The Queen is Dead
Note to self: chat forums are a bad idea. For the second time in the last six months I am being pursued by a nutbar Smiths fan. But it gets worse: this one's a Catholic Smiths Fan. Off a Catholic Chat forum. I told him "The Queen is Dead" is my favourite album. Apprently it is his too.
Arse.
Fortunately he's in America and so easily avoided.
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A lot has happened the past week, unfortunately not anything that will be of the remotest interest to the blogging community, or, in fact, to anybody. This morning I finally dragged me and my sunburn back to the UK having spent a week wallowing in Guernsey sea, punctuated by sessions on the "bouncy slide"( it's like a bouncy castle. Except it's a slide. On which one can bounce. Cunning.)
I spent this week with my family who are for the most part ageing hippies who heat their houses entirely by solar panels on their roof and live off vegetables dug up from their own back gardens. Over the past week there were 19 of us spread over two houses (including a smattering of tents in the back garden), and that's not including the various visitors who turned up each day to swim and play with us.
I hate Guernsey because I lived there for eight years, and that was eight years too long. So I'm always a bit reluctant to go back. I spent my first day checking emails and worrying about whether or not all my international students were going to find a bank account. Then I gave up, and had fun.
My baby cousin now has her own blog so do leave a post for her if you have a spare moment. It was meant to be called "Skikeythechicken" after her prize pet, but she misspelled "Spikey". As for my other cousins, the middle one is about to get her A-Level results (of no interest to you, but we are all on tenterhooks) and the oldest has just landed herself a great job with KPMG.
I do feel a bit of a hobo at the moment. I will have all of four days at home before jetting off again, this time to Ireland, because my parents wanted a holiday out of the UK this year, and in typical Northern Catholic tradition the only place they could think of was Kildare. Last weekend I was in Liverpool, which was a good preparation for stating with Cousins Et Al: I must have met about 14 people in the house in which I was staying, and I only managed to put names to six of them.
I like Liverpool. I arrived to find the friend I was supposed to be meeting was stuck in a queue in Asda so I wound up with a pint of Black Sheep in the Head of Steam while I waited. The first words anyone said to me upon my arrival in Liverpool was uttered by a weasle-like bloke who said "Hey, can you watch me pint while I take a piss, like?" When he came back he read me his best man's speech for a wedding he was going to the next day.
If a good job came up I'd move up here without too much persuading. As it is, I'm saving up such scenarios to put in my next play.
Arse.
Fortunately he's in America and so easily avoided.
*************************************************************************************
A lot has happened the past week, unfortunately not anything that will be of the remotest interest to the blogging community, or, in fact, to anybody. This morning I finally dragged me and my sunburn back to the UK having spent a week wallowing in Guernsey sea, punctuated by sessions on the "bouncy slide"( it's like a bouncy castle. Except it's a slide. On which one can bounce. Cunning.)
I spent this week with my family who are for the most part ageing hippies who heat their houses entirely by solar panels on their roof and live off vegetables dug up from their own back gardens. Over the past week there were 19 of us spread over two houses (including a smattering of tents in the back garden), and that's not including the various visitors who turned up each day to swim and play with us.
I hate Guernsey because I lived there for eight years, and that was eight years too long. So I'm always a bit reluctant to go back. I spent my first day checking emails and worrying about whether or not all my international students were going to find a bank account. Then I gave up, and had fun.
My baby cousin now has her own blog so do leave a post for her if you have a spare moment. It was meant to be called "Skikeythechicken" after her prize pet, but she misspelled "Spikey". As for my other cousins, the middle one is about to get her A-Level results (of no interest to you, but we are all on tenterhooks) and the oldest has just landed herself a great job with KPMG.
I do feel a bit of a hobo at the moment. I will have all of four days at home before jetting off again, this time to Ireland, because my parents wanted a holiday out of the UK this year, and in typical Northern Catholic tradition the only place they could think of was Kildare. Last weekend I was in Liverpool, which was a good preparation for stating with Cousins Et Al: I must have met about 14 people in the house in which I was staying, and I only managed to put names to six of them.
I like Liverpool. I arrived to find the friend I was supposed to be meeting was stuck in a queue in Asda so I wound up with a pint of Black Sheep in the Head of Steam while I waited. The first words anyone said to me upon my arrival in Liverpool was uttered by a weasle-like bloke who said "Hey, can you watch me pint while I take a piss, like?" When he came back he read me his best man's speech for a wedding he was going to the next day.
If a good job came up I'd move up here without too much persuading. As it is, I'm saving up such scenarios to put in my next play.
posted by RLS at 4:57 pm
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