Silver Lining

Mum said this weekend that one of the things she admires about me (I didn't ask, honest!) is that I never whinge.  Which just goes to prove my theory that she never listens to me!  But hey, thank goodness for a little deafness, eh?

We went to see Merry Wives the Musical yesterday.  Fabulous.  I gather it's had some hideous reviews and it's not *exactly* orthodox; but it was funny, and entertaining, and pacey.  And Dame Judi Dench!! 

And we booked a holiday.  The kind where you pack up a carful of stuff and drive for hours and hours, and actually go away.  Far away.  I'd almost begun to forget such excitement was possible!  Turns out, not only is it possible, but we're doing it!  For half term, natch, since I am not quite a scummy enough parent to take the children out of school.  And we will see wild horses, and cattle grazing on the moor, and fishing lakes, and King Arthur's castle.  And we are excited.  Oh yes.

I have finally, finally stopped spreading topsoil; another tonne today.  With a cunningly found railway sleeper acting as a retaining edge on the downhill side.  And *that* took a lot less manouevring than the man who drove the crane which delivered it thought it would, I can tell you.  (But I rather suspected it might, when he told me I was a 'strong little thing' because I lifted a pallet!)  So I've planted my choisya, my wigelia, and my something shrubby beginning with P whose name I can never remember; all of which have been thriving in pots sinced I unearthed them from the Manchester garden a year and a half ago.  I have planted and raked and mulched, and it looks ace. 

So next weekend I shall be going to a garden centre.  Which is exciting, too.  Not as exciting as a holiday, on the moor, with wild ponies.  But exciting, even so...

Make your own entertainment.

I've been poorly the last few days.  In bed poorly.  Poorly, sorely kidneys.  Ouch.

Which was jolly boring, so I called for my sketchbook and pencils.

 

Meet my teddy bear.  He's soft and stupid.  (and yellow).

   DBO gave him to me, early last year.

 

 

This is Dan, reading.  I like doodling in biro.  I'm not claiming to be good at it; I just *like* it!

 

And this is my eye.  You have no idea how bored you have to be to draw your own eye.

This afternoon, when I should have been loading fence posts into my car to take them to the tip, I found myself instead sitting in the garden, in the rain, drawing the dog.

Perhaps this will be the year I rediscover my drawing; god knows on the evidence of these, I could use the practice!

A little while ago, a particularly cheerful reader posted a photo of herself in a pink wig*.  Which set the old wheels a-turning.  It's been a while since I had new hair. 

In the last 3 weeks I have written a book.  Again.  It's full of compiled statistics about the current academic year at our university.  It's just gone off to the printer, to be printed for the senior management committees. It will be on general release in mid-December.  It's about 400-odd pages long, and full of excel spreadsheets and fascinating insights into staff, students and research income.

To celebrate its successful submission to the printer, I have celebrated.  Unfortunately I have, as ever, forgotten the 'before' element... so here's an old 'before' from when I went blonde:

And here is the after:

The curl is my own; the colour (I hate to shock you) probably isn't.  You can't really see that it's very assymetrical.  Even though it wasn't done by Steve Strange, it's long on one side and short on t'other.  I quite like it, I have to say...

*I'm not deterred by the fact she titles it 'Reasons to Feel Foolish'; I'm sure she *wanted* you to go and see it, really!

I have felt for some time as though I am a performer.  I'm in a big venue, smart.  Tickets were very expensive, and the sizeable auditorium is full.  Very full.  The audience are looking to me for significant entertainment.  They are dressed in their best clothes, have eaten fine food, and are filled with expectation.  The auditorium lights are dimmed; the spotlights are shining in my eyes.  I can taste the anticipation in the air.  All eyes, all lights, all attention is on me.

I am performing a plate-spinning trick.  I have a series of sticks stretching up, up and beyond the lights.  I keep all the sticks turning.  The audience gasps in amazement as I run up and down the line of sticks, tending to them frantically, spinning them madly, adding first one at one end, and then another at the other.  My line of sticks becomes longer and longer, spinning more and more frantically.  The central sticks wobble and teeter.  The audience is leaning forward in its seat, as a single body.

I, alone, know that there are no plates.  There are only sticks, extending up, up, out of the spotlight.  I run frantically, ever more manically, up and down my line of sticks, hoping against hope that my industry will distract the audience's eye.  There is menace in their expectation.  Soon, one of them - all of them - will notice that there are no plates atop my sticks.  They will bay in dismay, demanding a refund, decrying me for the fraud I am.  I run, to keep the baying at bay.  Up and down, up and down my sticks.

This is my professional life.

I have a sinking feeling that I'm not alone.  That there are several of us, tending our sticks, perpetrating our fraud, dodging the baying of the audience.

Being naturally pasty, I have been experimenting with fake tan and baring my legs - a daring strategy.

I have received many lovely comments about my skirts.