Yesterday, I stumbled across a new blog. This isn't unusual, but what is unusual is that I spent the rest of the day reading it.
Dooce has written about her daughter since the day she found out she was pregnant. Her monthly letters to said daughter make for the most honest, raw and beautiful writing I've come across since I started reading weblogs.
Please, go read.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Update: Easties Awards 2007
Well, the nominations are flying in, thanks to the fragrant Ms Baroque and the fantastically informed Dandelion, whose website I cannot get to at the moment for some reason but who I will link as soon as I can.
Thrillingly, we have feast of new categories to add, sponsored by said bloggers in homage to their Easties love.
First up, its the Dandelion Award for Best Life Advice. I already have a winner in mind, but could easily be persuaded to change my mind if a sound nomination is sent in.
Next, it's the three Baroque Awards for Most Tiresome Storyline Ever (a veritable bounty of choices for that on); Classic Moments We'd Hate to Have Missed (Beale's vasectomy anyone? Oh, just me then) And Best EastEnders Thing Ever.
Get nominating, soapfans. The awards ceremony will take place next week. Beale's getting a pig's head in specially, and there'll no doubt be a classic bust up afterwards in the traditon of all good Queen Vic hosted events.
Thrillingly, we have feast of new categories to add, sponsored by said bloggers in homage to their Easties love.
First up, its the Dandelion Award for Best Life Advice. I already have a winner in mind, but could easily be persuaded to change my mind if a sound nomination is sent in.
Next, it's the three Baroque Awards for Most Tiresome Storyline Ever (a veritable bounty of choices for that on); Classic Moments We'd Hate to Have Missed (Beale's vasectomy anyone? Oh, just me then) And Best EastEnders Thing Ever.
Get nominating, soapfans. The awards ceremony will take place next week. Beale's getting a pig's head in specially, and there'll no doubt be a classic bust up afterwards in the traditon of all good Queen Vic hosted events.
Childishness
I can, on occasions, be extremely childish. So can the Hubbo, which is why at least once a week I am pinned down on the sofa while he tries to fart on my head. However, I've not seen people be childish about public transport before.
I was at Euston bus station, waiting for a 476 to take me home. A 73 had pulled up but I didn;t get on it, because it was rammed and also a man had got on wielding an angry looking pitbull, and I didn't fancy having to whip out my Brownie first aid skills during the journey.
A 476 pulled up, but because the route starts at Euston it pulls up round the corner from the actual stop to allow passengers to get off and for the driver to have a smoke, or whatever. So, knowing it'd be rolling up at the stop in a couple of minutes, I pottered down to the part of the bus stop where the bus would actually stop and carried on reading my book (The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. An excellent read, but haven't a clue how it'll end).
I am a big believer in personal space (after an unfortunate tutorial at university on the subject of 'non verbals' which probably only stuck in my mind because it was one of about four 'Interpersonal Communication' tutorials I went to over the course of the year) and will go to extreme lengths to ensure that I am not, you know, breathing on someone or standing on their shoes. Likewise, I am most appreciative when people reciprocate the favour. So, imagine my face when this woman came and stood directly in front of me, close enough for my shoes to be touching hers. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't nearly been toppling off the pavement. What's more, she turned round and gave me a look that said: "Har! I have foiled your wily plan!"
Anyway, I didn't fancy continuing my read with my nose in the back of this woman's hair, so I moved up a couple of paces.
She moved again, right in front of me. It was the movement equivalent of the childhood copying game ("Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" ad nauseum until someone, usually me, gets grounded). And gave me another look, this time: "Don't think your cunning moving technique will get you out of this tight spot!" Rahaaa!"
I moved again, just to escape the madness, but this time of course moved so far that she thought that she'd won the 'who's getting on the bus first? Me!' game and did not follow.
Of course, the 476 pulled up right in front of me. Her facial expression was priceless, but not as priceless as those of the various commuters she shoved out of the way in order to be second on the bus.
