So anyway the finally real purpose of writing at all is that in signing up to write, I was told I had unmoderated comments to view.
What?
I'd forgotten, I set moderation on for posts over 21 days old. I'd assumed I'd go back to prolific nattering on here and that 21 days would put anything that old on a back page and that therefore nobody but a spammer trying to promote dodgy links would think to make comment.
Oops.
I have comments; real comments, from Lori Fineartist and Library Lady.
Gone all warm and fuzzy.
14 July 2009
All aglow, now
I signed in to waffle on about rice cakes (the diet continues) and also, perhaps mainly, to shove the previous post down the page a bit.
See, I am playing with fire (no, I'm not aglow because I got burned..., touch wood (although touching something less flammable might be an idea)). *Cough* I am playing with fire because my nieces are trying to reach out to someone. Not to claim them, make demands on them or otherwise ensnare them, but the girls are pretty eager to know that this person knows that they are OK, and is also aware that they feel warmly towards said stranger. I think they'd like a conscious exchange of pride in each other, whether as the beginning of something or as closure I have no idea, and that much at least is none of my business.
I am therefore trying to make my history and my connections a little more public - but not so public that a person might feel trapped or hounded, nor to blow out of the water any back story they might have established elsewhere.
I was just volunteering to be an impartial bridge or first contact, although (given that you can permanently block a contact on there if it all goes tits up) Facebook is probably a much better no-man's-land for truce talks or whatever. Then again our lost friend would have to add me in order to see the current names of the people that really want the contact; so we are back to square one.
And that is why this post becomes two parts, so that this new reference to the same dilemma similarly begins to creep south, on the page.
Excuse me, won't be a moment....
See, I am playing with fire (no, I'm not aglow because I got burned..., touch wood (although touching something less flammable might be an idea)). *Cough* I am playing with fire because my nieces are trying to reach out to someone. Not to claim them, make demands on them or otherwise ensnare them, but the girls are pretty eager to know that this person knows that they are OK, and is also aware that they feel warmly towards said stranger. I think they'd like a conscious exchange of pride in each other, whether as the beginning of something or as closure I have no idea, and that much at least is none of my business.
I am therefore trying to make my history and my connections a little more public - but not so public that a person might feel trapped or hounded, nor to blow out of the water any back story they might have established elsewhere.
I was just volunteering to be an impartial bridge or first contact, although (given that you can permanently block a contact on there if it all goes tits up) Facebook is probably a much better no-man's-land for truce talks or whatever. Then again our lost friend would have to add me in order to see the current names of the people that really want the contact; so we are back to square one.
And that is why this post becomes two parts, so that this new reference to the same dilemma similarly begins to creep south, on the page.
Excuse me, won't be a moment....
13 July 2009
Thanks to my two beautiful nieces Kelly and Michelle, (neither of whom I'd seen for years) , I spent this weekend in Staffordshire at my cousin Debbie's 50th birthday party.
I wish the digital camera had been functioning, but I took (and used) four disposables instead so now have to afford processing for something like 100 traditional snapshots. I imagine a few will need throwing away but if there aren't a dozen worthy of enlargement I shall be very disappointed.
Still Sian (Yay Sian!), another cousin, drove home on Saturday and had her favourite shots up on facebook before I even got home on Sunday. What a diamond.
I took Imogen with me and went up by train, which was an amazingly agreeable experience - even with the Victoria line closed and no trains across the whole Manchester area (a replacement bus running out of Stoke), courtesy of my darling 'professional traveller' of a husband, I knew all this in advance, knew what routes to take instead, even what direction to head off in within the main train stations to find the right platforms. It was like feeling I'd done the whole journey last month already. No scary bits. No fear about the time, and little concern about whether we'd got on the wrong underground train, because there was room enough for an adventure even if we had.
Trueman was happy not to leave the computer and very excited to have his dad to himself for a whole weekend - he clings to Gary when he gets home from working away all week. Poor G got home at 9 on Friday night, we spent that evening packing and covering all eventualities for my sake, then I deserted him at 7 the next morning to get the train, leaving him to do all his own laundry and re-pack his own bag for this week. At least we had two hours and a meal together on Sunday, after I got back and before he left.
It was worth it.
Debbie rocks.
Like her middle child Michelle, she is totally family oriented - all about nurturing, about the children, about making sure everyone feels welcome and included. Its quite therapeutic just to sit next to someone who is fulfilled to that extent, just enjoying her children and grandchildren and the harmony there is between them all.
Kelly is just as much of a sweetheart but also enjoys her education and runs her own business. She set-up the party and the surprise and the food and all of it - she did all of the work and is an amazing organizer. Her little girl is as bright as a button too, just like her mum.
James, the youngest, is tall, slender, dark and broody looking with a wonderful sense of humour. So easy going, so pleasant. One of those facilitators who melts into the background by choice and just keeps everything being smooth. I spent some time trying to convince him to go in to modelling, at least as a sideline.
I hope they don't mind me describing them publicly, but I have my reasons. For now this is my diary, a snapshot (until the real photos come back).
Lovely weekend, lovely month, lots to think on. Family is so important, isn't it?
I wish the digital camera had been functioning, but I took (and used) four disposables instead so now have to afford processing for something like 100 traditional snapshots. I imagine a few will need throwing away but if there aren't a dozen worthy of enlargement I shall be very disappointed.
Still Sian (Yay Sian!), another cousin, drove home on Saturday and had her favourite shots up on facebook before I even got home on Sunday. What a diamond.
I took Imogen with me and went up by train, which was an amazingly agreeable experience - even with the Victoria line closed and no trains across the whole Manchester area (a replacement bus running out of Stoke), courtesy of my darling 'professional traveller' of a husband, I knew all this in advance, knew what routes to take instead, even what direction to head off in within the main train stations to find the right platforms. It was like feeling I'd done the whole journey last month already. No scary bits. No fear about the time, and little concern about whether we'd got on the wrong underground train, because there was room enough for an adventure even if we had.
Trueman was happy not to leave the computer and very excited to have his dad to himself for a whole weekend - he clings to Gary when he gets home from working away all week. Poor G got home at 9 on Friday night, we spent that evening packing and covering all eventualities for my sake, then I deserted him at 7 the next morning to get the train, leaving him to do all his own laundry and re-pack his own bag for this week. At least we had two hours and a meal together on Sunday, after I got back and before he left.
It was worth it.
Debbie rocks.
Like her middle child Michelle, she is totally family oriented - all about nurturing, about the children, about making sure everyone feels welcome and included. Its quite therapeutic just to sit next to someone who is fulfilled to that extent, just enjoying her children and grandchildren and the harmony there is between them all.
