So, where were we?

I feel like Rip van Wrinkle, newly awakened after a million years sleepwalking. But then time has no meaning except for that which we give it, and pastpresentfuture are actually just waypoints on the selfsame continuum. But then again, as the old song goes, “today is only yesterday’s tomo-o-row”. So between that and the black holes, these 7 months of silence were actually the gestatory pause for another round of codswallop. Are we ready?!?

So as you were saying, sentimental. Again, we have a prime example of how we each interpret things differently, on account of past life experiences, DNA hardcoding, childhood conditioning, Webster’s definitive definitions and last night’s second helping of chocolate mud cake.

Sentimental, to me, is the equivalent of a lifetime supply of Kleenex; I consume 20 cartons a week watching reruns of bad movies on TV, watching the news, watching Animal Planet and Discovery channel and National Geographic. All of it makes me weep. Blocked sinuses? Watch TV. Clears ‘em like magic.

Sentimental is saving all the giftwrapping and all those little cards with precious little messages till you need another chest of drawers to house them. Of course, you recycle some of that giftwrap, but mostly it sits there and chokes up the chi, which as we all know, is just bad feng shui.

Sentimental is never having thrown out a single letter, postcard or telegram (yes, remember those?!?) you ever received, and storing them in shoeboxes till the silverfish demolish them for you because you couldn’t bear to throw them out. Each time I’ve attacked the odd shoebox and tossed out stuff from people I lost touch with in kindergarten, I’ve gone into a decline, so now I just leave those shoeboxes alone.

I’m not even going into that old-photographs-in-shoeboxes place…where once you get started trying to abortively “sort” them, you will get sucked in for the next 3 weeks riffling through them and believe me, you will emerge with as many photos in as many shoeboxes, in as much of a mess.

Sentimental is also mawkish, a word I have always loved. And when you love a word, you become that word. No shame in that. I am mawkish, sappy, slushy, mushy, maudlin, corny, schmaltzy and weepy. It keeps the lachrymals clear, and as you bob along on the ocean of emotions, you realize it’s good to have them. The alternative is an arid and barren landscape where we would shrivel up and die, because we're 80% water and dehydration kills. Vive la schmaltz!

Sentimental after all these years!

My fingers are blue, my toes numb and I'm convinced my fire doesn't work. Winter has finally arrived and I love it but nobody seems to believe me. This really is my favourite time of the year and living in one of the hottest countries of the world only makes me crave those long cold nights and even longer overcast days more.

When I was a child the most magical thing to me was snuggling up under the duvet on a freezing cold night and waking to a carpet of fresh snow. Everything seemed to sparkle and looked so new, nothing has ever quite matched that thrill for me. Of course the reality is you can't get warm and within days it turns to mucky slush that makes everywhere dirty but heck, that first glance made it all worthwhile.

It seems the older I get the more I embrace memories of days gone by and it saddens me that things change or move on. Perhaps I'm a creature of habit but the simple things were always so special. A mug of Bovril by a crackling coal fire warmed the coldest of hearts and cured the worst of everything. Left-over Sunday roast made sandwhiches to die for and cuddling up next to mum on the settee on a Sunday night was my kind of heaven. The winter months in the UK were long ones but they were a time we all spent together. As I grew older I began to dread the warmer weather and longer days appearing as I knew the closeness of winter would evade us for another 6 months.

I have a family of my own now and they all look forward to the few winter days we have here, mainly for the excuse to wear this year's latest fashion coat or boots. I'm happy they live their lives and watch them embrace each day with passion I sometimes envy. Yet how I wish they would spend a few simple winter evenings with me, doing nothing but drinking Bovril and being close. After all, the years disappear in the blink of an eye and the memories they make now will keep them warm on long cold winter nights somewhere down the line too! Call me a sentimental old fool but it really was better in the 'good old days'!

[(U+C+I)x(10-S))/20xAx1/(1-sin(F/10)]

Whenever I hang my washing on the line it rains.
The phone always rings just as I get into the shower.
If I'm late leaving for school you can bet I hit every red light and, at that most important time of the day when only a cup of strong coffee will keep my head upright guess what? Coffee's finished and no-one bothered to tell me.

From the earliest age I realised my life would be governed by Sod's Law and that when anything goes squew whiff in my life it does so at exactly the wrong time! I know from experience (coupled with a burning need to know that it doesn't only rain on me) that many people are Sod's Law sufferers. We expect, no embrace the irony of the law and just pick ourselves up and start again.

How interesting then to read in one of the papers today that at last someone has worked out a formula for Sod's Law that could make avoiding certain mishaps slightly easier;
[(U+C+L)x(10-S))/20xAx1/(1-sin(F/10)]

The mathmatical process has 7 steps:

1. Rate the urgency, the importance and the complexity of the task on a scale of 1 to 9 and add the three figures together.

2. Rate from 1 to 9 how skilled you are at the task, then subtract this from 10.

3. Multiply the answers to step 1 and 2 together and divide by 20.

4. Rate (1 to 9) how frequently you perform the task and divide by 10.

5. Take the sine of your answer to step 4 ('sin' on most calculators) and subtract this from 1.

6. Divide 1 by your answer to step 5

7. Finally, multiply your answer to step 3 by 0.7, then multiply this by your answer to step 6, and you have your Sod's Law rating. The closer it is to 10 the higher the risk.

Simple right?

Sod's Law is I don't understand a word of it. I tried and tried, added, multiplied, subtracted and sin'd lol, nothing made sense to me. So I've invented my own formula. It has no equations and anyone can follow it with ease.
1. My washing goes in the tumble drier.
2. I take the phone off of the hook before I get in the shower.
3. My husband takes the kids to school.
4. I hide the coffee!
Get the idea? Its like taking myself out of the line of fire and makes my life just that little bit easier.

Try it. Its simple, it works and makes those unavoidable moments of ironic misfortune bearable rather than driving you round the bend. It's also a lot easier than trying to understand just what all those brackets and forward slashes have to do with the ketchup stain all down the front of my white blouse!

