The Doctor was beginning to regret getting so many pets….
Today is my one-year *l**********. When I told the Hub, he insisted that I can’t use the word ‘**o*********’ because it’s just too naff and he doesn’t want to be known for having a naff wife using the word ‘***g********.’ As this blog is mostly about him, I had to listen to his argument. Especially as he had me pinned to the floor with a knee across my larynx at the time.
I decided to celebrate my ****i******* by taking a look at my statistics (as if I don’t look at them every day, drooling with excitement that three people linked from Writer’s Island and the two-hundred-and-eighty-ninth person accidentally found me by typing in ‘your old as woman feel’) . I would tell you all about it but I can’t help feeling that a) it’s dull and b) it would be rather like swapping salary stories; I just don’t think it’s the done thing in the blogosphere. I can tell you, because I have a little stat counter on my home page so it’s something you can check for yourself, that my target of 10,000 hits for the end of the year – 2010; not the year since I started blogging, which is today. Did I mention it was my *****v******? – will be reached sometime in the next ten days. I hope.
Now I have to set a new target. That involves looking at statistics. Umm… 2782 in my first half and 7016 in my second half which is an increase of something percent so if I factor in my poor maths skills and multiply that by my one year *****e*****, take away the number I first thought of and stop for a chocolate break, my new target will be 17,000 hits by 31 December. (Don’t let the science fool you; this is what’s technically known as a ‘thumbsuck figure.’) And look at that! I finally managed to legitimately pull together three punctuation marks. Go me!*
I have a bit of a problem: I set myself today’s target of writing the word (though it’s not really a word and in the opinion of the Hub is a bit naff; did I say that already?) ‘*******r****’ twelve times in this post so that anyone who’s a bit clever, like, could crack the code and discover for themselves what the word is (it’s ‘********s***’). Thus, I would be obeying the Hub’s diktat not to say ‘*********a**’ but subverting it at the same time. I’m too smart for him. Trouble is, I’ve run out of things to say.
Oo! Oo! Just had a **********r* flash of genius – isn’t it ironic that the first anniversary of a blog (wink wink) – an electronic media (medium?) – should be paper? Why?
Today is Rallentanda’s POW prompt day. The prompt is to write a Who Am I? poem. The first was written in response and is easy; the second was written about eighteen months ago and is more difficult if you are not interested in Royal history – which, inexplicably, many people aren’t.
Answers on a postcard please; or in the comment box.
Who Am I?
I’m craggy but handsome; fecund but cute.
I look good in blue or my birthday suit.
I act; I direct; sometimes I produce.
I had a great wife but I played fast and loose.
Dad wanted his son to avoid Vietnam:
I’m Aussie; I’m Yank; I don’t give a damn.
Famously Catholic, I’m hypocritical.
I’m occasionally drunk and anti-semitical.
Who am I?
Mother Knows Best
There is so much angst at home
when your Mum sits on the throne.
She says it is my duty
to wed for State, not booty.
I know that I can’t fight her:
she’ll pull her corset tighter
and declare she’s not amused;
I must consent to being used.
Avoiding war is wiser:
I’m off to raise a Kaiser.
*Sorry, I’m excited. Today is my ***********y.
Ha!** You thought I couldn’t do it, didn’t you?
**Will somebody please close the exclamation mark factory door before I overdose?