And they shall knight thee Tinman, purveyor of all you purvey
Tomorrow I have my op. They're taking an organ I probably don't need and rarely use. What's with defunct organs that go bad?
Today I sat on the bus humming mindlessly to myself and decided to put on my mp3 player and was greeted by the smooth voice of Tinman telling me that poetry ain't got to be pretty. If there was ever a voice that was made for seductive oration, flannel's is most certainly it. It's a voice to dance to in the dark, which, quite naturally, he knows.
The world is turning to Autumn and the leaf mulch smells muskily of mushrooms and promises long fled.
My hair is cherry red, slowly turning with the leaves, the blonde of summer long gone. I wonder if by Christmas I'll have purple hair. It has a life of its own. I always believe that dyed hair ought to look dyed, there is little reason for that belief beyond a mistaken desire to be honest with looks.
I spent yesterday raking leaves from the trees in my garden, clearing out the old vegetables from the patch and planning the myriad of unusual squashes and rainbow coloured carrots the like that I will be growing next year. There's something deeply satisfying eating something you've grown yourself.
Tonight Two Jacks and I will be picking (scrumping) apples. There's little quite as endearing as a woman in a pin-stripe suit and heels jumping up to grasp fruit branches in the rain by roadside. It's the last day I'll be able to do that for a while. I'll have to be careful on how I stretch for a while.
My mobile phone died in a most spectacular way, however, due to a donation, I'm back in the world of contact. I luckily managed to save most of the contents of the phone, photos and contacts, yet have sadly had to sacrifice my Bagpuss mp3 ringtone of the perversely capricious fickle god of wireless dissemination.
I listen to the monotonous drone of my colleagues, eyes half-lidded as they repeat mindlessly the usual bunk of IT support. There's only so many times you can say the same thing and remain interested in what it is you do. We are drones and thusly we drone, mindlessly, without feeling or thought, we simply turn up.
Long live repeat on my mp3 player.
Today I sat on the bus humming mindlessly to myself and decided to put on my mp3 player and was greeted by the smooth voice of Tinman telling me that poetry ain't got to be pretty. If there was ever a voice that was made for seductive oration, flannel's is most certainly it. It's a voice to dance to in the dark, which, quite naturally, he knows.
The world is turning to Autumn and the leaf mulch smells muskily of mushrooms and promises long fled.
My hair is cherry red, slowly turning with the leaves, the blonde of summer long gone. I wonder if by Christmas I'll have purple hair. It has a life of its own. I always believe that dyed hair ought to look dyed, there is little reason for that belief beyond a mistaken desire to be honest with looks.
I spent yesterday raking leaves from the trees in my garden, clearing out the old vegetables from the patch and planning the myriad of unusual squashes and rainbow coloured carrots the like that I will be growing next year. There's something deeply satisfying eating something you've grown yourself.
Tonight Two Jacks and I will be picking (scrumping) apples. There's little quite as endearing as a woman in a pin-stripe suit and heels jumping up to grasp fruit branches in the rain by roadside. It's the last day I'll be able to do that for a while. I'll have to be careful on how I stretch for a while.
My mobile phone died in a most spectacular way, however, due to a donation, I'm back in the world of contact. I luckily managed to save most of the contents of the phone, photos and contacts, yet have sadly had to sacrifice my Bagpuss mp3 ringtone of the perversely capricious fickle god of wireless dissemination.
I listen to the monotonous drone of my colleagues, eyes half-lidded as they repeat mindlessly the usual bunk of IT support. There's only so many times you can say the same thing and remain interested in what it is you do. We are drones and thusly we drone, mindlessly, without feeling or thought, we simply turn up.
Long live repeat on my mp3 player.