to write.
Sorry.
Voice in my head: What’s the Name of the Game (Abba)
Playing around…
..with the blog title.
Rather like that.
Voice in my head: La oss leve for hverandre (those who know Norwegian/the song will sympathise with my predicament)
Ground Force
Mmm. Ground Force is on BBC Prime every Thursday. Nice. Not to be missed. Of course, I have no garden. Who cares?
At the end of Thursday’s episode (sorry, forgot to mention this on Friday, so forgive the inconsequential rambling), the lady who owned the garden they did the surprise makeover on said “Ooh, you’re a handsome one!” to Tommy right at the end, and he shouted “Did you get that?” at the camera. Which makes me wonder whether this is not something he hears pretty often. I mean, my taste may be a little odd (only to be expected, really), but I think he’s dishy. He can come put down (up?) decking for me anyday. Despite the fact that I have no garden.
Hm, maybe he’d be good at putting in kitchen units, too? I’ll need someone to help me with that at some point this autumn.
Better change the subject, drooling’s really bad for the keyboard…
Came home from my grandparents today, and collapsed on the sofa (who’d have thought sitting around could be so tiring, eh?). Anyway, I decided it was time I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s – I saw the other three films in the Audrey Hepburn Collection in a heap last week, but I’ve been putting BaT off. I had the novel (it’s more of a novelletta, isn’t it, really) a little too freshly in memory, and so expected the film to be depressing. Was it ever? Well, only in the sense that playing such havoc with an excellent piece of literature is depressing in itself. A happy ending??? I’m all for happy endings in general, but not with a story like that. And where did the male gigolo stuff come from, I ask you?
Hepburn was divine as usual, of course, but even she couldn’t save such a disaster.
Ah. Friday. Scattered thoughts.
Going to my grandparents’ this weekend. My parents will be there, which is why I’m going, because it means that A. I get to see my parents and B. I will not be the sole receiver of attention from my grandparents.
I’ve brought only two books. On the other hand, I’ve barely started either and they are both 500+ pages. A bit excessive? Who cares. How am I to know today which book I’ll feel like reading tomorrow?
Excellent news: They’ve started the weekly wine lottery at work up again (they used to have it, but it’s been dead for a few months) and I won a bottle today. The drawback is that my grandfather is staunchly against alchohol, so I can’t open it tonight. Actually, maybe that’s an advantage rather than a drawback, because if I opened it tonight I’d have to share with my parents and on the whole I prefer letting them pay for the wine.
Over lunch today we were discussing 30th birthdays. In Norway, if you’re still unmarried at 30, the tradition is that you get a peppermill as a present (or several peppermills, depending on your number of friends and how funny they think it is). One of the girls complained that she had been looking forward to getting one, but that her mother had told people not to and so no one had dared. Which is silly. I mean, I look forward to my 30th birthday immensly simply for the hope that someone will actually get me a decent peppermill (have you seen the price of those things?).
From annoyance at not receiving we strayed onto the difference between men and women in this respect. Both sexes get the peppermills, but the ridiculously large ones are apparently more often given to guys by their friends. My theory is that essentially, women go for the “cool, possibly expensive, but still useful” models (whether they are chosing for themselves or a friend), guys, however, see it as a phallus symbol, and so to them, naturally (or idiotically), size matters.
Just a thought.
Now, more stupid quizes:
I am Aurora!
Which Disney Princess are you?
I am also a tomato. Apparently. Can’t be bothered to link that one, though.
Hmm. Not sure I want to BE Samuel L. Jackson. Be with, maybe. Mmmm, SLJ in kilt on Parkinson. Mmmm. Must see film with SLJ in kilt. Mmmm.
Ok, time to call it a day (week – Friday, YIPPEEEEEE!!)
Sound of the moment: 5000 miles or whatever it’s called. Urgh. Get out of my head!
Age of the moment: definitely middle aged – am soo looking forward to sleeping in and just pottering about all weekend
Security Considerations
I am trying to lift the lid,
logically, the lid
on my private crate.
It isn’t a coffin by any means,
it is just a package, a cabin, or,
in a word, a crate.
You know what I mean
when I say crate, come on,
don’t play the fool,
all I mean
is an average crate,
just as dark as your own.
Of course I want to get out,
and therefore I knock,
I hammer against the lid,
I call out More light, I gasp,
logically, pounding away at the hatch.
So far so good. Unfortunately,
for security reasons,
my crate does not open,
my shoe box has a lid,
a rather heavy one to be sure,
for security reasons,
since we are dealing here
with a container, an Ark
of the Covenant, a safe.
There is no way out.
For our liberation, joint action
would, logically, be needed.
But for security reasons
I am all alone in my crate,
in my very own crate.
