Please admire the layers.
Come to think of it, maybe that's why the ticket lady took so long to get to me...perhaps she saw me doing it and thought I was mental.
Friday, 31 August 2007
While I remember...
When I was bored on the train the other day, I took the opportunity to take a picture of my funky new hair cut.
Please admire the layers.
Come to think of it, maybe that's why the ticket lady took so long to get to me...perhaps she saw me doing it and thought I was mental.
Please admire the layers.
Come to think of it, maybe that's why the ticket lady took so long to get to me...perhaps she saw me doing it and thought I was mental.
Travels with my camera (phone)
I thought it would be nice to share a few of the local sights. Mostly because I had my phone with me the other evening while I was walking to our mate's place, and it was a gorgeous evening, and everything looked lovely.
So.
The new bridge. Very lovely.
The river, over which the bridge goes. Note the plastic chair, lobbed in by some halfwit yahoo.
A bamboo thicket. Could be part of the reason for the plague of pandas in the village. Bloody things.
Only very, very tall people are allowed to live here.
So.
The new bridge. Very lovely.
The river, over which the bridge goes. Note the plastic chair, lobbed in by some halfwit yahoo.
A bamboo thicket. Could be part of the reason for the plague of pandas in the village. Bloody things.
Only very, very tall people are allowed to live here.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Ticket to ride. Or Yarmouth. Probably.
Went to London yesterday. Despite the meeting not kicking off till 12.30, it felt like a ridiculously long day.
It doesn't help that it's a 3 hour trip, door to door. I left home at about 9 in the morning, and got back at about 8 in the evening. How people manage that kind of thing every day is beyond me. It must be killing.
As is traditional, there was some rail-related fuckwittery. There was a huge queue at the ticket office so the chap in there told us all to "hop on the train and let the conductor sort you out". Abdication of responsibility or what?
On we duly hopped, but by the time the conductor got to me we were almost at Salisbury. He said "I don't have time to sort your ticket out, you'll have to get it on the next train." Gah.
No sign of any ticket seller on the next train until Basingstoke, 40 minutes into the trip, by which time I was having visions of arriving at Waterloo ticketless and being carted off to prison.
She was very chatty and helpful, and I thought everything was sorted until I checked the price on the tickets she'd given me. £168, to be exact. About double what it normally is. Of course by this time she'd vanished back down the train, so I had to wait till she reappeared (about Woking).
I showed her the tickets and she said "Oh! I see what happened there!"
What "happened"? As if it was just a freak of nature or something. What had "happened" was that she'd pressed the wrong code in for the start of my trip and was trying to charge me for travelling from somewhere near Exeter. Tch.
Anyway, once this was sorted out, the rest of the day was pretty uneventful, thankfully. Was cruelly barracked by the rest of the meeting attendees for eating a cake with Smarties on it from the lunch they provided.
Bastards.
It was very nice, in case you were wondering. Disgracefully, I neglected to take a photo for you.
Other news: I know I'm years late with it, but I found the lolcats site the other weekend. And despite my long-held view that there's something a bit wrong with people who look at photos of cats, have been laughing my head off at it ever since.
It doesn't help that it's a 3 hour trip, door to door. I left home at about 9 in the morning, and got back at about 8 in the evening. How people manage that kind of thing every day is beyond me. It must be killing.
As is traditional, there was some rail-related fuckwittery. There was a huge queue at the ticket office so the chap in there told us all to "hop on the train and let the conductor sort you out". Abdication of responsibility or what?
On we duly hopped, but by the time the conductor got to me we were almost at Salisbury. He said "I don't have time to sort your ticket out, you'll have to get it on the next train." Gah.
No sign of any ticket seller on the next train until Basingstoke, 40 minutes into the trip, by which time I was having visions of arriving at Waterloo ticketless and being carted off to prison.
She was very chatty and helpful, and I thought everything was sorted until I checked the price on the tickets she'd given me. £168, to be exact. About double what it normally is. Of course by this time she'd vanished back down the train, so I had to wait till she reappeared (about Woking).
