Sunday, October 22, 2006
Having a bad day today - or maybe, as Ex used to say, a Lying Fallow day. He was an artist and usually worked all the time, but occasionally he used to have a Tidying Up day, and even more occasionally, a Lying Fallow day, which involved slumping half on and half off of the sofa, thinking.
Just can't get going. It's Sunday, it's raining, it's October. Cats Lying Fallow too. However, am in process of trying to redownload AVG security, after a major disaster. 60% downloaded. Only need Tesco.net to throw me out now, and ruin the whole thing - will fit in with the day in general!
Sitting here watching the download, in case I can prevent Tesco throwing me out by doing other things - checking email (though I know there's nothing there), blogging, knitting. Not that knitting will make much difference but helps to soothe the nerves.
Still raining.
Just can't get going. It's Sunday, it's raining, it's October. Cats Lying Fallow too. However, am in process of trying to redownload AVG security, after a major disaster. 60% downloaded. Only need Tesco.net to throw me out now, and ruin the whole thing - will fit in with the day in general!
Sitting here watching the download, in case I can prevent Tesco throwing me out by doing other things - checking email (though I know there's nothing there), blogging, knitting. Not that knitting will make much difference but helps to soothe the nerves.
Still raining.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Here I am, back after a long absence, having moved house from an estate to a village - sort of - been without internet for almost a year; having with much sweat and tears and with the help of a nice Indian lady on the phone at something past midnight, managed to set up Outlook to accept the new email address; having wiped everything off and got it back on again; having crashed my computer and only just managed, by accident, to save it....
Also, though I'm sure you don't want to know, my old car has died. This afternoon I have been with a friend (male, not mine, for moral support) to look at new cars and become accustomed to car showrooms and salesmen. A bit blustery, but great fun. Cruised round the industrial estate, from dealer to dealer, in friend's silver sports car. Allowed him to do all the talking, by agreement. Just listened, and tried to look like helpless female, which wasn't difficult. One salesman, when the word "reconnoitre" came up, turned to me and said, "Well, you've learned a new word today, dearie".
Couldn't resist murmuring that in fact I already knew it - but nobly forebore to mention having been one of the final six in BBC short story competition.
Very useful exercise for when I finally get to buy one next month. I think I shall be less overawed. Something about new cars - it's the perfume of the upholstery, the shine, the ... well-designedness of them. I have never bought a new car before, and never expect to be able to do so again, but just this once, to have something that someone else hasn't ruined, something that is just for me.
Also, though I'm sure you don't want to know, my old car has died. This afternoon I have been with a friend (male, not mine, for moral support) to look at new cars and become accustomed to car showrooms and salesmen. A bit blustery, but great fun. Cruised round the industrial estate, from dealer to dealer, in friend's silver sports car. Allowed him to do all the talking, by agreement. Just listened, and tried to look like helpless female, which wasn't difficult. One salesman, when the word "reconnoitre" came up, turned to me and said, "Well, you've learned a new word today, dearie".
Couldn't resist murmuring that in fact I already knew it - but nobly forebore to mention having been one of the final six in BBC short story competition.
Very useful exercise for when I finally get to buy one next month. I think I shall be less overawed. Something about new cars - it's the perfume of the upholstery, the shine, the ... well-designedness of them. I have never bought a new car before, and never expect to be able to do so again, but just this once, to have something that someone else hasn't ruined, something that is just for me.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
DIY Fringe-cutting
As one of my drastic (in fact draconian) economy measures prior to moving house and probably having somehow to pay a bigger mortgage, I have determined to cut my own fringe. To this end, I spied on the hairdresser as she cut my hair, possibly for the last time. All these years I have been having my fringe cut and generally day-dreaming my way through it. It wasn't till I actually watched her in the mirror whilst pretending to be day-dreaming, that I realised how clever and rather complicated it actually is:
As one of my drastic (in fact draconian) economy measures prior to moving house and probably having somehow to pay a bigger mortgage, I have determined to cut my own fringe. To this end, I spied on the hairdresser as she cut my hair, possibly for the last time. All these years I have been having my fringe cut and generally day-dreaming my way through it. It wasn't till I actually watched her in the mirror whilst pretending to be day-dreaming, that I realised how clever and rather complicated it actually is:
HOW TO CUT YOUR OWN FRINGE, IF YOU'RE LEFT-HANDED (if you're right-handed, read R. for L. and L. for R. !)
Tie back any hair you don’t want to include in the fringe.
Comb down (L.hand) the first section of hair (about 1/3) and follow behind the comb with your forefinger and the next finger (R. hand) sandwiching the hair tightly between them. Pull the hair down flat against the brow.
Turn your hand so that the back is flat against your forehead and the palm facing outwards. (Use the line of the eyebrows to “feel” when to turn the hand each time.) Keep the two fingers parallel with one another.
About 2 cm visible between the two fingers (R. hand) cut horizontally across 1 cm (L. hand).
