Gone fishin'

"No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money."
Dr Johnson

Oof, I am flagging, my friends... I feel the need to take a break from blogging, and the need to spend more time on some of that RL stuff. But I guess I'd miss it if I stopped for good, & I'll still be reading you. And I'll still be on Flickr if you really miss me.

So, hasta la vista baby ...














Photo from here

Blogshares

A lady in Bristol bought shares in my blog!*

Check yours out here.

Oh no, something else to worry about, (the share price has dropped by around £400 over the past month, surely this can't be a good thing?) as well as my flatlining sitemeter....

* what is a 'hostile takeover'? It does not sound friendly.

Bring It On Home

Good grief!!

Could it be...?


I am tempted. But old Robert can't really sing like he used to. He used to sing like a pissed-off banshee and now he sounds a bit like an Elvis impersonator. Still...

happy birthday to bad Sarah

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you,

I'm not a cheapskate who wouldn't send a card,

I'm just a dope who didn't know it was today,

Happy Birthday to you!!!

People, go and send her birthday wishes in the comments to make up for my slackness.

Bad Sar gives Deborah Harry a run for her money in the killer-cheekbones-&-rock- n- roll- attitude stakes

Random crushes

Steve Bell

David Attenborough

Bill Bailey

Heston Blumenthal

None of them are oil paintings. Two of them have beards. Hmmm....

They can all do stuff though.

Y tu? Who are your random crushes? Don't be shy.

for the lurkers

who are you? come on now, I don't bite. *


* unless on special request

I hate these people

Rupert and Jemima have a budget of only £800,000. Yet they want a country place to bring up their kids and a pied-a-terre in town for Rupert to commute to his something-very-well paid in London. A tall order? Maybe so, but you know that Phil and Kirsty love a challenge.

Rupert: I can see myself living here. Games room with snooker table... granny flat... indoor pool, laundry room, double garage, study, 5 bedrooms, 3 receptions, ballroom with Italian marble floors - what's not to like?

Jemima: But what about the paddock for my gymkhanas? *bursts into tears*

Kirsty: Back to the drawing board, Phil.

Phil: [thinks] Posh gits... can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.

Sunday feeling

It can't be right to feel this negative about going back to work. Can it? In addition to gloomy Sunday afternoon/end of holiday feeling there is real dread in the pit of my stomach. I am not ready, or even willing, to inspire young minds. I wish to hide under the duvet, quite frankly.

Yeah yeah, teachers, always bloody moaning, but you get all these long paid holidays - but let me put it to you like this, gentle reader - ask yourself this, truthfully now - would you like to go back to school?

Oh well, as we were always telling each other during the hellish PGCE year - the only way out is through. See you sometime next June. Probably.

Return of the mouse

Sorry to bore you again with the mouse, but despite the magic supersonic mouse noise repeller, now permanently plugged in, last night about 2.00 am I could hear scratch scratch scratch, scratch scratch scratch, under the floorboards at the foot of the bed.

It was very freaky, sounded like something hideous was trying to tunnel its way into the room. I was a wuss and threw my shoe at it, I wanted to lift up the rug and be face to face with the beast, but was scared to in case it looked like this:










In which case I would have to leave the house immediately and check into a hotel.

Fuck. I had such faith in the supersonic mouse noise repeller too. On the website it says that The ultrasound creates a loud noise at a high frequency that only rodents can hear: imagine that for a mouse, it's like having a smoke alarm going off constantly.

Is it all a big con, and I have just bought an expensive box which lights up when you plug it in? After all, I can only take their word for it that its emitting a mouse smoke alarm - only the mice know for sure, and they're not telling...

When you know you're past it

A booklet falls out of the Saturday papers. Idly you open it up and flick through. Hmm, nice bootleg dark denim jeans, you think.

Oh no. You have just admired something in the Boden catalogue.