Kelly is just as much of a sweetheart but also enjoys her education and runs her own business. She set-up the party and the surprise and the food and all of it - she did all of the work and is an amazing organizer. Her little girl is as bright as a button too, just like her mum.
James, the youngest, is tall, slender, dark and broody looking with a wonderful sense of humour. So easy going, so pleasant. One of those facilitators who melts into the background by choice and just keeps everything being smooth. I spent some time trying to convince him to go in to modelling, at least as a sideline.
I hope they don't mind me describing them publicly, but I have my reasons. For now this is my diary, a snapshot (until the real photos come back).
Lovely weekend, lovely month, lots to think on. Family is so important, isn't it?
12 June 2009
Visibly deflating
No the title of this teensy post is not a reference to any success with the fat cow tablets. I am being a good girl. The tablets don't seem to be doing much at all. Darling other half is up to his usual 'helpful' tricks of rushing out to buy low fat ice cream so I can 'still' have some, when I wasn't actually partaking in the first place.
He did that straight after my hospital stay. We hadn't had crisps or biscuits in this house for a year or more, but he stocked it to the rafters with 'low fat'* versions of both in all shapes, colours and price brackets.
(*Extremely high fat but for legal and marketing reasons, just measurably less than the regular junk.)
I don't blame him entirely - once it was here, spilling out of the cupboards every time anyone looked, and once there was nothing else to eat, I caved.
This time around he is working away from home and I have control - although he has a week off next week. Officially that is a WONDERFUL THING. I just have to forgo my TV, my routines, my sofa, my mealtimes and anything else I've accidentally settled into in his absence; turn a blind eye to him clutching the TV remote and deciding our every waking moment, and just concentrate on keeping his sticky mitts off the menu and the shopping trolley and his mind out of the fridge.
Its going to be tough. I hear the thrumming, throbbing intro to the Mission Impossible theme, as I write. Where are Cybill and Maryanne when you need them? Still, I'd make a bloody funny looking Ninja, all in black and dragging climbing gear round the aisles of the supermarket.
No.
The reason for sagging shoulders is my membership of a questions and answers site - answerbag.com (no it does not warrant a link).
As an example, first couple of questions to catch my eye are:
I just wanted to share the physical pain. (Sorry, Badaunt.)
He did that straight after my hospital stay. We hadn't had crisps or biscuits in this house for a year or more, but he stocked it to the rafters with 'low fat'* versions of both in all shapes, colours and price brackets.
(*Extremely high fat but for legal and marketing reasons, just measurably less than the regular junk.)
I don't blame him entirely - once it was here, spilling out of the cupboards every time anyone looked, and once there was nothing else to eat, I caved.
This time around he is working away from home and I have control - although he has a week off next week. Officially that is a WONDERFUL THING. I just have to forgo my TV, my routines, my sofa, my mealtimes and anything else I've accidentally settled into in his absence; turn a blind eye to him clutching the TV remote and deciding our every waking moment, and just concentrate on keeping his sticky mitts off the menu and the shopping trolley and his mind out of the fridge.
Its going to be tough. I hear the thrumming, throbbing intro to the Mission Impossible theme, as I write. Where are Cybill and Maryanne when you need them? Still, I'd make a bloody funny looking Ninja, all in black and dragging climbing gear round the aisles of the supermarket.
No.
The reason for sagging shoulders is my membership of a questions and answers site - answerbag.com (no it does not warrant a link).
As an example, first couple of questions to catch my eye are:
1. What are fun jobs that works with the computer? and
2. Do you think the word "swine flu" has been overused?
I just wanted to share the physical pain. (Sorry, Badaunt.)
09 June 2009
Gone Wobbly
Gone wobbly in all sorts of ways.
I do not know my own mind, it seems, which is to be expected as this body's prescribed chemical shackles are currently being tweaked. Think of it as changing your bra whilst running a half marathon - nothing much may be different to the naked eye once the procedure has been successfully completed, but that same naked eye might very well be accidentally poked out by mounds of heaving flesh suddenly and joyously free from constraints.
To be less poetic, by a giant wobbling tit gyrating in God-knows-what directions like an escaped maniac.
Or, indeed, an escaped tit.
So there you have it, my brain and everything else, being physically, miraculously and holistically connected to the blood pressure which is the real target of these tablet-shaped fetters, is currently wobbling about like a giant escaped tit.
It makes sense that the blood pressure is, too.
It seems that a lot of the podge in my hands and feet has, for the longest time, been nothing more than water retention! Wonderful news! I say that with some confidence as the prescription water tablets I started taking this weekend have had more of a result than even I expected. I've lost half a shoe size and can nearly get my three-gold Russian wedding ring back on; well the solitary hoop that we didn't mangle with wire cutters.
What? I'd swollen up like that frog balloon in Shrek, at the time. My ring finger had passed blue and was heading towards dark and nasty. Fine way to find out you're allergic to aspirin, huh.
I am VERY HAPPY. Over the moon, in fact, as there are only two reasons to get oedema, the heat version or any other:
1. Your heart is a bit fucked, as evidenced by your pulse going bonkers trying but failing to push all the puddling water uphill.
2. The beta blockers you are taking are working too well, putting too much of a cap on goings on, as evidenced by your pulse functioning on a par with Sleeping Beauty's (the snoring years) and not even trying to do its job.
Seems my problem was the latter, so my beta blockers have been halved.
Unfettered metaphorical bazoombas bouncing around all over the place, here; you get me?
I've spent a day or so hoping that my energy levels will go up with this but all that's happened so far is that my (previously only suspected) ADHD has crept back.
The brain is going too fast for the fingers.
The mouth is going too fast for the brain.
Still, if people who've only met me in my recent, comparatively sane and sedate years, can put up with me turning into Taz on a lead, with a slightly shorter attention span, then we're going to get along famously.
Nick Mallinson, SeahavenFM (whom I shall tag as often as possible and politely ask you to do the same - He's trying to be a Google front page, top ten results kind of a Nick Mallinson for the sake of the Seahaven FM radio station, which would mean loads to me too),
*cough*....
Nick Mallinson, because he's trying to teach me and because last week at least I could shut my mouth long enough to be seen to listen (I DO listen, just in this state it seems best done concurrently with beginning another conversation or six and generally multi-tasking on the whole left-field, wild-tangent, multiple streams of thought, yes I'm manic aren't I, "sit down dear while we find the straight jacket and the pretty syringe" kind of a way), well, to get to the point (there was a point??); he's probably one of the first I should tell.
