The Random Ramblings of Libmil

Christopher Wren + RATM "Occupy" my head..

2011-11-28T09:12:00.002Z

I do not have any strong opinions regarding the recent "Occupy..." protests.

The odd thought pops into my brain, such as:

- Rich v poor has been going on for centuries e.g. Peasants Revolt 1381

- When faced with legal eviction notices, why didn't the protesters at St Pauls, claim Sanctuary

- Ironically they accepted help from The Church of England, one of the wealthiest landowners in the UK

- I thought the whole premise of The American Dream, was that you start with nothing and end up with everything

- Rage Against the Machine managed to shut down Wall Street in a day

Like I said, just odd thoughts.

What I do find annoying, is that whenever the protests are reported on, the following poem pops into my head and stays there.

Christopher Wren by Hugh Chesterman (1928)

Clever men like Christopher Wren
Only occur just now & then.

No one expects, in perpetuity

Architects of his ingenuity.

No, never a cleverer dipped his pen

Than clever Sir Christopher - Christopher Wren.
With his chaste designs on classical lines.

His elegant curves and neat inclines.

For all day long he'd measure and limn

Till the ink gave out or the light grew dim:
And if plan seemed rather Baroque or too "Queen Anne"

(As plans well may).

He'd take a look at his pattern Book

And do it again in a different way.
Every day of the week was filled

With a church to mend or a church to build

And never an hour went by but when

London needed Christopher Wren.

"Brides in Fleet Street lacks a spire,"

“Mary-le-Bow a nave and a choir"

"Please to send the plans complete

For a new St Stephen's, Coleman Street"

"Pewterers' Hall is far too tall

Kindly lower the North West wall".

"Salisbury Square - decidedly bare,

Can you put one of your churches there?"

"Dome of St Paul's is not yet done.

Dean's been waiting since half-past one."

London Calling, from ten to ten

London calling, Christopher Wren.

11/11/11

2011-11-11T08:31:00.001Z

Why the poppy?

Scarlet corn poppies (papaver rhoeas) grow naturally in disturbed earth throughout Western Europe and were the only plants that grew in the battle-scarred fields of Northern France and Flanders during and after WW1

In May 1915, John McCrae wrote a poem to commemorate his fallen comrades Click Here

In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields

In 1918, this poem inspired an American professor and humanitarian, Moina Michael to write a poetic response and to start raising funds for ex-soldiers by selling silk poppies.

We Shall keep the faith

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,

Sleep sweet - to rise anew!

We caught the torch you threw

And holding high, we keep the Faith

With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red

That grows on fields where valor led;

It seems to signal to the skies

That blood of heroes never dies,

But lends a lustre to the red

Of the flower that blooms above the dead

In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red

We wear in honor of our dead.

Fear not that ye have died for naught;

We'll teach the lesson that ye wroughtIn Flanders Fields.

In Flanders Fields we fought

by Moina Michael, November 1918 Click Here

The poppy became the US national emblem of remembrance in 1920, and 1921 in the UK.
In the UK, "The Poppy Appeal" is run by The Royal British Legion http://www.poppy.org.uk/

Last year the appeal raised £36million. This year the target is £40million

"Well you can criticise your country but you should at least be grateful that you live in a country that allows you to do so. Buy a poppy".....Ricky Gervais (Twitter 6th Nov 2011)

Show your gratitude, show some respect. Buy a Poppy, it's not going to kill you

Internet Interpretation

2011-11-08T08:16:00.001Z

A graphical interpretation of the internet.

Obviously designed to look like synapsing nerves,

but a beautiful design

Be careful what you Wish for....

2011-10-27T06:33:00.001+01:00

Throughout my working life, it has always been a standing joke amongst my colleagues, that once we reach a certain age, we would all hope to develop some ailment which would enable us to retire early.....

On April Fools Day, I was diagnosed with M.S.

Multiple Sclerosis was not an illnes that had ever been on my personal radar.
Thyroid problems, due to family history or Type 2 Diabetes with age or, as a smoker, the certainty of Lung Cancer. These had all lurked in my brain as possibilities.
But never M.S.
The ”Grieving Process” kicked in.
Shock, anger, disbelief and acceptance, I’ve been through them all in a very short space of time. I’m still going through the stages, fluctuating between disbelief and acceptance, which is odd, as they’re so opposite each other.
But everything at the moment, is odd.
The past year has been odd and getting more surreal as time goes by.
There’s so much going through my mind I need to write it down.
Maybe then everything will make sense or form a pattern or at least, the jumble of thoughts will leave my head, once they are expressed.

