Burns Night

Why not, I thought, they're a quarter Scottish.
Give the kids a haggis.

"Some hae meat
and canna eat"

It's a kind of sausage - ketchup anyone?

"Auld Scotland wants nae
Skinking Ware
That jaups in luggies
But if ye wish her grateful prayer
(don't!) Gie her a haggis"

The Essex genes remain dominant, closely
followed by the Teutonic ones.
Flecks of nicotine coloured neep rest evilly
next to the freshly heated orange fish fingers.

They eat the potatoes.

I scrape ketchup bloodied haggis into the
bin - to the sound of fading bagpipes
in the glen ( overlaid with Eastenders theme tune.)

It's early nights all round.

(What rhymes with haggis then?)

Interesting yet unrelated facts

 In September 2006, ten million websites were being
censored by the Iranian authorities. Many bloggers 
were arrested.


School catering staff get paid for the number of meals
they prepare each day.


No word in the English language rhymes with
Orange, Silver or Purple.
(prove me wrong)

That's just SAD

I know it's not that interesting and in the grand scheme of things, not even important
and that I thought I was going to escape it this year. But No.
 Have tried these things:
Zap self with caffeine.
Turn on lots of lights when get up.
Stand in shafts of weird, transient, midday sunlight you see fleetingly
on the sides of buildings at this time of year.
Decide that being grumpy can be quite endearing and even trendy.
Be in denial about the fact that people will just want to punch you as they
too are SAD
Shake self and realise self absorbed, trite blog is symptom of condition.

It's a feeling of never entirely waking up. Of early onset Alzheimer's
and morphine overdose crossed with sleep deprivation.
So, not really fully functioning until late March and can barely speak
or drive a car. Walk silently everywhere, sporting  silver foil collar
to concentrate rays on third eye. Life for four months based
on wearing a huge coat, bluff, avoidance of issues that require
 thinking and cat naps at every opportunity.

A peculiarly Northern European syndrome. Would far rather be 
dozing next to flickering firelight on layers of fur in smoky hut,
following nature's cycle - than having 
modern life drilled into brain.

Ah well.. as Frank would say " pass us the remote, Sheila"

Good evening, I'm from Essex..........

 .......in case you couldn't tell.
Wot's the difference between an Essex girl and an Alsatian?
A bag of chips.
It's obvious to all that it's Sa'dee night and I'm IN.
Thanks to that man and his Microsoft
I remain cyber-gaged incommunicado.
Yeah forget the bedtime story my blue eyed son.
And where have you been my darling young one.
(round to Callum's for band practice).
This precious pearl moves in a cloud of humid Lynx,
struggling in the hormonal cusp between
Horrid Henry and muscley hairy.
Meanwhile I'm eyeballing the screen
as their lives pass me by
on jet propelled heellies.
Time's Winged Chariot etc.
Speaking of which, Googleguyhas
threatened to
disengage me if
I remain idle.
"I'm afraid you can't do that, Dave"
(yet again)
Hurray for Linux.
Here come the Microsoft Police.

Technoflop

 I'm wanting to comment - but can't. Can't see where to
do it on Minx's. Help?

My Name is URL

.....Although apparently only sometimes. If I don't have caps lock on.
Much of my time has been swallowed by cyberspace this week.
(Is it my time. How can one own time? Comments invited.)
I'm not that techy and the initiation of this blog coincided with children's 
MSN and  "Oh , I just downloaded some smileys". This resulted in 40
Trojans and a surge of computer led hysteria that led me to suspect
that I may not have many windows (ho ho) of opportunity to blog.
So. It will be sparse but it will be good. I've never got used to the
computer tone of voice. Not as solemn as HAL. "I'm afraid you can't
do that Dave", just cheery chappy transatlantic male. Computers aren't
female at all.
 Anyway, huge thanks to female friends and bloggers for all your (?)
time.
(Bill Gates has just given 29 billion dollars to chariddy.
 I guess we give what we can afford.)      

Nappy New Year

In with the new. Baby Ed born within earshot of waves crashing on Brighton
 beach.
 And out with the old. Old friends older parents and older parents old friends
 taken by that eternal tide.
A final text message blinking on the knocked about Nokia.
Christmas and other deep midwintwer (but unseasonably warm) festivals of
 striplight and shopping thankfully over, I can go back under the covers til
at least half eight, when woken sweetly by ball of wrestling, screeching children.
R has returned to Aberdeen, where they had to defrost the plane
before takeoff, and found she didn't need her bearskins and plaids in London afterall.
Holbein (a Christmas present) was brilliant.
So now, unfashionably reactionary, I declare there is more Art in John Moore's
right arm than in Turner Prize offerings. Can relate to 16th Century better than 21st .
Could be that space/time rift. Must do more drawing. Use it or lose it.
If I put Ritalin in their spag bog, would they sit for a portrait? No - instead
sketch " Man With Can of McEwans Export Watching Life of Brian".
" He's not the Messiah. He's a very naughty boy!"