sheldrake

I haven't updated for just over a month. That is just... oh dear, it's... well, it's just over a month.

And... actually I think I'm going away again now. I'll come back tomorrow, I promise! (Except I'll probably find by that time you've moved and it's the middle of summer or something. You're like the 18th Century in the Doctor Who episode The Girl in the Fireplace. You're exactly like that. Don't try to deny it, you know you are!)

Ok, bye.

Things that are not good: Sweeping out a recently-emptied cupboard (at 10 at night), only to discover that at some time you spilt a fair bit of chilli powder in there. *koff* *splutter*.

I'm exhausted and I haven't even started moving yet. That, my friends, is for the morrow. The internets go away tomorrow too, and one never quite knows when they'll be back, does one? *tears out hair, rends garments*

I will see you all again one day, and bore you with pictures of the new house. xx

Why do I always start writing poems about sinister birds at bedtime?

***

As I was walking out at dusk,
I spied a heavy-trudging thrush,
A burden bent his feathered back,
A large and bulging canvas sack.

"Go to bed, my feathered friend,
The livelong day is at an end."
He turned to me with face of woe,
He sighed and sadly said he, "No,

"You do not understand, dear sir,
Things are not now as once they were.
Back in the day I'd go to nest,
And sing out when I'd had my rest,

And out the morning sun would peep
From behind the cloudy steeps,
The vapour-builded mountainside,
Where the mighty eagle hides.

And then the livelong day I'd be
A thrush -- no more, no less, you see?
Just as you're you, I would be me,
And then... and then, along came he."

A darkness came into his eyes,
I felt the wideness of the skies,
When then he looked into my face --
The cold, the dark, the night's embrace.

"Bird, what happened -- tell, you must!"
My voice cracked, as if clogged with dust.
I know not why, but I was gripped
With fear, my heartbeat tripped and skipped.

"I'll tell you sir," whispered the thrush,
"But please, not here -- oh! Oh, hush!"
We held our breath for minutes long,
then let it out. "A blackbird's song!

"What could this mean?" I wondered. "Why?
Would blackbird sing to darkening sky?"
"A farewell," said my songthrush friend.
"He bids goodbye to nights that end.

"For all is now night-time for us,
for sparrow, blackbird, poor songthrush.
We live in darkness without end,
Our torment now can never mend."

He seemed to stare into the gloom.
"Come -- I have a little room,
Small, but once there we can speak,
For now, I'd better shut my beak."

Compelled, I followed down a lane,
Damp and filthy, but complain
I could not, there was something here...
I had to know. And yet, my fear

Was overwhelming, cold and stark.
We went inside. And still, the dark.
I begged for light. "Forgive," said he.
"I forget others still can see."

***

TBC maybe, but then again, you know my record on this.

Yes, hello, I am back from the wilds of Sussex. It was lots of fun but now I am tired and very burnt. The campsite was quite strange, in a good way -- it had a sort of strange festival atmosphere without the bands. I think it might be the fact that campfires are encouraged -- the farmer drives around selling logs -- that brings out the party spirit in people. We saw lasers and fire-jugglers and hippies a-drumming and scouts and guitarists and those paper lanterns that float up into the sky and trailers all lit up like Christmas and, er, a caravan with a giant crucifix outside. That was odd. The site only had four rules: No fireworks; No music after 11pm; No dogs off leads; and No quad bikes or other recreational motorised vehicles. The only one we didn't see broken was the quad bikes, but there were motorbikes and the riders seemed to be having fun, so I'd say that counts.

