It would be lovely to report that the weeks worth of tumbleweeds rolling through this electronic wasteland were a direct result of a life so filled with excitement and joy. This is sadly not the case. Nor have the creative pathways of drivel been blocked by a foolhardy attempt on sobriety.
It’s worse than that. I’ve been busy. But not busy/interesting or busy/useful more busy/bored or busy/work. The latter came as quite a shock but next years’ budgets wait for no one and there is enough inventive accounting flashing through a thousands spreadsheets to keep us in shredders for a year. My thankless task is to catalogue the project list for next year which is to words what the budget is to figures.
To label it merely dull would be a affront to the glory of English language. It reached high to touch extreme tedium, treacled away hours though dreary and latterly become marooned on an island of mind-numbing boredom. And my reward? Well let me lead you in by explaining it was about as much fun as you can have with a ladder. In winter. Which is not much.
In between was nose-in-the-trough Rugby laid on with four course meals, fifteen different ways to get pissed and some nice cheese to follow. Sandwiched between was a rugby match enlivened only by 82,000 drunken overcoats attempting a Mexican wave. It was more a flaccid handshake performed by the terminally uninterested. It put me in mind of a spontaneous outbreak of Parkinson’s disease.
I drove, didn’t drink and felt worthy. And with the following morning bringing a swaying ladder and some Frank Spencer type action with a bucket, I’m rather glad some bastard hangover didn’t join me up there. If anyone feels the urge to understand the mind numbing task that is cleaning external paintwork, please refer to a previous paragraph for a selection of appropriate adjectives.
To complete a weekend lacking a certain sparkle, my eldest daughter “ who lives outside the rules of self evidency; for example don’t try and eat an elephant” is merely a sulky challenge “ abandoned her thousand toys and rigged up a new game in the kitchen. Simply put, it showed a lively seven year old shrieking weee” as she rotated rapidly through open space, defying gravity by dint of hanging onto a cabinet door.
Somewhat beyond the operating parameters of said door I expect, which is probably why we found it on the floor with crying child desperately explaining I didn’t know it’d break”. Pass me the elephant.
Passably grumpy now, I was confronted by an article by that tosser Nigel Havers’ ranting on about how cyclists are trying to kill him. Normally I wouldn’t waste electrons calmly rationalising why the bloke is a complete dickhead but maybe he’s right. I’d certainly sign up to any club (especially if it came with a club) that roams the streets of London hunting down smug pricks allowed a shouty mouthpiece in the Times.
It’d be a small sample but hey we can have fun with just one.
EDIT: having just re-read Havers’ article and remembering how his last badly argued, poorly researched spite was properly put in it’s place, I may just write that article.