Disconnection

Courtesy of my computer disconnecting itself from the internet, and it being inexplicably impossible to cut and paste stuff off blogger(???) you have thankfully been saved from one almighty tipsy whinge-a-thon. I'll condense it however for your pleasure:

• Gone to big "do". Looked pretty. Despaired because no one gave a shit.
• Evaluated various loved up couples who I sat with, and wondered how fawning, needyness, irrational fear of sirloin steaks, etc blah blah blah could be thought of as attractive qualities.
• Developed dog-in-the-manger envy problems over Easyjet Boy's skirt chasing. After a glass or two of wine, interrogated him in a not entirely sensible fashion. Concluded that this probably did not make me a more attractive prospect.
• Danced with TheCroydenMassive till my feet fell off. Thought about how much I'll miss him when he's left.
• Looked in the mirror (perhaps too many times) and contrary to usual, thought I looked hot. Wondered how only a man wearing yellow braces agreed with this.
• Sat in the too long taxi journey home feeling blue about pretty much everything and everyone. Mulled over the dream I had on Friday night, where I realised I was made of food and was rotting (sounds sort of funny, but actually wasn't).

You get the picture? Same old same old folks.

Ouch.

Two things to report from this weekend:

The Man Eyken gig on Saturday night. Lovely. Very lovely. Very very folkie. Basically in a room above a pub near Euston, where a folk club meet every week, and do their own tunes. He was without his band, but as always smiled his way through the performance, like he was enjoying every minute of it, and swapping between a melodeon, a guitar and even at one point a recorder... which sent my mind spinning back to the horror of learning recorder at school, how very useless I was, and then back to the present, and wondering whether it is really really wrong to find a grown man playing a recorder attractive (probably)??? Schwesty and Choc Chip were on good form, goading me endlessly, for my adoration of the red-DMed one. But they know what I mean... all in all a very good night. We even managed to cope with a true Irish odd-ball, who accosted us as we wandered back to the tube station afterwards. He declared loudly that Man Eyken sent him to sleep, that he was boring and sang everything in too low a key, that it wasn't true folk, that at least the people that had sung before him (including one warbling woman who had to stop half way through her song because she was in the wrong key!!) showed some spirit. We indulged him a little, finally agreeing to disagree. But he insisted on stalking us all the way back to the station, and then into the tunnels, accompanied by a strangely silent wife/partner (probably embarrassed into submission), saying that we must be groupies, asking us whether the woman who so enthusiastically introduced Man Eyken was his mum?!! We finally lost him on the Victoria line thank God. A very strange and very simple man methinks.

Then on Sunday went paintballing with Mr and Mrs Pedro and Troy. Shooting people is bad. And also quite fun. Though if you could see my poor battered body (nice red welt marks on both arse-cheeks, proving my ample behind is just too tempting a target), then you'd also understand it hurts!! I proved a braver soul than I thought. At one point finding myself alone half way up the "battlefield" while the rest of my team fecked off and retreated! Gits. The volley of shots that then headed my way, courtesy of the gang of evil children on the opposing team, probably would have finished me off, had I not been behind a very handy net... prize for best injuries probably went to Mr and Mrs Pedro, though, who both got shot from point blank range by some chav tossers, before one of the games had even started. Cue screaming, swearing, and Pedro doing a big man act. When Burnley learnt of this story, he asked me whether me or Troy had at any point smirked during this incident. To which I faithfully answered - what moi???!! Mr and Mrs Pedro are still attached at the hip, and still blinded by love (blinded to the entire outside world that is..). Oh well, one day they'll learn. When they grow up. Oh no, hang on, they are grown up.

Beardy-Weirdy

I'm watching Ray Lamontagne of the BBC4 sessions, and finding it all a little dreary. He hides behind a rather bushy beard, and rasps his way through his super-serious repertoire, as if we should all care a great deal more than we probably do...

Schwesty says she's suspicious of over-bearded men. Have to concur. What are they trying to hide?? Not that beards are completely out of the question. A well groomed beardyness can look rather dapper on a bloke, as TheCroydonMassive will no doubt testify (since a drink related face mashing incident he started growing fluff as he understandably didn't have the mental strength to shave over raw skin but upon gingery beard growth discovered a special love of chin-stroking and now post-healing can't bear to dispose of it...). And of course let me not forget the beloved-bearded-one Foe, whose email account gave me an electronic reminder of his existence today by bouncing an old email back to me several times over, and filling up my inbox. I emailed Foe to tell him of this little incident and got a suitably short reply about busyness and thesis' and study. Foe still makes me smile. Which he very probably shouldn't.

