April 2002

April 30, 2002

However, on the way home,

However, on the way home, I managed to mug a random American for a luminous orange plastic torch with 'jesus is the light...' written on the side. Just what I never knew I wanted. Fantastic.

All I need now is WWJD underwear. That would complete the collection.

I'm going away for the night. Dinner and that. Back thursday.

x

11:44 PM | Comments (0)

How exactly, is it fair,

How exactly, is it fair, that whenever I meet somebody fun to flirt with, whenever I meet somebody that I can talk to endlessly and well, how is it, exactly, that these are always the same people that are leaving in two days.
Or only here for a day trip.
How does that work, precisely?

I'm not expecting an answer here.
I just wanted to ask the question out loud...

11:36 PM | Comments (0)

While I was away I

While I was away I missed;

1. some lady falling through a glass door
2. said lady being taken away by air ambulance at 5am
3. in a power cut
4. with her face being held together by elastoplast.
5. A damn good disco
6. the buds of three brand new love affairs (it is spring, after all)
7. A slightly unhinged man that had to be escorted off the island last year arriving on the island again, again without his medication, and making sound effects all the way through the Sunday morning communion service. Again.
   Reader: "And Jonah went to sleep in the bows of the ship"
   Strange man in the back row: snoring noises
   Reader: "while a great storm raged outside..."
   Strange man in the back row: whooooosh! whooosh!
   Reader: "And Jonah woke up..."
   S.m.i.t.b.r: *bagpuss type yawn, long, leisurely...*
   Reader:"The sailors all rejoiced"
   S.m.i.t.b.r: 'Yay!'

You see, if I've no clear direction or content, it's only because nothing ever happens to me.
It all happens while I'm down in London.

02:13 PM | Comments (0)

Perfect dialogue summing up to

Perfect dialogue summing up to weather around here.
Rain and wind have been battering us all winter. And for all the talk of early springs and this shaping up to be the hottest year on record, rain and wind are still battering us. Good weather is to be treated with suspicion, as it'll probably be replaced by wind and rain within the hour.
So, a passing conversation between two locals this morning...
"Lovely day..."
"Aye. Not sure how long that'll last, mind..."

It's great, you can be happy about the sunshine. Just don't get cocky.

09:35 AM | Comments (0)

April 29, 2002

I don't want to be

I don't want to be a man anymore. It's not fair.
I always have to be the man.

I love dancing. I love ceilidhs. I know the dances, the steps, the best way to spin, the little flouishes that look really pretty as you dance, I know which I dance best with which people, and which are reserved for one person in particular, which you can talk through, flirt through, laugh through. And which you have to just shut-up and dance.

Every monday there's a ceilidh here. Some weekends too.
And I always have to be the man.
Not always. Usually. If I'm doing the proper thing, and dancing with the guests, it helps if I lead. Or if there are no men available - and bearing in mind that 7:1 ratio, there probably won't be - someone has to know the dance well enough to adapt to the men's part.
I'm sick of being a man.
I'm quite obviously not a man. I have lumps in all the wrong places, for a start. And I'm wearing a skirt. And I can multi-task.
And women get to spin, to turn, to waltz on the tips of their toes...

I'd like to be the woman for once. Would anybody like to dance?
(Gosh, but that sounds suggestive. Sorry.)

10:32 PM | Comments (0)

In a change from the

In a change from the traditional 'lying in fields looking for shapes in the clouds' exercise, today I sat in the clouds and looked for shapes in the fields.

Staring out of the window from Stanstead to Prestwick, I watched the patterns of the different coloured fields below and tried to fin some sign or symbol in them... 'Was that an 'E'? And there, right near it, an 'r'?'... And that could very well be a sign. I mean, I like 'er' , I like it a lot. So perhaps that was a sign that the fields were talking to me. ......'And that's an 'A'.... That's me! 'And there, an arrow! Which way is it pointing? Which way are we going? We're going in the direction of Scotland. So that must be west! I should go west, apparently. Or perhaps it's just a marker for lost planes, not lost people.

I saw several other letters (k and f among them), something that resembled a sofa, and a large alien's head with a talking duck behind. I'm not sure what that meant. I'm sure a talking duck & alien must be a symbol of something. But what?
I shall look to the clouds...

06:58 PM | Comments (0)

Does the Pope always kiss

Does the Pope always kiss runways, or was it just the once?
Does he still? No. I imagine he probably doesn't.
And why did some random man do it when we touched down in Prestwick this morning?
Something to do with the Pope? Was he the Pope? He didn't look like the Pope.
Was it the whole Elvis thing?
Did he have to do it right at the bottom of the stairs?
Did he not realise that his symbolic act of homecoming might trip people up?
Tired people, yawning, and not looking where they were going?
Maybe?
F***tard.

Shit. I've got a train to catch...

10:43 AM | Comments (0)

Blogger has decided you don't

Blogger has decided you don't need to read about how many trains I missed, connections f***ed up, check-ins I made by the skin of my teeth, and nice window seats I secured all the same.
Blogger has decided it was all far too long winded.
Blogger was right. Well done blogger.
It was arse-wrenchingly dull. Lucky you, you missed it.

10:34 AM | Comments (0)

April 28, 2002

03:31 PM | Comments (0)

April 27, 2002

Lookit! New design and everything!

Lookit! New design and everything!

Too wet for tourism, too tired for shopping, so we redesigned the site.

Well, I say 'we'. I mean meg.
She did the designing, I just made the tea.
Well, I say 'made the tea', I made one cup, and that was so bad, I wasn't really asked to make any more.
I did draw the pictures. But Meg did the rest. Because she's great.
Lookit! Isn't it cute?

07:10 PM | Comments (0)

'Ladies and gentlemen, the guard

'Ladies and gentlemen, the guard is passing through the train, please have your tickets and railcards ready for inspection.'

And the door opens at the end of the carriage. A tired looking woman with limp hair, no lust for life and a crumpled blue uniform steps into the narrow gangway between the newspapers and knees.
With small, sad, passing glances at outstretched tickets, she strides through as best she can, and the door bangs at the other end of the carriage less than 30 seconds later.

I'm sure there was a time, or at least, I've heard tell of a time, when the ticket inspector inspected your ticket. Perhaps it was merely myth. I know I've read about it in books.
A time when the conductor would come along, take your proffered ticket in a wrinkled but kindly hand, study carefully the date, and the destination, and eventually turn to you, with a gentle grandfatherly smile, and say "oh, nononono, young lady, dear oh dear. No, you see, you've picked yourself the wrong train here, lassie, this one's going entirely the wrong direction for where you want to be going, oh yes, dear oh dear oh dear. What are we to do?"

