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Blog virgin alert! Tickled to be writing anything at all. IF I write anything at all... |
| Oh dear! Writer's block cuts in on the description, so I may or may not write anything at all. I will write a longer description of this item when there's sufficient content to describe. Besides, which I haven't decided what to say yet! |
| There was a competition recently offering something like a year-long free stay on an Australian tropical island in return for regular multi-media blogging to extol the virtues of said paradise. It is a very good thing I never entered or I'd be locked up in a tropical prison by now for competitive fraud. My initial enthusiasm for anonymous online consciousness streaming has been rather tempered by the fact that I can't think of anything to say. This may well be a good thing, because it means I'm not living in a constant state of anxiety about anything life-threatening unlike the BBC Iraq correspondent who recently wrote a blog on being surrounded by death. However, it also means that I'm hardly utilising my potential or the opportunities my relative freedom and affluence offer me to DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE!! Is it just me, or is the mark of being a grown-up the point at which (most, but obviously not all) people realise that they're unlikely to become the first woman on the moon or the next Joan of Arc or the best Tina Turner imitator in the world, and acknowledge the fact that they're just, well ... Ordinary? I've often been tempted to stage a late-late-teenage-rebellion to make up for the one I didn't manage as an actual teenager. The problem with that is that I still suffer from the same desire to stick to the rules and be good and hardworking and polite as I did when I was young enough to rebel with style, and online anonymity is the greatest risk I've yet taken ... If you read anything in the news next week about a middle-aged woman clutching a bag of dancing peas, and staging a lone protest against political idiocy in Parliament Square then it might be me. But, on the other hand, it might not! |
| I've known for a while that talking complete rubbish is addictive because it's all I ever do, but to come home after what felt like an extremely long day walking through treacle and type rubbish? That seems to have superseded addiction and become more of a mental illness. Or is fetish a more politically correct term for it? Anyway, after being kept too long on a train to work, fighting my way through maunderers at the station while swearing profusely behind their backs, arriving at work and wishing I hadn't, spending the day at work and wishing I hadn't, I arrived home hoping to be tickled by anything, anything at all, and .... wished I hadn't. My husband, who spent the weekend in bed with an injured shoulder, has now decided to grow measles. Measles aren't at all entertaining in a 38 year old man. They're not very entertaining when you're five, but at least there's a feeling of relief that you've got them out the way and you won't remember them after they've left you - or at least, that's what the parental types told you at the time. My husband has a low tolerance for physical discomfort and through overexposure, I've also developed a similarly low tolerance for his physical discomfort which causes all manner of arguments even when he's not persistently scratching his armpits. The least entertaining thought I'm currently having is that I might have the measle too. If it is a measle. It might be a whole new disease, the like of which he's invented before without much effort. He expects me to be able to tell one kind of spot from another but I can't. When is a measle not a measle? When it's a chicken pox. Or a small pox. Or the first sign of radiation sickness. It might be that he has all of these at once, and I should know because I'm expected to independently evaluate each new spot as it appears and solve the itch problem as well; I could do it, but I don't think murder is an entirely appropriate response. I've decided to go away and cook peas instead in the hope that they'll make me serene and happy like they did yesterday. I may well type more rubbish tomorrow if I haven't started a life sentence in Azkabhan for making my husband mysteriously disappear in a big cloud of measles. It may be a bad habit but it has made me feel better. Productive in a non-productive kind of way. Rabbit, over. |
| Well. Hello World. This is it. My very first blog entry. Ever. And. Well. World. You know what? I have absolutely no idea what to say. There was a time in the not so distant past (I have no memory for anything, let alone dates, and so I can't quote the beginning of the internet boom in anonymous revelatory writing) that published people were very few and far between, and I suppose that those few and far between people used to take what they wrote down very seriously, making sure that it was a worthy use of a precious resource. Don't get me wrong. I'd LOVE to be a writer, I've even got a Writing.Com account to prove it, but to be strictly honest I don't actually think I can call myself an actual writer. I don't even write Christmas Cards these days, nominally because they're environmentally unsound, but actually because ... I just don't. At this point, I should mention the anonymous person who donated me a free upgraded membership, because without them I wouldn't be writing this load of old twaddle. I thank you whoever you are, and hope for the sake of your karma that you haven't stimulated that random twitch of a butterfly's wing that's going to bring on Armageddon sometime in the next three months. I'm writing this because I have, of course, read the adage that in order to be called a writer you have to write SOMETHING. This is something (which I could be moderately proud of) about nothing (which I'm not so proud of), because the only thing that came into my head when I started this was the joy of watching peas dance. I get excited by cooking frozen peas. There's no simpler way to put it. Not sexually excited, because that would be odder than even I'm prepared to countenance, but happily, warmly, smily-ly, knismogenically excited: peas disco when the heat's on. I've just watched some while burning my husband's dinner. Sweetcorn doesn't do it. It floats a bit and sinks under those jiggling peas and gets kind of left out. I cook peas because they're ready in five minutes, if you eat enough of them (something like 3/4 of a bag?) they equate to one of your quota of five portions of vegetables, and you can swallow them whole without having to taste them. And most importantly, they dance. Which makes me happy. Which isn't such a simple thing for anybody as it sounds. My brain sometimes feels like a black hole and there's nothing in it but dancing peas. I've just admitted that to the world and I feel better. Thank you, World. Even if you don't read this! And if on the offchance you did, I hope there's something making you smile right about now :) |
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