The poor old Wedding-Guest is still trapped
. . . Continued as threatened from last night, somewhat revised and longer FAQ answer to, Do you have any hobbies? Hope you all out there are still breathing. . . .
. . . I could drone on for a very long time indeed about bell ringing–and regularly do on the blog. That I got started on it at all was another accident. (Yes, many of the important decisions in my life have been made by accident.) A lot of years ago Peter and I went to visit a garden in a neighbouring village on its open day. When we got there it turned out that it was not a garden but fourteen local gardens and a change ringing demonstration at the local church. I’d read Dorothy Sayers’ The Nine Tailors at an impressionable age so I had been primed way back in the days when I was a mere tourist over here to love change-ringing at first listen. That first listen had serendipitously happened when I still was a tourist, and I remember stopping dead to listen, because in the first few moments I had no idea what I was hearing. Change-ringing is a shouting, jubilant, waterfally sort of noise (at least when the ringers know what they’re about; if they don’t, it can be really awful, especially if you live near the church), like nothing else, and perhaps somewhat prone to provoking coup de foudre responses in besotted foreigners.
So I had to go to this demo because while I’d heard plenty of change ringing by then — this area of southern England is thick with bell towers — I’d never been up into a change-ringing belfry. I have the usual human craving to enter forbidden territory, and the stairs or ladders that lead to bell towers are deeply intriguing. You expect Merlin (or Nimue) to be lurking on the other side of your average English ringing chamber door. At the top of this particular ladder there were a group of (anticlimactically ordinary-looking) people standing in a circle pulling on these heavy ropes, each rope curiously adorned with a fuzzy striped hand grip, which are a bit dizzying to watch as the ropes bob up and down as the ringers pull and the bells go ‘bong’. There was a poster on the wall saying ‘we can always use ringers’. And I went away with my ears still full of the lovely hypnotic noise of change patterns, and thinking ‘hmm’. (It was Peter who finally made the first phone call to discover the bell secretary’s name. He was tired of listening to me wandering around the house going ‘hmm’.)
I loved bell ringing pretty much immediately, as I had immediately loved the sound it made. I loved it for a little over a year, and then the ME closed me down. And I didn’t go back to it even when I was more or less upright and walking again; various life events got in the way, and ME is a terrible party pooper. Once it has your address it never really goes away again. Just when you’re beginning to have a good time, it bangs on the door and says Keep it down in there or I’m calling the cops! And you do because you have to. You may be able to convince the cops you’re a model citizen really; nobody ever got round a bout of ME that way.
But then, as I say, we moved into town, and the bells were right there, and I started again because I couldn’t stay away. One of the additional reasons why I hadn’t been back when we lived in the old house, out of earshot of any bell towers, is because the ME had been eating my brain for an unknown number of months before I collapsed physically, and bell ringing is very hard mental work for anyone who doesn’t easily grasp mathematical patterns which I do not. Ordinary people like me can learn to ring–and many do–but it is harder. And I had crashed and burned at the ‘ringing inside’ barrier. Any change-ringing person with an ordinary, non-mathematical-pattern-oriented brain will laugh hollowly at this remark. Making the leap from being a ‘treble-only’ ringer to ringing ‘inside’ is the single hairiest, deadliest, awfullest thing about learning to ring–in some cases it may be the single greatest intellectual challenge of our entire ordinary LIVES–and it’s true that not everybody makes it successfully. Not, I think, because they can’t, but because it looks way too much like work–which it is–and many people feel they get plenty of that in their daily life, thank you very much. After I started ringing again, and after I caught up to where I’d been when I quit the first time, I wasted a lot of energy agonising over the possibility that I wouldn’t make it this time either. Because it was going to be too hard for me, me with my fairy-tale-telling-shaped brain; no integers, no split-second timing, no sense of rhythm and no physical coordination need apply. But I did get through. I’m not a great ringer–I will never be a great ringer–but I’m not a beginner any more. I ring inside. And that even in spite of occasional malevolent incursions of ME.