Those times are now sadly passed, and gone. Which is a shame. Because that would have been a useful thing for someone to have said to me at that point.
Still, luckily, I'd left myself an extra couple of hours to get from Glasgow to the airport.
I just hadn't realised what I was leaving those extra hours for. It turns out they weren't extra after all. They were for seeing Lanarkshire. Which was lovely.

06:54 PM | Comments (0)

April 26, 2002

Two favourite things that parents

Two favourite things that parents have apparently told their children about Ice Cream Vans;

"No darling, that's the tune he plays when he's run out of ice cream..."
and,
"Oh, listen, darling, there goes the Music Van again..."

but like most 'I heard a parent say to their child' stories, they're probably bollocks. Shame.

04:47 PM | Comments (0)

I was confused. It was

I was confused. It was a Co-Op. It sold other staples, bread, milk, toilet paper, the like.
But on the beverage shelf, something was missing.

There were Tea Bags. There was Hot Chocolate. There was Ovaltine. No Coffee. None.
Resigned, I took my paper to the till, thinking I'd pop into the next shop - Hell, it's London. It's a big place. Somewhere's got to sell coffee... - And there it was. Amongst the spirits, medicines, and tobacco, there was the coffee. Behind the counter.

I asked why, and was given a simple answer. "It gets stolen, more than any other product. More than alcohol. So we put it behind the counter."

So there I was, made to feel like the addict I am.

"Excuse me, have you got any"- sniff, shifty look -"...Kenco? I need some. I need caffine, have you got any? I don't care if it's Nestle, I've got cash. It's not decaff? Is it?"

I wonder if decaffinated gets lifted quite so often...

04:41 PM | Comments (0)

People - and by people

People - and by people I mean people I know, love, am usually great friends with - laugh at me.
Because I choose to live in a place with an extremely high incidence of weather. We have a lot of weather, where I usually live. Much. And wet. We also have the most hours of sunshine of anywhere in the country, but that is, admittedly, usually accompanied by winds that can take the skin off your face.
Sometimes it's very lovely.

It's very lovely up there right now, for example.
While I am in London. With hail, and 20mph winds.

hmm. Either the God of Sunshine hates me, the God of wind is woo-ing me, Or I am, myself, a small shite-weather-deity.

02:30 PM | Comments (0)

April 25, 2002

10:41 PM | Comments (0)

Oh look

Oh look, yes. There I am. On the blogger main page.
And I say again. 'Fuck me!'
A little lost for words after that...
Since it's the design being commended, and that's all meg's hard work.
It just leaves me sitting here, wishing that I'd been rather more clever this week so far.
Ah well.
We can't be pithy all the time.
Still. Blog thing. Odd socks.

10:25 PM | Comments (0)

In other news

1. I need to pluck my eyebrows. I can't venture on to the mainland with a monobrow. I simply can't.
2. I'm too excited to sleep.
3. I heard a vicious rumour that I was on the 'blogs of note' list. An entirely unsubstantiated rumour, as far as I can see. Which is sad, because I was going to boast like crazy about it. Even though the design complimented was seester's. I never get to be boasty. I'm sure I'd be a very good boaster, if I got the chance. I could be the boastiest.
4. Seeing as our shower's not working, I used one of the guest showers, and got entirely preoccupied with someone else's pubic hair. It was sticking to the tiles, above the shower head. And how someone managed to get their pubic hair up to that level to deposit it, I've no idea. But there it was. Annoying me. So I knocked it of with my right hand. And it clung on. I used my left hand, to swat it from my right. And It clung to my left instead. I held it under the shower head, in hopes of washing it off. And there it went, dancing down my arm, never leaving the skin, just skipping about. Then I lost it. I lost it. Someone else's pubic hair, at large on my body. I know it's still on there somewhere. Laughing at me. But it's fine. Fine. It really is. Anyway.

I'm off to London. Did I say? I'll update when I can.

12:08 AM | Comments (0)

April 24, 2002

The joy of the there in the getting there

Yay. I've been pissing everyone off all day and I don't care.
"I'm going to London tomorrow."
"This time tomorrow I'll be in Oban/Glasgow/the air/London!"
"Did I tell you I was going to London tomorrow?"
"I'm going on holiday, did I say?"
"I'm going to London. To visit my sister."
"I haven't been on the Big Ferry for three and a half months..."
"I'm going to London!"
"I'm going to cross roads!"
"No, I can't come, I'm afraid, I'll be in London..."
"I'm going to get run over by a big London bus!"

And you know, by the end of the day even I was hoping that I actually would.
The funniest thing is, I'm really looking forward to London, but more than that, I'm looking forward to the fact that tomorrow I'll travel for 14 hours on my own.
I don't have to talk, I don't have to smile, or nod, or reply politely to questions. I can sink into myself, and into a book, and my crappy walkman, and my daydreams, and the scenery. And other people's conversations, of course, but that should be taken as read. 14 hours on my own. 14 hours of silence and lots and lots and lots of noise. I can't wait.

11:50 PM | Comments (0)

Am I a big freak?

Does everyone have this amount of air flowing out of their tear ducts?
I'm thinking no. Because I've never really heard of other people complaining about tear-duct-air-leakage.

It's only because I have hiccups. St George's day hiccups. (which is right? hiccups or hiccoughs? I think it must be hiccups. I think I may have just made up the other...)
I have the hiccups, and I'm holding my breath.
Which is all well and good, by itself, but it's very difficult to hold your breath while laughing.
And I can't stop laughing.

Because every time I hold my nose, the pan-pipe solo starts from the corner of my eye.
ffiiiiiiiii....fooooooooo.faaaaafaaa.....foooioioioo.
And I giggle.
because it sounds stupid.
And I haven't got enough fingers to cover my nostrils and tear-ducts, and the trying to do so amuses me.
Is air supposed to flow so from the corners of your eye?
Is it supposed to make such a noise?
Or do I have death-disease?
Do I?
I shouldn't think so, but just in case..
Do I?
And now I'm going away and not trying to hold my breath while

12:04 AM | Comments (0)

April 23, 2002

Crikey!

I feel so terribly ashamed! Half way through the day and I had to be bally reminded!
It's St Georges Day!
Happy St Georges Day!
I've been telling myself that I have to celebrate St Georges Day for years, since I'm forced to celebrate St Patrick's by Guinness, St David's brings a rash of Daffodils and ludicrous accents wherever I happen to be living, and St Andrew's is largely forgotten in Scotland, but Burns Night takes its place, and just takes the piss (in a good way). And yet I've never ever ever celebrated St Georges Day.

So today's the day.
I'm going to be terribly over-polite, drink a lot of tea, and sing 'Jerusalem' at the top of my voice, even though I only know 6 of the words.
I may improve on this celebration later.
But how? How does one celebrate being English not in England?

01:00 PM | Comments (0)

Dead stuff and anna

Incidentally, nothing has died around me in almost a week, no birds, sheep, toads or anything else.
I'm worried.
Calm before the storm, and that.

