and lo i enter to angelic singing, trumpet fanfair & 3 drunks on a penny whistle

Nice man, Big chopper

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 07:48:41 GMT

Cutting down Sycamore
Originally uploaded by Decembers Virtue

"Oh my, so you're naturally blonde?"
My boss saw an old baby pic of me and was surprised at my natural colouring. Suffice to say I'm currently sporting a crop of garishly red hair. It is cheaper to change my hair than my wardrobe and my tastes in hair colour are fickle at best.

I am currently scanning my own weight in old photos so I can clear space (and thusly get rid of boxes of old photos) so let me know if anyone who happens to be in them wants them (inclusively jonnynexus, luciddestiny, thescribbler, kyaathecatlord, gerthdynn, catriona80 and assorted others [I haven't gone through them all yet, but I'm pretty sure these people will turn up]).

I spent the weekend hauling tree around the garden with Two Jacks and one of the guys from work. He's a very nice man with a big chopper.

The God of Forgotten Places and Lost Things

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 14:37:31 GMT

There is another place, another feeling, another... something, that you only get a glance of on rare occasions.

It happens when there is no one around, in places that were busy, full of noise and bustle and life.

This is the realm of forgotten places and lost things. A shop, long since deserted, looking around the inside, a stirring of dust for no reason, and on a warm day the chill settles gently upon your shoulders.

A walking through the City of London after a tube bombing, walking down the middle of the once gridlocked roads the wrong way with no traffic.

A picking up of something once lost that was obviously loved.

It's a feeling of something lost. The every-day magic is gone, replaced by something all-together darker, something more sinister, something whispering quietly and watching.

This god is a goblin figure skulking in shadows, watching and playing, running a long silent finger down your spine as you bend down to pick up the teddy bear from the dust, running a thumb over the hazed over eyes to allow it to see again.

This hunched goblin, grinning, spins in it's old stolen clothes, thread-bear and dusty cotton shirt and jaggedly ripped trousers of indeterminate colour, whirling and laughing, a sharp cackling as of a foot on a dry twig, master of once cherished toys and photographic images long forgotten.

Lord of Lud-in-the-Mist with his clockwork balls, dancing gaily to imagined tunes with a ripped dress-makers dummy and torturing a one-glass-eyed doll for its own entertainment. A half-smile forever stilled.

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 14:31:46 GMT

Well, sitting has got easier, but bending is still prooving to be a little problematic.

I've been FaceBooking like a demon, picking out quite a few people I used to work with. It's nice to get back in contact with them.

I wanted to go on the Zombie walk around Bristol, but sadly it happened just after my op and therefore couldn't make it. It looked like a lot of fun. Next year hopefully.

I'm getting all Christmassy at the moment. Wee!

TwoJacks is away this week. This leaves much room for boredom, yet lots of room for Moo cuddles.

Finally I finished editing the wedding photos. I sent them off. Went to a 60th party on the weekend.

I'm not sleeping well yet, woke up at 5am this morning in pain, the op's taking it out of me, but I'll get there.

Back to work for me I suppose, more interesting writing when I'm more up to it.

To put it succinctly, ow!

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 11:36:38 GMT

Well, I now have a gall-bladder sized hole in my stomach and several incisions in my side.

Sitting is no fun.

I'm grumpy. And I have no idea what to write for NaNoWriMo.

And they shall knight thee Tinman, purveyor of all you purvey

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 16:49:40 GMT

Tomorrow I have my op. They're taking an organ I probably don't need and rarely use. What's with defunct organs that go bad?

Today I sat on the bus humming mindlessly to myself and decided to put on my mp3 player and was greeted by the smooth voice of Tinman telling me that poetry ain't got to be pretty. If there was ever a voice that was made for seductive oration, flannel's is most certainly it. It's a voice to dance to in the dark, which, quite naturally, he knows.

The world is turning to Autumn and the leaf mulch smells muskily of mushrooms and promises long fled.

My hair is cherry red, slowly turning with the leaves, the blonde of summer long gone. I wonder if by Christmas I'll have purple hair. It has a life of its own. I always believe that dyed hair ought to look dyed, there is little reason for that belief beyond a mistaken desire to be honest with looks.

I spent yesterday raking leaves from the trees in my garden, clearing out the old vegetables from the patch and planning the myriad of unusual squashes and rainbow coloured carrots the like that I will be growing next year. There's something deeply satisfying eating something you've grown yourself.

Tonight Two Jacks and I will be picking (scrumping) apples. There's little quite as endearing as a woman in a pin-stripe suit and heels jumping up to grasp fruit branches in the rain by roadside. It's the last day I'll be able to do that for a while. I'll have to be careful on how I stretch for a while.

