I am not a fan of the rat’s tail but this is something else …

It’s being often said here , “Cricket is a religion in India”, and that set me thinking. The just-concluded India-Australia One-Day International series could very well have been the summary of the “faith” of the religious Indian cricket fans.

Well, the 1st One-Day International was a practice match for Indians. After all, how could we expect the Indian cricket team to adjust to home conditions so soon.

The 2nd One-Day International proved that Indian Cricket was a monotheistic religion where MS Dhoni was the sole deity.

The 3rd One-Day International re-affirmed the omnipresence of the sole diety.

The 4th One-Day International dethroned MS Dhoni, and elevated Sachin Tendulkar up the pedestal.

The 5th One-Day International catapulted Sachin Tendulkar to near-immortal status, even though India tasted dirt.

The 6th One-Day International kicked everybody off the list.

Well, the Original Creator told everybody who was boss when the 7th One-Day International was rained out.

Karl Marx once said, “Religion is the opium of the people”. Well, the Indian cricket fans seem to be high on cheap dope.

Cheers !!!

Mohitoz’ Law #147

Cartoonists can become politicians but cricketers can’t even come close.

'Dr Phil'. AspieScribe's Psychologist.

Hello. I’ve been AspieScribe’s psychologist for about six years. This blog was my idea.

I thought writing a blog would be good for AS and others because:

1. AS was having trouble getting back into writing after a long break from it.
2. Writing down painful memories often takes some of the ‘sting’ out of them.
3. Many of the situations AS described to me were quite entertaining.
4. AS is an excellent writer and the blog could be published as a book.
5. Other Asperger sufferers and their supporters could benefit from reading such a book.

I’m pleased with how the blog is going. It’s obvious to me that AS has benefitted greatly from writing it.

AS is in much better shape than when we began our counselling sessions and I expect further improvements.

I commend this blog to you and hope you also derive benefit from it.

Yours sincerely,

Dr Philip Greenway

M.A. (Edin.), Doct en Psych (Louvain)

Vous avez certainement vu la nouvelle campagne des B*nques Populaires qui reprend encore une fois le concept des personnages de contes de fées plongés dans la vie réel, avec cette fois le Petit Poucet et le Petit Chaperon Rouge.

Alors, outre le fait que j’ai du mal à comprendre comme le Poucet benêt est arrivé à pécho le Chaperon, je remarque surtout que cette petite peste malpolie ne lève pas le cul de la bagnole pour aller dire bonjour aux parents de son mec !

Non mais je te jure, il  y a des fessées (ah non on n’a plus le droit) qui se perdent !!

Franchement Poucet, lâche-la ! En plus tu vas te taper le rôti chez Mère Grand tous les dimanches si tu continues !!

Je sais plus…

Les couloirs m’étourdissent

Entre deux rangées droites et parallèles, je suis étourdie.

Le néon se reflète sur le plancher ciré

En colère, mais maîtrisée parce que fatiguée.

Je ne sais pas exactement ce que je vais faire.

La seule chose qui est sure, c’est que je verrai ça demain.

La procrastination de mes malheurs…

Au moins, si je meurs entre temps, 

J’aurai eu ce problème là en moins.

Et merde, que c’est chiant

Que la vie c’est chiant

Et demain aussi ça sera chiant

Quand ce sera fini, j’irai me saouler la gueule

ET MERDE!

Seemingly strategically placed banana peel threatens stability

Dominion Post - print edition 17 November - Political Briefing

Dressing down to show that he is hip!!

As slang ‘hip’ is far from being ‘au courant‘, personally Adam thought the term was rather 1950s or 1960s. Even Adam did not think Goff was that much out of touch.

Goff’s minders seem determined to equate Goff with Don Brash when it comes to visual faux pas.

Hilarious! For more FB fails, check out this page.

Source: The Chive

This is the first time using footage on a green screen, and it was surprisingly easy to do. It was all filmed in letterbox, so there was a fair amount of quality loss in this process, however, George (The CEO) did an excellent job at acting as well as voice-over work, and I think as a whole, the vision of this video was realized.

