Endless rows of endless faces
smudge life as far as the eyes
can see
peering to the bitter edges
trying to find the rest of
me
Endless rows circle faster
spinning swirling sicken stop.
One room, staring, at the walls,
blackness staring back.
Monday, May 29, 2006
TOMATOE
For some time I have been aware of an anti-PATTOTE organisation that uses propaganda and smear campaigns to undermine the glorious victory that is rightly mine.
The One Man Against The Overlord Elizabeth (TOMATOE) considers itself a kind of freedom fighter and does not hesitate to spread paranoia and discord amongst my followers. His refusal to pronounce my acronym correctly (it's PATTOTE not POTATO) is reason enough to incite my loyal followers to squash the TOMATOE.
But then I remember that he's had years to overthrow me and yet, nothing happens. Why? Because he can't stay awake long enough:
Happy Birthday Robs!
Here's hoping the year brings you the brilliant things you deserve.
The One Man Against The Overlord Elizabeth (TOMATOE) considers itself a kind of freedom fighter and does not hesitate to spread paranoia and discord amongst my followers. His refusal to pronounce my acronym correctly (it's PATTOTE not POTATO) is reason enough to incite my loyal followers to squash the TOMATOE.
But then I remember that he's had years to overthrow me and yet, nothing happens. Why? Because he can't stay awake long enough:
Happy Birthday Robs!
Here's hoping the year brings you the brilliant things you deserve.
Friday, May 19, 2006
What I did on my vacation: part the second
I've never properly understood pub culture to tell you the truth. The idea of your favourite local is a bit foreign, although I suppose sitting around in The Rat on a Friday afternoon is pretty much the same thing.
However, we went to a couple of pubs and The Sister's Fiancé is an aficianado of same, having been a chef in pretty much every pub between Banbury and the Lake District.
Pubs are definitely not bars; people go to pubs to watch the football, have a pint before going home or go there for supper. In a lot of ways pubs are like Spur (God help them). They're even franchised out; one of the most common lot are Hungry Horse which seem to be everywhere and come complete with jungle gyms outside and cherry machines inside.
What did intrigue me is that everything is self-service. Food or drink, you go to the counter and order it and then they bring it out (with a poor attitude I hasten to add). You don't even tip the barman for drinks. When I asked The Sister's Fiancé if I should he practically recoiled in horror so no wonder everybody working there would rather be elsewhere.
Atmospheres vary. There was the decorated-by-an-eccentric-aunt-and-her-scruffy-mutt-who-came-to-visit-at-the-table one in Pangbourne amd the run of the mill one on the way to Banbury where you had to wait for the leeks to grow and the potato famine to end before you got your soup.
On our way back from Chawton (Jane Austen's home - the signpost for Hampshire says "Welcome to Jane Austen country", how cool is that) The Parents and I visited Watership Down. We found this pub on our previous family holiday when I was 11. It was an accidental discovery brought on by six people crammed into a peugeot cramping at once. It's lovely, with a beautiful view and chickens scuttling about. There used to be bunnies around the back but the waitress told us they'd pegged it and the staff now prefer poultry. I was struck by the lovely conservatory-type dining room and the retro 60's toilet seat cover decorated with perspex flowers. And of course the Ploughman's Lunch. The most wonderful lunch imaginable with gherkins, pickled onions, pate, cheese and Branston Pickle, washed down with a nice cold Strongbow Cider. Made up completely for the lack of bunnies.
The other pub that I'll remember is lovely for other reasons. The Sister, Fiancé and I all went to this place in Stratford and munched an awesome lunch. In that moment, when we were just talking, rubbish and otherwise, I thought: this is my family.
This is my family waiting for potato and leek soup. The Mother, The Sister and I get giggly:
The Sister and The Sister's Fiancé get nauseating:
The Father just keeps his head down:
However, we went to a couple of pubs and The Sister's Fiancé is an aficianado of same, having been a chef in pretty much every pub between Banbury and the Lake District.
Pubs are definitely not bars; people go to pubs to watch the football, have a pint before going home or go there for supper. In a lot of ways pubs are like Spur (God help them). They're even franchised out; one of the most common lot are Hungry Horse which seem to be everywhere and come complete with jungle gyms outside and cherry machines inside.
