrical device? I'll cry.
Want to fall, rain? I shall cry. Whatever you do, I'll cry.
Last time I cried (less than ten minutes ago) it was mainly because I had big hair and a puffy face (from crying).
I don't think I'm very good at this anymore. Or maybe I'm tired.

Friday, June 21, 2002 |

Thursday, June 20, 2002

I've a feeling that someone with so much work to do for tomorrow morning probably shouldn't have been out so late drinking fine malt whisky.
I've a feeling that it would be a bad idea to advise anyone with so much work to do to stay out so late and drink so much.
Even if it is very fine company. And very fine single malt.
I've a feeling that it's far too late for any such advice.
Far too late.

I should drink some water now.

Thursday, June 20, 2002 |

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

It isn't til next week, by the way. I'm not going away til next week.
So, maybe you can not send e-mails saying 'goodbye and have a nice time'. Because you'll only be disappointed when I'm still not gone tomorrow...

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

She’s sitting in her bedroom, on her bed, legs crossed and hair tied back, a heavy fringe tucked behind her ears, half way between haircut and hairstyle.
A train rattles past outside, taking commuters out from Paddington at the end of the working day.

Her school uniform lies in crumpled navy blue pleats on the floor, her tie has been flung – stripper style, and rests where it fell, behind the chest of drawers, where in the morning she will find it after much panic and shouting, making her late for the third time in a week and earning another detention.

Crusts from her after-school toast sit on a Peter Rabbit Plate on top of the hand-me-down stereo, and inside the stereo a tape plays, feeding the speakers with songs by the Stone Roses and the Smiths, The Charlatans and the Wonder Stuff, Nirvana, Teenage Fanclub, REM.

She’s not quite finished her homework. The books are out and open, but really, she’s barely started. It’s Wednesday. And the open Modern History textbooks are covered by newspaper.
It’s Wednesday, and the New Musical Express comes out on a Wednesday. Wednesday is NME day. And the homework will not get done until the last word of the NME has been read.
Next to the chest of drawers, in a pile that will eventually grow taller than the chest of drawers sit back issues, week after week after week of back issues.
As if keeping them, just keeping them, in itself proved her dedication to the music they were all about.

The NME is open. And she sits and she stares at the open page. A full page advert. An advert for the Glastonbury Festival. She sits and she circles the bands that she knows, the bands that she likes. She sits and she plans out a fantasy festival, which bands would follow which, who she’d see, who she’d miss. Next week she will devour the reviews and drink in the on-site interviews and reports.
In a few days time thousands of people will be at Glastonbury, and for yet another year, she won’t Next year, she keeps telling herself. “Next year in Glastonbury”

She never goes. One year it’s too expensive, the next she has exams, one year she can afford to go, but no-one will go with her, the next she forgets completely until it’s too late.

Ten years on.
And she’s going to Glastonbury. She almost wasn’t, forgetting to book holiday and all, but she’s got a free ticket, a lift down there.
And this girl is going to Glastonbury.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

And now it's not working again. Suddenly it's November in my guestbook. It was working. And now it's November. Or I'm on Crack.
I'm not on Crack. So it must be November. I should get another jumper on...

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

Bloody hell. My guestbook is working. Suddenly.
Rah. Thank you.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

Preoccupied.
I'm preoccupied.
I can't think about the little red boat because I keep being asked questions.
Or rather - question.
"So, what are you doing when you leave here?"
At least 25 times a week I get asked this. I still don't know. In fact, I know less every time I'm asked. There are different pictures that pop into the mind;
1. Anna as media person, project work, small team, deadline-tastic, some writing, some creative juices involved. All good.
2. Anna as earth-mother. Small children running around feet, marmalade bubbling on stove, novel waiting, mid-sentence behind screensaver.
3. Anna as psychotherapist. Not quite sure what the main idea behind this is, perhaps just like the idea of being paid for nodding.
4. Anna as Stand-up comedian. Sorry, comedienne. No. Like to. But no. Not yet.
5. Anna as actress. No. again. may have trained for it, but ain't doing it. It hurt me too deeply the first time. Not going there again.
6. Anna as prostitute. Wardrobe insufficient.
Or too sufficient (woolly jumpers and such).
7. Anna as teacher. Terrifyingly imaginable. Refuse, however, to teach drama.
Not sure whether I'd be much good, anyway.
8. Anna as Art therapist. Closest thing to present job, but no training or particular medium in fine art, seemingly necessary.
9. Anna as Big Brother contestant. Quite frankly, I'd rather break enough of my own bones to touch the floor and kiss my own arse, and, while there, suck out my own intestine through a straw.
Admittedly that would be good television. I would watch.
Perhaps someone could set up a mirror.
10. Anna as barmaid. Let's face it. It's inevitable.
11. Anna as writer. feh
12. Anna as gutter-dwelling alcoholic, dead at 30. I hope not.
13. Anna as circus-performer, wiggling little finger, whistling through tear-ducts and putting fist in mouth. Certainly not a lasting career. Lasting, in fact, less than 6 seconds, once I've got the knack of doing all three at once.
Perhaps if I could stand on one leg at the same time...

Preoccupied.
I'm sorry, for few stories. I keep being asked this one question, and I'm preoccupied. Come back in a few weeks. I'll be funny then.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

It said brunette on the bottle.
Why I now look like a goth is therefore open for debate.
Perhaps if I wash my hair 15 times in a row it will go away.
Perhaps.
and may god have mercy on my follicles.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002 |

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

I think my guestbook's not working.
I check it every day and nothing new happens. It's always so sad.
Will someone go and sign it to check?
thanks ever so...