After the depressing news that  according to Beautifulpeople.com the Brits are the ugliest nation on earth, comes the cheering story that British men can last longer in bed than any other European nation, coming in at a stonking  average of 10 minutes before ejaculation, ahead of those supposedly sexier french, and miles ahead of the Spaniards who can only do 4.9 minutes.

Great on the classical guitar but no good for a long shag.

One man in the survey, of unidentified nationality, lasted only 6 seconds. One can only assume it’s been a dry spell…

Strangely it was found that men who drank alcohol before sex lasted longer, dispelling the myth that alcohol adversely affects performance. This must be good news for the average bloke, who likes nothing better of an evening than 16 pints followed by a quick one.  There was, however, no mention of the effect of kebabs or curries on sexual stamina.

So there you have it. If you want long lasting sex with an ugly bloke, Britain is the place for you.

Les “brèves de commentaires” rapportent les commentaires les plus cocasses
écrits par les Internautes sur la blogosphère…

Toni le convoyeur se rend sans rendre l’argent (LibéLyon – 16.11.09)

FAIT DIVERS (actualisé 18h20) - La cavale n’aura pas tenu deux semaines. Onze jours après sa disparition à Lyon, avec un fourgon contenant 11,6 millions d’euros, le convoyeur Toni M. s’est rendu ce lundi, en début d’après-midi, à la police de Monaco. [...] Le jeudi 5 novembre, il avait disparu avec 11,6 millions d’euros. Puis avait abandonné son  fourgon vide, quelques rues plus loin. Les enquêteurs de la police judiciaire de Lyon avaient retrouvé une partie de l’argent (9,1 millions) deux jours plus tard dans un box. Toni M. avait gardé plus de 2,5 millions avec lui. Il s’est rendu sans ce solde.

Commentaire:

Monaco ça coute vraiment cher en fait, si avec 2 millions tu tiens à peine deux semaines …

Jekyll

Today is the 200^th anniversary of the death of the Welsh poet Dai Laffin.

 This much maligned and forgotten poet left the earth on this day in 1809. He had many, many poems in his repertoire, most of which respectable publishers identified as the crap that they were. He did manage to get a few past the editors of some less than well-known papers, but none made any impact on the world of poetry in any way whatsoever.

 His greatest moment came when, at age 50, he read his seminal poem, Ode to Love, at the annual meeting of Select Officers of Distinguished Society, also known as the SODS, in the City of Westminster. He only made it through the first verse, when many women fainted. In the ensuing riot, he was beaten to death. An irate matron, who stamped on him with her sensible shoes, also pummeled him to a coma with her bible.

 His friends and family rushed to his bedside; however, he remained in a coma for many weeks. In desperation, they tried reading some of his poetry to him that this would bring him back to consciousness. Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect and he went into cardiac arrest as soon as the first line of a poem was read. 

 On his tombstone, the epitaph reads. Dai Laffin, the SODS got him.

Ode To Love

As I stare captivated by your beautiful deep brown eyes

And tell you that they remind me of a faultless sunrise

I really can’t quite adequately disguise

That they really make me think about your faultless inner thighs

As you smile at me with your lovely luscious lips

And I gush that they’d launch a thousand ships

They really send me on orgasmic ripe trips

Dreaming all the while about your curvilicious hips

Next time I compliment you, and say you’re the best

And that my heart melts, I’m sure you’ll have guessed

That I’m hoping like hell that I can see you undressed

And that I’m really drooling over your melonous breast

                                                                        (Dai Laffin 1759 – 1809)

Bad news for teabaggers who were hoping the odious expression that irritates them so much would fade from use.

Sadly, it’s not to be.  So much a part of popular political lexicon has the word “teabagger” become, the New Oxford American Dictionary chose it as one of its “Word of the Year” finalists (along with “Death Panels”!), although the winning word was  “unfriend”:

A testament to how popular social networking has become, Oxford American Dictionary has picked the word “unfriend” as the word of the year.

