More Rabbits.

signs of spring
Originally uploaded by bumpoowilly.

AS a postscript on the rabbit story, the RSPCA came round last night.

Total Interaction, as Jed would say. The dead rabbit saga is over.

Just like a modern shopping centre

Phone Mast Dave
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

We woke up the other morning to the crashing sounds of Tom and Daniel Taylor in the house (this is Anna's house, rather than my house, where Tom and Daniel Taylor live, along with Rosanne, and me occasionally. But Rosanne was in Austria so it was just the two of them). "Hey, come out! We've got a surprise for you!"

What surprise could greet our sleep-encrusted eyes on this of all mornings. Oh. It's a dead rabbit with its guts all hanging out. Tom and Daniel Taylor proceed to skin and cut up the rabbit. We have a cup of coffee on the doorstep and then go out.

Now a week has passed. It turns out that they bought two rabbits. So in our fridge there is one complete but dead rabbit, and one rabbit pelt, just waiting to be taxidermied.

More animal news. The phone rings the other day. It's Tom. "Quick, come down to Sainsburies. There's a pomeranian in a basket!". Now I've heard of this basketed pom before, but never seen it. With fluid motions, I leap into my awaiting shoes and throw my jacket round my shoulder, nearly get killed by a speeding motorcycle on Upper North Road, and skid to a halt on Western Road. There's Tom. The Pomeranian is in a basket on the front of a mobility cart belonging to an old man. Man and Basketed Pom push past. Tom had such a good day. He made a bread and butter pudding, had to go out for more milk, and saw the Pomeranian in a Basket again in Waitrose.

John Leslie - Celebrity Rapist
A poem to the ascent of prime numbers

Leslie
John Leslie
Oh do not rape me
Stop now! Desist, John Leslie!
You may have raped Ulrika Johanson, but
Lucy Record shall emerge untouched from your vice grip
And my nose is filled with the crackle of Richard Bacon. Is cooking.

I've been upstairs trying to write a big old essay about Tom Stoppard (nee. Tomáš Straussler) which means that on the lovely day that yesterday was, I had to decline Tommy, Maya and the Machine Brothers' kind offer to go down to the beach, inflate Marine Patrol 3000 and go for a sail. Now these kids had been up all night on some grotesque machine-led drug fest. I stayed in my room and addressed the immediate issue of authenticity in The Real Inspector Hound. Strolled down towards the beach at about sixish, and it turned out that they had already got cold and went to the pub. One thing led to another and some random guy called Ed was inflating the Marine Patrol 3000 in the Bedford Tavern and Dave the Machine all pouting and red-lipped and back home with a boat for the rabbit leaping out of the fridge and getting shot

maya sleeps in a crumpled heap on the mattresses in the kitchen to be stepped on by Daniel Taylor in the morning as he prepares the buffet

Filth!

St. Albans Market
Originally uploaded by CSsmith.

If music is the food of love, feed my love, trumpet-boy.

I wanted that to be about the old man who plays the accordion outside of W.H.Smiths, but I just couldn't figure out a way to make it sound reasonable.

Procrastination is what happens when you've made other plans.

Um. Not sure about that one. Me and Jacob did get a chance to make our Sylvia Plath joke yesterday...

So Ted Hughes gets back from work. In through the door he comes. "Hi, honey, I'm home. Wow, that smells lovely. What's in the oven, darling?"

MY HEAD!!!1

Yet another issue with the phrasing, I think. Please don't hate me, I do like Sylvia Plath really. Heck, I've even enjoyed reading Douglas Coupland now and again and it didn't stop me and those two IT mock-mocha sipping hipsters from kidnapping him and nailing him to a metallic cross made of computer terminals.

No, really. Look, here's a picture of me feeding a baby sheep with a bottle.



There. I'm glad that's over. So yes, I fed a baby sheep with a bottle. We went to the Seven Sisters Sheep Farm. We saw all sorts of baby lambs of less-than-a-week old. And some baby pigs. And of course lots of grown up sheep and some massive big pigs and some funny ducks with really long torsoes.

What else have I been doing? Rosanne destroyed her finger at Jacob's birthday party a few weeks ago. Actually it was her thumb. But it was completely damaged in a door. I mean, she broke it in seven places. A thumb doesn't even have seven places. She had an interview at Bath Spa. We went to Bath to go stay with Matt the Cripple and as we got to Victoria Station the handle fell off her po-fo. So we had to fight our way through a big mangled heap of commuters with an injured thumb with train-ticket glued to it and a big portfolio with no reasonable way of holding it. Got to Bath. Matt the Cripple grabs Rosanne the Cripple and tries to swing her round and crushes her thumb yet more. (Actually, Alice had squeezed the broken thumb a couple of days before.) We meet a thoroughly annoying singer-songwriter.

Did some other stuff in Bath too. Went to the theatre and saw a Romanian production of Twelth Night with subtitles scrolling up the side of the stage in broken-shakesperian english. Matt the Cripple works for the Bath Theatre Royal. Went to the Bath Postal Museum. Matt took a load of Rosanne's thumb-painkillers. (We actually had a bet how long it would take Matt to try to eat all Ro-ro's painkillers. The winning guess? Less than 15 minutes.)

God bless Myspace. I found an old friend who I have been wanting to get in touch with for ages AND I got to read a story about exploding rats.

Sorry, this isn't the most coherent blog-post I've ever written ever