My relationship with English continued to be much one of turbulence. All English teachers talked too fast, fail number one. The texts required too much verbal interaction, that sent me straight through the net. It was too closely related to speech, too. The list goes on, as to why I could never get out of my English classes fast enough preferring to run straight to the Maths block. Inner rebellion occurred, and I didn't want to know.

So someone suggested I wrote poetry. I'm all like, have you lost your mind? I don't know the first thing about poetry! I can't write! Automatic rejection, based on past experiences. However, since we were having a parallel discussion, a light bulb went off how it possibly could be a gateway to expressing visual language (where I had narrowly interpreted this to just be sign). As someone who was brought up between two existences, perhaps a double identity, this could be an English-visual representation. Perhaps not a revelation to the masses out there, but for me something clicked. Oh, how I had been so dismissive. Dismissive as I might be, I didn't think I could do anything with it and with it perhaps some envy which translated into frustration.

This week has been a difficult one, so I started to write poetry, not a conscious geared act. To my surprise I wrote four poems in the space of 12 hours. It perhaps paints me as more crazy, wondering how my head is wired up. It causes me to re-read and shout: get a grip! Yet strangely offers structure, and insights that I never knew possible. I can analyse, talk myself to death, and get no-where. Poetry is an interesting process, as its in total conflict with my logical self, and a side of me that traditionally likes to dominate. In all irony, pushing this logical - or perhaps analytical - self pushes me into deeper confusion and leaving a knotted mess. Where I'm quite aware I can send those around me nuts. With poetry (well at least for me because I don't know the rules), feelings dominate which cannot be mutated by logic or analysis. Just write, and leave be.

I'm not about to share what I've written, as the content is way too personal. However, one thing I do know, if poetry is inspired by hurt its a hell of a profession.

Dad grew up on a coastal village, which basically consists of one long street, and not a lot else. It turns out the village hall used to screen a series called "Scorpion". Whilst a series, apparently it was never shown in order because that was the way things were done. Be grateful you can see anything at all. On leaving the cinema his uncles (Caradog and Lewis) sometimes used to hide in shadows chanting the above; Caradog wearing some disused policeman's coat wrapped around his face. Since there was only two street gas lamps along a couple of miles of road, thus pitch darkness coupled with an overactive imagination spurned on by the cinema; it left the kids running up the street. Process repeated every week. All these screwed up genes were obviously handed down, so next time I'm being purely sadistic, you'll know why.

The above tale made me glee. At a similar age - I'm talking about 6 or 7 here - we watched a film about the Egyptians. Through a woman's greed for the treasures the Pharaoh was going to take into his next life, she made a decision to stay in the pyramid and in doing so became locked in. Cue: huge concrete doors slam down, woman panics. Of course the treasures or she does not physically go anywhere to some afterlife. She's stuck. So I ask what was going to happen, and got the details that she was going to suffocate. She won't be able to breathe? Questions go on, and we get to the dying a slow and painful death description. I then burst out crying, and my family ribbed me for it, "Its only a film, look at you". My sister - who is younger than me - never lets me forget it (yes, ammunition that will slink out of the depths of memory). Since then, let it be known I've never cried at a single film. The whole room can be crying buckets, it can even be a translation of reality and I'm totally NOT GOING TO CRY is etched a bit too well in my neurons. I will leave spelling out my relationship with horror films for another day.

I've attempted to locate Scorpion online, with the view of possibly buying a dvd for dad's birthday (I've got a few months, but skipping ahead a bit here, dad is the most difficult person to give presents for - he hates materialism with a passion), and running into a dead end already.

Dad thinks he was aged 6 - 8 at the time, which makes it 1946-1948 or thereabout. Given there would have been little or no film production in the first half of the 1940s and mid Wales was hardly the cutting edge, its very possible this could have been produced pre-war days. A simple search for "scorpion" on IMBd leads to these results, but it doesn't help. I'm looking for a series, I'm looking for something scary in the eyes of a kid that was around 1940s or before (1950s at a push, if dad is bluffing his age). Film buffs out there, got any ideas?