Tuesday, June 18, 2002 |

I think I'm being flirted with by the shyest man on the island.
It's not that he's said something, he never says anything. Well, not to me. We don't know each other. And he's very shy. And so am I. So it's not that I've spoken to him and noticed it. I've never spoken to him. I wouldn't know where to start.
But he now just seems to be completely uncommunicative around me quite frequently.
For example - while I was Djing the disco last night. He came and sat around and talked to other people and made no attempt to talk to me whatsoever - but in what could be perceived as a flirtatious fashion.

No, it's still not making any sense.
For want of anything else to do I watched Bridget Jones' Diary this afternoon. Christ. I hated to book, so why the movie seemed like a good idea, I still don't know. Seems to have got to me though.

Cigarettes smoked; 3
Units of Alcohol; none as yet.
Pieces of fruit eaten; 17 (including individual raspberries)
Weight; undisclosable as unknown, but suspect less by the day, life going to plan, am no longer envisaging being singleton interminably. hurrah!
Laundry successfully laundered; 3 loads
Fire alarms; 2
Movies regretted watching; 1.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002 |

What's wrong with having high standards?

Tuesday, June 18, 2002 |

I need more party tricks. I can't tremble my eyeballs, or dislocate any joints at will, I can't wiggle my ears and I can't do any impressions. I can't eat anything amusing. Like a tractor.

I can do the whistling tear duct thing. I can put my fist in my mouth. I can make my little finger look like it's got no bone in it. I can cross my eyes. In a comedic fashion.
None of these things are attractive.
Are there any party tricks that are attractive?

Or is the logic that attractive people don't need party tricks?

Tuesday, June 18, 2002 |

I've lost my thong.
Someone was asking me for it today.
It's usually kept on one particular shelf, but when he asked me for it, I looked, and it was gone.
I think some of the other staff may have been using it.
I looked everywhere. It wasn't even in the tub marked 'leather', which is the only place that someone might tidy it away to by mistake.
I had to make an announcement in the evening meal, but no-one would own up to taking it.

People often like to take a momento home with them, so I understand.

They go to a beach, pick up a shell with a hole in it and borrow my thong to hang it on.
Well, not borrow, take.
I just wish they'd bring it back.

It is 'thong' in this context, isn't it? Is it 'thonging'? That sounds somhow better.
That thin leather string you make necklaces out of, anyway.
Comes in 25 metre rolls. Someone's nicked mine. My roll. My thonging. My Thong. That thing.
Bathtardth.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002 |

Monday, June 17, 2002

My green felt-tip marker has died.
I blame the Russians.

Or more specifically, Russia.
Or the landmass of which it is part.
It has killed my felt tip.
I could colour it orange instead, but it would clash, and I think I would rather go to bed.

Incidentally, did I mention that I've decided what I'm giving up for Lent?
Four days now I've not been to the pub.

Not that that's what I'm giving up, I just thought I'd mention it.
But no, my Lenten giving-uppy-things started at the same time. And I'm being very good.
Yay me. Yay Lenten-givey-uppey-things.
(and if anyone else wants to know why my lent is in June, it's in the comments below. I shant write it out again...)

Monday, June 17, 2002 |

I hate Europe.
It's all fiddly and there are too many edges.

I like Africa, and also South America, although its bottom is hard.

My day was going well until I agreed to making a map of the world, coloured, cut into one hundred and something pieces, write on-able and easily reassemble-able on some form of grid format. A couple of metres wide and a couple tall. Don't try to understand that, or wonder why. It's not worth it. I promise.

I hate the world. It's not fair.
Gosh, I haven't said that since I was about 13. That felt good.

Everything was going fine until I, being all fancy, decided to add depth shading on the coastlines. Fucking hell.
I hate Coastlines. I hate Europe, and despise the top of Canada from the base of my loins. (although oviously, if, in years to come, anyone from Canadian Immigration is reading this, I meant it purely in jest and in this context alone. I Actually find the coastline of the top of Canada fascinating. Thank you.)
Why do I agree to absolutely everything set in front of me?
I'm an idiot. An idiot who's going to be colouring in coastlines for hours, if not days, to come.
I don't mind the world being round, but didn't anyone ever think to give the continents straight edges?

Now, if you'll excuse me, North America is waiting for me. And my ocean is only half blue.

Monday, June 17, 2002 |

Sunday, June 16, 2002

It's very quiet in the cloisters. Either there's been a massacre or the birds are sleeping. Or they've gone. Gone somewhere to find summer. Perhaps, young and experienced as they are, they fly south every time it feels a bit like winter. Which would lead to them heading off every day and a half or so. And then, by the time they get to the tip of Wales or so, they hear tell the sun's shining on the Inner Hebridies and they turn themselves around and fly all the way back. They must feel really stupid.
Bless.

It's not been quiet in the cloisters for ages though. They haven't been doing so much sleeping so far, the brand new birds.
We have brand new birds. They're brown and fluffy, and have only started to stray from their nests in the last week.
Usually no big fan of birds, I'm bowled over. They're the cutest things imaginable.
Well, the cutest birds imaginable. Apart from brand new chickens. And ducks, obviously.
They're managing short distances of flight now, interspered with much hopping and some falling over. They're cocking their heads and doing the curious blinking thing. They go 'Peep!' like a cheap answerphone. And they have knobbly knees.

I didn't know birds had knees at all. But of course they do. Else how would they be able to crouch down? Crouching down is an incredibly useful skill. Neccessary for changing car tyres, for example.
Of course they have knees. It's still cute that they're knobbly. I wonder if they have kneeling mats (like old people do for gardening). Questions, questions... Birds, knees, grub-eating (indigestion-wise), international bird-graveyards, bird yardies, bird gang-war, bird noises, thought-processes, orgasms, 'scooby doo porn', nest-cleaning, worm-sucking, I wonder about these things. Not all the time, like. Not even often, or ever really. Just now.

