Am listening to festive CDs in an attempt to "get Christmassy". Currently on the turntable (?) is Comfort and joy: a Christmas Celtic sojourn, and it is this subtitle which gives me cause to saddle up the old hobby horse and take it for a bit of a canter.
Don't get me wrong - this is a great CD, and without doubt Very Christmassy. My problem is that it is billed specifically as "Celtic" and yet contains a number of (very splendid) English pieces. Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Brittany, Cornwall, these are all Celtic countries. England however is most definitely not Celtic - England is Anglo-Saxon. This is not to say that the one is better than the other, or that there are no Celtic influences in English folk music. It's just that the mindless lumping together of our islands' folk traditions under the Celtic banner means that the subtleties and ambiguities of the different traditions are lost and, more importantly, the distinctive voices of the English rural working classes are made invisible.
(The same kind of thing happened with the film of The Lord of the Rings. More than once in the supporting documentary footage(1) Peter Jackson or one of his apparatchiks talks about wanting to capture the "Celtic feeling" of the books. Wrong! LOTR is not Celtic - Tolkien was very clear that in writing this, he was attempting to create an English mythology.)
So, if'n y'd like to hear a quintessentially English folk carol, have a listen to the snippet of Shepherds arise(2) on Amazon - a tiny taster of England's Glory. And if you live in the States, you can hear it in full here. English folk music doesn't get much better than this little beauty.
Non celtici sed angli.
Gut Yule!
(1) extended DVDs - yeah, I know, very sad!
(2) this is a very good version by Waterson-Carthy, on whom I don't normally go a bundle . There's an even better version by The Copper Family, veteran folk singers from Sussex, which I recommend you seek out and purchase this instant.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Miserable sinner
I was very angry today (justifiably so, I must add) and took my anger out on some poor unsuspecting call-centre worker who didn't derserve it. Call centres are such a ubiquitous part of 21st century commerce that it's easy to forget that the people who work in them are not the company they work for. They're usually just lowly aparatchiks struggling on poor wages and lousy conditions.
So now I am filled with remorse.
I have phoned back and apologised - not for being angry (which, as I've said, was entirely justified) but for making this poor soul the target of my anger.
Don't feel much better though. In fact I feel like a complete miserable idiot and, what's worse, a Bad Person!
Having said that, the call-centre person at the Royal Mail the other day did a much better job of handling Angry Caller than did today's. Royal Mail Woman was not in the least defensive, was friendly and charming, offered me a hearftfelt apology for my trouble and sidetracked me into a bit of banter about the name 'Jennie' (her daughter's name too apparently). She also dealt with my complaint efficiently and to my utter satisfaction. Very different from today's experience in every way.
Which however neither justifies nor excuses my behaviour.
Sorry!
So now I am filled with remorse.
I have phoned back and apologised - not for being angry (which, as I've said, was entirely justified) but for making this poor soul the target of my anger.
Don't feel much better though. In fact I feel like a complete miserable idiot and, what's worse, a Bad Person!
Having said that, the call-centre person at the Royal Mail the other day did a much better job of handling Angry Caller than did today's. Royal Mail Woman was not in the least defensive, was friendly and charming, offered me a hearftfelt apology for my trouble and sidetracked me into a bit of banter about the name 'Jennie' (her daughter's name too apparently). She also dealt with my complaint efficiently and to my utter satisfaction. Very different from today's experience in every way.
Which however neither justifies nor excuses my behaviour.
Sorry!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Mists and mellow fruitfulness my arse!
I have to say, I'm not the greatest fan of autumn. It is a time of the year when lots of Bad Things seem to have happened in my world. Or perhaps, it is not that more Bad Things have happened in autumn than at any other time of the year, but simply that the wet, grey descent into winter amplifies the misery. Any road, whatever the reason, today is a day for moaning, so here goes.
On Monday I betook myself to the oncologist for my annual checkup and, as predicted, was taken off Tamoxifen and put onto this aromatase inhibitor thingy called Letrozole. No bad thing, per se, since Tam is useless for old ducks like me, whereas Let is apparently Just The Ticket.