Circadian Cacophony

Since I’ve exhausted my entire stock of bedside stories and caffeine tales on various other bloGGz, I choose not to repeat myself here; repetition is a tiresome habit, and just proves what we all know anyway… so I have nothing more to say on either subject tillfurthernotice. Blingblong.

Other than that, I must confess I just woke up, and it’ll be at least an hour before I’m anywhere NEAR fit for human consumption. So the blank screen in front of me abegging abloGG remains stubbornly blank; it inspires nothing and causes not the singlest, minutest nugget of native wisdom to burst forth.

So do excuse me for the moment; I’ll be back in an hour, lest I say something I shall probably regret. (For instance, the fact that I’m homicidal around people who wake up bright and chirpy in the morning, full of beanz and wreathed in smiles. Shudder.)

Personally, I’m totally incapable of any form of politeness when I wake up, never mind bubbly conversation. Ughhh. For the simple reason that it takes me a fair while to gather my scattered wits and propel myself reluctantly into the day. As you may have surmised by now, I am NOT a morning person.

So I cannot comprehend how this cheery bunch of morning stars (as in 98.5% of the global population) can twitter their way through the morn (mourn?) like an irritating exaltation of larks. Unfortunately, I have lived with some of these twittery types, and they’re just lucky they’re all still alive.

I suppose I’m more a conspiracyofravens or a murderofcrows type myself. (mutter mutter growl…). Some mornings it's all I can do to stop myself snarling and launching myself at their throats, seduced by the thought of an earlymorningbloodbath (oooh yummm!) and the blessed silence to follow.

No such luck...grrrrr!!! A surfeit of cheery morning gabble later, they go and do the BREAKFAST thing. Surely our innards were not engineered for that kind of abuse so early in the day?? I don’t even want to watch this…

So back to getting my head together, which takes anywhere between an hour and three. By which time everyone else is doing lunch, or having their mid-afternoon coffee break. So we’re never on the same page. You know what that can do to conversations. Relationships. Potted plants. Goldfish. Cabbages.

Which brings me to this long standing debate I’ve had countless times with countless people. They all follow the same logic and reasoning (or complete lack thereof):

Them: “How can you LIVE like this? It’s against the Laws of Nature, even the tides follow the moon, day follows night, people sleep at night and wake up in the morning, if you’re not in harmony with nature then you can’t be in harmony with your life.”

Me: “I’ve lived like this for a long time, and I’m still around, so apparently it works for me. I’m not looking to convert you, but I don’t find I’m out of whack, and thanks for your concern. Re. harmony, it doesn't really matter, I don't sing.” Ha!

Them: “But people need the sun, you need to wake up early and sleep when it’s dark, not the other way around. You’re weird.”

Me: “There are exceptions in nature too, like owls and bats. I’m probably one of those exceptions, my circadian rhythm is set that way.”

Them: “Your WHAT?!?”

Me: “My internal biological clock. You have one too, and it’s set to your rhythm. I dropped mine on its head a couple of time so it’s off whack, but I wouldn’t let that worry you too much.”

Them: “Hah. So what do you DO all night??”

Me: “Exactly what you do during the day...work, read, listen to music… nobody calls you on the phone, nobody rings the bell or visits...my favourite time of day (night?). You ought to try it sometime, just to see what it’s like. And often I’m still awake in time to catch the sunrise. So I get my chlorophyll in 3-point harmony haha.” Sheesh.

Did you know the circadian rhythm of humans closely matches that of the drosophila, or fruit fly? Mine closely matches bats and owls, which explains a lot. I mean, bats EAT fruit flies!!! bzz bzz.

Whoever first said 'someone got out of the wrong side of the bed' must have had more than his fair share of bad days after doing the exact same thing. Never was a truer word spoken.

I am an 'edge of the bed' kinda person. We have a huge king size bed that belongs almost completely to my husband; he sprawls himself across 97% of the bed as I precariously hang half of my body over the edge while the other half spends the whole night searching for comfort on the remaining 3% of bed space. Over the years I've become so used to this way of sleeping that even on occasions we sleep apart I still only utilize my 3% of the bed.

The night before last I had the bed to myself and thought I'd spread myself across it and enjoy the luxury of full body padded comfort for once. I have never tossed and turned as much before in my life. I slept in one of those 'I'm asleep but know everything that is going on around me' states and consequently saw the clock every 5 minutes through the night! I woke ten minutes before the alarm, got out of my husbands side of the bed only to stand on a hair bobble my daughter had just 'dropped' and left. The pain was more than a wake up call and the air was immediately blue. I opened the curtains with such a temper I pulled the pole down (he usually opens them as they are close to 'his side') which lead to a multitude of more blue shades filling the air.

Downstairs for a coffee I thought, calm the mood, ease the brain into the day with a caffeine kick and hopefully muster up the strength to smile as I woke the kids. No electricity! HELP ME PLEASE! Doesn't anyone understand the need for caffeine before the sun rises? I am always a nice, level headed, kind and considerate person, would do nothing to hurt a fly, but I need my morning coffee.

The day didn't improve. I moaned and groaned, fought with the kids, fought with the husband and generally found it hard to see through the smog. To top it all I burnt the dinner (1st time ever), broke a plate and missed the Eastenders omnibus!

Last night I slept on my 3% of the bed, fell out this morning on my side just as the alarm rang, half of my body stiff from hanging over the edge and cold from the air con BUT I feel fine. I've had my coffee and all is right with the world. The cheerful me is back and I never want to see the person I was yesterday re-appear.

As sure as the sun will rise each day you can be sure I'll never get out of the wrong side of the bed again!

Hammy the Hamster…R.I.P.

Early this morning, I had a call from my littlest friend, A., the 8-year old daughter of a buddy of mine. She wanted to tell me herself, that Hammy had died. His tiny body was still warm, so it must have happened just as the household was waking up.

Oh no.

A. is a solemn little thing, and Hammy was her first pet. She’d inherited him from a friend who relocated; he was about a year old when she got him.

A hamster’s lifespan is only 3 years.
A lot of kids have hamsters.
Losing a pet is never easy.