My mobile phone died in a most spectacular way, however, due to a donation, I'm back in the world of contact. I luckily managed to save most of the contents of the phone, photos and contacts, yet have sadly had to sacrifice my Bagpuss mp3 ringtone of the perversely capricious fickle god of wireless dissemination.

I listen to the monotonous drone of my colleagues, eyes half-lidded as they repeat mindlessly the usual bunk of IT support. There's only so many times you can say the same thing and remain interested in what it is you do. We are drones and thusly we drone, mindlessly, without feeling or thought, we simply turn up.

Long live repeat on my mp3 player.

Not even morphine kills the pain

Mon, 01 Oct 2007 14:43:10 GMT

So, let's see, where to start, where to start...?

I'm signed off work due to intense pain which leads to an operation in a months time.
Someone got into my bank account and stole all my money.
I'm having problems getting travel insurance due to point A.
I'm trying desperately to finish off the last of the wedding photos, but due to pain having problems concentrating.
My cat thinks she's a duvet.
It's bloody cold in my house!

Plus side?
Due to pain I'm not eating and therefore losing weight!

See, every cloud...

I move away from the keyboard to write

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 09:37:14 GMT

I am, it has to be confessed, waging a silent war against my postwoman. I'm allowed to be politically incorrect, I'm a 1950's housewife, you're just damn lucky I haven't forced a cool creamy laramie between your lips for health reasons.

Every day she opens my gate, posts my post and walks out without closing the gate. It's not so difficult really is it?

Anyway, for those of you aware, I've been in hospital, I got a good dose of morphine for the experience, so it wasn't a complete waste. I'm ok, although the issue is as yet unresolved, still got the random pain, never mind, that which does not kill us makes us stronger, or so the beer advert says.

I spent the weekend catching up on Heros, so now I'm up-to-date on it all. I missed a couple and decided to wait. I confess I adore Hiro, and yet there's something about Ando that appeals too. I'm *such* a geek lover...

Celtic snidery by the bucket-load

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 06:56:53 GMT

Note to Self: Spread the word that I'm damned
"He's an inner ball of rage surrounded by an outter ball of rage covered in a light crispy vegan coating."
"You're going to hell."
"Tell me something I don't know. It's early, I'm just all snide, I don't have to be awake for snide."
"When I grow up I want to be just like you."
"It's not a learned thing, it's a genetically celtic thing."
Daily Obsession: Vegan chocolate balls
Daily Object of Use: Broken camera
Song Stuck in my Head: Placebo - "Teenage Angst"

I've eaten all my sweet sweet pilfered vegan sweets and now I'm sweetless. This is not a good thing. There are tell-tale little abandoned foil football wrappers all around the place. I've found them stuck to the cat, I've found them stuck to Two Jacks, I've found them piled neatly in the bathroom on top of the Venue and New Scientist. The latter was a little worrying, but I've put it down to woodlice snacking.

I'm slowly wading through the 1200 photos that were taken before the camera died mid-conga on the Saturday. I'm editing them all for the best quality, but picking out maybe a hundred or so and doing some proper fine tuning on them before Jonny Nexus and Mrs Nexus get back into the country, I spent about 8 hours over the weekend trawling through everything,

This weekend is the Organic festival. I went to it last year and fell in love with the best chocolate cake in the known world, possibly I'd go so far as to say the known universe. Unfortunately for me I'm working this weekend and smiling sweetly down the phone to people who call up because they don't know which end of the mouse is the dangerous end (the end attached to the user naturally, oh, hark at me and my early morning not-awake celtic snidery).

On the Sunday Two Jacks uploaded some more music to my (now ancient really) Creative. Unfortunately it's seen a few too many times of the ground rushing up to meet it a la vase of petunia stylee and would not undock and would not turn off. This morning it finally ran out of charge. Go me and my dented equipment. (Note to self: stop dropping the player when running for bus, fishing in bag for mirror to check lipstick or other quintessential girly things.)

I spent some time at the wedding baiting an old woman. She was brutal, but, you know, in a strange way, fun and refreshing. I knew I was being naughty when I started talking about the only way to keep men happy was to keep them drugged and you drunk. I refrained from hookers, but only because I was hoping she'd stay longer and I'd get to bring it up later in the night. Sadly she denied me that pleasure by leaving without saying goodbye (yet in the mean-time stealing everyones seat and being brutal about the other guests in a "oh god, bite your tongue, please don't smirk, don't crack a smile" way). I hope to meet her again one day.

