Next week, things could all get a little crazy. That's the suspicion being harboured as term time looms, and the realities of being registered with three different supply agencies become closer to being fulfilled. Good grief, there's grand potential for chaos in such choices! Let's hope it doesn't all explode into a fiery massive disaster. It can't be that difficult to be a teaching assistant, surely?
Casting about for a profession is a chancy business. You can book TEFL courses, apply for teaching fellowships, sign up as supply teaching assistants, copyedit textbooks and try to drum up business as a tutor but if none of them work out you do tend to have a problem, one not easily ameliorated by anything short of a miracle. What do you do? Go to sleep and try not to think about if for a while? Put up some shelves? Practice your juggling?
Let's think about weather instead: It's a heat wave here in Carmarthenshire, still, and the peril of being pale is taking its toll. After months of being able to go out and take the constitutional midday walks that prevent a total nervous explosion, it has all become rather difficult, but evening walks do become the order of the season. Oh, to not be so pale but constantly flushed would be a lovely thing. Also, to not be a compulsive buyer of DVDs and books would be nice too, but let's not ask for miracles twice in one paragraph. It might upset the karmic wagon.
'Karmic wagon'? Karma is a fascinating thing, that idea that your actions can directly influence your own future in a metaphysical manner. It's a keystone of many Asian religion and systems of thought, intertwining with reincarnation quite elaborately in places. The God-less systems of thought and belief have been interesting for a long time, involving as they do meditation and self-exploration and sitting between faiths and psychology much like a keystone. This will all require some more writing, should I become more knowledgeable on the subject. I tried to meditate a few times, but the heart beat was so loud that it kept throwing things off...
One can only hope that if karma is real then things can only improve. That's a nice thought. Nobody will ever find out about two lives ago and the hijacking of that zeppelin to take a leisure trip to Bognor. How could they?
O.
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
Story: Oneiromancy, XIX
(Part O , XVIII , XX)
Sleep. The soporific haven for billions of people all over the world, a refuge from all the troubles of life. A potential battleground if you're the only two active Dreamwalkers in the world, and you've caught the attention of the Tweedy Lady currently stalking that abstracted place and trapping all the flies that wander intrusively into her spider's web.
Stanley and Helen hovered, holding hands, staring out into the broad swathes of colour that swirled all around them. Their long experiences together had bonded them even before the eerie attractive powers of her eyes and his sheepish disposition began to work on them. For the first time, and with surprisingly little training, they stood with some awareness in the Dreamline.
"If the professor is right, and who knows if he's even marginally sane before we even get to 'right', this should be a medium that sees all kinds of scattered fragments of dreams, unconscious chatter, and stray information popping back and forth like flotsam in unpredictable tides. There should be things happening all around us." Helen spoke fairly calmly, even while being momentarily swamped in green swirls.
When the swirls passed they were standing on a paved purple lane that cut through the abstractions all around them, a new gravity acting to keep them on the path.
"Perhaps there are. No-one said we would be able to understand it. It's just like standing in a river, except instead of water we have all these swirls and colours. And textures. Ouch!" He waved a hand in pain. A bunch of the abstractions darted at his hand again, but he and Helen backed off down the road a ways and the swirls hovered there confusedly.
"That could be her", Helen observed, "in her natural state in this place." The swirls began to move toward them down the lane, colours shifting furiously.
"If it's not her, than what is it? There's not supposed to be anything here. Whether it was truthful or not, she said she eliminated everything else. I'll try something." Stanley closed his eyes for a moment, the dream version of his eyes, and a shimmering translucent dome appeared over them before winking back out of existence.
Helen screamed as the swirls began plucking at her. Stanley pulled her further down the lane, the swirls never overtaking them, but neither falling far behind. Stanley's mind jumped to a nasty suspicion as something began to loom out of the colours. Gravity and a path, a purple path at that, and a persistent but not merciless predator. "We're being herded."
"What?" Helen gasped.
The structure was becoming clearer now, a solid silver prison, complete with platinum bars. She stopped. Stanley stumbled to a halt too, and then looked at her boldly."It's either the cell or we try sky diving. What do you think?"
She squeezed his hand as the storm of colours approached. "If we weren't already asleep this would be terrifying. One..."
"You're not wrong. Two..."
"You shouldn't hunch so much. Three..."
"It's part of the teacher training. Jump!"
Stanley Simonson and Helen Ostrander jumped off the purple lane, and plummeted, while the swirls contracted into an angry ball increasingly high above them and seethed.