Bells are alive. You logic crunchers can sneer all you like, but they are. Our tower’s bells — as I know from ringing elsewhere — are a very nice bunch, good-natured and well-mannered and gorgeous to listen to (if you don’t have too many beginners going ‘clank’). You know where you are with our bells. But they all still have individual personalities, and when you ‘take hold’ you know it. One of the cliches about learning to handle a bell-rope is that it’s like feeling your horse’s mouth with the rein against the bit; and every horse is different. But somehow this is more acceptable in a creature that eats and breathes and runs around than in cast metal that lies veiled in the dark of a belfry. So the stolid may explain it in terms of the fact that bells are individually cast and each one is physically a little different from every other one, even one of precisely the same weight; and it won’t be precisely the same weight anyway after it’s been tuned to its ring (its group of bells) since tuning is done by shaving bits of metal off. A ring is also always a range of sizes; the littlest (called the treble) of our eight bells is about 300 pounds, and the biggest (called the tenor) is about 2000; so you could also say, if you have not a quarter-ounce of romance in your soul, that the varying personalities in a group of bells are just the variation of weight against your hand when you take hold. (There is also the maddening variability of bell ropes.) None of the rest of my band of ringers writes fantasy for a living, so probably none of the rest of them imagine low chiming conversations under the tower roof when there are no humans around; but I would expect them in their heart of hearts not to be surprised if the bells were careless one evening and we heard them.
I used to have this theory that the old guard among bell ringers are self-selected for unnatural patience with the endless tides of hapless beginners; which was going to be very bad news for me since I’m a little patience-challenged generally. I was perhaps being indirectly told I was never going to make it to old guard status. But I have begun to notice, as a member now of what you might call the middle-aged guard, which means I now also ring hours and hours of plain hunt and plain bob doubles for beginners to bounce off of, that you do go into a kind of hypnotic trance . . . which in fact is dangerous, because if you trance out too far you start ringing Grandsire when you should be ringing plain bob, or when the beginner goes wrong you absent-mindedly follow them. But there is a kind of Unnatural Patience substitute for those of us who get far enough to be useful: which is that you’re painfully aware of the hours and hours and hours that other ringers put into you, and so by the time you get to where you can ring for beginners you’re probably pretty well pining to give something back.
And it’s a good thing too, because barring the young and fabulously talented–not all the young are fabulously talented, but most of the fabulously talented are young too, and therefore middle age is another of my excuses–beginning ringers need a lot of time on a rope. Hey, no-longer-beginner ringers need a lot of time on a rope too. Change ringing is fabulously complicated. When you have your first lessons in How Not to Strangle Yourself or Others in Your Bell Rope they don’t waste much time warning you what you’re getting yourself into — a few months later when you are initiated into the mysteries of leading, and shortly thereafter those of ringing treble, which means you are at last approaching the Holy Grail of your first real change pattern, the gates of the Castle of Carbonek will suddenly open and a bright light stream out and ZAP: you are either gloriously transformed into a dedicated ringer (unfortunately this splendid vision doesn’t seem to improve your practical ability any) or you realise that you are out of your mind and you go home and take up knitting. (One of the old guard at my first tower told me his wife picked up change ringing very quickly because she was good at knitting patterns. Maybe I really should take up knitting again. Sigh.)
Oh yes . . . and I also ring handbells. No, no, not tunes. Change patterns. Just like tower bells, only much, much worse, because you have to keep track of two different paths through the patterns because you’re ringing two different bells–one in each hand–and at a speed that makes the one-third of a second you have in the tower to get your (single) ‘dong’ in the right place look leisurely. It’s all very well taking on challenges to broaden your mental horizons, but remember my saying something about not having the right-shaped brain for learning mathematical patterns? My choosing to attempt change ringing on handbells is blunt proof of insanity. I was bleeding brain cells out my ears for months, learning my first pattern. I succeeded, yes. But it’s like those people who do things like cross Mongolia on a pogo stick or go down the Marianas Trench in a diving bell. Maybe they do it, but–why? Well . . . it’s fun, she says in a very small voice.
