Blog BQ is a go. 18 July in Wimbledon. There is a page on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=103315266206. Voxen neighbours welcome as are kids and neighbours. It will exciting to put some faces to names.
Have blogged: http://moobz.com/?p=250
P has given the go ahead for a Blog BQ! Dates to avoid in June and July please.
For this disrespect Harry Hill must die:
Sometimes I wake, open one eye, take a look at London and wonder at how the old thing has let herself go. When we first met she was all glamour. In those first days together she was exciting; she was all energy and sparkle. Then I found her quiet places and learned a little of her history - the time before we met. There was, I thought, a sadness she was trying to outrun.
I suppose we got used to one another and I stopped seeing her except to register, subliminally, that the hot-pants and party frocks had become slouch-pants and work-wear.
Then tonight, coming out of a restaurant on the south bank at sunset, I saw the light on the river and the primary coloured kayaks working their way up stream. The last rays shone on the white stone of the great bridge and the shadows lengthened in the moat around the Tower. With a drink inside me I saw her again as she had been - a beautiful and complex creature that I had been under-estimating.
PeterJ is entirely awesome and talented. He also rides his bicycle safely. He is responsible for my dashing new look: Moobz
I set off along the Embankment at dust. The gaslight in the Temple and the white snow on the black railings made the world seem a poetic place.
"Hmm" I thought, there's a blog to be written here and started musing, one gloved hand gently stroking my chin, the other held aloft as tribute to the Muse - acting as an inspiration receiver.
THUD. A ball of ice lightly dusted in snow hit the ground in front of me. It was a drive-by near miss. A particular sub-culture of lairy students and former school bullies doing shit-stacking jobs for minimum wage (I think they are known, formally, as Generation Y but I prefer to think of them as "the ***nts") have recently taken to wringing a thrill from the grey by driving past people and throwing things at them.
They spot a likely candidate, pick up a little speed, dare each other like 5 year olds and then throw something at their victim's beany-hatted head before, convulsed with laughter, the driver loses control and powers their crappy hatchback into the back of a petrol tanker. There is just a chance to see them flail their broken arms at the door latches before they erupt in an explosion that shatters windows as far south as Dover.
You see the problem. A minor infringement of my dignity and instead of thinking "Oo those scamps" my mind is foaming with extravagant and fantastical revenges that leave eyeballs and viscera scattered around like a toddler's toys. I become, in an instant, a Hollywood serial killer.
"I'll show them" I think. There are a number of problems with this. First, I have no idea who they are. Secondly, my chances of out-running their vehicle are slim. Thirdly, if I did catch them what exactly is it my sub-conscious is proposing that I should show them? I certainly wouldn't have anything to hand likely to induce terror or respect if waved at them.
It amazes me that however much I bathe my soul in a balm of Chopin, Mommy-blogs and Woody Allen movies, those little ***ts can turn me into a caveman in an instant. Albeit a podgy caveman with glasses and a dodgy knee.
I set off along the Embankment at dust. The gaslight in the Temple and the white snow on the black railings made the world seem a poetic place.
"Hmm" I thought, there's a blog to be written here and started musing, one gloved hand gently stroking my chin, the other held aloft as tribute to the Muse - acting as an inspiration receiver.
THUD. A ball of ice lightly dusted in snow hit the ground in front of me. It was a drive-by near miss. A particular sub-culture of lairy students and former school bullies doing shit-stacking jobs for minimum wage (I think they are known, formally, as Generation Y but I prefer to think of them as "the ***nts") have recently taken to wringing a thrill from the grey by driving past people and throwing things at them.
They spot a likely candidate, pick up a little speed, dare each other like 5 year olds and then throw something at their victim's beany-hatted head before, convulsed with laughter, the driver loses control and powers their crappy hatchback into the back of a petrol tanker. There is just a chance to see them flail their broken arms at the door latches before they erupt in an explosion that shatters windows as far south as Dover.
You see the problem. A minor infringement of my dignity and instead of thinking "Oo those scamps" my mind is foaming with extravagant and fantastical revenges that leave eyeballs and viscera scattered around like a toddler's toys. I become, in an instant, a Hollywood serial killer.
"I'll show them" I think. There are a number of problems with this. First, I have no idea who they are. Secondly, my chances of out-running their vehicle are slim. Thirdly, if I did catch them what exactly is it my sub-conscious is proposing that I should show them? I certainly wouldn't have anything to hand likely to induce terror or respect if waved at them.
It amazes me that however much I bathe my soul in a balm of Chopin, Mommy-blogs and Woody Allen movies, those little ***ts can turn me into a caveman in an instant. Albeit a podgy caveman with glasses and a dodgy knee.