To be continued...
Sleep. The soporific haven for billions of people all over the world, a refuge from all the troubles of life. A potential battleground if you're the only two active Dreamwalkers in the world, and you've caught the attention of the Tweedy Lady currently stalking that abstracted place and trapping all the flies that wander intrusively into her spider's web.
Stanley and Helen hovered, holding hands, staring out into the broad swathes of colour that swirled all around them. Their long experiences together had bonded them even before the eerie attractive powers of her eyes and his sheepish disposition began to work on them. For the first time, and with surprisingly little training, they stood with some awareness in the Dreamline.
"If the professor is right, and who knows if he's even marginally sane before we even get to 'right', this should be a medium that sees all kinds of scattered fragments of dreams, unconscious chatter, and stray information popping back and forth like flotsam in unpredictable tides. There should be things happening all around us." Helen spoke fairly calmly, even while being momentarily swamped in green swirls.
When the swirls passed they were standing on a paved purple lane that cut through the abstractions all around them, a new gravity acting to keep them on the path.
"Perhaps there are. No-one said we would be able to understand it. It's just like standing in a river, except instead of water we have all these swirls and colours. And textures. Ouch!" He waved a hand in pain. A bunch of the abstractions darted at his hand again, but he and Helen backed off down the road a ways and the swirls hovered there confusedly.
"That could be her", Helen observed, "in her natural state in this place." The swirls began to move toward them down the lane, colours shifting furiously.
"If it's not her, than what is it? There's not supposed to be anything here. Whether it was truthful or not, she said she eliminated everything else. I'll try something." Stanley closed his eyes for a moment, the dream version of his eyes, and a shimmering translucent dome appeared over them before winking back out of existence.
Helen screamed as the swirls began plucking at her. Stanley pulled her further down the lane, the swirls never overtaking them, but neither falling far behind. Stanley's mind jumped to a nasty suspicion as something began to loom out of the colours. Gravity and a path, a purple path at that, and a persistent but not merciless predator. "We're being herded."
"What?" Helen gasped.
The structure was becoming clearer now, a solid silver prison, complete with platinum bars. She stopped. Stanley stumbled to a halt too, and then looked at her boldly."It's either the cell or we try sky diving. What do you think?"
She squeezed his hand as the storm of colours approached. "If we weren't already asleep this would be terrifying. One..."
"You're not wrong. Two..."
"You shouldn't hunch so much. Three..."
"It's part of the teacher training. Jump!"
Stanley Simonson and Helen Ostrander jumped off the purple lane, and plummeted, while the swirls contracted into an angry ball increasingly high above them and seethed.
To be continued...
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Piles and Piles...
On my computer there are dozens of unfinished stories from back when I was doing my HND, which incidentally was remarkably easy. They just sit there, lurking and muttering and waiting to be completed. Why do they remain unfinished? It's a tricky question, especially when there's no lack of opportunity. Some people are just afraid of finishing things, of succeeding or not, of making the last few steps across the finishing line. IT's crippling, paralysing and demoralising. Also, a lot of those stories were begun by a much happier and crazier person, so finishing them requires a mass of revisions both written and personal before new content even hits the page. However, with Quirky Muffin 500 approaching, maybe it's time to dust off another one and finish it, just as occurred with 'Clomp Squared'. Oh, 'Clomp Squared', you will eventually have a lot to answer for...
Piles and piles of unfinished stories, a fear of finishing, a fear of having become less crazy, and a habit for procrastination. It's hardly a recipe for success, especially when you add consistent interview failures and a dodgy spell of lecturing into recent work history. Plainly, any sensible person would go hide in a hole and become spelean, not book a TEFL course and try to build his way out with only misguided optimism and a radical plan to make 'Secret Of Monkey Island' jokes at every opportunity. Yes, you too can call me Bobbin Threadbare!
spelean: cave-dwelling
Back to stories, maybe it won't just be one that gets finished. Perhaps it's time to really dig into the backlog against the backdrop of supply work after the holidays, and whatever else is in the pipeline. It can be part of Operation Elimination, details of which will remain undisclosed until the last Quirky Muffin reader is carted off to a funny farm and the blog is converted into an encyclopedic webpage for all you want to know about white sand. Is that obscure enough? No? Mutter mutter. People are hard to please. I would call them 'children's stories', but we're really talking about tales that go here, there and everywhere, and fit in no box whatsoever.