The emotional side of me still thinks the Neuro Team have got it wrong.
The logical side of me knows they didn’t.
Hence the disbelief and acceptance. I’ve seen the MRI result and had all the white blotches explained. I’ve had the pain and transient blindness of Optic Neuritis associated with MS. I get constant vertigo due to my Balance Centre now being nothing more than the largest of the white blotches. And my right leg doesn’t feel or behave as if it still belongs to me.
Yet I can lie in bed, awake at silly o’clock, and create all sorts of reasons and explanations for these symptoms and the abnormal MRI scan.
At the same time, I feel relief to have an actual diagnosis that explains why I haven’t felt well for the past 18 months and that it’s not my fault.
Strangely, I feel comforted by the fact that this illnes was not caused by anything I’ve done or not done.

When I was sick and lay abed

2011-10-20T08:15:00.001+01:00

Recently, I haven't been well. I haven't been able to work.
The novelty of having loads of spare time, wears off and

boredom rears it's ugly head.

As the normal daily routines have disappeared, my body

clock has gone haywire.
Enforced daytime rests have resulted in sleepless nights,
when it becomes all too easy to slip into the depths
of self pity.

In an attempt to ward off maudlin thoughts, I try to dredge

my mind for happy memories.

From the age of 6, I was given elocution lessons, at school.
Every week I would have to memorise a poem and then recite

it to my tutor.
Miss Cox managed to turn, what sounds like an arduous task,

into one of joy and enthusiasm.
I would look forward to the lessons.
As I lie awake at night, I can still remember the poems.
This one seems apt.

The Land of Counterpane

When I was sick and lay abed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, though the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant Land of Counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses

Making Plum Jam

2011-10-20T08:00:00.000+01:00

Jam Adventure

I have somehow managed to acquire a second allotment. It's a long story which I might bore everybody with at some point.

This new allotment has a plethora of fruit trees. Apples, Pears, Damsons and Plums.

As you walk around the garden you hear a frequent thudding noise, as the fruit drops to the ground. A terrible waste.

So I decided to pick and use as much as possible.

The apples and pears are consumed quite readily by the family.

Only problem being that there are 3 Plum trees, each yielding 10-12lb of fruit, all ripe at the same time.

You can only give away so many plums, before people start to avoid you and there is only so much Plum wine you can make with 3 demijohns.

Which led me the possibility of making Jam!

I studied Latin at school instead of Cookery.

So I know that Plums are called Prunus but I've never made jam.

I did the Google thing and found 2,890,000 results for Plum Jam recipes.

Dream on!! I wasn't going to read through all of those trying to decipher which was a good usable recipe and which was utter nonsense and was about to give up, when I discovered THE BOOK

It belonged to my mother and it's called:

"Preserves and Preserving" by Olive Odell (published by Macdonald Educational)

Copyrighted by WI Books Ltd 1978

I'm probably wrong, but in my mind the Women's Institute and Jam are synonymous.

This book proves me right. It is a wonderful book. Easy to follow recipes, lovely photos, metric and imperial measures....and it tells you how much stuff you're likely to end up with!

It also explains to Jam Virgins, like me, all about Pectin and Setting Points and why you need all the different sugars and paraphernalia.

In addition, the book contains useful tips for entering produce into shows and competitions - I don't think so!

The Plum Jam recipe looked simple enough, so I had a go.

Most of the equipment needed, I already had - an aluminium Preserving Pan (courtesy of my Mum), Scales, Measuring Jug, Wooden Spoon,+ Slotted Steel Spoon.

I reckoned I could live without a Sugar Thermometer and a wide-necked Funnel.

Big Problem!! No Jam Jars!

God Bless Ikea, is all I can say.

I halved the quantities, as I didn't think I could cope with 10lb of jam, especially if it was a disaster. In fact there might have been less than half of everything, who knows.

I have a somewhat Cavalier Attitude in the kitchen and am renown for functioning on "ish"

I did kind of follow the recipe.

I used:

3lb (1.5kg) Plums

3lb (1.5kg) Preserving Sugar

1/2 pint (300ml) Water

This is what I did:

Removed the stones from the plums - you're supposed to half them, but by the time I got the stones out, they were in bits anyway

Put them in a pan with the water and simmered until the fruit was soft. At this point I took out as many skins as possible as I loathe jam with skins in.

I took the pan off the heat and then stirred in the sugar, until it dissolved.