That she even thought to call me and tell me, because she know how much I loved Hammy too, blew me away. Kids will do that to you.

“I’m so sorry about Hammy, sweetheart…have you talked to Mum about where you want to put him?”

“I think we have to bury him,” she said.

She handled it very well, over the phone. Her Mum had done a good job of preparing her. Before they went away for the summer holidays, little A. already knew Hammy might not be around when they got back. “Knew” in the academic sense, of course. To everyone’s delight, he was still there when the family returned home after the holidays.

And in fact, he made it through two more months, and was fine until last night. I’m sure he went quietly; he had been showing signs of slowing down for some while…fur loss, sleeping longer, not so active any more. And he was nearly 3 years old, so yes, we were all expecting it.

Her Mum told me later that A. didn’t want to bury him…”She’s still not quite accepted that he’s gone, and I’m letting her handle it her own way. The cage is still there, and she said, ‘Can we just pretend he’s gone to stay with someone else for awhile?’ ”

Hammy was the first hamster I ever met, and got to know up close and personal. I’d never seen one before, and I fell completely in love with him. Tiny, waffle-nosed little thing, with bright beady eyes and the softest fur. I’d seen pictures of hamsters, but never realized how tiny they really are. None of the pictures were half as cute as Hammy.

He never used his exercise wheel, but he loved rolling across the floor in his exercise ball, and it was fun watching him. A. was always very gentle with him, and made sure when her friends were visiting that Hammy wasn’t treated roughly or over-handled.

I always wondered how such tiny, defenseless little balls of fur could possibly survive in the wild.

I’m convinced he recognized me because whenever I’d visit, I’d invariably check him out before saying “hi” to anyone else. He’d mostly be asleep, but would usually wake up when I tickled him, and come to the door of his cage so I could take him out. Sometimes he’d wake up grouchy and gently nip my finger, letting me know he didn’t want to be handled right then.

I’m glad I saw him just 2 days ago. He did wake up that day, and I did hold him for awhile, and made a big fuss over him. And now he’s gone. Full stop.

Death is that final; as adults, we know this. For a child, it’s an unknown quantity… till it happens to a pet. I’m sure A. will have a lot of questions for her Mum, as the days wear on; kids will ask those questions. What happens when you die, Mum? Does it hurt? Where do you go after here? What is it like over there? Will you and Dad go there too? Are there children there too? Will I see Hammy when I go there?

For today, she told her Mum, “Please help me to forget?” and “I know the fish died too, but this is different.” Already, she knows it’s different.

A sprinkle of fairy dust never hurt anyone.

I believe in fairies. I've never seen one but I know they exist.

From a very early age I remember wrapping my 1st fallen tooth in tissue and placing it under my pillow. My mum told me that the faries used baby teeth to build their palaces and if I was a very good girl they would choose my tooth and replace it with a silver coin. Sure enough I woke the next morning and found a sparkling shilling beneath my pillow - fairy magic captured my heart forever. I still have a letter, written in the tiniest handwriting, apologising for not having any shiney coins one night. It asked me to leave my tooth under my pillow because they desperately wanted MY tooth and would take it as sooon as they had more coins. Just over a week later the tooth disappeared and a coin took its place leaving my faith in tact and my love for fairies just as strong.

My children have all helped the fairies build their palaces so it saddened me when the daughter of a friend told my six year old she was silly to wrap her 1st fallen tooth in tissue and place it beneath her pillow. In her opinion (she's 8) fairies are made up by mummy's and daddy's, the money comes from them, not the fairies, and palaces were made from bricks - not teeth! This seemed to play on my daughters mind for a while and although at first she seemed upset it didn't take her long to answer back 'I don't care what you think, I'll get a nice shiney coin and you won't!'

That night as I read to her in bed she told me; 'Mummy, I believe in fairies because I've seen them. They dance in the sun and they whisper outside the window at night time so I am not scared. When I cry they give me fairy kisses that make me feel better and I hope they choose my tooth for one of their palaces'.

The next morning she came running into the kitchen with the hugest smile on her face. The faries had been and had left her a shiney coin which she swore she would keep forever and ever. The joy and wonderment on her face would be worth millions if I could bottle it to sell.

Where is the harm? In a world that seems to have gone crazy at times having a fairy by your side is surely better than standing alone. Everyone needs a sprinkling of magic in their lives and I hear fairy dust brightens the darkest day. Anyways, they are in desperate need of bricks to build more palaces, who am I to deny them that?

Contrapunto!

I hum bad, and I sing worse. But tell you what, I'll bang on some pots and pans real loud, so you hear it. Sent you birthday greets via telepathy, hope you received them.

As to the big four-oh, I have no comments on that at all. I do remember it vaguely, but it didn't leave a dent. So if life does begin then, I must have missed the ferry. Will catch you on the warp soon, I must vanish for awhile...have a frabjous day!!!

You hum it I'll sing it!

So, it finally happened. People have been telling me for 14,609 days that 'my life would begin on this day!' At last I'm 40 and to be honest, after a 24 hour review feel like 39 years 364 days, the only difference being yesterday I got a good nights sleep and the day before the 'big day' I tossed and turned the whole night and woke up with eyes like a budgie on heroin.

To be honest I'm not sure whether I expected the heavens to open up and shower me with new brain cells or at least a head of hair without grey and a new wrinkle free skin. I mean, if life truly begins at 40 what the heck have I spent the last 39 years doing? My ultimate purpose in life to gather wisdom and not moss on my journey begins now? What do I do with all the sentimantal crap I've gathered along the way to get to now? Perhaps its time for a life laundry, cleanse and rejuvinate myself and my space? Hold on, that sounds like hard work and heck, I'm 40!

I'm sure my kids think I am ancient, they profess to all others they have a hip mum that knows all the latest music, enjoys sitting in Starbucks with them people-watching and likes the same kind of movies they do - but I'll never forget the day my eldest asked me if the world was black and white when I was a kid. Darling, from today onwards I'll hold it against you if you ever mention my age in the wrong tone of voice.