Anyway, it's gone quiet. I'm hoping this doesn't mean they've all died. I've become very attached to a few of them. One in particular. He's brown, and sweet. He doesn't have a name.

When I was little I always wondered where birds went when they died. There seemed to be a large amount of live birds in London, but hardly any dead ones. None at all, or none that I ever saw. I think, at that point in my life, I decided that they all went to one particular place to die. Kent, or something.
I imagined getting of a train in a suburban town and finding the streets heaped with dead birds.
Damn. Now I'm imagining it again.

I should go to bed. And stop thinking about that.
(....think hard anna .... sunshine ... football ... fluffy bunnies ... dead fluffy bunnies ... heaped fluffy dead bunnies... Damn.)

Sunday, June 16, 2002 |

Saturday, June 15, 2002

Yay.
Yay sunshine. yay friendship.
Yay football, Yay England, Yay God Save the Queen and all that, Yay. Yay 3-0.
Yay soup.
Yay hot wax.
Yay football.
Yay.

Saturday, June 15, 2002 |

18 people.
I have had 18 people looking for Scooby Doo Porn.
To the point where even I have been furtively looking for Scooby Doo porn. And I don't even want to see it. I just want to find it.
I can't provide pictures. But, over the weekend, if I have a spare half hour, I'll see if I can conjure up some kind of Scooby Doo erotic novel.

With Velma doing unmentionable things to the mysterious theme-park-owner. While scrappy-doo licks the soles of her feet. Or...

Euw. Forget it. You see what I'm doing now, I'm thinking about Scooby Doo Porn. And I don't want to be.
I was meant to type a couple of short sentences, call that a post and call it a night.
And I could have got away with it too, if it hadn't been for you pesky search engine referrers....

Saturday, June 15, 2002 |

No, I think you'll find that the sing-a-long-a-Bacharach CD is on in my studio so that I can sing along.
Not so that you all can sing along. Not all twenty of you. Not at once. Because when people used to singing in harmonies start to sing along, they sing along in harmony. And if they decide that there is already someone singing that same line of harmony, then they will make up a line of harmony.
And they cannot possibly add any more harmony to the cacophony of harmony that is already being 'harmonised', they will sing along with the trumpets (parp, pah-pah-pah parp!). Or the piano (doodle-ooh-doo-dumdumdumdah...). Or the drums (tch-t-t-tchtatata etc...). And sometimes, they'll sing along with the instruments because they don't know the words.
However, not knowing the words doesn't seem to get in everybody's way. Most people will simply sing along regardless... "What the World needs hum. Is Doo Doo Love. Ladee only thing that there's just falabalab."
And to be honest with you, I find that a little annoying. More than a little annoying, if I'm a little more honest.

I had a friend once, still do, who would sing along with everything. Not only a friend but a housemate. She'd sing along with everything. Everything. And harmonise. And also sing along with the main words if she knew them. And also if she didn't. That was fine too. And then she'd sing along with the band, all the instruments, there was nothing outside the range of her vocal orchestra.
And the percussion section. She'd do them too. We'd hate to leave them out.

And the best thing was that she'd do these all at once.
Not like a Mongolian Throat singer, that would be weird. But within the same song, every instrument would appear. And the main vocal line. And the backing singers.
Listening to a song with my friend (and she is a dear friend) you would hear, faintly, the meagre attempts at production coming from the actual CD, and MUCH LOUDER, over the top, the improvements upon the song by my dear friend. Whether she'd ever heard it before or no.... "If you see me, dun-cha, m-cha m-cha m-cha, wacca-chicka, parp, parp pah-pah-pah, Walk on by... (hey! lets shift a few tones, that'll do it...) Walk Oooo-oon Baaaayeee.... tch-t-tch-tch. Dum dummdumdu..."

And not only with Sing-a-long-a music.
She'd do it with folk music, she'd do it with jazz, she'd do it with drum and bass (a great deal), She'd do it with trip-hop (remarkably similar, but a bit slower...). Hell, I even heard her do it to Bach.
It was one doozer of a skill.

It made you realise the important cross-over points and similarities in different styles of music, mostly because hearing the single-voice interpretation version, everything sounded exactly the same.

We didn't live together long. Something I'm very glad about, since I value deeply her friendship, and not living together anymore saved our friendship.

And her life.

Saturday, June 15, 2002 |

Friday, June 14, 2002

I'd definitely not be a toilet duck. Sitting and collecting dust behind the U-bend, pulled out every so often only to have my beak rammed into the filthy toilet rim and my tummy violently squeezed. I don't think I'd like to be a toilet duck at all.

Or a decoy duck. I wouldn't like to be one of those either. I'd feel bad. Being wooden, and everything, and luring other, non-wooden ducks to their death. I don't think I'd be able to escape the guilt. I don't think I'd be comfortable with being a decoy duck. Not really.

Now, one of those wall hanging flying-ducks. That wouldn't be so bad. You'd have company, probably, coming in threes' as you normally would. You'd be in someone's living room, and thus able to watch the television, and usually, if past experience is anything to go by, you'd be above the fireplace. And therefore quite warm , and toasty.

Unlike a plastic garden duck, which would be a cold and dreary existence, with slugs climbing all over your head for fun and only ruddy-faced gnomes for company.
And you may have a spike sticking out of your bottom in order to fix you to the soil And I don't think that can be evidence of good karma, a large spike sticking out of your bottom. So definitely not a plastic garden duck.