According to the dictionary, unfriend is a verb that means to “remove someone as a friend on a social networking site such as Facebook.”  [...]

List of more finalists: [...]

* death panel – a theoretical body that determines which patients deserve to live, when care is rationed

* teabagger – a person who protests President Obama’s tax policies and stimulus package, often through local demonstrations known as “Tea Party” protests (in allusion to the Boston Tea Party of 1773

The teabaggers had no idea what they were unleashing with this:

Maybe next year the word “moran” will make the cut!

]]> http://thedailypingpong.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/self-tooting/ Mon, 16 Nov 2009 23:56:47 +0000 Malkan http://thedailypingpong.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/self-tooting/

yeahhhhhhh in today’s town-hall meeting President Obama mentioned ‘Ping Pong’….

elsewhere he also said ‘the’ and ‘daily’……….and there we have it straight from President Obama’s mouth,”The Daily Ping Pong’!!

clearly, I have too much time on my hands today…where is my ‘Learn Arabic’ book..? …Oh yes, it flew out of my hands when that ‘twitter quitter’ started crackling on teevee. Must be behind or under the couch… God, I need a cup of strong coffee NOW!!

—————————————————————————————————–

Also:

On November 7, 2009, I ended the post titled ‘Going Out On A Limb’ with this:

So, I am going out on a limb here and declare one of my goals for 2010-2011. I intend to become employably fluent in Chinese and Arabic and take up a short-term stint in UAE and thereafter visit China. This, is of course apart from my upcoming  Africa trip in March, 2010. I am putting myself on public notice here folks, and yes, you can all hold my feet to fire in this context!!!  Sandy Beaches and Great Walls,…..get ready for moi !!!

After watching, John Huntsman, I am really motivated to pursue learning chinese language at the earliest. Just as soon as I grasp the basic rules of arabic letters just so I don’t wake up screaming in broken chinese and arabic at the same time…gosh that must be one helluva way to kick-start the day for sure!!

What can be more shocking than a young lefty-liberal writer attacking the Daily Mail, eh? Spaghetti, Geology, Carpet Right; the list goes on .

People finally (but only metaphorically) got off the arses last month to attack Jan Moir’s vile and homophobic words but have yet to mobilise in the defence of the poor, the non-white, the Muslim and all other groups who are targeted by (DM editor) Paul Dacre’s newspaper. Until its properly held to account I think I’m okay (but admittedly unadventurous) to pull them up once more.

Anyway, I have a vested interest. I’m half Polish and unemployed: can you imagine?

And yes it may be easy but this article

"Oh no", said the doctor, "this one looks feminised!"

 is just too infuriating to ignore. According to the report in today’s edition (16^th November): ‘Chemicals used in plastics are ‘feminising’ the brains of baby boys’. The story is a development on one that has been around for years; that some of the crap we pump out to create what we laughingly claim to be ‘civilisation’ might cause  defects in young and unborn children’s genitals.

Though I’m not an organic fundamentalist I have to say that, like the Mail, I’m not particularly keen on the idea that the household objects I use or the nylon clothes I wear could cause so much harm to me or those around me. At least with smoking you feel relaxed whilst you murder your neighbours.

The Daily Mail, however, has added to these long-standing worries by reporting that boys who are surrounded by high levels of such plastics are ‘less likely than other boys to play with cars, trains and guns or engage in rough-and-tumble games such as playfighting’.

What’s this about guns? Isn’t the spread of gun crime one of the chief tenants of the ‘Broken Britian’ dogma?  Normalising guns must be okay as long as its not done in video games.  As someone who’s always thought that play fighting was about as enjoyable, useful and necessary as liver disease, I am immediately filled with hope by this report: what lovely chemicals!

In contrast, the report is apoplectic at the idea that ‘those exposed to high doses in the womb are less likely to play with ‘male’ toys such as cars’. ‘Male’ toys? Cars? You can’t help feeling that ‘a generation of woman drivers’ was the headline that they really wanted to use.

Message to post-feminists: HOW THE HELL CAN YOU THINK WE’RE ‘OVER’ SEXISM!?! Stupid women. And men.

