Filth!
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
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
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 1:43 PM
1 Comments:
That was actually worryingly coherent. Almost a trace of narrative. Good god, man!
The baby sheep's body traces a pleasing curve, continuing up through the feeding bottle and ending somewhere around your wrist.
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