Oprah said her life began at 40 almost every day for 10 years and now she's fifty guess what? She really believes her life has truly just begun. This leads me to my theory; every 10 years on the eve of our new decade birthday we die in our sleep, very briefly, then awake newborn allowing us to say 'life begins today'. So all you sceptics out there, reincarnation is real, trust me I've been there and done it 4 times - still waiting for the T shirt though, maybe at 50??

I've enjoyed getting to where I am and have been blessed with just enough 'real' friends to count on one hand. Because of them (you know who you are) my cup runneth over. So here's to the next 40 cos I'm sure life really begins at 80!

What a day today will be

Before I post my next blogg I'll use this chance to increase my number of posts and say............

That was brilliant, truly inspired and I have never laughed so much at any of your bloggs before. Thank you for starting my day off with the biggest smile, you fabulously useless pit of mindless information.

Crusty is bread, all else is relative

Oh byte me! Did you just announce a jee-had?!? A holey war!!! So
be it! I have my sword at the ready, that I may run upon it when the hour is upon me. Or I am upon the hour, whichever comes first. Honour, as they say, is all…and it is holey as heck!

Meanwhile, I should like to try and steer this exchange down quasi-literary, rather than quasi-literal, paths; holey seemed a brilliant place to start.

Which brings me straight to sword-running, a phenomenon that has held a dreadfully ghoulishsqueamishfascination for me since my schooldays, now so far in the past that even laser vision couldn’t bring them into sharp focus. Even so, I have never forgotten my inspired lit. teacher, who forced us to memorize our texts. All of them. As a result, I can still quote vast tracts of Macbeth and Julius Caesar, delivered with all five eyes closed, standing on my head. How useful!!! Here’s a small but relevant sample:

“Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it.”

Neat, huh?

The Romans, it seems, would run upon their swords at the drop of a chapeau, including good old et tu Brute. Strato, his favoured minion, was ordered to hold it (the SWORD, the SWORD!), so Brutus could “run upon it,” impaling himself on the tip and presumably sliding down along the blade, guts spilling and an angry crimson flood spreading at his feet…not a pretty death, but…honourable.

The Samurais of Japan have a similar fascination for abdominal reconfiguration, except they prefer not to ask for favours and would rather plunge their swords deep into their guts themselves, with both hands and a great deal of forceful grunting.

There are other equally fascinating sword tales, but I’ll save them for another time. Funny though, not too many of stories of scabbards around, considering swords would lose their sharps without those.

If I did have a sword, I’d use it to slice bread with. You know, those wonderful crusty loaves that mercilessly dull even the sharpest bread knife. Which brings me to the title. All else, as they say, is relative. And they’re right; my aunt is at the door.

PS: Re. "granual" kitty litter, add another 'n' and you have a winner! You produce it, I’ll road-test it for you. Re. the Salivation Army, joining is entirely voluntary and non-coercive, as you well know. I don't do tambourines, those were castanets. I do not scream, crust (ewww gro$$!) or foam at the mouth, contrary to popular belief. Calcified blether regions are flavourofthemonth, please getwiththeprogram. Re. WWConvention, I take it I am not invited, boohoo. Re. fishnets, mine self destruct when anybody else touches them. KA-BOOM!!!

Holey war

Meeeeeeeeeeeeeoowwwwwww! How do you know that granual isn't a new form of kitty litter that only needs changing once a year huh huh huh huh??? It is very hard to excel when faced with such intelligence but I march on boldly in the hope some other pour soul catches your eye and you rush off with your Sally Army tambourine screaming 'come and join me, come and join me'.

As for blagging on about the good old British Empire and its spoils - I am but one person and cannot be expected to carry such guilt on already heavily laden shoulders. Dance nekid in Downing Street as often as you like, I hear Cherie does it quite often and might enjoy the company. I'd wait a few months though, the temperature is dropping and no-one likes crystalized nether regions.

I am off to squeeze into my leotard and start my own 'Wonder Woman' convention. The beauty is I am holding it here, in my own home, all are welcome, and I don't have to wear your crusty fishnets. I hear that the bidding for them on Ebay began last night and already they have reached their reserve of 40 sniffies (not made at the Royal Mint I assure you) and are sailing forward to the maximum bid of 1 lick&die!

Oh, kinky!!!

Ahaaa! Finally managed to retrieve the old fishnets, eh? Wondered how long it would take you to exhume them...and by the way, I must confess I neglected to launder after I last used them, what, 2 years ago? before stuffing them behind the third cushion on the living room couch. Didn't realise that was your couch, though.

So be warned, you don’t want to handle them without sterile gloves, and if you do plan to toss them in the wash, careful, they’d probably disintegrate anyway, so I’d say incineration would seem the only safe option for disposal.

The leotard, however, is a whole other story. I don’t do pink, and purple satin hearts are just SO not me. I suggest you seek the owner elsewhere.

I see from your bloGG you are still fixated on talents. Since I see them for the ancient form of currency they are, I’d suggest you bite into them to check if they’re really gold. If, as you say, your eye has a hidden talent, I must warn you that my talent has...yup...a hidden eye. It tells me you are still smarting from my last spellcheck reference; I suppose I should assure you there shall be no more such forthcoming but am unable to do so at this time.

Re. the minting of zlotys in the UK, I am hardly surprised. The Brits were always getting up to all sorts of nefariousimperialist boffintricks. Remind me to regale you with the Indian Chapter sometime. We are not amused. And while we’re on the subject, I suggest you guys return the Kohinoor as well, it’s high time, and the Elgin Marbles to Greece, or we shall all take off our clothes and parade nekkid up and down Downing Street.

Re. kitty litter, the "granual" (from your post) manual says it is illegal to use the stuff for any other purpose than the one it is intended for. Now I don’t know about you, but I like to keep things strictly legal.

I must be off now, so do remember to dispose of the fishnets in a satisfactorily sanitary fashion. Wouldn’t want you catching something catching.

The leotard, however, is yours to abuse as you choose to.

Balderdashinfishnets!

