I’ve had an epiphany. Whenever I begin to doubt my ability to express myself in an anyway coherent and fitting manner, all I need do for reassurance is to check out my spam box; there are screeds of purple prose there that make my confused witterings seem positively Dostoevsky-like in comparison.
A recycled, recycled ‘Musing,’ for Shrove Tuesday!
” ‘Whizz pop whizz pop pop pop poppety pop pop,’ faster and ever so much faster flew the pancakes. Thicker and thicker. Bigger and bigger. They came out flatways and edgeways. They shot high in the air and stuck to the ceiling. One sailed across the room and hit the Vicar in the waistcoat, where it may or may not have reminded him of the ironholders for the South Crashbania natives. Pop poppety, pop pop pop. It was like a machine gun but much more sploshy. The Professor struggled out of his pancake just in time for another one to drop over him. Two pancakes were on the clock, four were draped over the light. The Mayor was eating his way through a complete set of pancakes of varying sizes that had fallen in front of him. The four firemen put their helmets on and brandished their axes, but only succeeded in smashing two cups, one saucer and the sugar basin. Mrs Flittersnoop put her head gingerly out from under the table and was immediately gummed to the carpet by a three-foot pancake two inches thick that had just shot out.”
From The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm by Norman Hunter
The following golden oldies are really more suited to ‘Musings’ – especially given the appalling puns in my last post, but when it came to it I simply couldn’t resist posting in ‘Greenpatches.’ Snow good…!
Mr M has managed to put his back out – climbing into bed on Sunday night! We still can’t for the life of us work out exactly what happened. He can get out and about around the house at least – albeit he looks rather like a ponderous, bearded turtle.
I’m positively athletic in comparison – though the aches and clicks remain. (I joked to oldchurch choir director that if she needs any jazzy accompaniment to the stuff we’re doing, just use me as a pair of castanets!). Must admit however, that the thought of the annual Christmas card marathon isn’t an enticing one just now. If this goes on I’m afraid it’ll just have to be a quick scrawl, no news and a New Year’s Resolution to finally get round to doing a proper database so that next year we can do address labels.
Here’s hoping I’m not banned from the wibsite for featuring this little menagerie: Firstly, Miffy Jnr, sporting his very first moustache, in aid of the Movember mens’ health initiative.
Second up – our two resident hairy horrors: Miffcat in one of her (many) snoozing places – the dog’s kingsize bed; her humble servant and subject, Miffdog squeezed into second class accommodation nearby.
I’ll spare you the sight of HH number three – Mr M’s beard. It wouldn’t be fair.
…that wand’r wild and free…
…at times I was taken back years to when the children were small; sitting there trying to mouth ‘For the Beauty of The Earth’ and ‘Morning has Broken’ whilst keeping an inquisitive, wriggly Fido with the attention span of a gnat from misbehaving, fidgeting, and generally ‘showing us up’ was a salutary reminder of what life used to be like every time I went to church. At the point when we were asked to hold and pray for our pets, I was bent down busily trying to remove congealed bits of half-eaten doggie treats from under the pew and untangle the lead from round us both.
Read about what happened when I took Miffdog to church, over on my other blog.
Grab your current read
Open to a random page
Share two (2) teaser sentences from somewhere on that page
Be careful not to include spoilers! Make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away. You don’t want to spoil the book for others!
Share the title and author too, so other TT readers can add your book to their TBR lists if they like your teasers.
My teasers are:
I don’t want to be houseman where people look at me as if I were part of a wall.
But I don’t know how I’ll ever get a college degree and rise in the world with no high school diploma and two eyes like piss holes in the snow as everyone tells me.
– From Frank McCourt’s memoir ‘Tis
You were lucky here that that somebody lent me the Frank McCourt at book group last night. The alternative would have been our group choice for the month: Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
Then again, if I’d done this meme a week ago – you’d have been regaled with some choice titbits from the BT Repair Project Guide: Getting to the heart of the problem on your line. Real gripping stuff!
There’s been excitement in the house today as Mr M realised a long-held ambition – to have a kilt. Those of you who follow me on FB will realise that the topic has caused slight ‘disagreement’ twixt self, spouse (and my Scottish cousins) as to whether as a Sassenach, he’s actually entitled to wear the thing; especially as it’s me who has the Scottish connection, through my late mother’s family. His assertion that if it’s ok for the Duke of Edinburgh to sport one, it’s good enough for him has carried little weight up until now…However, he’s worn me down. After all, anybody who possesses the staying power to tramp through mud, heather, mist, parties of disgustingly smug German and Dutch hikers and hairy Highland cattle with me last Spring is entitled to some compensation. So here we are. What the best-dressed Octoberfest drinker is modelling this autumn: Mr M in his ‘Scottish heritage,’ (our family tartan ‘Gunn,’ motto-‘Either peace or War!’ is far too expensive to wear for a mere p***-up!)
And now, to slip into something more comfortable…
This one is for Cal and Japes.
Many moons ago, you’ll remember I blogged over in Greenpatches about a momenteous decision that the beloved and I needed to make. Would we or wouldn’t we? To green or not to green? It was a big step to take, one that would have repercussions not only on our own self-image but on the delicate psyches of our nearest and dearest. We thought about it. In my case – prayed about it. We sat at the feet of image consultant gurus. (Well, ok, for that read consulted the great god Google). And waited…in trust. And, our patience was rewarded. The GGG moved mightily in power, and well..might, offering us a way through our dilemma. To cut both a long story short and putting all my mixed metaphors into the proverbial nutshell: it came to pass that there was Greenbelt, and a big, green, foldy tent thingy; umpteen layers of bedding, a spare groundsheet, a kelly kettle with accompanying kindling, sundry layers of woolly thermal underlayers, three year’s worth of carefully amassed hiking gear, a fetching pair of floral ankle wellies, a stinking pair of walking boots, a socking great 60 litre backpack; the lot topped with a dainty garnish of chintzy bunting, oh, and myself. And nothing to carry it in.
Then it came to me. I hied myself to the GGA (no prizes for guessing this one) and behold! There it was; verily an answer to prayer: a ‘Festival Trolley.’
It did the job brilliantly. Mr M being A New Man is delighted and can be regularly seen with it and the dog in the shops and round the market. (Though not round the market with the trolley and the kilt). He’s convinced, converted, a Born Again Trolleyperson. Our neighbour remains to be convinced, however. Never mind, we’re biding our time…
with thanks to Ms M who stumbled across this this morning whilst tweeting her frustration at the rail replacement bus service up to Reading. Here, for your pleasure and delectation we bring you: