Like, stuff and that
One charming Night, Gives more delight, Than a hundred lucky Days...
***
I'm feeling appallingly posty lately. The old brainbox is brimming with THINGS, which need syphoning off at regular intervals.
Laptop woe. After its unscheduled day off the other week, the laptop seemed to be back to normal. So yesterday, I decided I'd just drop it on the floor. Miraculously, the dear old trooper still works! But I've knackered the catch -- it wobbles around, disturbingly like a loose tooth, and closes no more. Poor lappy.
Local news woe. The paper seems more than usually full of utter stupidity today. "You have to feel sorry for men," declares the 'Analysis' page. O DO U RLY? Like, I suppose, the man on the front page, found guilty of battering his girlfriend and murdering his baby son? Or the man on pages 3 and 4, who simply can't think how fibres from his clothes and carpets could have got onto the bodies of those five murdered women.
Some letter-writer commenting on the Archbishop of Canterbury sharia law row quips: "Under Islamic sharia law women commit adultery and then get stoned, whereas in England, women get stoned and then commit adultery, so we are not so far apart on this issue." OH HAHAHA YOU ARE HILARIOUS.
Meanwhile, we continue to be haunted day after day by the same blurred photographs of the dead women, along with other, strangely mundane images: a pair of ripped work-gloves; the passenger footwell in a Ford Mondeo; a pair of shiny blue tracksuit bottoms; a fluorescent jacket hanging in the hallway of a dingy townhouse.
To be perfectly honest, though, I'm not feeling particularly woeful this week. The sun has been shining too brightly on the frosty park in the mornings, the ducks are all smiling on their pond, and there is Purcell on my iPod.
[Note to self: may be going mad, poss?]
***
I'm feeling appallingly posty lately. The old brainbox is brimming with THINGS, which need syphoning off at regular intervals.
Laptop woe. After its unscheduled day off the other week, the laptop seemed to be back to normal. So yesterday, I decided I'd just drop it on the floor. Miraculously, the dear old trooper still works! But I've knackered the catch -- it wobbles around, disturbingly like a loose tooth, and closes no more. Poor lappy.
Local news woe. The paper seems more than usually full of utter stupidity today. "You have to feel sorry for men," declares the 'Analysis' page. O DO U RLY? Like, I suppose, the man on the front page, found guilty of battering his girlfriend and murdering his baby son? Or the man on pages 3 and 4, who simply can't think how fibres from his clothes and carpets could have got onto the bodies of those five murdered women.
Some letter-writer commenting on the Archbishop of Canterbury sharia law row quips: "Under Islamic sharia law women commit adultery and then get stoned, whereas in England, women get stoned and then commit adultery, so we are not so far apart on this issue." OH HAHAHA YOU ARE HILARIOUS.
Meanwhile, we continue to be haunted day after day by the same blurred photographs of the dead women, along with other, strangely mundane images: a pair of ripped work-gloves; the passenger footwell in a Ford Mondeo; a pair of shiny blue tracksuit bottoms; a fluorescent jacket hanging in the hallway of a dingy townhouse.
To be perfectly honest, though, I'm not feeling particularly woeful this week. The sun has been shining too brightly on the frosty park in the mornings, the ducks are all smiling on their pond, and there is Purcell on my iPod.
[Note to self: may be going mad, poss?]