What kind of different life must all you people out there who like finishing things lead? Is it fun? Are you still terrified of success, with all the changes and responsibilities that it entails, or is that all part of the fun? Oh, humans! We're an intractably confusing bunch, aren't we? Enough of all this mock introspection and pretend contemplation of the weirdness of the species, for it is time to get back to text polishing and passive absorption of 'The Mentalist' and 'The Six Million Dollar Man'. Ah, classic shows...
O.
Piles and piles of unfinished stories, a fear of finishing, a fear of having become less crazy, and a habit for procrastination. It's hardly a recipe for success, especially when you add consistent interview failures and a dodgy spell of lecturing into recent work history. Plainly, any sensible person would go hide in a hole and become spelean, not book a TEFL course and try to build his way out with only misguided optimism and a radical plan to make 'Secret Of Monkey Island' jokes at every opportunity. Yes, you too can call me Bobbin Threadbare!
spelean: cave-dwelling
Back to stories, maybe it won't just be one that gets finished. Perhaps it's time to really dig into the backlog against the backdrop of supply work after the holidays, and whatever else is in the pipeline. It can be part of Operation Elimination, details of which will remain undisclosed until the last Quirky Muffin reader is carted off to a funny farm and the blog is converted into an encyclopedic webpage for all you want to know about white sand. Is that obscure enough? No? Mutter mutter. People are hard to please. I would call them 'children's stories', but we're really talking about tales that go here, there and everywhere, and fit in no box whatsoever.
What kind of different life must all you people out there who like finishing things lead? Is it fun? Are you still terrified of success, with all the changes and responsibilities that it entails, or is that all part of the fun? Oh, humans! We're an intractably confusing bunch, aren't we? Enough of all this mock introspection and pretend contemplation of the weirdness of the species, for it is time to get back to text polishing and passive absorption of 'The Mentalist' and 'The Six Million Dollar Man'. Ah, classic shows...
O.
Friday, 3 April 2015
Film: 'The African Queen' (1951)
A fascinating movie, adapted from the CS Forester novel, directed by John Huston, and featuring Huston's poster boy Humphrey Bogart as well as my favourite Katherine Hepburn. A lunatic endeavour filmed partly in Africa on a real river, and mainly as a two-hander between two screen icons: What could possibly go wrong? We'll never know, as it actually worked, and the unlikely combination of Bogart of Hepburn is as much responsible as anything else. However, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
In 'The African Queen', a missionary and his spinster (oh, how I loathe that term) sister are tending to their flock in African jungle, when World War I breaks out, and the Germans promptly abduct the native villagers, burn everything to the ground, and indirectly kill the missionary with a broken heart. The sister, Rosie Sayer, is then forced to flee with the river traveller Charlie Allnut on his steam launch the African Queen, who had been supplying their mail and supplies from a nearby town. What follows is then an extremely touching romance, and ultimately silly attempt to torpedo a German boat commanding a lake down the river and then escape to freedom. Ultimately, the trappings are unimportant, as it's all really about the unlikely love pairing of Bogie and Hepburn, two of the wildest legends to ever grace the big screen.
If you ever need to sell Bogart as an actor who could play more than gangsters, then you need to show 'The African Queen', and if you ever need to explain how an actress can remain vivid and alive despite the passage of time then again show this film. The rule also applies if you ever want to show someone how a simple film which never tries to do more than one thing at a time still manages to be compelling, and how a love story will always win out when given a chance by quality storytellers and performers. It also wins the Quirky Muffin award for not employing snakes on screen at any point in the proceedings, a great advantage for future rewatches, and presumably a hard temptation to resist in a film which features an awful lot of jungle.
In many ways it's difficult to write about 'The African Queen', as it's a tour-de-force for Bogart and Hepburn, both playing increasingly against type as the narrative progresses. It's even more impressive when you realise that Hepburn was almost constantly sick during the location work, as were most of the crew. Bogart escaped via whiskey, apparently, which I rather wish I didn't know. Strangely, there's not much music in the film, or at least there appears to not be, but it is there lurking fittingly and unobtrusively.
'The African Queen' was far better than I expected it to be, and in a reconfirmation of my bias, yet another example of Hepburn being The Woman on screen. There never will be an actress so vividly alive, wild, and full of classy fire in a film. She would have been a great Irene Adler in some never-made adaptation of 'A Scandal In Bohemia', but for which Sherlock?
O.
