Archive | 21:00

Let The Games Begin!

27 Jul

To celebrate the London 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony, this post was scheduled to be published at GMT (or maybe GMT+1; I am always confused by British Summer Time; probably because it’s always raining and we need the heating on in July) 21:00.

I say ‘was’, because I am at this precise moment plonked in front of my telly with a glass of wine, a bag of peanuts and a patriotic heart, watching Danny Boyle display all that is best about Britain.

2012!  What a great year we’re having!

Go Team GB!

Exclamation mark overload!

Do me a favour: if you were watching the ceremony at the same time, say so in the comments, mentioning your beverage and snack of choice. 


I’ve Had An Idea But You Need To Read This Post In The Next Five Hours If You Want To Join In

27 Jul


I will be watching the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games.  I have prepared a post about it, in which I invite you to tell me what you are eating and drinking while you watch it around the world. (Apologies in advance to my subscribers, who will receive four posts from me today.)

If you intend to watch it, take a photograph of yourself and your family while doing so, email it to me at or the email address attached to my comments on your blog, and I will combine them in a post next week.  

We can be together even though we’re not together!

And if you’re not watching it, send me a photograph of what you were doing instead.


Thank You, Dear Readers

27 Jul


Thank you!!!!

Thank you!!!! (Photo credit: camerakarrie)

Yesterday, I read a post which led me to a post which led me to another post which I read and deleted.

I never gave it another thought.

I went to bed.

I slept.

There’s a funny thing about the English language: sometimes words end in -pt and sometimes in -ped.  Why?  Why do we say slept and not slepped?  Slipped and not slipt?  And as we are pondering that broad theme, why does it suddenly pop (which, in the past tense, would be popped and not popt) into my head that we can say leapt and leaped without our brains leaking from our ears?

Anyway, I went to bed.

I dozed.

I woke up.

One stray sentence from that random post jumpt into my head:

Thank your readers.

It didn’t say why; or if it did, I don’t remember.  But it seemt like a good idea so, without further ado:

Thank you, dear readers.  

Thank you for:

  • Reading my posts
  • Coming back, despite having read my posts
  • Leaving comments on my posts
  • Leaving further comments, when I may not have replyt to the earlier comments
  • Not leaving compliments, because you know they make me uncomfortable
  • Leaving compliments because you don’t care that they make me uncomfortable: you’re nice; you like me; and I’m just going to have to put up with it
  • Reading my posts

Have a Malteser:

English: A pile of Maltesers candies and one s...

English: A pile of Maltesers candies and one split in half. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

While I’m in a thanking mood, I’d better be nice to the Hub.  Here is this morning’s love offering:

I am Hub’s other wife, who can’t spell.

Thanks, Hub.  Liquorice Allsorts are an acceptable substitute when I’ve given away all of my Maltesers in an obvious attempt to bribe my readers to stay.

I wonder if they’ll work on offended husbands?


Joke 491

27 Jul


Victories by the Hungarian team in the 1964 Ol...

Victories by the Hungarian team in the 1964 Olympic Games, Tokyo, October 10-25, 1964 :*Denomination: 60 Filler (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In honour of the Olympics, which start tonight, I will be posting some sport-themed jokes over the next two weeks.  This one is from the Reader’s Digest.

The French, German, and Hungarian fencers are arguing over who is the best in their sport.

The Frenchman pulls out his foil: “I will show you all!” He targets a fly buzzing around, and with one swipe of his blade, the fly falls to the ground, cut neatly in half.

The German smiles. He locates another fly, and with two swipes, it falls to the ground, its wings neatly removed.

Now it’s the Hungarian’s turn. Lifting his foil, he takes three swipes at a fly, which flutters off, undisturbed. The others laugh, but the Hungarian holds up his hands. “That fly,” he says, “will never procreate again.”


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