“Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps on this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.”
Macbeth by William Shakespeare
Oh, Shakespeare! You had me at tomorrow.
You’ve heard me say your first draft has permission to suck. That’s still true even though our first draft of 2017 has been unexpectedly fractious and gruelling. Call it seasonal affective disorder, call it one problem after another, call it what you like. So far, 2017 is not the post-2016-solve-all that it promised to be (promised as in the promise communicated to me over a glass of Champagne on New Years Eve). Continue reading Plodding along
“Few of us have chosen our clubs, they have simply been presented to us; and so as they slip from Second Division to the Third, or sell their best players, or buy players who you know can’t play, or bash the ball the seven hundreth time towards a nine foot centre-forward, we simply curse, go home, worry for a fortnight and then come back to suffer all over again.”
Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby
Still 30 degrees. 7:30pm on 13th September. We squeezed along row F looking for our wooden seats, careful not to knock over a pint. The air was pungent with the smell of sweat and tensions were rising.
“The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it’s as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no-one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it out all yourself from the clues.”
Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett
I’m sitting on our terrace doing a bit of work and writing this blog on a sunny Sunday in London.
According to Hubby, this sort of weather is normal for London – that locals dub it “sunny London” (direct quote).
“… Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome...
… “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!””
“The Clink, probably the first prison in England, built in the 12th century by the Bishop of Winchester. The prison was notorious for the brutal treatment of its prisoners and received its distinctive name from the clinking sound of the prisoners’ manacles and chains. Standard torture practices included stretching prisoners on the rack, crushing with heavy weights, boiling in oil and forcing prisoners to stand in water until their feet rotted.”
London by Tube: A History of Underground Station Names by David Revill
What is wrong with the world when corrupt FIFA officials continue in their roles, earning heaps of money quietly laundering money, while in other world news, a pigeon is detained on suspicion of being a spy?
You think I’m joking? I’m not.
I also double checked my diary to make sure it was not in fact the 1st April. This is a true story and you can read it on the BBC.
“…though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy all morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes.”
Cranford, by Elizabeth Leghorn Gaskell
I absolutely adore the English sense of humour. My husband claims I don’t always ‘get’ him, but this is not true. You see, I grew up on a diet of Faulty Towers, Birds of a Feather, The Two Ronnies, Mr Bean, The Vicar of Dibley, My Fair Lady, Mary Poppins, Roald Dahl novels, Enid Blyton books… the list goes on.