Leaving all humor aside - I would say the Polish Zloty is just your average coin. Its edge is either smooth or serated depending on its value, does not exceed the 'too big to be comfortable in your pocket' diameter (approx 2.5cm max) and the three coins (1, 2 & 5 zloty) are pleasing to the eye in design and colour! As for the waffles with ........................? I don't do ice cream so most definately maple syrup! Oh, and by the way, just to scramble back to the origin of this blogg, the Polish Zloty is made at the Royal Mint in the UK, which really makes it the UK zloty, made for use in Poland! Work that one out in spaghetti junction!

If I offended you regarding your ONE mistake then good! I needed a song and dance so badly and this was my Cha cha cha. It just proves that even perfection can have flaws noticeable only to the trained eye! Yes, my eye has a hidden talent too. Coupled with my fingers it makes me Wonder Woman minus the leotard and fishnets. However, I have some wonderful plasters - they have pictures of Bob the Builder on them. I need to know just how deep your cut is though. Is there a possibility you could be scarred for life? I doubt it for I have yet to notice a scar on my personna. All your references to my vorbasic dislexocity have fallen on deaf ears and I shall continue to challenge you with my 'you have to decipher before you get the blogg' style of literary talent.

During my quick Google search for 'things to occupy Priya that don't utilize grey cells' I discovered the perfect pastime for you. Hold yourself, this could be ground breaking excitement and I wouldn't want you to hyperventilate in shock! I suggest you ........ count cat litter granuals in the tray! The beauty of this is everytime you change the litter you get to start all over again. Please don't rush to thank me until you have tried it. Then you can shower me with e-cards that praise my intelligence and thank me for saving you from 'head above the waves' syndrome.

Re. the Folger's situ, I'll wait to hear from your lawyer but be assured mine will sue you for calling him a 'dog'. In fact, why don't you send him your 'used and fading fast' torture manual, he may be able to settle with suitable compensation!

Hogwash&Chikkinfeathers

Ah, the unkindest cut of all!!! I bleed, I bleed! Begone, you vile creature, to have brought up ONE lousy spello and made such a song and dance about it! The temerity! Harrumph. I am sorely tempted to auction you on ebay to the lowest bidder, and throw in a month's supply of cat litter as additional enticement. On the other hand, the headhunters of Borneo, an unfriendly neighbouring island, might be willing to pay big money...

Unlike your uncharitable self, I shall desist from running all your bloGGzz bass ackwards through a spellcheck and posting the results in a public forum such as this. We shall not stoop to conquer, but rather, retain our dignity and maintain our decorum. Hufflepuffle and schoofledoofle to you too.

As to talent, did you know this was an ancient unit of weight (or money)? Are you saying then, your fingers are heavy? Scale-y? Rich? What? Further, are you trying to imply that I am over-utilizing my severely limited cerebral matter, and should stop contemplating altogether? What would you suggest I take up as an idle pastime instead? Soap carving? Wood whittling? Scarf knitting? Spit-bubble blowing?

Re. your honey fetish, allow me to recommend Greek honey...with yogurt. It is a particular favourite breakfast food in Crete, and if you're lucky, it comes with a hunk on the side. And no, I don't know which side. And frankly if I were you, I'd stay away from the chicken feathers. Kinky stuff, won't do you much good and ditto the wally. Besides, what if the kids found out.

I must leave you for the nonce, need to see a man about a dog. Re. Folgers, my lawyer will call your lawyer. Re. torturing the world, you are at liberty, though I doubt we're averaging more than one hit every leap year. Which is an amazingly good average for a bloGGsite, I'm told.

While we're on the subject, I do have a rather useful, barely-used, illustrated torture manual, and I'm looking to sell it. It'll cost you about 50 million. Not cheap, but worth every zloty. You may send the money to my Swiss bank account, WMD 11011000110 poste haste.

Before you go, please answer one last question for our audience: What are your views on the Polish zloty? And when you're done with that, we'd like your opinion on waffles with maple syrup vs. ice cream.

To blog or not to blog as time alloweth!

Should you be suggesting I am in serious need of a pre-post blog proof reader dare I ask you to refer back to your 'ducktape' paragraph and spot the mistake??? What you refuse to see is my added talent- I am the only person on earth who's fingers have brains of their own. They might make the occasional spelling mistake and be more dyslexic than ambidextral but they leave me able to utilize my beneath the skull brain matter in other areas whilst keeping your grey cell pumping with contemplation!

I am a sucker for punishment so I await my sentencing for awakening things inside of you that you may have already mourned. Pickling would actually be more of a pleasure than a pain as unbeknownst to you I have a penchant for all things in vinegar. Why else do you think the Natural History Museum has a 'riarecognition' alarm that sounds as soon as I am in proximity of the building?

To close, much as I am sad you may not be as regular to this website as Senna maketh man to toilet bowl, my posts will also be on ration as I also have a life beginning today. For the next 9 months I will adorn my chauffeur cap and be on the never ending circuit of school pick ups and drop offs. You understand- its that 'split myself in 2 in order to be everywhere at the same time' cycle! Whenever I get the chance or something sneaks up behind me, bites my arse and screams 'this would be a good blog' I'll pop in and torture the world. Until then my love no-one you know wishes you more luck in paying the bills than I do! You go girl and conquer the world before it conquers you!

(ps. I have no Folgers coffee bags in my possesion! From this day forward we have absolutely no connection with each other and any reference to themselves and myself in the same breath will result in legal action) (or at least a public whipping with a feather duster dipped in honey). Thanks to you I now have a craving for a massive pickled wally - waahhhhhhhhh!

BalderDash&FiddleStix!

To my co-BloGGerator:

For once, I have decided to do a straight bloGG, instead of a deviant one.(I must zig before I can zag?!?). Therefore, you will see no mention of ahem razors, pruning or bushes in here today. If this cranks up your desperation index, see George W. about your problem. I believe he has an oil-based cure that you can get while vacationing in an undisclosed destination that rhymes with WMD. Or was supposed to anyway.

If all else fails, you can always resort to whateveritisyounormally doforit.

You will also be pleased to know I am recommending you for a spell-check implant and prophylactic dyslexiotomy. Both procedures are, I believe, quite painless and once done, recuperation’s a cinch as they have perfected a technique that puts YOU in charge. It has to do with rubber bands, wrists and a subversive form of Pavlovian conditioning. (For details, contact the author.)