In 'The African Queen', a missionary and his spinster (oh, how I loathe that term) sister are tending to their flock in African jungle, when World War I breaks out, and the Germans promptly abduct the native villagers, burn everything to the ground, and indirectly kill the missionary with a broken heart. The sister, Rosie Sayer, is then forced to flee with the river traveller Charlie Allnut on his steam launch the African Queen, who had been supplying their mail and supplies from a nearby town. What follows is then an extremely touching romance, and ultimately silly attempt to torpedo a German boat commanding a lake down the river and then escape to freedom. Ultimately, the trappings are unimportant, as it's all really about the unlikely love pairing of Bogie and Hepburn, two of the wildest legends to ever grace the big screen.
If you ever need to sell Bogart as an actor who could play more than gangsters, then you need to show 'The African Queen', and if you ever need to explain how an actress can remain vivid and alive despite the passage of time then again show this film. The rule also applies if you ever want to show someone how a simple film which never tries to do more than one thing at a time still manages to be compelling, and how a love story will always win out when given a chance by quality storytellers and performers. It also wins the Quirky Muffin award for not employing snakes on screen at any point in the proceedings, a great advantage for future rewatches, and presumably a hard temptation to resist in a film which features an awful lot of jungle.
In many ways it's difficult to write about 'The African Queen', as it's a tour-de-force for Bogart and Hepburn, both playing increasingly against type as the narrative progresses. It's even more impressive when you realise that Hepburn was almost constantly sick during the location work, as were most of the crew. Bogart escaped via whiskey, apparently, which I rather wish I didn't know. Strangely, there's not much music in the film, or at least there appears to not be, but it is there lurking fittingly and unobtrusively.
'The African Queen' was far better than I expected it to be, and in a reconfirmation of my bias, yet another example of Hepburn being The Woman on screen. There never will be an actress so vividly alive, wild, and full of classy fire in a film. She would have been a great Irene Adler in some never-made adaptation of 'A Scandal In Bohemia', but for which Sherlock?
O.
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
Beware the April Fool
Higgledy piggledy. Pudding and pie. Throw the feathers, and then let them fly. There is absolutely no obligation to make sense on April Fool's Day, even if the magical midday hour has long passed us by. Look behind you! It's a three headed mime! Yikes!
A three headed mime? Is there anything scarier sounding than that? Even now the shudders are terrifying... Well, they're not really, but it's better than talking about politics. The first of the propaganda fliers came slurping through the door yesterday, so it must actually be election season after all, and we are all doomed to a few weeks of electioneering. Other countries would laugh at that sentence, though, especially the USA, where only a couple of months seem to go by between presidential election cycles or House elections and campaigns last for years on end! Elections are much more sedate here, but still fundamentally messed up by people blindly voting traditionally instead of on their candidates. As a result, who knows what will happen?! It's not my intention to talk about politics much on the Quirky Muffin, being both independent and mildly bored by the whole process, but my vote will be exercised scrupulously and hopefully so will many other people's. It's good to vote, readers, and good to vote responsibly. Even as the world spins eccentrically, it's a good idea to use what power we have wisely.
Away from politics, and trying to not think about unemployment too much, what else to write about? TEFL job opportunities and courses? The world of 'Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)'? 'The African Queen'? 'The African Queen' will actually be revisited next time, after having seen it for the first time today, and realising once again just how much of an icon of cinema Katherine Hepburn was, a status which has never really been in doubt for her co-star Humphrey Bogart. However, more of that next time.
After wavering over stories for a while, it will now be 'Oneiromancy' all the way until its conclusion, which is now definitely set up. It will all flow much better in the compiled story, surely, losing a lot of the mid-story stalling and probably adding a lot more jokes. It's not a good story without added jokes, as any Jasper Fforde read will tell you gleefully.
Well, this has been a hodge podge of miscellaneously bagged together items. Sometimes that has to happen... Consider it an update as number five hundred approaches.
O.
A three headed mime? Is there anything scarier sounding than that? Even now the shudders are terrifying... Well, they're not really, but it's better than talking about politics. The first of the propaganda fliers came slurping through the door yesterday, so it must actually be election season after all, and we are all doomed to a few weeks of electioneering. Other countries would laugh at that sentence, though, especially the USA, where only a couple of months seem to go by between presidential election cycles or House elections and campaigns last for years on end! Elections are much more sedate here, but still fundamentally messed up by people blindly voting traditionally instead of on their candidates. As a result, who knows what will happen?! It's not my intention to talk about politics much on the Quirky Muffin, being both independent and mildly bored by the whole process, but my vote will be exercised scrupulously and hopefully so will many other people's. It's good to vote, readers, and good to vote responsibly. Even as the world spins eccentrically, it's a good idea to use what power we have wisely.