I recently (upon hitting the big 3oh and going mad) dyed my hair a rather unnatural shade of red. I'm trying to work out if the next shade will be purple. I'm a strong believer that when you dye your hair it ought to be quite obviously dyed, otherwise, well, what's the point?

My weekend summed up:

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 16:53:51 GMT

Of kilts, vegans, Elvis impersonators and sun-stroke

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 13:22:56 GMT

Note to Self: Men in frocks are the silly-bom
Daily Obsession: GIMP plug-in's
Daily Object of Use: Digital camera
Song Stuck in my Head: Billy Idol - "White Wedding"

Well, it has been far too long since I wrote. I can but apologise.

I spent this past weekend going my photography duties, and am currently switching between editing them and feeling like I've been beaten with a sack of potatoes. I've managed to pick up a cold, and am otherwise ill anyway.

It was a glorious weekend weather wise, although I did think that several of the guests might end up with sun-stroke at one point.

Suffice to say, there were kilts, there were vegans, there were small children, an Elvis impersonator and a naked bouncing Irishman. It pretty much ticked all the boxes.

[please insert title here]

Mon, 20 Mar 2006 09:57:23 GMT

Well, I suppose I ought to give an update of what I've been up to. Not a huge amount of interesting stuff. I handed in my notice in work, so as soon as is physically possible I shall be leaving there for pastures new.

I have a 2nd job, I work in the evenings.

I'm changing bank accounts.

My family is currently more unbelievable than an episode of East Enders. Let's see, who are the biggest contenders for this title? My Aunt, my mother, my father and brother the younger. It is indeed a happy happy joy time. At least 2 of these contenters are being considered for a smothering with a pillow.

Aside from this life is just plodding on.

This is a boring entry, but I am leading a boring life, so it's oddly fitting.

And now you know (as paraphrased from kyaathecatlord)

The roumours of my death are greatly exagerated

Thu, 02 Feb 2006 10:11:42 GMT

Well, depending on your point of view, you'll be glad to know either that I had pleurisy, or that I'm now mostly better (though the doctor said it could take 3 months before I'm 100%).

What else is new? Well I've taken on a 2nd job for the evenings to earn some money.

I smell more than a little like a lemur at the moment. That's of no relevance, but I thought I'd let you know anyway.

Apart from working till I die, that's about it I'm afraid. The downside of being pretty ill and a slow recovery time is I'm tired a lot, and tiredness has never encouraged me to write. Sorry.

Oh, and I now officially make the worlds best pea and ham soup. It's official baby.

Here, have this as an appology.

Hold on it hurts, no really, it does

Tue, 03 Jan 2006 01:18:14 GMT

What rhymes with pleurisy? Oh yeah, me. Blah.

Ok, because you're as random as me...

Fri, 16 Dec 2005 12:51:42 GMT

Just for Kyaa, my Amazon wishlist.

Addendum...

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 12:32:44 GMT

Oh, and a Zeppelin and 13 willing Asians for an elaborate practical joke...

I list like a king, bring me wine and leg of donkey!

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 12:14:31 GMT

Note to Self: Buy tape for wrapping otherwise no gift wrapping will commence
Daily Obsession: Hats
Daily Object of Use: Box of paper clips
Song Stuck in my Head: Bjork - Joga

Ok, I understand you’re stuck for things to get me for Christmas, so I thought I’d supply you with a list, just check them off when you’ve bought them.

1 x shaved puppy

2 x silver tinsel

1 x giant pre-cooked turkey

5 x new shoes

17 x new books

1 x magic potato

lots x jewellery and/or underwear

3 x hats

1 x New Oxford English Dictionary

1 x Blutack

28 x paper snowflakes

73 x amusing badges

1 x barman with extensive knowledge of cocktails

2 x full cocktail cabinets

1 x list of wants from Amazon

2 x cacti

1 x body piercing of my choice

1 x man willing to tattoo my name on his knuckles

1 x new female parental unit

1 x garden hose

1 x outdoor tap for garden hose

1 x person to plumb in outside tap for garden hose

1 x almost entire contents of Gothic Dreams (local shop)

1 x person to give me a new experience (no, not sexual...)

3 x post boy to post stuff for me

1 x famous singer to serenade me

2 x black wool coat (fitted, double breasted [the coat, not me...])