I thought the whole ludicrous caper was over and done with, until I was walking up the bus towards the seat I wanted. Yes, ok, I have a favourite seat on the bus. Shut up. It's the one on the opposite side of the doors next to the buggy space, and its good because no matter how rammed the bus is you don't have to do the "Sorry, can I...thanks. Excuse me, excuse me, EXCUSE! Oh, thanks. Sorry! Sorry! Can - I - just, oh sorry, gah! Don't shut the doors! Sorry, thanks" dance trying to get to the doors before you end up in Edmonton. However, if someone's sat in said seat I don't haul them up by a lock of their hair and fling them off to another seat.
Not that my new-found rival did that. She did, however, charge up the bus like Linford Christie, push past me and seat herself and all her shopping on said seat. And then gave me a smug look along the lines of "game, set and match. Bitch."
Its almost enough to make me miss the ninety minute Southwest Trains commute.
I was at Euston bus station, waiting for a 476 to take me home. A 73 had pulled up but I didn;t get on it, because it was rammed and also a man had got on wielding an angry looking pitbull, and I didn't fancy having to whip out my Brownie first aid skills during the journey.
A 476 pulled up, but because the route starts at Euston it pulls up round the corner from the actual stop to allow passengers to get off and for the driver to have a smoke, or whatever. So, knowing it'd be rolling up at the stop in a couple of minutes, I pottered down to the part of the bus stop where the bus would actually stop and carried on reading my book (The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. An excellent read, but haven't a clue how it'll end).
I am a big believer in personal space (after an unfortunate tutorial at university on the subject of 'non verbals' which probably only stuck in my mind because it was one of about four 'Interpersonal Communication' tutorials I went to over the course of the year) and will go to extreme lengths to ensure that I am not, you know, breathing on someone or standing on their shoes. Likewise, I am most appreciative when people reciprocate the favour. So, imagine my face when this woman came and stood directly in front of me, close enough for my shoes to be touching hers. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't nearly been toppling off the pavement. What's more, she turned round and gave me a look that said: "Har! I have foiled your wily plan!"
Anyway, I didn't fancy continuing my read with my nose in the back of this woman's hair, so I moved up a couple of paces.
She moved again, right in front of me. It was the movement equivalent of the childhood copying game ("Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! He's copying meee!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" "Muuuum! It's really annoying!" ad nauseum until someone, usually me, gets grounded). And gave me another look, this time: "Don't think your cunning moving technique will get you out of this tight spot!" Rahaaa!"
I moved again, just to escape the madness, but this time of course moved so far that she thought that she'd won the 'who's getting on the bus first? Me!' game and did not follow.
Of course, the 476 pulled up right in front of me. Her facial expression was priceless, but not as priceless as those of the various commuters she shoved out of the way in order to be second on the bus.
I thought the whole ludicrous caper was over and done with, until I was walking up the bus towards the seat I wanted. Yes, ok, I have a favourite seat on the bus. Shut up. It's the one on the opposite side of the doors next to the buggy space, and its good because no matter how rammed the bus is you don't have to do the "Sorry, can I...thanks. Excuse me, excuse me, EXCUSE! Oh, thanks. Sorry! Sorry! Can - I - just, oh sorry, gah! Don't shut the doors! Sorry, thanks" dance trying to get to the doors before you end up in Edmonton. However, if someone's sat in said seat I don't haul them up by a lock of their hair and fling them off to another seat.
Not that my new-found rival did that. She did, however, charge up the bus like Linford Christie, push past me and seat herself and all her shopping on said seat. And then gave me a smug look along the lines of "game, set and match. Bitch."
Its almost enough to make me miss the ninety minute Southwest Trains commute.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Easties Awards 2007
Look, it has to be done. I've just watched one of the most hysterical half hours of television ever thanks to EastEnders which included all the traditional soap stalwarts of hysteria, insanity, tears, blood and scalpels (for more on the madness, I recommend a visit to Ms Baroque).
In snarky thanks, therefore, I present the Easties Awards 2007. If you wish you can have your say by leaving your nominations for the following categories in the comments box.
Category #1: Silliest Brookside-esque Storyline (I fear there may be a clear winner for this one)
Category #2: The Phil Daniels Award for Shoddy Acting
Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline
Category #4: The "Hang On, This Totally Doesn't Make Sense" Award
Category #5: The Award for Excellent Villainry
Category #6: The "Ew!" Award for Unnecessary Mental/Actual Images
Category #7: The "Shut up, Chelsea" Award for Most Annoying Early-20s Character
Category #8: The Asif and Martin Award for Zany Moneymaking Schemes
I think that's probably enough to be getting on with. Expect a glittering awards ceremony, with free Churchills and catering by Beale, soon enough.