Watch out. We're due for a massacre in the western isles.
It must be so. Thingslove to die around me.

12:04 AM | Comments (0)

April 22, 2002

choosy

Should the fact that I happen upon less than one eligible batchelor a month be making me More or Less choosy?
I have a feeling it should, really, be making me less choosy. The whole beggars/choosers thing. Take it where you can get it. That kind of idea.

But it's not. I don't know why, but it's not. I feel like every person I meet, as nice as they are, lovely people, beautiful people, just don't seem to come up to scratch.
And I don't even know what, or where, or who 'Scratch' is.

The people I meet that are easy to talk to don't laugh, or make me laugh, the people I meet that can dance don't drink, the people I meet that have read the same kind of books as I have and seen the same kind of films also kill kittens for a hobby and have three wives in Manitoba.
Maybe I'm reading the wrong books.
The people who see things the same way I do then turn out to be flawed in something else, and the people who are flawed in the same way as me then turn out to be social-numbskulls to boot. (This is one big thing. After I spent four years baby-sitting Pip, I need someone who can talk to other people. Not just me. Is that too much to ask?).
Basically, and I'm not thinking straight enough to put this right: Everyone, every one of the attactive, available men I meet, every one of them, every one-every-six-weeks-or-so, seem to have some lovely and 'right' attributes. But none of them seem to have them all at the same time. And those that do are either married, gay, or my best friend. Which is also fine.

Damn it. I'm not being too choosy. I'm sure I'm not. I'm just being careful.
I think.
Damn it.
I think, at the end of the day, I have to remember that I live on an island, in the middle of nowhere, with less than five single men on it. And more than 50 single women. As far as I can work out. May be that that has something to do with it.
Nae bother. I'm going to London in three sleeps. Focus on the London thing....

11:40 PM | Comments (0)

Damn it

I decide to give myself a candle free week, get some too-long-laid-by projects done, offer other, more exciting sessions.
And then some crabbit old moo gets so offensive about how dull candles are, ,how much she hates making them and how vehemently she won't come near the studio if I even think about making them, that I now have to do candle sessions just to keep her at bay.

Still, I suppose a day wouldn't be a proper day without wax up my nose and on my trousers.
Then again, maybe it would.
Maybe it would be a Nicer day.

Perhaps one day I'll find out.

12:16 PM | Comments (0)

4 sleeps

I'm going to London In Four sleeps.
I'm very excited.
I'm going to eat fast food and almost get run over by a bus.
Three days. Four 'sleeps'.
Right. I'm going to lie down and wait for the fire alarm.

12:05 AM | Comments (0)

April 21, 2002

My drawers

I had known it made some secret sense, the layout of my storage system.
It felt kind of right, and okay, and fine.

Naturally, in my mind, the same drawer that held bank statements and bills pending should also double up as a laundry basket, when no real laundry basket was available.
Actually, that doesn't sound like the same kind of natural assumption, now I put it in writing.

Anyway. I realised why that was, why that had happened, as I was going through the monthly or so torture of arranging just how overdraw(er)n I can afford to be in any one of four different current or loan accounts.

I used to be terrible. I'm now - touch sticky plastic things with letters on them - getting better.
I used to have a similar filing system, a large drawer.
But it was the Unopened-Window-Envelope drawer. BIlls and statements and letters, unread, unpaid, unanswered, would get tipped into the same place, and left there for spring cleaning. When they would move to a binbag.

Only when something arrived with a Credit Agency or Court address on the back would I open it, panic, cry, and do something about it, or - more usually - find someone more grown-up that could.
And I'm better than that now. I don't panic. Yes - I get sad, I'm generally in debt, so I get sad, but who isn't? And doesn't?
So I'm learning to deal with things. With the help of my underwear.

And so I have my drawer.
I open my statements, and bills, and letters, and I cry, and then I take the past months' things and money stuff out of my filing and laundry drawer, look at my cheque book, balance the whole thing, realise where I've gone wrong, cry, and then sort it out.

But It struck me, while sitting and staring at fifteen pieces of paper I'd pulled from The Drawer.
It's a coping technique. A teaching technique. A learning thing. They relate. Totally.
Pending accounts and pending underwear.

You have to do something about them, sooner or later, or you're either going to turn up in court or run out of clean pants.

(I was thinking of making some joke here about 'because if you don't sort these things out, you're basically in shit.' But I realised it was crass, and unbefitting.)

Now. All I have to do is post all these things.
So. In which drawer did I file the stamps? Socks, probably. They both begin with an 'S'.

*sigh*.
( updated spelling courtesy of molly... Ta.)

11:51 PM | Comments (0)

Wee-oooh-wee-ooooh-wee-ooooh

Well, I'll say this at least - It's damned reassuring to know that I'm not going to Burn to death.

It's reassuring to know that I shan't roast in my sleep, wake up dead, die horribly and toasted.

I must say, I'm reassured by those things.
Because I'll say something for our smoke detectors. They sure as Hell detect smoke. Any smoke. Any passing of hot air also.
You turn on a heater after it not being on for two days, and the smoke detector panics, and the fire alarm goes off.
You use a hairdryer too over-zealously, and the smoke detector panics, and the fire alarm goes off.
You feel in the mood for a piece of toast, the smoke detector senses your intention, panics, and the fire alarm goes off.
Not, to my knowledge, has it been set of by flatulence yet, but I await the day...

And - Even more joy - this building being old, and special, and owned by the government and all, it turns out that every time - every single time mind you - the fire alarm goes off, we have to call the fire brigade.

The volunteer fire brigade - who now hate us - and they have to come from all over the island, down to the fire truck at the jetty, and back up the road to tell us - that once again, there is no fire. None. And we can go back to bed. And so can they.

There was a fire alarm this morning.
I'm in a very - Very, mind you - pissy mood.
Can you tell?

12:10 PM | Comments (0)

Gosh

Look. People seem to take the idea of Kevin Bacon, and his Six degrees, very seriously.

I only notice this because I met a bunch of people in the pub tonight who had never heard of 'the six degrees of Kevin Bacon'. I'd always assumed, like 'pass the parcel' or 'musical chairs', or 'twister', that it was some kind of Victorian Parlour Game, something passed down through generations. Something that everyone knew. Apparently not. Apparently some people Don't know it.

Odd.
Anyway. I'm 3 degrees from Kevin Bacon, And Hot Damn! I'm proud of that.

I should go to bed right now, as I might be slightly drunk and talking about the Kevin Bacon Game.
mmm.

12:57 AM | Comments (0)

April 20, 2002

aging

I've not watched 'Blind date' in a while. How long has Cilla been in Soft Focus?

07:23 PM | Comments (0)

misplaced

the typical saturday of scrubbing floors, serving food, scouring paint palates, scraping wax off the floor, smiling nicely, and harbouring a growing suspicion that something's missing.

