200 million years, and not a loo in sight.

Sorry for the last post. Whilst it may have been truthful, it wasn't the exciting, fascinating extravaganza you're all used to.

Wait, no, that would be if I were Mimi, or Julia, or Alice.
Or any one of a number of others (Damn, I'm showing my bias. I try to only do that on webcam).
It was still non-cheery. Again, sorry about that.

Anyway, failing fascinating, here's just some stuff. As ever.

This makes me giggle hysterically.
Nyeh, kinda.

I bought a ring yesterday. It's an ammonite which has been plated round the edge with silver. It's beautiful.

I was told by the cheery Aussie girl on the stall that it's an ammonite from Morocco, and is around 200 million years old.

I don't know how much truth is in that - I know it's an ammonite, but I don't know it's from Morocco, and I haven't yet put enough effort into finding out how old ammonites should be.

The sad thing is, I was walking home from work with Matt, and said something about ammonites disapproving of us young 'uns, and how they'd not like anyone under 200 million years old...

So every now and then, I'll just casually mention how everyone under 200 million years old ought to be herded off cliffs, and Matt tells the ammonite to stop taking me over and go back in the ring*.

*Cue childish sniggering.

Everyone else does this sort of thing, right? Right?

This isn't good.

Today I called in sick to work and went back to bed.

I felt like absolute shit this morning. But I went back to bed and only woke up at 6pm.

Now, of course, I feel all bleurgh and fuzzy of brain, although not in pain any more.

Also, though, I feel guilty.
Work is ludicrously busy right now, and it's all counting down to the end of the week. Now I've missed one day, which means that anybody who needed me to help them with something is out of luck. And, of course, every other day will have that much more work inherent in it.

Why must I get like this? When I take a day off legitimately ill, why can't I accept that yes, it may be bad timing, but there's nothing I can do about it? Why does my brain have to go on and on thinking about it? Why do I feel so much guilt that I physically become hot with the self-loathing?

Eeesh. I'm all exciting today, aren't I? Note to self: Don't post when you're like this.

Sing-along-a-BB.

The horse... is a noble beast
From the mustangs of the west
To the stallions of the east
But the horse has a distant cousin
It lives... I do not know where
But its message of racial harmony
Is one that we all can share...

Hats off to the zebras!
They are black and white
They don’t fight
‘cause they’re not very good at it.

In a world of confusion
We all need a sign
If only we could live side by side
Like the stripes on a zebra’s spine...

Hats off to the zebras!

The humble badger
Takes a sip of morning dew
But he’s totally colourblind
So he can’t judge you.

But the badger is a dreamer
The badger has a plan
He knows that his destiny
Is to help his fellow man...

Hats off to the badger!
He is black and white
But he doesn’t fight
Except for mating rights and territory.

The black man and the white man
Both they need to shave
United by the badger brush
He’s helping from beyond the grave...
From beyond the grave…

Hats off to the badger!
What about the tapir?
Half zebra, half pig
Imagine the stig-
ma
But the tapir stands proud…

Hats off to the tapir!
Badgers and zebras, skunks, oh yeah
And ring-tailed lemurs
Living together in harmony
And if the killer whales can do it
Why can’t we?

God, I love Bill Bailey, and his songs...

Also, if you haven't, go look at Dave and Huw's websites, bee-hutches!

Experi-Mental Productions

Ok, I know my telling you how cool my siblings are is getting old, but...
Experi-Mental Productions.

These are films made by my more elusive and mysterious brother, Dave.

He's been interested in film-making and so on for ages, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he now has a website. I think he's got a great idea of music to go with mood, and I basically really like his videos.

In Baby-sitting, the 3rd of the four, you'll probably (possibly?) recognise Huw, of Laugh Like Pa semi-fame as the star, plus being responsible for the music for it.

I just can't get over how good these videos are, considering they're filmed on Dave's digital camera which can only capture one minute of silent footage at a go.

Obviously, I'm completely unbiased.

ETA: I just spoke to him, and he got into college to do film-making! Yay Dave!

Things that happen.

*I explain that curry sauce is probably just lard with generic brown dye number 7 and paprika.
Matt gets hysterical.

*I find these guys.

*I take some photos.






*I overheat. A lot. Scottish people aren't built for this sort of weather.

*I gain scratch marks from my navel to my neck, as Hastings (AKA PidPid, Veggie, or Dangerous Beans) enjoys burrowing. I can't imagine I'll be scratchless in the foreseeable future. She's worth it, though.

