Nothing (much) To Report

For a good long while now, I've secretly coveted a certain template for this here blog. I was able to download it and admire it a little more. I may have stroked the screen a little whilst looking at it, but I won’t admit it. Ahh, umm buggeration. But that was all I could do with it. I have scratched my head to the point of severe blood loss, and have achieved precisely bugger all.

I even consulted a so-called interwebby expert. Pah! All those years of training and work-based faffery have obviously been for nothing. She can’t even help this poor computer dunce to get a Blogger template to work. (^_~)

I thought about moving the blog again, so I wandered around and found WordPress was most to my liking, being an ever increasing control freak. It’s a shame that the little voice (person?) in my head keeps on making a noise that I’d make if I were experiencing extreme toothache each time I try to understand WordPress’s complexity. Plus, the whole hosting thing is an issue: 1. I’m too tight and more importantly, too broke to pay for such a service, and 2. I can’t justify doing so. The readership for this site, whilst valued higher than you’re likely to be anywhere else, isn’t staggering.

I may have just figured out the image hosting problem, boy, did that take up vast amounts of brain power, but it still looks nothing like it should. Perhaps in the right place in Blogger it’ll all come right. But that means more tinkering. And it’s almost time for me to abandon my computer session for today – carer duties to attend to. Besides, I’m a chicken when it comes to messing with the Blogger template section.

There are some things you shouldn't do, often they require you do them before you learn not to. Like mixing your drinks, or swimming after eating, or eating ice cream after drinking beer and then going to bed. If I'd known the consequences of doing exactly that, I would have forcefully stopped myself. Which of the two I would have avoided is uncertain, but the ice cream is the mostly likely guess.

Course, neither of them may be responsible for altering my brain chemistry and produced the series of unusual dreams. They’re mostly unusual because I remembered them. I did Sunday morning anyway. The first two have slipped a little; that’s a lie. They have completely disappeared from my memory and all I can remember is that they left my feeling confused upon waking from them. It’s because I woke up from them that I remembered anything about them. The third I made a point of writing down, thus its contents are somewhat clearer. It has left me pondering my mental state; they’re thoughts that shouldn’t been left alone wandering the vast empty spaces of my brain. And they are many vast empty spaces that odd dreams could disappear into. Luckily, I seem to have managed to exorcise the deeply disturbed feeling that I experienced for most of the day due to writing this particular dream down, and emailing it to the person that mysterious got entangled within it. Something with they probably wish I hadn't.

It’s got me thinking, (a rare event!) so I’m now hunting about the net to see if what I dreamt has any deeper meaning.

There’s no mention of the kind of thing that trespassed into my brain the night before last on any of the many websites on dream interpretation. There was no falling or nudity or chasing in my dream. These are the sites that are run by “psychics” or con-artists as I prefer to call them, with a book or two to flog. I checked one in particular to see if they came up with anything to explain the urinal bit: there’s nothing. (I may get to sharing what this dream was all about, if there is sufficient interest in the matter, but considering the readership of this blog, it's unlikely.)

The angle that fitted most with the idea that I’ve had for a long time, that dreams aren’t a way of foreseeing future occurrences but a way of dealing with the mess of everyday events that our minds cache away, is the most appealing. Whether there is any deeper meaning to our personalities in dreams as Freud, Jung and others have suggested, is a matter for debate. In practically every dream I’ve actually remembered I can drag out various elements and clearly see where it came from. Something from the “real” world that I’ve dealt with in some way; something that I’ve read, watched, seen, or witnessed; people I’ve encountered; problems I’ve had to solve and fix; and because my little world is so little, themes and events tend to repeat. This dream had me having problems with the router, which I have been, (it’s still not working as before) so the now stored dream image of me trying to use the laptop and not being able to read a webpage is directly from reality. I can pick out pretty much every one of the elements in this dream and identify them from somewhere in the real world. They’ve just gotten extremely muddled and squashed together.

