Not big on these meme things, generally. Mostly because, though I know they’re probably pronounced ‘meem’, I always want to pronounce them ‘memmy’, and then I start singing like Al Jolson in my head, and then I forget to write anything fullstop, because the little writer in my head has been replaced with a kneeling figure, doing jazz hands and singing ‘how I love ya how I love ya, my dear old meme…‘ and then I get all conflicted because my little inner writer turned little inner Jolson should be wearing minstrel make-up, but because I find the very thought abhorrent, it’s just me in a suit and with the jazz hands and an enormous ‘fro, and to be honest, the suit doesn’t really suit me, and I don’t know any more of the words after ‘a million miles for one of your smiles … meme…‘ so it all sort of peters out and my little inner Al is left looking a bit of a pillock, and I then feel too sad to write.

However, I’m training myself to pronounce it ‘meem‘ so that that simply doesn’t happen any more, although to be frank I’m not sure that means I’ll do them any more frequently.

Sometimes, however, neccessity dictates that the devil drives. Or something. Well, I mean, in some ways he’d have to anyway, because I can’t. Drive, I mean. But, needs must, and neccissity is a motherfucker when the devil drives idle hand inventions. I think. Point is:

I’ve been pootling about the internet looking for memes that will fill the void left where my writing brain should be. I don’t know where it’s gone. Although I think it might have just fallen into the same hole as my weekend, which seems to have moved seamlessly from large party to hangover to sunday night blues.

But what meme? (How I love ya, how I love ya - stoppit) what meme should I do?

Well, I had a little look around, and having decided that following Mike’s example and doing the ‘this is my desk” thing was a bit of a non starter, my not having a desk at home and that (although I did have a bit of a go, which you can see here, if you’ve really nothing better to do. I clearly haven’t) I decided instead to follow Clair’s example. And do some kind of self-consuming desperate googlism. I don’t mean she was desperate to do it. I mean I am.

Ahem.

I typed “Anna needs” into google. Apparently…

Anna needs to be excused from class today: Top google result. This was actually me. I mean, this was actually from my site. You people clearly know too much about my needs already. Sorry about that. Still, I can’t think of a more fitting phrase for a Sunday night, home of I-don’t-want-to-go-to-school-itis.

Anna needs all the support she can get right now: Oh dear, do I? More attention, really, than support, many would say.

Anna needs a feeling of success: Yeah. Who doesn’t? Oxygen, anyone?

Anna needs a fan club too: Yay!

Anna needs! Anna needs!: All right, already, calm down, calm down … most worryingly, this comes from a page on an adoption support website called “was our adoption a mistake?”. Sniff.

Anna needs to get the posters from Mike to Martha Clifford in the ME advising office for the FAC: Righty ho. Mike. Martha. Mmm-hm.

Anna needs more sophisticated drugs: Now we’re talking.

Anna needs you: This is true.

Anna needs whatever sense of humour works for her. Um. S’pose, yes. Is that not a good thing?

Anna needs to get off this silly little bicycle now. Memmy isn’t a very good colour on her That wasn’t on google. That was just me.

God, I hate Sunday nights. I hate them with a pissy pithy passion. There’s something doom-laden about them - even twelve years after secondary school is over.

HATE THEM. Whoops, caps lock.
Hate them.

You’d think after all that I would have found a point to get to, wouldn’t you?

Maybe I should go looking for more memes.
How we love them how we love them.

No. Something’s telling me that’s not a good idea.

I tell you what, when I find that point, I’ll be sure to hand it over.
Something tells me I should keep away from points.
Something tells me I already have.

Fucking Sunday nights.

Later:
Still bored.

I tell you what, though, I just tried typing Anna into google. I’m the 18th most popular Anna in the world!

Well, that filled 27 seconds, what shall we do now?

*Sigh*.
Might go and look for more memes.

God I hate them.
Sunday nights, I mean.
Hate’em.

But I’m too bloody busy.
Doing really sodding girly things like buying shoes, and exfoliating and that sort of crap.
Sorry.

Still, after the very posh do I’m attending this evening is over, I’ll tell you all about it.

In the meantime - you could say that today’s post can be found over here, in a tenuous kind of way. Apologies as usual to readers who don’t watch television.

So they can take their decorations, and shove them up their arse, frankly.

It’s the sixth of fucking October.

I just wanted to say that.

Nine days of refilling my ipod shuffle.

Nine days of not realising that there was a ‘fill randomly’ box to tick on my playlist.

Nine days of not knowing that without that box ticked, predicable alphabetical things might happen.

Nine days of wondering why my ipod suddenly had developed a jones for certain artists, when all I wanted to hear was Dean Martin, a bit of Grandaddy, a pinch of Nick Drake and some Magic Numbers.

Ten artists I don’t mind not hearing again till next year

1. Blur
2. The Beach Boys
3. Air
4. Billie Holiday
5. The Avalanches
6. Billy Bragg
7. Badly Drawn Boy
8. Alison Krauss
9. Bjork
10. ABBA
11. Aretha Franklin
12. Amerie
13. Ben Folds Five
14. Belle and Sebastian
15. Beck
16. The Beatles
17. Adam and the Ants

Yes.

Nine days hearing the same songs over and over again, complaining about the fact that my shuffle was biased, loudly and often, and never actually realising they were all by artists and bands beginning with an A or a B.

I is a idiot.

I think I need to expland my A and B collections, in case this happens again. Any suggestions would be gratefully appreciated.