I showed her the tickets and she said "Oh! I see what happened there!"
What "happened"? As if it was just a freak of nature or something. What had "happened" was that she'd pressed the wrong code in for the start of my trip and was trying to charge me for travelling from somewhere near Exeter. Tch.
Anyway, once this was sorted out, the rest of the day was pretty uneventful, thankfully. Was cruelly barracked by the rest of the meeting attendees for eating a cake with Smarties on it from the lunch they provided.
Bastards.
It was very nice, in case you were wondering. Disgracefully, I neglected to take a photo for you.
Other news: I know I'm years late with it, but I found the lolcats site the other weekend. And despite my long-held view that there's something a bit wrong with people who look at photos of cats, have been laughing my head off at it ever since.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Crab tragedy
Forgot to mention the crab. Mr WithaY went scuba diving on Sunday, and brought home a big crab.
To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.
He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.
"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."
He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.
We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.
Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.
Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.
With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.
He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.
A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.
Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.
Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.
To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.
He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.
"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."
He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.
We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.
Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.
Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.
With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.
He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.
A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.
Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.
Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.
Monday, 27 August 2007
Mud...
I am covered in it. Well, not strictly true as I had a shower, but in my head I am. And I am still plastered in bloody nettle stings. Gardening. Gah.
Injuries and filth aside, Mr WithaY and I had a very constructive, or possbily destructive, morning in the back garden.
I finally got rid of the freaky rosebush, which was a relief. I bought it a few years back for its gorgeous pink heavily-scented flowers, thinking how lovely it would be in the back border where I could see it from the kitchen.
Bloody thing was miserable as hell in our garden. First year it was ok-ish, then it sulked for a year and produced about 5 flowers, and then it had reams of hideous freak roses.
Seriously.
They were like something out of a horror film. There'd be a normal flowerbud, but once it opened, a second, deformed, warped stem would grow out of it with a horrible little troll rosebud on the end.
Ugh.
I cut them all off and burned them, and that was pretty much that for the whole plant then. It got sicker and floppier until today I decided to put it out of its misery.
It's gone to a better place. (The green bin. Too freaky for the compost.)
Also slashed and burned (well, composted) huge amounts of nettles, bindweed, feverfew, buttercups, dandelions, mint and a load of balm (by accident).
Mr WithaY rather startlingly built a frog house out of old roof tiles he found somewhere, and is hoping a frog or two will move in. He's still referring to any particularly wild and dreary areas of the garden as "habitat", and pretending he is making it like that on purpose to attract bats.
Or was it lizards?
Anyway, creatures of some sort. I covertly pull the more obvious weeds up and hope he doesn't notice.
Other news: Made some fab carrot and fennel seed soup which we had for lunch. Mmmmm, soup.
And scones, so we had a cream tea this afternoon. With clotted cream and strawberry jam. What fat greedy pigs we are. Hurrah.
Played my new guitar for an hour this afternoon. It's just superb. Did Tom Petty's "Mary Jane's Last Dance" and it sounded pretty good, though I say so myself. Am very, very pleased with it.
Despite making the depressing discovery that I sound like a bloody folk singer, regardless of what I sing, thanks to my freebie recording software. Arse.
Injuries and filth aside, Mr WithaY and I had a very constructive, or possbily destructive, morning in the back garden.
I finally got rid of the freaky rosebush, which was a relief. I bought it a few years back for its gorgeous pink heavily-scented flowers, thinking how lovely it would be in the back border where I could see it from the kitchen.
Bloody thing was miserable as hell in our garden. First year it was ok-ish, then it sulked for a year and produced about 5 flowers, and then it had reams of hideous freak roses.
Seriously.
They were like something out of a horror film. There'd be a normal flowerbud, but once it opened, a second, deformed, warped stem would grow out of it with a horrible little troll rosebud on the end.
Ugh.
I cut them all off and burned them, and that was pretty much that for the whole plant then. It got sicker and floppier until today I decided to put it out of its misery.
It's gone to a better place. (The green bin. Too freaky for the compost.)