Just a collection of memories, rearranged for (probably) no other reason than to give me something amusing to think about, or blog. That, or I have an evil brain.
I’m now going to intensively read up of the subject just to see if I can have my opinions completed swayed in another direction leading me to contradict myself at a later stage.

“The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind” said Freud. I’m not sure I what to delve into my dreams, certainly not that one.

Things I learnt in 2005:

• I do like beer, ale and lager.
• And bourbon isn't that much like (so far) unpalatable whiskey.
• Southern Comfort is quite quaffable as well.

(I don’t drink that much, honestly!)

• I don’t like green olives, but black olives I can stomach.
• Goat’s cheese tastes like goats. Not actually been near enough a goat to taste one though.
• I like electronica. Depeche Mode are a bit of a revelation.
• Fruity teas may not taste especially fruity, but they’re nice all the same.
• Anything more than a teaspoon of coffee per cup, and more than 2 cups a day sends me a little loopy and buggers up my sleep pattern.
• That last jar of Co op Fair Trade coffee I bought seems unusually strong, hence the point above.
• The Co op's own brand of chocolate is well tasty.
• Badly dyed shoes, when soaked with rain with leave nasty stains on my feet, which don’t wash off with any sort of ease.
• Gravel shouldn’t be walked in heels, or bare footed – that’s a point I already knew.
• Laptops are the male canine’s dangly bits.
• Ditto (working) wifi, which I have to pronounce whiffy and the not the usual wi-fi (as in hi-fi). It’s a sad affliction I have.
• What del.icio.us is all about.
• How to IRC.
• The knitting that I learnt as a kid bares absolutely no relation to the knitting that the rest of the world, er, knits. I was only ever taught how to cast on and how to do one stitch, which it seems was a strange cross between the purl and knit stitches. Hence the only project I created was a Holey, Never-ending, Multi-Coloured (in Singular Blocks of Primary Colours), Still Attached to the Knitting Needle, Amazingly Increasing and Decreasing Scarf! Hoping that the next scarf I produce will be a little more practical, it’ll be from a big knit kit, which I picked up for myself in HobbyCraft but wrapped up and labelled it from my mum for me to open on xmas day, thus keeping alive the tradition of the “giver” of presents being truly surprised that they bought it.
• Crane flies can cause sleepless nights, and although I have no scientific data to back this up, icky colds.
• What not to wear. Oh, wait. No, that wasn’t me.
• That I really shouldn’t be let near eBay, but I fear this is a lesson that will go unheeded this year.
• What that piece of music by The Penguin Café Orchestra that I’ve loved for years is called, Perpetuum Mobile, for those who are curious.
• I don't mind flying, even when the turbulence is really bad - it just felt like going over pot-holes to me. Lots of pot-holes admittedly.
• What the Mediterranean Sea looks and feels like.
• That I can’t sleep in un-air conditioned rooms in Spain whilst sharing with someone else.

I could have done without experiencing that week. Far too many little annoyances that have made me swear, scream and make some very angry faces.

Monday night there was a power cut in the local area; it was late and I was safely tucked up in bed, listening to music. I was a tad miffed at the loss of my evening audio entertainment but otherwise not bothered. It’s not the end of the world to lose power for 15-20 minutes. Unless it fucks up your internet connection in the process.

I called the isp, and received no assistance, which was a first as they’re usually very good with the helpful advice and problem solving. I was alone with my problem *sob*. I came to the conclusion late on Tuesday afternoon that perhaps the pc had been somehow corrupted in the power cut and thus the router wasn’t being recognised. So, that night I started the tedious process of reinstalling Windows, again! One day I’ll figure out that this isn’t the way to fix problems.

Wednesday brought many reboots of the pc, cable modem and router and cable jiggling which solved nowt. I however reached an important ratiocination: if there wasn’t a probably with the modem and pc bits it must, by deduction, be the router bit. More swearing followed in trying to unplug the cable out of the back of the pc that lead to the aforementioned suspected faulty equipment. It’s a tricky bugger, for some reason. It merely added to the high levels of frustration that I was already feeling.