"Where's that envelope that was on here this morning?"
"What envelope?"
"The one with my bank statement in"
"I didn't know it was a bank statement"
"Well where is it?
"I think I may have put it through the shredder"
"Think?"
"Er, I'll have a look for it now"

INTERLUDE - I GO OUT - COME BACK

"Where's my bank statement?"
"I shredded it"
"How could you do that?"
"I thought it was something about computers"
"You could have checked with me"

SNARLS - INTERLUDE

"What's a matter now?"
"I'm annoyed with you"

INTERLUDE

"See, this is how much you have in your account," passing me a shredded piece of paper.
"Some shredder that is"

GOES AWAY

"See, the last payment was 20 July and this is the interest you've earned"
"Bloody useless shredder. Next time shred the other way".

"God! Will that thing quit? Its buzzing around like a blue arsed fly, and just being annoying"
"Its the Welsh Assembly is having a day out. Rhodri Morgan is surveying his estate"

So this post is going to be superficially centred around loot, which really wouldn't go down well with dad. He's the least materialistic person I know of; more on that another day because really, its deserving of a blog post by itself.

First up is my sister's birthday card.

A card that sums up our relationship very well. When my mum saw it, she was crying with laughter so much that she could not talk for at least half an hour. Sibling rivalry between us was really that hilarious. Count the lines on the sheet, so the other doesn't have more than half of the bed. We did it. Don't you as much as put your toe over that line, because this side of the bed is mine. BOG OFF! Then one of us would do it, just to annoy the other and all hell would break loose. Count the cornflakes in the bowl, just in case your sister was outdoing you? Been there. Tell your sister to touch some stinging nettles, because you could. I did it. Parents' refusal to give us bunk beds, because they had a very good reason to. Rip up homework after spending hours at? My sister did it. Even now, we'll just wind each other up, just to relive old times: [asking our parents] "Who do you love the best?" Mum and dad are now stupid enough to play along, and will usually side with HER. Simply because she lives far far away in America. "See mum/dad loves me more than you," said in as much gloat as one can muster.

The real world has to be a complete doddle by comparison.

Despite all the above, did get these shoes as a present. Which incidentally are the most comfortable shoes I've worn for a long time. A sure sign of old age: stuff looks, go for comfort.

Moving on. E, P, J and C brought me some massage vouchers! ::bounce:: Its a long time since I've had a massage, I'm talking years and years. In fact, I don't think I've ever had a professional massage, unless you include the massage course I attended back in 1995, which doesn't really count. Neither does several visits to an osteopath due to a parachuting injury, the physiotherapist because of a RTA, the trial Indian Head massage, or reflexology. I love water, and traditionally spas is what I've always gone for. However, I'm totally up for some tactile treatment, believe me my shoulder needs it. No doubt I'm going to be nagged to death, and I will be on my merry way.

JHB turned up in Wales a couple of weeks ago to dress up, where I felt way too old.

When you're 18 you know half the party, at my age you don't. I did see a couple of relatives, here's one (I failed to recognise him at first, do you blame me?) with mum:

As previously seen in this blog post. See, I'm related to crazy people, and people who would be terribly proud to admit it.

JHB turned up armed with a wrapped up box; and threats all evening that he was going to take the said box back, should I not stop going around the town squirting everyone with a water pistol. And more specifically him, read: his, water pistol. I mean, hand me an exciting toy and I'm going to max out on it; even if it does include squirting Lembit. Hello, euphoria! The water pistol did encounter a sudden death. Cause: the bottom of my dad's shoe.

Possibly because of this, I got to keep the said wrapped box, and it contained the first series of West Wing, w00t! Several days later, he said, "Giving you the West Wing was supposed to be for entertainment not a career guide, you off to be the pollster for the White House now?" I've only watched the first disc so far, because I've really been junking out on American TV of the late, via my dvd rentals. British comedy, what's that? I'll give you my verdict when I've finished the first series, but one thing I will say. I'm cursing this present. Do I really need to feel obligated to get through yet another American TV series? I'm certainly playing catch up here, for a decade of missed television.

J and C also brought me a Crazy Cat Lady action figure. I saw this online a few months ago, and immediately started praying that J would not stumble on it. Obviously it didn't work. Prayer is now on par with the Fail Whale. If J saw, I knew exactly what would happen, i.e. it would be another excuse just to rib me, and I was right. Apparently, as well eccentric, I'm the Crazy Cat Lady. Let it be known I've never owned a cat in my life. That is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and so help me God you did not. I just happen to be around other people's cats. That I cannot help, and for some reason moggies have set it their mission in life to just bug me. So, there. Ner, ner. In the meantime, I now have an outlet for related frustration.