Also slashed and burned (well, composted) huge amounts of nettles, bindweed, feverfew, buttercups, dandelions, mint and a load of balm (by accident).
Mr WithaY rather startlingly built a frog house out of old roof tiles he found somewhere, and is hoping a frog or two will move in. He's still referring to any particularly wild and dreary areas of the garden as "habitat", and pretending he is making it like that on purpose to attract bats.
Or was it lizards?
Anyway, creatures of some sort. I covertly pull the more obvious weeds up and hope he doesn't notice.
Other news: Made some fab carrot and fennel seed soup which we had for lunch. Mmmmm, soup.
And scones, so we had a cream tea this afternoon. With clotted cream and strawberry jam. What fat greedy pigs we are. Hurrah.
Played my new guitar for an hour this afternoon. It's just superb. Did Tom Petty's "Mary Jane's Last Dance" and it sounded pretty good, though I say so myself. Am very, very pleased with it.
Despite making the depressing discovery that I sound like a bloody folk singer, regardless of what I sing, thanks to my freebie recording software. Arse.
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Impulse, acting on
Hurrah! Internet fuckwittery seems to have resolved itself. Just as well because it was bloody annoying yesterday.
Was chatting to one of my lovely on-line mates late on last night and the whole thing fell over dramatically and finally, no email, no msn, nothing. No internet at all. Gah. Leaving me no option but to abandon it and go to bed grumpily.
And hey presto as if by magic, all was back up and running today, for no apparent reason. Fucking computers.
Mr WithaY and I got up early and went into Salisbury, full of plans for a productive and well-spent morning. First things first, off to Costa Coffee for a damn fine breakfast toasted sandwich thing and a small vanilla latte (I only really drink coffee in town on a Saturday morning), then we meeped about the shops a while.
Went into the Virgin shop and spent a bleeding fortune on DVDs and CDs, incuding some more of the excellent Studio Ghibli stuff, and some early Eric Clapton music. And the new White Stripes album - did I mention I ordered tickets to go and see them in Cardiff? Hurrah!
Anyhoo, then Mr WithaY decided he needed some more fishing stuff, so we trotted across town the the Shop Of A Bazillion Bits Of Fishing Stuff. Which, handily, is almost opposite the guitar shop, so I decided to have a quick look in there while Mr WithaY was deciding which fishing weights went best with his eyes.
What can I say?
Things turned serious.
I was young, crazy, didn't know any better...
By the time Mr WithaY had come in to find me, I was already hopelessly in love.
Heh.
Epiphone Les Paul. Mmmmmmm. Blue.
(cue romantic violin music)
So. Went into town for a few dvds and some moisturiser, came home with a new guitar. I love shopping, me.
Bugger. Forgot the moisturiser.
.
Was chatting to one of my lovely on-line mates late on last night and the whole thing fell over dramatically and finally, no email, no msn, nothing. No internet at all. Gah. Leaving me no option but to abandon it and go to bed grumpily.
And hey presto as if by magic, all was back up and running today, for no apparent reason. Fucking computers.
Mr WithaY and I got up early and went into Salisbury, full of plans for a productive and well-spent morning. First things first, off to Costa Coffee for a damn fine breakfast toasted sandwich thing and a small vanilla latte (I only really drink coffee in town on a Saturday morning), then we meeped about the shops a while.
Went into the Virgin shop and spent a bleeding fortune on DVDs and CDs, incuding some more of the excellent Studio Ghibli stuff, and some early Eric Clapton music. And the new White Stripes album - did I mention I ordered tickets to go and see them in Cardiff? Hurrah!
Anyhoo, then Mr WithaY decided he needed some more fishing stuff, so we trotted across town the the Shop Of A Bazillion Bits Of Fishing Stuff. Which, handily, is almost opposite the guitar shop, so I decided to have a quick look in there while Mr WithaY was deciding which fishing weights went best with his eyes.
What can I say?
Things turned serious.
I was young, crazy, didn't know any better...
