What Me?

Dear Diary: Spent most of today feeling ill and incapacitated by a hangover as ever.

Jammed a stapler with the wrong size of staple. Removed staple with key pinched from colleague's desk. 1/2 hr. There is nothing that can go wrong in an office that cannot be solved by things you can find in the office, which somehow amounts to a futile and circular argument*.

Went 'home' to the local Weatherspoons for the usual gallon of medicinal Wifebeater.

Went home v. hungry and nothing in the larder but a small pot of honey, which ate.

Tomorrow another day working on my Project, "X---- Primary Care Trust: Mental Health Strategy for 2015".

Well, it is now 0130 and I am not sure I am feeling any better.

* except in the US postal service where a colleague might "go postal" at any moment. But they have cool stuff like guns.

True Love

Tap tap tap-tap-tap-tap-tap

Everybody loves my baby and everybody loves my baby except me.

She don't want my penis (honest) on this island Greek
No-one loves the penis, she's my genius, I'm a cheek.

Buttock. Pause for excitiing trumpet break.

You can see how well the Temperance 7 are expressing why not to holiday in Greece. One up to the jass legends.



I have never been nearer to th'Aegean than the Isle of Wight (aficionados will remember the Ventnor paddig pool as it was in the early 1960s) but this is a just-in-case I ever go to Greece.

Readrers: Don't you mean, "paddling pool"? Did you have a cold or something?

Blogista: No, last time I was on the Isle of Wight I got the shits. But I could still communicate.

re
adaers: I bet.

Blogista: "Hey I'm still in here". And I was only six.

Buzzzy Bankerzzzz Bonusezzzzzzz

So what did you expect?

Sweating: put a few gold coins in a bag and rattle them around a bit until some dust has got rattled off. Collect the dust.

Clipping: shave the unwanted edges off inaccurately-minted gold coins, just to even up the coins. Keep the shavings.

She was poor but she was honest
Though she came of humble stock
And an honest heart was beating
Underneath her tattered frock
Oh you poor takspayers, oh oh oh.

Phwoooar. And all for the price of a small ('otel) port wine. And the 'otel room, obviously.

What, you wouldn't????



What is she a'doing of?

A Small Step For A Man

I must be about the only person on the planet who did not witness Mr. Neil Armstrong take his (and Our! and OUR! Our?????) first step onto the moon.

I was only 11 and cannot remember precisely why I refused to watch the Great Event, and instead went up to my bedroom. Certainly I was too young (by a year or so) for Masturbation: it cannot have been a More Pressing Priority. And I did not have an Airfix Kit to finish. Yet.

As I remember it was because the whole circus was presented on a grainy b&w AuntyBBC TV set by the gruesome James Burke*, a kind of pre-Celebrity celebrity.

Readers: Just get with the flow, Johnson. Push that broom.

* and Patrick Moore and Cliff Michelmore... Jesus H. Christ no wonder I bridled. But J. Burke was the frontman for the Landing, I am certain.

Image

I chose her for her Daniel Boone eyes
Tense, but sharp at something beyond the dust.
Her wide strong mouth turned down
Too strong for bitterness.

Her blond children standing
One at each shoulder, hiding
Their faces in their hands
Like angels weeping on a marble statue.
Contrast of straight and curly hair.

Her frayed blouse,
Her check shirt,
I made an emblem of the time and people

An American woman
Dispossessed, and travelling westward.

Strange Saturday

The Blogfinder General

Finds - two beautifully designed blogs at

Crónicas da Peste
O Bar do Ossian

from which I have pinched this picture (a diorama of the Seige of Leningrad).