In an earlier era when I still found time for TV I used to watch Deep Space Nine and Buffy with rapt attention (except when the story line went stupid and then I threw popcorn at the screen and shouted ‘Hire me!’). I no longer seem to find time for anything except the occasional run through of a back issue of Buffy (of course I have them all on DVD). Most of this is because there never are any gaps in the schedule, and on the rare occasions I find myself on the sofa with the TV remote in reach, my hands tend to be magnetically attracted to the nearest book instead. There is also the fact that the new canine generation doesn’t fit on the TV-watching sofa as well as the previous canine generation did. Two hellhounds are approximately equivalent to four whippets, and we only had three. And if I can’t watch TV with dogs I’d rather play the piano. I’d probably rather play the piano anyway. I really liked the new Battlestar Galactica . . . but I kept finding myself playing the piano. With occasional harmony from hellhounds.
I go to the movies occasionally (where I try to restrain myself from shouting and throwing popcorn), and live theatre occasionally (where I behave better because the oppression of ticket prices weighs me down). Although Peter and I share the useful ability of being able to walk out at intermission if we aren’t having a good time, feeling that wasting money on a bad show is not worth compounding by wasting hours out of our lives too. One of our great early bonding experiences was back in Maine when we went to see Thelma and Louise because we were curious about what all the hoopla was about, and walked out in irritable disbelief after the smart one goes off to spend some time with her boyfriend leaving the dumb one behind in the hotel room with the cute hitchhiker and the money. I’ve always hated plots where when you have a hostile alien hiding somewhere on your spaceship which has already proven it’s faster on the draw than you are, you split everybody up and go looking for it, having thoughtfully turned all the lights down really low first.
Generally speaking my attention span is not of the longest for stuff on stage — one of the reasons I am not a Shakespeare fan is because he goes on so — but there is an exception to this rule. Opera. I adore opera, especially the vast wallowy Verdi operas — Verdi would be my desert island composer (and I’ll take his Otello to Shakespeare’s Othello any day, although even Verdi can’t save Falstaff for me. I loathe the play and can just about listen to the opera on CD in Italian where I can pretend I don’t know what’s going on and concentrate on the tunes). Other composers have their moments — Mozart for The Marriage of Figaro and Don Giovanni, Rossini for The Barber of Seville and La Cenerentola (well, I would like an opera about Cinderella, wouldn’t I? And, speaking of fairy tales, a very honourable mention for Dvorak’s Rusalka), Donizetti for Lucia di Lammermoor and L’Elisir d’Amore, Puccini for Tosca and La Boheme, Gluck for Orfeo et Eurydice, Bizet for Carmen. Historically I’ve had a problem with the Germans, but after two decades of listening to several hours a day of Radio Three I even finally began to get it about Wagner.
A few years ago Radio Three did the entire Ring cycle in one day. I can’t remember now if it was literally 24 hours or not, or if I missed the beginning. I do know that I thought they were mad . . . and I also remember that I was so drawn in (although the occasional cuts of Anna Russell that Radio Three good-humouredly inserted probably oiled the way) that I fished out one of those teeny portable radios I have for some reason (I never use the things; they’re probably from an episode of FREE IF YOU BUY SIX FLY SWATTERS AND A PAIR OF SHOES or something) from the tangle of superfluous cables and tech kit and took it with me when I went for my afternoon walk. (That was my between-dogs year: I could afford to be paying attention to the radio.) And stayed up late that night to hear the end. This despite the fact that I still feel he is neck and neck with Shakespeare for culpable going-onness.
And Richard Strauss, well, I’ve always had a big problem with the plot of Der Rosencavalier: I want to tell the Marchellin to lighten up, and I want to drown both der Rosencavalier himself and the ghastly Sophie. That last scene where the Marchellin is handing over her young lover to his even younger true love makes me feel ill. But with time and Radio Three–and a Renee Fleming CD of Strauss heroines–the beauty of the music, and the discovery of some of his other operas, have brought me round. I still have the plot-obstructs-music-appreciation reaction to Cosi fan tutte — yuck — and even more so The Magic Flute (which is even in German), all that grotesque business of yielding up your life and will into the hands of some unknown dad who obviously has serious control freak issues — while the dad figure for reasons that escape me is supposed to be all wonderful and all good and mom for reasons which equally escape me is all vindictive shrew. And I adore Mozart–he’s probably the only composer seriously to give Verdi a run for the title of The Man (and did Verdi ever write anything for the piano?)–but his idea of a great libretto plot is not mine.
