You love the fruit punch without any fruit
I'm gonna write a poem about beards. I just wrote a speech about how we shouldn't waste money on space exploration. I agree with this, so it's not as good as the other speeches.
I'm hungover. Yester, some guy who wrote for smack the pony, bob the builder and the greeen wing came in and talked to us. he was good. He said 'if you're at a meeting, and someone says "what else are you working on at the moment" never say "nothing" make something up.' Good advice.
Gareth swore himself off ladies for a good two hours and I had a chat with Kian about how whenever people bump into him they're really, really sorry. Cos he looks a bit like ross kemp.
dot
dot
dot
hallowe'en dress rehearsal tonight... woohoo
This is my story from a few years ago: made better by editing power! But it's still not quite there. Needs some ground cumin or something...
The quarryman’s tale
You probably know that I am not a popular man. People say terrible things about me, but none of them know the truth. Many people say life is short, but I know differently. My life has been long and laborious and for all my pains I have only one story to tell. I have never told my story before. I was sure nobody would believe me. Now it does not matter.
As a boy I had no family, but was lucky enough to find work in the palace gardens. I became fascinated by all the particulars of gardening and I was in absolute awe of nature. Work was my only passion. I vowed that my love for Mother Nature would replace the love for a mother I never knew.
I became so esteemed there that the King himself bestowed on me the great responsibility of tending to the royal rose garden. The roses were the King’s pride and joy and people travelled from far away to marvel at their beauty. They grew in all the colours of the rainbow and towered proudly above all other flowers. I spent every moment striving to give them the love they needed. They were my sole concern.
One afternoon I saw a girl standing in the garden, staring up at my most handsome red roses. As I approached her she heard my footsteps on the gravel path and turned around, startled. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
“Are they not the finest roses in all the land?” I asked.
“They are pretty,” she said, “although they are slightly pale.”
I was taken aback by her response. I had always thought my roses were the deepest red that existed.
I contrived to learn more about this girl. Her name was Amaranta. She came to my garden regularly and I grew to love her very much over the following weeks. I clipped roses from the garden by night and left them on her windowsill with clumsy poems, comparing her beauty to theirs. When the time was right, I took her one evening into the garden and presented her with the reddest rose that I could find and asked her if she would be my wife.
She pricked her thumb on a thorn and the colour of her blood made the petals of my finest rose look like common clay. She could say nothing. I knew why. Love is a wild thing and only a wild flower can tame it.
I had heard of a rose that grew in the old forest: Whose petals were the colour of blood: Whose thorns were as fine as the hairs on a child’s arm. If I could find that flower, she would be mine
I did not hesitate. I took my sword into the forest, hacking at vines and creepers. The forest grew denser as I continued; eventually I was chopping my way through brambles as thick as tree trunks. I was just beginning to wonder if the forest even had a centre when my sword bit through a bramble with a sound like flesh tearing. There was a small clearing carpeted with soft grass, where a single, tiny flower stood alone in the centre. I staggered towards it, falling to my knees and dropping my sword. I grasped its stem eagerly, then cried out and recoiled. My hands were as red and sticky as a butcher’s. I lashed out in anger at the cause of the injury.
The blood that left a trail behind me as I left the forest was exactly the same colour as the petals of that wild rose.
When I returned to the garden I found my dear Amaranta sprawled beneath the roses, her clothes tattered and bloody, her body lifeless. My cries awoke half the palace. By the time they came the wild rose was already dead and I thought I should die too, but I had no such luck.
Of course, most people suspected that I was the guilty one and in the following week I was expelled from the gardens and made to work in the quarries as a common labourer. I have worked there ever since.
I'm hungover. Yester, some guy who wrote for smack the pony, bob the builder and the greeen wing came in and talked to us. he was good. He said 'if you're at a meeting, and someone says "what else are you working on at the moment" never say "nothing" make something up.' Good advice.
Gareth swore himself off ladies for a good two hours and I had a chat with Kian about how whenever people bump into him they're really, really sorry. Cos he looks a bit like ross kemp.
dot
dot
dot
hallowe'en dress rehearsal tonight... woohoo
This is my story from a few years ago: made better by editing power! But it's still not quite there. Needs some ground cumin or something...
The quarryman’s tale
You probably know that I am not a popular man. People say terrible things about me, but none of them know the truth. Many people say life is short, but I know differently. My life has been long and laborious and for all my pains I have only one story to tell. I have never told my story before. I was sure nobody would believe me. Now it does not matter.
As a boy I had no family, but was lucky enough to find work in the palace gardens. I became fascinated by all the particulars of gardening and I was in absolute awe of nature. Work was my only passion. I vowed that my love for Mother Nature would replace the love for a mother I never knew.
I became so esteemed there that the King himself bestowed on me the great responsibility of tending to the royal rose garden. The roses were the King’s pride and joy and people travelled from far away to marvel at their beauty. They grew in all the colours of the rainbow and towered proudly above all other flowers. I spent every moment striving to give them the love they needed. They were my sole concern.
One afternoon I saw a girl standing in the garden, staring up at my most handsome red roses. As I approached her she heard my footsteps on the gravel path and turned around, startled. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
“Are they not the finest roses in all the land?” I asked.
“They are pretty,” she said, “although they are slightly pale.”
I was taken aback by her response. I had always thought my roses were the deepest red that existed.
I contrived to learn more about this girl. Her name was Amaranta. She came to my garden regularly and I grew to love her very much over the following weeks. I clipped roses from the garden by night and left them on her windowsill with clumsy poems, comparing her beauty to theirs. When the time was right, I took her one evening into the garden and presented her with the reddest rose that I could find and asked her if she would be my wife.
She pricked her thumb on a thorn and the colour of her blood made the petals of my finest rose look like common clay. She could say nothing. I knew why. Love is a wild thing and only a wild flower can tame it.
I had heard of a rose that grew in the old forest: Whose petals were the colour of blood: Whose thorns were as fine as the hairs on a child’s arm. If I could find that flower, she would be mine
I did not hesitate. I took my sword into the forest, hacking at vines and creepers. The forest grew denser as I continued; eventually I was chopping my way through brambles as thick as tree trunks. I was just beginning to wonder if the forest even had a centre when my sword bit through a bramble with a sound like flesh tearing. There was a small clearing carpeted with soft grass, where a single, tiny flower stood alone in the centre. I staggered towards it, falling to my knees and dropping my sword. I grasped its stem eagerly, then cried out and recoiled. My hands were as red and sticky as a butcher’s. I lashed out in anger at the cause of the injury.
The blood that left a trail behind me as I left the forest was exactly the same colour as the petals of that wild rose.
When I returned to the garden I found my dear Amaranta sprawled beneath the roses, her clothes tattered and bloody, her body lifeless. My cries awoke half the palace. By the time they came the wild rose was already dead and I thought I should die too, but I had no such luck.
Of course, most people suspected that I was the guilty one and in the following week I was expelled from the gardens and made to work in the quarries as a common labourer. I have worked there ever since.