By the time Mr WithaY had come in to find me, I was already hopelessly in love.
Heh.
Epiphone Les Paul. Mmmmmmm. Blue.
(cue romantic violin music)
So. Went into town for a few dvds and some moisturiser, came home with a new guitar. I love shopping, me.
Bugger. Forgot the moisturiser.
.
Friday, 24 August 2007
Gah!
Tried to chack my email this morning whilst scarfing cereal, and to my dismay my laptop has lost the power of the Internet. No idea why, other than that I defraggd the hard drive last night. I rebooted the laptop, and the internet magic box thingy a couple of times, but no joy.
The prospect of a long weekend with no email, online chatting or impulse shopping looms.
Bollocks.
Still, maybe it will have magically fixed itself when I get home.
The prospect of a long weekend with no email, online chatting or impulse shopping looms.
Bollocks.
Still, maybe it will have magically fixed itself when I get home.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Cups II
Was looking at the pics on my phone and found this one, taken in Bombay Nights in Bath. Where the whole "golden goblet-fest" thing came from.
The background:
One of our mates was telling us about an exhibit she'd seen at an art thing, where there were loads of tiny goblets made from sweetie wrappers in a cute frame.
I didn't know what she meant (sweetie-wrapper-goblet-deprived childhood, obviously) so people started making them out of the chocolate wrappers to show me.
We made loads (see earlier photographic evidence) and the staff even brought us another big heap of chocolates so we could carry on being creative.
Things turned competitive.
The background:
One of our mates was telling us about an exhibit she'd seen at an art thing, where there were loads of tiny goblets made from sweetie wrappers in a cute frame.
I didn't know what she meant (sweetie-wrapper-goblet-deprived childhood, obviously) so people started making them out of the chocolate wrappers to show me.
We made loads (see earlier photographic evidence) and the staff even brought us another big heap of chocolates so we could carry on being creative.
Things turned competitive.
Low class
I went up to London for my meeting (successful, ta), and met my lovely mate Biggles for lunch afterwards, which was an unexpected bonus.
We chatted, ate splendid fish and chips in a pub (jealous, American readers?) and then he very sweetly walked me back to Waterloo to get my train.
Had a fantastic view of the London Eye as we crossed the bridge, which sparked a discussion about other freakishly altered fairground rides you could put in a big city. Our favourite was the enormous, really slow Helter Skelter that takes an hour to slide down, then slo-o-owly bounces you across the river on a giant coconut mat.
Anyhoo. Got to the train, and asked the nice guard (who looked a lot like Lord Bath, oddly) if I could use the door he was stood by.
"Yes love, but it's First Class."
"I am First Class" I said, trying for a haughty and devil-may-care tone, but sadly coming across rather whiny and crap, waving my ticket at him.
"Well, in that case I'll let you in" he said.
When he checked my ticket later he made a jokey comment about how he could "just tell" I was First Class. And so the long afternoon wore on.
I plugged mysef into the iPod, and listened to 1980s heavy rock all the way to Salisbury, where you have to change trains. As I stepped off the train, the friendly guard was there again.
"Ooh" he said "Not sure First Class people paint their toenails bright red!"
"Only the sleazy ones" I replied, trying to decide whether I was pleased he'd noticed or affronted that he'd been looking. Tch. Girls, eh?
Not First Class toes, allegedly.
We chatted, ate splendid fish and chips in a pub (jealous, American readers?) and then he very sweetly walked me back to Waterloo to get my train.
Had a fantastic view of the London Eye as we crossed the bridge, which sparked a discussion about other freakishly altered fairground rides you could put in a big city. Our favourite was the enormous, really slow Helter Skelter that takes an hour to slide down, then slo-o-owly bounces you across the river on a giant coconut mat.
Anyhoo. Got to the train, and asked the nice guard (who looked a lot like Lord Bath, oddly) if I could use the door he was stood by.
"Yes love, but it's First Class."
"I am First Class" I said, trying for a haughty and devil-may-care tone, but sadly coming across rather whiny and crap, waving my ticket at him.
