Cycling

I used to be the proud owner of a Series III Land Rover (1981 model). I had to take the VRT test last February. You’ll have to understand one thing before reading on … I’m not one who’s taken in by looks. So it follows that Benedicta (the landy) was not one to turn heads, but she could roar when she had to, if you get my drift … anyway …

I took her to the VRT station and the attendant gave her the once over.

“She’s not going to pass.”

“I think you’re not going to pass her.”

“I’m not allowed to pass cars with 4 colours.”

Blank stare.

It dawned on me that Benedicta was going to need some cosmetic surgery. I didn’t have the time for all that, so I gave her to a Land Rover enthusiast who promised me that she wasn’t going to need anything as long as she was in his care. (I’m sure I heard him mutter “She’s had a life worse than a stray dog.”)

“Listen.”

“What?”

“How are you going home now?”

“I’ll bus it, I guess.”

“There’s that bike by the door. Why don’t you take it? I was thinking of throwing it out soon. Saves me the trouble”

“Gee. Thanks.” (I think.)

If it were a dog you’d call it mangy. And it was love at first sight. Blue, gritty and it had that great worn look about it that tells you “This bike’s been to Timbuctoo and back.” (But the tyres spoiled it all because they were spanking brand new. They still had those sort of little hairs on them that new tyres have. Whatever …)

I am now cycling to work. It’s become the highlight of my day (except negotiating the roundabout at the top of the hill leading to the dockyard. I feel like a model for Brownian motion.) Going and coming. And do you know what’s really fun? Going down one way streets. The first time I did it it was more than I could take to stop myself from shouting “In your face!” to the No Entry sign.

Simple things please simple minds, you might say …

I don’t have to tell you that the bike-it-to-work scheme encountered some serious opposition from the wife. She even phoned the Police Station asking them whether it was obligatory for bicycle riders to wear a helmet. (I can remember how she said “bicycle”. It was like drawing your nails across a blackboard. And how she looked at me when she said it. It was a sort of serene look – like Tilda Swinton in Constantine – but you know, when you’re on the receiving end, that it spells trouble with a capital T.) To my relief the lovely constable on the other side told her “No. It’s not obligatory.” I think that had he been face to face he would have added “But there’s a White Paper about it.”

Her stance has changed since. She can appreciate that her husband now takes up less space in rooms. So she gave me a bicycle rack for father’s day . I think what she meant to say was: “Take the car, drive it till the petrol runs out, then take the bike.”

That’s it for today then. Speak to you tomorrow. Same time, same place.

Toodle-oo.

 

Tired

Today I decided to clear up the room that’s going to be the nursery. The paintwork’s done and we’re expecting the furniture any time soon… I embarked on the project with the enthusiasm of a wet dishcloth on a Sunday afternoon. I only made it through the evening knowing that I was coming to post something here … the carrot on the stick as it were. Now here I am … sitting in front of my computer too tired to think of anything interesting enough to keep me awake *blush*

Sorry about … YAAAAAWN … that

I guess I’ll call it a day … I’ll do better tomorrow. Promise.

Toodle-oo.

 

Fluffy Thinking and Flowery Language

Unluckily we have had to resort to this. I am a blog addict. (Why else would I be doing this?) There are some unbelievably good blogs floating around in cyberspace. Then there are some decent blogs. Then there’s the rest. I am concerned with the rest.

Let’s start at the beginning, which is a very good place to start, as Maria (of The Sound of Music fame) said. Picture this. You’re walking down ________ Street (please insert name of favourite shopping quarter). Aha. New shop. It sells thingamajigs. “How interesting,” you tell yourself insincerely. And you walk on.

The next day you’re walking down the ________ Road (please insert name of second favourite shopping quarter, where you end up going when you don’t find what you want in _________ Street.) Lo and behold. there’s another new shop. It’s selling thingamajigs too. And they’re BIGGER! (Did I mention they were cheaper too?) You stop and look.

A few weeks after that you’re on the _________ to work (please insert preferred mode of vehicular transport; you get more points if it’s environmentally friendly, but don’t lie. You’re only fooling yourself). Now where was I? OK. You’re on your way to work and right next to the fag shop, where you’re on first name terms with the owner, there it is. A spanking new thingamajig shop. But not JUST thingamajigs. This time it’s thingamajigs with bells on. You shake your head and go on. Unbelievable… until, that is, you’re back in _______ Street looking for shoes. Your favourite crapmonger is now offering a free thingamajig with every load of crap you buy.

OK. Where am I going with all this? Back to blogs:

There are a few unbelievably good blogs etc (cue dispirited “How interesting” response and walk on)

Then there are some decent blogs (cue video clip of someone stopping at a shop window and looking mildly interested)

Then there’s the rest (cue a video clip of thingamajigs with bells on falling off a production line somewhere )

How is one factory going to convince the public at large that its thingamajigs are the best money can buy? Embellish their properties of course. “This thingamajig is empathetic”. “When this thingamajig sees you’ve had a bad day it logs on to Online-hug.com.” (Of course you’ll need to buy the thingamajig with internet access and Wi-Fi, which retails at a nifty $RIDICULOUS from good shops everywhere.”