A fluffy yellow cuddly toy duck would certainly provide the opportunity for some short-term loving. But people grow out of cuddly toys. Even cuddly toy fluffy yellow ducks. Or there's always the risk of being over-loved. And having one's fluffy little legs fall off. And never, in any of the lives to come, do I want to be stuffed. With cotton wool or sponge or whatever it is. Not a cuddly fluffy toy yellow duck then.

No. I think, were I given the choice on my next reincarnation, and allowed to choose to return to earth as any (any at all) type of inanimate duck, I'd definitely come back as a yellow rubber bath-tub duck. Definitely.
Everyone loves those. And you'd get to just sit on the edge of the bath, thinking about splashing games all day. And then people would come along and float you for a while. And then you'd get to sit on the edge of the bath again. And, if you were a fancy rubber ducky, you could squeak. And that would be a means of communication. You would be a joy for all ages.

And if they stopped loving you, you could sit at the edge of the bath and produce mildew on your inside. And then you would smell. And that'd show them.

Definitely a rubber duck. Given the choice. Anything else would be (and I so want to say 'foul/fowl', here. note the restraint.) foolhardy. A rubber Duck. That'll be me.

Friday, June 14, 2002 |

Thursday, June 13, 2002

Taking some people's advice but not others, I'm still really on holiday and will get back to posting in a day or so, when I've finished doing the sleeping things I'm supposed to be doing.
And the thinking things.
The football things have all gone well.
I'll sleep, think, and then get back to this.
I have to restate to myself what 'this' is supposed to be, as well. but that all comes under 'thinking'...

Thursday, June 13, 2002 |

I'd like to thank tbotcotw for making this all possible. I never would have got to this position, I wouldn't be standing here today as the 'tenth sexiest female person that a bunch of people have never met' without the support of my friends, my family, and of course, Microsoft.

It's been a long struggle, and all I can do is Thank Freeserve that I have helped open the door to more people of my minority, more people that people don't know and will probably never meet, in the hope, the honest wish that one day, they too, might be in line for this award too. Thank you, friends and colleagues of the blogchademy, I can say nothing, (tears, handkerchief, sniffle, prayers on behalf of waterproof mascara) but thank you. I hold this award [holds up shiny statuette received by virtue of being 'tenth most sexy female blogger'] on behalf of all people that can string a sentence together. Blogger bless you all.

Thursday, June 13, 2002 |

If you're born a sheep you're born a sheep.
You're the cutest little bleating thing, and then you bounce, and then you look all adolescent and try to butt things, and then you become indistinguishable from the grown-up sheep. And then you die.
And become Lamb chops.
And that's sad, yes. But, they're sheep. And That's what they do.

Or you're a wave. If you're a wave you're a wave. Formed in the process of oceans, by wind and tide and currents, layers of water all lapping over each other, you rise in the dance of water and eventually fulfill your destiny and crash onto the shore.
It's what waves do.

I'm leaving here in less than five months. What am I going to do?
Travel somewhere? Try and get onto some kind of traineeship or second degree? Become some form of corporate whore? (Oh god, only tell me how... I'll sign up here and now, my pen has its lid off...) Find someone to wed by November? Go back to bars and theatres and restaurants? Eat tractors for a living? Write? Sink into alcoholism and live the rest of my life trying to remember who I was yesterday? Find out how to be a psychotherapist, and discover who everyone else was yesterday? Not make any plans and hope I'll fall under a bus as soon as I reach the mainland? Be a Sheep? A Wave?

I'm scared.
I'm very scared.
Something's going to come up. Something must come up.
Something always does...

Thursday, June 13, 2002 |

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

Rootling through a box of tapes, all jumbled in the move, I found one very familiar.
I just can't think why.
At some point in our youth we must have had great need for;
BBC Sound Effects No.16
Disaster
A whole cassette, of, you know, Sound Effects. Disaster Ones.
But, for a start, this is number sixteen in the series. What were the other 15?
Once You've covered your basic sound effect needs (Farm Animals, Public Transportation, Alien Spacecraft), what's going to take up the 12 cassettes before you get to 'Disasters'?
It should have been at least number four in the series. If not higher. It's a nursery must.

I mean, where else in our lives would we have heard (Side 1/18)"Ice melting into flood"(48 seconds) or (Side 2/19)"Stomach Punch - Vocal reaction"(1 second) ("OOoooh!" Basically...) Or (Side 2/27)"Massacre"(38 seconds. That's impressive, massacre-wise)

I can't remember why we listened to this in my childhood, I've a feeling it was something to do with the radio station we made up and put on tape, but I've no idea why we would need "Erupting Volcano with lava Wooshes" (Side 1/8)
Or perhaps we were just those kind of children that need immense imaginary destruction in order to fall asleep;

"Goodnight darling, I've left the hall light on and "Collapsing Mine Shaft" (Side 1/31) playing on a loop. Sweet Dreams!"

You know, in the year and a bit previous, I've played people soothing jazz to get them into a creative mood. No more.
Baby's got a new soundtrack.
You want to make candles? You'll be making them to "Storm at sea atmosphere (drowning)"(Side 2/1) followed by "Ship going aground"(Side 2/2, 39 seconds even...) with several hours of "General Purpose rumble/roar"(1/5) Just because it Sounds cool!
Hell yeah.

Why would anyone have this in their possession?
Would Anyone else have this in their possession?
Does it count as dowry?
It really should. Dowries, as far as I know, don't usually include "Reprisal Air Strike"(Side 2/28, and weighing in at 1 minute and a whole 58 seconds, that's almost five times as long as a massacre...) But they should.
Hell, it might bring down the divorce rate...

Wednesday, June 12, 2002 |

So. Still on holiday, still hiding, but well slept, and happy.

I went to Camas, where there is no electricity, and wallowed in fires and candles and light in the sky until 1am.
And then I went to our new family house. Where I revelled in sleeping. And sleeping, And sleeping.
And I washed underwear, and watched television, and read three consecutive weekend newspapers, and I slept.