Too many years in liberal universities has made me expect that writers deemed worthy of publication will be accepting our society’s major beliefs: ploughman’s lunches, tea, gender as ‘social construct’.

Instead, I’m faced with a reality where the Daily Mail frame all their output as though we we’re living in some dystopian version of Midsomer county (without the calming influence of DCI Tom Barnaby, of course).

In it, all young boys are required to eat three spoonfuls of worm-infested mud a day and break their arm at least once before their thirteenth birthday. They‘ll be mischief makers who steal and bully but, because they’re white and middle class, they’ll be handed nothing more than a slapped wrist when the bobby-on-the-beat catches them taking one of old Miss Pratchett’s apples. Or something. All games involve heroic Imperialist conflicts where the English beat ‘Johnny Foreigner’ and every young boy’s imagination should be filled with something wholesome like the raping and pillage of the indigenous American people’s by European settlers. Cripes, what fun! As in all areas of Daily Mail land, it is always sunny in summer and snowy the rest of the time.

The unspoken end of this fantasia is the young lads going off to be mown down at the Somme: Is that what you want Mr Mail? Is it? You intolerant, ignorant….

Sorry about that.

Anyway, I thought I was supposed to be liberated from having to conform to some Alpha male stereotype: Isn’t that what we all wanted? Surely a feminised brain, rather than the root of all evil, would allow us to take a healthier look at gender roles. Ideally it would be like standing in a sweet shop:

“I’ll take a keen interest in football; four types of post shave product; an active dislike of brutality and some eyeliner for Thursday night, please… Do you accept Nectar points?”

The Mail, however, seemed to believe that – if we take all the harmful pesticides away – we can return to an ordered world where women are women and men return drunk from the pub and give their wives a chemical-free beating.

Comeindustrial, the leading manufacturers of sex toys in America and Asia have revealed Apprentice star and expert rower Breffny Morgan will become the new ‘face’ of the company in Ireland. CEO of Comeindustrial’s Irish operations Mark Farrell said he was delighted with the acquisition of the ‘Breffmeister’. ‘Having Breffny’s penis cast for a vibrator-dildo two piece set represents a step forward into the Irish market for us which we have previously lacked’.

The penetration into the marketplace offered by Mr Morgan’s celebrity will mean his penis cast can help us burrow deep into what is an increasingly lucrative market. He will also be the first Harvard graduate to have his penis cast, in what is expected to stand as a monument to penises from Harvard, where business brains meet balls of epic proportions. Mr Farrell went on to discuss how successful he expects the vibrator-dildo set to be: “We usually reserve penis casting for porn stars but pre-order sales of ‘the Breffmeister’ have even eclipsed previous sales of the Ron Jeremy penis cast”.

When asked by Not the News Ireland if Mr. Farrell saw this as the beginning of a beautiful relationship with Mr. Morgan he seemed optimistic. “We are most certainly looking into the possibility of having a full ‘Breffmeister’ range. Using his impressive sexual prowess and history we see his input into nipple clamps, gimp masks and bondage as integral to Comeindustrial’s future here in Ireland. Breffny may prove to be the lubrication we need to push through into the mainstream sex toy market.”

Mr. Farrell remained tight lipped when pressed as to the dimensions of the product: “Let’s just say”, Mr. Farrell giddily stated, “there were cries of ‘we’ll need a bigger cast!’ around the office”. It is still unconfirmed as to whether the vibrator-dildo two-piece set will carry the slogan ‘This will make the battle of Normandy look like a game of paintball’.

Glad the team held up under pressure!

Welcome to the 15th extract from The Psychic Historian. If you enjoy it, and wish to know how it ends, just leave a comment saying so, and I’ll e-mail you the entire chapter free and gratis. If you fancy the book or e-book, click on  my Lulu.com page.

159            Chapter Fifteen: The Unholy Trinity

It took a while for Sorbresto to rouse Huck from his psychic coma. But eventually those seated closest were able to pass on the bad news that the cantankerous bastard hadn’t died in his sleep after all.