Outside the campsite we did Bodiam Castle (endless steps, oh my legs, carp mouthing at us in the moat, National Trust doing the hard sell), Camber Sands (lots of brightly-coloured plastic, sand everywhere, bought a hat, too late, weird on-off weather), and some of us stopped off at Dungeness to see Derek Jarman's garden (see icon) and walk along the shingle looking for stones with holes in. The garden is really quite busy, considering it's absolutely in the middle of nowhere. I'd been there before, and once again I noticed the way everyone walked all around the cottage looking in the windows, then went up to the front door and read the tiny notice saying 'This is a private residence, please don't stare in at the windows'. There's also a bit warning you not to make pop videos or commercial films without permission ('This means YOU!) I think Dungeness is one of the weirdest places in Britain. Miles of bleak shingle stretch out, devoid of boundaries and dotted with small shacks, fishing boats, odd abandoned bits of iron and wood with sweet peas growing wild around them. Every so often a tiny steam train chugs by on the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Light Railway, and out of it all rise the two lighthouses and the nuclear power station. Surreal.

Now it is Monday and (wonder of wonders) I am not at work. I will not be at work on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday either. galactic_jack just came round for a cup of tea and a chat and it was very lovely and civilised, none of this ridiculous 'being at work' business. Things should always be like this.

Right. Now for lunch. Apologies if all that made little sense -- I may have sat in the sun too long.

Working
Sleeping
Eating too much
Drinking gin and tonic
Trying not to think about work
Washing up
Thinking about work
Working
Staring
Watching the tennis
Walking to work
Knitting
Reading books
Sitting down
Worrying about work
Feeling ever so slightly ill all the time, like I've just recovered from flu or something
Watching Doctor Who
Walking home from work
Trying to persuade myself to get off the sofa and go to bed
Walking around in a daze, sometimes going in and out of shops randomly
Nothing else

I has got my Firefox back! :) Now to fix the rest. But not tonight.

Just time to note the following:

I think Kirsty Young is secretly a Timelord.
I like Sue Perkins in a turban. But Giles Coren has no actual brain.
They gave me a Biggins story at work! I have to write a headline about Biggins! :) Sadly, nothing pornographic would fit the space. :(
The Biggins story is about him visiting the Pauline Quirke Academy of Performing Arts. No, seriously. I am not even making that up.
I award myself a prize for 'lamest headline of the week'.
I'm listening to Vivaldi's Gloria, having acquired it a while back for choir nostalgia reasons. I can't believe I was actually allowed to sing this stuff. In Notre Dame. And what was going through my mind at the time? How can I subtly let F know that I don't even care that she doesn't want to hang around with me any more? Just because she's discovered S now, whose brother auditioned for Cats. Like that makes her so much better. What she doesn't know is that S slags her off behind her back all the time anyway and complains to everyone that F followed her all round Paris and she couldn't get rid of her. Why must they play Vanilla Ice and Jive Bunny at the disco? I have no friends.

As you may have guessed, I'm back from mini-holiday. Dorset was full of sunshine and baa-lambs and primrose banks and bluebell woods and steep cliff paths and rocky pools, and we looked for fossils and had cream teas and went on a steam train and waved at the people exploring the castle ruins as we passed them by.. ahh yes... and in less traditionally Famous Five type activities, we admired the many tanks strewn across Dorset, played on the Wii, were disturbed by unpleasant racist undertones (ok, that is quite Famous Five), watched the Grand National and got addicted to Katie and Peter: The Next Chapter. And we discovered that it is indeed hard for a mother to hold a crab up to her baby son's face, but that it is sometimes necessary if one wants amusing snapshots. Then it snowed, wtf? Then I came back and Doctor Who was on and I enjoyed it and yay.

I am tired and rambling. General work rubbishness draws on apace, so I'll either be completely silent for the next few weeks, or popping up every other day, sobbing and raving. You can only hope it's the former.

Comment replies will happen, I promise. Just as soon as I've deferred my student loan / cleaned the bathroom / applied for a crap version of my own job etc.

ps. I would just like to remind everyone on the internet (not any of you obviously) that the name Russell actually has two Ls at the end, not one. Thank you. I sleep now.

Today's best headlines:

"Beaver not fugitive from estate -- claim"

"Fish set to be trained to catch themselves"

"Cat with shaved legs missing for a week"

As you were.