Damsels in distress
In another era it was ok for James Brown to declare "this is a man's world" and not be decried for excluding 52% (and rising) of the world's population. However, tonight - a Monday, a day without Shahid and his sandwiches (we await his return to work for he is part-time upon the morrow and news of breaded slices and tasty incumbents) - I feel fine (to quote JB once more) yet too many women seem unhappy.
The missus is downstairs chanting (nam myoho renge kyo). She went to a casting on Saturday and didn't get a recall and is subsequently feeling rather depressed.
Laydee Brockwell is missing the Shark and has been feeling unloved.
And the Shark is having to deal with compliments from Mrs N (sounds good, but is in fact well wierd) and has a sudden T-Shirt envy for across the Atlantic.
Und Die Elf von Berlin has a cut above her eye and a broken arm.
Only the Catster is having fun - swooning over Jude Law and seeing too many famous people for one Herne Hilliard to cope with.
Such is life. I sit here, hemmed in by a new computer purchased on the never never never tax efficient HCI blag from work, still working on this tired old laptop with little bits of paper stuck to the keys to indicate the Hebrew letters, hoping that the Mr Chong will turn up at the pub quiz with my drill so I can fix the chair I bought for my wife last year to shut her up about getting a new chair for the dining room (grand sounding, I know, but its a room and we dine in it - or rather we take evasive action from the Galster who is to table manners what Monica Lewinsky is to Bill Clinton - sloppy on the hand mouth co-ordination front) and that Pauline (Queen of the Jolly Jelly Fish) brings the beer tokens in tomorrow in order that the night is a cheap one, and of course, that Shahid brings news of sandwich flavourings only dreamt of by lonely souls wandering the edges of Archway, Matalan superstores, outlets for inexpensive and badly glazed flower pots, 1930s underground stations, victorian hotels with neon lighting hardly any younger, stucco'd pieces of house, John Lewis subsidiaries, parts of the DLR were unused track is passedand left un-noticed (except by me), churches with unfeasibly short spires, bits of the Thames where the water is never ever "choppy", steps that only go down, bridal paths with no vicars, brambles with no berries, buses with conductors, orchestras with bus drivers, hedgerows, some (but not all) suburbs of Medellin Colombia,and badly constructed sheds.
The missus is downstairs chanting (nam myoho renge kyo). She went to a casting on Saturday and didn't get a recall and is subsequently feeling rather depressed.
Laydee Brockwell is missing the Shark and has been feeling unloved.
And the Shark is having to deal with compliments from Mrs N (sounds good, but is in fact well wierd) and has a sudden T-Shirt envy for across the Atlantic.
Und Die Elf von Berlin has a cut above her eye and a broken arm.
Only the Catster is having fun - swooning over Jude Law and seeing too many famous people for one Herne Hilliard to cope with.
Such is life. I sit here, hemmed in by a new computer purchased on the never never never tax efficient HCI blag from work, still working on this tired old laptop with little bits of paper stuck to the keys to indicate the Hebrew letters, hoping that the Mr Chong will turn up at the pub quiz with my drill so I can fix the chair I bought for my wife last year to shut her up about getting a new chair for the dining room (grand sounding, I know, but its a room and we dine in it - or rather we take evasive action from the Galster who is to table manners what Monica Lewinsky is to Bill Clinton - sloppy on the hand mouth co-ordination front) and that Pauline (Queen of the Jolly Jelly Fish) brings the beer tokens in tomorrow in order that the night is a cheap one, and of course, that Shahid brings news of sandwich flavourings only dreamt of by lonely souls wandering the edges of Archway, Matalan superstores, outlets for inexpensive and badly glazed flower pots, 1930s underground stations, victorian hotels with neon lighting hardly any younger, stucco'd pieces of house, John Lewis subsidiaries, parts of the DLR were unused track is passedand left un-noticed (except by me), churches with unfeasibly short spires, bits of the Thames where the water is never ever "choppy", steps that only go down, bridal paths with no vicars, brambles with no berries, buses with conductors, orchestras with bus drivers, hedgerows, some (but not all) suburbs of Medellin Colombia,and badly constructed sheds.
posted by jimbobwoof at 10:30 pm
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