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Supermarket Relativism

Popped to the supermarket last night for a few top-up supplies. You'd think we were expecting a nuclear war the shelves are so empty. Shoppers are panic buying and stocking up their Christmas bunkers. My well trodden route past the fish counter and bakery led me to a bread aisle lined with barren shelves. I struck lucky in the mad rush for the last surviving loaf, a shrunken oat-bread affair almost small enough to swallow in one huge bite; then almost missed out on my bag of salad leaves, having to grab for the second last pack.

There are benefits at this time of year mind you - two whole aisles full of chocolate goodies.

Counting 15 things in my basket, a cold hearted assistant rejected me from the "10 items or less" express check out queue, sending me off to stand behind trolleys stacked as high as miniature mountains. Quite mean, don't you think? Feeling quite vengeful, I broke open a pack of Kit-Kats and munched off the minutes while checking my list of milk, bread, yoghurt, leaves and chocolate. I felt like a little basket of annoyance, wedged between families busily unloading supplies.

Now you may have counted my listed basket contents and be wondering how it could total 15 items. Well you see, with two aisles of choccy goodies I couldn't stop at just one pack of Kit-Kats now could I?

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The next few days will likely be fraught so I'm not sure how much posting will be done. I will try to report on the Christmas day catering challenge though.

---

Meanwhile my head has been buzzing, wound up so tight it feels ready to explode. With thoughts of what to cook, you ask? Where to buy the last few missing gifts?
No.
I've been frantically wrestling with an internal debate involving individual rights, moral relativism and whether society has a moral obligation to legitimize sex as a marketable service. This isn't in response to the recent murders of five women in Suffolk, but is something I've been mulling for a while. In fact since reading this item which presents one argument for sex working.

You know, this Christmas there's an urge to go celebrate one final time with some friendly lemmings.

Listening to: incessant storms of static inside my head.

A dream

I was walking through small cobbled streets in a place that wasn't familiar though I'm now thinking it had similarities to Hradčanské Square in Prague. It was a warm, gloriously sunny day and the place must have been set on a hill because the streets were all sloping at a constant gradient, although in different directions. Glancing between buildings to my left, I spotted a massive pale-grey bull, loose and trying to wreak havoc in a street café. I was with someone I didn't know, and the bull hadn't seen us yet.

We ran over and climbed onto a sideboard that suddenly appeared as the streets shifted and morphed into a maze of winding but sharp angled hallways, the sort you might find in a large hotel.

Then I was running through corridors, alone, the sound of violence and chaos somewhere behind me. I leapt onto another work surface but this one was quite rickety so I had to hang off a wall cupboard to avoid falling.

Me and the cupboard were in what seemed to be a kitchen kind of corridor. In an adjacent passage through a doorway was F, my girlfriend from over fifteen years ago, dressed only in her nightshirt and ironing her skirt for work. She was wearing copious amounts of thick, ugly make-up. Just for a moment I had the tiniest echo of that terrifying dream feeling you get when someone is in danger, and no matter how hard you try, you can't shout to warn them. A second later it had gone as though it never existed. Although I was still listening out for the bull and hugging the wall cupboard, it seems the threat had receded leaving a peaceful silence. I looked across at F in her nightshirt, then she seemed to see me so I quickly shifted my gaze to the white emulsioned wall directly ahead as if I'd been looking at this all along. Well it's just impolite to look at someone ironing in a state of undress isn't it?

She looked across and laughed her usual cheeky and friendly little laugh. By now I was standing on a dangerously wobbly washing machine.

Just at that point, while studying the white-washed hallway, clinging to the wall cupboard and balancing precariously on the wobbly washing machine, I woke up. I haven't remembered a dream like this, nor woken up in the middle of one, for ... well it seems like years. I knew I had to write it down immediately otherwise it would disappear so I grabbed my blogging notebook (the bedside one) and began frantically scribbling, rifling through memory, coaxing out all the small details that were about to fade. There were other dream-fragments too but I couldn't stop to examine them without losing this thread. Those other fragments though, they were part of a much larger dream that had almost completely gone by the time I came back to it.