Having struggled with more cables, and another reboot I discovered what a 10Mb download speed should feel like. The woo! moment didn’t last, despite the fabulously quick web page loading. I may have wasted a little time in doing nonessential, not-working-to-fix-the-problem type of stuff, but after the reinstall, I did have to go through the lengthy process of downloading and updating anything Windows-esque, and installing all those fabulous little programs that I like to clutter up the computer with. Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to shrink my unread Bloglines list - I fear that’s now a war I shall never win, I stopped trying to fight the battle some time ago. Thankfully I had concentrated hard enough to hunt down the troubleshooting page for the router. Which was probably the best move I’d made in a few days. I realisation that I could fix everything with a tiny, hidden button delivered a bigger woo moment than seeing the BBC homepage load in the blink of an eye. Who knew there was a reset button there?! It wasn’t pictured in any diagram amongst the setup instructions, and was only mentioned in a general, passing kind of way in the manual. I’d only wasted the day doing nothing important whilst waiting on important things, it could have been worse.

Cables reinstated, reset complete, reboot done, I thought normal service could now resume. Craply, my brother’s pc wouldn’t reconnect so I had to faff around with the placement of the router and various settings which had bugger all effect on his wireless pc and this laptop. I was far too angsty, tired and generally pissed off with the lot of it, following a mostly sleepless night and more hormones than I actually like roaming freely around my system. I’ve spent all day today rebooting every time the connection disappeared into thin air, and I probably shouldn’t have tried logging on IRC at all, but I was being optimistic that the problem would sort its self out, and that I might have a conversation with someone.

I did the final reset & reboot about an hour ago and, crucially, ensured all the settings were more or less how they were before the mild inconvenience at the start of the week. Thus I write this from reasonable comfort, although not bed, which is where I really should be. The fool that I am.

Whilst everyone in the house was busying themselves getting ready for the planned overnight stay down in deepest, darkest Somerset, I was intensely debating with myself as to whether or not join them at all. The shower didn’t exactly help me make a decision but the moment I stepped into the throng of activity did: I wasn’t going, I was staying home alone. It turned out to be the best decision I’d made that day.

They disappeared and I set about getting myself into the loft. The primary reason was put away a bridesmaid dress that’s being knocked about since the beginning of September, but it also meant I had the opportunity to be very noisy and have a peek inside the two mysterious chests that my parents somehow shoved up there many, many moons ago, however many there have been in the last 27 years.

I discovered thick blankets which could have been useful during these recent cold snaps; ancient (ok, seventies) clothing; a couple of newspapers (the Express & Daily Mail) dated the 18th of December 1978; something which I presume was my mum’s wedding dress (I didn’t get it out and look properly), presumably spotlessly clean, folded carefully and fully wrapped in plastic, a fate which hasn’t befallen the previously mentioned bridesmaid frock; some old sleeping bags which I’ve never clocked before; and a badly torn, A4-sized photograph of a woman wearing a nurses uniform. I’ve not seen any pictures of my maternal grandmother, as I’m not aware of any existing, but I instantly guessed this was my mum’s mum. The size and shape of nose kinda gave it away.

With my curiosity fully satisfied, I clambered back down the ladder, shut up the attic, unplugged the lone light and set about making myself lunch: baked beans on toast, followed by a generous slice of day-old Christmas pudding and cream. Realising that not a single drop of alcohol had touch my lips yet I proceeded to make myself an afternoon’s supply of mulled wine. I slumped in front of the goggle-box and channel surfed whilst sipping slightly warm, sweet and spicy wine – hmmmm, could do with some more of that now. I soon realised that there was bugger all to watch and got very bored, if it hadn’t been for the regular refilling of my glass there could have been trouble. I even tried watched The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy on Filmflex, but it was far too annoying to stick with it. I was comparing it to the book too much to enjoy it as an individual piece of entertainment.

