Of course the best thing about this morning, the prettiest thing, were the little tissue paper things falling from the roof.

I’d been planning it for weeks, just hadn’t thought who would do it. And everyone I thought might do it was away.
So I did it.
Me, having had no coffee yet.
Me, being highly strung and having worst morning in the world for it.
Me, in the roofspace of a 13th century abbey with one other person for an hour and a half, waiting.
Me, lying over the open hatch 50 feet from the ground.
Me, afraid of heights.

I crawled to the edge of the hatch, and lay, with my face pressed to the dusty floor, and my arm outstretched to drop pretty things from the hatch without having to look out of it.
The one time i did look down, to check that the tissue paper wasn’t all blowing back up again, someone waved at me. And I almost vomited.

Oh, It’s nice to be sitting in front of the computer again. It’s nice to be posting. I’ve been getting all edgy. Nice computer. Nice blog. Yay.

Shit, but I’m tired. Who decided to take an hour of sleep from me?
Nail them up, I say.

i did it. hurrah.
397 paper daisies.
70 paper daffodils.
a triangular mobile, 12 foot wide and 24 foot long, butterflies hanging in a spiral.
hundreds of tissue paper daisy shapes floating from the roof at the end of the morning.

If anyone knows of anyone that needs a freelance liturgical agnostic instillation artist, let me know.

Fucking hell but I’m busy.

Yes, I did just drop by to post that.
Aware that I’m a bad blogger, disappearing and hiding behind daisies.
But I’ve only two more days til daisy d-day.

Argh. help.

I realised, half way down to the pub, why I wanted to go to the pub so much.
In my bedroom were bits of daisies, waiting to be made.
In the office were things to type up for tomorrow night.
In the living room were notes to be finished from this morning’s workshop.
In the other building, by the friend’s house that I was going to pop in at this evening, was my craft room - jam packed full of unfinished projects for the next few days.

There was not a single space that didn’t have work in it.
And so I went down to the pub. And stopped for half an hour with b on the bench half way there to cry.
I’m really fucking tired.

And when I got to the pub, we stopped and unwound.
And then all the guests arrived.
And we talked about work.

I do, however, love my job.
I just wish I could find a way of loving myself and my job at the same time.

Baby! You came home!

If, on your wanderings, you happen to see a little comments system hiding behind a shrub or verge, pat it on the head and tell it to come home.
Its mummy misses it so.

Anna: Argh. i have nothing to write today. and I’m busy as bollocks.
Anna: if bollocks are busy.
Meg: that’s an interesting phrase
Meg: how busy are bollocks, precisely?
Meg: don’t they just sort of sit there?
Anna: very busy. busy little bollocks.
Anna: producing sperm, that sort of thing.
Meg: you’re thinking of bees
Anna: ah. bollocks.
Meg: except bees produce pollen, not sperm
Anna: i mean, ah, bees.
Meg: otherwise honey would taste a wee bit different
Anna: hahhahahahaha.
Anna: and men’s testicles would buzz.
Meg: Sore throat? Have some whisky with man-milk
Meg: Euw. that would be strange
Anna: but good for the complexion.
Anna: or so i’ve heard.
Meg: that is true
Meg: apparently
Meg: “apparently”
Anna: right. i’m off to type out the gospels.
Anna: because i know how to have fun.
Meg: You wild thing, binnie. Rrraow.

I don’t like honey as much as I used to.

So I’m trying to set myself up a wishlist, right?
On amazon, and all that. Just because all the other kids on the block seem to have one, and I hate to feel left out.
The same thing happened with rollerskates.

And I’m sitting here in complete turmoil, because I have absolutely No Idea what I want. I’ve never known what I want.
Put me into a shop full of thigs that I want and I won’t be able to decide what I want. Or which I want. Or whether I want anything.
More Often than not I’ll walkempty-handed out of a marvellous shop, absolutely stuffed to the gills with stuff that I want, because the decision making process has caused me so much pain that I’d rather leave than buy anything.