So that's the good news. However, like a bad 70s comedy sketch, hard on the heel of the good news comes the bad: I'll probably have to take the new tabletki for another five, count 'em, five years. Now, I know I should be grateful and all, that the creaking, cash-starved NHS is willing to stump up the readies for another 5 years of prophylaxis, and I know this is so much better than getting another cancer, but I'd painted this picture in my head of what it would be like when I got to the end of the Tamoxifen years next October. I'd be able to lose a bit of weight, my hair would regain some of its former glory, my fingernails would toughen right back up so I could wear nail varnish again, I'd stop having inexplicable aches and pains all over my bod, I might even stop the migraines, etc, etc. In short, I could go back to being Me, instead of Cancer Patient. I feel like a prisoner who's not just lost the chance of parole but whose sentence has actually been extended. I now have a whole new set of potential side effects to keep an eye open for and to worry about. I tell you, hypervigilance is a tiring game - I've played it for the last 4 years and I've had enough.
Bah, humbug!
On the bright side however, it appears to have stopped raining, so I shall get dressed and take a stroll into town to pick up a CD from the record shop and a pair of trousers from the Surly But Efficient Alterations Ladies.
Oh, and I think I have a cold a-coming.
On Monday I betook myself to the oncologist for my annual checkup and, as predicted, was taken off Tamoxifen and put onto this aromatase inhibitor thingy called Letrozole. No bad thing, per se, since Tam is useless for old ducks like me, whereas Let is apparently Just The Ticket.
So that's the good news. However, like a bad 70s comedy sketch, hard on the heel of the good news comes the bad: I'll probably have to take the new tabletki for another five, count 'em, five years. Now, I know I should be grateful and all, that the creaking, cash-starved NHS is willing to stump up the readies for another 5 years of prophylaxis, and I know this is so much better than getting another cancer, but I'd painted this picture in my head of what it would be like when I got to the end of the Tamoxifen years next October. I'd be able to lose a bit of weight, my hair would regain some of its former glory, my fingernails would toughen right back up so I could wear nail varnish again, I'd stop having inexplicable aches and pains all over my bod, I might even stop the migraines, etc, etc. In short, I could go back to being Me, instead of Cancer Patient. I feel like a prisoner who's not just lost the chance of parole but whose sentence has actually been extended. I now have a whole new set of potential side effects to keep an eye open for and to worry about. I tell you, hypervigilance is a tiring game - I've played it for the last 4 years and I've had enough.
Bah, humbug!
On the bright side however, it appears to have stopped raining, so I shall get dressed and take a stroll into town to pick up a CD from the record shop and a pair of trousers from the Surly But Efficient Alterations Ladies.
Oh, and I think I have a cold a-coming.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Git on board!
Just back from Southport, having taken the car in for its 38,000-mile service. Apparently (and I say this because, having no automobilular knowledge of my own to fall back on, I am at the mercy of every lyin', cheatin', adjustable-spanner-wieldin' grease monkey in the world and have to take what they tell me on trust) it needed a Really Big Service this time round and so I return home nearly 600 quid the poorer. I comfort myself with the fact that work done today will not have to be done in Feb when it's due for its first MOT, but it's cold comfort indeed.
My ever-so-slight dischuffment was not ameliorated by the fact that today our Trusty Posty decided to leave a parcel not in the relative safety of the porch as is this normal custom but on the drive in full view of the pavement, where any passing Scally* could nick off with it without a "by your leave" or a "with your leave". I complained to the Royal Mail of course, and now have an apology, an Official Complaint Number and a sneaking feeling that Trusty Posty will somehow Wreak Awful Revenge upon us for dobbing him in to The Queen.
On the bright side though, we're off to Glasgow tomorrow to see the deeply splendid Common Rotation gigging at some low dive on Sauchiehall Street. Oh how we do love their subversive pop-folk-rock stylings!
*though if said Scally had indeed performed said act of thievery, he would have been mighty disappointed with the contents - somehow can't see a rather nice dress shirt going with the obligatory shell suit.
And, as a sartorial aside, there are apparently places in Liverpool where people habitually go to the supermarket in their nightwear and slippers. It's a mad world, my masters!
My ever-so-slight dischuffment was not ameliorated by the fact that today our Trusty Posty decided to leave a parcel not in the relative safety of the porch as is this normal custom but on the drive in full view of the pavement, where any passing Scally* could nick off with it without a "by your leave" or a "with your leave". I complained to the Royal Mail of course, and now have an apology, an Official Complaint Number and a sneaking feeling that Trusty Posty will somehow Wreak Awful Revenge upon us for dobbing him in to The Queen.
On the bright side though, we're off to Glasgow tomorrow to see the deeply splendid Common Rotation gigging at some low dive on Sauchiehall Street. Oh how we do love their subversive pop-folk-rock stylings!