Returned it to the heat and brought it to the boil and let it boil until the Setting Point was reached. I skimmed off any scum with the slotted spoon.

Put the jam into warmed jam jars. I had scolded out the jars with boiling water, which was hazardous.

I didn't use those funny little waxed paper disks on top of the jam because the jars I bought had proper screw lids

The Setting Point thing freaked me out at first. The easiest way to judge it, according to the book, is to put a teaspoon of the boiling jam onto a cold saucer, wait 1 minute for it to cool, then push the surface of the blob with your finger. If the surface wrinkles, then the Setting Point has been reached. Very scientific.

The Pectin is the stuff in fruit which makes the jam set - the sticky stuff. Some fruit has more Pectin than others. Plums have loads.

My children won't touch any jam unless it's shop bought Strawberry.

I made my Plum jam 3 days ago and it's all been eaten.

WooooHoooo!!

The Way Through the Woods

2010-07-25T15:15:00.001+01:00

The Way through the Woods

THEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

Tweet Wheel

2008-11-24T15:54:00.002Z

This is my Tweet Wheel
It shows all my Twitter Friends and their interactions

Kites

2008-11-21T06:36:00.009Z

At the end of October, I decided to take the boys to the seaside, for a long weekend. They were off school - it was the half term break.
I thought it would be a nice change from the same old same, which would probably include boredom, grumpiness and whining....not to mention the children's bickering!

It's always a gamble, going to the East Coast of Lincolnshire.
The weather can either be divine or horrendous. There are no half measures.
As we were experiencing a 'cold snap' and the temperatures are usually lower at the coast anyway, most of my friends viewed the venture, as an act bordering on insanity. They were wrong
It didn't rain, it didn't snow. There were no hail storms or sleet.
It was extremely windy - but this just kept the unpleasant looking clouds, on the move, making the sky look dramatic and keeping the beach deserted.
Ideal conditions for kite flying.Click Here I love flying kites. I have quite variety them. My current favourite is a Dolphin kite

When I lived in London, I used to go to Primrose Hill, on Sunday mornings, to watch the kites and fly my own.
But the best place is always a beach. Especially when the tide's out and there's nobody about. The children had a great time, each with their own kite. It was fun.
I found this poem, I don't know who wrote it.

Children are like kites.
You run with them until you are breathless.
They crash – you add a longer tail,
they hit the roof-top – you pluck them from spouts.
You patch and comfort, adjust and teach.
You watch them lifted by the wind
and assure them some day they’ll fly.
Finally they’re airborne
but they need more string
so you keep letting it out.
With each twist of the twine there’s
sadness and joy because the kite
becomes more distant and
you know it won’t be long before
it will snap the fine line
that has bound you together,
soar as it was meant to soar… independently free.

Author Unknown

'November' by Thomas Hood

2008-11-19T03:27:00.005Z

NOVEMBER
by Thomas Hood

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

Dulce et Decorum est

2008-11-09T09:06:00.027Z

Today is 11th November 2008, 90years since the end of World War 1. I always wear a poppy and I always observe a 2 minute silence. I actively encourage my children to do the same.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

This poem was written by Wilfred Owen. Of all the 'War Poets' (Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon etc), Owen is my favourite. Click Here

He was killed in action, 7 days before the Armistice, aged 25 years

Mists and mellow fruitfulness

2008-10-06T08:12:00.001+01:00

Well, Goose Fair has come and gone.
The weather has turned cold.
Summer is over.
I always think of Goose Fair as the official end of Summer and the beginning of Autumn.

I love Autumn.
I think it's the leaves, gold,red,orange,yellow, all the warm, vibrant colours.
It's as if nature is having a final 'look at me' moment

Leaves by Elsie Brady

How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

As a child I used to love running and kicking through piles of leaves. We'd play hide and seek, burying ourselves under the piles....leaping out at unsuspecting passers-by. I can remember collecting particularly beautiful leaves and taking them home, to stick in a scrapbook or make collages.
There seemed to be more leaves back then or maybe it's because I was smaller.

The Incinerator

2008-10-02T22:42:00.000+01:00

I bought this, last weekend:

The children have had more fun with it, than anything the XBox, Wii, DS etc could possibly offer.
Money well spent

Warning by Jenny Joseph

2008-09-29T07:47:00.000+01:00

It's my birthday soon. Remembering that, put me in mind of this poem. I intend to follow the advice.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Goose Fair

2008-09-28T07:43:00.000+01:00

Well, it's that time of year again. Nearly the 1st weekend in October.
Goose Fair is nearly here, just a few more days to go...

