Not only am I ALL OVER Twitter, like ALL OVER IT and "tweeting" like a good 'un - but I have found a 'theme tune' for them if they ever decide to do some advertising or 'rebranding' and what have-you!
The theme tune I have selected has the added benefit of also demonstrating a point that we have all known for some time (and that, in fact, I "tweeted" some moments ago), namely that Genesis were in all ways ahead of their time. (And that Peter Gabriel looks like a stuffed cat, but that's another thing.)
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I am like mega total social on-it total new media!!!!
Yes, fans, now you can follow my every move on the "Twitter"!! I am totally rad, etc. It is grate, even if I shall henceforth be known as "Nonworkingmonke".On the downside (there is a downside to the new technologies, I can assure you), I will not be very good at 'Tweeting' and all that because I do not have the equipments. Twitter is OK if you have an iPhone or are at home all day on the line, but if you are lumbered with a totally rubbish Treo thing that makes you look like a knobber* while all your cool (and/or European) friends are cracking their gum and snapping their fingers in time to the new sounds, it is not so easy!!
Anyroad up, tonight has mainly been spent buying cake boards and what-have-you, although I have decided on a taste test between the mighty Bendick's Bittermint and the York Peppermint Pattie.
Bendick's Bittermints: $10.31 online. Over four British pounds at the airport. Rarer than gazelles in Hackney, even at Waitrose in Richmond and places like that. One is enough; two are possible.
York's Peppermint Pattie: under $1 I think at the station. 3 "patties" in a pack. 1 is transient; 2 to check they are not better than they are, what with being freely available and cheap; 3 is possible, but after that is the feeling of dirty.
With a Bendick's Bittermint, however, with every mouthful you feel that you are living in the greatest hour of the British Empire, and it is not just because they are hard to find. They are 95% cocoa chocolate, a strong peppermint essence, and a robust texture that makes you feel like a champion, as does the knowledge that one of the co-founders of Bendick's was called Colonel 'Bertie' Dickinson .
The York's Peppermint Pattie, par contre, used to be hard and now is soft, and owned by Hershey. It is OK, but I am keen for all fans of the Peppermint Pattie to try the Bendick's Bittermint and understand what the whole dark chocolate/strong peppermint combo can really do.
Meanwhile, the pathologist gnaws on fistfuls of delicious Lindt 70%. "What's that?", he says, pointing at the Peppermint Pattie. "It is like a Bendick's Bittermint, but for American girls", I say. "Do you want some?".
There is a silence; the maws of the pathologist crunch with deadly efficiency through the soft receiving choklit in his hands. "No. And anyway, I like After Eights better."
I am silenced!!! After Eights!!! Sweet heavens!!!
* Believe me, however shallow, this is important if you work in the advertising and spend your time trying to convince people to do stuff, e.g. do 'social media' etc. If you pull out a bit of apparatus that looks like it needs an organ grinder and a set of bellows to get it going, you look like a knobber. (See above.)
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
I look like myself
Here I am, about four I think, cooking something. I'm not sure where I am, but I know I look very happy. Everyone should look happy and absorbed like that when they are at work.
(Do not get excited. I am not about to start off posting one million photographs of myself (super-hot as I am), but given enough encouragement, I may be persuaded to publish a photograph of the pathologist and me in our wedding fezzes, assuming they are delivered from the Balkans in time.)
(Do not get excited. I am not about to start off posting one million photographs of myself (super-hot as I am), but given enough encouragement, I may be persuaded to publish a photograph of the pathologist and me in our wedding fezzes, assuming they are delivered from the Balkans in time.)
I cannot sleep (again)
We have been here before, dear readers, but this time, I am nearly desperate!!!
Most nights, I am almost dead by 9.30, drooling on the sofa and able, if I were left there, to sleep in my clothes with Canada's Next Top Model playing on an infinite loop in the background. But no! I rouse myself; I brush my teeth, etc; I disrobe and re-robe, as appropriate (and depending on the weather); I go to bed.
The pathologist also goes to bed, if he is not there already reading "Histopathology Monthly", feverishly (but calmly) searching for the latest gags about Weigert's resorcin-fuchsin method.
But the duvet is not right. The cover is twisted. The bed is the wrong way round; there is dust; the neighbour's dogs are barking and now the neighbours are shouting at the dogs to stop barking. Something is flashing. It is too hot, and too cold. The McGill freshmen run up and down the back alley shrieking with a rising inflection.
The pathologist falls into a deep and immediate sleep and starts snoring. I need a wee, a glass of water. My tummy hurts. My eyes are sore and I think I have shin splints. My ankle is aching.
I start to think about the work I have not done because I am tired, or the other thing I have forgotten to do because I can't summon the energy to walk to the post office; I think about the things that are not to do with work that I have to do and have not, or that have not happened yet but might; the things I have decided to do that perhaps may end in disaster. (Conversely I do not dwell on the past and/or have regrets about things, as that is bonkers.) I wonder why I am doing all the things I am doing at all ever, and wonder about what I should do next and how many more years I have left to do them in, and how many books I can read before I die.