*though if said Scally had indeed performed said act of thievery, he would have been mighty disappointed with the contents - somehow can't see a rather nice dress shirt going with the obligatory shell suit.
And, as a sartorial aside, there are apparently places in Liverpool where people habitually go to the supermarket in their nightwear and slippers. It's a mad world, my masters!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
One monkey don't stop the show
So here we are, back from two weeks' holidays and fighting a wee touch of the post-holiday blues, as usual.
What we did on our holidays
The peregrinations started off in Dorset at the community, where a somewhat less-than-entertaining exec committee meeting occupied most of the weekend and gave me three migraines in two days. It was a bit of a relief, therefore, to relocate to Brighthelmstone for a few days with the in-laws.
Highlights of this visit were a trip to the Weald and Downland Museum (arguably the best open air museum I've ever visited) and the obligatory shopping expedition to North Laine, this time in search of boots*. Kapla! Not one but two pairs of rather fetching knee-high boots were purchased, one red and one black. The red ones, styled 'Women's Action Boots" on the box, apparently make me look like a superhero - Theology Girl, leaping tall steeples in a single bound perhaps. Not only that, but they are Vegetarian (i.e. plastic). And the black ones are very lovely also (not vegetarian, these, but actual dead cow). Sales Assistant remarked that they had "featured in this month's Vogue" and that's good enough for me.
Creaking under the weight of newly-acquired footwear, we quit Brighton for the less heady pleasures of Essex,where we checked out the fleshpots of Colchester, a pleasant but rather damp experience - the Essex drought was a bit less droughty than usual that day. Was also furnished with an opportunity to compare Spotty Dog impersonations with m' dear friend Anonymous Lesley (though not in her son's place of work as had previously been promised - curses!)
From thence we pressed northwards to the Lincolnshire Wold where we stayed in an utterly delightful cottage for the week. As a county Lincolnshire proved to be a pleasant diversion, but hasn't set it's seal in our hearts like Dumfries and Galloway did in June. It has, however, got some bloody great farm shops selling some of the best local cheeses you could wish for. Unfortunately for Best Beloved, over-consumption of cheese caused his sinuses swell to the size of golf balls, so I was left to polish off the goodies. Plus a whole box of sloe gin truffles. And some rather delicious blackcurrants in white chocolate. Well, I was on holiday, dammit!
Then we came home.
Ho hum.
* I'm not exactly sure what has caused my Imelda Marcos gene to kick in at this stage in my life (possibly hormonal?) but kick in it well and truly has.
What we did on our holidays
The peregrinations started off in Dorset at the community, where a somewhat less-than-entertaining exec committee meeting occupied most of the weekend and gave me three migraines in two days. It was a bit of a relief, therefore, to relocate to Brighthelmstone for a few days with the in-laws.
Highlights of this visit were a trip to the Weald and Downland Museum (arguably the best open air museum I've ever visited) and the obligatory shopping expedition to North Laine, this time in search of boots*. Kapla! Not one but two pairs of rather fetching knee-high boots were purchased, one red and one black. The red ones, styled 'Women's Action Boots" on the box, apparently make me look like a superhero - Theology Girl, leaping tall steeples in a single bound perhaps. Not only that, but they are Vegetarian (i.e. plastic). And the black ones are very lovely also (not vegetarian, these, but actual dead cow). Sales Assistant remarked that they had "featured in this month's Vogue" and that's good enough for me.
Creaking under the weight of newly-acquired footwear, we quit Brighton for the less heady pleasures of Essex,where we checked out the fleshpots of Colchester, a pleasant but rather damp experience - the Essex drought was a bit less droughty than usual that day. Was also furnished with an opportunity to compare Spotty Dog impersonations with m' dear friend Anonymous Lesley (though not in her son's place of work as had previously been promised - curses!)
From thence we pressed northwards to the Lincolnshire Wold where we stayed in an utterly delightful cottage for the week. As a county Lincolnshire proved to be a pleasant diversion, but hasn't set it's seal in our hearts like Dumfries and Galloway did in June. It has, however, got some bloody great farm shops selling some of the best local cheeses you could wish for. Unfortunately for Best Beloved, over-consumption of cheese caused his sinuses swell to the size of golf balls, so I was left to polish off the goodies. Plus a whole box of sloe gin truffles. And some rather delicious blackcurrants in white chocolate. Well, I was on holiday, dammit!
Then we came home.
Ho hum.