Not on any cosmic level.
Not that something's missing from my life. Something else is missing.
Or few things.
A few quite expensive things.
Either they're missing or I've lost them.
I don't think I've lost them.
They're not the kind of things I'd lose.

I found my shoes, by the way.

07:21 PM | Comments (0)

April 19, 2002

Oooh.

The hangover. She hurts.

09:38 AM | Comments (0)

Mainlanding

In a weeks time, I'm going to London.
I'm going to the mainland. I'm going to the mainland for the first time in three months.
I'm going to see seester. And a milllion other people.
I'm going to cross roads.
I'm going to cross roads.
I'm going to cross roads, whole roads, with cars going different ways and everything.

I'm going to leave this little island, and twelve hours later be in London, crossing roads.
At this time, more than any other I need Darth Vader with me, showing me how to do the thing.
When I was young, I didn't realise it was Darth telling me to do it safely. To cross the road, and look both ways, To Stop, Look, Listen. I didn't realise that the nicee man in the green suit was the same as the nasty man in the bucket.

They could have capitalised on the Darth thing more.
Darth Vader getting children to cross roads would have been effective.
Terrifying, but effective.
Having the costume but not the voice, they could at least have doctored some of the soundtrack.

Imagine; small child on one side of the road, Dave prowse on the other, in costume, with dubbed voice.
"Cross Over ... Luke"
And the small child would cross the road.

"I sense something. A presence I've not felt since...
A car is coming! stay where you are!"

"You underestimate the power of the Main Road"

And then, perhaps, in later adverts, they could have brought other cast members in to help with the whole 'road safety' thing.

"Cross or no Cross. There is no Try"

I'm too too tired. And going to my death-free bed...

12:51 AM | Comments (0)

April 18, 2002

R.I.F

The newly dead bird has been removed from the fireplace.
Three skeletons of birds were also taken away.
It certainly answers one question I've had. Because you hardly ever see dead birds around.
Mostly live ones. I'd always wondered where they went to die.
They go to my fireplace.
It also answers the questions I'd had about why my room smelled of dead bird quite so much.

So happy day. Dead things removed and questions answered. Killed two birds with one stone there. Or rather four. Which is more impressive.

And the electric metronome has been found, under the bed, of course, and switched off.

The day would be perfect, but for the fact that I've lost my shoes.
I know I was wearing them this morning.
And now they've disappeared.

But I'll find them again. I'm sure. It's not as if they'll have walked off alone. Although that would also be impressive.
And when I find them, I will truly rejoice. Then this will be a 'good day'.

04:23 PM | Comments (0)

April 17, 2002

polystyrene

So anyway, I have these polystyrene cups, that someone sent me, to use for craft workshops.
I asked people to send me random craft resources that they had lying around, and people have sent me some wonderful things.
People have sent me some very useful things.
And people have sent me some polystyrene cups.

With no bottoms.

And I'm guessing they're some kind of craft resource, but I've not a clue what kind of craft resource - exactly - they might be.
What exactly could one use them for? Polystyrene cups with no bottoms.
I think perhaps, if they have no bottoms, they're not cups.
Large, yet short, polystyrene tubes, I suppose.
That get smaller toward the bottom. Or toward the 'no bottom', whatever.
They get smaller toward one end. The end that isn't there.

Someone suggested 'hats for cats', ineffectual ones, to be sure.
Someone else immediately thought of flea collars for ferrets. Which apparently have a lot of fleas.
Unfortunately I have no ferrets.
I asked for 'stuff', and 'stuff' was what I got.
"Ask and it shall be given unto you'. It was just never specified what 'it' was. The 'it' that shall be given is, apparently, a polystyrene cup with no bottom.

It's really nice of this person to send me polystyrene cups with no bottoms for use in craft.
I just don't know what use in craft polystyrene cups with no bottoms might have.
Does anyone, anywhere, know of a use for polystyrene cups with no bottoms?

They have Union Jacks printed on either side, if that helps...

Right. Hoping now that the dead thing in my chimney has tucked itself in for the night, I'm off to sleep in the valley of death.
God rest my soul.

11:59 PM | Comments (0)

And soon to bed.

Which I'm dreading.
I might just sod it, and sleep in the temporarily empty room next door.
Having found and eliminated the source of the beep beep beep...
Which is a great relief, I can tell you.
I never would have realised that the sound was coming from there...
Still.

I can't decide which I think is worse, thinking that I'm sleeping next to some long-tailed or winged rodent, building its nest next to my knees, or thinking that said rodent was in its death throws this morning, and is now beginning the decompostion process as I sleep.
I'll try and find someone big and strong (or at least someone 'not me') to open up the fireplace and see.
Maybe tommorow.
If it was a bird it'll be dead by now.
If it's a mouse there's always chance that it'll find its way out and sit on my face as I sleep.
I'm going to find somewhere else to sleep.
I'll just sleep next door. The mouse won't find me there.
And it'll be fine, now that the beep beep beep has gone...

09:57 PM | Comments (0)

In front of the fireplace

In front of the fireplace is my bed.
Between the fireplace and the bed, there is a thick piece of plywood.
With photographs stuck on it, but that's not the point right now.

Behind the plywood, something lives.
And lives loudly.
Behind the plywood, next to my bed. It scraches. And maybe flaps. I don't know.
It makes loud noises. Running and climbing noises.
I hate it.
And it's only been there two days.
And I don't know what to do about it.
And it's very loud.
And I didn't get very much sleep.

08:53 AM | Comments (0)

April 16, 2002

Does anyone want any mucus?

I have mucus.
I have plenty.
I may well be the number one mucus-producer in the Western Isles.
And God knows there's plenty of them. It's the only place in Britain I've ever seen spittoons.
Not on this island, of course, somewhere else nearby.

Anyway. Mucus. If you want it, I've got it for export.
Lots of it.
Bucket loads.
Not literally of course, that would be disgusting.

07:18 PM | Comments (0)

All the tiny tiny people

When I was young, my favourite book was one, and I can't remember the name, about how your body works.
I think it may have been called "How your body works".
But I don't really remember.
Anyway. The text was all sound and scientific, but the illustrations were fantasy, and therefore fantastic.
Not fantasy as in Unicorns and Spaceships.

As in Hundreds of little people, tiny tiny little people, working inside your body like an enormous factory.
Battles going on between armies of tiny little people and big green bacteria.
Tiny little people running with messages along nerves.
Tiny little people pumping the heart with machinery.

Sometimes it's easier to think that this actually happens, that this is how your body actually works, Although I'm imagining that that's probably not true.
But sometimes it feels that way.
Especially when I'm ill, and everything is grinding and slow-moving, all the machinery malfuntioning.
And nothing seems to work, nothing in my head seems to work.
And the only explaination I can give for it is that there are a whole lot of tiny little people congregating in some other part of my body, trying to work out a perfect - in colour, texture and taste - Strand of Mucus.
They're all working on the mucus problem. Every single one of them.
And boy - are they working hard.