1 x the ability to wear anything in yellow

1 x earmuffs

3 x sword of ultimate vengeance

1 x new younger brother

17 x new work colleagues

1 x new job

2 x pet that can look after itself

-6 x pot plant

2 x bank account (full)

1 x party feet

2 x party

1 x book on being a successful stalker (preferably written by DrFrag)

1 x extraordinarily long chain of paper clips

1 x giant plastic vending cup (bigger than my head preferably)

1 x ability to take back knitting a “cock warmer” for a guy when I was 14

3 x shorter lists

1 x Yahoo Serious (without Mrs Serious in tow)

1 x patient person to correct my website mistakes

1 x small cult

What Hotmail giveth it also taketh away

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 12:26:20 GMT

Hotmail is great because...

Now is the season of our discount tents

Wed, 30 Nov 2005 10:21:47 GMT

Note to Self: Beware the Penguin of Death, D'earth, Devon, and Didcot
Daily Obsession: Avoiding penguins
Daily Object of Use: Certificates with other peoples names on them
Song Stuck in my Head: The sound of 2 hands not clapping

I’ve recently become convinced I’m being stalked by something. It’s something fantastical.

fan•tas•tic ( P ) Pronunciation Key (f^an-t^as'tⁱk) also fan•tas•ti•cal (-tⁱ-k^el)
adj.

1. Quaint or strange in form, conception, or appearance.

fantastic hopes.

fantastic attire; fantastic behaviour.

fantastic ideas about her own superiority.

2. Wonderful or superb; remarkable: a fantastic trip to Europe.

n.
An eccentric person.

[Middle English fantastik, imagined, from Old French fantastique, from Late Latin phantasticus, imaginary, from Greek phantastikos, able to create mental images, from phantazesthai, to appear. See fantasy.]

Mostly though I think it might simply be the weather...

I’ve worked out the purpose of deer hunter hats. It’s not to make you look like a deer, no siree, because it’ll take more than a hat to make you look like a deer. It’s to make you look like Flospey the bunny rabbit with dangly down ears. Not even deer are afraid of anything called Flopsey.

It snowed last night again. It snowed last week too but I managed to hold off on telling you that I hyperventilated and ran around in a circle and took photos and sent it to people (including my mother who didn’t have any snow [insert manic snigger]).

Well, as I was saying, it snowed (wee!) and it was pretty. Huge fluffy white flakes came down out of the sky, as opposed to coming out of, say, the floor. I sat in work and heard the rumour via text message, so naturally I almost wet myself with excitement.

By the time I left the floor was soaking wet, my trousers were sodden (I know, I know, I’ve had them for over a year and I still haven’t got around up raising the hem so I don’t look like I’m 7 and playing dress-up in my mothers clothes), my shoes were damp and my spirits high (umbrella noticeably lacking). They hadn’t predicted snow, but, as the woman on the bus so aptly pointed out “snow, well, it’s nice enough I suppose, but it isn’t really practical is it”? No my love, it’s snow, it’s not at all practical, and that’s its point.

So anyway, I get home, and I drag myself through the darkness which is turning a beautiful shade of brown with the uplight from the now-white surface, and of course I’m texting all-an-sunder about snow and it’s delights and oddly missing out the bit where I’m cold and wet and walking as quickly as I can, because that’s not really something to text home about and brag to ones mother “Ha! I’m freezing cold and wet and I can’t feel my feet, beat that one!” It’s just not cricket.

This morning there’s not really what you can call snow left. It’s mostly ice that happens to be an off-clear colour. Which is very mood setting I can assure you.

On my way to the bus this morning I found this little chap, all of a foot tall. Bless.

Charities are the new black

Mon, 28 Nov 2005 17:31:55 GMT

Note to Self: What rhymes with purple? Or orange?
Daily Obsession: Me, and I'm bloody worthy of my own obsession damn you!
Daily Object of Use: Cashiers money bags
Song Stuck in my Head: Andy Williams - Music to Watch Girls By

You can not walk down the main street in your town or city without being pounced on at least twice by people in orange or green jackets. This is no bad thing, however I believe they’re doing it all wrong.

When you’re hunting you wear clothes that will blend you into your surroundings. Deer hunters wear brown or green, duck hunters wear rushes, man hunters wear very little, and clown hunters wear tiny cars and bails of water.

Why is it therefore that when you’re hunting people to give money to charity you wear a piece of clothing that does not mesh you into your surroundings? In fact would not even disguise you if you were wandering around a retirement home and all the residents were blind? They’d still be able to spot you!

I’m shocked, stunned, and possibly a little amazed.

I’d do it differently, oh boy would I! it wouldn’t even involve a bee costume, after all you can’t hunt people dressed like a bee. They’d notice you for one thing.

No no, this is simply not the way to go about it. You need to dress as something inconspicuous, like a post box, or one of those movable signs you see outside shops displaying their special deals, or the guy with that long pole and a sandwich board that says “This way to great golf savings!”. Have you ever noticed they’re all for music shops or golf shops? Isn’t that weird?