That larger dream had flashes of a much bigger hotel with a small and very crowded restaurant occupying part of the foyer and part of the street.

I was sipping a very small drink in the company of a stranger and we were looking for somewhere to sit. While the guests were comfortably sat on chairs and stools, the only thing available for me was a miniature bean bag. Unfortunately, because bean bags are quite low to the ground, my knees were poking out and it was so crowded that I had to scrunch up to avoid knocking into anyone else. Then suddenly the stranger disappeared and it was just me, the beanbag, my knees and the guests. I don't remember feeling self conscious at all, but suddenly all the guests disappeared and I was standing in a curious small cobbled and bricked alcove just off to the side, looking back on the now empty hotel entrance, and up to its balustraded balconies. The alcove appeared to hold some significance but I've no idea now, what it may have been.

Unfortunately I can't remember anything else although I'm sure this was the very tail end of a much longer dream, one which feels reminiscent of a completely different dream from several months ago that I also couldn't remember at the time and which, until now, I'd completely forgotten about. Oops, I think I got a bit lost there.

Anyhow it's later now and I'm typing this off my blog notes. Haven't got a clue what I'm rambling on about seeing as all these dream threads have completely faded from mind.

Funny things, dreams.

The 2006 Geminids

This morning was a morning to savour shooting stars, in particular, a meteor shower comprising a collection of space rocks called the Geminids

Image © George Varros

The image shows the view as it may have looked, somewhere above the grey blanket rain-cloud that's wrapped itself around Bunnyhome, here in the North-East Atlantic. Under this dark, featureless murk I can only dream about the brightest meteor shower of 2006. Maybe the sky will be clear when these space rocks visit us again at the end of 2007?

I was able to simulate the shooting star effect, by pointing a torch directly upwards into the rain, resulting in a damp display of shooting water droplets; very pretty but quite annoying when they land in your eye. This whole shooting stars, standing out in the rain thing, was actually part of a self-deluding conspiracy to avoid thinking about, the thing I've been trying to avoid thinking about.

The thing I've been trying to avoid thinking about being Christmas day.

This Christmas I had been hoping for a quiet unassuming break, free of greetings cards, family visits and habitual gift swapping. This year more than any other I have a whole queue of internal debates and troublesome thoughts to ponder.

Unfortunately when I saw Leaf about three weeks ago, she gave me an invite to dinner on Christmas day with "two or three" of her friends. Foolishly I didn't flush out the truth while I had a chance to do something about it. I saw her again [last week] and discovered that "two or three" actually means twenty six members of her family. She's invited them for a full seasonal dinner and she needs me to cook. Leaf isn't a kitchen person, you see.

Almost the same thing happened last year, though on a smaller scale. Leaf had invited me over for Christmas dinner with her family. What followed was a frenzied evening that saw me cooking turkey with all the associated trimmings for eleven people, and fish pie with brussel sprouts for yours truly, the sole non-meat eater.

So yes, I should know better. Well at least I have a blog now which wasn't the case in 2005.
note to self: remember to book a holiday abroad - somewhere with clear skies - for Christmas 2007!!

Anyway, I'm trying to avoid thinking about Christmas day.

This evening something quite odd happened. I was randomly surfing - skimming blogs from China, Madagascar and Saudi Arabia, reading some quite funny stories, when a little bubble of happiness floated in from somewhere and latched on to me. I forgot completely about Christmas day and started smiling for no apparent reason, a quite unexpected momentary high. Unfortunately the moment's left now, so I'm back to my usual dreariness.

And ... there's a small fly; an extremely annoying small fly. He's been around here for two days. Each time I spot him, manoeuvring somewhere in my peripheral vision, he manages to disappear. I'm normally quite a peace loving person when it comes to house guests, but this particular pesky fly has an appointment with his afterlife and I intend to make sure he keeps it.

Listening to: Mozart's Piano Sonata in C Minor, interspersed with an intermittent but quite annoying buzzing noise

Sabriel and Sweetcorn

Aren't search engines strange?

