Old Bag.
I am awake. It is 6.30am, and I am in bed, listening to BBC Radio 2, and drinking a large mug of tea.
In my pyjamas.
I am old, suddenly. Oh my God.
At least it wasn't made with a teasmade. I can't help thinking I'd like one though.
Ho hum. Last day at uni today for a while. All tasks and essays done, all exams sat.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Dear Mrs Blackbird
I am remarkably patient with you. I am not whinging when you wake me at daybreak as you fly in and out of the eaves under my roof, and then flap around in the loft space above the bedroom where every morning I lay and listen. I know you are being a Very Good Mother, feeding your babies. I do not grumble, even when I think of the blobs and globules of bird shit that will no doubt be spattering my water tank (not to mention my Christmas tree), or hear the flapping and rustling that you make. I marvel, you sound like a whole flock of seagulls, how do you manage that? Do you have tap shoes I wonder? Anyway. I do not call someone to block up your entrance to my house. I know that to do so, would ensure certain death for your little lovelies, being the featherless little gannets that they are at this time in their lives. I sympathise. I have myself mothered three graceless, ungrateful, feeding/pooing,pooing/feeding machines for what feels like years. I do feel your pain.
However Mrs. Blackbird, I must point out that my patience has a limit. When I go outside to stand on my patio for a rare 5 minutes peace with a mug of tea, I do not expect to be shrieked at as though I am an expenses heavy MP strolling round Lidls in the Wirral, waving my rolex and flashing my Amex. I do expect to be able to hang my washing out without you perching on the clothes prop giving me the evils and hopping up and down, bellowing your miserable beak off in an impersonation of a mid rage Rumpelstiltskin.
My life, Mrs. Blackbird, is not peaceful often.
Do me a favour and shut the fuck up for five minutes.
Thanks,
Pesk.
xxx
I am remarkably patient with you. I am not whinging when you wake me at daybreak as you fly in and out of the eaves under my roof, and then flap around in the loft space above the bedroom where every morning I lay and listen. I know you are being a Very Good Mother, feeding your babies. I do not grumble, even when I think of the blobs and globules of bird shit that will no doubt be spattering my water tank (not to mention my Christmas tree), or hear the flapping and rustling that you make. I marvel, you sound like a whole flock of seagulls, how do you manage that? Do you have tap shoes I wonder? Anyway. I do not call someone to block up your entrance to my house. I know that to do so, would ensure certain death for your little lovelies, being the featherless little gannets that they are at this time in their lives. I sympathise. I have myself mothered three graceless, ungrateful, feeding/pooing,pooing/feeding machines for what feels like years. I do feel your pain.
However Mrs. Blackbird, I must point out that my patience has a limit. When I go outside to stand on my patio for a rare 5 minutes peace with a mug of tea, I do not expect to be shrieked at as though I am an expenses heavy MP strolling round Lidls in the Wirral, waving my rolex and flashing my Amex. I do expect to be able to hang my washing out without you perching on the clothes prop giving me the evils and hopping up and down, bellowing your miserable beak off in an impersonation of a mid rage Rumpelstiltskin.
My life, Mrs. Blackbird, is not peaceful often.
Do me a favour and shut the fuck up for five minutes.
Thanks,
Pesk.
xxx
Procrastination
I bought a new radio yesterday. A pink one, with a CD player and a usb port to allow hook up to my MP3 player. If only I hadn't dropped my ipod shuffle into a vat of oil.
Bonny - oh no will it still work?
Pesk - *glare*
I cleared the old non functioning DAB radio off the shelf in the kitchen which is also home to a clock the size of one you might find at Crewe station, 12 cookery books, various powders, herbs and spices,a blackbird pie funnel,pickled garlic and chilis and a string of neon blue fairy lights. And a huge metal hand mincer (for mincing potatoes a la bramborak, not hands). All this when I should've been finishing an essay on the importance of the family in the nursing process. Did I say finishing? Starting, finishing, whatever. Anyway, I found two pennies. Not tiny bright coppery pennies you might find in your purse, but dull oak brown birthday badge sized pennies.
I lay them on the table later and the three of us stare at them as we listen to the radio and wait for the tacos to be ready. The most noticable thing is how the design is worn away. Wibs offers that a million people have probably rubbed the Queens face. 1887! says Bonny, picking up the oldest one. 1887! That's like 130 years ago (she had her SATS maths exam today, so she's confident).
Wibs drops one on top of the other and remarks how they sound different to pennies.More serious. Like the Victorians, she says, as though they manufactured the coins to resonate with the mood of the era. They sound like when Scrooge counts his money in A Christmas Carol, she says.
Well, Dickens could've handled these coins, I say, (exaggerating slightly for effect, yes, I know he died in 1870 thanks) eliciting a goggle eyed look from each child as they pick them up and weigh them in their hands.
Or Hitler? says Bonny, who is hideously obsessed with all things Nazi presently.
Wibs (scoffing)- Hitler was GERMAN
Bonny - So? He might've been here on holiday.
Wibs - *considering*
Bonny - And brought an ice cream with it.
Wibs - silly. You could've bought like 50 ice creams for a penny then.
(inflation eh? tsk)
Bonny - I wonder how many murderers have touched this coin?
The penny is now worth 49p on ebay it seems. The conversation is priceless.
I bought a new radio yesterday. A pink one, with a CD player and a usb port to allow hook up to my MP3 player. If only I hadn't dropped my ipod shuffle into a vat of oil.
Bonny - oh no will it still work?
Pesk - *glare*
I cleared the old non functioning DAB radio off the shelf in the kitchen which is also home to a clock the size of one you might find at Crewe station, 12 cookery books, various powders, herbs and spices,a blackbird pie funnel,pickled garlic and chilis and a string of neon blue fairy lights. And a huge metal hand mincer (for mincing potatoes a la bramborak, not hands). All this when I should've been finishing an essay on the importance of the family in the nursing process. Did I say finishing? Starting, finishing, whatever. Anyway, I found two pennies. Not tiny bright coppery pennies you might find in your purse, but dull oak brown birthday badge sized pennies.
I lay them on the table later and the three of us stare at them as we listen to the radio and wait for the tacos to be ready. The most noticable thing is how the design is worn away. Wibs offers that a million people have probably rubbed the Queens face. 1887! says Bonny, picking up the oldest one. 1887! That's like 130 years ago (she had her SATS maths exam today, so she's confident).
Wibs drops one on top of the other and remarks how they sound different to pennies.More serious. Like the Victorians, she says, as though they manufactured the coins to resonate with the mood of the era. They sound like when Scrooge counts his money in A Christmas Carol, she says.
Well, Dickens could've handled these coins, I say, (exaggerating slightly for effect, yes, I know he died in 1870 thanks) eliciting a goggle eyed look from each child as they pick them up and weigh them in their hands.
Or Hitler? says Bonny, who is hideously obsessed with all things Nazi presently.
Wibs (scoffing)- Hitler was GERMAN
Bonny - So? He might've been here on holiday.
Wibs - *considering*
Bonny - And brought an ice cream with it.
Wibs - silly. You could've bought like 50 ice creams for a penny then.
(inflation eh? tsk)
Bonny - I wonder how many murderers have touched this coin?
The penny is now worth 49p on ebay it seems. The conversation is priceless.
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