Its just, how do you look someone in the eye, whilst taking that eye out with uncontrolled ripple effect and general ebullient confidence, joy and enthusiasm (which no, whilst temporarily ramped up a teensy weensy bit, isn't actually a side effect in this case but simply comes from being at the radio station AT ALL); how do you prance like a pranny, uncontrollably bounce up and down like an over-excited terrier trying to jump for a squeaky toy, this way and that, somersaulting in mid air (or back from the analogy, in mid sentence) simply to gain the desperately desired approval and the prize, irrespective of pride or basic functions such as genuine thought; how do you do ALL THAT.....
....and then find a moment to casually mention that you're probably a bit screwy because one new tablet can lower blood pressure, the other new one can raise it, and the one that used to control it is half as strong as it was, so even you don't know when you might be either comatose or high enough to be scraped off the ceiling?
Would your listener hear - " blah blah blah 'total effing nut job'" (likely), or would they hear "tablet tablet tablet tablet put any weight on this one and she'll collapse like a porcelain shelf dropped from a great height, so step away from the breakable lady"?
Both are likely considerations. Neither are true. Neither would take me a step nearer to transferring this waffle onto the radio, which is the most focused goal I think I have ever had in my entire life.
So, I am being a sad chicken type and hoping those links bear fruit so we can all have a chuckle and I don't have to actually say anything about it at all. What a coward!
And now I remember why I started to post.
I am so, so happy about my new tablets, which are temporary prescriptions. All I have to do is get through this.
One is to get shot of accumulated water whilst I settle in to the lighter beta blockers and rejoin the land of the living, with a pulse you can actually read.
The other (Yay, hooray!) is to kick start the loss of a stone or three or five, oh OK about 70 pounds, that went on in the year before and after the sh*t d*mn this doesn't define me 'heart attack' and just never would shift off again. Nothing I've done in the three years since has made the slightest difference in my weight, for good or ill, its just stuck, so now we are going to get shot of it. I'm so happy I could cry.
Right. So. I think I mentioned that one new tablet can lower blood pressure, the other new one can raise it, and the beta blocker that used to control it all is half as strong as it was, and all these changes took place in the same weekend.
So when the hospital dentist poked me around last night, I was a bit wobbly on the way home, and when the call centre girl from the gas company rang me this morning to explain why increased gas prices 12 months ago mean they can now see my monthly usage has increased in cost by 150% from £20 to £50, but, as if that wasn't bad enough, that she is determined to add my statements together as if they were bills, to calculate a monthly direct debit amount based on a fictitious total usage of £168 per month (backdated over 12 months, naturally), I was a little more wobbly than that, even though my voice stayed calm and my mind was deliciously clear and rational unlike my experience of the high beta blocker years, when the functioning braincells would hide under a metaphorical bucket and plead for mercy until flipping out and 'doing a Susan' (poor Susan Boyle, at least she's taken over in the British consciousness from Vanessa Feltz).
Even though I was thinking so fast I was wrapping this poor little girl in knots, like Superman skipping round a maypole, I still managed to begin to physically shake.
Most bizarre. Sitting there, talking on the phone like some sort of dominatrix on a short fuse, whilst holding my own hand up for observation and watching it almost twitch. Its alright, now.
Could be that the heart wanted to pump adrenalin and the pulse wouldn't shift into action. Could be the other way round. Its gotta be one of those, I just don't know which.
I've typed for an hour now, non stop, and my head is still very much wide awake, but I'm still feeling a bit sickly/wobbly.
I think it probably is low blood pressure and unused adrenalin . Time to turn the radio on, very very loud; or go and cat nap, I'm not sure which.
Ye gods, I may have to take up running, even though a week ago the only way to get both my feet off the floor at once was by me screwing my eyes up, going red in the face and relying largely on psychokinesis. Wish me luck?
I do not know my own mind, it seems, which is to be expected as this body's prescribed chemical shackles are currently being tweaked. Think of it as changing your bra whilst running a half marathon - nothing much may be different to the naked eye once the procedure has been successfully completed, but that same naked eye might very well be accidentally poked out by mounds of heaving flesh suddenly and joyously free from constraints.
To be less poetic, by a giant wobbling tit gyrating in God-knows-what directions like an escaped maniac.
Or, indeed, an escaped tit.
So there you have it, my brain and everything else, being physically, miraculously and holistically connected to the blood pressure which is the real target of these tablet-shaped fetters, is currently wobbling about like a giant escaped tit.
It makes sense that the blood pressure is, too.
It seems that a lot of the podge in my hands and feet has, for the longest time, been nothing more than water retention! Wonderful news! I say that with some confidence as the prescription water tablets I started taking this weekend have had more of a result than even I expected. I've lost half a shoe size and can nearly get my three-gold Russian wedding ring back on; well the solitary hoop that we didn't mangle with wire cutters.
What? I'd swollen up like that frog balloon in Shrek, at the time. My ring finger had passed blue and was heading towards dark and nasty. Fine way to find out you're allergic to aspirin, huh.
I am VERY HAPPY. Over the moon, in fact, as there are only two reasons to get oedema, the heat version or any other:
1. Your heart is a bit fucked, as evidenced by your pulse going bonkers trying but failing to push all the puddling water uphill.
2. The beta blockers you are taking are working too well, putting too much of a cap on goings on, as evidenced by your pulse functioning on a par with Sleeping Beauty's (the snoring years) and not even trying to do its job.
Seems my problem was the latter, so my beta blockers have been halved.
Unfettered metaphorical bazoombas bouncing around all over the place, here; you get me?
I've spent a day or so hoping that my energy levels will go up with this but all that's happened so far is that my (previously only suspected) ADHD has crept back.
The brain is going too fast for the fingers.
The mouth is going too fast for the brain.
Still, if people who've only met me in my recent, comparatively sane and sedate years, can put up with me turning into Taz on a lead, with a slightly shorter attention span, then we're going to get along famously.
Nick Mallinson, SeahavenFM (whom I shall tag as often as possible and politely ask you to do the same - He's trying to be a Google front page, top ten results kind of a Nick Mallinson for the sake of the Seahaven FM radio station, which would mean loads to me too),
*cough*....
Nick Mallinson, because he's trying to teach me and because last week at least I could shut my mouth long enough to be seen to listen (I DO listen, just in this state it seems best done concurrently with beginning another conversation or six and generally multi-tasking on the whole left-field, wild-tangent, multiple streams of thought, yes I'm manic aren't I, "sit down dear while we find the straight jacket and the pretty syringe" kind of a way), well, to get to the point (there was a point??); he's probably one of the first I should tell.