Earlier, I happened to notice that a Google search for "sweetcorn" and "forks" returned Little Stitches as the third most useful website in the world. It's nice of search engines to consider my blog a key global authority on the subject of eating sweetcorn, don't you think? Pity that expectant visitors will find no more than a pile of nonsense when they get here.

Of course by mentioning sweetcorn and forks again (twice now), your average unintelligent search bot might think this blog has even more to say on matters relating to the cob and is therefore worthy of being classified as the foremost worldwide resource on the subject. I wonder if this will get me a mention at the next global food conference?

So perhaps this will explain why I am adding internet search engines to my list of, "funny things that can't be explained by any useful rationale known to mankind."

I've now finished reading Sabriel by Garth Nix, whizzing through it so fast in fact, that there wasn't even time to update my sidebar reading list. It's a relaxing and lightweight semi-romantic fantasy with necromancers and warriors, oh and a strange kind of cat. It seems to be aimed at a teenage audience and I assume it's similar to the Harry Potter books although I can't be sure; you see I haven't read any of those. I did try once, with Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone but I do prefer my fantasies to be rooted in different ages or places, far from the monotony and insanity of modern life. Well otherwise how can they be fantasies? Anyway, it's a nice refreshing change from more serious fiction.

So I'm torn now over what to start next - either Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts or Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Ponder, ponder ... I'll probably leave Sarah Rayne's Roots of Evil for Christmas.

On the blog front, I've seen a dramatic reduction in comment spam this week - not a single link-ridden comment between the Friday before last and today. This did get me wondering whether 20Six had introduced some mysterious new anti-spam feature but that's probably wishful thinking. Much more likely is that Googles has reduced the ranking of some of my older pages, making them harder for spam bots to find. Unfortunately my moment of peace seems to be over - this morning the bots found one of my newer posts.

Listening to: Dead Can Dance, "Cantara"
Wondering: whether I'll now be the world's foremost authority on lightweight semi-romantic fantasies?

Candles, queasiness and the semi-colon

Apart from one recent occasion, it's been several years since I've treated myself and lit a candle. For me, candle burning means taking time to relax the body and exercise the mind. Reading, listening to music or perhaps exploring, thinking. It's a personal treat.

Lighting a candle last night, was more about making a decision; that I ought to set aside time for this kind of relaxation more often.

I like the fact that candles can be made from simple, natural and easy to find materials like beeswax or soy wax, and cotton for the wick; and that they provide both light and heat; and sometimes one of those funny but not unpleasant smells. Never made a candle though. Maybe I should do that one day?

...

It's been a day of howling wind and lashing rain. The still air hasn't quite been cold enough to feel Wintry but the chilling effect of gale force winds on damp exposed flesh was certainly enough to send a shiver or two down my spine.

Mid afternoon I had a strange feeling; a hard to describe unsettling somewhere in the mid-body region. Got up to have a walk around and noticed it had become a sense of queasiness in the stomach, a slight wobbliness in the knees and a faint dizziness in the head. Don't think it's Couvade syndrome because I don't know any pregnant ladies. I also had to, erm, pop to the loo so it was probably just something I eat, although it hasn't entirely gone away.

I do sometimes suffer small bouts of physical confusion, mostly as a result of blood sugar wobbliness.

This probably sounds like a moan or a smattering of hypochondria but it's not meant to. It's just an observation really, a little nothing. What's most curious is how I'm beginning to notice these things more as I get older. It's not so much the increase in minor aches and pains that comes with age, more a sense of knowing what you body is trying to tell you. At least I think that's what it is.

...

I'm playing with semi-colons. Not that I know anything about them; never quite sure when they should or shouldn't be used. I've actually used six whole ones in this post, but of course I don't have the slightest idea whether I'm using them properly or even usefully. I did find a site that's seems quite good at explaining some basics of English grammar and usage; basics that I sadly lack. It has a good bit on semicolons although I'm completely confused about participickles and the like.

I'd better explain now otherwise you'll misunderstand. I often squeak about my poor command of English, mainly because I'm very conscious of it. But that's all it is, a self-consciousness - it only applies to me. I'm not judging other blogs or others' ability to write (I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing). It's just a really silly weakness I have with my own writing.

