I have absolutely no idea what blogday is.
If a dedicated ’something’ day is all about running around being loudly self-congratulatory and reassuring each other that we’re all great, then frankly every day is blogday, isn’t it?

It seems to be some link-whoring project where you link to 5 ‘new’ blogs. New to who? New to you? I don’t know what’s new to you. New to me? Then how do I know to link to them? New to themselves? Then how do I know if they’re any good?

Whatever. Someone I don’t link to but should was nice enough to link to me as part of this, so I feel minorly obliged to do the same. New blogs? Feh.

Ok:

New in that he’s just come back from an extended holiday: My mate stu.

New in that I only found it yesterday and the fact that every post starts with ‘I fucking hate…’, the top post is ‘I fucking hate Pandas’ which keeps making me laugh: Some bloke

New in that he’s in a new country (new to him, you understand, not new as in just formed): NewYorkMark.

New in no sense whatsoever: Petite, who does proper grown up blogging, whatever that means.

And New in the sense that I new I had another fantastic new one to write about, but now can’t remember what it was, if you have any suggestions please insert here:

Bugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugs

Seriously. Can’t stop.
And it stops me writing because either I’m doing it, or Mr I-don’t-like-simplistic-liney-uppy-games over there is saying “Ooooh, well I’m on level 14, but with only 4 credits left!” and there is no prising the computer off him. Off him, or off the bugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugs…

[No, she's gone again, I'm afraid. You'll have to try again later]

Yes. Yes, writing, mm.

In a minute. I am busy. Or sort of, anyway. In that I found some bugs.

And, you see,
c) if I don’t get past level 13 then bad things might happen.
b) they’re just so damn cute.
a) simple addictive games are my weakness.

And this is both very simple, and very fucking addictive. And cute.
OhdamnIsaidcute.

For anyone that missed my incredible free postcard offer, or, in fact, has anything to tell me about Berlin (staying in hotel in Lichtenberg? Am terrified this is a suburb so far outside Berlin it’s nearly in Copenhagen, is it?) see the update on the post below.

And in the meantime, let me just say that, erm, there’s this… Bugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugsbugbugs.

[I'm sorry, we've lost her]

Alrighty then, seeing as you came through for me so spectacularly when I asked about Bruges, a city where the people live in lace houses, bathe in beer and poo chocolate, I have another new question to ask you.

If you had two days in Berlin - mainly on your own, what would you do? I’m thinking particularly about things which are cheap or maybe free. Because I’m cheap. And clearly free. I haven’t thought of anything yet.

Also, I don’t speak German. I can say ‘Bless you’, ‘motorway’, ‘Get off the toboggan run’, ‘with cream’, ‘too fast’ and ’slower’ and ‘NO’, but that’s another story.

It’s always been an impediment to the idea of travelling, for me. I get extremely embarrassed at going to countries and not having the common decency to be able to speak the language, I think it’s rude of me. So any Berlin based activities have to be things where I don’t have to talk to people too much.

My beloved is going to be in meetings during the day - I’m just going along for the hell of it, so when I’m not on my own we’ll need places to eat and stuff, and evening things. And things. And stuff. You know.

Also, my number-of-comments-since-moving-to-movable-type is floating somewhere in the high 4000s, so whoever happens to write the 5000th comment wins … erm … a postcard from Berlin. Unless it’s spam. Or, you know, me.

So, Berlin? Anyone have any suggestions?

Update - Tuesday

Shit. I got my maths wrong. My ‘comments since moving to mt’ figure was hovering absolutely nowhere near the 5000 mark, it was, in fact, somewhere in the region of 900 out. Wow. Anyway. Anyone who wants a postcard from Berlin, send your address to my yahoo account (annapickard at yahoo dot co dot uk) and I’ll do it if I can summon up the courage to buy stamps. Otherwise I’ll just sell it on to some unscrupulous junkmail marketing company.

I’m kidding! But I will try and send you a postcard.

Anyway. Someone did kind of win, with a round-figured comment, but since it wasn’t on this post, I’m not saying who it was.

In the meantime, since Berlin suggestions have dried up to the level of ‘The best thing in Berlin is to find the station as quickly as possible and go somewhere else’, I shall pull my finger out and write about something else.