I fixed myself some tea, supped a little more wine, and generally enjoyed the peace and quiet. It would have been considerably quieter if the next door neighbours hadn’t returned and the kids, quite possibly fully of fat and sugar and who knows what else, ran around the house screaming their heads off. By early evening, I’d stopped caring that I was polluting my brain with crap tv and joyfully slugged away on bottles of Grolsch. This had a lot to do with the brief phone call that I answered, informing me that they where on their way home, mum’s had enough. Great! There goes all the interesting things I had planned for the evening’s entertainment. Instead I got squiffy and retired to bed rather late.

Huh?! What?? Oh, sorry. I must've dropped off there for a minute or two.
Updating with now resume:

25^th Sunday: I got up late. Not so amazingly late that I missed dinner, but greatly more so than I would have once upon a-time (about 20 years ago).

There was indeed tea before sherry, but the sherry followed the present opening ceremony, which is a little unusual for us. I tried several times to send a sms to my sister, all to no avail so I tried ringing her. I left a message on the answering service and haven’t heard anything since. It didn’t help that each attempt to send a text was met with a message of Wrong Number. Terrific, I thought. Other texts were successfully sent and I presume received. If I should have sent one your way, I’m very sorry, I’m really crap at that sort of thing.

A quiet day on the whole, an overcooked goose, some nice wine, crap tv but no arguments. Why can't it be like all the time? Omitting the overcooked anything aspect.

Another fairly early start, for me anyway. And another trip into town, but this time around proved a lot less fruitful and more annoying. I don’t think I actually bought any presents, mostly because I’d left the thinking part of my brain back in bed. But everything cheered up, except for the weather, when I met up with the other friend.

We wandered a little before taking up residence in my favourite pub. Sampling of ales commenced, and a little food; drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t a wise move, one that I should have learnt by now. Many interesting things were discussed including, but not limited to: whether fivesomes are better than threesomes (they are, it was decided – not that either of us know about those sorts of things!); my grand plan to become the world’s most annoying aunty/godparent, when those things happen; her homemade, and very precious gift to me, a Christmas soap – not to be used on sensitive areas like nipples due the high quantity of bits within the soap.

We moved on to other pub after a wee while, if only to stretch our legs. The streets were far less hazardous to negotiate by this time, we soon realised why upon entering The Fountain Inn, it seemed as though everyone was in here instead. A swift half each and we were out and on the move again. There then followed a dash to the next place as bladders were screaming that their needs hadn’t been looked after terribly well this afternoon.

I’d like to name the next pub we went to, as it’s a nice quietish place. (I like quietish public houses, restaurants, etc, not just because I’m rapidly turning into an old git, but because I’m deaf once the ambient noise of the place reaches a certain level. It’s quite a low level, sadly, which means I can’t join in with the conversation of my companions so I sit there not joining in, tempting being described as an unsociable old git.)

It’s about the only pub in Gloucester that has a pool table, which we didn’t get to use this time around. It’s also very old and historic (some connection to Oliver Cromwell, or something) and a proper freehouse Samuel Smith establishment. I’d gladly pass on the name of it, if I knew it. I’m not saying I’ve forgotten it in the drunken stupor that has been the last few days, as it’s not possible to forget something you never knew in the first place.

But, thank gawd for clear, sensible thinking and t’internet: I’ve found it! The Old Crown Inn. There’s no slightly interesting page to link to.

This Christmas Eve, it later transpired, was the best Christmas Eve I had in a long while, and somewhat better than the following day.

All done and dusted for another 12 months. I’m almost tempted to cheer.

I shall make the next few posts updates on the plans that had been made as stated in the previous post, due to the version I’ve typed in Word being too long for one article, particularly with this template, of which I intend to fiddle with. It’s also a desperate attempt to make up for the lack of anything recently.