I think you have to live in Nottingham, to fully understand Goose Fair and it's affect on the city. It's been going on officially since c.1278, so about 700+ years (some reckon it's roots go back to the Danish settlement here. In which case, closer to 1000 years) HERE

Everybody goes to 'THE FAIR'...(it's always referred to in capital letters and quotation marks).
It's a reflex action, similar to breathing or liver function.
Even the weather, at this time of year, is referred to as 'Goose Fair Weather',and you hear people,on misty mornings, saying "smells like The Fair"

The children are given an official day off school on 'Goose Fair Friday', so mothers with half a brain, book the day off work or rue the day.
I have been in the position of other people taking my child to 'The Fair' and it's nerve racking, wondering what nonsense they are going to buy, how much vomit can be produced by unsuitable rides and if they're going to get lost or injured. You also end up with an excited child so pumped full of sugar, additives and general crap, that you have to tie a rope to his leg, to stop him bouncing off the ceiling.

For some mad reason, the traditional food eaten, is a pot of unnaturally bright green mushy peas...with mint sauce. Don't ask, I don't know why. It looks like vomit before its been eaten...so you can imagine the resulting appearance of the following days' pavement pizzas.

Anyway, the Goose is up. HERE
It's a 12 foot high statue of a goose which is placed on the traffic island aka Goose Fair Island close to the Fair site. It usually gets kidnapped, at some point.

I went into town with Mini-me yesterday and there it was. So I can no longer assume that he had forgotten what time of year it was. Foolish thinking, I know. The noise of The Fair would have alerted him to it, plus his friends daring each other to go on the really big rides and his grandmother giving him 'Fair Money'.
Hey Ho...let's kiss goodbye to £30.

Who am I kidding...I LOVE THE FAIR!!!

I love the smell, I love the noise, I love the lights, I love bumping into people I haven't seen all year and I love being a child again.....just for 1 weekend.
It's divine

Blog

2008-09-18T06:52:00.000+01:00

Having created this blog, I really ought to use it.
I wonder how many people out there have got unattended blogs?
Or is that the point? A bit like an insurance policy...you know it's there but don't use it unless it's needed.
I suppose blog sites are similar to the new diary you get at Christmas.
Not the work diary or appointment type but the page-a-day or 5 year ones.
You avidly fill them in, for about the 1st 3 weeks of January....then life moves on and you become too busy to remember it!
The professional or 'enthusiastic amateur' bloggers, don't help.
They always seem to be linking everything into their blogsites and you look at them and think "Bugger" - mine will never look like that.
And you sort of lose heart.
But I suppose people with great layouts and clever things are self-publicists anyway.
They aren't going to encourage people to look at stuff that's shit awful, are they?
So, I'm going to use this site as if it were the diary I had when I was 11 years old.
You know, "Went to school. Had cheese sandwiches for lunch. It rained. Got French homework".
Because I'm not clever and slick and I don't expect anyone to read this anyway.
The main thing is, I quite often have too much going on in the real world, to pay a great deal of attention to the virtual one......
....but I'm going to try

ME Time

2008-04-12T08:35:00.000+01:00

I get 8 days off work every month. More precisely, I get 8 days in every 4 weeks, off - equates to 4 weekends.
I do get 3 weekends off
The remaining 2 days are usually Thursday or Friday. Never together. Just isolated days off during the working week.

I have a family
Husband, children, pets...the usual thing
With that family comes all the inevitable, grown up stuff, such as laundry, arguing, cleaning, mediating, cooking, noise, shopping etc...
This happens regardless of whether I'm working or not.
So the weekends when I'm not working are just as stressful as when I am.

Therefore the 2 days when I'm off during the week take on a special meaning to me.

The silence alone is precious
Staying in my pyjamas until 11am is divine
Doing sweet F.A. is a guilty pleasure

Recently, through no fault of their own, my family seems to have been lurking around on all 8 of my days off - school holidays, exam leave, inset days, changed work patterns, illness.

After 3 months of this, I finally saw light at the end on the tunnel. A bright shining beacon. A day off, when I knew I'd been on my own. I became excited, looking forward to it as if it were Christmas and I was a child again.
On the morning of this much anticipated, almost hallowed day.....partner decided not to go to work, so we could have some 'special time together without the children'

No! Bugger and damnation! No!