“Well did ya like it?” he looked around inquiringly. “Was it fun?”
‘Fun’ was hardly the word to describe the shock of discovering that Hank’s lineage went all the way back to the union betwixt Saint Dunce and The Angel Agnes. ‘Shock’ was a better choice of word altogether.

When no one responded to his inquiry Huck began to have misgivings. “Oh fluff,” his voice became tremulous, “you didn’t see the story about my Uncle Dave, and how he tied weights to the end of his…And how he developed a bandy gait…And how the surgeons had to…And how saggy his pair of…. Oh dear. Well what did you see?” he demanded finally.
“Never you mind what we saw, you perverted old sex-fiend, you.” Boney growled into his microphone. “Even if you couldn’t help it coz of your genes – we don’t wanna hear nothin’ more about it. Just take yourself back to the…. er….back, and shut up.”

Uncertain as to which of his ancestors had badly let him down in public, Huck slunk back to his bath chair without the aid of his nurse, who had quit during the moments of revelation. Once there he tried the drown himself three times before giving up, opening the drain tap, and allowing the warm waters to seep away into the main drainage grating of the converted go-kart park.
“Me only wish now,” he whispered to a small harvest mouse that had been caught short, and was hurrying to the lavatory, “is that I die of exposure – ‘ere in me empty bath chair. It’s the least I deserve for bein’ so stupid to think that I’d enjoy having me balls felt by a male of any species past the age of adolescence.”

Upon stage, meanwhile, Lionel had taken the microphone from the shaky paw of Boney, and was calling for the next volunteer.
Once more Horatio Horseblanket stopped idly picking his nose, and flung his arm into a perpendicular position. “I know someone. I know someone!” he yelled lest someone speak before him.
Naturally everyone was fascinated to know the identity of the next volunteer: Horatio was a hero of all hamsterdom, so they knew his suggestion would be outstanding. All eyes turned to Horatio with the lights of expectation glinting in them like the distant flashes of cannon fire at sea.
“You may not like this idea – but you know how I came here with my mum?” He began.
Everyone looked towards the empty seat beside Horatio, and marvelled at P.C Bootsie’s apparent ability to extend his and Molly’s personal intermission beyond what most of them considered hamsterly possible.
“Well,” Horatio continued, “we didn’t travel here on the bus like most people.”
Everyone was well aware that Horatio was quite adept at foldaway scooter motocross, and so assumed that Molly had ridden pillion on his race-winning machine. Some anonymous rodent even ventured to suggest this.
“Well we didn’t.” Horatio produced the sort of grin that endeared him to elderly

160

females, turned young female’s knees to jelly, and utterly infuriated young males, because of its boyish cuteness. “Coz I gave one of my racing scooters away in a raffle, which was won by Flotti Pañuelo during last year’s Winter Annual Farting Contest, and the other was lost in an alternate dimension by the Bugler Sisters when they used it to help free a semi-medieval country of the tyranny of religious oppression. So I rode my cavy here instead. Mum rode pillion.”
The audience was somewhat taken aback: It had been well-documented in The Bucktooth Times that Horatio had sworn never to ride the mount that he’d won when he’d passed the test to be a honorary conquistador in Marmota España, whilst on his gap year from Saint Dunces.
“You don’t mean…?” Flotti squealed shrilly.
“That’s right.” Horatio’s grin grew wider and even more endearing/infuriating, “I mean Wolfgang is here!”

Spontaneous applause broke out sporadically. Then everyone realised that Wolfgang was conspicuous by his absence. In fact no one could even guess where the large cavy could be hiding.
Then it started – at first a solitary voice whispering into the sudden silence – then growing louder as more and more hamsters joined in.
“We want Wolfgang! We want Wolfgang!”
This continued until the thunderous sound shook the rafters, and boggled Fanangy’s delicate eyes.
Lionel, fearing for the ocular integrity of his beloved, then bellowed into his microphone, “Good idea, Horatio: Go and get Wolfgang this instant.”