(hack, hack, splutter, gru, whimper) Excuse me.

03:04 PM | Comments (0)

beep. beep. beep. beep

beep.
beep.
beep.
beep.
beep.
beep
beep.
beep.
beep.
It's not loud. It's just annoying.
In the next room. The empty bedroom. The bedroom I shouldn't feel at ease to be in - occupant being on holiday and that...

but it's going beep beep beep
beep
beep
beep
beep
And I have no idea where from.
When you walk through the door it sounds like it's coming from the bedside table.
And when you check the bedside table it sounds like it's coming from the bookshelves.
When you check the bookshelves, it's coming frrom the light fitting.
With your ear to the light fitting, it's coming from the inside of the wardrobe.
From the inside of the wardrobe, it's coming from the desk.
Leaning over the desk, it seems to be coming from under the duvet.
Under the duvet, It seems to come from the door again.

Now the room looks ransacked.
And it still goes
beep
beep
beep
beep
beep...

Perhaps it's one of those 'obvious' type of bombs.
I could cope with that.
At least it wouldn't 'beep' anymore. beep beep beep beep
beep
beep
beep...

boom.

01:04 AM | Comments (0)

hurt the teddy bear

hurt the teddy bear.
I mean, I don't know whether i want to hurt the teddy bear.
but hurt him.

It feels better than it should.
And it's the most beautiful site I've seen.
[via stuart]

12:17 AM | Comments (0)

April 15, 2002

These three things have pissed me off

Three things in three days.

The first thing; My TV guide didn't arrive with my paper on Saturday. It's not the TV thing. I don't care what's on the TV. But it's my favourite part of the weekend paper.
I don't expect anyone to actually care about this, by the way. I realise this is not award-winning journalism, or blogism, for that matter. I don't expect for this to make thrilling reading. It just has been pissing me off. For three days. That's all this item is about. You get what you pay for. Where was I?

The second thing; I ran out of tobacco for two days. Which would have given me the perfect excuse to give up, I realise.
I realise now.
Now I have some more tobacco.
At the time it was simply a perfect excuse to be grumpy.

The third thing; On the news yesterday, The person that won the London Marathon (women's division) was, according to the ITV News - 'A 28-year-old girl from Cheshire'.
At what age do we grow up, then, officially?

The fourth thing; Although my cold's feeling a little better, every time I laugh, I begin to cough like a big dog.
And I cough for ages. And it hurts.

No-one gets any extra points for relating point two to point four.
Thank you for listening.

07:47 PM | Comments (0)

Kids say the funniest things no.2337. I didn't really just say that, did I?

In other linguistical news, my grammatical tutor, Leah, aged three, has just informed me the 'wax' is the plural of 'whack'.

Of course.

These are wax.
This is whack.

What a fool I've been.

01:03 PM | Comments (0)

April 14, 2002

all zeds and esses

You know, I had almozt forgotten that I had a gueztbook. And then, when I check it on the off-chance, I dizcover that people have been writing in it.
And not only writing in it, but holding dizcourse on my spelling.
So which iz right? The US or English spelling of a certain word?
Does it confuze you that I would chooze to uze a different, but equally correct letter in the spelling of that certain word?
Doez it matter? You underztand what I'm saying all the same, right?
Archaic az it iz.

I'll write more on thiz later. It iz, after all a colourful subject. Flavourful, you might say. Full of pozzibilities for humour.

I might even look them up in some dictionariez.
If I can get myself organised.

02:24 PM | Comments (0)

April 13, 2002

'niff

Not only do I have a cold, but everyone else does too, and I'm getting no sympathy.
My throat is raw, I sound like Barry white. Or Madge, from Neighbours.
I sound like I've been gargling with gravel. And Feel like it too.
Perhaps I have.
I don't remember gargling with gravel.
Perhaps I've been sleep-gravel-gargling. No. Maybe I have a cold.
My head is filled with what feels like humous. And all the liquid in my body is falling out of my nose.

And, of course, I won't stop talking about it.
Because self-pity is the only thing that makes it worth having a cold in the first place.
I notice that whenever I start talking to someone, I put on my little pathetic croaky voice, and if that doesn't work, I start coughing.

"Oh, heddo.... yes i'b fide. Thag-ooo." (coff coff. splutter. sniff!) "doh. I jud habba biddava code." (Coff!) "Doh. Id's 'k." weakly... "i'll live." (weak smile, Coff. splutter, whimper, mooch)

Will someone just send this wretch back to her bed?

You mean I have to look after myself?
...bud i can'd! I habba code...
whimper.

11:49 PM | Comments (0)

April 12, 2002

Hm? Oh, well...

Well, thank you.
I understand you meant it as a compliment, and thank you.
In my own, personal opinion, I don't think I do look like a young Barbara Sreisand, no.
Yes, She was very good, and very talented, I just look nothing like her.
Although thank you for the compliment. Compliment I understand it to be, right?
Right.
No.
But thank you.

And what?
No, I have no Israeli blood in me.
no.
Not even slightly. Not that I know of. Just no.

And before you ask, I don't belong to the 'anteater' family either.
I just have a big nose.

But thank you for trying to compliment me in the first place.
5 points for effort, doc.

11:57 PM | Comments (0)

a lump of cow to make it better

Well, if nothing else will cheer me up, I've just remembered that I'm being bought dinner tonight.
That's the good thing about bets.
Sometimes, you win. And it was such an easy one too.
Which instrument did Paul Macartney play in the Beatles?

And at stake, steak.
Medium.
Medium this time.
Not medium rare.
Medium.

05:29 PM | Comments (0)

A complete mystery

A fire alarm at 5am.
A long morning of meetings.
An argument with an infuriating collegue.
A conversation about "strict working hours" with someone that believes in them strongly.
A feeling that her believing in them strongly means that I have to do half her work.
Another long meeting, and feeling undervalued.
And unlistened to.
And sad.
Hormone overload,
not enough sleep, and a strange feeling of failure coming from nowhere.

Now, can someone tell me why I can't stop crying?...

03:15 PM | Comments (0)

April 11, 2002

Never in my life have I wanted to swear so much

Normally, I'm very good.
'Don't swear so much in front of middle-aged Christians', I tell myself. 'They don't like it. It makes the Baby Jesus cry.'
And thus I don't swear.
Besides, talking to middle-aged Christians doesn't make me want to swear.
They're very nice, on the whole. Sometimes terrifyingly so.
No, I don't feel the need to swear in front of them. Not really. Not so much.

And really, it wouldn't break the world in two if I did.
The people you really shouldn't swear in front of;
the people it's really very bad to swear in front of, are children.

