The combination of extensive quantities of musical wonder pouring deep into my essence, a mild hangover, too much coffee, and some kind of nicotine withdrawal are giving me the bitch-twitches. I feel I should gel my hair into an unflattering fringe.
I am as flighty and terrified as a hummingbird on acid. My metabolism is slower, so it takes longer to leave my system. I am, however, free from a lot of baggage I once carried upon my head. I am enjoying this while at the same time I am scared. I am teetering on the brink of feeling OK. I appear to be writing in a self-absorbed stream of consciousness. I should go back on livejournal. Last night I met girls I used to fancy, and they bored me, it was petty but I had to exorcise teenage inadequacies. I'm probably going to make it worse today. I need to wash. I need to run. I might just retreat. I might not. Maybe you'll see me there.
Much more importantly, I had a fun concept, a Jamie-Hewletty vision from Slumdog, which I will fold into a future rhetorical enterprise. The world needs more fat men on scooters with sticks.
I need to write more. I need to get out more. I need a new job. All good things come to those who make the fucking effort.
rant expired.
Monday 23 February 2009
Saturday 21 February 2009
it's been a wee while
today I've been in Fife for my grandad's 100th birthday party. This is an event of no small importance, as through his personality, he has been a firm patriarch to an extended clan of considerable size.
On display, we had four toddlers, four juniors, two preteens, no teenagers (that's probably for the best) about a dozen of my peers (all but me, malc and amy with kids) and a whole load of beloved ancients. We were regailed with an abbreviated transcript of Grandad's life, and I was able to look through some fascinating old photos, articles, and even see a genuine 100-year-old birth certificate.
Most fascinating, at least in this yet-more-abbreviated context, is the fact that in the past 24 years never once did I find out his name is not Alestair, but in fact George. Due to his father also being called George, he naturally was always referred to by his middle name; and the strange spelling comes from the registrar for Tighnabruaich in the 1909 era. Originally born George Alison Bennett, his parents returned to the registrar's office a few weeks later to request that he may also have the middle name of Alastair. To this irregularity the registrar agreed, but only on the condition that it was spelled in his preferred way - Alestair, instead of Alastair, so as to not have the Gaelic origin. Thus 100 years of confusion and patient explanation was born!
That's enough for now, more in the near-future.
On display, we had four toddlers, four juniors, two preteens, no teenagers (that's probably for the best) about a dozen of my peers (all but me, malc and amy with kids) and a whole load of beloved ancients. We were regailed with an abbreviated transcript of Grandad's life, and I was able to look through some fascinating old photos, articles, and even see a genuine 100-year-old birth certificate.
Most fascinating, at least in this yet-more-abbreviated context, is the fact that in the past 24 years never once did I find out his name is not Alestair, but in fact George. Due to his father also being called George, he naturally was always referred to by his middle name; and the strange spelling comes from the registrar for Tighnabruaich in the 1909 era. Originally born George Alison Bennett, his parents returned to the registrar's office a few weeks later to request that he may also have the middle name of Alastair. To this irregularity the registrar agreed, but only on the condition that it was spelled in his preferred way - Alestair, instead of Alastair, so as to not have the Gaelic origin. Thus 100 years of confusion and patient explanation was born!
That's enough for now, more in the near-future.
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