Fast forward to this week, I got a newspaper in the post. Shudder at the thought, and yes I did laugh. Birthday pranks! My immediate thought, "Someone has been raiding my Flickr account". I really should know better than to put pictures of me on The Internet!

The story contained a piece of information that only two of my friends are aware of, one more with it than the other.

"J - would you care to explain oneself?"
"WASN'T ME!!"

Immediately insinuating association, and asserting an evil master collaboration going on. See, I didn't even have to go into detail here. Great. J knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"E?"
"E is not the only person who knows of xxxx evils"
"I've not talked to anyone else about xxxx evils. You're my partner in crime, we had a discussion with E. That's it?!"
"Think"

Before I go on with this story, let it be known I was awake the previous night until ~4am, trying to sort out a server which was down a few hours. Not something I could postpone until the next day, as a few business websites are hosted on it. Read: the next day my head was not functioning, and in the last position to deal with cryptic.

So this mind twisting as to who sent me such an evil present, goes on for hours and hours. A process of elimination. Bugging friends, however they were just going along with the evil plan. I drag Twitter into it, sending various random people into confusion. Then I question Ce:

"Newspaper"
"What about it?"
"What [do] you have to say for [your]self?"
"No idea what you [are] talking about"
[Explains]
"And [I] am on [the] case as to who sent it"
"Ah so that's what your twit[ter] message was about. Looked at it earlier thought mm what she on!"
"Its annoying me, immediately i thought it was J. Then thought E. No apparently, so thought I'd try you"
"Well its a no sorry"
"I need to figure out who sent it"
"T is now at the top of my list of suspects, since you deny it"
"Does it matter?"
"I would like to thank them for annoying me!"
"But imagine though u a prime minister!"
"LOL - FFS! You sure you didn't send?"
"LOL at the wine abolishment thing! Sounds like something you would do!"
"Apparently xxxxx is my best friend. That's J all over, to include that"

So this conversation goes on for what must be hours. I'm getting more and more frustrated. Then it takes an evil turn where Ce starts winding me up confusing me (big time) about something else entirely. Concerning my e mail address and some prank from last year. Lets not go there. You either know the story or you don't. Apparently it was a clue, hinting at more continued frolicsome antics. Except I didn't see it, because my head was totally mush.

So, Ce lied. She was wholly responsible for that newspaper prank, with assistance from my receptionist.

As annoying as the people in my life can be, and it pains me to say this: I'm extremely lucky. :)

I've offered to take my parents on holiday, and its always "what if there's a funeral?", "I've got a wedding to play for, we can't go then". Here I won't go into the whole church thing of you must feel guilty and devote your entire life; religion plays on that a bit too well as a means of control.

Today was probably the second Sunday into this new routine, and my parents' heads are very much in ESCAPE! mode. You wouldn't find them at your nearest shopping place, Sunday is a day of rest: you don't do anything, except perhaps give up your life for that organ.

The excuse, we'll take you out for a late birthday lunch! I knew this was just an excuse, but I humoured them. Given choice, I would go to the nearest establishment serving way too much garlic; but since dad doesn't do garlic I opted lunch at the top of this hill:

I went here with James a week ago.

Suggesting this, all week I've got comments, "It will be too cold for us", "We're not booking, because there's no way we're going up a hill if its raining". And so it goes on. Knock me over with a feather.

What must be the first time this year, the sun actually decided to put in an appearance, and up that hill we went:

Here's lunch, far too much food:

The suit and top button undone is the straight out of church look, and wanting to be wearing something else already.

Ice cream:

However, it was the views that you eat there for. You could see for miles down the coast (much further than on an overcast day).

We walked down, leaving dad exclaim "There's no way I'm doing that again, I'm walking up the hill only": When you start to hit 70, apparently your knees hurt.

By late afternoon, I was seriously tired and refused to drive:

I needed sleep so badly. Just came home and crashed. 12 hours after eating, I'm still full. That was way too much food. Next time I'm sticking to ice cream.