And they're the people that really make me want to swear. The children people.
Actually, this week, only the one child made me want to swear.
But he made me want to swear a whole lot, so that probably makes up for it.

And I didn't. Well, not much.
No, I didn't at all until today. When I realised that if I didn't stop biting my lip, it was going to fall off.
Or if I didn't stop internalising swear words, at some point they were all going to come out at once - worst ones first, and loudest, exploding into the air in a really nasty way.
And then I would either carry on swearing constantly for the rest of my life, or I would collapse, all spent and sworn-out.

So I started swearing in a modest fashion.
Just quietly, and every now and again.
Just to myself. And then to other adults standing around.
And then I realised that I was going to have to stop again, before I built up to a rousing curse finale..
Or I was just going to have to do it.
And just to get it out of my system, I ran up to the hills behind the building, looked the sheep, and cute little lambs, squarely in the eye,
and told them they were a - 'Bunch of c***s. A right bunch of motherf***ing, f***faced f***wits. And that their [assumedly collective] mother was a crackwhore. b*****ds. f***f***f***f***f***.....'

That told them.

They bleated at me. Affectionately.
And cutely.
Darnit.

07:46 PM | Comments (0)

April 10, 2002

dribble suits you

And then a rehearsal with a dribbling baby on my shoulder.
And then a whole singing workshop with a dribbling baby on my shoulder.
I should emphasise, this is not my baby.
Although it is my cashmere scarf, covered in baby drool.

But the most obscure thing said to me all day?
"Aw, bless! That really suits you!"
It's not a hat, madam, it's a baby. A baby.
And no, it doesn't.
Piss off.

07:52 PM | Comments (0)

comments gone. again

I had a comments system, once.
At least, I think I did...

07:49 PM | Comments (0)

Bonus

Another 15 candles made this afternoon, and all facilitateed while holding a baby.
A very dribbly baby.
Now that's a new skill.
And I managed not to drop the baby in the hot wax,
Or the hot wax on the baby.
Or dribble into the candles. (Her not me)

bonus.

03:44 PM | Comments (0)

2 minute noise

Making a bacon sandwich at 11 o'clock this morning, I realised I was keeping the respectful silence for the Queen Mum without intending to, so I turned on the radio (no good - silence) and sang to myself with the bacon and toaster as percussion.

I was tempted to hold the grill-pan up to the smoke alarm, the most sensitive smoke alarm in the western world, but I just couldn't make myself do it.

shame.

Incidentally. There is whinging below. For other, more interesting reading, please skip one post.
Or just skip me. Nowt's happening at the moment. Nowt but indesicion, and that doesn't really count.
I need sleep now.

12:10 AM | Comments (0)

100 words. Not really

I know, at the moment, what field I want to go into.
I just have no idea where the gate is. Or the stile.
Or whether the ground will be all soggy when I get there.
Or whether there'll be bulls or enough with the over-extended metaphor, already...

So I'm sitting here with this application for on the screen in front of me.
And I can't think of the right way to put things.
I know I can do fine in person, but writing answers to those difficult bits on application forms (not the 'name', 'age', 'sex' thing, they're easy enough, the 'Why do you think our radio output is so different [read- 'vastly superior'] to other stations?' thing, the 'why would you be the most perfect person in the world to work for the bbc?'thing, that sort) I know in my mind there's a right answer, I can come up with half a million buzz-words, I just can't arrange in sentences what that answer is. Without sounding like I'm tring too hard. Who knows? Maybe 'trying too hard' is exactly what they're looking for. Maybe I should try to try too hard.

Maybe I should just get on with it.
But it's scary. The idea of following what I'd really like to do.
It's scary. The idea of being knocked back.
Of not knowing the right thing to say.
Of not knowing the right place to start.

I know I shouldn't be scared. That's what the whole ethic of The Little Red Boat is (supposed to be) about.
Putting your boat back on the water.
No matter how often it sinks.

So I just need to be brave.
And try and sell myself in under 100 words.
And figure out some kind of CV, for if it doesn't work.
I've only ever done 'Actress' type CVs before.
And I don't think the media world cares much what colour my eyes are, or about my proficiency in stage-fighting.
Although, they may.
Who knows?

Arse.

Actually, who does know?
Do you know?
Do you know the secrets of the career universe?
Do you?

12:02 AM | Comments (0)

April 09, 2002

Meh!

So I went for a walk, along the shore, down to the village, onto the beach and ended up at the jetty.

Christ, that makes it sound like a pilgrimage. It's only a five minute walk.
Anyway, ended up at the jetty, where I said goodbye to a friend, and then thought I'd browse the local tacky souvenir and waterproof clothing shop, where I could buy a paper and look at the handcrafted teddy bears in monk costumes, on the way to the pub, for an afternoon's newspaper and gin and tonic session.
And I ended up buying myself a reminder of the day. Or at least that's what I'm calling it, to rationalise the 'spending money' thing.

I bought myself a little backpack. As a mark of respect.

It's fluffy, fleecy, like a little lamb.
And has little black straps like little lambs legs.
And has a picture of a little lamb, in grey fleecy material on the front.
And when you push the tummy on the little lamb, it says;
'MEH!...meeh!...MEH!...meh!"
In an almost stomach-churningly cute fashion.

I bet they don't have those to commemorate the queen mother.
Little pastel blue chintz handbags, with a little picture on the front that when pushed would say;
'rahdeerahdeerah!...£20 either way on the favourite please!...raharahrah!...gin!....off with their heads'

No, they don't. They only have them to commemorate cute little lambs.
So there.
That's to make up for sounding almost respectful earlier.
RahRahRah.

08:29 PM | Comments (0)

It's the pastel colours I can't stand as much as anything

I can't stand to use them, I can't stand to wear them, the washed-out wussy versions of natural colours and vibrancy.

That's why she and I would never have got on. She loved Pastels. They keep saying so on the television. They were some of her favourite things, alongside horses and soldiers and gin.

I like Gin. But the rest of our favourite things don't match up very well. So, no matter how much she liked talking to the common folk, I don't think we really would have got on. Not on any deeper level. I mean, we may have been able to have been able to enjoy Gin-based small talk, but I don't think we ever would have gone to the pub together. Nor had lunch.
We just weren't meant to be that close. We had separate circles of friends. And I think we were both alright with that.

So thank you for the invitation to the funeral. Thank you for the invite to the procession, and the commentary, and the surrounding interviews.
Thank you for the invitation to the funeral, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn it down. I'm sure she was a nice old lady, but we didn't know each other, see? And I honestly think we wouldn't have been great pals if we had ever met.

She liked pastels.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going from a walk, away from the teleision, and towards the sea.
Typing this, I've been looking out of the window, and just now, the farmer has walked past in the field below the office, holding a tiny dead lamb by the back legs, its limp front legs and head hanging down by the farmers knees.
It's a tiny lamb. Less than a day old. I woulld guess it was just born weak, and the cold night and competition for food killed it.
Its mother is following him. She's bleating loudly.
I have some connection to that death.
And I feel sad.
Excuse me.