Anyway, that’s the way they should go about it, not doubt about it.

Make it so, Number One!

Also, it’s almost Christmas. Wee! (enjoy [but be kind to my bandwidth, not all at once, ok?] it needs sound).

They were socks once, and young

Thu, 17 Nov 2005 17:37:01 GMT

Note to Self: “They Were Socks Once, and Young" is the best title for a story ever...
Daily Obsession: Describing socks
Daily Object of Use: Ribena
Song Stuck in my Head: Random Christmas song

“I survived the French Riots and all I got was mugged for my ‘I survived the French Riots’ t-shirt.”
-- Me

The harrowing story of socks at war...

I write in my head. I write all the time. I have letters that I wrote to people who annoyed me, letters to companies who have done something wrong, diary entries, rants and raves, humorous quotations, notes about what would be good to write about, themes and stories.

Sometimes I write them and post them mentally and wait for the reply, but there is never going to be a reply to something I did in my head.

I suppose what I’m saying here is I’ve written 3 scathing letters this week to my bus company for the following reasons:-
• My bus which turns up every 20 minutes was an hour and a half late.
• My bus which turns up every 20 minutes turned up 45 minutes late, its engine blew up right behind my head, the power went off, we coasted down the motorway with a harsh metallic grinding noise and was then dumped in a dogging spot with 20 other confused commuters.
• My bus which turns up every 20 minutes did not bother to turn up, at all.

I can’t wait to see their faces when they open their mental post and read a mental complaint from a mental customer...

Signs, Portents & Omens – a Disinterested Observers Guide

Fri, 04 Nov 2005 14:05:35 GMT

Note to Self: Play nice with rioters
Daily Obsession: NaNo ate my soul
Daily Object of Use: The lack of a PC
Song Stuck in my Head: Kylie & Nick Cave "Where the Wild Roses Grow"

If you look you find exactly what you want to see. I’ve noticed this recently. This morning huddled on the bus from rain, wind, and the decently priced loaf of bread, I looked out of the window (as is often my wont) to spy a bird of prey making off with some small ex-furry thing. When I say ex-furry, what I mean to actually say it was ex and furry.

For the second time I’m heading off to a riot, this time at the behest of the female parental unit. We are going to Paris for a hectic weekend with a group of school kids. The last time I was around school kids I was one of them. This is going to be more than a little weird. Actually, less weird more annoying…

You don’t read about us in the papers, there’s no news groups or internet help sites for people like me, it’s not even accepted as a cover up, and yet we exist. I’m part of a lost generation. Well, a bastard generation at the very least. My name is Decembers Virtue, and I have a problem.

Imperial and metric systems of measurement. My ability to switch between one and another is in fact worse that the previous or the preceding generations. Hell, my neighbours 7 year old can do this better than me. I’m measurementally challenged. Let me clarify for you.

For giving the weight of a person I use stone and ounces. Fair enough right? At least they’re both from the same side of 1960. For measuring out the weight of an ingredient to cook I use grams. I can weigh out a pound or a half pound of cheese (using my eye alone, no need for a set of scales here) like a thing possessed, and yet I never use either (the unit or the cheese) in my daily cooking.

I use centimetres and feet for distance but have a complete inability to use inches and metres. More than a little confusing because I don’t know how many centimetres there are in a foot, or how many nth’s of an inch to a centimetre. When giving my height I use feet and inches. I wouldn’t know a kilometre or a kilo if they came up and poked me in the eye after announcing themselves with a capital K.

How the hell can I use something and yet have no clue what it is? “Ah yes officer, he was about 5’9.” The pun intended, but I wouldn’t know what 9 inches were if I didn’t have a ruler, and yet I can say I know what they are.

My schooling system seems to have hot-wired my brain. Maybe it’s similar to only being able to touch-type when I’m not thinking about it. Somewhere deep down I know the difference between imperial and metric, I know the nuances, I just refuse to believe in them. I’m going to pick and chose (or have picked and chosen for me) what I want, and logic be damned.

I bought and started to read Kafka on the Beach With Dynamite by Haruki Murakami. Ok, it’s not called that, it’s called Kafka on the Shore. It’s about a Japanese boy and some guy who finds stray cats, I think. There’s probably no dynamite. There probably ought to be though. My title is far superior, plus it’s catchy, whereas the book so far isn’t. I’ve had to put it down and pick up my copy of Yes Man by Danny Wallace to keep my attention, which is bad because I ought to be writing, but obviously I’m not. In defence it puts me in the right frame of mind to write my NaNo. In offence I’ll be in Paris with the afore-mentioned parental unit away from PC’s and Nadessico. I really ought to learn how to spell her name.