This is going to be very self indulgent writing, no-one is obliged to read it. In fact, I would possibly prefer it that way. To summarise this post in one sentence: I've finally made a decision on what next. Not a forced decision, because someone out there is pushing me or I feel obligated. Because finally I'm ready, and it feels right. Just how important to do it this way, was crucial. Now you may stop reading, because that's the gist of the below.

Along the way I thought I'd never get to this point, perhaps gave up hope more than once and tear myself up in frustration. Back in January I wanted to focus this year on faith. This was very much deliberate, I knew my life was moving forward and deep down there was a sense of knowing that I wasn't going to have an affirmation of answers until the summer; yet there were days I became filled with self doubt. Other people pushing some agenda sometimes drove me into deeper anxiety and not helpful. A sense of self needed to be averred, for a myriad of reasons which I'm not going to spell out here. The calendar flipped to February, and I said, "Bottom line, I feel as if I'm going through a prep stage for the next phrase in my life, but the weird thing is, I really don't know what that is". My instinct was telling me something, and I couldn't afford not to listen to it (I've failed on this one before, to negative consequences). When I attended a life mapping session at the end of March, I was offered a window:

E and I decided to attend the workshop on Life Mapping, to give the terps something to do. This was somewhat weird, more to do with the tutor, as E has already noted on her blog. The exercise was drawing or visually mapping out your life to date, however a focus on what you felt. This included triggers for good and bad times. Something we all think about, but seeing this on paper was interesting, as its easier to spot trends. Drawing my life's rollercoaster, there was one recurring remedy, when things went pear shaped. A remedy that automatically went for a few years back, but didn't follow it through, and have since neglected it. This absence was so blindingly obvious on paper, I sat there thinking I was stupid. For all the noise that can happen, sometimes you get directed from you[r] mind's eye. Its something I need to get back to.

(And yes I know how New Age that must read).

Now, I won't quite be so harsh on myself, because other factors entered the equation. However, back in March I wasn't sure I wanted to face up to this practicality, and I was still after certain answers. Before Dublin a couple of friends had made comments on how they perceived my strengths, and perhaps running away from this caused me to become lost.

A few weeks ago I went to London, to do some filming for the BBC. Not because I was jumping at filming - I've actively turned down every TV request in the past 6 years, I actually hate television - but I had my own agenda. I was just rooting for some presentation practice, before Dublin. Instead of practising in the safety of one's home, I do it on national screen (don't analyse my logic). However, what was more interesting for me was the process leading up to this. Another ping.

I knew Dublin would hold some answers, and whilst it threw in some surprises, some moments of just wanting to run away, internalisation of many questions; it introduced clarity. Something that has been missing for too long. In the Emerald Isle, I knew where I wanted to arrive at, but I wasn't quite sure of the form. I had 4-5 potential avenues in my head, some half serious, some not; I even expressed this to a couple of people but that's where it stopped. Ultimately not quite knowing how I would approach this. For that reason alone, I felt somewhat of a fraud. The aim was there, but nothing felt quite right at the form. This bugged me travelling home, I didn't like leaving without all the answers. Anxious to ride a wave, this week, I've done some research, and perplexed how I would solve this. Information really wasn't doing it, and more and more there was a realisation I had a good inkling of my destination but I needed a route.

Finally I woke up this morning knowing exactly what I wanted to do, and I even dreamt about it. I've not been so sure of anything for a long time. Whilst all this is just an outline of where I want to go, I've still got detail to figure out and more importantly I've now got to face the difficult part and execute this in practice. Just thinking about it tires me. Nothing in life is every a smooth journey, and I'm old enough to realise there's a rollercoaster ahead. Yes, I need to get the mechanisms in place, because right now there's none, and then following this through.

As a side note, and rather spooky, last week I was offered a job and also approached to do some work in the States. Coincidentally, all linked to my current anticipated path, yet both were not pursued or applied for. Certainly no dots or crosses have happened, thus could fall through; however I feel totally okay with that, even at peace. Perhaps everything happens for a reason, and finally things appear to be coming together. As much as it is a bit eek to type that, there's a deep sense of knowing and a state that has been absent for what feels like eternity. A distrait that led to being lost; and suddenly being reintroduced to an old friend. That connection to a spiritual self has always been important to me, pushing me forward. Its been missing, I've certainly noticed; kind of banging my head wishing that void would be refilled. Now I'm left with the thought: thank goodness you're back, please don't leave me again.