* I'm not exactly sure what has caused my Imelda Marcos gene to kick in at this stage in my life (possibly hormonal?) but kick in it well and truly has.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder - get it out with Optrex
''ve just been reading comments to a post in another journal and it's made me come over a bit thoughtful. I'm posting my response here because it's going to get rather preachy I'm afraid and I don't think one should inflict that sort of thing on an unsuspecting fellow blogger.
So, the burden of the comments (not the original post) concerned the sincerity or otherwise of commenting on someone's else's dark-night of-the-soul type post with a mere *hugs*. Some commenters were of the opinion that such is the act of an unmitigated cad and a bounder, who cares nought for your pain and thinks only to boost their flagging ego with a spot of thoughtless self-publicity. Well, hang on there chaps, surely in this case insincerity is in the eye of the beholder. Unless you are acquainted with the person in Solid World and know them to be hugger or not, then you cannot be at all certain of their hugging motivation. A *hug* is a likely to be a genuine expression of heartfelt sympathy as it is a meaningless and self-serving gesture. Wouldn't you be happier in the long run if you assumed the former in all circumstances - an anti-*hug* stance hurts not the *hug*ger but the *hug*gee.
As a somewhat reticent Britisher, my equivalent of *hug* is more a sort of *tentative pat on the shoulder* and a muttered "there, there, old chap - now pull yourself together and we'll all have a nice cup of tea. Worse things happen at sea, what!" and who wants that kind of nonsense landing in their comments box as they weep bitter, weary tears of despair into their fine linen handkerchieves?
So, take the *hug* in the spirit you'd like it to have been given. Chances are, it was.
And now, open your hymn books and turn to page ...
So, the burden of the comments (not the original post) concerned the sincerity or otherwise of commenting on someone's else's dark-night of-the-soul type post with a mere *hugs*. Some commenters were of the opinion that such is the act of an unmitigated cad and a bounder, who cares nought for your pain and thinks only to boost their flagging ego with a spot of thoughtless self-publicity. Well, hang on there chaps, surely in this case insincerity is in the eye of the beholder. Unless you are acquainted with the person in Solid World and know them to be hugger or not, then you cannot be at all certain of their hugging motivation. A *hug* is a likely to be a genuine expression of heartfelt sympathy as it is a meaningless and self-serving gesture. Wouldn't you be happier in the long run if you assumed the former in all circumstances - an anti-*hug* stance hurts not the *hug*ger but the *hug*gee.
As a somewhat reticent Britisher, my equivalent of *hug* is more a sort of *tentative pat on the shoulder* and a muttered "there, there, old chap - now pull yourself together and we'll all have a nice cup of tea. Worse things happen at sea, what!" and who wants that kind of nonsense landing in their comments box as they weep bitter, weary tears of despair into their fine linen handkerchieves?
So, take the *hug* in the spirit you'd like it to have been given. Chances are, it was.
And now, open your hymn books and turn to page ...
Help me!
Ah, online technical support - you've got to love it.
A couple of weeks ago I contact the HP online help thingy* about an intermittent problem I have with my printer, explaining in some detail the steps I was having to take to correct this and asking if perchance there was an easier way. They responded with instructions that were not only deeply patronising in tone but also told me less than I already knew about sorting the prob out.
And now they are badgering me with emails like a lovesick suitor, begging me to tell them how they did - "Was I good? Did the earth move for you too, darling?". Frankly my dear, you were rubbish! So don't expect a second date.
* Ironically, it's called HP Total Care - my arse!
A couple of weeks ago I contact the HP online help thingy* about an intermittent problem I have with my printer, explaining in some detail the steps I was having to take to correct this and asking if perchance there was an easier way. They responded with instructions that were not only deeply patronising in tone but also told me less than I already knew about sorting the prob out.
And now they are badgering me with emails like a lovesick suitor, begging me to tell them how they did - "Was I good? Did the earth move for you too, darling?". Frankly my dear, you were rubbish! So don't expect a second date.
* Ironically, it's called HP Total Care - my arse!
Monday, September 11, 2006
Seasonally Affected Disorders
All that mist-and-mellow-fruitfulness that was kicking around over the weekend triggered off a bad case of the earth-mothers*. This manifested as an urge to turn Saturday's marrow into Sunday's chutney. So off we went to Mr Booth's lovely supermarket for ingredients. Ingredients denied! At least, no cider vinegar and no stem ginger in syrup. And so I live to chut another day.
And while we're on the subject of supermarkets
This time last year-ish, in reply to a post bemoaning the lamentable quality of supermarket plums, a friend responded that: Plums are wonderous, when eaten after being picked from the ground beneath the tree on a sweltering day. Having done exactly that on Saturday in the orchard at Norton Priory, I have to say he's only right, godde love 'im.