It’s not obsessive, really, the whole bed-making thing.
It’s not. Really. And it’s certainly not weird.

I am able to leave the house if it’s not done, I’m not overly predictable about measurements or corners - not overly picky, as pickiness goes - in fact, in pickitiness terms, comparitively, looking at the wider picture… I’m really relatively feral and carefree about the state of my bed.

It’s like leaving a clear desk when you walk away in the evening from work; you know that in the morning, no matter how gruff and grim and grumblesome you are, your desk won’t be piled with left-over horrors, and everything will be where you think it is. Perfect. And so the same with the bed. Folded and straightened, it presents a blank canvas of a night-time, a comfort to slip into and disappear without any faffing or grot.

It’s just nice. But - as you may have gathered - sometimes ‘nice’ in this girl’s mind equals ‘neat’, or in the right order, at least.

A gorgeous little, little, little boy came over yesterday - not even one year old. He sat and played with the little plastic coloured pots they’d brought with them, putting one inside another inside another inside another, in perfect order (well, every now and again); “Look!” I said, and pulled my beloved over, and pointed “Neat baby! He plays tidying games! Let’s get one of those!” And - what’s more … no, I shouldn’t say this, it makes me sounds odd again, oh, no screw it, why stop now… even though the pink one was *meant* to go inside the red one, he would never fit them together. And why? Well, the only possible explanation was that he didn’t like the clashing. Superb. If and when I get one, I want one like that. An incredibaby.

Anyway. Duvet pulled up - pillows straightened underneath it. Couple of extra cushions (white or matching) just under the duvet, but NOT at diagonals. Other cushion on top, if it matches and then, colours dictating, the throw at the bottom of the bed, straight, folded in half, ready to be unfolded upward to cover. If it can be my favourite striped throw, so much the better.

I love that throw. It makes me happy just by being there (You know those things that you’ve carried with you from place to place and which mean you’re at home immediately? It’s one of those. It’s just that).

My beloved, bless his mismatched socks, has gathered that I like the bed made, just *so*. He doesn’t care much for making the bed - and if he does, he certainly doesn’t care how exactly it is done.
In this respect, of course, he’s like all the other normal people that make up society and aren’t one of us. Left to his own devices, he’d leave the bed comfortably unkempt and devil may care. There’s no big thing about making the bed, in his world, and fair enough, man’s got a point etc…

But he knows that I like it, because I am me.

And sometimes I have to get up last, and leave last, and I make the bed, and I make it as in the picture above.

And sometimes he has to get up last, and leave last. And then he makes the bed.

And I love him so very very very much, because he tries. Look - all the elements are there. Tick, tick, tick - it’s there - all the right notes, etc. Pillows, duvet, cushion, stripey spread.

It makes me happy.

I mean, I still remake it immediately. Obviously.
But all the time smiling.

Our bedroom is at the back, as is the toilet - please stick with me, I have a point - though when we decided to take the flat, we thought that our relative height in the scheme of things (third floor, ish) would afford us a little privacy. Five months later, I say this: A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

You see, every inch of land is potential real estate in London, or every inch of real estate is potential ridiculous profit, whatever. As it works out, sandwiched between the block in which my flat sits, and the school where teenage children seem to murder each other three times every weekday (what do they do at playtime? Does it involve machetes? Does it involve dogs? Lions?), there is a small block of four flats. So there is our block, with about 10 flats in, then a little car park, and at the back of car park, a house.

And in this house, there is a flat.

And in this flat, there are people. People whose bedroom and study look directly (well, up a bit and directly) into our bedroom and bathroom. And my god, I thought I was on the computer a lot, but no, not compared to Mr and Mrs OnTheComputerALot over there (look, it’s late, I’m tired, leave it…) and…

Oh, d’you know what? I’m too tired to finish this story.

I’ve had my herbal tea, and it’s putting me to sleep, and you know what? In the old days, I never used to write such marathon stories on this bloody site, and by God, from the paragraphs above, this one was going to take 4000 words to finish.

I will finish this tomorrow, or something, or, you know, whatever.

No.

That’s defeatist.
I tell you what, I’ll tell you in point form, now. I can be brief. I can.

So.

- There are these people in the flat across and below. They’re always sitting on their computer, looking like they’re working.

- But clearly actually just looking out of the window.

- My beloved seems to truly believe that they might be spying on us.

- I don’t think this is an entirely unreasonable assumption. Seriously. They’re always there.

- Sometimes, if I’ve left the blinds open overnight, I have to commando-roll out of bed. Because they’re there.

- It’s difficult to have the bathroom window open, as the bottom of the window is at winkie level, and my beloved is never sure how the angle between windows affects how low they can go. Or see.

- They’re always, always there.

- Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes.

- Today, browsing Estate Agent websites to look at which properties we can never never afford to buy this week - because we’re in our late twenties and that’s what you do with your Sunday afternoons - we came upon a building that looked familiar.

- It was the house in the carpark.

- The flat for sale was the spy flat.

- We therefore, with the benefit of Estate Agent particulars (websites carry lots of pictures of places for sale nowadays - probably for this exact reason), we got to look inside all their rooms.

- And criticise their furniture.

- And boast about how our computer is better than the computer in the study that they are always, always sitting at.

- We spied on them! Who are the spies NOW, eh, Mr and Mrs OnTheComputerALot?

- In your face, Spies! We ARE the nosiest! We WIN!

- And also your kitchen cabinets suck.

Um, so, um, yeah.

Anyway. Erm. Look over there! Pretty pictures! Guns! Boobies! Bloggers!