That's where blogging is going to end on this subject, because I'm not about to lend every inch of my being to cyberspace. I'm possibly not going to want to talk about this much - if at all - because right now solitude is important. Its the only way I can be sure I'm taking the right path, and I'm in need of that inner connection. Certainly I will be seeking out people to assist me, but this will be selective.

I'll end with: I've not been so liberated in years.

To get exactly how much I like this author, I have a copy of every single book he's written. Only four authors who adorn my bookshelves can claim this status. McEwan is certainly not a happy writer, and his prose could easily send you into the depths of despair fast. However, I love his precise command of English, his ability to tell a story and to introduce twists, as a reminder that life is never simple. This style would certainly not suit many, fiction is a form of escapism; and euphoric voyeurism, this is not.

McEwan's session was extended to 75 minutes, a perfect drug for any fan. His presence in the room, left me a bit star struck. He was inevitably nervous, however this did nothing but allow a human side to shine through (let pretense take a trip out of the window marquee, and replaced with an air of intimacy). The session by reading aloud from a novel he is currently working on; the subject of which is global warming. He wanted to write about such a topical issue, but wasn't sure how to frame the subject and had struggled. In 2005, he was invited on an expedition near the North Pole, with other writers to focus on the subject of the environment. It was this experience that underlined human nature, and the bottom line of green issues, as with any, was human interaction and their motivation. If people want to solve something, they will; a refreshing piece of optimism from an author who's writing can be dogged with glass half empty syndrome.

The bit he read out to the audience centred around one of the characters and their relationship with food. Expect this is where I got completely lost, the speech to text was totally ineffective. This was down to the set up: the screen was way too far from the stage, its size was too small being too far from the front row introducing potential visual distractions in your line of sight. I certainly was divorced from my surroundings, to allow an author to engage me. Whilst I picked out bits, but my concentration was gone and I could not piece together the entire text to form a story. It reminded me of how ineffective lipreading is: I've got that word, that word, that word; but at the end of it, you really don't have a clue what someone just tried to tell you. The energy expended to process each individual word doesn't allow you the space to step back and process the entire script. Here, a process that wasn't too dissimilar, and the text was too disjointed which honestly left me asking, "What on earth was that about?" Yes, I was gagging for a BSL/English Interpreter, this whole experience reminded me there's a time and place for text. My command of English is reasonable, I will eventually read this book in English, but as a language - or perhaps more accurately, a format - it wasn't working here.

In the absence of my poor relaying skills, you can read this Guardian article, which left me thinking, "Ah, so that's what he read out". Inwardly I was thanking the Guardian journalist for just being there to pen that epitome.

In true McEwan style, he didn't fail to disappoint his (hearing) audience with tanglising detail that almost pulled his readers into a trance like relationship. Except this prose was different: he made his audience laugh. This was a surprise, and later he was asked about the comical nature of his extract, and McEwan responded that he wasn't aware that it was funny; it hadn't been written as such an intention in mind.

McEwan was interviewed by John Mullen, and the structure invited questions from the audience:

This was the part I enjoyed the most, and gave you an insight into the human being behind the book. The session was meant to be focused on two of his works, The Atonement and On Chesil Beach.

The interview started on the (recent) historical aspects of both novels, and the author admitted he received letters correcting fact within novels, whereas people treat literature like a sociology course. Lord of the Flies was used as a reference point here, where Piggy's glasses are described as concave, which defeated the laws of physics and not scientifically correct.

Discussion then turned onto the inclusion of food in a novel (the passage just read from his forthcoming novel was food based), and McEwan stated that it assisted in setting the tone and a useful prop for building up a story. As someone who hasn't given much thought to the craft of novel writing, this left me - excuse the bad pun - with some food for thought.

Structural control was then elaborated on, and he stated how this is introduced at the outset; before beginning to write how he will break down a novel into units, e.g. five lots of 8,000 words, and then work within this framework. McEwan then went onto elaborate that your initial decision in relation to how to break a novel up, does effect the live moment on a page, and a novel's pace.