Friday 23rd: The day didn’t get off to a great start as the geezer holding on to the old man’s wages hadn’t turned up at time he’d promised. By all accounts this ‘G’ is an almighty git; not a builder I’d want to employ, nor work for. Not that my father’s chosen course of action achieved much: sitting around, muttering to ones self has never really changed things or made people pay up.

After spending much of the day dashing around from one shop to another, my feet were about ready to drop off, or go on strike. They probably really hated me come the evening time, for I squeezed them into a pair of tippy-tappy heeled boots.

There was a cunning plan in where we were going to eat – drive around, popping in and asking if they had a spare table for 3 and then stopping there. This was potentially going to be a very interesting evening spent getting hungrier and hungrier, if it wasn’t for the fact that the friend wanted to test the new Italian in town, which turned out to a far better experience than the last Italian restaurant I stepped into, which I can’t name, not yet anyway.

Something near to authentic Italianate grub was served and enthusiastically consumed. There was nothing stronger than lemonade supped, but I’ve more than made up for that lack of alcohol that night since, sadly for my liver, brain and other slightly vital bits of me.

The truly exciting bit was the present unwrapping, which is nearly always the best bit. This time was possibly the most surprising gift I’ve ever received, and it also clarified a very puzzling and short phone conversation back in September:-

Her: “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Me: “No. It’s a load of tosh!”
Her: “But would you be willing to explore the possibility?”
Me: “Oh yeah, as a laugh at least.”

Thus I’ve been given the chance to do just that. A Ghost Hunting Experience, so it says on that Activity Superstore voucher. It’ll happen sometime before September 2006, as that’s when the voucher expires, so you have that to look forward to! Where it’ll take place is unknown to me yet, but there will be a psychic workshop, a ghost hunting kit demo, and ghost/history walk, vigils à la Most Haunted, and a post investigation discussion. There’ll also be a fair amount of hysterics – screams from others and (hopefully) nowt more than laughter from me. At least it’ll give me something to blog about.

This very short post was inspired by that Reynolds bloke, not that he would ever know it.

Alabama 3 are the best post-drinking, pre-sleep band in the world. Or something. I can’t simply zonik straight out after wee beer session. I need to allow my inner ear to calm down and stop sending any strange messages to the part of my brain that makes me want to vomit. Not that I get to that sort of state every single time I drink, just occasionally. (Yes, I *do* beer now, how things change.) I’m not encouraging binge or any other sort of excessive drinking, merely the purchasing of quality music. Alcohol is something you can live without, music is quite a different matter.

I’ve also come to realise that their music is the perfect antidote to the Monday morning (or any other shitting day) blues. As to the definitive song to wake up to… I haven’t quite figured that one out yet.

No mp3 player of any description for me, with it’s tinny, allowing-wax-to-build-up in-ear ‘phones that’ll probably give me some sort of lovely ear infection, oh no! I “make do” with a five cd changing hifi and full-ear, slightly-blown Panasonic headphones. There’s nowt quite like knowingly self-destroying your own hearing, especially when you’re saving others’. I’ll put my headphones on rather than disturbing anyone else in the house, I’m that considerate, or it could be due to the fact that I’m a tad ashamed of some of my musically choices. I’ll even put them on when no one is about and also, most importantly, when my brother is banging his girlfriend a few feet away.

The Citizen *heart* Simon Pegg

Whatever the part, however small trust The Citizen to get very excited about it. Every time, without fail, that Simon does something to increase his fame and, as an added bonus, his wealth, this paper will do a feature in which it sounds as though it’s about to wet itself with excitement. OK, so landing a part in a major Hollywood film is big, big enough for an almost full page 3 article. It’s a proper family paper, so we don’t get to see tits on our page 3.

Frankly Mr Pegg would the most famous person to have any connection with Gloucester in a very long time. I said famous, not infamous, although many don’t associate the place with that any more. And it’s about time! We needed to thrust some quality talent onto the wider world, we just did it quietly.