When in the shop, I’ll pick things up, carry them around for a bit looking nervous (not knowing whether I’ve made the right decision), and then put them back where I found them. I can be doing this with up to 8 Items at once.
I’ve been followed around by store detectives so often, that they probably feature me in ‘Guess who?’ games at Store Detective parties.

The only way I can safely buy stuff is to
a; go into shops with only one item on sale. OR
b; the ram raid effect - go in, grab the first things to hand and race them over to the counter as quickly as possible.
Then take them home and discover that you don’t like them or they don’t fit. But it doesn’t matter. At least something’s been bought.

So how am I supposed to make a decision somewhere like amazon?
I’m not sure that this wishlist was a very good idea. And now I can’t think about anything else.
What do I want?
Anyone know? Because I don’t.

bigbruverdidaydee. Or so me and meg used to call him. I don’t know why.
Am a bit confused by that now I think if it. It’s a silly name.
But I’m shiny with pride, all the same…

Last night I was too tired to stay at the disco. My eyes were begging me to let them close all though ‘The Hustle’, and by the time Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting, all I wanted to do was curl up in a small heap in the corner and sleep ’til some place next week.

And luckily I wasn’t dj-ing, for once, no DJ Binnie and her Wheels of Steel, not this week, so I wandered up the road to bed.

And the moon was nearly full, and lit the road, and made a strong black shadow of a tired craftworker, stretching out on the road in front of me. And I bimbled, to the strains of ‘There she goes’ still playing behind me, past the ruined nunnery, up the winding road, along the path of what used to be ‘the street of the dead’, past the Macleans cross, St Johns Cross, St Martin’s Cross, and some rutting sheep, past the graveyard that holds Macbeth and Duncan and John Smith, and then through the abbey grounds, into the cloisters, where a black cat jumped down from a beam and scared the bejesus out of me, and through the through the sleeping abbey where all the eager guests here for Easter were sleeping a heavy sleep, tired after their heavy days of making me really tired. After expecting a whole bunch of workshops and notes typed up inbetween. Sleeping the sleep of the satiated, after having candles sessions and drama sessions and being so bloody eager about everything that I just can’t say no. Sleeping the well-earned sleep of the busy and eager guest.

And then I set the fire alarm off.

Not really.

There’s nothing like a good Sandra Bullock film on a sunday night to pass the time.

No, that came out wrong.
What I meant was; “A Sandra Bullock film on a sunday night (or any time) is Nothing like a good film.”

Nothing whatsoever like one.
If you can think of a film that is like a good film, or even that is a good film, then compare it to a Sandra Bullock film (for example ‘The Net’), you will find that there are a whole heap of differences between them.
One of these films will have Sandra Bullock in, for a start.
And the other one will be something like a good film.

There is nothing in the world like a good Sandra Bullock film. Nothing in the world.
Nothing.
Nada.
nil.
Especially not a ‘Sandra Bullock film’. That is one thing that is definitely nothing like a ‘good Sandra Bullock film’.
The two are very different entities. One of the concepts exists for a start.
I can’t deny that ‘Sandra Bullock films’ are.
Although I can deny that they are any good.
It’s easy.
Try it. You may find you like it.

What was I talking about? MSG? Oh, I’m confused.
I can’t be keffed. I’m going to bed. Does anyone have any chow mein on them?
I meant to eat, not weekend stains and spillages.

Oh, it doesn’t matter.
I’m going to bed to dream sweet (and sour) dreams…

msg……msg….msg…..msg

I want MSG.

Why is it, when you announce that a session will be held on a ‘drop in, drop through’ basis, starting at two o’clock and running gently through the afternoon, everyone turns up at two and leaves five minutes later?

And why is it, when you say that a session will start at two and demand that everyone comes at two, they turn up anywhere between five and thirty minutes late?

And why is it, when you demand that, all though the session is ongoing throughout the afternoon, people should definitely stagger themselves, a few at a time, between those hours, nobody turns up at all at 2 o’clock, and then every bugger comes at three?

I mean, it’s not like those instructions are confusing, is it?

No. I’ve just looked at them. And they are. Very. Very confusing.

wank.