"Well, in that case I'll let you in" he said.
When he checked my ticket later he made a jokey comment about how he could "just tell" I was First Class. And so the long afternoon wore on.
I plugged mysef into the iPod, and listened to 1980s heavy rock all the way to Salisbury, where you have to change trains. As I stepped off the train, the friendly guard was there again.
"Ooh" he said "Not sure First Class people paint their toenails bright red!"
"Only the sleazy ones" I replied, trying to decide whether I was pleased he'd noticed or affronted that he'd been looking. Tch. Girls, eh?
Not First Class toes, allegedly.
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
Cups and cakes
Cups and cakes...
Oh what good things Mother makes
Aww, you know the words, join in!
Anyway....here are some cakes.
Middle Sis' fab birthday cake. And darn tasty it was too.
The frankly mental birthday cake from Friday's party. No idea how it tasted, but my, it looks fine.
Other news: A bunch of us went to a rather excellent Indian Restaurant at the weekend and had a highly convivial evening. The meal was fantastic, the service was cheerful, entertaining and prompt, and the company was marvellous.
The restaurant, for those who are interested, is called Bombay Nights, on the Bristol Road in Bath, and I can recommend it without hesitation.
We ate like kings (greedy ones) and all enjoyed a relaxed and entertaining night. And best of all, we made stuff with the chocolate wrappers:
Goblets. Faaaasands of them. And don't they look pretty?
So pretty, we had to make more.
And then display them artistically.
Oh what good things Mother makes
Aww, you know the words, join in!
Anyway....here are some cakes.
Middle Sis' fab birthday cake. And darn tasty it was too.
The frankly mental birthday cake from Friday's party. No idea how it tasted, but my, it looks fine.
Other news: A bunch of us went to a rather excellent Indian Restaurant at the weekend and had a highly convivial evening. The meal was fantastic, the service was cheerful, entertaining and prompt, and the company was marvellous.
The restaurant, for those who are interested, is called Bombay Nights, on the Bristol Road in Bath, and I can recommend it without hesitation.
We ate like kings (greedy ones) and all enjoyed a relaxed and entertaining night. And best of all, we made stuff with the chocolate wrappers:
Goblets. Faaaasands of them. And don't they look pretty?
So pretty, we had to make more.
And then display them artistically.
Monday, 20 August 2007
Camel/goat horror
From the BBC website, this little gem caught my attention:
"A woman in Australia has been killed by her pet camel after the animal apparently tried to have sex with her. The woman was found dead at the family's sheep and cattle ranch near the town of Mitchell in Queensland."
Ok...WHAT??
Why did she have a pet camel in the first place? Oh wait...
"The woman had been given the camel as a 60th birthday present earlier this year because of her love of exotic pets."
Aaaah I see. Fair enough.
Tsk, how unfortunate.
But it gets worse...
"The camel was just 10 months old but already weighed 152kg (336lbs) and had come close to suffocating the family's pet goat on a number of occasions."
WHAT? I mean....WHAT? There's a picture in my head now that will keep me awake at nights for years to come.
Much like that poor bloody goat, I expect.
"A woman in Australia has been killed by her pet camel after the animal apparently tried to have sex with her. The woman was found dead at the family's sheep and cattle ranch near the town of Mitchell in Queensland."
Ok...WHAT??
Why did she have a pet camel in the first place? Oh wait...
"The woman had been given the camel as a 60th birthday present earlier this year because of her love of exotic pets."
Aaaah I see. Fair enough.
Tsk, how unfortunate.
But it gets worse...
"The camel was just 10 months old but already weighed 152kg (336lbs) and had come close to suffocating the family's pet goat on a number of occasions."
WHAT? I mean....WHAT? There's a picture in my head now that will keep me awake at nights for years to come.
Much like that poor bloody goat, I expect.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Elves. Bastards.
Been watching Countryfile this morning whilst doing the ironing (little vignette of life chez WithaY there for you), and it was all about Iceland. Not the cheap and slightly bizarre food shop, but the country. Amazing.