Away from politics, and trying to not think about unemployment too much, what else to write about? TEFL job opportunities and courses? The world of 'Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)'? 'The African Queen'? 'The African Queen' will actually be revisited next time, after having seen it for the first time today, and realising once again just how much of an icon of cinema Katherine Hepburn was, a status which has never really been in doubt for her co-star Humphrey Bogart. However, more of that next time.
After wavering over stories for a while, it will now be 'Oneiromancy' all the way until its conclusion, which is now definitely set up. It will all flow much better in the compiled story, surely, losing a lot of the mid-story stalling and probably adding a lot more jokes. It's not a good story without added jokes, as any Jasper Fforde read will tell you gleefully.
Well, this has been a hodge podge of miscellaneously bagged together items. Sometimes that has to happen... Consider it an update as number five hundred approaches.
O.
Monday, 30 March 2015
Story: Oneiromancy, XVIII
(Part O , XVII , XIX)
"We have achieved some success, which is gratifying, not only because of my obvious genius but also thanks to your undoubted perseverance and powers of self-control. Let us assume for the moment that you are genuine examples of riders on the Dreamline, as Kibbel assures me, and not dilettante wackos or malicious fruitcakes. In that case, what would we do next?
A long time ago, before the wind down of Dreamline Alpha and the retirement of our research groups, we postulated many theories about why communication up and down the Line had ceased. The obvious answer was that the Line had been cut, just like telegraph poles in the old days, but how it had been cut? How?! Apparently, we now have a vital clue as to what happened.
I have Kibbel's notes of your previous dreams, and the notes I took from this last set. The 'Tweedy Woman', as you call her, is persistent and therefore either the cause of the cut in the Line or a symptom of said cause. In either case, her intentions are malign by manifest action. Even as I speak at length in this pompous style, I see your eyes glaze over a little, just as my students used to back in Greenwich. I shall do now as I did then."
Several kiwi fruits were thrown with great precision, and then Professor Goosing settled back into his monologue.
"Ah, yes, the nature of this woman seems malign indeed. How she remains within the Dreamline is the question that must be addressed, as is how we remove the problem, and by so doing guarantee your safety and sanity in the longer term. I have no wish or desire to be stuck with a pair of mental vegetables on my conscience.
So far, with the help of some fairly simple conditioning and meditative techniques we have managed to give you some small control while you are in the arms of Morpheus. Our contacts in high places have secured you both recrimination free leaves of absence from your places of work and cover for your bills. What we must do now is turn the tables on this interloper into the Dreamline, and to do that you must be... educated."
"What do you think we are now? Potted salmon?" interjected Stanley.
"A charming metaphor, but please be quiet for a few moments more. Here, at the outset of Dreamline Omega, we must be very careful and set things out with precision and without abandon. It must all be 'just so'. In order for you to stand a chance in this unprecedented life on the unconscious plane, you must be trained for more than just a few hours, and you must know more psychology than was picked up in an undergraduate degree or as a teacher in the schoolroom.
It is time to begin anew!"
Edouard Goosing was unprepared for the peach that splatted into his forehead, also with great precision.
"Barbarians!"
There shall be more...
"We have achieved some success, which is gratifying, not only because of my obvious genius but also thanks to your undoubted perseverance and powers of self-control. Let us assume for the moment that you are genuine examples of riders on the Dreamline, as Kibbel assures me, and not dilettante wackos or malicious fruitcakes. In that case, what would we do next?
A long time ago, before the wind down of Dreamline Alpha and the retirement of our research groups, we postulated many theories about why communication up and down the Line had ceased. The obvious answer was that the Line had been cut, just like telegraph poles in the old days, but how it had been cut? How?! Apparently, we now have a vital clue as to what happened.
I have Kibbel's notes of your previous dreams, and the notes I took from this last set. The 'Tweedy Woman', as you call her, is persistent and therefore either the cause of the cut in the Line or a symptom of said cause. In either case, her intentions are malign by manifest action. Even as I speak at length in this pompous style, I see your eyes glaze over a little, just as my students used to back in Greenwich. I shall do now as I did then."
Several kiwi fruits were thrown with great precision, and then Professor Goosing settled back into his monologue.
"Ah, yes, the nature of this woman seems malign indeed. How she remains within the Dreamline is the question that must be addressed, as is how we remove the problem, and by so doing guarantee your safety and sanity in the longer term. I have no wish or desire to be stuck with a pair of mental vegetables on my conscience.
