I was reading a discussion about the "meaning of blogging" today. I was going to add to it that my blog's main purpose is to keep my friends and family up-to-speed with my movements, but as I haven't updated in a fortnight I thought I'd better keep my beak buttoned.
When a fortnight passes with no time to blog, the hugely important business that has kept me away is all a blur. There was a wedding, a Take That concert (the moral of that particular story is never try to edge your way into the front at a man band gig - or attempt to get home from Milton Keynes on public transport, past the witching hour), a barbecue, a drunken Thai supper, an interview with a Big Brother contestant, yet another day out at a theme park, seven hours in a beer garden, a friend's sad news, breakfasts on the common, outdoor swimming action and a commission from The Guardian (dagnamit!).
Eliott is saying the most beautifully formed "mummies" and "daddies". His word-tally is increasing, so there is light at the end of that particular tunnel. He's also into the most laddish activities these days - toy cars, watching football, Superman, toy trucks, toy trains, The Incredibles and fighting with me and Matt at every available opportunity. He thinks he is Batman. So does his dad. It's all very sad.
I'll leave you with my world cup quarter final predictions: Rooney will score in the first nanosecond and a nation's hopes will soar. Just before half time Rooney will break both his feet and Theo Walcott will come on as a sub and score an own goal (it wasn't his fault he didn't know which way to play the ball). In the second half we will make blunders and bananas and hang on by the skin of our teeth until David Beckham fouls Figo in the 80th minute and is headbutted into next week. Figo will be awarded a yellow card and a "tsk" from the ref, while David starts puking up small, golden balls and is stretchered from the pitch. Wayne Bridge comes on and a nation's hopes dwindle. John Terry spontaneously combusts. Meanwhile Ronaldo's bruised, blue thigh detatches from his body and soars across the pitch scoring the goal of the tournament. Riots break out in various bars and big screen venues across Europe. Plastic chairs hit pensioners in the head worldwide. In the last minute of play, Sol Campbell (who came on for Terry - I couldn't bring myself to mention it) accidently hits Figo with an iron bar inside the box and Portugal are awarded a penalty in the dying seconds. Ricardo takes it and Robbo (who's popped off for a cuppa) isn't anywhere near the bastard as it hits home and books Sven's men on the next Queasyjet flight back to Blighty.
And so begins another several million light years of actual physical hurt.
Enjoy!
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Mother, journalist, perpetual teenager - in that order.
6 comments:
Underground Ernie by any chance?
Well, we could say some of your predictions, in some way, came true....England got to the next stage in a sort of miraculous way, so did Portugal. I hope Argentina is that lucky =)
Anyway, the best news here is Elliot´s progress. Go, Elliot, go!!!!
So true. England will lose, Henman will lose, I will lose my battle with the gym due to my post-Take That walkathon. So very sad.
I don't like Underground Ernie. It all smacks of Mayor Ken trying to con the kids into thinking tube trains are cuddly and fluffy and safe. Aside from the terror, they are also smelly and unreliable and uncomfortable. But far by it from me to destroy Eliott's "choo choo" dreams...
Well Missus the way you are going, doing so well at W-O-R-K you need to make sure you keep them there friends and family updated. It's not much of a jump to W-O-R-K-I-N-G all the time when you aren't looking after a little one (or two) and having no other bloody life to write about! Look after yourself. Work's all very well but it doesn't pay the bills. Oh hang on am I doing something wrong? :-)
LOL. I shouldn't be working now, at midnight, on the day of yet another Engerland defeat - I should be slitting my wrists and bashing my head against a brick wall. That or getting terrible drunk. But here I am, bashing away on a story. *whispers* I love it really!
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