As to DuckTape, well quackquack, I say!!! I see your memory serves me better than my own does, which is just as well because suddenly it all comes back at me in a veritable flood of quirkisms, gooferations and looperosities that I thought I’d lost FOREVER because (oh, shoot me!!!) I never wrote down a SINGLE one, an old failing from 3 lifetimes ago which, as you can see, I am paying for bigtime now, in karma points, discount coupons and prolific bloGGerosity. Though the last is stretching a bit thin at the seams lately.

So apart from jolting my memory alive, which caused me to go into repeated seizures the last some days, I must also thank you for reviving the moribund Trolls&GoblinsInc., for rearranging my award-winning collection of socks, and for putting me off razors for the next 49,000 lifetimes.

This, as you well know, is my 4th bloGGsite in as many months, and for that you shall be instantly tossed into a pickling vat with last year’s turnips. Unless you prefer tarred&featheredandfedtothe masses. You get to choose; we are being generous today.

If I vapourize for awhile, it’s because life is happening briefly, but I shall be back anon. Meanwhile, keep the goblins gainfully occupied, and remember to feed them ALL your Folger’s coffee bags. I repeat: ALL!!!

Grey cell revolution theory............

Blogging since May?? My darling, you were born blogging, it just took the rest of the world this long to find a word suitable for what you do! Now, lets set a few things straight, the only magnetic field I come vaguely close to is the one around my fridge door. I still have hormones (working ones) and as for hairy armpits?????? The only bushes I associate myself with are the ones growing in my front garden. In fact, I only have to walk into my bathroom and my razor stands to attention! By the way, just in case you had ever wondered, like you do, in general I am a very unhairy person so I'd have to blog for at least a year before pruning would need serious consideration for reception purposes.

I have a theory. I know Darwin had one and Newton too blah blah blah but hush and listen. Have you considered the possibility that we (as in mostly you with a mere smudgin of me) are getting too good at this and someone has asked their goblins to concentrate on us and leave their socks alone? I mean we pack a mean punch, grey cells have never looked so inviting and it is obvious we are making the morons of this world nervous, they can't bare to think that we may have planted the seeds for a grey cell revolution! YES, no more will man be likened to potatoes as he sits and watches TV, he will be 'man with grey cell in contemplation of his next blog'!

You followed the thread and got nowhere. I begin to wonder whether I lost the thread and never realised??? I daren't read this back to myself for fear of the realisation I need to accept your kind offer of a loan straight jacket. Would the world be a safer place if my arms were strapped so tightly around my body I could scratch under the opposite pits without anyone knowing? You might need to send extra sticky masking tape too, save me from myself before someone tries to cut my tongue out.

Until this is sorted I will continue to read every blog each time I enter, slowly brainwashing myself with the ideals and ideology of two muppets minus hands up their buts!

Whaaa?!?

Look, I know it isn't me because I've been bloGGing since May and this has NEVER happened before...until we started this bloGG. Evidently we've managed, in a span of 3 short days, to utterly scramble the BloGGprogram so it's begun posting our posts at random. And NO, don't even THINK about looping that back to me and randombloGGzz.

So I've given up trying to follow the thread, or pretending to be logical or even remotely rational, because the program is going to put this post in after your second post and my fifth. Or my seventh and your fourth. Or wotevah. Not that we'd make much more sense even if we were arranged serially, but it's just a more organizized, left-brained way of doing things and since we only have that one last grey cell between us, we really ought to save it for emergencies, don'tyouthink?!

As I said, this hasn't happened on the other 3 bloGGz, so I am absolutely certain it has to do with your magnetic field, or hormone levels, or hairy armpits. Or all five. No, wait! I get it!!! Didn't all this scramblicalnonsense start AFTER the troll posts??? YES, it DID!!! So you see, you've brought the goblins out again.

Let's just hope nobody ever stumbles in here even by mistake, and so what if the program insists on playing silly buggers with us, we're still ahead of the game because in any case, we make about as much sense as a scrambled yegg. You silly oeuff!!!

I did have a little story to tell you, but eludes me at this time. However, if you even TRY and contaminate the other bloGGz, I shall set the father of all hairytrolls on you. And bulls. And Morris Dancers. And high heels. And..and...and...gah! Now go get your aura cleansed and your magnetic field re-oriented. Or else!!!

Bells on their toes

I'm going to let you off with the 19 Folgers cofee bags in a box dilema. I have decided to e-mail them again and will let you know when and if they decide to reply.

Todays new 'ponderatleisure' topic is.............................. Morris Dancers. Why on earth would any grown man choose to dress in white, wear bells around his ankles and brightly coloured hankies around his neck and wrists then dance around a flag pole banging sticks with yet another sad muppet? It beggars belief and you'll knock me down with a feather if you think its a nice way to pass an afternoon.

I'm off to assault my ironing pile. Any larger and someone might try to climb it and plant a flag!

All part of a bigger plan................

Have you ever wondered why you have so many pairs of odd socks? The easy answer would be that you are just too lazy to sit down, unball them, sort into matching pairs and re-ball. The truth is much more disturbing. As we approach adult independance we are asigned our very own 'driveyoucrazy' goblin. Mine is actually a hairy troll (explains all the hair on the bathroom floors that no-one lays claim to when I ask) but goblin or troll the plan remains the same. Their one aim in life is to disturb the equlibrum in your head and at times make you think you are going crazy. Making socks disappear from a locked automatic washing machine is a favourite. I would say on average they take 3 socks a week from this house. Once I discover they are missing I turn the house upside down looking for them, which means I have a good clean out as I do it, then I get hubby to take the washing machine apart to see if he can find them (of course he can't) so the washing machine gets a good overhaul and finally I pop off to the shops and buy new socks. See what I mean about the title??? Its all part of a bigger plan and just another reason I am a sockophobic.