And this is what’s happening to blogs, I think. We bloggers have to convince the world that our cybergraffiti is worth stopping for as much as the next guy’s (or gal’s). So what do we do? Use flowery language for one. Cop a load of this: while she speaks about one of the million corners of the same round world and ponder … after all … the world is a beautiful place

I’m not saying where I found it, because it’s not fair. But does it really make you want to read more? Million corners of the same round world. If s/he says so ….. (please note the industrious avoidance of hint dropping )

He told us the story that made him lame: it must have been a vicious story.

The following statistical analysis was taken from another blog. The blogger (again remaining unidentified to minimise the possibility of egg-on-blogger’s-face happening) was discussing the validity of the results of some survey about the situation of single parent families in a particular country.

Among my own extended network of friends, acquaintances and people I know through work, the figure seems rather closer to 40 per cent. Another difficulty is that the numbers are not broken down to reflect the truth: that the marriages of those aged 25 to 50 are hitting the rocks at an alarming rate, but the marriages of those aged 50+ are not. I know this because I can see what’s happening around me.

Mind-boggling. Just observe the unshakeable premises upon which the blogger’s argument are based, in case you missed them the first time around:

Among my own extended network of friends, acquaintances and people I know through work unless this person’s extended network of friends etc etc is a) big enough to be statistically significant b) is representative of the population at large the statement wields about as much weight as an anorexic gnat.

the figure seems rather closer to 40 per cent because the blogger knows what 100% is. Obviously.

the truth: that the marriages of those aged 25 to 50 are hitting the rocks at an alarming rate Where to begin? From the truth? Or the fact that the rocks are being pelted with marriages at an alarming rate? That’s a nice way to ruin a day at the beach. What constitutes alarming? Are there any socio-economic parameters one should consider before being unduly alarmed? I keep forgetting the demographically representative network.

but the marriages of those aged 50+ are not Wow! Impressive database.

And now for the punch line:

I know this because I can see what’s happening around me. Sure, sure. We know that what you know is the truth. Nothing but.

I’m off to find the latest deals on thingamajigs. I think I’ll start my own shop. A 5Kg pack of washing powder with every thingamajig purchased. Any takers?

Toodle-oo.

 

Simon & Garfunkel

Listening to them now. My favourite has to be The Dangling Conversation. Bleecker Street a photo-finish second.
The Dangling Conversation, for me, is a bit like discovering your father’s porn stash. Call me weird. The waves of euphoria crash against the scowling black rocks of disappointment.
“Cool! My father’s got porn!”
“Hang on … what’s he doing with porn? Does my mother know?”
“Look at the tits on that redhead. They can’t be real.”
“What was he thinking?!”
“How did she fit that there?”
And the ping-pong match goes on …
The song starts with a good – “sweet” – rhythm. It’s a still life water colour.
Hmmm. Honeyed.
I sit through the first few bars. Then there it goes cast in our indifference
How it jars. But the tune is still great. You can’t chuck a song just because of a small mistake.
So you keep listening as though you misunderstood.
And you read your Emily Dickinson and I my Robert Frost.
See? I told you we must have misunderstood something.
And we note our place with bookmarkers that measure what we’ve lost.
Oops. There we go again. And it’s downhill all the way. Till we reach the coup de grace: And I only kiss your shadow I cannot feel your hand, you’re a stranger
Now unto me
That’s cold. Murderous.
But the tune … enthralling.
A nice song about most people’s nightmare – a sham marriage (or relationship). What were they thinking?
*oh well*
Perhaps I’d be better off listening to Nelly thinking she’s like a bird …

Toodle-oo.

 

The Big Bang

And then there was light …

and heat …

and time …

whatever.

My point is that everything has to have a beginning. This is my blog’s beginning. I hope the bang wasn’t too loud. But I really hope that the LIGHT shines so hard that that it hurts your islets of Langerhans

Gawd, not another blog. Well, everybody else is doing it so why can’t I, as the Cranberries (nearly) asked when they boarded the gravy train. I don’t want the gravy. I don’t think it goes well with everything. Come to think of it I don’t think gravy goes well with anything really … but I digress.

I have been bitten by the logorrhoea bug. That’s bad news. For you. Now I’m challenging you to shut me up

I will be posting quite often. Think along the lines of dog –> lamp post –> aha –> cock a leg. (In my case it’s going to be more like: Me –> time on my hands –> aha –> post an entry)

That’s about as far as this bang goes. Handshakes and genial nodding over and done with. Prepare to want more.

Toodle-oo.