Repeat procedure twice more.
Cutting in
After you have cut the fringe straight across, flick up about three sections (R. hand) one at a time, “scissoring” it between the two fingers . This time the palm should be inwards and the two fingers should end up facing down, towards the floor. Take a few snips in (cut in) vertically, in the same direction as the hair is pointing, to thin the fringe.
But untested as yet (so don't blame me if you end up looking like Wurzel Gummidge!)
Saturday, May 21, 2005
A Brush with Herbert
Still reading the book of post-war reminiscences (Mass-Observation Project). It's surprising how they do come out as characters, even though no one is 'writing' them. Each person is just rambling on happily through his or her diary, commenting on everyday things, and yet you can almost see them. Pensioner Herbert Brush is the best - sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally funny. He is greatly concerned about his health - his piles, a lump on his back which the doctor charged him 5/- to tell him was harmless, the purple marks appearing on the backs of his hands. He wonders about things. He spends a long time playing with numbers and searching unsuccessfully for a book which gives all the prime numbers up to some huge amount. He writes dreadful poetry. He does a lot of travelling about on buses, changing of library books, growing of vegetables in his allotment, and always seems to be creasoting his fence.
I am enjoying it because that's when I grew up, and yet I don't remember. I didn't enjoy being a child. Didn't understand why people were the way they were, and things were so drab and dreary. This book has explained why to me. And I envied in a way their modest expectations. They accepted their everyday lives, even when they complained about them. They didn't expect anything exciting to happen. I suppose they were just relieved to be still alive. However, that lack of aspiration, that dulling of everything - suburban England in the 50s was not a good time to be a child, not a good start for a dreamer.
Still reading the book of post-war reminiscences (Mass-Observation Project). It's surprising how they do come out as characters, even though no one is 'writing' them. Each person is just rambling on happily through his or her diary, commenting on everyday things, and yet you can almost see them. Pensioner Herbert Brush is the best - sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally funny. He is greatly concerned about his health - his piles, a lump on his back which the doctor charged him 5/- to tell him was harmless, the purple marks appearing on the backs of his hands. He wonders about things. He spends a long time playing with numbers and searching unsuccessfully for a book which gives all the prime numbers up to some huge amount. He writes dreadful poetry. He does a lot of travelling about on buses, changing of library books, growing of vegetables in his allotment, and always seems to be creasoting his fence.
I am enjoying it because that's when I grew up, and yet I don't remember. I didn't enjoy being a child. Didn't understand why people were the way they were, and things were so drab and dreary. This book has explained why to me. And I envied in a way their modest expectations. They accepted their everyday lives, even when they complained about them. They didn't expect anything exciting to happen. I suppose they were just relieved to be still alive. However, that lack of aspiration, that dulling of everything - suburban England in the 50s was not a good time to be a child, not a good start for a dreamer.
Friday, May 20, 2005
It's a long time since I posted anything on any of my Blogs. I seem to have created three. And now it looks as if I may not have the internet at home for much longer, as I will be moving house when I can sell this one and will need to save money to pay for the bigger mortgage. I thought about reverting to a traditional handwritten (yes, actual writing) diary but somehow I can't bring myself to do it. There's something about a blog which is private as well as, of course, extremely public. I like the idea of strangers reading - it's some kind of communication - some kind of existence - but the thought of relatives discovering heaps of dusty old exercise books amongst my belongings when I die - the pathetic scrawlings of the Old Dear -
That's the trouble with doing probate. You know too much - more than you ever wanted to know - about the run-of-the-mill administration of death, the sorting out, the irritation, the lack of curiosity, the tedium of it all.
Oh gloom. What a gloomy beginning. That's put you off reading any more, hasn't it? Tune in to a jollier bit of blogging, I should!
Blogger has yet another new look, I see. Even easier to use. Maybe I will be able to somehow compose my blog at home and paste my entries in when I get to work??
I know what's started me off. I've been reading Our Hidden Lives by Simon Garfield, which is a book of edited extracts from Mass-Observation Project diaries written after the Second World War. Funny how human they were, how straightforward and everyday. How much easier it is to imagine their lives than from films or books of that period. Mass-Observation is still going on, based I think at the University of Sussex, but they have a surfeit of older women apparently - otherwise I might have volunteered and solved the mortgage-therefore-no-internet problem.
That's the trouble with doing probate. You know too much - more than you ever wanted to know - about the run-of-the-mill administration of death, the sorting out, the irritation, the lack of curiosity, the tedium of it all.
Oh gloom. What a gloomy beginning. That's put you off reading any more, hasn't it? Tune in to a jollier bit of blogging, I should!
Blogger has yet another new look, I see. Even easier to use. Maybe I will be able to somehow compose my blog at home and paste my entries in when I get to work??
