I surprise myself sometimes. This afternoon I plan to buy a box of chocolates and leave them where I’m bound to find them.
Well! Look at that! Christmas decorations up already means I am legally allowed to plug our Christmas single in aid of clean drinking water again :)
As I said last year, it carries a severe cheesy warning so please spread it if you like it.
Download it from iTunes or Amazon mp3 and help us build more of these little beauties!
This is the sort of festive twaddle you get if for some obscure reason you follow @suffolkpiano on twitter. I apologise in advance.
I went to that Scandinavian ice hotel last Christmas. Have to say it was a frosty reception.
Just been found guilty of posting an abusive Christmas tweet. It’s unlikely to be a long sentence though.
How can you tell if a polar bear has been drinking? He’s not arcticulating very well.
What’s the best way to nourish someone? It’s just Delia Smiths’s asking. Sounds like she’s had a few.
What’s more dangerous than people wearing paper hats next to candles? Drunk people wearing paper hats next to candles.
Who ate all the Christmas stockings? The goats of Christmas present.
Do you mind? I mean, DO YOU MIND? I’ve been trying to give up writing for years. Well, trying to give up trying; getting back to where I started, writing solely for my own pleasure. Now this happens!
Somehow, somewhere down the line the whole ‘own pleasure’ thing got encouraged, dagnabit, by certain persons who should have acted more responsibly and not mentioned anything about ability and putting oneself forward etc. That went and led to some kind of bizarre merry-go-round of comps and opportunities, the inevitable rejections, stupidly late nights and all those excruciating writery things I promised myself a long time ago I’d have nothing to do with.
So lately, having realised I’m just a another dullard with nothing much to say, every time I promise myself I’ll get back to my former, HAPPY existence, the carrot gets dangled yet again. And today, not one, but two items have been short listed for consideration. Will you STOP doing that? My poor little ol’ heart can’t take it.
Actually though, now I think about it, the pieces that
will fall at the last hurdle have been selected, are pieces with themes I chose and thus enjoyed writing.
Well now, it’s only taken what, ten years for that penny to drop? Like I said. Dullard.
PS. Did you know that the Welsh for ‘carrot’ happens to be ‘moron’?
Well, here we are again. The hot news being I have read a book. A fat one. In a week. I enjoyed it too, for once not constantly thinking I ought to be doing something useful like starting a website demanding compensation for widowed industrial cats. No, that really is a cause I was more than happy to forget as I leafed through Pompeii by Robert Harris, all the time tweeting I suspected something cataclysmic coming.
Concentration on books (spit) is obviously quite a problem for me. Well, getting to a book in the first place is but I do pride myself on being the boy who, at school, was constantly berated for daydreaming out of the window, whose job now involves being paid to sit and stare out of people’s windows. Anyway, where was I? Yes. Page 304 reads, ‘ …far away – but very distinctly, unlike anything he, or anyone else, had ever heard – came the sound of a double boom’. What, thinketh I? What was Basil Brush* doing at Pompeii?
Concentration see. I do it all the time at work so why should I at home?
*If you don’t know who Basil Brush is/was, I pity your life but suggest you get to YouTube now.
As you can probably tell from this less-than-quarterly entry, I’ve been proper busy. I am not a writer. A writer’s writer I mean. I took a solemn vow as an impressionable teenager to NEVER get involved with anything creative. It’s just, well… dangerous.
This may have had something to do with my dad (who was very much a writer’s writer) having a writer’s tantrum and throwing a box full of copies of his latest book from an upstairs window, narrowly missing my daydreams below.
Now that I have finally caved in and become him, or rather a less well read, less connected, less successful ( in writing terms) version of him, it occurs to me that I really ought to have a box of books in my arsenal ready to throw out of a window.
This would, inevitably, be wonderful therapy for the sheer frustration encountered when trying to find someone to print me a simple, inexpensive, black and white, thirty pages poetry booklet. I’ve done the e-book. Easy. I just want to gently hand a few hard copies to hapless friends without killing them.
In this wonderfully technological age, it should, I foolishly assume, be a simple matter of searching, clicking and ordering online. Never before has there been such an array of technological wizardry available.
I tell you, to get this PERFECTLY SIMPLE job done, it would be easier to go into my shed yesterday, reconstruct from memory I do not possess, an exact copy of the original Gutenberg press, from half set Galician yak fudge.
Books though. Pah!