What did intrigue me is that everything is self-service. Food or drink, you go to the counter and order it and then they bring it out (with a poor attitude I hasten to add). You don't even tip the barman for drinks. When I asked The Sister's Fiancé if I should he practically recoiled in horror so no wonder everybody working there would rather be elsewhere.
Atmospheres vary. There was the decorated-by-an-eccentric-aunt-and-her-scruffy-mutt-who-came-to-visit-at-the-table one in Pangbourne amd the run of the mill one on the way to Banbury where you had to wait for the leeks to grow and the potato famine to end before you got your soup.
On our way back from Chawton (Jane Austen's home - the signpost for Hampshire says "Welcome to Jane Austen country", how cool is that) The Parents and I visited Watership Down. We found this pub on our previous family holiday when I was 11. It was an accidental discovery brought on by six people crammed into a peugeot cramping at once. It's lovely, with a beautiful view and chickens scuttling about. There used to be bunnies around the back but the waitress told us they'd pegged it and the staff now prefer poultry. I was struck by the lovely conservatory-type dining room and the retro 60's toilet seat cover decorated with perspex flowers. And of course the Ploughman's Lunch. The most wonderful lunch imaginable with gherkins, pickled onions, pate, cheese and Branston Pickle, washed down with a nice cold Strongbow Cider. Made up completely for the lack of bunnies.
The other pub that I'll remember is lovely for other reasons. The Sister, Fiancé and I all went to this place in Stratford and munched an awesome lunch. In that moment, when we were just talking, rubbish and otherwise, I thought: this is my family.
This is my family waiting for potato and leek soup. The Mother, The Sister and I get giggly:
The Sister and The Sister's Fiancé get nauseating:
The Father just keeps his head down:
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
What I did on my vacation: part the first
I've always had a bit of a soft spot for ducks. They're rather pretty creatures with lovely eyes. My distrust of larger birds (ie geese and swans) was confirmed by several run-ins with my feathered compadres on my recent visit overseas. Have I mentioned to anyone that I went overseas? I've tried to be subtle about it. I failed? Oh well.
Anyway, my first run-in with the birds was fairly innocuous. This one in Henley-on-Thames was more perturbed by the sodden shoe someone had left behind than the psycho South African cooing, "Here ducky, ducky, ducky," attempting to lure him with salted liquorice and sherbet lemons. It's all I had with me, all right?
Things were waddling along nicely but my visit to Stratford-on-Avon nearly unsettled my fascination with water birds forever. In between admiring the lovely buildings, picking postcards of picturesque Stratford and generally mooching along with the Sister, the Sister's Fiancé and Curtis-the-fetus, we tried to feed the duckies with duck food (which was very obviously remarketed pedigree dogfood at 50p a pop).
Yes, yes, aren't they just lovely. Beautiful, graceful, elegant. Not shown, the gang of geese who sized up my defenceless ass and rushed me for the food. Also not shown, the Sister and I debating whether to flee or keep our dignity intact by feeding them really fast and hoping to get rid of them. Eventually we fled and ate icecream instead.
I never had dignity so it's not that hard to miss.
Anyway, my first run-in with the birds was fairly innocuous. This one in Henley-on-Thames was more perturbed by the sodden shoe someone had left behind than the psycho South African cooing, "Here ducky, ducky, ducky," attempting to lure him with salted liquorice and sherbet lemons. It's all I had with me, all right?
Things were waddling along nicely but my visit to Stratford-on-Avon nearly unsettled my fascination with water birds forever. In between admiring the lovely buildings, picking postcards of picturesque Stratford and generally mooching along with the Sister, the Sister's Fiancé and Curtis-the-fetus, we tried to feed the duckies with duck food (which was very obviously remarketed pedigree dogfood at 50p a pop).
Yes, yes, aren't they just lovely. Beautiful, graceful, elegant. Not shown, the gang of geese who sized up my defenceless ass and rushed me for the food. Also not shown, the Sister and I debating whether to flee or keep our dignity intact by feeding them really fast and hoping to get rid of them. Eventually we fled and ate icecream instead.
I never had dignity so it's not that hard to miss.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Return of a weary traveller
My visit to places far away has finally ended and I'm back. Upcoming posts will include: Top 10 cultural differences between us and them, How to navigate roundabouts without facing certain death, Swans: graceful creatures, murderous birds, and SatNav: the end of the modern family?
Stay tuned...
Stay tuned...
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