I know what's started me off. I've been reading Our Hidden Lives by Simon Garfield, which is a book of edited extracts from Mass-Observation Project diaries written after the Second World War. Funny how human they were, how straightforward and everyday. How much easier it is to imagine their lives than from films or books of that period. Mass-Observation is still going on, based I think at the University of Sussex, but they have a surfeit of older women apparently - otherwise I might have volunteered and solved the mortgage-therefore-no-internet problem.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
PS
I'm glad to be back. I see from the entry dates that there was a gap of almost a month over Christmas. No excuse really. Christmas was sort of depressing. You'd think, the one time of the year I actually have some 'material' - work's Christmas Dinner, Christmas itself - I'd be writing fit to bust. But no.
TMA 01
I have at least managed to finish my first maths OU TMA (Tutor Marked Assignment) this weekend. I was going great guns on it till I got to Question 2. Three attempts I've made at it, over a fortnight. Three attempts. And still my calculations indicate that it will take only 0.012 seconds to fill a b. great pond! Trouble with conversion of units or something I suspect. Will have to wait for tutor's reaction. Maybe he can help.
I'm glad to be back. I see from the entry dates that there was a gap of almost a month over Christmas. No excuse really. Christmas was sort of depressing. You'd think, the one time of the year I actually have some 'material' - work's Christmas Dinner, Christmas itself - I'd be writing fit to bust. But no.
TMA 01
I have at least managed to finish my first maths OU TMA (Tutor Marked Assignment) this weekend. I was going great guns on it till I got to Question 2. Three attempts I've made at it, over a fortnight. Three attempts. And still my calculations indicate that it will take only 0.012 seconds to fill a b. great pond! Trouble with conversion of units or something I suspect. Will have to wait for tutor's reaction. Maybe he can help.
Terror Management, Bluejacking, Gadget Porn ...
These are all new words - ah, a treasure trove - discovered in a site called Wordspy. I can see I'm going to have a lot of fun with that. Furthermore, it emails you free with new words several times a week. I shall ask it to email them to me at work too - one way to fill in those boring moments.
I just love new words/phrases. I only found the site by one of my not-infrequent technological accidents. Set my video to record the OU maths progs on the Learning Zone but set it for BBC1 instead of BBC2 - got ClickonLine instead. They mentioned Wordspy and also one called Grammarbook, which I haven't explored yet.
Looked up Terror Management on Google to get more info. That's the trouble - one thing leads to another, just like dictionary-dipping in my youth. You look up one word, and then another word mentioned in the definition, and then another word. Three hours later you're still there "curled up in the windowseat".
For this reference, read Jane Eyre. I am re-reading it for the third or fourth time at the moment.
These are all new words - ah, a treasure trove - discovered in a site called Wordspy. I can see I'm going to have a lot of fun with that. Furthermore, it emails you free with new words several times a week. I shall ask it to email them to me at work too - one way to fill in those boring moments.
I just love new words/phrases. I only found the site by one of my not-infrequent technological accidents. Set my video to record the OU maths progs on the Learning Zone but set it for BBC1 instead of BBC2 - got ClickonLine instead. They mentioned Wordspy and also one called Grammarbook, which I haven't explored yet.
Looked up Terror Management on Google to get more info. That's the trouble - one thing leads to another, just like dictionary-dipping in my youth. You look up one word, and then another word mentioned in the definition, and then another word. Three hours later you're still there "curled up in the windowseat".
For this reference, read Jane Eyre. I am re-reading it for the third or fourth time at the moment.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
This is a bit I wrote last week, and then forgot to paste in:
And while we’re on the subject of looking up long-lost guide and brownie songs, I remember one which began
“There’s a long, long worm a-crawling
around the pole of my tent
round and round the tentpole in the night it went”.
I’ve just Googled that, it it turns out to be a popular WWI version of a song to the same tune, which went:
"There's a long, long trail a-winding
To the land of my dreams
Where the nightingales are singing...."
and it’s about a chap missing his sweetheart.
(I mentioned this to my godmother and sang it to me - the original, not the worm version.)
I can’t remember any more. I only remember our Brownie pack was taken to visit some camping Girl Guides somewhere or other. I was horrified by the whole idea of camping – in fact I never even wanted to be a Brownie – my mother sent me - but did spent some half an hour in a tent, where they were singing this song.
And while we’re on the subject of looking up long-lost guide and brownie songs, I remember one which began
“There’s a long, long worm a-crawling
around the pole of my tent
round and round the tentpole in the night it went”.
I’ve just Googled that, it it turns out to be a popular WWI version of a song to the same tune, which went:
"There's a long, long trail a-winding
To the land of my dreams
Where the nightingales are singing...."
and it’s about a chap missing his sweetheart.
(I mentioned this to my godmother and sang it to me - the original, not the worm version.)
I can’t remember any more. I only remember our Brownie pack was taken to visit some camping Girl Guides somewhere or other. I was horrified by the whole idea of camping – in fact I never even wanted to be a Brownie – my mother sent me - but did spent some half an hour in a tent, where they were singing this song.
