I’m sorry, I won’t be able to help with your need for new content today, because I am in Belgium pootling about by canals and drinking beer.

Please leave a message after the beep, or wait until I come back on Monday, when I might have some new content and/or a hangover.

In the meantime, straw poll

Best TV series ever?
( I was going to say sitcom, but then we were going to get into a semantic argument about ’sitcom’)

Actually, you know, I’ve changed my mind.
Best Comedy series or sicom ever?
Or top three?

Yes, top three best comedy series or sitcom ever.
Now.

Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be in Belgium.

Isn’t as vehement as the anti-tabloidite (or rather anti non-news-story news-story culturist) in me.

Still, both went for a little jog in the park with this post over here.

Oh dear god, someone’s just walked over to my desk and given me a copy of the new Diana book. Damn. I should write more about doughnuts.

Also in ‘anna writings elsewhere’ news today

A little rant about the STUPID ‘Vordernam’s Sudoku - Live!’ show that Sky One are doing on friday.

*shakes head*

Stupid, I tells you.

And when I’m particularly stressed, it helps to clear things away, or put them into neat boxes, or tidy them into piles.

That’s why games like Tetris, or Diamond Mine or Patience or any other repetitive cleaning up games are good. They order everything externally that cannot be tidied internally, mentally, in a very simple fashion.

There are times when you need things to be neat. And the things you feel you have control over most easily are little coloured bricks, pixellated gems or digitised playing cards, or whatever. So you make them neat.
It’s good for you. Well, sort of.

Anyway, that’s my excuse.

Tonight, instead of playing a tidying game on the pooter, I took all the things out of my bag, worked out the best way to lay them out in a square on the table, took a picture of them, and then spent more time labelling them all on flickr:
on this page, as part of:
this meme thingy.

So there you are. Go and admire my neatness, a perfect way to finish the post, should you be so tidy-minded.

Or if you can’t be arsed to do that, I have listed the contents of my satchel below. Because I want to.
(more…)

Quick question.

Has anyone been to Bruges?
Is there anything you might recommend?
One thing, particularly that we should do, or that you think might be good writing material?

(Please note: “Don’t bother going to Bruges” probably isn’t the kind of thing I’m looking for, we’re going on Thursday…)

I didn ‘t even know he was ill.

Pneumonia, apparently.

Nine letter word, pneumonia.

So if you were, like ON Countdown, you’d be really chuffed to get ‘pneumonia’.

But not in this case.

Bit sad really. I was quite fond of the Whitelester.

I wonder if they’ll play the ‘countdown’ at his funeral, as they’re lowering the coffin or something. Dumduh-da, duh-da! dumduh-da, duh-da! Doodle, doodle, diddly doo! Poooo…
I think that would be nice. Fitting. I would quite like it at mine.

He always seemed like a nice man, Richard Whiteley, and always with the bad jokes.

Bye bye Richard.

Doodle, doodle, diddly-doo! poooo!

(slightly more respectful piece can be found here)

You know, I was going to write something witty and erudite about something topical and interesting, but I simply CAN’T BE ARSED.

Sundays can be like that.
Like the last day of the holidays knowing it’s back to school in the morning.

Except school is work and the holidays were only two days long, if that.

Meh.

Oh my heavens, I feel like the dead.
The dead after three and a half hour’s sleep.
If only I hadn’t drunkenly promised, on going to bed, to accompany my beloved to a Suffolk family barbeque that I otherwise would have been easily excused from. Damnitall.

Still, Frennzy made me giggle with her comment when I woke up this morning, so the day must be alright. And I thank her for that.

Blogs are nice that way sometimes.

Also - urg.

update - later, more awake and now ashamed

SHIT! There was an infestation of esses earlier. And when I said Frennzy was a she, I clearly, CLEARLY meant he was a he. Obviously. He’s been commenting so frequently for so long on this site, that hos could I possibly, POSSIBLY have meant otherwise.

Shit. Sorry, hin.

It’s very light outside. Not sunning, yet, but light.

Yes, another night shift. Another car ride home from work at 3.30am. The car ride is fun.

- For some reason, I’m looking out of the window for any potential crime going on. Like I’d do something about it. Like I’m Batman.

- People kissing at the Angel Islington. They’re probably drunk, it’ll never last, etc. Still, I do love watching what happens in Angel, just because of the name. It’s such a headline friendly name. Every week the Highbury and Islington news run something like ‘Angel rape!’, as if heavenly bodies are being assaulted. Which frankly, seeing the women around here, they may be.

- The bizarre taxidermy supermarket - ‘Get Stuffed“, which has all its lights on at this time of night. Why? Is this their busy time? It’s not *really* as if the produce will give a stuff. A ha ha ha ha ha.

- As we roll up to my house, the birds sing for the first time I hear them, and loudly too. They seem to be saying ‘chippy chippy chippy chippy!’. But no chippy is open, and, you know, I’m not really in the mood for chips.

Back home, and I’m disappointed that there’s nothing on telly.

Someone really should do something about the standard of television between 3 and 6 in the morning.

I read Jon Ronson’s column, which leaves me giggling and slightly in awe - in awe in a quite bitter and jealous way - as they all do. I’m not sure at which exact point I’ll realise that I don’t actually Get to BE Jon Ronson or Dave Eggers or Dave Barry or Dorothy Parker this time around. But I still keep hoping I might, suddenly.

Right. Now it’s 5.35.