So far, with the help of some fairly simple conditioning and meditative techniques we have managed to give you some small control while you are in the arms of Morpheus. Our contacts in high places have secured you both recrimination free leaves of absence from your places of work and cover for your bills. What we must do now is turn the tables on this interloper into the Dreamline, and to do that you must be... educated."
"What do you think we are now? Potted salmon?" interjected Stanley.
"A charming metaphor, but please be quiet for a few moments more. Here, at the outset of Dreamline Omega, we must be very careful and set things out with precision and without abandon. It must all be 'just so'. In order for you to stand a chance in this unprecedented life on the unconscious plane, you must be trained for more than just a few hours, and you must know more psychology than was picked up in an undergraduate degree or as a teacher in the schoolroom.
It is time to begin anew!"
Edouard Goosing was unprepared for the peach that splatted into his forehead, also with great precision.
"Barbarians!"
There shall be more...
Sunday, 29 March 2015
A Ramble Down Obscure Roads
This could easily go wrong. I'm warning you that right now. Prepare the dust sheets of doom, and the rusty pickup truck of escape, for it might be a rough ramble ahead. It's inevitable that after a church wedding, a principled agnostic can get a bit disturbed, even as happily watching the married couple be united in blissful matrimony. A large part of it has to be that when you actually look at the words to a lot of hymns they're actually rather upsetting and disturbing, stacked with all sorts of implications and direct statements on the subservience of man and dominance of the theoretical deity in question. It can actually be a a very creepy relationship between deity and worshipper when things are taken too literally, and when thought about in depth. Let us, however, get away from ungraciously critiquing such things. There are plusses and minusses.
London makes so much more sense when you walk it. A foolish novelty plan to navigate the metropolis on foot has actually made the city a cohesive geographical entity, and not just a random assortment of spots linked by tube trains and busses. How many of those previous trips could have been so much less stressed? How many side jaunts to the Orcs Nest (excellent board game shop) could have been accomplished by pavement pounding instead of riding the underground metal death tubes? How much longer would it have all taken? Would a personal zeppelin have made it easier still? Now, there's an idea to bring into fashion: The personal zeppelin. How groovy. Might need a crest for it though, which will need some work.
Obviously, thanks to the grand traditions of the Quirky Muffin, today can not pass us by without at least a token mention of the accursed Daylight Savings Time, even now beleaguering people all over the country for the first time since October! Curses on you, British Summer Time, coming in and confusing my biological clock for the next seven months. Even now the brain of the Muffin is worrying at keeping two parallel times in mind, as it does involuntarily over the summer, until the last two weeks, when suddenly it will seem entirely natural just in time to change back. It's a cruel twist of seasonal depression that half of the happy period when the daylights hours are growing is hexed by Daylight Savings Time.
Is that enough? Have we rambled enough? Should there be a side jaunt into the world of SJ Perelman, hilarious if misogynistic humourist extraordinaire? Perhaps a perambulation to the wonders of the first season of 'Community'? No, another day would be better.
O.
London makes so much more sense when you walk it. A foolish novelty plan to navigate the metropolis on foot has actually made the city a cohesive geographical entity, and not just a random assortment of spots linked by tube trains and busses. How many of those previous trips could have been so much less stressed? How many side jaunts to the Orcs Nest (excellent board game shop) could have been accomplished by pavement pounding instead of riding the underground metal death tubes? How much longer would it have all taken? Would a personal zeppelin have made it easier still? Now, there's an idea to bring into fashion: The personal zeppelin. How groovy. Might need a crest for it though, which will need some work.
Obviously, thanks to the grand traditions of the Quirky Muffin, today can not pass us by without at least a token mention of the accursed Daylight Savings Time, even now beleaguering people all over the country for the first time since October! Curses on you, British Summer Time, coming in and confusing my biological clock for the next seven months. Even now the brain of the Muffin is worrying at keeping two parallel times in mind, as it does involuntarily over the summer, until the last two weeks, when suddenly it will seem entirely natural just in time to change back. It's a cruel twist of seasonal depression that half of the happy period when the daylights hours are growing is hexed by Daylight Savings Time.
Is that enough? Have we rambled enough? Should there be a side jaunt into the world of SJ Perelman, hilarious if misogynistic humourist extraordinaire? Perhaps a perambulation to the wonders of the first season of 'Community'? No, another day would be better.
O.
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