Hm.
Erm…

On many many many many sites recently, this story from one of the main news agencies appeared:

Bush Motorcade Passes War Protesters

Saturday August 13, 2005 5:46 AM

CRAWFORD, Texas - President Bush and his motorcade passed the growing camp of war protesters outside his ranch Friday without incident.

As Bush passed on his way to and from a political fundraiser, law enforcement blocked two intersecting roads where the demonstrators have camped out all week. Officers required the group to stand behind yellow tape, but no one was asked to leave.

The motorcade didn’t stop.

Cindy Sheehan, the California mother who started the vigil along the road leading to Bush’s ranch, held a sign that read: “Why do you make time for donors and not for me?”

It was unclear whether Bush, riding in a black Suburban with tinted windows, saw the demonstrators.

Now, I understand the reason behind wanting to cover this story, I understand that if something had actually had happened to make this story become a story it would have been a great story, I understand all that.

However, as it stands, the story is this:

Car drives. People. Absolutely nothing happens.

Excellent. I do love the industry I’ve found myself in.

Weight: Currently Unthinkable, although surely dinner of noodles v. good, as noodles have nothing in, no flavour, no nutrients, no food, nothing.
Lottery numbers correct: None. V. Bad. Sad, re: badness of lottery no-win. Still, couldn’t be helped, didn’t have a ticket. Also, no lottery draw. Odds stacked up against me. No wonder. Lottery hates me. Boo lottery, boo.
Units of alcohol: 2 (so far, soon to be 3)(or perhaps 4)(to hell, it’s Thursday, hurrah! Drink it all! Big Pants Away!).
Cigarettes smoked: 1. 1! V.V.V. good.

Or v.v.v. bad, depending on how you look at it.

See, two days in the house, being a bit pooped and poorly, and I didn’t smoke at all. I don’t smoke in the house. Because it smells. So I woke up this morning and thought - right, well, I’ve gone for two and a half days without smoking purely by not leaving the house (well done me - medical breakthroughs’r'me - to order my full book: Anna Picarr’s Stop Smoking by Forgetting to Leave the House: My Laziness Beats Your Will Power, call 0898 … - etc) - where was I? - oh yus. Woke up this morning (blues break) decided that since I’d managed to go two and a bit days without the evil whatjamacallits, I might as well just carry on and give up forever.

I usually have three cigarettes a day. Unless I go to the pub, in which case I have a million. About a million, anyway. But otherwise, three a day. Half a cigarette on the way to work, one at lunchtime, one at the bus stop after work, and half walking from the bus stop to my house.

This morning, no cigarette. Got to work, a little twitchy, a little grumpsome, but fine. Yay!

Lunchtime came and went. No cigarette! And I was fine! Go Binnie GO!

Midafternoon. Danger! A touch of stress. No cigarette. I rule. People ask if I want to go for a cigarette. No, I do not want to go for a cigarette thank you. I have left my tobacco at home today thank you. Thank you for asking, but I have willpower (of kinds), please enjoy your cigarette, I will be here at my desk, Not Smoking. Thank you.

To the bus stop on the way home. Cigarette? No.

My god, I’m doing well, I thought. I have not smoked now for three days (one of those out of the house!)(or almost one of those)(whatever).

By the time I reached 7pm, I decided that I’d done so well, I should celebrate, so bought some more tobacco, and had a lovely lovely cigarette.

It was great. All rolled up and cigarettey and smoky and nicotine-filled and yum.

I have absolutely no regrets. Some people may be disappointed in me, some people may think I did the wrong thing. But no. It was absolutely the right thing to do.

In fact, I may give up again tomorrow.

(But then again, no flu to mention)

I was going to write something yesterday, but I lay in bed sneezing and groaning instead.

I’m doing something similar today, by the way.
But with maybe a little more writing involved.
And perhaps a little more snuffling.
I haven’t decided yet.

I’m going to be illing, freestyle.

It’s nice that people wander in here from google searches and then stay to read.
It’s cheering/charming/nice.
What’s even nicer is that they sometimes then send me an email to continue the conversation about whatever they’ve been reading.

Which is also pleasing/interactive/encouraging/nice.

However.

More often than not - and more often than that as the archive continues to grow - they’ll start their email by referencing whatever it was they were just reading, starting from whichever page google threw them into the archive at.

“Re your attitude to crayons, I can’t say that I agree.”