What you can’t see from the online version of the newspaper article is the lovely picture montage someone spent clearly hours on. There are a couple of publicity shots from Shaun of the Dead and Dr Who; a piccy of Tom Cruise, just to make sure everyone knew which Mission Impossible was being referred to; and a black and white photo of a column of kids, with Simon circled second from bottom.

The Citizen comes across as some very proud aunty of Simon’s. “Ohh, look at him! Hasn’t he done well for himself?” I suspect the vast majority of Gloucesterians couldn’t have cared less or even knew who he was. Which is a tremendous shame, as there isn’t a great deal to be proud about in this town.

We need some seriously good reasons to justify the vast amounts of money currently pouring into the city for all the redevelopment because there’s bugger all reason for it otherwise. It’s a fairly crap place to be. I suspect that the vast numbers of houses that they are planning to build all over the place will be bought up by people working outside of the city, as there isn’t any industry here to support them. The student population is due to explode with the relocation and building of Gloscat, the local college, along with a few more houses. This will mean more traffic on a road network which is barely able to cope as it is; all the more reason to avoid town at the weekends, both at night and during the day; the teeny city centre will homogenise even more into looking like every other city/town centre. Don’t come here, and if you are here, leave quickly; just don’t go to Cheltenham. I recommend Stroud.

What a shambles of a post. Glad to see I’m back to my usual quality!

I like Autumn.

Not so much the pouring rain, or the gales, but the days when high pressure is in residence over the country. Bright sunshine, clear blue skies and a slight bone-chilling breeze. I’m sure if I was unsteady on my feet I’d be a little afraid of going out after a night where the stars were visible, at least they were in the country. The skies above the cities don’t glow orange quite as much on cloudless nights, which makes a nice change.

I like the fact that wearing more clothes is the preferred option. And it’s all the really nice clothes too: gorgeous fabrics in usually deep, rich colours. Until someone decides that this autumn/winter season everyone should wear something hideously pink and see-through. But as I’m not a slave to fashion, I won’t worry. Simply laugh at the fools freezing to death.

It’s not all great however.
I don’t like having all the moisture drawn out of my skin by central heating.
I don’t appreciate that the heaters in shops have to be turned up to full blast – I don’t hang about if I have to go out to do my shopping, consequently I am able to sustain a comfortable body temperature even on the chilliest of days. Except inside the shops. More bodies, extra layers, bags to lug about, the frantic pace added to the heaters turned up to eleven all contribute to the sauna effect, without the nakedness.
I also have to try to block out the dual horror that is forthcoming: Christmas and a birthday. Luckily I have two separate days to be depressed and get drunk on, thanks to the doctors not wanting their Christmas day ruined by my expected arrival.

This scares the wotsit out of me far more than Bird Flu, terrorism and the predicted Big Chill. Mostly because it's actually happening and no one is making that much of a fuss about it. I doubt very much there will be major reports about this on any of the news bulletins.

On the line: the internet's future

Ownership: World leaders meet today to discuss regulation; US fighting to regain control of global network. Censorship: State power increasingly used to limit access; Dissenters beaten outside summit site
By Daniel HowdenPublished: 16 November 2005

Over the next three days a United Nations summit, in the unlikely setting of Tunisia, will attempt to thrash out the future of the internet.

More than 40 world leaders, including Kofi Annan, the UN secretary general, are set to attend, and the ownership of the World Wide Web itself is at stake. What the delegates won't discuss is the creeping spectre of censorship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

At present, the closest the internet has to a governing body is an obscure American, non-profit corporation called Icann. This quasi-independent body has, for years, quietly regulated domain names and allocated addresses. But its lease is nearly up. And the world's rich and powerful will join battle for control of what they see as a gold mine.

The Bush administration wants Icann turned into a private corporation, on US soil and subject to US controls. Much of the rest of the world objects to that but the loudest opponents are countries with a history of censorship and repression, such as China and Iran. The likely balance of power in that struggle rests with the European Union, whose position is not clear.