Its just, how do you look someone in the eye, whilst taking that eye out with uncontrolled ripple effect and general ebullient confidence, joy and enthusiasm (which no, whilst temporarily ramped up a teensy weensy bit, isn't actually a side effect in this case but simply comes from being at the radio station AT ALL); how do you prance like a pranny, uncontrollably bounce up and down like an over-excited terrier trying to jump for a squeaky toy, this way and that, somersaulting in mid air (or back from the analogy, in mid sentence) simply to gain the desperately desired approval and the prize, irrespective of pride or basic functions such as genuine thought; how do you do ALL THAT.....
....and then find a moment to casually mention that you're probably a bit screwy because one new tablet can lower blood pressure, the other new one can raise it, and the one that used to control it is half as strong as it was, so even you don't know when you might be either comatose or high enough to be scraped off the ceiling?
Would your listener hear - " blah blah blah 'total effing nut job'" (likely), or would they hear "tablet tablet tablet tablet put any weight on this one and she'll collapse like a porcelain shelf dropped from a great height, so step away from the breakable lady"?
Both are likely considerations. Neither are true. Neither would take me a step nearer to transferring this waffle onto the radio, which is the most focused goal I think I have ever had in my entire life.
So, I am being a sad chicken type and hoping those links bear fruit so we can all have a chuckle and I don't have to actually say anything about it at all. What a coward!
And now I remember why I started to post.
I am so, so happy about my new tablets, which are temporary prescriptions. All I have to do is get through this.
One is to get shot of accumulated water whilst I settle in to the lighter beta blockers and rejoin the land of the living, with a pulse you can actually read.
The other (Yay, hooray!) is to kick start the loss of a stone or three or five, oh OK about 70 pounds, that went on in the year before and after the sh*t d*mn this doesn't define me 'heart attack' and just never would shift off again. Nothing I've done in the three years since has made the slightest difference in my weight, for good or ill, its just stuck, so now we are going to get shot of it. I'm so happy I could cry.
Right. So. I think I mentioned that one new tablet can lower blood pressure, the other new one can raise it, and the beta blocker that used to control it all is half as strong as it was, and all these changes took place in the same weekend.
So when the hospital dentist poked me around last night, I was a bit wobbly on the way home, and when the call centre girl from the gas company rang me this morning to explain why increased gas prices 12 months ago mean they can now see my monthly usage has increased in cost by 150% from £20 to £50, but, as if that wasn't bad enough, that she is determined to add my statements together as if they were bills, to calculate a monthly direct debit amount based on a fictitious total usage of £168 per month (backdated over 12 months, naturally), I was a little more wobbly than that, even though my voice stayed calm and my mind was deliciously clear and rational unlike my experience of the high beta blocker years, when the functioning braincells would hide under a metaphorical bucket and plead for mercy until flipping out and 'doing a Susan' (poor Susan Boyle, at least she's taken over in the British consciousness from Vanessa Feltz).
Even though I was thinking so fast I was wrapping this poor little girl in knots, like Superman skipping round a maypole, I still managed to begin to physically shake.
Most bizarre. Sitting there, talking on the phone like some sort of dominatrix on a short fuse, whilst holding my own hand up for observation and watching it almost twitch. Its alright, now.
Could be that the heart wanted to pump adrenalin and the pulse wouldn't shift into action. Could be the other way round. Its gotta be one of those, I just don't know which.
I've typed for an hour now, non stop, and my head is still very much wide awake, but I'm still feeling a bit sickly/wobbly.
I think it probably is low blood pressure and unused adrenalin . Time to turn the radio on, very very loud; or go and cat nap, I'm not sure which.
Ye gods, I may have to take up running, even though a week ago the only way to get both my feet off the floor at once was by me screwing my eyes up, going red in the face and relying largely on psychokinesis. Wish me luck?
08 June 2009
Thank you thank you
This is like free-fall free-range free speechless spouting, if you catch my drift, but that's just how my brain goes sometimes so if it isn't doing it for you, its fine because its doing it for me (I think, hope, pray).
I thought the phrase was free association, but that's when prisoners are allowed round the pool tables all at the same time, isn't it?
OK so maybe I just endorsed that contention by mistake.
Something makes me want to type like Vicky Pollard (yeahbut nobut, can Pollard type?), at least type as she speaks. I have so much to blurt. Its not often I go silent on the blogs for fear of being thought nauseatingly chipper, however in recent months it does seem that I must have been Seeking the Kingdom of God in something approaching the right way, because, boy, all these things are being added unto me.
Its like Christmas. Its like things are going right at an alarming rate of knots. Oh life isn't perfect; there are no lessons left in perfection and I still want to learn (and does anyone else smell a paradox coming?), but old, long forgotten little 'no chance' wishes are popping up all granted and my little corner of the world is "wow, brilliant, thank you, I'd forgotten how much I'd wanted that, thank you thank you".
I just told a friend (a real friend, one of those people you can trust for an opinion, you know?) *cough*, I just told that friend that I've spent the last week or so being totally Pollyanna, blowing enough sunshine outta my ass to feel like a hovercraft. My feet aren't quite touching the ground. I guess this is what it feels like, to use the very British vernacular, to be 'fart-arsing about'.
Its all true.
This is the point where any tentative, speculative thoughts of running up a little post on here have faltered - who wants to hear how GREAT someone else's life is going?
I thought the phrase was free association, but that's when prisoners are allowed round the pool tables all at the same time, isn't it?
OK so maybe I just endorsed that contention by mistake.
Something makes me want to type like Vicky Pollard (yeahbut nobut, can Pollard type?), at least type as she speaks. I have so much to blurt. Its not often I go silent on the blogs for fear of being thought nauseatingly chipper, however in recent months it does seem that I must have been Seeking the Kingdom of God in something approaching the right way, because, boy, all these things are being added unto me.
Its like Christmas. Its like things are going right at an alarming rate of knots. Oh life isn't perfect; there are no lessons left in perfection and I still want to learn (and does anyone else smell a paradox coming?), but old, long forgotten little 'no chance' wishes are popping up all granted and my little corner of the world is "wow, brilliant, thank you, I'd forgotten how much I'd wanted that, thank you thank you".
I just told a friend (a real friend, one of those people you can trust for an opinion, you know?) *cough*, I just told that friend that I've spent the last week or so being totally Pollyanna, blowing enough sunshine outta my ass to feel like a hovercraft. My feet aren't quite touching the ground. I guess this is what it feels like, to use the very British vernacular, to be 'fart-arsing about'.