Um…

“I was just reading about that date. I met someone like that once”

Like who? Like which? I don’t think I’ve ever been dating queen, but I’ve probably described a fair few from way back when.
So therefore which way-back-who are we whenning? What?

“What a great list. I couldn’t agree more. Good luck finding a boyfriend. Here is my phone number. I think I love you.”

Ah, clearly my list of “reasons I want internutters to hand me their phone numbers, unsolicited, and with no chance I’ll ever contact them again”. I remember it well. It was clearly some time before I moved in with my beloved, two years ago.

“You have some interesting opinions on the holy trinity…”

Do I? When in the name of all that is godly did I write about that? And why?

“… Do email me to talk about your ideas further, and about Jesus. I am a baptist minister.”

I am an agnostic blogger. I will email you back when hell freezes over, which unfortunately can’t happen until I start believing in it. It’s complex.

“I notissed you have had artikles published in a newspapper. How? I am a writt1er to and would like to gett myself in a paper witting for money. Can you tell me ho?”

I don’t know, but it had quite a lot to do with spelling. And don’t call me ho.

Email upon email that I simply cannot fathom the source of, and therefore never reply to.

However. Someone emailed me over the weekend, and though it took me a couple of minutes to work out what they were talking about, it was actually easier than most.

Re:3. it’s:

There was a young lady from Slough
Who developed a very bad cough
She wasn’t to know
It would last until now
Let’s hope the poor girl will pull through

(I wrote it some years ago as a “Mrs Trellis” letter for ISIHAC, but you can also find it on page 48 of “The Almost Totally Complete I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue” book. Buy a copy - I need the royalties.)

Which was, it turns out, a reference to this 2002 post, where I’d been able to remember approximately a poem, but not exactly, and here was the author himself to supply the rest, helpfully plugging the book it came from - while cheerfully negating any reason for me buying it. Hurrah for the internet. It is amazing.

But that really is the exception to the rule. For a littleredboat-related email to appear in my box with the faintest chance of me knowing what it is talking about is a situation as rare as an actually amusing email attachment arriving in the same. It simply never, ever happens. Mostly it’s people violently disagreeing, or passionately agreeing with things I’m not even sure I wrote in the first place.

I’d publish a plea for them to include a url, or even a date reference here - but what’s the point? They’ll never read this page anyway. That would be too, too easy. They’ll probably read it in three years time, and send an earnest rebuttal.
In which case, you know, hello and all that.

And if you are reading this in 2008 and considering sending me an email about it, don’t forget to mention something about torches, first dates, the album I was talking about that you wish you could remember the name of that you were given for your bat mitzvah, crayons, the possibility that we know each other, and your political affiliations.

And, you know, that thing I said once in 2001, and completely agree with. Or something. Here’s my phone number.

Quick question.

I am currently having a linguistic debate about what this thing I am writing right here is called.

The people I am arguing with call it a ‘blog’.
I say nonono, I am writing ON a blog, but what I am actually writing is a ‘post’.

To clarify, one person might say ‘”I have just written a blog about the weather”, but I would say “I have just written a POST about the weather…” (Of course, I wouldn’t ever write a post about the weather, but we’ll let that slide for now) or “I posted about the weather on my blog” (Actually my blurnal, of course, but we’ll let that slide too).

I might be termed a ‘blogger’ (though I may punch you if you termed it to my face), I might say that I am going to ‘blog’ about the weather (and you may punch me if I ever *do* say that), but once in the process of doing that, I am actually writing a post, ON a blog. Not writing a ‘Blog’ on a Blog.

They say “I’ve written loads of blogs about having short arms”

I would say “You’ve written loads of posts about having short arms”, “You have blogged extensively on the subject of your short arms”, “Ha ha, you’ve got short arms”, “Your habit of posting about having short arms gets dull after a while, doesn’t it” or simply “My, you manage to type a lot of posts on your blog for a short armed fella, don’t you?”

Does that make sense?

I mean, I’m right.
Aren’t I?

For those interested in the wider travels of Captain Pickard and her little red boat of writingness, you will find two articles here what I did the writing of. One of which contains my first ever interviews (one small step for a little career thing, one big leap for shy person).