***

As Horatio appeared around the corner of the building, Wolfgang erupted from beneath the corrugated roof of the foldaway scooter park that leaned against the side of the ancient brickwork of The Where House. “Ho, baby,” he cried out with glee, “are we leaving so soon? Where’s Molly?  Having a bout of rumpy-pumpy again, huh?”
Horatio couldn’t help but smile. He’d owned Wolfgang a long time now, but the fat cavy never failed to amuse the orange-faced hamster at least every day of the week, and sometimes more often.
“No, Wolfgang,” he replied as he led the waddling cavy from the scooter park, and approached the service elevator, “I’ve got a treat for you: I’m taking you inside.”
Wolfgang’s smile fell away, and his enthusiastic arse-waving subsided as abruptly as an earthquake. “Inside?” he gulped. “Hey, Ho, baby – you know I don’t like ‘inside’ too much: I’m an ‘outside’ kinda guy. I spent my whole youth running about in a weasel pit under a bright azul Spanish sky. ‘Inside’ kinda makes my insides wanna be on the outside. You know what I mean?”
“If by that you mean that you’re claustrophobic – then yes I do know what you mean.” Horatio said as pleasantly as he could without sounding patronizing. He also needed to be firm with the mobile couch. “Look, Wolfgang,” he snapped, “short of everyone inside the building coming outside to be with you – the only way that you’re going to have your genetic memory scanned in by getting your vast bulk in the service

161

elevator, and allowing me to press the descienda rápidamente button.”

For Wolfgang this final line altered the situation by approximately one hundred degrees.
“Me?” He squealed in a delighted voice that Horatio couldn’t recall having ever heard before, “Ride in a service elevator, and get my DNA bumps felt? I can’t believe it. Surely you jest with your mount?”
Somewhat pleased, if slightly taken aback by Wolfgang’s volte face, Horatio could only nod vigorously whilst holding the elevator door open. “Yes,” he grinned, “this elevator has three speeds: All fast.”
Well with that kind of incentive Wolfgang was only too keen to squeeze his considerable bulk into the small elevator. He was still trying to hop up and down with excitement when the doors closed behind him.

***

The novelty of having a cavy join their number soon palled for the assembled hamsters when it was discovered that Wolfgang was too wide to fit down any of the aisles. Only moments after exiting the elevator the huge cavy was forcing his body to squeeze through gaps for which it had never been intended. Several hamsters were mentally and physically harmed as he struggled to the stage, and clambered into the spotlight. But Horatio quickly bought the victims off by offering each of them a grainy copy of the infamous black and white photograph of Molly’s bum that he used to show people at the bus stop during his school years, and a bag of boiled sweets.

“Ah, Wolfgang, is it?” Sorbresto didn’t really know how to handle his huge subject.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Wolfgang nodded enthusiastically whilst taking in the entire room with a slow pan. He promised himself that he would remember this moment until the day he died, and quite possibly for a while longer. “I like your colander hat, by the way. Do I get to wear one too?”
Sorbresto smiled ruefully. “No – only the great Sorbresto Titt gets to wear the heavily-wired hat of a Psychic Historian. All I need of you is your bodily juices.”
For a large animal Wolfgang could be quite sprightly when he needed to be. He was off the sagging sofa quicker than a startled Moorhen. “Bodily juices?” he hissed with alarm. “You aren’t figuring on slicing this poor beast of burden into bits’n’pieces I hope?”
Horatio hurried upon stage to placate his chum. “Don’t be silly, Wolfgang, you dozy sod.” He gently chided.
Wolfgang wasn’t as placated as Horatio had hoped, “Is there some form of cash exchange involved?”
Horatio slapped his thighs. “Of course not, you big twat!”
Wolfgang decided to relent. “Well that’s alright then.” He mumbled as remounted the sofa, “Just keep the blood-letting to a minimum, huh? And I’ll try really hard not to loose off any of my aromatic pellets. How does that sound to you, Mister Titt? Do we have a deal?”

***

I promised myself I would write the introduction to my latest essay today.  Have I? 

Have I ‘eck as like.