Hmmm, very strange. Anyway, I'll stop now before you think I'm completely odd. EH? What's that? It's too late? You already do? Oh well then, I guess I'll just have to make a strong coffee, suck a dried date, then light a candle and think about a random thought.

Listening to: The Smiths, "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out"
Needing: some sugar, better go get some right now, pip toodle.

the blog metamorphs into a diary

I've decided to stop calling this thing "Bunnyman's Blog". The phrase is nothing more than a tagline anyhow and the name "Little Holes" will stay.

So what's the big issue?

Well there isn't one. The small fly walking across my desk doesn't seem overly concerned and I don't think it's going to become an election issue. There are certainly far more interesting things going on in the world. For example, did you know that as of today, there are 822 known potentially hazardous asteroids? I think this means asteroids that might make a large house-shaped hole, in that spot where your house used to be. I don't think it means asteroids that can only be safely handled while wearing rubber gloves.

Anyway, I'll leave you to ponder over that curious and slightly worrying statistic, or even do some of the more interesting things you were going to do before you stumbled in here. Meanwhile I'll carry on rambling.

So I've decided to call it a type of journal. My first choice was to call it a diary but on checking the dictionary, it seems this might suggest a daily activity. That didn't quite sound right seeing as this place doesn't get updated every day. The definition for journal on the other hand, is:

"a personal record of events or matters of interest, written up every day or as events occur"

So you see, I get an opt-out clause to update things only as they happen.

Does any of this mean the content of the blog will change? Probably not, no. Whatever else I may have been writing (I've forgotten now), will carry on shortly.

The main thing is that I don't want to call it a blog anymore. Yes, yes, I know that it is a blog in a general sense and it's hosted by Blogspot which is a blogging service. The word blog though, is such a high level, generic term that it doesn't actually tell us very much. What's more, because so many other collections of writing are referred to as blogs, there's a tendency for visitors to think this might be like other blogs.

Of course it's no more a journal than a blog. The actual word which describes it precisely hasn't been invented yet. I have managed to come up with an interim prototype however.

wordiflossbag

I'm sure the good people who write the Oxford English Dictionary could come up with something much better but it seems there are lots of other unnamed things far more deserving than my blog which need a name, so my request at the far end of the queue right now.

There's a likelihood that tomorrow I'll forget all about this post and starting referring to my journal as a blog again or I might get confused and call it a diary. That's one of the problems with having a short term memory. But at least this does go to show what nonsense the brain can occupy its time with when it's too wet to go out and when there's not too much else to do.

...

Update. After approximately 12 seconds of random thought, a coffee and a dried date, I've completely changed my mind and decided instead to call it a diary.

Listening to: Yazoo, "Nobody's Diary"
Wondering: whether I should have call it a notebook?

uuunnnnnnnnnnnngh

That's the best word I can think of right now, an extended form of the well known adjective, "ungh"! That's what it felt like this morning, trying to open my eyes. It was almost like I didn't remember how - and they were sooo heavy - and someone was sitting on them - and there was a dull numbness in my head, but especially up from my nose in a curious curve that, in much younger years I could probably have described mathematically, all the way round my eye sockets and up to Bunny summit. It was almost as though my mind was telling me not to return to the world - it simply wasn't worth it.

I slept in.

It's caught up with me, all these nights, struggling with sleep. I definitely set the alarm but when I woke, it was curiously switched off.

Anyway, quite a bit of rushing around today to catch up with two hours lost.

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Now I was just scouting around my blog, checking the comments, seeing if anyone had said hello, when I noticed ... an entry ... about poetry or summat. Eh, don't know who wrote that or how it got in here. It's a puzzle.

---

This is going to be a week to juggle. I have to spend a few days on the move doing boring stuff but might get a day on the hills out of it. Probably won't be able to blog or comment much though, I'm going to be unplugged.

It's not that I don't have things to post, on the contrary, there are a lot of things, in fact probably hundreds, but many of them haven't made the leap, from thought held as chaotic electrical neuro-pattern, to jumbled notes on paper, let alone to passable blog entries.

