Slight blip there.

Better now.

where’s the booze?
No, really.
Have a drink.

Myself, I’ll be having a Large Glass of Wine, a cat on my knee, and gratuitous murder on Five with the yummy CSI.

Wine?
Wine anyone?

Whoo!

Tired confused a little shell-shocked.
This is brief temporary will shortly be over.
I am finished done dusted.
I have polished up polished off handed in.
It is sudden strange too much too hard too easy.
I will pack rush drink go in short days.
It is big enormous too much too strange.
I came, I saw, I have finished my MPhil.
What the fuck do I do now?

I am 500 words from finishing my Masters degree.

I will try and say something interesting here inbetween finishnig finishing that and sicking sticking my pooter in a box with an adress address written on it.

Really I will.

Love anna

I am the worst typist in the wolrd. As evidenced above.
I am also available for tmep wrok.

I’m dull. Go and read something else.

There are just all these, you know, ‘having to finish my degree by tomorrow’ things, that mean I’m really not worth reading today. Not at all.

however;

This is funny,
this is funny
and this is funny.

I’m not funny today.
Or good.
I’m grumpy.

Sorry about that.

Irrational dislikes

2. Simon Callow. Star of Four Weddings and a Funeral, Amadeus, Other films I won’t watch because he’s in them and Thunderpants, apparently, loud, shouty, ‘look-at-me-i’m-an-Ac-Tor’ Simon gets dragged in whenever a British film is made to add weight. Large chap. Shouty. He exudes the self-important ‘darling I’m an actor, let me tell you about my craft’ thing that makes people dislike actors, and, well, frankly I don’t know why. I just want to punch him in the face.
That is all.

The inevitable. Or is it unenviable? Or Invariable? Confooosed

Sooooooooooo.

I’ve been writing this for a good few years now, and you’ve been reading it for a while, too.
Thank you. For encouraging words and funny comments and, well, all that.

Thing is, some of you will have noticed that I’ve moved domain recently, and in seven sleeps (seven sleeps!) I’m moving house, and I am, as usual, in dire financial straights, with debt collectors nipping at my heels and without two pennies to rub together to pay for servers and technical pooter things like that.

Also, seeing as I’m moving house, I have a lot of things that I don’t really need to take with me. Books I know I won’t read, too many candles, an inflatable guitar.

So I’m proposing to send you useless twaddle in exchange for a modest donation to my server fund.
Yes, real little.red.booty - authenticated twaddle, selected from my vast collection for you.
You might love it, you might hate it, you’ll just get a mystery package of my stuff.
It might be some shells, some found photos, a book, postcards from Tunisia or some Kinder Suprise toys.
Either way, you’ll have helped me limp through a little crisis and relieved me of some useless items in the process.
And that can’t be a bad thing…

[Here's a link for donations in US$]

I mean, I’ll pay for postage and stuff, but then, bearing that in mind….
$2 will get you a grin and a bit of server for my site, $5 will get a big grin, postage for local twaddle and a bit of server for my site, and any more than that gets you an ear to ear grin and postage for some overseas twaddle.

If anyone particularly wants twaddle but *doesn’t* wish to make a donation to server-standy-upppy-ness, then feel free to just transfer an amount to cover postage. Although my grin will be smaller. And who knows what effect that may have on the package of mystery twaddle?… Kidding. Whatever.

mm.
yay!

Crackers

Last night at work I played with crackers.
Christmas crackers.
Obviously.

Sitting in the back room of the theatre bar where I work, there are several boxes of the cheapest, most rubbish crackers you could ever have the misfortune to find at your table.

Having a whole first half with which to do nothing apart from wipe down a shelf and prepare 7 orders of interval drinks, I set about the crackers in an attempt to make some people’s Christmas just that little bit more exciting.

12 crackers were carefully opened and eight casings discarded. One Cracker was gifted with one toy and 9 hats and 5 jokes, one was given 9 toys, 4 jokes and a hat, the other two, while retaining their original booty, were carefully given four extra explosive devices.

I know I’ve only changed christmas to the tune of four, but it still made me very happy.

So there.

Happy Christmas, four people.
bangbangbangbang.

In days gone by

It used to be that my night-time routine was
a) get home
b) write blog
c) smoke cigarette
d) read book
e) sleep sleep of dead.

My night-time routine, greatly altered, now reads
a) get home
b) smoke cigarette
c) write list of ‘things to do’
d) smoke cigarette
e) sleep sleep of anxious dead.

at one point I was going to go away from this site before the festival and not come back until I’d moved house for fear of simply posting impetuous and shoddy material.
That was a good idea.
I need to find out which vent that one got out of.

Do excuse me.
I’m tired, worried, moving house, moving in with -well- Him. The one, that one, him. Finishing my course, quitting work, moving away from all my friends, colleagues, and the family I live with and, and, and, oh there’s a whole bunch of stuff.

Excuse me.
Is all I’m saying.
Excuse me if I’m fractiously

However fractious I am on this site, believe me, it’s nothing to the scattered pieces that lie around here right now.
Believe you me.
I’m in a billion pieces.

But so,
so,
So
sure, and happy, and excited.

Irrational dislikes

1. CD boxes; I fucking hate them, the way they open, the way they break, the bulkiness of them, the ugliness of them, sharp cornered and oooooh, I do hate them.

Ten Days

!!!!

I won something

I don’t often win things. So thank you to everyone that voted.
It’s very nice.
Although I still think Gert’s better than me. Well, she makes more sense, anyway.

But thank you all the same.

Don’t forget…

You have til Sunday night to vote in this lovely, yet a bit bizarre, poll.

Vote for Gert.

She’s a nice lady, a very good writer and gives another whole bunch of reasons on her very worth-reading site here.

If I wasn’t so very very tired, emotionally pooped and maybe a bit drunk then….

It’s in my head.
I just need to get my head and fingers working simultamultaniouiouiousesly.
Or at all.

What is the world coming to?

The last time I went to London there was a 23kg bag with me that would come back 5kg.

The extra weight, added to natural slovenliness, meant a taxi from the rehearsal rooms to the bus station.
It’s only about four blocks, yes.
But it’s uphill.
Yes, I know it’s lazy.
Shush. I’m telling the story.

The taxi driver was the chatty sort, and I learnt all about his two sons, his daughter, his current and future home ownership plans and the economy of Australia within those four blocks.

He had a lovely house. But he wanted to move. Now that his children were all grown up and moved away, he said, he and the missus fancied somewhere a little smaller.

“Beside” he said, “The area we’re living in now, it’s good fo young families. So there are kids. Everywhere. Runnin up an doon the stair, an playin ootside. All the time. Playin. Kickin footballs agin walls, playin footba, laughin, runnin about. Sometimes into the evenin. Eight, nine o’clock. And I’ve tried everythin. I’ve tried callin the polis. What can they do? Nothin. Apparently, there’s nae law agin childen playin. You get me?! NO law! Agin childen playin! Some human ritse rubbash! There’s nothin ye can dae about it. Nothin. They’re just allowed tae play. Shockin. Isn’t ut?”

And I wanted to say,

Well, no.

Not really. I mean, if there’s anti-social behaviour, criminal damage, noise pollution and that involved in their play then well, yes, there are laws against that, but, erm, really I think, maybe, in a civil liberties kind of way, there might be some good reason for not having blanket laws restricting the play of children.

Maybe?

I didn’t say that.
We were at the bus station by the time he’d done, and, well, yes, I’m a complete wuss but still…
I think I was right to be cautious about the idea….

I think.
It just, you know, sounds a bit wrong.