The thing that impressed me the most was not the reliance on natural geothermic power supplies, or the whale-related stuff (watching and shooting), or even the truly incredible landscape over there.
No. It was their elf-related tourist industry.
They take it very seriously, the Icelanders. To the extent that buildings are designed to avoid the places where elves are known to live, and roads have been diverted around particular rocks and stones that they like.
They interviewed an Icelandic lady who is an expert on elves, asking her lots of questions about what they like, dislike, where they live, and so on.
So far so good. The interviewer adopted a sort of half-jokey approach, obviously not being rude to the lady in question, but equally obviously wanting to make it clear that she thought it was all just a bit of fun.
"And are they good, these elves? Are they kind?" she asked.
"Oh yes" replied the Icelandic elf expert. "As long as you don't upset them. Then they do bad things...you know...make you lose all your money, break your legs, that kind of thing."
In one moment it went from Nordic Whimsy to Terrifying Otherworld Protection Racket.
The thing that impressed me the most was not the reliance on natural geothermic power supplies, or the whale-related stuff (watching and shooting), or even the truly incredible landscape over there.
No. It was their elf-related tourist industry.
They take it very seriously, the Icelanders. To the extent that buildings are designed to avoid the places where elves are known to live, and roads have been diverted around particular rocks and stones that they like.
They interviewed an Icelandic lady who is an expert on elves, asking her lots of questions about what they like, dislike, where they live, and so on.
So far so good. The interviewer adopted a sort of half-jokey approach, obviously not being rude to the lady in question, but equally obviously wanting to make it clear that she thought it was all just a bit of fun.
"And are they good, these elves? Are they kind?" she asked.
"Oh yes" replied the Icelandic elf expert. "As long as you don't upset them. Then they do bad things...you know...make you lose all your money, break your legs, that kind of thing."
In one moment it went from Nordic Whimsy to Terrifying Otherworld Protection Racket.
Saturday, 18 August 2007
Party animal
Just got home after a fab party over at the pub. A mate in the village had her 50th birthday, and my lovely guitar teacher's band was playing, so a grand night out for all.
Especially me, because I drank a shitload of gin and danced like nobody was looking. They were, obviously, because a large bird bouncing about on the dancefloor always attracts attention. Heh.
The band were fab, despite the intermittent addition of an extra singer who seemed to be so nervous that she forgot all the songs she was doing. Still, a cute dancer so I guess nobody minded too much.
It was very tempting to do the Joan of Arc thing from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" though ...the bit where she shoves the aerobic instructor sideways off the stage and takes over the class. Maybe next time.
The birthday cake was a true work of art. I took a photo, which I will post on here as soon as I am sober enough to work the camera again.
Had a great time at my bestest mate's last night too. Was lovely to catch up, it's been months since we got together. He took me into town in his new car. Well, tried to.
Winchester, sort your fucking traffic problems out. Please.
We ended up driving all the way across town to the Park and Ride, and getting the bus back into the city centre. Not terribly sensible, but all the carparks were full. Gah.
Had a pasty at Reeves the bakers for lunch (mmmmmm pasty) then wandered around in the sunshine for half an hour, buying bits and pieces I cant get locally. Then had to head home, braving the hellish Friday afternoon A303 traffic.
Mr WithaY was gratifyingly pleased to see me after my night away, so that was nice. Especially as he danced with me at the party, despite his earlier predictions about the unlikelihood of that happening. Heh. Excellent.
I was told that my blog "isn't spiteful enough" by one of my mates in the village. I think she's planning to start her own, so hopefully if she has any spite to spare I can have some. Heh. Hello Sarah.
Mr WithaY and my guitar teacher are cooking up something to do with me playing in/with a band later in the year. Slightly worryingly, I was told they plan to "groom" me. Hmmm.
More news on that as it breaks.
Especially me, because I drank a shitload of gin and danced like nobody was looking. They were, obviously, because a large bird bouncing about on the dancefloor always attracts attention. Heh.