• (a very poor example of) a female carbon-based biped, but you may have already guessed that.
• single. This is unlikely to change within the near or long term future.
• the eldest of 3, with one sibling of each sex.
• the daughter of a carpenter and a slightly scary (in her day) former mental health nurse.
• cursed glad to have both parents still alive and kicking (me up the arse).
• the primary carer to my mother.
• a sister-in-law, but just the once.
• an ex-witch.
• a sceptic, and a bit of a cynic.
• either funny or very dull, depending on your point of view.
• easily bored.
• frustrated in an un-quantifiable number of ways.
• an untidy horder.
• a former Wet Wet Wet fan. Oh, the shame!
• a modest eBay junkie.
• a jaffa cake fiend.
• shamed by my increasingly appalling handwriting.
• more scared of babies than they are of me.
• a Firefox lurva.
• hoping that one day I will own a proper, fully-working version of Linux.
• irritated at my own frequent repetition of opinions, stories and statements, far more so than my friends or family are by me.
• more of a spender than a saver.
• blighted with a Teflon-coated, sieve-like brain. (I spelt that word correctly, for once!)
• a cider (scrumpy rather than icky commercial stuff) drinker, a rum drinker, a wine drinker, a vodka drinker, a snapps drinker, a bourbon drinker, but not a lager/beer/ale drinker.
• a too regular Bargain Booze customer.
• not a vegetarian.
• a non-smoker.
• unable to drive.
• rubbish at:
  • telling jokes
  • reading maps
  • darts
  • pool
  • cards
• trying to get reasonably fit.
• determined never to go back on anti-depressants, ever.
• a loather of broad beans, beetroot, and blue cheese. And my dad's cooking, *shh!*
• a law breaker.
• keen to be someone's mistress, someday, but not their bitch.
• often surprised at my honesty and openness with strangers.
• not in love with myself but neither am I quite the self-loather or self-harmer I once was.
• a decent enough cook.
• a fan of apples, (all fruit infact) quality Cheddar, Earl Grey tea, the Co-op's own Fair Trade Milk Chocolate, ice cream - without bits in it, the Co-op in general, Marmite, honey sandwiches.
• a hater of the iron and ironing board.
• an erstwhile heat magazine subscriber. There are better things in life.
• unlikely to ever produce my own offspring.
• a buyer of more books than I have space for.
• a reader of gothic horrors, detective-type thrillers, sci-fi/fantasy nonsense, laugh-so-hard-that-you-almost-wet-yourself comedies, and the odd female erotic fiction paperback. And the occasional blog.
• scared of heights, wasps and crane flies.
• a girl of simple pleasures, something I realise more and more the older I get.
• a school dropout, which I will regret forever
• probably doomed to be still at home until I'm of pensioner age, tis the punishment for the previous point.
• unemployable.
• yearning to be an A P T.
• wishing I had a life.
• surprising liberal in my view of things, considering the dodgy view of my parentage.
• a mostly armchair gardener.
• not a computer geek.
• more of a language and history geek.
• totally lacking in anything original to write, that is why this post exists.
• going to write about the connection between Simon Pegg and The Citizen, possibly next.

[potentially incomplete post]

I've regularly pondered to myself as to exactly why I do this, blog that is. I could have kept my waffle confined to a diary, but the likelihood of never being able to read back my own handwriting is rather high. Also it would mean that I wouldn't try to make it readable, for myself, let alone anyone else. I just wouldn't bother using words I couldn't spell, or spell them how I think they should be spelt - thus increasing the unreadable factor by 10. What's the point in digging out a dictionary when a best guess will do when the only eyes ever likely to glance at the scrawl will be mine? The entries would also shrink. I'd probably stop using proper grammar altogether and resort to some strange form of notation.

So, scrawled words, badly spelt and probably in a shorthand of my own invention would result in a notebook of unintelligible nonsense.

