October 14, 2011

So I overslept

 

So I overslept*, our organic food delivery messed up our order and we’re going to run out of broccoli**, I’ve spent more time crashed off the internet today than on it, and I’m wearing out the carpet between the kitchen, where my laptop lives, and Peter’s office, which is where the Magic Wireless Internet Box lives***, I missed half of handbells due to circumstances beyond my control, and tonight at Muddlehampton practise my voice cut out.†  One bar I was singing, next bar I was making mouth movements like a fish.  What?  This is sooooooo booooooring.  The mutant virus is still with me, in its incredibly wearisome and unwelcome way, sticking up my sinuses, my throat, and a few alveoli, and punching my energy level around.  Also in the great scheme of my life I haven’t been singing all that long since I started up again.  Blondel got me to the starting line, so to speak††, and Nadia has been trying to get me over it.†††  These things take time, especially when I’m clinging to large boulders and heavy furniture and moaning no, no, no, no.‡  But I still haven’t got the stamina to spend two hours belting it flat out with Ravenel whipping us on, and I’m especially not ready for such immoderacy when I have a mutant virus getting in the way.  I was hoarse after the wedding and I had a few laryngitic moments last week and I didn’t even go to practise.  Lessons with Nadia are only forty-five minutes and there’s usually a fair amount of talk.  The Muddlehamptons are a whole different sport:  like running a marathon when your fitness level is derived from walking five miles a day with your hellhounds.

            This probably means I don’t dare sing for Oisin tomorrow either.

            Frell.  Frellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrell.

Catlady:  . . . and a wombat doing the polka . . .

Wombat. Doing the polka. Of course.

 

 This is so typical.  As I’m reading through the doodle orders Blogmom sends me I keep whinging, oh, I don’t know how to dooooooo that, why did they ask me to do thaaaaaaaaat?  But someone says something daft on the forum and I’m all over it.

And because you usually do the polka with a partner, here are two wombats doing the polka.

* Because I couldn’t sleep last night, of course.  

** This is serious.  I can only support this much tea and chocolate because of the amount of broccoli I eat.  Green beans are nice but broccoli rules.

^ The cabbage family are all pretty domineering.    

*** I have emailed Archangel Rafael pleading for succour.  I have no idea if the email went out, of course.^  Nor how much faffing around it’s going to take to get this post hung.  I am of course assuming I will manage to hang it . . . whimper. 

^ I did finally get the rest of NUMBERLAND downloaded however, you will be delighted to hear.+  To whoever it was asked if I use the iPhone audible ap:  Yes.  I’m very simple-minded about technology.  I didn’t know there was any other way to get audible to run on Pooka.  And to the someone who recommended TEACHING PHYSICS TO YOUR DOG:  I’ll have to try it again.  The problem with popular science is the popular part.  I’m not bright enough to read the heavy-duty, can-I-see-your-PhD-from-MIT-please books, but the stuff written for people like me sometimes feels like it’s trying to be your grandmother or your best friend, the goofy one that your grandmother always liked.  I wasn’t entirely persuaded by the dog shtick. 

 + But I can’t imagine anyone but a maths whizz being able to listen to it without cracking some hard copy, on paper or your iPad screen—although that may just be my lack of excellence in maths.  But there are bits that make my brain hurt even when I can keep the page open as long as I want to and keep staring at it.  Any other weenies out there, consider yourselves warned. 

† It must have been frelling chatting with my frelling internet rangtangtangleflapping service provider. 

†† . . . or sing.  It still flashes before my eyes at undesirable moments, getting to that place in He Was Despised for the first time in a lesson with Blondel, where I had to come in without the piano and I couldn’t do it.  Speaking (or singing) of making fish mouths. 

††† Bulldozer . . . flamethrower . . . tank. 

 ‡ You would be forgiven for wondering why I decided to take voice lessons.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

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