Verdi’s still the man. After all my protests about plot, I have no idea why I completely dote on that old war-horse La Traviata–La Trav is comfort listening for me like JANE EYRE is comfort reading. Violetta is surrounded by such schmucks, that brat Alfredo, and — speaking of control freaks — his father. But to my ear if people in love were by it given voices to sing it, they would sound like Violetta and Alfredo singing over the camellia she’s just given him to bring back to her tomorrow. And — this is kinky, I know — I don’t think there’s anything anywhere more romantic than Aida creeping into the sealed-up room to smother to death in the arms of Rhadames; and I feel exalted, another deeply kinky moment, every time Gilda knocks on the door of that inn, and you know and she knows she’s about to die, and the music soars off with her and her assassin and his sister and the despicable duke singing away with the storm in the background — whew. Throw some cold water over me, now.
We mostly stay home, any more, but we still go to the opera occasionally. Peter has the odd failing, here and there, barely worth mentioning, but he would be forgiven some quite serious vices for going to the opera with me as faithfully and uncomplainingly as he has done. It was his idea we go to Glyndebourne for our anniversary (our summer anniversary: we have two a year); the first time was such a resounding success it has since, I hope, become a tradition. Peter is not an opera person. And every now and again he gets really bent out of shape over the libretto — I admit I think that Verdi was not very well served by most of his librettists — and if he’s not being rude about one of my sacred cows on the way home we will sometimes do a rewrite. Our version of Don Pasquale (neither a sacred cow nor Verdi) is hugely better than the original.
If I’m really desperate for something to do I may do housework. I don’t mind housework that much; I mind the time it takes. But I’m not that desperate very often.
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****** Our version of Don Pasquale (neither a sacred cow nor Verdi) is hugely better than the original.
I’d love a synopsis? :)
****** If I’m really desperate for something to do I may do housework. I don’t mind housework that much; I mind the time it takes. But I’m not that desperate very often.
You can surely never be that desperate – it’s rather that NOT doing housework makes the hellhounds hard to find among their camouflaging drifts of hair…
I only have TWO! It takes LONGER than if I had ELEVEN! At least one of whom is LARGE AND FLUFFY!!! (Although I have this theory that short-haired dogs produce JUST AS MUCH HAIR as fluffy ones, they’re just SNEAKIER about it.)
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****** short-haired dogs produce JUST AS MUCH HAIR as fluffy ones, they’re just SNEAKIER about it
and fluffy dogs have hair which is easy to brush off clothes, and which helpfully collects in drifts (albeit drifts the size of a puppy) whereas short dogs’ hair doesn’t collect, it SPREADS, and each individual hair has hooky ends which, once attached to fabric never ever ever let go…
LOL! Ah, the SPECIALIST! Insider info! Hee hee hee hee hee! –Except MY experience of living with both border collies and Alsatians is that UNDER that fluffy stuff . . . you still have the LITTLE HOOKY STUFF.
“I only have TWO! It takes LONGER than if I had ELEVEN!”
Now, now, no getting at Southdowner. At least two are LARGE AND FLUFFY! NOT JUST ONE. And she copes. Somehow. And enjoys them. And gets hell from us and lots of her other friends, I’m sure. And has to vacuum all that hair.
I’m surprised she has time for a LIFE!
****** and Alsatians is that UNDER that fluffy stuff . . . you still have the LITTLE HOOKY STUFF.
Waahh! I HAVE alsations, AND shaggy grey creatures, AND short hooky-haired dogs
http://www.flickr.com/photos/26303732@N02/2692010497/in/set-72157605818284088/
- imagine spring horse-moulting season (hairy natives, not TBs) and that’s what it’s like when the lab and GSDs decide to moult together – Where’s my PhD in dog hair??