* An overwhelming desire to e.g. bake bread, macrame some aubergines and knit one's own yoghurt
And while we're on the subject of supermarkets
This time last year-ish, in reply to a post bemoaning the lamentable quality of supermarket plums, a friend responded that: Plums are wonderous, when eaten after being picked from the ground beneath the tree on a sweltering day. Having done exactly that on Saturday in the orchard at Norton Priory, I have to say he's only right, godde love 'im.
* An overwhelming desire to e.g. bake bread, macrame some aubergines and knit one's own yoghurt
Saturday, September 09, 2006
i thank You God for this most amazing
Have just returned from a visit to Norton Priory, one of the (very few) hidden gems of Cheshire. It lurks in all its green and garden-y splendour in the middle of a trading estate on the outskirts of Runcorn, a town normal noted for its utter lack of charm. But as far as tourist attractions go, Norton P has got a goodly handful of plus points - mediaeval priory ruins, rambling gardens, sculpture trail, tearoom and one of the most glorious walled gardens we've seen in a while. Oh, and a huge*, intact mediaeval statue of St Christopher. Fabulous!
Of course, today's glorious weather helped. It's been one of those clear, bright, end-of-summer days, with a "blue true dream of sky" and just a scattering of wispy clouds, when the sun is warm but not so hot that you have to take your cardie off and fan yourself with your hand in a Peter Kaye stylee, going 'oh, it's too hot. I mean, I like it hot but this is too hot'. A day when it sort of feels like it's still summer, even though everything's started to look decidedly back-endish, with leaves on the turn and berries so very much redder than they were a couple of weeks ago.
And I also bought a marrow.
* 3.37 metres apparently, which in imperial measurement translates as 'mossive'
Of course, today's glorious weather helped. It's been one of those clear, bright, end-of-summer days, with a "blue true dream of sky" and just a scattering of wispy clouds, when the sun is warm but not so hot that you have to take your cardie off and fan yourself with your hand in a Peter Kaye stylee, going 'oh, it's too hot. I mean, I like it hot but this is too hot'. A day when it sort of feels like it's still summer, even though everything's started to look decidedly back-endish, with leaves on the turn and berries so very much redder than they were a couple of weeks ago.
And I also bought a marrow.
* 3.37 metres apparently, which in imperial measurement translates as 'mossive'
You'll doubtless all be ecstatic at the news that the pneumonia vaccine did me no lasting damage. I had a bit of a poorly arm for a couple of days, a symptom with which I extracted maximum sympathy form Best Beloved on his return from Nottingham, but that's about all.
Meanwhile, back in Side-Effects Land, I turned to the BNF (that's the British National Formulary, not some ultra right-wing nationalist party) yesterday for some info on aromatase inhibitors, since the onc is probably going to transfer me onto one of these little blighters now that I am now officially old*. Was hoping against hope that these new johnnies might have fewer side-effects that Tamoxifen (which has never made me really ill, I must admit, but rather permanently uncomfortable). Well, no such luck - promised side-effects are much the same really, with the added bonus of alopecia and osteoporosis. Oh joy, oh bliss! Watch as I turn into a wizened, balding crone before your very eyes!
Still, it's better than having cancer.
And, leaving on a positive note, at the end of this month I'll be four years on from my original diagnosis and still cancer-free. Huzzah!
* i.e. menopausal
Meanwhile, back in Side-Effects Land, I turned to the BNF (that's the British National Formulary, not some ultra right-wing nationalist party) yesterday for some info on aromatase inhibitors, since the onc is probably going to transfer me onto one of these little blighters now that I am now officially old*. Was hoping against hope that these new johnnies might have fewer side-effects that Tamoxifen (which has never made me really ill, I must admit, but rather permanently uncomfortable). Well, no such luck - promised side-effects are much the same really, with the added bonus of alopecia and osteoporosis. Oh joy, oh bliss! Watch as I turn into a wizened, balding crone before your very eyes!
Still, it's better than having cancer.
And, leaving on a positive note, at the end of this month I'll be four years on from my original diagnosis and still cancer-free. Huzzah!
* i.e. menopausal
Friday, September 08, 2006
Spots before the eyes
Y'd think, based on the evidence of the past couple of days, that I was a big Hector's House fan, wouldn't you? Well, I'm not. Not really. I always found it a bit too twee and soppy for my more robust tastes (plus it was aimed at 4 year olds and I must have been well into my teens when it hit the screens). I was, however, moved to tearful nostalgia by a page on the same website about The Woodentops.