So there you are. Two articles! See if you can guess which are mine!
(Clue: they have my byline)

a Is for Anna, who is tired. Who doesn’t know when to stop working, and who cannot seem to relax when she does. It is very, very silly.

b Is for her beloved, who does not know what to do about it, because she is stubborn and never listens. B is also for bed, which is a large flat thing where you keep the sleep. It’s probably the best thing ever invented, apart from tinternet. Tinternet IN bed is simply the best thing bar none. Apart from bed. Bed is great.

c Is for the pooter, which has been sitting open at this page for two hours, since I got home, with me staring at it. This is as far as I have got.

d Is for damnit, I can’t be bothered to cook anything more complex than noodles. I don’t feel sad about this though. If the world should end and all, if governments fall into the sea, we will still be able to buy 4 packets of Japanese noodles from the shop for a pound. Who will be laughing THEN, eh Delia? D is also for Delia.

e Is for euthanasia. Which is another term for putting people to sleep, like you do animals when you can’t be arsed with them anymore. Being put to sleep is great. I love sleep.

f Is for forgetfulness. Which is quite often one thing of the thing thing. Like yes. You know. Yes. That one. The Thing.

g Is for pillows. Gee I love pillows. Pillows are almost as good as beds, in that beds wouldn’t be anywhere near as good if they didn’t invite the pillows along. I mean, they’d still be *great*, obviously. Beds are great.

h Is for the holiday I am thinking about. I think it will be possible to go by October or maybe November, and I don’t really care where it is, as long as it has a palm tree, and white beaches, and books and swimming. I have my ideas, and if anyone can recommend anywhere - and I’m thinking maybe South India or Sri Lanka right now - then please do. It just has to be - and feel - very Very far away. Palm trees would help, I think.

i really am poopt. Which is stupid, because it’s stinking Monday.
I will perk up. I just know it. I will I will. I just, I don’t seem to sleep well. I don’t seem to think well. I manage to stubborn, though, very very well indeed/

j Is for jelly, which is nice, but I never to think of buying it when I come face-to-jelly with it in the supermarket. And then I sit at home and think ‘ooh, jelly’. Although admittedly I think that mainly while sitting and staring at computer screens with the letter ‘j’ and flashing cursors on them.

k Is for kettles. Which you need for making jelly. Dude, this should have been a jellyphabet, what was I thinking?

l Is for lolling. Not as in laughing a lot. As in opening your eyes, and realising your head is lolling about on the back of the sofa without your permission, and you’re left staring at the ceiling. Which is nice, but, you know, a bit ceilingy.

m Is for fitted sheets, because I just realised I used something else for ‘f’ already. Mmmm, fitted sheets. You know the best thing about fitted sheets? It’s the bed. That’s the best thing. Fitted sheets, they lie on the bed, and hug it really tightly like they love it a lot. Which They Do.

n Is for noodles. Four for a pound. Noodley goodness. You can’t say farrararrar. You can’t say fairy that-that. You can’t say farrattannatt - nope, I can ‘t say it.

o Is for My gosh, will you look at what time it is. Which is something tired stupid people say a lot. And then they just sit there and watch the rest of America’s Next Top Model. And whatever else follows it. And all of a sudden it’s Silly O’clock, and Oh My Lord, they’re still awake.

p Is for these panty-liner adverts that I was meaning to write about for ages, and never had time to. This keeps happening. The advert script ran a little like this: “When you’ve been sitting down for a long time and suddenly stand up, your panty-liner can let you down”. For some reason - this was a radio advert - I found myself writing and rewriting this in my head to try and sum up what they *really* meant. They were not, let’s simply say, pretty.

q Is for qwertyuiop, which is the thing I am staring at a lot.

r Is for right. Right, it’s actually midnight. That’s quite enough navel gazing, surely. Ooooh, look, Law And Order’s on.

s Is for Sleep. Which is great. Great as you don’t dream about work, or about errands, appointments - which, let’s face it, can be a little disappointing.

t Is for teddy bears. I won’t hear a word said against them.

u Is for You do realise I’m never going to get to the end of this, don’t you?

good, good.

Bed. Sleep. Pillows.
This is stupid.

Sorry, haven’t gone away again.

But because I am a fool for television, I was covering the Big Brother finale over here

And, d’yknow, it was actually quite fun.

There was much said about extra police on the streets.
So that people might feel safer.
And it’s true. I’ve seen it to be true, so it is.
Last weekend, for example, we saw two packs of of them, policing the streets, in groups of nine. Nine.
Yes, I appreciate that they might feel safer, and that they are, of course People.