*le sigh* Better wrap my tongue back around my high-school French. “Pardonnez moi Monsieur, c’est combien pour le garçon?”

Two jokes and a premise

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 13:36:55 GMT

Note to Self: Two Jokes & A Premise Do Not The Novel Maketh
Daily Obsession: Remember, you’re a Womble
Daily Object of Use: Oxford English Dictionary
Song Stuck in my Head: Six By Seven "If You Eat Junk You Become Junk"

Lacklustre: adjective lacking in vitality, force or conviction; uninspired or uninspiring: no excuses were made for the team’s lacklustre performance. (of the hair or the eyes) not shining; dull

In Autumns hushed and hallowed halls... Ok, ok, so you’ve heard that before. Fine, there’s no pleasing some people, especially when I have little to actually say

This morning as I strode for the bus (in a rush as usual, there’s always that “just two more minutes in bed, just two more…”) I paused on the corner and looked down at two slugs slowly consuming each other. I wonder if either noticed that the other was eating it’s other end? Probably not. It was too intent on its consummation. If I were deep I’m sure that’d mean something important, if this were a novel then our hero would suddenly realise exactly what was going on through plot twists and put together the fragments to make the whole. You’d gasp in amazement of something that suddenly now seemed obvious to you as the reader, but had been cleverly shaded until this realisation. Sadly this is no novel, neither am I the deep person I may sometimes wish to be. This was simply the act of two slugs eating each other

As you can probably tell, NaNo is upon us once more. Today, November the 1st. Tomorrow the world. Delusions of grandeur, promises of doing better this year, of finishing, of not being distracted, of stocking up on Boost bars with added guarana and mounds of unground coffee beans taller than a diesel VW Golf.

Laconic: adjective (of a person, speech, or style of writing) using very few words: his laconic reply suggested a lack of interest in the topic. - DERIVATIVES laconically adverb, laconicism noun, laconism noun. - ORIGN mid 16th cent. (in the sense ‘Laconian’): via Latin from Greek Lakônikos, from Lakôn ‘Laconica, Sparta’, the Spartans being known for their terse speech

So this year I have Nadessico fully loaded up with Linux (my, isn’t that a sentence you’d never think you’d see in the English language), I have coffee on stand-by, I have an MP3 player pre-loaded with everything from The Smurfs to Manson, from Tinman talking and singing to the lovely Matt from Aqualung. We all need some geeky singers to help us through.

This year there will hopefully be no dramatic pause for thought, oh no, not in the month of November. November’s not for thinking, it’s for writing furiously. Thinking is unhealthy.

Laxative: adjective (chiefly of a drug or medicine) tending to stimulate or facilitate evacuation of the bowels. noun a medicine which has such an effect. - ORIGIN late Middle English: via Old French laxative, -ive or late Latin laxatives, from Latin laxare ‘loosen’ (from laxus 'loose)

Jessie come out and watch the parade

Wed, 12 Oct 2005 12:11:19 GMT

Note to Self: Write more, NaNo's coming
Daily Obsession: Bloody rain, bloody Britain...
Daily Object of Use: Bloody umbrella
Song Stuck in my Head: Falco - Rock Me Amadeus

So I said, sod the expense, let’s get the cat a goldfish.
-- My father

In a surprise offensive my parents and younger brother turned up the other night bearing the entire Invader Zim back catalogue, a minor grudge against the Sultan of Brunei, a vague promise of a pint of semi-skimmed milk, threats and disillusionment concerning road safety, and enough change to get back over the bridge with.

What is one to say when one is sitting quite calmly on the sofa opening ones mail and then the door opens and ones parents walk in like they live there and start changing the channel on TV to something they’d prefer to watch because my taste in music “gives us a headache”. I looked on in open amazement with only one utterance of “When you move out you can watch what you like, but when you’re in my house under my roof and I’m paying the bills we’ll watch what I want to watch!” aimed at my father.

Brother, the younger, did a fair to middling impression of a vertical draft excluder in the doorway while he blinked at me like a dormouse. He’d been up for 2 hours and it was 6:30pm. Blessed are the ex-students for they shall inherit the nocturnal hours and watch crap on TV. Unlike dormice however, as far as I’m aware, the Victorians were not allowed to bake my brother in pies. Which is mildly surprising because the Victorians ate anything that moved, and quite a bit that didn’t. Suffice to say that I stare in horror at some of the things my Grandparents used to eat, and they’d have appeared prudish to the Victorians. Apart from that sexual revolution in the 60’s, but that mostly effected my parents generation (though ignored my parents in specific) and just tipped its hat in my grandparents general direction politely before moving on.