10:33 AM | Comments (0)

April 08, 2002

home

home from the disco.
home from the disco early.
home from the disco early on purpose.

I knew what groove people were into. Had I wanted to, we could have carried on til dawn, cheesy chart hit upon cheesy chart hit until our legs fell off and our brains dribbled out of our ears.

So I slipped 'Kung fu fighting' onto the decks (well, into the glorified CD player. Sorry, 'the CD player', little glory...) and watched the floor clear. And then followed it with music I actually like a lot; good music, and watched as the dancers went off to their respective, clean-lived in, beds.

All three of them.

It's pretty easy DJing for three people. At least you can tell immediately what they're into, and cater directly to that taste.
And it's unusual that the Iona Village Hall disco should only have three takers, but perhaps it was the moon (none), or the weather (cold), or the pub (open), or our guest ratio (4:1 Vicars, over 41). Or perhaps it was the mass crowds, who approaching the disco fashionably late, heard the music I was playing (rubbish) for the benefit of our three excitable people (too bouncy and young for anyones good), and turned back at the door.

But it means I get to go to sleep. Which can only be a good thing.
Day off tomorrow. Yay me...

11:42 PM | Comments (0)

April 07, 2002

Damn this island

Damn knowing everyone, damn wanting to keep friendships, damn civility.

If I'd been in any other restaurant, anywhere at all, I might have called the waitress and asked her a couple of things.
I might have asked her whether, just to be sure, she'd noted that I asked for the Steak 'Medium-rare'.
This being ascertained, I might have asked her if she knew any way of removing squirty blood stains from a silk dress.
And, once we had stuck up some kind of relationship, I might well ask her if she could possibly take the steak she's gien me back to the kitchen and cook it 'til it stopped going "MOO!" each time I hit it with cutlery.
And 'til it stopped bleeding all over my vegtables.
And making everything that should be white a murderous red.
Like the potatoes.
And my teeth.

Actually, I never would have said any of that, being too polite, as I am.
But anywhere else, I may have said something. Anything.
Anywhere in a city, where I was just another customer.
Anywhere where I didn't care about the repercussions of a complaint.
Anywhere, say, where one of my best friends wasn't the chef...

So I chewed my way through £15 worth of raw moo flesh.
Because I thought not to do so would hurt feelings.
If I turn into a highland cow anytime soon, don't be scared...

11:44 PM | Comments (0)

The miracle of new sheep

Within fifteen minutes; the same square metre of grass, from one sheep to four sheep.
It's quite incredible.
I walked down the road, and in front of me crossed an uncomfortable looking sheep, bleating. She stopped, three metres off the path. And glared at me. And bleated.
'MEH!'
I walked on. It's best not to get involved, in these situations. So I went to the shop. And eleven minutes later, I returned. And there were two little sheep, covered in blood and standing on shaky little sheep legs.

As I walked closer, A mass of blood fell out of the bigger sheep. And the bigger sheep bleated.
'MEH!'.
I ignored it, since it had already started to eat the placenta of the two smaller sheep, while they discovered grass and feet and knees, and tried to figure out where milk came from.
Suddenly the mass of blood moved...
'meeeeeh'... it rose to shaky feet...
'Meeeeeh!'. It shivered, and shook, and fell again.
'MEEeeeeeH!' It stood, and staggered, big-sheep-ward.
By this time there were twelve of us cheering it on. I'd run back and forth, from building to building... "Come on!", shouting, "There are brand new sheep! Falling out of old ones! Come on!"

I stood for an hour. Cheering on the brand-new sheep. Cheering on their first steps, first bleats, managing to find where food was sourced, getting blown over in the slight wind, finding their feet again, bleating, and skipping for the first time. Cheeringon the fact that they were wee and cute, and made such a good job of it.

I watched something just-born today. It was better than magic.

I saw life come into being. I saw brand-new sheep.
And this was its soundtrack;

"MEH!".
Thud.
Splat.
'.....meeeeeh!...."

01:40 AM | Comments (0)

April 06, 2002

Oh my God!

You see, one minute it was just one wide sheep, and then little sheep started falling out of it!
How amazing is that?

I'll expand later. Unlike the sheep. Which got visibly narrower after releasing its mini-models.
How extremely amazing.

04:33 PM | Comments (0)

Hypothetical situation of the week

A dehydrated man is walking through the desert. From his map, he knows there is an oasis somewhere in the near distance. He comes across a flask of brandy, lying in the sand. Should he drink it, knowing that it will only, dehydrate, exhaust, confuse and disorientate him more? Or should he walk on, thirsty?

01:33 AM | Comments (0)

21 things I have learnt in the last four days

1. my name is anna (mi chiamo anna)
2. My health is good, thank you for asking.
3. Your name is Daniella, and you live in Sienna
4. It is of great importance to me that my hotel room is en-suite.
5. These above. And several other basic Italian phrases.

   You see, I’ve had the chance to start using the Learn Italian! kit I got for Christmas. According to the blurb at the beginning of the CD, I should use the CD whenever possible, while relaxing, driving, or gardening. So you can expect me to be adding the Learn to Drive!, the Do Gardening and the 'Learn to Relax. I Said Relax!' CD’s on my Amazon wishlist. Otherwise I don’t know how I’m going to be able to practice.
   

6. I like extremely rural areas, but would like them more if they had some kind of public transport system. Underground Stations for example. That would be great. Then they’d be miles and miles from anywhere, and therefore retain that ‘rural’ thing, but not be so much of a pain in the arse to get to. Christ, I really am a city girl. What am I doing here?
   
7. I have the best bladder control of anyone I know.
8. My hair looks at its best the third and fourth day after washing. After that it looks like a shrink-wrapped cycle helmet.
   
9. Bunnies nauseate me
   
10. Or rather, specifically, bunnies when assuming the form of road-kill, nauseate me.
    
11. More specifically still, Bunnies when assuming the form of road-kill and firmly under my left boot, nauseate me.
    
12. Whacking seven shades of shit out of a shed is good for the soul. Assuming that that shed needs whacking. If you’re just whacking a perfectly good shed, that probably counts as bad karma. Especially if it’s not your shed.
13. I still don’t like kidney beans. I’ve checked, and they’re still horrible.
14. Kicking puppies is frowned upon in polite society. I didn’t learn this through experience, please understand, just through conversation. Honestly.
    No, really.
    
15. It tuns out it wasn’t paranoia after all, the dental community of Britain really are united in a pact to make me cry.
    
16. Before the third day after washing, my hair looks like cushion stuffing. Shiny Pantene cushion stuffing, but cushion stuffing all the same.
    