*I fall down the stairs at work and gain a bruise. A bruise! I am most proud, since I don't usually bruise. I also scrape both arms and one leg, but that's not so interesting.

*I read this:

Like a Scarf
James Tate

The directions to the lunatic asylum were confusing,
more likely they were the random associations
and confused ramblings of a lunatic.
We arrived three hours late for lunch
and the lunatics were stacked up on their shelves,
quite neatly, I might add, giving credit where credit is due.
The orderlies were clearly very orderly, and they
should receive all the credit that is their due.
When I asked one of the doctors for a corkscrew
he produced one without a moment's hesitation.
And it was a corkscrew of the finest craftsmanship,
very shiny and bright not unlike the doctor himself.
"We'll be conducting our picnic under the great oak
beginning in just a few minutes, and if you'd care
to join us we'd be most honored. However, I understand
you have your obligations and responsibilities,
and if you would prefer to simply visit with us
from time to time, between patients, our invitation
is nothing if not flexible. And, we shan't be the least slighted
or offended in any way if, due to your heavy load,
we are altogether deprived of the pleasure
of exchanging a few anecdotes, regarding the mentally ill,
depraved, diseased, the purely knavish, you in your bughouse,
if you'll pardon my vernacular, O yes, and we in our crackbrain
daily rounds, there are so many gone potty everywhere we roam,
not to mention in one's own home, dead moonstruck.
Well, well, indeed we would have many notes to compare
if you could find the time to join us after your injections."
My invitation was spoken in the evenest tones,
but midway though it I began to suspect I was addressing
an imposter. I returned the corkscrew in a nonthreatening manner.
What, for instance, I asked myself, would a doctor, a doctor of the mind,
be doing with a cordscrew in his pocket?
This was a very sick man, one might even say dangerous.
I began moving away cautiously, never taking my eyes off of him.
His right eyelid was twitching guiltily, or at least anxiously,
and his smock flapping slightly in the wind.
Several members of our party were mingling with the nurses
down by the duck pond, and my grip on the situation
was loosening, the planks in my picnic platform were rotting.
I was thinking about the potato salad in an unstable environment.
A weeping spell was about to overtake me.
I was very close to howling and gnashing the gladiola.
I noticed the great calm of the clouds overhead.
And below, several nurses appeared to me in need of nursing.
The psychopaths were stirring from their naps,
I should say, their postprandial slumbers.
They were lumbering through the pines like inordinately sad moose.
Who could eat liverwurst at a time like this?
But, then again, what's a picnic without pathos?
Lacking a way home, I adjusted the flap in my head and duck-walked
down to the pond and into the pond and began gliding
around in circles, quacking, quacking like a scarf.
Inside the belly of that image I began
recycling like a sorry whim, sincerest regrets
are always best.

-- Worshipful Company of Fletchers, The Ecco Press, 1994

Things happen...

I think I've confused myself.

See how superheroes can go super-fast? I'm specifically thinking about the Superman films where he runs and goes all blurry and zoomy, and that bit in the first Spiderman film (the new ones with that odd-lookin' kid in them) where he is dodging the bully's fists.

Now, when they go all fast, and everything seems to go in slow motion, it seems to me that there's two choices.
1) Everything else seems to be in slow motion to them, and they are running normally.
or
2) Everything else is going at normal speed to them, and they are going zoomy.

So... wouldn't that mean that either:
1) everything's all slow to them all the time (as it's not that their reflexes speed up when they run or are punched at or anything) or
2) they should run into stuff a lot more (as there appears to be nothing (in Peter Parker's case, at least) to say that their brain functions have sped up).

Gah! This made sense to me before I started typing.
Have some reading about fallacies.

Picture postcards.

Sorry, I know I said I'd have these up two days ago...

Anyway:

Auntie Jean (actually, she's my great-auntie) 'helping' with dessert.


Mouse.


Granny, my dad, and my aunts.


Flowers.


Stupidly picturesque village.
























Tiddles and Clem (r-l). They've been together for about 37 years and, despite Clem's best romantic efforts, she won't mate with him because he's a miniature tortoise and she's not. He's still attempting it every day. True love, eh?





Oooh, threatening!

Fresh are the roses.

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maiden singing in the valley below:
"Oh don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?

Oh, gay is the garland, and fresh are the roses,
I've cull'd from the garden to bind on thy brow.
Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?

Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,
Remember the bower where you vowed to be true.
Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?"

Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing,
Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below;
"Oh, don't deceive me: Oh, never leave me.
How could you use a poor maiden so?"

I'm home and safe, and shall hopefully post photos tomorrow.
It feels all weird to be back.