I want 'ME TIME'

Frittering

2008-03-13T17:41:00.001Z

"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
We fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way" (Pink Floyd)

I wake up before everyone else.... by hours

What to do without waking the household?
Cross stitch is losing its appeal as I lose my eyesight.
Reading is always a possibility. Concentration seems to be the problem with that suggestion
I could tidy up. Dream on!
I should tidy up. I should be doing lots of useful things. Not a chance!!!

Turn on the television.... BUT

Can't face the continual loop of the news channels. 15 minutes is enough
Am not awake enough to cope with 'E' entertainment
My favourite music channels aren't up and running so early in the morning .
I don't want to buy paint rollers, exercise machines or miracle facial things.

Turn on the computer.... endless possibilities

Solitaire is always an option or Freecell. Usually start with these to get my fingers awake.
Check email.
Cursory glance at documents, work files etc...

Hit the internet

Could easily waste a lifetime with random clicking

Used to Ebay alot, not so much now. Not sure why.
Wikipedia can suck you in for ages.
Have grown out of Googling myself (admit it, we've all done it)
You Tube is great, but too loud at 4am for the rest of the household.

Stardoll.com is fun in a girly way
Wetpaintpleasetouch.com is enjoyable

Thought I might interact.... but with whom?

Have a knee jerk reaction against Facebook. I don't do photos
Can't get my head round My Space
Too old for Vampirefreaks. Too early for Gmail

Finally found the perfect site

Twitter.com

Divine

Mobile Hell

2008-03-13T17:40:00.000Z

Mobile Hell

Am going through the trauma of choosing a new mobile phone.

I don't know which I loath the most, the phones..... or the choosing.

All I want is something I can call with.
I don't really do texts. I can text, but can't be arsed. It's the letter 'S' that does my head in. 4 key presses. Not 1 or 2 or 3, but 4. 'Z' is the same - but I can't remember ever having to use that letter in a text message. 'S' however is a different matter.

Anyway, I just want to call and be called.
I take pictures and then never look at them again.
I have music which I never listen to. I have issues with earphones - I like to know what's going on around me, with every sense I have available.
Lots of ringtones but set the thing to vibrate as it seems to make more noise that way.

So I go to choose, muttering the mantra 'All I want is a basic phone' . And then the indecision kicks in.
What make, what colour, what network? To flip or not to flip? To slide or not to slide? How many pixels? How many bands? USB or Bluetooth or both? Radio, internet,video? What kind of messaging? What's the memory and battery life?
And you're sucked into it all, as if it were some bizarre religious cult.

So I leave - without a phone or the will to live

Tuesday Morning

2008-03-13T17:39:00.000Z

Tuesday morning, I have a broken foot. It should be Monday.

I have lots of things I should be doing, but can’t. Laundry, cleaning, food shopping - all the exciting things in life.

Whoop-de-shit! Lucky me! Condemned to a life of FreeCell and day time television

I don’t know where Monday went. I can remember Sunday. Spent most of it in hospital. Sitting…. waiting…. looking at the other walking wounded…..without them noticing me, of course. It’s the British way

Its cold - it always is, sat at the computer. This must be the draughtiest place in the house - cellar door, back door, hallway….. my own domestic wind tunnel

I can understand losing a Wednesday - it’s a sort of unremarkable day.

I could be ebaying, but can’t be bothered.

I should be ebaying - a little petty cash is always useful at the end of the month - but can’t face grappling with html, the scanner, the camera, postal costs or being enthusiastic about items that I don’t want anymore.

I must have sacrificed Monday to the god of codeine - it sends me away with the fairies.

I can remember Saturday - I broke my foot, climbing over a security gate. That’s not technically correct. The climbing up was OK. The falling down the other side wasn’t.

I’d be a crap cat burglar

Using crutches makes my arms hurt more than my foot. I’m in pain and I feel no need to be polite. However, I was extremely well controlled in the hospital - only got caught once, staring at a fellow patient - if you are going to have your forehead tattooed, get the spelling correct, otherwise people are bound to stare, just to figure out what your face says.

I take back what I said about Wednesday. I think I’m probably in denial. In my current life, Wednesday is the bitchfest day from Hell.

Who ever said women are experts at multi-tasking, needs a good slap.

If I can forget this Monday, can I remember others? I must have had hundreds. Mondays are usually commented on. New stuff happens on a Monday. New job, new week, new hopes, new fears…. I think the codeine fairies still have me

You just get caught up in life. Mondays just disappear.

All that build up at the weekend for the dreaded day.
Then suddenly, it’s Tuesday and you’re sat at the computer with a broken foot, a sore bum and no memories from the previous day.