Its all true.
This is the point where any tentative, speculative thoughts of running up a little post on here have faltered - who wants to hear how GREAT someone else's life is going?
03 June 2009
Marginally peeved
I am looking at the previous post. The longer I stare at it, the more I become convinced that the past tense of 'grit' is, in fact, 'grit.
How annoying.
Any thoughts, please?
How annoying.
Any thoughts, please?
27 May 2009
Perfect Day
This morning I tried to sleep in, honestly I did, I mean I gritted my teeth in spite of my silly smile, and forced myself to luxuriate a little longer, but in the end I was just too excited.
I think I first woke at 4am.
Again at 5.30 , fifteen minutes before the alarm habitually goes off.
I was in that sunny, half giggly 'going to get up any minute' frame of mind by the time the music started and that allowed me to float through a whole hour of Radio 2, before the alarm switched to the 'last warning beeps' in the middle of a really quite interesting bit.
Even that couldn't dampen my mood.
At 9.30 this morning, after checking emails, catching up on Facebook and answering a few requests for advice on the Homeworking Forum (je suis Millysoo, un forum specialist, for my sins); I set off for town and spent nearly an hour with Paddy Range, the presenter of the Breakfast Show at Seahaven FM.
I was allowed to touch the buttons - to call up items using the music software, to drag and drop the jingles etc etc. I was allowed to sit in the big chair.
I realised just how much I'd absorbed from watching Tony Vanburger (thank you, Tony).
I realised its not actually that scary, or hard.
Afterward, I floated out of this pretty seaside town, through the one main road of shops, past the little war memorial with its perfectly coiffed lawn and immaculate flower beds and up the steepest hill, to my 'proper' work. I even got there early.
Sigh. Soooo happy.
On the way up that hill, past the pond and on into Millionaires Row where the smallest, most modest and unadapted properties have five bedrooms and a mere acre for a back yard, I saw a woodpecker.
I saw a woodpecker; my first ever, clear as day, as-near-as-a-streetlight woodpecker, half way up a tall, ancient, dead looking trunk, nestled safely in the middle of an otherwise sturdy, large and healthy tree.
It took me a moment to notice the perfectly circular holes, and another to realise that from one of those emanated the raucous, hungry complaints of a very boisterous, demanding and obviously thriving offspring.
I couldnt work out where, precisely, and mother made an ostentatious, langourous but flourishing exit around the foliage in, I presume, a bid to draw me away. I did the decent thing and walked on. The young squawked impatiently, regardless.
By this point in time it might assist the narrative for you to be absolutely certain that the childish delight I had worn thus far like a slightly goofy halo, was from that point on a solid, fixed grin on high beam, plastered right across my face.
I don't care who saw. I was tempted to engage a solitary gardener under false pretences, even when he was so deep in thought and rosemary alike, then a few doors down, to tap on the window of a van where a lone builder was enjoying deep thought and a sandwich.
I restrained myself; I know not how. Possibly by skipping slightly more than might be considered sane, if you were to see such an action performed by an overweight, middle-aged English woman in the tipping English rain.
It was, after all, all very, ... English.
I think I first woke at 4am.
Again at 5.30 , fifteen minutes before the alarm habitually goes off.
I was in that sunny, half giggly 'going to get up any minute' frame of mind by the time the music started and that allowed me to float through a whole hour of Radio 2, before the alarm switched to the 'last warning beeps' in the middle of a really quite interesting bit.
Even that couldn't dampen my mood.
At 9.30 this morning, after checking emails, catching up on Facebook and answering a few requests for advice on the Homeworking Forum (je suis Millysoo, un forum specialist, for my sins); I set off for town and spent nearly an hour with Paddy Range, the presenter of the Breakfast Show at Seahaven FM.
I was allowed to touch the buttons - to call up items using the music software, to drag and drop the jingles etc etc. I was allowed to sit in the big chair.
I realised just how much I'd absorbed from watching Tony Vanburger (thank you, Tony).
I realised its not actually that scary, or hard.
Afterward, I floated out of this pretty seaside town, through the one main road of shops, past the little war memorial with its perfectly coiffed lawn and immaculate flower beds and up the steepest hill, to my 'proper' work. I even got there early.
Sigh. Soooo happy.
On the way up that hill, past the pond and on into Millionaires Row where the smallest, most modest and unadapted properties have five bedrooms and a mere acre for a back yard, I saw a woodpecker.
I saw a woodpecker; my first ever, clear as day, as-near-as-a-streetlight woodpecker, half way up a tall, ancient, dead looking trunk, nestled safely in the middle of an otherwise sturdy, large and healthy tree.
It took me a moment to notice the perfectly circular holes, and another to realise that from one of those emanated the raucous, hungry complaints of a very boisterous, demanding and obviously thriving offspring.
I couldnt work out where, precisely, and mother made an ostentatious, langourous but flourishing exit around the foliage in, I presume, a bid to draw me away. I did the decent thing and walked on. The young squawked impatiently, regardless.
By this point in time it might assist the narrative for you to be absolutely certain that the childish delight I had worn thus far like a slightly goofy halo, was from that point on a solid, fixed grin on high beam, plastered right across my face.
I don't care who saw. I was tempted to engage a solitary gardener under false pretences, even when he was so deep in thought and rosemary alike, then a few doors down, to tap on the window of a van where a lone builder was enjoying deep thought and a sandwich.
I restrained myself; I know not how. Possibly by skipping slightly more than might be considered sane, if you were to see such an action performed by an overweight, middle-aged English woman in the tipping English rain.
It was, after all, all very, ... English.
25 May 2009
Funny Peculiar
You know that strange feeling when you put down heavy shopping bags and your arms want to float? The one you get as a new mum when 'he' pushed the pram off down the road and you end up trying to shove your hands into your jeans pockets just to stop feeling like something's missing?
That's me, today, because I failed to get hold of Tony and have ended up not going to the radio station for practice, for the first time in weeks and weeks.
I am in withdrawal, with a side-order of green-eyed jealousy and another of hollow-gutted regret.
I think I must be addicted.
On the plus side, however, I've cobbled together a button for my sidebar so I don't have to open another tab to the Seahaven website when I want to listen in - I can just click the button instead.
If you look one post down, I got carried away and tried to envisage my own Presenter's page, and how the home page banner will look when I'm on the air. I think maybe the headscarf could go.
Listening to Tony and learning from a distance, today. Yay for me.
