Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Nothing wrong with two. As an amount, it is often perfectly adequate. Two scoops of ice cream, great. Two athletic lingerie models in bed, no argument from me there. As a euphemism, a number two is very hand for talking to old people about bowel movements. As a number, it's quite useful as a segregation between one and three, who have to be kept separate as they are a bit odd.
As a quantity of blog posts over a month though - unacceptable. Before the Department of Blogging demands I commit seppuku, I really should get another one in.
So, what else have I been doing to make bloggaging such a rare event? Something exciting, and awesome, maybe involving ninjas and pirates and bears and T. rexes with laser beams coming out of their freaking eyes, possibly?
Well, there's . . . er . . . work, obviously, and overtime, which is also work, and there's chores, and parenting duties such as playschool and swimming for my son, and letting the baby Bonobo gnaw on my finger with her gums, whilst she presumably tries to cover her entire body in some sort of spit cocoon to protect herself against predators and I wonder if my finger will ever revert back to an unwrinkled state.
Other than that . . ?
Well, that appears to be everything.
Looks like I can safely hang up my Cloak of Fun and the Spangly Top Hat of Adult Orientated Entertainment, because I'm now sporting the Beige Slacks of Parental Encumbrance and the Sensible Cardigan of Steadfast Culpability.
I expect one day, when I've done my ninth Sudoku in a row and am just about to spend some hours deciding whether to have semolina or rice pudding for dessert before Nurse notices I'm out of bed again, I'll look back on this hectic period as the halcyon days, as my prime, maybe as some of the happiest times of my life.
At the moment though, I just feel knackered.
Still, famous for my rock-like stoicism, I understand that harping on about not having enough hours in the day is ungrateful, so I will never mention it or complain about it, and I definitely won't do something as needy and self-serving as moan about it in a blog or something.
But that's only because I don't have time to write the damn thing.
I walked into town a few days ago to visit the supermarket (yawn), the post office (double yawn) and the bank (gaping, Herculean yawn seen just prior to descent into vegetative state from sheer lack of interest in the subject at hand), and remembered that, once, I took pleasure from taking random photos in order to post them on The Gravel Farm.
It occurred to me that I hadn't done that for a while, and now I am more likely to simply power walk my way to a destination, head down to avoid distraction so I can calculate the most efficient route from start to finish that will enable me to complete the journey ahead as effectively as possible, much like a German tourist in a particularly beautiful location.
Well, not today, I thought, rebelling. Just like when I was a teenager and rebelled against my strict hierarchical upbringing by trying a lager rather than a bitter, and not caring if my Dad found out and threatened to disown me.
Turns out he's tried lager too, although it was when he was young and impressionable.
On this walk, I would revert to earlier days, when I was blogging more frequently and could go out with the sole purpose of looking around for pictographic opportunities.
So, head up, phone out, camera on!
Ooh, a kitty!
Cats are usually good for a laugh, gambolling playfully on the pavement and often rolling over to show you their fluffy tummies, ready for some hard core petting action. What with the popularity of lolcats and their ilk, a cute pussy pic would be just the tonic for this blog.
I drew closer, and photographed my very own lolcat:
Ew . . .
Trust me to find possibly the most depressed looking feline this side of Korea.
It blinked at me, first the left eye then, a couple of seconds later, the right eye, and through pitiful cat tears it tried bravely to meow, but all that came out was "heehurgh." Like a tiny, overworked donkey.
Not wanting to lower my mood, I hastily left Waitingtodiecat on it's driveway, dreaming of past glories and a healthy if long gone youth, back in the day before it began to look like one of it's own fur balls, and I made my way to town with a forced cheery grin.
My town (which is essentially a large village) is famous round these parts for having a sizable population of people whose primary choice of locomotion is the mobility scooter. There is even a mobility scooter parade at christmas.
Scooters get dressed up in tinsel and reindeer antlers and are allowed to weave their unsteady way up the high street, occasionally having to be unstuck from drain covers by bemused onlookers, the usual questionable quality of driving being exacerbated by seasonal advocaat and sherry consumption.
Anyway, today, it was sunny and, parade or not, there were still a lot of them about. Usually piloted by elderly folk enjoying the sunshine by wearing their flimsiest raincoats and least padded woolly hats, their only concession to the heat of June being gigantic plastic sunglasses that are designed to go over their usual spectacles and hinder their view even further as they trace a sinuous track on road and path.
You take your life in your hands wandering along the High Street when such scooter gangs are on the prowl.
Like Hell's Angels, they also individualise their mounts. A sticker here, a novelty toy there, maybe a silver skull with red LEDs in the eye sockets, that sort of thing.
One in particular caught my eye, as it denoted not only a modification that made it instantly recognisable to its owner, but it was a cheap, practical application as well:
That, friends, is a wooden bread bin nailed on the front.
