Saturday Night Feverish

Various Cushions posted like this a few weeks ago, so I thought I'd copy her. As part of our writers group, we do a writing exercise before we start the serious work of telling each other how brilliant we all are.

This week Various suggested we free wrote a piece on a scene that takes place over five seconds.

We had five minutes to write. This is what I came up with:

"He lifts the fork to his mouth. A piece of onion, lemming like, dives from the mini mountain of food and dies - splat - on his tie. His eyes never leave Jeremy Clarkson and that little Hammond bloke on the tv screen. I can see the olive oil slick from the suicidal vegetable spread out, across its paisley graveyard. Clarkson barks. I sigh. I'm so leaving him."

Its short, but I think I like it :)As for the writers group - as mentioned in a number of blogs we had a triumphant visit to Limerick where we showcased our immense poetical talent with the White House Poets. But less was written about the 5am drunken game of Truth or Truth that was played. Now, calm down, calm down, I'm not about to reveal anything :) But it did get me thinking about my past, and people I'd once known. People I hadn't thought about in a while came to mind. I did a little googling, see if anyone was out there. Its funny the things you find out. The most interesting possibly that a guy from my murky past has testified before the US congress. Its on youtube.

So, how should this make me feel? Am I achieving what I want out of life? Are three happy kids and one Jonathan Swift Competition win enough? Of course the happy kids bit is, but that's them, not me. It's Saturday night and soon the telly will auto tune itself back to the X Factor results.

Is that enough?

Saturday Night Feverish

Various Cushions posted like this a few weeks ago, so I thought I'd copy her. As part of our writers group, we do a writing exercise before we start the serious work of telling each other how brilliant we all are.

This week Various suggested we free wrote a piece on a scene that takes place over five seconds.

We had five minutes to write. This is what I came up with:

"He lifts the fork to his mouth. A piece of onion, lemming like, dives from the mini mountain of food and dies - splat - on his tie. His eyes never leave Jeremy Clarkson and that little Hammond bloke on the tv screen. I can see the olive oil slick from the suicidal vegetable spread out, across its paisley graveyard. Clarkson barks. I sigh. I'm so leaving him."

Its short, but I think I like it :)As for the writers group - as mentioned in a number of blogs we had a triumphant visit to Limerick where we showcased our immense poetical talent with the White House Poets. But less was written about the 5am drunken game of Truth or Truth that was played. Now, calm down, calm down, I'm not about to reveal anything :) But it did get me thinking about my past, and people I'd once known. People I hadn't thought about in a while came to mind. I did a little googling, see if anyone was out there. Its funny the things you find out. The most interesting possibly that a guy from my murky past has testified before the US congress. Its on youtube.

So, how should this make me feel? Am I achieving what I want out of life? Are three happy kids and one Jonathan Swift Competition win enough? Of course the happy kids bit is, but that's them, not me. It's Saturday night and soon the telly will auto tune itself back to the X Factor results.

Is that enough?

What happens in Limerick, stays in Limerick

Lucan Writers out on tour!
Guinness, Bud, pour, pour, pour!
Gangsta poetry
Rhyming sophistry
We left them wanting more more more!

What happens in Limerick, stays in Limerick

Lucan Writers out on tour!
Guinness, Bud, pour, pour, pour!
Gangsta poetry
Rhyming sophistry
We left them wanting more more more!

Much Ablog about Nothing

So, I've been trying to write a blog entry for the past few days now, but nothing is really jumping out at me. Yes, contracts were finally signed on the new house. But, yawn, I suspect if I say one more word on the subject everyone I know will make like Murder on the Orient Express and collectively do me in. (Apologies for the Agatha Christie spoiler there...)

I could also write about last Saturdays Shoestring Collective, but, after three glasses of wine, a pint and a half of Guinness, my recollections are a little fuzzy. I remember a lot of laughing - and then a serious cocaine play that put everyone on a downer... ha, ha, only kidding Uiscebot! It was just part of the rollercoaster! We're laughing! We're crying! We're wondering what that bloke is doing with the guitar and peddles...


But, I reckon its been a few days now, the moment has passed for a review.



So, that just leaves funny things the kids said as my staple blog filler. But they've been more sombre lately... far example:

Middle Child(age 6) : Why is grandad working at the weekend?
Me: He has a lot of bills to pay.
Middle Child : When I find my piggy bank I will give him money.
Me: That's really sweet of you, but a hug would be better. Hugs are the the best thing.

Pause.

The voice from the back of the car...

Middle Child : Not starving is better than hugs.

Me: Good point.

Well, I guess this is going to be a blog entry about nothing.

Maybe next time.