And I discovered the tumble drier.
Now, I've only ever used two tumble driers in my life - this, the second.
But I'm pretty sure the point is to dry things.
Not just to give them a ride and affirm them in their dampness.
I must have paid thousands in electricity, throwing those knickers around, but you'd think with all the jumping up and down they did they'd be a little happier. Or a little drier.
Stupid bloody technology.

And I wrote about half of the children's story I decided to write.
yay me.

Wednesday, June 12, 2002 |

Damnit. That's the third time people have ended up at this site looking for 'Scooby Doo Porn'.
What are they hoping for? Velma blowing Shaggy?
Daphne Humping Whatsisname?
Scrappy humping Velma's Leg?
Scooby Jumping the furniture?

Do any of these things turn me on? I'm obviously out of touch...

Wednesday, June 12, 2002 |

Sunday, June 09, 2002

I'm off on holiday for a few days.
Well, when I say 'holiday', I mean sleep. I'm going to go and sleep for a few days.
And watch football.
And think.
And go walking.
And then I'm going to come back.
And not have time to do any of those things again.
That's why it's holiday. Hoorah for Holiday.
Have a happy monday. And a happy tuesday. And sunday, come to that. And maybe some of wednesday.
I mean, I hope that all of your wednesday is happy, I just don't know when I'm coming back...

TaRa.

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

Search request of the day so far;
'(americanisms) We say "tarmac", Americans say...?'

Potato?

[Later; Because of the way of these things, the search referral list now reads '... We say "tarmac", Americans say...'
then
Diahorrea.
which, as an answer to the question, provides a rather unforgiving mental image...]

[Incidentally, on the same list, I've just noticed 'Blow jobs for everyone'. Is this a point of manifesto? Or is it an advertisment promise? A bit like 'Milky Bars are on me!'
But wetter.
Oh dear. Sorry.]

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

I have it in my bag. Printed out, right font and everything.

A menu, for the hotel next door. Full of knitted jumpers and badly dyed hair, earrings like feathers and hand-crafted belief systems. And Faeries.
(The hotel next door, is, incidentally, a place from whence people do actually roam the island and try to catch fairys/faeries. They're very serious about it. They take jam jars. With holes in the lid, and everything. Just in case they catch one. Anyway...)

It's a mainly vegetarian menu, their usual. And entirely organic.
One day this week the new one is going up;

Starters;
*Soup of the day - Cream of Seal Cub
*Impala Pate with tiger-jizz compote, served on a bed of fresh Ivory.
*New* GM tomcumbsnip salad. A mixed plate of brand new vegetable.

main course
*Pot-Roasted Corncrake with yoghurt and cucumber drizzle, served on a bed of freshly shot bunny.
*Grilled Corncrake. Served whole and presented in a bowl of sauteed tree-frog tadpole, garnished with basil, rosemary and koala.
*Pepper-crusted Corncrake, dipped in genetically modified Olive oil and picked peppers, then rolled between the thighs of unfairly traded third-world virgins. Served on noodles. With lots of preservatives to garnish.
*Corncrake. Served whole, unplucked, noisy.
dessert
*There is no dessert.

Puerile? Infantile? Certainly. Whatever it takes to have a nice day, agreed?

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

I don't think I've anything funny.
When I've been and gone and slept for four days, we might have some funny going on.
Or you can have factual, fanciful or remembered. Ladies and gentlemen, press your buzzers... now.

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

There's a storm brewing.
Sometimes emotions around here are communally affected by weather, but this time, that's not the case.
I just know it. There's going to be shouting, there are going to be teary recriminations, and most of all, there are going to be a whole bunch of arguments that run;
"My job's harder than your job."
"No, my job's harder than yours..."

And I don't know where I'll be. I might just adopt the 'What me?!' face and sit at the back. Or I may shout. Who knows.
There's a storm brewing. And, much as I like static, I rather think I'd not be here at all, given any choice...

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

I don't know why it's taking fifteen thousand attempts to log into my e-mail at the moment, I just know that I don't like it.
I especially don't like when, after fifteen thousand attempts, you get there and find nothing.
My own fault, as usual, but all the same.
Really fecking annoying.

Sunday, June 09, 2002 |

Saturday, June 08, 2002

I killed a bug.
I fully intended to, and I'm not sorry.
He was begging for it. It serves him right for crawling across my floor, and for being ugly.

It really took some doing too.
I woke up, and saw said ugly bug brazenly marching across my floor. He was a hard looking little bug. A tough looking little bug. The kind of little bug that, unchecked, would most likely evolve into some form of super-bug, impervious to all, and would eventually, (himself or his descendants) take over the world.
I knew I had to kill the bug.

So I dropped a book on him. A good, heavy book. The Good Book, actually, since it happened to be hanging around my room, doing nothing else. Slowly, painfully, stomach-churningly, the book began to move. Across the carpet. The bug, less than an inch long, was obviously still very much alive, under the hardback, 1300 page book. (Actually, no, including apocrypha, it's around 1650!... jeez.)

I jumped on the book.
Lifted it, the bug wiggled. Perhaps this means I'm losing weight.
I dropped the book, picked it up, dropped it again, jumped on it twice. Lifted it.
The bug was dead.

Or it may just have been pretending.

Saturday, June 08, 2002 |

12 fun things you could do with an afternoon off on a small island.