17. Although I’m very fond of my married friends, I have finally stopped wanting to be part of a couple. This is odd news, in these parts. “Anna’s very happy to be single (thankyouverymuch)”. It must be a phase of the moon. Or of the Earth. Or of me.
    
18. little sheep are cute. I didn’t learn this, I just forgot. Almost enough to make me turn vegetarian. Well, to make me stop eating lamb anyway. For the time being. Until later, when it’ll be alright again.
    
19. One should never get too excited about the weather, in case it goes away again.
    
20. My job is worth nothing in the real world, CV-wise. This week I want to work in radio, and have no idea how to pursue it.
    
21. There is a company that produces Organic Vegan Condoms. So now we know. Vegans can give blow-jobs, after all.
    
22. There are only so many TV-Sob-Movies you can watch before you want to punch someone.
    
23. A single kidney bean catapulted from a spoon flies further than fifteen kidney beans catapulted together from the same spoon. Even when heavily coated in sauce. There wasn’t extensive research on this. Just a sample test case. We’ll keep you informed.

I learnt other stuff. Other, more interesting, stuff I can’t remember right now. But I also remember how good sleep tasted, and how good mornings smelt when you’d tasted a good sleep.

Buonanotte. A domani. Ho una gomma a terra. Scusi.

12:14 AM | Comments (0)

April 05, 2002

Dentists

While I appreciate the useful service that dentists offer to society, while I acknowledge their dedication and their true professionalism, while I am truly grateful for the part they have played in the upholding of my weak enamel, and therefore my life;
I still would like to drop them all into a really big cavity and fill it up with luminous pink mouthwash.

Is that so wrong?

I'll fill you in later.
(ha! fill you in! like a dentist! I crack me up. Oh, no, that'll be the effects of the anaesthetic then...)

01:40 PM | Comments (0)

April 02, 2002

Holiday

Today, the pickard sisters are mainly having fun with this.

In other news;
Holiday. I'm going on holiday.
I'm going to sleep. And sleep.
And sit around in the sun and write things.
And I'm going to go to a restaurant, and have a really big steak. Huge. And bloody.
I'm only going five miles away, like.
And only for three days, but it is the first time I've been off the island in a month or so, so 'yay' that.
So I won't be posting til the end of the week.
And I'll be twitchy not to have my blog, but it's good for me.
And there's no computer where I'm going.
And no electrtricity, so the computer thing's pretty academic.

Talk amongst yourselves.
*mwah*
*a
x

12:14 PM | Comments (0)

ribbons

Well, I've decided what can be done with 403 paper daisies (I found some more).
I shall start a new trend, wearing them as a lapel type thing, in order to be in solidarity with repressed, dispossessed and rejected paper daisies worldwide.

It's no more illogical than most of the ribbons you see worn round here.
I understand the point of some of them.
Red ribbons for AIDS awareness. That, I see and understand.
Pink Ribbons for solidarity with women with Breast Cancer. Fine. Pink Tartan for solidarity with Scottish Breast Cancer sufferers. OK.
I don't know what the colour is for solidarity with testicular cancer. Although I'm sure I could find one.
After that it all seems to get a bit over the top.
White ribbons for one thing. Black for another. Rainbow ribbons, yellow ribbons (in solidarity with old oak trees, I assume), blue ribbons, blue tartan ribbons, red tartan ribbons, purple ribbons, white ribbons with a red stripe, black and white checkered ribbons (in solidarity with those affected by the grand prix), orcre ribons, orange ribbons, and a whole pastel range .

I understand the point of it. You wear a ribbon on your clothing, someone asks you what it means, and you have the opportunity to enlighten them on whatever cause it is you're being in solidarity with. Or whichever cause you're in solidarity with this week, depending on who you are.

It's when people just get into the ribbon-wearing mode for the sake of wearing ribbons that gets me. On March 17th, I kept seeing people around here wearing Green ribbons. When asked why, they said they were wearing them because it was St Patrick's Day. When pushed further, they said they were wearing them in solidarity with Ireland.
Not in solidarity with the Irish troubles, mind, nor with any particular party caught up in such, just in solidarity with Ireland in general.

In solidaity with the whole country and everything in it.
In solidarity with every single person, building and tree.
In solidarity with every viewpoint, and every opinion.
In solidarity with battery farmed leprechauns.
I have no idea.

Next time we go to the mainland, if I ever get around to going to the mainland ever again, I'm going to pick up some various odds and ends of different coloureed ribbon, and be in solidarity with a different thing every day.
A piece of pink floral ribbon in solidarity with dispossessed bridesmaids.
A piece of bright polka-dot ribbon in solidarity with multi-coloured pharmacuticalism.
Some kind of furry beige stuff in solidarity with the repressed Latvian Lesbian Yak-Handlers.
A daisy in solidarity with those affected by lawnmower abuse.

You get the idea.
If anyone has any spare ribbon, send it along, and I'll happily wear it in solidarity with those who have no ribbon.
Like yourselves.

06:52 AM | Comments (0)

April 01, 2002

Daisy detritus

And what exactly am I supposed to do with 390 slightly crumpled daisies now?
Gosh, I should have thought this one through...

05:16 PM | Comments (0)

Porn, mainly

Oh, That's what downtime feels like?
Is that what having time off is?
Is that where you find the pub?

I'd been wondering what all the fuss was about.

I feel like going somewhere and swearing very loudly for a while.
Or just going to sleep for several days.
Perhaps I can find somewhere to swear at people in my sleep.
Loudly.

I did, however, come up with the best dinner table conversation stopper ever.
We'd been talking about it a few weeks back, and I've been planning the moment ever since...
You see here, at the dinner table, there are three questions you get asked.

1. Where are you from?
2. What did you do before you came here?
3. how was it you came to work here?
4. What's it like living on an island in the middle of nowhere?
5. what will you do when you leave?

And the most annoying of these three questions - apart from the fifth one, which is just unanswerable - is the second.
And I'm always trying to come up with an answer. The nice, christian middle-class guests we have are extremely curious about the staff, and it's a question I answer about 37 times a week. And it get rather dull after about, well, the third.

So I'm always trying to find something to stop the conversation in it's tracks.
And I finally have it.
"So, what did you do before you came here?"
"Film distribution..."
"Oh really, what kind of film?"
"well, porn, mainly."

Which killed it stone dead.
Instead of 'what kind of fim distribution', I'm now hoping for;
"Oh really!? Anything I might have seen?"
To which I'll answer...
"Well, I'm not sure, it was mainly just your normal hardcore, but there was some bestiality stuff, can you think of anything you might be familiar with?"

I'm on holiday for a few days. I'll try not to be away away away, though.
Although it is possile that I could sleep til friday.
Do forgive me if this post is sloppy by the way.
If I'm drunk, it's because I can't spell.

12:41 AM | Comments (0)