Sometimes I wake with idle thoughts lingering, in that strange space that is waking up. Makes me wonder, whether those had been the thoughts I'd gone to sleep with.

Today's idle thought is: Should I restart this blog? Actually, maybe that wasn't it, maybe it was: Should I start a new blog, disconnected from this one?
Okay, tell you what, this week I'll try to remember why I was thinking that. It would probably help.

Oh, and another idle thought: Should I change my name? Train it all the way down to the St. Andrews Square Birth and Marriage Registry Office and change from Bunnyman to "perfectly normal person" using that deed pole thing. But then I haven't explained why I'm called Bunnyman because I was putting it off, so maybe I should build up the courage to post that first. errrm, perhaps you'd better ignore me altogether, just for the moment.

Oh, and another idle thought: ... ... um ... (scratches head) ... you'll be ever so relieved to know that I forgot this one.

Listening to: Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy"
still, yes, still the same tune, it's got stuck in my inner ear.

Sanatorium for Disordered Bloggers

Well, that was quite interesting, that brief foray into seriousness. I think perhaps there'll be more of that to come.

Meanwhile, a man in a factory once told me that it didn't matter what you did or what mistakes you made, as long as you were consistent.

I thought about this for a while. Quite a long time actually. I even spent an a-g-e (if I told you how long, you wouldn't believe me), writing a humungous ramble on the subject. Luckily, I re-read it, decided it was utter mush and chucked in in the wastebin.

I was helped along by this quote I found while reading a very basic photography tutorial on photo.net

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds" - Ralph Waldo Emerson

While it's true that I'm a wrinkled little monster with a head like an inverted tardis: huge on the outside but with enough grey matter to fill a thimble; I also have a history of rebellion against prescribed thinking and established patterns of behaviour. This quote has sent me into the cupboard looking for my Che Guevara khakis and beret.

Therefore at the risk of being referred to a sanatorium for disordered bloggers, consistency has gone out the window, possibly closely followed by popularity (what is that?), and I now feel compelled to restate my identity by posting something quite daft.

First though, a question. In the midst of the ramble that's now gone through the shredder, I found myself becoming quite confused over the ebb phrase. I was wondering whether it should be "ebb and tide" or "ebb and flow"? Tried an Internet search but the results page returned an article written by a Rabbi, a document about Hamas operational strategy and an interview with a writer of romantic fiction. Fascinating though these may be to whoever might want to read them, they didn't help me with my question. Does anyone know? Should it be tide or should it be flow?

And how on earth has the time got to almost 5:30 in the morning? I need to be up and doing severely boring things in a couple of hours. Hmm, stay up and regret it for the rest of the day, or find some alcohol, get one hours sleep, then regret it for the rest of the day? What a choice. Sorry if none of this post makes sense :)

Listening to: Grant Lee Buffalo, "Jupiter Teardrop"
Wondering: whether I should write a manifesto?

a book to read?

A voice inside my head is telling me to go find a book to read. This isn't an easy task for a literary troglodyte.

Sure I normally read Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit and perhaps this makes me one of 'those' (whatever 'those' are).

But the voice is saying regular fiction about real things.

My most recent attempt to read serious fiction was Jean-Paul Sartre, "Nausea". This failed dismally, I managed a few pages but his words carry no meaning for me. When this happens I have quick naps during sentences. I'll start with good intent but before the arrival of the first full stop, I'll have nodded off. Usually sleep reading for a page or two then something will happen, a car might go by, a change in tempo of the rain, a lawn mower snagging on a root, causing me to wake and realise what's happened ...

Managed it!!! This Lilliputian speck of insignificance is an achievement. My spell checker's cheering because it saw me write 'happened' the right way first time. It's fine when I handwrite but the two-fingered, keyboard tapping autopilot produces 'happended' every time. Even when consciously thinking about it, it comes out wrong. Why is that? I've taken a half hour timeout now to type it out 50 times. Well maybe not 50, but lots, and its paid off. Got 10 wrong then 40-ish right. I've treated myself to half a square of Fruit and Nut chocolate.

... realise what's happened and have to go back and find the dreary sentence where I lost the plot and begin reading again, each sentence twice.

