November 29, 2013

McKinley FAIL [again]

 

Yarrrrrggggh.  I promised Blogmom a doodle update today.  And I’ve had my head down over stuff today* SECURE in the knowledge that I had a dozen doodle photos to choose from as illustration for the unwelcome news that . . . yes, I’m still turning the poor neglected things out.  I mean, no I’m not done, no, I didn’t put the final load in the post today.   At the moment Third House is getting in the way of [ever snail-like] doodle production:  the sad truth is that doodles are the first thing to be shoved back in a corner when life starts whapping me up longside the head again.**

I know.  It’s been two years.  Two years.  In fact OVER two years.

I’m sorry.  Which with £3 or so will buy you a Starbucks Gooey-o-rama with chocolate sprinkles and a paper parasol.

As I have said on more than one occasion on these virtual pages I WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER DO ANYTHING LIKE THIS AGAIN.  But I will still ask Blogmom to set up a Doodle Shop when—and only WHEN—I get this ancient hoary backlog cleared.  It’s not the doodles that are the problem:  doodling, when I’m actually sitting there doing it, is fun.  The problem is the doodler’s lack of a sense of time.  Or lack of sense full stop.

So . . . I had twelve*** photos from which I would choose eight or ten to DEMONSTRATE that to the extent there was ever any touch to this silly business I haven’t lost it.†  And when I stuck my memory card into my computer I discovered that I had had one of my UNUSUALLY CLUELESS MOMENTS, although I admit I have them rather a lot with this camera, and all but two of said doodle photos are dark grey and blurry.  AAAAAAAAAUGH.

All right.  That leaves two.

Gonturan

Gonturan

 

Several people asked for cats and books.  This one's the most recent.

Several people asked for cats and books. This one’s the most recent.

Oh.  And Happy Thanksgiving.

 

I don't think the muffins have fangs.

I don’t think the muffins have fangs.

 * * *

* Well, and handbells.  One of the many dumb things I feel guilty about is handbells, change ringing on handbells being one of the difficult frelling skills I have no frelling gift for that I’ve somehow managed to let myself get tangled up with.^  Having no (frelling) gift for it means I should spend more time studying and I, um, don’t.  I don’t have time or I don’t have brain energy or I have too many dogs or [other explanations insert HERE].  But I like ringing handbells, except that it makes me feel even stupider than usual.   So when Niall rings up and is insinuating my brain starts to explode.  No!  Yes!  No!  Yes!  Noyesnoyesnoyesnoyes!!!!  Niall, being Niall, only hears the yes part.

Niall rang up and was insinuating and heard ‘yes’.  So we were going to ring handbells tonight.  And then Colin’s builder discovered that the dumbleg trumwale^^ had morveldinky, and had to be FORKLED.  RIGHT NOW.  Which meant Colin wasn’t going to be able to get away early enough for handbells.  OH THAT’S REALLY TOO BAD [I had no sleep last night and feel like death not at all well warmed over] I said, trying not to hiccup with delight.

And then I took Pav out for a supernumerary hurtle.  She’s so self motivated that it’s rather too easy, when circumstances oppress, to decide that she expends enough energy in a relatively short space of time that merely getting underfoot counts to some extent.^^^

Pooka started barking at me as we were making our zigzag way home from Old Eden.  Curses.  Who invented mobile phones anyway.

It was Colin.  The forkling had gone with unwonted dispatch.  He was free for handbells after all.

Oh.

So we rang handbells.  THEY MADE ME CONDUCT.  THEY MADE ME CALL THE FRELLING BOBS.  AND THE EQUALLY FRELLING SINGLES.

^ Niall, you ratbag.

^^ It’s a particularly large and valuable dumbleg trumwale I believe.

^^^ No you may not eat my slippers.  You may nest in the dirty laundry, you may not shred it.  No you may not chew the corners of the furniture.  No you may not chew any of the corners of any of the furniture.  No you may not excavate the Ancient Magazine Pile under the kitchen table.+  No you may not wedge yourself under the tallboy++ to retrieve+++ the dustpan, the assortment of brushes, and Peter’s spare slippers.#  No you may not torture hellhounds.  No you may not torture me.

. . . At this point I frequently find myself thinking that it would be a lot simpler just to take her for an official hurtle and then feel justified in making her long down for a while.

+ This is a scary one.

++ I was HOPING she would get too big to do this.

+++ Retrieve, cough cough.  Retrieve.  Well, it starts with the retrieve.

# This list pertains to mayhem at the cottage.

** I know.  It should be handbells.  Although one of the reasons I don’t do my handbell homework is that if I have a few brain cells left at an unexpected time of day I don’t whip out a handbell method line, I whip out a pencil for a doodle.

*** No.  Actually I had sixteen.

† Another way of saying this is that you can’t lose what you didn’t have.

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