To every man his due! And hence,
for me to escape, by joint action,
from my own crate, logically
I would have to be out of it
to start with, and this condition obtains,
logically, for all of us.
Thus I break my very own back
against the lid. Now!
A chink, a narrow gap! Ah!
Marvelous! The open country
outside, covered with tins,
containers, or just plain crates,
in the background, the high-rolling waves
ploughed by seaworthy trunks,
teh enourmously distant clouds above,
and lots and lots of fresh air!
Let me out, I proceed to cry,
feebly, with my tongue coated, against
my better judgement, covered with sweat.
To make the sign of the cross: imopossible,
To beckon: no, I am short of hands,
To clench the fist: out of the question.
And hence I cry: I express
my regrets, woe to me,
my very own regrets,
while with a hollow plop
the lid, for security reasons,
comes down again
over my head.
From The Sinking of the Titanic, Hans Magnus Enzensberger
Headaches
Well, I kept away from the television yesterday – so I guess you could say I agree…
And this morning I woke up with a headache.
“The 20th century?! I could pick a century out of a hat, blindfolded, and come up with a better one!”
(Old Mr. Larrabee in Sabrina Fair, equally applicable to the 21st, as far as I can see.)
Travelling companions
I was reflecting on travelling companions just now, and I thought I’d go into a bit more depth on teh subject than would be desirable in the book review (as it has little to do with the books). What I mean is – in real life, as well as in the travel writer – I like the kind of travelling companion who wants to be there, or at least, would rather be there with me – travelling – than, say, back in the office, or at home watching television. You’re allowed your moments of “I miss my own bed!” naturally (I have those too), but you need the sort of enthusiasm for travel which means that if someone really offered you the chance to go back home you’d stare at them aghast, not jump at it. I like the sort of travelling companion who will sit down and laugh with me when we arrive (by bus) in St. Ives in the late evening of 28 December and find that I’ve booked the B&B from the 29th and we have nowhere to sleep. Not the sort who panics when we arrive in Stratford and find that the B&B isn’t actually a B&B and so we have nowhere to sleep, on the other hand we have a car and are a three hour drive away from home. WE ARE NOT GOING TO DIE! DON’T PANIC! For &%#&’s sake. IT’S FUNNY!. That may have been the moment when my conscious mind started to realise that maybe me and this person were not meant for each other after all. Or it may have been earlier when he… No, let’s not get personal here (though, hey, if you’re reading this and feel I might possibly be referring to you, please let me know… that you’re reading this, I mean).
I also rather like the kind of travelling companion who is happy to go his/her own way while I go mine and meet me for lunch or dinner, and not insist that we spend every minute in each other’s company despite the fact that we want to see wildly different sights (I’m going to spend an hour browsing this bookshop and if you want to sit in the corner and sulk because you wanted to see the football stadium then be my guest, but I am not going to come to the football stadium afterwards – there’s a perfectly charming little museum just down the road that I want to see and that’s all I’ll have time for today). Sociable, but not too sociable.
Ok, now for a FUN quiz (thanks Nicolette):
Sound of the moment: dog barking outside
Age of the moment: 23
Where were you?
It’s 11 September (as if you didn’t know). Yes, I remember precisely where I was when someone exclaimed “Oh, my GOD!” and we all ran around like headless chickens trying to find a tv that would work. I remember the feeling of unreality. Coincidentally the same feeling that I had about four years earlier, watching shocked BBC presenters trying to keep from crying and thinking “This has to be some really sick joke, Diana can’t be dead.” (And I didn’t even particularly like Diana.) Two events so very different, but that have both been frozen in time in a way very little else in my life has.
I wasn’t intending to say much about it, really, but I have something else on my mind, and complete silence on the subject would be odd, I think. Other people have had more to say.
Mmmm, bed…
I have problems remembering the last unbroken, peaceful night’s sleep I had. It must have been a while. In addition to my habitual “well, just because I’m tired doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to fall asleep, obviously” routine, I seem to have been doing a lot of waking up in the middle of the night lately. Only once or maybe twice a night, mostly, and I fall asleep again pretty quickly, so I only lose a few minutes of sleep, technically. However, the waking up seems to be a symptom of generally disturbed sleep, rather than isolated incidents – I’m obviously not getting enough rest. The result? Just a little more tired. A little more prone to headaches. A little more inclined to curl up on the couch and do nothing (i.e. watch television). Like right now. Unfortunately, I have work to do.
I can remember one night recently of not waking up, actually, but that involved drinking rather a lot more whisky than really advisable and topping it up with a long island ice tea and deciding, for some – no doubt highly sensible – reason, to sleep on the couch. And somehow I doubt that this is a good cure for insomnia, or whatever it is I am suffering from (very good night out, though).
Sound of the moment: Blackadder goes Forth theme
Age of the moment: middle-aged, definitely