That's me, today, because I failed to get hold of Tony and have ended up not going to the radio station for practice, for the first time in weeks and weeks.
I am in withdrawal, with a side-order of green-eyed jealousy and another of hollow-gutted regret.
I think I must be addicted.
On the plus side, however, I've cobbled together a button for my sidebar so I don't have to open another tab to the Seahaven website when I want to listen in - I can just click the button instead.
If you look one post down, I got carried away and tried to envisage my own Presenter's page, and how the home page banner will look when I'm on the air. I think maybe the headscarf could go.
Listening to Tony and learning from a distance, today. Yay for me.
21 May 2009
It's All Gone A Bit Pete Tong
I don't even know if that 'it's' is supposed to have the apostrophe.
I see several glaring errors in yesterday's post, but to quote my own monstrous, pre-teen incarnation, 'Tough titties'.
I've just made myself SO LATE to walk daughter (12) to choir practice that I had to buy her a taxi ride and send her all on her own.
She's just phoned from someone else's mobile, or possibly the church phone - I forgot, its not 7.30 practice, its 8.00 special service.
Someone will bring her home.
When you find yourself walking through Hell, the important thing to remember is just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep going. Head for the exit.
The same is true of any five minute muddle, any 24 hour bad hair day, any month long astrological hiccup.
The clever thing is remembering where 'in front' is and not going round in circles instead.
To that end, sans visitors (which may be a blessing given current IQ of a house brick etc), today is another day, and I am posting to this blog today, because that is what I set out to do.
Even though it means I'll have to post here in Firefox and then re-open to edit in IE because I can't see pop-ups like the picture editor in this flaming browser and even though its been like that for MONTHS, I still went and forgot.
I don't care.
And yes, if that counts as two fingers up to the Universe, then my arm is out straight, my other hand is on my hip, and my head is cocked at a defiant angle. I wish I could spell a raspberry.
Bthhhhhhhhhhhh?
I see several glaring errors in yesterday's post, but to quote my own monstrous, pre-teen incarnation, 'Tough titties'.
I've just made myself SO LATE to walk daughter (12) to choir practice that I had to buy her a taxi ride and send her all on her own.
She's just phoned from someone else's mobile, or possibly the church phone - I forgot, its not 7.30 practice, its 8.00 special service.
Someone will bring her home.
When you find yourself walking through Hell, the important thing to remember is just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep going. Head for the exit.
The same is true of any five minute muddle, any 24 hour bad hair day, any month long astrological hiccup.
The clever thing is remembering where 'in front' is and not going round in circles instead.
To that end, sans visitors (which may be a blessing given current IQ of a house brick etc), today is another day, and I am posting to this blog today, because that is what I set out to do.
Even though it means I'll have to post here in Firefox and then re-open to edit in IE because I can't see pop-ups like the picture editor in this flaming browser and even though its been like that for MONTHS, I still went and forgot.
I don't care.
And yes, if that counts as two fingers up to the Universe, then my arm is out straight, my other hand is on my hip, and my head is cocked at a defiant angle. I wish I could spell a raspberry.
Bthhhhhhhhhhhh?
20 May 2009
Brain rattle
Too many thoughts.
I am realising that sometimes I failed to blog because I couldnt keep my mind still enough to pin down a single, suitable line of thought.
For example, potential blog posts since late yesterday have been:
Mercury retrograde and several funny/painful stories about how I guessed as much before going to the web to confirm it.
Trouble transferring bloglines et al to IE so that I can finally comment again on other blogs.
Two long mental rants on how transgender people and astrologers are positively promoted in the New Testament if you know where to look, and why can't pharisee-types stop telling us we haven't spiritually washed our souls if we haven't washed our hands, and we haven't done that either if we didn't go up past the elbow...
OK so that was THREE rants and now I feel like the Spanish Inquisition, and can I just come in again?
AND how, if it bugs me, it probably relates to me so I should go play specks and beams and maybe this is all my own lesson and not for anyone else and I should just shut up. Right.
Moving on...
The trip my mind went on, all by itself, wondering who I could possibly give this to for Christmas, without being accused of sarcasm.
The growing urge to completely remove and reinstall Firefox, whatever that does to my bookmarks (and no, some of those beauties are NOT going to get stored online in Delicious etc, tyvm, not even temporarily). My Firefox is so useless that I can't even see the pop-up that allows me to install a picture or two to break this up.
Two wonderful, fantastically people to add to my RSS feeds: Gretchen Little and Neil Fairbrother. I could have waffled a post's worth on either one.
The brilliant, brilliant community project called The Engine Room in Somerset (Bridgewater, specifically, I think). They have a protoblog but THIS brilliant Medialit video says it all.
Did foxes dig up my beloved (17 year old, recently dead) cat in the middle of the night and if so, how come there are no shreds of shroud-towel on the front lawn?
Should I even tell the kids, or should I just plant something in the hole, quick, even if I have to pull it up from somewhere else?
When burying beloved family pets in their favourite sunbathing / world-watching / dog-taunting spots, how deep is deep enough?
Did the binmen mistake him for something the local wildlife had ripped from the black plastic bag, and take him on a final journey this morning in the back of a big yellow lorry?
Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry. The big red lorry went over the hill. The big red lorry has pots and pans. Uh-uh, no Janet and John in my infant school world. No reading, much, either, because I was a late, much wished for child and taught to read before I got there. I did all the books in all the colours in year one, after causing an argument amongst staff as to whether I could really read the words or just had a photographic memory, or both.
I used to spend most of my lessons, aged four or five, sitting on the piano for being naughty, but then when you've done the task in the first five minutes and there's nothing left to do but hide the equipment and mess it up for everyone else, or sneak an extra milk carton not realising it mean Johnny slow-poke who was last to finish, wouldn't get one at all....
And that was an on-the-spot tangent, oops. I must practice forethought.
I must remember to remember to write that down somewhere.
Oh, OK, somewhere else.
I've found so, so many funny stories in the last couple of days, as I surfed for them deliberately to feed into Tony Vanburger's show, but I've never been near my own computer at the time. Tony's whole concept is to find a funny story, then find a song to go with it, all live on air. I could have put my own slant on each and every one of them on here in the safety of my blog, not least because in some instances (as is natural) Tony and I are diametric political opposites. I miss venting my own take, but where to start?