I’m thinking, as I did last week, about catching a bus right now and going into the middle of London to take photographs - so quiet, so tourist free, etc. But there’s also no sun. Tomorrow, I may finish reading through this pile of printed out archives I have, and decide what I should write more of (seriously, there’s a pile here the size of my face)

But right now, I want to go for a walk, I want to catch a bus and … oh, dear god, I think I’m about to fall asleep.

This hasn’t been funny at all.
Ok, then so funny.

10 punchlines:
1) “You should have seen him trying to put it back in!”
2) A stick.
3) Rupert the M1
4) That guy’s fucking menthol
5) The other one’s a tractor
6) Tony Blair
7) “I wished I had a tangerine for a head”
8) You see that nurse? I shagged her.
9) “Well, at least I don’t have cancer”
10) I wish I had Leukemia.
11) A spade

Supply the jokes yourself, if you know them.

Damn. I’m that kind of over-tired (between watching tv and going for a cigarette, it’s now 6.12am) that I should either go out for a walk or sleep, immediately for 12 hours.

Sorry. I should never have started this. too.

tired.

to think publically.

Too.
Too tired.
Maybe going out for a walk solo is bad.

I was promised rain. Where is my rain?

I’m doing a night shift tonight, yet was up at an unwelcome 9.30 this morning because I could not sleep any more. No matter, I thought, I will pass the time by writing a pome, and then I will nap later when it rains.

It is not raining.

I am PMTish, and have just had the worlds most carb-loaded lunch of (oh dear god, how did this ever seem like a good idea?) pasta and beans, and yet it is so hot, I still cannot sleep.

It is not raining.

The wind is picking up, it is feeling as if it might rain, but I cannot nap.
It is not raining.

Even the knowledge that colleagues who we were jealous of going to Glastonbury are now getting hilariously wet does not settle me to the point of nappage.

I need it to rain.

When, please, will it sodding rain?
I was promised rain.

So what are my Glastonbury predictions for this year? Well, I think we can confidently predict that Brian Wilson may do some mumbling, that Goldie Lookin’ Chain will be slightly more shouty, and that all of Coldplay’s songs will sound the same after enough pear cider. And also before.

And predictions for the weather?

I have written about that over here. Which you can also find in the G2 section of The Guardian, should you happen to have one knocking about.

I am not going to Glastonbury. No. I am staying here in the office of patchy air conditioning, sweating. It’s very similar.

One table, matching chair.

Perfect for larger sized study/kitchen-dinette

Free or best offer

BUYER MUST COLLECT.

The boataboutthehouse era begins. It’s:
Anna’s handy June cheffing hints

One thing people don’t know about me is that I really really enjoy cooking. Not baking, so much, but cooking. I’m not very good at it, but I like it.

Also I like cleaning. Yes, I know. Shut up.

Anyway, and therefore, I thought it might be nice if I branched out into Martha territory - in the hope that one day littleredboat will be a worldwide brand and/or I’ll go to prison on charges of insider dealing and/or when I die millions of gay men will mourn - and try to include more cooking and housekeeping tips along with whatever the other stuff is that I write about.

Because cooking and housekeeping are important skills, I believe, like the lady I truly am, if you did but know it.

So let’s start off with seasonal pleasure. It’s always good at this time of year to have a nice bowl of chilled salsa sitting in the fridge, for when the neighbours pop round for dips, or for one of those impromtu Mexican-style feasts.

The most important thing to bear in mind, of course, is that after making fresh salsa - if you’ve made it the littleredboat way, with jalapenos in - it is imperative that you do NOT stick your finger up your nose. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you do this. It is a BAD IDEA.

Thank you.

Update

No matter how refreshing and cool carbonated water may be, no matter how good an idea it may seem at the time, under NO CIRCUMSTANCES attempt to pour it on the affected inner nasal cavity.

This will NOT WORK.

Not even with the head tipped back off the front of the sofa.

This will result in a WET FACE, and also RUG. You may ALSO end up with
fizzy-water-eye. This is WEIRD.

Thank you.

Further and IMPORTANT update

No matter how weird having fizzy-water-eye might be, DO NOT rub the eye. Is that clear? Do NOT. Rub. The EYE, because you may quite possibly have jalapeno fingers.

DON’TTOUCHTHEEYE.

Thank you.

In next installment of ‘littleredboat around the house: Anna’s cheffing and housekeeping tips’:

Why it’s VERY IMPORTANT to read the back of bathroom cleaner bottles. Also - “cheffing”. Actually a word? We find out.

Remember, littleredboat around the house is here for YOU! Any questions, you know where you can stick them!

Yes! In the comment box!

There’s a post about Celebrity Love Island over here.

Unfortunately not containing the concept of the ‘Celebrity Fuck-Yurt’ coined on this site, it does have the benefit of containing a link to Hufu: The Healthy Human Flesh Alternative.

Also I wroted it.

I don’t know whether I should link to things I wrote outside this site or not, to be honest.

I never know whether people will go and read them, or anything, or just mumble and grump and bugger off again thinking ‘Oh. I saw the updated thing and thought she’s Actually written something, but it’s a stupid link instead. We hate her. Boasty anna…’

I tell you what. I won’t do these linky things unless I’m particularly pleased with whatever it was that it was. Is ok? Or maybe I just do it sometimes. Ok?

And apart from that, my friends, I haven’t got a thought in my head.

It is too hot for thinking.

And for writi