Yes, when I lived with an Alsatian we were ankle deep, all the time.
You have an AWFUL LOT of dogs that AREN’T bullies.
At least when you brush dogs they’re SHORTER than horses. I have died of strangulation any number of times, currying old coats out of horses who blast their cast-offs straight into my face.
Little hooky stuff? You’re lucky.
Winkle produces long stiff needle stuff that LOVES my polar fleece PJs. (roll over in the middle of the night … what’s that sticking my leg? grumble, turn on light, fail to find black hair on black PJs … grumble … )
Rebecca WinkleBeam
Alas, I have no dog currently (though I grew up with a long-haired sled dog mutt), but cat hair is EVERYWHERE! People say, “Why don’t you vacuum?” and I very heroically do NOT pummel them about the head, but instead whimper, “I DO. I vacuum a *lot*. It does next to no good. Cat hair has to be released a single hair at a time because it *weaves* itself into fabric of any kind. It doesn’t brush off and if you try to suck it up with a vacuum, it just burrows in more thoroughly.”
When I was a kid, we used to explain about the “dog and cat hair gets everywhere” phenomenon by telling people how when you open a new bag of chips or box of ice cream or any manner of contained, sealed foodstuff, you will find the hair of at least one pet already inside, taunting you at the futility of trying to win against it.
They THOUGHT we were joking. Ha!
Did this get shorter when I clicked the comment button? I swear, there were three or four other questions and answers here! And they all looked like the ones I’d seen on your site before, but I was going to read them again in case they’d changed…
Anyway.
I like the idea of bells having conversations with each other when there’s no one around. I wonder what they talk about.
I don’t mind housework that much; I mind the time it takes.
And it’s BORING. Though, I suppose, folding laundry and stuff is good for letting your brain recharge a little.
*Gods.* You *scare* me. Yes, there were the rest of that FAQ chunk’s question accidentally appended. THEY WERE THERE FOR ABOUT TWENTY SECONDS. Good **grief.** I was ONLY posting about Things to Do When I’m Not Writing. And the new(ish) FAQ will go up . . . soon. Yes! SOON!
folding laundry and stuff is good for letting your brain recharge a little.
******** Yes. It’s very zen. Be in the moment and all that. A SIMPLE moment for a change.
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*Gods.* You *scare* me.
Well you scared me first! I knew it was there! It was even there when I went back a page. I figured it was just a copy/paste error. Those seem to be happening around me lately. (Not so much *by* me, just…other people. I must be radioactive.)
Lucky me! I clicked at just the right time. ;)
No! You clicked at the WRONG time!!!!!! It’s not there! There is no boy! as Archimedes said (ONCE AND FUTURE KING)!
No! You clicked at the WRONG time!!!!!! It’s not there!
*cackles* As long as I live, I will remember there were other questions in this post. I will tell everyone I meet!
Once and Future King. Oh, it has been too long. I think it’s time for a reread.
Yes and no. The way he treats Guenevere hurts, every time.
“I don’t mind housework that much; I mind the time it takes.
And it’s BORING. Though, I suppose, folding laundry and stuff is good for letting your brain recharge a little.”
—– I’ve found in the past year and a half as I’ve become our primary dish fairy that I can enjoy dishwashing sometimes. I originally started because it had to get done, and one of our other housemates would always jump up and start washing dishes right after dinner and I was embarrassed not to help when I hadn’t cooked (in my family growing up you either cooked or cleaned up afterwards, but no getting out of dinner work). Lo and behold, I’ve started appreciating it; it gives me a chance to do something useful (which feels necessary with all the other people around you doing useful household type things), while not usually having to interact with people or think about much of anything (which is nice when I’ve just come home from work, where I talked with a few hundred people I don’t know, and had to be nice and teach them things and make sense). I will admit that when my nephews try to help they get shot down pretty fast; I am 100% for them learning useful life skills and taking responsibility for housework, but this is my ALONE time. It does take up a lot of time, though, especially when I’m tired enough to drag through it.
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Please use some kind of name. . . .