Oops, I'm rambling ... anyway, you get the message that I'm struggling with Sartre. In my favour though, I did read and enjoy Andrey Kurkov, "Death and the Penguin" and even managed Albert Camus' "The Plague" and I love reading small snippets of Milton's "Paradise Lost". But the last thing I really enjoyed reading was a blog ... oh, what ... hmm it seems the voice is telling me that's not allowed, it has to be a book. Okay then the last book I really enjoyed was Philip Pullman's "Northern Lights" because it's got layers, different but complimentary stories woven between the words.

I need something that makes me think. It's your fault. If you're reading this and have a blog and if I've been there, then you've made me think. I hold you completely responsible for waking me from my brain-dead slumber.

It mustn't have lots of complicated sub-plots or too many characters because I can't remember things like that. Politics, science or anything 18-19th century (Jane Austen is out) are a struggle. I like stories and people and gritty things rooted in the today.

So now I have to find this book and it's quite hard because there are lots of books and most of them ... no offence to the authors ... but they send me to sleep ... and I can't spend more then 4 hours in the bookshop choosing ...

Listening to: Janis Joplin, "Mercedes Benz"
Wondering: why there's no Fruit and Nut left ?

Shiny stations

I wonder if this is enough to make London dwellers feel slightly better about going to work every morning?

There's certainly a visual difference between these metro stations and most London Underground tube stations. But would you still find them attractive with several thousand commuters scurrying and jostling around? Would you spend time admiring them after stumbling off a crammed, hot, morning train smelling of stale clothes, sweat and half consumed egg breakfasts?

I love the process of art and have a lot of respect for any architectural expression that helps us feel better our workday environment. I wonder though, how others would rate design alongside safe trains with air conditioning, that run at sufficiently frequent intervals to allow seating for all passengers?

I'm frustrated that safety and service don't have art's good looks. Is that why we don't pay them as much attention?

Listening to: David Bowie, "Station to Station"
Wishing: that I could roller-skate

Critters

Saturn and Venus were visible together in the night sky last weekend. I wonder if this is what's been causing me to feel quite uppity all week. Astrology is not one of my strengths (I do actually wonder whether it's all just a pile of poo).

All this uppity-ness has been caused by some little critters living in my head who have been at loggerheads. Normally I can shepherd them all together and get them to work as a team, but the last few days have seen constant battles and fisticuffs.

Trying to take charge, has been 'paranoid me', who jumps at the sound of a hard disk chattering unexpectedly and some days walks around in camouflage hoping no-one will even see him. He's been out in force, analysing things to death.

There is undoubtedly a Mr cheeky in here too, a brash character who does better in the pub with a climbing or rugby crowd. I have problems with this Bunny. He's hard to control sometimes and I have been trying to kick him into touch. You can see I don't like to think of him as me. It's not that I want to evade responsibility, but I do need to see him as a side of my character that should be tamed. He's been responsible for frequent feelings of bitterness since the little big bang.

And of course, there's 'silly me'. When the world is going wrong he's the one I bring out to stop the other me's going potty. Right now with Lebanon teetering, Iraq about to plunge into civil war and a certain new western religion trying to spread the gospel across the globe, I need a lot of silliness to stay sane.

My limbs are stiff and the mountains are calling, so it's time to take all these guys off for an enforced team building exercise. Most likely, I'll head down to the Lakes for a few days, get some fresh air and do some critter bashing.

Look at my eyes, not at my ...

I know what it might seem from a title like that, but I make a point of always looking at the eyes. Ok, sometimes the nose.

It wasn't until Almond Blossom came along, my first true love, a woman with a man's name (but definitely a woman) that I noticed how some people only ever look at your nose. It has been said (gingerly by some) that my nose is distinctive but it probably isn't quite fascinating enough to stare at for long periods. Is it a confidence thing then?

If it had not been for Blossom I might never have realised. One day while thinking of her and how she only ever looked at my nose, I thought, "I'll try this".

I am one for trying things you see, its curiosity. Everything from peanut butter and garlic sandwiches, to shaving my left leg during an experimental phase (?!?), to sex while suspended from the upstairs bannister by a climbing rope. I mean its not until you try things that you find out just how silly or impractical they can be.

