Archive for May, 2008

Scribo, Ergo sum

Grandad May 31st, 2008

The deed is done.

The final full-stop has been fully stopped.

During the week, I sent off the first draft of The Book  to the publishers.  I got an acknowledgement yesterday [I am still amazed at the speed of the Interweb].

So it is done, but probably not yet dusted.

It is now in the lap of the gods.

[Note to publisher: That's just an expression.  You are not deified yet]

I can see the day when every house will have a copy.

Toilet

I’ll give myself the weekend off.

Then I’ll start on the next one.

The Pillar

Grandad May 30th, 2008

Back in the 60’s, our lane was little wider than a car.  It had grass growing down the middle, and a lovely old gate at the entrance, which was permanently open. 

My father went around the other four houses in the lane and asked them if they minded if he moved one of the gate pillars.  No one objected, as it made the entrance a little wider.

So my father demolished the old pillar, which was in a sorry state anyway, and built a new one further back into our land.

pillar1 

He took his time over it and built a strong sturdy granite pillar using the stones from the old one.  He even embedded one of the old gate hinges for the sake of authenticity.

pillar3

It was the last bit of real building he did before he died.

I see that pillar now as a memorial to him.  It has weathered beautifully, and is now covered in moss and ivy.  It looks like it has been there for a hundred years.

pillar2

Because of its associations, I am very attached to that pillar.  A couple of times I have had to berate local estate agents who insist on drilling it to hold their ‘for sale’ signs.  I object, because they never ask permission.  If you click on the last image above, you can see at least four holes that have been drilled.

There are one or two residents who want that pillar removed, [and a piece of my land taken] so that they can swing off the road into the lane.  You know my response to that.

That pillar actually makes the entrance to the lane safer.  It stops people from swinging in.  They have to slow down because it is a sharp bend.  Apart from acting as a safety barrier, it also prevents erosion of the corner, and it looks nice.  It adds character to the lane entrance.

My father is interred in the local graveyard.  That is a beautiful quite spot on the side of a hill, and he has his headstone there.  But he isn’t there.  He is here in the place he loved so much.  The pillar is his headstone.  It may not have any engraving on it, but it is his personification - strong, rugged, quiet and in the right place.  I think of him every time I pass it.

Some people may not understand my attachment to that pillar.  To them, it is a nuisance as it stops them entering the lane recklessly. 

To me, it represents the cornerstone of my existence here.

There are those who would try to deliberately damage it or remove it by fair means or foul. 

By God, I will defend it to the last.

False accusations

Grandad May 29th, 2008

I love birds.

We lived for a while in Suburbia, and we considered ourselves lucky if a blackbird sang in our tree.  We used to get magpies, but they aren’t any fun.

Here, we have birds by the bucketload, and the blackbirds and thrushes try to outdo each other in their songs and it is beautiful.  We have an amazing variety of birds from the wrens who are nesting outside the kitchen window up to Bertie, the heron.

One thing they have a habit of doing is flying into our windows.  There will be a loud bang, and another thrush or dove or something will end up somewhat dazed on the ground.

I often wonder at the outcome of these encounters with our glass.

Picture the scene - Female Thrush is sitting on the eggs in the nest.  She is somewhat hungry and has sent Himself out to get some grub.  He arrives back.

Her: Jayzus! Would you look at the state of you.  Where have you been?

Him: I don’t know.  I was flying along and suddenly I was on the flat of my back.

Her: You’ve been down the pub again.  Haven’t you?

Him: No way!  Stop nagging, woman.  I have a slitting headache.

Her: It’s the same every time.  I sit here minding your eggs, and all I ask is that you nip down to the compost heap for a half pound of grubs and a packet of worms, and you end up in the pub again.

Him: Aw, shut up woman.  I wasn’t in the pub.

Her: Well?  Where’s the groceries then?

Him: I didn’t get them.  I forgot.

Her: *sigh. Men!*

Him: *sigh. Women!*

How to restore a hard disk?

Grandad May 28th, 2008

Something very strange is going on.

I had a good sleep last night, so I am wide awake now.

The old grey cells are in cracking form.  I could probably solve a Sudoku in fifteen seconds flat, but I daren’t try, as it would only send me to sleep again.