I loved The Woodentops, partly because one of the characters had the same name as me* (it's is a pretty big deal when you're three to have a TV star as a namesake, even if it is a wooden puppet) and partly because of the utter surreal fabulousness of Spotty Dog (the Biggest Spotty Dog You Ever Did See). I can still, old bones permitting (mine, not the Dog's), do a very passable impersonation of both Spotty Dog and Baby. Buy me a pint sometime and I'll show you.
*That's right - please refer to me as 'Mrs Scrubbit' from now on.
I loved The Woodentops, partly because one of the characters had the same name as me* (it's is a pretty big deal when you're three to have a TV star as a namesake, even if it is a wooden puppet) and partly because of the utter surreal fabulousness of Spotty Dog (the Biggest Spotty Dog You Ever Did See). I can still, old bones permitting (mine, not the Dog's), do a very passable impersonation of both Spotty Dog and Baby. Buy me a pint sometime and I'll show you.
*That's right - please refer to me as 'Mrs Scrubbit' from now on.
I blame the pneumonia vaccine
I'll tell you what, though. That half tub of yummy raspberry-and-vanilla-flavoured Alpro soya yoghurt I just chucked over my keyboard, desk and carpet is probably not going to do them a world of good.
Oh, what a clumsy old Hector I am!
Oh, what a clumsy old Hector I am!
And while we're on the subject
A million hearty thank yous to our dear friends Jen and Pete for lending us Blackpool, a series so good that when you get to the end you wish you hadn't seen it so you can see it for the first time all over again.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Tennant: Of Wild Fell Hormones
Have extracted a promise from Best Beloved that, were David Tennant ever to offer to snog the gob off me, I would be allowed to accept and still return the marital fireside with my honour unblemished.
What a very reasonable man he is (B. Beloved, that is, not D. Tennant, though he doubtless has his moments).
What a very reasonable man he is (B. Beloved, that is, not D. Tennant, though he doubtless has his moments).
It's the Style, Miss
Whilst in town this a.m. I ventured into my local independent record store* to order a Little Something for our forthcoming holiday listening pleasure. Order was duly placed. Impulse buying of Style Council 'best of' CD also occurred. When I got outside, I remembered that I (a) already have a Style Council 'best of' LP and (b) will soon have a USB Turntable on which to convert said LP to digital splendour. Oh, what a silly old Hector I am!
*in line with a recent policy decision to stop sucking at the milky teat of corporate capitalism (Amazon and its ilk) in favour of supporting the many fabulous Independent High Street Shops of Great Britain (still just as capitalist, but a lot less milky).
*in line with a recent policy decision to stop sucking at the milky teat of corporate capitalism (Amazon and its ilk) in favour of supporting the many fabulous Independent High Street Shops of Great Britain (still just as capitalist, but a lot less milky).
Have just returned from The Quack's, having finally got round to having my anti-pneumonia shot (a privilege vouchsafed me by my right wheezy lungs*). On returning home I made the classic mistake of reading the list of possible side-effects and a now poised to keel over from any one of the following: swollen joints, low blood pressure, anaphylaxis, headaches, nausea, vomiting ...
* a couple of years ago, while laid low with a bout of bronchitis, I discovered the art of polyphonic wheezing - very melodic, m' dearios.
[Note to self: please find alternative to 'vouchsafed' - twice in two days is going the game a bit]
* a couple of years ago, while laid low with a bout of bronchitis, I discovered the art of polyphonic wheezing - very melodic, m' dearios.
[Note to self: please find alternative to 'vouchsafed' - twice in two days is going the game a bit]
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Best Beloved is away in Nottingham at some conference, so I'm living the single life until Friday. Spoke to him on the blower this a.m. - he vouchsafed that he had 'a bit of a beer head'. Oh dear! and him about to lead a workshop. Will he never learn?
I, of course, would never be so foolish as to drink far too much vodka at a conference and then have to spend the next day sleeping it off in the car in a back-street in Sheffield (because I had to check out of my room at 10am) - no siree, bob. For I am a creature of moderation and without flaw...
Oh, yes!
I, of course, would never be so foolish as to drink far too much vodka at a conference and then have to spend the next day sleeping it off in the car in a back-street in Sheffield (because I had to check out of my room at 10am) - no siree, bob. For I am a creature of moderation and without flaw...
Oh, yes!
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