May I just take the time to apologise to all you Marmite worshippers out there. The mere fact that a certain person (yes you) suggested a Marmite sandwich would be left for a week to gather quirk was an insult to yeast extract lovers, myself included, worldwide. Coffee and Marmite sandwiches are to be enjoyed immediately. Make note.

PS. its the goblin that puts a teaspoon back in the washing up bowl when you are sure there is nothing left in there, he also places a coffee mug right in front of your eyes just after you have done a final search for dishes before switching the dishwasher on.................

myhairytroll's bigger than yourhairytroll?!?

While I do subscribe to the theory of the GrandMasterPlan, I believe that the devil really IS in the details, and details are small, tetchy little things. Enter hairy trolls. I seem to remember where you got yours from; he was a second cousin thrice removed from mine. There were sheep involved, and a large Scotsman in a kilt, as I'm sure you'd recall. His trolls, however, are evidently intact, and fully functional. I hear the baby's due in November.

Also, goblins and trolls, hirsute or otherwise, belong in the garden along with your potted nasturtiums, and NOT in the bathroom. No wonder nobody will admit to whose hairisonthetiles; they're all out by the peony bush at the Annual Trolls&Goblins Convention.

Which brings me to the subject of armpit hair and flies in the soup. And while we're at it, ear wax and flatulence. Exactly; there is absolutely no connection between them whatsoever. But go on, admit it, I had you wondering for a moment there.

Meanwhile, I am gormenghasted at the fact that you're spending your afternoons watching men with pompom socks and ribbons in their hair cavorting around a maypole. I understand you have a penchant for odd things (wine gums?? GREEN wine gums?!? gah!!) and etcetera, but seriously, sometimes I worry about you. Anyone who drinks coffee that comes in teabags needs worrying about. I shall Fedex you my favourite straitjacket, you know, the one with the 35 zips and toggles and the spider-print with webs across the back? Something tells me you may have a greater need for it than I do right now.

Before I exeunt, let me interject: marmite is an insult to the entire food chain, and it ought to be banished forever, forced into some dark dungeon to yeast in peace. And so should vegemite. So there.

What kind of bull you asked?

I remember my 18th birthday like it was yesterday. A very dear friend of mine decided we would be very adult (hahahaha) and go up to London for a meal, a movie and our first venture into a London nightclub. We both looked gorgeous and even my 4 inch high heeled shoes promised not to give me blisters this once. The meal was lovely, conversation wonderful and my friend picked up the tab, her treat she said. As we got up to leave the restaurant we had to exit by going down three steps to the lower dining area. It was downhill (excuse the pun) from there onwards. I tripped and saved myself by putting my hand straight into a very nice elderly gentleman's dinner. He wasn't too happy, gravy just wasn't his colour and the roast beef lying on his lap looked almost obscene. I apologised profusely and as I made my way to leave discovered I had broken a heel on my shoe. Outside the restaurant we were both in hysterics although I'm not sure whether it was the fall or the sight of me hobbling with one leg 4'' shorter than the other. It was certainly enough to make weak bladders scream for assistance!

You may think, perhaps even hope, that it couldn't get any worse. It did.

At the cinema we bought our tickets and became the main attraction in the lobby (can't think why? Many people are height challenged aren't they) . We got a huge bucket of popcorn and a large coke to share and made our way in to see the film. I tripped, dropped all the popcorn, tried to redeem myself by bending to pick some up spilling the coke at the same time. By this time my friend, Karin, was on the floor in the foetal position laughing hysterically. I had the giggles so bad I realised pelvic floor excersises would be a must from now onwards and my cheeks were so red I suddenly became Russian. We never saw the film and we missed the last train home.

As long as I can remember I have been rather clumsy. I've learnt to take someone with me when I go shopping, they can take the tins and jars off of the shelf and save me making a fool of myself. I have slipped in each of my bathrooms whilst cleaning them resulting in a number of cracked bones and sprained ankles. I once fell down the steps as I was leaving the post office. I lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom with what turned out to be a broken foot and Bangladeshi workers stepped over me to get in to the past office before it closed.

What kind of bull you asked? A bull in a china shop my love. Take heed and if you see me coming cross the road!

Question: Why is it whenever I read 'pelvic floor excercises' I immediately begin to clench and count to 10? I don't do it again until I read those 3 words somewhere else.

you've been paragraphed!!!

Verily, I am pleased to see you have finally managed to wrap your wee head around the paragraphitis! You are now a bonafide bloGGeroon, and as to picking at blisters...ewwwww!!! This is a family bloGG and I would request that you keep it clean. Zits, blisters and other malodorous bodily erruptions will not be entertained.

Flipflops, however, are an astute strategic move. Very tropical, very trendy. But your sockophobia defeats me. I must admit, I am a bit of a sockaddictus myself. They are useful for all sorts of things. I once used them to lower eggs into a thermal pool, they came out perfectly boiled. And the socks, too. Mostly, though, I use them to gag people with.

As to ratty, well, the way I see it is this: how can one possibly make anyone more ratty than they already are? Or did you mean as in "Rat", Rattier", "Rattiest"? A rhetorical question, of course. Still, bears thinking about, eh? (Rodentttt!!!)

Re. your terminal question, if you ask me (which you did), I personally think it's all a matter of velocity. As long as you're moving, it's immaterial whether you're coming or going. This is a situation we are on first name terms with, and I love flying, so there's your answer. Hrrmm? I thot so, too.

I shall now leave you to your interminable perigrinations about the head-count in the Folger's box; I will likely not have a great deal to contribute, as we have had this discussion several times and you WILL insist on picking at it like a blisteriferous scab.

(Yes, I know I used your favourite word, I assure you it was entirely inadvertent.)

(HAHAHA!)

I await your blistering response. Just be warned, though, that I have 36 pairs of assorted soxatmydisposal.

sockophobia versus blogeritus in flip flops

Blisters have one advantage, once dry, peeling them off is a great way to pass a few minutes! That said, the pain as they evolve is definately not worth those few minutes. You'd have thunk by now I would know better BUT.......... whilst in the UK recently I paid top wack for what I thought were the perfect shoes (here we go again I hear you scream.... shhhhhhh) and took them home to Kevs. For the next week I tried them on countless times and put them back in their box. Then I lost my mind. I decided to wear them on the journey back to Kuwait, via Dubai no less. Kick me someone please! When I reached Kuwait I had to crawl through arrivals at Toulouse Le Trec height and didn't know whether to laugh or cry when hubby told me the lifts were out and the car was 100000 miles away! Its been two weeks and I'm still in flip flops and guess what I did when I was bored last night??