Oh my Lord and God...

I have completely got lax on doing my embroidery, and now, with the end of my course looming, I realise that I have two samples to finish and two projects to start. Let alone all the write-ups that I've failed to do all term. Argggg!!! There is actually not enough time in the day to do what I need to do. I have even developed a sore index finger from frantic sewing. Maybe if I claim I'm a finger cripple they might give me an extension????

This Country Life

Am returned from a couple of days at the olds. Quite pleasant if you don't count the continual needling of me old pa by me old ma. How he doesn't rise to the bait I'll never know. Gave me slightly frightening visions of how much I'm like my mother. It's been pointed out more than once that I take a deal too much pleasure finding faults in others. Uck. Not proud of it, but seems hard to curb.

Resolve was strongly tested today as I took a daytrip with Ma and my little cousins to a point-to-point meeting at a big country estate near Bassers. The bigger cousin is quite well behaved, but the littler one is a whinger of absolutely huge proportions. She's been through a great deal in her life, so it's no surprise, but she was driving me round the bend, whinging if she had to walk ten yards, whinging if she had to eat the sandwiches she chose for herself (!!), generally moaning at every given opportunity. Must never have children. They drive me crazy.

Also found myself surrounded by masses of Countryside Alliance types. Sent me into a kind of moral quandary. To detest rich people is just as pathetic as detesting poor people, and yet I couldn't help feeling nauseous at the sight of so many rugby shirts, tweed jackets, and pastel jumpers slung across shoulders. And don't even start me on the women. All wonderfully thin. All wonderfully blond. And all wonderfully horsey. Uck. I realise that the future of much of the English countryside is in their hands, and that these people do genuinely care about, and understand, the land, but there is also something really objectionable about the Countryside Alliance. Being (for the most part) extremely right-wing doesn't help. Not least because it alienates many many more left-thinking urbanites who might otherwise be on their side. Also the basic failure to understand that the causing of unneccessary suffering to a living being is a moral problem that many people will never overcome. I am just as aware as anyone that the preservation of big swathes of wildlife-rich countryside rides on the hunts that look after them, and that logically this does outweigh the wrongs of hunting. But this does not mean I will ever find it okay. The rural community must evolve, should have evolved, and their failure to do so is as inexcusable as any ignorance of the part of townies. Most of these richies are inheritors of this land. They are priviledged. If they feel that us ignorant plebs are ripping apart their country traditions, they should perhaps try to be a little more inclusive.

That is all.

Easter Blurgh

Why do I find it impossible to get out of bed at the weekend?? All my merry plans for my days off fade under the warm temptation of my duvet. I must really never ever live by myself. Much as I value my independence, I think I'd end up spending all day in bed, with occasional trips out for the necessities. And I would spend so much time eating junk, that it'd reach the point where I wouldn't be able to get out of bed, because I'd have turned into a gigantic ball of lard. Uck.

Having said that I did manage to spend a fair amount of time yesterday shopping (managed to barter the price down on a cake tin - the first time in my life - made me strangely proud) and baking a rather fine cake which I plan to feed to TheCroydonMassive, and then continuing to build my rustic table in the garden. Felt slightly hampered by my neighbours having a dinner with guests outside, as kept panicking that I was being too noisy. But in the end it was the mini-neighbour that caused all the noise, when she got grumpy, and started bawling. Then double-hampered myself by forgetting to put my work-gloves on, and letting the saw slip down on my finger, slicing a nice bit of skin off. Uck.

Still, must make better use of weekends. Will go out. Will have a life. Etc.

Good Vibrations

Easter (and a four-day weekend) is coming!! Brillig.

Looking back over the past week, not much exciting has happened, though I did experience a curious incident on the bus back from the 'Nham on Sunday (having watched the beloved 'ding losing 1-0). I was sat on the top deck, minding my own business, when a most strange feeling came over me, and I realised that the vibrations of the bus were in unison with my own heartbeat. Basically, for a few seconds, I shared a resonance with the engine (which feels weird I tell you), the logical conclusion being that, for a short time, the bus and I were one!! Schwesty, of course, doesn't believe me, and thinks I was having some kind of palpitation. I prefer to think of myself as part-human, part-machine.