It goes on and on and I think again about Things by Fleur Adcock again, and then I think about how irritating I find it when people at work talk about being tired, and then I think, no I must explain to some of the people that I work with that I have had 2 hours' sleep because I am not sure I am making any sense, and any moment now, I am going to break something, and it may not be very good.
What is the answer, dear readers? I think it may be meditation, but I am not sure! I am willing to consider:
1. Removing the pathologist's nose that he may no longer snore;
2. Medicament that will have definitely worn off by 7am;
3. Medicinal 'marijuana';
4. Any kind of therapy (not homeopathy though, that's stupid).
I have tried:
1. Not drinking. (Helps.)
2. Those over-the-counter sleeping pills. They also work, but I am nervous of using them more than once a week for no logical reason;
3. Writing lists;
4. Earplugs;
5. Reading AA Gill's book about the English;
6. Imagining a blank blackboard;
7. Counting sheep;
8. Imagining life as a top-notch book-writer/cake maker with 3 Facebook fan pages.
Some work, some don't. Some say it is 'stress', but the only thing that is 'stressing me out' is the fact that I can't bloody sleep.
And still the pathologist snores on. On Wikipedia, I think they call that 'poor sleep hygiene'.
Most nights, I am almost dead by 9.30, drooling on the sofa and able, if I were left there, to sleep in my clothes with Canada's Next Top Model playing on an infinite loop in the background. But no! I rouse myself; I brush my teeth, etc; I disrobe and re-robe, as appropriate (and depending on the weather); I go to bed.
The pathologist also goes to bed, if he is not there already reading "Histopathology Monthly", feverishly (but calmly) searching for the latest gags about Weigert's resorcin-fuchsin method.
But the duvet is not right. The cover is twisted. The bed is the wrong way round; there is dust; the neighbour's dogs are barking and now the neighbours are shouting at the dogs to stop barking. Something is flashing. It is too hot, and too cold. The McGill freshmen run up and down the back alley shrieking with a rising inflection.
The pathologist falls into a deep and immediate sleep and starts snoring. I need a wee, a glass of water. My tummy hurts. My eyes are sore and I think I have shin splints. My ankle is aching.
I start to think about the work I have not done because I am tired, or the other thing I have forgotten to do because I can't summon the energy to walk to the post office; I think about the things that are not to do with work that I have to do and have not, or that have not happened yet but might; the things I have decided to do that perhaps may end in disaster. (Conversely I do not dwell on the past and/or have regrets about things, as that is bonkers.) I wonder why I am doing all the things I am doing at all ever, and wonder about what I should do next and how many more years I have left to do them in, and how many books I can read before I die.
It goes on and on and I think again about Things by Fleur Adcock again, and then I think about how irritating I find it when people at work talk about being tired, and then I think, no I must explain to some of the people that I work with that I have had 2 hours' sleep because I am not sure I am making any sense, and any moment now, I am going to break something, and it may not be very good.
What is the answer, dear readers? I think it may be meditation, but I am not sure! I am willing to consider:
1. Removing the pathologist's nose that he may no longer snore;
2. Medicament that will have definitely worn off by 7am;
3. Medicinal 'marijuana';
4. Any kind of therapy (not homeopathy though, that's stupid).
I have tried:
1. Not drinking. (Helps.)
2. Those over-the-counter sleeping pills. They also work, but I am nervous of using them more than once a week for no logical reason;
3. Writing lists;
4. Earplugs;
5. Reading AA Gill's book about the English;
6. Imagining a blank blackboard;
7. Counting sheep;
8. Imagining life as a top-notch book-writer/cake maker with 3 Facebook fan pages.
Some work, some don't. Some say it is 'stress', but the only thing that is 'stressing me out' is the fact that I can't bloody sleep.
And still the pathologist snores on. On Wikipedia, I think they call that 'poor sleep hygiene'.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
I need a Facebook fan page/group type thing
It is not fair! Everybody knows I am a Facebook expert and have been for some time now. But what I do not understand is why I do not have a fan page like Jonny B or Ms Baroque. Even bloody Girl With A One-Trick Pony has a Facebook page and she doesn't really do anything now except moan about how difficult it is being famous.
It is really unfair. Granted, two of the web-blogs to which I refer above are well-written, consistent and have an idea behind them, but there are lots of things that have fan pages and/or groups that shouldn't (e.g. there are 527 members of the Andrew Lloyd Weber fan page thing), and I have nothing, not even a poke. (There is only one conclusion I can draw, and it is too sad to write down.)
To cheer myself up, I will provide you now with a few of my recent Facebook profile pictures. As you will see, none of them are a direct representation of me (fez askew, pipe lolling, absinthe bottle poised); there are - how shall we say - more a representation of my various states of mind in recent weeks. (Regular readers will be very familiar with the outstandingly good red monkey.)
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