Sorry to anyone who has been listening out for me - the studio email account went silent yesterday (not even a word from the 'five emails per show' regulars, and we have a few of those,) so we had to do loads more research for ideas and had fewer conversation starters to spark off from. I just stayed in the background, researching, watching and learning. Thank heavens for David Evans who comes into the show on Tuesdays to advertise Nick's show, which follows. David and Tony have a whole 'guessing game' going on.
Here's one link I found that wasn't suitable radio fodder but is deliciously funny - commenters have got carried away with endorsing the magical and sexual powers of this t-shirt..... well worth a read; don't forget to look at the stuff in the right hand sidebar too.
And that's not half of it, but now I am nearly late for work (and rushing and messing up, can you tell?). Today for my first task I will dress up like an Elephant keeper at the zoo and scrub out the filthy, huge palladin bins with a long handled broom. Its not so bad unless its windy....
Then at 3pm, four hours later, I will leg it down to the studio and sit and watch an expert at work for three hours, 4 to 7, before walking back up the hill to home to sort out kids and homework and school uniform and tales of their day, and dinner, and bed.
Wonderful!
I am realising that sometimes I failed to blog because I couldnt keep my mind still enough to pin down a single, suitable line of thought.
For example, potential blog posts since late yesterday have been:
Mercury retrograde and several funny/painful stories about how I guessed as much before going to the web to confirm it.
Trouble transferring bloglines et al to IE so that I can finally comment again on other blogs.
Two long mental rants on how transgender people and astrologers are positively promoted in the New Testament if you know where to look, and why can't pharisee-types stop telling us we haven't spiritually washed our souls if we haven't washed our hands, and we haven't done that either if we didn't go up past the elbow...
OK so that was THREE rants and now I feel like the Spanish Inquisition, and can I just come in again?
AND how, if it bugs me, it probably relates to me so I should go play specks and beams and maybe this is all my own lesson and not for anyone else and I should just shut up. Right.
Moving on...
The trip my mind went on, all by itself, wondering who I could possibly give this to for Christmas, without being accused of sarcasm.
The growing urge to completely remove and reinstall Firefox, whatever that does to my bookmarks (and no, some of those beauties are NOT going to get stored online in Delicious etc, tyvm, not even temporarily). My Firefox is so useless that I can't even see the pop-up that allows me to install a picture or two to break this up.
Two wonderful, fantastically people to add to my RSS feeds: Gretchen Little and Neil Fairbrother. I could have waffled a post's worth on either one.
The brilliant, brilliant community project called The Engine Room in Somerset (Bridgewater, specifically, I think). They have a protoblog but THIS brilliant Medialit video says it all.
Did foxes dig up my beloved (17 year old, recently dead) cat in the middle of the night and if so, how come there are no shreds of shroud-towel on the front lawn?
Should I even tell the kids, or should I just plant something in the hole, quick, even if I have to pull it up from somewhere else?
When burying beloved family pets in their favourite sunbathing / world-watching / dog-taunting spots, how deep is deep enough?
Did the binmen mistake him for something the local wildlife had ripped from the black plastic bag, and take him on a final journey this morning in the back of a big yellow lorry?
Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry. The big red lorry went over the hill. The big red lorry has pots and pans. Uh-uh, no Janet and John in my infant school world. No reading, much, either, because I was a late, much wished for child and taught to read before I got there. I did all the books in all the colours in year one, after causing an argument amongst staff as to whether I could really read the words or just had a photographic memory, or both.
I used to spend most of my lessons, aged four or five, sitting on the piano for being naughty, but then when you've done the task in the first five minutes and there's nothing left to do but hide the equipment and mess it up for everyone else, or sneak an extra milk carton not realising it mean Johnny slow-poke who was last to finish, wouldn't get one at all....
And that was an on-the-spot tangent, oops. I must practice forethought.
I must remember to remember to write that down somewhere.
Oh, OK, somewhere else.
I've found so, so many funny stories in the last couple of days, as I surfed for them deliberately to feed into Tony Vanburger's show, but I've never been near my own computer at the time. Tony's whole concept is to find a funny story, then find a song to go with it, all live on air. I could have put my own slant on each and every one of them on here in the safety of my blog, not least because in some instances (as is natural) Tony and I are diametric political opposites. I miss venting my own take, but where to start?
Sorry to anyone who has been listening out for me - the studio email account went silent yesterday (not even a word from the 'five emails per show' regulars, and we have a few of those,) so we had to do loads more research for ideas and had fewer conversation starters to spark off from. I just stayed in the background, researching, watching and learning. Thank heavens for David Evans who comes into the show on Tuesdays to advertise Nick's show, which follows. David and Tony have a whole 'guessing game' going on.
Here's one link I found that wasn't suitable radio fodder but is deliciously funny - commenters have got carried away with endorsing the magical and sexual powers of this t-shirt..... well worth a read; don't forget to look at the stuff in the right hand sidebar too.
And that's not half of it, but now I am nearly late for work (and rushing and messing up, can you tell?). Today for my first task I will dress up like an Elephant keeper at the zoo and scrub out the filthy, huge palladin bins with a long handled broom. Its not so bad unless its windy....
Then at 3pm, four hours later, I will leg it down to the studio and sit and watch an expert at work for three hours, 4 to 7, before walking back up the hill to home to sort out kids and homework and school uniform and tales of their day, and dinner, and bed.
Wonderful!
18 May 2009
Blogging from the Seahaven FM Studio
This is just a quicky because I haven't blogged today (or all weekend, for that matter) but I want to get back into the habit.
Good news! Darling Other Half couldn't quite see what I'd done to my Firefox at home to stop me being able to comment on other people's blogs, but he did manage to sort out the problem with IE instead, so as soon as I've transferred Bloglines back to the old swiss cheese, I'll be back in touch with precious friends like Zilla.
I'll pad that last statement into a list with links when I get home.
For now I'm sitting opposite this guy, big fuzzy red mic near my face, huge black cans on my head. Hooray for me!
Good news! Darling Other Half couldn't quite see what I'd done to my Firefox at home to stop me being able to comment on other people's blogs, but he did manage to sort out the problem with IE instead, so as soon as I've transferred Bloglines back to the old swiss cheese, I'll be back in touch with precious friends like Zilla.
I'll pad that last statement into a list with links when I get home.
For now I'm sitting opposite this guy, big fuzzy red mic near my face, huge black cans on my head. Hooray for me!
16 May 2009
I give myself some very good advice
... but I very seldom follow it.
I am SO enthused, so fired up, so happy because of the whole radio learning curve thingummy that I've found a little of my old get up and go.