The band were fab, despite the intermittent addition of an extra singer who seemed to be so nervous that she forgot all the songs she was doing. Still, a cute dancer so I guess nobody minded too much.
It was very tempting to do the Joan of Arc thing from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" though ...the bit where she shoves the aerobic instructor sideways off the stage and takes over the class. Maybe next time.
The birthday cake was a true work of art. I took a photo, which I will post on here as soon as I am sober enough to work the camera again.
Had a great time at my bestest mate's last night too. Was lovely to catch up, it's been months since we got together. He took me into town in his new car. Well, tried to.
Winchester, sort your fucking traffic problems out. Please.
We ended up driving all the way across town to the Park and Ride, and getting the bus back into the city centre. Not terribly sensible, but all the carparks were full. Gah.
Had a pasty at Reeves the bakers for lunch (mmmmmm pasty) then wandered around in the sunshine for half an hour, buying bits and pieces I cant get locally. Then had to head home, braving the hellish Friday afternoon A303 traffic.
Mr WithaY was gratifyingly pleased to see me after my night away, so that was nice. Especially as he danced with me at the party, despite his earlier predictions about the unlikelihood of that happening. Heh. Excellent.
I was told that my blog "isn't spiteful enough" by one of my mates in the village. I think she's planning to start her own, so hopefully if she has any spite to spare I can have some. Heh. Hello Sarah.
Mr WithaY and my guitar teacher are cooking up something to do with me playing in/with a band later in the year. Slightly worryingly, I was told they plan to "groom" me. Hmmm.
More news on that as it breaks.
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Smug. Again.
Ha. Have had a hugely constructive day at work, and am about to leg it to my bestest mate's house for the evening. Hurrah! Haven't seen him for bloody months, and am very excited cos he has a new car to show me.
He's been without one for about 3 years now (don't quote me, I'm winging the numbers here) so I will begin the traditional "Why don't you come and visit for the weekend" hassle-fest today. I bet he's missed that.
I'm in a goooood mood today, the sun is out at last, so it actually feels like summer again.
We had an email last night from our lovely mates in America who are coming over to visit in October. Unfortunately too late to visit the Frome Cheese Show (Sept 8th, tickets on sale now!) but I daresay we'll find something to do to keep them entertained. The pub over the road is likely to be a good place to start.
Had a nice guitar lesson last night. My lovely teacher showed me how to re-string my Strat, which was surprisingly straightforward. It sounds gorgeous now. It keeps dropping out of tune, of course, but once the new strings have settled down it'll be fab. He said "We're a guitarist short for the gig on Friday, bring your guitar to the party". Heh. Silly bugger.
Other news: The ungrateful bastard birds have started to eat the food in the garden. Rather like sulky teenagers they are pretending they're not interested, then going "Well, I'll just have this one sunflower seed, as you make such a FUSS".
When you look out again five minutes later, the air is thick with chaff. Excellent.
He's been without one for about 3 years now (don't quote me, I'm winging the numbers here) so I will begin the traditional "Why don't you come and visit for the weekend" hassle-fest today. I bet he's missed that.
I'm in a goooood mood today, the sun is out at last, so it actually feels like summer again.
We had an email last night from our lovely mates in America who are coming over to visit in October. Unfortunately too late to visit the Frome Cheese Show (Sept 8th, tickets on sale now!) but I daresay we'll find something to do to keep them entertained. The pub over the road is likely to be a good place to start.
Had a nice guitar lesson last night. My lovely teacher showed me how to re-string my Strat, which was surprisingly straightforward. It sounds gorgeous now. It keeps dropping out of tune, of course, but once the new strings have settled down it'll be fab. He said "We're a guitarist short for the gig on Friday, bring your guitar to the party". Heh. Silly bugger.
Other news: The ungrateful bastard birds have started to eat the food in the garden. Rather like sulky teenagers they are pretending they're not interested, then going "Well, I'll just have this one sunflower seed, as you make such a FUSS".
When you look out again five minutes later, the air is thick with chaff. Excellent.
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