Here the author drew a parallel with life, and stated that its possible to write your life story on the back of an envelope at the age of 50. This is something that was picked up by David Lodge later (who was present in the audience, and I attended Lodge's talk too). He then latched onto telling a story by the tense of the prose. On Chesil Beach, the prose is in real time, unlike The Atonement.

Continuing his theme of drafting, the second draft is about reverse engineering. As you know something about the characters. Rewriting at this stage can push your draft word count from 25,000 to 40,000 words.

Here someone from the audience asked about The Atonement, and possibly one of the more familiar novels (along with Enduring Love, the only ones to date translated into the moving image). The Atonement's plot centres around a child's observation of sex, and their interpretation. McEwan's idea for this plot came from studying Freud at university, where he picked up on sexuality can be seen as frightening violence between two adults. McEwan went onto elaborate that Freud was more a poet than scientist, and he subsequently lost interest.

Sentences in Atonement, are to keep the reader there, and not to go away. For example, Chapter 13 starts with "Within the half an hour Briony would commit her crime," is perhaps a way of communication to your reader that the plot is about to develop, and not to put the book down now. This raised a laugh from the audience, this comment alone showed the author's human side and perhaps manipulation of his readership.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie was used as a reference, by the author, to the evolving nature of fiction. And there is a lost innocence, where a modern novel awareness exists within your reader. Readership has changed, who are after an element of realism, and with it a flow of consciousness (this obviously went back to earlier comments around people expect an accurate sociological history).

McEwan was asked if "Is violence in novels useful?" He reframed this question to a fear of violence; and used Black Dogs, as an example, where violence doesn't actually happen, its imagined and elaborated. This fear alters to pulse of the prose, or drum beat and it tightens your relationship with the reader.

The interviewee did touch on the subject matter of what he could or could not draw material from. Admitting that he would not be able to write a novel set for example in the 17th century, but his recent works were more a recent social history (WW2 onwards). Here he did state that he could not write about Dunkirk without any reference to his father; who was at Dunkirk for six months before being admitted to Alder Hay Hospital, Liverpool.

The interview's course then turned to On Chesil Beach. For anyone who hasn't read it, its about a newly married couple pre-1960s sexual revolution. The novella acutely highlights the era where honest communication between couples, especially when it came to matters of marital intimacy, was rare. (Although McEwan did state here, that he subsequently received letters from older people stating he was too harsh, and using their own experience as an example). On the novella's structure, both characters have equitable page room, and their perspectives are told equally throughout. However, within its closing stage, there is departure from this evenhanded approach, where she fades away and a postscript to the beach scene serves the male character's purpose. McEwan stated this was intentional, partly because there was a sense she would move on. The beach scene, he [the husband] was too self righteous and proud to call her back. It was obvious that she [the wife] was deeply in love but humiliated. He had to make a decision were focus should lie, and with this kept him frozen in time.

McEwan was asked about the script that he had just read and shared with the audience [for his forthcoming novel] and how much it was liable to change. He admitted that he had already redrafted this passage six times. And went onto elaborate that when he re-read novels in 2-3 years, he surprised himself on how much is forgotten. Rather like life, which brought back the point of it being possible to document your entire life on the back of an envelope.

[Obviously] [A] writer wannabe asked what advice he would give to aspiring writers or novelists, to which he suggested that reading aloud assists greatly with redrafting.

Some other snippets. Within The Atonement, a sunset was described for the first time in his writing career, which he didn't think possible to do. However, McEwan then went onto joke that throughout this novel, he had "stepped outside his own skin into another skin, so none written by me [thus he had still to write about a sunset]". This was in reference to the novel was signed, 'BT, London 1999' [Briony Tallis, the novel's central character written as her atonement]. This gained an affectionate laugh from his audience, who were obviously familiar with his work.

Someone asked the question whether he thought about his readers' potential reaction on finishing The Atonement? McEwan was honest, and admitted by that point the only thing he cared about was going on holiday! Quite right too.

The central question around The Atonement was touched on, and past mistakes by someone; can they ever be atoned? Here is a novel where the perception (because of her age) of a young girl the consequences are carried through a lifetime. The last passage introduces a shift in focus, where it is disclosed that Briony now has a fatal neurological condition. Thus a deliberate play on the readers' emotions forcing a radical shift in focus.