But I’d still like it better if they could maybe spread out a little.

Somewhere over to the side, behind the self-slather mustard and the skoosh-it-yourself ketchpump, my beloved stood and stared at the pool of bags falling around his feet. Every now and again he’d bend over and prop one up against his knee, at which another would flop over, dispatching, as it flopped, tea lights and wicker baskets no one remembered buying, all over the walk-it-yourself floor.

I stood in line. I stood in line for Two Large LipsandArseholeDogs and Two Drinks Please. There were two lines, and I stood in one of them.

The Rude Family of Lack of Etiquette House, Tottenham, meanwhile, stood in both lines at once. And when my line started moving a little quicker, all nine of them simply walked out of the other and in front of me. Then some other people, hungry for Ikea Cheapmeats after the Ikea Cheapseats and Cheapsuites experience, followed them, and also simply walked in front of me.

I stood, and said nothing, because I am too bloody British.

I waited in the line. I made a vow that no one, no matter how determined was going to push in front of me again. I was going to stick to the man in front of me like glue until I got my Two Large LipsandArseholeDogs and Two Drinks Please. Quickly, and with tiny touches of neausea, I regretted my decision, standing and staring at a neck of stubbled hair and pus, bubbling under straining skin.

I turned and waved at my beloved. He pointed at the people in front of me. I shrugged. Because I am too bloody British.

One, by one, by one, each customer and line pusher got served, and I stood in the line, and checked my fingernails, and stared at my toes, and thought about serious and important things - anything to avoid staring at acneck man, and pondering the possibility that any of those pulsating pustules might pop at any second. The thought had occured to me though, I will admit. I didn’t move or say anything though. Because I am too bloody British.

I looked around acneck man. I looked carefully to either side of acneck man, and anything but at acneck man, and while looking around I noticed that there, at the front of the line, the LipsandArsedog server was running out of LipsandArsedogs.

This concerned me not a little. As healthily as I’m trying to eat, there’s something about the Ikea experience that tips you out at the end absolutely ready - and almost ‘willing’ - to eat one of their 75p snozzages in buns. I wanted one. In fact I had to have one. And if I didn’t get one, then the whole experience, the sofa maze, the infinity of lamps, the pushing people and screaming children, line jumpers, and the acnest of acned necks would be for nothing.

If I didn’t get my Two Large LipsandArsedogs and Two Drinks Please, I was going to scream.

The seconds ticked by. I watch the LipsandArsedog server start to sweat. He was running out of Dogs. I was running out of time. If only I hadn’t let those second lot of five people walk into the line ahead of me. If only I’d assert myself, my rights and my elbows. If only I’d not been so Bloody British.

For the Four customers in front of me, Mr Illmannered and Mrs Poohead, Thonglady and the Acneck man, the LipsandArsedog server leant over and pulled snozzages from the other server’s tub, recieving a kissed teeth reprimand and a fierce fierce look.

Finally, finally I reached the head of the queue, watching Thonglady and the Acneck man walk away, sinking their teeth into the succulent if slightly dubious meatandbun.

Two Large HotDogs and Two Drinks Please, I said. Two Large Hotdogs, and Two Drinks. Please.

There aren’t any Hotdogs, he said. We’ve run out.

I don’t think I would have snapped, if he’d said sorry.

Sorry?

There aren’t any Hotdogs, he said, as I watched his co LipsandArsevendor scooping another into an unconvincing bun. We’ve Run Out.

A voice came from somewhere. A quiet, menacing growl, like a sabre being softly unsheathed.

Yes. Yes there are. I can bloody see them.
Go. And. Get. Them.

eyes down, he scuttled to the snozzage tub. he scuttled back, and, eyes down, pushed Two Large LipsandArseDogs over the counter.

He looked, for a second, as if he was scared to charge me.

that’ll be

And Two Drinks. Please. Thank you.

Back on the other side of the push-squish ketchup-skoosher and the fart-splurt mustard-it-yourself, I stood with my beloved among the flopping bags and inhaled my Hotdog, my LipsandArsedog, my promised lard, my reward.

I haven’t been very good at getting cross with people in my life.
I’m not good at demanding, and I’m not good at complaining.
I’m not well practiced at the quiet, threatening, knife-edge terror-inducement.
But I’m beginning to think I may take it up as an extra hobby.

I think I like it.