That’s it? Isn’t there any more? There should be more! I want more! There isn’t enough about your hobbies. We know you have more to say.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!!!!!!!!!!!
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There, there, have some golden grapes, some perfect figs and luscious pears. All currently in season. Have them with a nice sweet white wine, or some prosecco. You can have some nice chocolate too. And honey: Honey on rich figs (I was going to say and Mascarpone cheese, but I won’t tempt fate or you).
Good honey on a spoon will do fine. :)
(your response to Susan’s comment about wanting more FAQs from you)
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!!!!!!!!!!!”
When I read this, for some reason I had a mental image of Charlie Brown doing one of his despairing mouth-wide-open reactions to something that Lucy had done to him. Or possibly the kite-eating tree had grabbed another treasured item from him…:)
****A few years ago Radio Three did the entire Ring cycle in one day.****
I’ve done this a couple of times on car trips. “WOW” is the only response.
****and fluffy dogs have hair which is easy to brush off clothes, and which helpfully collects in drifts (albeit drifts the size of a puppy) whereas short dogs’ hair doesn’t collect, it SPREADS, and each individual hair has hooky ends which, once attached to fabric never ever ever let go…****
Southdowner is exactly correct. And short-haired dogs DO shed just as much as long-haired dogs. There was a discussion about Roomba vacuuming robots some days ago–I know a couple of multi-Dane owners who have sprung for Roombas, and both of them have had good results. I am seriously tempted.
****If I’m really desperate for something to do I may do housework. I don’t mind housework that much; I mind the time it takes. But I’m not that desperate very often.****
Louise Erdrich did a call-in program on Minn. Public Radio some time ago, and one of the callers asked how she found time to raise kids, run a bookstore, write books, etc. Her answer was “Well, first you stop cleaning your house.” Have to love that response!
I am sitting here in a hotel room in Binghamton, NY, with my husband snoring on the bed and puppy Teddy sleeping next to him. (Waterproof blanket, just in case.) T. is being a very good puppy because he’s a quiet boy, but I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell is going on in his life. The only problem is that he’s not leash-trained and he doesn’t want to be leash-trained, so his response to the lead is to plant his feet and put his head down and sit. We are going to look like puppy torturers at rest stops from here to Minnesota.
Louise Erdrich did a call-in program on Minn. Public Radio some time ago, and one of the callers asked how she found time to raise kids, run a bookstore, write books, etc. Her answer was “Well, first you stop cleaning your house.”
*********** Oh, that’s GLORIOUS. :) ‘Well, **Louise Erdrich** says . . . ‘
The only problem is that he’s not leash-trained and he doesn’t want to be leash-trained
*********** Oh, gods, yes, I’ve had two whippets like that.
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“In an earlier era when I still found time for TV I used to watch Deep Space Nine and Buffy with rapt attention (except when the story line went stupid and then I threw popcorn at the screen and shouted ‘Hire me!’)”
—- LOL!!
*Change-ringing is a shouting, jubilant, waterfally sort of noise…*
I LOVE bell-ringing, but it’s been such a long time since I’ve heard any (living in Modern America does that to a person). I was wondering if you have any sound clips of your bell-ringing talents (maybe posted somewhere and I missed it?!?)…
**SIGH.** This is about me failing to learn various technologies to make it possible. Nag me again at intervals.
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I’m a lurker around here, though a long-time blog-reader, but anyway – I looked up change-ringing on YouTube, just to get an idea of what it sounded like. I don’t know about Robin’s specific bell-ringing talents, but it gave me a good idea, anyway. And then I specifically looked up Grandsire, as well, out of further curiosity.
It really is beautiful – I live in a medium-sized city in South Carolina, where a few churches play AWFUL recordings of hymns (played on bells) and most don’t bother at all. I’d just as soon they didn’t, if they’re going to play recordings. Change-ringing does sound jubilant and joyful and uplifting, while the local churches’ sound like some poor church secretary had to interrupt her lunch break to press play on the tape deck (she probably had to rewind it first, since it’s always the same tape, of course).
