Absence Makes The Blog Grow Longer

I haven’t commented much this week on your blogs* and I’ll probably comment even less next week (should that be, I’ll probably comment even fewer?), but I’m sure you’ll forgive me (should that be, I’m shore ewe’ll forgive me?) when you hear/here/ear/her my excuse: I’ve been busy.

*Here’s a funny thing: why would the spellchecker on a blog not recognise the word ‘blog’?  Or ‘spellchecker’?

I was busy all this week and I’m going to be busy all next week, but next week’s busyness promises to be more fun than this week’s busy/iness.  I am (we are) expecting visitors tomorrow (hence the business – cleaning prep).

Not just any visitors: blogging friends as visitors!  From not wan blog, but too:

Janet:

And Ben:

Artwork on a window On a blacked out sash and case window of a house at the junction of Traquair Road and Angle Park in Innerleithen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is not Ben and bears no relationship to him at all, unless he’s one-dimensional by nature, which I seriously doubt; but I forgot to ask Janet’s permission to post a photo of him, though there is one on his blog.  You’ll find him here.  I don’t want to begin our visit by upsetting her (which, when she meets me, may still happen; I have no tact, you know).

They are mother and son (I’ll let you guess which is which/whom is whom/who is witch)* and they both have interesting blogs.  Ben is an Epic Dude with an epic interest in history; Janet makes the most exquisite origami, some of which I now possess.  I am really looking forward to our five days together…yes, even though they have never met me, they are willing to stay here for five days.  Brave or foolhardy?  Depends on how they like stodgy cooking and dodgy puns.

*Tactlessness in action

I will post the joke-a-day but I may not post much about the visit until after they’ve gone (though it may be on the news if it doesn’t go well…say, Janet doesn’t like my left leg or something.  Not that I’m not easily offended or anything).

I’m pretty addled from the week I’ve had, hence the garbled post (and you thought it was you…); I decided not to write about anything much until I have the time to devote  to it.  Not that Janet and Ben’s visit isn’t much; it is; I meant that I…oh, forget it.  I’ll explain tomorrow, if they don’t take one look at me on the platform and decide to stay on the train.

To whet your appetite, here are some stimulating topics which I will be discussing when normal service is resumed:

• Cleaning
• Our local town hall
• The contents of my nasal passage

See you on the other side!

A Word In Your Ear

Time for some nonsense, I think.  This post was first published in a scruffier form back in 2010.

Cover of Alien (The Director’s Cut)

Bitch.  That’s my favourite word.  I love the sound of it, the way it bursts out of my mouth like an alien from John Hurt’s stomach.  Titch or itch or twitch; rich, witch, which; glitch/hitch/stitch; pitch, switch or ditch: none of these come close to the satisfying pop of the lips that comes with saying bitch.

Sadly, I can’t ever use it; I don’t swear. Except at the Hub in an argument, but I defy anyone to live with the Hub and not swear at him.  It can’t be done.  Nor is it possible to avoid arguing with him in the first place.   We were squabbling one day when a workman was here and the Hub said to him, ‘Don’t get married, mate.’  To which I unfortunately replied, ‘Yeah,  do all women a favour.’  When the workman started crying I had to backpeddle and explain that I was aiming my remark at men in general, not him in particular because I’m sure he is a very nice young man who can fix anything in the house and I bet he could catch mice; Barbara Cartland once said pinkly, ’There’s simply no equality when it comes to mice.’  She’s not wrong.

By this time the Hub was rocking with laughter and declaring himself the winner. I swore.

Philosophy: Who Needs It (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Another favourite word is solipsism.  Also another one I can’t use, but this time because, for some weird reason, my brain just doesn’t work that way.  I can never remember its meaning, no matter how many times I look it up.

According to Dictionary.com:

–noun

1. Philosophy.  The theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2. Extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one’s feelings, desires, etc; egoistic self-absorption.
3.  Blogger.

The first time I came across the word solipsism, I wrote it on my A Level English folder, meaning to look it up later.  My tutor noticed it and said, ‘Solipsism.  Now there’s a word.’

Then he walked away and never mentioned it again.  Proving that sometimes it’s better to believe – to paraphrase The Sex Pistols – I am a solipsist.

Waterford Cathedral facade (Photo credit: Fergal of Claddagh).  This photo was thrown up by Zemanta when I searched ‘John Hurt Alien’.  I think there’s a bug in the system.

Looking for a suitable photo to illustrate this post, I came across the website Movie Deaths.