1. nap.
2. download all the pictures of candles you took on your shiny new digital camera.
3. wonder why you took so many pictures of candles. Great though they may be.
4. go and find ice cream.
5. sleep.
6. shave your legs.
7. walk back and forth in front of the main tourist spots, trying to get in as many photographs as possible. keep a tally.
8. go swimming (see also chapter 2; '12 fun ways to develop hypothermic symptoms')
9. kip.
10. go and be served tea and scones by hungover people who stayed at the disco longer than you.
11. ride sheep.
12. ride tourists.
13. doze.
14. waterski.
15. hunt tigers
16. eat somebody's tractor
17. metamorphose into a dormouse.

Ah, choices, choices.
I'll decide on something. When I wake up.

Saturday, June 08, 2002 |

the secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go

it was a good disco. it may even have been a great disco. certainly i was dancing, certainly the normal divides between hotel, island and abbey were broken down. certainly the music was good for to dance and the atmosphere was happy. friendly. open(ish).
i may even have been being flirted with. although, after all this time, god only knows if i could tell how that would work.

but the secret to a good life is knowing when it's time to go. when you know that, however much you may dance, you're as tired as a tired thing underneath, it's time to go.
when you're not quite sure if it's you that smells or the girl dancing next to you, it's time to go.
when, whenever you blink, you can imagine a cotton pillowcase against your cheek, it's time to go.

i was tired enough so that, although dancing fine, i knew that if anyone tried to talk to me my conversation would be "mmmmf. aye. aha. i ... ah ... i ... no, it's gone. mmm."
no kind of flirting is going to go much further with that kind of witty banter as love-fuel.
i probably wasn't being flirted with, anyway. i've mentioned before the male/female ratio on the island. i didn't mention that all, without exception all the hotel girls seem to be thin and beautiful. it's as if a beauty contest took place on mull, and, when it finished, all the runners-up were given waitressing jobs as consolation prizes. it may not seem a sensible way of giving out jobs, but it seems to have worked.

Ah, look at me sounding all sorry for myself. i just need to sleep. I had a fantastic time. it's been a gorgeous day. there was sunshine, there was football (yay!), there was beer, steak, mended candle-urns and dancing. not in that order.
but all there, and all good.
it's been a day among days.
but sleep. i need now, sleep.

i can't get into the swing of writing at the moment. stories don't seem to hit me in the face, it sometimes feels too late to write, none of the words seem to come out right, some don't seem to come out at all.
i need three days sleep. maybe that will make me better. maybe. roll on monday.
'the secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go...'

Saturday, June 08, 2002 |

Some nasty little biting critter (of unknown species, but I'm betting on something midge-ine) has, at some point this evening, found its way into my clothing, and the after effects, the tiny little pink bites, are now causing an indescribale discomfort. Bitey beasts seem to like bras.
ow.

Saturday, June 08, 2002 |

Friday, June 07, 2002

Meg was here. Paul was here.
Ann Elizabeth was here. D was here.

These four did not overlap (except within their own domestic units)(not in that way)(although that too, possibly)(and that's none of my business)(obviously)(I'm lost)(help), and in fact the latter two were only here for half an hour (just enough time to snap up three beautifully hand-crafted [plug, plug] candles), while the former two have been here on and off for a couple of weeks.

I am also here.

Does any of this consitute a blogmeet? Discuss.

Friday, June 07, 2002 |

Four people went out on the dinghy.
Or perhaps it was five.
There may have been 14. That's not the point. There were a few more than the dinghy should have held.
It was low in the water. With a gravelly bubbly unhappy bruuummmbokbokbok sound to the engine.
And yet it didn't sink.
However much we wanted to. However much we willed it to, it didn't sink.

Because that, at least, would have been funny.
So it deposited its cargo of Ya's onto the yacht. (Pronounced yatched, apparently) And then went back for another 4 (5, 18, whatever).
And deposited those, on their over-posh, yet somewhat under-sized vessel.
Still, without sinking.
Come on. Have these people not heard of comic



timing?



anyway.
Another boatload. And another. And another. Nice, respectable, middle-class, plus-foured yachting-types (with the hats, and everything), all being ferried to what, as far as we could see, was the biggest off-shore wife-swapping party this side of Grimsby.
They all seemed tipsy.
Tipsy in a tippy tiny dinghy, and yet they managed not to topple.
Which, as I said, was a shame, as it might have been funny.
We might have laughed then.

Instead we had to wait until they tried to set off without lifting their anchor.
Now that was a truly comedic performance.
I can imagine their satisfaction at pleasing the hecklers on the pub patio.

Last seen heading north up the coast of mull. Backwards. Bourgeois bastards.

Friday, June 07, 2002 |

Thursday, June 06, 2002

The night is still. When the light from the sun disappears, around midnight, moonlight guides you home.
The streetlights of a village, a mile away across the sea, reflect in smooth and curving lines from the opposite shore to the beach that you crouch on.
Sand runs beween your fingers.
Away behind you, the corncrake croaks. And croaks, and croaks.
You can hear people laughing, a group, some joke, on the way home from the pub. The waves softly wash in front of you.

When you inhale you feel the sunshine of the day; you exhale into the cooler night air.
The sun shines still within you.
The air smells of seaweed, and mown grass, and smoke from some near chimney. In the house by the beach a dog whines and scratches the door. The tide is coming in.
You feel the touch of a conversation, held in the day. You feel the touch of laughter. You feel the touch, the something that tells you 'this will be a memory, a good memory'.
You feel the touch of a hand on your shoulder. And you find your way home, by moonlight, to your bed.

Thursday, June 06, 2002 |

Tenth day on the run without a day off.
Forgive me if I'm not verbose?

Thursday, June 06, 2002 |

Wednesday, June 05, 2002

Excuse me for branching into an "Ain't kids cute" moment, but I have to say, and this is quite sad, that the highlight of my day so far was sitting next to (and winding up mercilessly, ah well, it's his parents that have to deal...) the cutest little button of a six year old boy who rewarded all my face pulling and tickling antics at the end of the meal with;

Meal Chairing Person: "And lets have a moment of silence to end the meal..."
one... two... three
Small boy; "Bum!"