I know this would be true because I've tried to keep a diary. I bought a page-a-day blue hardback to start last year, with the full intention of writing in it everyday. I lasted about 4 months. As well as the above mentioned trouble, I had nothing to write about. My life is remarkably empty and dull. People can easily say that nothing happened today, but I think I've probably got the monopoly on the dreary, humdrum existence.

That was partly why I bought the laptop, to record some of the slightly more interesting moments and thoughts, instead of those thoughts swirling around my brain for the night, keeping me awake, when I really wanted to sleep. And because the dreams, thoughts, views don’t make frequent visits, I’d never be able to the regular daily entry.

When I read other people’s blogs I’m overwhelming sad that I can’t write about something of interest, or at least write.

I can sympathise those women who are stuck at home with small children to care for. Having no half decent human conversation is a real killer to proper thought. I do have reasonably intelligent thoughts occasionally, but they are often completely lost on those around me. I’m on my own throughout the daytime, alone with mother. I’d love to be able to converse with her, but any attempts to dig away at the past results in a one-sided questioning, with the only answers being “Yes, No”; “No, Yes” (the second answer is the one to take); “this one”; “that one”; some slightly tuneless tune that I have no way of guessing and lots and lots of ummms. All the thoughts and memories are in there, there’s just no way of getting to them, locked up because her speech and language capabilities were stolen.

I once had a brain. It was wonderful being able to think; to work the grey matter; to solve puzzles and problems, to spell, to do more complicated maths than just long multiplication. Now it's mostly an empty void. I do think up very strange stuff, and I could probably convert it into a readable mass, but I think what's the point? I know should keep this blog for my own amusement; it shouldn't be work, except perhaps to exercise my underused brain.

Don't use it, lose it - sadly far too true. Be it brain power, handwriting skills or your washing.

I am going to create an “I am” post page. I could have created a 100 things list, but I'd never reach 50. Plus, everyone does that, so I'm doing something different. Ha ha! brain usage in operation. The I am post has been maturing in the drafts section for almost 6 months now, so I thought it about time it got an airing. This very post has been fermenting in a dark spot of my head for far too long as well.

I'm off to read this week's edition of NewScientist, as in-between doing all of my boring chores.

Sorry, this is a very disjointed post.

I’m currently listening to Aerial. I know this shouldn’t be possible, it being in the very early hours of the day it’s actually released, but it’s a(nother) wonder of the modern age. Have no fear, EMI in particular, for I will be handing cash over for a copy, as the one I’ve acquired is a wee bit jumpy. And I was always going to buy one anyway; so there!

I’d seen a review of the said album on Newsnight a couple of weeks ago. The issue over some of the lyrics was discussed; a critic or two moaned about the washing machine song, as it seems to have become dubbed. It’s actually called Mrs. Bartolozzi, and officially or unofficially, I like it. It seems to me to be a song about a certain of sort domesticity; the rather dull aspects of household chores that don’t need consciousness to be part off, so one might daydream or imagine something or situation far more interesting to while away the time. And that’s something that we have to time do that once wasn’t possibly, if you’re so inclined to think about, which I tend to be. I remember my mother spending hours doing the washing in a twin tub whenever the automatic failed. And watching a recent episode of Tales From The Green Valley has put a newer perspective on things: having to lug your clothes down to the hopefully nearby river or steam, and proceed to literally beat the dirt out, before squeezing as much liquid out as you possibly can followed by draping it over a field. No lines to peg it to, and not only having to keep an eye on the weather but also on any thieves prepared for a dash to nick your not-so-smalls. OK, so some things haven’t changed that much.

This isn’t meant to be a review, nor some sort of insightful comment, as I can do neither. It’s just a small collection of thoughts that came together as I was lying in the dark, listening to something I hadn’t heard before, an activity I relish.

Update 12.40am: Just to clarify I like the entire album. Very ethereal, very good to listen to in the dark when trying to calm down for things like sleep. I think it's going to be the only music I listen to for the next few days, til I get sick of it. Which is unlikely, going on past record.