Happy Easter

Today’s blog title has nothing to do with what I’m going to write about, but I wanted to wish you all a Happy Easter so, Happy Easter!

Incredibly, my theme for yet another day is ‘big’.  It is entirely by accident, I assure you, that I am sticking to the theme of NaBloPoMo, even though it is not a requirement of the sign-up.

Big Day For TV:

The new Dr Who made his first appearance last night.  I have to say I was impressed.  Yes, he’s ugly, poor fellow, like some neanderthal throwback; but he can act and he took over the role with confidence.  Steven Moffat’s script helped, of course, though it wasn’t as terrifying as ‘Blink’.  I don’t think I’m going to miss David Tennant as much as I expected to.  The new sidekick was pretty good as well; the Hub and Spud both agree, though they stopped before ‘good as well’.

Big Day For City:

The Hub and Spud are walking on metaphorical air: as well as Man City’s 6-1 win over poor Burnley* yesterday, Tottenham were defeated, pushing City into fourth place with a game in hand, and – cherry on the cake – so were united.   Woo-hoo! or words to that effect.

* I am not a true sports fan because I always feel sorry for the losers

Big Day For Tory Boy:

Wiliam Hague is visiting Lancaster tomorrow and Tory Boy is going to be one of the minions showing him around and screening out nutters.  What a great opportunity (to fall flat on his face/say the wrong thing/let the wrong nutter through).  No pressure, my darling.

Big Light Bulb Moment In The Middle Of The Night:

I sat up in bed at three in the morning, having suddenly realised that I have not stuck to the conditions of NaBloPoMo.  Someone on NaPoWriMo posted that they had not commented on other people’s poetry; I didn’t realise that we were supposed to do it and checked the terms of the pledge.  I couldn’t find anything, yet I remembered reading something about twelve comments a day on other posts.  It was for National Blog Posting Month, of course, and not for National Poetry Writing Month, as I remembered in my sleep.  I have only commented once, I think, and that was by accident because I thought I was commenting on a poetry participant’s post.  Ah well.  So many acronyms; so little mind.

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Yesterday’s prompt was to write about what scares us.  I have a serious reverse senryu  and a lighthearted rhyming ditty for you.  Don’t judge me too harshly on the ditty: I know it’s not finished but we are supposed to post them anyway; the important thing is to be writing.

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Superstition

I cannot give voice to that

which I most fear,

for that might leave me childless.

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What I’m Most Scared Of

Bees and wasps, for they have stings;

every kind of crawling thing. 

Heights and depths and swimming pools. 

Angry men with power tools. 

Rapists, paedos, muggers, thieves;

the scratching sound in my house eaves. 

The aspirations of local chavs:

have-nots who’ll take to make them haves. 

Console games my children play,

teaching them that violence pays. 

Living in this Big Brother state:

it talks of love and foments hate. 

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But of NaPoWriMo I’m most scared:

I can’t believe I ever dared

agree to compose daily words.

For sheer hard work I was not prepared.

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Big Problems For Little Me

Can you see the likeness?

I had an identity crisis last night. Spud was railing that he is still shorter than me and the Hub measured him and found him to be 5′ tall. Now this is weird because I am also 5′ tall, yet I am two inches taller than Spud.

I have always been 5′ tall (since I reached 5′, anyway) and rather like it. Think of Kylie Minogue and you get the idea of how dainty I am. Or was, twenty-eight years ago. Now I’m 5′ wide as well: a sort of Kylie-squared.

Only, I am not 5′ small after all, despite what it says in my passport. The tape measure proves it: I am 5’2″. No more standing on the third step up to the back garden that backed onto my childhood back garden to kiss 6′ tall boyfriends for me (though the Hub might have something to say about that, anyway; so perhaps it’s just as well).

My problem with it is that I have always considered myself to be a certain height and now I find that it’s not true – quite apart from the anxiety it engenders that the Police will take me away in the night and electrocute my testicles with passion fruit (sorry if that doesn’t make sense; I had a sleepless night worrying about it) for making a false declaration on my passport. Imagine if you were a girl and you had always been a girl and it says on your passport that you’re a girl and then somebody measures you against your child one day – a child that you lovingly carried, birthed, reared and gained weight for, the miserable little turncoat – and they tell you that, oops, it’s a mistake and you are actually a boy. I think you’d be as hysterical as I am right now, wouldn’t you? My image of myself as diminutive has been irrevocably altered – I can no longer ask strangers in the supermarket to pass me the tofu* on the top shelf or get Tory Boy to dust the parts my little arms cannot reach; they’ll just laugh and tell me to ‘Get it yourself, Lofty.’