The problem is that my memory has been wiped. 

I can’t remember a damned thing.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it is something to do with that fecking laptop of mine.  It is getting it’s revenge.  It has somehow wiped my hard disk.  I vaguely recall having a row with it over something.  I checked its hard disk, and that is fine.  It is full of the usual crap, but I’m not sure what the crap is.

I know the simple things, like that today is Monday, and that my name is Sophie, but the rest is gone.

I have vague recollections that I have built up from fragmented memories.  There was something about an overdue invoice that I have to flame someone for.  There was something about a book that I’m supposed to be reading or something.

Unfortunately, I have been somewhat cavalier  in my attitudes lately, and I didn’t bother making a backup of my memory.  I know that’s foolish, but maybe it’s my fault for wanting to live dangerously.  I am paying the price now.  Not that it makes much difference, because even if I had made a backup, I wouldn’t remember where it is.

I’m not even sure why I’m typing this.  I have vague recollections of typing in this programme before, but I’m not sure what it does.  I know I type things, and then press a button called ‘Publish’, but I haven’t a clue what happens after that.

What the hell is going on?

Who am I?

What am I?

Should I give a damn?

How to smell properly

Grandad May 27th, 2008

Me: Oy! What are you doing?

Laptop: What are you on about?

Me: You beep subslitutinq letters when I type.

Laptop: No I don’t.

Me: Yes you po.  There! You’ve bone it again!

Laptop: No I didn’t. It’s your rotten typing.

Me: I know welk how to type.  I have been going it for bears.  I mean tears.  Years.  Stop ut!

Laptop: I’m not doing anything.  If you can’t type for shit, then it’s not my fault.

Me: I knob what you’re ot.  You just like eucking with my heed. You are doimg this deliperately.

Laptop: Look, Sunshine.  I just translate whatever key you press into code.  How can I make mistakes?

Me: I bon’t know how or whv you’re fooing it, mut you are.  Just slop.  OK?

Laptop: Just go fuck off and stop blaming me for your inadequacies.

Me: I notice vou can manape it without amy dippiculty?

Laptop: That’s because I know how to spell.  *heh*

Laptop: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

Me:  The quimm brown box humped over the lazy fog.  Aw buck!

Laptop: *snigger*

Me: I’ll snitch over to Red Bat Linux.

Laptop: No you won’t.  You know what a mess you made of that last time.

Me: There ib always OMB?  I mean BMX.  I meat OSX.

Laptop: You wouldn’t!!

Me: I woulb.

Laptop: Aw fuck.  OK. You win.

Me: Thank you.

Me: You snivelling little bastard.

Laptop: *sigh*

Where has the time gone?

Grandad May 26th, 2008

Things are getting out of hand here.

When I left full time work, I had ideas of lazing around and doing a bit of work when the mood took my fancy.  Hazy lazy days.

It didn’t work out like that.

My little business that I started up to keep me out of mischief was supposed to be a little business, but it became a big business.

Now I’m trying to make it a little business again, but life isn’t that simple.  The buggers keep coming at me.

On top of that, the garden is getting out of hand, and I haven’t time to do anything about it.

And then there is The Book.

There have been a lot of developments on The Book, but I haven’t mentioned them, because you’d probably find it boring.

The bottom line is that the book I have been working on has been put off.  It won’t be published for a couple of years, if ever.  It’s not that the publishers aren’t happy with it - it’s because I’m not happy with it.  They say it needs a bit of polishing - I say it needs rewriting from scratch.  The curse of being a perfectionist!

So, in the meantime, I have a contract to fulfil and I have to provide them with something else.

So I wrote a second book.  That’s nearly finished, and I hope to be sending them the first draft in the next few days.  I sent them a rough draft a few weeks ago, and they are very happy with it.  They are even talking about another one before I finish the rewrite of the original one.

This is getting complicated.

Not only is it complicated, but it is all very time consuming.

I’m expecting a client to arrive for a meeting in an hour or so.  That means more work.

I have another meeting scheduled for tomorrow.  More time gone.

And I have just had an email from another client reminding me about a project that had slipped my mind altogether.

It has reached the stage where I’m thinking of quitting and getting myself a nine to five job.

It would mean less work.

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