And if youo wish to comment about me having no life, I KNOW. You don't need to tell me.
In snarky thanks, therefore, I present the Easties Awards 2007. If you wish you can have your say by leaving your nominations for the following categories in the comments box.
Category #1: Silliest Brookside-esque Storyline (I fear there may be a clear winner for this one)
Category #2: The Phil Daniels Award for Shoddy Acting
Category #3: The Mince and Gary Award for Inane Comic Relief Storyline
Category #4: The "Hang On, This Totally Doesn't Make Sense" Award
Category #5: The Award for Excellent Villainry
Category #6: The "Ew!" Award for Unnecessary Mental/Actual Images
Category #7: The "Shut up, Chelsea" Award for Most Annoying Early-20s Character
Category #8: The Asif and Martin Award for Zany Moneymaking Schemes
I think that's probably enough to be getting on with. Expect a glittering awards ceremony, with free Churchills and catering by Beale, soon enough.
And if youo wish to comment about me having no life, I KNOW. You don't need to tell me.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Correspondence
Dear Euston Road freesheet distributors,
If I am striding down the Euston Road at 5.45pm, it generally means that I am heading home or to the pub. Please do not try and hinder my way by biffing me in the ribs with one of your newspapers in a vain effort to get me to take one. If I want one, I will make eye contact and do something that suggests I want one, such as extending a hand to reach for one. If I scowl at the pavement, it means I generally don't.
Dear Chelsea In EastEnders,
Quit the damn pouting.
Dear Dawson Leery,
Shit, your forehead is huge. Not as huge as your ego though.
If I am striding down the Euston Road at 5.45pm, it generally means that I am heading home or to the pub. Please do not try and hinder my way by biffing me in the ribs with one of your newspapers in a vain effort to get me to take one. If I want one, I will make eye contact and do something that suggests I want one, such as extending a hand to reach for one. If I scowl at the pavement, it means I generally don't.
-o0o-
Dear Wheely Luggage People
Why? WHY do you all have to wait until the minute I step out of work to all converge on the street, weaving your vehicles of sin in front of my feet and right behind my feet (as in knocking into the heel of my sandal - thanks, loud annoying foreign-exchange teenager) and right over my feet? Also, please explain why you all feel the need to tell all your friends this rilly rilly, like, hilarious story about, like, whatever while standing right at the top of the Victoria Line escalator and being completely oblivious to the eleventy thousand people slowly filling up King's Cross station who are all letting out growls of hate? And then look utterly perturbed when a woman with insane hair and a broken sandal tells you to move your like, ass so that she can actually get to the pub before it shuts? Oh, and while I'm at it, a cardboard Travelcard will not be topped up at the Oyster machine no matter how many times you kick it and tell all your friends how much "England sucks, dude".
-o0o-
Dear Muggy Weather,
Go away.
-o0o-
Dear Chelsea In EastEnders,
Quit the damn pouting.
-o0o-
Dear Dawson Leery,
Shit, your forehead is huge. Not as huge as your ego though.
-o0o-
Dear Microsoft Office paperclip 'helper' thing
"It looks like you're writing a letter!" Yes, yes I am. A LETTER OF HATE. Be gone.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Technology is the boss of me
My Sky+ box just refused to Sky+ Big Brother.
I think this is known as a lesson learnt. The Hubbo is sat on the sofa crowing about it, which makes me think that he has programmed the box to not record any non-cookery related reality programmes.
At least my now-traditional BB-induced post-11pm rage might simmer down as a result of this.
I think this is known as a lesson learnt. The Hubbo is sat on the sofa crowing about it, which makes me think that he has programmed the box to not record any non-cookery related reality programmes.
At least my now-traditional BB-induced post-11pm rage might simmer down as a result of this.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Help
WHY are the months in my blog archive suddenly in Italian? Or it might be Spanish. The point is, I do not understand.