The Hub obviously didn’t think this through when he told me the alleged truth about myself: he likes dainty women, which is why he roughed me up and bundled me into a wedding carriage all those years ago. He was six inches taller than me then: tall enough to make me feel protected but not so tall that I needed to wear a neck brace after canoodling with him. We are going to have to re-think our whole relationship now that I am a giant.

He tried to soothe my understandable fury by blaming my Dad, who would have been the one to measure me, for making a mistake. This did calm me down because my Dad was a bit dopey (where do you think I get it from?) and it is a plausible theory. BUT – and it’s a big but, as you can see – I have just remembered that my Dad didn’t measure me for my passport because he was in South Africa at the time. So now I am doubly angry at the Hub – he shattered my self-esteem and besmirched the good name of the best Dad who ever lived at the same time. That’s a good enough excuse to throw food at him, I think. Excuse me a moment…

…that feels better.

Spud said I should look on the bright side: I am no longer an official midget.

Ah well. At least it gives me another chance to blog about this month’s NaBloPoMo ‘big’ theme. I should be grateful for small mercies.

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*If it’s true that I am tall then it’s true that I am a healthy eater as well.

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Yesterday’s prompt required the use of the readwritepoem acronym ‘RWP’.

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The Right-Wing Propagandist

The right-wing propagandist swears that

the reason why people come to our

island is to steal it from us.

The right-wing propagandist considers

the benefit system to be a

refugee welcome pack.

The right-wing propagandist deems

respectable white people to

be the only true Brits.

The right-wing propagandist believes

The Road To Wigan Pier

is a socialist tract.

The right-wing propagandist thinks

reasonable white people

like me are

left-leaning liberal collaborators.

If it means the BNP will never win

another seat, then take me to

Traitors’ Gate.

Hang up your hate on the way.

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Big Day

Big.  That’s the theme for National Blog Posting Month.  In April, like NaPoWriMo, and to which I have also signed up.  Problem is, I have no big announcements and all I can think of is Tom Hanks in the movie Big.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  I thought I would for once avoid the obvious self-deprecating fat jokes so I Googled ‘Big’ to see what came up.

I should have realised that there would be more than one movie with the word ‘big’ in the title: The Big Lebowski and The Big Chill, for starters: the former is famous for having a dude Jeff Bridges and the latter for having a dead Kevin Costner, preternaturally foreshadowing his career after Waterworld (which I rather liked, incidentally).  He played the corpse in TBC and his scenes ended up on the cutting floor. 

Google also reminded me that there is Big Ben (a time machine), Big Brother (a time waster) and The Big Issue (time to do your bit for homeless people).   Did you know that Big Ben is actually the name of the bell and not the tower?  According to Wikipedia, ‘Big Ben is the largest four-faced chiming clock and the third-tallest free-standing clock tower in the world.’  Hmm.  This post is so dull it’s practically a horology story.

But I was surprised by the number of companies using the initials B.I.G.  – two.  I thought there’d be loads more.  I did like the home page of the Bjarke Ingels Group.  Check it out for yourself and try not to snigger if you’re English and reading this: http://www.big.dk/

I also liked the name of a little tourist attraction in Devon: http://www.thebigsheep.co.uk/  The blurb invites us to ‘Take yourself on a tour of our website and you will find out how our unique North Devon attraction is devoted to sheep.’  You’ve got to love a place devoted to sweaters and Sunday dinner and offering ‘9 live sheepy shows every day.’

Going off topic now, it is time for Day 2 of NaPoWriMo, but before that, I have hidden the word ‘BIG’ twice in the above paragraphs; see if you can find them.  What else do you have to do?  All of the shops are shut and there’s nothing on the telly. 

I’m afraid I’m going to be a day behind as far as the writing prompts are concerned; I hope you don’t mind.  Yesterday’s prompt was to take five song titles and work them into a poem.  I will give you the titles after the poem; see if you can spot them.

 

Frances Farmer Wanted A Life

 

Picture this:

her mama tried. 

Her mama tried;

her mama tried. 

Her mama failed. 

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She was

just another nervous

wreck on a bleak life ride,

always moments away

from crazy jail.

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Poor Frances. 

They called it ‘madness’ –

those who, safe in their

sanity, electrocuted her

soul; they called her mad.

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The songs are:

Picture This – Blondie (or Wet Wet Wet)

Mama Tried – Merle Haggard (my Dad was a massive country & western fan)

Just Another Nervous Wreck – Supertramp

Moments Away – Mango Groove

Madness  –  Madness

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