The significance of Ash Wednesday is all too close for comfort, I’m afraid. We’ve been up all night,with the odd snatch of sleep here and there, watching over poor old Miffcat – Chops, who’s on her last legs. She’s drifting in and out of sleep; let’s hope it stays that way as much as possible.I’m astonished that she’s lasted the night. Ah well.
Belated Easter greetings to everybody. Spring has sprung, and, as always, the Miffy household begins to plan its travels – of the four, two-wheeled – even the two-footed variety. Who would have thought that one could get quite so excited over thermal baselayers ( vests and long johns to the uninitiated!), dry bags, hydration systems, and, I’m ashamed to admit, that new-fangled ‘Shewee!’ (No, I’ve not yet plucked up the courage to ‘practice in the shower’ as per the user instructions). Shudders.
However,’The best laid plans of mice and men’ etc… Our Greenbelt arrangements have had to be tweaked suddenly, and yesterday saw us doing what we said we’d never do again after fifteen years or so of camping en France with the children. No, we’re not dashing off to buy the best Millets has to offer; that would be a step too far! But (if current negotiations are successfully negotiated) we should be staying on site for the first time. All will be revealed in due course, (don’t get too excited – or my stylish purple striped baselayer combo will be a sad let-down to all concerned). Let’s just say we will be following true wibsite camping tradition. And, with luck, I’ll have a refuge in which to down umpteen Nice Cups of Tea and contemplate my (purple-striped navel) until the cows come home.
As I said…the best laid plans.
It came to pass in those days that a humble wiblogger had a blog, a new, shiny blog. The blogger liveth in the wibsite along with many other bloggers of a similarly wibbling disposition. She bloggeth. Every day (nearly). Keepeth the home and work fires burning (some of the time). And generally doeth her duty as An Shining Example of Christian Womenhood. ( She also studieth a little theology on the side, but we all have our failings!)
But lo! As Lent, the season of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth approacheth, our humble wiblogger was struck with guilt. She weepeth and waileth and renteth her clothing. (She gnasheth not her teeth as NHS dentists are hard to come by; an simple filling costeth the price of an small mortgage).
” I have sinned,” she crieth. ” I have blogged when I shoudst not have blogged. I have not blogged when I shoudst have blogged. (The same goeth for eating chocolate). ”
” Likewise I neglecteth my theology course. I stoppeth reading those long, boring genealogies after the first three ‘begats.’ I skippeth all the dull bits in Leviticus, and peruseth the Ship version of Exodus instead of Gospelcom. I telleth not my exegesis from my hermeneutics, my hydrostasis from my hydrants. There is no health in me.”
And she casteth around in her mind as to how she might expurgate her sin.
And lo! (again). One day as she flicketh her way through The Methodist Recorder, an Angel (metaphorically speaking, you understand) camest to her and saith:
” Lo! (yet again), Behold! Be Not Afraid! (tick whichever box applies). Havest I got a challenge for you! Hasten thou deep into the bowels of cyberspace and startst thou a new blog! ”
And with a cheery ” Rememberest thou. No chocolate allowed!” the angel departest from her.
So, whistling an quick chorus of “Here I Am, Lord,” (expurgated version), our wiblogger hied her off to lands afar, wherein after much travail, perusething of HTML code and wiggling of widgets, was born Green Patches. She bloggeth. Every day (nearly). And it was Very Good.
But, lo! (And woe). It camest to pass, after many years, our wiblogger, whose name wast now Green Patches, bloggeth not every day. She neglecteth her blog. She joineth the ‘Seabirds.’ And one day, whilst she idleth away her time in exotic climes, An New Blogger, armed with his trusty cheese grater, entereth her blog, shaveth off an entry and quoteth it in his own blog and in Another Place.
When our wiblogger discovereth it, she pondereth it in her heart. She wondereth what kind of news this might be. Couldst she a worthy contender for the Dullest Blog in the World MKII? She readest it again. No she couldn’t. Then she really didst gnash her teeth (dentists notwithstanding). And thinketh thoughts wholly unfitting for one shortly to become a fully fledged seabird. For It Is Written:” Seabirds shallst not run amok in the blogosphere with sundry kitchen implements, whatsoever the provocation. Blessed are the Cheese Graters.”
So she repenteth…and laugheth…
And verily, the slight rise in her stats gratifieth her exceedingly.
…when I beheld my darling. Which had I not been skulking at home in my dressing gown instead of Doing My Christian Duty I’d have missed. I know some wibsiters have already heard about Mr M’s little tumble. For those who haven’t, all the gory details can be found on his cycle blog. Or for a glimpse of the beloved in full pancake mode see my Greenpatch grumblings.