Brother, the older, is not appearing in this story- mainly because he lives about 300 miles away and wasn’t at all involved in any way, what-so-ever. Personally I think that’s fair enough, but I know what you’re like, you probably want him to be involved. Well I’m sorry, I’m just not going to pander to your whims this time. This story does not feature Brother, the older. In fact it doesn’t even involve a shaved puppy. That probably says a lot about this story in fact. Actually I might as well confess, you may want to save your eyes and stop reading now. This is the pinnacle of the tale. It gets no better. From here on in it’s all down-hill I’m afraid and it hadn’t even travelled that far up hill to begin with, though I am rather proud of the title and talking about the Victorians. It’s not every day you can fit the eating habits of your forefathers into a diary entry.

I could ramble on about how the parental unit consented to playing Gin-Rummey, how it makes such a nice change to be able to smile as I take their money from them rather than the more usual role reversal, that I experienced the only hand I’ve ever seen that involved only 1 card being picked up before all the tricks were laid (he’d been dealt 4 Jacks and a run of Hearts), but I won’t bore you with the meat and potatoes of this anecdote, I’m much rather bore you with the really really boring bits.

I’m sorry, it’s just the way I am.

I’ve come all over familiar

Mon, 05 Sep 2005 11:43:45 GMT

Note to Self: Signs proclaiming madness in the workplace ought to be avoided
Daily Obsession: Pink original slip-on Vans
Daily Object of Use: A small magnetic mouse
Song Stuck in my Head: Bobby “Boris” Pickett – Monster Mash

Or possibly that should read “I’ve come over all familiar”, I haven’t decided which yet.

I was in London for the week, and during it I went to a book launch party. Before I'd gone down there, a chum had said, 'Oh, (Successful Novelist) is coming. You have to meet him - I know you'd really get on.' That's 'get on', I must stress for future reference, not 'get it on'. It turns out that Successful Novelist was detained and so he couldn't get there until later, by which time we were all in the tiniest bar in London. At this point, I was chatting to someone else about something, and, in doing so, swept my arm out to the side in a flourish of gesticulation. This occurred at precisely the moment that Successful Novelist came through the doorway of the microscopic bar. The result was that he walked in to the room to have my open hand placed perfectly and directly on his crotch. I stared at him wide-eyed: my body frozen in a stance of accidental, homoerotic distress. 'Ah, Successful Novelist, I've heard a lot about you,' I said suavely, to distract from the fact that I was cupping his testicles.
--Mil Millington "Things Me And My Girlfriend Argue About"

In no particular order other than chronologically:-

Background
I have a large family. If you asked me I’d probably only cite my parents (sometimes optional), younger brother and my Aunt. There are a couple more than that. I ought to mention my older half brother and sister, my step sister, my mothers brother, my fathers other 11 siblings, cousins by blood and marriage, Great Aunts and Uncles, etc. when you get right down to it my mothers side of the family is huge, they probably own most of Cardiff because the little buggers are so prolific and it’s hard not to accumulate when you’re as many and varied as the local clan is.

Cause
This is all in aid of my older brother. I decided to bite the metaphorical bullet and call him. I wasn’t anxious, it’s in my nature to move on and then move back without a by-your-leave. I have a badge, it says I’m blessed and cursed. I have another which says “Rock is dead, long live paper and scissors!” so it just goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything you read on a badge.

Theory
A couple of weeks ago I got his mobile phone number off my mother and sent him a text message, he replied with the dramatic flourish “I’ll call you tonight.” There was angelic singing, a trumpet fanfare and 3 drunks blowing a penny whistle. Sadly though this occurred elsewhere and out of earshot of any living person. It was witnessed however by a rather astounded tortoise on a small island just off the Turkish coast. Coincidentally it was stepped on by a cow 30 seconds afterwards. Unfortunately the cow had not witnessed this moving event, all it saw was something moving next to its feet.

We haven’t fallen out, any time now or in the memorable past. Of course when we lived together there were the usual sibling squabbles, but it’s actually surprisingly difficult to fight with someone who’s 8 years older than you and had moved out by the age of 17.

Effect
So he calls me back and we chat. We chat for hours. I’d forgotten how quirky he is and how very similar our senses of humour are. I find the similarities between the two boys quite amusing for all the wrong reasons. They both talk very softly and quietly, and this is often taken for stupidity by people who don’t know them, but if you take the time out to shut up and listen they both have the strangest little bent on life.

