whimsy


L.O. To identify and analyse the components of sonnets

Year 7! Stop this racket! Settle down!
That you’ve arrived late from PE is bad
enough without …you acting like a clown,
Grimaldi. Quiet while I’m speaking, lad.
The objective this lesson is up – DAN!
You need to get your backside on your chair
and planner on your desk, now, please, young man.
The objective, you may have seen, is there…
on the board, Lewis; it’s on the board,
if you were paying attention you’d have seen
it, instead of wasting time we can’t afford
throwing a basketball around with Jean.
Yes, you can pick it up at four pm
from welfare, where I’m sure there’ll be a chat
about why it has ended up with them.
I’m only glad it’s not a cricket bat.
Chewing gum in the bin, Jean, thank – good shot!
Now, can I start this lesson off, or what?

 

This post should have gone out yesterday, but technical difficulties, soz.

Great excitement as the table project drew a little closer to completion. After a final sand and wipe, it was time to coat the timber to stop it drying out, and to protect it from moisture. Osmo (titular character in an Everybody Loves Raymond-style vehicle, with Cockneys) is the product of choice on this course. The instructions on the tin and from the carpenters were to apply sparingly, which turned out to be simultaneously a soothing and stressful process.

Underside first, where the initial opportunities to explore the parameters of ‘sparingly’ proved that it really does mean hardly any at all. Little rivulets forming along the joins, occasioning those runs up the legs with the brush to redistribute. One technique suggested was to slather it on across the grain before finishing off along the grain, and that seemed to work quite well on the larger faces. Also, starting slightly in from the edges, to avoid too much overflow.

Then, a hilariously thumby moment of turning the whole thing upside down to move on to the top. So soothing. Along and back, along, back… Yet this was also where the stress entered into it. The quest for non-drip perfection, when every brush stroke along the top squeegeed tiny drops of product over the edges. Dab… check… dab dab… check…

Eventually, though, there it was.

Shining like my eyes. The brush went in the Brush Mate tin, where brushes are prevented from drying out and hardening without having to wash them. I had a slight crusty qualm about the use of chemicals so powerful they have to be kept shut in a box at all times, but that was easily disregarded in the giddy excitement of the finish.

And that was pretty much it for the evening: leave it to dry, with the possibility of further smoothing, and another coat or so to complete it, after the Easter break.

I intended to have a go at some more dovetail joints for the remaining hour or so, but my own joints seemed to be seizing up, and uh-oh, bit of a thick nose and sore throat, just in time for the holidays, of course.

“Oh, Osmo… you nugget!”
(Osmo turns to camera, Jack Benny expression; canned laughter and credits)

“OK, so, our main character exits the crematorium. They check their phone. There’s an email from work. They’ve been selected for redundancy.”

“Aw, c’mon!”

 

Life’s too funny sometimes.

Had a productive night despite “not feeling it” in any sort of sense. By the end of that process, managed to have actually achieved something, even though I didn’t really feel like I had, but I had.

O mind, what slipp’ry fuckery is this
with which thou dost my daily chores attend?
Surely thou couldst thy chunterings abate,
if only for a bless’d second’s respite;
turn from thy dull and prating rattle
to modes melodious, soothing and becalmed,
not these inconstant-yet-constant alarms,
that squeak, and chide, and taunt, and offer nought
but discord and doubt, when thou couldst assure
with but one word of self-love, cheer or praise?

– Anon., At the Sign of The Doubtful Salmon, c.1609

 

 

Tough times throughout at the moment. Some bad vibes on a personal employment level, and the continuing global vibes of impending disaster in every sphere.

Still, another moment to reflect on how much more crushingly disappointing it would all feel if I were still drinking alcohol.

 

Holding the manager’s gaze with a serious expression, he placed a forefinger between his lips and began to wobble it up and down while emitting a low tone.

Exit interview strategy #23

Further to the recent Sugar Mountain post, and feeling bloatier than Bloaty McBloatface, I decided to take evasive action and not have any sugar today. I think I even managed to not have any fruit.

The whole of my lower intestines are gurgling like some entity in a Stephen King story.

Oh yes. Heheheheheh. Bloat.

Bloop Blup

Still heeeere, Bloaty boy. You NEED something sugary.

Blupupupppppup

There’s no avoiding this, Bloaty boy.

Hey, sweet tooth boy!

Blopppppppp

McBloooaaatfaaaaaace!

You’re going to feel reeeeeaaaaaal sorry when you don’t get some more of that sucrose slurped down. Yes sir.

Srowwwllllllllllllllllllllll brip

Hey! Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyy! Bloat.

heh

 

And so forth. All talk. I’ve stopped listening. It’ll be tapping on the window later on. Same routine, slightly muted, through the glass.

stilllheerrrrrrrowwwlllllll

 

 

Anniversaries are curious things. Dates on the calendar, both of which are also curious things if you start to consider them too closely.

Why we choose to honour such occasions likely speaks to some human desire or other – I’m not considering it too closely. Marking off the days for something to do, at the least.

The technical ‘date something happened in a particular year previously’ meaning of ‘anniversary’ ignores the rich world of short-term commemoration, the acknowledgment required for events that are under one year but worthy of celebrating.

Kids go from weeks to months to years seemingly in the blink of an eye, if quite a wearied blinking for some considerable time. “It’ll be over before you know it!” Wearied blinking eye rolling.

And of course there’s the fresh-hearted whimsy of school students enjoying their two week, or one month, or three month milestones with significant others.

“Three weeks – that’s Mud.” “Six weeks – er, Cola Bottles…?”

Anyway, today marks the auspicious event of seven days going by since beginning this exploration of a post-booze habit process.

Pebbles?

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