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Speaking of bells and Buffy…when you mentioned the thickness of bell towers in southern England, it made me think of Connie Willis’s Domesday Book…awesome time travel story of near-future history student Kivrin, who accidentally goes back to 1248 (or is it 1348 for the plague?) and is able to navigate solely by the ringing of all the bell towers…you might like it!
And have you read the fairly new Stephenie Meyer Twilight vampire series? Like Buffy in book form but better! and she has playlists online to accompany! They’re big fun–
:) like you need more stuff to read, but new books are always fun–
I liked Domesday a lot, but I am FORCED to point out that those bells are NOT change ringing bells. :)
I’m not a TWILIGHT fan, I’m afraid. Better than Buffy! Heresy! :)
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I love it! I love it all! Thanks for sharing with us! I think one of the reasons I enjoy your blog so much is that you write so intelligently about everything that you do – and, I get to vicariously enjoy what you do!! I needed some intelligence vicariousness this morning…
And apparently blogging is contagious. Late last week, I asked a technophile friend for suggestions and/or help in putting together a website for potential employers to sift through (easy access to my resume, link to the podcast, et al). He whittled away for a couple of hours, then produced this: http://willboyd.org/jmk/
I particularly like the way Cece and I both look fuzzy, and the impenetrable latin text with which my fuzzy self is greeting everyone (he said I get to write a letter to replace the latin…I don’t know, I kinda like the impenetrable latin, though lots of church folk will probably get the wrong idea…). Then he informed me that I also now have a BLOG which will be linked to this site!
WHAT?!?! WRITE A BLOG?!?! ME?!? ARGH!! I can barely be trusted to journal on a regular basis (there have been hiatus’s [hiati?] that last over a year in my handwritten journal!!)…you expect me to BLOG?!?! My life is NOT that interesting!!!! ARGH!!!!!
So. Blogging. Highly contagious. Be warned…!
Smiles,
Jeanne Marie
PS hmmm…maybe in my blog I’ll tell people to go read YOUR blog…much more interesting! :-)
I particularly like the ‘hello’ and the ‘sincerely’ around the Latin.
And the click-throughs, at present, are SCARY.
Have fun. :)
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“”The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon. “”
But the Bassoon turned bells in this case and the bells only drew me in more and had me beating on my breast because it stopped.
The blog reader beat on her breast,
For she saw the entry finished
Thanks. This was a good pick up after the slightly anti-climatic MontiVerdi concert last night. (woe is me, last year they had the Tallis Scholars and I’m in love with them. I guess no one else can measure up. Even if the first violist was very good looking, somehow her higher notes were slightly out of tune in the second half of the concert. *sigh* and I thought I would be happy when my pitch improved to the point that I could tune my harp by ear!)
Rebecca WinkleBeam
Yes, getting better or better educated about something is a somewhat mixed bag. I’ve always felt myself so unmusical that now being able to catch people out or have informed opinions about things is very disconcerting.
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completely off topic, feel free to not unmoderate, but have you heard of the authors against age branding of books campaign?
Website is over there
Oh, and I popped into our temporary library, soon to move back into refurbished permanent premises, and suggested your books for their purchaser. Thinking of popping in a few more times to fill in a few more slips similarly ;)
Yes.
Thank you!
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I have an apron my sister gave me a couple of decades ago, which says “A clean house is the sign of a sick mind.” Hubby hates that apron. But he won’t do housework, so I say it’s partly his fault, because if he felt strongly enough, he’d do some of it to help me out. I work 50-60 hours a week and put in one day a week at the school library, on top of doing stuff for church (Pastor’s wife duties). Who has time for housework?
I do wash dishes, clean the stovetop, that sort of thing. I spend too much time in the kitchen and can’t have it all dirty, now, can I? How would I bake? And I wash the laundry and fold it, because we have to wear something. And hubby has to wear his clericals every day, and younger son has to wear his school uniform. Dead boring, though. Sometimes I wistfully think about the replicators on the starship Enterprise …
I’m with Louise Erdrich on this one. Have to go fish out that comment from last night and put it somewhere PERMANENT.
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