The last question, from the audience, was a learned one: what active choices were made via linguistic choices? McEwan replied, "An academic question, I'm just a humble novelist". That made me admire him even more; despite his seriousness, the depth that is married to this, you have to love him for his in-person very British humour and perhaps depreciation; with that an institution.

I could write more about Hay, and even pen other book reviews, I don't know if anyone actually enjoys reading such posts (since they are quite long, specialised, etc)?

Just burnt my arse with a cup of tea. Ouch.

It hurt, and my bum was red. Is that something I need admit to the entire internet?

@AlisonB lol how u manage that?!

That question was fired at me within one minute of sending my Twitter message.

Boiling Earl Grey balancing on the chair (I was sitting in). Tipped over, [whilst] trying to get my mother to play the Flight of the Bumblebee!

For anyone who has no idea what the Flight of the Bumblebee is, watch the speed of Maksim Mrvica's hands in this video (he starts playing 12 seconds in):

If you've watched Shine, will there's a scene at the restaurant where David Helfgott is mocked then plays Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee, much to the surprise of those around him.. Video clip here (not subtitled, but the dvd is).

Back to my bottom, today I got (when I thought my Twitter would be a dim distant memory):

@alisonb hi, "hotpants"! How is your arse today? Is it still milk and two sugars? :D

He's male.

@alisonb: was you trying to do "hotpants" better than kylie minogue in her Spinning Around music video? :-)

And he is.

For the record, my bum has now semi recovered. Next time, I'll suffer first degree burns in silence. On that note, I promise I'll attempt to write a more substantive post soon ...

Which brings me onto my next point. Americans. They do not have a sense of humour. Ever. I've covered this ground before, but it keeps recurring. Its doing my head in. Where I have to point out THAT WAS A JOKE. This is the point where you laugh. Except what I really want to do is continue with another joke, but one has to restrain because I don't think they'd cope. This is despite the fact my head feels like bubbling over with the whole British thing of pulling one's leg. Instead you're presented with an explanation which assumes an IQ of around 0.001. This one is a difficult one to respond to, instead of screaming "HELLO!", you're left with either having to politely explain you actually get it or come out with an even more absurd comment so the penny drops. Like I'm going to hang upside down by my toe for one week. Except your faith in humanity totally collapses when they still don't get it, and proceed to tell you how that might not work. Its probably called something like cross cultural breakdown.

My sister, who has somehow morphed into a semi American can no longer always see British humour well. "Oh...too early in the morning not to be literal with me," no its called being too American. Mum has even picked this up, and for the entire week has exclaimed, "She thought I was being serious". Yes, like can you believe that. This is my daughter! This was in response to a tall tale she was relaying last weekend, concerning me and three donkeys. Like I was going to open a donkey sanctuary in the garden, to allow them to eat all the flowers and feed it Christmas dinner through the window.

And to think sponsorship is floating around, someone is totally trying to get me to move to the States, so that I can lose my sense of humour too. What on earth would one write about then?

(Humour alert: this blog post has a large dosage of flippancy about it, your biggest mistake would be to take it too seriously).

So, there wasn't really a decent style book in the hairdressers unless you count a trashy magazine useful for carrying photos 19 year olds' hairstyles; spiked this way, that way and some eject from a need to assert one's identity and prove independence. Thus, nothing for me to point to "I WANT THAT", and promptly be able to end conversation. In the absence of a style book ....

"How would you like your hair"
"Cut to here [pointed with my pen - did I say half paying attention because really I was more interested in completing the Suduko in The Times], and a bit layered"
"Uh huh"

And I left him to the rest. Did I mention he looked about 16, and thus I must appear to be a genuine old fogey who needs styling appropriately? So he hands me to some guy who looked about 14 to wash my hair. He scored it in the head massage department. My only complaint, it didn't last long enough.

So I get handed back to the 16 year old. Whilst he chopped, the race was on for me to finish those puzzles. And I did. Consequently, I really was less interested in the fact my hair had been cut into some style that really makes me look like a teacher. Argh! Several hours later, via a supermarket and some other chores:

Next time, I want something a bit more less headmistress like. Substitute newspapers that contain puzzles with decent style books. Then, we might get somewhere.