Anyhow, back on topic, I thought, "I'll try looking at someone's nose".

So choosing a friend at random (male, avoiding any feminist confrontations) I tried to focus on his nose, and found the strangest thing ... that I was already looking at it!!  What was new was having to force my unwilling eyes upward.

Suddenly the drugs wore off and the horror dawned on me that that this was the first time I had ever looked someone in the eye. I had been going through life looking at people's noses without realising it.

Naturally I have been practising lots since then, and have realised that there are times when it is wise and respectful to look someone directly in the eye, and times when it's really better to look at the frying pan they're holding menacingly in their hand.

How had I managed to go through all those years? Why had no-one told me? But of course it was probably for the same reason I didn't tell Blossom. I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

So now I make a point of always looking at the eyes, ok, sometimes the nose just for old times sake, but usually the eyes.

shhhhh, I'm in the wardrobe

Panic-squidge! I am having a little blog tidy up here, which means that some older things will disappear from 20Six for a bit. They haven't actually disappeared, but they're no longer on 20Six for the mo (I have moved them across here to Blogger.com).

If anyone left comments on those posts, please don't feel offended. The fact that they've been removed has absolutely nothing to do with the content or the comments, and I will try to bring them back at some point.

I'm just suffering from an un-looked-for, visibility panic-squidge right now. In fact I'm just going to quietly run into the wardrobe, close the door and hide until it's all over.

-- Update: I've come back out now. I was, after all, getting quite hungry. --

After the hoo-hah

Sometimes weeks go by when the only thing I have room for is the humdrum of day to day existence. Sometimes I've been lucky enough to have come home to love and friendship.

But then there are times when I need to spend moments with 'him indoors', me, single cell. Times like now. I've been reminded recently that when all the hoo-hah dies down and all the dinner guests leave, that we are all alone in our heads. It seems it's not just me, lots of other people have been hitting these quiet little moments.

All that time spent living a lot and giving a little doesn't seem to count for so much now, when it comes to cashing in on my other investment, me. It's at times like these that I need to tame the 'selfish' word, pin it to the wall and clearly define its limitations.

As someone here said recently (and very eloquently), the only kind of love that really endures is the love you build for yourself. Without this how can you ever recognise love for others?

Listening to: Jefferson Airplane, "Somebody to Love"
Feeling: wide awake again in the middle of the night

Your name is your signature

A sobering news article suggests that a High Court judge needs only your typed name on the end of a plain text, unencrypted email to prove intention under current English law.

As the article says, it almost cost one person £25K so it might pay to be careful when signing your emails in future.

Posted by Bunn a garden gnome.

Nice, nice people

Ok, why is is that when the only program you've wanted to watch on TV, the whole week, is due to come on, the TV room is filled with people. Nice, nice people yes, but how can I say this politely? With closed minds!

I want to watch something where the cast just happen to be a playing a bunch of lesbians, but where I stand that doesn't matter much because its just a light and fresh little play on a bunch of fun loving characters.

Yes I'm male and for a lot of these people I can see that it might be a problem accepting that I don't want to stand in front of the screen with me pants around me ankles wobbling back and forth. Well problem or not for the stereotype image, I just want to watch it and have a laugh.

But tonight of all nights everyone comes round. Can't even tape the damn thing. Well that's it! I've left them to it and hit the whisky. When you get older you learn to enjoy the little things because everything else has left you drained, cynical, tired, empty headed, staring at the wallpaper for long periods wondering when the next thought's going to come along.

Ok, scrub some of that, kick me, it sounds pathetic. I'm just a tad frustrated is all. Whisky's woken me up now. I'm gonna go and find shelter in blogland.

Listening to: "Gimme Shelter", Rolling Stones
Posted by: a grumpy bunny with a glass

journal of a Bunnyman

An introspective examination of my dirty laundry originally hung here. I've sent it out on long term loan to the wastbin.

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dirty bits removed
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Currently playing: nothing, but if I was it would be Depeche Mode, Stripped