I have to tell you that it took all of my resolve not to open it and see what he kept in there. I was presuming bread, for duck-feeding purposes, but I wouldn't have been as surprised as perhaps I should have been had it contained a human head. I resisted, on grounds of not wanting to be seen by one of the owner's homies and made a target for scooter revenge. A man can die from repeated shin-knocks you know. My Nan told me.
Ancient cats and mobility scooters brought the ephemerality of life starkly into focus, and I mused on the fact that, that if we're very lucky, we have a few years of vigour and youth, before all too soon the ravages of time take away everything that is good and everything that is bad.
Still, not to worry. As the old and undoubtedly wise proverb goes, this too shall pass.
Useful for helping one keep perspective is that. Suffering mightily? It'll pass. Overly elated? This too shall pass.
From such, one can draw the deepest, most philosophical and meaningful of conclusions about existence, and life in general.
"This too shall pass."
Life is like . . . a colon?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
To add insult to injury, this meme is called Creative Blogger, and indicates that I am full of lies and falsehoods.
It's got a picture and everything, so it's all legit and official, probably approved by the Dept of Blogging (DoB), one of the few governmental bodies that will not face any spending cuts over the next few years of austerity due to it's inherent importance to the country and world in general:
Unfortunately, I had a warning letter from the DoB saying I was being lax in responding to memes and, should I wish to avoid "penalties", then I'd better get on with it. I dread to think what those penalties might be, what with the awesome and almost infinite autonomy granted to the DoB, so it was a threat I took seriously.
So, apologies to AV for the delay, and here goes.
There are some rules that one must obey when responding to this meme, and I shall copy and paste them here:
She swooned at the very sight of his length, rising before her eyes like a tantalising promise, expanding towards her so she could see nothing else, think of nothing else, even smell nothing else. She moistened immediately, the gush so intense that surely he must have heard it, could see the need advertised in her flushed cheeks. She didn't care. She parted her lips in anticipation as she locked her gaze on to his. No more waiting, she thought. No more good behaviour. No more self-restraint. She wanted it in her, now. A man of considerable experience, he knew it instinctively, and without being told, slid the baguette into a bag and passed it over the counter to her. Wantonly, she took a bite before she'd even left the shop.
Hang on. Wrong window. That was bakery porn.
Here we go:
- Thank the person who gave this to you.
- Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
- Link to the person who nominated you.
- Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth – or – switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie.
- Nominate seven “Creative Writers” who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
- Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
- Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.
So, a big, unmitigated Thank You I Suppose goes out to our Brazilian sponsor Mr Argentum Vulgaris, blogger extraordinaire.
Second requirement, done and dusted at the top there.
Third. Okay, six porkies and one truth, or vice versa.
1) I've published a number of bakery porn novels under the nom de plume Sir V. Ette.
2) My middle name is Danger. And my other middle name is Mouse.
3) Sometimes I do not never use no double negatives.
4) I invented the moon. The orbiting satellite, not the method by which one exposes one's nether regions to motorists from the back of a bus, because that would be just silly.
5) I once spent three months killing rats on the Galapagos islands.
6) I have had a number one classical hit on both sides of the Atlantic with a rendition of all four Ring of the Neibelung pieces played entirely on kazoo. It's how Dickie Wagner would've envisaged it had kazoos been more available to composers in his day.
7) I thought Deathpoof by Quentin Tarantino was a good, original example of film-making and completely not a self-absorbed, badly-written piece of cinematic self-pleasuring with dialogue and acting more suited to a sixth form play than the big screen, and that the director completely wasn't resting on his laurels and relying on past glories to get it funded. Definitely.
There you go.
I've carefully crafted the lie(s) so you'll find it hard to tell which is truth and which is the opposite of truth. I feel that the tortuousness of the task will increase the satisfaction you will feel when you unravel the untruths and filter out the fiction, allowing you to bask in the positively Holmesian machinations your brain will have undertaken to solve this mystery.
You can then move on to one of those daytime telly quiz questions where they ask equally fiendish brain teasers with multiple choice solutions. Like "What is your name? Is it A) your name, B) someone elses name, or C) a pizza?"
The Gravel Farm is all about self-improvement see.
Personally, I quite enjoy doing the odd meme, but I feel like I've pressured enough of my valuable blog chums just by making them read mine, so I think I'll renege on the last part of the meme and take the punishment from the Dept of Blogging.
I understand they have powers not seen since the inquisition, so I'm being ever so brave really.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ooh . . .
Just got me . . . thing out. Not me thing. Me thingy. You know.
The computer is all hard to get to at the moment, wobbling about like that.
Ffffffffssssss . . .
What did I want to write.
Yes! Diet. On it. Sgoin well. Haven't lost any weight yet cos I keep buying kebabs, but I'm sticking to it. Proof is in the photo.
Just come home for a spot of lunch.
Got to go now.
To work . . .
Nnnnn . . .