I thought I was a nerd – I have seen every episode of every series of Star Trek, you know; more than once – but these people are something else. They review movie deaths.  

Here is the tummy alien I mentioned earlier:

[T]he baby alien bursts out of Kane’s stomach like a gruesome jack-in-the-box…As the crew watches in utter shock, the alien looks at them, and runs off.

As you do.  

• Implant yourself in John Hurt’s body.  Check.  
• Wait a while.  Check.  
• Exit in the messiest way.  Check.  
• Look for Mummy – bunch of weird strangers – no Mummy.  That’s a bitch.  
• Better run away.  Check.

And you should take a look at the comments…

Dr Death:  I actually wrote a paper about this at college. Maybe I still have it…

Jonny:  not the most honest rendition of the alien bursting out of kanes chest. I have been watching this movie for like the last two weeks over and over again

Mr Biggs Inc:  How about sex? not SEX sex, but the face-hugger did get Kane pregnant after all.

There’s always one.  

And all of his mates.  Wonder if they’ll review the replay of the moment I kill the Hub for always being right in  the True Life movie of our story?

Whoops!  Sorry, didn’t mean to spoil the ending for you.  I hate spoilers.  A certain sister-in-law once told me the ending of a 1980s’ mini-series:

*

‘Let me just tell you this…’

‘…No, I don’t want to know…’

‘…Yes, but she dies.’

*

Another sister-in-law told me who copped it in Titanic.

Come to think of it, maybe it’s not spoilers I don’t like, but sisters-in-law.

Actually, Movie Deaths is a pretty useful site.  I have never seen any of the Alien films and it gave me some interesting details, such as Hurt’s character’s name, and where he was at the moment of death: a sort of latter-day Kane and Table.*

*Pun. – noun.

1. A deliberate infliction of the wince factor on one’s faithful readers.  Punishable by desertion in droves, leading to the belief (correct) that only the self exists in one’s personal blogosphere.

 

Many Happies, Barb!

Image via Wikipedia

Apologies if you received a gobbledygook email from me today; I’m a technept, and things can get out of control if I take my eyes off the keyboard long enough to finish my Christmas Maltesers.

It was the earliest draft of a birthday post for Barb19, who is Passionate About Pets.  Early, but late; because Barb lives in Australia and I always get my time zones confused, so it was going out late in my day because that was early in her day when I was working back to front but then I remembered Sydney celebrates New Year before London and now it kind of is early in her day because she’s probably asleep because her day starts and finishes before my day so, even if she reads it now, she’ll be reading it tomorrow because my present is her future which is cheaper for me, because I usually give gift vouchers.

*

Belated Birthday Wishes For Barb

Barb loves pets and plants, she says;
She writes about their funny ways:
Poppy the dog isn’t stroppy –
In fact, she’s incredibly happy
Living out her many dog days
In the great Australian haze.

Barb feels the same and there’s no shame
(With a good man at your side) in being a birthday bride.

*

Happy Birthday and Happy 46th Anniversary, Barb!

*

If you would like a nonsense birthday post, leave the date and a few details in the comments below.

 

A Pet’s Tale

A bit of fun for you, courtesy of a rather good writing prompt from last Sunday’s Stockport Art Gallery Writing Group‘s meeting.

 

 

 

 

A Pet’s Tale

Once there was a spoiled young girl
Her eyes were brown, her hair was curled
She loved to use the telephone
To call her Gran and have a moan
About her little night-time pet
An over-friendly vampire bat

She fed him peach and apple pie
And wondered why he did not fly
She could not see that he was fat
So large, he squashed the family cat
Who died and went off to pet heaven
(That’s what we say to girls of seven)

The bat was called Subversive Jim
By the people close to him
He liked to bury his soft face in
The young girl’s neck and and ear and chin
Sneaking blood when she wasn’t looking
For vampire bats most love sucking

We’re almost done with our sad tale
The child, alas, became quite pale
Her blood supply at last ran out
Leaving old Jim rather stout
But he got his just desserts
He died when his appendix burst

The dead cat’s kin (remember him?)
Gobbled up the greedy Jim
Of Jim was left just one blind eye
Now the end is really nigh
Hear the moral of this story:
Owning pets is sometimes gory

 

 

 

The Largest Town In The Klein Karoo

Image via Wikipedia

Writing about ostriches over on my other blog reminded me of this poem.  I read an article some years ago about Oudtshoorn being ‘the largest town in the Klein Karoo’ and that phrase just screamed to be made into a nonsense poem.  I love writing nonsense (I suspect that’s not a secret to you).