Hurrah for you. Just what I was thinking.

Wednesday, June 05, 2002 |

The island is full of naked sheep. It's really quite disconcerting.

Wednesday, June 05, 2002 |

Was there any Oooh! Look! There's Prince William!">Other news today?

From this point on, call me republican. I have never before heard the queen express her gratitude to her people, or if I have, I have never realised that that was supposed to mean me.
Hers?
Her people, as in belonging to her?
I belong to the queen.
Good Lord.
I don't remember, at any point, offering myself over to her.
Perhaps I was drunk.
But then, would anyone be that drunk. (No offence, ma'am. Nor you, Phil.)

Anyway. I'm over tired. I have to go on holiday soon. I don't know when I can, but I have to. Otherwise I'll collapse.
And that's not what my Queen, my country, expect of me.
And God know's I have to live up to the demands and expectations of the queen. After all, I belong to her. She owns me.
So goodnight.

And I'd just like to, on this (as it was said on the evening news, in a wonderful, independent news type fashion) "Glorious, magical, uplifting day, a day, which none of us will ever, Ever forget", (unfortunately, Mr Newsman, I seem to have forgotten it already. Or I missed it. Ask me if I care...) I'd like to end this day with something that means such an awful lot to me. I'm sure it also means an awful lot to the queen (God bless'er), and perhaps, now, it will mean a lot to a few more people.

The Royal Navy Grace. - Let us pray.
God bless the queen, our dinner, and the fleet for which we serve.
Amen.

Bollocks, all of it. It really is.

Wednesday, June 05, 2002 |

A break-in doesn't represent a crime wave.
A splintered lock, stolen disco money, ransacked mail doesn't represent a crime wave.
Front doors are still left open, packages placed carefully in the front hall to stop them getting wet.
Keys are still left in the cars, in case anyone should come along in a tractor and need to move your badly parked vehicle out of the way.

But it's still odd. A little strange. Somewhat unsettling.
It's an island, for God's sake. Nothing happens here.
The stolen vehicle, now that, had it not all been in one night, might have started to resemble a crime wave.
But it looks like it was less of a wave, more of a, what's the word, spree.
What made it all the more shocking was that the vehicle they chose to joyride about in was a golf buggy. A little green golf buggy.
Stop laughing. That's mean. They were joyriding in a little green golf buggy. And then it fell into a ditch.

But it's an island.
Surely it can't be that hard to figure it out. Granted, the nearest policeman is 7 miles onto the next island, but he could at least stand at the ferry as it offloaded, asking people if they were naughty. I mean, if they'd broken into anything. That would probably sound better.

When it was announced in the meeting this morning that all this had happened, they mentioned that there was a large Reebok sneaker-print on the desk.
And I found myself, on reflex, checking my feet, before I realised;

1. I wasn't wearing Reeboks.
2. I don't, in fact, own any.
3. And perhaps most importantly, I didn't do it.

Yet I still had an instinctual need to check. It's such a waste wandering round life feeling guilty about things I've not actually done.
I should do some bad things, illegal things, and then it would make more sense.
At least then I'd have something to feel guilty about, specifically.
Rather than just generally so.

If you're going to have the hangover, you might as well drink the beer.
Right. I'm off to ask Jeeves the best way to blow things up and steal money...

Wednesday, June 05, 2002 |

Tuesday, June 04, 2002

Piss-flaps.
Brick.
Spatula.
Galvenised.
Squeaky.
Bolshoi.
Shoe-Horn.
Can writing be sexy?
Can words be unsexy?
Interesting.

Tuesday, June 04, 2002 |

Oh, and the candle-urn died today.
It was working, and then it died.
That's a bad thing.
I mean, it means I don't have to make candles for a time, which is great.
But it's really c**ting expensive.
And I will have to buy a new one. bang goes the budget.
My work budget is not big. At all. And it certainly wasn't made for buying candle-urns.
They're the things that heat the wax. And they're nasty expensive.

Ach well, maybe the magic maintainence men can fix it. They can fix anything.
maybe.

Tuesday, June 04, 2002 |

So, here, I am nominated for the sexiest female blogger.

What, and do excuse me here, the Fuck?
I have a big nose. And an even bigger arse. There is nothing sexy about me whatsoever.
If there was, by some logic, I should really be getting some sex.
Surely that follows.

My nose would be the one thing I would change. I think.
But I don't think I could bear to wake up in the morning and look in the mirror, seeing something other than this face.
I'm having enough trouble with the new fringe.
Although I like the new fringe. It's as Amelie as I'm ever going to get. It's cute, and fresh, and I like it.
Apart from when I've just woken up, when it stands on end and makes me look like a 90210 extra.

We just had this conversation in the pub. A conversation with a guy who started out by saying that he'd found out today his parents had bought him a Pizza Hut "Happy Monday son! Have a Pizza Hut!" (and a pet shop, and two rental properties) as an investment,

I mean let's ignore the blase moneyed-ess of it all, and focus on the fact that I spend my life craving for pizza. I can't get pizza here, and I want it. Pepperoni Pizza, double pepperoni, double cheese, two helpings of jalapenos, ranch dressing to dip, and here's a guy that owns a million pizzas. A billion potential pizzas.

And then he moves on to tell us that until two year ago, his face was two centrimetres longer.
And now it's not.
Because of the surgery. Because he didn't like it.
He told us the full surgical procedure, bone scraping, skin tugging, muscle tightening, all that stuff, and then, when we looked repulsed, countered with the argument that Everyone wants something done.