I don't like socks! They make me overheat and I get very ratty when hot. So put up with my gabbling woman cos your cure could make me ratty! As for OCD everyone and their uncle has it in some form or another nowadays, why should I be different?

Went shopping today and spent 10 minutes in front of the Folgers coffee bag boxes. There will be a blog on this subject as soon as I can verbalise my utter confusion, until then here is a thought for you; I hate flying and have always wondered why airports have 'terminals'. Sounds rather Nostradamus to me!

About "PutASockInIt"...

Re.verbal diahorrea, I beg to differ. There is, too, an old wive's cure for it, and I believe it's extremely efficacious to boot. It's the sock-in-mouth cure, and the older and smellier the sock, the better it works. Not pretty, I agree, but effective.

As to the English language being quirky, m'dear, even a week-old marmite sammich has more quirk per centimetre. Not to mention runny marmalade. However, I digress.

As you have so graciously suggested that I may be properly salted and peppered as far as bloGGz go, I shall let that bit about the bulls go. Or perhaps not.

Re. the bulls, then. It depends on what sort you meant. Istanbulls? Picasso's bulls? El Toro types from Pamplona? With a gored and bloodied matador impaled on a sharpened horn?

They say it's true, bulls DON'T see red. And since you asked...it's a fact that they only see black, white and grey. It's the movement of the matador's cape that gets them.

No, I'm not done yet; you asked the question, now listen to the answer. Why bulls don't see red: the colour-sensitive cells on the retina at the back of the eye are called cones. Cones have a higher stimulus threshold, which really means they like being tickled and also need more light stimulation than the black-grey-white-sensitive cells called rods. Fancy that.

You admitted to seeing red. Therefore we may safely surmise that your cones are in perfect tick and you are not a bull. I am relieved; this makes it amply clear that you're not likely to come charging out of your corner, snorting and pawing at the ground with your hooves, and burying your horns in my gut. Ole!

Next time, let's just talk bullshit.

Aaargh, Runaway Blogger on the loose!!!

OMG. That didn't take long, did it?!? I'm starting to see this was a BAD idea. A dimbulb idea. You haven't been on here 3 hours yet and you're already into an advanced case of OCD. And it's all my fault. I have created a monster.

About the new shoes: here's a neat trick I learnt. Get someone to break them in for you. Only trouble with that is you're not likely to get them back till they're past retirement age and ready for Shoe Heaven. But hey, it's worth a shot!

Ah, and blisters. Unfortunately bloGGz don't give you those, they only give you an even WORSE case of acute verbiage disorder, and so far there is no cure for it. I believe it can be quite ghastly, with symptoms that include severe cramps in the third metacarpal of the right hand, and rubberjoint syndrome, which apparently causes your elbows to start flicking out the other way. Flappidexterous?

Apropos of which, let me just say here that it seems to me you're starting to like the the look of your own serifs. Just mind you don't trip over them :-)

Then again, if you DID trip over them you may want to consider going barefoot henceforth, no more shoes. Which means you could skip blithely through life without ever having another blister again. Think about it...

Old habits die hard!

I remember when I was a little girl being bought my very first pair of 'party' shoes. The trip out to buy them had been greatly anticipated, almost as exciting as Christmas Eve and the possible chance sighting of Father Christmas keeping me awake. What followed the purchase was a nightmare wait to wear them, it was three weeks until the big event so in the box they had to stay. I'm not sure if this is where my now familiar ritual began BUT every time I got the chance I would sneak into my mum's room, open the box and try my new shoes on. Once the craving had subsided I would return the shoes back into the box and back to the shelf. The day of the party came and I felt like a princess for all of 30 minutes! I got the worst blisters ever and have been on a fruitless search for comfy shoes ever since. Needless to say I never bothered with those shoes again.
From that time, oh so many years ago, new things have always held a certain fascination for me. I actually look forward to that 'look but don't touch/use/ruin' period of time. Most recently I was bought a white gold bracelet as an early birthday gift. I love it and I know once I put it on I probably won't ever take it off BUT it has been in and out of its box more than 10 times a day and each time I get a thrill just looking at it in its pristine state.
The point to this blabbering (yes, there is one) is this blog thingy is like a pair of party shoes so bare with me until I get the blisters please!

Are bulls really colour blind?

There is no cure for verbal diarrhea! Trust me, my mother would have sold everything to have had me treated. So, as I approach one of those 'milestone' birthdays I have decided to embrace my affliction and use it to my advantage. Quite what that will be I have yet to find out but you can be sure I'll be on a 'profit only' path.
I am a verbivore, I love words and in particular the English language. It is still very quirky and worldwide is used in so many different ways I'll have enough to keep me occupied long after Mills & Boon have gone out of business. As my slightly fuzzy philologist friend said, I do babble idiotically and I could win a gold medal at the olympics if talking were a sport. She still loves me though, and bouncing off of each other with conversations only sanely insane people would find normal is one of my favourite pastimes!
It was her idea (not one of her lightbulb moments I fear) I become a blogger. She is a seasoned one herself and obviously needs someone to make her look even better than she already is. I read your blog Priya, saw red and attacked. Now you tell me, are bulls really colour blind?

Stultiloquent?!!

I have some strange friends. This one, for instance. She can talk. And she knows her affliction by name. Even gave me some useful little words to describe it:

Stultiloquent: to babble idiotically
Pleniloquent: full of talk, to talkalot

I wasn't sure if those were autobiographical, but I'm using them here anyway. I'm hoping this is how it will work: she sees this post, sees red, and attacks the blogsite instantly, posting a horrific excess of verbosity, while I quietly melt away into the shadows, missionAccomplished. My EVIL or what?!? Muahahaha!