The Largest Town In The Klein Karoo

The largest town in the Klein Karoo
was famed for ostriches who knew
to bow a perfect how-de-do.
Then off they’d sail in a pink canoe
to the poignant strain of a lone kazoo
(a well-known cure for ostrich ‘flu).

The largest town in the Klein Karoo
was home to the world’s smallest gnu
who married a portly cow named Sue.
They made a home in a petting zoo
built of bread and flour-paste glue
found in the breast of a chimney flue.

 The largest town in the Klein Karoo
hosted a weekly Hullaballoo,
with special guest, Manuel Mantoux.
He, a tall, loud Belgian who
taught audiences the game of Loo,
while dancing around a kangaroo.

The largest town in the Klein Karoo
bred butterflies of cobalt blue
that lived one day (and sometimes two).
Their hilltop nest was an outside loo
which gave them the most idyllic view
of the largest town in the Klein Karoo.

Paint On Your Wag

I’m not really a WAG, of course, because I’m not married and having an affair. I am a W; I could be an A, I suppose, if I was a WAM (Wife and Mother). But I have definitely not been a Girlfriend for twenty-eight years, because I became a fiancée three months after meeting the Hub.

I hate the term ‘WAG’. Forty years after feminism and women are happy to be appendages still. It seems to be a career choice these days, when you speak to teenage girls. I love being a wife (on a good day) but that’s not my defining role.

Another term I LOATHE is ‘cougar’. Why is there no equivalent male name for dirty old men picking up very young women? Oh, yes, there is: meal ticket.

Do you struggle from time to time, dear reader, with my pun-forced rambling preambles? This one is my way of saying that I painted the lounge yesterday. Our house was re-wired in January and I am pleased that it has only taken me three months to get around to covering the evidence (dirty great holes in the wall filled in with dirty brown plaster).

It was a fairly quick job because we like the decor in our lounge and we went with the same colour paint; the bottom half is papered and doesn’t need changing so it was a case of just slapping it on with a paint roller. The worst part of the job is the preparation: the Hub has taught me well, curse him. Empty the room, clean the walls, take down the dado rail, yawn, yawn yawn. The paint job itself was only about three hours. The Hub was supervisor and general get-in-the-wayer until he was banished upstairs. He is good at decorating and it pains him to watch me botch it. I knew he would linger to comment when I had to ask him to take the lid off the tin but I shouted at him and he went away, shaking a sad head. We both know he just doesn’t have the energy to decorate, however, unless we stretch it over a couple of years, so it falls to me. I’m getting to quite like it – the results, anyway – but I hate the clearing up. That will take a week or two because today I am as stiff as my dear old Nan (residing in the same place as my dear old Mum). It took me an hour-and-a-half to thread 34 curtain hooks and re-hang the lounge curtains. Thank goodness for left-overs! No cooking tonight: butter some bread and we have bacon butties for me; sausage butties for Spud; disgusting sausage butties for the Hub – some German stinkers that come in a vacuum pack. At least they’ll cover the paint smell; the problem will be later: all I will say is it’s a pity sometimes that we don’t have separate bedrooms.

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napowrimo – the image refuses to be copied but I think you know it well enough by now to picture it.

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Today’s prompt is so convoluted that I can’t be bothered explaining it but it is begging for a nonsense poem to be made from it. I will just mention that I have to use any twelve words from a list of twenty-four, plus bits of previously discarded poems. I have done that, if you count the ‘and’s and ‘the’s I haven’t used over the years, but my first revision cost me four of the listed words. This is an early draft because I haven’t had time to revise it; if you come back tomorrow it might be different.

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Beware the Octopus

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When an octopus fusses you’d better hop to it;

don’t do what he says and you’ll certainly rue it.

Dance like a marionette, ’til your limp legs flap

if you’re lucky he’ll give you an eight-legged clap.

When he’s in a good mood, ask for a massage:

trust me, a sublime time will passage.

Heed me, however: if you don’t coddle him

he’ll befuddle and addle you, push to the brim

your good-nature. You’ll look pale in jail

as you tell your sad tale.

He’ll never email; he’ll never post bail.

What a mug you will feel as you sip from your jug;

no campfire, no rug, just a crack to your lugs

from your too-friendly cell mate

but, alas, it is too late:

your usurped home holds Big O

and you don’t quite know

how you’re locked up for fraud.

He had you over-awed

and was seemingly harmless

but knew you were gormless.

Now he’s living the good life –

and, what’s worse: with your wife.

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