Monthly Archives: November 2011
‘Twas thus our Prime Minister described the strike action of an estimated 2 million public sector workers today.
According to him, who is wont to label anything that deviates from the conservative ‘norms’ of behaviour as ‘outrageous’, the pension offer is ‘fair’.
Define fair, David. Define fair?
I am resisting the strong urge to degrade the public discourse with foul language at this point.
I’ve said in the past he and his cronies are taking a dangerous gamble and, given the influence of the Eurozone debacle, its now obvious how wrong it’s going.
I can only conclude that if we keep this crew for the full-term then we must be nothing short of a bunch of masochists. Not to mention, fairly stupid.
When’s Gideon going to stop blaming variously: Labour, the global financial collapse, snow, weddings, the Eurozone (whose growth forecasts exceed our own) and go and have a look in his own mirror?
If I were in the vicinity, I’d trace the rather impressive-looking but miniscule figure of the drop-in-the-ocean bankers’ tax across his reflection.
*inserts picture of a pile of steaming horseshit*
There was a raffle yesterday; it was somewhere that shall remain nameless. I was asked to draw the (25, twenty-five, XXV, ٢٥, vingt-cinq, yes five times five) tickets in front of a small audience with a vested interest.
I called on the children to assist, the eldest wisely backed off, getting a clear sense of the pressure of the situation just as it was dawning on me. This left me and the seven year-old to deal with the imposter called luck, which, as any regular readers may know, is mere probability taken personally.
What this looks like on a Saturday afternoon at a charity Christmas Bazaar is a sea of faces staring, the majority being arranged rather more in line with accusation than expectation, as you and your offspring continue to frantically pull out tickets – without their names on…
It all got to me and I resorted to some violent shaking of the container of tickets in a desperate attempt to get to a ticket that would assuage the mob. This didn’t work either, one raffle-hopeful-but-slightly-indignant-personage just pointed out tightly that I was shaking tickets out on to the floor.
Where’s the Mayor when you need him?
Note to self: never again
This was a comment that came in via internet marketing spam… but the writer seems to be a Kim Malone and actually once I had got past the idiosyncratic punctuation and layout I loved it.
It’s about a dog called Waffle.
I think the ‘red boxes’ are traffic lights if that helps any and I have edited the layout for ease of reading. Thanks Kim, wherever you are. I dedicate this post to all black labradors and especially to Jerry who has been brave as a bear all week. Keep getting better lad.
the ride home from my parents seemed extra long.
it could be the sheer exhaustion felt by all of us from the day before spent at WORLDS OF FUN.in the 105 degree heat.i was having flashbacks of africa….all the walking around….sweating everywhere….in flip flops.
it could be that our AC is almost dead in our (stupid dumb) truck so it had to be BLASTING.i don’t like to listen to that for very long.it could be that we had to stop at 2 redboxes because our dvd was scratched at the1st one.and when we are not driving fast (or waiting at a red box) the AC doesn’t work at all.it could be the illusion of slow driving because of highway construction on our “faster” route.
but whatever it was….waffle and i were bored.so i took pictures of him.because he was two inches from my face panting his dog breath all over me.
i think he likes attention.
“don’t make me sing” blue steel waffle.
this one is my favorite. i took all of these pictures by holding out my arm in front of me and waffle.
i gave him a flea bath tonight.he was very unhappy with me.
Painted the year I was born. Better than Turner for my money.
Note to self to get to the Tate before the 8th January (Elvis, my sister and daughter’s godfather’s birthday – not listed in order of importance)
Like going to the opera in black and white.
Reminds me to go again, although I still haven’t got over Madame Butterfly at the ROH.
It wasn’t a cold day, or even a misty morning. The clouds of hot dog breath were created after a hot-blooded, fast-twitch lurcher had done a few laps of a field in excess of 20 miles per hour. No wonder he’s so skinny. What I wonder is: where does all that energy go once he’s exhaled? I suppose it settles in liquid form on the grass before being absorbed into the ground for a plant to use one day. And then on, who knows where.