Is that so?
Does everyone want something done? Something facial? Could you wake up and look like somebody else?

Tuesday, June 04, 2002 |

Monday, June 03, 2002

Where did I learn to plunge?
Or plung?
It's not something I would naturally work out for myself. I'm not entirely sure that I have that kind of brain.
Perhaps I did, in a flash of inspiration, but I don't think so.
I think learnt it somewhere.
I just don't know where I learnt it.
I'm very sometimes bad with the remembering of things. (And with the English construction of obviously sentences, by the last one judging...)
I wish that my brain was blocked like the sink. But it isn't. It's leaky. Like the milk.

I should unpack this perhaps.
The sink was blocked, blocked and euw-ey and full of blobs of gunk and gunks of blob.
All around were losing their heads, while by some miracle I got to keep mine, rolled up my sleeve, used my palm as the suction device and after several plunges, managed to unblock the sink and amaze the gawping onlookers, all of whom had seemingly thought of me as many things, but never a plunger.

I was very pleased with myself. Smug, one might say.
Until my milk started leaking.
Not my milk, you understand. Not milk coming from within me.
Milk that I happened to have possession of. From a cow.
Not my milk from me. That would be way too personal to mention here. If that were, indeed, the case. Which it isn't.
It was a cow-milk milk carton I was carrying around with me. And then I put it on the floor.
And then, for no seemingly apparent reason, it wee-ed everywhere.

And I was saddened. Saddened out of my smugness. But not saddened to crying. Because that would have been a cliche.
I mean, I could say that I'd cried over the spilt milk, just to make this a better story, but we'd all know it was a lie.
This was never going to be a good story.
It's about blocked sinks and wee-ing cow-milk cartons.
I do minutia at the moment.
I'm sure bigger thoughts happen, but they don't stay blocked in like the water full of euw, they go spilling out like the cow-milk from the cow-milk carton.

So my brain is like the carton, and not like the sink.
That was what I meant. A couple of paragraphs ago. Minutia. Very sorry. Very tired, actually.
bed.

We apologise to the delay in your blog-browsing, normal service will be resumed as soon as something actually happens around here.

Monday, June 03, 2002 |

Sunday, June 02, 2002

So proud that my 'not ever drinking again, not Ever' resolution lasted less than seven hours.
It was one of those hangovers.
I get two kinds. No, three. Or maybe four. But that's if you include the kind of hangover that doesn't feel like any hangover at all.
So three kinds. Or so. But I can't remember what the third kind is.
Actually, now I can't remember what the second one was, either.

It'll come back to me.
Ah yes.
There's the type that doesn't feel like a hangover at all. The type that feels worryingly ok and sober and all. The type that makes you think that you're bound to get some reparation at some point in the day.
But we covered that one.
And then there's the generally feeling a bit gru, and not quite sober, and leaking booze from every pore one.
The one where you feel like a hairy rhino's armpit (legpit?), and everyone that you meet tells you that you look like a hairy rhino's armpit. And you know for damn sure that you smell like a hairy rhino's armpit because everywhere you go you can smell hairy rhino sweat, but there don't seem to be any hairy rhinos about.
(Rhino is a word, isn't it? it's not just something I made up? It looks like something I just made up. Rhino. Rhino rhino rhino rhino. That can't possibly be a word. Rhino.)

And then there was the death one. Like today.
Today I wanted to die.
And for a short while, I thought I was going to. I lay in bed groaning. I couldn't decided whether to get up and be sick or simply lie around with hope of choking on my own vomit and ending the pain forever.
As usual, with this hangover, physical meltdown joined hands with emotional breakdown, and they skipped happily down the road to the land of gru, and there beat me over the head with sickness sticks and told me I was a bad and horrible person for getting so happily drunk in the first place.
Halfway through the day I managed to get up and wobble about in a fashion imitating work, until I gradually got stronger and more effective. And by teatime I was bouncing.
It always happens with the 'model b' hangover.
deathdeathdeath death death. bounce. fine.
Amd by the end of the evening I was entirely happy to be offered a pint.

Christ, but I sound like an old soak.
One thing's for sure. At the miniature blogmeet this evening (well, me, him and her down the pub, if that counts...) we decided that blogger needs some kind of breathalyser system.
Or at least some sort of program that recognises if your keystrokes are erratic.
Or notices if the mouse does seven full circuits of the screen before it hits anything.
Or if you've fallen face forward onto the desk.

And before anyone mentions the 'Boyfriend '98' software that apparently executes all those tasks for you, don't bother.
We've thought about getting it in, but just don't seem to able to install on the equipment available to us here.

Ah well...

Sunday, June 02, 2002 |

Saturday, June 01, 2002

Oh, For shame.
In a highly unusual departure, I've had to remove my own posts from last night.
It's a random collection of words.
I have no idea what was going on.
As Galligan says, I've gone all 'fridge magnet poetry'.
I'm going to spend the rest of the day trying to figure out the point I lay have been trying to relay.
Oh, fuck it, I'll leave it up.
It'll serve as an important public health broadcast on the dangers of Port and Brandy.

And certainly later, I will write more about missing old ladies. Dissing old ladies? Please God let it not be 'kissing' old ladies.
I wasn't That drunk, surely.
I'd remember that.

bleurgh.
I feel sick.
And there is pain-juice nesting behind my eyes.

Saturday, June 01, 2002 |

How do you shake hands?
Are you one of these direct approach, squeeze on contact, shake rationally for the end, to finish with
A queeze. In type of peoplate.

More aout my big session in the moring.
More about me issing old ladies then.

In the meantime, I'go to go to "Entertainments.."

And besides .I'm going to ber,'

I'm going to shairy thing would be of goodnes.

Saturday, June 01, 2002 |