Much Ablog about Nothing

So, I've been trying to write a blog entry for the past few days now, but nothing is really jumping out at me. Yes, contracts were finally signed on the new house. But, yawn, I suspect if I say one more word on the subject everyone I know will make like Murder on the Orient Express and collectively do me in. (Apologies for the Agatha Christie spoiler there...)

I could also write about last Saturdays Shoestring Collective, but, after three glasses of wine, a pint and a half of Guinness, my recollections are a little fuzzy. I remember a lot of laughing - and then a serious cocaine play that put everyone on a downer... ha, ha, only kidding Uiscebot! It was just part of the rollercoaster! We're laughing! We're crying! We're wondering what that bloke is doing with the guitar and peddles...


But, I reckon its been a few days now, the moment has passed for a review.



So, that just leaves funny things the kids said as my staple blog filler. But they've been more sombre lately... far example:

Middle Child(age 6) : Why is grandad working at the weekend?
Me: He has a lot of bills to pay.
Middle Child : When I find my piggy bank I will give him money.
Me: That's really sweet of you, but a hug would be better. Hugs are the the best thing.

Pause.

The voice from the back of the car...

Middle Child : Not starving is better than hugs.

Me: Good point.

Well, I guess this is going to be a blog entry about nothing.

Maybe next time.

Sign from above?

Today was meant to be contracts day. Ink the dotted line etc. But our solicitor got sick. So, yet another delay.

I'm expecting a piano to be dropped on her car next. Then perhaps a plague of locusts through her office. A world wide shortage in paper? Barack Obama to introduce a crippling levy on pens?


This all reminds me of that joke/spiritual lesson about the guy who is trapped in his house due to a flood... a guy in a boat goes by and says 'hop aboard, I'll save you'. But the guy in the house says 'no, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' The waters are rising and a guy on a raft floats by and says' hop aboard I'll save you', and again the bloke in the house says 'No, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' There is more and more water when a third guy, hanging onto a piece of drift wood goes by and says 'grab on, I'll save you'. But no, our guy declines again 'No, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' Eventually, the water gets so high, our hero drowns. When he stands in front of god, in heaven, he cries 'I believed in you, I prayed to you, why didn't you save me?!" And God replies, 'I sent a boat, I sent a raft....'

But of course this isn't God trying to stop us signing contracts on our ridiculously expensive house, on one income, in a time of extreme financial uncertainty and recession.

Nope. Not a sign. We'll be fine...


Is that rain I can hear?

Sign from above?

Today was meant to be contracts day. Ink the dotted line etc. But our solicitor got sick. So, yet another delay.

I'm expecting a piano to be dropped on her car next. Then perhaps a plague of locusts through her office. A world wide shortage in paper? Barack Obama to introduce a crippling levy on pens?


This all reminds me of that joke/spiritual lesson about the guy who is trapped in his house due to a flood... a guy in a boat goes by and says 'hop aboard, I'll save you'. But the guy in the house says 'no, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' The waters are rising and a guy on a raft floats by and says' hop aboard I'll save you', and again the bloke in the house says 'No, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' There is more and more water when a third guy, hanging onto a piece of drift wood goes by and says 'grab on, I'll save you'. But no, our guy declines again 'No, I'm fine, I've prayed to god, he'll save me.' Eventually, the water gets so high, our hero drowns. When he stands in front of god, in heaven, he cries 'I believed in you, I prayed to you, why didn't you save me?!" And God replies, 'I sent a boat, I sent a raft....'

But of course this isn't God trying to stop us signing contracts on our ridiculously expensive house, on one income, in a time of extreme financial uncertainty and recession.

Nope. Not a sign. We'll be fine...


Is that rain I can hear?

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

WH Auden

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

WH Auden

What I've learnt in the last fortnight...

Yes, I've been quiet. But seeing as 50% of my readership has been in Barbados, what was the point?

Things Domestic Oubliette has learnt in the last couple of weeks

1) She has an ex-boyf who is older than Barack Obama.

2) Her children are surprisingly easy to indoctrinate.

3) You can't park across from a solid white line without incurring a fine. (The Gardai kept that one quiet.)

4) Really, really, wishing one was thin doesn't burn many calories.

5) It was quite funny when her brother called her blog Domestic Omelette.




OK. More tomorrow. Honest.

What I've learnt in the last fortnight...

Yes, I've been quiet. But seeing as 50% of my readership has been in Barbados, what was the point?

Things Domestic Oubliette has learnt in the last couple of weeks

1) She has an ex-boyf who is older than Barack Obama.

2) Her children are surprisingly easy to indoctrinate.

3) You can't park across from a solid white line without incurring a fine. (The Gardai kept that one quiet.)

4) Really, really, wishing one was thin doesn't burn many calories.

5) It was quite funny when her brother called her blog Domestic Omelette.




OK. More tomorrow. Honest.