Newtons Third Law
In the random conversations we’ve been having he’s been dropping names. “Have you spoken to so-and-so?”, “Have you seen such-and-such?” I can honestly say no. Half of the names he drops spark weird little memories of when I was 7, the other half just make me question my cognitive functions.

“How about Russell?”
“Who?”
“Your Godfather.”
“I though that was Hank?”
“Who?”
“Oh, Leo I mean, you know Dad always calls him Hank.”
“No, he’s just your Uncle.”

That’s really bad isn’t it? I really ought to know who my Godfather is.

So, while on the phone to me he logs onto BT and starts searching the listings for people. Now, I’ve tried with a few people cause I know their first name and their surname. He, on the other hand, or foot, depending upon your favoured metaphor, happens to remember the obscure name of the little village they live in 16 years ago. And the bugger finds them! Each of them! My godfathers number, the guy we used to go camping with when I was 6, he’s just finding them and laughing away at his little pet project.

Yes, it’s true, all us kids get stupidly involved in silly random boy-projects and lose all concept of what we think might be cool and what actually is cool. My own weight in badges, not-so-cool, handing out cookies in a bee-costume, cool.

So he finds all these people, and now I’m randomly calling them.

“Hi there, it’s Sian.”
“Who?”
“Sian, Mike’s daughter?”
“Oh my god! You were [insert single digit number here] when I last saw you!”

I’m randomly calling my relatives and old family friends and waffling at them. Why, just yesterday at lunch I got a call back from the afore mentioned Hank. I’d sent him a text message explaining who I was and he called me back on my mobile with “I bet you can’t guess who this is!”
“Hi Uncle Hank, due to the aid of modern technology and the fact I have your number in my phone, I happen to know exactly who you are.”
“By god you’re your father’s daughter.”

It’s a fairly broad assumption, and not one I’ve ever bothered to get verified, but it serves its purpose. What I mean to say is “Yes.”

Moral
Random shit can be amusing, try it.

I’m evolving baybie!

Mon, 15 Aug 2005 08:51:05 GMT

Note to Self: Just stand there and pretend nothing happened
Daily Obsession: Gladstone bags
Daily Object of Use: A bottle of Ribena
Song Stuck in my Head: Gloria Estefan – Doctor Beat

I’m not quite yet at the height of my evolutionary peak, but I have noticed I’m evolving, or devolving dependant on your point of view.

I’ve always prided myself on being a Button Monkey. I’m not a code Monkey, that’s a whole other primate right there, but a Button Monkey. Basically, if it involved buttons of any type, I was there in all my glory. From typing to coding buttons for the database GUI, from hitting the right lift number for other people to mending shirts. I was always there, at beck and call, to save the people of this world from having to press their own buttons.

It’s a niche market I know, but I’d liked to think of myself as a general saviour of people from RSI or Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, a daily hero in spandex and my underwear on the outside. This was my pre-determined role in life. I’d never be a superhero mind you, I’m no cape-wearer, but I was certainly of a side-kick level.

It would, of course, not be a pink uniform, but I believe that my customary black-rimmed glasses were an integral part of this uniform, and of course for daily use to protect my identity (even side-kicks need to conceal their true identity from the public eye least the evil Upper Management find out who they are and then use them to get at the true Superhero, in this case the infamous Spandex Girl) there was always the switch into silver-framed glasses.

It was a hard life I chose, but I knew that someone had to step in and fill those mighty shoes with a modest size 5. The shoes were naturally high healed and black with a cute button in the shape of a flower in the top as finishing detail. Button Monkey by day, mild mannered citizen by night.

It is a sign of how much I trust you that I allow you to see this heroic side of me. If you were anyone else I’d have to deny everything and then press all of the buttons in the lift when we were together next just to show you that I’m onto you and I’d not allow my secret out. I know you’re not the type of person to sell me out to the tabloids, or Upper Management (who unbeknownst to them pay me to write this stuff, or at least pay me while I write this stuff, a fine line I suppose, but my lawyers are insistent upon the difference).

However, I seem to have changed. I am no longer a Button Monkey. Oh no. No more do I lurk in lifts waiting for you so I pay direct you to the right floor. No longer do I offer to meant your shirt cuff by whipping out my trusty needle and thread and sewing the offending button back on. No, it’s not for the likes of me.

Now I have become a stuffer of envelopes, a cleaner of desks, where there is a plant left in an office unwatered, I’ll be there. Where there is a lack of cups at the water cooler, I’ll be there. Where there is an explosion of the hole punch and a confetti of tiny paper circles threatens to cover your desk and floor, I’ll be there, for I have become…

A Drudge Monkey. No task to small, no job too menial.