Walking from one end of town to the other no longer makes me feel like I'm wearing a Victorian diving suit and lead boots, in fact I can manage it three times a day. By necessity I am also a little more organised at home, as time is limited and more needs to be done in advance. The sight of the ironing board no longer makes my soul want to shrivel back into the 'safe corner' and window to another world otherwise known as my computer desk. Steady on, I'm no saint; sight of the pile to be pressed still does that, thank you; one step at a time.
Anyone who knows me under this identity, or any other where I may have briefly hidden, knows I have rarely if ever composed a blog post in advance or given it any real thought prior to letting the words tumble (my apologies to those who understand that only too well through the multiple update alerts, as I go back in to edit glaring spelling errors.)
It's odd to look back and realise that, in theory at least, that irresponsible, unfocused side of myself which meant I could never, ever manage to find a single style or subject for this blog and stick to it, may actually be an asset for radio. The important thing in that medium seems to be the ability to go with the flow, change tack, pick another subject and run with it, come out of left field, yada yada yada. The flightiness that makes bad copy in this realm may at least mean that I never dry up behind a microphone.
I am excited to the point of silly, can you tell?*
I tried to be professional, honestly I did, and I tried once or twice to follow other people's 'successful blog' guidelines, but all that did was make me look even sillier than usual, like trying to dress a rabbit in a business suit or a frilly apron.
The best advice in the world is to be yourself. Time I listened.
*Which reminds me of the time a few months ago when I went for a very important interview with the local Vicar (the local Reverend Canon, to be precise), as one of the last two in the running for a little secretarial job. You have to believe in divine intervention, because for the first time in two or three years I forgot to take my beta blocker that morning. I took the whole interview like a scary middle-aged Powerpuff girl on speed. Roger Rabbit and Taz couldn't have kept pace as I smiled (manically, I imagine) and chattered away, taking the conversation off on crazy tangents, all at breakneck speed - I could feel it - I could even see it in my dreams for days afterward in some stoned, slow-mo way like an out of body nightmare experience, but I couldn't stop the show. There's Aspergers syndrome in the family, but also ADHD. I used to be like that all the time. *Sigh*, I'd never really looked, before.
I am SO enthused, so fired up, so happy because of the whole radio learning curve thingummy that I've found a little of my old get up and go.
Walking from one end of town to the other no longer makes me feel like I'm wearing a Victorian diving suit and lead boots, in fact I can manage it three times a day. By necessity I am also a little more organised at home, as time is limited and more needs to be done in advance. The sight of the ironing board no longer makes my soul want to shrivel back into the 'safe corner' and window to another world otherwise known as my computer desk. Steady on, I'm no saint; sight of the pile to be pressed still does that, thank you; one step at a time.
Anyone who knows me under this identity, or any other where I may have briefly hidden, knows I have rarely if ever composed a blog post in advance or given it any real thought prior to letting the words tumble (my apologies to those who understand that only too well through the multiple update alerts, as I go back in to edit glaring spelling errors.)
It's odd to look back and realise that, in theory at least, that irresponsible, unfocused side of myself which meant I could never, ever manage to find a single style or subject for this blog and stick to it, may actually be an asset for radio. The important thing in that medium seems to be the ability to go with the flow, change tack, pick another subject and run with it, come out of left field, yada yada yada. The flightiness that makes bad copy in this realm may at least mean that I never dry up behind a microphone.
I am excited to the point of silly, can you tell?*
I tried to be professional, honestly I did, and I tried once or twice to follow other people's 'successful blog' guidelines, but all that did was make me look even sillier than usual, like trying to dress a rabbit in a business suit or a frilly apron.
The best advice in the world is to be yourself. Time I listened.
*Which reminds me of the time a few months ago when I went for a very important interview with the local Vicar (the local Reverend Canon, to be precise), as one of the last two in the running for a little secretarial job. You have to believe in divine intervention, because for the first time in two or three years I forgot to take my beta blocker that morning. I took the whole interview like a scary middle-aged Powerpuff girl on speed. Roger Rabbit and Taz couldn't have kept pace as I smiled (manically, I imagine) and chattered away, taking the conversation off on crazy tangents, all at breakneck speed - I could feel it - I could even see it in my dreams for days afterward in some stoned, slow-mo way like an out of body nightmare experience, but I couldn't stop the show. There's Aspergers syndrome in the family, but also ADHD. I used to be like that all the time. *Sigh*, I'd never really looked, before.
15 May 2009
So Where Were We?
So where were we?
Oh yeah.
I'd thrown the towel in on this blog twice in the last twelve months for fear of not getting a 'proper job' through being disadvantageously googled, and you've all gone away now and nobody's watching.
So that's alright, then.
I mean, I still can't get pop-ups to work on this computer since the all singin'-and-a-dancin' software briefly used to eliminate a virus also seemed to get rid of every DLL or spare thingummy-dooda that was standing around with its hands in its pockets or whistling. It was running on suss laws, I swear.
At this point in time I assume all my blog friends think I've waltzed off and left them, because I lurk but cannot comment, and fear to spout enthusiastic feedback in other locations such as Facebook in case people are running dual IDs and don't want the connection made in other minds. Somehow doing it by private email seems a bit creepy and stalker-ish.
Anyway, having established that I am currently talking to myself and you are not, in fact, there, I have to say that this also is OK because I am learning the ropes at Seahaven FM, the local radio station, with a view to eventually hosting my own slot.
There is an inordinate amount to learn, but the things I can do here on this blog are:
Oh yeah.
I'd thrown the towel in on this blog twice in the last twelve months for fear of not getting a 'proper job' through being disadvantageously googled, and you've all gone away now and nobody's watching.
So that's alright, then.
I mean, I still can't get pop-ups to work on this computer since the all singin'-and-a-dancin' software briefly used to eliminate a virus also seemed to get rid of every DLL or spare thingummy-dooda that was standing around with its hands in its pockets or whistling. It was running on suss laws, I swear.
At this point in time I assume all my blog friends think I've waltzed off and left them, because I lurk but cannot comment, and fear to spout enthusiastic feedback in other locations such as Facebook in case people are running dual IDs and don't want the connection made in other minds. Somehow doing it by private email seems a bit creepy and stalker-ish.
Anyway, having established that I am currently talking to myself and you are not, in fact, there, I have to say that this also is OK because I am learning the ropes at Seahaven FM, the local radio station, with a view to eventually hosting my own slot.
There is an inordinate amount to learn, but the things I can do here on this blog are:
- confirm that I am happy talking to myself on a regular basis
- get (back) in the habit of finding new topics on a daily basis, and making a respectable stab at looking like I know what I'm talking about.
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