Nope. I have answered lots of e-mails, done driving lessons, cooked dinners, read the impenetrable and in my humble opinion really not worth it, ‘At Swim Two Birds’ by Flann O’Brien, and gone out for lunch with my mummy.

It was more fun, I grant you, than writing the essay, but it isn’t going to write itself unfortunately. Not unless I find a magic pen anyway, and as Oscar tells me that all my pens are ‘inspicable’, and has thrown them down in disgust, I feel that I do not own one.

I have to state that the driving lesson wasn’t more fun than writing the essay, but it was a close thing.

I love the studying part. I really do.  Particularly finding out new stuff about children’s books.  It’s so cool. I love loafing round with ‘Peter Rabbit,’ and saying that I am studying, so that’s o.k.  It’s really, really fun.  It’s just that I don’t like these deadlines.  They freak me out man.  I am not young anymore. I can no longer polish off three essays by pulling an all nighter using the power of caffeine and chocolate Hob Nobs.  It’s like drinking. I’m too old for that shit.

I wouldn’t be quite so stressed about this essay if I didn’t know that the next essay is due in just as the kids go back to school after Christmas.  This is going to mean that if I don’t behave myself with this one, the majority of the next batch of study will have to be done over Christmas and New Year with the help of three small children.  This is not so good.

Plus, my driving instructor is pushing me to take my theory test.  I have an essay a month for the next seven months. If I don’t get organised and do some serious work and shuffle deadlines a bit, I am going to find time to fit the theory test in next September. This is not acceptable.  Well, it is acceptable to me, but it won’t work with the whole; ‘I’m going to pass my driving test so that I can take my daughter to her new school every morning,’ thing.

Gah!  I have this plan that if I write this essay over the coming week, I will be able to start on the next one straight away. I can then finish that one by the time the kids break up for Christmas and spend the two weeks they are on holiday crapping myself over the Highway Code instead of a poetry anthology.  I can take the theory test as soon as they go back to school and then still have time to write the next essay, which is monster, and scary and I’m trying not to think about it yet.

Sounds easy doesn’t it?  Which is why after my driving lesson this evening I watched the new Doctor Who (Oh. My. God! How. Exciting? I chewed my cheeks off), and then the new Top Gear, and then came upstairs to write this.

It’s all going according to plan.

So that’s why you got this garbled excuse for a post, and why I am now going to write my introduction. Honestly. Yes.

No. I’m not going to colour in my revision time table.

Nor am I going to read the exciting new novels by my bedside table.

I really am going to write this essay.

Really.

Honestly and promisedly.

Off I go.

I’ve gone, see…

Now I have.

…Should Never Throw Stones.

Todays little slice of college life, begins with the story of one of my closest friends, who has recently fallen head over heels in love with a bright intelligent girl in his french class. We all couldnt be happier for them both.

However unbeknownst to us a shark was circling, admiring the fresh love that hung in the air like a haze of blood….waiting for the moment, the opportunity to sink its teeth and tear at their hearts. The beast is what we once called a friend, a companion….but who through her own actions doomed herself to a life of exile within the college.

The initial separation i could liken to a glass being dropped in a room full of people without any shoes on….bits of our lives soon began to be trod into the carpet, secrets exposed and truths told….a brick was thrown and a fight ensued. Then came the week of silence and the glares from the dearly departed who set her family upon us….trying to save face when she had already lost.

We cast her adrift into the cesspool and she became a free agent, stalking the undergrowth looking for a new group of people to latch onto…..and she picked the girl from french and her friends, sinking her teeth into the young love spreading poison and lies…polluting the un-tainted waters.

So, a question…..do we once again force her away and risk a repeat of these past few weeks….there are still a few big secrets lurking out there….or …do we let her continue and hope that A is resistant to anything J might have to say.

Well even though i would like to keep all my glasses safety in the cupboard, out of harms way….to protect a friend, maybe a few smashed glasses and cut feet would be a small price to pay for their resulting happiness.

Thought Of The Day: (really surprised there could be so many)

“The innocent and beautiful have no enemy but time”

W.B Yeats